On the Face of the Waters Part 20

So as he sat waiting, watching, the light faded, the faint smell of incense grew fainter, the stream of wors.h.i.+pers coming to take the holy water in which the G.o.d had been washed slackened. Then by twos and threes the Brahmins and _yogis_--the Dean and Chapter, as it were--pa.s.sed out clinking half-pennies, and carrying the offertory in kind, tied up in handkerchiefs.

The service was over, and Tara must therefore live in a lodging reached from within. And now, when the coast was clearing, he might still have opportunity of tracing her. So he rose and walked in boldly, disappointed to find the courtyard was almost empty already.

There were only a few stragglers, mostly women, and they in the white shroud of widows; but even in the gloom and shadow he could see the tall figure he sought was not among them, and he was about to slip away when, following their looks, he caught sight of another figure crouching on the topmost step of the plinth, right in front of the sanctuary door, so that it stood faintly outlined against the glimmer of the single cresset, which, raised on the heap of half-dead flowers within, showed them and nothing more--nothing but the shadows.

He drew back hastily into the empty arcade, and waited for the widows'

lingering bare feet--scarcely heard even on those echoing stones--to pa.s.s out and leave him and Tara alone. For it was Tara. That he knew though her face was turned from him.

The feet lingered on, making him fear lest some of the mendicants who must lodge in these arcades should return, after almsgiving time, and find him there. And as they lingered he thought how he had best make himself known to the devotee, the saint. It must be something dramatic, something to tie her tongue at once, something to bring home to her his hold upon her. The locket! He slipped it from his neck and stood ready. Then, as the last flutter of white disappeared, he stepped noiselessly across the court.

And so, suddenly, between the rapt face and the dim light on which its eyes were fixed, hung a dangling gold oval, and the Englishman, bending over the woman's shoulder from behind, could see the amaze flash to the face. And his other hand was ready with the clutch of command, his tongue with a swift threat; but she was too quick for him. She was round at his feet in an instant, clasping them.

"Master! Master!"

Jim Douglas recoiled from that touch once more; but with a half-shamed surprise, regret, almost remorse. He had meant to threaten this woman, and now----

She was up again, eager, excited. "Quick! The Huzoor is not safe here.

They may return any moment. Quick! Quick! Huzoor, follow me."

And as, blindly, he obeyed, pa.s.sing rapidly through a low doorway and so up a dark staircase, he slipped the locket back to its place with a sort of groan. Here was another woman to be reckoned with, and though the discovery suited his purpose, and though he knew himself to be as safe as her woman's wit could make him, he wondered irritably if there was anything in the world into which this eternal question of s.e.x did not intrude. And then, suddenly, he seemed to feel Alice Gissing's heart beat beneath his hand; there had been no womanhood in that touch.

So he pa.s.sed on. And next morning he was on his way southward. Tara had told him what he wanted to know.

CHAPTER V.

IN THE RESIDENCY.

"Strawberries! Oh, how delightful!"

Kate Erlton looked with real emotion at a plate of strawberries and cream which Captain Morecombe had just handed to her. "They are the first I have ever seen in India," she went on in almost pathetic explanation of her apparent greed. "Where could Sir Theophilus have got them?"

"Meerut," replied her cavalier with a kindly smile. "They grow up-country. But they put one in mind of home, don't they?" He turned away, almost embarra.s.sed, from the look in her eyes; and added, as if to change the subject, "The Resident does it splendidly, does not he?"

There could be no two opinions as to that. The park-like grounds were kept like an English garden, the house was crammed from floor to ceiling with works of art, the broad verandas were full of rare plants, and really valuable statuary. That toward the river, on the brink of which Metcalfe House stood, gave on a bal.u.s.traded terrace which was in reality the roof of a lower story excavated, for the sake of coolness, in the bank itself. Here, among others, was the billiard room, from the balcony of which you could see along the curved stone embankment of the river to the Koodsia garden, which lay between Metcalfe Park and the rose-red wall of the city. It was an old pleasure-ground of the Moghuls, and a ruined palace, half-hidden in creepers, half lost in sheer luxuriance of blossom, still stood in its wilderness of forest trees and scented shrubs; a very different style of garden from that over which Kate Erlton looked, as it undulated away in lawns and drives between the Ridge and the river.

"Yes!" she said, "it always reminds me of England; but for that----"

She pointed to the dome of a Mohammedan tomb which curved boldly into the blue sky close to the house.

"Yet that is the original owner," replied her companion. "There is rather an odd story about that tomb, Mrs. Erlton. It is the burial place of the great Akhbar's foster-brother. Most likely he was a cowherd by caste, for their women often go out as nurses, and the land about here all belonged to these Goojers, as they are called. But when we occupied Delhi, a civilian--one Blake--fancied the tomb as a house, added to it, and removed the good gentleman's grave-stone to make room for his dining-table--a hospitable man, no doubt, as the Resident is now. But the Goojers objected, appealed to the Government agent. In vain. Curiously enough both those men were, shortly afterward, a.s.sa.s.sinated."

"You don't mean to connect----" began Kate in a tone of remonstrance.

Captain Morecombe laughed. "In India, Mrs. Erlton, it is foolish to try and settle which comes first, the owl or the egg. You can't differentiate cause and effect when both are incomprehensible. But if I were Resident I should insure myself and my house against the act of G.o.d and the Queen's enemies."

"But this house?" she protested.

"Is built on the site of a Goojer village, and they were most unwilling to sell. One could hardly believe it now, could one? Come and see the river terrace. It is the prettiest place in Delhi at this time of the year."

He was right; for the last days of March, the first ones of April are the crown and glory of a Northern Indian garden. Perhaps because there is already that faint hint of decay which makes beauty more precious.

Another short week and the flower-lover going the evening round will find many a sun-weary head in the garden. But on this glorious afternoon, when the Resident was entertaining Delhi in right residential fas.h.i.+on, there was not a leaf out of place, a blade of gra.s.s untrimmed. Long lines of English annuals in pots bordered the broad walks evenly, the scentless gardenia festooned the rows of cypress in disciplined freedom, the roses had not a fallen petal, though the palms swept their long fringes above them boldly, and strange perfumed creepers leaped to the branches of the forest trees.

In one glade, beside an artificial lake, some ladies in gay dresses were competing for an archery prize. On a brick dais close to the house the band of a native regiment was playing national airs, and beside it stood a gorgeous marquee of Cashmere shawls with silver poles and Persian carpets; the whole stock and block having belonged to some potentate or another, dead, banished, or annexed. Here those who wished for it found rest in English chairs or Oriental divans; and here, contrasting with their host and his friends, harmonizing with the Cashmere shawl marquee, stood a group of guests from the palace. A perfect bevy of princes, suave, watchful, ready at the slightest encouragement to crowd round the Resident, or the Commissioner, or the Brigadier, with noiseless white-stockinged feet. Equally ready to relapse into stolid indifference when unnoticed. Here was Mirza Moghul, the King's eldest son, and his two supporters, all with lynx eyes for a sign, a hint, of favor or disfavor. And here--a sulky, sickly looking lad of eighteen--was Jewun Bukht, Zeenut Maihl's darling, dressed gorgeously and blazing with jewels which left no doubt as to who would be the heir-apparent if she had her way. Prince Abool-Bukr, however, scented, effeminate, watched the proceedings with bright eyes; giving the ladies unabashed admiration and after a time actually strolling away to listen to the music. Finally, however, drifting to the stables to gamble with the grooms over a quail fight.

Then there were lesser lights. Ahsan-Oolah the physician, his lean plausible face and thin white beard suiting his black gown and skull-cap, discussed the system of Greek medicine with the Scotch surgeon, whose fluent, trenchant Hindustani had an Aberdonian tw.a.n.g.

Then there was Elahi Buksh, whose daughter was widow of the late heir-apparent; a wily man, d.o.g.g.i.ng the Resident's steps with persistent adulation, and watched uneasily by all the other factions.

A few rich bankers curiously obsequious to the youngest ensign, and one or two pensioners owing their invitations to loyal service, made up the company, which kept to the Persian carpets so as to avoid the necessity for slipping on and off the shoes which lay in rows under Gamu the orderly's care, and the consequent necessity for continual fees. For Gamu piled up the shekels until his master, after the mutiny, had reluctantly to hang him for extorting blood-, as well as shoe-money.

They were a curious company, these palace guests, aliens in their own country, speaking to none save high officials, caring to speak to none, and waiting with ill-concealed yawns for the blunt dismissal or the ceremonious leave-taking after a decent s.p.a.ce of boredom due to their rank.

"I wonder they come," said Mrs. Erlton, pa.s.sing on rapidly to escape from the loud remarks of two of her countrywomen who were discussing Jewun Bukht's jewels as if the wearer, standing within a yard of them, was a lay figure: as indeed he was to them.

"Why does anyone come?" asked Captain Morecombe airily, as he followed her across the terrace, and, leaning over the bal.u.s.trade, looked down at the sandbanks and streams below. "So far as I am concerned," he went on, "the reason is palpable. I came because I knew you would be here, and I like to see my friends."

He was in reality watching her to see how she received the remark, and something in her face made him continue casually. "And there, I should say, are some other people who have similar excuse for temporary aberration." He pointed to the figures of a man and woman who were strolling toward the Koodsia along a narrow path which curved below the embanking wall, and his sentence ended abruptly. He turned hastily to lean his back on the parapet and look parkward, adding lightly, "And there are two more, and two more! In fact most people really come to see other people."

But Kate Erlton was proud. She would have no evasion, and the past three months since Christmas Day had forced her to accept facts.

"It is my husband and Mrs. Gissing," she said, looking toward the strolling figures. "I suppose he is seeing her home. I heard her say not long ago she was tired. She hasn't been looking strong lately."

The indifference, being slightly overdone, annoyed her companion. No man likes having the door slammed in his sympathetic face. "She is looking extremely pretty, though," he replied coolly. "It softens her somehow. Don't you agree with me?"

There was a pause ere Kate Erlton replied; and then her eyes had found the far horizon instead of those lessening figures.

"I do. I think she looks a better woman than she did--somehow." She spoke half to herself with a sort of dull wonder in her voice. But the keenness of his, shown in his look at her, roused her reserve instantly. To change the subject would be futile; she had gone too far to make that possible if he wished otherwise, without that palpable refusal which would in itself be confession. So she asked him promptly if he would mind bringing her a gla.s.s of iced water, cup, anything, since she was thirsty after the strawberries; and when he went off reluctantly, took her retreat leaning over the bal.u.s.trade, looking out to the eastern plains beyond the river; to that far horizon which in its level edge looked as if all or nothing might lie behind it. A new world, or a great gulf!

Three months! Three months since she had given up that chance, such as it was, on Christmas Day. And now her husband was honestly, truly in love with Alice Gissing. Would he have been as honestly, as truly in love with her if--if she could have forgotten? Had this really been his chance, and hers? Had it come, somehow? She did not attempt to deny facts; she was too proud for that It seemed incredible, almost impossible; but this was no Lucknow flirtation, no mere sensual liaison on her husband's part. He was in love. The love which she called real love, which, given to her, would, she admitted, have raised her life above the mere compromise from which she had shrunk.

But he had never given it to her. Never. Not even in those first days.

And now, if that chance had gone, what remained? What disgrace might not the future hold for her boy's father with a man like Mr. Gissing, in a country where the stealing of a man's wife from him was a criminal offense? Thank Heaven! Herbert was too selfish to risk--she turned and fled, as it were, from that cause for grat.i.tude to find refuge in the certainty that Alice Gissing, at least, would not lose her head. But the chance the chance was gone.

"Miffes Erlton," came a little silvery voice behind her. "Oh, Miffes Erlton! He's giv-ded me suts a boo'ful birdie."

It was Sonny clasping a quail in both dimpled hands. His bearer was salaaming in rather a deprecatory manner, and a few paces off, strolling back from the stables with a couple of young bloods like himself, was Prince Abool-Bukr. All three with a furtive eye for Kate Erlton's face and figure.

"He giv-ded it to me be-tos it tumbied down, and everybody laughed,"

went on Sonny confidently. "And so I is do-ing to comfit birdie, and 'ove it."

"Sonny," exclaimed Kate, suddenly aghast, "what's that on your frock-- down your arm?"

It was blood. Red, fresh-spilled blood! She was on her knees beside him in instant coaxing, comforting, unclasping his hands to see where they were hurt. The bird fell from them fluttering feebly, leaving them all scarlet-stained with its heart's blood, making Sonny shriek at the sight, and hide face and hands in her muslin skirts. She stood up again, her cheeks ablaze with anger, and turned on the servant.

"How dare you! How dare you give it to the _chota_-sahib? How dare you!"

The man muttered something in broken English and Hindustani about a quail fight, and not knowing the bird was dying when the Mirza gave it; accompanying his excuses with glances of appeal to Prince Abool-Bukr, who, at Sonny's outburst, had paused close by. Kate's eyes, following the bearer's, met those bright, dark, cruel ones, and her wrath blazed out again. Her Hindustani, however, being unequal to a lecture on cruelty to animals, she had to be content with looks. The Prince returned them with an indifferent smile for a moment, then with a half-impatient shrug of his shoulders, he stepped forward, lifted the dying quail gingerly between finger and thumb, and flung it over the parapet into the river.

"_Ab khutm piyaree tussulli rukhiye!_" (Now is it finished, dear one; take comfort!) he said consolingly, looking at Sonny's golden curls.

The liquid Urdu was sheer gibberish to the woman, but the child turning his head half-doubtfully, half-rea.s.sured, Abool-Bukr's face softened instantly.