On the Face of the Waters Part 47

Sonny! Kate Erlton gave a little cry. She recollected now. "Oh, ayah!"

she began recklessly, "what? where is he?"

The old woman stumbled to the door, closed the catch, and then leaned exhausted upon the lintel, sinking down slowly to a squatting position, her hand upon her heart. There was more in this than the fatigue of the stairs, Kate recognized.

"He is in the bundle, Huzoor. The mem did not know me. She will know the baba."

Know him! As her almost incredulous fingers fumbled at the knots, her mind was busy with an adorable vision of white embroideries, golden curls, and kissable, dimpled milk and roses. So it was no wonder that she recoiled from the ragged s.h.i.+ft and dark skin, the black close-cropped hair shaved horribly into a wide gangway from nape to forehead.

"Oh, ayah!" she cried reproachfully, "what have you done to Sonny baba!" for Sonny it was unmistakably in the guise of a street urchin.

A foolish remark to make, doubtless, but the old Mai, most of whose life had been pa.s.sed in the curling of golden curls, the prinking of mother's darlings, did not think it strange. She looked wistfully at her charge, then at Kate apologetically.

"It was safer, Huzoor. And at least he is fat and fresh. I gave him milk and _chikken-brat_.[6] And it was but a tiny morsel of opium just to make him quiet in the bundle."

Something in the quavering old voice made Kate cross quickly to the old woman and kneel beside her.

"You have done splendidly, ayah, no one could have done better!"

But the interest had died from the haggard face. "They said folk would be d.a.m.ned for it," she muttered half to herself, "but what could I do? The mem, my mem, said 'Take care of the boy.' So I gave him _chikken-brat_ and milk." She paused, then looked up at Kate slowly.

"But I can grind and spin no more, Huzoor. My life is done. So I have brought him here--and----" she paused again for breath.

"How did you find me out?" asked Kate, longing to give the old woman some restorative, yet not daring to offer it, for she was a Mussulmani.

The old Mai reached out a skeleton of a hand, half-mechanically, to flick away a fluff of cotton wool from the still sleeping child's face. "It was the _chikken-brat_, Huzoor. The Huzoor will remember the old mess khansaman? He did the _pagul khanas_ [picnics] and nautches for the sahib logue. A big man with gold lace who made the cake at Christmas for the babas and set fire to plum-puddeens as no other khansaman did. And made _estarfit_ turkeys and _sa.s.sets_ [stuffed turkey and sausages]--and----" She seemed afloat on a Bagh-o-bahar list of comestibles, a dream of days when, as ayah, she had watched many a big dinner go from the cook room.

"But about the _chikken-brat_, ayah?" asked Kate with a lump in her throat; for the wasted figure babbling of old days was evidently close on death.

"Huzoor! Mungul Khan keeps life in him, these hard times, with the selling of eggs and fowls. So he, knowing me, said there was more _chikken-brat_ than mine being made in the quarter. The Huzoor need have no fear. Mungul weeps every day and prays the sahibs may return, because his last month's account was not paid. A sweeper woman, he said, bought 'halflings' for an Afghan's bibi. As if an Afghani would use three halflings in one day! No one but a mem making _chikken-brat_ would do that. So I watched and made sure, against this day; for I was old, and I had not spun or ground for long."

"You should have come before," said Kate gently. "You have worn yourself out."

The old woman stumbled to her feet. "My life was worn before, Huzoor.

I am very old. I have put many boy-babies into the mem's arms to make them forget their pain, and taken them from them to put the flowers round them when they were dead. He was safer with me speaking our language; with you he may remember. But I shall be dead, so I can do no more."

"Wait, do wait till the sahib returns," pleaded Kate.

The Mai paused, her hand on the latch. "What have I to do with the sahibs, Huzoor? Mine were not much count. They made my mems cry, or laugh; cry first, then laugh. It is bad for mems. But my mem did not care, she only cared for the babies and so there was always a flower for the grave. Matadeen, the gardener, made it and the big Huzoor--Erlton sahib----"

She ceased suddenly and went mumbling down the stairs leaving Kate to close the door again and drop on her knees beside the sleeping child.

Was he sleeping or had the opium----? She gave a sigh of relief as--her hair tickling his cheek as she bent to listen--up came a chubby unconscious hand to brush the tickle away.

Sonny! It seemed incredible. The house would be a home indeed with his sweet "Mifis Erlton" echoing through it. Not what the old Mai had said was true. There would be danger in English prattle. She must not tell him who she was. He must be kept as safe as that other child over across the seas whose empty place this one had partly filled; that other child who in all these storms and stress was, thank Heaven! so safe. She must deny herself that pleasure, and be content with this terribly disguised Sonny. Then she wondered if the dye came off as hers did; so with wet finger began trying the experiment on the child's cheek. A little; but perhaps soap and warm water might--She gathered Sonny in her arms and went over to the cooking-place. And there, to her unreasoning delight, after a s.p.a.ce, was a square inch or so of milk and roses. It was trivial, of course; Mr. Greyman would say womanish, but she should like to see the real Sonny just once! She could dye him again. So, with the sleeping child on her lap, she began soft dabbings and wipings on the forehead and cheeks. It was a fascinating task and she forgot everything else; till, as she began work on the nose, what with the tickling and the tepid bathings dispelling the opium drowsiness, Sonny woke, and finding himself in strange arms began to scream horribly. And there she was forgetful of caution among other things, kissing and cuddling the frightened child, asking him if he didn't know her and telling him he was a good little Sonnikins whom n.o.body in the world would hurt! At which juncture, with brain started in a new-old groove, he said amid lingering sobs:

"Oh, Mifis Erlton! What _has_ a-come of my polly?"

She recognized her slip in a second; but it was too late. And hark!

Steps on the stair, and Sonny prattling on in his high, clear lisp!

Not one step, but two; and voices. A visitor no doubt. Sometimes, to avoid suspicion, it was necessary to bring them in. She knew the routine. The modest claim for seclusion to her supposed husband in Persian, the leaving of the door on the latch, the swift retreat into the inner roof during the interval decorously allowed for such escape.

All this was easy without Sonny. The only chance now was to stop his prattle even by force, give the excuse that other women were within, and trust to a man's quickness outside.

Vain hope! Sonny wriggled like an eel, and, just as the expected knock came, evaded her silencing hand, so that the roof rang with outraged yells:

"Oh! 'oo's hurtin' me! Oo's hurtin' me!"

Without the words even, the sound was unmistakable. No native child was ever so ear-piercing, so wildly indignant. Kate, beside herself, tried soothings and force distractedly, in the midst of which an imperative voice called fiercely:

"Open the door quick, for G.o.d's sake! Anything's better than that."

For the moment, doubtless, Sonny's yells ending with victory; but another cry came sharp and short, as--the door giving under Kate's hasty fingers--two men tumbled over the threshold. Jim Douglas uppermost, his hands gripping the other's throat.

"Shut the door!" he gasped. "Lock it. Then my revolver--no--a knife-- no noise--quick. I can't hold--the brute long."

Kate turned and ran mechanically, and the steel in her hand gleamed as she flew back. Jim Douglas, digging his knees into the ribs below them, loosened one hand cautiously from the throat and held it out, trembling, eager.

But Kate saw his face. It might have been the Gorgon's, for she stood as if turned to stone.

"Don't be a fool!" he panted--"give it me! It's the only----" A sudden twist beneath him sent his hand back to the throat. "It's--it's death anyway----"

Death! What did that matter? she asked herself. Let it come, rather than murder!

"No!" she said suddenly, "you shall not. It is not worth it." The knife, flung backward, fell with a clang, but the eyes which--though that choking grip on the throat made all things dim--had been fixed on its gleam, turned swiftly to those above them and the writhing body lay still as a corpse. None too soon, for Jim Douglas was almost spent.

"A rope," he muttered briefly, "or stay, your veil will do."

But Kate, trembling with the great pa.s.sion and pity of her decision, had scarce removed it ere Jim Douglas, changing his mind, rose to his feet, leaving his antagonist free to do so likewise.

"Get up, Tiddu," he said breathlessly, "and thank the mem for saving your life. But the door's locked, and if you don't swear----"

"The Huzoor need not threaten," retorted Tiddu, far more calmly as he retwisted his rag of a turban. "The Many-Faced know grat.i.tude. They do not fall on those who find them helpless and protect them."

The thrust was keen, for in truth the old Baharupa had, not half an hour before, by sheer chance found his pupil in difficulties and insisted on seeing him safe home, and on his promising not to go out again till he was stronger; to both of which coercions Jim Douglas, in order to evade suspicion, had consented. Yet, but for Kate, he would have knifed the old man remorselessly. Even now he felt doubtful.

Tiddu, however, saved him further anxiety by stepping close to Kate and salaaming theatrically.

"By Murri-am and the neem, the mem is as my mother, the child as my child."

So, for the first time, both he and Jim Douglas looked toward Sonny, who, with wide-planted legs and wondering eyes, had been watching Tiddu solemnly; the quaintest little figure with his red and white cheeks and black muzzle.

The old mime burst into a guffaw. "_Wah!_ what a monkeyling! _Wah!_ what a _tamasha_" (spectacle), he cried, squatting down on his heels to look closer. In truth Sonny was like a hill baboon, especially when he smiled too; broadly, expectantly, at the familiar word.

"_Tamatha-wallah!_" he said superbly, "_bunao ramatha, juldi bunao!_" (Make an amus.e.m.e.nt; make it quick.)

Tiddu, a child himself like all his race in his delight in children, a child also in his capacity of sudden serenity, caught up Kate's fallen veil, and in an instant dashed into the hackneyed part of the daughter-in-law, while Kate and Jim Douglas stared; left behind, as it were, by this strange irresponsible pair--the mimic of life, and the child ignorant of what was mimicked. Tragedy a minute ago! Now Farce!

They looked at each other, startled, for sympathy.

"Make a funny man now," came Sonny's confident voice, "a funny man behind a curtain--a funny man wif a gween face an' a white face, an' a lot of fwowers an' a bit o' tring."

Tiddu looked round quickly at Jim Douglas. "_Wah!_" he said, "the little Huzoor has a good memory. He remembers the Lord of Life and Death."