The Hosts of the Lord Part 36

There was an instant's silence; then her eyes wandered to his cuff as it rested on her corselet, and she smiled again. "We match, don't we?

I'm glad. Besides, it won't stain much. I expect--that's why soldiers wear red, isn't it?"

The deadly realism roused Vincent to a sort of fury at his own helplessness. But what could a man do, caught in a second by Fate to be chief actor in a scene like this, where he was lost,--lost utterly? And those two fools looking on--doing nothing!

"At least, in common charity, you might help. You're something of a doctor!" he cried pa.s.sionately. "We can settle scores afterwards, you and I, can't we? But now you might help _her_."

"What did she say?" asked Father Ninian, tonelessly. He had caught a word or two, and their triviality, in the face of what had happened--a triviality common in those who have been struck down as she had been, almost painlessly--had but increased his bewilderment. "What does it mean? How do you come here? I must know, first."

The girl had turned her face quickly to the new voice; and, after vainly trying to rise, lay back breathlessly. "Tell him, Vincent; he's Father Laurence. Remember--he must know--and--and I--can't--"

"Then here it is, sir!" broke in Vincent, brutally. "If you will wait to know, when every moment is precious. We love each other--you've done it in your time, I'm told! I've been coming here, night after night, to see her; she wears that dress to please me--there! Now you've got it!

And to-night, some devil--she says Roshan Khan, but she's dreaming; what can he have to do with it?--stood there and fired--at me, I think; but she flung herself--Ah! Laila, my darling, why did you? Now, will that satisfy you--you--you--"

"Hus.h.!.+" came Laila's voice--"there is no use in being angry. Besides, he understands; he knows what it is to be in love quite well. Don't you, guardian? You loved her, didn't you? Margherita, I mean--"

She wandered off into Italian--the language they always spoke, and her rich voice dulled, died away, as the faintness returned.

"For G.o.d's sake, sir, bring the light, if you won't do anything else!"

cried Vincent, wildly. "She has fainted, I think--I can't see--it is so dark. For G.o.d's sake, sir, the light at least!"

The light at least! As Father Ninian mechanically took the red lamp from its niche he felt that he needed no more light than those words, "he understands," had sent into his very soul. Yes, he knew what love was. But he knew also--it came home to him in a second--that his love, even after all these years, differed not at all from this girl's. He heard it in her voice--that voice so strangely like that other voice--which he remembered--oh! so well!

"Take off the shade," said Vincent, "it makes everything so--so red--you--you can't see the truth." He s.h.i.+vered as he spoke.

But that first look at the girl had been enough for Pidar Narayan. It had roused him, his apathy was gone. He thrust the lamp into Vincent's trembling hands without a word, and his own steady ones--the hands which had not touched their kind, except to heal body or soul, since they had said farewell to a woman--took up the task.

So for a few minutes there was silence, but for the old pantaloon's ceaseless mumblings as he rocked himself backwards and forwards. He had meant no harm, he protested--he had conducted more affairs of the kind to a decent ending than he could well remember--no one could be more discreet--accidents would happen--

"She is shot through the lungs," said Father Ninian, breaking the silence. "There is very little to be done--I--I--" He would have said "_fear_," but for Vincent's face of anguish. What right had he to feel sorrow?--he, the man who had brought this about. "Still, I will try.

Akbar! bring the candles from the altar. Stay! she had better go there.

It will save time. You two can carry her."

But Vincent had her in his arms, with a brief "Where?"

"The chapel--the lights are lit. Lay her on the cus.h.i.+ons before the altar. I will be with you again directly."

When he returned from his room with lint and bandages she was lying there as he had directed, her long red skirt trailing down the white steps.

"The candles, please,--the smaller ones, Akbar,--and place them at her head. They will give me a better light."

Vincent s.h.i.+vered again at the sight; she looked already dead, with those tall tapers about her. Ah! what did it all mean? Was he dreaming?

How was it possible? The wild improbability of it stunned him; when not three hours ago he had had a sherry-and-bitters before dinner! The curious irrelevance of his thoughts made him feel as if he must wake soon. Yet there she lay. Laila, whom he loved!

"Is she--is she--" he began.

"Not dead, if you mean that," replied Father Ninian quietly. "But she will not live an hour."

There was no mincing matters between these two men--nothing but the brutal truth; yet this time it was the old priest who held up his hand against a pa.s.sionate outcry. "Don't make a fuss. Be brave, at least, and don't disturb her. She is coming to herself again."

To herself certainly. To the old half-amused, half-mysterious smile, as her eyes caught the tapers, the lighted altar beyond, her lover kneeling at her side. "It is the wedding, I suppose," she said--there was a catch in her breath now--"but why have they put the candles like a bier? To save time, I suppose. But it mixes things up; and--" she gave a little impatient sigh--"Oh! tell him to be quick, Romeo, for--for we always meant to be married in the end--didn't we?"

The words cut Vincent like a knife. Yes! He had meant it. Not always.

Not till, even to one with his past, the perfection of this idyll in the garden would have suffered without that promise to himself. And now, death should not cheat him, should not leave a stain, a regret, on the one perfect romance of his life. He stooped suddenly and kissed her; kissed her with more pa.s.sion than he had ever kissed her before.

"It won't be long, Juliet; he is just going to begin," he whispered, then rose to his feet unsteadily.

This at least he could do for himself. And for her? A sob, almost of grat.i.tude, of admiration, came to his eyes as he realized that it would never, never--even if she had lived--have mattered to her really. But it had been a part of the play; part of her as Juliet. So it should be.

His wild revolt at the sequence of improbabilities--for after all that idyll in the garden had been, bar its environments, commonplace enough--which had landed him in--_in an Adelphi drama!_--(he could not help the thought, though he despised it)--should give way to this. The play should end with a wedding. Juliet should have the '_statue of pure gold_' in the eyes of the world. He could ensure this by a word; and the word should be spoken.

He touched Father Ninian peremptorily on the shoulder, as he bent, busy with his instruments.

"I want to speak to you. Hus.h.!.+ she must not hear. Father, you say she is dying. Well, I claim my right. I am a Catholic--I have sinned--we will say nothing about her--that lies between us. I wish to marry her while I can. I ask it as my right, of you, a priest. Do you understand?

I ask you to marry us."

Ninian Bruce looked for an instant as if he could have killed the man who stood before him; then he drew himself up, priest utterly.

"Have you the right to claim it?"

"I claim it as a right," replied Vincent, fiercely. "That is enough, surely."

"It is not enough. I will ask her." And Pidar Narayan knelt down beside the girl. "My daughter," he began, "Captain Dering tells me--" Then he gave way--"_Cara mia_," he whispered, laying his hand on hers, "tell me--I have never been unkind, surely--tell me--your old guardian, who has loved, who loves--must I marry you to--to _him?_"

Laila looked into his face with a faintly-wondering reply. "Must!" she echoed dreamily. "It's just as he likes, of course. I don't mind. I only want him--where is he?"

"I'm here, sweetheart." Vincent knelt down again and took her in his arms.

The faint querulousness left her voice. "That's nice," she murmured.

"Tell him to begin quickly, Vincent, for I don't want to waste time. I want you--you, yourself, and me--me, myself--nothing else."

Father Ninian gave a sort of cry, and turned blindly to the altar. If this was not Love, what was?

Then, monotonously, his voice began the marriage service.

"Have you a ring?" he asked, when he came to stand by those two, the girl supported in Vincent's arms. The latter shook his head. "Go on without it," he said sternly; "she is failing fast."

But there was one on the old man's finger; one that had never left it since it had been put there by a saint in Paradise. He took it off now, and gave it to the man whom at that moment he hated and despised more than any man on earth.

So, swiftly, the prayers went on, and old Akbar paused in his rockings to say "Amen" with the others. He had learnt _thus_ much in these latter days of grace.

The last one came as a step resounded down the pa.s.sage; Lance Carlyon's step as he sought the light he had seen--sought his Captain. He seemed to bring a breath of fresh air into the pa.s.sion-laden atmosphere, a solid reality into the shadows.

"Vincent!" he cried, as he caught sight of the scarlet and gold. "Thank G.o.d! you're here. The troopers have seized the Fort--" He paused suddenly, horror-struck at what had caught his eye. "I beg your pardon--I didn't know--is she--is she--hurt?--"

Vincent stood up suddenly. "Hus.h.!.+ that has nothing to do with it. Leave that to me. The troopers have risen? When?"

Lance, with his eyes still on that pitiful sight, shook his head.

"There was a pistol-shot--you must have heard it!"