The last twelve hours before the advancing rains break over your
particular portion of the fiery furnace!--who can describe them? Who,
having once endured them, can need description as an aid to memory? The
world one incarnate expectation, blistering, parched, like the tongue
of Dives. The heavenly drop of water for which you long, squandered on
the hot air, moist with a vanguard of vapour, so that the breath you
draw is even as the breath you exhale. If indeed you breathe at all; if
indeed by sensation of touch or temperature you can differentiate
yourself from the sodden heat of all things, or get rid of the
conviction that, like the devils in a still hotter place, you are an
integral part of the business!
And Hodinuggur on this sodden July day had small hope of future
improvement to lighten the burden of the present, for it stood on the
edge of the rainless tract, in the debatable land of meteorological
reporters. Not more than a shower or two from that south-westerly
column of cloud was due to bring up its scanty average of rainfall,
which came, for the most part, from electrical dust-storms and such
like turbulent, undisciplined outbreaks. So the heat lay over it
hopelessly, and even the peasant patiently awaiting the return of the
smith to mend his ploughshare, did so more from habit than from any
expectation of needing the tool in any immediate future. After all,
waiting was his chief occupation in life. Waiting for something to
grow, or for something to be reaped; waiting for some one to be born or
for some one to die. So, the smith being absent over some work for the
palace, why should he not be waited for even though the sun was setting
red behind the heat-haze? For one thing, it would be cooler to tramp
home with the ploughshare over your shoulder. A tall, grave, bearded
man was the peasant, sitting with his back against the wall, his hands
hanging listlessly between his knees. The painted girl on the balcony
above looked down and told him the news, calling him father,
respectfully. No question of her trade here, with this dweller in the
fields; only a pious 'God keep us all,' ere she became voluble over
Shumshere the zither-player's seizure by cholera that morning as he lay
fighting quails in the street. Doubtless he was dying, now the sun was
setting; any moment the wail might arise from that seventh arch down
the colonnade where he lodged. Whereat the long beard below wagged
slowly over the fact that the Great Sickness had visited the hamlet
also, bidding a crony or two wait no longer for anything; not even for
ploughshares or rain. And then to solace themselves both courtesan and
peasant quenched their thirst on huge chunks of water-melon, bought for
a cowrie from the heap of green and red fruit which had just been shot
off a donkey's back into the dust at one corner of the Mori gate; the
donkey meanwhile browsing unrebuked at the edges of the pile.
'Ari! father! There it is. Did I not say so?' remarked the painted one,
pausing, as a low moan rising to a banshee skirl broke the sodden
stillness of the air.
'Ram! Ram!' ejaculated the peasant piously. 'It is a bad year for sure,
rain or no rain.'
So, having finished his water-melon, he broke a morsel of opium from
the lump he carried in a fold of his turban, rolled it under his tongue
and dozed off, still propped up against the wall. And the sunset faded
leaving the world hotter than ever, though in the crypt beneath the
staircase of the Mori gate the air was cooler than outside, despite the
fire which flickered fitfully over the blackened arches. It flickered
also on the silver bracelets circling Chandni's round brown arm as she
lay curved across a string bed, her jingling feet swaying softly in
tune with the tinsel fan she waved above the bold outlines of throat
and bosom. And the fan, in its turn, kept time with the flicker of the
fire, and the wheezing breath of a smith's bellows rousing the charcoal
embers into dancing flame, or letting them die down to a dull red glow.
'Thou art long, oh lohar-ji!' she said, looking backwards at the bare
bronze figure crouching before a low anvil. 'All these hours to make a
key--when thou hast a mould before thine eyes, too!'
'True, oh mother! but the key is not as our father's keys, and
the hand lacks cunning in new patterns. Lo! I had made one for the
treasure-chest of kings in half the time. But there! 'tis done. See how
it fits its bed like the seed of a pomegranate! God send it may do its
work fairly and well!'
'God send it may, for thy sake, smith-ji,' she replied carelessly.
'Here, take the rupees, and have a care no key is forged to unlock thy
tongue regarding this matter. The Diwan is old, but there are others
behind him, and behind him again, and Chandni behind them all.'
The reckless triumph of her words rang through the low arches, as she
brought her feet to the ground with a clash.
Five minutes afterwards she was looking down on a slender key lying in
Zubr-ul-Zaman's nerveless hands.
'I have won the prize,' she said; 'the pearls are mine.'
The hands quivered, and the keen old eyes seemed to seek her out from
head to foot, revelling in her beauty and her boldness. Then the light
died out of them, the head sank again. 'The game is played,' he
muttered. 'The game is played.'
'Yea! it is played indeed.'
The woman's contemptuous laugh echoed out into the dark night, through
which George Keene, on a hired camel, was making his way across the
desert. Not by the usual road, since that meant delay and Dan's
questioning eyes at Rajpore, but by a side route, branching from the
railway, farther to the south. A hot night, an intolerable smell of
camel, dust in the eyes and nose and mouth, dust and ashes in the
heart; in the endless darkness of all things even the twinkling lights
of the palace seemed home-like and welcome to poor George, for though
the consciousness of doing your duty soothes the mind, it is powerless
before bodily discomfort; and George was wretchedly uncomfortable. To
begin with, a high-paced camel driven at full speed is not an easy
method of conveyance, nor does the necessity for having its unwashed
attendant bumping in the after-saddle add to its charm, even though
that saddle be to leeward of you--for which Heaven be thanked! And then
the lad had had nothing to eat since a hastily-swallowed breakfast at a
rest-house, save some smoked milk and a tough dough-cake brought him at
the village where he changed camels. So, as he bumped through the
silent night on the bubbling, breathing, silent-footed beast, with that
silent breathing brute behind him, more than half George's slender hold
on the joys of life lay in the prospect of supper, even though it must
be one of the factotum's Barmecidal feasts. Such things defy the mind,
especially when that mind is lodged in a young and healthy body. Thus
while he could set his teeth over the remembrance of that half hour
during which his world came to pieces in the hand, he could not prevent
himself coming to pieces on the camel.
It was a dark night indeed; so dark that the red-brick bungalow showed
only by the white arches of its verandah; rising like a ghostly
colonnade out of the shadow. The servants, houses too, were dark as the
night itself, and silent as the grave. George, stepping stiffly into
ankle-deep of yielding sand, called once, twice; then, giving in with
irritation to his experience of native slumber, walked over in the
direction of the cook-room. It was too sandy for snakes; besides,
booted as he was, they could hardly reach him. Necessary thoughts these
now that he was back in purgatory, with death for aught he knew coiled
in the path and they came back to him naturally as part of the
uncomfortable environment of life. He gave another call without the
screen of tall grass sacred to the modesty of the compounder of egg
_sarse_, and then impatiently set aside a mat at its entry.
'They might as well be dead,' he muttered angrily, going up to a string
bed in the centre of the little yard, whereon he could just distinguish
a figure long enough to be a man.
'Get up, you lazy brute!' cried George, shaking it by the shoulder.
There was no answer, and he drew back hastily, shouting for some one,
any one. A twinkling light showed from the stables, a drowsy
exclamation rose from within the hut. So, out of the surrounding dark,
came timorous steps, a hand bearing a cresset, a doubtful face or two
peering at the intruder and yielding to surprised salaams; then
suddenly breaking into garrulous clamour--'Ohi! ohi! 'Tis the Huzoor
returned. And the Huzoor's faithful servant hath been summoned by the
Lord. Lo! if the Huzoor had but come three hours ago there would still
have been a kitmutghar (_lit_. worker) in his honour's house. But it
was the Great Sickness, Huzoor, which waits not; all daylong ill in the
Huzoor's cook-room, with great patience, and--Ohi! ohi! the sahib must
be hungry, and lo! where is he who gave the Huzoor meats fit for his
rank? Oh, my sister! Oh, bereaved one! Oh, widow! put thy grief from
thee and prepare food for the master; in duty sorrow finds solace.'
'Is--is he dead?' asked George, standing dazed, looking incredulously
at the sheeted figure, dimly visible by the flickering rushlight. He
had seen the man sleep thus dozens of times. At the question another
sheeted figure, which had crept from the hut into the circle of
light, broke into a gurgling cry: 'Ohi, _mere adme mur-gya--mere dil
mur-gya--mur-gya_,'[5] and one or two later arrivals, in like disguise,
crouched beside the voice, joining in the strange low whimper of the
conventional wail. George fell back a step or two, repelled to his
heart's core, shocked out of speech.
'Weep not, oh widow!' snivelled the water-carrier, who, being the only
Mohammedan male present, felt impelled to the duty of consoler. 'Didst
not give him beef-tea? Ay! and barley-water likewise? even as the
Huzoor when he was stricken. And did not the master arise to health
thereby? Wherefore, is it not the will of God, plainly, that thy man
should find freedom? Therefore place thy heart on comfort---- He will
be buried at sunrise, Huzoor, so that the sahib will have no more
annoyance; and by the fortune of the Most High, there is even now to be
had without delay a servant who can cook--the one that is dead is as
nothing to him--faithful to salt, having many certificates, mine own
wife's cousin, a----'
George, who by this time was half-way back to the dark house, cursed
him and his wife's relations utterly; then bade him bring a light
somehow. Meanwhile, scarcely conscious of what he was doing, the lad
groped his way into the room where he had first seen her, and,
stumbling against a chair, sat down mechanically, resting his head upon
the back, over his crossed arms. Would the light never come? and when
it came, what would it reveal? more dead men waiting to be roused? Oh,
horrible--most horrible that remembrance of the limp---- No! no! he
would not think of it. He would think of that other face asleep on the
red cushions of the easy chair--but that was dead too--the face of a
dead ideal. Ah! the light at last, thank God! and he could be sensible.
Whatever it showed George, he showed it a mask terrible in its needless
pain, ghastly in the hunted, shrinking look in the young eyes which
used to be so bold. Even the water-carrier, dense as he was, saw it and
understood vaguely.
'This is a bad word that the Huzoor should return thus. It is not
fitting his honour. If he had only waited till Fitzgerald sahib comes
back----'
'Comes back,' echoed George dully. 'Why should he come back?' Yet he
knew quite well in his own mind that Dan also had judged it wrong to
leave the fort unguarded as it were, and his mind wandered to the love
he bore this man, while the water-carrier went on volubly about the
sahib having gone in a hurry that morning and being very angry about
something he had lost; something that the sahib's base-born personal
attendant had said must have been stolen--as if----
George, looking at all things with uncomprehending eyes, suddenly lost
patience, cursed the speaker, quite quietly this time, and bade him go
about his business.
'Your honour's kitmutghar's widow can cook food if the Huzoor----'
George did it a third time solemnly. When he was left alone, he glanced
round quickly, as if uncertain of what the room might contain. The
easy-chair with its red cushions; a bare bed--brought in, doubtless,
for the sake of the larger room and cooler air--a dirty tablecloth on
the table, littered with the crumbs and plates of Dan's last meal
and left in slovenly native fashion to await deferred cleansing. A
half-empty whisky-bottle and a water-surahi; that, at any rate, was
something, and his hand went out to them instinctively. Even in his
general confusion, however, the precepts of modern hygiene remaining
clear, he deferred a drink till they brought him some tepid soda-water.
Such precaution was necessary with cholera in the compound. Whatever
else it may do, civilisation certainly intensifies the dread of death.
The peasant and the courtesan had munched melons in the very shadow,
but George's cultured nerves had no such courage. He was no coward, but
he had received a shock which was bound to make its mark on the highly
sensitised mind and body; bound to weaken them for the time.
Ah! that was better! The room did not seem quite so dreary after the
whisky and soda! Then he took another, and after that the outlook
itself seemed less dreary, and he told himself that Dan had been right
in saying that he, George, did not know the temptation of stimulants.
Temptation?--if they brought you up to your bearings with a round turn
in this fashion--Why! he felt twice the man he had been five minutes
ago. Now he could think; now he could reason; now he could see clearly
and decide what ought to be done. To begin with, she was safe. Those
papers, joined to little Azizan's confession of having stolen the
Ayodhya pot, made it quite impossible to prove she had ever known about
the jewels. As for himself, that did not matter; though, as a fact, he
was quite as safe as Dan. That is to say, the palace devils might raise
a scandal, but the breakdown of their case in regard to her would show
it was no more than revenge for their failure; for they would fail, of
course. So far, nothing had happened. There was no water in the
overflow cut; he had made sure of that as he rode along. And now that
he was on the spot he could do quite as much, off his own bat, to
prevent treachery as any one--the Colonel and all the Department to
boot--could have done had he reported the whole affair. To-morrow the
guard would be changed, and doubled to provide against any violent
attempt; an unlikely event, as such an assault would take time, and he
meant to pitch his tent down at the sluice so as to be on the spot at
night, and during the day he could watch from the bungalow. Against
other and more stealthy treachery he was also provided absolutely--so
absolutely that he gave a short laugh as he drew a couple of Chubb's
keys and a lock from his wallet. That would puzzle them if they came
thinking they had hit on the old fastening. But that also was for
to-morrow; there remained only to-night. No! not to-night; since
already it was past one o'clock. What wonder that he was tired--did any
one in the wide world know or care how tired? He stood up sharply,
every vein tingling now; his whole mind aglow despite his weariness. He
must have something to eat first, of course--his very determination
insisted on that; but not from those plague-stricken purlieus out
yonder--cautious civilisation insisted on that. There must be biscuits
or something of that sort in the cupboard, and as he crossed over to it
the memory of his raid while _she_ slept among the red cushions
returned to make him laugh again.
'And when she went there
The cupboard was bare.'
The childish doggerel fitted the occasion and left him smiling at some
ship's biscuit--the last resource by sea or land--left at the bottom of
a tin. Dan certainly _was_ a bad housekeeper. The comedy of his
disappointment struck him; the tragedy, needing the sequel to develop
it, remained invisible like a photograph in film-embryo.
It was dry work, eating ship's biscuit in a fiery furnace, with a
ten-pound thirst upon you and whisky and soda within reach. When he
stood up again the weariness seemed to have crept upwards, leaving
nothing alert save his brain. Had he ever been so tired in all his
life? As tired as _she_ must have been when she fell asleep in the
chair he was just passing. His hand lingered on the back of it for an
instant, almost caressingly.
By Jove! what a furnace it was outside! Lighter than it had been,
however, because of the suggestion of a moon low down in the heat-haze.
And there was the potter's lamp twinkling like a star above the domed
shadow of the Hodinuggur mound. Queer old chap--queer start the whole
thing--if one came to think of it. A crazy, irresponsible creator! as
Dan had called him. Why not he as well as another? Who knew? who cared?
He stood so for a space, looking out with sensitive, seeing eyes to the
broad shadows, formless save for the pinpoint flicker of the potter's
light. Face to face at last, he and Hodinuggur; between them the
sliding water, mother of all things. Then came a memory.
'Hath not the Potter power over the Clay?'
Ah! if that was all the light amid the shadows of life, better far were
darkness! If that he turned quickly, beset by uncontrolled, passionate
contempt, uncontrolled, passionate desire for action, and beneath his
shaking hand the lamp on the table flared out, smokily. A poor protest;
yet the dark was better. Darkness and rest--if rest could come to one
so tired as he was, as it had come to her. Not that it mattered if he
were tired or not----
Five minutes after, the twinkling light, could it have reached so far,
would have found him asleep, peaceful as a child, among the red
cushions where _she_ had slept. But even Azizan's eyes, set keen as
they were by devotion, could not pierce the darkness. For the light
George had seen was in her hand, as she stood looking out from the yard
towards the other bank of the canal.
'It hath gone out again,' she murmured; 'a servant likely, on no good
errand; and the old man tells me the truth, I think. Another week ere
he returns. I would it had been sooner, so that I might warn him. But
there! 'tis the same! The task is mine in the end.'
As she crossed back to the hut, she paused an instant to look, by the
light of the cresset she shaded with her thin fingers, on the figure of
old Fuzl Elahi asleep in the open beside his wheel.
'Poor fool,' she said softly, as if to the sleeper. And after that even
the potter's light disappeared, leaving both sides of the sliding water
to darkness.
The dawn came and went; the sun climbing into the sky turned it to
brass--a brazen dome in which the sun itself seemed merged and lost.
Yet still George slept on, undisturbed even by the water-carrier's
cautious peepings through the chick.
'Lo! the Huzoor is young, and he was broken into pieces by thy bad
animal,' he said to the camel man who was impatiently awaiting payment.
'Sleep is even as food and drink to him, and besides, ere he wakes, my
wife's cousin, whom I have sent for, will be present to cook my lord's
breakfast. There is great virtue in being _majood_ (created), and the
man who cooks one meal hath himself to blame if he cook not many. If
thou art hurried, go. Who wants thee and thy evil-smelling brute?'
So George slept on, and when he woke at last it was to the confused,
unreasoning consciousness of those who have been drugged. He stared
round him incredulously, until out of the mist, as it were, the empty
whisky bottle on the table grew clear, accusingly clear, and he sprang
to his feet, becoming aware, as he did so, of a racking headache.
Undoubtedly he had taken more whisky than usual; not perhaps without
excuse, he added, as memory began to return. The next instant he was at
the door. Yellow haze and yellow heat, and through it a silver streak
steering for the south!----
That was all he saw, but that little changed the whole world for him in
the twinkling of an eye. The sluice-gate was open. The devils had
won--they had won!--they had won!
What use is there in saying that he felt this, that he felt that? What
use in pointing out whether anger or regret came uppermost in the
conglomerate of passion? As a matter of fact, George felt nothing
consciously; not even when, after an hour or more, he came back wearily
to the red-hot bungalow, out of the red-hot air.
He sat down then on the table, now cleared of last night's crumbs, and
relaid by the wife's cousin with that superfluity which marks new zeal
in India, and tried to think of what he had thought, or said, or done
since he first caught sight of that silver streak steering southward
where no streak should be. But, after a time, he found himself deeply
interested in reconstructing the pyramid of five forks intertwined,
with which the new hand had adorned the centre of the table. What a
fool! what an arrant fool he was, to be sure. Even if there had been
any one upon whom to use the revolver, he would most likely have lost
his opportunity or missed the beggar! But there had been nobody, and he
might as well have left it at home, lying on the table ready, as it was
now. The sluice-gate, not ten minutes before he woke, had been opened
by a key--a key which had broken in the lock, making it impossible to
close it again till it was repaired. Of course there were the other
keys and the new lock; but what need was there for hurry now? No power
in earth or heaven could hide the fact that the sluice-gate had been
open. For months to come, miles on miles of crop ripening to harvest
would proclaim the failure, the treachery. 'As ye have sown so shall ye
reap.' Concealment was impossible; that much was certain--and the
certainty brought with it an odd sort of content. Since it was all his
fault from beginning to end, it was as well he should suffer. Yes! it
had been opened quietly while the guard was eating his dinner; opened
quietly while he, George, was asleep; why not say drunk at once--that
was nearer the truth.
And the Diwan! George's listless hands tightened as he thought of that
brief interview with the old man on the roof. His own torrent of
reckless abuse, the courteous regrets and replies ignoring his very
accusations. But those palace devils could afford to eat abuse!
Zubr-ul-Zaman had played, and the game was done indeed. But how? Half
mechanically George drew out the key attached to his watch-chain and
looked at it; carelessly at first, then carefully. And what he saw
there clinging to the inner surface of a ward, changed heaven for him
in the twinkling of an eye, even as the silver streak of water had
changed the world.
It was a very simple thing; only a piece of wax. How long he sat there
staring at it he did not realise. The yellow haze outside grew ruddier
with the sinking of the sun, the water-carrier, shadowed by a
white-robed aspirant to the dead factotum's duties, hovered about the
verandah expectantly.
'What do you want, you fool?' bawled George, looking up, surprised at
his own anger, surprised that anything should touch him save the
thought that _she_ had known--must have known--that _she_ had done it,
must have done it.
The man edged in through the screen, signing to the white-robed one to
follow his example.
'Only to bring the Huzoor this,' he began noisily. 'Only to bring this
proof of honesty to the feet of justice. Lo! it was found even now by
this man with a foresight and quickness to be commended. In the sahib's
own room, Huzoor, beneath the matting, thus causing the face of the big
sahib's ill-begotten servant to be blackened by reason of his base
insinuation of theft! Theft! How can there be theft in a house where
the water-carrier is as I am, and the kit will be as this one--mine own
wife's brother, Huzoor----'
George broke out suddenly into dull laughter, 'Oh! go to blazes with
your wife's brother--put the thing down there on the table, I tell you,
and go--go--do you hear?'
Anger, and something more than anger was back in his tone ere
he ended, and the water-carrier, knowing his master's voice, fled. The
white-robed one with the courage of ignorance risked all by a salaam.
'At what hour will the Huzoor please to dine?'
The young man looked at him curiously, feeling that the world was past
his comprehension.
'The usual time, I suppose.'
As well this fool as another--as well to-morrow as to-day. Everything
was trivial of course, and yet the trivial commonplace interruption had
somehow brought home the reality of what had happened to the lad, and
his head sank on his crossed arms once more in utter dejection. _She_
might have told him, warned him. Surely when he had promised she might
have done so much for his sake, and Dan's--by the way, what was it that
Dan had lost and that chattering idiot had brought in with him?
George's right hand trembled a little as it reached over the table to
take a plain gold locket on a slender gold chain. It was familiar
enough to him. Dan wore it day and night, and many a time had George
chaffed him about the young woman, so it was no wonder the dear old man
had been vexed at the thought of losing it. Losing it? or losing her?
In the keen thrust of this thought, the locket slipped through George's
fingers, and falling, opened. So it lay, face upwards, while the boy
sat staring out into the room blindly, intent on the remembrance that
after all it was not a case of whether a man or a woman should suffer;
it was one woman or another. The woman _he_ loved or the woman _Dan_
loved. A hundred thoughts beset him, but, analysed, they all resolved
themselves to this: his love or Dan's. To save _her_ from even a breath
of scandal he was willing to bear the blame; but how could this be
without also imperilling Dan's future? No! if the worst came; if he
could find no way--yet surely, surely, there must be some way, some
simple way--of taking all the responsibility on his shoulders; then
_she_ must be brave; _she_ must tell the truth and save this woman whom
Dan loved--whose face lay there in the locket. His eyes sought it
mechanically----
'_Gwen_.'
The sound, barely a whisper, scarcely stirred the sodden air. After a
while he pushed back his chair slowly and crossed to stand once more
looking out over Hodinuggur.
It seemed to have a fascination for him; yet his mind held but one
thought--a desire to get away--to find some place where there was
neither truth nor lies, where he need say nothing--need think nothing.
That surely would settle it.
'_No, you wouldn't, old chap, not unless you wanted them to believe you
guilty_.' Lewis Gordon's idle words as they had stood laughing and
jesting on the balcony yonder but a few months ago came back to him;
the only real, living memory in the chaos of his present pain. The
scene reproduced itself before his haggard young eyes. Yes! that would
settle it; and after all he was guilty. Why had he not told the
Colonel? why had he slept? why----
The sound was louder this time; yet not loud enough to disturb the
servants, chattering across in the cook-room over the chances of
perquisites under the new regime. Loud enough, for all that, to deafen
the lad's ears for ever to questionings of truth or untruth.
He lay on his back, face upwards, and a faint stream of blood oozing
from the blue bruise just over his heart traced a fine girdle round his
breast; perhaps to show that the potter's thumb had slipped, and the
pot had cracked in the firing.
Maybe a fiery furnace and a "ed-hot bungalow are overtrying even to the
best of clay when it is fresh from the moulder's hand; but that is
neither here nor there.
The fact remains that George had run away; from truth and untruth, from
himself and his fellow-men, but most of all from Hodinuggur and the
crazy irresponsible creator; yet could he have realised the fact, no
one in the wide, wide world would have been more incredulous of his own
action. And as he lay dead, with a bullet through his heart, the
barometer upon the mantelpiece was falling faster and faster, while
Dan, with a telegram in his pocket, was riding all he knew across the
desert to open the sluice-gate against the biggest flood within the
memory of man. To open it so far and no farther, and so to prevent any
weakening of the channel for a while. Too late! For already the
peasants were knee-deep in their fields breaking through every obstacle
which might stem the rising water. And still the barometer fell faster
and faster; but the only one who could have understood the silent
warning had deserted his post.