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 embarrassed, 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 balustraded 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,
assassinated."
"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
God 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 fashion, there was not a leaf out of place, a blade of
grass 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 twang.
Then there was Elahi Buksh, whose daughter was widow of the late
heir-apparent; a wily man, dogging 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
Gâmu the orderly's care, and the consequent necessity for continual
fees. For Gâmu 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 space of boredom due to
their rank.
"I wonder they come," said Mrs. Erlton, passing 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 balustrade, 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 glass of iced water, cup, anything,
since she was thirsty after the strawberries; and when he went off
reluctantly, took her retreat leaning over the balustrade, 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 gratitude 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 piyâree 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-reassured, Abool-Bukr's face
softened instantly.
"_Mujhe muaâf. Murna sub ke hukk hai_" (Excuse me. Death is the right
of all), he said with a graceful salaam as he passed on.
So the water Captain Morecombe brought back was used for a different
purpose than quenching pretended thirst; and the bringer, hearing
Kate's version of the story, hastily asked Sonny--who by this time was
holding out chubby hands cheerfully to be dried and prattling of dirty
birdies--what the Prince had said. The child, puzzled for an instant,
smiled broadly.
"He said it was deaded all light."
Kate shivered. The incident had touched her on the nerves, taking the
color from the flowers, the brightness from the sunshine.
"Come and have a turn," suggested Captain Morecombe; "they have began
dancing in the saloon. It will change the subject."
But as she took his arm, she said in rather a tremulous voice, "There
is such a thing as a Dance of Death, though."
"My dear lady," he laughed, "it is a most excellent pastime. And one
can dance anywhere, on the edge of a volcano even, if one doesn't
smell brimstone."
Kate, however, found otherwise, and when the waltz was over, announced
her intention of going off to take Sonny home, and see Mrs. Seymour
and the new baby. But in this her cavalier saw difficulties. The mare
was evidently too fresh for a lady to drive, and Major Erlton,
returning, might need the dog-cart. It would be far better for
him to drive her in his, so far, and afterward let the Major know he
had to call for her. Kate assented wearily. Such arrangements were
part of the detail of life, with a woman neglected as she was by her
husband. She could not deliberately avoid them, and yet keep the
unconsciousness her pride claimed. How could she, when there
were twenty men in society to one woman? Twenty--for the most
part--gentlemen, quite capable of gauging a woman's character. So
Captain Morecombe drove her to the Seymour's house on the city wall by
the Water Bastion. There were several houses there, set so close to
the rampart that there was barely room for a paved pathway between
their back verandas and the battlement. In front of them lay a metaled
road and shady gardens; and at the end of this road stood a small
bungalow toward which Kate Erlton looked involuntarily. There was a
horse waiting outside it. It was her husband's charger. He must have
arranged to have it sent down, arranged, as it were, to leave her in
the lurch, and a sudden flash of resentment made her say, as she got
down at the Seymours' house, "You had better call for me in half an
hour; that will be best."
Captain Morecombe flushed with sheer pleasure. Kate was not often so
encouraging. But as he drove round to wait for her at a friend's
house, close to the _Delhi Gazette_ press, he, too, noticed the
Major's charger, and swore under his breath. Before God it was too
bad! But if ever there were signs of a coming smash they were to be
seen here. Erlton, after years of scandal, had lost his head--it
seemed incredible, but there was a Fate in such things from which
mortal man could not escape.
And as he told himself this tale of Fate--the man's excuse for the
inexcusable which will pass current gayly until women combine in
refusing to accept it for themselves--another man, at the back of the
little house past which he was driving, was telling it to himself
also. For a great silence had fallen between Major Erlton and Alice
Gissing after she had told him something, to hear which he had
arranged to come home with her for a quiet talk. And, in the silence,
the hollow note of the wooden bells upon the necks of the cattle
grazing below the battlement, over which he leaned, seemed to count
the slow minutes. Quaintest, dumbest of all sounds, lacking vibration
utterly, yet mellow, musical, to the fanciful ear, with something of
the hopeful persistency of Time in its recurring beat.
Alice Gissing was not a fanciful woman, but as she lay back in her
long cane chair, her face hidden in its pillows as if to shut out
something unwelcome, her foot kept time to the persistency on the
pavement, till, suddenly, she sat up and faced round on her silent
companion.
"Well," she said impatiently. "Well! what have you got to say?"
"I--I was thinking," he began helplessly, when she interrupted him.
"What is the use of thinking? That won't alter facts. As I told you,
Gissing will be back in a month or so; and then we must decide."
Major Erlton turned quickly. "You can't go back to him, Allie; you
weren't considering that, surely. You can't--not--not now." His voice
softened over the last words; he turned away abruptly. His face was
hidden from her so.
She looked toward him strangely for a second, covered her face with
her hands for another, then, changing the very import of the action,
used them to brush the hair back from her temples; so, clasping them
behind her head, leaned back on the pillows, and looked toward him
again. There was a reckless defiance in her attitude and expression,
but her words did not match it.
"I suppose I can't," she said drearily, "and I suppose you wouldn't
let me go away by myself either."
Once more he turned. "Go!" he echoed quickly. "Where would you go?"
"Somewhere!"--the recklessness had invaded her voice now--"Anywhere!
Wherever women do go in these cases. To the devil, perhaps."
He gave a queer kind of laugh; this spirited effrontery had always
roused his admiration. "I dare say," he replied, "for I'm not a saint,
and you have got to come with me, Allie. You must. I shall send in my
papers, and by and by, when all the fuss is over"--here he gave a
fierce sigh--"for I expect Gissing will make a fuss, we can get
married and live happily ever after."
She shook her head. "You'll regret it. I don't see how you can help
regretting it!"
He came over to her, and laid his big broad hand very tenderly on her
curly hair. "No! I shan't, Allie," he replied in a low, husky voice,
"I shan't, indeed. I never was a good hand at sentiment and that sort,
but I love you dearly--dearly. All the more--for this that you've told
me. I'd do anything for you, Allie. Keep straight as a die, dear, if
you wanted it. And I wasn't regretting--it--just now. I was only
thinking how strange----"
"Strange!" she interrupted, almost fiercely. "If it is strange to you,
what must it be to me? My God! I wonder if any man will ever
understand what this means to a woman? All the rest seems to pass her
by, to leave no mark--I--I--never cared. But this! Herbert! I feel
sometimes as if I were Claude's wife again--Claude's wife, so full of
hopes and fears. And I dream of him too. I haven't dreamed of him for
years, and I learned to hate him before he died, you know. I have gone
back to that old time, and nothing seems different. Nothing at all!
Isn't that strange? And the old Mai--she has gone back, too--sees no
difference either. She treats me just as she did in those old, old
days. She fusses round, and cockers me up, and talks about it. There!
she is coming now with smelling-salts or sal-volatile or something!
Oh! Go away, do, Mai, I don't want anything except to be left alone!"
But the old ayah's untutored instincts were not to be so easily
smothered. Her wrinkled face beamed as she insisted on changing the
dainty laced shoes for easy slippers, and tucked another pillow into
the chair. The mem was tired, she told the Major with a respectful
salaam, after her long walk; the faint resentment in her tone being
entirely for the latter fact.
"You see, don't you?" said Mrs. Gissing, with bright reckless eyes,
when they were alone once more. "She doesn't mind. She has forgotten
all the years between, forgotten everything. And I--I don't know
why--but there! What is the use of asking questions? I never can
answer even for myself. So we had better leave it alone for the
present. We needn't settle yet a while, and there is always a chance
of something happening."
"But you said your husband would be back----" he began.
"In a month--but we may all be dead and buried in a month," she
interrupted. "I only told you now, because I thought you ought to know
soon, so as not to be hurried at the last. It means a lot, you see,
for a man to give up his profession for a woman; and it isn't like
England, you know----" She paused, then continued in an odd
half-anxious voice, her eyes fixed on him inquiringly as he stood
beside her. "I shouldn't be angry, remember, Herbert, if--if you
didn't."
"Allie! What do you mean? Do you mean that you don't care?" His tone
was full of pained surprise, his hand scarcely a willing agent as she
drew it close to caress it with her cheek.
"Care? of course I care. You are very good to me, Herbert, far nicer
to me than you are to other people. And I can't say 'no' if you decide
on giving up for me. I _can't_ now. I see that. Only don't let us be
in a hurry. As that big fat man in the tight satin trousers said to
the Resident to-day, when he was asked what the people in the city
thought of the fuss down country, '_Delhi dur ust_.'"
"_Delhi dur ust?_ What the devil does that mean?" asked the Major, his
brief doubt soothed by the touch of her soft cheek. "You are such a
clever little cat, Allie! You know a deuced sight more than I do. How
you pick it up I can't think."
She gave one of her inconsequent laughs. "Don't have so many men
anxious to explain things to you as I have, I expect, sir! But if you
ever spoke to a native here--which you don't--you'd know _that_. Even
my old Mai says it--they all say it when they don't want to tell the
truth, or be hurried, and that is generally. 'Delhi is far,' they say.
Dr. Macintyre translates it as 'It's a far cry to Lochawe'; but I
don't understand that; for it was an old King of Delhi who said it
first. People came and told him an enemy had crossed his border.
'_Delhi dur ust_,' says he. Can't you see him, Herbert? An old Turk of
a thing with those tight satin trousers! Then they told him the enemy
was in sight. '_Delhi dur ust_,' said he. And he said it when they
were at the gate--he said it when their swords----" the dramatic
instinct in her was strong, and roused her into springing to her feet
and mimicking the thrust. "_Delhi dur ust_."
Her gay mocking voice rang loud. Then she laid her hand lightly on his
arm. "Let us say it too, dear," she said almost sharply. "I won't
think--yet. '_Delhi dur ust_.'"
The memory of the phrase went with him when he had said good-by, and
was pacing his charger toward the Post Office. But it only convinced
him that the Delhi of his decision was reached; he would chuck
everything for Allie.
It was by this time growing dusk, but he could see two figures
standing in the veranda of the Press Office, and one of them called
him by name. He turned in at the gate to find Captain Morecombe
reading a proof-sheet by the light of a swinging lamp; for Jim Douglas
drew back into unrecognizable shadow as he approached. He had
purposely kept out of Major Erlton's way during his occasional returns
to Delhi, and as he stepped back now he asked himself if he hated the
big man most for his own sake, or for Kate's, or for that other little
woman's. Not that it mattered a jot, since he hated him cordially on
all three scores.
"Bad news from Barrackpore, Erlton," said the Captain, "and as I have
to drive Mrs. Erlton home I thought you might take it round to the
Brigadier's. At least if you have no objection, Douglas?"
"None. The telegram is all through the bazaar by now. You can't help
it if you employ natives."
"'Through the medium of a private telegram,'" read Captain Morecombe,
"'the following startling news has reached our office. On Sunday
(the 29th of March) about 4.30 P. M., a Brahmin sepoy of the 34th N.
I.'--that's the missionary fellow's regiment, of course--'went amuck,
and rushing to the quarter-guard with his musket, ordered the bugler
to sound the assembly to all who desired to keep the faith of their
fathers. The guard, ordered to arrest him, refused. The whole regiment
being, it is said, in alarm at the arrival that morning of the first
detachment of British troops, detailed to keep order during the
approaching disbandment of the 19th for mutiny; rumor having it that
all sepoys then refusing to become Christians would be shot down at
once. The mutineer, who had been drinking hemp, actually fired at
Sergeant-major Hewson, providentially missing him; subsequently he
fired at the Adjutant, who, after a hand-to-hand scuffle with the
madman, in which Hewson joined, only escaped with his life through the
aid of a faithful Mohammedan orderly. Until, and, indeed, after
Colonel Wheler the Commandant arrived on the parade ground, the
mutineer marched up and down in front of the guard, flourishing his
musket and calling for his comrades to join him. The Colonel therefore
ordered the guard to advance and shoot the man down. The men made show
of obedience, but after a few steps they refused to go on, unless
accompanied by a British officer. On this, Colonel Wheler, considering
the risk needless with an unreliable guard already half-mutinous, rode
off to report his failure to the Brigadier, who had halted on the
further side of the parade ground. At this juncture (about 5.30 P. M.)
matters looked most serious. The 43d N. I. had turned out, and were
barely restrained from rushing their bells of arms by the entreaties
of their native officers. The 34th, beyond control altogether, were
watching the mutineer's unchecked defiance with growing sympathy.
Fortunately at this moment General Hearsey, commanding the Division,
rode up, followed by his two sons as _aides_. Hearing what had
occurred from the group of officers awaiting further developments, he
galloped over to the guard, ordered them to follow him, and made
straight for the mutineer; shouting back, "D----n his musket, sir!" to
an officer who warned him it was loaded. But seeing the man kneel to
take aim he called to his son, "If I fall, John, rush in and put him
to death somehow." The precaution was, providentially, unnecessary,
for the mutineer, seeing the remaining officers join in this resolute
advance, turned his musket on himself. He is not expected to live.
Adjutant Baugh, a most promising young officer, is, we regret to say,
dangerously wounded.'"
"Treacherous black devils! I'd shoot 'em down like dogs--the lot of
them," said Major Erlton savagely. He had slipped from his horse and
now stood in the veranda overlooking the proof, his back to Jim
Douglas. Perhaps it was the closer sight of his enemy's face which
roused the latter's temper. Anyhow he broke into the conversation with
that nameless challenge in his voice which makes a third person
nervous.
"It is a pity you were not at Barrackpore. They seem to have been in
need of a good pot-shot--even of an officer to be potted at--till
Hearsey came to the front."
Captain Morecombe turned quickly to put up his sword as it were. "By
the way, Erlton," he said hastily, "I don't think you know Douglas,
though you tried to see him at Nujjufghur after he saved Mrs. Gissing
from that snake."
But Jim Douglas' temper grew, partly at his own fatuity in risking the
now inevitable encounter; and he had a vile, uncontrollable temper
when he was in the wrong.
"Major Erlton and I have met before," he interrupted, turning to go;
"but I doubt if he will recognize me. Possibly his horse may."
He paused as he spoke before the Arab which stood waiting. It whinnied
instantly, stretching its head toward its old master. Major Erlton
muttered a startled exclamation, but regained his self-possession
instantly. "I beg your pardon--Mr.--er--Douglas, I think you said,
Morecombe; but I did not recognize you."
The pause was aggressive to the last degree.
"Under that name, you mean," finished Jim Douglas, white with anger
at being so obviously at a disadvantage. "The fact is, Captain
Morecombe, that as the late King of Oude's trainer I called myself
James Greyman. I sold that Arab to Major Erlton under that name, and
under--well--rather peculiar circumstances. I am quite ready to tell
them if Major Erlton thinks them likely to interest the general
public."
His eyes met his enemy's, fiercely getting back now full measure of
sheer, wild, vicious temper. Everything else had gone to the winds,
and they would have been at each other's throats gladly; scarcely
remembering the cause of quarrel, and forgetting it utterly with the
first grip, as men will do to the end of time.
Then the Major, being less secure of his ground since fighting was out
of the question, turned on his heel. "So far as I'm concerned," he
said, "the explanation is sufficient. Give the devil his due and every
man his chance."
The innuendo was again unmistakable; but the words reminded Jim
Douglas of an almost-forgotten promise, and he bit his lips over the
necessity for silence. But in that--as he knew well--lay his only
refuge from his own temper; it was silence, or speech to the
uttermost.
"If you have quite done with the proof, Captain Morecombe," he said
very ceremoniously.
"Certainly, certainly. Thanks for letting me see it," interrupted the
Captain, who had been looking from one to the other doubtfully, as
most men do even when their dearest friends are implicated, if the
cause of a quarrel is a horse. "It is a serious business," he went on
hurriedly to help the diversion. "After all the talk and fuss, this
cutting down of an officer----"
"Is first blood," put in Jim Douglas. "There will be more spilled
before long."
"Disloyal scoundrels!" growled Major Erlton wrathfully. "Idiots! As if
they had a chance!"
"They have none. That's the pity of it," retorted his adversary as he
rode off quickly.
Ay! that was the pity of it! The pity of blood to be spilled
needlessly. The thought made him slacken speed, as if he were on the
threshold of a graveyard; though he could not foresee the blood to be
spilled so wantonly in that very garden-set angle of the city, so full
now of the scent of flowers, the sounds of security. From far came the
subdued hum which rises from a city in which there is no wheeled
traffic, no roar of machinery; only the feet of men, their tears,
their laughter, to assail the irresponsive air. Nearer, among the
scattered houses hidden by trees, rose children's voices playing about
the servants' quarters. Across the now empty playground of the College
the outlines of the church showed faintly among the fret of branches
upon the dull red sky, which a cloudless sunset leaves behind it. And
through the open arch of the Cashmere gate, the great globe of the
full moon grew slowly from the ruddy earth-haze, then loud and clear
came the chime of seven from the mainguard gong, the rattle of arms
dying into silence again. The peace of it all seemed unassailable, the
security unending.
"_Delhi dur ust!_"
The words were called across the road in a woman's voice, making him
turn to see a shadowy white figure outlined against the dark arches of
a veranda close upon the road. He reined up his horse almost
involuntarily, remembering as he did so that this was Mrs. Gissing's
house.
"I beg your pardon----" he began.
"I beg yours," came the instant reply. "I mistook you for a friend.
Good-night!"
"Good-night!"
As he paced his horse on, choosing the longer way to Duryagunj, by the
narrow lanes clinging to the city wall, the remembrance of that frank
good-night lingered with him. For a friend! What a name to call
Herbert Erlton! Poor little soul! The thought, by its very
intolerableness, drove him back to the other, roused by her first
words:
"_Delhi dur ust_."
True! Even this Delhi lying before his very eyes was far from him. How
would it take the news which by now, as he had said, must have
filtered through the bazaar? He could imagine that. He knew, also,
that the Palace folk must be all discussing the Resident's garden
party, with a view to their own special aims and objects. But what did
they think of the outlook on the future? Did they also say _Delhi dur
ust?_
One of them was saying it on a roof close by. It was Abool-Bukr, who,
on his way home, had given himself the promised pleasure of retailing
his virtuous afternoon's experiences to Newâsi; for his two-months-wed
bride had not broken _him_ of his habit of coming to his kind one,
though it had made _her_ graver, more dignified. Still she broke in on
his thick assertion--for he had drunk brandy in his efforts to be
friendly with the sahibs--that he had seen an Englishwoman of her
sort, with the quick query:
"Like me! How so?"
He laughed mischievously. "And thou art not jealous of my wife!--or
sayest thou art not! She was but like thee in this, aunt, that she is
of the sort who would have men better than God made them----"
"No worse, thou meanest," she replied.
He shook his head. "Women, Newâsi, are as the ague. A man is ever
being made better or worse till he knows not if he be well or ill. And
both ways God's work is marred, a man driven from his right fate----"
"But if a man mistakes his fate as thou dost, Abool," she persisted.
"Sure, if Jewun Bukht with that evil woman, Zeenut----"
He started to his feet, thrusting out lissome hands wildly, as if to
set aside some thought. "Have a care, Newâsi, have a care!" he cried.
"Talk not of that arch plotter, arch dreamer. Nay! not arch dreamer!
'tis thou that dreamest most. Dreamest war without blood, men without
passion, me without myself! Was there not blood on my hands ere ever I
was born--I, Abool-Bukr, of the race of Timoor--kings, tyrants, by
birth and trade? The blood of those who stood in my father's way and
my father's fathers. I tell thee there is too much tinder yonder----"
He pointed to where, across the flat chequers of moonlit roofs, inlaid
by the shadows of the intersecting alleys the cupolas of the Palace
gates rose upon the sky. "There is too much tinder here," he struck
his own breast fiercely, "for such fiery thoughts. Why canst not leave
me alone, woman?"
She drew back coldly. "Do I ask thee to come thither? Thy wife----"
He gave a half-maudlin laugh. "Nay, I mean not that! Sure thou art
very woman, Newâsi! That is why I love mine aunt! That is why I come
to see her--that----"
She interrupted him hastily; but her eyes grew soft, her voice
trembled.
"And I do but goad thee for thine own good, Abool. These are strange
times. Even the Mufti sahib----"
"Ah! defend me from his wise saws. I know the ring of them too well as
'tis. Even that I endure--for mine aunt's sake. Though, by the faith,
if he and others of his kidney waylay me as they do much longer, I
will have a rope ladder to thy roof and scandalize them all. I can
stomach thy wisdom, dear; none else. So tell them that Abool-Bukr can
quote saws as well as they. Tell them he lives for Pleasure, and
Pleasure lives in the present. For the rest, _Delhi dur ust! Delhi
dur ust!_"
His reckless, unrestrained voice rang out over the roofs, and into the
alley below where Jim Douglas was telling himself, that with his
finger on the very pulse of the city he had failed to count its heart
beats.
He looked up quickly. "_Delhi dur ust!_" All the world seemed to be
saying it that night; though the first blood had been shed in the
quarrel.