"Christmas Eve!" echoed Mrs. Langford. "Yes! I suppose it is; but I
had forgotten--there isn't much to remind one of it in India--is
there?"
As she paused half-way up the verandah steps she glanced back at the
creeper-hung porch where the high spider-cart, in which she had come
home from the club, waited for its owner to return to the box-seat. He
seemed in no hurry to do so, and his glance followed hers as he stood
on the step below her. He was a tall man, so his face was on a level
with hers, and the two showed young, handsome--hers a trifle pale, his
a trifle red.
There was a stretch of garden visible beyond the creepers. It was not
flowerful, since Christmas, even in India, comes when the tide of sap,
the flow of life, is at its lowest; yet, in the growing dusk, the
great scarlet hands of the poinsettias could be seen thrusting
themselves out wickedly from the leafy shadows as if to clutch the
faint white stars of the oleanders blossoming above them; and there
was a bunch of Marechal Niel roses in the silver belt of the woman's
white tennis dress, which told of sweeter, more home-like blossom.
"And it is just as well," she continued, with a bitter little laugh,
"that there isn't, for it's a deadly, dreary time--"
"All times are dreary," assented the tall man in a low voice, rapidly,
passionately, "when there is no one who cares--"
"There is my husband," she interrupted, this time with a nervous
laugh. The answer fitted doubly, for she turned to a figure which at
that moment came out of the soft rose-tinted light of the room within,
and said in a faintly fretful tone, "You don't mean to say, George,
surely, that you've been working till now?"
"Working!" echoed George Langford, absently. "Yes! why not? Ah! is
that you, Campbell? Brought the missus home, like a good chap. Sorry I
couldn't come, my dear; but there was a beastly report overdue, so now
I've only time for a spin on the bicycle before dinner, for I must
have some exercise. By the way, Laura, you'd better send off your home
letter without mine. I really haven't had time to write to the boys
this mail."
He was busy now, in the same absent, preoccupied, yet energetic way,
in seeing to the machine, which a red-coated servant held for him; but
he looked up quickly at his wife's reply--
"I haven't written either."
"Haven't you? That's a pity," he began, then paused, with a vaguely
unquiet look at her and her tall companion, which merged, however,
into a good-natured smile. "Well, they won't know it was Christmas
mail anyhow. 'Pon my soul I'd forgotten it myself, Campbell, or I'd
have made a point.... But there's the devil of a crush of work just
now, though I shall clear some of the arrears off to-morrow. That's
about the only good of a holiday to me!" He was off as he spoke--a
shadow gliding into the shadows, where the red hands of the
poinsettias and the white stars of the oleanders showed fainter as the
dusk deepened.
But he left a pair of covetous, entreating hands and a white face
behind him in the verandah, between the rosy light of comfort from
within and the grey gloom of the world without.
"It cannot go on--this sort of thing--for ever," said the man, still
in that low, passionate voice. "It will kill--"
"Kill him? Do you think so?" she interrupted, still with that little
half-nervous, half-bitter laugh. "I don't; he's awfully strong and
awfully clever, you know."
The owner of the dogcart turned to it impatiently.
"You will come to-morrow at eleven, anyhow," he said, bringing the
patience back to his voice with an effort, for it seemed to him--as it
so often seems to a man--that the woman did not know what she would be
at. "It will be a jolly drive; and, as they are sending out a
mess-tent, we need not come back till late. Your husband said he was
to be busy all day."
He waited, reins in hand, for an answer. It came after a pause; came
decidedly.
"Yes; at eleven, please. It will be better anyhow than stopping here.
There isn't even tennis on Christmas Day, you know; and the house
is--is so deadly quiet." She turned to it slowly as she spoke, passed
into the rose light, and stood listening to the sound of the dogcart
wheels growing fainter and fainter. When it had gone an intense
stillness seemed to settle over the wide, empty house--that stillness
and emptiness which must perforce settle round many an Englishwoman in
India; the stillness and emptiness of a house where children have
been, and are not.
It made her shiver slightly as she stood alone, thinking of the
dogcart wheels.
Yet just at the back of the screen of poinsettias and oleanders which
hid the servants' quarters from the creeper-hung porch there were
children and to spare. Dozens of them, all ages, all sizes, belonging
to the posse of followers which hangs to the skirts of bureaucracy in
India.
Here, as the lights of the dogcart flashed by, they lit up for an
instant a quaint little group gathered round a rushlight set on the
ground. It consisted of a very old man, almost naked, with a grey
frost of beard on his withered cheeks, and of a semicircle of
wide-eyed, solemn-faced, brown babies--toddlers of two and three, with
a sprinkling of demure little maidens of four and five.
The centre of the group lay beside the rushlight. It was a rudimentary
attempt at a rag doll; so rudimentary indeed that as the passing flash
of the lamps disclosed its proportions, or rather the lack of them, a
titter rose from the darkness behind, where some older folk were
lounging.
The old doll-maker, who was attempting to thread a big packing-needle
by the faint flicker, turned towards the sound in mild reproof: "Lo!
brothers and sisters," he said, "have patience awhile. Even the
Creator takes time to make His puppets, and this of mine will be as
dolls are always when it is done. And a doll is a doll ever, nothing
more, nothing less."
"Yet thou art sadly behind the world in them, _babajee_," put in a
pale young man, with a pen-box under his arm, who had paused on his
way to the cook-room, whither he was going to write up the daily
account for the butler; since a man must live even if he has a
University degree, and, if Government service be not forthcoming, must
earn a penny or two as best he can. "That sort of image did for the
dark ages of ignorance, but now the mind must have more reality; glass
eyes and such like. The world changes."
The old man's face took an almost cunning expression by reason of its
self-complacent wisdom. "But not the puppets which play in it, my son.
The Final One makes _them_ in the same mould ever; as I do my dolls,
as my fathers made theirs. Ay! and thine too, _babajee!_ As for eyes,
they come with the sight that sees them, since all things are
illusion. For the rest"--here he shot a glance of fiery disdain at the
titterers--"I make not dolls for these scoffers, but for their
betters. This is for the little masters on their Big Day. To-morrow I
will present it to the _sahib_ and the _mem_, since the little
_sahibs_ themselves are away over the Black Water. For old Premoo
knows what is due. This dust-like one, lame of a leg and blind of an
eye, has not always been a garden coolie--a mere picker of weeds, a
gatherer of dried leaves, saved from starvation by such trivial tasks.
In his youth Premoo hath carried young masters in his bosom, and
guarded them night and day after the manner of bearers. And hath found
amusement for them also; even to the making of dolls as this one. Ay!
it is true," he went on, led to garrulous indignation by renewed
sounds of mirth from behind; "dolls which gave them delight, for they
were not as some folk, black of face, but _sahib logue_ who, by God's
grace, grew to be _ginerals_ and _jedges_, and commissioners, and--and
even _Lat-sahibs_."
The old voice, though it rose in pitch with each rise in rank, was not
strong enough to overbear the titter, and the doll-maker paused in
startled doubt to look at his own creation.
"I can see naught amiss," he muttered to himself; "it is as I used to
make them, for sure." His anxious critical eye lingered almost
wistfully over the bald head, the pincushion body, the sausage limbs
of his creature, yet found no flaw in it; since fingers and toes were
a mere detail, and as for hair, a tuft of wool would settle that
point. What more could folk want, sensible folk, who knew that a doll
must be always a doll--nothing more, nothing less?
Suddenly a thought came to make him put doubt to the test, and he
turned to the nearest of the solemn-faced, wide-eyed semicircle of
babies.
"Thou canst dandle it whilst I thread the needle, Gungi," he said
pompously, "but have a care not to injure the child, and let not the
others touch it."
The solemnity left one chubby brown face, and one pair of chubby brown
hands closed in glad possession round the despised rag doll. Old
Premoo heaved a sigh of relief.
"Said I not so, brothers and sisters?" he cried exultingly. "My hand
has not lost its art with the years. A doll is a doll ever to a child,
as a child is a child ever to the man and the woman. As for glass
eyes, they are illusion--they perish!"
"Nevertheless, thou wilt put clothes to it, for sure, brother,"
remonstrated the fat butler, who had joined the group, "ere giving it
to the Presences. 'Tis like a skinned fowl now, and bare decent."
Premoo shook his head mournfully. "Lo! _khangee_, my rags, as thou
seest, scarce run to a big enough body and legs! And the _Huzoor's_
tailor would give no scraps to Premoo the garden coolie; though in the
old days, when the little masters lay in these arms, and there was
favour to be carried by the dressing of dolls, such as he were ready
to make them, male and female, kings and queens, fairies and heroes,
_mem-sahibs_ and _Lat-sahibs_ after their kind. But it matters not in
the end, _khanjee_, it matters not! The doll is a doll ever to a
child, as a child is a child ever to the man and the woman, though
they know not whether it will wear a crown or a shroud."
So as Christmas Eve passed into Christmas night, Premoo stitched away
contentedly as he sat under the stars. There was no Christmas message
in them for the old man. The master's Big Day meant nothing to him
save an occasion for the giving of gifts, notably rag dolls! There was
no vision for him in the velvet darkness of the spangled sky of angels
proclaiming the glad tidings of birth; and yet in a way his old heart,
wise with the dim wisdom which long life brings, held the answer to
the great Problem, as in vague self-consolation for the titterings he
murmured to himself now and again: "It is so always; naught matters
but the children, and the children's children."
And when his task was over, he laid the result for safety on the
basket of withered leaves which he had swept up from the path that
evening, and wrapping himself in his thin cotton shawl, lay down to
sleep in the shelter of the poinsettia and oleander hedge.
So, the Christmas sun peering through the morning mists shone upon a
quaint _creche_ indeed--on the veriest simulacrum of a child lying on
a heap of faded red hand-like leaves and white star-like blossoms.
Perhaps it smiled at the sight. Humanity did, anyhow, as it passed and
repassed from the servants' quarters to its work in the house. For in
truth old Premoo's creation looked even more comical in the daylight
than it had by the faint flicker of the lamp. There was something
about it productive of sheer mirth, yet of mirth that was tender. Even
the fat butler, on his way to set breakfast, stopped to giggle
foolishly in its face.
"God knows what it is like," he said finally. "I deemed it was a
skinned fowl last night, but 'tis not that. It might be anything."
"Ay!" assented the bearer, who had come out, duster in hand. "That is
just where it comes. A body cannot say what it might or might not be.
Bala Krishna himself, for aught I know." Whereupon he salaamed; and
others passing followed suit, in jest at first, afterwards with a
suspicion of gravity in their mirth, since, when all was said and
done, who knew what anything was really in this illusory world?
So the rag doll held its levee that Christmas morning, and when the
time came for its presentation to the _Huzoors_ there were curious
eyes watching the old man as he sate with his offering on the lowest
step of the silent, empty house, waiting for the master and mistress
to come out into the verandah. Premoo had covered the doll's bed of
withered flowers with some fresh ones, so it lay in pomp in its
basket, amid royal scarlet and white and gold; nevertheless he waited
till the very last, until the smallest platter of sugar and oranges
and almonds had been ranged at the master's feet, ere he crept up the
steps, salaaming humbly, yet with a vague confidence on his old face.
"It is for the child-people," he said, in his cracked old voice. "This
dust-like one has nothing else, but a doll is always a doll to them,
as a child is a child to the man and the woman."
Then for an instant the rag doll lay, as it were, in state, surrounded
by offerings. But not for long. Some one laughed, then another, till
even old Premoo joined doubtfully in the general mirth.
"The devil is in it," chuckled the fat butler, apologetically; "but
the twelve _Imams_ themselves would not keep grave over it during the
requiem!"
"By Jove, Laura," cried George Langford, "we must really send that
home to the kids. It's too absurd!"
"Yes," she assented, a trifle absently, "we must indeed." She stopped
to take the quaint travesty from its basket, and as she did so one of
the red hands of the poinsettias clung to its sausage legs. She
brushed the flower aside with a smile which broadened to a laugh; for
in truth the thing was more ludicrously comical than ever seen thus,
held in mid-air. George Langford found it so, anyhow, and exploded
into a fresh guffaw.
She flushed suddenly, and gathered the unshapen thing in her arms as
if to hide it from his laughter.
"Don't, George," she said, "it--it seems unkind. Thank you, Premoo,
very much. We will certainly send it home to the little masters; and
they, I am sure--" Here her eyes fell upon the doll again, and mirth
got the better of her gravity once more.
Half-an-hour afterwards, however, as she stood alone in the
drawing-room, ready dressed for her drive, the gravity had returned as
she looked down on the quaint monstrosity spread out on the table,
where on the evening before the rose-shaded lamp had been. It was
ridiculous, certainly, but beneath that there was something else. What
was it? What had the old man said: "A doll is always a doll...." He
had said that and something more: "As the child is always a child to
the man and the woman." It ought to be--but was it? Was not that tie
forgotten, lost sight of in others ... sometimes?
Half mechanically she took the rag doll, and sitting down on a
rocking-chair laid the caricature on her lap among the dainty frills
and laces of her pretty gown. And this was Christmas Day--the
children's day--she thought vaguely, dreamily, as she rocked herself
backwards and forwards slowly. But the house was empty save for
this--this idea, like nothing really in heaven or earth; yet for all
that giving the Christmas message, the message of peace and goodwill
which the birth of a child into the world should give to the man and
the woman:--
"Unto us a child is born."
She smiled faintly--the thing on her lap seemed so far from such a
memory--and then, with that sudden half-remorseful pity, she once more
gathered the rag doll closer in her arms, as if to shield it from her
own laughter.
And as she sate so, her face soft and kind, her husband coming into
the room behind her, paused at what he saw. And something that was not
laughter surged up in him; for he understood in a flash, understood
once and for all, how empty his house had been to her, how empty her
arms, how empty her life.
He crossed to her quickly, but she was on her feet almost defiantly at
the first sight of him. "Ridiculous monster!" she exclaimed, gaily
tossing the doll back on the table. "But it has an uncanny look about
it which fascinates one. Gracious! Where are my gloves? I must have
left them in my room, and I promised to be ready at eleven!"
When she had gone to look for them, George Langford took up the rag
doll in his turn--took it up gingerly, as men take their babies--and
stared at it almost fiercely. And he stood there, stern, square,
silent, staring at it until his wife came back. Then he walked up to
her deliberately and laid his hands on hers.
"I'm going to pack this thing up at once, my dear," he said, "and take
it over this morning to little Mrs. Greville. She starts this
afternoon, you know, to catch the Messageries steamer. She'll take it
home for us; and so the boys could have it by the Christmas mail,
which I forgot."
The words were commonplace, but there was a world of meaning in the
tone.
"I--I thought you were busy," she said indistinctly, after a pause in
which the one thing in the world seemed to her that tightening hold
upon her hand. "If you are--I--I could go...."
There was another pause--a longer one.
"I thought you were going out," he said at last, and his voice, though
distinct, was not quite steady; "but if you aren't, we might go
together. My work can easily stand over, and--and Campbell can drive
you out some other day when I can't."
She gave an odd little sound between a laugh and a sob.
"That would be best, perhaps," she said. "I'd like the boys to have
this"--she laid her other hand tenderly on the rag doll--"by the
Christmas mail I had forgotten."
Old Premoo was sweeping up the withered leaves and flowers from the
poinsettia and oleander hedge, when first one and then another high
dogcart drove past him. And when the second one had disappeared, he
turned to the general audience on the other side of the hedge, and
said with great pride and pomp--
"Look you! The scoffers mocked at my doll, but the _Huzoors_
understand. The _sahib_ himself has taken it to send to the little
_sahibs_, and the _mem_ packed it up herself and went with him,
instead of going in the Captain _sahib's_ dogcart. That is because a
doll is always a doll; as for glass eyes and such like, they perish."
And with that he crushed a handful of withered red poinsettias into
the rubbish basket triumphantly.