THE NEW WEARER OF THE CORNELIAN RING.
Six weeks had crawled by. With all his occupation Mark found time
desperately hard to kill; he felt as if he had lived his present life
for at least six years. The monsoon had broken, and on some days the
torrents compelled him to remain indoors; and whilst sheets of rain and
hurricanes of wind swept the valley, an appalling loneliness settled
down upon the miserable young man. His father passed many hours in
sleep, and he had not a soul with whom to exchange a word. One evening,
during a welcome break, he was riding homewards down a steep and
slippery path that wound through wet dark pine-woods, when his pony
suddenly shied so violently as almost to lose its footing; he had taken
fright at an undefined object beside the road, something which at first
his rider mistook for a bear, until it emitted a groan of unmistakable
human anguish.
“What is the matter?” asked Jervis, as he quickly dismounted.
“Alas, I have hurt my foot!” replied a female voice in Hindostani. “I
fell down--I cannot walk.”
Jervis threw the bridle over his arm, lit a match, and, shading it with
his hand, saw, huddled up, what appeared to be an old native woman. She
explained to him, between groans and gasps, that she had twisted her
ankle over a root on the path, and could not move.
“Are you far from home?” he inquired.
“Three miles.”
“In which direction?”
“The hill above the old cantonment.”
“I know. If you think you can sit on my pony, I will lead him and take
you home safely.”
“Oh, I am such a coward,” she cried. “Is the pony gentle?”
“Yes, he is all right; I will answer for the pony.”
“I--and I cannot bear pain. Oh--oh! but I must”--vainly struggling to
rise, and sinking down again.
She proved a light weight, as Jervis raised her bodily in his arms,
and placed her in the saddle. Fortunately the pony, who bore the
suggestive name of “Shaitan,” was too much sobered by a long journey to
offer any active opposition to carrying a lady. The homeward progress
proved exceedingly tedious; the road was bad and nearly pitch dark. The
native woman, who appeared to know every yard of the way, directed her
companion by a path almost swallowed up in jungle, to a hill behind the
old mess-house. Up and up they climbed, till they came to a tiny stone
bungalow, with a light in the window. The door was thrown open by
another native woman and an old man, whose shrill voluble lamentations
were almost deafening.
“You had better let me carry you in?” suggested Jervis.
“No, no.” Then imperiously to the other woman, “Anima, bring hither a
chair and help me down.”
But Anima, of the lean and shrivelled frame, had been set a task far
beyond her strength, and in the end it was the muscular arms of the
young Englishman that lifted the other from the saddle. As he placed
her carefully on the ground, her shawl, or saree, fell back, and the
lamplight revealed a fair-skinned woman with snow-white hair, and a
pair of magnificent black eyes. She was possibly fifty years of age--or
more--and though her lips were drawn with pain, she was remarkably
handsome, with a high-bred cast of countenance. No native this; at any
rate, she resembled no native that Jervis had ever seen. Who was she?
A glance into the interior surprised him still further; instead of the
usual jumble of cooking-pots, mats, and hookahs, he caught a glimpse of
a round table, with a crimson cover. A newspaper, or what looked like
one, lay upon it; there was an armchair, a fire blazing in a fireplace,
with a cat sedately blinking before it.
Who was this woman? He was not likely to learn any further
particulars--at present, for she was helped in by her two servants; and
as he waited, the door was abruptly closed and barred, and he was left
outside, alone in the cold and darkness. Here was gratitude!
He rode slowly home, the pony figuratively groping his way, whilst his
master was lost in speculation. This was the mysterious neighbour, he
felt certain; this was the tender of the graves--the owner of the voice.
He related his adventure to his father whilst they played picquet.
Major Jervis was not half as much surprised as the young man had
anticipated--he simply stroked his forehead, a favourite trick of his,
and said, with his eyes still fastened on his cards--
“Oh, so you have come across the Persian woman! I so seldom hear of
her, I had forgotten her.”
“Persian?”
“Yes. She has been in these hills for years, working among the lepers.
A fair-skinned woman, with great haunting dark eyes.”
“But who is she?” throwing down his cards and looking eagerly at his
father.
“She is what I tell you,” impatiently--“a Persian; they are generally
fair, and I dare say she has been handsome in her day, about thirty
years ago. Why are you so interested?”
“Because I have another idea in my head; I believe she is an
Englishwoman.”
The major’s laugh was loud, and sound, and not at all mad.
“She is a Persian--only, of course, you are no judge--and to the very
tips of her fingers.”
“But what is she doing up here?”
“I would rather you asked her that than I did,” was the extremely sane
reply. “She is a Christian, I believe, and is working out her sins. I
have no doubt she is a woman with a past. You can read it in her eyes.
Come, my boy, take up your hand; it’s your turn to play.”
Mark Jervis, as we know, had not been permitted time or opportunity to
read anything, whether referring to past or present, in the Persian’s
eyes; but this omission was corrected ere long.
One afternoon he noticed a figure, stick in hand, resting on the
mess-house steps, as he rode by--a figure which raised the stick, and
imperatively summoned him to approach.
It was undoubtedly his recent acquaintance, who pulled the veil further
over her head, as she said--
“Sahib, I wish to thank you for your charitable benevolence. Truly, but
for you, I should have lain all night in the forest, in the rain, and
among the beasts.”
“I hope you are better?” he asked, doffing his cap.
“Yea, nearly well. Though I am a stranger to you, I know that you are
Jones Sahib’s son.”
“Major ‘Jervis’ is his real name. Yes--I am his son.”
“I have heard of you,” she continued, rather loftily.
“Indeed!”
“From the leper-folk,” she added, significantly.
“It is you who keep the graves yonder in order?”
“May be!” was her cautious reply.
“And who sing English hymns in the old church?”
A slight contraction passed over her face as she replied--
“Nay--I am a Persian woman from Bushire. What should I know of thy
songs or thy tongue?”
“Then who--can it be?” inquired Jervis, looking at her steadfastly.
“Noble youth--why ask me? A woman from the dead, perchance,” she
retorted mockingly.
“At least, it is you who do so much good among the sick Pahari-folk and
lepers?” he persisted.
“Yea, I am but one--the field is great. Who can fill jars with dew? I
would I could do more.”
“I believe that were hardly possible.”
“As far as these hands go,” extending a pair of delicately-shaped
members, “I do what I can; but what is one lemon for a whole village
to squeeze! If I had a big house that would serve as a hospital, I
should have my heart’s desire. I am skilled in medicine, so also is my
servant; we would have our sick beside us, and could do much--that is
my dream. It will never come to pass till the sun shall be folded up
and the stars shall fall.”
“Surely one of these bungalows would answer. Why not this mess-house?”
suggested Jervis generously.
“True; but the sircar would not yield it to me. Already the sircar
has given me my abode; and, doubtless, were I to ask for the Mess
Khana, they would aver that I was like to the man who, on receiving a
cucumber, demanded a tope of mango trees! Moreover this dead station
may reawaken once more. Even in _my_ memory the merry sahibs and mem
sahibs have sojourned here, and held great tamashas; but it is years
since they came, and the place, perchance, is forgotten.”
“And so you have lived here alone--for years?” said the young man. His
remarkably expressive eyes distinctly added the “_Why?_” his tongue
refrained from uttering.
“Yea, I have been dead to the world and the roar of strife and life for
many moons! If all tales be true--tales whispered even in this empty
land--you have forsaken many delights to give your days to the old
man, your father? Is it not so?” She looked up with a quick gesture,
and her saree fell back.
As Jervis gazed down into the dark eyes turned towards him, he agreed
with his father; here was undoubtedly a woman with a past--and a tragic
past!
“It is a noble sacrifice,” she continued; “but what saith the Koran?
‘Whatever good works ye send on for your behoof, ye shall find them
with God.’ I am old enough to be your mother. I marvel if I had had a
son, would he sacrifice himself thus for me--were I of your people, a
Feringhee woman, I marvel?” she repeated meditatively, as she put up
her hand to draw her veil further over her head.
As she did so, the young man started as he recognized her ring--Honor’s
cornelian ring. Many a time he had noticed it on her finger, and her
peculiar trick of turning it round and round, when in any mental
quandary, had been the subject of more than one family jest. How came
it to be on the hand of this Mahommedan woman?
She instantly interpreted his glance, and exclaimed--
“You observe my ring. Truly it is of little value--in money--but to me
it is beyond price. It was given to me by a maiden I saw but once. Her
words were pearls, her lips were rubies, but her music, and her eyes,
drew the story of my life from my inmost soul.”
“I am sure I know the lady!” cried her listener impetuously,
“young--and tall--and beautiful. She plays what you call the sitar.
Where did you meet her?”
“Ah, sahib, that is _my_ secret,” she answered after an expressive
pause; “but, lo! I can reveal yours,” and she looked at him steadily as
she added, “_you love her_.”
“What do you mean?” he stammered. “Why do you say so?” and he coloured
up to the roots of his crisp brown hair.
“Of a truth, I read it in your face. It is not for naught that folk
call me a magic wallah.” And she rose stiffly to depart. “You have
abandoned her, I see,” she continued, with a flash of her wonderful
eyes, “and lo, the fat old mem sahib, her mother, will marry her to
some one else! Behold your reward, for doing your duty!” And entirely
forgetting her previous quotation from the Koran, with this unpleasant
and cynical remark, the Persian made him a profound salaam, and hobbled
away.