THE WORLD'S DESIRE
The Viceroy's camp was no longer a city of dreams.
Its silence had gone, lost in that indefinable sense of sound which
seems to come from the heart-beats, even, of unseen humanity; and
the whiteness, the purity of it, was stained and smirched by the
scarlet-as-sin coatees of the innumerable orderlies, who bustled about
from tent to tent, with huge files of references, or lingered at the
tent doors extorting shoe-money from the native visitors, who came in
shoals to plead for patronage from one or another of the bigwigs
belonging to the Hosts of the Lord-_sahib_. Groups of these
petitioners, awaiting their turn for an interview, were to be seen at
most tents; but they stood in crowds round one, in which the
Commissioner of the Division was making the final arrangements for the
coming _durbar_; in consultation with the Under Secretary to Supreme
Government. It was a difficult task, involving as it did the
classification of the aristocracy, plutocracy, and democracy of India,
in one generally satisfactory Court-guide.
"It cann't be done in this wurrld," remarked the Commissioner, in one
of those suave, plastic, Cork brogues which might be made of Cork
butter from the softness and lack of friction they bring to the English
language. "An' what's more the Archangel Gabriel couldn't do it in
heaven, though he'd have a better chance; for the Cherubim wouldn't be
wanting seats at all! We are bound to displease somebody, so let's cast
lots before the Lord; it's Scriptural, annyhow."
The Under Secretary looked a trifle shocked, being unacquainted with
the Commissioner's methods.
"But we must,"--he began.
The other's keen face looked up from the lists for a second. "Of course
we must--we govern India practically, by cane-bottomed chairs. Ye
remember old Gunning. No!--before your time, I expect! Well! he kept
two hundred miles of North-West frontier as quiet as the grave, for
five years, by the simple expedient of awarding thirteen seats in his
divisional _durbar_ to each of his districts, and only taking twelve
chairs with him into camp. The _maliks_, you see, never could tell
which would be chosen odd man out, an' the fear of it kept 'em like
sucking doves."
"Indeed!" remarked the Under Secretary, fidgeting with his lists
resignedly, for he was under the impression that time was being lost.
"I'm afraid that sort of thing wouldn't answer nowadays." The elder man
looked at him gravely; just one short glance, as he dipped his pen in
the ink and went on writing, revising, referring.
"Not a bit of it! They'd send down to Whiteway Laidlaw's and get
Austrian bent-wood chairs by value payable parcel post! The Teuton,
sir, is ruinin' British prestige by cheapenin' the seats of the mighty.
There! that's done--block A's beautiful entirely. Now for block B.
Who's your favourite, and why are you backing him?"
Once more the junior appeared a trifle shocked. "With reference to
Roshan Khan," he began. "His Excellency desired me to ask whether it
might not be possible to give him a step for being, as it were, in his
own division. He belongs to Eshwara, I believe."
"The very reason why he cann't get an inch more than his due. But you
can tell H. E. that I've settled it. I've asked Dering to put him on
duty, an' when he is in uniform there's no mistaking his place. And
then we'll ask him in to the reception afterwards with the _sahib
logue_. Who's your next--Dya Ram! what, the little pleader?--Why the
blazes should he come to _durbar?_--attorneys don't go to St. James."
"Mr. Cox, the member of parliament--perhaps you may remember him--"
"A little red-haired fellow, was he? who wrote a book about India on
the back of his two-monthly return ticket?"
"Mr. Cox is a man of great influence with his party, and he supports
Dya Ram's--"
"Pestilential little fool," interrupted the Commissioner impartially,
impersonally. "It wouldn't be bad, though--stop his scurrilous tongue
for a bit. Favour does, you know. But I cann't see my way to it. Old
Hodinuggur would be refusing his '_atta_ and _pan_[7] again. He did it
once, ye know, when some low-caste fellow was within sight of him. Said
he didn't eat with sweepers; and if Crawford--he was Commissioner at
the time--"
"Yes!" said the Under Secretary, still more resignedly. He had not yet
grasped the fact that his coadjutor talked while he worked--
"Hadn't been six foot four and broad in proportion," went on his
tormentor imperturbably, "so that the--let us call them the subsequent
negotiations--diplomatic negotiations--it sounds well!--didn't reach
the eye of His Honour the Lieutenant-Governor, the Thakoor--one of our
best men let me tell you--would have got into trouble--more'd have been
the pity."
"Yes," assented the man of Secretariats, "but about Dya Ram--"
"Dya Ram, is it now? Could we put him in under the head 'benevolence'
think you? Did he ever vaccinate a baby, or breed a horse, or give
anything to a female hospital? No! Then the devil fly off with him for
complicating the problem of British rule in India. Why should he want
to come to _durbar_ at all? When people change their dress they should
change their desires, but the only effect our civilization has upon
some men I know, is to make them want to keep their hat and their boots
on at the same time! Well, that's done! I've found a place for him
where Hodinuggur can't see the tail end of him unless he squints.
Now--who's your next?"
While this sort of thing was going on inside the tent, Dya Ram and the
Thakoor of Hodinuggur were in full view of each other, outside it. The
former, having scorned the sinful scarlet coatees even to the point of
refusing to have his patent leather shoes dusted, was walking up and
down in English fashion. The latter, in a wonderful parcel-gilt coach,
was awaiting the effect of his ten-rupee tip with perfect patience and
serenity; while his retinue, which consisted of a dozen ragged
retainers carrying lances festooned with tinsel and yaks' tails, stared
contemptuously at the two sentries pacing up and down below the
flagstaff; who--to tell truth--seemed so monotonously part of the
general show as to suggest that they also were under the charge of the
two yellow-legged policemen who stood on either side of the rose-bed.
It was high noon, and the various departmental gongs had begun to give
their version of the meridian, with that unbiased disregard for that of
their neighbours which makes the time of day an absolute uncertainty in
a big camp. But it was calling time evidently; for two superb
red-coats, blazoned with gold, appeared in company with two big books
and a silver inkstand, and disappeared with them into the _durbar_
tent. And shortly afterwards an _aide-de-camp_ sloped over to it,
yawning.
Both Dya Ram and the Thakoor knew that this meant preparation for
those, who, having the _entree_ to the Government House, had the right
to put down their names in those big books; but the fact itself
affected their two types very differently. The old Rajput's visit of
ceremony was of another sort. He, obeying definite orders, would come
at a specified time, and get his specified salute with his compeers.
But Dya Ram was like the wild tribes in one way; he was unspecified! He
was neither fish nor fowl, flesh nor good red herring.
So, as he watched a young Englishman drive up in a bamboo cart, dash
into the tent, and dash out again as if the place belonged to him, he
felt aggrieved. He even went so far as to formulate his grievance in
mental words, and then these appeared to him so apposite to a leading
article, that he took out a note-book, and, after some corrections,
stored away, for future use, the assertion, that '_the time will come
when the colour of the hand which holds the pen will be no bar to its
writing its name in the Book of_----?' He did not feel sure of the
qualitative noun, and after trying Fate, Fame, Life, and Lord, left a
blank instead.
Meanwhile carriages and dogcarts all of sorts had begun to drive up,
their occupants disappearing into the tent for a second or two, then
coming out with the smile of the elect on their faces. Father Ninian
was one of the first, resplendent in a new _soutane_ and sash, with
Akbar Khan in his orderly's get-up, oscillating between a palsy of
delighted servility, and a catalepsy of dignity; the one for his
superiors, the other for his equals.
And, after a while, in one of those mysteriously nondescript
four-wheeled vehicles that defy classification, but may be said to come
under the head "_phitton_" (phaeton) of which mission people seem to
have a monopoly, came good Mrs. Campbell and her niece, Erda Shepherd;
the former full of indignant, yet meek alarm, because Dr. James, having
come across an old friend further down the avenue, had bidden her go on
and write his name as well as her own.
"I ken weel how it will be," she asserted to her niece, "for I havena
brought my specs, an' a body cannot but be nervous with a young man in
a scarlet coat glowering at them! I shall put the doctor into the wrong
book; for, you see, I canna write the two names ane after the ither
like a marriage lines; for there is one big bookie for the women, and
one for the men-folk, like a Puseyite chapel! Ay! an' for the matter o'
that, like a divorce court--and I sou'd never hear the last o't if I
evened the doctor to myself!"
"Let me do all three, Auntie," said Erda, with a laugh, as she got out
of the carriage. "Really, there's no need for you to come,--I'll be
back in a minute."
The blaze of sunshine blinded her for the darkness of the tent, and she
could scarcely tell whose hand it was which stretched itself frankly,
eagerly, for hers as she entered. Yet, even through her glove she knew
the touch, before Lance Carlyon's voice said joyfully,--
"Come to write your name? I've just written mine. Funny our hitting off
the same time, isn't it?"
The tone of his voice, joined to that startling recognition of his
touch--which she could not conceal from herself--made her shrink, as if
from actual intrusion. "I have to write my uncle's and aunt's first,"
she said coldly. "There was no use in us _all_ coming in."
She walked on as she spoke to where the two books lay on a sort of
lectern, while the _aide-de-camp_, seeing the visitor was a lady, came
forward politely to assist.
"Not that book, Mansfield," remarked Lance, coolly. "Miss Shepherd
wants--Miss Shepherd, will you allow me to introduce Captain
Mansfield--to write her uncle's name first."
She looked back at him almost angrily, full of resentment at his
persistence; but, even in the semi-blindness which was still hers, his
face showed too kind for that; and as, at that moment, another lady
came in with a flutter of laces and ribbons to appropriate Captain
Mansfield's ready services, Erda had to allow Lance to find her a pen.
"That's right! Now for the other book," he said. The _aide-de-camp_ had
by this time gone to see the laces and ribbons back to their carriage,
so the two were alone.
"Your aunt's first, you know." There was a suspicion of friendly
chaff in his tone, this time, but it was gone in a minute as
he went on quickly--"Erdmuth!--is that your name? Why!--it means
earth-mood--or--or world's desire, doesn't it?"
She felt herself flush. "I did not know that you were such a German
scholar," she replied, sarcastically. "Yes! my name is Erdmuth
Dorothea. I was called so after--after some one you most likely know
nothing about, Countess Zinzendorf. She was famous enough, though,--"
she paused, feeling savagely desirous of snubbing him--"But I daresay
you never even happened to hear of Jean Ziska, Mr. Carlyon?"
He smiled suddenly, broadly. "Jean Ziska!" he echoed. "Rather! We had a
pony called Ziska at home--a Hungarian--used to eat thistles like a
donkey!"
He stopped to laugh, and she was about to turn and rend him, when he
continued, half apologetically, "Of course I have--only the name, you
see, brought back such jolly old times. Ziska was the beggar who had
his skin made into a drum when he was dead. I don't expect it's true,
but it's a fine tale; the drum ecclesiastic with a vengeance, and no
mistake!"
"Oh! but it is," interrupted the girl, forgetting her annoyance in her
eagerness. "My grandfather--we are really Moravians, you see, and our
name should be Schaeffer,--saw it when he was a child. He used to tell
me that people said if it was beaten, everybody must--"
But Lance's attention had wandered. He was looking at her signature
with a curious, almost wistful smile. "Erdmuth!" he repeated
thoughtfully; then turned to her. "I say! you really ought to come to
the ball with that name--do!"
He was simply, she told herself, the most distractingly irrelevant, yet
at the same time the most appallingly direct, person she had ever come
across. "Really, Mr. Carlyon," she began, with such heat that the
_aide-de-camp_, returning, stared; until Lance coolly asked him if he
didn't think Miss Shepherd very unkind not to come to the Bachelor's
Ball? Whereupon he, having by this time had enough of laces and
ribbons, and begun to recognize a distinct charm in the glistening
coils of hair, half-hidden by a wide hat, promptly asked her for the
pleasure of a dance.
Erda looked from one to the other aghast, and to her own intense
surprise fell back upon the woman's all-embracing excuse, "I--I really
haven't a dress." It seemed the simplest and easiest.
"Oh! anything does for a fancy ball," persisted Lance, argumentatively,
as he followed her out. "A tailor in the bazaar would run you up a
Greek dress in no time, and it would do awfully well. All white, don't
you know--" his voice slackened and grew soft, as if he saw what he
described, and the sight made him glad--"all straight folds with a
little edge of red-gold like--" he paused, then went on boldly--"like
the sunshine on your hair. And red-gold bracelets high up on your
arms--and a red-gold apple in your hand--the World's Desire--" He
stopped abruptly, with a quick catch in his breath, startled at his own
words.
And she, too, held her breath before the vision; for she saw it also.
Saw herself, as he had described her, and the glamour of it, the desire
of it, assailed her, body and soul.
Yet she made a desperate, a passionately resentful effort to ignore
them. "I didn't know you were so well up in _chiffons_, Mr. Carlyon,"
she said, with a forced laugh. "Did you ever think of setting up a
milliner's shop? One is badly needed in Eshwara."
But the glamour of it had come to Lance Carlyon like a revelation, and
the blood was leaping in his veins. "I will, if you--" he began.
She scarcely recognized his voice in one way. In another she knew it
must be his; for all the vitality and strength, the single-mindedness
and simplicity which she had seen in him so often, were crowded into
it; brought into it by fancy, concentrated by a mere suggestion--of
herself.
The magic of this seemed to encompass her; she sought shelter from it
recklessly.
"I?" she interrupted. "I don't go in for that sort of thing,
Mr. Carlyon. You seem to forget my work--work which I value
above--milliners! Try Mrs. Smith--there she is coming in her victoria;
she is one of the best-dressed women I ever saw."
She could not certainly have looked better than she did as, seeing
Lance Carlyon, she called to him as her carriage drove up.
"Do you know where Captain Dering is? He promised--"
Here Lance, with guilty haste, interrupted her. He was just about to
drive over and give her a message. Dering had had a touch of fever; he
had been over at the palace arranging about the Chinese lanterns for
the decorations till late the evening before, and--
"He might have sent a little sooner," put in Mrs. Smith. "I have been
waiting; he said he would drive me in his dogcart." There was no
vexation, only an almost pathetic surprise in her voice; and Lance
looked guiltier still.
"I'm awfully sorry--it's all my fault--I was late to begin with, and
then--" He glanced at Erda involuntarily,--compromisingly, it seemed to
her.
"I am afraid I kept Mr. Carlyon," she said, haughtily; "most
unwillingly, I assure you. Thanks so much, but I can get in quite well
by myself."
As she drove off, however, her head was in a whirl; and as, when
pausing to pick up Dr. Campbell, the whole panorama of the camp, the
hills behind it, the distant temples of Eshwara, the busy place-seekers
in the foreground, the scarlet-sin-stains of the _chuprassies'_ coats
against the dazzling whiteness of the tents, lay before her, one of
those rare, incomprehensible moods came upon her when the soul retreats
into its spiritual body, so that the sight grows clear, the touch keen,
and you can feel the round world spin beneath your feet, see the shadow
of earth stretching far among the stars.
The World's Desire! What was it?
Brought up to believe that the heart of man--that mainspring of the
spinning world--was vile, she had never asked herself why this was so.
She had read the story of Adam and Eve with unquestioning faith, yet
never sought to know what had changed the good to evil.
But now, as her eyes rested on those far-distant peaks with that faint
mist about their feet hiding the "Cradle of the Gods," and followed, as
far as the eye could follow in the nearer hills, the climbing track
worn by the weariness of that eternal search after righteousness, she
asked herself what it was which kept mankind so long upon the road;
asked herself, for the first time, what that first sin had been which
had lost Paradise.
No lack of desire after salvation, surely. Generation on generation of
Eastern pilgrims had worn that path out of the sheer rock, had agonized
after good, and remained evil. A little shudder of memory ran through
her at the thought--how evil! And now the West, with its white tents,
its white face, its white creed, had come to show a newer, a better
way.
Had it? But what had it done for itself? She had worked for two years
in London ere coming out to India; and another shudder of memory swept
over her of what she had seen there.
The World's Desire! Lance Carlyon had called her that--a woman with a
red-gold apple in her hand.
The sound of angry dispute brought her back to realities. They were
passing out of the camp under the triumphal arch, and one of its
sentries was barring the entrance of an ash-smeared figure which was
brandishing a stamped petition paper, as if it had been a card of
admission, and yelling excitedly for "Justice! justice!"
"It is that pernicious fellow, Gorakh-nath," remarked Dr. Campbell,
sententiously. "He wishes, no doubt, to appeal against Captain Dering's
order, of which I, for one, am heartily glad. A Christian government is
bound to refuse sanction to the practice of a faith which, it is
impossible not to see, is degrading in the extreme to those who hold
it."
Erda's eyes were still clear; clear with what those who do not see,
call dreams.
"Yet it seeks what we do--peace--forgiveness--the cradle of the
goodness, the innocence it left behind--somehow."
Dr. James Campbell turned to her in dignified, amazed displeasure. "May
I ask what has caused--"
"That's easy tellin'," interrupted Mrs. Campbell, comfortably. "It's
yon hat with feathers, when she is accustomed to a pith one. An' she
standin' in the sun talkin' to Mr. Carlyon! It's just got to the
lassie's head. I was the same myself when I was young, Erda; but Dr.
James thought it a duty--
"And so I do now, my dear," put in her husband. "It is a distinct duty
on the part of mission workers to take every precaution, and if her
head is Erda's weak point, I shall warn David--"
Mrs. Campbell nodded hers and smiled, and almost winked. "Oh! Davie
will take care of her, never fear; he is not a ninny!"
Erda flushed scarlet all over her face and neck. It seemed to her as if
she had forgotten her cousin, the Reverend David Campbell, altogether.
And yet she was engaged to be married to him as soon as he returned
from a well-earned holiday in England.
A swift remorse left her pale again. Davie, who was so much in earnest,
who looked to her as--as--
That vision of a woman with a red-gold edging to her white robe and a
red-gold apple in her hand came to send the blood to her face once
more.