FALLING STARS
The long _durbar_ tent was packed from end to end with the
cane-bottomed seats of the mighty; and in each sat its appointed
occupant,--patient, grave, silent.
But in the two rows behind the Viceroy's still empty chair of state the
Englishmen in political dress or uniform who sat in the front, and the
Englishwomen in the latest Paris fashions who sat behind, were talking
and laughing; in a perfectly well-bred way, yet, to the majority of
those silent spectators, at the expense of decency, since a _durbar_
is, like a West Indian ball, not for '_talkee_.' There was, however, no
disapproval on those indifferent dark faces. Such things were part and
parcel of that general eccentricity of the _Huzoors_, before which it
behoved calmness to remain calm. Yet those same faces would have been
quick to notice and resent the faintest breach of etiquette in regard
to their own treatment, or position. Those being correct, the rest was
immaterial.
And now, the sudden strains from without of "God Save the Queen" sent
those talking, laughing rows to their feet silently, with the proud
alacrity so noticeable in India when the act is a confession of faith,
indeed! But the mass beyond followed suit obediently, with a starry
shiver of diamond-flash, a milky way of pearl-shine; for Eugene Smith's
electric light was working full power.
Finally, as if wafted on the full chords, came a small man, with that
inevitable look of coming into church which Englishmen consider
dignity; possibly because public worship is, really, the only function
in which they are not inwardly ashamed of taking part. The great gold
chair, the great gold footstool, seemed all too large for everything
about their occupant, save the diamond star, the ribbon on his breast.
Yet, in a way, the scene gained by his inadequacy when, after a decent
pause, a decent silence, he rose, small, insignificant, to give voice
to Empire--in a strong Scotch accent, it must be admitted, which
equalled the Commissioner's Irish one, when, its proper exponent, the
Secretary, having a cold, he read a translation of the Viceroy's
speech, and his soft brogue ran riot among the clamorous Persian
vowels.
"_Ai Maharajahan, rajahan, nawaban wa sahiban alishan_."
The diamonds and pearls sat too still for play, so the electric light
contented itself with the white teeth of Englishwomen as they yawned.
But even these failed it when, the speech ending, that front row began
its file past; the civilians first, the soldiers next. A quick file, a
formal bow as a rule; but, every now and again, a pause would come in
the monotonous string of names, for a few words from the Viceroy,
and another bow ere the recipient passed on. Muriel Smith, who sat
behind--the best dressed woman there, as Erda Shepherd had judged
her--watched her husband's tall gaunt figure approaching, and wondered
if that pause would come to him. Her heart beat so when it did that she
could hear nothing except "graciously pleased," "eminent services,"
"distinguished order"; but a whisper from her neighbor, "All right!
C. S. I., not C. I. E.," left her sick and faint with relief. Even so,
her eyes instinctively sought Vincent Dering's sympathy; but he, to her
surprise, was looking at the tall gaunt man whose face was a "_nunc
dimittis_" in itself, as he made his way back to his seat, forgetful
even of his wife.
But he had forgotten her, amid a host of other things, for three whole
years: forgotten them in a ceaseless effort, an untiring energy. And
now that the necessity for this was over, sleep and rest were his first
thoughts. He took both, apparently, in his chair, while the
Commissioner, causing this time a fresh flashing of jewels, began on a
fresh string of titles.
"_Sri raja-i-rajan_,
_furzund-i-khas-munsoor-i-zaman-maharaj-dhiraj-rasakh_."
And, as they rolled on, the atom of humanity belonging to them--someone
in faded brocade, with ropes of ill-shaped pearls and uncut stones
wound about him, or a jauntier figure fresh and glittering from a
Calcutta jeweller's shop--would be singled out by its political in
charge, like a sheep from a flock, and guided dexterously to the
exactly proper spot in the whole round world wherein obeisance and
offering could be made with dignity to itself, and the recipient. Then
it would be swept on, regardless of an invariable desire to break back,
in an endless circle to its seat, while fresh titles rolled out, and a
fresh owner was hemmed in and swept forward. For two whole mortal
hours, this, and nothing but this; with, every now and again, that
pause for a few words, translated now into Irish-Urdu, producing an
expression as of a cat licking cream, on a face as it was was hustled
back, blindly obedient, as sheep are with a collie they know and trust.
So, at last, long after everyone, even Dya Ram--who looked terribly
disjointed between his frock coat, white tie, grey trousers, and the
gold mohur which he persisted in holding after native custom in his
gloved right hand--had passed, the politicals gathered in a knot, like
church-wardens for the offertory plates, and the distribution of _atta_
and _pan_, that sacrament of servitude and sovereignty, began. It, too,
was exactly like an offertory; that is, a languid passing round of a
plate by an official, and yawns for the rest of the congregation.
Finally, with a vigour savouring--like a voluntary--of relief, the band
attacked "God Save the Queen" once more, the Viceroy retired, the
_durbarees_ trooped out, still calm and silent, yet satisfied, and the
Commissioner, sinking into a vacant seat, said:--
"Thank the Lord! That's over without a hitch. So India's safe for
another six months at the cost of a trumpery title or two."
"I don't see on what ground," began the Under Secretary, laboriously.
"Then ye don't read your Bible. Didn't Adam, when he was given dominion
over the lower animals, begin by bestowing names on them? Ah! my dear
Mrs. Smith, I didn't know ye were so close. A thousand congratulations,
my dear lady."
"You don't mean it, sir," she interrupted, laughing. "Do you think I
have forgotten the consolatory verses you wrote me last year when
Eugene _didn't_ get anything? You are a fraud."
"Not a bit of it; only an Irishman," put in Father Ninian, with an
almost tender smile for the keen, whimsical face which had been friend
to him, and foe to him, for many a long year. "Let us have the verses,
Mrs. Smith."
"Say ye don't remember them, there's a kind soul," urged the
Commissioner, persuasively.
"But I do:
"I dreamt, and lo, the stars fell from the sky
To blaze upon the breasts of naughty men;
And as I wondered, came this swift reply:--
'Each star is some soul's inmost aim, and when
The angels don't approve, it is returned
To feed the base-born flame by which it burned.
The nice, they keep until--life's struggle striven--
The owners find them at the gates of heaven.'"
"Striven--heaven!" groaned the Commissioner, amid the clapping of
hands. "My dear madam, did I commit such a crime--I mean rhyme? But the
poet's right. Ye can't go wide of the mark, annyhow, even in a song,
but you're sure to find the fact again in the heart of a friend."
So, with that curiously light-hearted, almost reckless, frivolity of
Indian society--a not unnatural recoil, perhaps, from the perpetual
presence of the greatest social problem the world has ever seen, or is
likely to see, that is, the mutual assimilation of East and West
without injury to either--the little company of English men and women,
empire makers and breakers, drifted out into the sunshine, and so on to
the Viceroy's private enclosure, where the band, weary of national
anthems, was already at work on a selection of street tunes, beginning
with "Tommy, make room for your uncle."
So the pageant of power passed into a garden-party, and nothing
remained to show the hand-grip which had made that garden out of a
wilderness, to tell of the tireless effort to solve the problem, the
ceaseless striving to be just, which underlay all the quips and cranks,
the foibles and follies, of the great camp, save the premature baldness
of a few heads, as their owners fought desperately at badminton; fought
to prevent a child's shuttlecock from falling in the wrong court!
A fight which was watched with blank courtesy, as a further exhibition
of sheer eccentricity, by those of the jewelled and brocaded owners of
titles who had the _entree_ to this Holy of Holies.
Roshan Khan, however,--who looked splendid in his uniform,--fought with
the best; and won, too, though Laila Bonaventura, who played on his
side, stood still, taking, it is true, the shots which came within
reach dexterously enough, but never stirring an inch for one beyond.
And, as he played, the curious chance which had brought him into her
company made his blood run fast.
Captain Dering had bidden him join the set; bidden him curtly, almost
savagely, as the best player available, in answer to a challenge from
Muriel Smith to play her, her husband, and the Commissioner. And this
challenge had come curtly, also, because Captain Dering was standing
beside Laila Bonaventura, to whom he had been giving a cup of coffee.
Not because it gave him pleasure, but from sheer determination not to
let his mistake in the darkness count for anything. Yet, as the girl's
hand took the cup from his, he had remembered with a thrill the
gladness, the content it had brought him. Though he refused to
acknowledge the fact, the puzzle of this mistake had been his chief
thought ever since it occurred, and a smouldering resentment regarding
his past relationship with one who was still to him the best and
dearest of women was the result. He felt vaguely that she, as well as
he, ought to have known that their sentiment, their monopoly, as it
were, of friendship, could only mean--what it had meant to him during
those few moments of blindness which had, paradoxically, opened his
eyes. So he had felt bitter, and she had known it instinctively. If she
had ever faced facts, this alone might have opened her eyes also; but
she was too good a woman, too helplessly bound by her woman's cult of
love, to disassociate it from friendship. So, without bringing a doubt
even, the jealous desire of appropriation which draws a line clear and
clean as a sword-cut between the two, had risen up in her from the
absence of the sympathetic look she had expected from Vincent Dering.
So she had challenged him, and so it came to pass that Roshan Khan
played badminton with Laila Bonaventura. She took no notice of him
beyond a casual inspection of his uniform; still the mere fact of being
her equal within the white lines which separated their badminton court
from the realities of life seemed a fate. When the game was over, his
eyes followed her closely, and he, himself, at a respectful distance;
and as he followed her, his desire to speak to her grew as he pondered
on his right to do so. After all, as his grandmother had said, she was
his cousin.
And fate was on his side once more. A well-bred crowding round a table
where some photographs of the camp were being shown, brought him so
near her that she caught sight of his yellow, silver-laced uniform
behind her, and turned quickly. Turned with a look in her big black
eyes which dazzled him.
It vanished, however, in a second; yet her words, spoken with a faint
resentment, made the memory of the look give rise to a swift pulse of
angry suspicion.
"I thought you were Captain Dering," she said. "Why do you wear the
same uniform? I thought natives couldn't be officers."
The assumption, in his present state of mind, made all his fierce
temper flash to his face; but ere he could choose English words to
express it, she laughed, and, after her fashion when amused, became
confidential. "You are angry at being called a native; but you _are_
one, aren't you? Then it is so foolish. You are like my guardian. He
can't bear the bazaar people to call me '_Begum-sahiba_'; but they do
sometimes, you know, because I own a lot of their houses and lands, and
my grandmother was a native princess. I know that, though my guardian
never speaks about it. He is ashamed, I think--like you are. I'm not. I
didn't choose my grandmother. Why should one fuss about such things? If
they're true, it can't be helped, and if they're not, what _does_ it
matter? Besides, it must be rather nice to be a real Begum. You haven't
seen any, of course; they wouldn't let you, would they? That must be
horrid. How could you like people if you didn't see them? Besides--"
she added, with an access of demure, pious conviction, "it would be
wicked to marry them, you know. You should never marry anyone you don't
love. Even the Sisters told me that."
Her voice had deepened, broadened; her eyes, occupied with his uniform,
not his face, had grown soft. Hitherto he had been too much at a loss
before her sudden garrulity to interrupt; now, that vague suspicion
recurred, making him feel inclined to say brutally, "I am your cousin;
I claim you." The very thought of her outraged face attracted him. But
English words were inadequate for such emotions, so, as he paused, she
went on:--
"As you are here, I suppose you'll be asked to the ball, also. It is to
be in my palace, you know, because Captain Dering thinks it the best
place. He says the gardens will be beautiful all lit up--" She smiled as
if at some secret mystery, then continued: "Of course, I don't know
yet; I haven't seen it, but I think it will be lovely. Only I wish my
dress was different. I am Beatrice--Dante's Beatrice--and I think it
stupid. But my guardian chose it because--" she smiled again with the
same secret amusement--"I don't know, of course, but I expect it is
because my great-grandmother went as Beatrice to some ball long ago. It
is generally that. I think he must have been in love with her--isn't it
funny?"
"Laila," came Father Ninian's voice from behind, "I have been looking
for you everywhere. It is time to go."
His usually kind old face was stern. He gave the curtest of
recognitions to Roshan Khan, and, as he carried his ward off, said
sharply, "Who introduced you to that native?"
"No one," she replied, indifferently; "I thought he was Captain Dering;
their uniforms--" she broke off to add, with more animation, "I do like
the gold and silver lace. Though of course the jewels, like the rajahs
wore, look best."
He interrupted her in Italian, giving a quick gesture of dissent. "Say
not so, _cara mia_, they would look ill on--on Englishmen. And listen,
child! You should not speak to strangers; and I would rather you did
not speak to such natives at all. They--cannot understand--quite--for
they look on women differently from what we do."
Laila's eyes narrowed sullenly. "Very well, guardian," she said
resignedly, "only I suppose they must know what their women are really
like--and--perhaps the native ladies prefer it."
The old man looked at her, startled, but said nothing.
When he had gone to find Akbar Khan and the carriage, Vincent Dering,
seeing her alone, came up--so, at least, he told himself--out of sheer
politeness, to ask if she wanted anything. Yet something in her face
sent him beyond mere courtesy at once; something almost childishly
apparent.
"I'm afraid you haven't been enjoying yourself," he said kindly. "Why
not? I thought it rather pleasant."
"Very pleasant!" she assented wearily. "Only my guardian has been
telling me not to do things; and I don't know why, but I always want to
do them at once--don't you?"
He could not actually deny the fact. "Sometimes. One has to
pretend--"
She raised her eyes to his blindingly; he caught a glimpse in them of
the lawless approval Roshan Khan had seen, yet of something else--a
lawless disdain. "Why must one?" she asked. "I never mean to, never! If
I want to do a thing I'll do it. I don't mean wicked things, of
course--" she returned here to demure, almost plaintive piety--"I don't
want to do them, and nothing can be wrong when it seems right to you,
and it is real--ever so real, and you give yourself to it, every bit of
you, without thinking, and--and--ask nothing--nothing at all--"
Her vehemence, her passionate assertion, roused a quick response in
him. "Would you do that?" he asked, his voice vibrating. "Would
you--really?"
She smiled slowly. "Of course I don't know," she said, "I haven't tried
yet; but I never pretend. I don't even pretend to like my dress for the
ball. It _is_ so stupid."
He felt annoyed at being led into a burst of emotion, and then baulked.
"You will look charming, I'm sure," he said in his worst manner. "And
if you don't like it, change to something jolly after supper. Lots of
people do."
"Will Mrs. Smith?" she asked quickly.
He flushed angrily. "I really don't know," he began. Her eyes were on
him curiously.
"That's funny," she said. "I thought people--not that it matters," she
went on, "for I can't. I haven't a dress. Do you know I never have
anything I really like--never."
The girl's voice was absolutely touching in its listless, dull
confidence, and he could not help consolation. "You'll have the ball,
I'm sure; you will enjoy it awfully, and--and you mustn't forget that
you've given me the second waltz, and the first extra after supper."
She did not answer for a moment. "Have I?" she asked. "I didn't know
it; but I will. That will be nice. And you are coming to decorate
to-morrow, aren't you? That will be nice, too."
Her tone lingered in his ears long after she had gone. It was with him
even when he was driving Mrs. Smith home, and, of course, making up
their little misunderstanding by the way; possibly, because of this
making up, since, for the first time, the elaborate _eclaircissement_
irked him. It seemed so unnecessary unless the whole affair meant
something, which was quite out of the question.
For instance, when driving Lance Carlyon back to the Fort afterwards he
did not desire an explanation of the latter's moodiness. When a chum
was evil-dispositioned, you waited calmly for him to come round. That
was friendship.
"I'm sorry Miss Shepherd couldn't come," said Lance, suddenly, his eyes
on that spit of sand, with its hovels and logs, below the town. "I
wanted her to, awfully, if only because she's never seen a _durbar_;
but"--he smiled--"I expect someone else wanted her instead. By George!
Dering, you don't know how that girl works. Sometimes I feel it's a
shame, and sometimes I think it's splendid--though of course it don't
matter a dash what I think."
And that--Vincent Dering asked himself--was that love?
Laila Bonaventura's voice came back to make him certain of one thing.
That would not be her version of the old, old story; and the knowledge
made him, somehow, more content with his world.
Meanwhile another man in yellow and silver lace was being haunted by a
girl's voice, which had spoken of things which no decent woman of his
own race would have mentioned; yet which had spoken to him with an
equality which no Englishwoman would have allowed herself. And as for
Englishmen! The recollection of Father Narayan's face as he carried the
girl off made Roshan Khan curse under his breath.
But the girl herself had been different. He literally did not know what
to think; and the desire for someone else's opinion grew so strong
that, finally, with a curious mixture of reluctance and triumph, he
forsook the straight road to the Fort, and turned his horse's head
towards his grandmother's house. She was at least a woman; she might
understand and judge better than he.
His first sight of her, however, in unprepared toilette, _minus_ the
green satin trousers which gave such dignity to her rotund little
figure, _minus_ all pretence at pomp, dirty, untidy, unkempt both in
her surroundings and herself, made him feel what a fool he was. The
more so when she began by resenting his summary visitation, especially
in uniform, which, she asserted, made her feel, even at her age, as if
she were committing the indiscretion of seeing a stranger!
What could a woman like that know? Yet having come, he might as well go
through with his errand; so he cut short her upbraidings by saying
without preamble:
"I have seen my cousin. I spoke to her, and--and she spoke back again."
Mumtaza Mahal looked at him for a moment incredulously, then she
cracked all her finger joints over his head, or as nearly over it as
her height would allow.
"Said I not so?" she asked prophetically. "And when will the wedding
be?"
"Wedding!" he echoed petulantly; "there is no talk of wedding. I have
but seen her."
"But seen her!" echoed the old lady in her turn. "That came after in my
time; but God knows how things go nowadays. Then what didst speak
about?"
He had to give a Bowdlerized version of what had passed; yet, even so,
Mumtaza Mahal looked shocked. "A bold hussy; but thou wilt bit and
bridle her."
He burst out angrily--for his own recital had shown him the folly of
castle-building on so slight a foundation--"I am a fool," he said, "and
so art thou for all thy years!"
Her little black eyes flashed angrily. "Not I! Did she not say she
would like to be a _Begum?_ and if that means not--"
"And could I make her one?" he interrupted fiercely. "I--a _risaldar_
on a bare pittance--with no prospect of rising. Dost dream me Nawab,
fool?"
The old lady's face grew cunning in a second, the instinctive love of
intrigue roused by the mere suggestion. She leant towards him eagerly.
"And wherefore not, Roshan? Are all things fixed? Do rulers never
change? I live here in a corner, nothing but a poor woman: yet I hear
more, it seems, than thou dost. I hear of discontent, of desires, of
things that call for change. But to-day, they spoke of men being killed
to make light for these infidels, and Gorakh-nath, _jogi_, hath sworn a
miracle."
He turned on her with a bitter, reckless laugh. "Is that new? Is there
not always talk? The wise listen not."
A vast importance, a real dignity came to her in an instant. "If the
_Huzoors_ had listened to such talk in '57."
A thrill ran through him; the thrill of secret curiosity, almost of
expectation regarding the great Rebellion from which so many things
date, which young India always feels in the presence of their elders,
who passed through it.
"Thou dost know, of course," he said, catching his breath; "thou canst
remember."
"Ay!" she replied sternly, "and there was no more talk than there is
now. 'Tis not a question of words. It is fate. Something happens, and
then--then the _risaldar_ may be Nawab--as his fathers were."
She had gone too far, and recalled him to himself. "Then let us await
the happening," he said curtly.
"Wait!" echoed the old lady, reverting to the main point. "Thou canst
not wait. Having gone so far, the negotiations cannot drop. Thou must
send the gift, and see what comes of it."
"A gift!" he repeated. "What gift, and wherefore?"
Mumtaza Mahal looked round as if for approval, tucked a packet of _pan_
into her cheek, and chuckled. She was on familiar ground now.
"Leave that to me. I know what girls like. I have them still. Ay! a
dress that her grandmother wore--good as new, being for a tall
woman--and jewels. 'Tis no harm, at least, see you; since if they like
it not, the gift is returned."
He stood doubtful, half pleased, half shocked at the suggestion. She
could certainly send the things back, and he had many a time seen
English women wearing native jewelry; ay! and decorating their rooms
with native dresses. And he could write that they were from her cousin
and servant.
That would be easier than telling.