THE CHURCH MILITANT
When Roshan Khan had joined those two great stabilities, Faith and
Love, into one passionate desire for Vincent Dering's damnation, he had
meant to follow the English etiquette on such occasions, and keep his
aspiration to himself.
But it had been impossible for him instantly to rejoin the society in
which he found himself; that is, a society which shared that
fundamental crime--which more even than any definite jealousy had
roused his anger against Captain Dering--of being alien to his creed,
his customs, his code of conduct towards women. So he had wandered off
into the garden again, shadowed by old Akbar's incredulity, curiosity,
and sympathy; until, partly from sheer impatience, but mostly from
sheer inherited habit of employing such as Akbar Khan in anything
approaching an intrigue, he had made a clean breast of the situation.
Even the latter, however, had, as it were, shied at the extreme novelty
of the idea when it was first mooted; but, by degrees, its vast
possibilities of advantage to faithful old retainers overpowered his
abject terror at the bare idea of Father Narayan suspecting such a
thing. The old master, he told himself, was old, indeed! God only knew
if he would last a year or a day; therefore it would be well to ensure
the favour of the new mistress. And there could be no harm in sounding
her as to what course that favour would follow. One could never tell
with a woman; and his wicked, experienced old eyes had caught many a
hint of Anari Begum in Laila's childhood. Perhaps she had changed since
she went to Calcutta. He could but try.
So when, on the morning after the ball, Laila, in obedience to her
pious resolve to do nothing really wrong, had bidden him--with
threats of vengeance if he betrayed the fact of their having come at
all--remove and return certain trays of clothes and jewels which had
been smuggled by someone into her room, he had fallen at her feet,
confessed falsely that he was the offender, and besought her not to
impose so unmerited a disgrace on his employer, who had been actuated
by the ordinary rules of native etiquette which prescribed some
recognition of his cousin, the head of his family.
Naturally enough, this brought the girl's curiosity, long restless, to
his aid; and she sat listening to the many things he had to tell her,
with that faintly mysterious smile of hers. And as she listened, she
watched a pigeon, all jewelled about its bosom in rainbow hues, and
with a dainty little pair of silver jingles about its jasper feet,
which was coquetting and pirouetting to attract the attention of its
neighbours on the wide marble sill of her latticed window. For Laila
had a room in the upper storey all painted, carved, and set with little
balconies, which was worthy of any king's favourite. And Father Ninian,
mindful lingeringly of the fine ladies' boudoirs of his youth in Rome,
had filled it, against her return from school, with all the prettiest
spoils of the palace. Sevres vases, rare old cabinets, quaint carved
tables which had been brought thither for the dead Nawabs; treasures
that were also, inevitably, of the king's-favourite type,--therefore
unlike the owner of the room, as she sat in her white muslin frock,
heavy-eyed, almost sallow, from the last night's dissipation.
"So she--my grandmother, you say--was a dancing-girl--a real
dancing-girl?" Even her surprise and curiosity were listless. Yet the
next moment, while Akbar was protesting the superiority of Anari Begum
over all the dancing-girls of his vast experience, she had burst into a
sudden laugh, uncovered one of the trays with kicks which sent first
one, then the other of her bronze slippers flying, seized on a pair of
silver anklets, and there she was centring a Persian rug spread on the
marble floor as if she had been born to it. Coquetting, pirouetting,
with a challenging clash, a half-impudent jerk of the jingles, for all
the world like the pigeon on the window-sill.
Like something else also; so that old Akbar felt a shiver run through
him, lest, after all, his first impression should prove right, and this
be no more than a _simulacrum_,--a ghost, a changeling, come to possess
the usually indifferent lazy Miss-_baba_. Yet when, all of a sudden,
she raised her white muslin skirt high in both hands and began to sing,
at the top of her voice, the wicked little love song which Vincent
Dering had sung the first day she met him, old Akbar's dread turned to
sheer wonder. This was not a ghost, but a devil; reckless,
unrestrained, with a fling of white arms, a kick of white feet, all
held to rhythm by the outrageous frivolity of the song, until, with
that last staccato note, she threw herself in a chair, breathless,
gurgling with laughter and sheer mischief.
"Lo! Akbar," she gasped, "my grandmother never danced like that, did
she? I don't believe she was my grandmother! I believe you are telling
stories!"
Akbar looked wise, and thrust out his folded hands in cringing protest.
"The most noble says true, Anari Begum never danced thus. But there is
the grandfather, Bun-avatar-_sahib bahadur_, to be accounted for also."
Laila frowned. The reminder brought back the other side of the story,
to which she had listened so often from her guardian's lips, while her
pretended indifference masked a real pride. Of her grandfather's
gallantry, his good looks, his love of adventure. And of someone else,
also, who had always had a secret attraction for the girl. That most
beautiful woman in Rome, the companion of princes, the divine singer,
the best, the dearest--
Laila's laughter failed her; she rose, and going over to the window
looked out absently, startling the pigeon into flight. The sun turned
its breast purple, and green, and gold, as it fluttered down to renew
its pirouetting on a cupola below, just above the river. And below that
again was the roof of the balcony where she had sat with Vincent. The
girl's eyes grew soft. She understood now. That best, that dearest,
that most beautiful, must have loved her guardian. That was the secret
of his remembrance. How could one ever forget that one had sat in a
balcony hand in hand? So content, yet saying so little--only feeling.
But _he_ had said some things. He had said she was beautiful, that
she ought always to wear that dress, and she had told him she could
not,--that she _must_ send it back--that he _must_ learn to like her as
much in her ordinary clothes--that he would never see her in that dress
again. But, after all, why not--if--?
She turned suddenly to the go-between. "There is no need to take them
back to-day," she said, sharply; "but thou canst tell the person who
sent them--he who claims cousinship--that I will not keep them, that I
know nothing of them; that he must send and _take_ them away."
Akbar, with an inward determination to do nothing so palpably foolish,
salaamed down to the ground. The Presence, he said, in doing this
showed her dignity; it was undoubtedly the right course to pursue. But,
in the mean time, would the Begum-_sahiba_--she must excuse a tongue
which could not always bear with the paltry present, which remembered
the facts of the past, the possibilities of the future--not temper her
noble severity with the usual courtly favour? Her cousin's grandmother,
a most virtuous princess, sister to the late Nawab, was still alive.
Her memory of Bun-avatar-_sahib_ was still so green that doubtless she
would be able to tell the Begum-_sahiba_ many things of which a mere
mean slave could not be cognizant. And this most virtuous, most
interesting one, had long been anxious to return a visit which
the Begum-_sahiba_ had graciously paid her, in company with a
_missen_-miss--
"What! That funny old fat woman!" interrupted Laila, with a laugh.
"That dirty old thing? I remember, she _did_ claim to be a relation of
the Nawab's. And when I asked her why she wore such dirty clothes she
was angry, and said she had beautiful ones all tied up in bundles! I
don't believe she had, though--"
"The dress the Begum-_sahiba_ wore last night is one of them,"
interrupted Akbar, quietly; "it belonged to Anari Begum, _Huzoor_, and
there are plenty more like it. And all are really the _Huzoor's_; no
one else's." Laila looked down on the trays with a new interest. "Did
it really belong to--to _her?_" she asked; "and the jewels also?"
"The jewels also. There are plenty of them. And if Anari Begum was
really the Begum-_sahiba's_ grandmother, then the jewels are hers by
right."
"She can come if she wishes," interrupted Laila, impatiently. "I see
thy craft, Akbar, but I care not for that. Yet it will be fun to
receive her as--as a Begum. And no harm either, since the _missen_
ladies receive her, I know, and her like--when they will come! It will
be at night, of course, to ensure her privacy, so Pidar Narayan need
know nothing. Only"--she paused, a change swept over her face, leaving
it dimpled, cunning, full of mischief and cajolery. "I do naught for
naught! If I please thee, thou must please me! If thou art their
messenger, thou must be mine also; or I tell Pidar Narayan!"
Akbar-_khan's_ wicked old eyes positively leered approval; he waggled
his head and chuckled. Wherefore not? Was there a better, more careful
messenger in the world than he, or one more capable of deft arrangings?
"I want none," she put in with a quick distaste, a shrinking from his
manner. "'Tis but to take a note to Dering-_sahib_; he must know
somewhat before he comes with the other _sahib logue_ this afternoon.
There is no arrangement needed, no fuss."
How could there be, she asked herself, as, after the old sinner had
gone off, charmed at this renewal of a once familiar occupation, she
sat on the window-sill looking down on the roof of the balcony where
she had been so content. For what could be simpler than to make it
quite clear that you were real, that you did not pretend, that you were
not even afraid? That, briefly, you were not like Mrs. Smith, who took
so much--one could not help seeing that!--and gave so little--one could
not help seeing that, also! For what was a "Thanks! many, Captain
Dering," in return for all the trouble he lavished on her?
So it came to pass that when Vincent Dering went to the palace that
afternoon, some words were haunting heart and brain, as Juliet's words
must have haunted Romeo's. No more; no less. But they slid into and
filled up the blanks between some words of his own which he had spoken
carelessly, not five minutes before he had first seen Laila, and which
came back to his memory unbidden. "It isn't altogether despicable to
let yourself loose in Paradise without an _arriere pensee_ of flaming
swords, especially if you can give pleasure to someone else thereby!
One could play Romeo and Juliet in this garden nicely."
Well, he had played it for an hour or two, swept off his feet by
chance. Whether he would continue to play it was unsettled till her
note came. That ended his vague reluctance, and he went over to the
palace, eager as any lover could be for the interview she suggested in
"_the old place when it grows dusk, and the people will mostly have
gone_."
For those of the camp who were bound to follow the Viceroy's whim of
riding by the old road--the pilgrims' road--while the big camp went
round by the longer, easier route, had promised to look in on the
palace on their way past it, for a cup of tea, a good-by. Since
already, the functions over, the dream-city had begun to melt away; the
Hosts of the Lord-_sahib_ were passing on.
"Glory be!" said the Commissioner with heart-felt gratitude, "we've
done our worst and leave you to take the consequences. That's sound
policy. Anyhow, we are ahead of everybody on the road to heaven, and
the pilgrims will have to swallow the dust of our feet! I wonder how
they'll like it." He was in wild spirits, like a schoolboy escaped from
school; yet as he paused to shake hands with Dr. Dillon, he said aside,
"Any more cases?"
"Two," said the doctor, laconically, "both dead. It is a bad type."
His hearer's face was unmovable as he turned to Mrs. Smith, who stood
close by. "Good-by, my dear lady," he said cheerfully, "remember me
house is yours if you, or the child, want it. Doctor, couldn't you
conscientiously recommend change of air to the hills? Couldn't ye swear
the close proximity to an open canal and a gaol is unwholesome? If ye
could, you'd oblige a grass-widower, whose wife is at Baden-Baden--or
is it Marienbad?--living prodigally, while he has to fill himself with
husks which no self-respecting swine would eat. Faith, me dear madam,
I'd bless you if you'd come and kill the cook. It's a woman's work; not
a man's."
Dr. Dillon, with a quick look, backed him up instantly. "Certainly. I
told Mrs. Smith a long time ago that she and Gladys had had enough of
Eshwara. Indeed, as her doctor, she would be doing me a personal favour
if--"
Muriel Smith swept round on him sharply. She was looking her very best,
in her very best gown; white, mystic, wonderful, with a faint gleam of
silver embroidery about waist and hem. And she had been obtrusively,
unnecessarily friendly with Vincent Dering all the afternoon; even now
she was standing with him attached to her apron-strings.
"I don't think nervous headaches are dangerous," she said, eying Dr.
Dillon coolly. "But thanks all the same. I should love to kill
somebody; even a cook. Perhaps I may, by and by, when _all_ the nice
people leave. I'm so sorry _you're_ going, but we are still to be quite
gay, aren't we, Captain Dering? And that reminds me we have to settle
when that riding party is to come off. Good-by--good-by!" She waved her
hand to the departing Commissioner, and carried Vincent Dering off,
with a defiant look at the doctor.
He, knowing her, smiled indulgently; but Father Ninian, who had come
down to see his guest off, looked after her with a wistful pain in his
kind old face.
"That is a mistake," he said briefly; then the wistfulness grew into a
puzzled look, and he added, half to himself, "It need not be, surely;
there is something wrong. I can't understand--"
Dr. Dillon, catching the end of the remark, gave a cynical laugh and
turned on his heel. "No one does," he said as he went off. He would not
discuss her even with dear old Pidar Narayan. For the rest, though he
was keen to get back to his jail, he would wait till she tired of her
game, and then drive her home himself to her idiot of a husband, who
was too busy over his blessed search-light to see things that were
going on under his very eyes.
Captain Dering, however, was already impatient. It was growing dusk;
the shadows were claiming the garden bit by bit, and as the glint left
the varnished leaves of the orange trees, the white flowers stood out
like little stars against the gloom and sent a bewildering perfume into
the darkening air. He could see no hint of Laila anywhere; Laila in
that detestable white muslin garment which made him long vainly to get
rid of the surroundings which suited her so ill, drive all that
civilized crew from the garden, and claim it as his own--and hers! She
must have gone to the balcony already. She must be waiting for him. And
yet a soft-heartedness for this other woman with whom he had been
friends, whom for a few days he had imagined he loved (it had come to
_this_ now) forbade him from leaving her cavalierly. So it was long
past dusk, and the short Indian twilight was hovering on the edge of
night, ere he made his escape; and, full of anxiety lest Laila should
have lost patience or hope, hurried down to the wide archway, and so,
by the turn riverwards, to the right, into the balcony. Most girls, he
told himself, would by this time have taken offence; but she was there.
As he entered, her figure showed dimly against the light beyond.
"I'm afraid I am awfully late," he began, then paused; for, as she
turned, there was a faint clash of silver, a faint gleam of it too. His
heart gave a great throb of glad recognition. It was Laila! Laila
indeed! the Laila of that dream last night. And she had risked _this_
to please him!
"Are you?" she said. "I thought _I_ was late; for _this_ took time; but
I wanted to be the same--always the same to you, always--always!"
She stretched her hands to him, but he set them aside, took her in his
arms, and kissed her passionately.
"Yes! Laila! always Laila--my Laila!"
She gave him back his kisses joyfully. "I knew you would come," she
said. "Love comes to love, you know."
He called her Juliet then, and many another lover's name. She took them
all, and gave them back again without reserve, until, as they stood
there, someone passing outward from the arched passage to the garden,
paused to listen at the half-heard sound of voices. For Father
Ninian--who had come down to his own rooms for a pair of foils
wherewith to give Lance Carlyon a lesson in the "_Addio del Marito_,"
until Captain Dering should choose to come out of the recesses of the
garden and allow of their going back to the Fort together--knew of none
likely to use, or even to be aware of, the balcony. So he turned
thither curiously, then stood arrested, so that the clash of the foils
on the stone, as he purposely lowered their points, came as a warning
to those two that they were observed. Laila, with a catlike
noiselessness, withdrew in a second. She, a yard or two away, in
deepest shadow, stood leaning in a careless, easy attitude over the
balustrade. Her only possibility of escape lay, she felt instinctively,
in showing no desire to do so. Vincent, for his part, turned to face
the old priest, prepared to brazen it out; for his blood was running
like wild-fire in his veins. Yet scarcely so fast as the heart's blood
had once leapt, and was even now leaping, in the old man who came
forward, facing him also. Came forward slowly, shortsightedly, a foil
in each hand. If he had held out one, bade him take the button off and
fight for his life, Vincent Dering would scarcely have been surprised,
would almost have been pleased. It would have raised him in his own
self-esteem. For he knew perfectly well he had no right to be there;
that, as yet, he was not sure of his own footing.
But Pidar Narayan did not. He paused, as he generally did, a few paces
away, a slender, straight shadow in black, girt about with that pale
sash, on which, and on his pale face, such light as there was fell
softly. For there was no anger in the latter; only an almost passionate
regret and pity. Even so, his words startled the young man, who stood
prepared for defiance.
"Oh! Captain Dering!" he said courteously, "it is you, is it? You have
found a pleasant place, indeed! But scarcely a very safe one for your
companion--" he turned to that faint gleam of white and silver in the
arched shadow.--"The air grows chill, madam, so close to the river," he
continued, his voice taking a tone almost of command, "and you are
lightly clad. Will you not be wise, and leave us?"
Vincent's surprise had passed by this time into a rush of vexation,
almost indignation, for he had grasped the old man's mistake. For an
instant he felt bound to undeceive him, then the impossibility of doing
so held him silent, feeling a coward indeed; so, desperately, he could
only join his voice to Father Ninian's. It seemed the only way out of
the _impasse_.
"Perhaps you had better go--"
Laila did not need more. Already, under cover of the shadow, she had
dexterously slipped off her silver jingles, lest they should betray
what really seemed to her her worst, nay! her only offence;--the taking
and wearing of Roshan Khan's present. And now, wrapping her veil about
her like a cloak, gathering her trailing skirts to orthodox length with
an appalling presence of mind, she was off with just the little uneasy
laugh which might well befit the situation.
She left her companion bewildered, yet still facing the old man
recklessly. Since he could not explain, he did not mean to be hectored.
Yet, once again, the old voice took him unawares.
"Memory plays strange tricks with us at times," it said slowly, but
with a suggestion of the fateful, hopeless rhythm of a Greek chorus in
it. "She has taken me back, this evening, nearly sixty long years. The
river before us is the yellow flood of the Tiber, the woman who has
just left us is the woman I loved--sixty long years ago--I had kissed
her, as you have kissed her. I had told her I loved her, as you have
just told her--and then, like an echo from the river below where a boat
was moored, came to our ears, the same words, 'I love you.'--They
were spoken, Captain Dering, by a boy, barely in his teens, to a
waiting-maid. The boy was her son. She had been married, as they marry
them in Italy, almost before her girlhood, and I, the boy's tutor, was
nearer her age than his father--a better man, too, Captain Dering! But
those words--'I love you'--parted us once, and for all. They mirrored
the truth for us--the truth of the love which hides in balconies--in
pleasure boats--" he took a step forward, and his whole presence
changed. He raised his hand, priest to its finger tips. "Let it mirror
the truth to you also, my son--leave this poor lady to her duty, as
I--"
Vincent Dering broke in on him haughtily, his pride in arms, impatience
at the falseness of his position making him discourteous.
"You don't understand; you are absolutely mistaken--I refuse to
explain, but I really must ask you not to interfere."
The old man's whole bearing changed again. He drew himself up, and,
foils in hand, bowed, as fencers do at the salute.
"Were I the lady's husband, sir, I would _make_ you answer. As a priest
of God, I must warn you that I will speak, if--"
Vincent Dering interrupted him again. "I can't prevent that--but you
will wrong us--her at any rate--the best, the kindest woman--"
He paused, for Father Ninian had come close, laid a hand on his, and
the touch seemed to bring silence.
"It is sixty long years, Captain Dering," he said, and his eyes seemed
to pierce through the darkness, "since I have laid my hand on my
fellow-men save in the hope of healing. It was a fancy of mine
after--after we kissed, and parted. But I touch you as a second self, a
fellow-sinner; for she too was the best--the kindest--" His old voice
failed.
Despite his anger at the whole miserable mistake, Vincent was touched;
but despite his emotion, his annoyance strengthened.
"Possibly," he broke in, "but I must really refuse to discuss the
matter further. Shall we end this, sir,--unless--" he gave a reckless
laugh and pointed to the foils--"you would like to fight it out?"
Once more Father Ninian bowed, as fencers bow in the salute, the
priest, the wise counsellor, lost in an older entity than these; in the
high-born Scotch student, who, for a while, had forgotten his vocation
to ruffle with the best blood in Italy. "I have not the privilege of
being the lady's protector," he answered hotly. "If I were,"--He
paused, then said courteously, "Shall we come upstairs? I came down for
these foils in order to teach Mr. Carlyon the thrust we spoke of once.
'_L'Addio del Marito_,' they called it in my youth--I doubt if the name
has changed now. He will be wondering what has become of me, and--and
it!"
As Vincent followed him, he felt a thrill at the savageness of the old
man's tone, and told himself that here was the Church Militant indeed.
He might have said so with still more reason ten minutes after, when
Father Ninian was left alone. For the hour proved too late for lessons,
and Lance Carlyon--who had been out of sorts ever since his walk at
dawn with Erda Shepherd--was obliged to give in to dinner, grumbling
the while, that Vincent was the worst chum he ever came across. Never
to be found when he was wanted, then turning up when dear old Pidar
Narayan looked as if he could have licked creation.
Possibly Lance might have repeated this assertion, also, with greater
fervour, could he have been witness to Father Ninian's actions, when,
his last guest gone, he went to put the foils back in the armoury next
the chapel.
For he would have seen him, with head bowed over the crossed foils he
held, repeating a "_mea culpa_" as he passed the altar; but ere the
second foil matched its fellow on the armoury wall, he would have seen
as pretty a bit of sword-play as could well be seen. Many a dexterous
turn of wrist, many a quick imaginary parry, many a sharp _riposte_,
following each other accurately, as if memory held each attack, each
defence of an unseen foe; until finally, swift as a flash, would come a
falter back, as if from a blow, then a thrust forward.
There was a little silver bell--such as men put to a falcon's hood--no
bigger than a sixpence, shaped like a man's heart, upon the tassel of a
resting lance beneath the solitary foil. And the tassel swayed gently
in the cool river breeze.
Yet at each thrust the heart-shaped bell chimed a feeble protest under
the button of the foil, making the Church Militant smile cheerfully.