JULIET
The copper-coloured glow, into which weather-wise Am-ma had looked,
distrustfully, as it domed the little valley set in its rim of hills,
had replaced that of sunset in Eshwara also, and Pidar Narayan's eyes,
weather-wise as the fisherman's, looked at it as doubtfully, as he
walked home with Lance and Vincent Dering when the long strain at the
Pool of Immortality was over.
"If it were not so early in the year, I should predict a dust-storm--a
real electrical dust-storm," he said.
Lance, whose hands were full of cut-paper Gods--for in obedience to a
sudden impulse, he had stopped on his way through the crowd to buy up
the old Brahmin's whole stock in trade, and give him an extra eight
annas to go away and not drum any more--looked up also, and filled his
broad chest with a great breath. "Perhaps that is it. I've felt choking
all day--horrid!"
Vincent Dering laughed. "I don't choke--I tingle; and it is rather
jolly. Yes, sir; there is a lot of electricity in the air, and I
shouldn't wonder if we had a regular black snorter. Glad it didn't come
in the middle of the miracle '_biz_', for, as a general smasher-up of
ordinary experiences, commend me to a real electrical dust-storm! It
seems to attract the earth, earthy, in everything. In fact, if there is
such a thing as the Devil, and he ever gets the upper hand, it is
then--"
Father Ninian turned to him quickly, and then to the crowd,-through
which they were still cleaving that curiously acquiescent way which
white faces still cleave through dark ones--"Then I trust, my son," he
said gently, "that for your sake and _theirs_ the storm may not come."
"Or that there isn't a Satanic majesty!" retorted Captain Dering,
cynically. "That, sir, is the easiest way out of the difficulty."
Lance had looked round on the crowd also. "Well! if there is," he said,
"and I had to paint him, I'd take that man's face as my model for
Lucifer." He pointed to a _gosain_ who was forming the centre of a
group of gossipers round a syrup-seller's shop, and added--for he knew
his Milton as well as his Shakespeare--"_The superior fiend who gives
not Heav'n for lost!_"
"Looks a bad lot, I admit," remarked Vincent, carelessly. "Have an idea
I've seen him before; in gaol, I believe. Yes! I'm sure of it. He is
the fellow Dillon told me was going to get his ticket-of-leave for good
conduct. He looks scoundrel enough for that! But really, sir--" he
turned to Father Ninian again--"I think we may count on their behaviour
now." He indicated the crowd. "If there was going to be a row it would
have come off before this; now they will settle down, you'll see, and
go on to the next camping-ground to-morrow morning as if nothing had
gone wrong. They are such creatures of habit; you could see that from
their sticking on in expectation of that footling old miracle all day!"
Father Ninian, in that curiously irrelevant way he had, put on the gold
_pince-nez_ which always dangled over his black soutane, and looked
round him again. "They will settle down," he said quietly, "if nothing
new crops up to give them a lead into new ways. That is always the
danger; and a very small thing does it, sometimes, in India."
They had reached the courtyard which lay between the palace and the
Fort, and with a wave of his hand in farewell, he passed along the wall
to the former, while the others, striking across the raised union-jack
of paths, made for the latter. The yard was crammed with pilgrims on
their way to bathe on the river steps.
"Who the deuce are those fellows?" said Vincent, angrily, as half a
dozen figures slipped out through the door in the bastion, as they
approached, and mixing with the crowd, got lost in it, while the door
was closed behind them by some unseen hand. "I'll talk to Roshan about
that. He was complaining only this morning that the men were breaking
out of barracks. What else can he expect if he doesn't look out. By
Jove! I'll teach 'em!"
His first words, indeed, as he entered the outer courtyard of the Fort,
was to order a sentry down to close the doors against all comers
without a written pass from him, and as he went by the guard-house he
gave rather a sharp reprimand to Roshan Khan, who happened to be
outside, for not having kept his eyes open while in charge of the Fort
during his absence. No one was in future to use the small door; the key
was to be brought to him, and all passes were to be stopped for that
night.
"Roshan looks in a demon bad temper. I wonder what's up?" remarked
Lance, casually, as he passed on through a wicket in the massive closed
gates to the inner courtyard, where the officers' quarters lay, hugging
the river wall. It was quite a citadel, a distinct fortification of
itself, with no entrance or exit except through the outer yard, or by
the little flight of steps leading down to the river, at the foot of
which Lance moored his canoe.
"He has been sulky as a bear with me these last few days," replied
Captain Dering, with a contemptuous smile. "I believe the old Colonel
was right after all, and coming here has put wind in his head. I shall
have to teach Mr. Roshan that, good man as he is, he is only a
_risaldar_, before long."
"Poor devil," said Lance under his breath. "I'm always a bit sorry for
Roshan. He would be a fine fellow--if--if he wasn't so--so civilized."
"Civilized," echoed Vincent, with a laugh. "You haven't seen him fight.
I have. Talk of devils; he has got one in him, if you like!"
He certainly had at that moment, when, having gone straight to his
quarters after Vincent's reprimand, he found himself alone, and free to
show his feelings.
And yet, had he been calm, he could scarcely have told wherein
the grievance lay which for the moment clamoured for--no--not
redress--revenge.
It was not the first time that he had had to ignore hints, innuendoes,
suggestions of Heaven knows what impossible intrigues, as he had had
that very afternoon. It was not the first time that, in his position as
intermediary between the ignorance of the native soldier and the
ignorance of the English officer, he had had to '_ca' canny_,' so as
not to alienate the confidence of either. Indeed, the consciousness of
the necessity for this, by enhancing the value of his services, had
always been a pride to him hitherto. And these particular intrigues
were so childish; especially if--he paused in his angry pacing of the
room, and smiled complacently. Why should he give a thought to an
impossible plan, when a possible one lay ready to his hand? If he
married Laila, the land, almost the title, would be his of right. It
would be easy anyhow to regain. Then with a fresh frown, he remembered
Vincent's order. That would upset his plans. He had meant to slip out
by the bastion gate just before--say an hour before--dawn, and cross
over to the palace. Akbar Khan had arranged to be there to let him into
the garden. Now he must make other arrangements. He must find the old
eunuch, change the hour and the place; since nothing--no! not all the
tyranny in the world--should prevent his carrying out his intention of
seeing his cousin, and claiming her as his--his by right. So he must
settle this at once; settle it before there was any chance, he told
himself bitterly, of his superior officer coming out of the mess--where
no doubt he was guzzling swine's flesh and bibbing wine--(that faint
amaze at the presence in his own mind of such antiquated half-forgotten
ideas assailed him again at this point) to encroach further on his
liberty, his privileges.
He had to pass the troopers' lines on his way to the main gate, and the
quick _salaams_, the ready smiles given him by the men, as they lounged
and smoked after their long day on duty, soothed his pride.
The Captain had certainly said they had behaved well--kindly, and
discreetly; but whose merit was that? The Englishman's who gave the
word of command, or his, who had drilled them to obedience, who lived
with them day and night? Without such as he, a native regiment could
not be managed, if he chose to give the word. He would not, of course,
but if he chose--
He set his teeth as he walked out of the Fort, and met at its very gate
that surging tide of patient, eager faces drifting on, and back again,
aimlessly.
He need not, as a matter of fact, have feared any further interference
from Vincent Dering, for the latter, being very tired after the long
day in the sun, and having reason to know that part of the night time,
at any rate, which is usually given to sleep would be employed in
something better, had, after staving off hunger with what the cook
would produce at a moment's notice, and postponing the dinner hour,
gone to sleep deliberately, advising Lance to do the same.
But the latter had, rather to his own surprise, found this impossible;
not even over a cigar in the balcony above the sliding, rushing river,
the sound of which was as a rule sleep-compelling, would sleep come;
not even in the cool darkness which was settling on Eshwara, despite
the curious hint of glow lingering in the sky.
The air was too electrical, he decided. And then--Erda! He had slept
the night before, after she had said good-by so carelessly, without
realizing that the good-by was for ever. And he had not had time to
think all day. But now, at rest in the cool darkness, looking from his
lounge chair down the river to that other balcony, he did realize it.
For ever! Yes! that regret was in his life for ever. And he was so
young. Only twenty-five.
Why had this come to him?
Erda! Erda,--his heart's desire.
He sat there voiceless, sucking mechanically at a cigar, long since
gone out; but that was as much the cry at his heart as if he had
allowed himself a fine frenzy of despair in older fashion.
And he imagined her as he had seen her--this way, that way, every way,
in an unending torture of visions--until he exhausted reality, and
fancy showed her to him in her wedding dress. And then he felt as if he
could kill the Reverend David Campbell without shame or fear. He was
vaguely ashamed of the lack of shame, however, especially when his
fancy led him into endless mishaps which might befall a man, especially
a missionary, before his wedding day.
"_There they ate a missionary_--"
Yes, sometimes; but there was not much time left for that sort of
end--
What a brute he was, when the only thing that mattered was that she
should be happy and content.
But would she be so?
It went on and on and on, the controversy between himself and that
other self, so that he felt worn, and harassed, and dirty, and
altogether undesirable, when Vincent, about nine o'clock, reappeared,
dapper and scented as usual, in his mess kit, and expressed surprise at
finding his companion still undressed. He was hungry as a hunter, he
said; besides he wanted to have a decent interval between dinner and
turning in. And _that_ must be early, for he had just heard from the
police authorities that though everything was quiet for the night,
absolutely quiet, they thought it would be safer to have the Pool
guarded again at dawn, in case of accidents; since none of the
pilgrims, though apparently quite resigned, had as yet gone on.
"They never do till the next day; Pidar Narayan told me so," commented
Lance, crossly. "Why should they rake us up at such an unearthly hour?
Why can't they let the people have a row if they want one? I'd like it;
give a fellow something to do in this beastly hole."
He went off to dress moodily, wishing savage wishes, so adding,
perhaps, to that electricity in the air. And Vincent gave it his quota
of desire also, in his reckless determination to regain Paradise, as it
was lost, through a woman. And that play of Romeo and Juliet in the
scented garden--Juliet, whose bounty was "as boundless as the sea"--was
a bit of pure paradise to him. He had never, he thought, been in love
before. He had never known what love was. Those other loves of his had
been mean, ungenerous, calculating.
So he was at his best, his brightest, during dinner. Lance, on the
contrary, was at his worst, his dullest; and Vincent made this his
excuse for going to his room betimes. He was not due at the palace till
twelve, but he was anxious to ensure the coast being clear, and Lance
seemed just in the mood when a fellow sits up sulkily, out of pure
cussedness, and drinks whiskey-and-water if he can find a companion on
whom to vent his cavillings.
In truth Lance would have liked to do so. He wanted to feel miserable;
but after Vincent had gone, and he was left alone in the balcony, sleep
began to assert itself. He found even his despair becoming dreamy, and
being obstinate, tried to fight against the fact. The result being that
he finally fell asleep in his lounge chair with a soundness and
unconsciousness usually reserved for bed. Fell asleep, and promptly
relaxed into content with happy dreams of Erda's return to him; for
his, left to itself, was a healthy soul.
And so were the vast majority of those which, through patient yet eager
eyes, were looking into the scarce-lit darkness of the streets, as the
pilgrims, crowded into an almost solid mass, seemed to slide with a
slow, almost unseen movement, through them. They were waiting for the
dawn. If nothing new came before then, they would pass on towards the
'Cradle of the Gods.' So, scarcely seen, restless yet restful, their
feet on the next rung of the golden stairs, they waited.
And overhead the young moon had risen with a copper-coloured edge to
its crescent of light. For the glow was still in the sky, and the
troopers in the Fort, resting, after their long day, in Indian fashion
by sprawling on their beds and gossiping, had dragged these beds into
the open and discarded most of their clothing, since the night was
strangely still and warm. So even the wonder what had become of the
_risaldar-sahib_ was languid.
For Roshan Khan had not returned. And yet, as he sat in a quiet
courtyard of the city, with closed doors, realizing how late it was
growing, he had no fear of further reprimand. On the contrary, his
pulses were bounding with the certainty that he would gain praise. And
there was something beyond this mere desire for personal advantage in
the keen-witted diplomacy with which he listened, with which he
suggested, with which he led the talkers on to tell what it was of the
utmost importance that he should know, not so much to himself, as to
the Government he served. For his vague discontent had vanished, his
well-reasoned, well-founded loyalty returned at this, the first hint at
anything beyond the wild, aimless intrigue with which every Indian
bazaar teems. But here, in this definite plan, by the collaboration of
his troopers, of liberating fifteen hundred scoundrels,--or, at least,
desperadoes,--of aping the stroke of action which made the great mutiny
of '57 possible, was something tangible. Something which, when known to
the uttermost, must be told without delay to his superior officer. A
vast pride swept through him, as, when the gongs were striking
one,--short, yet with lingering vibration in the dull, still air,--he
made his way, fast as he could, back to the Fort. Without him, and such
as he, faithful despite limitations, what would the Masters know?
Hours before, as he went out, he had arranged with Akbar Khan that the
palace door giving on the great square between it and the Fort should
be on the latch only, so that he might slip in at any time and take his
chance of hiding in the garden, his chance of seeing Laila before the
dawn came and he had to go back to the Fort. The old sinner, indeed,
had jumped at this indefinite arrangement, which bound him to nothing;
which made it unnecessary for him even to broach the subject of an
interview to his mistress. Since what was easier to say than that it
had been impossible; as, indeed, it was! Perhaps Roshan Khan had
himself grasped this fact; perhaps in insisting on this entry to the
garden he had been backing more than his own luck, and had been
meditating a _coup d'etat_ of his own. However that may have been, all
was forgotten in his newly recovered loyalty, his keen ambition, as he
hurried back to the Fort intent on but one thing--the forewarning and
forearming of those whom he had long ago deliberately chosen as his
masters.
Some of his men were still lounging about on their beds, and he spoke a
word to them as he passed, warning them to be ready if wanted. So,
leaving them in sudden vague excitement, he passed on to the inner
court. Here, where Lance Carlyon's small band of Sikh pioneers were
quartered in the long, low building in which the fortified gateway
stood, no one was astir. And no lights were visible in the opposite
building where Lance and Vincent lived. Doubtless everyone was in bed.
He passed on, therefore, swiftly to the room he knew to be his
Captain's, and knocked. There was no answer. He opened the door and
looked in. It was empty. A vague wonder assailed him, and he passed on
to Lance Carlyon's room. It was empty also, and the vague uneasiness
died down. They must be sitting up still in the balcony overlooking the
river, where they sat every day after dinner. Stupid of him not to have
gone there first; and yet, surely, it was late. Perhaps they were
uneasy; perhaps they had already heard! An open letter "_On Her
Majesty's Service_" lying on the dinner table as he passed through the
mess room (which was still lit up--sign that the servants had gone to
sleep awaiting their masters' call) attracted his attention. He glanced
at it, half fearing to find himself forestalled by the police
authorities. No! It was from them, as he had seen at once; but it was
only that notice for dawn. Ah! what was this? this tiny scrap of paper,
which had been twisted to a cocked-hat note, lying caught in the fold
of the foolscap, with the two words--"_twelve o'clock_"--written on it?
In a woman's writing. Roshan knew enough of invitations from
Englishwomen to be sure of that.
The vague uneasiness returned, as he went on to the balcony beyond the
dining-room. There too, the swinging lamp still burnt, and showed him
Lance Carlyon fast asleep in a lounge chair; but no one else.
Where was Captain Dering? Captain Dering, who had the key of the little
door in the bastion; Captain Dering, who had had a note with "_twelve
o'clock_" in it?
A sudden thought struck him. If--if there was anything in his vague
fear--then, by taking the canoe, which lay at the bottom of the stairs,
he could slip down stream, and see--
Forgetting everything else, Roshan stole softly past the sleeping
Lance, and went down the stairs.
The canoe was not there.
Then Captain Dering must have taken it and gone--whither?
There was but one place whither he was likely to go alone at that hour
of the night; one place, a stair like this leading up to a balcony over
the river where he had gone once before with a woman, a woman in a
dress which marked her for what she was, really--a dress that marked
her secluded--which made _this_, shame unutterable!
Roshan's impotent fury rose hot at the inexpressible humiliation. The
thought of Captain Dering and Laila alone in that balcony meant but one
thing to his inherited ideas. No glaze of romance was possible. It was
shame unutterable, irredeemable. Shame that must be revenged without
delay. So, forgetting everything else in the world except this, he
passed the sleeping Lance once more, hurried back to his quarters for
his revolver, and only stopping to see that one chamber at least was
loaded, made his way to that door which he knew would be on the latch.
That patient, eager crowd was still thronging the courtyard as he
crossed it, pausing a moment beside the great gun which centred the
union-jack of raised paths.
The "_Teacher of Religion!_"
Ay! they needed a teacher, needed a lesson; these aliens, these
usurpers, these depravers of women.
Yet, in sober truth, Vincent Dering, at that moment sitting in the
little balcony alone with Laila Bonaventura, felt quite virtuous. They
had just come in from the garden, where they had been strolling and
whispering, and now, as they sat together, without a word, scarcely a
thought, in the faint light of the young moon and a red jewelled
hand-lamp--which Laila, with that unfailing instinct of hers for all
that matched the passionate mystery of the place, had set in a carved
niche, where it looked like a votive offering to the unseen image of a
saint--Vincent could feel the warm ivory of her cheek against his own,
hear the soft chink of her jewels as they slid towards him, following
the soft warm curves on which they lay. The red light of the lamp
glittered faintly in red stars on the myriad facets of looking-glass
with which the vaulted roof above them was adorned. It fell, reddening
the red lights on the gold-stiffened crimson waves of her dress, that
sent such a bewildering perfume to cloud his senses with passionate
content.
A vast tenderness, a vast triumph, surged through him at the thought of
her. Who dared to judge her by the narrow standards of to-day--she, who
had gone back boldly to realities!
_This_ was what poets had sung since time began; _this_ was what the
world had exchanged for Paradise!
Juliet! Juliet!
And if he was the "_god of her idolatry_," she was to him the "_dearest
morsel of earth_."
He bent and whispered the name to her with a kiss.
And as he did so, a step, swift, bold, masterful, sounded in the
passage above; the step of one with a right to be there.
Vincent, startled, sat listening; but Laila was on her feet in a
second, with a reckless laugh.
"Father Laurence!" she cried. "Well! let him come. I'm not afraid! For
he loved _her_. He _must_ remember!"
So, as a dim figure showed, half seen, in the archway, she stood like a
queen, her hand raised, her head thrown back; a sight never to be
forgotten.
"There is no use in being angry, guardian," she called, in her
full-throated voice. "It is too late for that. Remember--" She paused,
gave a slight scream, and flung herself before Vincent.
There was a flash, a second scream, and then the arches rang with the
echoes of a pistol-shot.
"Laila! Laila!"
"You damned scoundrel! You've killed her!"
"Laila! Laila!"
There were two voices echoing the woman's name, but only that one
pistol-shot. Then two useless clicks of a trigger, before, with an
oath, Roshan Khan flung the revolver from him and fled.