MARGHERITA
Father Ninian had been awake all night. He had been vaguely uneasy all
day, conscious, with that fine perception of his, that something was
amiss. But it was no fear of what _might_ happen which had kept him
watching when others slept. It was the memory of something which _had_
happened; for, by a coincidence that for more than fifty years had
never lost its mystical significance for Ninian Bruce--sentimentalist
as he was to his finger tips--the night of the _Vaisakh_ festival, when
the pilgrims watched for the dawn to guide them on their way to the
'Cradle of the Gods,' was to him, personally, the saddest and gladdest
of the whole year. Since it was the night on which he had sinned the
great sin of his life, and repented of it, even in the sinning.
And that sinning, that repenting, was no slight thing to him. It was
the man himself; for the passion that was in him in his youth was in
him in his old age. It had only changed its dwelling-place. It had fled
from the senses, and found refuge in the emotions. In a way, indeed, by
thus seeking freedom from it, he had fallen into a greater thraldom, so
that his whole life had been as much swayed by this renunciation of a
woman as it would have been by her possession.
Old as he was, this very night had brought him--with the thought that
Death could not delay much longer, and that next _Vaisakh_ festival
might find him no lonely watcher--that thrill of self-absorption in
another self, that claim for all, which is the essence of passion. For
this woman, waiting for him in the land where there is no marrying or
giving in marriage, was still a woman; still the one of all God's
creatures whom he claimed, and who claimed him, even as the first woman
claimed the first man in Paradise.
So he had passed the night watches of the Festival of Spring: as he had
always passed them. Partly in his room, that room made holy by her
presence in his heart, partly in the chapel, made holy by the Bodily
Presence of Him for Whose sake he had renounced her. The two holinesses
were inextricably mixed in Pidar Narayan's mind.
He had finished one of the masses for the repose of a sinning yet
sainted soul, and, before repeating the next, was confessing his own
repentance in his room, when that hasty footstep along the passage,
which alarmed those two lovers in the balcony nearer the garden, had
resounded through the arches. It had disturbed, but not startled him,
its very boldness reassuring him of its right to be there. Probably it
was some messenger from the police camp or the Fort. So he had risen
from his knees calmly and passed into the chapel, which lay between his
room and the balcony, in order to see who it could be. For the candles
were lit on the Altar and sent a faint light into the vaulted passage
beyond.
It was as he paused, in passing, to do homage to that Bodily Presence
upon the Altar, which was ready--as he was in his robes--for the
service of love which was to him, as a priest, his duty, as a man a joy
unspeakable, that the pistol-shot came clamouring through the arches,
followed by those despairing cries.
What they were he could not distinguish, but that they were urgent was
unmistakable, and had he been young as he had been on that night long
years ago in the balcony above the pale flood of the Tiber, he could
not have been quicker to reach the armoury, seize the long rapier,
which he had not used, save in play, since those ruffling days in Rome,
and run out into the wide, dim passage whence the sound had reached
him.
None too soon! Someone was already flying down it. He pulled himself up
for attack, but the figure ere he could lunge at it was past him,
desperate, indifferent, flinging him against the wall as it continued
its reckless way to the outer door, where, with swift opening and
closing, it disappeared into the crowded courtyard, out of
sight--beyond recall!
He stood for a moment, stupefied. What was Roshan Khan doing there? For
that faint light from the Altar had given him a glimpse of a familiar,
dark face, Roshan Khan's without a doubt!
"Laila! Laila!"
The cry was clearer this time and the blood left his fine old face in
sudden doubt as he turned swiftly to his left. Turned, and saw a faint
red glow through an arch far down the passage.
That was the arch leading down into the balcony that was never lit
up--that was never to be lit up because of something that had happened
there long ago--because of the something which had _begun_ a tragedy.
Why was it lit up? A stronger fear caught at his heart. Could
Laila?--No!--impossible!
He ran on, and the next moment was realizing that some tragedy had
_ended_ in that balcony.
But what?
Who was the woman in native dress who stood with a man's arm around
her--a man in a scarlet and gold mess jacket? Ah!--that was Captain
Dering, undoubtedly. But the woman? The woman in scarlet and gold
also--God in Heaven!--had the dead--
As he stared, the long, supple limbs, so clearly outlined under their
cunningly contrived draperies, seemed to lose themselves in the colour,
the glitter of rich stuff; one white arm, losing its hold on a cuff of
scarlet and gold, swung back helplessly, and Vincent Dering, with a
passionate entreaty to his darling not to be afraid, to look up, and
tell him where she was hurt, sank to one knee the better to support
what he held.
And so the face, tilted backwards over his shoulder, came in view.
_Laila!_
For an instant Ninian Bruce stood bewildered. Then all his youth, the
pride of birth, the dash, and the fire which had made that youth what
it had been, rose up in him. The blood surged back to his face in wild
anger, in savage sense of insult, and desire for revenge.
"How dare you!" he cried, clenching his hand on his sword. "You shall
answer for this, sir! How do you come to be here, at this time of
night, and why?"
Vincent, who at the first word had given a hurried glance to see who
the speaker was, then returned to his task with the indifference of one
absolutely preoccupied, held up his hand passionately against more.
"Don't--and don't preach, for God's sake, old man!" he cried
recklessly. "Come and help, if you like. Some brute--Oh, curse him!
curse him!"
His one trembling hand, for the other was round her, supporting her,
was busy with the quaint, jewelled clasps of the scented corselet,
which was crimsoning deeper with another dye. "It's too late for
preaching," he muttered, half to himself,--"too late! too late!"
The words seemed to stun his hearer into silence. He stood bewildered.
Too late for what?
And now, roused by that pistol-shot also, another old man, who had
carefully hidden himself away from the possibility of being found by
Roshan Khan, on the rage for an impossible interview; who had counted,
with malicious cunning, on the cooling effect of a useless waiting in
the garden till dawn should make it necessary for hot-blooded lovers to
return to the Fort, stole like a thief to the balcony. What could have
happened? The only likely trouble which had occurred to his vast
experience had been the possibility of Roshan Khan seeking the
interview upstairs. And for that very reason had not he, Akbar Khan,
felt it his duty to sleep outside his mistress's door? What more could
faithful servitude be expected to do?
But this! What was this? His charge had stolen a march upon him. Old as
he was in the care of frail womanhood, he had been imposed upon! Then,
as he crept round a pillar craftily, the sight of Pidar Narayan, in his
priestly robes, made the old sinner throw up his hands and grovel in
the dust.
"This slave knew nothing!" he mumbled, gasping. "This was unknown. And
for the other, I told him it was too soon, too soon,--far too soon."
Too soon, and too late! What did it all mean? Father Ninian stood
helpless, paralyzed; but Vincent caught at the words.
"The other!" he echoed. "You black devil! who was the other? Who was
that man? Curse him!" He paused, for Laila opened her eyes.
"It was Roshan Khan," she said, with a smile, that half-amused,
half-mysterious smile. "He gave me the dress, you know, and I think he
wanted me--to marry him. Hush! what's the use of being angry--now?" She
checked his incredulous outcry, and her hand hesitated up to his
trembling fingers, and held them back from their task. "Don't," she
went on; "I'd rather--you didn't waste time. I want you to look at
me--only me--me, myself. Ah! that's nice!"
There was an instant's silence; then her eyes wandered to his cuff as
it rested on her corselet, and she smiled again. "We match, don't we?
I'm glad. Besides, it won't stain much. I expect--that's why soldiers
wear red, isn't it?"
The deadly realism roused Vincent to a sort of fury at his own
helplessness. But what could a man do, caught in a second by Fate to be
chief actor in a scene like this, where he was lost,--lost utterly? And
those two fools looking on--doing nothing!
"At least, in common charity, you might help. You're something of a
doctor!" he cried passionately. "We can settle scores afterwards, you
and I, can't we? But now you might help _her_."
"What did she say?" asked Father Ninian, tonelessly. He had caught a
word or two, and their triviality, in the face of what had happened--a
triviality common in those who have been struck down as she had been,
almost painlessly--had but increased his bewilderment. "What does it
mean? How do you come here? I must know, first."
The girl had turned her face quickly to the new voice; and, after
vainly trying to rise, lay back breathlessly. "Tell him, Vincent; he's
Father Laurence. Remember--he must know--and--and I--can't--"
"Then here it is, sir!" broke in Vincent, brutally. "If you will wait
to know, when every moment is precious. We love each other--you've done
it in your time, I'm told! I've been coming here, night after night, to
see her; she wears that dress to please me--there! Now you've got it!
And to-night, some devil--she says Roshan Khan, but she's dreaming;
what can he have to do with it?--stood there and fired--at me, I think;
but she flung herself--Ah! Laila, my darling, why did you? Now, will
that satisfy you--you--you--"
"Hush!" came Laila's voice--"there is no use in being angry. Besides,
he understands; he knows what it is to be in love quite well. Don't
you, guardian? You loved her, didn't you? Margherita, I mean--"
She wandered off into Italian--the language they always spoke, and her
rich voice dulled, died away, as the faintness returned.
"For God's sake, sir, bring the light, if you won't do anything else!"
cried Vincent, wildly. "She has fainted, I think--I can't see--it is so
dark. For God's sake, sir, the light at least!"
The light at least! As Father Ninian mechanically took the red lamp
from its niche he felt that he needed no more light than those words,
"he understands," had sent into his very soul. Yes, he knew what love
was. But he knew also--it came home to him in a second--that his love,
even after all these years, differed not at all from this girl's. He
heard it in her voice--that voice so strangely like that other
voice--which he remembered--oh! so well!
"Take off the shade," said Vincent, "it makes everything so--so
red--you--you can't see the truth." He shivered as he spoke.
But that first look at the girl had been enough for Pidar Narayan. It
had roused him, his apathy was gone. He thrust the lamp into Vincent's
trembling hands without a word, and his own steady ones--the hands
which had not touched their kind, except to heal body or soul, since
they had said farewell to a woman--took up the task.
So for a few minutes there was silence, but for the old pantaloon's
ceaseless mumblings as he rocked himself backwards and forwards. He had
meant no harm, he protested--he had conducted more affairs of the kind
to a decent ending than he could well remember--no one could be more
discreet--accidents would happen--
"She is shot through the lungs," said Father Ninian, breaking the
silence. "There is very little to be done--I--I--" He would have said
"_fear_," but for Vincent's face of anguish. What right had he to feel
sorrow?--he, the man who had brought this about. "Still, I will try.
Akbar! bring the candles from the altar. Stay! she had better go there.
It will save time. You two can carry her."
But Vincent had her in his arms, with a brief "Where?"
"The chapel--the lights are lit. Lay her on the cushions before the
altar. I will be with you again directly."
When he returned from his room with lint and bandages she was lying
there as he had directed, her long red skirt trailing down the white
steps.
"The candles, please,--the smaller ones, Akbar,--and place them at her
head. They will give me a better light."
Vincent shivered again at the sight; she looked already dead, with
those tall tapers about her. Ah! what did it all mean? Was he dreaming?
How was it possible? The wild improbability of it stunned him; when not
three hours ago he had had a sherry-and-bitters before dinner! The
curious irrelevance of his thoughts made him feel as if he must wake
soon. Yet there she lay. Laila, whom he loved!
"Is she--is she--" he began.
"Not dead, if you mean that," replied Father Ninian quietly. "But she
will not live an hour."
There was no mincing matters between these two men--nothing but the
brutal truth; yet this time it was the old priest who held up his hand
against a passionate outcry. "Don't make a fuss. Be brave, at least,
and don't disturb her. She is coming to herself again."
To herself certainly. To the old half-amused, half-mysterious smile, as
her eyes caught the tapers, the lighted altar beyond, her lover
kneeling at her side. "It is the wedding, I suppose," she said--there
was a catch in her breath now--"but why have they put the candles like
a bier? To save time, I suppose. But it mixes things up; and--" she
gave a little impatient sigh--"Oh! tell him to be quick, Romeo,
for--for we always meant to be married in the end--didn't we?"
The words cut Vincent like a knife. Yes! He had meant it. Not always.
Not till, even to one with his past, the perfection of this idyll in
the garden would have suffered without that promise to himself. And
now, death should not cheat him, should not leave a stain, a regret, on
the one perfect romance of his life. He stooped suddenly and kissed
her; kissed her with more passion than he had ever kissed her before.
"It won't be long, Juliet; he is just going to begin," he whispered,
then rose to his feet unsteadily.
This at least he could do for himself. And for her? A sob, almost of
gratitude, of admiration, came to his eyes as he realized that it would
never, never--even if she had lived--have mattered to her really. But
it had been a part of the play; part of her as Juliet. So it should be.
His wild revolt at the sequence of improbabilities--for after all that
idyll in the garden had been, bar its environments, commonplace
enough--which had landed him in--_in an Adelphi drama!_--(he could not
help the thought, though he despised it)--should give way to this. The
play should end with a wedding. Juliet should have the '_statue of pure
gold_' in the eyes of the world. He could ensure this by a word; and
the word should be spoken.
He touched Father Ninian peremptorily on the shoulder, as he bent, busy
with his instruments.
"I want to speak to you. Hush! she must not hear. Father, you say she
is dying. Well, I claim my right. I am a Catholic--I have sinned--we
will say nothing about her--that lies between us. I wish to marry her
while I can. I ask it as my right, of you, a priest. Do you understand?
I ask you to marry us."
Ninian Bruce looked for an instant as if he could have killed the man
who stood before him; then he drew himself up, priest utterly.
"Have you the right to claim it?"
"I claim it as a right," replied Vincent, fiercely. "That is enough,
surely."
"It is not enough. I will ask her." And Pidar Narayan knelt down beside
the girl. "My daughter," he began, "Captain Dering tells me--" Then he
gave way--"_Cara mia_," he whispered, laying his hand on hers, "tell
me--I have never been unkind, surely--tell me--your old guardian, who
has loved, who loves--must I marry you to--to _him?_"
Laila looked into his face with a faintly-wondering reply. "Must!" she
echoed dreamily. "It's just as he likes, of course. I don't mind. I
only want him--where is he?"
"I'm here, sweetheart." Vincent knelt down again and took her in his
arms.
The faint querulousness left her voice. "That's nice," she murmured.
"Tell him to begin quickly, Vincent, for I don't want to waste time. I
want you--you, yourself, and me--me, myself--nothing else."
Father Ninian gave a sort of cry, and turned blindly to the altar. If
this was not Love, what was?
Then, monotonously, his voice began the marriage service.
"Have you a ring?" he asked, when he came to stand by those two, the
girl supported in Vincent's arms. The latter shook his head. "Go on
without it," he said sternly; "she is failing fast."
But there was one on the old man's finger; one that had never left it
since it had been put there by a saint in Paradise. He took it off now,
and gave it to the man whom at that moment he hated and despised more
than any man on earth.
So, swiftly, the prayers went on, and old Akbar paused in his rockings
to say "Amen" with the others. He had learnt _thus_ much in these
latter days of grace.
The last one came as a step resounded down the passage; Lance Carlyon's
step as he sought the light he had seen--sought his Captain. He seemed
to bring a breath of fresh air into the passion-laden atmosphere, a
solid reality into the shadows.
"Vincent!" he cried, as he caught sight of the scarlet and gold. "Thank
God! you're here. The troopers have seized the Fort--" He paused
suddenly, horror-struck at what had caught his eye. "I beg your
pardon--I didn't know--is she--is she--hurt?--"
Vincent stood up suddenly. "Hush! that has nothing to do with it. Leave
that to me. The troopers have risen? When?"
Lance, with his eyes still on that pitiful sight, shook his head.
"There was a pistol-shot--you must have heard it!"
"Heard it!" echoed Vincent, wildly. "Yes! I heard it. Go on! What
then?"
"I don't know--I know nothing in this infernal nightmare that's got
hold of us all!" cried Lance. "I only know that if we don't get to the
gaol before they do--they've gone to set the prisoners free--there will
be the devil of a row. So you must come at once, Vincent--you must come
at once!"
Captain Dering gave an irresolute look at the dying girl. She had saved
his life--he loved her--could he leave her? Was anything worth that
sacrifice?
"You _must_ go!" said a stern voice. It was Father Ninian's, who had
taken Vincent's place and was now holding Laila in his arms. "You must
go, Captain Dering, and prevent worse from befalling; if you can--if
you can!" There was almost a triumph in his voice.
Lance looked from one to the other in sheer despair. "Well! if you
won't come, I'm off--oh! come along, Vincent, and don't be a fool!
It--it isn't worth it; it never is!"
Vincent Dering stood still irresolute. "You'll stay, sir," he said,
"and--and look after--"
Father Ninian drew the unconscious girl closer to him. "I will look
after--_Margherita_."
The last word came in a half whisper to himself and his eyes met
Vincent's with a curious dazed defiance. The latter gave the defiance
back, as their owner stooped for a second over Laila's indifferent
face, and kissed it.
"Good-by, _Juliet_," he said; and the last word came also in a half
whisper to himself.
The next moment he was following Lance down the dim passage, full of a
vague relief, and realizing for the first time that the mist, which for
the last half hour had dimmed the reality of all things, was due, not
to any aberration of his brain, but to the simple fact that an
electrical dust-storm was in full blast.
He realized it with relief. That was at least real, tangible.
Almost too much so; and as the hot wind, charged with those aspiring
atoms of earth, met him fiercely, he realized also that the storm would
fight against him in his efforts to prevent worse from happening. If,
indeed, anything could be worse than what had happened; worse than
Laila's--
He broke off in his thought, incredulous. It could not be true. He
would come back to find her better--well!--
But that other dream was true. His men had risen. The one thing
necessary, therefore, was to get to the gaol before any decided action
took place; and this he realised still more clearly from Lance's curt
explanation as they ran down the river steps. Once there, the sight of
the canoe he had left suggested the feasibility of getting to the gaol
in it. His personal influence might avail. If that failed, he would at
least be able to save time by choosing a suitable place for the raft to
come ashore. The great thing was to be on the spot, to be within reach
of action at once; to wait for the raft meant needless delay.
So, a minute after, the faint splash of his paddle was lost in the
rising hum of the storm, and Lance was left looking anxiously for sound
or sight of the raft, which, if all had gone well, should by now have
started.
But neither came, so, seeing from the light he had snatched up as he
passed through the balcony that the air was growing darker, more
impenetrable than ever, he shoved off his strange craft, to wait
further out in the stream where there was less chance of the raft
passing him unseen, unheard.
For this reason also, he paddled up along the wall a bit into the faint
glow of light which showed still from the arches of the chapel. And as
he lay in it, his ears and eyes strained for the least sound, he could
hear as a kind of background to that muffled drumming of the storm, the
sound of the pilgrims chanting as they waited for the dawn. The dawn
which would bring--what? Who could tell?
The sound of other prayers, echoing from the chapel, made him shake his
head, feeling that it was hopeless to look forward--or backward for
that matter! Why had Roshan shot the girl--if he had! And why had Pidar
Narayan called her Margherita, and Vincent called her Juliet?
The whole thing was exactly as he had said--an infernal nightmare!
Then a faint sound in front of him made his strong arms sweep the
paddle through the stream as he shot into the darkness in search of the
raft; in search of Erda.
Not that she needed him, really. The memory of her in that red-and-gold
mess jacket above her wedding dress, giving orders to the men squarely,
came back to make him smile.
God bless her! She could do well enough without him. That was one
comfort. And Dillon could hold his own too, without much help, for a
time--that was another; for what with this and that, help was bound to
be over-long in coming.