"What hath night to do with sleep?"--_Milton_.
"What a nuisance!"
Leonie turned on her bed and frowned through the chick at the two girls
who had ensconced themselves in long chairs on the verandah outside her
bedroom.
Broad-minded and big-hearted, she had tried to overcome the intense
irritation which the Eurasian manner of speech invariably aroused in
her. Some get accustomed in time to the parrot-like monotony; some
don't; and to the end of his days the young, immaculately groomed and
turned-out assistant in Hamilton's will wonder why the beautiful girl
with gold-flecked eyes had suddenly frowned, and placing the trifle
intended for a wedding present upon the glass counter, had left the
shop with an appallingly inadequate excuse.
Fortunately for him the pukka European has not been endowed with the
gift of hearing himself speak as others hear him.
Like the broken flight of maimed birds over a lawn in the process of
being mown is the Eurasian speech and intonation; with the inevitable
dip in the middle, the rise at the end of each sentence, and the
ceaseless clipping of syllables.
And Leonie frowned as she lay under the mosquito netting awaiting the
warning of the dressing bell, and even felt thankful to a crow which
suddenly perched itself on the top twig of a fir tree, and shrieked its
condemnation of the sunset, the star just above its head, and the
chatterers in the chairs.
In an effort to break through the overpowering lethargy which lately
had fallen upon her at odd moments of the day, she lifted herself on to
her elbow, only to sink listlessly back on the very hard bed. After
all, why worry over problems to which there seemed no answer? Why fret
over the silence of the man she loved when she had curtly refused his
offer of companionship; for there always comes a time when mere man,
subjected to the unsatisfactory daily menu of snubs and refusals, tense
moods, and moody silences, will refuse it, and clear for a diet, which,
although somewhat lacking in salt and spice, will have the advantage of
being substantial, therefore satisfying.
Also there was no doubt about it the social ostracism of Calcutta had
followed her to Benares; she had not failed to notice that the people
packing the hotel looked at her furtively, smiling spasmodically when
caught in the act, and seemed ill at ease when left alone with her.
Another thing which annoyed her intensely was the habit she had
developed of peering into the shadows of the compound at odd moments,
and listening for a sound she could not even describe to herself, and
which she never heard; while through the blazing hours of the day, and
the stifling hours of the night, like a black thread woven into a
tissue of gold, ran the ghastly fear which had been with her since the
day when a schoolgirl had taunted her, and to which she had given voice
near the poinsettia bush to Jan Cuxson.
She had _done_ Benares en tourist.
She had watched the worshippers thronging the Praying Steps at dawn
from the deck of a boat rowed slowly up and down the holy river; had
enticed the monkeys with gram from the niches in the Doorga Kond, the
world-famed Monkey Temple; gazed fascinated and with reverence at the
firing of the pyres about the dead bodies shrouded in white or red
according to their sex upon the Burning Ghats; averted her eyes
steadfastly from the bloated bodies in process of being torn to pieces
by crows or vultures as they floated on the soft bosom of Mother Ganges
to everlasting peace; and had passed restful hours in the wonderful
ruins of the Buddhist temple some miles outside the city.
She had done all that others have done and will do, and still she
waited, doing absolutely nothing and with no excuse for loitering in
the hotel with its long broad verandah; learning much of the city's
history from the charming manager who walks with a stick, and has the
blue-green-brown shadow of the peat bog in his eyes.
"Shoo, you brute!" said one, of the girls on the verandah, and
continued speaking when the crow had flown farther afield. "Well, the
manager says we are not to go to the bazaar to-night on any account!"
"Why ever not?"
"Says there's a row or something brewing--something to do with the
natives and their religion!"
The girl with the reddish-brown hair put a final polish to the nails,
which damned her everlastingly, as she spoke condescendingly of one
half of her forbears; while the other, a _bonâ fide_ blonde as to hair,
half opened the long sleepy brown eyes, which, combined with the shape
of her silken-hosed leg from ankle to knee branded her even before she
uttered a word.
"Don't believe it," the latter replied. "It's a do on the part of the
guide to get more backsheesh; you simply can't trust these natives a
yard. I'll tell you what, though," she sat up with an energy
surprising in one of her kind, "let's ask Lady Hickle. She's _such_ a
pet, and there's _nothing_ she doesn't know about the place, she's been
here a whole month."
Followed a short spell of peace in which Leonie raised her hand to
summon her ayah squatting on the dressing-room matting, and put an end
to the incessant chattering.
But bolts do not wait upon the clapping of hands before they crash down
upon your defenceless head from out the blue, and the one destined for
her from all time hurled itself at her from out a wispy cloud of
Eurasian gossip.
"Oh! but we can't do that!" announced the peevish high-pitched voice.
"Why not?"
"Ma says we're not to be with her alone. There's all sorts of weird
tales going round about her. Thought you knew. They say she killed
her first husband, and tried to stab someone in Calcutta with that
dagger she wears in her hair; that she lives on the q.t. with a
native--he gave her that gorgeous necklace of pink pearls; has been
seen with him in the compound after dark--Ma watched--and she's
positively dotty at the full moon. Fact! Mrs. Oswald told Ma that
there's no doubt that she's quite mad at times."
The blonde slid her slightly bowed, silken-hosed limbs to the ground,
her face the colour of greenish putty through the superstitions of one
half of her forbears.
"Let's go and find your ma!" said she. "It's full moon to-night."
And after their departure Leonie sat very still on the edge of the bed,
with one foot tucked under her, and the other bare and very perfect
stretched down to the matting; the netting fell in folds behind her,
and her eyes stared into the corner where a one time nameless, unshaped
spook, having taken form and name at last, stood mouthing at her from
the shadows.
She started violently and looked down when her body-woman touched the
arched instep with her wrinkled, dusky hand.
Keenly intuitive, as are all the peoples of India, she had crept
noiselessly across the matting and crouched at Leonie's feet in her
desire to be near the beloved child in her distress.
There was a heaven of love and a world of indecision in the monkey
eyes, but not a trace of fear when the beloved child suddenly twisted
the _sari_ from about the sleek head and pock-marked face and shook her
violently by the shoulder. Instead she rocked herself gently to and
fro, crooning in the toneless cracked voice of the native woman who
tends a white child and loves it.
"Missy--baba, it's ayah!" went the tuneless song, "it's ayah--it's
ayah--be not afraid, baba--baba--it's ayah--ayah--ayah."
Over and over again she repeated the words with her eyes on the
terror-stricken face above her.
"Why!" said Leonie, frowning till her straight brows met as she pressed
the palms against her temples, "why, you used to sing that in--in--you
used to call me--in the name of all the gods, woman, tell me--help me,
oh! help me to understand!"
Great tears stood in the native woman's eyes, and she opened her mouth
to speak, then turned her head slightly and looked towards the chick
which had rustled; scowled, and bowing her head ever so little placed
the palm of her hand against her forehead for an instant.
"Won't you or _can't_ you speak?" said Leonie almost roughly, her voice
ending on a sharp note which changed to a little bubbling uncanny laugh
as she sat back on the bed holding her ayah at arm's length.
She took no notice of the dressing-bell when it clanged throughout the
building, nor of the swish of the water as it was heaved into the tin
bath in the bathroom, but sat on with the plaits of her hair coiled
like snakes on each side of her, and the whiteness of her bare arms and
shoulders shining in the light from the bathroom.
"Ayah! ayah!" she said in a dull sing-song sort of way, "do you know
what they say? Do you know what they think? They think, they say I'm
_mad_! And do you know I think I am. Sometimes there's the sound of
drums in my brain, great big drums beaten by giants, and sometimes the
sound of bells. And the sound of the bells is hot, it burns great
scars on--on--and there are hours for which I can't account, and cuts
and bruises on my feet and--and----"
Very quietly the native woman rose, and passing one arm behind the bare
shoulder drew a hand across the low broad forehead, singing in her own
tongue so softly as to be almost inaudible.
"I dream of blood, ayah," went on Leonie, "so often--so often--it is
warm to the fingers and drops so--so slowly--and----"
The ayah pressed her fingers a little as she drew them behind the ears
to the nape of the neck, and raised her voice ever so slightly in the
Vega chant she had learnt as a lullaby.
"The women," she crooned, "that are lying on a bench, lying on a couch,
lying in a litter; the women that--are--of--pure odour--all--of them
we--make--sleep!"
The cracked voice sank suddenly as her child's face softened and
relaxed, but the dark hand passed to and fro ceaselessly above the eyes
and down behind the ears.
"It walks so softly, ayah--it's--it's in that--corner now--look! can't
you see--its--its eyes--and the small--light--and she is--she is
calling--calling--just as she--has--has--always----"
The tawny head fell backwards on to the white _sari_ picked out in
coloured silk, pulling it away from the head, and the marriage dower of
thirteen silver earrings in the left ear, and the turquoise studded
nose ring which shone dully in the dim light.
"And it's dark--it's--quite----"
Leonie slept, and her neighbours in the dining-room went through
certain anatomical gymnastics such as lifting the eyebrows, shrugging
the shoulders, and pursing the lips, all of which are supposed to
denote suspicion; while the native woman kept guard behind the reed
blind through which she watched a figure clothed in spotless white
flitting among the shadows of the trees.
When those shadows marked the hour of midnight she sprang quickly to
her feet.
With one violent uncontrollable movement, Leonie had risen to her knees
with the tips of the fingers of one hand against her lips and her eyes
slanting sideways towards the window near her bed.
"Hush!" she whispered. "Listen!"
Very softly, very sweetly there fell upon the night air the single
stroke of a temple bell.
Once it fell, and twice, and yet again. And as it stopped the night
was filled with the dull faint throbbing of many drums.
Calling! calling! calling!
Hidden in the shadows close to the reed blind, Madhu Krishnaghar
watched the girl with intent half-shut eyes as, outlined against the
dim light from the dressing-room, she twisted the heavy plaits of hair
about her head, pinning them with the diamond hilted dagger; then
stripping her flimsy garment from her, lifted the sheet from the bed,
and twisted it deftly about her waist; watched her as she mechanically
took a white _sari_ embroidered in silver from the ayah, and without
hesitation folded it in true native fashion about her body and small
head.
The light of his religion flared into a flame of love and passion
almost uncontrolled when Leonie, lifting the chick, stood by his side
in the full light of the moon, with a smile of welcome on her lips, and
the light of unholy knowledge in her eyes.
Quite close to him she stood with one hand upon his arm, as he hung
garlands of scented flowers about her neck, and then with a little
beckoning gesture was gone; and the ayah crouching on the floor, beat
her withered breast with her withered hand, a world of doubt in her
monkey eyes.
Like two white moths they flitted through the gloom and the hanging
ropes of the banyan trees, down the narrow native path, and on through
strangely empty streets and deserted bazaar to the Praying Ghats.
The air beat about them with the incessant throbbing of many drums,
calling to prayer--calling to sacrifice.
Calling! calling! calling!