Outside the parallelograms of white roads centred by brown stretches
of stubbly grass, and bordered by red and blue houses wherein the
European residents of Faizapore dwelt after their kind, and our poor
Belle lay dreaming, a very different world had been going on its way
placidly indifferent, not to her only, but to the whole colony of
strangers within its gates. The great plains, sweeping like a sea to
the horizon, had been ploughed, sown, watered, harvested: children had
been born, strong men had died, crimes been committed, noble acts
done; and of all this not one word had reached the alien ears. Only
the District Officer and his subaltern, John Raby, bridged the gulf by
driving down every day to the court-house, which lay just beyond the
boundaries of the cantonment and close to the native city; there, for
eight weary hours, to come in contact with the most ignoble attributes
of the Indian, and thence to drive at evening heartily glad of escape.
In the lines of the native regiment Philip Marsden went in and out
among his men, knowing them by name, and sympathising with their
lives. But they too were a race apart from the tillers of soil, the
hewers of wood and drawers of water, who pay the bills for the great
Empire.
Even old Mahomed Lateef came but seldom to see the Major _sahib_ since
he had been forced to send his Benjamin to Delhi, there, in a hotbed
of vice and corruption, to gain a livelihood by his penmanship. The
lad was employed on the staff of a red-hot Mahometan newspaper
entitled "The Light of Islâm," and spent his days in copying blatant
leaders on to the lithographic stones. Nothing could exceed the lofty
tone of "The Light of Islâm." No trace of the old Adam peeped through
its exalted sentiments save when it spoke of the Government, or of its
Hindu rival "The Patriot." Then the editor took down his dictionary of
synonyms, and, looking out all the bad epithets from "abandoned" to
"zymotic," used them with more copiousness than accuracy. Sometimes,
however, it would join issue with one adversary against another, and
blaze out into fiery paragraphs of the following order:
We are glad to see that yet once more "The Patriot," forgetting its
nonsensical race-prejudice for the nonce, has, to use a colloquialism,
followed our lead in pertinently calling on Government for some worthy
explanation of the dastardly outrage perpetrated by its minions on a
virtuous Mahometan widow, &c, &c.
And lovers of the dreadful, after wading through a column of abuse,
would discover that the ancestral dirt of an old lady's cowhouse had
been removed by order of the Deputy Commissioner! Yet the paper did
good: it could hardly do otherwise, considering its exalted
sentiments; but for all that the occupation was an unwholesome one for
an excitable lad like Murghub Ahmed. While his fingers inked
themselves hopelessly over the fine words, his mind also became
clouded by them. The abuse of language intoxicated him, until
moderation seemed to him indifference, and tolerance sympathy. He took
to sitting up of nights composing still more turgid denunciations; and
the first time "The Light of Islâm" went forth, bearing not only his
hand-writing, but his heart's belief on its pages, he felt that he had
found his mission. To think that but four months ago he had wept with
disappointment because he was refused the post of statistical writer
in a Government office! Between striking averages, and evolving
Utopias, what a glorious difference! He thanked Providence for the
change, though his heart ached cruelly at times when he could spare
nothing from his modest wage for the dear ones at home. He had a wife
waiting there for him; ere long there might be a child, and he knew
her to be worse fed than many a street-beggar. It seemed to him part
of the general injustice which set his brain on fire.
"Words! Nothing but words," muttered old Mahomed Lateef as he lay
under the solitary _nim_ tree in his courtyard and spelt out "The
Light of Islâm" with the aid of a huge horn-rimmed pair of spectacles.
"Pish! '_The pen is mightier than the sword!_' What white-livered fool
said that? The boy should not have such water in his veins unless his
mother played me false. God knows! women are deceitful, and full of
guile."
This was only his habit of thought; he had no intention of casting
aspersions on his much respected wife Fâtma Bibi, who just then
appeared with a hookah full of the rankest tobacco. "I shall send for
the boy, oh Fâtma Bi!" said the stern old domestic tyrant. "He is
learning to say more than he dare do, and that I will not have. He
shall come home and do more than he says--ha! ha!" Fâtma Bi laughed
too, and clapped her wrinkled hands, while the shy girl, dutifully
doing the daughter-in-law's part of cooking, turned her head away to
smile lest any one should accuse her of joy because _he_ was coming
back.
So Mahomed Lateef covered a sheet of flimsy German note-paper, bought
in the bazaar, with crabbed Arabic lettering, and the women rejoiced
because the light of their eyes was coming back. And after all the lad
refused stoutly to return. He wrote his father a letter, full of the
most trite and beautiful sentiments, informing his aged parent that
times had changed, the old order given place to the new, and that he
intended to raise the banner of _jehâd_ (religious war) against the
infidel. The women cried _Bismillah_, and Mahomed Lateef, despite his
annoyance at the disobedience, could not help, as it were, cocking his
ears like an old war-horse. Yet he wrote the lad a warning after his
lights, which ran thus:
God and His prophet forbid, oh son of my heart, that I should keep
thee back, if, as thou sayest, thou wouldst raise the banner of
_jehâd_. If a sword be needed, I will send thee mine own friend;
but remember always what the mullah taught thee, nor confound the
three great things,--the Dur-ul-Islâm, the Dur-ul-Husub, and the
Dur-ul-Ummun.[2] Have at the Hindu pigs, especially any that bear
kindred to Shunker's fat carcase; he hath cheated me rascally, and
built a window overlooking my yard for which I shall have the law of
him. But listen for the cry of the muezzin, and put thy sword in the
scabbard when its sound falls on thine ear, remembering 'tis the House
of Protection, and not the House of the Foe. If thou goest to China,
as perhaps may befall, seeing the _sahibs_ fight the infidel there,
remember to cool thy brother's grave with tears. Meanwhile, play
singlestick with Shâhbâz Khân the Mogul, and if thou canst get the old
Meean _sahib_, his father, on his legs, put the foils into his hand,
rap him over the knuckles once, and he will teach thee more in one
minute than his son in five.
Then the old Syyed lay down on his bed under the _nim_ tree, and Fâtma
Bi fanned the mosquitoes from him with a tinsel fan, and talked in
whispers to Nasibun, the childless wife, of the deeds their boy was to
do, while Haiyât Bi, the young bride, busy as usual, found time to dry
her tears unseen. A fire burning dim in one corner of the courtyard
was almost eclipsed by the moon riding gloriously in the purple-black
sky overhead. From the other side of the high partition wall came the
dull throbbing of the _dholki_ (little drum) and an occasional wild
skirling of pipes. The marriage festivities in Shunker Dâs's house had
begun, and every day some ceremony or other had to be gone through,
bringing an excuse for having the _marânsunis_ (female musicians) in
to play and sing. High up near the roof of the sugar-cake house with
its white filigree mouldings gleamed the objectionable window. Within
sat the usurer himself conferring with his jackal, one Râm Lâl, a man
of small estate but infinite cunning. It was from no desire of
overlooking Mahomed Lateef's women that Shunker Dâs frequented the
upper chamber. He had other and far more important business on hand,
necessitating quiet and the impossibility of being overheard. Even up
there the two talked in whispers, and chuckled under their breath;
while in the courtyard below the delicate child who stood between
Shunker and damnation ate sweetmeats and turned night into day with
weary, yet sleepless, eyes.
The moon, shining in on the two courtyards, shone also on the church
garden, as Major Marsden after going his rounds turned his horse into
its winding paths. A curious garden it was, guiltless of flowers and
planted for the most part with tombstones. Modern sanitation, stepping
in like Aaron's rod to divide the dead from the living, had ceased to
use it as a cemetery; but the records of long forgotten sorrows
remained, looking ghostly in the moonlight. The branch of a rose-tree
encroaching on the walk caught in the tassel of Major Marsden's
bridle, and he stooped to disentangle it. Straightening himself again,
he paused to look on the peaceful scene around him and perceived that
some one, a belated soldier most likely, was lying not far off on a
tombstone. The horse picked its way among many a nameless grave to
draw up beside a figure lying still as if carved in stone.
"Now, my man, what's up?" said Major Marsden dismounting to lay a
heavy hand on its shoulder. The sleeper rose almost automatically, and
stood before him alert and yet confused. "Dick Smith! What on earth
brings you here?"
The boy could scarcely remember at first, so far had sleep taken him
from his troubles. Then he hung his head before memory. "I'm leaving
Faizapore, and came here--to wait for daylight; that's all."
But the moonlight on the tombstone showed its inscription, "Sacred to
the memory of John Smith"; and Philip Marsden judged instantly that
there was trouble afoot; boys do not go to sleep on their father's
graves without due cause. Some scrape no doubt, and yet--. His dislike
to Colonel Stuart made him a partisan, and he was more ready to
believe ill of the elder, than of the younger man.
"Don't be in a hurry," he said kindly. "There's something wrong of
course, but very few scrapes necessitate running away."
"There's nothing to make me run away," replied Dick, with a lump in
his throat as he unconsciously contrasted this stranger's kindness
with other people's harshness; "but go I must."
"Where?"
The question roused the sense of injury latent for years. "Where? How
do I know? I tell you there's nothing for me to do anywhere--nothing!
And then, when a fellow is sick of waiting, and runs wild a bit, they
throw it in his teeth, when he has given it all up."
It was not very lucid, but the lad's tone was enough for Philip
Marsden. "Come home with me," he said with a smile full of pity; "and
have a real sleep in a real bed. You don't know how different things
will seem to-morrow."
Dick looked at his hero, thought how splendid he was, and went with
him like a lamb.
Next morning when the boy with much circumlocution began to tell the
tale of his troubles, Major Marsden felt inclined to swear. Would he
never learn to mistrust his benevolent impulses, but go down to his
grave making a fool of himself? A boy and girl lovers' quarrel,--was
that all? Yet as the story proceeded he became interested in spite of
himself. "Do you mean to tell me," he said incredulously, "that Miss
Stuart is absolutely ignorant of what goes on in that house?"
Dick laid his head on the table in sheer despair. "Ah Major, Major!"
he cried, "I told her--I--you should have seen her face!" He burst
into incoherent regrets, and praises of Belle's angelic innocence.
"It appears to me," remarked Major Marsden drily, "to be about the
best thing that could have happened. Fiction is always unsafe.
Belle,--as you call her--must have found it out sooner or later. The
sooner the better, in my opinion."
"You wouldn't say that if you knew her as I do," explained the other
eagerly; "or if you knew all that I do. There will be a smash some day
soon, and it will kill Belle outright. Ah! if I hadn't been a fool and
a brute, I might have stayed and perhaps kept things from going
utterly wrong."
"Then why don't you go back?" asked his hearer impatiently.
"I can't! He won't have me in the office again. You don't know what
mischief is brewing there."
"Thank you, I'd rather not know; but if you're certain this move of
yours is final,--that is to say if you don't want to kiss and make
friends with your cousin--[Poor Dick writhed inwardly, for he had kept
back the full enormity of his offence]--then I might be able to help
you in getting employment. They are laying a new telegraph-line to the
front, and, as it so happens, a friend wrote to me a few days ago
asking if I knew of any volunteers for the work."
The lad's face brightened. "Telegraphs! oh, I should like that! I've
been working at them these two years, and I think--but I'm not
sure--that I've invented a new--"
"All right," interrupted Major Marsden brusquely; "they can try you,
at any rate. You can start tonight; that settles it. Now you had
better go round and get your things ready."
Dick writhed again in mingled pride and regret. "I can't; I've said
good-bye to them all; besides, I left a bundle of sorts in the bazaar
before I went--there."
Philip Marsden shrugged his shoulders, remarking that the boy might do
as he liked, and went off to his work; returning about two o'clock,
however, to find Dick asleep, wearied out even by a half-night's
vigil of sorrow. "How soft these young things are," he thought, as
he looked down on the sleeping boy, and noticed a distinctly damp
pocket-handkerchief still in the half-relaxed hand. A certain scorn
was in his heart, yet the very fact that he did notice such details
showed that he was not so hard as he pretended. He went into the
rough, disorderly room where he spent so many solitary evenings, lit a
cigar, and walked about restlessly. Finally, telling himself the while
that he was a fool for his pains, he sat down and wrote to Belle
Stuart in this wise:--
My Dear Miss Stuart,--At the risk of once more being meddlesome, I
venture to tell you that your cousin, Dick Smith, goes off to
Beluchistan to-night as telegraph overseer. It is dangerous work, and
perhaps you might like to see him before he leaves. If so, by riding
through the church garden about six o'clock you will meet him. He
doesn't know I am writing, and would most likely object if he did; but
I know most women believe in the duty of forgiveness. Yours truly,
P. H. Marsden.
P.S. If you were to send a small selection of warm clothing to meet
him at the bullock train office it, at any rate, could not fail to be
a comfort to him.
Belle read this rather brusque production with shining eyes and a
sudden lightening of her heart. Perhaps, as she told herself, this
arose entirely from her relief on Dick's account; perhaps the
conviction that Major Marsden could not judge her very harshly if he
thought it worth while to appeal to her in this fashion, had something
to do with it. The girl however did not question herself closely on
any subject. Even the dreadful doubt which Dick's mad words had raised
the night before had somehow found its appointed niche in the orderly
pageant of her mind where love sat in the place of honour. Was it
true? The answer came in a passionate desire to be ignorant, and yet
to protect and save. Very illogical, no doubt, but very womanly; to a
certain extent very natural also, for her father, forced by the
circumstances detailed in the last chapter to retire early to bed, had
arisen next morning in a most edifying frame of mind, and a somewhat
depressed state of body. He was unusually tender towards Belle, and
spoke with kindly dignity of unhappy Dick's manifest ill-luck. These
dispositions therefore rendered it easy for Belle to make excuses in
her turn. Not that she made them consciously; that would have argued
too great a change of thought. The craving to forget and forgive was
imperative, and the sense of wrong-doing which her innate truthfulness
would not allow to be smothered, found an outlet in self-blame for her
unkindness to dear Dick. As for poor father--: the epithets spoke
volumes.
"There is your cousin," said Major Marsden to Dick as Belle rode
towards them through the overarching trees in the church garden.
"Don't run away; I asked her to come. You'll find me by the bridge."
The lad was like Mahomet's coffin, hanging between a hell of remorse
and a heaven of forgiveness, as he watched her approach, and when she
reined up beside him, he looked at her almost fearfully.
"I'm sorry I was cross to you, Dick," she said simply, holding out her
hand to him. The clouds were gone, and Dick Smith felt as if he would
have liked to stand up and chant her praises, or fight her battles,
before the whole world. They did not allude to the past in any way
until the time for parting came, when Dick, urged thereto by the
rankle of a certain epithet, asked with a furious blush if she would
promise to forget--everything. She looked at him with kindly smiling
eyes. "Good-bye, dear Dick," she said; and then, suddenly, she stooped
and kissed him.
The young fellow could not speak. He turned aside to caress the horse,
and stood so at her bridle-rein for a moment. "God bless you for that,
Belle," he said huskily and left her.
Belle, with a lump in her own throat and tearful shining eyes, rode
back past the bridge where Philip Marsden, leaning over the parapet,
watched the oily flow of the canal water in the cut below. He looked
up, thinking how fair and slim and young she was, and raised his hat
expecting her to pass, but she paused. He felt a strange thrill as his
eyes met hers still wet with tears.
"I have so much to thank you for, Major Marsden," she said with a
little tremor in her voice, "and I do it so badly. You see I don't
always understand--"
Something in her tone smote Philip Marsden with remorse. "Please not
to say any more about it, Miss Stuart. _I_ understand,--and,--and,--
I'm glad you do not." Thinking over his words afterwards he came to
the conclusion that both these statements had wandered from the truth;
but how, he asked himself a little wrathfully, could any man tell the
naked, unvarnished, disagreeable truth with a pair of grey eyes soft
with tears looking at him?
Dick, of course, raved about his cousin for the rest of the evening,
and besought the Major to send him confidential reports on the
progress of events. In his opinion disaster was unavoidable, and he
was proceeding to detail his reasons, when Major Marsden cut him short
by saying: "I would rather not hear anything about it; and I should
like to know, first, if you are engaged to your cousin?"
Dick confessed he was not; whereupon his companion told him that he
would promise nothing, except, he added hastily, catching sight of
Dick's disappointed face, to help the girl in any way he could. With
this the boy professed to be quite content; perhaps he had grasped the
fact that Philip Marsden was apt to be better than his word. And
indeed a day or two after Dick's departure Marsden took the trouble to
go over and inquire of John Raby what sort of a man Lâlâ Shunker Dâs,
the great contractor, was supposed to be.
The young civilian laughed. "Like them all, not to be trusted. Why do
you ask?" He broke in on the evasive answer by continuing, "The man is
a goldsmith by caste. I suppose you know that in old days they were
never allowed in Government service. As the proverb says, 'A goldsmith
will do his grandmother out of a pice.' But if the Lâlâ-ji gives you
trouble, bring him to me. I've been kind to him, and he is grateful,
in his way."
Now the history of John Raby's kindness to Lâlâ Shunker Dâs was
briefly this: he had discovered him in an attempt to cheat the revenue
in the matter of income-tax, and had kept the knowledge in his own
hands. "Purists would say I ought to report it, and smash the man,"
argued this astute young casuist; "but the knowledge that his ruin in
the matter of that _Rai Bâhâdur_-ship hangs by a thread will keep the
old thief straighter; besides it is always unwise to give away power."
That to a great extent was the keynote of John Raby's life. He coveted
power, not so much for its own sake as for the use he could make of
it. For just as some men inherit a passion for drink, he had inherited
greed of gain from a long line of Jewish ancestry. The less said of
his family the better: indeed, so far as his own account went, he
appeared to have been born when he went to read with a celebrated
"coach" at the age of sixteen. Memory never carried him further in
outward speech; but as this is no uncommon occurrence in Indian
society, the world accepted him for what he appeared to be, a
well-educated gentleman, and for what he was, a man with a pension for
himself and his widow. His first collector, a civilian of the old
type, used to shake his head when John Raby's name was mentioned, and
augur that he would either be hanged or become a Chief Court Judge.
"He was in camp with me, sir," this worthy would say, "when a flight
of wild geese came bang over the tent. I got a couple, the last with
the full choke; and I give you my word of honour Raby never lifted his
eyes from the _buniah's_ book he was deciphering in a petty bond
case!"
In truth the young man's faculty for figures, and his aptitude for
discovering fraud, partook of the nature of genius, and gained him the
reputation of being a perfect _shaitan_ (devil) among the natives.
Philip Marsden, associated with him on a committee for the purchase of
mules, learnt to trust his acumen implicitly, and became greatly
interested in the clear-headed, well-mannered young fellow who knew
such a prodigious amount for his years; pleasant in society too,
singing sentimental songs in a light tenor voice, and having a store
of that easy small-talk which makes society smooth by filling up the
chinks. Being a regular visitor of Colonel Stuart's house John Raby
saw a good deal of Belle, and liked her in a friendly, approving
manner; but, whatever Mrs. Stuart may have thought, he had no more
intention of marrying a penniless girl than of performing a
pilgrimage, or any other pious act savouring of the Middle Ages.
"By the way, I haven't seen the Miss Van Milders or their mother
lately," remarked Major Marsden one day to him, as they came home from
their committee together and met Belle going out for her afternoon
ride by herself.
"Oh, they've gone to Mussoorie; Belle's keeping house for her father."
"Alone?"
"Yes, alone; queer _ménage_, ain't it? I believe the girl thinks
she'll reform the Colonel; and he _is_ awfully fond of her, but--" The
younger man shook his head with a laugh. It jarred upon Philip Marsden
and he changed the subject quickly. So she had elected to stay with
her father! Well, he admired her courage, and could only hope that she
would not have to pay too dearly for it.