THE FREEDOM OF DEATH
Jehân Aziz had withdrawn his charge of theft against Lateefa by saying
that the whole affair was a misunderstanding, and that the ring was in
the possession of the Nawâbin, to whom it really belonged. It had been
returned to her without his knowledge; _etcetera, etcetera, etcetera!_
Now a monopoly in lies gives freedom, but when you have an accomplice
whose fertility of imagination exceeds your own, there is tyranny in
them. Jehân found this out when Lateefa, after one silent second of
surprise, had grasped the position, and instantly claimed his right to
lie also. For in India false accusation is a sort of personal duel in
which the challenger, having chosen his weapon, cannot complain of his
opponent's more skilful use of it.
So Lateefa had launched into corroborative evidence of the most
startling description. Did not the Nawâb-_sahib_ remember this, and
that? And Jehân had remembered. What else could he do?
But he felt it was dangerous work, and was glad when Lateefa's audience
was confined to the coachman who drove them back to the city, in the
wagonette lined with red flannel and tied up with string! Yet, all the
time that he was enlarging, Lateefa was wondering if there was any
truth whatever in the story he had been confirming.
Had the ring really been found?
The fact that Burkut Ali was waiting to receive them in the little
house next Dilarâm's, inclined him to believe it was not, and that
there was still some scheming afoot.
But, on the other hand, the ring might really be lost. The kite might
have fluttered down in the next courtyard, or the next. It was a pure
chance.
His first glance into the little backyard, however, showed him that the
chance had been in his favour. He had the eyes of a hawk, and, even
from a distance, could see, not only that those were the kites crumpled
in one corner, but that the precious morsel of ballast was still in its
place.
And this knowledge gave him, instantly, an enormous advantage over the
two plotters, to whom it was, of course, inconceivable that he should,
already, know for a certainty that the ring had not been found.
So when, in the most natural manner in the world, they congratulated
each other on his being freed from a false accusation in time to allow
of his making kites for the annual competition amongst the immediate
members of the Royal Family, for what was called the 'Sovereignty of
Air,' he assented cheerfully and waited for them to go further. Which
they did, by saying that as it was most important to have the best of
kites, he had better go back to the old workshop, since the courtyard
here was too narrow and sunless to dry the paste and paper quick
enough. Indeed, the last kites he had made there had flown askew.
Here Lateefa crossed to the battered ones in the corner, and shook his
head over them solemnly. It was true, he said, such kites would ill
carry the honour of kings. Yet, since he had none too much leisure--if
the trial was to be in two days' time--he would waste no good daylight
in moving tools. That could be done at any hour, and leave him
half-a-day's work here.
On which Jehân and Burkut winked at each other, thinking it evident
that he was falling into the trap, and was man[oe]uvring for an
opportunity of getting at his hiding-place. So they gave it to him,
discreetly, by playing cards meanwhile on the string bed set this time
_within_ the room across the doorway; thus combining complete isolation
with comparative freedom. Whereat Lateefa smiled to himself.
It was quite a happy little family party, and Lateefa sang, as usual,
of 'oughts' and 'naughts' as he worked; sang all the more cheerfully
when those two began to yawn.
He kept them at the yawning, out of pure mischief, until it was almost
dark; then he piled the kites he had made in the corner, tied his tools
into a bundle, and asked the cardplayers politely to let him pass.
Whereupon, as he knew they would, they closed the door and stripped
him. He did not expostulate. He seemed to think it quite right
that they should thus prove the truth of their own words. He
had not, he confessed, been sure, before, of the assertion that the
ring was in the Nawâbin's possession. He had thought that, perhaps, the
Light-of-the-Universe had retained it himself. Now it was evident that
he had not.
And then, refusing to resume any clothing except a mere waist-cloth of
decency, or to take his tools or anything which might cause suspicion
to go with him, he went out into the bazaars, leaving those two
cursing, and swearing, and wondering if by chance they had hit on the
right lie! Had the ring really found its way to the ruined palace which
was the only other relic of kingship remaining to the Rightful Heir of
all?
And even that possession was burdened by conditions!
It is impossible to overestimate what the loss of absolute power means
to men like Jehân Aziz who have nothing to take its place. As a rule,
when their personal interests do not clash with their environments,
they only grin horribly, and contrive to bear the loss. But when, as
Jehân Aziz did, they feel enmeshed in a network of petty limitations,
their impotent arrogance finds the position intolerable.
As he flung himself angrily once more on the eternal string bed, he
felt that the only thing which would satisfy him was the grip upon his
finger of a gold circlet set with a green stone, on which was scratched
the kingly legend.
And despite Burkut's help he had failed to get it; as yet--
Meanwhile Lateefa, naked as he was born--save for his rag of decency
and an embroidered skull-cap of inexpressibly filthy white muslin set
on the oily, grizzled hair that hung in an inward curve about his
ears--was at large in the gutters and lanes, feeling the freedom of a
bird newly escaped from a cage. His last sense of allegiance to the
Nawâb had gone; he had not yet attached himself to the Nawâbin. He did
not really care much as to the fate of the ring. It had been more a
desire to outmatch their cunning, than any hope of keeping his promise
to Khôjee, that had made him transfer the precious ballast--as he had
done in the leisure afforded him by that discreet game of cards--from
the old kite to a new one, and leave it in the pile. It was a trifle
safer there; but, on the other hand, any one might find it at any time.
If so, it would be the fault of Fate. Not Lateefa's, as it would have
been had he been foolish enough to try and take the ring, or even the
kites with him. That would have been fatal.
So as, with a twopenny-halfpenny wisp of a muslin scarf he borrowed
from a friend, superadded to his costume--or the lack of it--and a
certain soft brilliance of opium in his eyes, the kitemaker lounged
about in the more disreputable quarters of the town, listening to tales
and telling them with equal indifference, he was, in a way, the spirit
of an Indian bazaar incarnate. Truth had gone from him utterly. In its
place had come an impersonal appreciation of the value of vice or
virtue as a mere ingredient of anecdote, and an absolute lack of
responsibility for the result of his admixture of good and evil.
Therefore, as he sat crouched up in the corner of a frail lady's
reception room, fingering a lute which he had found there, and trilling
softly of 'oughts' and 'naughts' while she retailed the latest lies to
the shifting audience which came and went up and down the steep
musk-scented stairs, he was at once a thing dreadful, a thing pathetic.
For his keen face, seen by the smoking oil lamps set high in a brass
trefoil before the mistress of the house, was alight with a sensuous
spirituality, and his lean figure, so listless in its lounge, was
instinct with that power of energy, of spring, that shows even in a
sleeping tiger.
'Lo, thou in the corner!' came the narrator's voice; 'hold thy peace.
What are thy "oughts" and "naughts" to us of the bazaar? Take them to
thy virtuous beauties who leave messages for thee at Dilarâm's--at
Dilarâm's forsooth! an odd "_post-arffis_"[16] for virtue! And so, my
masters,' she went on, 'the _daghdars_[17]--there were five of
them--carried the woman off by force, and----'
Lateefa was not one of the breathless listeners. He was winking
elaborately at the buxom assistant who was handing round the sherbets,
and asking irresponsibly, 'Didst leave a message for me at Dilarâm's,
beloved?'
'Not I, fool!' she giggled; 'thou must be drunk indeed to think virtue
fits me. Yet it is true. One such _did_ come when I was at Dilarâm's
with her----' She nodded to the speaker--who, having reached her
climax, was becoming dramatic, the light before her making her face all
eyes and lips--'An old body--out on thee for thy bad taste, Lateef! And
she says, says she, "Tell Lateef of the house of the Nawâb that it is
well with us in the prison--that we want no service." See you, friends?
not even his! Nay, take it not to heart, beloved! there be others less
unkind.'
But Lateefa had risen with a sudden sense of something beyond his
present freedom; that freedom from truth, clothes, kite-making, above
all things, from the methods of the police! And that something was
Auntie Khôjee. For the messenger, he felt, could have been no one else.
Why had she come to say it was well with her? Had they made her do so?
And if so, what had they been doing to those helpless women? What they
_could_ have done, had they dared, Lateefa knew only too well; and his
brain was too confused to remember that _had_ they dared, they would
scarcely have bidden him go back to his workshop in the old palace.
His feet were as confused as his brain, but, in or out of the gutter,
they steered him pretty straight for the big iron-studded door with the
little wicket in it beneath the _naubat khana_.
'Khôjee!' he called cautiously, rattling at the wicket; for it was
barred, as usual, at night. There was no answer. He raised his
voice--'Auntie Khôjee, it is Lateef! Rise, sister, and let me in.'
She ought to have heard that; for he knew her to be a light sleeper. He
paused doubtfully. Was she simply asleep, or had those two been at
work? Then it occurred to him that he had been a fool not to ask the
sherbet-hander _when_ the message had been left at Dilarâm's. It might
have been that very day, in which case he could afford to postpone his
inquiries till the morrow. He must find out. That was the first thing
to be done.
Late as it was growing, there was no slackening, as yet, in the tide of
life ebbing and flowing through the bazaars, when he returned to them.
Everybody in the city seemed astir, and he hastily turned his face to
the lamp-sprinkled caverns of the arcaded shops, as he saw Burkut Ali
and Jehân Aziz coming towards him in the crowd. They passed him talking
together in low tones, and he looked after them doubtfully. Were they
simply promenading, as half the town seemed to be doing, or----?
Their sudden turn down a by-lane decided him. He followed cautiously.
Alike though the bazaars and the by-ways of a native city are in form,
the change of atmosphere between them is striking beyond words. So
here, within a whisper of unceasing talk and movement, Lateefa found
all silent, deserted. Lightless too; except when a farthing rushlight
at a niched shrine where two lanes crossed, shone on the black slime in
the gutters, as if it had been ink, and showed the glistening black
streaks upon the windowless walls, down which the sewage from the upper
stories of the tall houses trickled to the sewage below. Here and there
a dog slunk in the shadows; here and there a woman crept furtively from
doorway to doorway. And overhead, with a fathomless depth of purple in
which the stars seemed trivial bits of tinsel, a notched ribbon of sky
showed between the turreted roofs.
A garland of marigolds--sending their curious odour into the general
compound of smells as they hung over a closed door--and a muffled
sound of women's laughter told of a marriage within. A knife--still
swinging from the touch of the last visitor--and a louder shrill
of voices drowning a woman's cries, told of birth. And that faint
whimper--practised, conventional--meant death!
All three within closed doors.
And now, from the vantage-ground of the last turn, Lateefa waited and
watched those two go on. Had they been there before? Had they the means
of entry?
No! The rattle of the wicket sounded loudly; then the voice of
authority--'Open! Open to the Master! Open to the Nawâb!'
Even to that there was no answer, and as the two looked at each other,
Jehân's face was fierce with rage. ''Tis as thou saidst, when Dilarâm
spoke of the message,' he muttered savagely. 'They are in league!
Lateef is here, and means to defy us.'
Then he raised his voice and called again, 'Open! Open to the
Possessor! Open to the Master!'
A door or two down the alley creaked ajar, showing dim white-sheeted
figures of wonder; for that was not a call to be ignored.
Lateefa, from his corner, wondered still more. What could have
happened? Something, evidently, about which those two knew nothing.
A man who had pushed past the dim shadows into the lane, started the
question as to when the door had last been seen open; whereat voices
came from the dim shadows in answer. One had not seen it so these three
days, others had noticed Khôjee's limp that morning. The voices grew
contentious over the point, so that Nawâb Jehân Aziz growled a curse
under his breath, and turned away savagely.
'Come, Burkut,' he said, 'did I not tell thee they could not have
arrived by now? The paper at the "estation" says the mail is
"change-time." Let me pass, good folk,' he went on irritably to the
little group that hung round, curious. 'Can a body not come to see if
his family be returned from a journey without the neighbours crowding
out?'
The remark was plausible explanation enough; but as the two passed
Lateefa in the dark, Jehân could be heard girding at Burkut. Why had he
suggested coming on the sly? It would be all over the town how that
Jehân's women had refused him entrance. He, Burkut, would be suggesting
the police next.
'Not the police, my lord,' came Burkut's suave, cunning voice; 'there
be better ways of gaining entry than that nowadays!'
When they had gone, and the lane--with clucks of incredulity
and remarks that it was time some folk refused to be treated
scandalously--had settled behind closed doors again, Lateefa stole back
to the wicket.
Once more he had the advantage. _He_ knew that it was no obstinacy
induced by his presence which kept the inmates silent. And Jehân had
made noise enough to wake the dead.
The dead? But they could not all be dead! A vast curiosity, more than
any apprehension, made Lateefa look up to the balcony of the _naubat
khana_ and wonder if he could climb to it. Once there, the shutters he
knew were rotten. It seemed possible--if a foothold or two were picked
out of the crumbling brick, and a rope hitched on to an iron hook he
knew of, some ten feet up the wall. In fact, given a quiet hour or so,
he would undertake to make a felonious entry somehow. But it was too
early in the night to try. The time for such work came with the false
dawn when sleep simulated death. And that was--how many hours away? He
did not know, or care. In that strange life of the bazaars, night was
as day. No question of bed-time entered into it; so, sooner or later,
he would see that the hour he waited for had come, by the look on those
ribbons of sky between the close-packed houses; that network of sky,
following the pattern of the network of streets and alleys, which was
all that thousands in the city knew of the heaven above it.
The bazaars were scarcely more empty, when once again he returned to
them; but they were less noisy. Many voices had dwindled to one voice;
the voice of the tale-teller. Therefore the voice of the most
imaginative mind in the assemblage.
Lateefa listened here, listened there, curious, indifferent, receptive;
approving--as the East always approves--the voice with authority that
speaks not as the scribes.
He wandered here, he wandered there; even, with that absorbing
inquisitiveness of his, into the courtyard common to Dilarâm and her
neighbours. Her balcony was dark and silent; the police, he told
himself, had likely been bothering her. But the light, and the sound of
a crank in Govind's room, meant a special edition of lies. Then with
his ear to the chink of the door below he could hear Burkut Ali's
voice; then Jehân's--louder, shrill with protest or anger. They were
quarrelling, likely, over drink or cards.
Yet Burkut was sober enough when--barely giving time for Lateefa to
find shelter behind the eternal string-bed which was now reared up
against the wall--he came out into the yard.
'Fool!' he muttered as he passed, 'not to see his own good. As if it
mattered. He would get house and all. Mayhap he will be drunk enough by
morning.'
What new villainy was he planning? Lateefa pondered over the question
as he drifted on.
The time of felonies was near, for the dogs were forgetting to skulk; a
sign that men were fewer in the lanes and streets. Here and there,
round an ebbing flicker of light, listeners lingered, and a drowsy
voice droned on; but for the most part the cavernous arcades showed
still, white-swathed sleepers, simulating death.
This, however, coming swiftly down the bazaar--a strange, swaying,
headless body with many legs, monstrous, weird, half-seen--was death
itself being shuffled out secretly to the city gates.
Folks said true, then. The plague _was_ abroad?
He had found himself what he needed for his task--a bit of old iron, a
bit of leathern rope; but when he reached the wicket his first stealthy
touch on it showed him he needed neither. It was ajar. He pushed it
open noiselessly and entered; groping his way, since it was dark in the
archway below the _naubut khana_. Beyond, in the open court, it was
lighter; yet, even so, he stumbled over a bed set right in the entrance
as watchmen set them.
There was no one in it, but the quilt was warm. So some one had been
there a moment ago. Some one who had gone out by the open door, and who
would therefore return.
He crouched in a recess by the stairs that led upwards and waited. He
had not to wait long. A shuffling step sounded outside, and, after a
pause to bar the wicket, some one stumbled to the bed. And then out of
the darkness came a quavering grace before meat, that grace which is
also the prayer of blood-sacrifice.
'In the name of the Merciful and Clement God!'
It had not needed the grace to tell Lateefa that this was Aunt Khôjee.
She must have gone out to draw water from the well down the lane, for
the grace was followed by the sound of rapid, thirsty drinking. But why
had she not drawn water as usual from the well in the women's
courtyard? He must find out.
'God quench thy thirst, sister,' he said piously; then added, 'fear
not, it is I, Lateef,' for she had given a startled cry and let fall
the water-vessel, which, bottom upwards, gave out a _glug glug_ as the
liquid escaped from its narrow neck, that was louder than her feeble
attempt at sobbing, as she crouched up on the bed rocking to and fro.
It was all her fault, she was very wicked, she moaned; she had tried to
go into the streets, she had tried to feel as if she were going to die,
but she could not. And then the thirst had been so dreadful! But she
had only opened the door for a little moment. Who would have thought of
any one stepping in? And now he must go away, or she would kill him
too. Why did he not go when it was the plague? He would surely die, and
she did not want to kill any one else....
Lateefa could make out enough of her ramblings for comprehension, but
he did not therefore flinch from the huddled-up figure, which was now
faintly visible in the grey beginnings of dawn. The fear of death is
not easily learned in the bazaars where, so long as it comes naturally,
it scarcely excites comment. Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and
spat as Jân-Ali-shân had done in the garden; for that propitiatory
offering to the dread destroyer is common to all races all over the
world.
'Thou wouldst kill no more?' he echoed, his curiosity aroused. 'Who
hast killed already? The Nawâbin or Khâdjee, or both?'
So once more, even there, he sat listening, listening, listening, while
Khôjee rambled through her tale of the green satin trousers, and her
plan to save the Nawâbin from being dragged away and poisoned, which
had been frustrated by thirst. But who could have expected to want
either food or drink----
Lateefa gave a sudden laugh. 'Lo! brave one!' he said, stooping to pick
up the fallen water-vessel, 'and when thou hadst got the drink, thou
didst spill it from sheer fright of a familiar voice! Of a truth,
sister, women are made in bits like a conjurer's puzzle. It needs a
man's wit to piece them together. Now think not, Khôjee,' he continued
warningly, 'to shut me out whilst I get thee water. If thou dost, I
swear by my kites, I will go tell the _daghdars_ at the _horspitâl_ to
come and poison Noormahal.'
The fantasy of his own threat amused him; yet it roused a sudden
remembrance that others might, at least, tell the doctors; especially
if, after the scene of last night, the door remained shut. The
neighbours, in that case, would begin to talk. And then he recollected
Burkut Ali's words, and wondered if the latter could possibly have been
contemplating so vile a plan as giving false information. The Nawâb
himself would not consent. It was infamy. But if the Nawâb was drunk?
The thought was disturbing, so, after Khôjee, refreshed by the water,
had apparently sunk into a profound sleep, he went outside, and,
sitting on the door-lintel, prepared replies to the questionings which
should surely come when folk began to go backwards and forwards to the
well. He prepared, also, for the interview with the Nawâbin which he
meant to have by and by. He meant to tell her about the ring, as an
inducement to common-sense; the common-sense of escaping, while she
could, from evil to come.
As he sat, answering questions and passing the time of day jauntily, he
heard a faint knocking from within, a low-voiced 'Khôjee! Khôjee! art
returned yet?' The Nawâbin was therefore well; so, if Khôjee woke the
better for her sleep, the whole affair might be simple.
The sun rose, and so did Lateefa's spirits. He joked and laughed with
the veiled serving-women, he played with the children when they began
to drift out to the gutters, he even cast a gay remark or two into the
air for the women who stood on the roofs gossiping. Soon they would be
going down into the courtyards, the doors would be closed, and his
opportunity for arguing the matter out with two foolish creatures would
come.
Then, suddenly, the children stopped playing, the women scuttled to
shelter, and Lateefa rose with an awful malediction in his heart.
Two Englishmen had come round the corner, and behind them was Burkut
Ali.
Then he had done it! done this infamous thing!----
'It is a nuisance coming at the very beginning,' the English doctor was
saying, 'but I can't help myself. And one can only hope it will give
the lot a wholesome fright.'
His companion shook his head. 'Doubt it. And to tell the truth, I don't
understand this request. There is hanky-panky, I feel sure.'
The speaker was Jack Raymond. By pure chance he had passed the hospital
on his morning ride just as the doctor was going out on this, his first
search; and, remembering the scene in the king's pleasure-grounds, the
latter had asked him to run his eye over the written request for
inspection, so as to make sure there was no nonsense.
Thus the names of Khôjeeya and Khâdeeja had come to remind him of the
silk bracelet, at that moment reposing with some bank-notes in his
pocket. It was not in Jack Raymond to refuse such a lead over. He had
felt, it is true, a trifle impatient at the necessity for accepting it,
but even that feeling had vanished when Burkut Ali, who met them where
the lane turned off from the bazaar, apologised for the Nawâb's
absence. The latter was too much overcome, he said, by the sacrifice of
dignity required in thus proving his devotion to the _Sirkar_ in
setting such a good example to others, to attend in person.
'Hanky-panky!' Jack Raymond had murmured under his breath, with a
thanksgiving that he was there to prevent more villainy than could be
helped.
Lateefa too, seeing _Rahmân-sahib_, who was known to all attendants at
the race-course, was glad of his presence also, but for a curiously
different reason. He was glad, because _Rahmân-sahib_ was, by repute,
not only a real _sahib_, but, by repute also, he understood what people
said thoroughly, and was therefore amenable to deception--that is to
words generally, true or false; whereas wit was of no use with most
Englishmen!
Jack Raymond's first remark, too, was reassuring, since it betrayed
suspicion of Burkut Ali's good faith.
'The door is _not_ closed against entrance,' he said sharply. 'Why was
it said to be so?'
Burkut, who had brought a most venerable-looking villain of the royal
house to back him up, appealed to the neighbours, who, already, had
crowded out to join the rabble which the efforts of a couple of
constables had not succeeded in keeping back. Were they not witness, he
asked, that last night----
'It doesn't matter, Raymond,' said the doctor aside, 'I've got to get
through with it now, and the quicker the better; so I'd rather have an
open door than a shut one.' He slipped through the wicket as he spoke,
and an odd murmur, half of horror, half satisfied curiosity, ran round
the spectators.
It was true, then! The _Sirkar_ did do such things!
'There is no need for those two to come in; it isn't their house,'
objected Jack Raymond, as Burkut and the venerable villain prepared to
follow. 'Stand back, _sahibân_,' he added in Hindustani; 'and sergeant,
when the conservancy sweepers are through, close the wicket. This is
not a public spectacle.'
True. Yet in a way the remark and action, spoken and done with the best
intention, the kindest consideration, were a mistake. They left a crowd
with nothing for its amusement but Khôjee's screams of sheer terror as
she woke to find the doctor feeling her pulse. They were heart-rending,
dangerous screams; and Jack Raymond recognising this, and also the fact
that the old lady was his petitioner of the garden, supplemented the
doctor's commonplace 'Have no fear, mother' with something more ornate,
in Persian, which changed the screams to piteous cries of, 'Poison me
not! I will die! Yea, I will die without poison!'
And this being almost worse, he tried the effect of showing her the
_râm rucki_, and asking if a bracelet-brother was likely to do her any
injury; finally, as she only seemed to grasp his meaning vaguely, he
fastened the silken cord on her wrist.
Its touch was magical. She clutched at the hand that had put it on, and
the cries died down to a whimper.
'Lo, my brother! Lo, my brother, my brother! Tell them I can die. Let
them give me time, and I will die! Yea, with time I can die, as well as
with poison.'
It was impossible to avoid a smile; the doctor, indeed, laughed
cheerily. 'No doubt about that, mother,' he said to her in a relieved
tone of voice, 'but not just yet. You haven't got the plague. And you
haven't it either,' he continued, turning to Lateefa. 'That is two of
you--one woman and a servant. Now, if you can show me the other two
inmates in like case, I can give a clean bill. So where are they? In
here, I suppose.'
He passed towards the inner door, but Lateefa was there before him.
Sharp as a needle, the doctor's words had made him see that Noormahal,
alone, would be no good. There must be two women, or the tragedy of the
green satin trousers would be as surely discovered as if poor Khâdjee
had not been buried; and that would mean a segregation camp, at best,
for all three of them. It might be impossible to hoodwink the _sahibs_,
but he could try. So he appealed volubly to Jack Raymond. This was
infamy, as the _Huzoor_ knew, to secluded dames. It had to be, of
course; but let it be done in the easiest way. Let the sick woman--she
was none so ill but that she could do so much for humanity's sake--go
in first and tell of the _Huzoor's_ kindness; of how he was a
bracelet-brother (Lateefa had, of course, grasped this fact without in
the least understanding how it had happened); no doubt she would be
able to persuade the secluded ones to come out for inspection, and that
would be less disgrace than the invasion by male things of their sacred
isolation.
Jack Raymond watched the keen audacious face narrowly; then once more
he said aside to the doctor, 'Hanky-panky! That sick woman is as much
secluded as the others; but I'd let her go. Give them a free hand and
they will be quieter, if we find them out. Anything is better than
hunting them down, poor souls!'
Lateefa, therefore, much to his inward delight--also contempt!--was
allowed free instructions to Aunt Khôjee, while the search-party stood
aside.
'We can t let 'em down easier, can we?' said the doctor as he waited;
and Jack Raymond shook his head despondently.
'No,' he answered, 'but it's a brutal business all the same--to their
notions, and you can't change _them_ in a hurry.'
Meanwhile Lateefa's instructions ran in this fashion. Khôjee was to
tell Noormahal that the big Lord-_sahib_ had sent the bracelet-brother
to fetch her to a private interview. That the state _dhoolies_ were
waiting. That all was of the strictest ceremonial. On that point she
had a free hand. She was to say anything which would induce the Nawâbin
to come out. And she herself was to change her dress swiftly and
personate Khâdjee. It was a chance--the _Huzoors_ might not think of
seeing the three women together. So, with a parting admonition to be
brave, he pushed the tottering Khôjee through the inner door, closed
it, and turned to the two Englishmen appealingly.
'The _Huzoors_ must give time, for it is as death to noble ladies to
see strangers; but the old woman will tell them that the _Huzoors_ are
as their fathers and mothers. May God promote them to be Lords!'
'Hanky-panky!' remarked Jack Raymond again, 'but it can't do any harm.'
'No,' assented the doctor.
There was no one there to remind them that that is a formula which can
never be safely used in India, or to repeat, as Grace Arbuthnot had
repeated, a lifelong experience embodied in the words--'You can never
tell.'
'They are a long time coming,' said the doctor aggrievedly. He was up
to his eyes in work, and he had waited five minutes, ten minutes,
patiently, silently. So had the crowd outside silently, but
impatiently.
'_Huzoor!_' protested Lateefa from the door, 'to noble ladies it is as
death----'
He broke off, for a sudden shriek rose from within; another; another;
and above them a woman's voice shrill, awful, in its intensity of
scorn--
'Lies! Lies! Lies! Stand back, fool, thief, liar!' And mixed with these
words were others in agonised appeal--'Nay! Noormahal! Lateef? Help!
God and his prophet! Thou shalt not! Noormahal!'
Lateefa seemed paralysed--uncertain what to do. But Jack Raymond, the
doctor at his heels, had the door open. They were through it in a
second. His first glance within, however, made the former grip the
latter's arm with a grip of iron, and whisper breathlessly--
'Keep still, man; it's the only chance.'
For, in the centre of that inner courtyard, standing--arrested for a
second by the opening of the door--on the parapet of the wide wall, was
a tall white-robed figure, its face distorted by passion, its black
eyes blazing.
'Lateef! Help!' moaned Khôjee, who was clinging frantically, uselessly,
to one corner of the lone white veil. 'She is mad! the ring!--I had to
dress--and she too---for the Lord-_sahib_--and it was not there! I told
you how it would be--it is the ring!'
An awful laugh echoed through the courtyard.
'Yea! the ring! the ring!' repeated Noormahal mockingly. 'Sa'adut's
ring--the Ring of Kingship. Liar! Lo! I could kill thee for the lie.
It is not there--Noormahal! Mother of Kings, dost hear? It is not
there--it was not there when I went to find it.'
There was self-pity, amazement, now, in the voice which had begun so
recklessly, and Jack Raymond--watching the figure with every nerve and
muscle tense for action--breathed a quick breath of relief; for
self-pity meant almost the only hope of averting the mad leap there was
so little chance of preventing.
But Lateefa's high voice followed sharply, almost exultingly--
'What then?' he cried, 'when I have it safe! Yea! Mother of Kings! The
ring is safe. I swear it. I have it yonder in the bazaar--in the
Nawâb's house--I----'
He paused, compelled to silence by her face, by the outstretched hand
which, falling from its appeal to high Heaven, pointed its finger at
him accusingly.
'Dost hear him?' she asked mincingly, and Jack Raymond instinctively
moved a step nearer. 'He, the pandar, hath the ring safe; safe in the
bazaar; safe in the Nawâb's house; safe for the Nawâb's bride----'
'Look out!' shouted Jack Raymond, dashing forward, for he knew what
that thought would bring.
But he was too late. With one cry of 'Liars,' one horrid laugh, the
slender white figure leaped into the air, the veil--detained uselessly
in Khôjee's helpless hold--falling from the small sleek head; and the
Nawâbin Noormahal, the Light-of-Palaces, went down as she had stood,
mocking, defiant, into the depth of the well; the last thing seen of
her, those wild appealing hands.
And outside the crowd was listening, eager to find fault, eager for a
tragedy to tell in the bazaars.