THE OLD WINE
Chris woke suddenly, and yet without that sense of dislocation which
such awakening often brings with it.
The vast content that had been his in falling asleep was his still, as
with eyes which seemed to him to have grown clear of dreams he lay
smiling at what he saw, though that was only a wide, empty, whitewashed
room with many window-doors set open to the dawn; and through these,
nothing but a strip of mud roof; and beyond that again, the broad
blades of the plantain leaves shining grey-green in the grey light. A
slight breeze swayed them, and rustled in the frayed straws of the rude
matting with which the floor was covered.
But that louder, more intermittent rustle was not the wind. It was the
patter of a bird's feet. And there, with tail erect on the coping,
clear against the glistening grey-green leaves, which swayed like
sea-weeds in a swift tide, a striped squirrel was breakfasting on some
treasure-trove.
Chris filled his lungs with a long 'breath. He was back in the old
world; the world where all living things are alike mortal, where even
man is as the flower that fadeth, the beast that perisheth.
And the old way was better.
So far he had gone, when the consciousness that he was not alone--that
strange consciousness of humanity which, be the old way never so
charming, separates men from it inevitably--came to him, and he sat up
on the low string cot, set so regardless of symmetry just where it had
first been dumped down in the room.
His instinct had been right. A figure had been seated, unmovable as a
statue, just behind his head; but as he turned it turned also, and held
out a folded paper. The figure was that of a young man about his own
age and of much the same build, but guiltless of clothing save for a
saffron-coloured waist-cloth. The forehead was barred with white lines,
and a leopard's skin hung over the shoulder. Palpably this was the
disciple of some learned ascetic, as he, Chris, would have been, had
not the West interfered with custom. The thought made him smile, but
the face opposite his remained grave, almost disapproving; the figure
rose without a word, turned on its heel, and disappeared. Chris, left
with the paper in his hand, felt as if a message had been sent to him
from another world; felt so still more when he had read the broad black
Sanskrit lettering inside.
'Thy _guru_ calls thee'--it ran--'come, ere it be too late.'
He sat staring at the words, conscious--despite his better sense--of a
compulsion, almost of fear.
For why had this claim of authority been made now? Wherefore should the
_guru_--that is, the spiritual adviser of his family--desire to see
him?
The answer was but too plain; he must already know of that stolen visit
Chris had made to his mother's house; a visit which, should one, who
was her spiritual guide also, choose to proclaim it, might bring
endless trouble, vexation, disgrace upon her.
Chris stood up, inwardly cursing his own recklessness. He might, he
told himself, have known that priestly spies would be about him after
that incident of the bathing-steps. He ought not to have gone; not at
least as he _had_ gone, leaving his mother still in her fond belief
that he had done, or was willing to do, the necessary penance.
Yet without that belief-strengthened as it had been by his repeated
requests for secrecy in the present--she would not have received him as
she had. And Naraini----
Plainly he must obey the order, and so find out what was wanted, what
was threatened. He rose therefore and went out into the cool grey dawn.
The arcaded courtyard recessed about a cluster of temples, where Swâmi
Viseshwar Nâth taught his disciples, was empty as yet when Chris
reached it, save for half a dozen figures scarce distinguishable from
the one which had summoned him. All, in these early hours, were busy
over ceremonials of sorts; but all looked up at the newcomer with that
dull disapproval.
'The _guru_ is within,' said one sullenly.
Chris did not need direction. Had he not learned the precious
shibboleths of his twice-born race yonder at the master's feet?
'So thou hast come, Krishn. Take thy seat, pupil, and listen,' came a
voice.
It was almost dark in the slip of a room behind the arcades, but Chris
could see, by the help of memory, the unmovable figure, the placid face
with its wide thin lips. He saw in a flash, also, everything that had
ever happened to him in this, his earliest school, and the old awe that
comes with such memories fell on him as he obeyed.
'There is no need,' continued the voice, 'to tell thee that I know what
thou wouldest rather I did not know. Neither canst thou pretend
ignorance of what such knowledge means. Therefore, Krishn, there is
naught to say but this. What art thou about to do?'
Chris had been asking himself the question, but he resented its being
put to him.
'That depends,' he was beginning, when the Swâmi stopped him by laying
an impassive hand on his wrist.
'To save time, I will tell thee. Out of past years--_as thou didst
disappear in them_--thou shalt return--_as thou didst go_--Krishn
Davenund, Brahmin, twice-born. There shall be no question asked, no
answers needed. Thou shalt return to us--I, Viseshwar Nâth, _parohit_
of thy race, say it, and none shall quarrel me--thou shalt return to
hold a woman's hand, and circle the sacred fire--_her_ hand, Naraini's,
whom the gods keep for thee, whom I, child, have kept for thee!'
The words with the nameless rhythm in them, which the use of Sanskrit
phrases gives to the vulgar tongue, echoed softly into the arches, and
Chris felt his eyes, his ears held captive by the insignificant figure
that was hedged about by no sign of dignity or office save the leopard
skin on which it crouched, naked.
'Kept for me--how so?' he echoed, trying once more to be resentful.
The Swâmi smiled. 'Hast, indeed, forgotten the old life so utterly,
boy, as never to have wondered why one of Naraini's age remained virgin
in thy mother's house?'
Chris felt the blood go tingling to his face; for he could not pretend
to such ignorance. He knew that the limit of laxity in such matters had
almost been overpast in the hope that when he returned from England he
would marry the girl. But that possibility had vanished when he had
married Viva. Therefore, to blame him for the subsequent delay was
unfair; so he answered boldly--
'I have not wondered. I have known and regretted the idle dream.
But that was over long ago--ere my father died. Had he chosen, he
might----'
The Swâmi's hand stopped him once more. 'Not so,' he said calmly.
'If thou hast forgotten much, there are other things thou hast never
known; that none would have known save thy father and I--not even thy
mother--hadst thou been dutiful and fulfilled the dream. Listen and
reflect! Thy cousin Naraini was betrothed or ever she came to thy
father's house, betrothed as an infant to one who--who left her.'
'Left her?' echoed Chris hotly, 'wherefore?'
'That matters not,' replied Viseshwar Nâth; 'there be many reasons, but
the result is the same: _if the betrothed be dead, Naraini is widow!_'
In the pause Chris clenched his hands; for he saw whither the wily lips
were leading him, and in a flash realised his own impotence if this
were true.
'It is a lie!' he muttered helplessly. 'I must--my mother must have
known. And my father----' Then memory came to remind him that his
father had been a champion of widow remarriage, and he broke off still
more helplessly.
'Even so!' continued the Swâmi, not unkindly; 'thy father agreed with
me (we of the temple have to keep touch with the world, Krishn). Yea!
he gave gold, since that is in thy thought! to hide the wrong. And if
he were willing to give her to you, his only son, as wife, wherefore
should I speak? No harm was done to others; no deception to ignorant
honour. But it was different when he died and thy mother came to me,
with heart split in twain between the dream and duty, to speak of
another betrothal. So I said then--"Wait yet a while. The gods have
mated these two. He may return." That was better, was it not, Krishn,
than--than _widowhood_ for the girl?'
He leant towards the young man as he spoke the words, his sombre eyes
fixed on Chris Davenant's shrinking face. Though the latter had known
what was coming, the certainty of it overwhelmed him. He sat staring
breathlessly, with such absolute paralysis of nerve and muscle that a
damp sweat showed on his forehead, as on the foreheads of those who are
in the grip of death.
And widowhood was worse than death. It would be a living death to
Naraini--Naraini with her little rose-coloured, rose-scented casket.
'Which is it to be, my pupil?' came the Swâmi's voice, swift and keen
as a knife-thrust. 'Widowhood, or marriage?'
Chris buried his face in his hands with a groan; then he looked up
suddenly. 'Why?' he began, and ended. Appeal he knew was useless; but
he might at least know why this choice was forced on him, for choice it
was. His had been in the eye of the law a mixed marriage--his right as
Hindoo remained in India.
The Swâmi's lean brown hand was on his wrist again, but it was no
longer impassive; it seemed to hold and claim him almost passionately.
'Because we of the temple need such as thou art, my son, in these new
days when the old faith is assailed--ay! even by such as Râm Nâth,
low-born, with his talk of ancient wisdom, his cult of Western ways
hidden in the old teachings, his cult of the East blazoned in the
outside husks of truth--the husks that we of the inner life set at
their proper value! But thou art of us! Deny it not--the blood in thee
thrills to thy finger-tips even as I speak. Thou art of us! and thy
voice trembled in that dawn over the _gayatri_ thou hadst not said for
years--nay, start not! we of the temple know all---as it trembled,
Krishn, when thou didst first learn it here, as thou art to-day, at my
feet.'
In the silence that followed, Chris Davenant, who had so often ridden
in a Hammersmith 'bus, was conscious of but two things in the wide
world. That thrill to his finger-tips, and the scarlet stain of a
woman's petticoat passing templewards beyond the arches; the only scrap
of colour in the strange shadowless light which comes to India before
the sun has risen over the level horizon.
So, once more, the Swâmi's voice came, still dignified, but with a
trace of cunning in it now, of argument. 'Thou canst not do it unaided,
Krishn; but with us behind thee--giving more freedom, remember, that
the herd knows or dreams--thou couldst have thy wish--thou couldst
teach the people.'
True. Chris, listening, saw this, even as he saw that scarlet streak;
but all the while he was thinking idly that if Naraini were doomed to
widowhood, the bridal scarlet would never be hers.
And yet he forgot even this when the Swâmi struck another string
deftly. 'Our best disciples leave us'--the rhythm grew fateful,
mournful.--'The new wisdom takes them soul and body ere they have
learned to unhusk the old, and find its heart. But thou hast found it.
Come back to us and teach us! For day by day the husk hides more. Even
on the river, Krishn, where the old sanctuaries of the Godhead in Man
and Woman stand side by side, the younger priests quarrel over Her
power and His. As if the Man and the Woman were not, together, the
Eternal Mind and Body! And the quarrel grows keen, like many another in
those days; keener than ever since the golden paper fell, prophesying
blood upon Her Altar. Lies, Krishn, lies! we know them so; but we are
driven to them to keep our hold upon the people. What other hold have
we but ignorance, if young wisdom leaves us?'
Chris gave a sort of inarticulate cry, and his hands rose passionately
to his ears as if to shut out the words which were enlisting all things
that were good in him on the side of something which he still
condemned. But, as he stopped his ears despairingly, a sound came which
no hand could quite shut out.
It was the clang of the temple bell, proclaiming that the Eucharist of
Hindooism was ready for communicants; that the Water of Life which had
touched the gods was waiting for those who thirsted for it.
Muffled, half heard, it seemed to vibrate afresh on every tense nerve
of his mind and body. He stood up dazed, half hypnotised by it, by the
figure--a dim shadow of a man that had risen also, smiling softly,
among the dim arches.
'Come, my son,' it said, 'so far thou _art_ with us! Let the rest be
for a while. But this, stripped of its husk, is thine.--Come!'
And as it passed silently into the courtyard, Chris passed too, lost in
the familiar unfamiliarity of all things. Of the clustering spikes of
the temples seen against the primrose sky; of the drifting hint of
incense shut in by the arcades; of the bare empty silence broken only
by that clanging bell. The scarlet streak was passing outwards, already
sanctified, approved. Others would come, but for the moment there was
solitude; save for that half-dozen of indifferent disciples droning
over their devotions, and the officiating priest, unseen within the
temple.
Unseen, because it was the Swâmi himself who, returning from the
darkness of the sanctuary--into which he had passed swiftly, leaving
Chris hesitating on the lowest step--stood on the upper one, the
_Churrun-âmrit_ in his hands, and bending low, said--
'Drink, Krishn Davenund! and live.'
The words came like a command, making the slender brown hands curve
themselves into a cup.
How cool the holy water was on those hot palms! Dear God! How cool, how
restful! The man's whole soul was in his lips as he stooped and drank
thirstily.
A dream! a dream! but what a heavenly dream!
Chris stood there, in that shadowless light of dawn, unable even to
realise what the dream was. And then, suddenly, a great desire to be
alone, and yet to find companionship--a shrinking from the routine
around him, and a longing to find shelter in the hidden heart of
things--came to him as the worshippers, answering the call of the bell,
began to crowd about the temple. So--the Swâmi having kept his promise
of asking no more of him for the time--he passed out of the court into
the bazaar beyond. But here the world was already chaffering over the
needs of the body, and Chris, who was only conscious of his soul, stood
bewildered in it, uncertain which way to go. Nothing seemed to claim
him, not even his work; for it was Sunday morning.
And after that act of communion, the hope of companionship anywhere
seemed, strangely enough, further from him than ever. So he stood idly
watching the worshippers pass in and out of the arched entry to the
temple court, leaving the world and coming back to it with businesslike
faces, until he saw Râm Nâth approaching him, and the sight made him
pull himself together swiftly.
'The very man I want!' said Râm Nâth in English, with such an elaborate
lack of surprise at Chris's costume that the latter felt instantly that
it was known, and had been discussed in Shark Lane. 'If you will wait a
moment, I will walk--er--back with you.' The hesitancy showed that
something else was known also, and Chris felt a faint resentment come
to lessen his forlornness as he waited while Râm Nâth disappeared
towards the temple and reappeared again wiping his hands daintily with
a hemstitched pocket-handkerchief.
'We of the world,' he explained as he tucked his arm English fashion
into Chris Davenant's, 'have to keep in touch with the priests. You
disagree, I know; but I hold you wrong. We are driven to acquiesce in
much we think untrue in order to keep our hold on the masses. What
other hold have we but their ignorance, if they deny our wisdom?'
The forlornness deepened again round poor Chris. Here was the Swâmi's
argument upside down.
'What was it you wanted to see me about?' he asked resignedly, feeling
that he could not go on with that subject.
'About this afternoon,' began Râm Nâth, and Chris stared blankly.
What! was it possible! his companion continued; had he forgotten that
the afternoon was to see the realisation of their long-cherished
project of founding an Anglo-Vernacular College? It came back to Chris
then, and he hastened to deny what had really been the case; whereupon
Râm Nâth went on, mollified. At the last moment, it seemed, some one
had remembered that Lady Arbuthnot--who had kindly consented to lay the
stone--ought to be presented with a bouquet; and Hâfiz Ahmad had
claimed the honour for his wife, thereby raising so much jealousy in
Shark Lane that he, Râm Nâth, thought the only solution of the
difficulty was to intrust the giving to Mrs. Chris, as wife of the
Vice-President of the Managing Committee (Chris heard himself so
described with a sense of absolute bewilderment); only, of course, it
might not, perhaps, be convenient now.
Chris came back to sudden perception of the other's meaning.
'She will be very glad,' he said quickly; 'I will tell her when I go
home.'
It was done in a moment; but Chris felt his dream to be madder than
ever as he realised that his afternoon's occupation would be standing
in a frock-coat simpering, while Viva presented a bouquet. How prettily
she would do it! How beautifully she would be dressed! Then in the
evening? In the evening would the Swâmi come and ask for an answer?
Meanwhile, Râm Nâth was full of relief. That would settle the
difficulty; really a most serious one, since nothing must mar the
harmony of the memorable occasion. It would be singularly appropriate
too, because, in order to ensure a large attendance, it had been
arranged to hold an Extraordinary Chapter of the 'National Guild for
Encouraging Comradeship,' to which most of the English officials and
their wives belonged. In fact, it was to be a memorable occasion, and
one that would fully justify our popular Lieutenant-Governor in, for
the nonce, waving his rule against Sunday ceremonials in order to allow
all employees to be present. Having here cut in on the lines of the
speech he had prepared for the afternoon, Râm Nâth was fluency itself,
and went on and on quite contentedly, while Chris, absorbed in that
vision of himself in a frock-coat, listened without hearing. After all,
which was the real Krishn Davenund, which the ideal? One was the older
certainly; but change must come to all things.
They had reached the river steps by this time, and he paused--making
Râm Nâth pause also--to look down on a scene which had not changed a
hair-breadth in essentials for thousands of years. Yet Chris Davenant's
eye noted one change of detail, in a moment, as a woman passed him on
her way to fill her waterpot. There was a new sort of amulet on her
wrist; an amulet made out of a brass cartridge casing. He glanced round
quickly to see if other women were wearing it, and, by so doing,
recognised rather a momentous fact; namely, that there were singularly
few women to be seen, and that all who were, belonged to the working
class.
He turned to Râm Nâth instantly and pointed out both signs, as to one
who ought to know their value. 'What is up?' he said briefly. 'You must
have seen these amulets being sold, as I did. Is it a trick? and who is
doing it? and why?'
His companion shrugged his shoulders. 'The priests, I should say--it is
on a par with the paper which fell from heaven. There is always
something. You think we ought to protest; but why? Such manifestations
of the temper of the masses strengthen the hands of the Opposition by
engendering a fear of resistance in the Government, and so making for
the considerate treatment at which we aim. It is not as if such
trivialities could do harm.'
'They might--there is some hope of mischief behind them--there must
be----'
'Mischief!' echoed Râm Nâth acutely; 'you know as well as I that there
are many folk in Nushapore whose only hope lies in mischief, and here
comes one of them.' He pointed to Burkut Ali, who, accompanied by a
servant carrying a bundle of kites, was passing towards the bastion
beyond the bridge. He was followed by other claimants to the
'Sovereignty of Air,' which was due to be decided that evening after
the kites had been chosen and entered for the competition. Râm Nâth
looked after the faded brocades contemptuously. 'Poor devils!' he
said--as an Englishman might have said it--'one cannot help pitying
them, and yet, between ourselves, if we were in power we couldn't do
anything else with them; though, of course, as the Opposition, it does
not do to say so! But to return to our argument. Believe me, the
ignorant masses are helpless without a lead, and we, the educated
party, will not give it towards anything unconstitutional.'
'But others might. Burkut Ali, for instance.'
'Burkut Ali? Not to-day, at any rate! He will be occupied in the
Sovereignty of Air--really an appropriate employment, is it not?'
replied Râm Nâth lightly. 'And as we--and all Nushapore which
carries any weight--will be otherwise engaged also, this affair of
amulets--even if there is anything in it--will be like the heaven-sent
paper by tomorrow. I, at any rate, know of no reason why this should
not be so,' he added a trifle resentfully, seeing the look on his
companion's face, 'and if I don't, who should? Well! good-bye, if you
are not coming on.'
Chris felt doubly relieved; partly at the almost unhoped-for
straightforwardness of Râm Nâth's words, but mostly because he had been
growing conscious during the conversation of the fact that, wherever he
might find comradeship, it was not here. Still in that same weary
bewilderment, therefore, he seated himself on the uppermost step and
looked down to where, in the deep shadow of the archway of _Mai_ Kâli's
temple, he could just see--above the heads of a little crowd listening
to a declaiming priest--a hint of the idol's red outstretched arms.
They brought back to him, in an instant, the sense of his own personal
powerlessness. Gripped on either side by East and West, what could he
do? In the afternoon a frock-coat! In the evening the Swâmi with his
question! How should he, how _could_ he answer it? How could he condemn
Naraini to a living death? How could he give up the past with its good
and evil, the future with its evil and its good? Putting himself aside,
for the truth's sake, what ought he to do? God! how powerless he was!
_Mai_ Kâli's widespread arms seemed to close on him, to choke him.
Till suddenly, a swift vitality came back to him, as a whistle--mellow
as a blackbird's--made itself heard behind him. He turned with a smile,
with a sense of relief, knowing it was Jân-Ali-shân.
It was. Jân-Ali-shân coming to feed the monkeys. Jân-Ali-shân looking
marvellously spruce, alert, self-respecting, seeing that most of his
night's rest had been on a brick stair!
'Mornin', sir!' he said, touching his cap decorously; but his hand
lingered to hide a smile, as he added with deep concern, 'Ain't lost
nothin' more o' your wardrobe to-day, sir, I hope?' Then his
recollections got the better of his politeness, and the laugh came
openly. 'Beg pardin, sir, I'm sure, but wen I think o' 'ole 'Oneyman
and them pants--oh! Lordy Lord!'
The recollection, however, brought more than amusement to poor Chris,
who, in truth, felt as if he had lost everything. It brought a sense of
grateful comradeship, and there was quite a tremble in his voice, a
mist in his eyes, as he said, 'It's all very well to laugh, but you
saved my life that day, Ellison; you know you did. I've often thought
of it since----'
The memory of kindness received was almost too much for him, he paused,
unable to go on.
John Ellison looked the other way as he sat down at a respectful
distance, and began to scatter sugar-drops to the monkeys. Then he
cleared his throat elaborately.
'Like as you saved me, I expect, sir, from breaking my neck over them
blamed stairs last night, sir. One good turn deserves another, as the
sayin' is, so we're about quits. Not,' he went on, as if to make a
diversion, 'that I was, so to speak, onnecessary drunk, sir, for it was
a case o' gettin' tight or killin' a chap as cut me out, fair an'
square, with my fancy. So, it bein' fair an' square, I chose the better
part an' drowned my sor'rers in the flowin' bowl. It's surprisin',' he
continued, with the affable defiance with which he always alluded to
his own lapses from grace, 'wot a teeny drop o' whisky will drown 'em;
don't it, sir?' As he scattered the sugar-drops he sang the chorus of a
drinking-song with great gusto.
They were an odd couple those two, the alien feeding the sacred
monkeys, the native watching him silently, and both conscious of a bond
of fellowship between them.
'I suppose so,' replied Chris, after such a lapse of time that the
remark seemed almost irrelevant, 'but I never tried it. I'm a
teetotaller.'
'Deary dear!' ejaculated Jân-Ali-shân sympathetically. It was really
the only remark he could think of in such an extraordinary connection.
'It doesn't last, though, does it?' asked Chris after another long
pause. 'And it gives you a headache next morning, doesn't it?'
Jân-Ali-shân's fluency returned to him. 'Lor' love you, no, sir! Not if
you's used to it; special if kind friends put you to by-bye proper.' He
broke off, then turned to Chris and shook his head--'Now you, sir, if I
may make so bold, looks as if you 'ad one. You takes things too
dutiful, sir, I expec's. It's 'ard on the 'ead, sir, is duty.'
Even _so_ much sympathy drove Chris to hiding the mist in his eyes by
watching the monkeys. They were jostling and hustling, as ever, over
the prize; but the sight for a wonder had brought few spectators, and
such as they were stood far off, more curious than amused.
Jân-Ali-shân, looking towards them, raised his eyebrows and nodded
carelessly. 'Got the 'ump to-day, 'as you, Ram-sammy? Well, keep it,
sonny! It don't make no odds to me or 'Oneyman. Do it, siree?'
Apparently none, for the hoary old sinner, out and away the tamest
there, was pouching sugar-drops as fast as he could from the loafer's
hand.
'Ellison,' came Chris Davenant's voice at last, with a note of decision
in it, 'what would you do if you found yourself in--in such a tight
place that you couldn't--yes, that you couldn't possibly get out of
it?'
'Do?' echoed the other slowly, as he shook out the crumbs and tore the
paper into fragments. 'W'y, kill the chap as put me there, if it was
John Ellison 'imself as done the job! That's what I'd do, sir.'
Chris rose, and the note of decision was stronger. 'Thanks,' he said
briefly, 'I think you're right.'
But Jân-Ali-shân had risen also, and now stood facing his superior
officer with an expression of kindly tolerance and mournful respect.
'Not, sir, as there ever is sich an almighty tight place, as a chap
can't get out of by leavin' a h'arm or a leg or a bit of hisself
generally to be cast into 'ell fire, as it say in 'Oly Writ; for there
ain't nothin' impossible, if you've enough of the devil in you--that's
'ow it comes in, sir; here he paused, doubtful, perhaps, whether Holy
Writ contained this also, then went on easily, 'for it ain't no manner
of use, sir, reachin' round for things as you can't catch no real holt
of--you must jes' take wot comes 'andy, though it mayn't be much to be
proud of--such as cuss words an' kicks and that like. But they give a
powerful grip sometimes, sir, as you'd find, savin' your presence, if
you was to give 'em a fair try.' He paused again, looked at Chris
tentatively, then smiled a perfectly seraphic smile full of pity,
wisdom, almost of tenderness. 'If I might make so bold, sir, w'ot a man
you an' me 'd make if we was mixed up! H'arch-h'angels wouldn't 'ave a
look in! And w'ot's more, I shouldn't 'ave to clean damn myself keepin'
them _Kusseye_ coolies from sneakin' the cold chisels; an' a good name
too for the lot, though it is cuss-you as I make it in general.'
'_Kuzai?_' echoed Chris quickly. 'What! are those fellows from the
butcher's quarter giving trouble--and I only put them on out of
charity? Why didn't you tell me before?'
But Jân-Ali-shân had reverted to his affable indifference. 'Trouble,'
he echoed in his turn, 'Lord, no, sir! I has to read the Riot Act
summary most days--they get quarrelling with the 'Indoos over some
cow-killin' tommy-rot; but w'en it come to sneakin' cold chisels, I 'ad
to knock 'arf a dozen o' 'em down. But they don't give no trouble to
speak of. Nor won't,' he added significantly, 'if they're spoke to
proper.'
'I'll see to it to-morrow,' said Chris, and then, once more, wondered
at his own words. This afternoon a frock-coat; to-morrow an inquiry
into a workmen's quarrel; and between the two, inevitably, that
decision. The rest was all unreal, but that was certain, that must
come.
Jân-Ali-shân, however, as--after touching his cap decorously--he moved
away, sang
'To-morrow will be Monday'
as if all the foundations of his world were absolutely sure.
And there were others, besides these two, on the river steps that
morning whose outlook on the future showed the same divergence. A
couple of municipal scavengers, armed with the broom and basket which
under our rule bids defiance to privilege, prejudice, and privacy,
talked with cheerful certainty as they swept up the paper Jân-Ali-shân
had torn to bits. The _Sirkar_ would have to employ everybody's
relations if the plague went on as it had begun. They were shutting the
shops already in the butcher's quarter, the hospitals were full, the
bazaars empty. Of a surety there was a good time coming for scavengers!
Two women, however, returning with their waterpots from listening at
the temple, agreed that if, as the priest said, _Mai_ Kâli had declared
there must be blood on her altars ere the plague was stayed, what was
the use of amulets? Besides, who could tell if the promise was not a
trick; who, briefly, could tell anything except that it was an ill time
for virtuous women, and that those were lucky who could stay at home?
So with furtive glances, and keeping close together, they shuffled back
to some dim alley, to retail what they had heard.