FAIR ODDS
The pendulum of India is a heavy one; it soon returns to its normal
arc; and so, after a very few days, nothing remained to show that any
force had sent it beyond its usual swing in Nushapore except the
charred ruins of two bungalows; and they, being in Shark Lane, were not
so much _en evidence_ as they would have been elsewhere.
So far, even, as personal disturbance to the owners was concerned, the
sum-total of effect was small; for Chris Davenant had not returned to
hear of his loss, and Mrs. Chris, after the terrors of that night, when
she had become part of the old half-crazy _khânsâman's_ memory of the
past, seemed glad to be rid of any tie to India. Indeed, as the faces
around her became graver when no tidings came of her husband, and the
impression grew that he and Jân-Ali-shân had, in some mysterious way,
been mixed up in the attempt to wreck the train, and the fall of the
bastion, she seemed almost relieved. Her one desire was to escape from
a place where such terror was possible; to return to London, to its
ways and works. To the red Hammersmith 'bus that runs to Kew on
Sundays; to the baker, the butcher, and the little greengrocer round
the corner. And when she wept, it was chiefly because--having no
worldly goods beyond a torn and tattered pink tarlatan--she could not
engage her passage home, until a sufficient subscription was raised to
pay for it. And she had not many friends.
So far as the one bungalow, therefore, was concerned, there were few
regrets. On the other hand, Mr. Lucanaster's were distinctly above the
average. He had not only been burned out of house and home, but of
other more valuable things; since, almost before he had had time to
consider how best to ensure their safety, an inrush of voices and steps
in the verandah had made him think of that most valuable of all
possessions--his life--and leave the rest--even the woman in the next
room!
And as if this was not bad enough, something else had occurred which
had reduced him to helpless impotent cursing and swearing against Fate,
Jehân Aziz, Mrs. Chris Davenant, and everything that had conspired to
bring about such incredible ill-luck.
And yet it was a very simple thing, almost ludicrously so.
The very day after the rioting, when all Nushapore was being searched
for evidence, the police with great pride had brought him back the
casket which had been left open on the table with the pink dewdrops
beside it, when Mrs. Chris fled with the _khânsâman_ of Rickett-_sahib
bahadur_ (who was killed). It was now closed, and had been discovered,
they said, in the house of one Govind, who had been arrested on
suspicion. And he, to screen himself doubtless from worse accusations,
had stated that he had found it flung away on the road not far from the
blazing bungalow. Therefore, since it was evidently a jewel casket, it
was most likely part of the _Huzoor's_ lost property; and if so, he
could detail its contents and open the spring-lock with his key, in
order that the description might be duly verified and the necessary
forms filled up.
For one brief second Mr. Lucanaster had returned thanks to such gods as
he possessed for this small mercy. Here was something saved from the
general _débâcle_; to begin with, a very valuable ruby--and----
And then had come the horrid recollection of a certain string of pearls
which could not be claimed.
It had nearly killed him to deny the ownership of the casket; but he
had denied it. There was literally nothing else to be done, with that
spring-lock and the key in his possession.
So when the police took it away in order to find the rightful owner, he
had gone into his room at the hotel--it was next the one to which Mrs.
Chris had been taken--and shaken his fist at her through the wall, and
sworn horribly not only at his own loss, but at the gain of others,
which, with his experience in jewel-jobbing, he knew would follow.
And it did; for no sooner was the casket filed open by the police and
its contents made known by a list, than owners began to crop up--crowds
of them.
But it was when an assistant police-officer at the club, thinking to
rouse him from his general despondency by putting him on the track of a
good thing, mentioned that there had been a ruby in the casket which he
really ought to get hold of; a ruby that had been claimed, on
irrefragable evidence, as an heirloom by a peculiarly impecunious
member of the Royal Family, from whom he could no doubt get it cheap
without much trouble--it was then that Mr. Lucanaster had fled from his
fellows, and actually wept to think that after three years' hard
scheming he had bought that ruby at something like its real value.
That had been the worst blow; but there had been similar ones, and
quite a large number of the pensioners invested in new cocks and quails
and went about with cheerful countenances.
Another result was that Grace Arbuthnot, as she stood one day
re-threading the four pearls which Sobrai Begum had brought to Miss
Leezie's house on to the string that had been found in the casket,
declared that it was just like the last chapter in a novel. Everything
was clearing itself up--her face certainly warranted the remark--and
rounding itself off neatly for the end. She thought, as she spoke, of
the lost letter, the recovery of which, as Jerry's 'Secret Despatches,'
had seemed so mysterious, until the child had told her quite simply
that he had found the envelope in a bush in the garden--flung away most
likely by the thief as valueless--and had kept it to play with, because
some one 'must have hidden it, you know, an' didn't want people to wead
it, so it was secwet.'
But she did not speak of this; she only said that she had never
expected to see her pearls again, yet here they were, with only one
a-missing--her dear old pearls! She held them up to her white throat
and smiled, thinking of the many happy hours she had spent with their
touch upon her.
If any one had told her that that was the first time they _had_ touched
a slender white throat, and that the last time a woman had worn them,
they had been snatched from a slender brown one and flung in the dust
from scorn of the hours they had brought to a bride, she would not have
believed it.
Not her pearls! Whose else could they be? Had not even Mr. Lucanaster
given his opinion on them as an expert? for even that agony had not
been spared to the unfortunate man.
'Yes,' answered Sir George, who had stopped his writing to admire his
wife and think how happy and handsome she looked, and how glad he was
for her sake that the strain and anxiety was over, as it seemed to be,
'it is rather curious how everything is falling into line. It is always
the "first step" in India, of course, and so it was only to be
expected that things would settle into march time after a bit. But
Jehân Aziz's death and this finding of the pearls has disposed of that
story, for Burkut Ali, the doctors say, isn't likely to live, and the
girl is certainly a thief, whatever else she may be. And it disposes of
the pestilent fellow who wrote that threatening letter also.' He
paused. 'Then Kenyon was only telling me this morning what an
extraordinary quieting effect that incident in _Mai_ Kâli's temple has
had. Of course, we haven't got to the bottom of it quite. No one will
give evidence, because of the miracle; but the fact remains that the
prophecy was fulfilled.'
'Then there is the bridge business,' said Grace thoughtfully. 'Has
anything new cropped up?'
Sir George shook his head, then frowned. 'Not about that, beyond the
fact that the engine-driver is quite certain he heard singing, and that
of course points to the loafer Ellison; and as he was Davenant's
foreman of works, the two were likely to be together. But--but,' he
frowned again, and let his hand busy itself impatiently with a pile of
papers, 'there is something else. You know, we wondered how the troops
got here so soon. Well, there is something odd about the telegram.
Times don't tally, and it seems another telegram was sent direct
to the station to detain the up-mail, pending orders. It came
in--"urgent"--just as the train was in, and the station-master--he is a
native--got flurried and sent up, with the telegram we know about--at
least I suppose so--to cantonments for further orders, when, of course,
the commandant jumped at the chance. And now the station-master can't
find the wire, isn't sure if it ever was written out, as he was in the
telegraph-office at the time waiting for the up-signals. And there is
no trace of it this end. Nothing but the telegraph--form I gave Kenyon
to fill in, and which he sent to the railway-office. But there, again,
the time doesn't tally with Kenyon's recollections, and though the
order is identical the wording is slightly different, for he put in
something about stopping the night-mail, which isn't in the wire the
commandant received. That part seems to have been made into a separate
order and construed into the up-mail. But that may be due to the
_baboos_; a couple of greater fools never were. They seem to know
nothing; especially the one here. Kenyon says the clocks may have been
wrong; but I can't help wondering. Davenant seems to have known
something, and he was seen at his works after dusk; if he had been
another sort of fellow--but it is impossible! There isn't one
Englishman in a thousand, let alone a native, who would take such a
responsibility. I wouldn't, and I don't know any one who would; at any
rate who would, and then keep quiet when it was successful--for it was!
It made all the difference: as I've told Kenyon, he has the entire
credit; but for him we should have had a row.'
'But if you hadn't given him the telegram----'
Sir George shook his head in honest obstinacy. 'I never meant it to be
used; I didn't believe in the danger. As I told Mr. Raymond, he was
right, and I was wrong; so that is an end of it, my dear.'
He seemed quite satisfied, especially when his wife stooped suddenly,
and kissed the top of his head; though he wondered, as she left the
room, if he was really getting a little bald! not so much because her
lips had thrilled him, but because he was observant enough to have
noticed that a partially bald head is provocative of wifely kissing.
Still, even that evil had to be faced in the cause of empire, and so
the honest gentleman took up his pen and continued the report of recent
affairs which he was writing, and in which the credit of saving the
situation was given unstintingly not to himself, but to others; for Sir
George was a gentleman.
Grace, however, though she was a lady, and despite that kiss of
approval, felt a trifle annoyed. It was very nice of George to minimise
his part in the business; yet when all was said and done, he _had_
consented to give the order--consented almost in defiance of the
official programme. The more she thought of it, the more aggrieved she
felt for him; and so, when she found Lesley alone in the school-room,
she sought her sympathy, explained the whole position at great length,
and wound up by the appeal--
'Now, do you see what right Mr. Kenyon has to all the credit?'
Lesley had so far managed to keep a calm sough without much difficulty;
at the present moment, however, something seemed wrong with her work,
for she was very busy with it at the window.
'No!' she said at last, 'I don't!' and then she repeated the remark
with palpable resentment: 'Certainly not! He had nothing to do with
it--nothing at all.'
Grace looked in her direction with dubious curiosity.
'You don't mean, do you,' she asked, 'that you think any one else----'
'I don't think anything at all,' interrupted the girl hurriedly. 'I
only say that Mr. Kenyon didn't--I mean that he isn't the right person
to praise.'
But Lady Arbuthnot was not to be put off. 'Because that really is quite
absurd, as I told George. And he admitted that he did not know of any
one--not a single man who would have taken such a grave responsibility.
Now do you? Tell the truth, Lesley! do you know any one?'
'Perhaps there was more than a single man,' suggested Lesley evasively,
the knot in her thread becoming extremely troublesome.
Grace, from her chair, gave an irritated glance towards the window. 'My
dear Lesley! you are not often so--so precise! As if it mattered to my
argument if there were one or two! I wish you would leave off threading
your needle, or whatever it is, and come here and be a little
sympathetic. It means so much to _me_, you know--so, if you wish it, we
will say two! Do you know of any two people who could and would do such
a thing?'
Lesley folded up her work with great method, but remained where she
was.
'Why should we complicate matters by saying two?' she asked
pugnaciously. 'And after all, it wasn't--I mean it would not be such a
very big thing. There must be lots of people in the world who could do
it. Just think! even among the men one knows.'
'People who could, and would!' echoed Grace in the same tone. 'No! I
don't know any one!' She paused, and added a trifle bitterly: 'I know
one, who _could_; but then he wouldn't!--Mr. Raymond.'
'Mr. Raymond! Why should you say he wouldn't?' asked the girl swiftly.
'Why----?'
'You needn't be so fierce, Lesley!' interrupted Grace, with a little
hard laugh, 'though you don't think him half bad. For many reasons!
No--he wouldn't help--us--in a thing like that--not he!'
'That isn't fair,' cried Lesley in a flame. 'If you knew----' She
paused, but was too late.
'If I knew what?' asked Lady Arbuthnot, rising and coming to the
window; then standing before the girl, to say, after a pause: 'You will
have to tell me, you know, Lesley; you have started me, and I'm not a
fool. And of course I know--Jerry told me--that Mr. Raymond had come to
cycle with you that evening--that _that_ was why you were so late; but
I said nothing, because I thought it was only----'
'I don't care what you thought,' interrupted Lesley angrily; 'and I
won't tell you anything unless you promise not to speak----'
'I will promise not to tell any one who ought not to know that I know,'
put in Grace Arbuthnot proudly. 'I won't promise more----'
'And who wants more?' cried the girl hotly. 'Of course, if people ought
to know, they must know. That is the only reason why I'm telling you. I
didn't mean to, but if you can be so--so unjust, it is only right that
you should know the truth.'
'I can judge of that for myself when you have told me, so you needn't
waste time,' retorted Grace.
A sudden antagonism had sprung up between the two women of which they
were both aware, of which they were both vaguely ashamed, but which
they could not ignore.
'Thank you!' said Grace, with chill dignity when the recital was over.
'You were right to tell me. I will apologise to Mr. Raymond.'
'To Mr. Raymond!' echoed Lesley, carried beyond her resentment by
eagerness. 'No! Lady Arbuthnot--not to him. He is not one of the people
who ought to know that you know!'
'May I ask why?'
For an instant it seemed as if Lesley would have matched Grace in
resentment, and then suddenly she held out her hands in swift appeal.
'Oh! don't be angry, please! but surely after what happened between
you--I cant help knowing that, can I?--you owe Mr. Raymond
something--you ought to let him have this--this revenge to
himself--just to take the sting away.'
'To himself!' echoed Grace scornfully. 'I presume you mean to himself
and you----'
'Oh! you may be as nasty as you like about that,' interrupted Lesley
hotly, 'but I know I am right. It would only be a fresh tie between
you--a new sentiment.'
Lady Arbuthnot flushed up to the eyes. 'Really, Lesley! you pass
bounds! You speak as if I wanted to--to clutch at Mr. Raymond, when I
should only be too glad if---- However, as you say, my apology is a
triviality. Sir George shall----'
'Sir George!' echoed Lesley in her turn, shaking her head. 'No! he is
not one of those who ought to know that you know, either. He may have
to know, perhaps, but it should not be through you. Look! how he _will_
give the credit to Mr. Kenyon; and if he knew it was Mr. Raymond, he
would insist still more on giving it to him. You know he would, Lady
Arbuthnot--there would be a fuss, and every one would talk, and he
would hate it--almost worse than Mr. Raymond. Why not leave it
alone--if we can--what harm does it do?'
'You have grown very wise, Lesley,' said the elder woman after a pause.
'Love, they say, has eyes----'
'Love!' Lesley flashed round on her like a whirlwind. 'Ah! I wish there
was no such thing in the world. Then we women would have a chance of
being sensible. Love! No, Lady Arbuthnot, love has nothing to do with
it---nothing.'
They stood facing each other, those two, and then a smile--distinctly a
pleased smile--came to the older face. 'But, my dear child, you don't
mean to tell _me_ that you are not in love with Mr. Raymond!'
The flush up to the eyes was Lesley's now; but she stood her ground
bravely. 'It does not matter if I am or not; I am not going to talk of
it. And I promised him----'
Grace broke in with a little peal of laughter, tender, amused,
pathetic, yet acquiescent laughter. 'Has it got so far as that? Ah!
Lesley dear! I'm so glad.'
The girl looked at her with a faint wonder, a great admiration, then
shook her head.
'I believe you are made different from me,' she said soberly. 'I can
only understand one thing about it all--how it was that _he_ never
forgot--well, never quite forgot. For there is nothing to be glad of, I
can assure you--nothing at all.'
She did not, in truth, look as if there was; but Grace, as she took Sir
George his tea, as she always did, had her eyes full of that mysterious
gladness which any sentiment, even sorrow, brings to some women's
faces. It suited hers, and so her husband's had quite a lover-like
diffidence in it as he watched her fingering the thin gold chain with
pink topazes hanging from it, which he took from a drawer.
'It was in that casket the police found,' he explained, 'and I told
them, if no owner turned up for it, to send it for you to see, and then
if you liked it----'
She looked up, smiling. 'It is too young for me. Yes! it is true,
George, I am getting old--ever so old! But I'll tell you what we will
do! If we can buy it, we will give it to Lesley as a wedding-present
when she marries Mr. Raymond.'
Sir George sat back in his chair--perhaps she had meant that he should.
'My dear girl!' he said feebly, 'this is the first I have heard of it.
Mr. Raymond! And I thought----'
'Never mind what you thought,' she put in decidedly: 'it isn't quite
settled yet; but it is going to be. Oh yes! it is going to be!'
'Well!' said Sir George--recovering himself for the usual formula,--'he
is a very lucky fellow! But it is--er--all the more likely to be so,
because, curiously enough, I have been told to offer Mr. Raymond the
trusteeship of the old Thakoor of Dhurmkote's affairs. In fact, the old
man refused pointblank to have any one else, and as we want him to
retrench and adopt an heir properly----'
'My dear George!' exclaimed Lady Arbuthnot, 'how perfectly
delightful!--it--it will settle everything!'
'Yes; I--I suppose it will,' replied Sir George dubiously, and then his
sober common sense came to the front--'not, my dear, that I exactly see
what had to--to--er--be settled.'
'No! perhaps not,' said Grace thoughtfully, 'but it will, all the
same.'
With which mysterious remark she went off to set springes for that Love
with a big L, which _was_ to settle all things.
She was an expert in the art, as women of her type always are, and yet
the days passed without bringing her success. For something, of which
she knew nothing, stood between those two.
Put briefly, it was a _râm-rucki_. And so when they met--which was
inevitably often, under Lady Arbuthnot's skilful hands--they talked of
everything under the sun--of their adventure together, of the
extraordinary way in which Fate had favoured them, of Chris Davenant
and Jân-Ali-shân's mysterious disappearances, of the pearls, and the
signet of royalty that was not to be found anywhere. They even talked
of the Thakoor of Dhurmkote, and the almost endless interest and power
of such a life as that now offered to Jack Raymond--they even
quarrelled over his hesitancy in accepting it; but they never talked of
what Lesley had asked him to forget--what she had stigmatised
scornfully as the 'rest of it.'
Grace became almost tearful over the fact. It seemed to her at last as
if, even here, hers was not to be the hand to wile Jack Raymond back
either to duty or pleasure.
And it was not. That task was reserved for a simpler hand; a hand that
had neither clutched nor refused, the hand of a woman to whom 'the rest
of it' was neither to be despised nor overestimated, and who had
neither scorned it nor sought for it.
It was Auntie Khôjee's when, one day, Jack Raymond and Lesley
found themselves deftly man[oe]uvred by Grace Arbuthnot into the
_tête-à-tête_ of a visit to the old lady; not in the least
against their wills, for he was quite content with, and she vastly
superior to, such palpable ruses; besides, she really wanted to see the
originator of the _râm-rucki_, who was now decently established on the
top of an offshoot of the city, which jutted out into that very
pleasure-garden to which the old lady had come with her petition to
the bracelet-brother.
So, one morning, Lesley drove down to the Garden. Jack Raymond met her,
riding, at the gate, and together they strolled along that wide cross
of water and marble and flowers, and climbed the dark stair which led
to the little square of roof and the little slip of room that were only
just large enough for Auntie Khôjee and the helplessness for which she
cared; for Khôjee, helpless as she was, had always stood between some
one still more helpless and the buffets of fate, and would have felt
lost without the occupation.
And there was no reason why she should be without it, when Lateefa,
paralysed from the waist beyond all hope of ever getting about again,
lacked a caretaker.
And so he sat, busy as ever, with slips of bamboo and sheets of
tissue-paper on the little square of roof, just as he had sat in the
wide courtyard where the royal peacocks now spread their broken plaster
tails over plague patients--those plague patients which the vast
stability of the Oriental had by this time accepted as inevitable;
which it had taken, as it were, into its immemorial custom.
Lateefa had been once more asking for paste, and Khôjee had brought him
some--without lumps!--in a leaf cup; for she laid it aside to receive
Jack Raymond with a '_Bismillah!_' of pleasure, and the strange Miss
with a ceremonious _salaam_. Lateefa had the latter for both visitors,
but there was a bold questioning in his black eyes for the _Huzoor_,
who gave back the look with a valiant attempt at unconsciousness.
There was a curious peace up there on the roof, Lesley felt, with only
one or two of Lateefa's kites between you and the sky, and the even
flow of Lateefa's Persian quotations in your ears; for Auntie
Khôjee--after disposing her guests on two rush stools--had hurried into
the slip of a room for cardamoms, since they belong to congratulations
as well as to consolations.
And, nowadays, what with her pension and Lateefa's earnings, there were
always cardamoms, real cardamoms, on the roof, and many another comfort
besides.
Lateefa, making polite conversation, admitted this openly, while Jack
Raymond looked uneasily at Lesley, wondering--if her knowledge of the
vernacular had not been mercifully limited--what she would have said to
the pointed allusions to the benefit every man derived from associating
himself with a truly virtuous woman, and the desirableness of settling
down in time; not as he--Lateefa--had done, too late for hope of
leaving aught behind him but the flimsy children of naught above him! A
sorry legacy to the world; though in their day they had done strange
things! But the _Huzoor_ was wiser! He----
Here Aunt Khôjee--who with the most innocent of vanities had spent part
of her absence in putting on a very stiff new pink net veil, which
during the rest of the visit refused to stop on her head, and to the
old lady's intense discomfiture left her sparse grey hairs indecently
exposed at crucial moments--reappeared with the cardamoms, to Jack
Raymond's great relief; though he soon discovered that the real horror
of the situation was only just beginning.
For, seated decorously apart, yet with her half-averted face alight
with smiles and interest, she began on a series of questions which made
his heart sink within him, since he knew Lesley of old.
And sure enough it was not long before the latter said, aggrievedly,
'You might translate what she is saying. After all, I did come to visit
her, you know!'
He left the path of truth, then, desperately, with the result that
Lesley commissioned him to make the proper reply to such Oriental
periphrasis--something, _he was to be sure_, that would please the dear
old thing.
Then he realised that he was hopelessly emmeshed, for, of course,
Auntie Khôjee wanted a reply to her question; and it was not what she
had desired, at all.
'She doesn't look a bit pleased,' remarked Lesley, _de haut en bas_.
'Dear me! I wish I could speak. I know I could do better than that! And
I hate being dependent.'
'I wish you could,' said Jack Raymond grimly. 'I don't want to be a
go-between!'
His evident ill-temper mollified her. 'Well! at any rate, you might try
again, and say something else.'
So he did; and he and Aunt Khôjee had quite an animated passage, while
Lateefa from his kites listened, and looked knowing.
'Well!' remarked Lesley at last, quite angrily. 'I don't see what was
the use in my coming at all! You might at least give me a hint of what
you are talking about! It is very rude.'
His temper went then altogether. 'If you want to know,' he said, still
more grimly, 'she was asking when we are going to be married.'
Lesley gasped. 'Married!'--she echoed indignantly, yet conscious
of a curious desire to smile and feel happy which must be squashed
firmly--'well! if she does, Mr. Raymond, you can tell her--_never!_'
Her dignity was tremendous.
'I have told her so three times,' replied Jack Raymond gravely, 'but
she won't believe it; she says----'
'I don't care what she says,' retorted Lesley quickly. 'She must be
_made_ to believe it. Tell her--tell her about the _râm-rucki_, and all
that. She will understand then.'
'She may,' assented Jack dubiously; 'but it is a little--ahem--mixed
up----isn't it?'
A suspicion that the situation was beginning to amuse him made her
say--
'Not at all! Of course she will understand. She gave you a _râm-rucki_,
and why--why shouldn't I?'
'No reason at all. I'm awfully glad you did.'
He looked it, and Lesley felt once more that absurd desire to smile and
feel happy as she sat listening, watching the withered old face,
waiting for the answer.
It was not much when it came. It was only a pursing up of the lips
that had never known a lover's kiss, a gentle raillery in the kind
tear-dimmed eyes, and a brisk flirt of the fingers that had worn
themselves to the bone to bring happiness to others.
'_Trra!_' said Auntie Khôjee, with supreme unconcern for explanations.
'_Trra!_'
'I'm afraid it is no go, Miss Drummond,' said Jack decorously. 'I
believe it--it would save trouble if we--for the time only, of
course----'
Lesley blushed a fine blush. 'I daresay you are right,' she assented,
supremely superior; 'it doesn't really matter--for the time,' she added
significantly.
And after that an almost reckless happiness was added to the peace of
the roof.
Lateefa quoted Hâfiz by the yard. Auntie Khôjee got hold of Lesley's
hand and held it fast with one of hers, while the other slid up and
down the girl's arm with the little caressing pats and pinches with
which she had tried to wile away Noormahal's weariness, and Jack
Raymond sat and looked on with----
With what? Lesley did not quite realise what the expression was till
they were alone together on their way back through the garden once
more. Then she recollected it; for his face was all soft and kind, all
lit up with a delicate raillery, a forgetfulness of the workaday world,
just as it had been that evening--that evening, when another woman had
been his companion--that evening when she had felt so lonely--when the
cinnamon dove----
'_Do-you-love-too? do-yon-love-too?_' came the question from the
rose-bush once more; but the bird did not fly from its shelter now.
There was no thorn in the path now to make those two pause and
startle it. So the question followed them. '_Do-you-love-too?
do-you-love-too?_' as they walked side by side, leaving the Sanctuary
behind them, nearing the gilded summer-house before them.
'There's no hurry, is there?' said the man suddenly when they reached
it. 'Let us sit down a bit and talk--about ourselves.'
The girl sat down, but shook her head. 'It was only for the time, Mr.
Raymond,' she said, not pretending to misunderstand his meaning.
'Why should it only be for the time?'
'Why?' she echoed, looking out into the Pleasure-garden of Kings. 'For
a great many reasons, I think.'
And then she began on them, one by one, dispassionately, rationally;
and sometimes he agreed with her despondently as to his character and
interests, and sometimes he gave in to her greater knowledge regarding
her own.
And the dove cooed on its question, and the jewelled parrots--winged
creatures as they were--flew from one screen of flowering trees to the
other, unable to escape the thraldom of the high wall hidden by leaf
and blossom--unable to escape from that prisonment of pleasure.
'And so you see, Mr. Raymond,' came the girl's voice, 'the odds
are----'
'The odds!' he echoed quickly, almost mischievously. 'Ah! if it is a
question of odds, it's my innings--I'll take twenty to one on Bonnie
Lesley!' He held out his hand.
She essayed a frown, she essayed a smile, and then she said, 'Really,
you are too foolish----Jack!'
* * * * *
And so in the years to come, the old Thakoor of Dhurmkote will no doubt
rescind his reproof, and, having forgotten Jerry, will call another
little laddie 'a son of heroes.' And he may be; but Jack Raymond
himself will keep that name for a boy who, by that time, will be at
Eton or Harrow. And that boy will think of the graves in the Hollow of
Heroes, and wonder if Jân-Ali-shân ever came back to claim his.
He has not yet, and so the two hundred and odd thousand people in the
city of Nushapore, and the fifty thousand people in cantonments, still
expect him to be there some day, _when he is wanted_.
And he will, no doubt; for it is only the Spirit of Slaves that dies;
the Spirit of Kings lives for ever.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Barrister.]
[Footnote 2: Members of Municipal Committee.]
[Footnote 3: The Mohammedan Easter.]
[Footnote 4: Failed for middle school examination; a very general claim
to culture in India.]
[Footnote 5: In India, members can buy provisions or wines imported by
their club.]
[Footnote 6: Measure.]
[Footnote 7: _Nigar bani_, lit. looking at, favouritism.]
[Footnote 8: Straight, fair.]
[Footnote 9: Lit. earth, a corpse.]
[Footnote 10: Lit. outcast.]
[Footnote 11: Worshipper of Shiva.]
[Footnote 12: The king of death; his emblem is a crocodile, _i.e_.
death will be busy.]
[Footnote 13: _Hansi-ki-bat_, lit. smiling word.]
[Footnote 14: The true faith.]
[Footnote 15: _Ikbal_, lit. power, prestige.]
[Footnote 16: Post-office.]
[Footnote 17: Doctors.]
[Footnote 18: Models of the tombs of Hussan and Hussein.]
* * * * *
Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty
at the Edinburgh University Press
End of Project Gutenberg's Voices in the Night, by Flora Annie Steel