The Jamadar's tribute from man to man, one encased in a dark skin and
one in a white, was akin to the tribulation that would not be driven
from Barlow's mind over the Gulab, that in their case made the matter
of a skin colourisation the bar sinister. He rode in a brooding
silence. And now the way was one of ascent toward the pass through the
Vindhya mountains; a red gravelly undulating formation had given place
to basaltic rocks. They passed from groups of _mhowa_ trees and left
behind a wide shallow stream, its bed dotted with pools fringed by
great _kowa_ trees, and its banks lined by a thick green cover of
_jamun_ and _karonda_. Thorny _babul_ thrust their spiked branches out
over the roadway, white with tufts of cotton torn by its thorns from
bales, loose pressed, on their way to market in buffalo carts; "Babul
the thief," the natives called this acacia. Higher up a torch-wood
tree gleamed as if sprayed with gold, its limbs, lean and bare of
foliage, holding at their extremities in wisp-like fingers bright,
yellow, solitary blooms. From a _tendu_ tree a pair of droll little
brown monkeys chattered and grimaced at the clattering cart.
A spotted owlet, disturbed by the driver's encouraging, "Pop-pop!
Dih-dih-dih! Ho-ho-ho! children of jungle swine; brothers to buffalo!"
addressed to the horses lagging in the climb, fluttered away with his
silly little cackle.
These incidents of travel were almost unnoticed of Barlow. All up the
climb the retrospect was with him, claiming his thoughts. Just
that--all that was in evidence, a pigment in the skin, _caste_; and yet
reacting away back to God's mandate against the union of the white and
black. And verily a sin to be visited even unto the third and fourth
generation, for the bar sinister would be upon his children; they would
be half-castes with all of the opprobrium the name carried. Even the
son of a king, the offspring of such a union would be spoken of in mess
and drawing-room as a half-caste: the indelible sign would be upon him,
the blue tint to the white moons in his finger nails. Barlow
shuddered. Why contemplate the matter at all--it was impossible. Nana
Sahib had named the barrier when he had spoken of _varna_, meaning
colour, as _caste_, a shirt-of-mail that protected from disaster.
Sometimes as he dropped back past the _tonga_, the face of Bootea would
appear beneath the lifted curtain, and though on the lips would be a
sweet ravishing smile, the eyes were pathetic, full of heart hunger.
Sometimes he vowed that he would put off the parting--dream on; carry
her on to her people at Chunda. Then he would realise that this was
cowardice, a desire flooding his sense of nobility into a chasm of
possible disaster; not fair to the girl; the animal mastery of male
over female, the domination of sex. Beyond doubt, wrapped in his arms,
not even the omnipotence of the gods would take her away from him. If
there were less innate nobility in his avatar, if he were like men that
were called red-blooded men, yet lacking the finer sensibility, this
might be; not a villainous rush, just drifting. That was it, the
superlative excellence of the Gulab; the very quality that attracted,
was the shield, the immaculate robe that clothed her and preserved her
like a vestal virgin from such violation. Barlow could not word all
these things; subconsciously they swayed him--like the magnetic needle,
always toward the pole of right.
When they had topped the pass and descended into the valley of the
Narbudda, clothed in arboreal beauty, passed from a forest of evergreen
_sal_ to giant teak trees with huge umbrella-like leaves that formed a
canopy over the straight column-like boles of eighty feet, and on
amidst topes of wild mango and wild date, down, down, to the lower
levels where the _dhak_ jungles gave way to feathery bamboo and
plantain and waving grass, the sun, like a great ball of molten gold,
was splashing its yellow sheen upon the waters of a stream that hurried
south to Mother Narbudda.
There was a small village of Gonds, or Korkus, like a toy thing, the
houses woven from split bamboo, nestling against the billowing hills.
"Here we will rest and eat," Barlow said to the Gulab.
"As the Sahib wishes," she answered, and smiled at him like a child.
The huge medallion of gold had slid down in the west from the dome
through which were shot great streamers of red and mauve, and a peacock
perched high in a sal tree far up on the mountainside sent forth his
strident cry of "Miaou! miaou! miaou!" his evening salute to the god of
warmth.
As the harsh call, like an evening _muezzin_, died out, the sweet song
of a shama, in tones as pure as those of a nightingale, broke the
solemn hush of eventide.
Barlow turned his face to where the songster was perched in the top
branches of a wild-fig, and Bootea, said in a low voice: "Sahib, it is
said that the shama is a soul come back to earth to sing of love that
men may not grow harsh."
Soon a silver moon peeped over the walls of the Vindhya hills, and from
the forests above the night wind, waking at the fleeing of the sun,
whispered down through feathered _sal_ trees carrying the scent of
balsam and from a group of _salei_ trees a sweet unguent, the perfume
of the gum which is burnt at the shrines of Hindu gods.
When they had eaten, Barlow said: "I wonder, Gulab, if this is like
_kailas_, the heaven those who have passed through many transitions and
become holy, attain to."
"It is just heaven, my Lord," she replied fervently.
"And to-morrow I will be plodding on through the sands and dust, and
I'll be all alone. But you, little girl, you will be making your peace
with Omkar and dreaming of the greater heaven."
"Yes, it will be that way; the Sahib will not have the tribulation of
protecting Bootea, and she will be in the protection of Omkar."
There was so much of pathetic resignation in the timbre of the girl's
voice, for it was half sigh, that Barlow shivered, as if the chilling
mist of the valley had crept up to the foothills. Why had he not
treated her as an alien, kept all interest in abeyance? His self
recrimination was becoming a disease, an affliction.
He rose, muttering, "Damn! I'm like the young wasters that swarm up to
London from Oxford and get splashed with the girls from the
theatres--that's what I'm like."
As he strode over to where his horse was tethered, munching his ration
of grain, Bootea followed him with her eyes, wondering why he had
broken into English; perhaps he was chanting an evening prayer.
When Barlow came back he fell to wishing that they were at Mandhatta so
that he would start on the rest of his journey in the morning; he
dreaded the long evening with the girl. He could have sat there with
Elizabeth, although their marriage hovered on the horizon, and talked
of trivial things: of sport, of shooting; or damned the Executive
sitting beneath _punkahs_ in offices with windows all closed, far away
in Calcutta. Or could have traversed, mentally, leagues of sea and
rehabilitated past scenes in London. It would be like talking to a
brother officer. But with the Gulab, and the hush and perfume of the
forest-clad hills, and the gentle glamour of moonlight, his senses
would smother placid intellectuality; he would be like a toper with a
bottle at his elbow mocking weak resolve.
Then the girl said something: a shy halting request that set his blood
galloping: "Sahib, it is not far to Mandhatta--four _kos_, or perhaps
it is five; would it be unpermitted to suggest that we go there, for
the moon is beautiful and the road is good."
"All right, girl!" and remembering that he had spoken in English, he
added, "It will be expedient, for you will there find shelter."
"Yes, Sahib, Guru Swami will be there, and I am known of him; and there
are places where one may rest."
"I'll tell the driver to hitch up," Barlow declared, rising.
But she laid a detaining hand upon his arm: "Sahib, the sweetest thing
in all Bootea's life was the time she rode on the horse with him.
Then, too, the moon, that is the soul of Purusha, smiled upon her.
Would it be permitted to Bootea just one more happiness, for
to-morrow--to-morrow--"
The girl turned away, and seemed busy adjusting her gold-embroidered
jacket.
"So you shall, Gulab," Barlow declared. And he, too, thought of the
sweetness of that ride where she lay like a confiding child in his
arms; and also for him, too, was to-morrow--to-morrow; and for him,
too, just one more foolish, useless happiness--just a sensuous burying
of his face in flowers that on the morrow would have shrivelled.
"I'll send the _tonga_ on ahead," he declared, "and we'll just have
that jolly old farewell ride together, girl--I'd love it."
Now she turned back to him and her face was placid, soft, content, as
though Mona Lisa had stepped out from the painted canvas, and, now
embodied, was there listening to the sigh of the night-wind through the
feathered _sal_ forest.
With ejaculations of "Bap, bap, bap! _Shabaz_!" and queer gurgling
clucking of the throat, and a sonorous rumble from the wide, low
wheels, the driver drove the tonga on into the moonlight. Barlow had
saddled his horse and thrown his blanket loosely behind the saddle.
The air was chilling, but his sheepskin coat would turn its cold
breath; the blanket was for Bootea.
As he had done once before, his feet in stirrups, he reached down a
hand and swung the girl up in front of him. Then he enveloped her in
the blanket as she nestled against his chest, arms about his waist.
Her warm body was like a draught of wine and he muttered, "My God! I
shouldn't have done this!" But he knew that he would have had that
ride if devils had jeered at him from the jungle that lined the road.
As the horse swung along in leisured walking stride, the girl seemed to
have gone to sleep; her cheek lay against Barlow's shoulder, and he
could feel the pulsating throb of her heart. Once a sigh came from her
lips, but it was like a breath of deep content. Barlow felt that he
must talk to the girl; his senses were rampant; he was sitting like the
lotus-eaters drinking in a deadly intoxication.
But it was Bootea who broke the silence as though she, too, felt
herself slipping. She took from beneath her vestment a little bag of
silk and taking from it a ruby she put it in Barlow's hand, saying:
"Here is the 'Lamp of Akbar;' it protects and gives power."
"Where did you get this magnificent ruby, girl--it is of great value?"
Barlow queried in amazement.
"Do you remember, Sahib, when Bootea asked for the turban of Hunsa, the
time it was stripped from his head, and the paper of message found
hidden in it?"
"Yes, you said you would take it back to the Bagrees to show them that
Hunsa was dead."
He could hear the Gulab chuckle. "That was but the deceit of a woman,
Sahib; the simple things that a woman says to deceive a clever man. I
knew that Hunsa had the ruby sewn in a corner of the turban, and when I
had taken the stone I burned the turban in the fire, for it was like
Hunsa--very dirty."
"Where did Hunsa get it?"
"When the Bagrees killed the jewel merchant, that time the Sahib saved
Bootea, he stole it from the other decoits, hiding it in his turban,
because the Dewan wanted it."
"But I don't want the stone--I can't take it," Barlow expostulated.
"It is for a service, Sahib. Nana Sahib will assuredly cause Ajeet to
be put to death if Bootea does not return to his desire, but the Sahib
can buy his life with the ruby of great price."
"But if it were stolen would not Nana Sahib demand it, and then kill
Ajeet?"
"No; it was not his ruby; and to obtain it he will set Ajeet free."
"I'll do that, Gulab," Barlow agreed, and the girl's hand pushed up
from the folds of the blanket to caress his cheek, and her face nestled
against his shoulder.
The fingers thrilled him, and, though he had made solemn vow that he
would ride like an anchorite, he bent his head and kissed her with a
claiming warmth that caused her to cry out as if in misery.
Presently a whimsical fancy swayed the girl, and she said, "Ayub Alli!"
Barlow laughed, and answered: "Bismillah!"
"So, Afghan, riding thus, it is not disrespect, just that we be of
different faith, Hindu and Musselman."
"If it were thus, we'd not part at Mandhatta. And as to the faith,
thou wouldst become a follower of the Prophet."
"Yes, Bootea would. If she could go forever thus she would sacrifice
entrance to _kailas_. But this is heaven; and perhaps Omkar, when I
make the sacrifice--I mean offering--will listen to Bootea's prayers,
and--and--"
"And what, Gulab?" Barlow asked, for the girl turned her face against
his breast, and her voice had smothered.
Their thoughts were distracted by a din in front that shattered the
solemn hush of the night. There was a thunderous beat of tom-toms, the
shrill rasping screech of conch-shells, and in intervals of subversion
of instrumental clamour they could hear women's voices, high-pitched,
singing the _scahailia_ (song of joy). Loud cries of "Jae, Jae,
Omkar!" rose in a chorus from a hundred swelling throats.
At a turning around a huge banyan tree they saw the flickering flames
of torches, and Barlow knew that plodding in front was a large body of
pilgrims.
He quickened his horse's pace, drawing Bootea closer to hide her from
curious eyes, and as he passed the Hindus he knew from their scowling
faces and cries of, "It is a Kaffir--a barbarian!" that they took him
for a Mussulman, perhaps one of Sindhia's Arabs.
At the head of the procession, carried on a platform gaily decorated
with gaudy cloths, borne on the shoulders of four men, was a figure of
Ganesha. The obese, four-armed, jovial son of Shiva, bobbing in the
rhythmic stride of his carriers, seemed to nod his elephant head at the
horseman approvingly, wishing him luck as was the wont of Ganesha. The
procession drove in upon Barlow's mind the thought that they were
nearing Mandhatta; he realised it with a pang of reluctance. It seemed
but a matter of just minutes since he had lifted Bootea to the saddle.
It had hurried the Gulab's mind, too, for at another turn where the
road slid into the valley, bringing to their nostrils the soft perfume
of _kush-kush_ grass and the savour of _jamun_ that grew luxuriantly on
the banks of the Narbudda, the Gulab asked: "The Sahib will marry the
young Memsahib who is at the city of the Peshwa?"
Barlow was startled. It was like a voice crying out in the night that
shattered a blissful dream.
"Why do you ask that, Gulab?"
"Because it was said. And the Missie Baba's heart will be full of the
Sahib, for he is like a god."
"Is the Gulab jealous of the Missie Baba?" Barlow asked mundanely,
almost out of confusion.
"No, Sahib, because--because one is not jealous of a princess; because
that is to question the ways of the gods. If I had been an Englay and
he loved me, and the Missie Baba claimed him, Bootea would kill her."
This was said with the simple conviction of a child uttering a weird
threat, but Barlow shivered.
"And now, Gulab," he persisted, "if you thought I loved you would you
kill the Missie Baba?"
"No, Sahib, because it is Bootea's fault. It can't be. It is
permitted to Bootea to love the Sahib, but at the shrine Omkar will
take that sin and all the other sins away when she makes sacrifice--"
"What sacrifice, Gulab?"
"Such as we make to the gods, Sahib."
Then something curious happened. The girl broke, she clung to Barlow
convulsively; sobs choked her.
He clasped her tight and laid his cheek against hers soothingly, and
said, "Gulab, what is it? Don't go to the Shrine of Omkar. Come with
me to your people at Chunda, and if you do not want to remain with them
I will have it arranged, through the Resident, that the British will
reward you with protection. You have done the British Raj a great
service."
"No, Sahib." The girl drew herself erect, so that her eyes gazed into
Barlow's, They were luminous with an intensity of resolve. "Let Bootea
speak what is in her heart, and be not offended; it is necessary.
There is, at the end of the journey the place that is called _jahannam_
(hell) for Bootea. The Nana Sahib waits like a tiger crouched by a
pool at night for the coming of a stag to drink."
"The Resident will protect you against the Mahratta," Barlow declared.
"Bootea could do that," and in her small hand there gleamed in the
moonlight the sheen of her dagger blade. She thrust it back into her
belt.
"What then do you fear, Gulab?" he queried.
"The Sahib."
"_Me_, Gulab?"
"Yes, Khudawand. To see you and not be permitted to hear your voice,
nor feel your hand upon my face, would be worse than sacrifice. Bootea
would rather die, slip off into death with the goodness, the sweetness
of to-night upon her soul. There, where the Sahib would be, Bootea's
heart would be full of evil, the evil of craving for him. No, this is
the end, and Bootea will make offering of thanks--marigolds and a
cocoanut to Omkar, and sprinkle attar upon his shrine in thankfulness
for the joy of the Sahib's presence. It is said!" and the girl nestled
down against Barlow's breast again as though she had gone to sleep in
content.
But he groaned inwardly: there was something of dread in his heart, her
resignation was so deep--suggesting an utter giving up, a helplessness.
She had named sacrifice; the word rang ominously in his mind, beating
at his fears. And yet, what she had said was philosophy--wise; a
something that had been worded, perhaps differently, for a million
years; the brave acceptance of Fate's decree--something that always
triumphed over the weak longings of humans.