THE SOOTHSAYER
WEEK by week the great camp moved on in its stately, deliberate
fashion, through its accustomed districts. There was not as much
variety in the daily life as in the ever changing surroundings. Donald
Gordon was absorbed in heavy official work by day, and heavy unofficial
work by night. Mrs. Gordon and Alan Lindsay were unconsciously absorbed
in one another, and pretty Mrs. Gascoigne—with her old head on young
shoulders—appeared to be absorbed in her own thoughts. She was
curiously silent and grave; not a trace of gay, vivacious, chattering
Angel remained.
Mr. Lindsay and Mrs. Gordon mutually wondered at the transformation,
and solemnly compared notes. Mrs. Gordon attributed her friend's
depression to the absence of her husband, whilst Alan Lindsay declared
that it was due to the absence of amusements. How little did either of
them suppose that the true cause of Mrs. Gascoigne's low spirits lay
in themselves. Angel's quick suspicion, which had sprung to existence
by the old well, had grown from that hour, till it became a strong,
able-bodied fact, which thrust itself on an unwilling confidante,
and made its voice heard; it declared lustily that there was more
than mere gratitude and pure idyllic friendship in Alan Lindsay's
attitude towards Elinor Gordon; something in his voice, in his manner,
told tales. Was it possible that at thirty-six years of age, love,
strong, impassioned love, had overtaken her friend after all? But no,
Elinor dared not entertain him; she was a woman who would bar such
an ill-timed visitor out—yes, with her own hand, she who had been
the adviser, comforter, example of so many, whose influence as a good
woman radiated afar, she to whom all the girls and young men came with
their difficulties, drawn by her personal magnetism, who helped so many
over "the bad places" of life, to whom everyone looked up. The noble,
unselfish wife of tyrannical Donald Gordon, was she likely to fall
from her high estate? As soon the moon and stars. Yet as the couple
talked together so earnestly and so exclusively, the truth became more
and more evident—it came and stared Angel in the face, and frightened
her; she felt as if she were looking on at some terrible human tragedy,
and of which she was the sole and helpless spectator. This man, Alan
Lindsay, had found his fate too late; his fate was a jewel belonging
to one who never valued it. And Elinor? To her thoughts and feelings
Angel had no clue; sometimes her spirits were unusually gay, her laugh
ringing and girlish; sometimes when she and Angel sat alone she looked
almost old and haggard; her book or her work lay forgotten in her lap,
her gaze was absent and introspective. Sometimes, as she sewed, she
heaved a sudden but profound sigh.
Thus they passed their days, and moved on from camping-ground to
camping-ground, through the poppy-fields, and the cane crops of the
fairest province; the four who sat at table together, two whom the
inevitable had overtaken, the surly, unconscious husband, and the
conscious looker-on.
* * * * *
Occasionally the camp was pitched within a ride of some little station,
and visitors cantered out to early tea or tiffin. One day Mrs. Gordon
entertained three guests, a man in the Opium (the worst paid department
in India), his wife, and a girl who was on a visit with them, a pretty
little person with a round baby face, fluffy hair, a pair of hard
blue eyes, and an insatiable appetite for excitement. The party sat
out in the shade of the peepul trees after tea, within view of the
camp train—the horses and camels at their pickets, the dogs, the
cows, the groups of servants, the scarlet and gold chuprassis lounging
about waiting for orders, and the crowd of petitioners and villagers
besieging the office tent.
Miss Cuffe, the spoiled beauty of a tiny station, condescended to
remark that the scene was quite imposing and picturesque.
"Almost like what one would see at Drury Lane."
"O horror! the pomp and glory of the Sirdar, as embodied in a great
Indian encampment, compared to a pantomime."
"I suppose you miss the theatres, Miss Cuffe?" said Lindsay, who had
been released after a long day's work.
"You are right," she answered with a coquettish simper. "I do like a
show. I did all the plays before I came out."
"And we have nothing to offer you but snake-charmers, magic wallahs,
and fortune-tellers. I believe there is one in camp now, a renowned
Fakir who lives in this part of the world; his fame has travelled to
Agra."
"Oh, Mr. Lindsay, do, do send for him," pleaded Miss Cuffe.
"But I warn you that he is not pretty to look at; he generally
prophesies evil things, and is, as a rule, under the influence of
Bhang."
"I don't care in the least," she cried recklessly. "Do—do send for
him. What do you say, Mrs. Gascoigne and Mrs. Gordon?" appealing to
them.
"My fortune is told," replied Mrs. Gordon. "Fate cannot harm _me_; but
have the Fakir by all means, if Mr. Lindsay can persuade him to appear."
In another moment two messengers had been despatched in search of the
soothsayer. Miss Cuffe resolved to make the most of the brilliant
opportunity of cultivating Mr. Lindsay, the popular collector, who was
said to be next heir to seven thousand a year. The best way to interest
him, thought the shrewd little person, is to talk of his district and
his work.
"I am so ignorant, Mr. Lindsay," she remarked pathetically; "only just
two months in India. Do tell me what all the people round here," waving
her plump hands, "believe in?"
"What an immense question!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean the peasants?"
She nodded her head with an emphasis that was impressive, although all
the time she was neither thinking nor caring about the peasants, but
reflecting that here was a providential occasion for her to cement an
acquaintance with this charming and eligible _parti_; the coast was
clear from rivals; there was no one to absorb his devotion and claim
his attention but two stupid married ladies, who had been in camp for
weeks—and of whom he must be _so_ tired.
"Well, the peasant's mental horizon is rather limited," said Mr.
Lindsay. "He has some sort of belief in a Providence whose benevolence
is shown in restricting malignant heavenly powers from doing mischief."
"Yes," assented the girl, though she had not in the least grasped what
he meant. "And—what else?"
"Oh, well," said Lindsay, secretly amazed at this intelligent social
butterfly, "he trusts in a host of godlings who inhabit the pile of
stones which form the village shrine. He believes that he would live
for ever, were it not that some devil or witch plots against his life."
"And is that all that he believes in?" questioned Miss Cuffe; and she
raised her light blue eyes to her informant's dark ones, with a look of
tragic appeal.
"By no means. He believes that it is good to feed a Brahmin, that it is
wrong to tell a lie, unless to benefit yourself. He believes that if he
does an impious act he may be reborn as a rat or a worm; he believes
that woman is an inferior creature whom you may bully with impunity.
With a man, you must be more careful."
"But these are the extremely poor and uneducated," broke in Mrs.
Gordon. "The more enlightened are different; they encourage charity,
kindness, and simplicity; they are extremely devout—in that way they
put many of us to shame."
"And the women, how do they live? Have they no amusements?" inquired
Miss Cuffe, turning pointedly from her hostess to the more attractive
collector.
"Amusements? They do not know the meaning of the word. They work—I am
speaking of the peasants—from dawn till dark, helping their husbands
with the cultivation of the land, drawing water, cooking, weaving—they
are hags at thirty, and their only release from drudgery is an
occasional pilgrimage. You may see them marching for days packed in a
country cart which crawls along from week to week and stage to stage;
at last they reach their goal, Hurdwar—or Benares. They bathe and
worship and offer sacrifice—it is the one event of their lives, and
assures their future."
"One event," repeated Miss Cuffe. "How utterly miserable!—And what are
their every-day habits?"
"Conservative—they wear the same fashion for twenty centuries, their
food never varies, a little pepper and spices, the only relish—the
plough, the spinning wheel, and loom, remain unchanged in a thousand
years; of course, I am speaking of the villagers; the townsfolk have
watches, sewing-machines, gramaphones, and all manner of Europe
goods, and rubbish, but the Ryot has no money or time to waste
on such luxuries; it is all work, work, work, from generation to
generation—the Ryot is the mainspring of the Empire."
"Poor creatures," exclaimed Miss Cuffe, "what lives of hideous toil. I
suppose they don't know what happiness and love mean?"
"Oh, yes, they are sufficiently happy when they bring off a good
bargain, and they love their plot of land, their ancestral acre, with a
fierce devouring ardour, passing the love of women."
"How much you know," sighed Miss Cuffe admiringly; "how much you tell
me, that I never heard before."
"And here comes one who will possibly impart some events which are yet
to come," and Mr. Lindsay indicated the tall lanky figure which was
advancing in the wake of the chuprassis.
The Fakir was an old man, singularly emaciated. He wore a simple loin
cloth and a row of huge beads; his legs were bandy, his voice was bass,
his hair matted, in his eyes there was a piercing look bordering on
madness. He came straight up to Lindsay and salaamed, entirely ignoring
the opium wallah, and the three ladies.
"Take off your wedding ring, and lend it to me," whispered Miss Cuffe
to Angel, "and we will see if we cannot puzzle him."
"Shall I tell the stars of the Lord Sahib only?" asked the Fakir, "and
in his ear?"
"Oh, no," responded Lindsay, "the stars of the company, and one by one,
so that all may hear—what the fates have in store for them."
"Yes, what fun it will be," said Miss Cuffe. "Mrs. Ellis," to her
friend, "will you be done? Do, it will be so amusing."
"No, thank you," said the lady, "I am quite willing to listen to your
fortunes, but I beg to decline hearing mine."
"I have heard that this man is marvellous," said her husband, "and
greatly feared by all the neighbours."
"Certainly his looks are not attractive," remarked Angel; "he seems to
be getting impatient. Shall I break the ice—in other words, be done?"
There was an immediate chorus of assent, and she rose and came forward
to where the Fakir was squatting. He also rose and drew his lean form
to its full length. What a contrast the two figures presented, as they
stood face to face; denizens of the East and West. The pretty fair
English girl, with her dainty white gown, her little vanities of chains
and laces, her well-groomed air; and the half-naked Fakir, with his mop
of tangled hair, his starting ribs, his wild black eyes, his chest and
forehead daubed with ashes, and, as a background to the pair, a circle
of watching, eager retainers, the big tree stems, the white tents, and
the flat cultivated plains merging into the blue horizon.
Angel put out her hand; the fortune-teller glanced at it curiously,
then he looked up in her face with a strenuous stare, and there was a
silence only broken by Miss Cuffe's titter. At last it came, a sonorous
voice speaking as if pronouncing judgment.
"Oh, yea—thou art a wife."
"The servants told," giggled Miss Cuffe in an audible voice.
"Hush, hush," expostulated her friend, "he is speaking."
"Thou wast given to a man by a dead hand—" another pause—"he married
thee at the bidding of a woman—his foot is on thy heart—it is well,
lo! he is a man—and to be trusted." He paused again and salaamed to
the earth, a sign that he had concluded, and once more squatted upon
his heels.
"What? And is that all?" exclaimed Miss Cuffe, indignantly.
"I should think a little of that went a long way," observed Alan
Lindsay, "what more would you have? He is not an ordinary magic wallah
I can see, who promises jewels and lovers. He takes himself seriously."
The Fakir now beckoned solemnly to Mrs. Gordon, who, with a half
apologetic laugh, came forward. He looked her in the face with his
burning eyes, and said in a harsh voice:
"Where love should be—is emptiness. Where love should not be—lo!
there it is."
Angel glanced involuntarily at Mr. Lindsay; he had grown curiously
white.
"A shade cometh—I see no more." And again he dismissed his victim with
a profound salaam.
"Dear me, what rubbish it all is," protested Mrs. Gordon, as she took
her seat with a somewhat heightened colour.
"He is like Micaiah, the son of Imlah, who prophesied evil things; see,
he is beckoning Mr. Lindsay. I wonder what terrible message he will
deliver to him?"
"Lo, here are brains," announced the seer in his sonorous
Hindustani,—understood of all but the little spinster, "much riches. A
heart—some talk—sore trouble. Wisdom and honour come when the head is
white, and the heart is dead."
"Now for me," cried Miss Cuffe, rubbing her hands gleefully, and
ignorantly rushing on her fate. "I declare I am quite nervous. I
cannot bear his eyes. Mr. Lindsay, do please stand close beside me and
interpret." Then she beamed coquettishly on the grim native, as if she
would exhort good fortune by her smiles.
He looked at her, with fierce contempt, and said, "Lo, 'tis a weakling,
Miss Sahib, thou art a fool; the ring belongs to the tall sad girl,
with the hungry heart, and the daring spirit. Such a ring will never be
thine. I smell death."
"What does he say?" cried Miss Cuffe, as soon as she was dismissed. "Do
tell me at once, Mr. Lindsay; I hope it was something good?"
After an almost imperceptible pause, Mr. Lindsay replied, "He said
the ring was not yours, it belonged to Mrs. Gascoigne. I think he was
annoyed because you tried to get a rise out of him—he wouldn't work
properly. I shouldn't wonder if he had cast the evil eye upon the whole
lot of us."
"What a wretch!" she protested. "I am so sorry I asked you to send for
him. I never dreamt that he would be a repulsive old skeleton dealing
bad luck all round. It has not been such fun after all. Oh, here is
Mr. Gordon! Oh, Mr. Gordon," she cried, "do come and have your fortune
told;" and her little hard eyes glittered. Miss Cuffe did not like
the Commissioner, and saw no reason why he should be spared, when
misfortune was being dealt out.
"Give him ten rupees and he will make you a Viceroy," suggested the
opium wallah with a laugh. "Where is the fellow? Has he gone?"
Yes, he was nowhere to be seen; he had vanished mysteriously and
without payment. By Mr. Gordon's orders, the Fakir was searched for,
high and low; he desired to question him respecting a certain peculiar
murder case, but all search proved unavailing; the soothsayer had
disappeared.