CHAPTER VI.
THE GIFT OF MANY FACES.
Mrs. Gissing had guessed right. The man in the Afghan cap was JimDouglas, who found the disguise of a frontiersman the easiest toassume, when, as now, he wanted to mix in a crowd. And he would havesaid "Bravo" a dozen times over if he had thought the little ladywould like to hear it; for her quick denial of the possibility ofinsult had roused his keenest admiration. Here had spoken a dignity hehad not expected to find in one whom he only knew as a woman MajorErlton delighted to honor. A dignity lacking in the big brave boybeside her; lacking, alas! in many a big brave Englishman of greaterimportance. So he had risked detection by that sudden "Bravo!" Notthat he dreaded it much. To begin with, he was used to it, even whenhe posed as an out-lander, for there was a trick in his gait, not tobe Orientalized, which made policemen salute gravely as he passeddisguised to the tent. Then there was ignorance of some one or anotherof the million shibboleths which divide men from each other in India;shibboleths too numerous for one lifetime's learning, which require tobe born in the blood, bred in the bone. In this case, also, he hadevery intention of asserting his race by licking one at least of theoffenders when the show was over. For he happened to know one of them;having indeed licked him a few days before over a certain piece ofbone. So, as the crowd, accepting the finale of one amusementplacidly, drifted away to see another, he walked over to the tent inwhich the discomforted caricaturists had found refuge. It was atattered old military bell-tent, bought most likely at some auctionwith the tattered old staff uniform. As he lifted the flap the soundof escaping feet made him expect a stern chase; but he was mistaken.Two figures rose with a start of studied surprise and salaamedprofoundly as he entered. They were both stark naked save for awaistcloth, and Jim Douglas could not resist a quick glance round forthe discarded costumes. They were nowhere to be seen; being hidden,probably, under the litter of properties strewing the squalidgreen-room. Still of the identity of the man he knew Jim Douglas hadno doubt, and as this one was also the nearest, he promptly seized himby the both shoulders and gave him a sound Western kick, which wouldhave been followed by others if the recipient had not slipped from hishold like an eel. For Jhungi, Bunjarah, and general vagrant,habitually oiled himself from head to foot after the manner of hisprofession as a precaution against such possible attempts at capture.
His assailant, grasping this fact, at any rate, did not risk dignityby pursuit; though the man stood salaaming again within arm's length.
"You scoundrel!" said Jim Douglas with as much severity as he couldcommand before the mixture of deference and defiance, innocence andiniquity, in the sharp, cunning face before him. "Wasn't the licking Igave you before enough?"
Jhungi superadded perplexity to his other show of emotions. "TheHuzoor mistakes," he said, with sudden cheerful understanding. "It wasthe miscreant Bhungi, my brother, whom the Huzoor licked. Themisbegotten idler who tells lies in the bazaar about bones and sacks.So his skin smarts, but my body is whole. Is it not so, Father Tiddu?"
The appeal to his companion was made with curious eagerness, and JimDouglas, who had heard this tale of the ill-doing double before,looked at the witness to it with interest. That this man was or wasnot Jhungi's co-offender he could not say with certainty, for therewas a remarkable lack of individuality about both face and figure whenin repose. But the nickname of Tiddu, or cricket, was immediatelyexplained by the jerky angularity of his actions. Save for the faintfrostiness of sprouting gray hairs on a shaven cheek and skull hemight have been any age.
"Of a truth it was Bhungi," he said in a well-modulated but creakyvoice. "Time was when liars, such as he, fell dead. Now they don'teven catch fevers, and if they do, the Huzoors give them a bitterpowder and start them lying again. So, since one dead fish stinks awhole tank, virtuous Jhungi, being like as two peas in a pod, suffersan ill-name. But Bhungi will know what it means to tell lies when hestands before his Creator. Nevertheless in this world the master beingenraged----"
"Not so, Father Tiddu," interrupted Jhungi glibly, "the Huzoor is butenraged with Bhungi. And rightly. Did not we hide our very faces withshame while he mimicked the noble people? Did we not try to hold himwhen he fled from punishment--as the Huzoor no doubt heard----"
Jim Douglas without a word slipped his hand down the man's back. Thewales of a sound hiding were palpable; so was his wince as he dodgedaside to salaam again.
"The Huzoor is a male judge," he said admiringly. "No black man coulddeceive him. This slave has certainly been whipped. He fell amongliars who robbed him of his reputation. Will the Huzoor do likewise?On the honor of a Bunjarah 'tis Bhungi whom the Huzoor beats. He givesJhungi bitter powders when he gets the fever. And even Bhungi buttries to earn a stomachful as he can when the Huzoors take his tradefrom him."
"The world grows hollow, to match a man's swallow," quoted Tidduaffably.
The familiar by-word of poverty, the quiet mingling of truth andfalsehood, daring and humility in Jhungi's plea, roused both JimDouglas' sense of humor, and the sympathy--which with him was alwayspresent--for the hardness and squalidness of so many of the livesaround him.
"But you can surely earn the stomachful honestly," he said, angerpassing into irritation. "What made you take to this trade?" He kickedat a pile of properties, and in so doing disclosed the skeleton of acrinoline. Jhungi with a shocked expression stooped down and coveredit up decorously.
"But it is my trade," he replied; "the Huzoor must surely have heardof the Many-Faced tribe of Bunjarahs? I am of them.'
"Lie not, Jhungi!" interrupted Tiddu calmly, "he is but my apprentice,Huzoor, but I----" he paused, caught up a cloth, gave it one dexteroustwirl round him, squatted down, and there he was, to the life, aveiled woman watching the stranger with furtive, modest eye. "But I,"came a round feminine voice full of feminine inflections, "am of thethousand-faced people who wander to a thousand places. A new place, anew face. It makes a large world, Huzoor, a strange world." There wasa melancholy cadence in his voice, which added interest to the sheeramaze which Jim Douglas was feeling. He had heard the legend of theMany-Faced Tribe, had even seen clever actors claiming to belong toit, and knew how the Stranglers deceived their victims, but anythinglike this he had never credited, much less seen. He himself, though heknew to the contrary, could scarcely combat the conviction, whichseemed to come to him from that one furtive eye, that a woman satwithin those folds.
"But how?" he begun in perplexity. "I thought the Baharupas [_Lit_.many-faced] never went in caravans."
Tiddu resumed the cracked voice and let the smile become visible, and,as if by magic, the illusion disappeared. "The Huzoor is right. We arewanderers. But in my youth a woman tied me to one place, one face;women have the trick, Huzoor, even if they are wanderers themselves.This one was, but I loved her; so after we had burned her and herfellow-wanderer together hand-in-hand, according to the custom, sothat they might wander elsewhere but not in the tribe, I lingered on.He was the father of Jhungi, and the boy being left destitute I taughthim to play; for it needs two in the play as in life. The man and thewoman, or folks care not for it. So I taught Jhungi----"
"And brother Bhungi?" suggested his hearer dryly.
A faint chuckle came from the veil. "And Bhungi. He plays well, andhath beguiled an old rascal with thin legs and a fat face like mineinto playing with him. Some, even the Huzoor himself, might bebeguiled into mistaking Siddu for Tiddu. But it is a tom-cat to atiger. So being warned, the Huzoor will give no unearned blows. Yet ifhe did, are not two kicks bearable from the mulch-cow?" As he spoke heangled out a hand impudently for an alms with the beggars' cry of"_Alakh_," to point his meaning.
It was echoed by Jhungi, who, envious of Tiddu's holding the boards,as it were, had in sheer devilry and desire not to be outdone, takenup the disguise of a mendicant. It was a most creditable performance,but Tiddu dismissed it with a waive of the hand.
"_Bullah!_" he said contemptuously, "'tis the refuge of fools. Thereis
not one true beggar in fifty, so the forty-and-nine false ones gofree of detention as the potter's donkey. Even the Huzoor could dobetter--had I the teaching of him."
He leaned forward, dropping his voice slightly, and Jim Douglasnarrowed his eyes as men do when some unbidden idea claims admittanceto the brain.
"You?" he echoed; "what could you teach me?"
Tiddu rose, let fall the veil to decent dignified drapery, and fixedhis eyes full on the questioner. They were luminous eyes, differingfrom Jhungi's beady ones as the fire-opal differs from the diamond.
"What could I teach?" he re-echoed, and his tone, monotonouslydistinct to Jim Douglas, was inaudible to others, judging by Jhungi'simpassive face. "Many things. For one, that the Baharupas are notmimics only. They have the Great Art. What is it? God knows. But whatthey will folk to see, that is seen. That and no more."
Jim Douglas laughed derisively. Animal magnetism and mesmerism wereone thing: this was another.
"The Huzoor thinks I lie; but he must have heard of the doctor sahibin Calcutta who made suffering forget to suffer."
"You mean Dr. Easdale. Did you know him? Was he a pupil of yours?"came the cynical question.
Tiddu's face became expressionless. "Perhaps; but this slave forgetsnames. Yet the Huzoors have the gift sometimes. The Baharupas have itnot always; though the father's hoard goes oftenest to the son. Now,if, by chance, the Huzoor had the gift and could use it, there wouldbe no need for policemen to salute as he passes; no need for thedrug-smokers to cease babbling when he enters. So the Huzoor couldfind out what he wants to find out; what he is paid to find out."
His eyes met Jim Douglas' surprise boldly.
"How do you know I want to find out anything?" said the latter, aftera pause.
Tiddu laughed. "The Huzoor must find a turban heavy, and there is noroom for English toes in a native shoe; folk seek not such discomfortfor naught."
Jim Douglas paused again; the fellow was a charlatan, but he wasconsummately clever; and if there was anything certain in this worldit was the wisdom of forgetting Western prejudices occasionally indealing with the East.
"Send that man away," he said curtly, "I want to talk to you alone."
But the request seemed lost on Tiddu. He folded up the veilimpudently, and resumed the thread of the former topic. "YetJhungi plays the beggar well, for which Fate be praised, since hemust ask alms elsewhere if the Huzoor refuses them. For the purse isempty"--here he took a leathern bag from his waistband and turned itinside out--"by reason of the Huzoor's dislike to good mimics. So thoumust to the temples, Jhungi, and if thou meetest Bhungi give him thesahib's generous gift; for blows should not be taken on loan."
Jhungi, who all this time had been telling his beads like the best ofbeggars, looked up with some perplexity; whether real or assumed JimDouglas felt it was impossible to say, in that hotbed of deception.
"Bhungi?" echoed the former, rising to his feet. "Ay! that will I, ifI meet him. But God knows as to that. God knows of Bhungi----"
"The purse is empty," repeated Tiddu in a warning voice, and Jhungi,with a laugh, pulled himself and his disguise together, as it were,and passed out of the tent; his beggar's cry, "_Alakh! Alakh!_"growing fainter and fainter while Tiddu and Jim Douglas looked at eachother.
"Jhungi-Bhungi--Bhungi-Jhungi," jeered the Baharupa, suddenly,jingling the names together. "Which be which, as he said, God knows,not man. That is the best of lies. They last a body's lifetime, so theHuzoor may as well learn old Tiddu's----"
"Or Siddu's?"
"Or Siddu's," assented the mountebank calmly. "But the Huzoor cannotlearn to use his gift from that old rascal. He must come to themany-faced one, who is ready to teach it."
"Why?"
Tiddu abandoned mystery at once.
"For fifty rupees, Huzoor; not a _pice_ less. Now, in my hand."
Was it worth it? Jim Douglas decided instantly that it might be. Notfor the gift's sake; of that he was incredulous. But Tiddu was aconsummate actor and could teach many tricks worth knowing. Then inthis roving commission to report on anything he saw and heard to themilitary magnate, it would suit him for the time to have the serviceof an arrant scoundrel. Besides, the pay promised him being but small,the wisdom of having a second string to the bow of ambition hadalready decided him on combining inquiry with judicious horse-dealing;since he could thus wander through villages buying, through townsselling, without arousing suspicion; and this life in a caravan wouldstart him on these lines effectively. Finally, this offer of Tiddu'swas unsought, unexpected, and, ever since Kate Erlton's appeal, JimDouglas had felt a strange attraction toward pure chance. So he tookout a note from his pocket-book and laid it in the Baharupa's hand.
"You asked fifty," he said, "I give a hundred; but with the branch ofthe neem-tree between us two."
Tiddu gave him an admiring look. "With the sacred '_Lim ke dagla_'between us, and Mighty Murri-am herself to see it grow," he echoed."Is the Huzoor satisfied?"
The Englishman knew enough of Bunjarah oaths to be sure that he had,at least, the cream of them; besides, a hundred rupees went far in thepurchase of good faith. So that matter was settled, and he felt it tobe a distinct relief; for during the last day or two he had beencasting about for a fair start rather aimlessly. In truth, he hadunderrated the gap little Zora's death would make in his life, and hadbeen in a way bewildered to find himself haunting the empty nest onthe terraced roof in forlorn, sentimental fashion. The sooner,therefore, that he left Lucknow the better. So, as the Bunjarah hadtold him the caravan was starting the very next morning, he hastilycompleted his few preparations, and having sent Tara word of hisintention, went, after the moon had risen, to lock the doors on thepast idyl and take the key of the garden-house back to its owner; forhe himself had always lodged, in European fashion, near the Palace.
The garden, as he entered it, lay peaceful as ever; so utterlyunchanged from what he remembered it on many balmy moonlit nights,that he could not help looking up once more, as if expectant of thattinsel flutter, that soft welcome, "_Khush-amud-und Huzrut_." Strange!So far as he was concerned the idyl might be beginning; but for her?All unconsciously, as he paused, his thought found answer in onespoken word--the Persian equivalent for "it is finished," which hassuch a finality in its short syllables:
"KHUTM."
"Khutm." The echo came from Tara's voice, but it had a ring in itwhich made him turn, anticipating some surprise. She was standing notfar off, below the plinth, as he was, having stepped out from theshadow of the trees at his approach, and she was swathed from head tofoot in the white veil of orthodox widowhood, which encircled her facelike a cere-cloth. Even in the moonlight he could see the excitementin her face, the glitter in the large, wild eyes.
"Tara!" he exclaimed sharply, his experience warning him of danger,"what does this mean?"
"That the end has come; the end at last!" she cried theatrically;every fold of her drapery, though she stood stiff as a corpse, seemingto be instinct with fierce vitality.
He changed his tone at once, perceiving that the danger might beserious. "You mean that your service is at an end," he said quietly."I told you that some days ago. Also that your pay would be continuedbecause of your goodness to her--to the dead. I advised your returningnorth, nearer your own people, but you are free to go or stay. Do youwant anything more? If you do, be quick, please, for I am in a hurry."
His coolness, his failure to remark on the evident meaning of herchanged dress, calmed her somewhat.
"I want nothing," she replied sullenly. "A _suttee_ wants nothing inthis world, and I am _suttee_. I have been the master's servant forgratitude's sake--now I am the servant of God for righteousness'sake." So far she had, spoken as if the dignified words had beenpre-arranged; now she paused in a sort of wistful anger at theindifference on his face. The words meant so much to her, and, as sheceased from them, their controlling power seemed to pass also, and sheflung out her arms wildly, then brought them down in stinging blowsup
on her breasts.
"I am _suttee_. Yes! I am _suttee!_ Reject me not again, ye ShiningOnes! reject me not again."
The cry was full of exalted resolve and despair. It made Jim Douglasstep up to her, and seizing both hands, hold them fast.
"Don't be a fool, Tara!" he said sternly. "Tell me, sensibly, what allthis means. Tell me what you are going to do."
His touch seemed to scorch her, for she tore herself away from itvehemently; yet it seemed also to quiet her, and she watched him withsomber eyes for a minute ere replying: "I am going to Holy Gunga.Where else should a _suttee_ go? The Water will not reject me as theFire did, since, before God! I am _suttee_. As the master knows,"--hervoice held a passionate appeal,--"I have been _suttee_ all these longyears. Yet now I have given up all--all!"
With a swift gesture, full of womanly grace, but with a sortof protest against such grace in its utter abandonment andself-forgetfulness, she flung out her arms once more. This time toraise the shrouding veil from her head and shoulders. Against thisbackground of white gleaming in the moonlight, her new-shaven skullshowed death-like, ghastly. Jim Douglas recoiled a step, not from thesight itself, but because he knew its true meaning; knew that it meantself-immolation if she were left to follow her present bent. She wouldsimply go down to the Ganges and drown herself. An inconceivable stateof affairs, beyond all rational understanding; but to be reckonedwith, nevertheless, as real, inevitable.
"What a pity!" he said, after a moment's pause had told him that itwould be well to try and take the starch out of her resolution by fairmeans or foul, leaving its cause for future inquiry. "You had suchnice hair. I used to admire it very much."
Her hands fell slowly, a vague terror and remorse came to her eyes;and he pursued the advantage remorselessly. "Why did you cut it off?"He knew, of course, but his affected ignorance took the color, theintensity from the situation, by making her feel her _coup de theatre_had failed.
"The Huzoor must know," she faltered, anger and disappointment andvague doubt in her tone, while her right hand drew itself over theshaven skull as if to make sure there was no mistake. "I am_suttee_--" The familiar word seemed to bring certainty with it, andshe went on more confidentially. "So I cut it all off and it liesthere, ready, as I am, for purification."
She pointed to the upper step leading to the plinth, where, as on analtar, lay all her worldly treasures, arranged carefully with a viewto effect. The crimson scarf she had always worn was folded--with dueregard to the display of its embroidered edge--as a cloth, and ateither end of it lay a pile of trumpery personal adornments, eachtopped and redeemed from triviality by a gold wristlet and anklet. Inthe center, set round by fallen orange-blossoms, rose a great heap ofblack hair, snakelike in glistening coils. The simple pomposity of thearrangement was provocative of smiles, the wistful eagerness of theface watching its effect on the master was provocative of tears. JimDouglas, feeling inclined for both, chose the former deliberately; heeven managed a derisive laugh as he stepped up to the altar and laidsacrilegious hands on the hair. Tara gave a cry of dismay, but he wastoo quick for her, and dangled a long lock before her very eyes, injesting, but stern decision.
"That settles it, Tara. You can go to Gunga now if you like, and batheand be as holy as you like. But there will be no Fire or Water. Do youunderstand?"
She looked at the hand holding the hair with the oddest expression,though she said obstinately, "I shall drown if I choose."
"Why should you choose?" he asked. "You know as well as I that it istoo late for any good to you or others. The Fire and Water should havecome twelve years ago. The priests won't say so of course. They wantfools to help them in this fuss about the new law. Ah! I thought so!They have been at you, have they? Well, be a fool if you like, andbring them pennies at Benares as a show. You cannot do anything else.You can't even sacrifice your hair really, so long as I have thisbit." He began to roll the lock round his finger, neatly.
"What is the Huzoor going to do with it?" she asked, and the oddnesshad invaded her voice.
"Keep it," he retorted. "And by all, these thirty thousand and oddgods of yours, I'll say it was a love-token if I choose. And I will ifyou are a fool." He drew out a small gold locket attached to theBrahminical thread he always wore, and began methodically to fit thecurl into it, wondering if this cantrip of his--for it was nothingmore--would impress Tara. Possibly. He had found such suggestions ofritual had an immense effect, especially with the womenkind who werefor ever inventing new shackles for themselves; but her next remarkstartled him considerably.
"Is the _bibi's_ hair in there too?" she asked. There was a realanxiety in her tone, and he looked at her sharply, wondering what shewould be at.
"No," he answered. In truth it was empty; and had been empty eversince he had taken a fair curl from it many years before; a curl whichhad ruined his life. The memory making him impatient of all femininesubtleties, he added roughly, "It will stay there for the present; butif you try _suttee_ nonsense I swear I'll tie it up in a cowskin bag,and give it to a sweeper to make broth of."
The grotesque threat, which suggested itself to his sardonic humor asone suitable to the occasion, and which in sober earnest was terribleto one of her race, involving as it did eternal damnation, seemed topass her by. There was even, he fancied, a certain relief in the facewatching him complete his task; almost a smile quivering about herlips. But when he closed the locket with a snap, and was about to slipit back to its place, the full meaning of the threat, of the loss--orof something beyond these--seemed to overtake her; an unmistakableterror, horror, and despair swept through her. She flung herself athis feet, clasping them with both hands.
"Give it me back, master," she pleaded wildly. "Hinder me not again!Before God I am _suttee!_ I am _suttee!_"
But this same Eastern clutch of appeal is disconcerting to the averageEnglishman. It fetters the understanding in another sense, andsmothers sympathy in a desire to be left alone. Even Jim Douglasstepped back from it with something like a bad word. She remainedcrouching for a moment with empty hands, then rose in scornfuldignity.
"There was no need to thrust this slave away," she said proudly."Tara, the Rajputni, will go without that. She will go to Holy Gungaand be purged of inmost sin. Then she will return and claim her rightof _suttee_ at the master's hand. Till then he may keep what hestole."
"He means to keep it," retorted the master savagely, for he had cometo the end of his patience. "Though what this fuss about _suttee_means I don't know. You used to be sensible enough. What has come toyou?"
Tara looked at him helplessly, then, wrapping her widow's veil roundher, prepared to go in silence. She could not answer that questioneven to herself. She would not even admit the truth of the oldtradition, that the only method for a woman to preserve constancy tothe dead was to seek death itself. That would be to admit too much.Yet that was the truth, to which her despair at parting pointed evento herself. Truth? No! it was a lie! She would disprove it even inlife if she was prevented from doing so by death. So, without a word,she gathered up the crimson drapery and what lay on it. Then, withthese pathetic sacrifices of all the womanhood she knew tight claspedin her widow's veil, she paused for a last salaam.
The incomprehensible tragedy of her face irritated him into greaterinsistence.
"But what is it all about?" he reiterated. "Who has been putting theseideas into your head? Who has been telling you to do this? Is it Soma,or some devil of a priest?"
As he waited for an answer the floods of moonlight threw their shadowstogether to join the perfumed darkness of the orange trees. The city,half asleep already, sent no sound to invade the silence.
"No! master. It was God."
Then the shadow left him and disappeared with her among the trees. Hedid not try to call her back. That answer left him helpless.
But as, after climbing the stairs, he passed slowly from one toanother of the old familiar places in the pleasant pavilions, themystery of such womanhood as Tara Devi's and little Zora's oppressedhi
m. Their eternal cult of purely physical passion, their eternalstruggle for perfect purity and constancy, not of the soul, but thebody; their worship alike of sex and He who made it seemedincomprehensible. And as he turned the key in the lock for the lasttime, he felt glad to think that it was not likely the problem wouldcome into his life again; even though he carried a long lock of blackhair with him. It was an odd keepsake, but if he was any judge offaces his cantrip had served his purpose; Tara would not commitsuicide while he held that hostage.
So, having scant leisure left, he hurried through the alleys to returnthe key. They were almost deserted; the children at this hour beingasleep, the men away lounging in the bazaars. But every now and againa formless white figure clung to a corner shadow to let him pass. Awhite shadow itself, recalling the mystery he had been glad to leaveunsolved; for he knew them to be women taking this only opportunityfor a neighborly visit. Old or young, pretty or ugly? What did itmatter? They were women, born temptresses of virtuous men; and theywere proud of the fact, even the poor old things long past theiryouth. There was a chink in a door he was about to pass. A chink aninch wide with a white shadow behind it. A woman was looking out. Whatsort of a woman, he wondered idly? Suddenly the chink widened, a handcrept through it, beckoning. He could see it clearly in the moonlight.An old wrinkled hand, delicately old, delicately wrinkled,inconceivably thin, but with the pink henna stain of the temptressstill on palms and fingers. A hand with the whole history of seclusionwritten on it. He crossed over to it, and heard a hurried breathlesswhisper.
"If the Huzoor would listen for the sake of any woman he loves."
It was an old voice, but it sent a thrill to his heart. "I amlistening, mother," he replied, "for the sake of the dead."
"God send her grave peace, my son!" came the voice less hurriedly."It is not much for listening. I am pensioner, Huzoor. TheKing gave me three rupees, but now he is gone and the moneycomes not. If the Huzoor would tell those who send it thatAshraf-un-Nissa-Zainub-i-Mahal--the Huzoor may know my name, being asmy father and mother--wants it. That is all, Huzoor."
It was not much, but Jim Douglas could supplement the rest. Here wasevidently a woman who had lived on bounty, and who was starving forthe lack of it. There were hundreds in her position, he knew, evenamong those whose pensions had been guaranteed; for they had not beenpaid as yet. The papers were not ready, the tape not tied, thesealing-wax not sealed.
"It will not be for long, Huzoor, and it is only three rupees. I waswatching for a neighbor to borrow corn, if I could, and seeing theHuzoor----"
"It is all right, mother," he interrupted reassuringly. "I was comingto pay it. Hold the hand straight and I will count it in. Three rupeesfor three months; that is nine."
The chink of the silver had a background of blessings, and Jim Douglaswalked on, thinking what a quaint commentary this little incident wason his puzzle. "Ashraf-un-Nissa-Zainub-i-Mahal." "Honor-of-women andOrnament-of-Palaces." If the King's paymaster had thought twice aboutsuch things, the poor old lady might not have been starving. He wasthe real culprit. And three months' delay was not long for sanctions,references, for all the paraphernalia and complex machinery of ourGovernment. But a case like this? He looked up into the star-sprinkledriband of sky between the narrowing housetops, and wondered from howmany unseen hearths and unheard voices the cry, "How long, O Lord! Howlong!" was rising. But even to his listening ear there was no sign, nosound. And as he went on through the bazaars, the crowds were passingand repassing contentedly upon the trivial errands of life, and thetwinkling cressets in the shops showed faces eager only after atrivial loss or gain.
And the world of Lucknow was apparently awakening contentedly to a newday, when, before dawn, he passed out of it disguised by Tiddu as adeaf-and-dumb driver to the bullock which carried the tatteredbell-tent and the tattered staff uniform. It was still dark, but therewas a sense of coming light in the sky, and the hum of the housewives'querns, early at work over the coming day's bread, filled the air likeswarming bees. The spectral white shadows of widow-drudges werealready at work on the creaking well-gear, and the swish of their reedbrooms could be heard behind screening walls.
But on the broad white road beyond the bazaars the fresh perfume ofthe dew-steeped gardens drifted with the faint breeze which heraldsthe dawn. And down the road, heard first, then dimly seen against itswhiteness, came a band of chanting pilgrims to the Holy River.
"_Hurri Gunga! Hurri Gunga! Hurri Gunga!_"
Jim Douglas, swerving his bullock to give them room, wondered if Tarawere among them. What if she were? That lock of hair went with _him_.So, with a smile, he swerved the bullock back again. There was a hintof a gleaming river-curve through the lessening trees now, and thatbig black mass to his left must be the Bailey-guard gate. He could seea faint white streak like a sentry beside it; so it must be close ongunfire. Even as the thought came, a sudden rolling boom filled thesilence, and seemed to vibrate against the archway. And hark! Fromwithin the Residency, and from far Dilkhusha, the clear glad notes ofthe reveille answered the challenge; while close at hand the clash ofarms told they were changing guards. Then, though he could not see it,the English flag must be rising beyond the trees to float over thecity during the coming day.
For one day more, at least.
BOOK II.
THE BLOWING OF THE BUBBLE.