Part 51 (2/2)

But I felt the cleave of the water from his foot at last, and spent myself in one stroke. So I laid hold of his leg and ran my hand up till I found his back. Then I used Carlone-_sahib's_ knife on him, and he sank; and I sank too, with the blow.

”And when I came up, leaving him there, I found how long the race had been, for my right hand struck the city wall. Then it came to me what the Miss-_sahiba_ had said, of Carlone-_sahib_ wis.h.i.+ng to go quick; and I bethought me of the secret pa.s.sages, and the knife, and Gu-gu's fear.

And I said to myself someone must have restored the miracle. Not Gu-gu; else why was he hiding? What if it be Carlone-_sahib?_ But most of all I thought of my little son, and the devils longing for him, and for a woman longing for the sight of a man's beauty, and I knew I must go and see if it lay there. So I dived, and found him, as the Awarder of Justice knows, sitting high up, with the water about his feet, waiting for death, and brought him back as I promised. And Gu-gu is dead, for his body was drifting by the tunnel with Carlone-_sahib's_ knife in the back as we came out. So the Miss is pleased, and the devils do not come near my son.”

The brogue ceased, and there was a pause. ”Well! what do ye say, Dillon?” asked the Commissioner, fretfully.

George Dillon rose and put on his hat deliberately. ”Nothing. Except that I must really be off. I've to see Smith first, and Carlyon--that sprained ankle of his, which he got trying to climb up beyond the rise of the water, will be the deuce and all if he uses it too soon. And then, if I can, I want to get round and say good-by to--to the Miss-_sahiba_. She's off to Herrnhut again this evening. In fact, Campbell didn't half like her waiting for the funeral, he is in such a blessed hurry to get to his new field, as he calls it; thinks of nothing else. They are to be married on Monday, I believe.”

The Commissioner laid aside Am-ma's _affidavit_ with a soft ”d.a.m.n,” and Dr. Dillon paused on his way out at the sound.

”Quite so,--I entirely agree with you,” he said sympathetically; ”but, unfortunately, there is only one person who has a right to tell that story, sir--and she won't!”

”Why not?” interrupted the Commissioner, militantly--”why the blazes shouldn't a woman tell the truth?”

”Because women don't know it,” broke in the doctor, ”or men either, for that matter. Because we men and women have got ourselves on such false lines, into such an absolutely false position towards each other, that the only course consistent with propriety and _les convenances_ is to--to hush the thing up! So hush-a-bye baby, sir, to your heart's content. So long as the mother can tell her blessed infant that she is a lady, what does the real fact matter?”

He spoke with a concentrated bitterness, an almost fierce resentment, and the Commissioner nodded, finished his whiskey-and-soda at a gulp, and returned to work, tossing his papers about recklessly.

”It's a quare world, certainly,” he murmured, with a lack of originality which sat ill on him. Then, catching sight of something in a file, his humorous, kindly self returned. ”Listen to this now, for quareness,” he laughed, beginning to read:--

”'The pet.i.tion of Mussumat Mumtaza Mahal'--that's Roshan Khan's grandmother, you know--'sister,' etc., etc., 'humbly sheweth that she has endured grievous wrong and hurt, by loss of her grandson in the late deplorable mutiny (of which she was utterly incognizant, being helpless, veiled, old woman perpetually confined in house). Therefore prayeth that whereas one Mussumat Ashraf-un-nissa, her neighbour, is in receipt of pension rupees twenty-five _per mensem_ for similar bereavement of male protector and head of family lost in '57 mutiny, therefore her pension of rupees twenty _per mensem_, only, for exile of husband to Calcutta, be commuted to similar sum of twenty-five, seeing that your poor pet.i.tioner is in floods of tears and wholly heartbroken through this most nonregulation, premature death of promising young scion of her n.o.ble house, on whom, as on blessed Victoria, Queen, her hopes were fixed. Said pet.i.tioner being able to prove _alibi_, absolute incomplicity, and continuous remaining at home during late devilish disturbances.'”

”Poor old soul!” laughed the doctor, ”give it to her if you can, sir.

And as for remaining at home, everybody except the actual conspirators did that. Even Dya-Ram, the disaffected--though he has preached armed resistance to tyranny in his paper for years. He barricaded himself in with his printing-press. Fact; jammed his fingers in so doing, and came to me in a blind funk for a professional certificate that the wound could not have been caused by any lethal weapon. As if anyone could ever have suspected him of taking part in raising a row, or even in settling one! His sort are simply negligible quant.i.ties.”

”But Ramanund seems to have attempted a lead,” put in the Commissioner, judicially.

”Exactly. Attempted, and failed. His sort are negligible quant.i.ties also, sir, I'm sorry to say, and will remain so until they learn, amongst other knowledge, to believe in something besides themselves--” here the hard eyes softened, the hard voice paused. ”That is another thing I should like to have seen--dear old Pidar Narayan--”

The hard voice found even softness too loud; and in the silence which fell between the two men, only the Commissioner's pen could be heard.

”You'll look in at the palace, perhaps, and see all is right,” came the brogue, after a bit, ”and give my love to old Smith. I'm not sure but that I'd rather have seen him behind the door than anything else, for it must have been the hardest job--”

”Considering the circ.u.mstances, yes!” put in the doctor; so, with the pith hat turning him into an animated mushroom, he pa.s.sed out into the blaze of dry yellow suns.h.i.+ne, on that dry yellow sand.

The sky above was molten with light and heat, the gaol positively s.h.i.+mmered in the glare. Not a sound, not a sight, told of that midsummer night's dream of wild, useless revolt, save when one of the shackled prisoners awaiting trial sought a better bit of shade under the wilted palms, which, not a week before, had welcomed the Hosts of the Lord-_sahib_ on their way to the hills.

The whole thing seemed incredible; yet, as he crossed the road to enter the Smiths' compound, the footsteps of those other Hosts who had pa.s.sed on to the hills also remained to dimple the dry yellow sand.

The Smiths' bungalow lay calm, peaceful; the drawing-room, as he entered it, struck him with the old, familiar sense of refinement, indexing the refinement of its mistress. Only one change caught his observant eyes. Vincent Dering's photograph was no longer on the mantle-piece, whence it had always looked out with a certain challenge in its very prominence. Where had it gone? What matter? There was no need for such defiance now, thought George Dillon, with that curious half-cynical, half-resentful smile he kept for one subject only. She might keep the photograph where she chose, now, and none would blame her.

So thinking, he set aside the curtain which hung at his patient's door, and as he did so, resentment, cynicism, vanished in quick sympathy.

”Ah! fever again, I see,--that's a bore,” he said, going over swiftly to the bed where Eugene Smith's long length lay visibly s.h.i.+vering; for something,--the exposure, the excitement, the strain, perhaps, of that awful inaction behind the door against which Vincent Dering was making that heroic stand,--had knocked the big man over, a prey to an old enemy--malarial fever. ”When did it come on?”

Muriel Smith, who sat on the bed, her hand in one of her husband's shaking, trembling ones, looked up. She was very pale, but very calm.

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