Part 22 (1/2)

Then the Major, being less secure of his ground since fighting was out of the question, turned on his heel. ”So far as I'm concerned,” he said, ”the explanation is sufficient. Give the devil his due and every man his chance.”

The innuendo was again unmistakable; but the words reminded Jim Douglas of an almost-forgotten promise, and he bit his lips over the necessity for silence. But in that--as he knew well--lay his only refuge from his own temper; it was silence, or speech to the uttermost.

”If you have quite done with the proof, Captain Morecombe,” he said very ceremoniously.

”Certainly, certainly. Thanks for letting me see it,” interrupted the Captain, who had been looking from one to the other doubtfully, as most men do even when their dearest friends are implicated, if the cause of a quarrel is a horse. ”It is a serious business,” he went on hurriedly to help the diversion. ”After all the talk and fuss, this cutting down of an officer----”

”Is first blood,” put in Jim Douglas. ”There will be more spilled before long.”

”Disloyal scoundrels!” growled Major Erlton wrathfully. ”Idiots! As if they had a chance!”

”They have none. That's the pity of it,” retorted his adversary as he rode off quickly.

Ay! that was the pity of it! The pity of blood to be spilled needlessly. The thought made him slacken speed, as if he were on the threshold of a graveyard; though he could not foresee the blood to be spilled so wantonly in that very garden-set angle of the city, so full now of the scent of flowers, the sounds of security. From far came the subdued hum which rises from a city in which there is no wheeled traffic, no roar of machinery; only the feet of men, their tears, their laughter, to a.s.sail the irresponsive air. Nearer, among the scattered houses hidden by trees, rose children's voices playing about the servants' quarters. Across the now empty playground of the College the outlines of the church showed faintly among the fret of branches upon the dull red sky, which a cloudless sunset leaves behind it. And through the open arch of the Cashmere gate, the great globe of the full moon grew slowly from the ruddy earth-haze, then loud and clear came the chime of seven from the mainguard gong, the rattle of arms dying into silence again. The peace of it all seemed una.s.sailable, the security unending.

”_Delhi dur ust!_”

The words were called across the road in a woman's voice, making him turn to see a shadowy white figure outlined against the dark arches of a veranda close upon the road. He reined up his horse almost involuntarily, remembering as he did so that this was Mrs. Gissing's house.

”I beg your pardon----” he began.

”I beg yours,” came the instant reply. ”I mistook you for a friend.

Good-night!”

”Good-night!”

As he paced his horse on, choosing the longer way to Duryagunj, by the narrow lanes clinging to the city wall, the remembrance of that frank good-night lingered with him. For a friend! What a name to call Herbert Erlton! Poor little soul! The thought, by its very intolerableness, drove him back to the other, roused by her first words:

”_Delhi dur ust_.”

True! Even this Delhi lying before his very eyes was far from him. How would it take the news which by now, as he had said, must have filtered through the bazaar? He could imagine that. He knew, also, that the Palace folk must be all discussing the Resident's garden party, with a view to their own special aims and objects. But what did they think of the outlook on the future? Did they also say _Delhi dur ust?_

One of them was saying it on a roof close by. It was Abool-Bukr, who, on his way home, had given himself the promised pleasure of retailing his virtuous afternoon's experiences to Newasi; for his two-months-wed bride had not broken _him_ of his habit of coming to his kind one, though it had made _her_ graver, more dignified. Still she broke in on his thick a.s.sertion--for he had drunk brandy in his efforts to be friendly with the sahibs--that he had seen an Englishwoman of her sort, with the quick query:

”Like me! How so?”

He laughed mischievously. ”And thou art not jealous of my wife!--or sayest thou art not! She was but like thee in this, aunt, that she is of the sort who would have men better than G.o.d made them----”

”No worse, thou meanest,” she replied.

He shook his head. ”Women, Newasi, are as the ague. A man is ever being made better or worse till he knows not if he be well or ill. And both ways G.o.d's work is marred, a man driven from his right fate----”

”But if a man mistakes his fate as thou dost, Abool,” she persisted.

”Sure, if Jewun Bukht with that evil woman, Zeenut----”

He started to his feet, thrusting out lissome hands wildly, as if to set aside some thought. ”Have a care, Newasi, have a care!” he cried.

”Talk not of that arch plotter, arch dreamer. Nay! not arch dreamer!

'tis thou that dreamest most. Dreamest war without blood, men without pa.s.sion, me without myself! Was there not blood on my hands ere ever I was born--I, Abool-Bukr, of the race of Timoor--kings, tyrants, by birth and trade? The blood of those who stood in my father's way and my father's fathers. I tell thee there is too much tinder yonder----”