Part 54 (1/2)

Jim Douglas looked down hastily on old Tiddu's staff properties, which he had quite forgotten. They had pa.s.sed muster in the darkness of the tent, but here, in the sunlight, looked inconceivably worn, and shabby, and unreal. He smiled rather bitterly; then held out his sleeve to show the braiding.

”It's a general's coat, sir,” he said defiantly. ”G.o.d knows what old duffer it belonged to; but I might have worn it first- instead of second-hand, if I hadn't been a d----d young fool.”

The splendid figure drew itself together formally, but the other's pride was up too, and so for a minute the two men faced each other honestly, Nicholson's eyes narrowing under their bent brows.

”What was it? A woman, I expect.”

”Perhaps. I don't see that it matters.”

A faint smile of approval rather took from the sternness of the military salute. ”Not at all. That ends it, of course.”

”Of course.”

Not quite; for ere Jim Douglas could drop the curtain between himself and that brilliant, successful figure, it had turned sharply and laid a hand on his shoulder. A curiously characteristic hand--large, thin, smooth, and white as a woman's, with a grip in it beyond most men's.

”You have a vile habit of telling the truth to superior officers, Mr.

Douglas. So have I. Shake hands on it.”

With that hand on his shoulder, that clasp on his, Jim Douglas felt as if he were in the grip of Fate itself, and following John Nicholson's example, gave it back frankly, freely. So, suddenly the whole face before him melted into perfect friendliness. ”Stick to it, man--stick to it! Save that poor lady--or--or kill somebody. It's what we are all doing. As for the rest”--the smile was almost boyish--”I may get the sack myself before the general's coat. I'm insubordinate enough, they tell me--but I shall have taken Delhi first. So--so good-luck to you!”

As he walked away, he seemed to the eyes watching him bigger, more king-like, more heroic than ever; perhaps because they were dim with tears. But as Jim Douglas went off with a new cheerfulness to see Hodson's Horse jingle out on their lesson of peace, he told himself that the old scoundrel, Tiddu, had once more been right. Nikalseyn had the Great Gift. He could take a man's heart out and look at it, and put it back sounder than it had been for years. He could put his own heart into a whole camp and make it believe it was its own.

Such a clattering of hoofs and clinking of bits and bridles had been heard often before, but never with such gay light-heartedness. Only two days before a lesson had been given to the city. There had been no more harra.s.sing of pickets at night. Now the arm of the law was going coolly to reach out forty miles. It was a change indeed. And more than Jim Douglas watched the sun set red on the city wall that evening with a certain content in their hearts. As for him, he seemed still to feel that grip, and hear the voice saying, ”Stick to it, man, stick to it!

Save that poor lady or kill somebody. It's what we are all doing.”

He sat dreaming over the whole strange dream with a curious sense of comrades.h.i.+p and sympathy through it all, until the glow faded and left the city dark and stern beneath the storm-clouds which had been gathering all day.

Then he rose and went back to his tent cheerfully. He would run no needless risks; he would not lose his head; but as soon as the doctors said it was safe, he would find and save Kate, or--_kill somebody_.

That was the whole duty of man.

Kate, however, had already been found, or rather she had never been lost; and when Tara, a few hours after Jim Douglas slipped out of the city, had gone to the roof to fetch away her spinning wheel, and finding the door padlocked on the inside, had in sheer bewilderment tried the effect of a signal knock, Kate had let her in as if, so poor Tara told herself, it was all to begin over again.

All over again, even though she had spent those few hours of freedom in a perfect pa.s.sion of purification, so that she might return to her saints.h.i.+p once more.

The gold circlets were gone already, her head was shaven, the coa.r.s.e white shroud had replaced the crimson scarf. Yet here was the mem asking for the Huzoor, and setting her blood on fire with vague jealousies.

She squatted down almost helplessly on the floor, answering all Kate's eager questions, until suddenly in the midst of it all she started to her feet, and flung up her arms in the old wild cry for righteousness, ”I am suttee! before G.o.d! I am suttee!”

Then she had said with a gloomy calm, ”I will bring the mem more food and drink. But I must think. Tiddu is away; Soma will not help. I am alone; but I am suttee.”

Kate, frightened at her wild eyes, felt relieved when she was left alone, and inclined not to open the door to her again. She could manage, she told herself, as she had managed, for a few days, and by that time Mr. Greyman would have come back. But as the long hours dragged by, giving her endless opportunity of thought, she began to ask herself why he should come back at all. She had not realized at first that he had escaped, that he was safe; that he was, as it were, quit of her. But he was, and he must remain so. A new decision, almost a content, came to her with the suggestion. She was busy in a moment over details. To begin with, no news must be sent. Then, in case he were to return, she must leave the roof. Tara might do so much for her, especially if it was made clear that it was for the master's benefit. But Tara might never return. There had been that in her manner which hinted at such a possibility, and the stores she had brought in had been unduly lavish. In that case, Kate told herself, she would creep out some night, go back to the Princess Farkhoonda, and see if she could not help. If not, there was always the alternative of ending everything by going into the streets boldly and declaring herself a Christian. But she would appeal to these two women first.

And as she sat resolving this, the two women were cursing her in their inmost hearts. For there had been no bangings of drums or thrumming of sutaras on Newasi's roof these three days. Abool-Bukr had broken away from her kind, detaining hand, and gone back to the intrigues of the Palace. So the Mufti's quarter benefited in decent quiet, during which the poor Princess began that process of weeping her eyes out, which left her blind at last. But not blind yet. And so she sat swaying gracefully before the book-rest, on which lay the Word of her G.o.d, her voice quavering sometimes over the monotonous chant, as she tried to distill comfort to her own heart from the proposition that ”He is Might and Right.”

And far away in another quarter of the town Tara, crouched up before a mere block of stone, half hidden in flowers, was telling her beads feverishly. ”_Ram-Ram-Sita-Ram!_” That was the form she used for a whole tragedy of appeal and aspiration, remorse, despair, and hope.

And as she muttered on, looking dully at the little row of platters she had presented to the shrine that morning--going far beyond necessity in her determination to be heard--the groups of women coming in to lay a fresh chaplet among the withered ones and give a ”jow” to the deep-toned bell hung in the archway in order to attract the G.o.d's attention to their offering, paused to whisper among themselves of her piety. While more than once a widow crept close to kiss the edge of her veil humbly.

It was balm indeed! It was peace. The mem might starve, she told herself fiercely, but she would be suttee. After all the strain, and the pain, and the wondering ache at her heart, she had come back to her own life. This she understood. Let the Huzoors keep to their own.

This was hers.