Part 1 (1/2)
The Mercy of the Lord.
by Flora Annie Steel.
THE MERCY OF THE LORD
”G.o.d movesn--a--mystere'ras way Iswon--derstuper--form.”
Craddock was polis.h.i.+ng the bra.s.s of his safety valve and singing the while at high pressure between set teeth: his choice of a ditty determined by one of his transitory lapses into conventional righteousness. The cause of which in the present instance being an equally transient admiration for a good little Eurasian girl fresh from her convent.
As the sun--which s.h.i.+nes equally on the just and the unjust--flamed on his red face and glowed from his corn-coloured beard it seemed to me--waiting in the comparative coolth of the pointsman's mud-oven shelter till the one mail train of the day should appear and disappear, leaving the ribbon of rail which spanned the desert world to its horizon free for our pa.s.saging--that both he and his engine radiated heat: that they gave out--as the burning bush or the flaming swords of the paradise-protectors must have given out--a message of fiery warning that suited the words he sang:
”Eplants 'isfootsteps--inthesea.”
Craddock punctuated the rhythm with an appropriate stop of shrill steam which ought to have startled me: but it did not, because my outward senses had suddenly become slaves to my memory. The desert was a garden full of cool fragrance which comes with the close of an Indian day, and the only sound to be heard in it was a glad young voice repeating these words:
”Oh! G.o.d of the Battle! Have mercy! Have mercy! Have mercy!”
”Bravo! young Bertram!” said someone--even those who scarcely knew whether Bertram were his Christian or his surname called him that--”Easy to see you're fresh from the Higher Standard.”
Young Bertram smiled down on us from the plinth of the marble steps leading up to the marble summer house which stood in the centre of this Garden-of-Dead-Kings.
Posed there on his pedestal, holding orb-like in his raised right hand the battered bronze cannon ball whose inscription--roughly lettered in snaky spirals--he had just translated, young Bertram reminded me of the young Apollo.
”You bet,” he answered, gaily. ”But what does it mean, here on this blessed ball? Who knows the story?--for there is one, of course.”
The company looked at me, partly because as a civilian such knowledge was expected of me; mostly because I was responsible for the invasion of this peaceful Eastern spot by a restless, curious horde of Westerns; my only excuse for the desecration being, that as the most despicable product of our Indian rule, a gra.s.s widower bound to entertain, I had naturally clutched at the novelty of a picnic supper and dance some few miles out of the station.
Perhaps, had I seen the garden first, I might have relented, but I took it on trust from my orderly, who a.s.sured me it held all things necessary for my salvation, including a marble floor on which a drugget could be stretched.
It held much more. There was in it an atmosphere--not all orange blossom and roses, though these drugged the senses--which to my mind made a touch of tragedy lurk even in our laughter.
Though, in sooth, we brought part of the tragedy with us: for a frontier war was on, and all the men and half the women present, knew that the route might come any moment.
Some few--I, as chief district officer, the colonel and his adjutant--were aware that it probably would come before morning: but ours were not the sober faces. Our plans were laid; all things, even the arrangements for the women and the children and the unfit-for-service, were cut and dried: but the certainty that someone must--as the phrase runs--take over doc.u.ments, and the uncertainty as to who the unlucky beggar would be, lent care to a young heart or two.
Not, however, to young Bertram. As he stood questioning me with his frank blue eyes, even the white garments he had donned (because, he said, ”It might be a beastly time before he wore decent togs again”) told the same tale as his glad voice--the tale of that boundless hope which holds ever the greatest tragedy of life.
”Who is that pretty boy?” said a low soft voice at my elbow.
I did not answer the spoken question of the voice, but as I replied to the unspoken question of many eyes I was conscious that of all the many incongruous elements I had imported into that Eastern garden this Western woman who had appraised young Bertram's beauty was the most incongruous. It was not the Paris frock and hat, purchased on the way out--she had only rejoined her husband the day before--which made her so. It was the woman inside them. I knew the type so well, and my soul rose in revolt that she should soil his youth with her approval.
”I've no doubt there are stories,” I replied; ”but I don't happen to know them. I'm as much a stranger here as you all are. So come! let us look round till it's dark enough to dance.”
”Dark enough to sit out, he means,” said someone to the Paris frock and hat, whereat there was a laugh, but not so general and not half so hearty as the one which greeted young Bertram's gravity as he replaced the cannon ball on the plinth with the profound remark:
”Something about a woman, you bet.”