Part 36 (1/2)

Followed a short spell of peace in which Leonie raised her hand to summon her ayah squatting on the dressing-room matting, and put an end to the incessant chattering.

But bolts do not wait upon the clapping of hands before they crash down upon your defenceless head from out the blue, and the one destined for her from all time hurled itself at her from out a wispy cloud of Eurasian gossip.

”Oh! but we can't do that!” announced the peevish high-pitched voice.

”Why not?”

”Ma says we're not to be with her alone. There's all sorts of weird tales going round about her. Thought you knew. They say she killed her first husband, and tried to stab someone in Calcutta with that dagger she wears in her hair; that she lives on the q.t. with a native--he gave her that gorgeous necklace of pink pearls; has been seen with him in the compound after dark--Ma watched--and she's positively dotty at the full moon. Fact! Mrs. Oswald told Ma that there's no doubt that she's quite mad at times.”

The blonde slid her slightly bowed, silken-hosed limbs to the ground, her face the colour of greenish putty through the superst.i.tions of one half of her forbears.

”Let's go and find your ma!” said she. ”It's full moon to-night.”

And after their departure Leonie sat very still on the edge of the bed, with one foot tucked under her, and the other bare and very perfect stretched down to the matting; the netting fell in folds behind her, and her eyes stared into the corner where a one time nameless, unshaped spook, having taken form and name at last, stood mouthing at her from the shadows.

She started violently and looked down when her body-woman touched the arched instep with her wrinkled, dusky hand.

Keenly intuitive, as are all the peoples of India, she had crept noiselessly across the matting and crouched at Leonie's feet in her desire to be near the beloved child in her distress.

There was a heaven of love and a world of indecision in the monkey eyes, but not a trace of fear when the beloved child suddenly twisted the _sari_ from about the sleek head and pock-marked face and shook her violently by the shoulder. Instead she rocked herself gently to and fro, crooning in the toneless cracked voice of the native woman who tends a white child and loves it.

”Missy--baba, it's ayah!” went the tuneless song, ”it's ayah--it's ayah--be not afraid, baba--baba--it's ayah--ayah--ayah.”

Over and over again she repeated the words with her eyes on the terror-stricken face above her.

”Why!” said Leonie, frowning till her straight brows met as she pressed the palms against her temples, ”why, you used to sing that in--in--you used to call me--in the name of all the G.o.ds, woman, tell me--help me, oh! help me to understand!”

Great tears stood in the native woman's eyes, and she opened her mouth to speak, then turned her head slightly and looked towards the chick which had rustled; scowled, and bowing her head ever so little placed the palm of her hand against her forehead for an instant.

”Won't you or _can't_ you speak?” said Leonie almost roughly, her voice ending on a sharp note which changed to a little bubbling uncanny laugh as she sat back on the bed holding her ayah at arm's length.

She took no notice of the dressing-bell when it clanged throughout the building, nor of the swish of the water as it was heaved into the tin bath in the bathroom, but sat on with the plaits of her hair coiled like snakes on each side of her, and the whiteness of her bare arms and shoulders s.h.i.+ning in the light from the bathroom.

”Ayah! ayah!” she said in a dull sing-song sort of way, ”do you know what they say? Do you know what they think? They think, they say I'm _mad_! And do you know I think I am. Sometimes there's the sound of drums in my brain, great big drums beaten by giants, and sometimes the sound of bells. And the sound of the bells is hot, it burns great scars on--on--and there are hours for which I can't account, and cuts and bruises on my feet and--and----”

Very quietly the native woman rose, and pa.s.sing one arm behind the bare shoulder drew a hand across the low broad forehead, singing in her own tongue so softly as to be almost inaudible.

”I dream of blood, ayah,” went on Leonie, ”so often--so often--it is warm to the fingers and drops so--so slowly--and----”

The ayah pressed her fingers a little as she drew them behind the ears to the nape of the neck, and raised her voice ever so slightly in the Vega chant she had learnt as a lullaby.

”The women,” she crooned, ”that are lying on a bench, lying on a couch, lying in a litter; the women that--are--of--pure odour--all--of them we--make--sleep!”

The cracked voice sank suddenly as her child's face softened and relaxed, but the dark hand pa.s.sed to and fro ceaselessly above the eyes and down behind the ears.

”It walks so softly, ayah--it's--it's in that--corner now--look! can't you see--its--its eyes--and the small--light--and she is--she is calling--calling--just as she--has--has--always----”

The tawny head fell backwards on to the white _sari_ picked out in coloured silk, pulling it away from the head, and the marriage dower of thirteen silver earrings in the left ear, and the turquoise studded nose ring which shone dully in the dim light.