CHAPTER VI.
REWARDS AND PUNISHMENTS.
So the strain of months was over on the Ridge. Delhi was taken; theQueen's health was being drunk night after night in the Palace of theMoghuls. But there was one person to whom the passing days brought agrowing anxiety. This was Kate Erlton; for there were no tidings ofJim Douglas. None.
At first she had comforted herself with the idea that he was still,for some reason or another, keeping to the yet unconquered part of thecity; that he was obliged to do so being impossible, the long files ofwomen and children seeking safety and passing through the Ridgefearlessly precluding that consolation. Still it was conceivable hemight be busy, though it seemed strange he should have sent no word.So, like many another in India at that time, she waited, hopingagainst hope, possessing her soul in patience. She had no lack ofoccupation to distract her. How could there be for a woman, when closeon twelve hundred men had come back from the city dead or wounded?
But now the 21st of September was upon them. The city was occupied,the work was over. Yet Captain Morecombe, coming back from it, shookhis head. He had spent time and trouble in the search, but hadfailed--failed even, from Kate's limited ideas of their locality, tofind either Tara's lodging or the roof in the Mufti's quarter. Shecould have found them herself, she said almost pathetically; but ofcourse that was impossible now, and would be so for some time to come.
"I'm afraid it is no use, Mrs. Erlton," said the Captain kindly."There is not a trace to be found, even by Hodson's spies. Unless heis shut up somewhere, he--he must be dead. It is so likely that heshould be; you must see that. Possibly before the siege began. Let ushope so."
"Why?" she asked quickly. "You mean that there have been horriblethings done of late?--things like that poor soldier who was foundchained outside the Cashmere gate as a target for his fellows? Havethere? I would so much rather know the worst,--I used always to tellMr. Douglas so,--it prevents one dreaming at night." She shivered asshe spoke, and the man watching her felt his heart go out toward herwith a throb of pity. How long, he wondered irrelevantly, would ittake her to forget the miserable tragedy, to be ready for consolation?
"Yes, there have been terrible things on both sides. There always are.You can't help it when you sack cities," he replied, interruptinghimself hastily with a sort of shame. "The Ghoorkhas had the devil inthem when I was down in the Mufti's quarter. They shot dozens ofhelpless learned people in the Chelon-ke-kucha--one who coached me upfor my exams. And about twelve women in the house of a 'Professor ofArabic'--so he styled himself--jumped down the wall to escape--theirown fears chiefly. For the men wanted loot, nothing else. That is theworst of it. The whole story from beginning to end seems so needless.It is as if Fate----"
She interrupted him quietly, "It has been Fate. Fate from beginning toend."
He sat for an instant with a grave face, then looked up with a smile."Perhaps. It's rather _apropos des bottes_, Mrs. Erlton, but I wantedto ask you a question. Hadn't you a white cockatoo, once? When youfirst came here. I seem to recollect the bird making a row in theveranda when I used to drive up."
Her face grew suddenly pale, she sat staring at him with dread in hereyes. "Yes!" she replied with a manifest effort, "I gave it to SonnySeymour because--because it loved him----" She broke off, then addedswiftly, eagerly, "What then?"
"Only that I found one in the Palace to-day. There is a jolly marblelatticed balcony overlooking the river. The King used to write hispoetry there, they say. Well! I saw a brass cage hanging high up on ahook--there has been no loot in the precincts, you know, for the Staffhas annexed them; I thought the cage was empty till I took it downfrom sheer curiosity, and there was a dead cockatoo."
"Dead!" echoed Kate, with a quick smile of relief. "Oh! how glad I amit was dead."
Captain Morecombe stared at her. "Poor brute!" he said under hisbreath. "It was skin and bone. Starved to death. I expect they forgotall about it when they got really frightened. They are cruel devils,Mrs. Erlton."
The Major had used the self-same words to Alice Gissing eighteenmonths before, and in the same connection. But, perhaps fortunatelyfor Kate in her present state of nervous strain, that knowledge wasdenied to her. Even so the coincidence of the bird itself absorbedher.
"It had a yellow crest," she began.
"Oh! then it couldn't have been yours," interrupted Captain Morecombe,rather relieved, for he saw that he had somehow touched on a hiddenwound. "This one was green; yellowish green. I dare say the King keptpets like the Oude man----"
"It is dead anyhow," said Kate hurriedly.
And the knowledge gave her an unreasoning comfort. To begin with, itseemed to her as if those fateful white wings, which had begun toovershadow her world on that sunny evening down by the Goomtee river,had ceased to hover over it. And then this rounding of the tale--forthat the bird was little Sonny's favorite she did not doubt--made herfeel that Fate would not leave that other portion of it unfinished.The inevitable sequence would be worked out somehow. She would hearsomething. So once more she waited like many another; waiting witheyes strained past the last known deed of gallantry for the end whichsurely must have been nobler still. When that knowledge came, she toldherself, she would be content.
Yet there was another thing which held her to hope even more thanthis; it was the remembrance of John Nicholson's words, "If ever youhave a chance of making up." They seemed prophetic; for he who spokethem was so often right. Men talking of him as he lingered, watching,advising, warning, despite dire agony of pain and drowsiness ofmorphia, said there was none like him for clear insight into the veryheart of things.
Yet he, as he lay without a complaint, was telling himself he had beenblind. He had sought more from his world than there was in it. And so,though the news of the capture of the Burn Bastion brought a briefrally, he sank steadily.
But Hodson, coming into his tent to tell him of the safe capture ofthe King and Queen upon the 21st at Humayon's Tomb, found him eager tohear all particulars. So eager, that when the Sirdars of the MooltaneeHorse (a regiment he had practically raised), who sat outside indozens waiting for every breath of news about their fetish, would notkeep quiet, he emphasized his third order by a revolver bullet throughthe wall of the tent. Greatly to their delight since, as they retiredfurther off, they agreed that Nikalseyn was Nikalseyn still; andsurely death dare not claim one so full of life?
Even Hodson smiled in the swift silence in which the laboring breathof the dying man could be heard.
"Well, sir," he went on, "as I was saying, I got permission, thanks toyou, to utilize my information----"
"You mean Rujjub Ali's and that sneak Elahi Buksh's, I suppose," putin Nicholson. "It was sharp work. The King only went to Humayon's Tombyesterday. They must have had it all cut and dried before, surely?"
"The Queen has been trying to surrender on terms some time back, sir,"replied Hodson hastily. "She has a lot of treasure--eight lakhs, thespies tell me--and is anxious to keep it. However, to go on. Afterstopping with Elahi Buksh that night--no doubt, as you say, pressurewas put on them then--they went off, as agreed, to meet Bukht Khan,but refused to go with him. Of course the promise of their lives----"
"Then you were negotiating already?"[9]
"Not exactly--but--but I couldn't have done without the promise unlessWilson had agreed to send out troops, and he wouldn't. So I had togive in, though personally I would a deal rather have brought the oldman in dead, than alive. Well, I set off this morning with fifty of myhorse and sent in the two messengers while I waited outside. It wasnearly two hours before they came back, for the old man was hard tomove. Zeenut Maihl was the screw, and when Bahadur Shah talked of hisancestors and wept, told him he should have thought of that before helet Bukht Khan and the army go. In fact she did the business for me;but she stipulated for a promise of life from my own lips. So I rodeout alone to the causeway by the big gate--it is a splendid place,sir; more like a mosque than a tomb, and drew up to
attention. ZeenutMaihl came out first, swinging along in her curtained dhooli, andRujjub, who was beside me, called out her name and titles decorously.I couldn't help feeling it was a bit of a scene, you know; my beingthere, alone, and all that. Then the King came in his palkee; so Irode up, and demanded his sword. He asked if I were Hodson-sahibbahadur and if I would ratify the promise? So I had to choke over it,for there were two or three thousand of a crowd by this time. Then wecame away. It was a long five miles at a footpace, with that crowdfollowing us until we neared the city. Then they funked. Besides I hadsaid openly I'd shoot the King like a dog despite the promise at thefirst sign of rescue. And that's all, except that you should have seenthe officer's face at the Lahore gate when he asked me what I'd got intow, and I said calmly, 'Only the King of Delhi.' So that is done."
"And well done," said Nicholson briefly, reaching out a parched righthand. "Well done, from the beginning to the end."
Hodson flushed up like a girl. "I'm glad to hear you say so, sir," hereplied as nonchalantly as he could, "but personally, of course, Iwould rather have brought him in dead."
Even that slight action, however, had left Nicholson breathless, andthe only comment for a time came from his eyes; bright, questioningeyes, seeking now with a sort of pathetic patience to grasp the worldthey were leaving, and make allowances for all shortcomings.
"And now for the Princes," said Hodson. "Did you write to Wilson,sir?"
Nicholson nodded, "I think he'll consent. Only--only don't make anymore promises, Hodson. Some of them must be hung; they deserve death."
His hearer gave rather an uneasy look at the clear eyes, and remarkedsharply: "You thought they deserved more than hanging once, sir."
The old imperious frown of quick displeasure at all challenge came toJohn Nicholson's face, then faded into a half-smile. "I was not sonear death myself. It makes a difference. So good-by, Hodson. I mayn'tsee you again." He paused, and his smile grew clearer, and strangelysoft. "No news, I suppose, of that poor fellow Douglas, who didn'tagree with us?"
"None, sir; I warned him it was useless and foolhardy to go back whenmy information----"
"No doubt," interrupted the dying man gently. "Still, I'd have gone inhis place." He lay still for a moment, then murmured to himself. "Sohe is on the way before me. Well! I don't think we can be unhappyafter death. And, as for that poor lady--when you see her, Hodson,tell her I am sorry--sorry she hadn't her chance." The last words wereonce more murmured to himself and ended in silence.
Kate Erlton, however, did not get the message which would, perhaps,have ended her lingering hope. Major Hodson was too busy to deliverit. Permission to capture the Princes was given him that very night,and early the next morning he set off to Humayon's Tomb once more,with his two spies, his second in command, and about a hundredtroopers. A small party indeed, to face the four or five thousandPalace refugees who were known to be in hiding about the tomb, waitingto see if the Princes could make terms like the King had done. ButHodson's orders were strict. He was to bring in Mirza Moghul and KhairSultan, ex-Commanders-in-Chief, and Abool-Bukr, heir presumptive,unconditionally, or not at all.
The morning was deliciously cool and crisp, full of that promise ofwinter, which in its perfection of climate consoles the Punjabee forsix months of purgatory. The sun sent a yellow flood of light over theendless ruins of ancient Delhi, which here extend for miles on miles.A nasty country for skulking enemies; but Hodson's pluck and dash wereequal to anything, and he rode along with a heart joyous at hischance; full of determination to avail himself of it and gain renown.
Someone else, however, was early astir on this the 22d of September,so as to reach Humayon's Tomb in time to press on to the Kutb, ifneeds be. This was the Princess Farkhoonda Zamani. Ever since thatday, now more than a week past, when the last message to the city hadwarned her that the supreme moment for the House of Timoor was athand, and she had started from her study of Holy Writ, telling herselfpiteously that she must find Prince Abool-Bukr--must, at all sacrificeto pride, seek him, since he would not seek her--must warn him andkeep his hand in hers again--she had been distracted by theimpossibility of carrying out her decision. For, expecting animmediate sack of the town, the Mufti's people had barricaded the onlyexit bazaar-ward, and when, after a day or two, she did succeed increeping out, it was to find the streets unsafe, the Palace itselfclosed against all. But now, at least, there was a chance. Like allthe royal family, she knew of these two spies, Rujjub-Ali and MirzaElahi Buksh, who was saving his skin by turning Queen's evidence. Sheknew of Hodson sahib's promise to the King and Queen. She knew thatAbool-Bukr was still in hiding with the arch-offenders, Mirza Moghuland Khair Sultan, at Humayon's Tomb. Such an association was fatal;but if she could persuade him to throw over his uncles, and go withher, and if, afterward, she could open negotiations with theEnglishmen, and prove that Abool-Bukr had been dismissed from officeon the very day of the death challenge, had been in disgrace eversince--had even been condemned to death by the King; surely she mightyet drag her dearest from the net into which Zeenut Maihl had luredhim--with what bait she scarcely trusted herself to think! The firstthing to be done, therefore, was to persuade Abool to come with her tosome safer hiding. She would risk all; her pride, her reputation, hisvery opinion of her, for this. And surely a man of his nature was tobe tempted. So she put on her finest clothes, her discarded jewels,and set off about noon in a ruth--a sort of curtain-dhoolie on wheelsdrawn by oxen, gay with trappings, and set with jingling bells. Theylet her pass at the Delhi gate, after a brief look through thecurtains, during which she cowered into a corner without covering herface, lest they might think her a man, and stop her.
"By George! that was a pretty woman," said the English subaltern whopassed her, as he came back to the guard-room. "Never saw such eyes inmy life. They were as soft, as soft as--well! I don't know what. Andthey looked, somehow, as if they have been crying for years, and--andas if they saw--saw something, you know."
"They saw you--you sentimental idiot--that's enough to make any womancry," retorted his companion. And then the two, mere boys, wild withsuccess and high spirits, fell to horse-play over the insult.
Yet the first boy was right. Newasi's eyes had seen something day andnight, night and day, ever since they had strained into the darknessafter Prince Abool-Bukr when he broke from the kind detaining hand anddisappeared from the Mufti's quarter. And that something was a floodof sunlight holding a figure, as she had seen it more than once, in awild unreasoning paroxysm of sheer terror. It seemed to her as if shecould hear those white lips gasping once more over the cry whichbrought the vision. "Why didst not let me live mine own life, die mineown death? but to die--to die needlessly--to die in the sunlightperhaps."
There was a flood of it now outside the ruth as it lumberedalong by the jail, not a quarter of a mile yet from the city gate.Half-shivering she peeped through the gay patchwork curtains to assureherself it held no horror.
God and his Holy Prophet! What was that crowd on the road ahead? No,not ahead, she was in it, now, so that the oxen paused, unable to goon. A crowd, a cluster of spear-points, and then, against the jailwall, an open space round another ruth, an Englishman on foot, threefigures stripped. No; not three! only two, for one had fallen as thecrack of a carbine rang through the startled air. Two? But one, now,and that, oh! saints have mercy! the vision! the vision! It was Abool,dodging like a hare, begging for bare life; seeking it, at last, outof the sunshine, under the shadow of the ruth wheels.
"Abool! Abool!" she screamed. "I am here. Come! I am here."
Did he hear the kind voice? He may have, for it echoed clear beforethe third and final crack of the carbine. So clear that the driver,terrified lest it should bring like punishment on him, drove his goadinto the oxen; and the next instant they were careering madly down aside road, bumping over watercourses and ditches. But Newasi felt nomore buffetings. She lay huddled up inside, as unconscious as thatother figure which, by Major Hodson's orders, was being dragged outfrom under the
wheels and placed upon it beside the two other corpsesfor conveyance to the city. And none of all the crowd, ready--so thetale runs--to rescue the Princes lest death should be their portion inthe future, raised voice or hand to avenge them now that it had comeso ruthlessly, so wantonly. Perhaps the English guard at the Delhigate cowed them, as it had cowed those who the day before had followedthe King so far, then slunk away.
So the little _cortege_ moved on peacefully; far more peacefullythan the other ruth, which, with _its_ unconscious burden, was racingKutb-ward as if it was afraid of the very sunshine. But the PrincessFarkhoonda, huddled up in all her jewels and fineries, had forgotteneven that; forgotten even that vision seen in it.
But Hodson as he rode at ease behind the dead Princes seemed to courtthe light. He gloried in the deed, telling himself that "in less thantwenty-four hours he had disposed of the principal members of theHouse of Timoor"; so fulfilling his own words written weeks before,"If I get into the Palace, the House of Timoor will not be worth fiveminutes' purchase, I ween." Telling himself also, that in shootingdown with his own hand men who had surrendered without stipulations tohis generosity and clemency, surrendered to a hundred troopers whenthey had five thousand men behind them, he "had rid the earth ofruffians." Telling himself that he was "glad to have had theopportunity, and was game to face the moral risk of praise or blame."
He got the former unstintingly from most of his fellows as, intriumphant procession, the bodies were taken to the chief policestation, there to be exposed, so say eye-witnesses, "In the very spotwhere, four months before, Englishwomen had been outraged andmurdered, in the very place where their helpless victims had lain."
A strange perversion of the truth, responsible, perhaps, not only forthe praise, but for the very deed itself; so Mohammed Ismail's barterof his truth and soul for the lives of the forty prisoners at theKolwab counted for nothing in the judgment of this world.
But Hodson lacked either praise or blame from one man. John Nicholsonlay too near the judgment of another world to be disturbed by vexedquestions in this; and when the next morning came, men, meeting eachother, said sadly, "He is dead."
The news, brought to Kate Erlton by Captain Morecombe when he cameover to report another failure, took the heart out of even her hope.
"There is no use in my staying longer, I'm afraid," she said quietly."I'm only in the way. I will go back to Meerut; and then home--to theboy."
"I think it would be best," he replied kindly. "I can arrange for youto start to-morrow morning. You will be the better for a change; itwill help you to forget."
She smiled a little bitterly; but when he had gone she set to work,packing up such of her husband's things as she wished the boy to havewith calm deliberation; and early in the afternoon went over to thegarden of her old house to get some fresh flowers for what would beher last visit to that rear-guard of graves. To take, also, her lastlook at the city, and watch it grow mysterious in the glamour ofsunset. Seen from afar it seemed unchanged. A mass of rosy light andlilac shadow, with the great white dome of the mosque hanging airilyabove the smoke wreaths.
Yet the end had come to its four months' dream as it had come to hers.Rebellion would linger long, but its stronghold, its very _raisond'etre_, was gone. And Memory would last longer still; yet surely itwould not be all bitter. Hers was not. Then with a rush of real regretshe thought of the peaceful roof, of old Tiddu, of the PrincessFarkhoonda--Tara--Soma--of Sri Anunda in his garden. Was she to gohome to safe, snug England, live in a suburb, and forget? Forget allbut the tragedy! Yet even that held beautiful memories. Alice Gissingunder young Mainwaring's scarf, while he lay at her feet. Her husbandleaving a good name to his son. Did not these things help to make thestory perfect? No! not perfect. And with the remembrance her eyesfilled with sudden tears. There would always be a blank for her in therecord. The Spirit which had moved on the Face of the Waters, bringingtheir chance of Healing and Atonement to so many, had left hers in theshadow. She had learned her lesson. Ah! yes; she had learned it. Butthe chance of using it?
As she sat on the plinth of the ruined veranda, watching the citygrowing dim through the mist of her tears, John Nicholson's words cameback to her once more, "If ever you have the chance"; but it wouldnever come now--never!
She started up wildly at the clutch of a brown hand on her wrist--abrown hand with a circlet of dead gold above it.
"Come!" said a voice behind her; "come quick! he needs you."
"Tara!" she gasped--"Tara! Is--is he alive then?"
"He would not need the mem if he were dead," came the swift reply.Then with her wild eyes fixed on another gold circlet upon the wristshe held, Tara laughed shrilly. "So the mem wears it still. She hasnot forgotten. Women do not forget, white or black"--with a strangestamp of her foot she interrupted herself fiercely--"come, I say,come!"
If there had been doubts as to the Rajpootni's sanity at times in pastdays, there was none now. A glance at her face was sufficient. It wasutterly distraught, the clutch on Kate's arm utterly uncontrolled; sothat, involuntarily, the latter shrank back.
"The mem is afraid," cried Tara exultantly. "So be it! I will go backand tell the master. Tell him I was right and he wrong, for all theEnglish he chattered. I will tell him the mem is not suttee--how couldshe be----"
The old taunt roused many memories, and made Kate ready to riskanything. "I am coming, Tara--but where?" She stood facing the tallfigure in crimson, a tall figure also, in white, her hands full of theroses she had gathered.
Tara looked at her with that old mingling of regret and approbation,jealousy and pride. "Then she must come at once. He is dying--may bedead ere we get back."
"Dead!" echoed Kate faintly. "Is he wounded then?"
A sort of somber sullenness dulled the excitement of Tara's face. "Heis ill," she replied laconically. Suddenly, however, she burst outagain: "The mem need not look so! I have done all--all she could havedone. It is his fault. He will not take things. The mem can do nomore; but I have come to her, so that none shall say, 'Tara killed themaster.' So come. Come quick!"
Five minutes after Kate was swinging cityward in a curtained dhooliwhich Tara had left waiting on the road below, and trying to piece outa consecutive story from the odd jumble of facts and fancies andexplanations which Tara poured into her ear between her swift abuse ofthe bearers for not going faster, and her assertion that there was noneed to hurry. The mem need not hope to save the Huzoor, sinceeverything had been done. It seemed, however, that Tiddu had takenback the letter telling of Kate's safety, and that in consequence ofthis the master had arranged to leave the city in a day or two, andTiddu--born liar and gold grubber, so the Rajpootni styled him--hadgone off at once to make more money. But on the very eve of his goingback to the Ridge, Jim Douglas had been struck down with the GreatSickness, and after two or three days, instead of getting better, hadfallen--as Tara put it--into the old way. So far Kate made outclearly; but from this point it became difficult to understand thereproaches, excuses, pathetic assertions of helplessness, and fiercedeclarations that no one could have done more. But what was the use ofthe Huzoor's talking English all night? she said; even a suttee couldnot go out when everyone was being shot in the streets. Besides, itwas all obstinacy. The master could have got well if he had tried. Andwho was to know where to find the mem? Indeed, if it had not been forSri Anunda's gardener, who knew all the gardener folk, of course, shewould not have found the mem even now; for she would never have knownwhich house to inquire at. Not that it would have mattered, since themem could do nothing--nothing--nothing----
Kate, looking down on the bunch of white flowers which she hadliterally been too hurried to think of laying aside, felt her heartshrink. They were rather a fateful gift to be in her hands now. Hadthey come there of set purpose, and would the man who had done so muchfor her be beyond all care save those pitiful offices of the dead?Still, even that was better than that he should lie alone, untended.So, urged by Tara's vehement upbraidings, the dhooli-bearers lurchedalong, t
o stop at last. It seemed to Kate as if her heart stoppedalso. She could not think of what might lie before her as she followedTara up the dark, strangely familiar stair. Surely, she thought, shewould have known it among a thousand. And there was the step on whichshe had once crouched terror-stricken, because she was shut out fromshelter within. But now Tara's fingers were at the padlock, Tara'shand set the door wide.
Kate paused on the threshold, feeling, in truth, dazed once more atthe strange familiarity of all things. It seemed to her as if she hadbut just left that strip of roof aglow with the setting, sun, thebubble dome of the mosque beginning to flush like a cloud upon thesky. But Tara, watching her with resentful eyes, put a differentinterpretation on the pause, and said quickly:
"He is within. The mem was away, and it was quieter. But the rest isall the same--there is nothing forgotten--nothing."
Kate, however, heard only the first words, and was already across theouter roof to gain the inner one. Tara, still beyond the threshold,watched her disappear, then stood listening for a minute, with a facetragic in its intensity. Suddenly a faint voice broke the silence, andher hands, which had been tightly clenched, relaxed. She closed thedoor silently, and went downstairs.
Meanwhile Kate, on the inner roof, had paused beside the low stringbed set in its middle, scarcely daring to look at its burden, and soput hope and fear to the touchstone of truth. But as she stoodhesitating, a voice, querulous in its extreme weakness, said inHindustani:
"It is too soon, Tara; I don't want anything; and--and you needn'twait--thank you."
He lay with his face turned from her, so she could stand, wonderinghow best to break her presence to him, noting with a failing heart thecurious slackness, the lack of contour even on that hard string bed.He seemed lost, sunk in it; and she had seen that sign so often oflate that she knew what it meant. One thing was certain, he must havefood--stimulants if possible--before she startled him. So she stoleback to the outer roof, expecting to find Tara there, and Tara's help.But the roof lay empty, and a sudden fear lest, after all, she hadonly come to see him die, while she was powerless to fight that deathfrom sheer exhaustion, which seemed so perilously near, made her putdown the bunch of flowers she held with an impatient gesture. What afool she had been not to think of other things!
But as she glanced round, her eye fell on a familiar earthenwarebasin kept warm in a pan of water over the ashes. It was full of_chikken-brat_, and excellent of its kind, too. Then in a niche stoodmilk and eggs--a bottle of brandy, arrow-root---everything a nursecould wish for. And in another, evidently in case the brew should becondemned, was a fresh chicken ready for use. Strange sights these tobring tears of pity to a woman's eyes; but they did. For Kate, readingbetween the lines of poor Tara's confusion, began to understand thetragedy underlying those words she had just heard:
"I don't want anything, Tara. And you needn't wait, thank you." Sheseemed to see, with a flash, the long, long days which had passed,with that patient, polite negative coming to chill the half distraughtdevotion.
He must take something now, for all that. So, armed with a cup andspoon, she went back, going round the bed so that he could see her.
"It is time for your food, Mr. Greyman," she said quietly; "when youhave taken some, I'll tell you everything. Only you must take thisfirst." As she slipped her hand under him, pillow and all, to raisehis head slightly, she could see the pained, puzzled expression narrowhis eyes as he swallowed a spoonful. Then with a frown he turned hishead from her impatiently.
"You must take three," she insisted; "you must, indeed, Mr. Greyman.Then I will tell you--everything."
His face came back to hers with the faintest shadow of his oldmutinous sarcasm upon it, and he lay looking at her deliberately for asecond or two. "I thought you were a ghost," he said feebly at last;"only they don't bully. Well let's get it over."
The memory of many such a bantering reply to her insistence in thepast sent a lump to her throat and kept her silent. The little lowstool on which she had been wont to sit beside him was in its oldplace, and half-mechanically she drew it closer, and, resting herelbow on the bed as she used to do, looked round her, feeling as ifthe last six weeks were a dream. Tara had told truth. Everything wasin its place. There were flowers in a glass, a spotless fringed clothon the brass platter. The pity held in these trivial signs brought afresh pang to her heart for that other woman.
But Jim Douglas, lying almost in the arms of death, was not thinkingof such things.
"Then Delhi must have fallen," he said suddenly in a stronger voice."Did Nicholson take it?"
"Yes," she replied quietly, thinking it best to be concise and givehim, as it were, a fresh grip on facts. "It has fallen. The King is aprisoner, the Princes have been shot, and most of the troops move onto-morrow toward Agra."
It epitomized the situation beyond the possibility of doubt, and hegave a faint sigh. "Then it is all over. I'm glad to hear it. Taranever knew anything; and it seemed so long."
Had she known and refused to tell, Kate wondered? or in her insaneabsorption had she really thought of nothing but the chance Fate hadthrown in her way of saving this man's life? Yes! it must have beenvery long. Kate realized this as she watched the spent and weary facebefore her, its bright, hollow eyes fixed on the glow which was nowfast fading from the dome. "All over!" he murmured to himself. "Well!I suppose it couldn't be helped."
She followed his thought unerringly; and a great pity for this man whohad done nothing, where others had done so much, surged up in her andmade her seek to show his fate no worse than others. Besides, thisdiscouragement was fatal, for it pointed to a lack of that desire forlife which is the best weapon against death. She might fail to rousehim, as those had failed who, but a day or two before, had senta bit of red ribbon representing the Victoria Cross to the dyingSalkeld--the hero of the Cashmere gate--and only gained in reply afaint smile and the words, "They will like it at home." Still shewould try.
"Yes, it is over!" she echoed, "and it has cost so many livesuselessly. General Nicholson lost his trying to do the impossible--sopeople say."
Jim Douglas still lay staring at the fading glow. "Dead!" he murmured."That is a pity. But he took Delhi first. He said he would."
"And my husband----" she began.
He turned then, with curiously patient courtesy. "I know. Nicholsonwrote that in his letter. And I have been glad--glad he had hischance, and--and--made so much of it."
Once more she followed his thought; knew that, though he was too proudto confess it, he was saying to himself that he had had his chance tooand had done nothing. So she answered it as if he had spoken.
"And you had your chance of saving a woman," she said, with a break inher voice, "and you saved her. It isn't much, I suppose. It counts asnothing to you. Why should it? But to me----" She broke off, losingher purpose for him in her own bitter regret and vague resentment."Why didn't you let them kill me, and then go away?" she went onalmost passionately. "It would have been better than saving me toremember always that I stood in your way--better than giving me nochance of repaying you for all--ah! think how much! Better thanleaving me alone to a new life--like--like all the others have done."
She buried her face on her arm as it rested on the pillow with a sob.This, then, was the end, she thought, this bitter unavailing regretfor both.
So for a space there was silence while she sat with her face hidden,and he lay staring at that darkening dome. But suddenly she felt hishot hand find hers; so thin, so soft, so curiously strong still in itsgrip.
"Give me some more wine or something," came his voice consolingly."I'll try and stop--if I can."
She made an effort to smile back at him, but it was not verysuccessful. His, as she fed him, was better; but it did not help KateErlton to cheerfulness, for it was accompanied by a murmur that the_chikken-brat_ was very different from Tara's stuff. So she seemed tosee a poor ghost glowering at them from the shadows, asking her howshe dared take all the thanks. And the ghost remained long after Jim
Douglas had dozed off; remained to ask, so it seemed to Kate Erlton,every question that could be asked about the mystery of womanhood andmanhood.
But Tara herself asked none when in the first gray glimmer of dawn shecrept up the stairs again and stood beside the sleepers. For Kate,wearied out, had fallen asleep crouched up on the stool, her headresting on the pillow, her arm flung over the bed to keep that touchon his hand which seemed to bring him rest. Tara, once more in herwidow's dress, looked down on them silently, then threw her bare armsupward. So for a second she stood, a white-shrouded appealing figureagainst that dark shadow of the dome which blocked the paling easternsky. Then stooping, her long, lissome fingers busied themselvesstealthily with the thin gold chain about the sick man's neck; forthere was something in the locket attached to it which was hers byright now. Hers, if she could have nothing else; for she wassuttee--suttee!
The unuttered cry was surging through her heart and brain, rousing amad exultation in her, when half an hour afterward she re-entered thenarrow lane leading to the arcaded courtyard with the black old shrinehiding under the tall peepul tree. And what was that hanging over thecongeries of roofs and stairs, the rabbit warren of rooms and passageswhere her pigeon-nest was perched? A canopy of smoke, and below itleaping flames. There were many wanton fires in Delhi during thosefirst few days of license, and this was one of them; but already, inthe dawn, English officers were at work giving orders, limiting thedanger as much as possible.
"We can't save that top bit," said one at last, then turned to one ofhis fatigue party. "Have you cleared everybody out, sergeant, as Itold you?"
"Yes, sir! it's quite empty."
It had been so five minutes before. It was not now; for that canopy ofsmoke, those licking tongues of flame, had given the last touch toTara's unstable mind. She had crept up and up, blindly, and was now onher knees in that bare room set round with her one scrap of culture,ransacking an old basket for something which had not seen the lightfor years, her scarlet tinsel-set wedding dress. Her hands weretrembling, her wild eyes blazed like fires themselves.
And below, men waited calmly for the flames to claim this, their lastprize; for the turret stood separated from the next house.
"My God!" came an English voice, as something showed suddenly upon theroof. "I thought you said it was empty--and that's a woman!"
It was. A woman in a scarlet, tinsel-set dress, and all the poorornaments she possessed upon her widespread arms. So, outlined againstthe first sun-ray she stood, her shrill chanting voice rising abovethe roar and rush of the flames.
"Oh! Guardians eight, of this world and the next. Sun, Moon, and Air,Earth, Ether, Water, and my own poor soul bear witness! Oh! Lord ofdeath, bear witness that I come. Day, Night, and Twilight say I amsuttee."
There was a louder roar, a sudden leaping of the flames, and theturret sank inwardly. But the chanting voice could be heard for asecond in the increasing silence which followed.
"Shive-jee hath saved His own," said the crowd, looking toward theunharmed shrine.
And over on the other side of the city, Kate Erlton, roused by thatsame first ray of sunlight, was looking down with a smile upon JimDouglas before waking him. The sky was clear as a topaz, the purplepigeons were cooing and sidling on the copings. And in the bright,fresh light she saw the gold locket lying open on the sleeper'sbreast. She had often wondered what it held, and now--thinking hemight not care to find it at her mercy--stooped to close it.
But it was empty.
The snap, slight as it was, roused him. Not, however, to a knowledgeof the cause, for he lay looking up at her in his turn.
"So it is all over," he said softly, but he said it with a smile.
Yes! It was all over. Down on the parade ground behind the Ridge thebugles were sounding, and the men who had clung to the red rocks forso long were preparing to leave them for assault elsewhere.
But one man was taking an eternal hold upon them; for John Nicholsonwas being laid in his grave. Not in the rear-guard, however, but inthe van, on the outer-most spur of the Ridge abutting on the citywall, within touch almost of the Cashmere gate. Being laid in hisgrave--by his own request--without escort, without salute; for he knewthat he had failed.
So he lies there facing the city he took. But his real grave was inthat narrow lane within the walls where those who dream can see himstill, alone, ahead, with yards of sheer sunlight between him and hisfellow-men.
Yards of sheer sunlight between that face with its confident glanceforward, that voice with its clear cry, "Come on, men! Come on!" andthose--the mass of men--who with timorous look backward hear in thatcall to go forward nothing but the vain regret for things familiarthat must be left behind. "Going! Going! Gone!"
So, in a way, John Nicholson stands symbol of the many lives lostuselessly in the vain attempt to go forward too fast.
Yet his voice echoed still to the dark faces and the light alike:
"Come on, men! Come on!"
BOOK VI.