Voices in the Night Part 47

'I didn't know you lived here, Ellison,' said Chris, following cautiously. 'You were in another house when I----'

A chuckle was wafted back from the candle. 'Wen 'Oneyman t.i.tivated in dress bags! If you'll excuse me, sir, that story's bin worth a fiver to me n.i.g.g.e.r-minstreling, as Bones. I don't give no names, sir; but you should 'ear the Tommies laugh! No offence, sir, but it do tell awful comic, and they needs perkin' up a bit, pore lads, in them beastly barracks. Better'n the bazaar for 'em any'ow, so that's something due to 'Oneyman, ain't it? Yes, sir!' he went on, still piloting the way towards the gate, 'I left them diggin's soon's I could pay a better lot, for I likes a bit o' 'ome, sir, an' a bit o' furniture. "An' who shall dare to chide me for lovin' an old arm-chair?" That's about it, sir. The "'appy 'omes of Hengland," and Hingia too, sir,' he added, as, after blowing out the end of candle and putting it into his pocket for future use, he paused to say--'Good-night, sir, an' I 'ope you'll find the good lady better.'

'Good-night, Ellison, I hope you'll enjoy yourself.'

Jan-Ali-shan gave an odd, half-sheepish laugh. 'An' oughter, sir; she's an awful nice girl, an' not a drop o' black blood in 'er veins--beggin'

your pardin, sir, but you know 'ow 'tis.'

'Yes!' said Chris suddenly, 'I know how it is.'

He knew better than he had ever known before, when hours afterwards--his blood running like new wine in his veins--he came back from the city and stumbled up to his room.

The stairs were certainly, as John Ellison had said, most inconsiderate. Yet one stumble was not due to them, but to John Ellison himself, who was crumpled up, snoring peacefully, at the most difficult turn.

'Hillo!' he said conclusively, after a prolonged stare at Chris, made possible by another resort to wax vestas on the latter's part, 'Is that you, sonny?' And then he wandered off melodiously into the parody--

'My mother bids me dye my hair the fashionable hue.'

When Chris had seen his subordinate safe to bed, he made free with the bit of candle-end for his own use.

And by its light he saw his letter to Jack Raymond lying forgotten on the floor in a half-dried pool of ink.

'I cannot send that one, anyhow,' he said to himself as he tore it up.

But he felt as if he could send nothing--that he could never give another thought to such things. For Naraini had needed comfort, and he had given it to her. But he could not even think of her; a profound physical content lulled him to a dreamless sleep, his last thought, ere that sleep claimed him, being that he had not felt so happy for years.

CHAPTER XX

THE OLD WINE

Chris woke suddenly, and yet without that sense of dislocation which such awakening often brings with it.

The vast content that had been his in falling asleep was his still, as with eyes which seemed to him to have grown clear of dreams he lay smiling at what he saw, though that was only a wide, empty, whitewashed room with many window-doors set open to the dawn; and through these, nothing but a strip of mud roof; and beyond that again, the broad blades of the plantain leaves shining grey-green in the grey light. A slight breeze swayed them, and rustled in the frayed straws of the rude matting with which the floor was covered.

But that louder, more intermittent rustle was not the wind. It was the patter of a bird's feet. And there, with tail erect on the coping, clear against the glistening grey-green leaves, which swayed like sea-weeds in a swift tide, a striped squirrel was breakfasting on some treasure-trove.

Chris filled his lungs with a long 'breath. He was back in the old world; the world where all living things are alike mortal, where even man is as the flower that fadeth, the beast that perisheth.

And the old way was better.

So far he had gone, when the consciousness that he was not alone--that strange consciousness of humanity which, be the old way never so charming, separates men from it inevitably--came to him, and he sat up on the low string cot, set so regardless of symmetry just where it had first been dumped down in the room.

His instinct had been right. A figure had been seated, unmovable as a statue, just behind his head; but as he turned it turned also, and held out a folded paper. The figure was that of a young man about his own age and of much the same build, but guiltless of clothing save for a saffron-coloured waist-cloth. The forehead was barred with white lines, and a leopard's skin hung over the shoulder. Palpably this was the disciple of some learned ascetic, as he, Chris, would have been, had not the West interfered with custom. The thought made him smile, but the face opposite his remained grave, almost disapproving; the figure rose without a word, turned on its heel, and disappeared. Chris, left with the paper in his hand, felt as if a message had been sent to him from another world; felt so still more when he had read the broad black Sanskrit lettering inside.

'Thy _guru_ calls thee'--it ran--'come, ere it be too late.'

He sat staring at the words, conscious--despite his better sense--of a compulsion, almost of fear.

For why had this claim of authority been made now? Wherefore should the _guru_--that is, the spiritual adviser of his family--desire to see him?

The answer was but too plain; he must already know of that stolen visit Chris had made to his mother's house; a visit which, should one, who was her spiritual guide also, choose to proclaim it, might bring endless trouble, vexation, disgrace upon her.

Chris stood up, inwardly cursing his own recklessness. He might, he told himself, have known that priestly spies would be about him after that incident of the bathing-steps. He ought not to have gone; not at least as he _had_ gone, leaving his mother still in her fond belief that he had done, or was willing to do, the necessary penance.

Yet without that belief-strengthened as it had been by his repeated requests for secrecy in the present--she would not have received him as she had. And Naraini----

Plainly he must obey the order, and so find out what was wanted, what was threatened. He rose therefore and went out into the cool grey dawn.

The arcaded courtyard recessed about a cl.u.s.ter of temples, where Swami Viseshwar Nath taught his disciples, was empty as yet when Chris reached it, save for half a dozen figures scarce distinguishable from the one which had summoned him. All, in these early hours, were busy over ceremonials of sorts; but all looked up at the newcomer with that dull disapproval.

'The _guru_ is within,' said one sullenly.

Chris did not need direction. Had he not learned the precious shibboleths of his twice-born race yonder at the master's feet?

'So thou hast come, Krishn. Take thy seat, pupil, and listen,' came a voice.

It was almost dark in the slip of a room behind the arcades, but Chris could see, by the help of memory, the unmovable figure, the placid face with its wide thin lips. He saw in a flash, also, everything that had ever happened to him in this, his earliest school, and the old awe that comes with such memories fell on him as he obeyed.

'There is no need,' continued the voice, 'to tell thee that I know what thou wouldest rather I did not know. Neither canst thou pretend ignorance of what such knowledge means. Therefore, Krishn, there is naught to say but this. What art thou about to do?'

Chris had been asking himself the question, but he resented its being put to him.

'That depends,' he was beginning, when the Swami stopped him by laying an impa.s.sive hand on his wrist.

'To save time, I will tell thee. Out of past years--_as thou didst disappear in them_--thou shalt return--_as thou didst go_--Krishn Davenund, Brahmin, twice-born. There shall be no question asked, no answers needed. Thou shalt return to us--I, Viseshwar Nath, _parohit_ of thy race, say it, and none shall quarrel me--thou shalt return to hold a woman's hand, and circle the sacred fire--_her_ hand, Naraini's, whom the G.o.ds keep for thee, whom I, child, have kept for thee!'

The words with the nameless rhythm in them, which the use of Sanskrit phrases gives to the vulgar tongue, echoed softly into the arches, and Chris felt his eyes, his ears held captive by the insignificant figure that was hedged about by no sign of dignity or office save the leopard skin on which it crouched, naked.

'Kept for me--how so?' he echoed, trying once more to be resentful.

The Swami smiled. 'Hast, indeed, forgotten the old life so utterly, boy, as never to have wondered why one of Naraini's age remained virgin in thy mother's house?'

Chris felt the blood go tingling to his face; for he could not pretend to such ignorance. He knew that the limit of laxity in such matters had almost been overpast in the hope that when he returned from England he would marry the girl. But that possibility had vanished when he had married Viva. Therefore, to blame him for the subsequent delay was unfair; so he answered boldly--

'I have not wondered. I have known and regretted the idle dream.

But that was over long ago--ere my father died. Had he chosen, he might----'

The Swami's hand stopped him once more. 'Not so,' he said calmly.

'If thou hast forgotten much, there are other things thou hast never known; that none would have known save thy father and I--not even thy mother--hadst thou been dutiful and fulfilled the dream. Listen and reflect! Thy cousin Naraini was betrothed or ever she came to thy father's house, betrothed as an infant to one who--who left her.'

'Left her?' echoed Chris hotly, 'wherefore?'

'That matters not,' replied Viseshwar Nath; 'there be many reasons, but the result is the same: _if the betrothed be dead, Naraini is widow!_'