Voices in the Night Part 59

So, for an instant, nothing remained except two kites whirling distractedly at the swift downpull on their strings, until, giving up the battle, giving in to fate, they yielded the Sovereignty of Air and sank slowly into the river.

By this time, however, some of the claimants to that sovereignty had come to the surface again, shrieking for help, and reaching round for anything to support them.

Lateefa, luckily for him, found that bundle of the vanquished close to his hand, and managed with its help to get a grip upon a jag of wall.

Luckily, for something had struck him on the back as he went down.

But there was no sign of Jehan or Burkut Ali; no sign even of those other two whom the river had claimed.

And none came to seek for one; for none knew rightly what had happened or who the bridge-savers had been, save the bridge-wreckers, and they had fled. Most of the crowd, therefore, drifted back to the station or the city. The station that was full of the rattle of rifles being shouldered, of the tramp of feet falling into line.

'How on earth you got here so soon, I can't think,' said a police-officer who had ridden up in hot haste at the news of some disturbance on the bathing-steps. 'The up-mail? By Jove! what luck! It will settle the whole "biz," I expect.'

And in the city voices were saying much the same thing.

If the troops were there, ready for the first sign, what was the use of making it? Let the rabble rise if they chose. Let fools commit themselves. Wise men would wait a better opportunity.

CHAPTER XXV

SECRET DESPATCHES

Nushapore, however, was not all wise; very far from it. Out of its two hundred and odd thousand souls, there were some to whom the possibility of disturbances meant a long-looked-for opportunity of indulging--with comparative safety--in criminal habits. And there were many also, who, without any special desire for evil, regretted the diminishing chance of a night's excitement and amus.e.m.e.nt.

At first some of these found solace in the catastrophe at the kite-flyers' bastion; though, after a time, this proved to be less disastrous than might have been expected, for, out of all those who were known to have been on the building, only two or three were even injured. Jehan Aziz, it is true, had disappeared, but even in the first knowledge of this, the fact brought scarcely a word of regret--especially in the Royal Family. It felt vaguely that it stood a better chance without him, even though the next heir was not close enough to that dead dynasty to hope for the practical recognition of an increased pension from Government!

Neither did the sight of Burkut Ali being carried off to hospital on a stretcher distress it much. But it had a word or two of encouragement and sympathy for Lateefa who, still clinging to his kites, refused all help as he sat propped against a wall waiting for the numbness to pa.s.s from his legs--as it must pa.s.s, since he had no pain.

Of Jan-Ali-shan and Chris no one thought on that side of the bridge; for the simple reason that the disaster to the bastion absorbed all tongues for a time, and, in addition, beyond the fact that there had been some fighting for the bridge, no one knew anything.

In the station, also, there was no one to explain what had happened.

The _baboo_, who might have told what he knew, had, in that interval of suspense, discreetly fled to his lodgings in the city, where he was trying to concoct _alibis_.

It was only on the bathing-steps that anything definite was known, and there a curious consternation had followed immediately on the rapid raid made by those two through the temple. For, when the brief tumult of resistance had pa.s.sed with their pa.s.sage, the only trace of it that remained was fateful, beyond words, to the superst.i.tious eyes which saw it.

Swami Viseshwar Nath, the high priest of Shiv-_jee_, lay with crushed skull on _Mai_ Kali's very lap! His blood was pouring out upon her altar; yet, despite the blow which all had seen, despite the crash which all had heard, not one of her many widespread arms was injured!

Here was a miracle indeed! For what had been her words on that golden paper which she had flung, in defiance as it were, into the temple of her rival?

'_Yea! though they smite me, there shall be Blood upon Mine Altar_.'

And there was. The blood of the arch-detractor of Her Supremacy.

A miracle indeed! to be affirmed or denied to the exclusion of all other thoughts.

And so, on those wide steps leading down to the river, the newcomers, hastening thither at vague rumours of strange doings--stranger even than fixed bayonets at the city gates--were caught in the conflict of opinions and held captive by the question--

'Would _Mai_ Kali stay the plague now, as She had promised to do when there was blood upon Her altars, or would She not?'

In other words, dare men--mere men--take the remedy into their own hands, and risk offending the Great G.o.ddess by lack of faith?

Would it not be better to wait a bit and see what happened? So, coming and going on the steps--coming in fierce haste, going in awestruck doubt--men asked themselves if their part was to wait and watch. But, inside the temple, two poor souls crouched in a corner knew what their part as women must be; and therefore, after a time of fruitless waiting, they stole out hand-in-hand and went back to the city, back to their empty house, realising but one thing: that the stray sheep which had been lost and found, had gone astray once more; had defied the priests, perhaps killed his _guru_.

And they had left that house empty with such joy, believing they were to bring their dear one back to it! And now, to whom were they to go for advice; for weddings and burials--since such things must be--if Viseshwar Nath was dead? Viseshwar who had known all things concerning the family? So they wept, not knowing that his death made future happiness for one of them possible.

The city itself was by this time like a hive of bees about to swarm, which is disturbed by a finger-touch. People hurried hither and thither causelessly; excited, anxious, yet harmless; for those who had meant to give the cue for action hung back at the sight of the soldiers. Yet many of these would-be mischief-makers had not quite given up hope, and their unwillingness to do so, strangely enough, was in inverse ratio to their hope of achieving any good by raising a riot. For, while every minute that pa.s.sed showed the more reasonable, the more interested, that wisdom lay in postponement, those who had very little stake or thought in the matter beyond a general desire to kick over the traces, grew more and more desperate as the opportunity for this seemed to be slipping from them. Govind the editor was one of these, and, gravitating naturally to his like, found himself after a time in one of the bands of discontents who were ready for any trivial mischief that might come handy. But as yet, even these had no objective.

And so, after all, Jack Raymond had time for a late dinner. And he ate a good one too, in ignorance--like every one else except a few of the would-be train-wreckers who discreetly held their tongues--of the real history of the drawbridge. For the steam fog had effectually hidden all the heroism of that struggle for it. Had hidden all things save the voices in the fog; save that almost incredible chanting of a sailor's chorus heard by the engine-driver, those few words, 'Keep your head, sir, and take a holt of me,' half-heard by some of the officers.

And Sir George Arbuthnot, too, ate his dinner at the club. He did not make so good a one, however; and when he had finished it, hurriedly, he paused beside the table where Jack Raymond was finishing his, leisurely, to say with rather elaborate point, 'So you were right after all, Mr. Raymond!--and--and I was wrong--should, I expect, have been still more wrong, if Kenyon here had not insisted on telegraphing to Fareedabad.' He looked as he spoke at the Commissioner, who had come in for a mere bite and sup.

Jack Raymond rose, feeling that he liked the man better than he had ever done before; feeling for the first time that he was glad he had helped.

'I don't know, sir,' he said cheerfully, 'about the right and the wrong. I happened to hear. But it was uncommonly lucky the troops managed to nick the up-mail, or they might have been a bit late. It must have been a near shave!'

'Very!' put in the Commissioner with a slightly puzzled frown. 'I don't know exactly how the deuce they did it, but that's a detail for the present. Now, sir, if you will write that note to relieve Lady Arbuthnot's anxiety, we can start back to the hospital--though really there is no necessity for it--the danger is over.'

Jack Raymond shook his head. 'Not till daylight--it never is. I don't mean for the hospital. If nothing happens at midnight, nothing will; but there are lots of other games--at least I should fancy so,' he added as he sat down again, resuming his dinner and his indifference.

'That is one of the most able men in India!' remarked the Commissioner to Sir George; 'it is a thousand pities he allowed----'

And then, hurriedly, he changed the subject. It would have been less significant if he had not done so, and Sir George felt inclined to ask him to finish the sentence. But even that defiance would have been significant in its turn, so he gave in resignedly to the awkwardness of the situation--for he could not help feeling it was awkward--and sat down to write his note to Grace before returning to the city.

She had been hoping for some message all the evening, and Lesley realised how great a strain the waiting for news had been on Lady Arbuthnot's nerves when she saw the sudden relief the note brought with it.

Till then the Sunday dinner-party had been unusually dull. Now, just as people were beginning to wonder if they had not ordered their carriage to come a trifle late, a new life seemed to spring up. The hostess herself started music by going to the piano, and as she did so, she found time for a whisper to Lesley--'It's all right! The troops caught the up-mail and came back in it--sharp work, wasn't it? and George says everything is settling down, but I am not to expect him home till one or two. Oh! I feel so happy!'

She looked it, and--good singer as she was--she sang as few had ever heard her sing. Lesley for one, who listened to the quaint little French _chansons_, half-laughter half-tears, and the pretty, comic-opera trills and runs with a new perception of the woman who sang them--the woman who was, as a rule, so unlike most of her s.e.x in her calm intelligence.

And now? Now every man in the room was crowding round the piano. She was holding them there by something that was not beauty or intelligence, not by her looks or her singing, but by the woman's desire to have and hold the admiration of her world by making it depend on her for pleasure--the desire which made Eve share her apple with Adam!

Yes! that was it! The woman's desire to have and to hold for herself alone.

But while the dinner-party at Government House had taken a fresh lease of life under Grace Arbuthnot's guidance, there was another dinner-party going on in Nushapore, where the good wine of high spirits had come first and the ditch-water of dulness last. This was at Mr.

Lucanaster's; and it had been the probability of being late for this--a supreme effort on his part towards something preeminently jolly--which had made him sulky at being delayed by the 'memorable occasion.' For, to begin with, more time would be required for dressing than usual, since the party was to be a _rechauffe_ of the Mutiny Lancers. It was to be a Mutiny dinner; and for the first time Mrs. Chris had consented to act as hostess and sit at the top of Mr. Lucanaster's table; Mrs.

Chris in that bewildering costume of pink roses and white shoulders.

And everything had been perfect. The dinner worthy of a _chef_, the champagne iced enough to cool the tongue, not enough to lessen its sparkle. And yet, at eleven o'clock, the guests were beginning to leave. At half-past, Mrs. Chris--there was no mistake in her costume either--was eyeing Mr. Lucanaster with the amused superiority to the trivialities of sentiment or pa.s.sion which--as she had always told poor Chris--made her absolutely capable of taking care of herself in any situation.

'No, thanks! I don't want another cigarette, and I'd rather not have a cherry-brandy before I go back; but you can tell the bearer to tell my _ayah_ to bring my cloak and overshoes in here. I told her to come and wait.'

Mr. Lucanaster swore under his breath.

'Oh! I don't think it was quite so bad as that,' she continued cheerfully, ignoring the palpable cause of his annoyance. 'It really was quite jolly at first, and nothing could have been better done. It was that little fool Jones with his c.o.c.k-and-bull story of a row in the city; and then the dresses, you know, made one a bit shivery, thinking of the Mutiny. It did--even me--and I'm not that sort. But you couldn't help that, you know--your part of it was perfect.'

He looked at her grimly, his determination not to be played with in this fashion growing.