His first sight of her, however, in unprepared toilette, _minus_ the green satin trousers which gave such dignity to her rotund little figure, _minus_ all pretence at pomp, dirty, untidy, unkempt both in her surroundings and herself, made him feel what a fool he was. The more so when she began by resenting his summary visitation, especially in uniform, which, she a.s.serted, made her feel, even at her age, as if she were committing the indiscretion of seeing a stranger!
What could a woman like that know? Yet having come, he might as well go through with his errand; so he cut short her upbraidings by saying without preamble:
"I have seen my cousin. I spoke to her, and--and she spoke back again."
Mumtaza Mahal looked at him for a moment incredulously, then she cracked all her finger joints over his head, or as nearly over it as her height would allow.
"Said I not so?" she asked prophetically. "And when will the wedding be?"
"Wedding!" he echoed petulantly; "there is no talk of wedding. I have but seen her."
"But seen her!" echoed the old lady in her turn. "That came after in my time; but G.o.d knows how things go nowadays. Then what didst speak about?"
He had to give a Bowdlerized version of what had pa.s.sed; yet, even so, Mumtaza Mahal looked shocked. "A bold hussy; but thou wilt bit and bridle her."
He burst out angrily--for his own recital had shown him the folly of castle-building on so slight a foundation--"I am a fool," he said, "and so art thou for all thy years!"
Her little black eyes flashed angrily. "Not I! Did she not say she would like to be a _Begum?_ and if that means not--"
"And could I make her one?" he interrupted fiercely. "I--a _risaldar_ on a bare pittance--with no prospect of rising. Dost dream me Nawab, fool?"
The old lady"s face grew cunning in a second, the instinctive love of intrigue roused by the mere suggestion. She leant towards him eagerly.
"And wherefore not, Roshan? Are all things fixed? Do rulers never change? I live here in a corner, nothing but a poor woman: yet I hear more, it seems, than thou dost. I hear of discontent, of desires, of things that call for change. But to-day, they spoke of men being killed to make light for these infidels, and Gorakh-nath, _jogi_, hath sworn a miracle."
He turned on her with a bitter, reckless laugh. "Is that new? Is there not always talk? The wise listen not."
A vast importance, a real dignity came to her in an instant. "If the _Huzoors_ had listened to such talk in "57."
A thrill ran through him; the thrill of secret curiosity, almost of expectation regarding the great Rebellion from which so many things date, which young India always feels in the presence of their elders, who pa.s.sed through it.
"Thou dost know, of course," he said, catching his breath; "thou canst remember."
"Ay!" she replied sternly, "and there was no more talk than there is now. "Tis not a question of words. It is fate. Something happens, and then--then the _risaldar_ may be Nawab--as his fathers were."
She had gone too far, and recalled him to himself. "Then let us await the happening," he said curtly.
"Wait!" echoed the old lady, reverting to the main point. "Thou canst not wait. Having gone so far, the negotiations cannot drop. Thou must send the gift, and see what comes of it."
"A gift!" he repeated. "What gift, and wherefore?"
Mumtaza Mahal looked round as if for approval, tucked a packet of _pan_ into her cheek, and chuckled. She was on familiar ground now.
"Leave that to me. I know what girls like. I have them still. Ay! a dress that her grandmother wore--good as new, being for a tall woman--and jewels. "Tis no harm, at least, see you; since if they like it not, the gift is returned."
He stood doubtful, half pleased, half shocked at the suggestion. She could certainly send the things back, and he had many a time seen English women wearing native jewelry; ay! and decorating their rooms with native dresses. And he could write that they were from her cousin and servant.
That would be easier than telling.
CHAPTER IX
OUT OF THE PAST
"I feel as if I had this moment arrived," said Muriel Smith, as she looked down into the garden from a balcony which jutted out upon one side of the wide flight of marble steps that led upwards to the loggia of the palace. "Yet I know I"ve been here for hours. I wonder when the sheer beauty will cease to--to take my breath away. _You_ understand, don"t you?"
"Yes!" a.s.sented Vincent Dering, half grudgingly. He would rather not have understood more than others. But he did; that was the worst of it.
He was looking his best in the old cavalry uniform of grey, and silver, and cherry colour, all laced, embroidered, and glittering with epaulettes, sabretasche, and high stock,--the uniform of a hundred years ago, when adventurers ruled half India, and Englishmen were demi-G.o.ds. It seemed to have brought something of their pride and recklessness, something of the dreams they dreamt into his whole bearing, as he stood leaning over the bal.u.s.trade gazing fixedly at the scene before him. It was beautiful indeed! Beautiful with that unearthly stillness which only comes to illuminations in a windless Indian night. The lines on lines, the curves on curves of tiny lights which outlined each pillar and arch, each b.u.t.tress and recess of the palace, the battlemented wall of the garden, and the turreted town rising above it, were steady as the stars. The fine fret of the acacia trees, showing white against the purple of the sky, was still as if carved in stone. There was no flicker in the soft radiance, which made the solid marble seem translucent, illumined mysteriously from within.
The very shadows slept. Such scented shadows, clinging to the burnished orange trees, hidden in the wilderness of roses, dreaming on the perfumed cushions of the quaint balconies and cupolas which overhung the river.
But _it_ did not sleep. _It_ moved, sliding on and on ceaselessly.
So did the water which dimpled and tinkled--after Heaven only knew how many sad years of silence and decorum--over the fretted marble water-slides.
How it laughed and babbled to the cunning coloured lights placed behind it! And the fountains below, rising out of the water-maze,--where there was but room for the flying feet of a laughing girl on the marble ledges between the lotus-leaves,--laughed and tinkled, also, as they sent showers of diamonds back on the pale blossoms.
The "jewel in the lotus" indeed!
There was no colour to be seen anywhere. Only that soft, steady, white radiance, those soft, sleeping, black shadows. Except in the drifting water-maze, and the drifting men and women around it.
Restless, both of them; going on and on. Whither, and wherefore? It was an idle question, Vincent told himself, if the move brought, as it did here, fresh laughter, fresh colour.
"_On such a night did young Lorenzo_," quoted the Commissioner"s brogue from the flight of steps where, in the guise of a French cook, he was fanning Laila Bonaventura, with whom he had been dancing; the latter sitting still and silent as the shadow in which she was half hidden. A crackling laugh betrayed Dr. Dillon"s whereabouts. He was perched on a bal.u.s.trade above, his legs dangling, his trousers, as usual, displaying his thin ankles; for he was dressed in his ordinary evening suit.
"And old Lorenzo also," he scoffed. "The disease is nonprotective, contagious, and marked by extraordinary vitality in the virus, which after long years may spring to fresh life from a dress, a bit of ribbon, a lock of hair."
"Oh! have done with such blasphemy!" interrupted the Commissioner, joyously, "and me racking me brains which of all the beauties of this _hareem_ I"d better fall in love with! Dering, you"re a steward, I believe. Turn that man out for obtruding the exigencies of everyday life--including a swallow-tail coat--into Paradise."
"I"ve objected already, sir," said Vincent Dering, laughing; "but he declares he is a malarial bacillus."
"A what?" remonstrated the brogue.
"A malarial bacillus, sir," explained the doctor; "as I have failed hitherto--like everybody else--to recognize the gentleman, even through a microscope, I am naturally at sea as to the proper costume. And you will, of course, admit the universal rule: "When in doubt, play a dress suit.""
"By Jove!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Lance Carlyon, who, mopping his face, had joined the group, "what a ripping idea. Wish I"d thought of it instead of this kit." He looked regretfully at his mailed limbs; for he was dressed as Lancelot-du-Lac, a costume which had been chosen for him two years before, at Simla, by a gra.s.s widow who had aspired to the part of Guinevere; but who, retiring before the young fellow"s absolute unconsciousness of her intention, had left him saddled with an expensive fancy dress which he felt bound to wear out; for all his spare cash was kept for guns and polo ponies.
"I"m glad you didn"t, Mr. Carlyon," protested Muriel Smith, consolingly. "You look very nice in it. Only those things on your legs--I forget the proper name--must be difficult to dance in."
"Greaves--the well-greaved Greeks, me dear madam," put in the Commissioner. "Plural of grief. Ah! ye should have seen him come to it just now with the general"s wife. Your chance of promotion"s gone, me dear boy--the marble floor resounded."
"Well, it isn"t half so inconvenient as my husband"s dress, anyhow,"
continued Mrs. Smith, persisting in her mission of sympathy, when the laugh at Lance"s expense had subsided.
"That"s all you know, my dear," remonstrated Mr. Smith, sleepily, from a quiet nook in one corner. "I never said Robinson Crusoe was a good dancing dress, but I claim it isn"t bad to sleep in, especially out of doors. Soft and furry--and--"