Caste Part 19

"And that's your reason for taking this awful chance, to save Ajeet and the others--is it?"

"There is another reason, Sahib." The girl dropped her eyes and turning a gold bangle on her wrist gazed upon a ruby that had the contour of a serpent's head. Presently she asked, "Will the Sahib go to Khureyra and have a knife thrust between his ribs?"

Barlow was startled by this query. "Why should I go to Khureyra, Gulab?"

"To see Amir Khan."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because it is known. But the Chief is not now there--he has taken his hors.e.m.e.n to Saugor."

Again this was startling. Also the information was of great value. If the Pindari horde had left the territory of Sindhia and crossed the border into Saugor they were closer to the British.

Barlow patted the girl's hand, saying, "My salaams to you, little girl."

He felt her slim cool fingers press his hand, but he shrank from the claiming touch, muttering, "The d.a.m.ned barrier!"

Suddenly Barlow remembered Bootea had spoken of another reason for going to the Pindari camp. He puzzled over this a little, hesitating to question her; she had not told him what it was, but had asked if he were going there; the reason evidently had something to do with him.

It couldn't be treachery--she had done so much for him; it must be the something that looked out of her eyes when they rested on his face, the unworded greatest thing on earth in the way of fealty and devotion.

Possibly this was the grand motive, the reason she had given being secondary.

"You said, Gulab, that you had another reason for this awful trip; what is it?" he asked.

The girl's eyes dropped to the ruby bracelet again; "To acquire merit in the eyes of Mahadeo, Sahib."

"To do good acts so that you may be reincarnated as a heaven-born, a Brahmini, perhaps even come back as a memsahib."

At this her big eyes rose to Barlow's face, and he could swear that there were tears misting them; and sensing that if she had fallen in love with him, what he had said about her becoming a memsahib had hurt.

Perhaps she, as he did, realised that that was the barred door to happiness--that she wasn't of the white race.

"Yes, Sahib," she said presently, "a Swami told me that in a former life I had been evil."

"The Swami is an awful liar!" Barlow e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed.

"The holy ones speak the truth, Sahib. The Swami said that because of having been beautiful I had caused deaths through jealousy."

"Oh, the crazy fool!" Barlow declared in English; "and it's all rot!

This is the reason you spoke of, Gulab--good deeds; is it the only other reason?"

The girl turned her face away, and Barlow saw her shoulders quiver.

He rose from the chair, and lifting the girl to her feet held her in his arms, saying: "Look me in the eyes, Gulab, and tell me if you are going through this devilish thing because of me."

"Bootea is going to the camp of Amir Khan because Hunsa and the others have been told to kill the Sahib; and she will see that this is not accomplished."

Barlow clasped the girl to his breast and smothered her face in kisses; "You are the sweetest little woman that ever lived," he said; "and I am a sinner, for this can only bring you misery."

"Sahib--it can't be, but it is not misery. The sweet pain has been put in the heart of Bootea by the Sahib's eyes, and she is happy. But do not go as a Sahib."

Barlow cursed softly to himself, muttering, "India! Even dreams are not unheard!" Then, "What made you say that?" he queried.

"It is known because that is the way of the Sahib. He knows that where he sleeps or eats, or plays games with the little b.a.l.l.s, that there are always servants, and it is known that Captain Barrle is called the Patan by his friends."

"St. George and the Cross!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. "If I were thus would they know me?" he asked. "There would be danger, but the Sahib knowing of this, could take more care in the way of deceit. But Bootea will know--the eyes will not be hidden."

Then he thought of Hunsa, and asked, "But aren't you afraid to go with that beast, Hunsa?"

The girl laughed. "The decoits have orders from the Dewan to kill him if I complain of him; but if they do not he is promised the torture when he comes back if I make complaint. If the Sahib will but wait a few days before the journey so that Bootea has made friends with Amir Kami before he comes, it will be better. We will start in two days."

"I'll see, Gulab," he answered evasively. "You are going now?"

"Yes, Sahib--it has been said."

"I'll send the doorman with you."

"No, Bootea will be better alone," she touched the knife in her sash; "it must not be known that Bootea came to the Sahib."

Barlow took her arm leading her through the bathroom to the back door; he opened it, and listened intently for a few seconds. Then he took her oval face in his palms and kissed her, pa.s.sionately, saying, "Good-bye, little girl; G.o.d be with you. You are sweet."

"The Sahib is like a G.o.d to Bootea," she whispered.

As the girl slipped away between the bushes, like something floating out of a dream, Barlow stood at the open door, a resurge of abas.e.m.e.nt flooding his soul. In the combat between his mentality and his heart the heart was making him a weakling, a dishonourable weakling, so it seemed. He pulled the door shut, and went back to his bed and finally fell asleep, a thing of tortured unrest.

CHAPTER XVII

Barlow was up early next morning, wakened by that universal alarm clock of India, the grey-necked, small-bodied city crow whose tribe is called the Seven Sisters--noisy, impudent, clamorous, sharp-eyed thieves that throng the compounds like sparrows, that hop in through the open window and steal a slice of toast from beside the cup of tea at the bedside.

He mounted the waiting Cabuli pony and rode to the Residency. He had much to talk over with Hodson in the light of all that had transpired in the last two days, and, also, he had a hope that Elizabeth would be possessed of an after-the-storm calm, would greet him, and somehow give him a moral sustaining against his lapse in heart loyalty. Mentally he didn't label his feeling toward Elizabeth love. Toward her it had been largely a matter of drifting, undoubted giving in to suasion, more of a.s.sociation than what was said. She had cla.s.s; she was intellectual; there was no doubt about her wit--it was like a well-cut diamond, sparkling, brilliant--no warmth. When Barlow reflected, jogging along on the Cabuli, that he probably did not love Elizabeth, picturing the pa.s.sion as typified by Romeo and Juliet as instance, he suddenly asked himself: "By Jove! and does anybody except the pater love Elizabeth?"

He was doubtful if anybody did. All the servants held her in esteem, for she was just, and not n.i.g.g.ardly; but hers was certainly not a disposition to cause spontaneous affection. Perhaps the word admirable epitomised Elizabeth all round. But he felt that he needed a sort of Christian Science sustaining, as it were, in this sensuous drifting--something to make his slipping appear more obnoxious.

As he rode up to the verandah of the Residency he saw Elizabeth cutting flowers, probably to decorate the breakfast table. That was like Elizabeth; instead of leaving it to the _mahli_ (gardener), with the butler to festoon the table, she was doing it herself. It was an occupation akin to water-colour painting or lace work, just the sort of thing to find Elizabeth at--typical.

Barlow was possessed of a hopeful fancy that perhaps she had not ridden expecting that he would call on the Resident; but as always with the Resident's daughter he could deduct nothing from her manner. She nodded pleasantly, looking up, a gloved hand full of roses; and, as he slipped from the saddle, relinquis.h.i.+ng the horse to the _syce_, she fell in beside him as far as the verandah, where they stood talking desultory stuff; the morning sun on the pink and white oleanders, the curious snake-like mottling of the croton leaves, and the song of a _dhyal_ that, high in a tamarind, was bubbling liquid notes of joy.

"The Indian robin red-breast makes one homesick," Elizabeth said.

"Home--", but the girl put a quick hand on his arm checking him; the action was absolutely like Elizabeth, imperious. A small, long-tailed, brown-breasted bird had darted across the compound to a mango tree from where he warbled a love song as sweet and rich toned as the evensong of a nightingale.

The _dhyal_, as if feeling defeat in the sweeter carol of his rival, hushed.

"The _shama_," Elizabeth said; "when I hear him I close my eyes and picture the downs and oaked hills of England, and fancy I'm listening to the nightingale or the lark."

Barlow turned involuntarily to look into the girl's face; it was an inquisitive look, a wondering look; gentle sentiment coming from Elizabeth was rather a reversal of form.

Also there was immediately a reversal of bird form, a shatterment of sentiment, a rasping maddening note from somewhere in the dome of a pipal tree. A Koel bird, as if in derision of the feathered songsters, sent forth his shrill plaintive, "Koe-e-el, Koe-e-el, Ko-e-e-el!"