RED PAINT

Over on the other side of the city, however, on the wide stretch of sandy waste behind an outlying dispensary which had been turned into a segregation camp, the advocates of certainty and uncertainty had changed places. Here, in the little grass-screened yard, six feet square, which Jack Raymond's kindliness had secured for the ordinary reed hut to which poor crushed old Auntie KhÔjee had been brought, it was a scavenger who doubted, a woman who--even amid tears--had faith.

'Lo! brother,' said KhÔjee in gentle reproof, as she sat on the string bed hiding her grief-blurred face discreetly from the tottering old man who had been sent in to sweep out the premises; an old man bowed, palsied, senile, yet still, as a male creature, claiming that calm perfunctory drawing of a veil an inch or two more over a withered cheek, 'thou shouldst not repeat such tales; they do harm. As I have told thee before, God knows what happened was not the fault of the Huzoors. It was JehÂn's, and mine, and Lateef's; if indeed it was ought but God's will. And lies will not bring her back again! It was lies that killed her, Noormahal, Light of Palaces!'--a sob choked the quavering voice, but she struggled on truthfully--'and the Huzoors were kind in concealing what they could. What use to drag the honour of the King's House in the dust? Even JehÂn saw that and held his peace. It is ye--ye of the basket and broom--strangers--not of the house knowing the honour of the house as in old time--who have done ill in talking. And of the girl too. Lo! what thou sayest of her and the pearls may be true; but I know naught of it, and JehÂn hath lied ever. Then for the bracelets! Have I not worn one and cried for death? But death has not come, as thou sayest it comes; though I have worn this these two days.'

She held out her thin arm as she spoke, in order to show the rÂm rucki which Jack Raymond, in his efforts to reassure her, had fastened round her wrist.

The old man ceased sweeping to peer at it, then chuckled wheezily. 'Oho! Oho! bibi! and wherefore not, since that is a rÂm rucki which all know of old! But this other I speak of is new. I tell thee it hath the death-mark on it, and the arrow-head which claims all for the Sirkar's use. Its like none have ever seen before. They sold it deceitfully as safeguard yesterday at Sheik Chilli's fair, and men bought it for their wives and children--Ala! the tyranny of it, the cleverness! who can stand against their ways? So now it is proved a sign of death indeed; all who wear it, all who have worn it, are in the Huzoor's power. When they are wanted, they will die.'

Despite her disbelief--a disbelief founded largely on her own kindly grateful heart--Aunt KhÔjee felt a cold creep in her old bones. 'How canst tell by now? Some may escape,' she quavered.

The old scavenger waggled his head wisely. 'This I know, bibi, that in the Kuteeks' and Lohars' houses--yea! and in others too where the sickness was rife, for, see you, it hath been in the city this fortnight past, though folk held their tongues--all bought these bracelets for safety. All! and it is from these very houses that the dead come! Am I not Dom by craft, though I grow too old and crooked to straighten even dead limbs? Have I not seen? I tell thee, bibi, not one of the corpses taken out of the city this morning but had the bracelet on its wrist! Ay! and not one of those carried by force to the hospitarl but had it too!'

It was an absolutely true statement, even if capable of a more natural explanation.

'But RahmÂn-sahib, the bracelet-brother, did not give them bracelets?' protested Aunt KhÔjee, falling back fearfully on what still seemed incredible.

'God knows,' mumbled the superannuated streaker of dead things. 'Mayhap he did not sell them, but it was by order. A Hindoo in the city, Govind by name, hath a paper with the order written on it, and signed by the Lat-sahib and Wictoria-Queen. So there is no lie there, bibi!'

He passed out resentfully, driving the refuse he had swept up, into the world beyond the six-feet-square yard, with a last flourish of his broom.

KhÔjee, left forlorn, sat looking at her rÂm rucki doubtfully. Could the tale be true? Could the Huzoors have been capable of such a devilish treachery? Even so, he, RahmÂn-sahib, had not been so. His bracelet had brought safety. Even after two days, Auntie KhÔjee recognised this. The daghdar-sahib had laughed at her fear of plague; they had given her seclusion of the strictest; a Musulman woman, who had called her 'my princess,' had brought her better food than she had had for years, and even Lateef had been allowed to come during the day and talk to her. Last, not least, the daghdar himself had respected her veil, and sent a miss-sahiba instead--a miss in a curious dress, who had let her cry about Noormahal, and comforted her with cardamoms--real cardamoms. It had almost been a visit of condolence! Then she was told that in eight days she might go back--though not to the wide dreary house, since it had already been utilised as a hospital. But RahmÂn-sahib had promised to settle that from the rent of this, JehÂn should pay for a more suitable lodging, and also allow her a proper pension.

A bracelet-brother indeed! Yet lying tongues traduced him and she, a bracelet-sister, could do nothing but listen to them! She wept softly over her own ingratitude, so that Lateefa, finding her thus engaged, attempted consolation on the old, old lines which belong to all faiths, all people, by saying that it was God's will, that Noormahal was taken from the evil to come, that she was at peace; until, finding his comfort unavailing, and being pressed for time, he told the old lady gently that she must not expect any more of his companionship that day, since, the term of his more rigorous segregation being over he was free to go out, provided he returned by sundown.

Then to his surprise she suddenly ceased her curious whimpering wail, and looked up at him swiftly.

'Thou canst go out! Then thou shalt go to him and tell him of the lies! Yea! and tell him that I, KhÔjeeya KhÂnum, wear his gift, and--and will never forget him, and his beauty, and his kindness!'

'Tell him? echoed the kite-maker, wondering if he stood on his head or his heels when he was asked to take so fervent a message to a man, from so discreet a lady as Aunt KhÔjee. It did not take long, however, to make him understand; for the old scavenger had swept out the men's quarters also. But, to the dear old lady's disgust, he was inclined to laugh at, and be sceptical over, both her indignation and that of those who had bought the amulet. The tale was not likely to be true. Why should the Huzoors go such a roundabout way to work when they had soldiers and guns? To be sure, these were few in Nushapore at the present moment, and folk were saying that the talk about Sobrai and Noormahal and DilarÂm--God curse the low-born pryers who know not how to keep silence for decency's sake!--had set the pultan (native regiment), which was a high-class Mohammedan one, by the ears; but there were plenty of rigiments close by. And, if it was true, what good would a message to RahmÂn-sahib do? It would only make him angry. And if the tale were a lie, what would he care? Did the Huzoors ever care what folk said? Never! That was why they ruled the land.

But Aunt KhÔjee was firm; even when Lateef--who had told her everything--protested that he had no time to lose; that if he was to have any chance of getting at the ring, which, he trusted, was still concealed among the kites, it must be before their selection for the flying match. Since, once they were chosen, none might touch them till the 'Sovereignty of Air' was decided. Even now he might be too late for the courtyard, and have to go to the turret, ready to seize his chance during the trials. And what is more--here he gave a glance at the sky--if he knew aught of kite-flying, those with fair ballast would surely be chosen to-day; and therefore, of course, the one which had the ring hidden in the guise of a bit of brick within a little calico bag!

'Then it is safe so far. It will be guarded till evening, and then thou canst see to it,' asserted Aunt KhÔjee autocratically.

'Not till after sundown, mayhap, and I must return then; and who can tell what may happen if it is left longer,' persisted Lateef.

'Let what may happen! The daghdars will not kill thee--they are kind; and what is the ring, now, but empty honour, since there is no heir? But the other is different. RahmÂn-sahib is bracelet-brother. He hath been kind--we owe him this. Wouldst thou be even as JehÂn, Lateef, willing to steal honour from any?' Never in her long life had Aunt KhÔjee been so obstinate.

'I care not, so JehÂn doth not steal the ring,' muttered Lateef revengefully. 'Nay, sister, I will not go!'

She bent towards him and laid a wistful hand on his. 'But if God give him back honour, Lateef, should we hinder it?--we who have sinned also? Not so, brother! Let Him decide; and for the rest, help me. Lo! for all her years, this is the first bond between KhÔjeeya KhÂnum, King's Daughter, and a man. Let her keep it faithful, unstained.'

Lateef gave an odd sound, some part of it being his thin musical laugh. 'Sure, sister, thou wouldst make a saint even of a kite-flyer!' he said lightly. 'So be it! I will go by way of the courtyard. Then if the kites be gone already--as I misdoubt me--I will to RahmÂn-sahib's with thy message; so to the turret--or wait till evening as thou sayest. 'Tis a chance either way; and mayhap, if I give God His will with Lateef whom He made, He may give Lateef his will with the kites he made! That is but fair, sister.'

'Yea, brother,' assented KhÔjeeya piously, not in the least understanding what he said. 'So it will come to pass, surely, since He is just.'

Thus it happened, an hour or two after this, when Grace Arbuthnot was once more standing beside her husband's office table, as she had stood a few weeks before with the telegram which withdrew the confidential plan of campaign in her hand, that a card was brought in to Sir George by the orderly. He put it on the table with a frown, ere looking at his wife again, and finishing his remark--

'Tear it up, my dear, and throw it into the waste-paper basket! Why should you worry about the thing? I only showed it to you to amuse you, and because it was a good example of the lies the natives will tell, the threats they will use--on occasion.'

Lady Arbuthnot, who was once more holding a paper in her hand, looked up from it. Her face was pale.

'I think you ought to inquire, George, I really do. If there is anything----'

'My dear child!' interrupted her husband impatiently, what can there be? Didn't I burn the thing with my own hands? You mustn't get nervous, Grace; I've noticed you have been so ever since--well! for some little time past. And, of course, all that about the pearls, and the loathsome imbroglio regarding them, is annoying. I should like to kick Lucanaster and JehÂn Aziz and the lot! Anything more unfortunate at this juncture can scarcely be imagined; but there is nothing to worry about.' He laid his hand on her shoulder as he rose to touch the hand-bell. 'And now, my dear,' he added, 'I have to see Mr. Raymond--he has written "important" on his card.'

'Mr. Raymond!' echoed Grace, her face flushing, then growing pale again. 'Oh, George!' she paused for a moment, then spoke more calmly--'George! I want you to do something for me. I want you to consult Mr. Raymond about--about this matter--will you?'

Sir George stood rather stiff, and the placidly obstinate look came to his mouth. 'Mr. Raymond?' he echoed in his turn. 'Why on earth should Mr. Raymond know anything about it--unless you have been speaking to him?'

She had realised her slip before the suggestion came, a suggestion whose truth she was too proud to deny, even though her husband's displeasure at the thought was unmistakable. 'I have spoken to him,' she replied steadily. 'I told him your opinion as to the danger should the hints in the native press prove to have any foundation; and he quite agreed.'

'I feel flattered,' remarked Sir George coldly, as he sat down again. 'Perhaps, my dear, when you are ready to go, you will ring the bell. Mr. Raymond may be in a hurry.'

Grace Arbuthnot's heart sank within her. A woman--especially a sensible woman--can hardly live for ten years in close and affectionate companionship with a man without having seen him at his best and his worst; and that the latter was the case with Sir George now his wife recognised instantly; albeit with a clear comprehension of the cause, which made her feel a pathetic regret that she should thus handicap a man, as a rule so just, so unbiassed. And that, too, at a moment when much might depend on his being free from personal feeling; since Jack Raymond, she knew, would not have come lightly. Some woman might have fought against facts. Grace was too wise for that. She simply rang the bell, and passed into her own sitting-room with that pathetic regret. It seemed so pitiful after these long years to find antagonism in these two men; and yet what right had she to feel scornful? Was it not bitterly true that she herself could not forget?--not quite!

Seated at her writing-table, her head on her hand, she tried to argue the matter out with herself, and failed. Only this seemed clear. That once you admitted certain emotions to be inevitable, it was very hard to set limits to them. Surely, therefore, there must be a firmer basis than the conventional one; but what was it?

She roused herself, after a time, to the consideration that no matter how the state of tension between herself, her husband, and Jack Raymond came about--and that such a tension did exist, she was again too proud to deny--it must not be allowed to interfere with matters more important; and that it might do so was only too palpable; all the more so because those two, especially her husband, would be loth to admit the very existence of such a possibility.

Therefore, she herself must see and talk to Mr. Raymond. Nay, more! she must get him to do what her husband would not do: make inquiries concerning this threat of publishing some documents if payment for it was not made, which was contained in the letter which--half unconsciously--she had brought away with her in her hand from the office.

She passed out into the anteroom, told the attendant orderly that Raymond sahib, on leaving Sir George, was not to be shown out as usual by the office entry, but through the suite of reception-rooms, and then went thither herself to await and waylay him.

Being seldom used in the morning, these rooms leading the one from the other into a hall beyond, and so to the grand portico, were dim and silent, the jalousies closed, the great jardiniÈres, full of flowers, mysteriously sweet in the shadowy corners. And Grace herself, ready for church save for the bunch of flowers and lace that go to make up the headgear of a grande toilette, looked mysteriously sweet also in the curves of a cushioned chair. She suited the vista of rooms, so empty of trivial nicknacks, so restful in its perfect blending of comfort and beauty. Comfort, not luxury; beauty, not decoration. Cold in its marble floors, warm in its oriental embroideries, and, above all things, charming in both its scented chilliness and scented warmth.

Perhaps she knew that she suited it, and that it suited her, since the hope of this decides the disposition of furniture in most drawing-rooms. Perhaps, in a way, she calculated on this, also on the effect of memory, in reducing Jack Raymond to obedience, since it was in these very rooms, scarcely different even in detail, that the most part of those two happy years had been spent. Such unconscious calculations are quite inevitable when women hold, as they are taught to hold as sacred, the dogma that true womanhood should never permit manhood to forget that it is woman.

She certainly succeeded in this instance, and her words--'Oh! Mr. Raymond, I am so glad. I want to speak to you so much'--brought the latter back into the past with a vengeance, as, inwardly cursing himself for having taken the trouble to come and warn Sir George of something he thought serious, he mechanically followed the orderly's lead.

She scarcely looked a day older; she certainly was more beautiful. And surely, the last time he had seen her in those rooms alone, there had been just such a scarlet hand of poinsettia against the cold marble above her head.

'You have been seeing my husband,' she began quite unconsciously, and he broke in on the remark with a curious little laugh.

'I have, Lady Arbuthnot; and I fear I have wasted my time; and his. The former is of little consequence, but the latter I regret.'

As she so often did, out of a blessed unconsciousness that her mental position towards him was quite untenable, she appealed at once to that past confidence.

'Don't be angry, please! I was afraid there might be--difficulties. Sir George,' she smiled frankly, 'was in a very bad temper. I had just'--she broke off, realising that absolute confidence was impossible, then went on--'but you must not let that interfere with--with what you think advisable. And you do think with me, don't you? that it would be advisable to inquire whether--whether that unfortunate letter of mine----'

Jack Raymond, who had remained standing in impatient hesitation between his politeness and his desire to escape as soon as possible, stared at her.

'What letter?' he asked.

She rose too in sudden surprise, and they stood facing each other against that background of white marble and scarlet outspread poinsettia. 'Then it was something else,' she said; 'I thought it must be this.'

He took the letter she held out, and read it.

'It says nothing definitely,' she went on, 'but--but I think it must be that; don't you? If so, what ought we to do?'

The 'we' struck him sharply, and he asked, 'Have you told Sir George?'

'Told him?' she echoed, flushing a little. 'No! I wish, now, I had, at first; he--he would have faced the possible danger by this time. But now? now it is impossible, Mr. Raymond! I have thought it out thoroughly. It would be better to take the risk, if that is necessary. But it need not be, if you will help me.'

He shook his head.

'Why should you not?' Her head was up, her beautiful face full of a faint scorn, her clear eyes were on his unflinchingly.

He met her look, as he always met a challenge, with almost brutal sincerity.

'Because I do not choose to--to stultify the last ten years; because I gave up all that sort of thing when--when I said good-bye to you--here.'

'And you would let that stand between you and--no! not between you--but between death and life perhaps for others; between order and disorder, anyhow. You think it important, I know----'

'Sir George does not,' he interrupted.

'What does that matter? You are as capable of judging as he; perhaps more so! Why should you be a coward? Why should you, who possibly--no! probably--know far more of the ins and outs of the city than the regular officials?--Oh, don't deny it! Have I not heard them say, "Ask Raymond" this or that, and "Raymond will know," and have I not been glad--so glad that everything has not been spoilt! Why should you, I say, give up your own opinion? For it comes to that. What you came here to tell Sir George to-day, for instance; you must have thought it important, or you would not have come.'

'I came because I thought it my duty to acquaint the authorities with certain facts that had been brought to my notice. I have done so, and that ends it----'

'It does not end it! You and Sir George disagreed, you know you did, as to its importance. You still think you are right, and yet you yield to him--why?'

There was a moment's pause, and then Jack Raymond gave a hard laugh. 'Why? I will tell you the truth, Lady Arbuthnot, though you may not like it--though I acknowledge it is humiliating--for all of us! Because I have had to yield to him before. Because he hasn't forgotten, and I haven't forgotten, and you haven't forgotten--not quite, have you? It is nothing to be ashamed of; it is only natural--one of the limitations of life--but there it is, isn't it?'

He took a step nearer in the silence.

'Isn't it?' he repeated. 'Tell the truth, Grace, and shame--don't let us say the devil--but fate. There, put your hand in mine, and face our own--forgetfulness!'

She faced it boldly, even though he felt her hand tremble in his--'Did I ever deny it?' she said softly, with tears in her voice; 'I do not, I cannot forget quite. It is pitiful, of course; but why----?'

'Don't!' he interrupted quickly. 'Don't, my dear lady! You will only make me remember more; that is the truth. As you say, it is pitiful; but there it is.'

She stood looking at him with a world of regret, some anger, and a little, a very little scorn.

'And you will let this interfere with--with everything.'

'Not with everything, but with this, certainly,' he pointed to the letter which he had laid on the console below the poinsettias. 'And that is all the easier to do, because I don't believe in it--quite. But if I were you, I should tell Sir George the truth and let him decide. As for the other matter about which I came to speak, he may be right, and I wrong. Time will show.'

'It may, disastrously, to many--to India--even to Empire!'--the scorn came uppermost now.

'Surely,' he replied, reverting to his usual manner, 'the Empire can take care of itself. If not, Lady Arbuthnot, I am afraid it must do without my help--in Nushapore. Good-bye.'

The qualification held all his previous arguments in it, and re-aroused his own bitterness at his own memories, so that as he walked on down the long vista of rooms, he felt each well-remembered bit of it to be a fresh injury; and his impatience, his obstinacy grew at each step. Why had not Grace the sense to believe, once for all, as he had told her at the very first, that hers was not the hand to wile his back to the plough?

Her hand! Ye Gods! And he could feel its touch now on his. That woman's touch so full of possibilities, so full of power.

'Mr. Waymond! Oh, Mr. Waymond! Do please don't go away!' came Jerry's voice from a side-room used as a schoolroom which opened out from the hall. 'Oh, please do come and help me wif this. I'm 'fwaid I don't know somefing I ought to know.'

It never needed much of Jerry's voice to cajole any one; so the next moment, temper or no temper, Jack Raymond was bending over the little figure which, perched on a high chair at the table, was busy over a map of India.

'Hullo, young man!' he said. 'Lessons?'

Jerry looked at him in shocked surprise. 'Why, it's Sunday! And I've learned my hymn--'bout babes an' sucklings an' such is the kingdom of heaven, don't you know. An' I'm not 'llowed to go to church 'cos mum says I'm not normal yet; don't you fink, Mr. Waymond, it's just orful dull of people always twying to be just the same? I like it when mum says I'm feverish. I dweam dweams. Las' night I dweamt there was a weal wow, an' dad made me his galloper, an' I had secwet dispatches. Oh! it was just wippin', I tell you. I think secwet dispatches is--is the loveliest game! 'Cos it's--it's all your own, you know, and nobody, nobody else mustn't have them, or know, not even mum. And you keep 'em quite, quite secwet, an' you don't even know what's inside, yourself; do you? Not if you play it ever, ever so long as I do. And I did it once too, you know, weally; at least I fink I did, though they say I didn't.'

The child's eyes were still over bright, his cheeks flushed with the last touches of the sun fever which comes and goes so easily with English children in India; and Jack Raymond smiled softly at the little lad who reminded him so much of his own boyhood, even though the remembrance, at that particular moment, brought a fresh bitterness towards the woman he had just left--the woman who would have liked, as it were, to eat her cake and have it.

'And what are you up to now?' he asked, seating himself on the table and looking down at what lay on it--the outspread map, a paint-box, and a crimson-stained tumbler of water--'spoiling the map of India; eh?'

'I ain't spoiling it,' retorted Jerry indignantly, 'I'm only paintin' it wedder. Mum said I might.'

'I'll tell you what, though, young man! You'll spoil yourself if you suck your paint-brush.'

It came out of Jerry's mouth with the usual crimson flag of contrition all over his cheeks. 'It's orful hard to wemember when one is finking-finking of nothin' but the wed, and yet twyin' to play fair.'

'Play fair?' echoed Jack Raymond. 'What game are you playing now, Jerry?'

'Oh! it isn't a game; it's weal. Only, I mean the tiddly little bits'--Jerry, his tongue in his cheek, was laboriously at work again on Rajputana with a brush so surcharged with carmine that it left perfect bloodstains on the general tint of pale yellow--'I don't want, in course, to take more 'n belongs to the Queen, but they mustn't have the teeniest bit of what belongs to us, must they, Mr. Waymond?'

'I see,' replied the man slowly. 'You are painting the town red for Her Majesty--I mean the map.--Isn't it red enough as it is, Jerry?'

The child--in his excitement put down his paint-brush in the middle of Bengal as a safe spot. 'Not half wed enough! An' besides! there's mistakes an' mistakes, an' the yellow an' gween run over the line. I don't mind the yellow so much, 'cos we only allow them to be that colour; but it's dweadful with gween! An' then there's some orful fings. You see that spot'--he pointed triumphantly to an almost invisible speck of red like a midge bite--'I made that! It wasn't there. Mum said the map people fought it was too small to put in, but it's got to be, you see; so when I give the map to Budlu--Budlu's got a little grandson older nor me at school who learns maps, and mum said I might give him this one--I'll tell him it isn't quite the wight size. But it may be, some time, you know. Perhaps when I gwow up it will be.' The clear bright eyes grew dreamy, as Jerry, with conscientious care, skirted around the possessions of an extremely minor chieftain.

'Perhaps!' echoed the man still more slowly. 'And I expect you'd like to make it bigger, wouldn't you?'

'Wather! I should think I just would! Like as mum says her gweat-gweat-gwandfather-people--an' yours too, she said, Mr. Waymond--did. Just like Clive, you know, an' all the people that people wemember.'

The man's face was very close to the child's now, as resting his elbows on the table, he watched the crimson brush.

'What a Jingo you are, Jerry! And if any one were to try--to try and make a really red bit yellow, for instance--or even pale pink--what would you do?'

Jerry went on with his task laboriously. 'I wouldn't let 'em, in course. I'd take away their tumblers, an' their paint-brushes, an' everything, till they hadn't no excuse; an' then, if they was bad still, I d whack 'em!'

Jack Raymond rose to go. 'A very sound theory of Government, young man,' he said, and his voice had an odd ring in it, 'especially the whacking. It's a pity you're not grown-up now, Jerry--why aren't you?'

Jerry looked up with the child's sudden consciousness of a joke, and smiled at his friend roguishly.

'Why? 'Cos you are, in course! When you're dead, I'll do it. It's your turn now! Oh don't go, please! you haven't told me yet----'

'What?' asked Jack Raymond, pausing with a still odder look on his face.

Jerry's finger travelled carefully down to Pondicherry. 'That!' he said. 'They say it is Fwench, an' it's beastly; but when I looked in the atlas for Fwance colour, it was all sorts--gweens, and blues, and yellows, and weds, all mixed up. So, please! wouldn't it be fair to make it wed too? I couldn't help what it looks like, could I, if I didn't mean cheating?'

'My dear little chap!' replied Jack Raymond, 'if I were you, I'd paint every blessed bit of it bright scarlet!' And then suddenly, much to Jerry's surprise, he stooped and kissed the child's puzzled yet open forehead.

'Oh! fank you,' said Jerry politely. 'Mum kisses me like that sometimes, and dad too. I--I like it.'