The Romance of a Nautch Girl

“There are some things still hidden from the ken of Cook and the race of globe-trotters, and I do not fear to reveal the secrets of this remote corner of the earth, for if any be thereby induced to visit the Peninsula in search of such displays as I have tried to describe, he will meet with disappointment.

“You cannot, in the language of Western culture, put a penny in the slot and set in motion the wheels of this barbarous Eastern figure.”

— Frank Athelstane Swettenham

Chapter 1

A Dark Night

“’Tis past—the mingled dream—though slow and grey
On mead and mountain breaks the dawning day;
Though stormy wreaths of lingering cloud oppress,
Long time the winds that breathe, the rays that bless:
They come, they come, Night’s fitful visions fly
Like autumn leaves, and fade from Fancy’s eye.”
— Ruskin

A light burnt in Dr. Manning’s bungalow. The servant who awaited his master’s coming was in a sound slumber, induced by the poppy-seed, that enriched the evening meal of curry. It mattered little to Ramaswamy whether he slept in the verandah of the bungalow, or in his own particular godown, a small den behind the house.

He was accustomed to the coming and going of his master at all hours; and it caused him no uneasiness nor surprise, when that master failed to put in his appearance at half-past ten that evening.

The small hours of the morning struck, and the night grew darker. A heavy mist blotted out the stars; the air was motionless, and there was absolute silence on the face of nature.

The flying foxes ended their shrieking in the fig trees, where they fought over the red fruit like unholy witches; and they betook themselves to roost on the branches, hanging themselves head downwards. The busy cicalas ceased their whirring mills, and the tree frogs relinquished their persistent cry for “more rain.”

There had been no rain of late, and the dry cotton soil was parched. The carriage drive lay thick in soft pulverised dust, like the dust of dried puff-balls, which deadened the sound of footsteps.

Out of the darkness of the night stepped the Doctor, suddenly and without warning. He was dressed in grey khaki, and was stained with dust to the knees, as though he had walked a long distance. His face wore an anxious, wearied expression; and, as he came up the steps into the verandah, he glanced round, as though in search of someone. His eye fell on the form of the sleeping servant. He stood irresolute for a moment; then, taking up the lamp, he walked into the house, leaving the man to his dreams.

He went straight into his brother’s room. It was empty. The mosquito curtains of the cot were thrown up on to the frame above; the bed was tumbled, as though someone had flung himself on the outside to rest without removing his clothes. On the dressing-table lay a handsome watch, two or three expensive rings, some diamond studs, and a little pile of rupees.

“Silly, thoughtless fellow,” said the Doctor to himself, as he gathered all the valuables together and carried them to his own room, where he put them under lock and key.

After placing the jewels in safety, Dr. Manning went into the dining-room and helped himself to some whiskey. Perhaps it was the dim light of the lamp, or it might have been that his thoughts were not in what he was doing, but there was an unusual recklessness in the way in which he charged his glass with spirit. He added soda-water, and carried the glass into the verandah.

Placing the glass and the lamp on a small table, he flung himself into a cane chair with long arms.

As he lay at full length in the chair—his heels upon the arms—an expression of pain crossed his face, and his brow was puckered with a frown. He lighted a cheroot, and took a long pull at his glass, nearly emptying it. Now and again the cigar was removed from his lips, whilst, lost in thought, he stared into the blackness of the night. Once the cheroot went out altogether, so abstracted did the smoker seem.

But he did not sleep; his brain was far too busy. The keen glance of his dark eyes shot from beneath eyelids that never felt the weight of slumber less than at that moment. Though his limbs rested motionless and still, his mind was crowded with thoughts, which, judging from the expression on his countenance, were not pleasant. A puff of fresh air fanned his face. It was the cool breath of dawn, and it came straight in from the far-distant sea. The warm sandy plain, with its withering cotton plants and its half-baked palms, could not rob that morning breeze of its freshness.

Felix Manning threw away the end of his cheroot, and drew a long draught of the fresh air into his lungs. It cleared his brain; he rose to his feet in all the vigour of manhood, shaking weariness from his limbs and care from his brow, like a young giant in health and strength.

“Get up Ramaswamy and make me some tea,” he said, crossing to where the man lay in deep slumber, and touching him on the shoulder.

The servant stared at him in the bewilderment of waking; and, scrambling to his feet, began to fold his turban round his smooth-shaven head.

“Did Mr. William come in last night?” asked Dr. Manning.

“I do not know, sahib; I will go and see.” Presently he returned.

“No, sahib; Mr. William has not come home.”

“Did he come in and go out again?”

“No, sahib, he left the house when you left; and he went out that way.”

The man pointed in the direction of the engineer’s bungalow.

The Doctor motioned him to go, and turned down the verandah steps into the garden.

The breeze was blowing steadily now, and the leaves were stirring. The fronds of the palms clashed together with a dry rattle, and a soft moan came from the casuarina’s needles. The birds fluttered in their roosting places, and began to chirp and twitter. A faint light shone on the horizon in the East, and the round heads of the palmyras grew distinct against the sky. The cocks in the town crowed to each other and awoke the townspeople. In half an hour the sun would be up, and the little Hindu world would begin the simple labour of the long Indian day.

In a short space of time Dr. Manning heard the rattle of the teacups. The servants knew their master’s weakness for tea in the early morning; and they were also aware that he was never more glad of it than after a long midnight watch by a patient’s bedside. He was a kind and liberal master; and though it is said that gratitude is an unknown quality in India, the men and women who served him never spared themselves where his immediate comfort was concerned. So they now busied themselves in preparing first the tea, and then that chiefest of all luxuries in the tropics, the bath, knowing that it would be the next thing demanded. It was with keen pleasure that Dr. Manning took his plunge in the sparkling water, freshly drawn from the well.

The hideous nightmares of the black night vanished under the crystal drops; the dust and fever were washed from his skin; the frown left his brow, and the lines of care faded from his face, as he tossed the refreshing streams over himself with boyish zest.

It was a handsome face, with large regular features, pale complexion, and dark crisp hair.

He was half through his toilette when a messenger came running to the house. Miss Holdsworth was ill, and the Doctor was entreated to come at once. Ramaswamy delivered the message through the closed door of the dressing-room. Hitherto, Dr. Manning had proceeded in a leisurely fashion, lingering with a sense of luxury in the cool, limpid water, and by no means hurrying himself over his dressing. On hearing the message his manner changed from comfortable ease to impetuous haste, and he finished his toilette scarcely heeding what he put on.

As he rushed from his room, his servant asked him some trivial question about breakfast. He pushed him aside with a gesture of impatience, seized his hat and walked off in the direction of the engineer’s bungalow.

Mrs. Holdsworth met him at the door.

“My daughter is not at all well. She has been in hysterics—a most unusual thing with her—and she is very feverish. I think she is wandering in her mind, for she talks so wildly. The sun must have affected her.”

Dr. Manning said nothing; he followed the kind-hearted but not very intelligent lady to her daughter’s room.

Miss Holdsworth was moaning. As the Doctor came into the room, she started up, as though she would have sprung from her bed, and gazed at him with terror-stricken eyes. He was prompt in action. He pushed her gently but firmly back, smoothed her pillow, rearranged the coverlet, and spoke a few soothing words. She felt the influence of a stronger and calmer mind upon hers, and would have replied, but he checked her decisively,—

“Do not speak; keep quite quiet and control yourself.”

“Yes, darling, you must not excite yourself; you have had bad dreams, and a disturbed night from those dreadful tomtoms,” said Mrs. Holdsworth; “but they are all gone now. I wish, Dr. Manning, we could put a stop to those horrible devil-dancings. Did you hear the noise the people made last night? It was disgraceful.”

The girl writhed as her mother spoke; her eyes filled with tears, and she cast a wild look of entreaty at the Doctor.

“Mrs. Holdsworth, will you kindly bring me a little brandy? or, better still, have you any champagne?”

“Yes; she had some champagne in the storeroom; she must find her keys and then she would get it. He told her there was no need to hurry.

“If you leave your daughter to me for a few minutes she will soon grow calm, and then a glass of champagne with something to eat will be most beneficial. Go with your mistress,” he said to the ayah, who stood watching with female curiosity all that was passing.

For one second the woman hesitated, but he spoke again and she vanished. As the screen door closed on Mrs. Holdsworth and the ayah, the Doctor’s manner changed entirely. He took the girl’s hands in his own firm grasp, and said,—

“Now, Beryl, this will not do at all. You must not give way like this; it is abject folly, and can only get you into trouble.”

The use of the Christian name, and the decisive manner, had the desired effect of preventing tears. She gave a gasping sob or two, and then was quiet. Presently her lips moved in a whisper. He leaned forward and listened, still retaining her hand.

“Oh! nonsense; it is all right. What do you fear?” he asked almost roughly, for the look of terror in her eyes disturbed him. “There is nothing to fear but your own folly in behaving like this. You want food and wine, for you are thoroughly exhausted. Have you had any breakfast?” She shook her head. There was some eau-de-Cologne upon the table; saturating a handkerchief with the spirit, he bathed her hot temples. Before she could say more the ayah returned, bringing a champagne glass.

The woman had been in Mrs. Holdsworth’s service many years, and had nursed Beryl when she was a baby. She was devoted to her, and loved her more than her own offspring. She was therefore a privileged servant, and she seemed inclined to exercise that privilege on the present occasion. Coming to the Doctor’s side, she said,—

“Missy playing tennis too long in the sun yesterday.”

Dr. Manning took no notice of her, but continued bathing his patient’s forehead. The ayah kept her watchful eye on her, and remarked,—

“Missy home very late last night.”

He turned sharply, and rose from his chair by the bed. He took the woman by the arm, and half led, half pushed her into the dressing-room, closing the door behind him, There he spoke to her in her own language. As he talked, her dusky skin paled into sickly yellow ochre shades with fear. He was about to return to the bedroom, when his glance fell on a brown cotton dress hanging over a chair. It was tumbled and torn, a mere wreck of its former self. He grasped it hastily and turned it over, exposing as he did so a great stain. The ayahs eyes met his for one moment, and then fastened again on the dress. Without further hesitation the doctor took a pair of scissors from the dressing-table, and deliberately cut out the stained portion, thrusting it deep into his pocket. He turned the garment round once or twice, searching closely for other spots, but there were none. He flung the dress to the ayah.

“Put it away out of sight, and say nothing.”

And with swift steps he returned to the bedroom. Miss Holdsworth was lying just as he left her. She was calmer, and the wild distraught look was passing from her face. Whatever were her sentiments towards the Doctor, his presence had the effect of lifting the cloud. Mrs. Holdsworth entered the room just as he had reseated himself. She carried some dry toast, and a pint bottle of champagne, which she handed to him to open. He gave Beryl a glass. The slender white hand shook as it grasped the thin stem, but she sipped the wine eagerly. Her mother did most of the talking.

“Do you think it was the sun that affected her, Doctor? Or has she been doing too much lately? When I first saw her this morning she talked quite wildly. Poor child! she was so excited yesterday over the pooja of the people; your brother was telling her about their devil-dancings and all that nonsense. She was at Mrs. Leigh’s last evening; I did not go, as I had one of my dreadful headaches. Mrs. Leigh was good enough to say that she would look after her, and send her home with a safe escort. Ayah, you walked home with Missy; what time did you get in? not very late, I hope?”

The Doctor looked at the ayah.

“Not very late,” repeated the woman. “Missy very tired; went to bed soon, and I did not see the time.”

“Were you at Mrs. Leigh’s, Dr. Manning?”

“Yes, I was there with my brother. I think everybody in the station was there except yourself, Mrs. Holdsworth. We had plenty of music, and it was a very pleasant evening.”

“Was the new Superintendent of Police there; Major Brett, I think they call him? “

“No;—but, Mrs. Holdsworth, I am afraid I must forbid talking: it is too much for my patient. I will write a prescription, and Miss Holdsworth must try to sleep after taking the medicine. I shall look in this afternoon, when I hope I shall find her much better.”

He gave a few directions to the ayah and left the room, satisfied that Beryl had regained her self-control. All she needed now was rest and perfect quiet.

Dr. Manning hurried over his breakfast, for he was a busy man, and all the work of the day was before him. Besides seeing his patients, European and native, he had to drive to a dispensary, and he had to visit a hospital two miles distant in the opposite direction. He was the Civil Surgeon of Chengalem, in the Tinnevelly district in South India.

Felix Manning, F.R.C.S., M.D., and his brother lived together; the two men were said to be devoted to one another. They had both been born in the country. Felix had been sent home early in life to a public school in England. He had done well in following the medical profession; success had attended his studies, and he had taken high honours. He loved his work, and was held to be one of the cleverest doctors in the South. It was a good appointment, as there was a great deal of private practice to be had amongst the richer natives; and for this he was eminently suited, as he knew the language thoroughly, and understood the character of the people.

His father, a staff-corps colonel, married a second wife in India after the death of Felix’s mother; and this lady, though of English extraction, had never been to England. She had money and land, and but one child to inherit it. William was the idol of her heart. In vain did Colonel Manning beg that the boy might be sent home to a public school like his brother. It was waste of words, and a trial to his temper. In despair he abandoned his scheme of education, and left the mother to do as she liked with the child. The natural consequence was that she spoilt him. After her death he inherited her property, and at the age of eighteen he found himself his own master.

Will’s amiability and gentleness made him liked wherever he went; but he was wilful, and impatient at anything like control. He never put himself into transports of rage; but he gave way to a feeble fretfulness, which annoyed his brother almost more than a burst of honest fiery wrath.

From childhood Will was devoted to Felix. When he was a boy he had a kind of hero-worship for the absent brother, who did such wonderful things at cricket and football in that far-away English school. And he always declared that when Felix returned to India he would make his home with him, wherever Government sent him. When he came to manhood’s estate this was duly carried out; and for some time past that home had been at Chengalem, whither Government had ordered Felix.

Much as the brothers loved each other, it must be admitted that the younger tried the elder occasionally. Although the lad was twenty-two, he often acted with the thoughtlessness of a schoolboy. He had an impulsive nature, which plunged him headlong into difficulties of all kinds. The possession of wealth gave him the means of satisfying every whim.

He had no profession nor regular employment to develop the manhood in him; and whilst Felix was working hard, Will was idling the day away, lolling in an arm-chair in the verandah, or hovering round the ladies of the station. He was fond of his horses, and possessed good ones, but he did not care much about riding. He was too indolent. Felix kept them in exercise by using them on his daily rounds; and to him also fell the care of the stable. Flowers were another of the lad’s weaknesses. Wherever he went he must have a garden. But as for seeing after it, or keeping the gang of gardeners up to their work, it was far too much trouble. To Felix he went for help and advice, always finishing with,—

“Do see about it, old fellow. Those lazy chaps will work for you, but they will not do a stroke for me.”

So the elder brother found time to superintend the garden as well as the stable; and Will was always able to lend a horse, or send a bouquet of flowers to his lady friends.

Of late things had not gone so smoothly with the brothers. A new Government engineer had come to the station to look after the roads and bridges, and to keep the precious water-reservoirs in order. He had brought with him the kindest-hearted, simplest of wives, and the prettiest of daughters. Needless to say, everybody in that little station was more or less in love with Beryl Holdsworth. Girls are still scarce in Indian up-country stations, and a young and pretty maiden, with the English roses still in her cheeks, may yet reign as queen in such a place as the cantonment of Chengalem. William Manning fell a victim to her charms from the very first. He sent her flowers enough to fill the bungalow; and although he already had more horses than he knew what to do with, none was good enough for Beryl. So he bought another, a perfect little Arab, which he kept entirely for her own use.

As for Beryl, she was naturally charmed with her little realm.

There was Bankside, the sub-collector, a man of brain and power, who had commanded success from the time that he won his first scholarship. It pleased him to give that mighty brain of his a rest now and then, when he found himself at Beryl’s side, and to descend to the femininities of a sweet woman.

Bankside could not make up his mind to propose. He wanted to save money, and he knew that the nest-egg would cease growing the moment he took domestic responsibilities upon himself. So he contented himself with fluttering round the candle, very nearly as safe as a salamander, with such a head as he possessed to guard his heart.

Then there was O’Brien, the manager and half-owner of the cotton press. He was a warm-hearted impulsive Irishman, with a weakness for photography; and that weakness increased after he became acquainted with Beryl, who good-naturedly sat for him on an average of about once a week. He was always developing or printing her; and he seemed almost as happy shut up in the darkroom with her negative, as he would have been with the original. He was under the impression that he had proposed to her almost as frequently as he had photographed her. But Beryl did not choose to take a declaration of love as a proposal of marriage; and so she kept him at arms’ length, smiled at him, thanked him in her sweetest way for his photographs, and nearly drove the poor fellow mad.

There were others outside the station who came in occasionally; they showed signs of capitulation; but, fortunately for them, the exigencies of the service required their presence elsewhere, before they were totally subjugated, and they never got beyond ardent admiration.

The man who prospered best was the idle boy of the place, William Manning. He had the advantage of both time and opportunity. He also had a long purse, and if he could not command her love, at least he could evoke her gratitude. He showed great delicacy in ministering to her needs. He rarely asked her to accept anything as a gift. The new books and music were always lent; even the piano, brought with some trouble and cost from Madras, was lent in such a way that Mrs. Holdsworth imagined she was conferring a favour on the young man by allowing the instrument to stand in her room. The horses wanted exercise, and Beryl was taught to believe that she was doing a charitable action in taking them out. Will did not inflict his company as an escort each time. He would offer O’Brien a mount, and send him out with Miss Holdsworth as often as he went himself. The utmost he did on these occasions was to ride out and meet her. A few words were exchanged, and he passed on without a sign of jealousy or annoyance. He knew that O’Brien would have to go to the office at ten, and that he would be out of the way till five or six in the evening, leaving the field open for himself all the long day. He could therefore well afford to be generous to his rivals.

What Felix Manning’s feelings towards her were, remained a mystery to Beryl. He showed her some attention when the brother was not there to come between them; but more frequently Will was present, and Felix allowed him—almost encouraged him—to take the foremost place. And this was done without any sign of annoyance at being supplanted by his younger brother. Beryl came very near to being irritated at the ease with which the elder man let himself be pushed into the background by the younger.

Dr. Manning was the only person who inspired anything like awe in her mind; she often had an uncomfortable feeling of inferiority, when she was replying lightly or flippantly in his hearing to some of Will’s nonsense, and she would turn with half an apology to the Doctor. Then he would fix his dark eyes upon her fair face with something more than idle attention, making her feel that he was weighing her in the balance, and possibly judging her severely. She was acutely conscious of her failings, and in her innermost heart she feared the verdict.

But she had no need to fear. He was only wondering what kind of wife she would make—for Will, of course. Would she be loving and forbearing? Would she be able to bear with his folly and childishness? How soon would she tire of his gentle inanities, and long for a stronger manhood to lean upon? She was not one of those independent natures, the special product of the present day, needing no moral support, and preferring to stand alone. She could never become independent, and her life would be ruined if her husband failed her, or, worse still, only roused her contempt. Then his thoughts would wander further afield, where the clinging woman found what she needed in the new brother—the brother who was already Will’s guide and moral support.

But Beryl had no notion that this was passing through Felix’s brain, when she felt his gaze upon her. The colour mounted to her cheeks, and the light came into her eyes through apprehension; and Felix, as he watched, thought that she was the fairest woman he had ever seen.

Things had gone on in this way for some time. Will had proposed; and Beryl, with the perversity of a young girl, refused to take it seriously, and when he had begged and entreated, she bade him wait, and ask again later on.

At first he rebelled, and he made a valiant attempt to pose as a miserable disappointed lover. But with his light sunny nature it was impossible to figure long as the heart-broken rejected one, especially as no restriction was placed upon his visits. Beryl borrowed his books and his horses just the same; and thanked him for his flowers as sweetly as ever. So Will slipped into that happy position of favoured suitor, without being trammelled by a formal engagement, and he found it exactly to his mind. When the season came that he might have spoken, he did not do so; he was content to let matters go on as they were, and desired nothing more. Neither was Beryl at all anxious to bring things to a crisis. She was in love with his admiration, and with his power of gratifying her fancies. But it was a mere shadow of the real thing; the passion of love had never yet shaken her soul; she knew nothing about it; she was a veritable child amongst her admirers; and Felix wondered more than once whether that passion would ever be awakened in her breast. It was time, he thought, that Will should attempt it. A few days before Miss Holdsworth’s sudden indisposition, he spoke to his brother on the subject, and was astonished to find that the boy evaded it.

“Come, Will, tell me the truth; are you really in love with Miss Holdsworth?”

“Of course I am,” he replied impatiently. “Any one can see that, and she knows it, too.”

“Then why do you not try to bring about the engagement? You cannot go on fooling like this for ever, in a sort of dog-in-the-manger way. It is pretty well known that you two are in love with each other. Both Bankside and O’Brien have thrown up the sponge, well aware that it was useless for them to go on with it whilst you were in the field. Go in like a man and win.”

“I like to take my own time about it,” said Will, shifting uneasily in his chair. He did not relish this cross-questioning at all.

“You have been long enough, in all conscience,” replied the other.

“She told me to wait, and I am only taking her at her word.”

“Pooh! A girl should never be taken at her word in matters of love, especially where the ‘no’ was so half-hearted.”

“I am young to be married——”

But at this the elder man burst into a laugh. It really was amusing to hear such a sentiment from one who had been a man ever since he was seventeen. The climate of the tropics develops the human being physically much quicker than the temperate climate of Europe; and five years ago Will had to all appearance reached manhood’s estate.

The laugh irritated him.

“Well! I will not be bullied into it; I will not ask her to marry me at all, if you try to force me.”

He raised his voice in that querulous fretful tone, which Felix found so trying, and which gave the impression to those who chanced to hear it, that the brothers were quarrelling.

“Then you must withdraw, if you do not mean to carry the thing through. It is iniquitous to act in that fashion to a girl, and an amiable, pretty girl too. As long as you hang about her, it is not likely that anyone else will come forward. If I did not know it to be impossible in a remote station like this, I should say that you had seen someone else, and that you had two strings to your bow.”

The words, spoken without any hidden meaning, had a curious effect on the hearer. He started up from his chair, flung his cheroot away, and paced angrily up and down the verandah, where this conversation took place.

“You have no right to say such a thing. You think that because I am your younger brother you can talk to me as you choose, but you are wrong. I will not stand it. You accuse me of fickleness, when you know that Miss Holdsworth is the only girl in the world that I can marry. What chance has a fellow of being fickle in such an out-of-the-way hole as this?”

“Then why get so angry?” asked Felix, surprised at the unnecessary wrath displayed.

His brother made no reply, but left him abruptly; and Felix did not see him again till the evening, when he appeared to have recovered himself.

After this, Dr. Manning looked each day for the announcement of the engagement, but none came.

Chapter II

Missing

“. . . a clot of warmer dust,
Mix’d with cunning sparks of hell.”
— Tennyson

Chengalem was a town inhabited chiefly by ryots and toddy-drawers. On one side of it was the English cantonment, where the European community lived. On the other side of the town, standing apart from it, was the temple. A little distance further on there was a dispensary, which was supported by the Zemindar for the benefit of his ryots or cultivators. Once a year the Zemindar went up to Madras, and lived in state for a few weeks, like a small rajah, with a numerous following of poor relations and servants. He showed himself on all public occasions, and brought himself before the notice of the powers that be, by making a munificent donation to one of the public charities. The wife of his Excellency was in consequence gracious, and the Zemindar, flattered and ambitious for honours in the future, eagerly fell in with her schemes of philanthropy.

The dispensary was the outcome of several personal interviews, which were extremely gratifying to the Zemindar’s vanity. Quarterly reports of the dispensary and its work were sent in to the great lady, with a letter written by the Zemindar himself in flowery language. She replied graciously, under the impression that she was elevating the native mind. She honestly thought him a good man, kind to his dependents, regular in the performance of his social duties, an ornament to the society in which he moved. She had never seen him anywhere excepting in Madras, and she took him as she thought she found him. After all it was best so; it is a mistake to lift the purdah too high. We cannot understand, we cannot reform, the growth of long ages in one short life-time. We may reckon ourselves happy if we can believe, like her excellent Excellency, that we are making an impression for good on the surface of the inscrutable Hindu nature.

The dispensary came under the supervision of the Civil Surgeon. It was a good building, with two or three wards for in-patients, a large surgery, and a comfortable consulting-room for the doctor. It was not often that there were any patients in the wards. The natives had an aversion to the light airy rooms, and preferred to huddle themselves in dark corners of their own crowded huts. The Doctor, knowing their nature, let them have their own way as much as he could. He went to see them in their stifling dens, and thus taught them to consult him freely and without fear. In this way he was able to save life and check disease; because, having won their confidence, the people sent for him at once, before the disease was past curing. If there was a critical case, he stayed at the dispensary all night to be near the patient. He never spared himself.

He learnt many things from that motley crowd that awaited him daily in the broad verandah. Some were told to him; but, for the most part, it was from the chatter of the women to each other, that he gathered information. The uneducated natives have no reserve. Their tongues wag like the leaves of the peepul-tree, telling abroad all they see and all they know. But the Doctor’s patients did not know everything. The temple had its dark mysterious secrets known only to the poojaries, and the dasis or dancing-girls. The Zemindar’s house also had its secrets; they were shared by the band of poor relations and servants who lived on his charity beneath his roof. The Doctor, too, had his secrets, so the people said; and he kept them in queer shaped cases, lined with velvet or satin. A little devil lived in each of the things hidden away in those cases, a dangerous little devil that only the Doctor could control.

The day after his conversation with Will, Felix had occasion to alter the customary arrangement of going over to the dispensary in the morning. A note from the apothecary asked him to come in the early part of the afternoon, to see a member of the Zemindar’s household. There was a difficulty about the woman getting away at any other time; and for some reason or other, she did not wish the Doctor to attend her at her own house.

He accordingly ordered his horse to be ready directly after lunch, foregoing, with some regret, that hour of ease in the early afternoon, generally passed in the armchair with cheroot and book. Will was not at home; lunching probably, his brother thought, with the Holdsworths.

The sun was very hot as he galloped through the town, and a column of dust rose with him as he went. He passed midway between the temple and the Zemindar’s house. Leaving a large tope of banyan trees on the left, he took a bee-line across the open country for the dispensary.

The woman was there in a dooly awaiting his coming. She was too ill to walk, or even stand. The Doctor knelt down beside her, putting several questions to her as he felt her pulse. She gazed anxiously into his face; something was on her mind, and a few queries brought it all out. She feared she was being poisoned. She was sure that Minachee’s mother was slowly killing her. The Zemindar had told Minachee that she must go to make room for a younger temple girl. Minachee did not mind in the least; but her mother, who was a wicked woman was angry, because she, too, would have to leave the Zemindar’s house with her daughter.

“But why do you imagine that she wants to kill you?” asked the Doctor.

“Because I laughed, and said that I was glad she was going.”

“Are you the Zemindar’s wife?”

“I am his second wife; but alas! because I have no son, my voice may not be heard in the house. No one will protect me from that evil woman’s wickedness.”

She began to weep, and Dr. Manning did his best to soothe her. He assured her again and again that her symptoms were not those of poisoning. If she would follow his directions, he could cure her in a few days. The poor thing was not easily convinced. She drew her rich silk cloth around her, and laid herself down on her cushions in abject misery. Life for her was a dreary blank, because she had no son; yet, for all that, she did not wish to be poisoned. The first wife, a proud mother, lorded it over her, and taunted her with her barrenness. It was of no use to appeal to the common husband. He had washed his hands of the two middle-aged women long ago, and was occupied in anticipating the charms of the new dancing-girl, who, in response to a liberal donation to the temple, was to be sent shortly to live in the zenana.

Felix made up some medicine in the surgery, and putting on his sun-hat, he signed to the bearers to take up the palanquin.

“I am coming to the house with you; only to the door,” he added, as he noted her look of alarm. “If Minachee’s mother sees that the Doctor is attending you, she will not dare to poison you. She will be afraid that I shall find it out.”

An expression of childish satisfaction crossed her face. He had hit on the right method of reassuring her. He was pleased with the result, as he knew that an easy mind would do as much good as his medicines.

He rode in front of the dooly at a walking pace.

The Zemindar’s house was between the dispensary and the town, and the way to it lay through a tope or grove of banyan trees. The sun was still high in the heavens; so, instead of skirting the tope by a path that ran outside, Dr. Manning took one not so well beaten, which led straight through. The huge trees, with their forest of stems and lace-work of long arms and foliage over-head, made a pleasant and most acceptable shade to the Doctor. But the bearers were of a different opinion.

In the centre of the grove there was a single giant among giants. Its enormous trunk was hollow, and its limbs—each a mighty tree in itself—were supported on separate stems, each worthy of being called a forest tree. This monarch of the tope was the familiar haunt of an evil spirit—a troublesome demon, given to setting houses on fire, and drinking the reservoirs dry. It was well known to the bearers that he had been particularly annoying of late. He had been throwing stones at the Zemindar’s house, and he had set three huts on fire just outside the town. It was sheer madness to pass beneath his tree.

But a look and a word from the Doctor overcame their scruples. Such a man as he was, holding life and death in his hand, might perhaps defy the devil. On his head be the consequences! Surely the swami would know that the bearers came by the will of another, under whose feet they were but as dust. So they entered the tope, treading softly in superstitious awe. The hoofs of the horse fell with a muffled sound on the dry leafy soil, as though the creature, too, trod delicately in the presence of the malignant demon.

At the foot of the trunk was a low broad platform, which served as an altar. A black devil-stone stood upon it, leaning against the tree. It was as shapeless and crude as the hand of nature had left it. The altar was smeared with red pigment daubed on in stripes. It indicated the blood that delighted the heart of the demon. He had horrid tastes and a voracious appetite; and he loved the blood of goats. He ordered his votaries to drink much toddy, and to eat largely of the savoury curries made of the goat’s flesh, at least, so said the poojaries, who ministered to him, and performed the ritual before his stone. The bearers shuddered as they approached the tree, and thought that it boded no good to the sick woman to be carried beneath those branches.

The Doctor’s thoughts were far away. He was thinking of his brother and Beryl. As he rode round one of the lesser trunks of the giant tree, those thoughts were scattered to the winds by the sight of Minachee, the dancing-girl. The colour rushed to his brow as he caught a glimpse of a retreating figure stepping behind one of the banyan stems.

He pulled up his horse, and looked wrathfully at the vision before him of beautiful womanhood. She was one of the loveliest of Hindustan’s daughters, a dream of soft southern beauty. The girl’s lips were parted with a saucy, defiant smile, and she showed a perfect set of nature’s pearls in her pomegranate mouth. From her brown eyes, as they rested on his face, there blazed forth the woman’s admiration for the man. Whatever the Doctor’s sentiments might be, the unexpected meeting was not distasteful to her, though for the moment it had been embarrassing. She knew the Doctor well, and had often waited amongst the crowd at the dispensary to consult him about some fancied ailment. He had always treated her with the indulgence shown to a spoilt child. Never had she seen him with such a frown upon his face as at the present moment.

Still she was not altogether abashed. Swiftly she approached him, the checkered sunlight flecking her delicate brown skin with golden tints, and, kissing the tips of her fingers, she lightly laid the kiss on the foot that rested in the stirrup. The action was indescribably graceful. It was done with a mixture of the abandonment of the savage and the simplicity of the child, which bespoke the instinctive Circe. The Doctor took it to be a sign that she wished to dispel his just anger, and ask his pardon. His face grew even graver than before, and he neither spoke nor smiled.

With a gesture of fear, which was half-real, half0assumed, she retreated behind the trunk of a tree. Without turning to look back at that saucy face, which peeped alluringly at him, he rode on with pain and anger at his heart, and a vague dread filling his mind.

When he reached the Zemindar’s house, he dismounted, and tenderly helped the sick woman to rise from the palanquin. They had halted at a side-door leading into the zenana. The Hindu women in the south are not gosha (or hidden), and though they may not receive visits from the opposite sex, nor in any way mix with them, they are not afraid of being seen. A knock at the door brought several women out, full of idle curiosity to stare at the Doctor and his patient. He would have carried her to her room, but he was not allowed to do such a thing. All that he could do was to see that she was properly supported by two of her women. She was taken down a dark, airless passage out of his sight.

The Zemindar’s first wife was amongst the women who greeted them. Dr. Manning gave her a few directions as to the treatment of his patient. She listened indifferently, as though it mattered little to her whether her companion lived or died. But something in the Doctor’s manner roused her into action, and she called one of the women out of the crowd.

“Tell her what you want,” she said carelessly.

Guessing that the person indicated was one of the attendants or relatives of the second wife, he repeated his directions.

“I will come here to-morrow to see her,” he said.

“She will come to you there,” replied the first wife, pointing in the direction of the dispensary.

“She is not fit to go out,” he said.

The woman shrugged her shoulders.

“She can come when she is better.”

And with that he had to be content. He mounted his horse and rode away, the women watching him as he went. Alone in the glory of the sunset, his brow lowered again, and an expression of pain settled on his face. He let his horse walk, and took no heed of the gorgeous sky.

“What an ass the boy is to fool round that girl! No good can come of meddling with such women. I must talk to him.”

That evening there were words between the brothers. Felix spoke out more plainly than he had ever spoken before, and Will for once in his life put himself in a violent passion.

It was soon after this conversation that the Doctor was called to attend Miss Holdsworth; and Will, for some reason or other, absented himself from the house the whole of the previous night, failing to put in an appearance with the morning, as we have already seen.

After paying Miss Holdsworth the professional visit, and prescribing for her very unusual attack of nerves, Dr. Manning returned to his bungalow to eat a hasty breakfast. He then started on his morning round, going to the dispensary as usual. The Zemindar’s sick wife was there in her dooly. She was getting better, for she was satisfied at last that Minachee’s mother, Deva, was not trying to poison her. She was well enough to sit up, and listen to the chatter that was going on around her. There was the customary little crowd of women and children, with a sprinkling of men. The Doctor could hear by their tones that something out of the common had taken place. He listened; they were talking of the devil-dance of the night before. It had been a great success. Wonderful to relate, the demon himself had appeared, like a flying fox, with fiery eyes. Every time the awful apparition was described some addition was made, till it bade fair to be a monster dragon by the evening. The Doctor asked one of his patients if Minachee was present at the dance, and he was told that she was not; but her mother was there. He knew that it was not customary for the dancing-girls to take part in such functions, although curiosity might bring them as sightseers. It was mid-day before Felix reached home. He galloped up to the house, and was met at the entrance by Will’s servant.

“The sahib has not come back,” said the man, using his own language.

Felix very rarely spoke English to the natives, and he had taught the servants to address him in their own tongue.

“Is there no letter for me?”

“None, sahib.”

Felix said nothing more, but passed on to his room. The man followed him.

“Shall I go and look for Mr. Manning?”

“By all means,” replied Felix.

“Where shall I go?” he asked.

This is the native all over; he can make a suggestion, but he cannot carry it out without a leader.

“Wherever you think he is likely to be. Go and ask at Mr. O’Brien’s house if they have seen him, Then there is the sub-collector; he is out in camp. Mr. William may have gone to him.”

“Mr. William took no horse, and the collector’s camp is ten miles away.”

“Still, he may have walked out in the cool of the night. Send a syce to inquire; and tell Mootoo to saddle the grey for me.”

Felix Manning strode on, and once again sought his brother’s bedroom. The bed had been made; the toilette table had been rearranged and dusted. Some clean clothes were hung out ready for the master’s return; and the bath was full of clear, limpid water. Felix searched the room afresh, looking into the dressing-case and the drawers. He opened the wardrobe, and examined the clothes hanging there, putting his hand into the pockets. There was nothing to help to elucidate the mystery. He went into his own sitting-room, and seated himself at the writing-table. He did not take up his pen to answer the letters that had come by the morning post. He sat thinking till the servant told him the horse was ready.

He threw himself into the saddle and rode to the Zemindar’s house, where he asked for Minachee. He was told that she was not there. Where was she? Gone to the temple, was the reply. What was going on there? he asked. They did not know. There was a tamasha last night in the tope; perhaps there was pooja to-day in the temple. He set his horse’s head in that direction accordingly; it was not far from the Zemindar’s house.

The temple was built within an enclosure surrounded by four walls. It consisted of a central block of a few courts and dark chambers; a goparum. or tower, and a cluster of rooms against the outer wall, which were used as dwellings for the attachés of the temple.

The sun blazed down on the baked landscape, and the air quivered with tropical heat. The fan-shaped leaves of the palmyras rattled with a harsh, dry sound in the hot wind.

Felix rode through the gateway into the enclosure, his horse sniffing the air and snorting suspiciously. There was not a soul in sight; and the place looked as dull and stupid as the idol enshrined within the windowless walls. He pulled up his horse and called aloud. A figure peeped at him from some hidden corner behind the building, and as quickly vanished. He shouted again, and from the other side came a boy, leading an old man, who advanced towards Felix with unsteady steps, and saluted him.

“I want to see Minachee, the dasi; I am told that she is here.”

The old man looked up at him like an owl in the sunlight, with the vacant expression a native puts on when he cannot or will not understand.

“Do you hear? I want to see Minachee. Go and call her. Tell her the Doctor waits,” repeated Felix, leaning towards him and shouting.

He was convinced by the look of cunning in the man’s eye that he heard and understood perfectly.

“She is not here,” the old night-bird replied.

“Then call Deva, her mother.”

His request met with the same vacant stare.

“I tell you I must see Deva or Minachee,” shouted Felix.

Becoming impatient of the poojari’s stupidity, he turned to the lad, and said in his natural voice,—

“Run and tell Deva to come.”

The commanding tone of the Doctor’s words made the boy prepare instinctively to do his bidding; and by that gesture he knew that the woman was there. But the man checked the boy, and tightened his grasp on his arm.

“She is not here; I assure the sahib that she is still in the Zemindar’s house. It is her home, and she never comes here——”

As he poured forth his tissue of falsehoods, Deva came out from the temple itself.

She was dressed in rich silk of a brick-red colour, edged with a broad border of gold woven into the cloth. The colours of the silk and the gold harmonised with the warm brown tones of her skin. Jasmin flowers adorned her hair, and her face was powdered with sandalwood and saffron. Native women age early; but Deva, to the European eye, would have been considered still in the summer of her beauty. Her own people, however, thought nothing of her charms—she held them by other arts for she lacked the rotundity of figure and plumpness of limb so essential to women of her age, who pretend to any matured beauty. But, on the other hand, she was neither thin nor gaunt; she was only spare. It was the spareness bred of activity of mind and body. The brain was always at work, plotting and scheming, making marriages amongst the townspeople, and as unscrupulously marring them.

She stood on the steps of the temple, where the full light of the sun fell upon her. The colour of her dress glowed under the blazing rays like molten metal, and the heavy gold ornaments glittered as though freshly turned out of the smelting pot. She might have been the spirit incarnate of the precious metal, newly risen from the secret crucible of mother Earth.

Felix waited for her to approach. She signed to the old man to go; then, descending the flight of the steps that led up to the entrance of the temple, she approached him with queen-like grace. He touched his horse and came up to her. The critical glance of the medical man detected unusual excitement in the sparkling eye.

“She has been drinking arrack or eating bhang,” was his mental comment.

“Where is Minachee? I want to see her,” he said.

“She is gone to Palamcotta.”

“You do not speak the truth,” he replied quietly. “She waits and listens there, at this moment,” and he pointed to the temple.

“No; not so,” said Deva, without turning her head. “She went away last night. The poojari sent her to Palamcotta on a mission.”

The Doctor regarded her with incredulity.

“I am sure she slept in the Zemindar’s house last night,” he said.

“Nay, she slept in no house. She started at two o’clock in the morning. It is cooler for the bullocks to travel in the night. She will have slept as she journeyed.”

“Did she go alone?”

Their eyes met, and the woman smiled.

“She started alone.”

The Doctor knew not what to believe. Was she lying? Or was she telling the truth in such a way as to leave him purposely under the impression that she was lying? He could not say, for he was not dealing with an ordinary native, but one who was highly educated in an Oriental sense of the word, and whose cunning it was not easy to fathom. After a pause she said,—

“Your brother was talking with her yesterday morning in the tope. If you want to know more about my daughter, ask him; he knows very well where she is.”

Again she smiled, and her eyes glittered with an unholy light. Checking the angry words that rose to his lips, he turned his horse and rode away. Deva watched him disappear through the gateway, the evil smile lingering on her lips. Then she glided up the temple steps, and disappeared within the dark mulasthanum, where the lamp burnt dimly in the murky air before the idol.

Deva belonged to the class of women known as dasies, who are attached to Hindu temples. They are the wives of the gods, and their profession is dancing amongst other things. At an early age they are married to the idol in the temple; or to some demon supposed to haunt a particular tree. Deva was the wife of the devil in the big banyan tree in the tope. Years ago she had been wedded to it with a ceremony and ritual, that, at the time, filled her with awe, and made a lasting impression on her young mind. She still remembered with a shudder how her bridegroom, the devil, howled his approval during the pooja, and mingled his hoarse voice with the tomtoms and the horns. The heavy chains hanging from the branches clashed, and the foliage rustled, as he shook the whole tree, stem and branch, in his pleasure.

After her marriage—she was only seven years at the time—her education was continued in the temple. She learnt to read with the other dasies, and studied Sanskrit, in which language the dancing-girls usually sing. She was taught to dance and pose and sing. She was initiated into the secrets of the Oriental toilette, and shown how to touch the lip and eyebrow with skilful hand; how to keep the skin soft and fine; how to heighten its tones with golden tints by the use of saffron and sandalwood.

At the age of twelve Deva went into the zenana of a Hindu rajah. The temple coffers were enriched by a large contribution of money; and the idol was afterwards presented with rice, butter and honey, periodically. Deva became the plaything of the zenana. The rajah loaded her with jewels and refused her nothing. Even the ranee was languidly amused at her pretty dancing and plaintive songs. For six years she remained there; and all the while the rajah was spoken well of, throughout his estates, for his munificent gifts to the temple. Then he fell sick; and one day a guru came from the north. He talked of a large temple far away, whose tank drew its waters from one of the springs of the Ganges. A sick man might assuredly find health in those waters. He hinted that the dasies of the temple were young and beautiful and very fair. As he talked he glanced disparagingly at Deva. In one short fortnight Deva’s happy life came to an end. The rajah departed on a long pilgrimage—such a good and religious man was he—and the dancing-girl, with her little daughter was sent back to the temple.

Life became monotonous and dull in the temple after the zenana, except when feast-days came. The daily ritual of helping to wash and dress the senseless idol, dancing before it night and morning, and singing hymns of love, was tame work after the other. The temple men and women looked on approvingly, for Deva danced beautifully; but a poojari is a poor man compared with a rajah. He cannot pet the graceful, accomplished dasi when she pleases him, nor feed her with sweetmeats and betel nut, even if he be so minded, the life almost unendurable, monotony and dulness ended. Her religious enthusiasm awoke, transforming her into a new creature. She entered into all the arrangements, made suggestions, and fired poojari and people alike with fanaticism. She put forth all her powers of attraction to lure the rich zemindars and chetties, who were not at all averse to treading in the footsteps of a rajah. She became the life and soul of each festival. The temple authorities were pleased that it should be so, for it brought them wealth.

Deva educated her daughter carefully, and married her to the idol in the temple. When she was thirteen she installed her in the house of the Zemindar of Chengalem.

Once more Deva was happy, although she was no longer queen. Her power in the Zemindar’s zenana was far greater than it had ever been in the house of the rajah. She ruled all those uneducated women as though they were children, and pulled the strings as she pleased. There was but one thing she dreaded, and that was the inevitable fate which overtakes every dasi so situated, the word of dismissal from the master. It came in her own case, and she saw it approaching in her daughter’s. In vain she decked the girl afresh and taught her new dances and songs. The evil hour must come, though the warning to depart had not yet been given. No help was to be had from the poojaries of the temple. It mattered little to them which of their dasies the Zemindar supported. It was just as good and religious an act to support one as another, especially as his offerings to the idol continued the same.

Deva in her despair bethought her of her husband, the mysterious spirit of the banyan tree. Perhaps the swami might help her. She had never neglected his worship, but had instigated his pooja at regular seasons without fail. She would try to invoke his aid, and he might destroy the new rival with terrible sickness, or might change the heart of the Zemindar. She considered how it might be brought about. There must be a feast, a big feast, in honour of the tree-devil, and the whole country side must be present with offerings. To this end she went to the wells in the mornings, and stood amongst the women, talking of the want of rain. The cotton crops were withering instead of ripening; the palmyras gave no toddy; the cattle were growing thin and weak; and here and there a house had been burnt. She hinted that the devil was angry; she, as his wife, should know it, and she said it, she declared it.

The dread rumour went abroad and spread throughout the town. The demon in the tope was wroth, and would work more mischief if he were not appeased. It was necessary that something more than usual should be done. His festival was approaching. There ought to be a great sacrifice of blood. Instead of the customary half-dozen of black goats, there must be at least fifty, and perhaps a buffalo.

Then there was a woman in the town who was ailing. Deva went to see her, and recognised her complaint at once. She was possessed of a devil. It was told to the sufferer, and she was watched. Before long there were unmistakable signs of possession. The woman herself said that she was afflicted, and she begged and prayed her people to take a stick and beat the devil within her. So they belaboured the poor creature’s shoulders, driving her through the town to the banyan tree, where she fell exhausted before the shapeless black stone. But it was all to no purpose. After a few days the devil returned, and she was worse than before; for now she called herself by his name. Moreover, stones were thrown on to the roof of her house, and strange lights were seen hovering round it at night.

Then a man fell ill with just the same symptoms, and became possessed. His relatives branded him with hot iron, heaping upon him the vilest abuse as they did so, in the hope that the evil spirit would leave him. The demon shrieked aloud and fled as the hot iron touched the flesh. But, alas! it departed only for a time. Deva went to see the afflicted man, and put a healing ointment on his wounds. She shook her head as she did so, and said that the devil would return as soon as they were healed; which it did. The very first day the man walked in the town with the eyes of all upon him, he fell down in the street, foaming at the mouth, and crying aloud that he was possessed. It was the busiest time of the day, when the market was full. He bit the earth, and dug his fingers into the ground, and it was with the greatest difficulty that they bound him and carried him home.

Deva came to see him again, bringing the old poojari of the temple with her. They talked long and earnestly by the man’s side as they watched him. The poojari declared it to be a very bad case, indicating great wrath on the part of the spirit. Preparations must be made at once for the feast, and the two possessed ones must be present at it when the time came. If they danced before the stone under the tree, the devil would go out of them, and they would be no more tormented.

“There must be a big tamasha with plenty of blood, plenty of toddy, and plenty of people,” concluded the old man.

The whole town was roused by the poojari’s words, and the people prepared to do his bidding. Who could tell what the malignant spirit might not do next, if he were not speedily propitiated?

Chapter III

A Devil-Dance

Oh, thou that delightest
In flesh and blood,
Be propitious!
Be propitious!
Quickly accomplish
Our desires.
Enter here.
Enter, enter!
Tread, tread!
Dance, dance!
— Gurura Pooran

A devil-dance of South India is a terrible affair. The unbeliever may smile, but there is no other word for it; it is a terrible affair. The matter seethes for weeks and months in the minds of the people; and an under-current of excitement, the outcome of superstitious awe, grows and increases, till it reaches fever height. It culminates in a mad orgy, wherein religious fanaticism in its worst form is mingled with eating and drinking to excess.

The ryots and toddy drawers of Chengalem had been wrought up to fever point; and a night was fixed for the dance, when the moon was new. For several previous evenings tomtoms were beaten, horns were blown, and processions were made through the streets. One or two women saw the demon in the form of a large solitary wolf, with flaming eyes and lolling tongue. This was a good omen and boded well. It indicated that the swami was pleased with the coming tamasha.

On the chosen night the women prepared no evening meal at their houses. It was to be eaten in the grove; and it was to be made of that portion of the sacrifices which was given by the poojaries to the people. After the animal had been killed, its head was presented to the swami, and its body was divided between the donor and the poojari.

No particular time was set for the assembling of the multitude. At sunset the women began to put their cooking pots together, piling them in loads on their heads. Baskets of rice, jars of honey, bunches of plantains, pots of toddy, were also poised aloft; and straggling down the road in an unceasing stream, the people wended their way to the grove. The men blew horns and beat tomtoms as they went; and the musicians piped on their strange instruments, producing thin squealing bagpipe tones without tunes. Long-legged boys, wearing nothing but the loin-cloth, drove black goats before them; the dogs and children mingled promiscuously with the ever-moving stream of humanity.

The tope was a scene of wild confusion. Fires, made of dried leaves and sticks, filled the heavy air with smoke, and cast a flickering uncertain light on the figures that moved to and fro.

The sun set in his usual garment of reds and purples, and night came on quickly. Still the people poured in, each party making its own little camp. The women fetched water from the well or tank close by, and boiled rice. Others carried their offerings to the big tree, where a poojari stood ready to take charge of them.

The lads drove up the goats, herding them together in a space set apart for the sacrificial beasts at the back of the tope. The frightened animals added their bleating to the din, and occasionally a buffalo-cow bellowed out her disquietude. The men blew horns and drummed with their fingers on the tomtoms just as their fancy seized them. The shrill voices of the children and howling of the pariah dogs completed the hubbub of the night.

A large circular space was kept clear before the banyan. There was no need to tell the people not to press forward—they were too fearful of the spirit to venture beneath the branches; nor would they willingly have gone behind the tree on the opposite side of the stone, where the trunk was hollow. The devil was supposed to pass in and out that way. It was also the path along which the beasts would by-and-by be driven up for sacrifice.

Deva was present; she wore a fine white muslin cloth, and she had gold ornaments in her hair. A thick garland of oleander and jasmin flowers adorned her neck. She no longer moved amongst the people, but stood under the tree itself, its priestess and presiding genius for the night. Several poojaries were there, although only one would perform the ceremonies, and a little knot of dasies, chiefly as spectators. They moved about amongst the people, but Minachee was not with them.

An hour or so afterwards the business of the evening began in real earnest. By this time all the company had come, and being hungry, they were clamouring for the pooja to commence. Large cressets of oil with a floating cotton wick were lighted; also a fire was made to the left of the stone. A pot of butter was placed on the burning sticks by a poojari, who stirred the grease as it melted. The spectators stood in a wide circle, and gradually ceased their chatter as the ritual proceeded.

An elderly man came forward, naked to the waist. He had marked himself on forehead and breast in sacred ashes with the swami marks of the caste. He took the smoking oily butter from the pot with a brass ladle, and poured it upon the devil-stone. The crowd, silent and observant, cast fearful glances at the tree. At any moment now an awful manifestation of the devil might be made.

A young man came from behind, leading a goat into the clear space, midway between the assembly and the tree. It was his offering, which he presented on behalf of himself and his family.

Deva stepped forward, bearing in her hands a sword, which she gave to the poojari. She was followed by an attendant, carrying a brass basin of water. She dipped her hands in it and sprinkled the head of the goat. The poojari, holding the sword aloft, ready to strike, watched the animal intently; it did not stir. A second time Deva cast the water upon it from her cupped palms, and the goat shook its head. The sword flashed in the yellow light of the cressets; the head was severed in one blow, and the bleeding body fell to the ground, where it lay in a crimson pool.

The dasi picked up the head, and held it over the devil-stone, so that the blood dripped down upon it. As she did so the assembly called aloud to their gods, the tomtoms beat and the horns blared. Rice, camphor, fruit and sugar were brought, and set out on green leaves with the head of the goat before the stone. The people made a low obeisance, and the owner of the goat carried away the carcase to be divided between himself and the poojaries. Another goat was brought, and the same ritual was performed. Deva sprinkling the water, and afterwards lifting the bleeding head above the stone, so that the life-blood might drip upon it. Again fruit, rice, sugar, camphor were brought, and as they were offered with the ghastly trophy the people shouted again.

Some three dozen animals were killed in this way, and a row of heads, alternating with the leaf-platters, garnished the platform. Then Deva held up her arms. It was enough for the present. The feast must be prepared and eaten before further pooja was done.

She took the sword from the poojari and stuck it point downwards in the ground, immediately in front of the altar. The cressets were extinguished, and the semi-circle broke up into groups. Before long a savoury smell of curry went up on the night air. When the meal was ready, the men seated themselves by their camp fires, and were served by the women. Afterwards the women and children sat down to supper, and the men took deep draughts of fiery toddy, talking and laughing louder than ever. There was certainly plenty of toddy, as the poojari had said there should be, and the women drank too.

The camp fires died out, and the grove became dark as night. The time was approaching for the event of the evening to take place—the devil-dance, in which the two possessed ones were to join. The cressets were re-lighted, and the spectators formed themselves again into a large semicircle. Behind them was the thick blackness of the moonless night, enhancing the brilliancy of the oil lamps. Before them was the blood-smeared stone, with its row of ghastly trophies.

Once more Deva came forward, this time bearing a =garland of pink oleander blossoms instead of a sword. She threw the wreath over the stone, while the tomtoms beat in low measured time, and the pipes sent forth a thin wailing. She raised her hands towards the tree as though in supplication, and asked her strange husband to grant her a boon. Superstitious to her very heart’s core, she watched the big banyan, half hoping, half fearing, a manifestation; but none came.

Keeping her rapt gaze fixed, she began to sing. Her feet moved to the beat of the tomtoms, and her body swayed with cultivated grace. The movement was quiet, and the singing was low; but in a short time passion crept into song and dance, a subtle pervading passion, which thrilled through the breasts of the onlookers, and stirred their inmost souls. The words of the song were of love, the bride’s invitation to her husband and her god to come, and come quickly, to her bower.

As Deva sang, the crowd parted, and the possessed man and woman were pushed into the light. They fell prostrate before the stone, apparently in a swoon. Presently they stirred, shaken with a strong convulsive shudder. The movement did not escape the eyes of the people. They shouted the name of the demon, and as the word fell on the ears of the two, they rose to their feet, staring wildly about them.

Deva sang on, circling round the possessed as she danced. More convulsive movements followed with a swaying of the body; their feet trod in a measure to the tomtoms, and the dance began in good earnest.

Never was there wilder or weirder scene. The two possessed ones stepped round and round, swaying and rolling themselves from side to side with arms flung above. Their long black hair, the man’s as long as the woman’s, became unfastened, and swung with their bodies in a tangled mane. Their fingers closed and unclosed, grasping the air or seizing the clothes that enveloped their bodies.

Then a fit of fury took them, and they tore their hair in handfuls. All the while Deva, with trained movement instinctive with grace, floated round them, ever singing and posing, a wonderful contrast to them in their untutored contortions.

Now the height of madness came upon them. They foamed at the mouth and shrieked, and laying their hands upon their clothes, they rent them in their frenzy, till their garments fell from their bodies, leaving them naked. And thus they danced, and swayed, and writhed, whilst the tomtoms beat wildly, the horns blared, and the people shouted. Madness seemed to have come upon the audience as well as upon the performers.

Suddenly it all came to an end. A marvellous thing happened, striking awe to the hearts of all. There was a sound in the branches’ above the stone, and a large dry stick fell at Deva’s feet.

A cry was raised that the demon showed himself; a dark form glided from the tree and disappeared into the black shadow of the grove.

In a moment the lights were extinguished, the noise ceased, and a fearful silence reigned. Not a sound was heard but the bleating of the goats which remained over from the sacrifice, and the distant howl of the jackal.

For a space of fully five minutes the people lay motionless where each had dropped to the ground, not daring to move or breathe, lest the devil should take them.

Then the voice of the poojari was raised, commanding that the cressets should be lighted again. In fear and trembling the excited crowd rose to their feet; women’s tongues were loosened as suddenly as they had been silenced, and a perfect babel commenced. The men drank more toddy, and called aloud for Deva to continue the dance. But Deva was no longer there; she had disappeared. Nor was the old poojari, her coadjutor, anywhere to be seen.

The women glanced with awe at the tree and its gory flower-bedecked stone. Could the swami, in the shape of a grey wolf, have carried away his wife? And had the poojari gone after him to make him give back the temple property? for Deva belonged to the temple quite as much as to the tree.

Whilst they talked and speculated, the object of their discussion came swiftly out of the darkness behind the tree into the light. If she had been excited before, she was now transformed with passion. Her eyes shone with the wild light of fanaticism, and her breast was filled with a new zeal.

Without waiting for the poojari to speak, she commanded silence. She told the people that she had talked with the spirit, and the spirit had said that they had not shed enough blood. More goats must be killed. She had hoped that the swami would have been satisfied with the blood that had already flowed, but he cried for more, more, more.

A murmur of applause ran through, the crowd; and, as if in obedience to her request, some of the men moved towards the herd of goats. But she stayed them with an imperious gesture.

“Stay where you are, and let not a single person stir, for the swami still walks. He bids you drink and be of good heart, while I, his wife and slave, bring the offering.”

The men were more than content, for not one of them relished the notion of meeting that terrible demon; and Deva left the circle, followed only by the poojari carrying the sword.

There was renewed bleating amongst the goats and a frightened bellow from the buffalo. Then all was still, and Deva returned, bearing a large circular basket full of bleeding heads. The basket was put on the platform before the stone with the rest of the trophies already there.

The dance recommenced with the same low tomtoming and music, Deva leading it with her singing and dancing. The song was more impassioned than before, and hard indeed must have been the heart of man or devil that could resist such a passionate appeal from so beautiful a woman.

The possessed ones, clothed again, were pushed into the circle by their friends to join in the dance. Deva paid little heed to them this time. Her propitiatory ceremony was made entirely on her own account and on behalf of her daughter. Her whole soul was given over to the task of softening the swami’s heart towards her, and in enlisting his help in her hour of need.

Fast and furious went the dance. Now and again a man or a woman came out of the crowd to join in that mad orgy. The process was always the same: a swaying of the body and a swinging of the arms; a tossing of the head, with its loosened, streaming hair; a treading of the feet; and finally a frenzied tearing of the hair and clothes, till the dancer fell naked and exhausted in the dust.

Such, with varied ritual, is the devil-dance of South India. The dasies of the temple are not present as a rule; and the dancers sometimes vary the ceremony by wearing hideous masks—fancy portraits of the demon.

On the night in question, this terrible devil-dance continued till about two in the morning, when the cressets burnt out. With darkness came peace. The people, heavy with drink and worn out with excitement, lay down promiscuously, and sank into deep, dreamless slumber. The dasies and poojaries found a quiet corner, and wrapping themselves in their clothes, they were also soon asleep. Only two people remained awake; they were Deva and the old poojari.

When silence reigned around, broken only by the regular breathing and snores of the sleepers, the woman and the man crept away to the place where the sacrificial animals had been penned. There, by the dim light of an oil lamp, they stooped over the headless bodies, pricking them with pins, branding them with hot irons, and cutting them with knives. Long did they sit there, absorbed in their horrid ceremonies. When all was done, they threw a grass mat over the big black carcase of the buffalo. It would be buried in the morning, but the goat’s flesh would be used in the temple. No one would dare to touch the meat, as it was guarded by the demon, therefore the poojari had no fear of pilfering fingers.

Together Deva and her companion walked back to the temple. Once only did she speak; it was just as they parted in the compound.

“That was well done to-night, my father,” she said.

To which he replied, “Truly, my daughter, it has never been so well done since the English Government had rule.”

*  *  *

Dr. Manning was puzzled by Deva’s manner when he saw her the day after the dance, and he was not satisfied with her appearance. He felt convinced that she was labouring under some strong excitement, and he did not think that it was anger. It was more likely to be triumph; the triumph of success in one of her many plottings.

Had it anything to do with his brother? The Doctor was well aware of the position Minachee occupied in the Zemindar’s household; it was one much coveted by the temple dasies, and he could not believe that the mother would allow the daughter to give it up; nor indeed do anything by which that position might be endangered. He therefore doubted the insinuation made by the woman, and was inclined to think that Deva was rejoicing over some piece of mischief, in which his brother had no part.

On his way back he called at Mr. Holdsworth’s bungalow to see Beryl. She was mending fast, and did not need the medical man any longer. She had slept all the morning, and had awakened much refreshed. A good lunch, together with the repose, had thoroughly restored her nervous system, and all signs of hysteria were gone.

Felix found her with her mother in the drawing-room.

As he entered, Beryl’s eyes sought his, and there was the slightest raising of the eyebrows on her part. Whatever the query might be it was understood, and a reply was given in a scarcely perceptible shake of the head.

It was early in the afternoon for tea, but Mrs. Holdsworth suggested that it might be acceptable. Felix was hot and thirsty after his ride, and not at all averse to the suggestion. The talk while they waited was commonplace, and chiefly between Mrs. Holdsworth and Felix. Beryl, leaning back in her chair, listened, her eyes seeking the Doctor’s face with a wistful glance now and then. She made no attempt to get rid of her mother, however, nor to exchange any words with her visitor.

When the tea came in he handed her a cup, and was unobtrusively attentive to her smallest wants. She always liked him better without his brother; and to-day, in his double capacity of friend and medical adviser, he seemed doubly pleasant. She was quite thankful that Will was not there; she could not have borne his light chatter. Besides, something had passed between herself and Will, which made her hope that he would keep away for a few days, even whilst it caused her to feel the more anxious to hear news of him. If Mrs. Holdsworth had given her the opportunity, she would probably have said something to Felix, yet she was not sure that she had any right to betray the confidence of one brother to another.

Therefore she did not seek the opportunity, but let matters take their course. Meanwhile, there was no doubt but that she derived actual pleasure from watching the kind but determined face, so full of the strength and force of character which the younger brother lacked.

Whilst they were drinking their tea, Major Brett arrived. After greeting the company, he turned to the Doctor and said, “I have just been to your house, Manning, to see your brother, but he was not there. He promised me faithfully that he would come to my bungalow this morning to talk over that horse of his. It is a capital beast, and I am quite ready to pay him his price. Why did he not come?”

“He went out last evening and has not returned,” replied Felix.

“Did he go to Bankside? I heard Bankside ask him to join him in camp, as it was so precious dull out there by himself.”

“He may have done so, but I really do not know. He is a wilful lad, and takes his own line without consulting me. When I found that he was not in this morning, I sent a horse-keeper to Bankside’s camp to inquire if he had gone there, and to ask if he would like any kit sent.”

“What a queer chap he is to go off like that,” said Major Brett, with a touch of irritation in his voice. “I saw him at Colonel Leigh’s last night. Why, you were there too, of course, and he promised me faithfully that he would come over at ten.”

“I have known William forget his appointments before now. He will be full of apology when he thinks of it, and will be rushing off on the spur of the moment to tell you so,” replied Felix.

“We talked of Bankside, and I asked him when he was going,” continued Major Brett, pondering. “No, he cannot have gone to him, or he would have told me of his intentions last evening.”

It was evident that Major Brett was considerably put out by Will failing to keep his promise. He was a punctilious soldier, and a man who lived by rule of thumb. He was never guilty of forgetfulness, nor of irregularity regarding appointments. In many ways he was a most excellent man for the position he held of Superintendent of Police. The only drawback was in himself. He was apt to be influenced by prejudice. He disliked and distrusted natives, and was too often obliged, in his capacity, to study the worst side of their nature. This distrust he extended to all men and women who had been born in the country, or who had lived there long enough to acquire the language, and perhaps some of the habits.

Felix would gladly have dropped the subject, but Major Brett never rested till he had fathomed anything that puzzled him.

“What time did he go out last evening? It must have been very late, for it was nearly nine when I spoke to him at Leigh’s.”

“He left Colonel Leigh’s very soon after that. I left about the same time,” said Felix, taking no notice of the query.

“Was he with you?”

Major Brett had a way of cross-questioning his friends, which was irritating to some people. He probably acquired it from frequently examining natives, who had to appear before him. His friends did not exactly resent it, but they were not very responsive, Felix did not reply immediately, and Major Brett repeated his question.

“Was William with you when you left the Leighs’ house, Manning?”

“No,” he answered shortly.

“And you went away early to visit a patient, I suppose, and when you came back he was gone?”

The Doctor made no reply, but spoke to Beryl, who, with flushed cheeks, was looking uneasily at Major Brett.

Finding that he could get no more out of Felix, the Major began to talk to Mrs. Holdsworth, who was giving him some tea. He wanted to question her as he had questioned Felix, and to find out from her if the young man had told her daughter of his movements. It was an open secret that Will was an ardent admirer and a frequent visitor; and Beryl was supposed to know as well as any one how he passed his time.

Mrs. Holdsworth was one of those simple, open-hearted women who could hide nothing, and who hated secrets and mystery. The Major soon fathomed the amount of knowledge she possessed, which was small. She detected his disappointment at her inability to tell him anything; and as she failed to interest him in any other subject, she appealed to Beryl.

“My dear, when you were at Mrs. Leigh’s last evening, did Mr. Manning tell you whether he was going anywhere?”

“Do you mean to see any one?”

Beryl’s question was put awkwardly, and an expression of annoyance crossed her face. She was too good a girl to answer her mother otherwise than politely and pleasantly, but she felt that it was Major Brett who was putting the question, and not her mother, and she resented it; she continued without waiting for an answer.

“He said nothing to me of any engagements, except that he was going to Major Brett’s this morning about the horse.”

Mrs. Holdsworth seemed to be inspired with her companion’s spirit of inquiry, for she next asked,—

“Did he walk home with you? He usually likes to do so, if you will let him.”

Miss Holdsworth’s colour heightened, and she looked very uncomfortable. Although she was known to be the object of Will’s devotion, her mother need not proclaim to the world that the gentleman already claimed this lover’s privilege.

The girl, however, was far too proud to hide the truth when asked point-blank, no matter how uncomfortable she felt in replying.

“He brought me to the house, mother, and left the ayah and me at the porch. But, really, it is scarcely our business to question Mr. Manning’s movements. I have given him no right to take me into his confidence, and I do not wish to be told of his doings.”

Even inquisitive Major Brett began to see that he was pushing matters too far. As for Felix, he could sit still no longer. He rose at once and said,—

“If you have finished your tea, Brett, and if Mrs. Holdsworth will excuse us, I will go with you to the bungalow, where I shall probably find a note from my brother explaining his absence and apologising to you.”

The other man got up willingly, not sorry to escape Miss Holdsworth’s frown. He hoped he had not talked too much; he was afraid she was feeling the heat, which was great, as rain was so much wanted. Beryl’s frown disappeared now that his dreadful questions had come to an end; and she smiled pleasantly on her departing visitors. There was a little more warmth than usual in her manner as she shook hands with the Doctor and thanked him for his visit.

As soon as the two men were out of the house, Major Brett began again.

“It is very annoying, not seeing your brother, because of that horse. I hope you will remind him to come to me as soon as he returns.”

“Can I not set your mind at rest now about it? William generally leaves the stable to me entirely,” said Felix.

Major Brett brightened at the suggestion.

“I shall be very glad if I can deal with you in his absence, because I want to use the animal at once; and I cannot work it just as I please till I feel that it is my own.”

“I wish every one was as prompt to conclude a bargain, and pay up as you seem to be,” said Felix pleasantly.

There was no message nor letter to explain Will’s absence. The two men then talked of the horse. Major Brett had his cheque-book with him, and offered to write a cheque then and there. As it would evidently ease his mind, Felix consented, though he would rather that the Major considered the animal his own, without concluding the purchase at that moment. As Major Brett handed the cheque to Felix he said,—

“Is your brother in the habit of absenting himself in this way, without saying a word to you or any one else?”

“Yes, I have known him to do it before. He went to Madras once on the spur of the moment to buy a piano. It is generally to buy something. Another time he went to Bangalore to get a tennis net.”

“I suppose, having time and money at his disposal, he is too impatient to write an order; he prefers to rush off and fetch home the latest fancy in person.”

“Exactly so,” replied Felix.

Major Brett got up to go, and the Doctor did not detain him.

The Major was not attracted to either of the Mannings; and had it not been for the horse, he would not have been inquiring so particularly just now after the younger. He was a married man, but wife and children were in England. Their absence did not distress him, for his mind was absorbed in his profession. He threw himself heart and soul into his police work, and was reckoned one of the best officers of the south. He had a large district and did a good deal of travelling. But though persevering and keen-sighted, he was not always successful. His prejudices and preconceived notions often clouded his mental vision.

He also laboured under another disadvantage, partly of his own making. His knowledge of the language of the south was superficial. He knew Hindustani well, but he only had a smattering of Tamil, the vernacular of Madras, and a far more difficult tongue. It was enough to enable him to give his orders to servants or police peons, but it was not enough for him to examine a witness, without the assistance of an interpreter. His prejudices prevented him from studying it as he might.

No man was to be trusted, in his opinion, who could speak Tamil like a native; nor who had a drop of native blood in his veins. The Mannings spoke Tamil fluently, as has already been said, so he distrusted the Mannings.

Even in the matter of the horse he was suspicious. His anxiety to conclude the bargain was due to a lurking fear lest William should withdraw from it, or alter the price. He was satisfied that the animal was sound, and well worth the money asked; and he could not help fancying that one or other of the brothers would try to overreach him, by increasing the price, as soon as he began to use the horse. It was manifestly an unjust thought. But it was at that point where his clear-sightedness failed him, and his judgment was warped. People who habitually deal with the worst side of human nature are apt to be suspicious at times, and when the suspicion is strengthened by prejudice, the judgment is likely to be at fault.

At sundown Major Brett looked in at the club for his usual game of whist.

“Has Mr. Manning been here this evening?” he asked of one of the servants.

“No, sahib,” was the reply.

He went into the whist-room, where he found three or four men assembled. One of them was O’Brien.

“I say, O’Brien, have you seen anything of William Manning to-day?” he asked.

“No; why?”

“It seems that he has disappeared.”

And he told the tale of the broken appointment, and how he had concluded the purchase of the horse with the other brother.

“Both the Mannings were at Colonel Leigh’s last evening. He cannot be very far away,” remarked O’Brien.

“One never knows what these kind of men are about,” grumbled Major Brett. “How do I know that he has not gone off to try and sell that horse to some one else for a better price?”

“Oh, nonsense, Brett! You are always stalking crime, and it makes you suspicious of everybody. Manning told me that he had as good as sold the horse to you, and he seemed very pleased, because he had more cattle than he and the Doctor could keep in exercise.”

“Yet the Doctor is very busy. He was out the whole of last night; in fact he seems hardly ever out of the saddle.”

“For all that, Manning told me that their stables were too full. Let us have a game of whist. Do you know, I like those two brothers,” said the warm-hearted Irishman, who had been rubbed up the wrong way by Major Brett’s uncharitable suspicions; “they are the best fellows that ever stepped. William is as generous and liberal as he can be; and as for the Doctor, there is nothing he will not do for a patient. Now there was a man in our works——” and O’Brien launched into some tale of the Doctor’s goodness, whilst they were cutting for partners and dealing.

“H’m, I should like him better if he had not got this cursed jargon of the natives so glib on his tongue,” growled the Major.

The game began and the Mannings were not mentioned again.

Chapter IV

An Apparition

“A deep below the deep,
And a height beyond the height!
Our hearing is not hearing,
And our seeing is not sight.”
— Tennyson

The horse-keeper returned from the sub-collector’s camp with the news that William Manning had not been seen there. Bankside wrote a letter and sent it by the man, addressing it to Will himself, to ask him to fulfil his promise of joining him, as he was going further away into the district.

Felix grew uneasy, although there seemed no reason why he should disturb himself. William was in the habit of coming and going as he pleased, without consulting his brother. The hours of the day were never accounted for, and Felix was for the most part in ignorance of how he spent his time. Indeed, the Doctor was far too busy a man to think of what his younger brother was about; his own work more than occupied his whole attention. But two or three things had happened lately, which caused him uneasiness, and brought his brother before his thoughts oftener than usual.

The last phase of Will’s conduct—his mysterious disappearance—was the most perplexing of all.

Felix went to the railway himself, and made inquiry of the station-master. He had not much hope in that direction, as it was so extremely unlikely that a man of William’s luxurious habits would travel without his portmanteau and servant. The railway people assured Felix that he had not passed up or down the line. There were very few trains in the day, and it was impossible that he could have got into a carriage without one of the officials noticing it, even if he travelled without a ticket.

The Doctor rode back from his fruitless quest feeling tired and depressed. His solitary dinner did not improve the situation. As he ate it he considered his next step, which was one of delicacy and tact. A growing suspicion was thrusting itself upon his mind, though he strove to turn a deaf ear. He must find out where Minachee was gone, and whether she went alone. It was too late to do anything more that evening, and he turned wistfully to his armchair and cheroot as soon as his dinner was finished.

But he was not allowed to remain long in peace. A man came to ask him to go at once to the police lines, where some one had been taken ill. It was a case of cholera, and with his usual solicitude for his patient’s welfare, the Doctor remained half the night with the man. If he had turned his back on his patient after having prescribed, nothing would have been done, so he stayed to fight the disease, and after a time he was satisfied that the man would recover. He went home to bed thoroughly tired out, and slept heavily. The night was hot, and Felix, having no fear of thieves, left the windows wide open. It was nearly an hour later than the Doctor’s usual time for rising when he awoke the next morning.

Before dressing, he looked into the adjoining room. The bed was unoccupied, and as it had not been slept in, he concluded that his brother had not returned. Well, he must please himself, thought Felix, as he dressed; but he sighed over the wilfulness of the lad in keeping up the mystery.

He hurried over his early morning tea, and was on the point of starting on his rounds when William’s servant came up. He looked disturbed.

“What is the matter?” asked Felix.

“Some of Mr. William’s clothes are gone,” replied the man.

“What clothes?”

“The grey suit and the big sun hat.”

“Were they in the wardrobe yesterday?”

“Yes, sahib.”

“Was anything else taken?”

“No, sahib; nothing. The shirts and vests in the wardrobe are untouched.”

The man looked up into the Doctor’s face, seeking an explanation; but he found none. His master expressed no surprise, and suggested no explanation. Felix was in a hurry to be off as he was late.

“Shall I tell the police?” asked the man.

“Certainly not,” was the reply, “I will see Major Brett myself. Meanwhile leave everything untouched.”

Again the servant glanced at his master, as though he would willingly have discussed the matter further; but Manning cut him short, and was soon galloping down the carriage drive.

There was a conclave round the kitchen door after Felix’s departure. The disappearance of the clothes was talked over freely, and many opinions were offered concerning their mode of vanishing.

“It is a thief,” said the cook, a man of great importance outside the house, and whose words were held in great reverence by the kitchen woman and the waterman.

“It was no thief,” said the butler, shaking his head as though he knew more about it than he chose to tell. “And the master knew that it was no thief, else he would have sent for the police at once.”

“Then who was it?—the tree devil?” asked the cook contemptuously.

The man who was Will’s especial servant replied promptly,—

“It was Mr. William himself.”

“Mr. William!” exclaimed the others in surprise.

“If it were Mr. William, we should find his footmarks in the sand by the bathroom door, which you say was open this morning,” cried the cook.

They rose in a body, and, headed by the butler, they went to the door in question. They searched carefully for footmarks round the house and carriage drive. Not content with their own examination, they called the gardeners, and sent them further afield, to seek for traces of the missing sahib. What they found they kept to themselves. The strident voices were hushed in whispers; the bombastic cook was subdued, and the water woman threw the end of her cloth over her head, and wailed for the lost master. It was a terrible mystery, and they could not understand why the elder brother made no stir to find the younger. What did it all mean?

The Chengalem club was much like other similar institutions in India. There were tennis-courts attached to it, where the English community gathered to take violent exercise with racquet and ball; inside the house were rooms for billiards, whist and reading, besides a bar. A wing room looking upon the tennis-courts was given to the ladies; there they could read and talk; or, if very hot, they could go outside and sit under the trees, sipping hot tea or iced coffee. After the evening drive everybody gathered at the club, if no other attraction offered itself in the shape of a garden party at any private house.

Beryl and her mother drove to the club that evening as usual, and were greeted by a little knot of tennis players, who had just finished their game. They were discussing several matters, and at the same time satisfying an overwhelming thirst with tea, coffee or lemon-squash, according to individual fancy. Amongst the company were Colonel and Mrs. Leigh.

“You did not come down to the club last evening,” remarked Mrs. Leigh to Mrs. Holdsworth.

“My daughter was not very well, so I did not go out at all. My husband is in the district, and I had no one to tempt me to go for a drive. Have you heard whether Mr. Manning has returned? What a strange thing it was that he never went home at all after your party, Mrs. Leigh.”

“Did he not? He went away very early from my house. I was going to give Beryl a scolding for carrying off one of my guests so soon. She complained of a headache, and left before we had half finished the evening. Of course Mr. Manning went with her to see her home, though the ayah was there. We all know where his heart is,” said Mrs. Leigh with a smile.

“William Manning came back last night I hear,” remarked Colonel Leigh, “so you will have to give up all thought of a mysterious disappearance. If I may be allowed to guess, I should say that he went to buy a ring.”

Beryl was not the only girl in Chengalem, although she was voted to be the prettiest. She was chatting with Miss Frost, the sister-in-law of the forest officer; two of the young men in the survey office were joining in the conversation. Beryl’s eyes wandered round more than once in search of some one. Miss Frost perceived it and smiled. But that quick-witted young woman was mistaken for once in her life. It was not Will whose coming was looked for but the Doctor’s.

The day closed in quickly. It was too dark for any more tennis; the company broke up into twos and threes, and some of the men sought the whist-table or billiard-room; the others wandered round the compound, or sat beneath the trees.

Dr. Manning walked into the club just as the lamps were lighted. He stayed for a few minutes, refusing to join in a hand at whist, and then he sauntered out in the direction of the tennis-courts. It was difficult to find Beryl in the dim twilight. However, fortune favoured him, for as he approached a knot of people, Beryl came towards him.

“Dr. Manning! I have been looking for you,” she exclaimed a little breathlessly, as she placed her hand in his.

“And I want to see you,” he replied, turning and walking across the courts.

They found a vacant seat on the opposite side, where they could talk without fear of interruption.

“Are you feeling quite well again?” he asked, as they sat down.

“Yes, quite,” she answered; “but tell me, has Will returned?”

She gazed into the Doctor’s face with no little anxiety, as she put the question.

“He returned last night.”

“Where is he now?”

“That I cannot tell. He went away again apparently after a very short visit. I must confess that I do not understand his conduct in the least.”

Felix spoke with some annoyance in his tone, as he finished his last sentence.

“I can understand why he is keeping away,” said Beryl quietly.

“You! What have you got to do with it?” he asked brusquely.

“It seems like a breach of confidence to tell you what I have to do with his strange action; but to relieve your mind from further anxiety, I am sure that I ought not to keep silence.”

She paused; her instinctive nobility of character made her shrink from the betrayal of a man’s confidence to another. Her confession was not an easy task; yet in order to explain, and, in a measure, justify Will’s strange conduct, it was necessary to tell Dr. Manning what passed between herself and his brother.

“As Will walked with me from Mrs. Leigh’s that night, he asked me seriously to be his wife.”

“Oh! Beryl, I am so glad!” broke in Felix, forgetting all else in his pleasure and relief to hear that Will had spoken at last. “I cannot tell you how I have been looking forward to the moment when I could call you sister. I have never had a sister, and I have so often longed for one.”

There was a pathetic note in his voice as he said this, and he laid his hand upon hers with a frank brotherly grasp. She started slightly at his touch, and grew a shade paler; but Felix did not notice this in the dim light of the evening. Gently but firmly withdrawing her hand, she said,—

“I have not told you all, Dr. Manning. I have more to confess. I refused him.”

“You did! Oh! why?” he exclaimed impetuously.

A curious pain seized her heart as she listened. Perhaps it was regret that she could not claim the proffered brotherhood of the man who sat by her side.

With her eyes fixed steadily and proudly on his, she said in a manner that was a little constrained,—

“Because I do not love him.”

Then she dropped her eyes and remained silent.

He too was dumb, but it was with astonishment. This was a contingency of which he had never dreamt; and why it had never occurred to him he did not know. The thought had more than once crossed his mind of late that Will was not worthy of her; but this, he fondly imagined, was a doubt known only to himself, with his intimate knowledge of his brother’s nature. It was a character that would strengthen in the companionship of such a girl as Beryl. He had therefore the more ardently desired the marriage, without once considering the question from her point of view. Somehow, it had escaped his mind altogether that it might possibly be a sacrifice on Beryl’s part. Why should she devote her life to one who was admittedly her inferior? Afterwards came other thoughts coursing through his brain in wildest confusion, upsetting all his dreams, and turning life topsy-turvy.

The laughter and talking on the opposite side of the courts was wafted across the grounds. The click of the billiard balls and the murmur of the whist players sounded distinctly from the house; and the hum of the town life in the far-distance floated softly in on the night air.

Together the two sat, each alone with his and her own thoughts, each unaware of what was passing through the brain of the other. Beryl was the first to speak.

“I am afraid you blame me. I deserve it, for I have treated your brother shamefully.”

She spoke humbly and penitently.

“No, I do not blame you in the least. If you are sure you do not love him, you have done quite right.”

He laid a slight stress on the “if,” and her quick ear detected it directly. She responded to it at once.

“I am quite sure of my feelings. I do not love him now, and I can never love him.”

“Poor boy!” murmured Felix; yet, though he pitied him, he did not plead for him.

“I am afraid he has taken my refusal badly, though he seemed at the time to be quite composed and even cheerful. It may account for his strange behaviour.”

“It explains a good deal,” he assented.

And again silence fell upon them. So busy were they with their own thoughts that they did not know how time was passing.

There was a movement amongst the ladies on the opposite side, and Beryl rose.

“I must be going back to my mother. She will be wanting to go home.”

Yet the girl did not move; she had still something more to say.

“Dr. Manning, you will say nothing of what I have told you. Let Will tell you what he pleases.” She gave a little catching sigh. “I am glad you know all; it was only right that you should.”

When Beryl reached her mother, her face wore a thoughtful expression. The sunny smile had faded; the happy girlish look had gone. Whatever it was that she had passed through, the ordeal had left her a woman older, mentally speaking, than the girl who had risen only two short days ago so blithely with the sun. She could scarcely believe, in contemplating herself, that she was the same girl who had galloped across the dry level plain by Will’s side only a week ago, laughing so lightly at his careless talk.

Dr. Manning turned into the club. He was greeted by O’Brien, who, with Major Brett, had just risen from the whist table.

“Hullo, Manning! what, is this I hear about your brother having come back? Where has the sly dog been hiding himself? And why is the rascal not here to tell us all about it?”

Such a string of questions was not to be answered in a breath. He said,—

“Will came back last night most certainly. But he has gone away again.”

“Who saw him?” asked Brett.

“I did,” replied Felix.

“Did you give him my cheque?”

“No; there was no time to say a word.”

“Tell us all about it, old fellow,” said O’Brien. The Major’s tone rubbed him up the wrong way. It conveyed a breath of suspicion, quite unintentionally on the part of the police officer.

“I was home very late last night, and I was dog-tired after my day’s work. I cannot tell what time it was, but suddenly I was aroused by the sound of some one moving about in the room. I thought it was the servant at first, but as it was not daylight, and my night lamp was still burning, I looked up, and to my astonishment saw Will, standing in the doorway, between his room and mine. I called to him, but he did not reply. He had on a grey suit of clothes, which had been hanging in his wardrobe. It is a favourite morning suit. I was very sleepy at the time, but when he did not reply I must confess to feeling annoyed. I jumped out of bed and followed him. I saw him pass from his room to the bathroom, which has a door opening into the garden. He drew the bolt, and was gone before I could lay hands upon him to stop him. I can only conclude that he came for a change of clothes.”

All the time Felix was speaking Major Brett was regarding him through the blue smoke of his cheroot. When he had finished his tale Brett asked,—

“Did you see his face?”

“No; that was the odd part about it. When I called, instead of turning and replying, he went off to the bathroom.”

“How do you know it was your brother?”

“I recognised his figure; who else could it have been?” asked Felix, not relishing the cross-examination.

“What was his object in coming?” returned Major Brett, taking no notice of the Doctor’s query.

“To change his clothes, I presume. He was wearing his dress clothes when he disappeared. By this time he must need a change badly.”

“Did he take any money?” questioned Brett, ignoring the other man’s evident objection to the catechising.

“No,” replied Felix shortly.

“How do you know?”

“I had it all under lock and key. He could not have got either money or jewels without breaking the lock.”

“And did he leave the clothes behind him which he had been wearing on the evening he disappeared?”

“I really do not know. I suppose he must have done so,” said Felix with irritation in his voice.

O’Brien heard it, and interposed to stop, if possible, what seemed to be fast approaching a judicial inquiry.

“The plot thickens,” he cried. “When a mystery hangs round a man the French say, Cherchez la femme.”

He had, of course, Beryl Holdsworth in his mind when he spoke, but his words struck a very different chord in Manning’s mind. The other men laughed, but the Doctor’s face maintained its expression of annoyance. He got up with the manifest intention of putting an end to the conversation.

“Anyhow, your mind is relieved for the present,” said the kindly O’Brien. “And all you have to do is to wait patiently till Master Will’s pleasure brings him back again.”

Felix bade adieu to his friends, and walked off in the direction of his bungalow. His mind was full of his brother. Yes, truly, it was, as O’Brien had said, a case of cherchez la femme. But which? How would Will take his refusal? How would he bear the first serious contradiction and trial of his life? Then the smiling, seductive face of the dancing-girl forced itself upon his mental vision.

“There is nothing for it but to take him quite away. It will be the only means of keeping the lad out of mischief. I must ask Government for a move. I shall be sorry to leave the place and the people, but it must be done for the boy’s sake.”

Two days passed, and nothing more was seen of Will, nor was there any communication by letter or message. The servants could obtain no tidings, though they questioned the people in the village, and hunted every hole and corner they could think of.

One morning Felix was at the dispensary as usual, attending the crowd of patients, his whole mind given to the interesting cases before him. A woman with a scalded arm came into the surgery. The wound had been dressed with some native decoction of herbs, applied with the recital of muntras, and a semi-religious ceremonial. The herbs had only served to increase the inflammation, and the poor creature was suffering agony. He proceeded to cleanse the wound himself with sponge and water. Two or three friends of the patient were by her side, supporting her and helping the Doctor. They held her arm, and handed him the sponges and towels as he needed them. His whole attention was fixed upon his work, which, so far, was quite as much that of a skilled nurse as of a doctor. As he washed the sore the woman moaned, and once she screamed.

A low, soft voice of one who was supporting her spoke soothingly, bidding her be of good heart, for the Doctor would soon cure her. He was so clever; he knew how to drive away pain and mend all evils.

The voice was familiar; and Felix looked up quickly to see the luminous brown eyes of Minachee gazing at him over the woman’s shoulder. He had not noticed her amongst the crowd, so occupied was he with his patients.

He made no sign, but his heart gave a bound. To find Minachee was to find his brother, at least so he was bringing himself to think.

He continued dressing the wound, and bound it carefully. As the little party left the surgery to make room for others who were waiting, he called Minachee to him.

“Stay in the verandah till I have finished with the people; then come to me again.”

It was nearly an hour before he ended his work with his patients. He was not sure that the dasi would do as he wished, and remain to have an interview; but as she had presented herself voluntarily, he concluded that in all probability she had come on purpose to speak with him. He hoped that she brought a message.

She entered the room at his call, smiling and confident. She walked straight up to his chair, with that easy grace and self-assurance which is the natural attribute of a pretty woman, civilized or savage.

“So, Minachee, you have been away from Chengalem on a journey?”

“Yes, a long journey.”

“Quite five or six miles.”

She made a little gesture of dissent.

“Fifty or sixty miles,” she said.

“And you had pleasant company?”

“I went alone, sahib, quite alone.”

Felix was sitting with his elbow on the arm of his chair, his chin upon his hand. He smiled at her last words, as he might have smiled incredulously at a pretty child who was telling him fibs.

Minachee played with her gold bangles, glancing at him from beneath her long dark lashes. She smiled too, but it was not the conscious smile of a child detected in fibbing.

“And where are you living now; at the Zemindar’s house or in the temple?”

“My mother and I are at the Zemindar’s house, but we leave it soon.”

“And go to the temple?”

“Certainly; there is no other home.”

“Why does my brother send me no message, Minachee?” asked Felix suddenly, watching her face closely. “You must tell him that I look for a message, and that he must send it by you. Do you understand? Tell him that I am troubled by his absence.”

The smile faded from the girl’s face; and she dropped her eyes before the Doctor’s searching gaze. She grew fidgety, and her fingers plucked nervously at the gold border of her cloth.

“I have not seen your brother for six days, sahib. I do not know where he is, and can bring you no message from him. Indeed I tell the truth.”

The Doctor shook his head, and his face grew sterner.

“You see him every day, and you know where he is hiding. But this is a foolish game which cannot last. It will only bring you trouble.”

She felt the severity of the tone, and clasped her hands supplicatingly.

“This is the truth only that I speak. I have not seen him; I do not know where he is.”

She said this so vehemently that Felix was inclined to believe her. But he had not forgotten that chance encounter in the grove a short time ago, and he also remembered Deva’s words.

“Why, then, did your mother tell me to ask you for news of him?”

Minachee opened her eyes.

“Did my mother say that?” she cried in astonishment, which if not real was well simulated.

“Perhaps she, too, saw you in the grove, as I did, when I passed with the sick wife of the Zemindar.”

She dropped her eyes and lost her look of defiance. She did not like being pressed in this manner, and began to grow sulky, a sign that her temper was rising. She pouted her small full lips, and tapped the naked bejewelled little foot upon the floor.

“He was asking me about the tomasha in the tope. He wanted to know what the people were going to do. Why should I not speak with whom I choose? I have no husband to beat me.”

“You are a silly child, Minachee. The poojari will not spare the stick, if he catches you playing hide-and-seek with an Englishman. An Englishman gives nothing to the temple. You know where the sahib is; and you may tell him from me that I shall sit up for him in the verandah to-night. I shall send all the servants away to their godowns, so he need not fear to come; no one will see him. You can come, too, if you like,” he added, knowing well that she would not.

His tone angered her; she broke into stormy passion, reproaching him for his want of faith, assuring him again and again of her ignorance of Will’s hiding-place. He let her rave with quiet unconcern, believing that she was only acting a part, and that it was all put on to stop further questioning.

Suddenly her mood changed, and anger melted into floods of tears. She ended by dropping on her knees before him. Seizing his disengaged hand and kissing it, she exclaimed,—

“Indeed, sahib, I do not deceive you, you of all people. I know not, I care not, where your brother is; I would rather be the dust beneath your feet than sit on a throne with him.”

“Foolish child!” exclaimed Felix with irritation. “You are no better than a baby. I do not know what to believe between you and your mother.”

He rose from his chair with a sigh; and, turning his back upon her, he walked from the room, leaving her still upon her knees, more beautiful in her distress than in her joy. He did not look round once. He saw nothing of the passionate out-stretched arms extended, towards his retreating figure; the panting bosom, rising and falling tumultuously beneath her silken cloth; the eyes shining with uncontrolled love through the bitter tears he caused her to shed. He neither saw nor guessed; and he rode away perplexed and distressed that she had, as he thought, so persistently lied to him.

Chapter V

A New Goddess

“On her cheeks
The blushing blood miraculous doth range
From tender dawn to sunset. When she speaks
Her soul is shining through her earnest face
As shines a moon through its upswathing cloud—
My tongue’s a very beggar in her praise,
It cannot gild her gold with all its words.”
— Alexander Smith

The Doctor’s interview with Minachee was productive of no result. The wanderer gave no sign and sent no message. Felix began to be troubled, especially as he frequently saw the dancing-girl, and she maintained that she knew nothing of his brother’s movements.

Minachee often appeared now at the dispensary, amongst the crowd of patients awaiting the Doctor; but it was always as nurse, never as patient. She was far too healthy even to pretend to sickness; it could only be for the purpose of attending the sick that she could find an excuse for appearing before the Doctor.

Felix took no notice of her at first. He was annoyed at her persistent denial of all knowledge of his brother’s hiding-place. He made no further attempt to question her, beyond asking now and then if she had anything to tell him. He knew it would be useless, and he would have the vexation of listening to what he considered a tissue of falsehoods. If she held any communication with William, she would be sure to retail to that young man all that had passed; and Felix hoped that his brother would at last grow tired of his eccentric line of conduct, and send some message of explanation.

When the Doctor saw, however, how faithfully she carried out all his orders, and how patiently and gently she nursed the sick, thus saving him trouble and anxiety, he relented, and began to regard her with less harshness. Her cleverness as a nurse appealed to the professional side of his nature, and he grew to depend upon her in critical cases, where some reliable person was needed to fulfil his directions. No trouble seemed too great, no task too hard, that he set her; and she fairly earned the gratitude a medical man naturally feels towards a skilful coadjutor. A word of praise and thanks from his lips sent her away with her heart full of gladness. An approving look was sufficient to thrill her with happiness.

Her real reason for undertaking such labour of philanthropy was only known to herself. The Doctor never doubted but that she did it all from pure liking of the work. He guessed, from little things he heard amongst his patients, that she was set free from the Zemindar’s house; and having returned to the temple, it was probably in its immediate interests that she helped him thus. There was nothing like sickness for bringing offerings to enlist the poojari’s help in propitiating the swami’s wrath. For all he knew, this might have been the very task set her by the temple authorities.

It was quite true that Minachee and her mother had received their dismissal. The evil day had fallen upon them in spite of the pooja, so elaborately carried out in the banyan grove. The new dasi had come; and on her arrival mother and daughter were obliged to go.

Minachee had already taken the initiative by absenting herself for hours at a time. But Deva could not give up her place in the house so easily. She clung to it with a persistence which was marvellous, considering that her reign had virtually ended when the warning had first been given. To the very last she hoped some turn of fortune’s wheel would yet solve her difficulty, and reinstate her daughter in the Zemindar’s favour.

After that dark night’s work by the devil-tree, she confidently expected help of some sort from the swami. But none came. Instead of mending, things grew worse. The Zemindar became impatient, and the women of the zenana laughed. They were aware that her day was over; and they did not scruple to take advantage of it by treating her with a disregard bordering on contempt, which they had never ventured upon before. They dared not let her feel the full brunt of it, for they still feared her as dasi of the temple. In their eyes she was still endowed with supernatural powers, and was yet the wife of the dreaded banyan-tree. But with regard to her actions in the zenana, her coming and going, her wishes and her imperious rule, they criticised and commented upon them with open opposition. Deva’s quick eye detected every look, every expression; and her vivid imagination conjured up a great deal more. Wrath smouldered within her breast, finding no vent at present in words. Until she finally received her dismissal it was necessary to preserve a smiling face; for the Zemindar was rich, and the temple authorities were powerful. But for all that, her anger grew; and the chief object against which it was directed was the little dasi who came to take Minachee’s place.

The day arrived for the introduction of the new goddess. The Zemindar’s sisters, aunts, wives and nieces, with their respective families, were all on the tiptoe of expectation. Besides their overwhelming curiosity, there was the additional excitement of a nautch, with fireworks to finish the entertainment.

The leading danseuse was, of course, the newcomer. Deva and Minachee played but a secondary part, acting as foils very much against their wills. The child was only just in her teens, a tender bud not yet developed; and her chief beauty consisted in the fairness of her skin. She came from the far north, a pearl amongst the richer complexions of the south. She danced well and moved with much grace, though her slender ankles were loaded with jewels weighing several pounds. Her sparkling eyes beamed with childish joy and pride in her conspicuous position; and, true to the instincts of her sex, she gave herself the bewitching little airs of a queen.

The Zemindar, fat and stolid, sat in the seat of honour. His corpulent body was covered with a long coat of purple satin, richly trimmed with gold embroidery. On his fingers and wrists he wore rough, uncut gems of great value, set in thick, heavy gold setting. He had gathered a few friends—men very much like himself—to witness the installation of the new dasi. They were seated in armchairs, just a little inferior in point of ornamentation to the one he occupied.

The room in which the nautch took place was divided down the centre by a screen; and on one side of it the women of the zenana sat. They had not such a good view of the space kept clear for the dancing as the Zemindar and his friends; but they were quite satisfied. The custom of ages had taught them that their place was in the background, and they showed no desire to press forward, or to come within range of vision of the men. A musician and a tomtom-player had been sent from the temple, and they seated themselves one on each side of the clear space. Deva and her daughter opened the entertainment by singing, dancing, and posing, according to the custom. Deva’s movements were quieter and more regular than when she danced before the banyan-tree.

Minachee floated across the floor with easy grace and evident indifference. She scarcely glanced at the Zemindar and his friends, whose eyes were fixed in a steady stare on the dancers. At times she sparkled with something like defiance; but the defiant look quickly vanished, and her young face softened with the gladness of emancipation. It was clear that she bore the new dasi no malice, but willingly resigned the coveted place. She sang her song of love with passion and emotion to the absent, unconscious one who swayed her heart, just as the song-bird trills to its mate in the spring. It came as naturally to her as to the nightingale to tell her love. Why should that love be denied, if she could awaken a response in the breast of him who was her king? In spirit she danced and sang before him; and she threw into her actions that half-refined, half-savage passion which brooks no control. The guests of the Zemindar regarded her curiously. They recognised the note of love in her song; but they sought in vain for a single glance that should make it personal—a glance to flash the thrilling intimation to the chosen one that he, and he alone, was the object of the song.

Deva saw the gladness of the girl expressed in her every motion, and looked wrathfully at her. But she was obliged to hide the anger she felt. She had to remember that she was working now in the interests of the temple, quite as much as when she introduced her own daughter. Accordingly as the Zemindar was pleased with the performance, so would the gift be. She veiled her eyes beneath their heavy fringe of lashes, and kept them upon the ground. The men looked to her equally in vain for those languishing glances, which form such an important part of a nautch. When Deva and Minachee had sung their songs, and finished the dance, they stood aside, and the new goddess stepped forth.

She had been well-trained in her accomplishments, and well prompted for her work on this occasion. Raising her sweet young voice, she sang of love to the Zemindar, as she had been taught, stirring his deadened pulse and firing his dull heart. The applause of his friends added further zest to his pleasure, and completed the conquest.

Deva’s expression grew more evil as she watched the child’s success. She was less guarded now that another object absorbed his attention. The women laughed and nudged each other as they noted her face. They guessed at the jealousy which was raging in her heart, and they triumphed over her fall from sheer love of excitement and change. Deva saw the smiles, and writhed with inward rage. She looked across at Minachee, but found no sympathy there. The girl was oblivious of what was passing around her; her face was upturned with a rapt expression as her soul sought communion with her love. Deva did not care in the least who the object of her daughter’s love might be. What enraged her was the girl’s indifference to the situation, her utter carelessness at her fallen fortunes. Minachee, she considered, was old enough to realize that life at the temple would be well-nigh unendurable after the comfortable house of the Zemindar; yet she did not make the slightest effort to avert the impending catastrophe.

From her daughter Deva glanced at the little girl, scowling at her unconsciously. The child caught sight of the unguarded look, and stood paralysed with a sudden terror. The Zemindar, who devoured every movement, followed her gaze, and saw Deva with her evil expression. Heavy and stolid as he was, he was startled. No one knew better than he what a woman like Deva might do. He determined that she should quit the house that very night. Usually a nautch is kept up to the early hours of the morning, and the people do not leave till daylight. But he feared that the child would not be safe under the same roof with that woman; she should therefore be dismissed at an early hour.

Deva read his thoughts, and was aware that she had committed an error. She hastened to make amends. Dropping her eyes, she assumed an expression of humility, and studiously avoided looking at the little dasi again.

When the child had finished her song and dance, she stopped before her master, and made him a salutation. He stretched out his hand and placed a heavy purse in her extended palms. She received it with childish glee, and expressed her pleasure in pretty gestures. The purse was by-and-by taken from her by one of the musicians, whose duty it was to deliver it over to the temple authorities when the entertainment had ended.

Sweetmeats and betel-nut were handed round. Deva thought that it would be as well to show the Zemindar that she felt no real malice by paying assiduous attention to his new favourite. She picked out the best sweets with her own fingers, and fed the child with the tenderest solicitude. The little one was sooner reassured than the master of the house. She chatted gaily with her enemy, all unconscious of the hate that was buried deep in the heart of the other. Then Deva took her amongst the women, who were also eating sweetmeats and chewing betel-nut, and introduced her to-the different members of the zenana. The women received her kindly, examining her jewels, and commenting openly upon her personal appearance. They were also very curious as to the sum of money given to the dasi by the Zemindar.

After an interval the nautch recommenced, without much variation of the performance. When the dancers stopped a second time to rest, and the sweetmeats were again handed round, the Zemindar ordered the fireworks to be let off. This was a signal that the entertainment was about to come to an end. The women were disappointed, but the master’s word was law; they would gladly have sat up another two or three hours, if they had been allowed, for they never wearied of a nautch.

With a few murmurs of disappointment they got up and retired to the roof of the house, from which point they were to see the fireworks. The Zemindar and his friends stood in the verandah. The display lasted nearly an hour, and when it was ended the host bade his friends farewell and retired to his room. Just before he went he sent for Deva. Gladly would she have sent word back that she was the servant of the temple, and no longer his slave to do his bidding. But she dared not do this; it was unwise for many reasons to make him angry. Smothering her indignation, she went to hear what he had to say.

“You leave my house to-night, dasi, and take your daughter with you. Here is a present for you.”

He threw a small bag of rupees at her feet. She did not stoop to pick them up, but stood motionless, not trusting herself to speak.

“You are not to come here again,” he continued, in an even passionless voice. “You are wanted no longer in the zenana. Your shadow need never darken my door again. And mark this, I saw the evil look you fixed on the child as she danced; if any harm befall her, you shall not escape my anger.”

He turned away contemptuously, leaving her standing there with the money at her feet, her eyes flashing with the red fire that burns in the eye of the wolf, her breast heaving with rage. At that moment she could have dared the Zemindar to do his worst if only she could have slain the dasi on the spot.

With a great effort she mastered her passion; and, picking up the purse, she hurried away into the darkness.

When she reached the open gate way of the compound she stopped, and looked towards the house. As she gazed a great cry was torn from her like the cry of an enraged animal. Her hands worked convulsively, her features were distorted, and foam flecked her lips. She shook the dust from her feet as she cursed the Zemindar, his house, and all that was in it. She cursed his father and mother, and all his ancestors. She took handfuls of dust and hurled them at the house in impotent rage. She made no further effort to control herself, for no one could hear her out there in the darkness and loneliness of the night. The frenzy of the poor mad devil-dancers had been terrible in its abandonment, but it was as nothing compared with the frenzy of the scheming, clever, far-reaching woman, who was baffled, scorned, and cast off. When she had exhausted her abuse of the Zemindar, she upbraided the tree-devil, reproaching him for his weakness and his faithlessness. Of what use was it to sacrifice to him? If a river of blood flowed, he would not help her. He was foolish, and of no more good to her than an old woman. Then with mad inconsistence she vehemently invoked his aid in revenging herself on the being who had brought this trouble upon her. She called on him to assist her in the most fiendish plot human being could devise—a scheme of revenge which would have made the sluggish pulse of the Zemindar stand still if he could have heard it. If the poor child fell into the hands of the furious woman, she would obtain small mercy.

But the Zemindar, with all his dulness and obesity, possessed the subtle mind of the Oriental, and was not likely to give Deva the chance of carrying out her fearful threats.

Minachee was very happy at the temple. She performed her duties with a light heart, and did not find them irksome, as her mother had done. Life to her was opening out with fresh beauty; her liberty was delightful. There was no stupid Zemindar to amuse and to coax into a good humour. How she loathed the sight of him; and how she rejoiced in being free—free to follow her own pleasure; free to tend the sick; free to wander through the town, and gossip at the wells with the women. She had no ambition like her mother, and craved for no power. Wrapped in her own thoughts, happy in her love, full of golden hopes, she lived in a dream of bliss. There was but one cloud upon her horizon: it was William Manning’s disappearance, coupled with her mysterious journey that same night, a journey she could not, she dared not, explain to the Doctor.

Felix went about doing his work with a heavy heart. It was a fortnight since Will had disappeared, and the people of the station were beginning to enquire for him with a newly-awakened curiosity. The servants, also, had something to say. They openly declared their belief that harm had befallen their master. They were the more convinced that it was so since he had appeared to his brother. In their opinion it was only a device of the demon to deceive the Doctor. Felix was not obliged to listen to all the absurd tales floating in the back verandahs of the European houses, or whispered in the bazaar; but all the same they were as much pin-pricks in their way, as were the inevitable questions of his friends which assailed him on all sides. In answer, he was always forced to confess that he knew nothing, and had received no message.

To get away from the curiosity which bade fair to become almost insupportable, he avoided the club, and kept out of the way of his friends. He had serious thoughts of taking a few days’ leave, and so obtaining a little change of scene. The two men who, without the least intending it, troubled him the most were Bankside and O’Brien. They were never tired of asking questions, or of making suggestions as to the cause of Will’s disappearance.

“I don’t believe you saw your brother at all; you were dreaming, Manning,” said Bankside.

“Indeed I was not. I will swear that I saw him.”

“But you did not see his features, and it might have been some one who was playing a practical joke upon you.”

“I can see no reason for such a joke,” replied Felix.

“Well, all I can say is that his disappearance is getting to be no joke, and the mystery ought to be solved. Why not put the matter in Brett’s hands? He is a splendid man at turning mysteries inside out.”

“Ah, yes,” chimed in O’Brien. “Trust him! He will not only find the man but also the woman.”

Felix thought of Minachee and his brother’s reputation. If his intrigue with the girl were discovered, the lad’s folly would be in the mouth of every one. The police employed to investigate would chatter abroad everything in the open bazaar. He shrank from the scandal of it.

“I would rather not pursue him as though he were a criminal,” he replied.

“Criminal,” growled Brett. “He is not the criminal.”

There was an unpleasant emphasis on the pronoun; there was also something in his tone which grated on the ear, though it was difficult to define what it was.

“Look here, Manning, if you suspect violence—and it is high time to suspect it—it is your duty to have an enquiry made of some sort,” said Bankside, with decision.

“And if the boy has been playing the fool, who will blame him?” added O’Brien indulgently. “Folly is the utmost any one can accuse him of, and we all expect that sort of thing from youngsters of his age.”

Brett kept silence, but every now and then Felix felt the eye of the police officer upon him, searching him through. It made him uncomfortable, and he left the uncongenial company of the men with little ceremony.

“I cannot understand Manning,” said Bankside, as he watched him go. “He seems so loath to take any action that will let daylight in. What does he want to hide?”

He caught Brett’s eye, and the conversation dropped abruptly.

The morning after this discussion Felix was riding to a hospital belonging to the police lines. On the way he met Beryl; she stopped him.

“Good morning, Dr. Manning. Have you any news of your brother yet?”

The fresh young face grew bright as she spoke, and drew rein by his side.

“None,” he replied.

In the full morning light her eyes detected the furrows which his recent trouble was bringing to his face.

“What more have you done?”

“I have written and telegraphed right and left, and I am at a loss to know what else I can do.”

He searched her face for further suggestion. She fingered the fine mane of the Arab she rode, and replied a little nervously,—

“I have been thinking you must put it into the hands of the police.”

He did not reply. After a slight pause she continued,—

“Why should you not? Major Brett will soon trace him out.”

Felix looked into those bright friendly eyes, and found comfort in their hopefulness; but he shook his head. There was a note of anxiety in his tone as he replied,—

“He was last seen by our friends with you on that eventful evening, as you and he left Mrs. Leigh’s house together. Major Brett’s first step would be to question you closely as to what passed between you two.”

“And I should have to tell him of the proposal?”

“It would not be a judicial examination, of course, and you would not be put on your oath,” he said, smiling at the momentary consternation which swept over her face. “You would not be obliged to tell him anything more than you wished. But you know what Major Brett is. He has a habit of pressing his questions, quite regardless of private feeling.”

“As far as our conversation is concerned, I am quite ready to repeat what was said that evening.”

“You are sure that you do not mind?” he said, regarding her anxiously. He could not bear to think that she should have a moment’s discomfort on his behalf or his brother’s.

“I wish it,” she replied decisively, as though she had weighed the consequences. “I feel that it is necessary, and that further reticence is a mistake.”

Felix did not wear a particularly happy expression.

“I do not agree with you. I see no necessity for you to be mixed up in the matter. I cannot bear the thought of it.”

“But I tell you I wish it,” she persisted.

“And why, may I ask?”

“So that you may be spared further anxiety.”

“You do not know what Brett is, and how ruthlessly he probes and wounds. He does not intend it, I know, but he is nothing unless he is the police officer; and I would spare you his rough handling.”

“You are very kind and thoughtful on my behalf,” she murmured gratefully.

She lifted her eyes, and met his earnest gaze fixed upon her with a solicitude which was slightly embarrassing.

“Remember that I claim the privilege of advising you as a brother,” he said.

“And I claim the privilege of acting as a sister on your behalf,” she rejoined quickly.

A sudden impulse of pity caused her to hold out her small hand, as they paused on the road side by side.

“And there is my hand on the compact, brother,” she cried.

He took it reverently, and with as sudden an impulse he carried it for one brief moment to his lips.

“Thank you, sweet sister,” he said fervently.

For a short space neither spoke. Then she gathered up her reins.

“You will place the matter in Major Brett’s hands, and so get rid of that weight of care which I can see sits heavily on your shoulders now,” she cried, in her brightest and most cheerful tones.

He did not reply, and she wheeled her horse without waiting to hear more, galloping back towards the cantonment. She did not try to analyse her feelings, but revelled in the luxury of the gladness which filled her heart that morning. Was it the fresh morning air, or the bounding animal beneath her, that lent colour to her cheeks, and brought the smile to her lips? Perhaps neither.

The Doctor finished his work, and was half-way home, when he pulled up sharply; and after a moment or two of consideration he turned his horse’s head in the direction of the police office. There he found Major Brett, who came out to greet him.

“Hullo, Manning! What can I do for you this morning?” asked the major, removing his cheroot from his lips.

“Find Will for me,” was the reply. It was direct and to the point.

“I shall be very glad to help you if I can,” said Brett, with a heartier ring than was usual in his voice when he spoke to Felix.

He was pleased that Manning had at last adopted what he considered was the right course. The Doctor had been slow, suspiciously slow, about taking the step; but his having done so at last met with the full approval of the police officer.

“Come into the office. We can speak there without being overheard. Now for your tale. Let me hear it from the very beginning, without reservation.”

Major Brett settled himself in his office chair, and puffed at the strong Indian cigar, as Felix recounted his story. He gave a detailed account of the midnight visit when the clothes were taken, but he omitted all mention of the dancing-girl and the devil-dance. He expressed his uneasiness, and explained that he had done all in his power by enquiring to find his lost brother.

“Are you quite sure that you were not dreaming?” asked Brett.

“Quite.”

“Those waking dreams are very deceptive. Now if you had been a woman, you would have called the vision a case of ghost-seeing.”

“It was no ghost and no vision, I assure you,” replied Felix. “The evidence of the truth of my story lies in the disappearance of the clothes. They were missing from the wardrobe the next morning.”

“And you found the discarded dress suit instead?” asked the major, watching Felix closely.

“No, that is the odd part about it. No clothes were left in exchange for these.”

“H’m!” murmured the major, blowing a cloud of smoke between himself and his companion.

After a pause he continued in his usual style with a string of questions.

“Have you any reason to suggest for his absence?”

“Yes; I have.”

“What is it?”

Felix paused. He shrank from introducing Beryl’s name; but it was imperative that he should do so.

“My communication must be considered confidential as it concerns a lady.”

“Oh, of course!” exclaimed the police officer impatiently. “A woman is always at the bottom of everything; but you may depend on my discretion. It has something to do with Miss Holdsworth, I suppose?”

“He proposed to her that evening after the Leighs’ party, and she refused him.”

Felix did not find his task easy; the major’s manner grated on his finer susceptibilities, but he had come to the conclusion that it would save Beryl a good deal if he explained matters first.

“Did she tell you this, or did he?”

“She told me herself, in confidence, giving it as a reason for his conduct. But it is not a sufficient reason for such a prolonged absence.”

“And you and she suspect suicide?”

Felix was startled; such a notion had never crossed his brain, and Major Brett broached it in his bluntest manner.

“No, I cannot say that I have thought of that,” he replied.

“It is not an impossible contingency with a spoilt lad like William Manning. Mind, I don’t say that he has committed suicide; I only suggest it as one of the possible solutions. He may, on the other hand, have gone off in the sulks to Madras or Bangalore, to drown his troubles in a carouse—not at all an uncommon thing with boys when they are crossed in their calf-love.”

Major Brett did not spare the young man. Felix winced at his bald suspicions, and half regretted that he had spoken. He replied quietly,—

“The objection to that theory is that he has taken no clothes, nor servant, nor money.”

“No money! How do you know?”

“I wrote to his bankers to ask if he had drawn any within the last fortnight, and they say that the last cheque was dated three days before he disappeared. He left all his loose cash on his dressing-table that evening, for I found it there with his watch. He was in dress-clothes at the Leighs’, and he never carries money nor his watch when he wears his dress-clothes.”

The major pulled his moustache thoughtfully.

“A fellow can’t get on in India without the all-powerful rupee certainly. You think that he has no other source on which he could draw?”

“None.”

“Therefore I am inclined to believe that he has made away with himself,” said the major.

“He is not in the least likely to have done so. He would have neither the courage nor the inclination, I am sure.”

“Then you think he is merely hiding for the purpose of giving Miss Holdsworth a fright?

“That is exactly what I want you to find out,” said Felix.

“I must see Miss Holdsworth, and ask her how he took his refusal.”

Major Brett was delighted at the task of unravelling the mystery. It was something out of the common, as it concerned one of the European gentlemen of the station. There was also the romance of a love-story in it, with a pretty girl as heroine. The major was not given to sentiment, but the most prosaic of human beings could not fail to be interested in the fate of a rejected lover. He set about making inquiries at once. The case did not assume an official aspect, for there was no dead body to deal with, no criminal to unearth, no forger nor thief to hunt down. It was a simple case of inquiry after a person who had mysteriously disappeared, and the most tragic conclusion would be the discovery of the youth with a bullet through his heart by his own hand.

He lost no time in going to see Miss Holdsworth. She was expecting him, and was prepared to tell him just so much of her tale as was necessary.

“You have come to inquire about Mr. Manning?” she said interrogatively, when he was seated. “I am so glad you are going to investigate his strange conduct. I am afraid he is a very foolish boy.”

Major Brett was not sorry to have the ice thus broken. It was one thing to cross-question a native, or even a European, like the Doctor; but it was quite another to ask a lady delicate questions about a rejected lover.

“Yes; I fear that he is, as you say, a very foolish boy. His brother has told me of what passed between you and him that evening at Mrs. Leigh’s. I suppose he spoke to you in the evening, and then rushed away impetuously in his mortification, vowing he would shoot himself?”

“It was during our walk from Mrs. Leigh’s house that he asked me to be his wife,” she replied.

“And will you kindly tell me how he took it? Did he seem at all angry or excited?”

“Not in the least.”

“Do you mean to say that he showed no sign of disappointment?” asked Major Brett with surprise.

“It is a little galling to one’s pride to have to confess it, but he did not show much disappointment.”

“What did he say? Do you mind telling me the exact words?”

Beryl blushed slightly, as she replied, after a momentary hesitation,—

“He said, ‘I believe you are right, Miss Holdsworth. I am not half good enough for you; you deserve a better man.’”

“H’m!” muttered the major.

He felt his suicide theory slipping away fast. The notion that the young man was hiding to vex the girl was also vanishing.

“Do you think he looked at all like shooting himself?”

She laughed.

“No one ever looked more unlike it.”

“With all due deference to your charms, his heart was not in his offer,” suggested Major Brett, smiling.

“I am afraid it was not. But at the same time his pride may have been hurt; and he may be absenting himself for awhile in consequence.”

“He left you at about nine, I understand. Did he say where he was going afterwards? He might have dropped some hint of his intentions.”

“There was a devil-dance in the tope that night, and Mr. Manning expressed a wish to see it. We think it possible he may have gone there.”

“We?” exclaimed the major, sharply catching at the word. “Did the Doctor know of his intention?”

“Yes,” replied Beryl with a little confusion, to cover which she repeated her sentence, “There was a tomasha in the banyan tope near the temple. Mr. Manning heard a good deal of it somehow. I don’t know who told him, and he avowed his intention of going.”

Major Brett evinced fresh interest.

“The people would never tolerate the presence of a European. It was a mad idea.”

“But one that he intended to carry out. He said he thought he could hide in the tope somewhere.”

“A risky thing to do. The people will not stand any espionage with their religious functions. Government protects them, and even I have to be extremely careful not to offend their sensibilities in doing my work. William ought to have known better than to attempt such a thing. Do you think that he carried out his intentions?”

“I do; I feel sure of it. Is it possible that he can have been discovered, and have met with some violence at their hands? We know, however, that he was alive two nights afterwards, for Dr. Manning saw him. Otherwise I should say he was detained somewhere against his will,” she said.

“A very unlikely thing indeed. It is much more probable that he is lying ill of fever in some dawk bungalow, and is too sick to help himself.”

Major Brett asked a few more questions and then departed, eager to begin the search. The suggestion that William Manning might have gone to see the devil-dance opened out a new field of inquiry.

“Now, I wonder why Manning did not tell me that his brother meant to go; why should he have left it to the girl to tell? I don’t like any reserve or half-confidences. It generally means that there is something to hide. The tale of reappearance is queer. It sounds to me like a red-herring drawn across the trail. What is Manning trying to hide? and who draws the red-herring?”

The major found it extremely difficult to come to any conclusion as he sat and pondered the matter in the quietude of his own bungalow.

Chapter VI

The Search in the Temple

“Land of the Sun! what foot invades
Thy pagods and thy pillar’d shades—
Thy cavern shrines, and idol stones,
Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones!
— “Lalla Rookh”

It was impossible to keep the enquiry a secret. William Manning had been so long associated with the residents in the station, that it was not likely he could suddenly disappear without some comment on their part. Such men as O’Brien, and the young fellows in the revenue office, missed him at the club, where he was always ready for a smoke, always liberal with iced drinks, always full of light chatter. Those who had been working hard all day in the heat and dust needed relaxation. To come in contact with his fresh young mind unwearied with labour was refreshing in itself, even though the conversation was frivolous. The two subalterns with the detachment of the native troops also missed him; for he was the only man in the place who could find time to play billiards in the morning after breakfast. Miss Frost felt his absence in the conspicuous absence of flowers on her table, as also did several of the married ladies.

General satisfaction was expressed, when it was known that Major Brett had undertaken to make enquiry, and some little curiosity was evinced as to the result. A scandal was not anticipated, for Will’s conduct had hitherto been blameless in that way. A tragedy was not dreamt of, for who could wish to harm one who was so harmless? The utmost expected by the good-natured community of Chengalem was an amusing bit of folly; and none would have been surprised to see him return with a pet tiger, or steeple-chasing elephant.

To give that rough diamond, the major, his due, it must be stated that he kept the proposal and the rejection a secret. But though it was not told abroad, it was shrewdly conjectured that Miss Holdsworth had had something to do with the young man’s disappearance.

“I think Beryl could tell us something it she chose,” said Miss Frost, as she drove with her sister-in-law along the level roads in search of fresh air. “She has either sent him for the diamond ring, or she has sent him about his business; in which case, I am afraid, it is a story of a broken heart.”

“On his side not on hers,” rejoined the other lady.

“I used to fancy that she liked him; but latterly, at times, she showed downright impatience with his boyish ways. I have seen her looking quite severe when he has been keeping us all in fits of laughter with his nonsense.”

“He is a queer mixture of man and boy; and it is unfortunate for him, that, in the first place, he has never been to England, and in the second, that he has no profession. In some things he is so thoughtful, so full of tact, so extremely kind and generous; in others his folly is positively aggravating. It is odd that the brothers are so different.”

“They are not to be mentioned in the same breath!” exclaimed Miss Frost enthusiastically.

She was a great admirer of Felix as a man and a doctor, and she did not hesitate to express her admiration. She made no attempt to capture him; she was not the sort of girl to run after a man, being much too sensible and wide-awake. But she was out-spoken, and delighted in giving expression to her likes and dislikes. Some people were just a little afraid of her in consequence; but they need not have been, for she was never unjust or ill-natured. It was only those who were not quite charitable in their remarks who had cause to be afraid of her. To them she spoke out more plainly than they liked; and many a small scandal was nipped in the bud by her prompt “Please don’t tell me what you think; tell me what you know for a fact.” And the admission that nothing was positively known killed many a report in its infancy.

She continued to descant on the Doctor’s many virtues.

“He has a strong vigorous character, as strong as his brother’s is weak. There is absolutely nothing weak about Doctor Manning, except his womanly tenderness for the sick; but that can hardly be called a weakness—it is one of his many virtues.”

“It has always surprised me,” said her sister, “that Miss Holdsworth should be attracted by the younger brother instead of the elder.”

“The reason is obvious. The elder brother has never shown by sign or word that he was attracted to her. I am not so sure that it is the case now; for since William Manning has vanished off the scenes, Beryl and the Doctor have come together a great deal more. I believe that Will was the barrier. The elder would never dream of letting his own interests come in the way of the younger; he would do anything rather than cut his brother out.”

“They certainly had a good deal to say to each other at the club yesterday, but they looked very unlike lovers. His face had such a careworn expression on it.”

“I know he is troubled about his brother’s disappearance. There is also so much sickness about. He takes his cases to heart if they go badly. Then there is the worry about the sanitation of the town; it is in such a deplorable condition.”

The conversation turned on the doings of the engineers with regard to the town, and its supply of drinking water. The drought had affected the tanks; and the result was a kind of blood-poisoning, which took the form of a troublesome enteric fever. Fortunately the fever did not extend to the cantonment, where the drinking water was drawn from wells in the private compounds; but there was always a fear lest the disease should develop a new phase, and turn to an epidemic of cholera or smallpox; in which case it would in all probability touch the Europeans.

Miss Frost was quite right when she said that Beryl and Felix had been more together since Will had gone. The Doctor sought her out that he might talk. She was the only one to whom he could speak without reserve, except in the matter of the dasi, and it seemed to lift some of the care from his shoulders when he shared his anxiety with her.

Beryl listened with ever-ready sympathy, and tried to laugh away his gloomy forebodings; although, at the bottom of her heart, she feared that evil had befallen Will.

Felix asked her about the interview with Major Brett.

“Did he question you very closely?” he said, looking at her a little anxiously.

“Rather closely, considering the subject,” she replied with a smile. “But I had nothing to complain of really; he was very gentle and considerate, for him.”

“I am sorry that you are drawn into the matter at all,” he said, his eyes cast moodily on the ground.

“Do not say that, Dr. Manning,” exclaimed Beryl, with a sudden impulse. “I am so glad to think that I can be of any help, any”—she hesitated and then went on boldly—”any comfort to you. And after all, it was no disgrace to have to confess to Major Brett that I had received a proposal and refused it.”

“None at all,” he hastened to say.

She was silent for awhile. Then she asked,—

“Did Major Brett tell you whether he had any suspicions?”

“He believes that the poojaries know something about it. Will may have fallen into their hands, and have been drugged, so as to keep him out of the way for a time. You never can tell with these people what their superstitions may lead them to do. If they discovered that he was present at their feast, they may hold that all their sacrifices will prove ineffectual, unless he is hidden from sight for a certain period.”

“You do not think that he can have come to any harm?” whispered Beryl.

It was a suspicion which had flashed through her mind frequently of late.

“Major Brett assures me that they would not dare to do him real violence. The furthest lengths to which they would venture would be to drug him, and secrete him in some out-building of the temple. Brett wants to examine the temple thoroughly. He is afraid the poojaries will not like it; but he knows how to set about these things as well as anybody, and will respect their fads.”

“Is it likely that they have taken Will inside the temple?”

“I think not; they are much too particular about the caste. It would desecrate the building in their opinion to let him enter dead or alive. But it is only the centre room or half which is held so sacred. More than half the temple is open.”

“Major Brett seems to have plenty of tact, if he chooses to exercise it,” observed Beryl.

“Yes; but he has a queer temper. He came down upon me quite sharply, because I had said nothing to him about the devil-dance and Will’s determination to go. He seemed to think that I ought to have told him, and not left it to you to give him the information.”

“And he reproached you?”

“Not exactly; he did what I resented more, he implied that I was only half-hearted in my wish to find Will. God knows I am anxious enough about my brother!”

He passed his hand over his brow with a weary gesture. She saw it, and a look of pain crossed her face.

“I am sorry,” she murmured softly. “I wish I could help you.”

He raised his head and bent his dark eyes upon her.

“You do help me. Your sympathy, your kindness help me,” he replied, with some emotion. “You are a true sister, and I am grateful for your friendship; it is dear to me beyond everything.”

It was time to be moving homewards. There was a bright moon, which tempted the ladies to dispense with their carriages.

The Doctor lingered by Beryl’s side; and as the little party left the club compound, they fell behind, once more absorbed in earnest conversation. So occupied were they that they did not observe a figure standing by the roadside. This person gazed intently into the faces of the passing couple, and for a few seconds stood motionless in the shadow of a tree. Then darting swiftly out into the full moonlight, the girl came up with the Doctor and touched him on the arm.

“Minachee!” he exclaimed. “What is the matter?”

He spoke in Tamil.

“The woman is dead; she died at sunset, and now her husband is ill. I came to tell you, and I have been waiting there.”

She pointed out in the direction of his bungalow.

“You need not have waited; a message would have been sufficient. Go back to the town, and say that I will come to see the man at once.”

Whilst he talked Beryl paused in her walk by his side. She did not understand what was being said; and unconsciously she let her eyes rest on the Doctor’s face with an earnest gaze, not uncommon in one who listens to a foreign tongue without knowing its meaning.

Minachee, whilst seeming to be engrossed with the Doctor’s directions, glanced furtively at his companion. With quick womanly intuition she observed that Beryl had no eyes nor ears for any one but the man by her side. The blood mounted hotly to her brow, and the passionate heart began to beat, as thoughts, quickened by a burning Oriental imagination, raged tumultuously through her brain. Something new and unlooked for burst across her vision as she watched the English girl. From Beryl’s face her eyes turned to the Doctor’s. She read nothing there to corroborate her fears. The only emotion expressed was concern at the death of one patient, and the sudden sickening of another. When Felix had finished speaking, he continued his walk with Beryl.

“Who was that? I heard you call her Minachee. It is a pretty name,” she said.

“She belongs to the temple, but just now she is helping to nurse the sick. I believe the poojaries send her out to do it, as it retains their hold on the people. She helps me much by her skilful nursing; she seems to have a natural turn for it.”

“She is pretty.”

“Decidedly pretty,” he replied; but he spoke with a little constraint, for he remembered how fatal her beauty had been to his brother.

Beryl noticed the difference in his tone, and wondered. She had not understood a word of what was said, a fact which Felix quite overlooked. It was on her tongue to ask what the girl wanted of him, but her refined instinct made her shrink from putting a question which savoured of curiosity.

“I wonder what she was doing on this road. It is away from the town and the temple.”

For the life of her she could not help saying so much, but as she spoke she could have bitten her tongue for her folly. What did it matter to her who spoke to Dr. Manning?

“She has been waiting to see me at my bungalow, and hearing that I was at the club, she came to meet me.”

Even now he did not explain that Minachee only came to report the death of a patient she had been nursing, and the seizure of another.

The conversation was not resumed. The Doctor walked as far as the Holdsworths’ gate, but he was preoccupied and absent-minded. He was anxious to see his patient as soon as possible, and so took a hasty farewell.

Beryl glanced back at his rapidly retreating figure with curiosity. It was evident that he was in a hurry. Did he want to see the girl again? She went up the long carriage drive, plunged in deep thought. She was surprised that the matter should take such a hold upon her. In vain she tried to shake it off. The girl’s face, as she had caught sight of it in the white moonlight, came before her with astonishing vividness. It was beautiful.

Felix quickened his steps as soon as he left Beryl. He had just time to see his new patient before dinner; it was an important matter to check the disease at once with prompt treatment, and, if possible, get the man into the hospital. He was anxious to avoid a panic amongst the people. The Hindus so soon lose all hope; they are fatalists, much too ready to sit down and accept their fate, instead of making valiant efforts to overcome if. Another death in the same house would have a depressing effect upon all those living in its neighbourhood.

He had not gone more than a hundred yards when he came upon Minachee, who was waiting for him. She immediately joined him without asking his pleasure, dropping, according to the habit of her class, a pace or two behind him. Her small, bare feet fell noiselessly upon the road, except for the clink of her golden anklets. Her arms swayed ever so slightly with the undulating motion of her body. Her supple figure was as guiltless of whalebone as her feet were of high heels, and she took long graceful steps full of dignity, which gave her the appearance of floating rather than walking. Her gait was not peculiar to herself. Most Hindu women know how to walk, even down to the low-caste grass-cutter, who sails along at sunset towards the cantonment, with forty pounds of grass poised upon her head, and a plump two-year-old baby across her hip.

“Who was the lady with you to-night, Dr. Sahib?” asked Minachee, when they had gone a little distance.

“Eh! what?”

Felix had taken no notice of his self-invited companion, and her question broke in suddenly upon his thoughts.

“Who was the lady by your side?”

“The daughter of the Government engineer,” he replied shortly.

“She is a beautiful girl. Is she to be your wife?” she asked.

“Never mind the English lady, Minachee; she does not concern you, and you have no need to mention her name.”

He did not see the little flash in her eye, nor the toss of her head.

“These are days of free speech, Dr. Sahib; so our native newspapers tell us,” she replied.

“They are also days of foolish speech,” he answered a little sharply.

She did not take the hint, but continued,—

“Perhaps that beautiful English lady is your ‘sweetheart’; is not that how you call it?—your ‘sweetheart.’”

She spoke the words with the delight of a child, who has learnt something new, but who does not fully understand the meaning.

Felix faced round upon her.

“Who taught you those words?” he asked.

“An Englishman,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with dangerous mischief and her white teeth showing in the moonlight. It was a defiant little face, lifted to his at that moment. It seemed as though it would be no easy matter to silence that saucy tongue, tipped as it was with the fire of jealousy.

“But that lady can never be your wife, Dr. Sahib,” she continued, with an impertinence which other men might have found bewitching. “They say in the bazaar that the engineer’s daughter will be given to your brother.”

“If you speak of such things to me, dasi, I will send you from my sight; you shall not come near my patients.”

“Then I shall go and search for him who called me ‘leetle love!’”

He stood still and pointed down the road.

“Go!” he said sternly.

All the defiance faded out of her face, and fear took possession of her heart. His silence and stillness alarmed her far more than a torrent of angry words. She was accustomed to outbursts of uncontrolled wrath amongst her own people, outbursts that were soon over, and that were followed by tropical sunshine. Silent displeasure mixed with contempt was much more terrible. What would become of her if he were really offended, and if he banished her from his presence? The light of her life would be turned to darkness. Humbly and penitently, with head bowed, she obeyed him, moving on in front. So they walked to their destination, she not daring to look round at him who followed her, and he wrapt in thought.

The girl’s words had startled him. They could have been learnt but from one person, and that person was Will—foolish, perverse Will!

Major Brett prosecuted his inquiry diligently. He communicated by telegraph with the police of the different centres, and he sent to every European camp within a radius of fifty miles. He wrote to the shipping agents at all the ports, and described the man he was in search of, asking them to wire to him at once if such an one presented himself at their offices, or on board their ships.

But though the Major extended his inquiry thus far, he had little hope of hearing news of Will through any of these channels. He was convinced in his own mind that the lad would be found within ten miles of Chengalem.

The place he was most anxious to examine was the temple. He had a native inspector who was a caste man, and he hoped to be able to accomplish his object through him. The man was very intelligent, and had already distinguished himself under his superior’s guidance in more cases than one. He also spoke English well, and frequently acted as interpreter to the major. The inspector said that there would be no difficulty about the visit to the temple. The authorities would make no objection, and they would receive him courteously any morning or evening he chose to go. Accordingly he did not delay any longer, but rode up one morning without sending any previous warning.

The old poojari was there; and he came out immediately he heard the sound of the horse’s footfall. He was not nearly so infirm as when Felix went, and his deafness had totally disappeared. He looked a very different creature from the officiating poojari of the devil-dance, when, naked to the waist and covered with caste-marks and sacred ashes, he swung his sacrificial sword over the trembling goats. To-day he was clothed in folds of fine white muslin, spotlessly clean and devoid of all ornament. A large white turban gave dignity to his head, and added to the nobility of his finely-cut features. His skin was dark; and his eyes, which were deep-set beneath level bushy brows, were small, black, and piercing. He greeted the Major politely, asking what business it might be which brought him the honour of a visit from the Police Sahib.

Major Brett explained simply that William Manning had run away—he did not say that he was missing — and that his elder brother, the Doctor, was anxious to find him. The native mind can appreciate better than the English the power of the head of the family over the younger members. It was a most natural desire on the part of the Doctor in their eyes to find his brother, and only his duty to institute a rigorous search.

The poojari and his companions listened deferentially, and immediately asked how they could help. The Englishman was not hidden there, they assured the sahib. Would he like to look for himself? They would be most happy to show him everything in their power. Of course it was not permissible for him to put his foot within the mulasthanum. It would cost too much to restore the caste, and it would damage the reputation of the temple. They were very poor; the offerings of the temple were meagre; the sahib must remember their poverty.

They began by walking round the compound and examining the out-houses. The doors were flung wide open, and he was invited to enter several of the rooms. They were mostly the dwellings of those who belonged to the temple. Here was a row of the dasis’ rooms, clean and well swept, with smooth mud floor. The furniture consisted of fine grass mats, and cooking pots of brass and copper, burnished almost to a golden colour with scouring lime and sand. The women were not afraid of being seen, but stood or sat about, undisturbed by Major Brett’s presence. As he glanced round, they followed the direction of his gaze, and moved box or bundle to show him that nothing was hidden there. Now he came to smaller places used for storing all kinds of lumber; the faded remains of tinsel decorations used in bygone feasts; old packing-cases filled with rubbish; stacks of earthen dishes of different sizes used as cressets for illuminating the temple on rare occasions. All were pulled over and removed with prompt readiness, raising clouds of dust and disturbing bats and rats from their morning sleep. Major Brett took little heed of dust. He stepped inside at the poojari’s invitation, poking and peering for himself, prodding the floor with his stick, and casting a keen glance at the beams which supported the roof. It is possible to lash a dead body to a roof timber in that dry climate, and leave it there to bake and mummify in the heat engendered under the sun-dried tiles of the roof without much fear of detection.

From the lumber-rooms they passed on to the godowns of the men; and from thence to the chuttrums—open halls where the pilgrims encamped at festivals—and to the mundapums, canopied shelters, where the swami on his feast day rested in a blaze of gold and silver, whilst his awe-struck votaries did him pooja.

When godown, outhouse, and chuttrum had been thoroughly inspected, they led Major Brett towards the temple itself.

“The sahib may enter the outer halls,” the old poojari said, leading the way. “It is also permissible to look through the door of the mulasthanum, though the threshold must not be crossed.”

They took him through pillared halls, where the carved columns stood as thick as forest trees, and where the roof was built of hewn stone beams. In recesses he saw dark greasy idols representing the elephant god, or simply stone cylinders set in circular blocks of granite. There was very little light anywhere, but what there was, was sufficient to show him that the place held no drugged invalid, no dead man.

At the door of the sacred hall, where the swami slept, and where the dasi sang hymns of love and praise, the Inspector said in English,—

“I think they will allow me to walk through. I am a caste man, and perhaps an offering afterwards would make things easy.”

“Certainly,” replied Major Brett at once. “Promise them a donation by all means and go through. Be sure you look for signs of the dead as well as the living.”

The Inspector spoke to the poojari in his own tongue, and the old man acquiesced readily. It seemed as though he was as anxious to clear the temple from all suspicion in the matter as Major Brett was to find his man. They disappeared into the dark, ill-ventilated room. Through the open door the Major could see the lamps burning dimly before a recess which was canopied and buried in black shadow. The lights were only cotton wicks, floating in oil, that was held in quaint brass bowls, small and shallow. These primitive lamps smoked and flickered, making the murky atmosphere thicker still. There was a sickening smell of rancid oil from the daily anointed image hidden in the recess, and this smell was blended with an odour of bats, which hung like foul shreds of dusky linen in the roof.

“No man in his senses would hide willingly in such a hole as that,” thought Major Brett.

The Inspector returned in about fifteen minutes. He averred that he had been through every hall, and had made a thorough and complete search. He had even been to the top of the goparum or tower.

“There is no trace, sahib,” he said. “They hide nothing from us. He cannot be here, living or dead, or they would fear to show us everything as they have done.”

Major Brett placed a donation in the hands of the old poojari, who made a dignified obeisance. It was curious to see how this product of long ages of semi-civilization and semi-savagery could hide his savage nature under the garb of civilization. His manner was almost courtly, his bearing well-nigh noble, as he bade farewell to the English officer.

The Major was on the point of departing when his steps were arrested by a woman who came out of the temple. It was none other than Deva, the dasi. She spoke to the inspector.

“What does she say?” asked Major Brett.

“She says that we do wrong in neglecting to ask her. She has something to tell.”

“What do you know about the Englishman?”

“On the night the sahib disappeared my daughter went a journey to Palamcotta. I sent her to dance before the idol in the temple there. It is our custom sometimes. But she did not go alone.”

“How do you know?”

“The cartman told me—he that drove the bulls.”

“And who was her companion?”

“The Englishman you are seeking.”

Major Brett regarded her closely; he never forgot that a native might be lying. But Deva did not quail before his scrutiny. She returned his gaze with the firmness of integrity.

“Tell me about it.”

“She started by herself, but when the cart got beyond the tope she ordered the man to stop; and in a few minutes the Sahib came up, and he got into the cart with her.”

He was astonished and not a little taken back. To begin with, he did not know who the dasi’s daughter was, nor did he suspect William Manning of an intrigue with a native woman.

“Who is her daughter?” he asked of the Inspector.

“She is Minachee, the dancing-girl, who has lately left the Zemindar’s protection and come to live in the temple.”

“Would the Sahib like to question the cartman? he is here,” said Deva.

The man was sent for. He had his tale complete and quite clear.

“Yes, it was true what the dasi said. The Sahib had come running from the tope, and as soon as he jumped in he bade me beat the bulls and hurry.”

“What was he like?”

The man described Will exactly, dress-clothes and little cloth cap complete, just as he had left Mrs. Leigh’s house.

When he had finished the description, he untied a small knot, which he had made in the corner of his cloth, and displayed a gold stud.

“He dropped this in the cart. I found it as I shook out the mats the next day.”

“The next day?”

The Major and the Inspector exchanged a glance as they bent over the stud to examine it.

“The Sahib was well known to the dasi’s daughter. They met often in the tope,” said the poojari, who had listened silently to all that had passed. “She was living then with the Zemindar, and it was no concern of ours. Now she is back with us she can no longer meet him. She tends the sick, and brings their offerings to the swami.”

Major Brett said very little; this sudden revelation opened out a new field of search. Yet he was not prepared to receive all their statements without the proverbial grain of salt. The cartman had made a slip already when he had said that he had shaken out the mats at the journey’s end the next day. If they went to Palamcotta, as Deva had said, they could not have reached it in the time, and then it could not have been with the same pair of bullocks and the same cartman. In making a journey of this kind fresh cattle are taken every ten or fifteen miles, and with each pair of bullocks there is a different driver. The animals are changed without disturbing the traveller, who is most probably asleep.

Chapter VII

Minachee’s Night Journey

Cymbeline. Oh, most delicate fiend!
Who is’t can read a woman? Is there more?
Cornelius. More, sir, and worse.”

The dispensary was not far from the temple, and thither the Major rode, after dismissing the Inspector. Felix might still be there, and he must see him at once. He found the Doctor just preparing to leave.

“Well, Brett, how are you getting on?” asked Felix.

“Fairly, on the whole. I searched the temple this morning thoroughly, and am satisfied that, living or dead, he is not there. I prodded the floors and stuck my heels into the earth; all as hard as nails; the ground has not been touched for years.”

“Would they allow you to go into the temple?”

“Willingly, and they took my Inspector, who is a caste man, over the mulasthanum.”

“And he saw nothing to excite suspicion?”

“Nothing whatever. He is satisfied that, dead or alive, William is not there.”

“I did not much think he was,” said the Doctor.

Major Brett eyed him curiously, wondering if he knew anything of his brother’s acquaintance with Minachee.

“Although I did not find him, I heard something.”

The Doctor looked up with sudden apprehension, which did not escape his companion’s notice.

“What did you hear?”

“Do you know a girl called Minachee?”

“Yes.”

“Oh! you do! And do you know that your brother was acquainted with her?”

“Yes.”

“Confound it all, Manning! Why did you not tell me this?” exclaimed the Major with considerable irritation. “Here have I been groping along in the dark, when a word from you might have put me on the right track. It alters the case altogether now we have found another woman in it.”

Felix was undoubtedly feeling awkward to say the least of it, and this the Major could see. There were grounds for annoyance on the police officer’s part, in the discovery that all had not been related, especially as he had asked to be told everything without reservation; yet when Felix came to think of it, there was so little to tell that he knew for certain.

“Beyond the mere fact that he was acquainted with the girl, I knew nothing, absolutely nothing,” said Felix.

“But the mere fact of his acquaintance is everything. It makes the story quite clear, and it should run thus:—William went to the tope for the ostensible reason of seeing the devil-dance, but in reality to elope with this girl. His good genius prompted him to think a moment before taking such a foolish, not to say risky, step; for it must not be forgotten that the girl is a dasi. The consequence was that he proposed on the spur of the moment to Miss Holdsworth, and if she had accepted him all would have gone well. He would have returned to his bungalow to smoke and dream of his love, and you would have found him there on your return from seeing your patient. But she refused him, and that upset the apple-cart altogether. He went straight off to this girl, who no doubt has done her best to decoy him away, since Master Will, it appears, has a long purse and a free hand. This happened whilst she was living in the Zemindar’s house; now she is under the protection of the temple, and I am no longer so sure that the poor chap is safe. These poojaries have dark ways of their own, by which they remove people who are troublesome. If he were foolish enough to go to some out-of-the-way place several miles from here, they might poison him ten times over without our being able to discover it.”

Felix listened without interrupting the speaker.

Though the tale was plausible, it was not convincing. And if it had been told him only twenty-four hours previously, he would not have given it credit at all; but after his walk with Minachee, when she summoned him to his patient, he dared not disregard it altogether.

“It sounds possible,” he said dubiously.

“Probable, you mean!” cried Major Brett; and pulling the shirt stud out of his pocket, he thrust it before the Doctor’s eyes. “There! will that make my story seem probable as well as possible?”

“My brother’s!” exclaimed Felix.

“Exactly so”; and he told him where it was found. “Now, where can I see this girl?” he asked.

“She is in your police lines at this very moment. The wife of one of your men is ill, and Minachee is nursing her. The man she was attending yesterday I sent to hospital last night.”

“Can I speak to her?”

“Oh, yes! I am going to the hospital now, as I have finished here. We may as well ride down together.”

As they rode along Major Brett said,—

“By the way, Manning, have you looked amongst your brother’s papers for any clue? He may have left some few lines which will give us a little information. In a business like this, nothing is too small to be of importance; and you often find your best clue where you least expect it.”

“I looked through all the papers that were lying about, but I did not open his drawers. They are locked, and he has the keys.”

“Would you mind my looking?”

“Not in the least; come when you like and have a thorough search. I may be out, but that need not stop you. The servant will show you where his things are. Hunt all through the house if you like, anywhere that strikes your fancy! “

“Can this girl talk English?”

“No.”

“Then will you mind coming with me as an interpreter?”

Felix expressed his readiness to do so.

“And look here, Manning, do tell me what she says, as nearly as you can, word for word, without reserve.”

“I will with pleasure,” replied Felix.

The Major looked at him with a puzzled expression.

“I cannot understand how a sharp chap like you can have omitted to let me know of this intrigue with the dancing-girl,” he said, watching him closely.

“It is quite natural that I should not care to blacken my brother’s character any more than was necessary. It is bad enough to have to admit his folly. This intrigue with the dasi is nothing to his credit.”

“Oh, nonsense! man; don’t look so serious over a boy’s folly. You know perfectly well what young men are; and this need go no further than ourselves. At the same time, I must tell you that in all probability it is known in the bazaar. These things ooze out through the servants, and very likely the girl has boasted of her conquests. Can you tell me anything of her antecedents?”

Felix related in a few words the history of the girl.

“And so she has just been emancipated from the Zemindar’s zenana? You do not know if she resented her dismissal?”

“On the contrary, the girl seems delighted to have her liberty, and she is never so happy as when she is amongst the townspeople. They are always ready to welcome one of the temple people. They say it brings good luck.”

They arrived at the lines, and Major Brett went to his office, which he called his orderly room, to wait for Felix and Minachee. As he sat there he pondered over the case, looking at it from all its points of view. His thoughts dwelt longest on Felix.

“I cannot help feeling,” he said to himself once again, “that the man has something to hide; and that it is not only on his brother’s account that he is so close, so reserved, but quite as much on his own. Yes, I am certain there is something which he does not wish me to find out. I wonder if he has been playing the fool too? I have never heard a breath against him; but he speaks the language, and is much too well up in the ways of the country to be trusted. I will keep my eye on him. I wonder how he will benefit in the event of William being dead? He is his only relative, and would come into all the property; a very good property it is too, I am told. And Manning has nothing but his profession. But then he does very well by that, and is not in need of money—at least, as far as one can see,” he added, letting his prejudices again prompt suspicion.

Felix found Minachee by the sick woman’s side. She greeted him with a little apprehensive smile half fearing that his displeasure of the night before still lingered. But he had forgotten it, and was only anxious to get her to speak the truth. When she heard that the Police Sahib wanted her, she was honestly alarmed, and her mind flew at once to the night of her journey. At first she refused to go with the Doctor, but a decisive word from him brought obedience, and she followed him to the orderly room.

The Major went straight to the point with a bluntness and loudness of voice which frightened her still more; Felix began to despair of getting a word from her.

It must be remembered that the moral vision of a Hindu is entirely different from that of a European. There can only be one sin in an Oriental’s eyes concerning lying, and that is the sin of being found out.

Minachee was not an evil-minded girl; she was only a semi-civilized child of nature, following her own instincts, and acting in accordance with her rearing. What more could be expected of the daughter of such a woman as Deva, and the devotee of such a god as the tree-devil? It was not her fault, if she failed to come up to the European standard of morality. It was the fault of her birth, of her surroundings and of her training.

Felix did as the Major asked and translated literally. Yes, she went a journey that night; she remembered it well. Her mother sent her to Palamcotta.

“Tell her it is not true,” broke in the Major. “She never went to Palamcotta. She travelled with only one pair of bulls, and they could not possibly have gone so far in the time. She must speak the truth.”

Minachee looked terrified and bewildered. It was not so easy to concoct fibs without knowing how much the Major already knew.

“Has he been to the temple?” she asked of Felix.

“Yes, and he has seen your mother. Do not be frightened, but tell us everything, Minachee; then all will be well. The truth cannot long be hidden.”

His earnest, gentle tone had an effect upon her.

“I will speak true, sahib, I will indeed. I will do it for your sake, not for his,” with a contemptuous little toss of her head. She was regaining her courage under the influence of his gentleness.

“What does she say?” asked the Major suspiciously.

He had no eye for women as a rule, but this one attracted his attention at once. He admitted to himself that she was an exceptionally beautiful girl, and might have turned a wiser head than Will’s.

“She is merely promising that she will speak the truth,” Felix replied.

“Then she means to lie all the harder,” growled the other.

“I will tell the story from beginning to end. On the evening of that day my mother bade me go on a mission for her to the temple of Rajapet. It is a very small temple about ten miles away from here, and is kept by my mother’s uncle. I did not take the temple bulls, but hired the chetty’s cart and driver. His bulls trot swiftly and are strong, and I wanted to return the next night. I left the village at ten o’clock, when all was quiet, because my mission was secret,” she faltered.

“What is it?” asked Major Brett.

Felix repeated the story.

“You started at ten o’clock, when the village was quiet. Were you alone?”

“Yes, sahib, I was alone, quite alone, except for the old man who drove the bulls.”

As the Major listened, a smile of incredulity crossed his face.

“Not alone,” he cried; “the Englishman waited for you by the tope, and got into your cart.”

“I was alone. Before the Great All-Father of the Sahibs, I swear I tell the truth!” she cried with vehemence.

It was difficult to resist the conviction that she was in earnest; and Felix once more felt morally certain that Minachee had not decoyed Will away. They waited till she was a little calmer.

“You must finish your story, Minachee,” said Felix.

“Now tell us whether you saw any one on the road.”

“I met no one but the toll-bar keeper and his wife, seven miles out of Chengalem. She gave me some coffee, for she is a good woman, always kind to those of the temple. Ah!” she cried, with sudden inspiration, “she will tell you that I was alone. She sat in the cart with me while the bulls rested.”

“And then you continued your journey alone?”

“Yes, I reached Rajapet whilst it was still dark, and the poojari gave me curry and rice. Afterwards I went to sleep. The next night I came back, and remained hidden in the temple for awhile, because my mother said that I had gone to Palamcotta. It takes five or six days to go to Palamcotta and back.”

“And why did you go to Rajapet?”

She hesitated.

“I ought not to tell. One ought never to tell the business of the temple; it raises the wrath of the swami.”

“But you must tell the Police Sahib.”

“It was to give the poojari a message.”

“What was it?”

Major Brett pursued the subject relentlessly, and had no intention of letting her go till he had extracted everything he could get from her, true or untrue.

“To tell him to send word the next week that the swami had spoken, and had asked for pooja from the people of Chengalem. After pooja he would send rain.”

Her face was full of awe, and her voice had dropped nearly to a whisper.

The Major could not restrain the shadow of a smile which swept over his face at the climax; it was so utterly childish.

Felix, however, looked very grave. He suspected that she was once more prevaricating. She read his thoughts, and made a gesture of protestation, as though she would speak again, but he stopped her.

“Will you swear that your journey had nothing to do with my brother?”

“Nothing! nothing! It had nothing to do with him,” she reiterated.

And the Doctor believed her, though the Major did not.

“Now find the man who drove you, and let us question him,” said Felix.

“Stop!” cried the Major; “we will come with you. There must be no chance of collusion.”

They went in search of the chetty’s house, and found the cartman in the yard, cleaning the beautiful white Mysore cattle.

“This is the man who drove me,” Minachee said.

“He is not the fellow who was pointed out to me at the temple,” said Major Brett.

They questioned him closely, and he admitted without hesitation that he had driven the girl. He also declared that she was alone, and denied that any Englishman came out of the tope, or from anywhere else to join them. His story was identical with hers in every respect, except that he had, of course, no knowledge of her mission.

The Major was puzzled. If this were all true, what object had Deva in deliberately concocting a falsehood?

They returned to the orderly room.

“There is one more thing I should like to do before the girl goes. I should like to hear what she has to say when she sees this,” said Major Brett, pulling out the stud, and showing it in the open palm of his hand.

She clasped her hands together, at the sight of the stud, and gave a cry of dismay. Then falling on her knees she burst into sobbing and wailing. In vain Felix coaxed, and the Major scolded. Not a word more could they extract. Seeing that it was useless to pursue the matter, they dismissed her.

“It is very evident to me that the girl knows something, and that her mother is right,” said Brett.

“I distrust the mother, and prefer to believe in the girl. I believe that her story is true in the main, though not in all its details,” replied Felix.

“One has only to look at her to guess the story. Why, bless my soul! she would turn the head of a wiser man than your brother. I should advise the temple people to keep her to themselves. No good will come of letting her run loose in this way.”

The two men parted to perform their several daily tasks. As each rode home in the blazing sun he thought over all that he had heard, and the conclusion each drew was in no way similar.

Major Brett still inclined to the belief that Will had been decoyed away by that seductively beautiful girl, who was quite enough to turn any man’s head, and that he had met with a violent death somehow through her.

Felix, in spite of the expression she had let drop the evening before, could not renounce his faith in Minachee. He could not believe that she had knowingly drawn Will on to destruction. The journey to Rajapet, he concluded, was undertaken in the interests of the temple; or she had been sent on some private errand by her mother—most likely the latter, since Deva seemed the person most anxious to hide the fact, and give to it another colouring.

He rode out to the toll-bar that very evening, and made enquiries of the toll-bar keeper, with the result that he was told very nearly the same tale Minachee and the cartman had given. The girl had come alone, and the bar-keeper’s wife had given her coffee as she sat in the cart. The bullocks had rested about half an hour, and all that time she was with the dasi.

The couple were doubtless delighted to welcome a dasi, and very proud that she should remain so long with them, late as it was. It was the kind of visit which would bring them good luck.

Whilst Felix talked with the man, the thought suddenly struck him that he might as well gallop on to Rajapet. It would do the horse good. Since Will’s disappearance, the animals had not had half enough exercise, especially as Miss Holdsworth rode but seldom now. There was a bright moon for the journey back, and a good level road for a smart gallop.

The Rajapet temple was much smaller than that of Chengalem, and consisted only of the shrine and a wide verandah. The chuttrum and a single room for the poojari were placed in a distant corner of the compound. The roof of the building was in the form of a dome, which was profusely ornamented with images of sprawling monsters. At the four corners of the roof sat four bulls, staring everlastingly towards the four corners of the earth, indifferent alike to the golden glory of the sunrise and the lurid glare of the fires at sunset in the burning-ground, when cholera was doing its worst.

The compound was surrounded by an uninviting wall of sun-dried bricks. If the climate had been encouraging, that massive earthy wall would have been covered with beautiful creeper and fern; but the pitiless sun devoured leaf and blade alike with its fiery tongue, and reduced everything except the palmyras to a dull, lifeless brown. There were no spreading banyans to enliven the landscape; no graceful tamarinds, no fresh green ferns. Nothing but thick-stemmed toddy palms and acres of cactus, interspersed with wide stretches of cotton fields at intervals, were to be seen, with here and there a line of aloes to mark the boundary of the road. The plain was as level as the sea, which bounded it on the east, eighty miles distant; and the soil was cursed with a consuming drought for six months of the year. It suited the palmyra and its plebeian companions, the cactus and the aloe. The toddy palm flourished in that desolate wilderness, and on its produce the small population of the Rajapet village lived.

Well might the inhabitants of such a sunburnt landscape build altars to devils in their ignorance! for there was nothing beautiful nor god-like in that dreary scene. Even the palm had no more loveliness than a salamander. Its large fan-shaped leaves of blackish-green shook with a harsh, dry sound, as the hot wind swept over them; too crisp to bend or wave, like the graceful fronds of the cocoa-nut and date palms, they could only shudder and rattle on their immovable, column-like stems. The aloe and cactus, bristling with formidable thorns, gave shelter to cobras and large lizards that basked in the sand, or fought upon the rocks in horrid coilings and writhings. Centipedes, six inches long, and big black scorpions found a home under those hostile needles.

In the west a range of hills stood out sharply against the sky, a dazzling blue by day and a warm purple in the evening, a vision of Paradise to the dwellers in the plains.

Felix rode into the temple compound, and saw the old man spoken of by Minachee sitting on the temple steps in the last rays of the setting sun. He looked as sun-dried and blasted as the rest of the landscape.

The unusual sight of a handsome Englishman, riding a high mettled thoroughbred, seemed to have no effect upon him. His old age was spent in contemplation, and his life was so devoid of incident that he was dead to all emotion. Nothing remained but a dormant subtlety, which would only fade out of those small, beady eyes with death.

He did not rise, nor give Felix any greeting, and might have been deaf and dumb, or even dead, for any sign that he made. At the sound of his own language he lifted his eyes from the ground, where they had been fixed in contemplation, and gazed steadily at the speaker without evincing any curiosity.

The Doctor, still seated on his steaming horse, asked if Minachee, the dasi from Chengalem, had been to see him lately.

He made no pretence of misunderstanding, but replied in a high voice, monotonous and level, that no dasi had been to see him.

“Has any one come from Chengalem within the last few weeks?” asked Felix.

“No.”

“Has no one been in a cart?”

“No one.”

The Doctor looked round, taking stock of the compound and temple, and the old man began in a nasal, expressionless voice,—

“I am a very poor, lonely old man. I have forgotten the world and my people have forgotten me, but I am happy in the service of the swami. Not a soul comes to see me.”

“Have you had any pooja here lately?”

“Three new moons ago the villagers brought offerings; but there is much drought and great scarcity in the land, and the people cannot give, so the temple and the sunniyasi are forgotten.”

“Some rice carts have been?” said Felix.

“Not a single cart has stopped here,” was the reply in the same piping tone.

Felix walked his horse slowly round the compound, and the old man relapsed into his contemplative state. Near the entrance there were shreds of rice-straw, such as bullocks might have scattered in their evening meal; also the earth was blackened, as though a man might have lighted his fire there, and cooked his curry and rice, quite recently.

Stooping in his saddle, he fancied he could distinguish the ruts of wheels, though the fiery blast had nearly blown away the imprint.

It was enough; in spite of what the old man had said he was quite satisfied. Minachee had been there on some secret business for Deva or the poojari. It was probably of a doubtful nature, and would not bear inspection by the police; and she had come alone.

He did not linger, but turned his horse’s head homewards. A little way from the temple he dismounted, and loosened the girths of the saddle. Seating himself on a boulder he let the animal rest for half an hour.

The sun sank, a red ball of dazzling flame, behind a range of purple hills; it reddened the landscape, and touched the dark heads of the palmyras with rich copper tints. Even the colourless sand glowed with rare golden lights, and seemed for the moment sown broadcast with nuggets.

But there is no twilight in the tropics; and in that short half-hour in which Felix and his horse rested, the fairy scene melted to silver under the rays of the rising moon. The palmyras lost their glowing copper tints, and grew hard and black against the now cool, green sky. The vision of fervent heat faded swiftly to a scene of death-like whiteness. Snakes and lizards sought shelter for the night in the impenetrable shadow of the cactus and aloe. The ubiquitous jackal raised his voice and silenced the aggressive bark of the pariah dog, and proclaimed to the world in general that he was lean; and gaunt, and hungry.

Felix was not altogether unmindful of his dinner, although his thoughts had been very busy with other things. He tightened his saddle-girths and mounted. The willing animal was quite ready for the journey home. Stretching his legs over the sandy road, he marked his track in a cloud of dust; and before long his rider could distinguish the outline of the banyan tope in the distance, and the faint red spark of a fire, where a toddy-drawer and his family ate their evening meal out in the open. The last five miles of his road lay through a broad stretch of cotton fields, and the sand gave place to the dusty cotton soil. Neither horse nor rider were sorry to draw rein before the verandah of the bungalow.

Chapter VIII

The Haunted Tree

“Where every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.”
— Bishop Heber

The Major lost no time in visiting the scene of the devil-dance. Whilst Felix was riding out to Rajapet, he was picking his way amongst the fallen leaves under the banyans. He had no eye for the picturesque. The sight of the magnificent tree, a forest in itself, with its giant companions, made no impression upon him. The parent trunk of the centre banyan was gnarled and partly decayed. It was no longer the main support, as the big branches had each sent down a stem of their own, which formed a forest tree in itself. The devil-stone, as has already been described, leaned against the trunk, and a low platform was erected before it. The branches of the tree were festooned with rusty iron chains, tributes to the swami; it was supposed that he found pleasure in their jangle when they were shaken.

It was some weeks now since the dance had taken place, but traces were still to be seen of the midnight orgy. The crimson life-blood of the poor bleating goats had long since dried, and the bones which the revellers had left had fallen to the share of the scavenger jackal. But the blackened spots where the fires were made still remained; and the red paint in broad stripes was distinct upon the altar.

Major Brett examined the stone and its platform, and turned up the dead leaves that had been swept by the wind into little heaps against the masonry. A shred of calico was his only reward, the fragment of one of the cloths worn by the devil-dancers, and rent by them in their frenzy.

Then he proceeded to examine the trunk of the tree. About five feet from the ground it opened into a huge bole, which was partially decayed and hollow. Into this hollow it was not difficult to creep. There was a slit behind the trunk, as though a stream of electricity had once run down it, and by scrambling over a decaying mass of wood the bole could be reached. When once the hollow was gained, there was room for half a dozen men in it; and though they could look down upon the space before the stone, the multitude and the poojari could not see them. Major Brett comprehended the situation at once, and made his way into the tree. The slit was narrow for a man of his size, but he managed to squeeze through, and half climbing, half creeping, he reached the bole. He was not a man to be troubled with nerves, but as he groped along the rotten wood he could not help thinking of a possible—nay, probable—snake. However, fortune favoured him, and he encountered neither the possible cobra nor the very probable harmless tree-shake. The interior of the trunk was dimly lighted by an opening above, and various little apertures in the sides; and it was through these apertures that he had a full view of the space in front of the platform, where the devil-dance had taken place. It was impossible to distinguish anything inside the tree but a mass of dry, decaying wood, hanging in ragged shreds on all sides. Major Brett took a box of matches from his pocket and lighted a match. The sudden illumination startled a large tarantula, and it fled up above out of reach. Centipedes, scaly and long, crawled deliberately out of the way in serpentine tracks, and large wood-lice rolled themselves into balls the size of rifle bullets, and fell with a horny tap upon his feet. He found nothing, though he searched closely; not a fragment of cloth, not a single sign that any human being had been there before him. Nevertheless he felt morally certain that he was not the first man who had explored that uncanny hole. If William Manning really went to see the devil-dance before eloping with Minachee—and Major Brett had accepted it as a fact—there was no better place than this to obtain a view unseen by the people. Nor could any place be safer from discovery. Not a soul of that superstitious crew would dare to venture into the tree on such a night for fear of the devil.

The Major finished his minute inspection, in spite of centipedes, tarantulas, and giant wood-lice, with the deliberation of a man who enters thoroughly into his work.

He had struck his last match without setting the tree on fire, which was fortunate, as it would have burnt like tinder; and he had not been stung by any venomous insect, which was also lucky, seeing that he had ventured into their very midst.

Stepping down the half-hollow trunk, his feet sinking into dry, rotten wood at each step, he gained the entrance, and wormed himself out through the slit in the trunk. He was covered with dust and pieces of touchwood; various strange and fearful looking creatures crawled blindly about his back and arms, and he would have been a fortune to a naturalist at that moment. Flapping his handkerchief about he proceeded to clean himself as well as he could, picking off the strange creatures with unfaltering fingers, and destroying all their hopes of finding a haven of refuge down his neck or up his sleeve.

Whilst he was thus engaged he looked up, and saw the poojari standing at a little distance steadily regarding him. Major Brett supposed that he had seen him come out of the tree, and he wondered if he would take exception to his familiar treatment of the devil’s dwelling.

The man approached and said something in Tamil, which the Major chose to believe was a remonstrance.

He answered in Hindustani, assuring him that no harm would come of it. Without taking any further notice of the poojari he continued his inspection, scrutinising each noble stem, sticking his heels in the ground, poking his stick into odd corners, and turning over every heap of leaves. Near the blackened spots where the fires had been made, he came upon a few charred sticks and some red earthen potsherds. The poojari watched him from a distance, and made no more remarks.

By-and-by the Major, having finished his examination of the tope, went towards its outer edge.

The old man came up with him once more, and again began to speak volubly in his own language, pointing to a spot just beyond the trees. Lying near a large aloe there was a low flat stone, a square slab of granite like a table, a foot and a half high. The aloe was armed with formidable thorns, and seemed to stand sentinel over the stone. Major Brett went up to the granite slab, and observed that it was smeared with a dark treacly substance, which had dried and caked in the sun. He put his hand down to touch it, but the poojari stopped him with an exclamation.

Partly by pantomime, and partly by shrewd guessing, the Major understood that it was a sacrificial stone, and that the man would prefer that it should not be touched. He was always ready to regard the religious scruples of the natives when they did not interfere with his work; and so he refrained from placing a desecrating finger on the very uninviting spot. He could see that the stone had lain thus for ages, and had been used probably for sacrificial purposes from time immemorial. There could be nothing hidden under it—the pressure of his stick told him that—and there was no need to inspect it closer. The poojari was evidently uneasy on the score of a European’s presence in so sacred a spot. It was on this stone that the body of the animal was laid after being beheaded, to be first examined for signs and omens, and then to be cut up and divided between poojari and people.

By way of decoying Major Brett away from the spot, the old man drew his attention to an enclosure surrounded by a mud wall; and the police officer with a smile allowed himself to be led. The place was used for penning goats, and the narrow entrance was just wide enough to admit of one passing out at a time, so that the creatures might be caught singly, and led away to the chosen place of slaughter. When they had looked all round the enclosure, inside and out, the poojari led Major Brett round the tope, and pointed out a small tank connected with a well by a narrow drain. Now that they had moved away from the stone, the old man seemed quite at his ease, and showed himself as eager to assist as when the Major visited the temple. The tank was dry, but on feast-days it was filled with water from the well for the use of the devotees.

They followed the drain up to the end of it, although it was much too small and narrow to have hidden a body. But the Major wanted to look at the well, and satisfy himself that William Manning had not found a watery grave at its bottom.

The poojari must have divined his thoughts, for he let down the bucket, and drew up some water. It was fresh and sparkling. The man took some in the palms of his hands and smelt it; then he put it to his lips, showing very graphically that there could be nothing of a polluting nature down below; for if it were contaminated by the touch of a European’s body, neither would the water be sweet, nor would a caste man drink it.

Major Brett returned to the tope, and had one more look at the tree. He did not get into it again, nor did he approach either of the stones. As he departed the poojari made him a polite salutation, and smiled so blandly that the Englishman could not help wondering whether he was doing the old man an injustice in suspecting him of having had a hand in the lad’s disappearance.

“The old rascal!” thought the Major to himself.

“I would not trust him for a moment with his jabbering and his salaaming. I cannot help thinking that he knows something, or he would not turn up in this fashion, and watch me as he does. It is either that, or he is afraid of his precious old devil-stone being desecrated, in which case never a native would come near him again, and he would starve. I suppose it is of more consequence to him than we think, and he would be ruined if his people thought that the caste was broken.”

There was a garden party that same evening at the Colonel’s house. Major Brett was invited with the rest of the station. But he was not much of a tennis player, and preferred going later when the tennis was over and the whist-tables were ready.

Just as the last set of tennis was being played he arrived, and was welcomed by hostess and guests with that cordiality which is only to be found in an up-country colonial station, a cordiality behind which there is no reserve, no shadow of class distinction.

“What have you been about to-day, Major Brett? Come and give an account of yourself. Are you just in from the district?” asked Mrs. Leigh, as he walked up to a group of people near the court.

“On the contrary, I am just thinking of going out. I should have gone before, but I have been so busy hunting for William Manning.”

“Oh! have you heard anything of him?” asked Mrs. Leigh with some eagerness.

“Nothing, I am sorry to say.”

“I am very much interested in the search, because he was last seen in my house, and I feel as if I were partly responsible. There was only one person who saw him after me, and that was Miss Holdsworth.”

Miss Frost was sitting near Major Brett, engaged in conversation with some one else. She stopped and turned from her companion to listen.

“Did not his brother see him? Surely they left your house at the same time, Mrs. Leigh?” she said.

“So they did. I remember saying good-night to the three, but I do not think that Dr. Manning went with his brother.”

Miss Frost turned to Major Brett.

“Do tell us where you have been looking! “ she cried.

“I think I have had every corner of the Presidency searched, and I have heard and seen nothing of him.”

“Have you looked for him near home?”

“Yes. This very afternoon I have been examining the banyan tope, where the devil-dance took place.”

“Oh, I should so like to have seen that dance!” exclaimed Miss Frost. “I am told that a dance of that kind is the maddest, wildest orgy ever invented by man.”

“It is not exactly the place for a lady,” remarked Mrs. Leigh.

“And I do not advise you to go to one, Miss Frost,” continued the Major.

“Do you think William Maiming ventured to go?” asked Miss Frost.

“It is not unlikely,” he replied. “There is a hollow in the haunted tree which would hide half a dozen men.”

“I have never examined the banyan, though I have ridden by it several times; and each time I have passed I have determined to sketch it some day; but the day has never yet arrived. It would make a grand subject for a picture, with the rays from the red setting sun piercing the forest of stems, and just lighting it up.”

At this juncture Beryl passed the speakers, racquet in hand, the game having finished. Miss Frost invited her to take a seat by them. She stopped, but she did not sit down.

“Do you know that Major Brett has been hunting for Mr. Manning in the sacred banyan tope where the devil-dance took place? He says that the tree is hollow, and that half a dozen men might hide in it.” Beryl gave a startled glance at the Major.

“Do not look so alarmed, Miss Holdsworth. We are not making up a party for the next function,” said Major Brett.

“But I certainly mean to go and sketch it. I shall go to-morrow afternoon. Will you come?” said Miss Frost, addressing Beryl.

“I would rather not. I have a horror of these heathen idols and their pooja,” replied the girl.

“You did not express those sentiments always. At one time you were most anxious to see a dance. I remember hearing you tell William Manning so.” And Miss Frost, truthful and outspoken, looked at her for confirmation of her words.

But Beryl grew more uncomfortable, and declared that she was thirsty after her game, and must go in search of some tea; so she walked off towards the house.

“That girl is a changed being since William Manning disappeared. I am sure she had something to do with his taking himself off,” mused Miss Frost, speaking her thoughts aloud.

Mrs. Leigh had become absorbed in a conversation with another friend, and the Major and Miss Frost were left to themselves.

“Do you think, then, that she is in love with him?” asked Major Brett with some surprise.

“Not in the least,” she replied. “If she likes any one, it is his brother; and there she shows her sense.”

“H’m,” murmured the Major in a tone which did not imply approval of Miss Holdsworths taste. But he was not interested in Beryl’s love affairs unless they affected his case. He was curious to hear what Miss Frost thought on the subject of William s disappearance.

“I should like to know your opinion, Miss Frost, on this Chengalem mystery,” he said.

She was flattered by his request.

“I am inclined to believe that Miss Holdsworth and the Doctor both know more than they choose to tell. I do not say that they are actually aware of what has become of him; but something must have passed between the trio which none of us have fathomed. Perhaps Mr. Manning proposed and was refused, and so went off in high dudgeon like a spoilt child.” The Major smiled. “Perhaps he detected Miss Holdsworth’s coolness, and had a fit of jealousy on his brother’s account. Is it possible that he can be hiding on his own premises?” she asked with a suddenness for which he was unprepared.

“Surely such a thing is scarcely probable? I certainly have not searched the bungalow nor the compound, though Dr. Manning asked me to do so whenever I liked. I have contented myself hitherto with the temple and the grove.”

The mention of the grove awoke anew Miss Frost’s determination to visit the tope.

“I shall positively go and sketch the devil-tree to-morrow, come what may.”

The clear, decided tone of her voice fell on the ear of two gentlemen who had sauntered up in search of the Major.

“Are you really going to venture into the tope by yourself, Miss Frost?” asked one.

“You will be spirited away by the demon,” said the other.

“I am not afraid,” she replied, laughing.

“If the same poojari is there, whom I saw to-day, you will have a most polite, not to say courtly guardian. It was he who took me through the temple; he really seems most anxious to have all his property and himself cleared of suspicion,” said the Major.

“If he appears, I will get him to stand for his portrait,” she exclaimed.

“Oh! do let us come. I am sure you ought not to go without an escort,” said one of the young men.

“I refuse all escort. I mean to go quite alone,” cried Miss Frost, delighted with the prospect of an adventure.

“Take care that you do not disappear like William Manning,” they retorted, as they and the Major turned away in the direction of the whist-tables, which were set out in the verandah.

Miss Frost had heard nothing of Minachee, and the part she played in the affair; nor did she know as much as the Major knew of William Manning’s movements; all the same, she and the Major had come to the same conclusion on the point:—they both believed that Miss Holdsworth and the Doctor had a secret which they wished to hide.

Major Brett had arrived at this conclusion by a process of cross-examination and reasoning. Miss Frost had come to it by a quick instinctive judgment, founded on the observation of the merest trifles in Beryl’s behaviour. If she had been asked why she supposed that Beryl and Felix knew more than they told the world, she could only have given the feminine reply, “Because I do.”

But whilst she freely declared this to be her opinion, she did not dream of implying any suspicion that either had a hand in Will’s disappearance, beyond the conjectured refusal on Beryl’s part, and the young man’s jealousy on the Doctor’s account. She would have been shocked and grieved to think that her words suggested any breath of foul play. Indeed, the idea of foul play had not entered her mind, and she still expected that he would turn up again before long, very pleased with himself for having created such a sensation and mystery.

With the Major it was different. He had come to the conclusion that Will had met with violence at the hands of some unknown person. He did not forget that the Doctor had suppressed certain facts; and he had a strong suspicion that he was suppressing more. He must have a reason for doing so, and Miss Holdsworth knew or guessed what it was; moreover the knowledge was telling upon her spirits and bearing. Was Manning screening any person? Was he conniving at anything? Brett could not forget the beautiful face of the dancing-girl, nor the fact that Felix was heir to his brother’s property. Yellow gold and lovely women are two of the strongest temptations which Satan could lay across the path of a man. Strong indeed is he to whom they do not prove a stumbling-block. These were some of the sentiments revolving in the mind of the police officer.

Chapter IX

A Horrible Daydream

“An idol? Man was born to worship such!
An idol is an image of his thought;
Sometimes he carves it out of gleaming stone,
And sometimes moulds it out of glittering gold,
Or rounds it in a mighty frescoed dome,
Or lifts it heavenward in a lofty spire,
Or shapes it in a cunning frame of words,
Or pays his priest to make it day by day.”
--Oliver Wendell Holmes

Miss Frost was quite serious in her intentions to visit the tope, and sketch the tree. She was clever with her pencil in an amateur way, and delighted in an occasional sketching expedition. She was full of activity and good health, and had a vivacious mind; and she did not suffer from the climate like others who were less robust. She always declared that she had no time to feel ill.

At half-past three she started from her house, to drive to the tope, in a little pony-carriage which her sister-in-law put at her service. Her way lay through the town, and the road was broad and good, being the direct route to Palamcotta. Beyond the town, it ran between the temple and the Zemindar’s house, and then passed outside the tope, through a level plain of cotton fields.

So long as Miss Frost was in the cantonment, it was pleasant enough, even at that early hour of the day, as the road was shaded with tamarind trees; but when she got beyond these, the sun scorched down on pony and driver with fierce heat.

When she arrived at the nearest point of the road to the tope, she drew the pony into the shade of a group of palmyras. It was not much protection, but it was better than nothing. The horse-keeper threw a holland cover over the animal’s back to keep the flies off, and to intimate that it might go to sleep for an hour or so, without fear of being disturbed.

Miss Frost, arming herself with a large umbrella, started off in the direction of the tope; the syce, having watched her half-way, settled himself in the approved squatting position so dear to his heart, just under the pony’s nose, so that if the animal moved it must step upon him and wake him. Folding his arms over his knees, he bowed his head in slumber as deep as the pony’s. His mistress picked her way over the dry sandy soil with camp-stool on her arm, and sketch-book in her hand. The sun was very hot, and her enthusiasm was flagging under its fierceness; but when she reached the grove, her spirits revived. It was so cool and pleasant after the heat and glare of the open country. There was also something novel and exciting in the feeling that she had those grand old trees all to herself. The grove was one of nature’s own temples, desecrated, alas! by man, who devoted it to the service of a malignant demon, the creation of his own distorted imagination. The grey stems were like the fluted columns of some magnificent cathedral; and the network of long branches overhead with the dark green foliage might have been its richly carved roof. She wandered towards the edge of the tope, and caught sight of the upright stones which fenced in the enclosure for the sacrificial animals. The jagged edge of the slabs against the brilliant sky, together with the huge aloe growing near the stones, made a charming picture. She sat down on her stool and sketched in the scene with rapid pencil. When it was finished, she returned to the haunted tree. It took her ten minutes or so to choose the spot from which the picture was to be taken. The platform and devil-stone formed a point of interest in the picture, from whichever side she looked at it. Once she went close up to the tree, and could not repress a little shudder of horror as she observed the dark patches, where the ghastly offerings had lain.

Fixing her stool against one of the smaller stems, she sat down and began to sketch in the historical tree. Her work was absorbing. Under her skilful hand, the outline of what promised to be a successful picture was put in. She was impatient to get on to the colouring stage, so as to catch the glowing yellow of the western sky, that shone through a vista of pillar-like trunks beyond the big stem.

Suddenly she became aware that a native was standing near her, silently observing her. She was startled, for she had not heard a sound to warn her of his approach. She felt uncomfortable without being actually alarmed, and she wondered if he meant to molest her.

The feeling was momentary. A single glance sufficed to tell her it was none other than the old poojari of whom the Major had spoken. He was clothed in spotless muslin, and wore the large white turban which became him so well.

Miss Frost’s artistic eye was attracted at once, and she wondered if he would consent to stand for his likeness; he would make a splendid adjunct to that noble tree, a suitable figure for the empty foreground. He was still regarding her with an earnest gaze, but there was nothing hostile in it; and with quick, feminine intuition, she felt that he made no objections to her presence there. She picked up the pencil she had dropped, and began to draw again. The poojari, who did not once take his eyes off her, approached slowly and noiselessly with a smooth even movement, coming gradually forward, till he stood in the foreground of her picture.

She looked at him with a pleasant smile. It was impossible to hold any communication except by sign, as neither understood the language of the other.

“What a delightful old man,” thought Miss Frost. “He is all that Major Brett described him. I certainly feel as if he were the guardian of the place; and I do believe that he intends to let me sketch him.”

He smiled back at her with encouraging friendliness.

“What a handsome face it is; I shall never do it justice! How I wish I could catch that benevolent expression!” She gazed at him in a dreamy fashion, as though the mere pleasure of looking at such a picturesque figure was sufficient.

He felt in the folds of his cloth, and produced a curious little idol of gold about a span high, which he rested on the palm of his hand, and held just before him close to his breast. Every motion of hand and body was marked with that gentleness adopted by the naturalist in approaching untamed bird or beast. It had a fascinating effect on Miss Frost.

“Now that is nice of him; the idol in his hand is in perfect keeping with the rest, and how it stands out against his muslin cloth. It is gilded copper, I suppose. There! now it has caught a ray of sunlight. It really seems as if the figure had a lamp on its head, or can it be a diamond? Yes! I believe it is a diamond; and if so, the image must be made of pure gold. What wonderful people these poojaries are with all their mystery and wealth! Who knows what untold treasure lies in their temples? I wonder if the people really believe in their gods of silver and gold”; and she let her thoughts wander far away from the object of her visit.

The poojari approached a little nearer, still keeping the brilliant image in a ray of sunlight. Miss Frost made an effort to shake off the drowsy languor of the warm afternoon and resume her drawing; but the effort was unsuccessful; for, as she once more fixed her fascinated gaze on the poojari, all desire to sketch forsook her; she leaned back against the banyan stem, and gave way to the drowsiness induced by the drive through the sun, drifting into a kind of daydream. A cup of tea would have roused her, and she regretted that she had not had it before starting; but she had been so anxious to set off, that she would not wait till it was made.

The sight of the poojari suggested the temple, and its strange, half-known ritual. Her mind went back to bygone ages, when greater wealth poured into the temple coffers; and when there was no paternal Government to put a value on human life, and say where religious fanaticism ceased and murder began. She thought of the world-famed Juggernaut car, which each temple possessed, and a picture passed before her eyes. She saw crowds of worshippers, mad with fanaticism, pressing round the car as it slowly moved along. They cried out to each other, each man calling on his brother to cast himself beneath those broad, cruel wheels, ploughing relentlessly through the sand. She saw a mass of men and women labouring at the enormous ropes, as they drew the cumbrous vehicle along; and, as each agonised shriek of the crushed victim rent the air they strained afresh at their self-imposed task with renewed zeal. The crowd opened; an old man tottered forward and fell headlong before the wheels, which seemed to devour him beneath their broad tires. A woman with streaming hair, torn cloth, and frenzied eye, lifted her child above the heads of the intervening crowd, and threw it under the cruel car.

Miss Frost, curiously enough, viewed the scene without emotion. It passed as a pageant before her dreamy gaze, awakening neither horror nor surprise.

And now she saw the object for whom all this was done. It was the golden image with the sparkling diamond in its forehead, the same which the poojari held in his hand. It was;—and yet it was not;—for the image grew larger as she gazed, till it blended with the poojari, and the two were one. The diamond, a rare and beautiful gem in her excited imagination, blazed forth in splendour. The rays of the sun, filtering through the leaves of the banyan, made it scintillate with a thousand sparks, inspiring the figure with life. Lower and lower went the sun in the heavens, its yellows turning to royal crimsons. The golden image deepened in tone with the richer tints of the sky, till it glowed with a blood-red colour. One of its rays touched her unconscious face. The multitude that had dragged at the ropes and accompanied the car, now crowded round the idol, and the dreamer saw another vision.

Something was taking place which did not meet her sight; but though the picture was hidden, yet knowledge came. There was a flash of bright steel and a descending stroke. Some creature’s blood was being spilt. And as the sword swung round with its deadly cut, the face of the image seemed to change. Passion, greed of gold, greed of life, hot, lustful cruelty, malignant hate of all that was good, came over it. The senseless idol was merged into the hideous demon of the people’s imagination, and it stood before them ready to accept them and their ghastly rites.

The vision faded, and was lost in a dim greyness, which settled over the face of nature like a curtain, shutting out the loathsome heathen god and his worshippers. The idol and the people vanished, and the poojari was gone. Yet Miss Frost was not alone. Some one seemed to gaze into her face out of the gloom.

With a sudden flash of recognition she knew it to be William Manning, as she had last seen him in his evening dress at Colonel Leigh’s house, and even as she recognised him he melted away, and all was blank.

Leaning back against the tree, she slept a dreamless sleep. The sun sank behind the distant fringe of hills, but still she slumbered. Bats came fluttering through the shadows of the foliage, darting after strong-winged moths; and the vampires, or flying-foxes, arrived to quarrel, as usual, over the evening meal of the banyan berries. A planet shone on the western sky and heralded the night.

Miss Frost awoke with a shudder, and gazed confusedly around. It was nearly dark, and there she still sat in the front of the devil-tree with her sketchbook on her lap, and the pencil between her fingers. The poojari was no longer anywhere to be seen; he and his idol had vanished, and Miss Frost had the grove to herself. The wind, as is usual at sunset, had dropped, and the air was perfectly still. A dry leaf fell with the dull flop of a playing-card at her feet, and the vampires shrieked overhead. She was not naturally timid, but it required a stronger nerve than hers to feel at ease in such weird loneliness.

She rose hastily, wondering how she could have fallen asleep, and, folding her camp-stool, she beat a hurried retreat towards the carriage. It was lighter outside the tope, and she felt a little more at her ease. The horse-keeper was awake, and had lighted the lamps. Ever since the sun disappeared below the horizon he had anxiously watched the tope. It passed his understanding how any English lady dared to remain so long in that dreadful grove. She must be in league with the demon himself. What could she have been about all that time? He glanced furtively in her face, and then behind her, not at all sure that he might not see the devil following her footsteps in the shape of wolf or jackal.

Miss Frost stepped into the carriage and shook the reins. The pony knew the way home, and required very little driving. He trotted steadily on, with the thought that it was just upon time for his food. As the carriage rolled along, Miss Frost had opportunity to collect her scattered senses.

“What a laugh they will have against me, if I tell them that I have been daydreaming and sleeping all the afternoon; and what must that poor old man have thought of me? I wonder how long he stood for his portrait. I hope he did not stay to see my disgraceful conduct!” And here she actually laughed aloud to herself at the absurdity of the situation, an uncanny proceeding in the syce’s eyes, which did not reassure him. “But what a dream I had! How distinctly I saw that horrible car and that awful image! and, last of all, poor William Manning! Now, what could have given me that dream? It was more like a series of visions than a dream.”

When Miss Frost reached home, she examined her sketch. It was nothing but the mere outline she had put in before the old man appeared. She flung it down with an exclamation of impatience.

“How did you get on with your sketch this afternoon?” asked her sister-in-law.

Miss Frost actually blushed as she made her confession.

“To tell the truth, my dear, I fell asleep. The sun was so hot, and you know I went without my afternoon tea. I was so anxious to be off, I would not wait for it, and so I suppose the heat affected me.”

“Did you put up the hood of the carriage?”

“Yes, but the reflection from the dusty road was very great, and as soon as I got into the cool shade of the grove, and settled myself comfortably with my back against one of the banyan stems, I fell asleep, and dreamt of idols and William Manning.”

“How very strange! Did you see any one in the tope?”

“Yes; the old poojari, spoken of by Major Brett, appeared. I was so delighted, because he seemed pleased to have his likeness taken, and I did so want to sketch him. He had a curious little image in his hand, made of gold. I meant to ask him if I might be allowed to look at it, but——” She made a comical face of distress, and left her sentence unfinished.

“You fell asleep.”

“And when I awoke he was gone.”

Just as Florence Frost was sitting down to sketch in the tope, Dr. Manning drew rein at Mrs. Holdsworth’s. It was full early even then for a call, but he had purposely timed his visit so as to catch Beryl before she went out. She was dressed for tennis, and was sitting in the verandah, having just ordered tea. She heard the sound of horse’s hoofs, and went forward to meet him.

“You are going out I see,” he said, a shadow of disappointment crossing his face.

“I have no engagement; I was only going to the club ground on the chance of getting a game of tennis. My mother is still in her room, but she will be here presently.”

“Please do not disturb her; my call is on you to-day. I am going on leave for a few days, and I shall be so grateful if you will continue riding the horses as usual. You have not been out much lately.”

A faint blush touched her cheek.

“I did not like to use his horses after what passed between us.”

He smiled at her momentary embarrassment.

“I am sure you need have no scruples. He would be only too glad to think that you still regarded him as a friend, and as such would continue to ride the Arab. You are devoted to riding, and I know that you consider the Arab the most perfect little animal in the world.”

She admitted that it was true, and he continued,—

“I have offered O’Brien the use of the others, so he can be your cavalier if you like.”

He looked up at her across the tea-tray from his low seat on the other side. She returned his glance very frankly, and said,—

“Thank you, Dr. Manning, but I shall prefer riding alone. I do not mind going out once or twice with Mr. O’Brien, if you have said anything about it.”

“Oh, no! of course I did not venture to suggest anything of the kind to him without consulting you.”

He spoke a little awkwardly, and she did not reply.

How pretty she looked in her cool, fresh tennis frock and white straw hat! It was very pleasant to rest his eyes on such a sweet English face, and to meet the friendly gaze she bent upon him. The verandah, with its pots of ferns and crotons, its inviting lounges and pretty little tables, was so different from anything that a bachelor could accomplish for himself. What a paradise his home would be if he had just such a woman by his side, to call him husband, to watch for his coming and going, and to soothe his weary hours after the long day’s work!

It is dangerous to a young man’s peace of mind when he tries to imagine himself at home in a married friend’s house, with that friend’s sister or daughter as his chosen companion, and the Doctor’s thoughts had run on to perilous ground. His daydreams were disturbed by Beryl’s voice.

“The Arab must want exercise. You do not ride it yourself, I believe.”

“Not often, and never very far; I am too heavy. Is there any one else to whom you would wish me to lend a horse, and with whom you would like to ride?”

She laughed.

“You seem very anxious to find a companion for me, but really I prefer to go out alone, with only the horse-keeper to look after me.”

“It would be better for you to have a companion.” His solemnity was just a little trying.

“You do not offer to ride with me yourself,” she said.

A sudden light came into his eyes.

“You know that I cannot; I have no time; I could not do it without neglecting my work.”

His earnest gaze set her pulses beating. She put down her cup hastily, and said,—

“Let me give you some more tea.”

But he refused. He had more to say, and was in no mood for trifling with that mild beverage.

“I have not told you yet where I am going,” he said.

She was all attention at once.

“Last week I had a letter from my brother’s lawyer in Madras, asking me to go and see him about matters connected with the estate. I sent an application for short leave at once, and it was granted. I am very glad I did so, for this morning I had a visit from a native, a clerk in one of the shipping offices in Madras. He told me the startling news that he had seen some one answering to William’s description on one of their ships, bound for Colombo. He described him accurately, as far as dress and figure went, but he was rather vague about his features.”

Beryl was listening with breathless interest.

“And what made him come to you?” she asked.

“It appears that the dasi at the temple told him that we were looking for a lost European. She described Will to him, and then sent him to me.”

“I wonder what the man was doing in Chengalem?”

“I asked him that very question, and he replied that he had friends here, and was on a visit. He came probably on a pilgrimage to the temple, and combined business with pleasure.”

“Major Brett ought to cross-question him,” said Beryl.

“Unfortunately Brett went away on inspection duty early this morning,” replied Felix.

“But if it were Will, how could he get money for his journey without going to his bankers for it?”

“I asked the man if he knew whether the gentleman paid his passage in cash or by cheque, and he replied at once that the money was paid in cash. He also mentioned incidentally that he saw him talking with a sowcar.”

“The tale is too plausible,” exclaimed Beryl.

“I fear so; and yet it is very hard to believe that my brother—almost the only relation I have in the world—is dead.”

There was a pathetic note in his voice which touched the girl’s heart and filled her with pity.

“Let us believe that he is alive till we find him dead,” she said gently.

He gave her a grateful glance, and continued to unfold his plans.

“I think of going to Colombo at once. There is a steamer to-morrow from Tuticorin. I shall go down by to-night’s mail, and if Will is in Colombo, I will unearth him and bring him home. This uncertainty and suspense is trying beyond measure.”

He rose to depart, and Beryl went down the broad steps to see him mount. She patted the animal’s neck, passing her hand along its silky skin.

“Then you will ride the Arab, Miss Holdsworth?” he said, in a more cheerful tone. He was in the saddle now, and she was standing by his stirrup. She looked up at him with shining eyes in which pity still lingered, mingled perhaps with something else.

“Yes, but alone.” She paused, and then continued, “Or until—”

“Yes?”

“Until you have time to ride with me,” and as she said this she ran up the steps, frightened at her own temerity, yet longing to pour out some of her love and pity on the lonely man who sat there. She dared not look round to see the effect of her words, but disappeared through the portière into the drawing-room.

Chapter X

Major Brett Finds Something

“If circumstances lead me, I will find where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed within the centre.”
— Shakespeare

Major Brett came home from his round of inspection eager to renew his search. Whilst he was away he had had ample time to think. The words Miss Frost had uttered lingered in his mind. They were spoken without any intention of exciting suspicion. She was never ill-natured nor unjust. If she had intended to imply that Dr. Manning had had a hand in his brother’s disappearance, she would have said it straight out; she would not have left the Major to infer it. Nothing more was meant than she said,—that there was something which Beryl and the Doctor held in reserve, and which they did not wish to be known.

Major Brett, as we have seen, had been annoyed already by this reserve, and the more he thought it over, the more convinced did he feel that Manning knew something which he did not choose to tell. He was never tired of going over the evidence.

“I cannot believe at this length of time that William is alive. He has been done to death, poor chap, by some one. Robbed! No, it cannot have been that, for he had nothing on his person that evening to lose. Then who would benefit by his death?—the poojaries? the dasi? his brother?”

The Major sat for a long time wrapped in deep thought, his newspaper lying across his knee, his cheroot in much danger of being let out altogether.

“He has only one relative in the world, and that is his brother. I wonder if the boy made a will. Let me see, Manning will not be home for another week. I may as well look round the place at once, and I am not sorry to have an opportunity of doing it whilst he is away.”

Major Brett went over to the house early in the afternoon, so as to have plenty of time. When he was engaged in professional work—and he had grown to consider William Manning’s case professional—he never did anything by halves, nor did he allow scruples to stand in his light.

“Let it alone altogether if you cannot do it thoroughly,” he would say to his inspectors; and he practised what he preached.

Acting on that principle at the present moment, he put a bunch of skeleton keys in his pocket. He intended to overhaul all William’s papers before he left the place.

The servants in their master’s absence were taking life easily. Only one remained to look after the bungalow, the rest had gone to the bazaar, where they could gossip and smoke and gamble to their heart’s content. The medical man, who was in charge of the district during the absence of Felix, had taken up his abode at the club.

Major Brett walked into the house without ceremony, though the servant informed him that his master was not at home. When the man found that the visitor had no intention of going, he betook himself to the godowns, not at all sorry to shift his responsibility as caretaker on to the shoulders of such a competent person as the police superintendent.

The plan of the house was simple enough. It was all on the ground floor, after the usual fashion of Anglo-Indian dwellings. The centre room was furnished luxuriously as a kind of smoking-room. Books and newspapers were strewn about on small tables, and there was a liberal choice of easy chairs. William used this apartment as a sitting-room, and received his bachelor friends here. On the left was the dining-room, and on the right the Doctor’s sitting-room. The bedroom and dressing-rooms were behind, opening into each other.

When the servant had departed, Major Brett went into William’s bedroom. It no longer bespoke the presence of the master. The bed was covered with a dust-sheet, and the ornaments of the table had been put back into the dressing-case. The wardrobes and drawers were not locked. The clothes—and there were a great many of them—were neatly folded or hung in their places. He felt in the pockets of some of the coats, but found nothing. The dressing-table was also closely examined, but beyond the usual toilette requisites of a young man, there was nothing to be seen.

He then passed on into the dressing-room, which was almost as large as the bedroom, and which served as a private sitting-room when Will wanted to write. A writing-table stood in the centre under the punkah, and its drawers were all open except one. To this one the major applied himself with his skeleton keys, and on opening it, displayed some letters, a banking-book, and a diary. The banking-book he left untouched, as it was not likely to contain any information which had not already been learnt from the bankers. The letters were merely glanced at; none of them were of any importance, and they related chiefly to purchases, or to business connected with the estate.

The diary was the greatest find in his opinion, and ought to throw some light on the writer’s movements and thoughts. He seated himself at the table and began to read. It was written up to the very time of Will’s disappearance, and it recorded faithfully the doings of each day, together with an account of money spent on personal matters. It was not the usual hasty scribble of a busy man, who has no time to do more than jot down the important facts of his life; it was the deliberate record of daily thoughts and deeds, set down leisurely and with a certain amount of pleasure.

The year began with the gaieties of the Christmas holidays, and Beryl’s name appeared frequently. He had danced so many times with her, and had played tennis with her. Then came another name, which the Major did not at first recognise. “Minnie? Minnie?” he exclaimed. “Now, who is Minnie? Why, Minachee, the dancing-girl, of course.”

His interest was increasing. It was evident that Will had met her frequently between Christmas and the present time, and it was generally in the tope on her way to or from the temple. Then came a record of gifts bestowed upon her, and her delight at receiving them. They were not expensive, and were mostly European trinkets, such as Minachee had no means of buying herself; Parisian trifles were not to be found in the bazaar of Chengalem.

The name of Felix was mentioned now and then, once as having spoken to him about Beryl, urging on the engagement. Will added a note to the effect that he really must make his brother understand that he would not permit interference in these matters.

“I cannot understand Felix; he has grown so moody of late, and is not a bit like his jolly old self. Wonder if he has any money difficulties. Wish he would tell me. But he is such a proud beggar; he would never consent to being helped by his little brother Will.”

Then mention was made of the devil-dance, and of his determination to go. “Examined the tree today; splendid cover for uninvited guests. Shall go most certainly.”

Another two or three pages, in which the Major found his own name in connection with the horse, and the diary drew towards the end.

“All the fat is in the fire,” wrote Will. “Felix saw me in the tope to-day with Minnie. Natural consequence, a regular flare-up! I knew it must come, but he did not begin it till after dinner. No use telling him that the girl did not care two straws for me, and that our acquaintance is on the most friendly and harmless footing. In reality, the little minx is in love with some one else; I could see it to-day, but I guessed it some time ago. I wonder if he suspects it. He is such a dark horse, I never quite know what is in his mind; but I did know his opinion of me last night, for he took pains not to leave me in any doubt. I am sorry to have to record the fact, but I lost my temper completely, and I think he did the same, only he has more control over himself than I have. It was the injustice of the accusation that made me so angry. And he not only pitched into me about Minnie, but he also let me have it about the devil-dance. Confound him! what business is it of his where I go and whom I meet?”

Here the diary ended, having been written on the morning of the day he went to Mrs. Leigh’s and was seen no more.

Major Brett was very grave as he closed the book and put it down. He replaced the letters and banking account, but the diary he retained. So, then, there had been a serious quarrel between the two brothers about the dancing-girl. And the girl’s inclinations were towards another person. The Major suddenly remembered that Minachee had been brought in contact with the Doctor through her attendance on the sick a good deal of late.

The servant came to see if he wanted anything, prompted quite as much by curiosity as duty. No, Major Brett required nothing; he would call when he was about to go. The man returned to the domestics’ quarters. It was a curious fancy of the police sahib to come and sit in Mr. William’s room; but if it pleased him, well and good.

Major Brett proceeded next to Felix’s room, where there was a writing-table very like Will’s, but larger; and it had cupboards at the back. He glanced into all that were unlocked. They contained surgical instruments, and the more expensive medicines which were not supplied to the hospital and dispensary. Several of the drawers were also unlocked. They held writing materials, medical papers, and receipted bills. Should he unlock the Doctor’s private drawers? A qualm passed over his mind. But what business has a police officer to feel any qualms if he wants to do his duty? It was true that the case had not yet assumed an official aspect; it was of a private nature, but it might assume a different aspect at any moment. If the dead body of the lad were discovered, it would be his duty to search every corner, and to leave no stone unturned. He hesitated no longer, but put his skeleton key into the lock and opened one of the drawers. He found more surgical instruments, and medicines of a poisonous nature. There were no books nor papers. He closed it quickly and opened the next—a watch, some rings, and a heap of rupees. He examined the rings, and recognised one which he had seen on Will’s finger, but there was nothing more of any interest. Closing the drawer, he opened the third, and found poisons and lancets, not at all pleasant looking things. He gave the drawer a second little pull, so as to see to the very end of it, and in so doing exposed to view the corner of a brown bag. Quick as thought he laid his hand upon it, and drew out a large piece of brownish cotton material, discoloured with a dull red stain. The original tint of the stuff remained on the outer edge, but the whole of the centre had been saturated with rich red blood, which had dried stiffly to a deep brown.

The Major came as near to being startled as it was possible for him to be, accustomed as he was to the unexpected. He turned the rag over, and held it up to the light. There was nothing to explain its presence there. Again he paused to consider whether he should leave it or take it. He decided on the latter course; and closing the drawer he locked it carefully as he had done the others.

His work was finished in the bungalow, and he prepared to return. But first he wanted to see the servants. He called the man who was in charge, and asked if he was the one who sat up for Mr. William the night he disappeared. Yes, he was. Did he remember that night? Yes. What time did the Doctor come in? He did not know, but he thought it must have been at dawn, for he did not sleep in his bed at all that night. Did the masters ever quarrel? Only once, and that was a few nights before Mr. William disappeared. The Doctor scolded Mr. William, and Mr. William was very angry; he swore at his brother. “And, sahib, Mr. William was very cross with me too, and when I went into the room with some whiskey and soda, he threw his boot at me.”

He thought a great deal more of his own dignity, which had been so grievously insulted with shoe leather, than of the brothers’ disagreement; but the quarrel was indelibly imprinted on his mind, and would ever be remembered in connection with the boot.

“I understand that Mr. William returned two nights after his disappearance. Did any of you see him?”

“No, sahib; the Doctor was the only one who saw him.”

The man began to fidget, and show signs of uneasiness.

“Are you quite sure that the clothes were taken by Mr. William that night? Are you sure that they were not stolen by one of the servants?”

“Indeed, sahib, they were not stolen by any of the servants about the house.”

“And you think that Mr. William came back that night?”

“The butler says so, but the cook speaks differently.”

“What does he say?”

“He says it was a thief.”

He paused, and then added,—

“The gardeners say that it was the tree-devil. We know that it was not Mr. William.” And he looked at the Major with fear written on his face.

“Oh?” said the gentleman interrogatively. “And how do you know it was not Mr. William?”

“We searched everywhere for his footmarks. He has a thin narrow foot. I know it well. I should know the print of his foot or of his boot amongst a thousand feet anywhere.”

“And you did not find it?”

“It was nowhere to be seen, neither here at the house nor along the road, nor on the bypaths.”

You are quite sure that the grey suit was taken that night?”

The man assured him again that it was.

The Major told him to shut up the house, and expressed his satisfaction that everything was in such good order. When he next wrote to the master, he said, he would tell him that the bungalow was being properly cared for. The man inferred from this that Major Brett had come purposely to look round, and see that all was well on behalf of the Doctor.

During the ten days that Dr. Manning was away there crept abroad a vague shadow of distrust and suspicion. How it arose no one knew, and who breathed the first indefinite doubt no one could say.

Miss Frost was outspoken to a fault, but she was guiltless of all malice. She might have expressed the same opinion to others which she uttered so freely to Major Brett, without any intention of raising suspicion. The latter kept his unpleasant facts to himself, but perhaps his manner showed more than he was aware of. The Mannings had never stood high in his estimation, and he unconsciously shook his head in a disparaging way when their names were mentioned; just now they were mentioned frequently. There was little enough in Chengalem to talk about in the ordinary course of events, and when anything extraordinary happened it was in everybody’s mouth. At the end of three weeks there was undoubtedly a dark cloud of suspicion, which, though it did not formulate into an accusation against the Doctor of killing his brother, yet vaguely suggested that he knew more than he chose to tell of his fate. No one but the Doctor had seen Will since he vanished; it was curious that he should be the only one so favoured. The Mannings were both country born, and had just that drop of Oriental blood in them which made them less easily understood than their neighbours. It was the merest whisper at first, but it grew; and in spite of openly expressed disbelief in the slander—the louder where it was not quite sincere—it sank into each mind and rankled there. O’Brien refused to credit anything against either of the brothers.

“I am told that the servants say they heard the brothers quarrelling violently just before William disappeared. I do not believe it, they were the most peaceable of men. And what should they have to quarrel about, I should like to know?”

“Money or women,” said one of his hearers.

“Absurd!” cried O’Brien impatiently; “most unlikely.”

But for all that a lady’s name was in every man’s thought, though it was not mentioned, as Mr. Holdsworth happened to be present.

“Where was the Doctor that night?” asked Bankside.

“No one knows,” replied the other man who had spoken. “He was supposed to be with a patient, but they say that he did not come in till the early morning.”

“He is often out all night,” said O’Brien. “I have known him sit up with a cholera patient the whole night, and never leave him till he had conquered the disease, or the disease had done its worst.”

“If that were the case, he can easily set our minds at rest by saying where he was,” remarked Bankside, who was not given to condemning any one unheard.

“I asked Brett what he thought of the affair, but I could get nothing out of him. I am sure he considers it very fishy, though he will not say so,” said the first speaker.

At which O’Brien became indignant.

“I shall ask Manning straight out to clear up the point, by explaining his absence that night,” he exclaimed. “I hate these vague suspicions. They play the very deuce with a small station like ours. We shall have no peace and no cordiality if we begin to suspect one another of all sorts of ghastly crimes. I wish I had disappeared instead of William. I’d have written ye all a letter to say I was just sulking at a dawk bungalow, or waiting for kingdom come at the bottom of a well.”

“Well done, O’Brien,” cried his companions. “I believe you are right. We ought to be ashamed of ourselves for talking scandal.”

The ladies had something to say, but it was even more vague and indefinite.

Beryl felt rather than heard the faint breath of suspicion that hovered in the atmosphere. At first she was filled with indignation, which was almost as great, though not so violently expressed, as O’Brien’s; but when Miss Frost declared in her presence that the Doctor must clear himself by accounting satisfactorily for his time that night, she became very silent, and her face grew white and anxious.

Florence was loud in her reiterated disbelief of all imputations, and Beryl learnt more in this way of what was thought than in listening to actual accusations. Miss Frost was as loyal a champion on the Doctor’s behalf as O’Brien, and the common cause drew these two good people together to the verge of a flirtation. They were never weary of praising Felix, or of consulting together as to the best means of clearing up the matter; and O’Brien used to return to his bungalow declaring to himself that Miss Frost was the most sensible woman he had ever met.

When Dr. Manning returned to Chengalem, and took up his work again, he was ignorant of what had happened during his absence. He was met by O’Brien with an effusive welcome, which was a contrast to the greeting of other men. They were by no means rude or uncivil, and made no apparent difference in speech nor in action; but there was a something in their manner—a marked avoidance of the mention of Will’s name, and an absence of all questions, friendly or inquisitive, as to his own doings, which his quick, sensitive nature felt to be unsympathetic and unfriendly. The warm-hearted Irishman was the only man who seemed unchanged, and to him Felix turned with gratitude for a friendship offered so opportunely.

But the Doctor had not much time for brooding. He took up his work with his old zest, and was once again moving amongst his people, who received him enthusiastically. The man who had acted for him had attended the hospital and dispensary to the best of his ability, but he never went near the natives in their houses; it was not expected of him, and he understood very little of their language, so that he probably would have done no good if he had gone. It was a pleasure to Felix to meet the smile and attentive salutation from men, women, and children alike. It compensated in a measure for the indifference of the European community.

It was not long before Major Brett sought him out. His greeting was if anything heartier than usual, and showed no sign of coldness nor of suspicion.

“Where have you been for your holiday, Manning?” was his first question.

“I went to Colombo for a few days, and came back by Madras.”

“What took you to Colombo?”

“I heard news of the missing grey suit.”

“Indeed!” said Brett, his attention fixed.

“Yes; and I stalked it down, and actually saw it myself in one of the crowded streets of the native part of the town.”

“And who was wearing it?”

“I could not discover. In figure he was very like Will. Whoever he was he took pains to avoid me, and slipped away through the crowd out of my sight. I never saw him again.”

“How did you hear of the man?”

Felix told him of the native clerk’s visit, and the story of the passage to Colombo.

“And the dasi sent the man to you?”

“Yes, and so far the tale was true. I saw what I could swear was the same figure that stood between my room and Will’s that night.”

“Do you believe for a moment that it was your brother?” asked Major Brett, fixing his keen eye on the Doctor, as though he would penetrate the innermost recesses of his mind.

The Doctor paused before replying, and then said with deliberation,—”No, I cannot believe that it was Will. But I am utterly at a loss to understand what this impersonation means.”

“A red herring across the trail, as I said before. Some person, or persons unknown, wish it to be believed that the youth is still alive.”

After saying this, the Major was silent. He was thinking at that very moment of what he had learnt from the servants at Manning’s bungalow. The Doctor was the only person who had seen the apparition. Here was a second similar case. There was not a soul to attest the truth of the Doctor’s words. After a while Major Brett spoke again.

“Where did you go after leaving Colombo?”

“To Madras to see the lawyer.”

“Has your brother made a will?”

“I hear that he has.”

“And you are the sole legatee of course?”

The plain speaking of the Major hurt Felix; the blood mounted to his forehead, but he kept silence. The Major, who was watching him, noted it.

“If he be proved dead——” he went on.

“I will wait till then,” cried Felix, interrupting him. To give the conversation another turn, he said, “My servant tells me that you came to my bungalow whilst I was away. Did you find anything to serve as a clue?”

“Nothing to help me at all,” replied Major Brett in an off-handed way.

“It seems to me that we have done all that we can in this unfortunate business, and there remains no more to do.”

Felix uttered these words despondently, his eyes upon the ground. Major Brett roused him from his abstraction by a sudden and startling question.

“By the bye, Manning, you have never told me what you were doing with yourself that evening. I think you said something about being up with a patient. What time were you home?”

“I came home between three and four in the morning,” he replied after a momentary pause, which did not escape the Major’s notice.

“Where were you?”

Felix hesitated; it was an awkward question, and one which he was unable to answer.

“I really cannot—I am not at liberty to say.”

It was a lame reply, and he was conscious of it; the consciousness of his own confusion annoyed him more than a little.

“Were you with a patient?”

“No,” he replied shortly.

“You must excuse me, Manning, but I should be very glad indeed, for several reasons, if you could account for your time that night. You need not tell me the name of your patient, nor anything connected with the place. I only want your assurance that you were professionally engaged.”

“I was not professionally engaged.”

“But you were with some one?”

An angry light came into the Doctor’s eye. This cross-questioning was unwarrantable, and the Major was overstepping the limits of forbearance altogether.

“I must decline to answer your question, Major Brett,” he said, controlling himself.

“I am sorry for it,” replied the other brusquely; “but I must ask you one more, Did you see your brother after he left Miss Holdsworth’s house?”

Felix answered unwillingly,—

“Yes, I saw him as he walked away from her house; and I may also tell you that he was going in the direction of the tope, bent upon seeing the devil-dance.”

“And he had a woman with him?” hazarded the Major, thinking of the dasi.

“That is another question which I decline to answer, as it does not affect our search in the least.”

“There I differ from you, Manning,” said Major Brett. “As I told you before, there should be no reserve on your part if I am to help you. I wish you would trust me fully.”

The anger changed to wonder as Felix, looking absolutely distressed, replied,—

“I cannot; I really cannot.”

“Do you know what your refusal to explain involves?”

“What?” asked Felix, looking up at him in perfect ignorance.

“That you know more of your brother’s fate than you choose to tell.”

Again the Major watched him to see the effect of his words.

“I know nothing more of his fate than you do. You are as well aware as I am that he went to see the devil-dance; and that his action must have had something to do with his disappearance,” Felix said.

The Major’s words had given him a slight shock. This then accounted for the difference which he noticed in the attitude of his neighbours.

“Well, Manning, think it over, and if you can see your way to telling me what I want to learn, it will go a long way towards making things pleasant again. I promise you faithfully that I will respect any confidences and keep your secrets. But I am powerless to stop the world’s tongue if you refuse to be open with me.”

Once more he looked expectantly at the Doctor, but he was met with dead silence.

He rose to go, feeling that there was nothing more to be said. Just as he was leaving the room he turned back.

“I am going to ask you to do me a favour, Manning.”

“What is it?”

Major Brett took an envelope from his pocket-book.

“I want you to test this piece of cloth, and tell me if it is saturated with human or animal blood.”

“I shall be most happy,” replied Felix with sudden relief in finding the conversation take another turn.

“It has to do with one of the cases I am engaged in. You have helped me once before, and I shall be much obliged if you will do so again.”

Major Brett departed, and as he did so Felix drew forth the blood-stained rag. It was about four inches square and had been cut out of the centre of a larger piece. As he had half an hour to spare he set about it then and there, and before night he sent the result by one of his horse-keepers. This was the gist of his note,—

“The blood is undoubtedly human. I can swear to it if you wish it. I am sorry for your man if this is one of the proofs against him, as I fear it will hang him.”

Chapter XI

An Accident

“Thou art the fire of endless night,
The fire that burns, and gives no light.
All torments of the damned we find
In only thee, O Jealousy!
Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy,
Thou tyrant of the mind!”
— Dryden

When Felix went away, Minachee lost all interest in her work. She did not neglect her self-imposed duties altogether; but there was no longer the well-known voice to say in her own tongue, Do this and do that; and to give the full meed of praise when it was well done. As soon as he returned she appeared at the dispensary again, waiting amongst the people as an attendant. Felix greeted her with a smile, which made her simple heart throb with gladness.

“Well, little dasi, how have you been getting on with your patients?”

“Not at all well, sahib; the other gentleman never spoke to me, and the apothecary said, Go away, you do no good here. So I just waited till you returned.”

“The other gentleman could not talk to you in your own tongue,” he said.

“There is no doctor like you, sahib. All the people say so, and we are glad to have you amongst us again.”

He was pleased to hear that he had been missed, for he was feeling hurt and grieved. It was balm to find that the people for whom he had done so much had not turned from him in coldness and distrust. Minachee read his face, and, in the vanity of her youth believed that some of the pleasure was due to being in her presence again. She continued to chatter, and he did not stop her. She had had a very dull time in his absence with no one to nurse. There had been no feasts at the temple as it was not the season, and her mother had been abominably cross and ill-tempered.

“She is growing unbearable,” said Minachee, “and has never been happy since she left the Zemindar’s house.”

And this was quite true. Deva missed the life and gossip of the zenana, and she cursed her own fate a thousand times in having its doors shut against her. If she had been more careful not to show her feelings, she would not have been dismissed so summarily, and would at least have been admitted as a visitor. But the Zemindar’s orders were absolute, and even if she dared to disobey them none of the inmates of the zenana would venture to allow her to enter. So she brooded in the temple over her wrongs, plotting all kinds of evils; or if she went to the village, she said slanderous things against the Zemindar and his household.

Sometimes she watched for the little dasi, who had brought all this trouble upon her; but she very rarely saw her, and then never alone. The child was always accompanied by a woman attendant whenever she came to the temple, showing that the Zemindar distrusted Deva. It afforded her a few grains of satisfaction to know that she was feared; it gave her a sense of power which was dear to her heart; and it also fostered the hope that the Zemindar’s fear might not prove groundless, and that an opportunity might occur yet when she could take a secret and terrible revenge.

Minachee had not known half of what was passing in her mother’s heart, but she was beginning to fear the morose woman who so seldom smiled. She had always known her to be clever and unscrupulous, but it was only lately that she had become so ill-tempered. Minachee was careful to hide her own sentiments from Deva, and said very little of how she spent her time. To tell the truth, the woman paid but little heed to her daughter. So long as the girl returned to the temple in time to perform her duties in the daily ritual, and the poojaries were satisfied, Deva cared nothing where she went. Whilst she was the favourite in the zenana, the mother could smile on her and pet her, but her day was over. Instead of being sorry for the ill-luck which had overtaken her child, she felt embittered towards her; and had she not had the new dasi to vent her rage upon, she might have turned against her own daughter.

Minachee’s days had indeed been dreary during the Doctor’s absence, but now he had returned, and she would see him frequently. Her heart beat again with joy and hope. Perhaps he might guess, perhaps he might see, ah! perhaps she might win his love in the end.

Three or four days passed before Felix had an opportunity of meeting Beryl. He had not seen her since the afternoon he called to offer the horses and to say good-bye.

An invitation to dine at the Holdsworths’ brought about the very thing he desired. Mrs. Holdsworth was determined to show him that whatever was said, she, for one, did not believe it; and her husband, though he paid very little heed to the station gossip, was quite ready to uphold her. The Frosts and O’Brien were the other guests; and they had been invited because they were known to be friendly. As soon as dinner was finished a move was made to the garden, where chairs were placed under the tamarind trees. Naturally the young people drew together, O’Brien seating himself near Florence, and Felix dropping into a chair by Beryl’s side.

Beryl was feeling a little constrained, yet she was conscious of a great gladness in her heart. It was pleasant to be near him again and to hear his voice. If she had had any doubt as to her feelings before he left, she had none now; and he must have known by looking into those shining eyes, that he had only to speak. But he did not speak the words which would have brought a great happiness into her life. Neither by look nor by action did he give her reason to think that he regarded her in any other light than as a dear friend. He was using his opportunity to pour forth all his trouble, and to tell her how heartsick he was feeling on his return. He related his Colombo experiences, and mentioned his disappointment. She listened, and her heart ached for him in his sorrow, and in the trouble which was overshadowing him in the station. Of this he knew nothing except the slight, impalpable cloud which hung over the horizon on his return. She could give it no name; and when she tried to speak of it words failed her. So she contented herself with that silent sympathy which was balm to the young man’s heart.

He did not remain late, but pleaded a professional engagement and departed. When he was gone, Beryl, silent and somewhat preoccupied, rejoined Miss Frost and O’Brien. These two had withdrawn their chairs from the elder people and were engrossed in conversation.

“We are talking of Dr. Manning,” said Miss Frost as she came up; “come and hear what Mr. O’Brien has to say. I believe you are the very person to help us out of our difficulty, for I am sure that the Doctor values what you say more than any one else.”

It was too dark to see the faint flush that mantled in Beryl’s cheeks.

“How can I help?” she asked.

“You must persuade him to give an account of himself, and how he spent his time on the night of his brother’s disappearance.”

Beryl gave a little gasp.

“I persuade him! How can I do it?” she cried.

“Oh, yes; you can do it,” Miss Frost continued. “And in his own interests it must be done. Tell her, Mr. O’Brien, what passed at the club this evening.”

“To begin at the beginning, Miss Holdsworth, I must tell you that I do not like the feeling which, somehow, has got abroad about Manning. People do not go so far as to say that he killed his brother, but they speak vaguely of his knowing more about his fate than he chooses to tell. When I heard it, I said at once that I would ask him straight out to explain his absence that night.”

“And did you do so?” asked Beryl in a low voice.

“I asked him this very evening at the club. Brett was present, and I purposely did it before him, because I am sure from his manner that he too suspects something. I fully believed that Manning would clear himself without a minute’s hesitation; and that a tale, very much to his own credit, would modestly be told of his having sat up with some poor coolie, who was hovering between life and death. To my astonishment and confusion, it was nothing of the kind. The Doctor declined to give an account of himself; said he was sorry, but he must refuse to answer all questions as to his actions that evening. They did not concern his brother in any way. You may imagine the result: Brett looked triumphant; I felt, for the first time in my life, almost angry with Manning for being so blind to his own interests; and the other men laughed. He does not see the terrible things that may be inferred from his refusal to give an explanation. I am morally certain that he will not speak, because it will involve the showing-up of the folly of another person unknown, and that he is screening some one; but, unfortunately, this is not the view taken by other people. And unless the matter is cleared, I am afraid it will turn out, to say the least, unpleasantly for him.”

“And what do you want me to do?” asked Beryl faintly.

“We want you to make him speak out, and to persuade him that charity begins at home,” said Miss Frost.

“And let the other person and his folly be hanged!” added O’Brien emphatically.

“But why do you ask me to speak?”

“Because you have been a friend to both the brothers, and for the sake of him who has left us. Dr. Manning will listen to you when he will not listen to us. Has he not been talking all the evening to you about his brother?” questioned Miss Frost.

Beryl was silent for a while, then she said,—

“I will see him to-morrow morning,” and relapsing into thought, she left Miss Frost and O’Brien to carry on the conversation. It did not last long, for the Anglo-Indian is an early bird as a rule, and does not love late hours.

Beryl passed a sleepless night, and when she rose at dawn she had come to a resolution known only to herself. She determined to seek the Doctor as early as possible, and say what was necessary without any further delay.

The Arab came to the door at six, and she was soon in the saddle. She knew that it was useless to look for the Doctor till the hour of going to the dispensary, which was seven o’clock. So she turned her back on the cantonment and went for a gallop along the side of a shady road. Banyans and tamarinds lined the way for a distance of about a couple of miles, then they ended abruptly, and the landscape was a flat expanse of cotton fields, broken here and there by the ubiquitous palmyra. She did not go in the direction of the tope nor of the temple—the spot had been shunned since that dreadful night—but her thoughts were nevertheless full of it, and she was looking grave and anxious. She had undertaken a task which was not easy; and she would be placed in a still more difficult position if he refused to do what she asked.

Allowing ample time, she turned and rode slowly towards the Doctor’s house. She timed it exactly right, for as she came up to his gateway, he was riding down the carriage drive.

“Good morning, Miss Holdsworth,” was his greeting.

“Good morning,” she replied; “are you riding to the dispensary?”

“Yes, it is my usual morning’s journey.”

“I will come with you if I may,” she said, moving her horse to his side.

“I shall be delighted to have a companion. I wish I could offer to have a long gallop with you, but I must not spare the time. That shady avenue in the opposite direction looks very inviting.”

“It is astonishing how these beautiful trees flourish in such a dry spot,” she remarked, wondering how she was to introduce the subject uppermost in her mind.

“Their roots have struck some spring, one in a line with those that supply the town wells. If it were not for the springs, neither the town nor the trees would be here.”

They trotted along in silence, he wondering at the unusual circumstance of meeting her thus, and whether it was purely accidental. They passed through the streets where the people were all astir. The women in their orange-and-red cloths were bearing brass water-pots on their heads towards the wells. Others were sweeping their houses and cleaning their cooking vessels, these domestic duties being performed with open doors in full view of the passers-by. The men were opening their stalls, and arranging their wares for the day’s business by-and-by. Children ran about the streets laughing and playing in the dust, innocent of clothing. The toddy-drawers, living on the outskirts of the town, were climbing the tall stems of the toddy palms, by the aid of the encircling hoop of bamboo, which held them securely to the tree. And the cotton-press had long since summoned its gang of chattering coolies by the hoarse voice of its siren to their labour in the dusty sheds.

As soon as they passed the town, Beryl drew rein and let her horse walk. She had not been able to talk much as they rode at a trot, and now that they were going more slowly it was equally difficult to begin.

“Dr. Manning, I have something to ask you. I met you this morning for that purpose.’

“Yes.”

She hesitated, and finally plunged rather incoherently into her subject.

“I want you to speak out, I think it would be better. I am afraid it is absolutely necessary to do so in your own interests.”

Her first sentence sent the blood to his brow.

“Speak out in my own interests,” he repeated, not quite understanding what she meant.

“Yes, you are screening the folly of another at your own expense. You must tell Major Brett where you were on the night of the devil-dance.”

“I am afraid that I cannot do so without involving that other person,” replied Felix, looking very grave.

“He must know all! all!” she cried impetuously.

“Impossible!”

She raised her hand in deprecation.

“Why should he not know all?”

“It is not necessary that the story of that evening should be known to any one. It is a secret between myself and that other person,” said Felix, with something like a frown upon his brow.

Beryl leaned towards him and said in a low earnest voice,—

“Do you know what people are thinking? It is cruel and wicked of them; but there it is, and it can only be stopped by an explanation from you as to how that eventful night was spent.”

He looked keenly at her.

“I do not care in the least what people think. They may think and say what they choose; my actions on that night are a dead letter to all but one person.”

There was defiance as well as decision in his words; and they were spoken with a flash of the eye that betokened no weakness of will. She turned an anxious face to him and said,—

“But if that person gives permission?”

“I will accept none.”

His brow was still bent, and a flush that looked very like anger passed over his face. Something had set the blood tingling in his veins. Beryl saw it, but she did not waver from her purpose. Her heart beat as she came back to the charge.

“Do be reasonable,” she pleaded.

But the more she pleaded, the firmer he became.

“I am reasonable and in my reasonableness I refuse.”

“You are not reasonable to disregard your own interests. I am not alone in my opinion that it must be done.”

Beryl tried to speak with firmness, but it was not easy in the face of so much determination and fixity of purpose. They were approaching the dispensary by a path which led them outside the tope. Beryl glanced towards it and shuddered. There were several people waiting at the dispensary, and others were coming from different directions. But Beryl and Felix were too much engrossed in their conversation to notice who was coming or going. Not one of them, horse-keeper or ryot, could understand a word, even if they overheard.

The horse that the Doctor rode was fidgety; it had not had its morning gallop like the Arab, and when they drew near the dispensary and stopped altogether, it refused to stand still. So he dismounted, and giving the rein to the syce to lead the animal away, he came to Beryl’s side.

“Who has been talking to you of me, Beryl?” he asked, looking up into her face, his brow clearing.

“Never mind who it is; it matters very little who talks. What we have to do is to stop the talking; and as I said before, it can only be done by letting the world know where you were that night.”

“Never! I will never breathe a word of it!”

His decision was made, and she knew that her errand was hopeless. Still she would not give in. She made a last appeal, altering her ground slightly.

“At least tell Major Brett all about it, and ask him to hold it as strictly confidential.”

He shook his head.

“You might set yourself right with him,” she entreated. “He is a just man and a gentleman, although he is so suspicious; and if he were convinced, he could do a great deal in stopping people’s tongues.”

“I cannot do it, Beryl. I would sooner die.”

He added the last sentence under his breath, but she caught the words. The use of the Christian name for the second time did not escape her. She lowered her eyes and bent her head. The Arab stretched out his long arched neck, and drew the reins through her unheeding fingers, till they lay loosely on his mane.

“You must not talk like that,” she said with heightened colour, “You are to think only of yourself.”

“I am thinking of myself.”

She took no notice of his interruption and continued,—

“I ask you as a friend to be just to yourself; to clear your character from all the imputations which must otherwise arise.”

“You know that they are not true?” he asked.

“Yes, I know,” she said softly.

“Then I do not care what accusations they make against me. Let them say what they like, so long as you have faith in me. I must not, cannot tell you yet all that I would; but, Beryl, keep your faith in me whatever happens, promise me that.”

He spoke with a passionate eagerness which was irresistible, and looked into her face with earnest wistful eyes to read her answer there. It was only a soft whisper, but it carried the promise. It was time to go to his patients, but still he lingered.

“And did you come out this morning on purpose to do this?” he asked.

“Yes; and I feel that I am failing in my mission,” she cried. “Oh, Dr. Manning, do think better of it, and give some explanation, I beg and entreat——”

He took her hand in both his and interrupted her.

“And I refuse.”

What a handsome face it was turned up to hers, with such fearless, honest eyes! How could any one suspect him of aught that was mean or criminal? Fools that they were!

“Brave little sister,” he whispered tenderly. “Now you must ride home quickly out of the sun, or I shall have you on my hands with sunstroke.”

He gathered up the reins for her, and spent a few seconds arranging her habit. Then he let her go. She rode away, turning a reproachful look upon him. But he only smiled as he walked slowly and thoughtfully towards the dispensary.

Amongst the crowd awaiting the Doctor’s arrival was Minachee. She had seen him from afar, riding with the English girl by his side. Even at that distance her keen gaze noticed how absorbed were the riders in each other. Once before, on that moonlight night, when she encountered Felix with Beryl, her jealousy had been aroused, and now it burst forth with a swift and consuming fire. Drawing away from the crowd, she watched the two approach, her sharp eyes detecting every look and action, She saw them stop; he dismounted and came to the English girl’s side, that he might be closer to her and touch her. They talked earnestly and his eyes were fastened on the fair face that bent towards him. The language that is spoken by men’s eyes can be read by all women who are not blind, be they European or Asiatic. Minachee, her senses quickened by jealousy, thought she read the tale which was written there, as plainly as if it had been set down in one of her own hymns of love.

She gnashed her teeth and clenched her hands in her impotent fury, as she stole from the bungalow. There was little fear that Felix would see her; he was too much absorbed in his conversation, and Beryl had no eyes for any one but him.

Like a cat, the dasi moved stealthily towards them, her first impulse being to spring upon her rival, and tear her flesh with her nails. But Beryl was too well guarded by that strong, handsome Englishman standing at her side. It was impossible to do her bodily harm; she must find some other means of revenge. This then was the reason he was so cold and dead! This was why he turned away, indifferent to every charm and glance! This was why she could never light the spark of passion in his eye, nor awake any answering love in his heart. The cold English girl had supplanted her, by what wiles she knew not; and there, before her eyes, she displayed her triumph, and held him enchained. She saw him take Beryl’s hand, but she did not hear him call her sister. A shudder passed over her; she put her fingers before her eyes to shut out the sight, and then turning, fled to the tope.

Beryl rode away with a flush of excitement upon her face. Her mind was torn with conflicting feelings. She had failed in her mission. What should her next step be? Then came the memory of his words. What did they mean? He had called her sister again. Was that all he meant? Scarcely heeding where she went, she allowed her horse to take the soft ground between the road on her left and the tope on her right. Suddenly a stone was thrown from the grove, a sharp, jagged piece of granite, which hit the Arab a smart blow on the flank. The animal started violently and reared, unseating its rider. Beryl was a good horsewoman, and though taken unawares, would have recovered herself, if a second stone had not been thrown, following quickly on the first. It came from the same unerring hand, and the frightened horse smarting under fresh pain, began to plunge furiously and lash out with its heels.

The syce darted forward and seized its head, but he could not save its rider from a fall.

Fortunately her habit cleared the saddle, and she was not entangled; otherwise she must have had her brains dashed out, as the terrified creature reared and plunged in its endeavours to break loose from the horse-keeper. As it was, she was only bruised. But she presented a pitiable object, for she was covered with dust; her gloves were torn and her hat was crushed.

The man had enough to do to calm the Arab, and he left the lady to pick herself up. But help was close at hand. The accident was seen from the dispensary, and Dr. Manning rushed forth, followed by several of the people, who had been standing by the surgery verandah. Beryl walked to meet him with a reassuring smile.

“Are you hurt?” he exclaimed, scrutinising her with a searching glance.

“Not at all,” she replied cheerfully, trying not to wince at the pain in her shoulder. “I am only bruised and shaken. I need a brushing more than anything else.”

He turned to the syce, who had succeeded in soothing the nervous, sensitive creature that still trembled with fear.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked.

The horse-keeper was his brother’s servant, and had been deputed to escort Miss Holdsworth on account of his being more than usually reliable.

“A stone was thrown from the tope, sahib.”

The man cast a look of fear towards the haunted grove.

“Stones!” exclaimed his master incredulously; “who could have thrown them?”

The servant was silent. Stone-throwing is a very common thing in the south of India, and the people always impute it to the devil. The syce did so in this case, but did not put his thoughts into words. Had he seen the beautiful young arm that had hurled the stone, he would still have clung to his belief, saying that the evil spirit had taken human form, and was the author of the mischief. Felix knew what was passing in the man’s mind, and he did not question him further.

“Take the Arab home, and bring the dog-cart with the brown horse.”

But Beryl interposed.

“I can ride home, I assure you. I am neither frightened nor hurt.”

He only hurried her to the dispensary; the sun was increasing in power every minute, and its heat seemed the greater now that she was not raised from the ground on horseback.

The group of patients divided to let them pass into the house. Felix was annoyed and troubled at what had happened. The stone-throwing puzzled him, and he connected it with the other mystery. He gave Beryl a chair, and was about to examine her arm, when some one entered.

“Is that you, Minachee? Come here and help me with this lady. She has been thrown from her horse. Get a brush and a basin of cold water and a sponge. You will find them all in my room.”

He did not note the angry sparkle that still lingered in those fringed eyes. He was too much disturbed by the thought that Beryl might prove to be injured in some way, in spite of the brave face she put upon the situation. As if in confirmation of his fears she was already growing pale with faintness caused by the pain in her shoulder. The fall itself was a shock to the system, as it was so completely unexpected, its cause adding to her disquietude.

Felix went to the surgery to make up a restorative draught, and whilst he was absent Minachee came in with the basin of water. She had regained control of herself, and except for a dangerous light in her eyes she was once more the gentle nurse and attendant. Her face seemed familiar to Beryl, and as the dancing-girl brushed the dusty habit, and offered the cool refreshing water to bathe her face, a wave of memory brought back the moonlight scene on the cantonment road. It was the same girl who had waylaid the Doctor that night, and had spoken to him. Felix returned with the draught which Beryl obediently drank.

“Now let me see if you are hurt,” he said.

A short examination set the medical man’s mind at rest on that point. No bones were broken nor dislocated. She had sustained nothing but bruises, but these would cause her to be stiff and sore the next day. Having finished his examination he told Minachee to help Beryl in arranging her hair. It had partly fallen, and she found it painful already to lift her arm. As she did this with the dasi’s assistance, Felix lingered at her side.

“I cannot imagine who threw the stone,” she said.

“Nor I,” he replied, an anxious expression crossing his face. “You must not ride in this direction again. I do not mean to say that any one will do you any real violence,” he added quickly, noticing her startled gaze; “but I think we have had enough of that tope. It is quite possible that the stones were thrown to frighten you, not to cause an accident; and it is a hint that the presence of Europeans is not desired in or near the grove. I am thankful indeed that you have escaped to-day with nothing more than a bruise.”

Felix forgot that they were not alone, or perhaps he was not aware of a certain solicitude that crept into his tone as he talked. Minachee, standing aside with the comb and the glass could not understand his words, but her ear detected the change in his voice as he spoke. Jealousy raged in her heart again, and half maddened she made a sudden movement, dropping one of the articles she held. Felix turned impatiently upon her with something like a reproof at her carelessness.

“Take the things away and be careful that you do not break any. Miss Holdsworth will not need your services any longer. Go and tell the people that I am coming to them immediately.”

The girl left the room without a word.

“I think I have seen her before,” Beryl remarked.

“I daresay,” he replied indifferently. “She is one of the temple attendants.”

“Is she waiting to consult you?”

“Oh dear no,” he answered with a short laugh, “Minachee never ailed in her life. She frequently comes to wait on the people, and a very clever little nurse she is, quite my right hand. Now I must get on with my work. I shall be at least half an hour; probably longer. You must sit and rest here till I have finished, then I will drive you home.”

He hurried away into the verandah, and was soon fully engaged with his patients.

Beryl leaned back in the big cane chair and watched the people through the door. She had a good view of the verandah from where she sat, and it interested her to see the motley crowd that came to seek the Doctor’s help and advice. Some limped along in pain, others carried weak and emaciated children, some had their legs or arms bandaged, others again were groaning; but all were resigned to their fate, and wore the same patient look that is seen in the eyes of suffering animals. Illness and accidents were all accepted alike as inevitable by these strange fatalists.

The Doctor treated several of his patients in the verandah; others were taken into the surgery. Beryl could see him moving to and fro, absorbed in what he was doing, his whole mind given to his work. She also saw Minachee flitting about among the people, sometimes following them into the surgery, sometimes helping the weaker ones to move, holding bandages and handing towels or sponge as they were needed. She seemed in truth, as he had said, the Doctor’s right hand. She was the more helpful this morning, as he was in a hurry to get his business done and to dismiss the people.

It was easy for the most casual observer to see how the poor sick creatures trusted their Doctor. They submitted to his treatment in perfect faith, sure that if any one could relieve their aches and pains it was he. It was no unusual thing to have men and women come from a long distance, for the report of his skill reached far and wide in the district. Beryl also observed the patience and tenderness with which he did his work, how he soothed with gentle words and gave confidence with his firm touch. No physician, earning his guinea fees, could have been kinder, nor have shown more attention to his cases than Dr. Manning. Nor were the people ungrateful. It was true that their gratitude did not take the form of words, but it was seen in their dark eyes as they listened to his directions, received his medicine from his hands, and salaaming low left him. It was all he wanted, for he loved them in spite of their ignorant superstitions. He understood them as far as it was possible, and was never impatient with their follies. He credited no evil to their account beyond that which arose from their caste customs, which had been practised from time immemorial by long generations of forefathers.

At last the business of the morning was finished. Everybody had been attended to, and one and all had hurried back to field and hut. The apothecary, who had been busy compounding medicines in the surgery, was washing his minim glass and pestle and mortar. Minachee stood with folded hands waiting for the word of thanks and the smile with which she was usually rewarded and dismissed. This morning it did not come. The Doctor in his haste to get Beryl away had forgotten the dasi’s very existence. It was a little hard, and yet it was scarcely to be wondered at. The dog-cart arrived, and Felix came into the room where Beryl was sitting.

“I am ready now, Miss Holdsworth. Here are your hat and gloves. I am sorry to have kept you so long.” Beryl made an effort to get up, but she could not move for the pain.

“Let me help you,” he cried with concern. “You are stiff already; I am afraid you will suffer pain and discomfort for a day or two, but it will soon pass away.”

He assisted her to rise out of the chair, she smiling the while at her sudden helplessness.

“It is like an attack of rheumatism coming on,” she cried, laughing; but at the same time a little grimace was forced from her by the pain.

Felix led her to the dog-cart, and more than half lifted her into it. So occupied was he that he saw nothing of the little figure standing patiently in the verandah. Taking up the reins he drove away with but one thought in his head—to get Beryl home and out of the sun as quickly as possible.

But the English girl was not altogether unmindful of the olive-skinned beauty who had ministered to her needs at the bidding of the Doctor. She turned to give her a grateful glance, and utter a word of thanks; and in that glance there was just one grain of curiosity. The girl had not been dismissed like the rest, nor did she show any signs of going. She seemed at home in the dispensary as though she were part and parcel of it.

Minachee, standing in the deep shadow of the verandah, caught the glance and read the curiosity in it. Her olive skin deepened to a richer brown as the hot blood rushed to her face, and her eyes were once more aflame with the fury she need no longer hide. A sudden inspiration of evil flashed through her mind, making her look wonderfully like her mother for the moment.

“I should like to kill her; to close my hand over her white throat, so! and squeeze the life out of her so! and so! and so!” she muttered below her breath, her fingers working as she spoke. “But I cannot. He stands between us. I will crush her heart instead, and kill her happiness. He shall be mine! he shall be mine!”

“What are you muttering there to yourself, dasi?” said the apothecary, coming out to close the surgery door. “You had better be off to the temple. I cannot think why the Doctor allows you to hang about the place so much. Women are best at home cooking the rice.”

By which it will be seen that the apothecary’s estimation of women was in no way different from other Orientals; also that he felt some jealousy at the Doctor’s preference for the dancing-girl’s help in his work.

Chapter XII

The Police Officer Hears Something

“Are ye not children of transgression, a seed of falsehood; inflaming yourselves with idols under every green tree, slaying the children in the valleys under the clefts of the rocks?”
— Isaiah lvii.

Minachee went down the broad steps without a word. She was too full of her own wrongs to pay any heed to the man who had spoken so slightingly to her. She ran to the banyan tree and flung herself before the devil-stone, praying the swami to help her. It was a mad propitiatory supplication, interspersed with wild promises of offerings and sacrifices, that the demon would assist her to wreck the happiness of the English girl who stood between her and her love. It was the same kind of prayer which her mother had offered on the night of the dance, as she stood before the stone, and presented the basket of ghastly heads. By that sacrifice Deva had demanded the help of the swami presumptuously, her promises far exceeding her daughter’s in boldness and daring.

The poor dasi, lying there before the shapeless stone with her head bowed to the dust, wanted only a little love, a little favour from the one human being who brought beauty and light into her life. With that love she could go through her daily tasks willingly, the golden sunshine of happiness shedding its glory on her pathway; but without that love, life was a dreary, desolate round, a cry of misery instead of a hymn of joy. There was no one to teach this poor simple child of nature that the wild, ill-regulated desires of her soul could not be bought with the blood of goats; nor could those who stood between her and her wishes be removed at her pleasure by god or devil.

Gradually her passion spent itself. Calm reigned after the storm. She sat up, brushed the dead leaves and twigs from her hair, and with feminine vanity re-arranged the folds of her cloth. When the hour approached for her mid-day dinner, a healthy hunger drove her to the temple, where the usual meal of curry and rice was being served. She gave her assistance in the light household duties that were necessary in the temple, and afterwards took the customary afternoon sleep. Between four and five o’clock she dressed herself with care, and put on an extra jewel or two. With leisurely footsteps she wended her way to the engineer’s bungalow, and waited outside by the servants’ rooms. The ayah was busy indoors with the young mistress, but by-and-by she was released from her duties and came out. Minachee watched her opportunity and spoke to her. The woman eyed her suspiciously, and was not altogether without fear. She was a Roman Catholic, and had been taught to avoid her heathen neighbours; but for all that there lingered in her blood the superstition of generations of heathens. She was afraid of crossing the dasi, one of the wives of the gods and protected by them. In spite of her Christianity, she believed that it was bad to offend the dasi’s swami, even though he was no longer hers.

“I want to see the young mistress,” said the girl, as the ayah asked what business she had there.

“You cannot see her,” replied the woman, moving on to her own room.

The other caught her up with quick, eager steps and laid a detaining hand upon her arm.

“I must see her,” exclaimed the girl imperiously.

She, on her part, had an inborn contempt for the woman, because she was a pariah. The ayah felt the influence of caste, and meekly submitted to be detained against her better judgment.

“What is your business with my mistress?” she asked.

“I have something to tell her.”

The old woman eyed her suspiciously and her curiosity was awakened.

“You know nothing that she does not know. What should such as you have to tell my young mistress?”

“I have news to tell her about the Doctor; and I want to ask her a question.”

“He is there now,” said the ayah, with a significant glance towards the house. Then fixing her black eyes on the dasi she added, “He will marry that Missy some day.”

Minachee caught her breath but controlled herself.

“Perhaps,” she replied indifferently; “when can I speak with the English lady?”

She untied the corner of her cloth and displayed an ear-ring. It was not of much value, but it was set with a bright Ceylon ruby, which caught the ayah’s eyes, and her gaze fastened greedily upon it. She began to waver.

“To-morrow evening, perhaps, if Missy is better. She is full of pain now.”

Minachee refolded the jewel in her cloth.

“I will bring this with me to-morrow; it will become you well, mother. Old women need plenty of jewels if they wish to turn young men’s heads,” she cried with an impertinent laugh.

“Who threw the stone this morning?” asked the ayah suddenly.

The girl looked at her mischievously.

“The devil throws stones; you know that very well. And he will do more than that if your Missy rides through the tope again.”

The old servant cast an uncomfortable glance at the girl, who, proud in her youthful beauty, confident in herself and her schemes, bold with the freedom of her life, dared to threaten. Yet it was not an evil expression that curled the young lip and lit up the bright eye; it was only an unbridled nature that brooked no control. It irritated the ayah, however, and she exclaimed impatiently,—

“My Missy has had enough of you and your swami. She will not go near the tope again. If she went there too often, she might be seen no more, like the Doctor’s brother.”

The sharp eyes of the ayah watched for the effect of these words, which were a kind of challenge. But the dasi gave no sign. She only laughed in an exasperating manner.

“You would like to know where he is, would you not? But that is more than I can tell you. You think I know? I know nothing. He was not my love, and I do not care if he is alive or dead. The Doctor Sahib is my love.”

She came nearer to the ayah and whispered in her ear. The other started back, gazing at the girl incredulously. But she only repeated her words, and opening the bag which she wore in her girdle, she showed the old woman something. The ayah was evidently puzzled and did not know what to believe.

“To-morrow evening I will come again and you shall take me to your mistress; then this jewel shall sparkle in your ear,” said the dancing-girl, once more producing the ruby and making it scintillate in the rays of the sun. But the other made no reply; and as the dasi walked away, the ayah’s confidence returned. She forgot the jewel, and thinking only of her mistress, she determined that the dancing-girl’s request should not be granted if she could help it.

Beryl was unable to move about much the following day. As soon as she attempted to do anything the pain was so great that she was obliged to stop. She chafed at the enforced idleness, but her mother was firm in keeping her to the sofa.

“I am going to the station this afternoon and must leave you. I am afraid that I shall be away at least two hours,” said Mrs. Holdsworth fussily.

“Never mind, I shall be quite happy.”

Beryl watched her mother making preparations for the business she had in hand. As soon as the girl heard the carriage drive off, she called the ayah.

“Send this letter by a syce to Major Brett. Tell the man to run fast.”

Half an hour later the police officer drove up to the house. He was shown into the drawing-room, where he found Beryl lying on a couch. The punkah swung slowly overhead, tossing with its breath the pale blue ribbons of her white dress. She greeted him nervously. Her heart beat unusually fast, and her bosom rose and fell with her quickened breathing. She spoke to the servant who announced him.

“If any ladies call, say that I cannot see them.” Then turning to her visitor she said, “Good evening, please find a chair for yourself. I am a cripple for the present as you see.”

He shook hands with her as he replied,—

“I heard you had had a fall from your horse, and could not believe such a thing could have happened to so good a horsewoman. How was it? I suppose the animal took you unawares?”

“Yes; did you not hear? A stone was thrown from the tope as I was passing, and the Arab was frightened.”

“A stone?” he cried, looking serious. “Dear me! This must be inquired into. Was this what you wanted to see me about?”

The girl looked away as she replied,—

“No; my tale that I have to tell is much more serious. I ought to have told it you long ago, but I had not the courage.”

She spoke in such evident distress that the Major, business man that he was, felt sorry for her; at the same time, he wondered more than a little what she could have to tell him in his official capacity.

“I am not such a very formidable old fellow, am I, that you need be afraid of me?”

She smiled gratefully at him; his words reassured her. She replied,—

“I tried to get out of my difficulty by asking Dr. Manning to speak, but he refused absolutely. It was for that purpose I met him yesterday, and rode to the dispensary; otherwise I should not have gone near the tope.”

“And what did you want him to confess?” he asked, thinking that the question would make her task easier.

“I wished him to tell you how he spent the night of the devil-dance. As he declines to do so I must.”

“And how did he spend it?”

“With me.”

“By Jove!” ejaculated the Major, startled in spite of himself, and regarding her curiously.

“He was with me all that night, till nearly four in the morning; and then he left me at the door of my house. The ayah let me in.”

“And where had you been all that time?”

“We were at the devil-dance. Oh! Major Brett, it was awful! awful!”

She covered her face with her hands.

“What folly—what madness induced Dr. Manning to take you to such an unholy scene? He ought to have known better,” exclaimed the Major, his face growing dark with anger at the thought of an Englishman suffering one of his own country-women to be present at such an orgie, to say nothing of the danger he ran in taking her to a place of the kind.

“It was not his fault, he could not prevent it,” she said in jealous vindication of his character. “Let me tell you the whole tale without interruption, and you shall ask me what questions you like; and say what course will be best to pursue to free Dr. Manning from all suspicion.”

The police officer with no little interest settled himself in his chair to hear her story; and with more consideration than he was wont to show in examining his witnesses, he half turned away so that she might not feel that she was being watched.

“For some days before the dance, Will talked of it frequently, and told me all he knew of it. It was not much, but it was enough to rouse my keenest curiosity; and I expressed a great wish to be present. He said that he, too, had set his heart on being there; and he asked me whether I had the courage to go if he found the means of taking me. Utterly thoughtless I jumped at his proposition, and promised faithfully that I would go. It seemed to me a most delightful adventure without any real danger; and yet with enough enterprise to make it very fascinating. Will found out when it was to begin; and he also reconnoitred the situation, and declared that he had discovered a place from whence we could see the whole affair, without the least fear of being detected. He said we might creep up under cover of the darkness, in perfect safety, by the way the sacrificial animals were driven from the enclosure. The people would all be on the other side, facing the stone. We were to hide behind one of the trees, and peep at the proceedings: and if we did not feel safe, we could always retrace our steps. The dance took place on the night of Mrs. Leigh’s party, and we agreed to leave early. If mother was with me, I was to say good-night, and to go to my room as usual, change my dress and join Will in the compound. As it was, poor mother was laid up with a headache, so I had no difficulty there. As I think of it now, with all its hideous consequences, I feel ready to die with shame.”

She looked so sad, so broken down with remorse, that the rough soldier’s heart was touched.

“Nonsense, my dear! you must not reproach yourself. It was mad, very mad; but there was nothing criminal about it. But go on; let me hear what the Doctor was about in permitting such a thing. Did he know of your intentions?”

“Yes, and he was very angry. But we only laughed at him; and Will, I am afraid, had words with him at home about it. On the night of Mrs. Leigh’s party Dr. Manning watched us, and when I said good-night, and he saw Will going at the same time, he also took his departure. He did not join us immediately, but walked some distance behind. It was during that walk that Will proposed to me, and I was half inclined to give up the expedition in consequence. But he took my refusal so lightly and unconcernedly, and I was so anxious to see the fun that I readily yielded to his entreaties, and consented to join him as soon as I had changed my dress. He did not change his, but waited for me at the gate. I wore an old brown cotton frock, a colour I thought least likely to be seen. I joined Will, and just as we were starting off to walk to the tope Dr. Manning came up. He had hurried home and put on a rough suit of khaki. ‘Will, for Heaven’s sake do not go!’ he said. ‘Oh! get away with your fears and qualms, I tell you we mean to go,’ Will replied impatiently. Dr. Manning did not lose his temper, but I could see that he was much agitated by the way he spoke. ‘Miss Holdsworth, I beg of you not to go. You do not know the danger you are running,’ he said, turning to me. ‘Miss Holdsworth is no coward,’ said Will before I could reply. ‘Come, Beryl, let him go home and fortify himself with a glass of whiskey and soda, and let us be off, or the play will be over before we get there.’ I was sorry to find Dr. Manning so seriously concerned. I could not see his face, but I could hear by his voice that he was dreadfully troubled, so I said, ‘I promise that I will not venture too near. I will keep your brother out of mischief. Please do not trouble about us. Go home to bed, and we will tell you all about it in the morning.’ He laid a hand on my arm, as though he would have drawn me back towards the house; but Will darted forward, and forcibly pushed him away. He did not exactly strike his brother a blow, but it came very near to being a blow. Dr. Manning said nothing more after that, but allowed us to take our own course.”

“You could not see his face, you say, so you do not know if the Doctor was very angry with his brother?”

“I should say that he was troubled more than angry, and his one thought was to prevent Will from leading me into any harm. We started off towards the village, prepared to walk to the tope. We did not talk, as we were anxious not to attract the attention of any stray people from the town. I think that at the bottom of our hearts we both felt like naughty children, now that we had really embarked on the expedition. Dr. Manning’s words had had the effect of shaking our self-confidence. I whispered once to Will, ‘Are you sure that we shall be running no risk?’ ‘None at all,’ he replied impatiently, and I said no more. Dr. Manning followed behind us at about a hundred yards; we could not see him, but we knew that he was not far off. When we got near the tope we left the road, and skirted round to the side where the animals were. It was a weird scene. The people were eating their curry and rice by their camp fires, sitting in groups, and the grove was dimly lighted by the burning wood and leaves. To my excited imagination they looked like a party of demons at some horrid carnival; the blue smoke and the crackling wood, the giant trees in the red firelight, helped in the delusion. Round about the trees it was all darkness, which suited us exactly; and we crept up closer and closer till we could see the faces of the people distinctly. Then we stood still and watched them, and Will wondered if the dance were over. His brother came up and whispered to us that it was probably over, and again he tried to persuade us to go home. But Will replied that he had seen none of the fun yet. ‘Shall we not be seen here?’ I asked, for my courage was fast oozing away. ‘Very likely,’ answered the Doctor. There was a stir amongst the people; some of the men got up, talking with great excitement. ‘Let us go a little further back,’ I said. I was just making a move when we heard footsteps behind us. Will, who seemed suddenly to lose his head, seized me by the hand and drew me swiftly towards the tree. The steps behind had alarmed me; I made no resistance therefore, but allowed myself to be led. Dr. Manning followed me closely, whatever he may have thought, and before I could realise what was being done we were all three inside the tree, scrambling up towards the hollow bole under Will’s guidance.”

“Ah! so I was right. That was the very place which I thought had attracted the foolish boy,” murmured the Major.

“We were none too soon, for there was a general movement among the people, who had just finished their meal. We must have been discovered if we had remained where we were when they began to light up.”

She paused, and the Major remained silent; her tale was not yet ended.

“I do not know how I got up the tree, I believe Dr. Manning helped me. Will went in front, dragging me as far as he could. My feet sank into the soft, spongy stuff, and my hands caught ragged bark or wood hanging from the sides of the trunk. Dust and particles of wood dropped on to my cloth cap and hair, and crawling insects fell on my neck and wrists. I began now to be thankful that Dr. Manning had followed us, though it was more than we deserved. We could just see the light of the camp fires through the narrow slits in the trunk; and, when my eyes got accustomed to the darkness of the hollow tree, I could distinguish Will above. He was as eager and as curious as a schoolboy. I think he had quite forgotten me and his brother in his keenness to watch the proceedings. Dr. Manning made no attempt to look on. He forgot everything but the foolish girl who had run her head into such unnecessary danger. He moved, and took up his position close to me, leaning against the rough wall of the trunk. Some people now approached the tree, and lighted a row of cressets just below us. As the burning wicks shed their light on the platform I nearly screamed with horror. Beneath us was the devil-stone, which rests, as you know, against the trunk, and which was therefore out of our sight. But we had a full view of the altar, and on this lay a row of bleeding heads of goats. The poor things’ eyes were starting from their sockets, and their tongues were hanging out. The platform was crimson with blood, and there was blood on the ground. The people stood in a large wide semicircle gazing fixedly towards us. The light from the lamps shone upon their faces. They were wild, fierce countenances, not a bit like our quiet, peaceful townspeople. Some madness seemed to have transformed them. They frowned and knitted their brows, rolling their eyes over the tree as though they expected each moment to see the evil spirit. I had no idea that they could look so horrible. A woman came forward from behind, wearing a garland of oleander blossom. Her white cloth was stained with blood; she was like some awful priestess of murder and bloodshed. She came close beneath me as she stood before the devil-stone, and raising her arms towards us she seemed to mutter curses. Perhaps she was only praying to the idol, but the expression on her face was dreadful; it was so fanatical, so bold, so evil, I could fancy her capable of any wickedness, any crime. I felt sure she must have seen me for our eyes met, and in that look I read her heart. In mortal dread I stepped back, and Dr. Manning, ever watchful, caught me, or I should have fallen down that steep plane of soft rotten wood, and our hiding-place would have been discovered. He supported me for a few minutes, and, when I had recovered my self-possession, I drew myself up to my point of observation again, for I was fascinated by the scene below. The dreadful flower-bedecked woman with her bloodstained garments was beginning to dance. It was like a nautch at first. She moved to and fro, jingling her anklet bells, the crowd following her eagerly with their eyes, and she began to sing. It was a strange, sad song at first; but it grew into a wild, passionate cry like some lost soul. As she sang the people’s hearts seemed stirred within them, and there was an odd tumult among them. It appeared as though she were awakening the spirit of the drink they had taken, rousing it out of its drunken stupidity into the maddest, wildest fanaticism. Then the crowd parted, and two people were pushed forward, falling at the feet of this awful woman. They remained a short time as if they were dead; but presently they shuddered. The woman danced round them, waving her arms over them like a witch casting spells with incantations. They got up in a dazed sort of way, and with wide staring eyes they staggered about before the altar. The tomtoms beat, the horns roared, the people shouted. It was a more horrible scene of confusion and devilry than I had ever imagined. The dancers never ceased. They swayed backwards and forwards, writhing and clutching at the air and foaming at the mouth. They tore their hair and their cloths till they had no clothing at all. Oh! it was horrible! fearful! I shall never forget that hideous dance, those convulsed figures swaying before that staring, excited mob, and that bloodstained woman.”

Burying her face once more in her hands, Beryl ceased speaking.

“It was no place for you,” said Major Brett, who had listened with the deepest interest to her tale. “Well, what happened next?”

“I turned away in horror, feeling sick and faint,” she continued. “The spell was broken, and my curiosity was more than satisfied. I had received a shock; my whole being revolted at the scene; I began to tremble, and I stretched out my hand to Dr. Manning for support. He came to my help again, and putting his arm round me he held me firmly. It was a mercy that he did so, for a moment after there was a sound inside the tree just above Will. It was the hiss of a snake. I heard it above the noise of the dance, because it was in our very ears. Do you know the sound, Major Brett?”

He nodded his head. She continued,—

“Will heard it, for it must have been almost upon him. Indeed, it must actually have touched him; he started violently, and shook his arm with an exclamation of horror. Then before we were aware of his intention, he plunged down to the bottom of the tree. Whether he fell or jumped I do not know; but he rushed past us, and I should have fallen with him if Dr. Manning had not held me tightly with an iron grip. Will got up and dashed out of the tree. My impulse was to follow him, but my companion would not let me. ‘Keep still for your life,’ he whispered in my ear. How I obeyed him I do not know, for I felt the snake fall heavily on my neck and glide over my shoulder. I must have betrayed myself if it had not been for the stronger will of the Doctor. Oh, Major Brett! I think the snake was even worse than the devil-dance. That cold, scaly body sliding over my neck was fearful beyond description. It was quite dark, for the lights had been extinguished at the first alarm. ‘Oh, let me go! I cannot stay here!’ I whispered in an agony. But Dr. Manning was adamant. ‘Be silent, and you will be safe,’ he said sternly. So we remained motionless for fully five minutes, leaning against the side of the trunk. It seemed an eternity. Then there was a stir amongst the mob, and fortunately for us a babel of voices was raised. Under cover of that noise Dr. Manning moved me into a sitting posture, and crouching by my side he kept watch and ward all through that fearful night. The dance, which recommenced soon after Will left us, continued till the early hours of the morning. At last it came to an end, the lights went out one by one, and the people sank into slumber deep and heavy. How I existed through it all I cannot tell. Each moment I expected to hear the hiss of a snake, and to feel its long cold body touch me. Once a large ant or spider bit me, and I started up, but Dr. Manning made me sit down again. He dared not speak unless absolutely obliged. I clung to him in the dark like a frightened child. Oh, Major Brett! he was so kind, so considerate, and he did not once reproach me for my folly in placing him and myself in such a situation. Just think what might have been my fate if I had been alone with Will. I might have been killed—as he was, I am beginning to feel sure.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper, and her eyes sought confirmation of her suspicions in his. He nodded his head, and remained silent, thinking over what she had told him.

“And how did you get away?” he asked presently.

“It was no easy matter; for the people laid like so many logs about the grove, and we feared lest we should disturb them. The path most likely to be clear was the one by which we had come, leading out of the grove past the enclosure for the goats. But that path was barred for a long time by two people, who moved about with a light. They were busy with the dead bodies of the animals—cutting them up I suppose—and for another hour, which seemed like twelve to me, we were kept prisoners in the tree. At last, to Dr. Manning’s intense relief, he saw them go away towards the temple, and he thought we might venture forth. How my heart beat as we stepped out into the open air from our suffocating prison! All round us we could hear the snores and heavy breathing of the people; but we could not see them in the darkness of the tope. We walked cautiously along till we approached the edge of the grove; and here I nearly fell over the sacrificial stone that stands at the back of the tope. I gave a suppressed scream as I stumbled, and in an instant Dr. Manning pulled me down to the ground, so that our figures should not be seen against the light. My scream had disturbed some one; a voice called out and asked who was there; and a man got up and walked towards us. He came close to the stone and looked out into the open beyond, right and left. But mercifully he did not see us; he must have taken our huddled forms for the carcases. He carried a loaded staff in his hand, for I could hear the thud of it on the ground as he walked, and one blow of it would have dashed out our brains. He was probably the watchman, and was keeping an eye on the meat, lest thieves or jackals should steal it. We waited till he had moved away, and then we crept along to the enclosure, where we could find cover under the stone fence. When once we had put the wall between us and the tope, we ran; Dr. Manning took my arm to support me, and we both ran as I have never run before, till we reached the road. He was half inclined to take me to the dispensary, but I determined to get home; and we trudged all that weary way to the cantonment. Dr. Manning left me at my house a little before four, and the ayah, who was waiting for me, let me in. I promised him that I would go to bed, and try to sleep; but it was impossible. As soon as I closed my eyes, I saw that awful scene again; or I felt the cold body of the snake crawling over me; and it ended by my being hysterical. Now, Major Brett, you know how Dr. Manning spent that eventful night, and why he refused to tell you where he was.”

It was a strange tale, and the police officer could not help regarding the girl, who told it, with some wonder. The rashness and thoughtlessness of the child were oddly mingled with the courage of the persistent woman. That courage had certainly given way, and she would have betrayed herself had it not been for the Doctor. But how she could ever have entertained the notion of being present at such an orgie, astonished the practical military man.

He gave her time to recover herself as he wanted to ask several questions, which required a clear head to answer, and as little emotion as possible.

“Did you recognise any one amongst the crowd?”

“No one; they were all strange faces to me.”

“You say that there was a woman who wore a blood-stained cloth; who was she?”

“I did not know her. She danced like a nautch girl, so I suppose she belonged to the temple.”

“And the stains on her cloth were probably from the sacrificial animals. Did you see her again after William Manning left you?”

“No, I could not look again. How I could have gazed so long at the scene, I cannot think. I seemed spell-bound and under some horrible fascination. Moreover, the Doctor kept me sitting at the bottom of the trunk, from which position we could see nothing.”

“She was not Minachee, the dancing-girl, who belongs to the temple?”

“No, I am sure she was not Minachee, though she was something like her. She was an older woman.”

“Her mother, probably. So you know the dancing-girl by sight?” asked the major not without a little curiosity.

“Yes, I have seen her with Dr. Manning. She was at the dispensary yesterday, helping the Doctor with his patients.”

“What an ass he is to let her hang about him like that!” murmured the major to himself, forgetting who his listener was.

Something in his tone made her look up at him and in that look he read her ignorance of the strange customs of the Hindus living around her. He was vexed with himself. “Of course, as a medical man he is brought into contact with all kinds of people,” he said hastily. “And now can you tell me which direction William took when he left you?”

“That I cannot tell, for I saw nothing after the alarm. Besides, the lights were extinguished at the same moment that he dashed out of the tree; and there was an extraordinary silence for the space of five minutes or more, as if the people waited in breathless anticipation of something awful. It was during that time Dr. Manning held me, and compelled me by force of will to keep silent. I must otherwise have screamed and betrayed myself, especially when I felt the snake.”

“It was probably harmless—a sluggish tree-snake, in search of bats and birds. Have you any notion who the two people were, whom you saw with a lantern after the sightseers had gone to sleep?”

“No; except of course that they were natives who had been present at the dance. I scarcely saw them myself. Dr. Manning may know more as he kept watch. I remained inside the tree till he told me to come out.”

“You heard no cry nor scream during that silent five minutes.”

Not a sound but the throbbing of my own heart, which beat like a sledge-hammer. I am sure that if we had heard any cry for help, Dr. Manning would have risked all, and gone to his brother’s assistance.”

Major Brett asked many more questions, till he felt sure that he had learnt all she had to tell. Then, after a pause in the conversation, during which he was turning over all this fresh evidence in his mind, Beryl said,—

“You are no longer suspicious that Dr. Manning had any hand in his brother’s disappearance?”

“How do you know that I thought he had?” he rejoined sharply.

“I know this much:—that it is the general opinion of the station, and that you share that opinion;” she replied without any hesitation.

“At any rate, I am satisfied now that he knows no more than you or I what has become of his brother.”

“I am so thankful to hear you say so,” said Beryl. “I want you to clear him from all suspicion by telling everybody the story of that evening.”

“What!” shouted the major, “let the whole world know that you were fool enough to spend the night with the Mannings in a hollow tree, looking on at one of these depraved native orgies!”

He gazed at her again, as though she were some strange creature he did not understand. He fully expected to be asked to keep her secret, and to preserve the strictest silence. But for her to beg him to tell the whole story abroad, in all its details, surprised him beyond measure; and in his surprise he spoke more bluntly than he intended.

“There is no other way of clearing his character, than by letting it be known where he was that night,” said Beryl.

“At any rate, if the story is told, your name can be kept out of it,” he said with rough good nature. He was touched at her determination to clear the Doctor’s name at any sacrifice. “We can let the world know, then, that he was ass enough to accompany his brother.”

“But the world will call him a coward for not following Will when he left the tree, if nothing is said of the reason why he remained hidden. No! It must all come out. If I am questioned about it, I am sure that I shall not be able to hide the facts. It will be better and easier to tell the truth at once. I wish I had done so from the very first.”

But Major Brett was thoroughly roused now into the sympathetic, chivalrous man.

“There is no occasion for the facts to be made known to any one but myself,” he said emphatically and decisively. “Miss Holdsworth, this shall remain between ourselves, I will undertake to set the Doctor straight with the neighbours. The suspicions are of the very vaguest, and no one has gone so far as to think that he could have murdered his brother.”

The major scarcely realised how near he had been to that point himself. “You have told me so much, that I feel morally certain that William met with violence, death, or kidnapping, at the hands of those fanatics. I must see Manning; and also find out if possible who were present at the devil-dance. We must renew our search for Will,”—he almost said “the body,” but checked himself in time. “One thing more I should like to know. What dress were you wearing?”

“A thin brown cotton.”

“Have you it here?”

“I believe so.”

She called the ayah who brought out the garment. Brett took it out into the verandah, under pretence of getting more light, and there he searched it closely. He found what he wanted.

“Human blood,” he said. “Poor girl—she must have touched the body in her flight. That devil of a woman had a hand in it, and it is she who has been dragging the red herring across the trail.”

Brett rolled up the dress and gave it back to the ayah. Sitting down by Beryl’s side he began to chat of other subjects. It was a well-meant effort to take the girl’s mind off the scenes on which she had been dwelling.

“Now tell me about your accident, yesterday; and then I must be off.”

She described the stone-throwing in all its detail, but there was not much to be told.

“Ah! well! do not go near the place again until the mystery is unravelled. Say nothing to any one about your escapade that night. Leave it all to me; I feel sure that I shall get to the bottom of it before long.”

After a little more persuasion she agreed to keep her own counsel; she thanked him and he took his departure.

He did not see the dancing-girl standing amongst the servants as he rode away. But Minachee waited in vain that evening to have her interview with her rival. Beryl did not leave her sofa; and when darkness closed in, the dasi walked back to the temple through the town. But though disappointed of her purpose to-night, she was none the less determined that she would see the English girl the next day, even if she had to force her way into the house.

Chapter XIII

A Dispute

“Give me any plague, but the plague of the heart: and any wickedness, but the wickedness of a woman.” — Ecclesiasticus xxv.

Beryl was alone for an hour after Major Brett left her. She was feeling happier and easier in her mind now that her confession was made. She was sure that in making it she had quite gained the sympathies of the major, and he would do all in his power to kill out any vague suspicions that might linger in men’s minds. The assurance from him that the tale of her escapade need not be known was an intense relief. She scarcely realised what a terrible ordeal publicity would have been whilst she talked with Major Brett. She had wrought herself up to such a point that no self-sacrifice seemed too great at the time; but now that she knew how unnecessary such a course would be, she was conscious of the peace and comfort it brought to her mind. She had an excellent night, undisturbed by any dream of the horrors she had so graphically described to the major.

She awoke feeling infinitely refreshed, and much less stiff and sore. She dressed herself and appeared at the breakfast table. During the morning, she was able to busy herself over the little domestic duties which fell to her share.

Minachee came to the house early in the afternoon, trying in vain to persuade the ayah to take her in to her young mistress’s room. The jewel seemed to have lost its charm for the old woman, and she steadily refused to carry in a message, or even to tell Beryl that the girl was there. Finding bribery and corruption useless, Minachee grew desperate; she approached the house boldly, following the ayah under pretence of talking to her. The woman’s duties took her inside, and she could no longer remain away. She tried in vain to shake her off, and had she been one of her own caste, she would have done so; but she could not treat a dasi so unceremoniously; nor lay a finger upon her to eject her forcibly, as she feared to bring ill-luck upon herself and her family. Minachee thus followed the ayah—still talking in earnest, pleading tones—to the very door of the dressing-room, which opened into the verandah that ran on that side of the house. Beryl heard her voice, and looked out of her window. The watchful eyes of the dancing-girl caught sight of her, and she made a low salaam, holding out her hands as though in entreaty. Beryl recognised her, and calling the ayah asked what she wanted. Very unwillingly the old woman replied that the girl was begging to be allowed a few words with her.

“Let her come and say what she wishes,” said Beryl instantly. “I saw the girl at the dispensary the morning I fell from my horse; she helped me with my toilette; perhaps she wants a present for what she did for me.”

“She is not asking for a present,” said the old woman sulkily, opening the door for Minachee.

The girl was fascinatingly lovely. All trace of jealousy and anger had disappeared, and there was nothing but humility and simplicity in the beautiful eyes and perfectly formed mouth. Beryl smiled at her graciously, and signed to her to come in without fear.

“What do you want of me?” she asked in her gentlest tones, thinking that the girl was shy. The ayah much against her will translated. The girl replied volubly, and when Beryl looked to the old woman for explanation she was silent.

“Tell me what she says, ayah,” she cried with something of the old imperiousness which children adopt to their native servants. Force of habit made the ayah obey without another word.

“She wants to ask you about the English marriage customs. I tell her that you will have her beaten off the compound, if she asks such rude questions.”

The ayah had not dared to make such a threat, but she hoped by saying this, that she would give her young mistress a hint how to deal with the girl’s impertinent curiosity. But Beryl was only amused and surprised; and she was not a little inquisitive to know why the girl asked such an extraordinary question. What could she want with information about English marriage customs?

“Yes! what does she want to know about them?”

Minachee’s face wore a particularly simple and guileless expression as she said,—

“May an Englishman marry any one he chooses?”

“Oh, yes,” Beryl replied with much amusement.

“May he marry one who is not of his own nation?”

“Yes; many Englishmen marry French, German, or Italian wives.”

It seemed idle curiosity on the part of the dancing-girl, to trouble her head about such subjects; but Beryl was good-natured, and she felt that she owed her something for the attentions shown the other morning.

“May an Englishman marry a girl of this country?”

“Yes, if she is not already the wife of some one else,” Beryl answered. She could not see the drift of these queries, and thought it nothing less than a strange freak on the part of the dasi.

“And if he marries a girl of this country, will she be his wife in the eyes of his people in England?”

“I suppose so, if he ties the knot legally.”

“How would she be received if she went to England as his wife?”

She hardly knew how to reply.

“If she were a good and obedient girl, I suppose she would be received as a sister. But why do you ask?”

Minachee gave her a keen glance and then dropped her eyes.

“An Englishman has promised to take me to England. I want to know if I shall be scorned and laughed at by his people if I consent to go?”

“It is false,” cried the ayah in Tamil; “no Englishman would offer to marry a temple-girl. The poojaries would never consent.”

“Who asks their consent?” exclaimed the girl passionately. “What would they care if I left the place? and what, indeed, would they do if once I put my foot on the big ship? Would they follow me across the black water? No! they would curse me and let me go. And who cares for their curses? Not I!”

They spoke in their own language; Beryl looked from one to the other, comprehending that they were disputing warmly, but not understanding what it was all about. She began to think that she had made a mistake in admitting the girl.

“What is it all about, ayah?” she asked in a tone that the servant recognised, and which at once quieted her.

“I am telling her that it is not true,” she said.

“And she is angry with you. Tell her that I am busy, and that I have no more time to talk.”

But Minachee had no intention of departing yet.

“Does the young lady not wish to know who it is that will take me to England?” Then without waiting for a reply she continued. “It is the doctor, Dr. Manning.”

The ayah refused to interpret the speech. Minachee therefore repeated his name several times, so that it might safely reach the ears of the English girl. Beryl recognised it, and controlled herself with an effort.

“It is not true, Missy, The girl lies. She is a bad wicked girl to say such things,” cried the old woman in an agony of distress.

Minachee read the expression of her face and laughed a little merry, unconcerned laugh; it was an impertinent little laugh, and it rendered the ayah furious. She began to abuse the girl, and ordered her to leave the room. But Minachee had yet another card to play. She opened a brass box of beautiful workmanship, and took out several trinkets of manifestly European make.

“The Doctor gave me these,” she said, kissing each jewel tenderly.

And now she produced her trump card. Furtively glancing in her rival’s face to see the effect of her last move, she drew forth a photograph of Felix, and pressed passionate kisses upon it. There was no doubt about the action and the love it evinced. Beryl shrank away from her with a chilled heart. Where words had failed to impress, actions succeeded. And she was shaken with a sudden distrust that took her unawares. But even with this girl before her, passionately avowing her love for Felix in extravagant fashion, and vehemently declaring that she was to be his wife, Beryl’s whole soul revolted against the overwhelming doubt that assailed her. She fought nobly against the mean green-eyed monster, and she despised herself for the unworthy thoughts that raged tumultuously within her breast. The tale was false, no matter how the girl came by the trinkets and the photograph. It could not be otherwise than false. Yet, if it were not true, how did the girl learn to love him with such a passionate, hopeful love, that seemed so sure of him? Would she have given him that love unasked, unsought, without one spark of encouragement? Her eyes rested on the dasi, apparently rapt in the ecstasy of her love. The girl was so beautiful; she had been with him so frequently of late. With a rush of memory she saw her on that moonlight night in the road, waiting for his coming; and again at the dispensary, standing in the verandah. Was her tale utterly false? utterly without foundation? The hot blood rushed to her brow, and a blush dyed her cheek. She mastered herself, and rising from her seat, she said gently to the ayah,—

“Do not scold the girl. Tell her that what the English Doctor promises, he will perform; whatever he says, she may believe. He is a good man, and she may trust him entirely.”

Beryl spoke with such dignity and gentleness that the dasi was impressed. She ceased her extravagant adoration, and looked full and intently into her face. Then gathering up the trinkets and the photograph, she quietly left the room.

The English girl leaned back in her chair breathless and pale. Her mind was in a whirl. The feeling of peace and happiness which her confession had shed over her was gone. In spite of valiant endeavours to banish the subject from her mind, the dancing-girl’s words recurred, and the vision of her passionate adoration of the Doctor’s picture was burnt in upon her brain with startling vividness. She knew very little of the native nature, swayed as it is with impulsive emotions, and permeated with subtlety and deceit. Her refined European mind was totally unfitted to grasp the idea of an immodest, unsought love. It was foreign to her very nature, incomprehensible and unnatural. No girl in her opinion could display such a love unasked. Then came the question, Was it unasked? was it unsought? Why should she imagine that it was unsought? Had Felix ever given her, Beryl, word or sign that his heart was hers? what right had she to criticise his actions? Only a few weeks ago she belonged, in his eyes, to his brother; and what had he said to give her cause to believe that he regarded her as anything else than sister. Indeed, that was what he had called her more than once of late. When he asked her to have faith in him, he had not spoken one word of love. The faith he asked for was in his honesty and integrity, in his judgment as to what course was best.

Poor torn heart! Common sense dictated hard words to it. It said, “He is not yours. He has a right to love where he will. Other men before him have wedded India’s daughters. What is there wrong about it? It is only a matter of taste. The girl is more beautiful than you are, and why should she not make him a good wife?”

Beryl in her innocence knew nothing of the private life of a dasi. Yet the thought of such a union revolted her, and she shrank as from a sudden blow. Pride stepped in hastily to remove her from the platform, on which she had allowed the dasi to stand. She also removed Felix from the pedestal on which she had placed him. The links that seemed to bind her to him were suddenly snapped by the sight of that beautiful claimant for his hand. The blood mounted to her brow as she remembered that there were moments in the past when she had been betrayed into more solicitude on his behalf than was necessary from a casual friend. She resolved that it would be well in future to be more guarded in her own words, more careful not to misconstrue his.

People living in an up-country station are thrown very much upon themselves for amusement. There can be very little variety where the same members of society meet almost daily. The round of gaieties consists of picnics, breakfast parties, afternoon teas, followed by the usual outdoor games and occasional dinners. Chengalem was no different from other stations in this respect. On the afternoon of Minachee’s visit, Beryl found herself at Mrs. Frost’s house, drinking tea in the garden. The excuse for the gathering on this occasion was photography.

O’Brien, who was as keen a photographer as ever, had transferred his enthusiasm to Miss Frost as a model. She became the photographic figure in the foreground of most of his pictures. Though O’Brien was too chivalrous to say so, she made a much better model than Beryl. Her artistic taste, as a sketcher, enabled her to advise him as to choice of subject and arrangement of picture. His experience in photography entitled him to a little friendly criticism of her efforts in pencil and colour. Beryl watched the progress of affairs with some amusement. She liked Miss Frost, and felt the sunshine of her bright, happy nature. She had also been drawn towards her when she championed Felix and his cause.

Beryl was late in arriving at her friend’s house, as her interview with Minachee had delayed her.

She found the company busy with a group. O’Brien, who was operating, called to her to join them, but she declined. Felix and Major Brett were walking apart absorbed in deep conversation. The attitude of the police officer had altered towards the medical man since he had heard the story of the devil-dance. His mind was entirely cleared from the cobwebs of suspicion, and he was uniting himself heart and soul with the Doctor in endeavouring to elucidate the mystery.

“I have no excuse to offer for allowing the girl to be present, except that I was utterly powerless to prevent it,” Felix was saying.

The major nodded. He was not troubling himself over that part of the business.

“I quite understand,” he replied. “It is not for me to blame anybody, except that the story was not told to me before. Much valuable time has been lost already, and I begin to fear that we shall never find any trace of the poor lad.”

“You understand also, Major Brett, why I was silent. I could not compromise Miss Holdsworth by telling the tale of that night’s doings.”

“Of course, of course,” said the major absently.

They paced along the garden path between the beautiful foliage plants in silence for awhile, the elder man knitting his brows and puffing vigorously at his cheroot in deep thought. Presently he stopped.

“Do you remember testing a piece of cotton material for me a short time ago?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And you pronounced it human blood.”

“Certainly; I could swear to it. What has that got to do with the case?”

“When I was with Miss Holdsworth yesterday, I asked her to let me see the dress she wore. A piece had been cut out; I found the missing piece in your writing table when I examined your house.”

Felix wore an expression of surprise at which the major laughed.

“My dear fellow! You need not look at me like that. We policemen never do things by halves, and whilst I was about it, I may as well tell you I did the thing thoroughly. I must confess that the blood-stained cloth puzzled me. Now how did Miss Holdsworth get such a stain upon her frock?”

The two men gazed at each other: the one with keen enquiry and the other with consternation written on his face. Felix made no reply.

“How did you come to cut the piece out?” asked Major Brett.

“I saw the dress hanging over a chair in her dressing-room the morning after the devil-dance. I was called in to see her professionally,” he explained. “I suspected that there might be certain stains as we passed so close to the sacrificial stone; and fearing that the sight of such a thing might give her another shock, I cut the stain out bodily. Of course I took it to be the blood of goats. Human blood? Do you mean to tell me that the rag I tested was a portion of that dress?”

“Most assuredly.”

“And what do you think this means?”

“Murder, foul murder by those fiends of poojaries. You and she in your flight from the tree must have actually come into contact with poor William’s bleeding body.”

Felix had no words to express his emotion, and the major smoked on in silence resuming his walk.

“I have heard Miss Holdsworth’s version of the story. Now I should like to hear yours, Manning. Your lips are no longer sealed. Let us have the tale from the beginning to end without any more of these confounded reservations.”

Felix related his story, which in no way differed from that already told by Miss Holdsworth.

“And you both crouched by the sacrificial stone when you alarmed some watcher?”

“Yes; we had to observe the greatest caution in getting away from that abominable place. We were detained some time before we dared move out into the open.”

“The boy must have been lying there with the dead goats. He must have been struck down with some weapon as he was escaping. Yet I can scarcely believe that the people would dare to kill a European unless, indeed, they were those mad poojaries. What with fanaticism and bhang they are at times crazy enough for any crime.”

“And cunning enough to hide it,” added Felix,

“I tell you what it is, Manning; we must make another, and if possible, a more thorough search in the tope. Will you meet me there to-morrow and point out as well as you can the exact path you took?”

The sight of Manning and Brett in deep conclave was producing a favourable impression. As the two men joined the photographic group, which was breaking up after the ordeal, O’Brien exclaimed,—

“Hullo! Here are the policeman and the doctor holding council. What plots are you concocting?”

He glanced from one to the other, and could detect nothing but confidence and good humour on either side, though both men looked serious.

“Come and see Mr. O’Brien’s photographs,” said Miss Frost, leading the way to a shady corner, where the tea-tables were spread.

O’Brien had good-naturedly brought his book for the amusement of the company, and was quite ready to act showman to his own gallery of art.

“There’s the devil-tree in the tope. I consider that a great success,” he said, pointing to a good photograph of the giant banyan tree. It excited much interest amongst the company.

“You sketched the tree, did you not, Miss Frost?” asked Colonel Leigh.

“Only in the barest outline. I am ashamed to say I went to sleep over it. There was a prettier sketch than that which I took in pencil. It is looking out of the tope towards the stone enclosure. The stone slabs which fence the enclosure stand up against the golden sky, and the aloe, close by, gives just the Indian touch to the scene which makes it live. Most Indian pictures have the inevitable palm tree. There is something equally Oriental but not so common-place about the aloe, and it attracted my notice.”

“Aloe!” cried O’Brien, whose ears seemed to catch every word that dropped from Miss Frost’s lips. “There is no aloe near the enclosure. I know the place well. I photographed it from the very same spot.”

“I assure you that there is an aloe, a huge prickly thing with drooping points, and it is most picturesque. I do not think I should have taken the sketch if it had not been for the aloe,” replied Miss Frost with animation. She did not relish the calling in question of the truth of her drawing.

“Oh! you ladies! you call yourselves sketchers of nature! We photographers are the sketchers of nature, not you! We take things as we find them, and do not transplant trees or remove mountains to get them into our pictures,” cried O’Brien chaffingly.

Miss Frost was not to be brow-beaten in this manner. She replied with some dignity,—

“I pride myself on being an accurate sketcher, Mr. O’Brien; and if you accuse me of cheating in that way, I shall never speak to you again.”

There was a laugh amongst the assembly, and O’Brien began to look penitent. Yet he was not convinced, and throwing prudence to the winds he returned to the charge.

“I have the photograph with me somewhere,” he said, hunting eagerly through some loose copies at the end of the album. “Ah! here it is,” and he held up a half-plate print of the spot. There was a crowding of heads together over it. It represented the stone fencing, and gave a wide stretch of horizon on either side. A bank of palmyras barred the distance, but there was no sign of an aloe great or small.

Miss Frost was puzzled. “I cannot understand it,” she said. “Where did you stand to get this view? Not where I sketched, I am sure.”

“I was at the edge of the tope with my back to the devil-tree.”

“I must fetch my drawing,” she cried, running off towards the house.

She felt that her reputation as an artist was at stake, and she was not too well pleased with the luckless O’Brien for having called her skill in question. The little circle of friends were all attention ready to act as judge and jury, and try the case on the spot. She returned with a portfolio, and drew from it a delicate little sketch in outline. The same scene was depicted as O’Brien had reproduced in his photograph, with the one exception of the aloe, which in the sketch was made to grow within a few yards of the stone fencing.

“One or other of you must be wrong,” said Colonel Leigh; “and I am afraid the verdict must be given in favour of the sun-picture.”

“I am positive that I drew as faithfully as the sun. Mr. O’Brien must have stood in some other spot to take the photograph.”

“Impossible,” replied Mrs. Leigh. “There is the entrance. It is identical in both. See; you have even got the distant palmyras the same in both pictures. The only difference is the aloe.”

“Which I declare positively was there,” cried Miss Frost with some warmth.

“Oh, I say,” protested O’Brien, “Miss Frost! I did not think it of you. That aloe should be out of the picture altogether. I know the plant well. As a matter of fact, it grows on the opposite side from which you have placed it, between the enclosure and the well. You are not content with having made the vegetable walk a hundred yards, but you have made it jump a stone wall.”

Major Brett had payed little heed to the chaff when it first began; but his attention was suddenly arrested by O’Brien’s words, and he leaned eagerly over the two pictures.

“I think Miss Frost is right, and that her sketch is perfectly correct,” he said.

There was a laugh of incredulity amongst the company.

“How do you account for the discrepancy?” asked Colonel Leigh.

“I will tell you to-morrow. I am going to the tope in the morning; and if Miss Frost will allow me, I will take the two pictures with me and solve the mystery.”

“Yes, do; and save my reputation,” she cried, thrusting her drawing into his hands.

“And take mine,”said O’Brien, handing the photograph. “Now just look at Miss Frost’s aloe. You can see that she has drawn it from imagination. Look at the way she has made the points curve downwards. I say, Miss Frost,” he continued with growing excitement, “whoever saw an aloe like that? The thing should stick out as stiff as a bunch of bayonets. I bet you half a dozen pairs of gloves to a box of chocolate that you are all in the wrong.”

But the girl, though good-natured and fond of plain speaking herself, did not relish O’Brien’s criticism. She took no notice of his unlucky speech, and turned her back on him. Her heightened colour was the only indication of her feelings. She was hurt and offended. Beryl, with quick sympathy, caught her by the arm.

“Come and show me your fern-house,” she said.

“Mrs. Leigh, you must come too,” and she drew a small following after her. Miss Frost’s brow cleared, and when the rash Irishman had had time to bethink himself of what he had done, he heard the merry laugh of the girls amongst the palms and ferns at the end of the garden. His interest in the pictures ceased on the departure of his goddess, and he pursued the ladies in deep contrition. But his overtures for reconciliation were steadily ignored, and Beryl could not help smiling at his discomfiture. In vain he praised the beautiful palms, and zealously admired the delicate ferns. The offended lady would not vouchsafe so much as a single glance. Poor O’Brien could have bitten his tongue out for having run away with him in this manner.

Meanwhile the major, in quiet possession of the objects of the squabble, was bending over them with great interest. Felix was equally attentive.

“There is no doubt about it,” Brett was saying. “The girl is perfectly correct in her drawing. I saw the aloe myself. It has been planted there since O’Brien took his photograph!”

“Now I come to think of it, I remember a bare patch where the ground had been disturbed not far from the well,” said Felix.

“I saw it, too, and prodded it; but it was as hard as nails six inches under the loose soil. I did not trouble further, as I was looking for a possible grave, and for nothing else.”

“Shall we go at once and examine the aloe?” asked Felix, to whom delay was becoming unendurable.

“Certainly not. And not a word further must be said of our intended visit, or we shall be out-witted. I will call for you at sunrise to-morrow, and we will ride there together. Let us say good-bye to our hostess, and go to the club, where a game of billiards will take your mind off this unpleasant subject.”

Darkness was following the brief twilight with tropical rapidity, and Mrs. Frost’s guests were departing, a few to their homes, but most of the gentlemen to gather again in the billiard and card rooms of the club.

O’Brien, disconsolate and unhappy, returned with the ladies from the fern-house, and gathered his photographic properties. Miss Frost disappeared, and he was alone. He had failed signally to obtain the smallest concession. He had begged abjectly for one of the snowy gardenias growing by the fern-house, but his request and his presence had been ignored. He had therefore returned sorrowfully to the spot where the tea-tables had been spread and the discussion had taken place. He made a great show of packing up the camera and its belongings, a proceeding which seemed to occupy a good deal of time.

The carriages drew up at the entrance of the garden on the drive, and Mrs. Frost stood there bidding friendly farewells to her guests. O’Brien watched them go one by one, and still busied himself over his packing. The familiar figure for which he watched so anxiously did not appear, and he began to fear that she had retired to the house to escape him. There was nothing to be done but take his leave and go. With many a glance back at the deserted garden now sunk into peaceful quietude, he approached Mrs. Frost.

“It was so kind of you, Mr. O’Brien, to bring your camera and take a picture of our party. People delight in having their likenesses taken, and the grouping is always amusing,” she said, as she shook hands. She called a servant who had been removing the tea from the garden.

“Take these things to Mr. O’Brien’s carriage, and tell the syce his master is ready.”

O’Brien looked round expectantly. Mrs. Frost read the look.

“They have all gone, including my husband, who has driven to the club with Mr. Bankside. I suppose you are going there, like the rest, for your game of whist.”

Seeing that he still lingered, she added,—

“Florence must have gone in. I will say goodnight for you.”

Very reluctantly he climbed into his dogcart, and Mrs. Frost turned to go into the house. His warm Irish heart was longing for forgiveness and reconciliation, but this Miss Frost seemed determined to deny him. He walked the horse slowly down the carriage drive, and looked back wistfully towards the peaceful garden. The lamp was gone, together with the teacups and cloth. But there was a glimmer of something white amongst the crotons and the dracaenas. Was it a skirt, or the fluttering of a white moon moth? He pulled up his horse and stepped out of the cart, love lending wings to his feet as he sped across the intervening grass.

Miss Frost, who, to do her justice, was nothing of a coquette, had just emerged from the fernery, intending to spend the half-hour before the dressing gong sounded in the garden. She imagined that all the guests had departed, including O’Brien. She was no longer angry with him, and she was beginning to think that perhaps she had been a little hard, when she heard his voice at her side.

“Forgive me, Miss Frost. I am utterly miserable. I was a brute to speak to ye as I did.” In his excitement and eagerness his mother tongue peeped out unconsciously. “I was a brute,” he repeated; “and it’s just blue-moulding for a bating that I was when I spoke to ye as I did.”

An Irishman’s tongue is his best weapon when he is trying to disperse a woman’s anger, and Miss Frost was not proof against it. The forgiving process seemed to take some time, for the dogcart and horse waited long for the master. However, it was complete, for when O’Brien got up into his cart he did not look like a man who had had a beating, however much he might have been blue-moulding for it. His face was beaming with happiness, and he wore the white gardenia which his offended lady-love had before refused to bestow.

Miss Frost was late for dinner. She whispered something to her sister-in-law in excuse.

“Oh, Florrie,” cried that lady; “I am so glad. You and he are just suited to each other. When did it happen?” and so on, after the usual manner of the ladies.

Her brother had less to say, but it was sympathetic and pleasant.

“Good fellow, O’Brien. Very glad you have chosen him instead of the twice-born Bankside.”

Miss Frost laughed as she replied,—

“I don’t think Mr. Bankside ever contemplated marriage. He used to admire Beryl. But the twice-born are not easily mated.”

Chapter XIV

A Proposal, a Refusal, and Red Pepper

“There was but one woman among women, one lily among flowers, everything else was a weed.”
— Du Maurier

The sun was rising in a cloudless sky of pale blue and gold, when Brett and Manning stood together by the banyan tree. They had ridden quietly up to the tope as though on their way to the dispensary. They left their horses in the shade and walked to the big tree.

“Before examining the aloe, I should like to follow your steps as closely as possible, Manning,” said the major.

Felix led the way.

“We came from the hollow trunk and crept along this path which, as you see, leads to the enclosure. Here we stopped for a few moments.”

As he spoke Major Brett examined the ground, tracing as well as he could the exact path taken by the fugitives. Not a shred nor mark remained to show they had passed. The two men reached the edge of the tope, and Major Brett drew forth the photograph and the sketch.

“There’s the aloe sure enough. Miss Frost was right,” cried the Doctor.

“And I am right. It has been lately planted there. The photograph must have been taken from this self-same spot.”

They moved on to the sacrificial slab.

“It was here that we crouched. Miss Holdsworth was nearer the slab than I was, and it was here of course that her dress was stained.”

Major Brett leaned over the stone. It was dark with generations of its horrid anointings.

“Now for the aloe,” he said, moving on to the place where it stood on guard; its spear-like foliage was slightly curved, just as Miss Frost had represented it.

Major Brett prodded the ground with his stick. It was soft with recent disturbance, and the stout staff penetrated easily some eight or nine inches. An ejaculation escaped his lips.

“By Jingo! This is where they have buried the poor chap,” he said in a low tone to Felix who followed him. “But we must not be seen poking about here till we are ready for operation. Come back into the tope. I don’t want to bring those poojaries out of their den sooner than necessary.”

They retraced their steps to the shade of the trees.

“What are you going to do?” asked Felix, who was thinking of his work, and of the crowd that would presently be waiting for hint at the dispensary. Fortunately the building was hidden by some trees; his people would, therefore, not discover his presence.

“What we do must be done quickly. You must remain here and watch the place, whilst I hurry back for my coolies. I told the head constable to have a gang ready, though I did not say what I should want them for.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Open the grave of course, before the temple people have time to do so. I am certain now that the poor fellow was lying very near you and your companion, as you crouched down by that slab. The person you disturbed must have been one of his murderers, who was watching the body till it could be disposed of. It is a mercy you did not share his fate. However, I’ll bring the brutes to justice or my name is not Brett. Have you a cheroot?”

“Yes.”

“Then light up and stay here till I come back. If those fellows come out of the temple, choke them off if you can.”

As he talked, he strode rapidly through the tope towards his horse. Felix returned by himself to the spot where Miss Frost had sat to take her sketch of the enclosure. He lighted his cheroot, and seated himself on a boulder with the aloe to his right. Through the foliage of the wood he could just distinguish the Zemindar’s house, and the road to the town beyond. A cloud of dust rose in a column along the track of the horse and his rider; but not another soul was to be seen. A blue jay tumbled in and out of the branches of the banyan trees, as it made a hearty breakfast off the red berries, flirting its glorious blue plumage in the sunlight amongst the glossy green leaves. A quiet little golden oriole flitted here and there like a living autumnal leaf; and a black-and-red butterfly mounted with strong wings on a level with the oriole and blue roller bird. Green bee eaters and greener parrots flew hither and thither, filling the eye with colour and life. The smoke of the town hung blue and limpid in the middle distance; and through it shone the heavy foliaged trees and white houses of the cantonment. The smoke curled from the red tiles of the native houses, like steam from a wash-house, as it rose from the fires of wood made on the floors of the huts. The town, guiltless of chimneys, was neither smutty nor murky; the smoke was wood smoke. The distant sound of its busy life fell on the ear of the Doctor as he sat. His thoughts were not with the town nor with nature’s beauties close at hand. He was thinking of poor Will, and of the possible meeting which might take place that very morning between himself and his brother. His nerve, long tried by medical work, was good. Nevertheless he could not contemplate the approaching moment without a quickening of the pulse.

In the space of little more than half an hour, a cloud of dust in the distance betokened the return of the major. Close behind him rode three mounted policemen; and bringing up the rear was the major’s four-wheeled dogcart, carrying a most unusual load, consisting of a gang of brown-skinned coolies with their spades and picks. As the cavalcade came in sight, two men appeared in the temple porch, and walked with leisurely steps towards the tope.

“Has any one been near the place?” asked Major Brett, as he threw himself off his steaming horse.

“No one; but I see two men coming up from the temple now.”

“We must keep our eyes upon them. The moment the body is exposed I must have them arrested and the dancing-woman as well.”

It was as the major had said. The aloe had been uprooted from some other place and replanted there. It was quickly removed and the coolies set to work with their Indian spades, awkward implements resembling huge hoes with short handles. The ground was easy to work, as the earth had already been loosened by previous digging. They shovelled out the soil till they reached a depth of three feet.

The two men from the temple had advanced to the edge of the hole, and stood silently watching the proceedings. One of them was the old poojari. Neither gave look nor sign which could be interpreted into anything denoting emotion whether of fear or curiosity.

Suddenly the poojari stooped forward and said something to the coolies. With a cry of dismay they one and all leaped from the grave, and flung down tools.

“You idiots! Get on with your work!” shouted the major.

Not a man stirred. Forgetting himself in the excitement of the moment, he raised his whip; but Felix held his arm.

“Wait; let me speak to the men. The poojari has just told them that a sacrificial animal is buried here. If they expose it to the light, the devil will torment them, as it is under his protection.”

He spoke to the coolies, and tried to persuade them to go on with the work. They were Hindus, some of the very men who had been present at the devil-dance. But his words had no effect, and Felix felt that talking to them any further was useless. They were sullen and stupid with fear. He turned to the poojari, who had assumed his usual inexpressive mien, and addressed his words to him. He urged him to allow the coolies to proceed with the work.

“The police officer is to blame. Let the tree-devil’s wrath descend on him if harm is to come, and not on these slaves of his will.”

But the two temple men stood stolid and immovable, refusing silently to take further part in the business. Once more he tried to persuade the cowering labourers to take up their spades and continue, but his words had no more effect than the angry threatenings of the major. Felix could no longer restrain this latter gentleman from taking the matter into his own hands, and he began to fear a conflict of some kind.

“Don’t push them too far, major; it will do no good. The poor things are scared out of their wits; can’t we finish the job ourselves?”

Felix took up one of the shovels and prepared to get into the grave.

“I’ll teach the scoundrels a lesson by-and-by,” muttered the angry police officer, following the Doctor’s example. Then calling to his mounted men he cried,—

“Get off your horses and come and lend a hand.”

Two of them were Mahomedans, and though no religious scruples stood in the way, they did not relish the task of using the pick and shovel like a common cooly. But the major was a terrible man to cross, and they could not do less than follow where he led. They dismounted, and giving their reins to the third man, they joined Brett and Manning. The poojari scowled, and for the first time lost the serenity of expression which had hitherto distinguished him. The Mahomedan was assisting the Englishman to defeat the Hindu. Race hatred burnt in the eyes of the temple men, as they watched Christian and Mussulman combining to carry the point.

It was an unpleasant task, but it required very little more labour to expose the body. As the earth was scraped away something like a bad word escaped from the lips of the major.

“A buffalo! by all the gods and devils of the heathen!” he shouted, as he scrambled out of the hole.

Felix examined the dead body carefully, removing a little more of the earth. Yes, there was no doubt about it. The creature buried there was nothing more nor less than a huge buffalo, one of the largest of its kind. The poojari had spoken truly when he had told the coolies that they were desecrating the grave of a sacrificial animal. The men fell on their faces in abject terror whilst the poojari stood motionless watching the Englishmen.

Major Brett was baffled and perplexed. He had made so sure of finding the object of which he was in search; and he was thoroughly put out in his surprise and disappointment.

“Shall we fill in again?” asked the Mahomedans, preparing to shovel the earth back upon the loathsome object below.

“No; wait. How do we know that the boy’s body is not underneath the buffalo? Cut away the grave by the shoulder.”

The men set to work again, but further research proved useless. The ground was hard with a tropical drought below, and by the side of the slaughtered animal. Major Brett was obliged to give it up, as it was manifestly useless to dig further. The soil was put back and the grave filled in, but the aloe was left lying on its side, to wither and die by slow degrees in the scorching Indian sun. If there is any feeling in vegetable life the aloe dies harder than any other plant.

The poojaries watched the unwelcome party in silence till all was finished. The coolies were the first to leave. They hurried away like frightened sheep the moment the signal for departure was given; each anticipating, with the vividness of the Oriental imagination, the string of evils which would descend on his devoted head, in consequence of the morning’s work. The Mahomedans mounted their horses without a word. They were disgusted and contemptuous, and would willingly have assisted in carrying the dead buffalo to the temple to desecrate its sacred precincts. The Englishmen departed last of all, after further examination of the sacrificial stone. Major Brett accompanied Felix as far as the dispensary.

“It beats me altogether,” said Brett for the third or fourth time as they rode along.

“You have made up your mind that poor Will has met with foul play?”

“Undoubtedly, and by the hands of those brutes of poojaries.”

“And what do you think the meaning of his personation was that night, when I thought I saw him in the bedroom?”

“A blind, of course.”

“Can one of the servants have had anything to do with it?”

The major shook his head with conviction.

“There has been no robbery with the murder, which would have been the case had they been implicated. Besides, I have ascertained that they are men of fair character as servants go. No; we must look to the temple people for an elucidation of the mystery. I shall have those dancing-women shadowed next. I believe Minachee and her mother have both had a hand in it.”

“I am sure Minachee knows nothing, and has had nothing to do with it. She is innocent enough; but her mother is a very different kind of woman.”

They had arrived at the dispensary, and the major’s quick eye detected the face of the dancing-girl amongst the people waiting for Dr. Manning. He glanced sharply at his companion as he said,—

“Look here, Manning, don’t you let that girl hang about you too much. Half our troubles with savage and semi-civilised countries begin with the women. They bring it on themselves, it is true, but it is through them that the rumpus comes. It is your brother’s admiration of that girl which has led to his disappearance.”

Felix did not reply, but the words of the major sank into his mind, and more than once during his morning’s work his eye fell on Minachee with a new thoughtfulness. It was to be observed that he did not once call her to his side to help in his surgical work, an omission which did not escape the notice of the dancing-girl.

There was no afternoon tea-party that day to claim the attendance of the station. The Europeans therefore gathered as usual at the club, some coming down early in time for tennis and golf, others joining the players at sunset, when the games were over, and idle chat was the order of the day. The excitement of the hour was the news of Miss Frost’s engagement to O’Brien. No secret was made of it. Indeed, it would have been impossible to hide the fact from the eyes of the little community. O’Brien was beaming with happiness, and could scarcely say a dozen words without bringing up the subject, and talking of his good luck. The aloe question was quite forgotten, and sketch and photograph lay neglected in a drawer of Major Brett’s writing-table.

Felix had hitherto had no opportunity of speaking to Beryl since her confession, except when others were present. He was anxious to thank her, but so far had not been successful. This evening he went to the club with the avowed intention of getting in his word of thanks somehow. But circumstances seemed against him, and the opportunity evaded his grasp. He hung about the tennis-courts watching the games, and he joined the groups of players when the setting of the sun put an end to their playing. He wondered where the difficulty was. There had never been any trouble before over getting a few words with the engineer’s daughter. Beryl had always divined in a moment what he had wanted, and had accorded the opportunity. Usually she had desired the tête-à-tête quite as much as he. Now she had nothing to say to him, and plenty of small talk for others. He listened idly to her chatter. It was the ordinary commonplace conversation of Anglo-Indian society, and served to pass away the idle veiling hours between sunset and dinner. He moved away at last, and went towards the billiard room, as though intending to get a game. Some one remarked on his troubled look as he departed.

“The man is worried, and well he may be,” said Bankside. “Did you hear of Major Brett’s experience this morning in the tope? Manning was present and helped. Brett has just been telling me.”

None had heard, and he told the tale of the futile examination of the grave.

“They are no nearer clearing up the mystery than they were the day after the lad disappeared, excepting in one respect,” concluded the speaker.

“And what is that?” asked Mrs. Leigh.

“The Doctor is exonerated from all blame in the matter. He has explained things to the major, and told him how he spent the night of the lad’s disappearance. Brett expresses himself perfectly satisfied.”

“And where was Dr. Manning that night?” asked a lady. Her husband’s duties took him frequently away from home; she had therefore ample time for gossip.

“Brett keeps that a secret, and I fancy you will not succeed in getting it out of him, however much you try. He can be very close if he likes.”

“The Doctor was not in his own house?”

“True, we know so much.”

“Nor in the house of any Europeans of the place?”

“That fact is pretty well known too, otherwise the European would have come forward and spoken long ago.”

“And he was not at the dispensary?” persisted the lady.

“He was not at the dispensary,” repeated Bankside.

“Then he must have been in some native’s house; and why it should be necessary to keep it a secret I cannot imagine.”

“From a mistaken notion of chivalry. Manning has curious ideas about the natives and his duty towards them; he is as courteous and as scrupulous where they are concerned as he would be with Europeans. I believe, moreover, that he honestly likes them, and has a great regard for the nation with its traditions and antiquity. He seems to understand the people too, which is more than we can do.”

“You are quite right, Mr. Bankside,” replied the lady who had catechised him so closely, “The Doctor is just such a man, about whom one would expect a romantic tale—some grateful Seeta throwing herself at his feet, and he too chivalrous and too blinded by his love for the people to say No. I could quite imagine him marrying a girl like Seeta in good faith, and carrying her off to England, if she would go with him.”

It was an idle speech, with nothing detrimental in it to the Doctor’s character; yet it jarred upon Beryl’s nerves. She turned from the group, and walked away. She needed a few minutes’ solitude to recover her usual equanimity. She felt unreasonably angry with the speaker who had uttered the light careless words. She was angry with herself for being annoyed, and asked herself again what he was to her that she should resent any possible course of action on his part, especially when that action would but exhibit the chivalry, which is usually considered one of the brightest attributes of the masculine character. The vision of the beautiful dasi came before her eyes. It was displeasing and disturbing. If this was all solitude brought her, she had better seek the company of her friends again. She turned abruptly, and found herself face to face with Felix. There was no escape. She composed herself, as women learn to do under such circumstances, and met him with a friendly smile. He began to speak directly he reached her side.

“Miss Holdsworth, I have been trying to find an opportunity of thanking you for what you did. I would gladly have spared you, and, as you know, I begged you not to do it. But now it is done, I am very grateful, more so than I can tell.”

“You have nothing especial to thank me for, Dr. Manning. My act was an act of justice, and I regret that I kept silence so long.”

She spoke gently and smiled, but there was something in her tone which chilled him.

“You have quite satisfied Major Brett, and I am sure that your secret is safe with him.”

“The more I think of my actions that night, the more shame I feel. I would gladly forget those few hours entirely; and if we could only have poor old Will back amongst us with his bright, merry ways, I should feel happy again.”

Manning looked at her. Her voice softened as she mentioned his brother’s name. A doubt shot through his mind. Was her fancy through pity turning once more to the absent man? The doubt brought swifter action than he intended. He could brook no uncertainty. He must know at once what his position was. The mere thought of losing her sent the blood bounding to his heart, and brought home the conviction that the girl standing there before him was all the world to him; that life would be a blank without her. Sister he had called her, but it was no sister that he wanted.

“Beryl, I have something to say.” He spoke with great earnestness. “You yourself have told me that all was at an end between you and Will, and that you did not love him. I am free, therefore, to speak. Will you, can you love me? Will you be my wife?”

He held out his hands towards her, but she turned away in silence, a silence that shook his heart with the only fear a brave man can know—the fear of a refusal to his suit.

The declaration had come suddenly and unexpectedly upon Beryl. She was prepared for thanks, and perhaps one or two words of something more, which would have brought the colour to her cheeks. But he was asking for her love, and in so doing he was offering her what another woman had been passionately assuring her she possessed. What was she to say? What was she to believe?

“Beryl, don’t you know what you are to me? Can’t you guess how I love you?” he pleaded.

There was a world of entreaty in his tone, but she did not reply. He came a little closer without attempting to touch her.

“Have you no word to say?”

How near the girl was to casting ignoble doubts to the winds he could not know, nor how near she came to throwing herself in those strong arms which had sheltered her during that awful night, he could not guess.

“I am very sorry,” she faltered.

“You do not love me?” he asked, chilled by her apparent coldness.

She was silent again, and moved a little further from him. The action was expressive, and he drew back.

“If you do not love me, I cannot say more; but——” He paused, and then added, “ I thought— I had hoped it was different.”

She kept her gaze averted from the pleading, anxious face. So long as she did not look into his eyes, she saw the dasi’s face between her and the man who stood before her. She was statuesque in her effort at self-control, and it had its effect on her companion.

“I am very sorry,” she began again in a low voice, and with eyes still studiously turned away, “I cannot say what you wish. I owe you so much; yet I seem to be nothing but a stumbling-block in your path.”

His pride was aroused by her coldness.

“If you do not love me, I will not say more. I have no wish to be accepted out of pity. The woman I marry must give me what I am prepared to give in return, a heart-whole and undivided love.”

How persistently Minachee’s image rose before her! Was not this the very sort of love the dancing-girl offered? The thought of it made her stronger in her decision.

“Good-night, Dr. Manning,” she said, anxious to put an end to the painful interview. “I am deeply distressed——”

She did not conclude her sentence, for her voice suddenly broke. He thought she was silent because she was embarrassed by his presence. He raised his hat, and she left him without another word.

He stood for a few minutes on the spot. There was a chill upon his heart, and a blank on the horizon of his life, which he had never known before. He tried to recall the incidents of the past. Surely he had not been mistaken! He thought he had read a very different tale in her face the day she promised to clear his name at the expense of herself. He would have told his love long ago, when he knew she was free, had it not been for his brother’s disappearance. Even now he had spoken before he intended. Then he remembered how he had believed that she was attached to Will, and he had been wrong. Of course he might err still more easily in his own case. The girl never loved him! And as he arrived at the conclusion he shuddered, for he realized fully what she was to him. He had never fallen in love before; and the passion taking him at his age shook his whole being. But he was a man of self-control. A few minutes in the cool night air sufficed to quiet the disturbed mind, and to hide all signs of the aching, half-broken heart which he carried in his breast. He was about to return to the billiard-room, when a note was put into his hand. It was an urgent call to the Zemindar’s house, and the letter was written by the Zemindar himself.

There was confusion and noise in that rabbit-warren of a building. Flickering lamps—a twist of cotton floating in dishes of oil—were smoking in the rooms. The women were huddled in their quarters in frightened groups, as they listened for an agonized shriek, which pierced their ears now and then. Only the Zemindar himself was calm.

Felix had hitherto never been allowed to set foot within the house. He had often attended members of the household, but they sought his help at the dispensary. On his arrival he was bidden to enter. He was conducted down a long passage, up a dirty staircase, and through two or three unfurnished rooms to a chamber which contained a broad couch, a few chairs, and some fine grass mats. On one of the mats lay a writhing form, and every now and then the suffering creature gave vent to her agony in a scream of exquisite pain.

“Who is this, Zemindar?” asked Felix.

“It is the little dasi I have lately taken into my zenana.”

Felix stooped over her and tried to unknot the writhing figure. A strong, pungent smell was sent forth as he touched the silk cloth, which the poor child had twisted into ropes in her agony. No need to ask what was the matter.

“Red pepper,” he muttered; “and a bad case, too, I am afraid.”

He set about the remedies with professional skill, doing all that he could with the means at hand.

“Let her be just as she is till I return. I must fetch medicine from the dispensary. Ah! is that you, Minachee?” he said, as his eye fell on a figure kneeling near him. “That is well. Keep her as quiet as you can till I come back.”

He got up, and in two minutes was galloping across to the dispensary, which was not far away. He had forgotten Beryl and his own troubles. His whole mind was concentrated on the agonized morsel of humanity lying on the mat in the Zemindar’s zenana.

In an hour’s time he had succeeded in mitigating the pain; but he was still very uncertain if he could save the sight of those bright young eyes.

“Tell me how it happened, Zemindar,” he asked, when he had done all that he could for the present.

The heavy features of the man moved convulsively, and a dangerous light burnt in the usually dull eye.

“This is the dasi’s work,” he replied.

Felix glanced at Minachee.

“Not this one I hope!” he cried.

“No, her mother, Deva; the woman I turned out of my house a short time ago.”

“How can this little girl have offended her?”

“The child took Minachee’s place, and the mother vowed vengeance from the very first. She shall know what vengeance means,” muttered the Zemindar.

He had recovered his habitual calm, but the angry light remained in his eye. He continued his story.

“I was afraid of Deva, and told my women never to allow the little one out alone. She fretted at the restriction laid upon her, and would frequently escape to the garden and grounds. The old dasi knew her habits; and this afternoon, at sunset, she caught the child at the gate. This girl was with her mother, and she knows that I speak the truth.”

Minachee looked up into the Doctor’s face with tears of pity and shame in her eyes. He felt that, whatever the mother might be, this girl was not a murderess, and that she neither helped to hurt the child nor to kill his brother. The Zemindar went on,—”It was fortunate that Minachee was there. But for her I should have lost my little dasi, the light of my house.”

Again he paused. It was difficult to speak calmly of the fiendish crime.

“The dasi called to the child, saying she had some pomegranates for her. Suspecting nothing the little one went. That devil suddenly raised her hand and threw the blinding red pepper into the child’s eyes. At the same moment she drew a dagger, and would have plunged it in the child’s bosom. But this girl here caught her mother’s hand, and wrenched the knife from her. Then snatching up the child, Minachee ran here with her in her arms and bade me send for you. I will reward her, for she saved the child’s life.”

“Well done, Minachee,” said Felix, with warm approbation. “Did you suspect your mother?”

The girl, whose cheeks glowed at his words of praise, nodded and replied,—

“My mother has been very unhappy of late. She did not like leaving this house. I feared that she would do harm to the child; and often, when she has walked this way, I have come too. I think the devil in the tree talks to her—she is his wife, you know; and he makes her do evil things.”

Felix sighed. How terribly enchained these poor souls were with their superstitions!

“I have done all I can for the present, Zemindar,” he said. “I shall go home to dinner now and return afterwards. You had better let Minachee stay till I come back. She understands what to do, and you may safely trust her.”

“Surely; for she saved the girl’s life: which deed I will remember. Her mother, too, shall have her reward,” he added, the heavy mouth trembling slightly.

Felix faced round upon him, and looked him steadily in the face.

“There must be no violence, Zemindar. The law will assist you and deal out punishment. You may safely leave the matter in the hands of the police officer, Major Brett.”

The native made no reply, but kept his eyes on the ground, whilst his features remained without expression. The angry light was even subdued. But the Doctor’s mind was none the less disturbed, and he was unable to fathom the Zemindar’s.

He departed to his dinner, and after the solitary meal he returned to his patient. He was glad to find that all was going on well, and that the little sufferer was under the blessed influence of the narcotics he had used. The Zemindar was there. He could not retire to rest till he had heard the Doctor’s verdict.

“Will she live?”

“Yes; I have no fear now. She is young enough to survive the shock.”

“And her sight?”

“Of that I am not so certain, but I hope to save it. It would be a cruel fate for the little one to be left in darkness all her life.”

“You will stay here all night, Doctor?” asked the Zemindar anxiously. “I will pay you well for every minute you give me.”

Felix did not look upon the native as an orange to be sucked dry. He loved his profession for itself, and not as a means of filling his money-bags. The offer did not tempt him.

“Do not fear. I will do all I can for her, but there is no necessity for me to stay here. The house will be quieter without me. I will return early in the morning.”

But the Zemindar was not to be put off.

“I will give you a thousand rupees to stay here all night,” he said.

“No, no! Don’t throw your money about so recklessly. If I saw any reason for it, I would sit by the side of the child all night.”

Then seeing the look of disappointment, Felix said,—

“I will do this if you like: I will remain all night at the dispensary, which is close by, and if she wakes you can send for me. I feel sure that she will not; but if she does, she must not touch her bandages. If she tries to pull them off, you must have her hands held. This girl knows what should be done. Let her stay here and watch. But I feel satisfied that the medicines I have given will keep the patient quiet till the morning.”

The Zemindar was satisfied with this arrangement, and Felix was allowed to depart. He walked to the dispensary, passing by the side of the tope. The gong of the guard in the distant Sepoy lines struck twelve. The night was very still, and the waning moon was floating in the east with a soft, subdued light. Not a cloud was visible, and not a creature stirred.

The dispensary was deserted, the apothecary having long since departed to his own house. Felix unlocked the door and brought out a long cane chair. He found matches and lighted a candle in the surgery. From thence he passed into his consulting room, the same room in which Beryl had sat the day she was thrown from her horse. Returning with a cheroot and a glass of soda-water and whiskey, he extinguished the light and settled himself on the cane couch. He felt disinclined to sleep, and he hoped the weed would quiet his brain, and perhaps give him a snatch of slumber before daylight.

The day had been full of events and full of disappointments. It had begun with the unsuccessful search for his brother, and had ended with the cold rejection of himself by the woman he loved. As he thought of her something like hopeless despair stared him in the face. If the girl’s heart were not his already, it could never be his. If all they had gone through and suffered together had not sufficed to draw her to him, as it had drawn him to her, there was no hope of making the bonds closer. Felix had very little vanity, and he asked himself the question, Why should she care for him? What advantages had he to offer? Nothing but his brother’s fortune, which would be his if poor Will were proved to be dead. He counted himself as nothing. His very modesty blinded him to his own goodness of heart, his gentle manliness, his unselfish nature. He began to wonder at his presumption in having spoken, and in having dared to love.

From himself his thoughts turned to his brother. Where could he be? Had he done all that was possible to unravel the mystery. Until that mystery was solved, he could not but feel that somehow he had failed to do all that might be done. Was he his brother’s keeper? asked conscience. Yes, most decidedly he was the natural guardian of the boy. Again and again he blamed himself for not having taken more precautions in the matter of the devil-dance. He might have opposed it more strenuously, and have asked for Major Brett’s assistance. He thought of a hundred things he might have done and said to safeguard the young brother, whose companionship he so sorely missed.

Ah! well I he must go his own lonely way without even the spoilt brother by his side to cheer him. He must forget the girl, or remember her only as a friend. After all he had his profession, and there was solace in that. His thoughts wandered to the poor little dasi, so cruelly blinded by her enemy. He was glad Minachee had not taken part in it, and had had the courage to oppose her mother, and frustrate her wicked intention. Minachee had bravely stood between Deva and her victim. He wished he could do something for the good-natured dancing-girl, which would raise her from the wretched position she was in as dasi. There was only one way, but he doubted if she would accept it. If she would consent to leave the temple he would place her under the care of a missionary, who would point out a better path in life. She was beautiful, kind-hearted and free from malice (he knew nothing of her connection with the stone-throwing in the tope), and she was worthy of a better fate than that of a dancing-girl.

He threw the end of his cheroot away and finished his glass. He was becoming more resigned to his fate. The desolation of the day was still there, but he had looked it in the face, and could accept his destiny with calmness, however wounded the heart might be. Perhaps it would make him more appreciative of the lesser blessings of life. After all it was not a bad thing to learn to take a back seat with something like cheerfulness and contentment.

There was a light movement outside and the chink of a golden bangle. Minachee stood before him in the moonlight. Her red saree had been exchanged for a soft white cloth of fine muslin deeply bordered with gold. Some scented jasmin flowers were hidden in her dark tresses, and the faint breath of the sweet blossoms came in on the night air.

“What is the matter? Is the child awake?” he cried half rising.

She held up her hand to stay his hasty movement.

“She sleeps, and so does the Zemindar and the rest of his house; and they will sleep till the morning.”

“And why have you left your charge, Minachee?”

“I was no longer needed. The other women came into the sick room and they told me to go. I will return in the morning with you.”

As she spoke she came up into the verandah by the broad stone step and drew near to him.

“If that is so you had better go to the temple.”

“The temple doors are shut. Moreover I fear my mother.”

The girl spoke softly and gazed upon him with burning eyes. She passed close to his chair, so that her light draperies brushed the hand thrown up above his head. He could smell the attar of rose that permeated her garments.

She went into the surgery. Every corner of the room was familiar to her. She returned immediately, bringing a grass mat and some cushions. She placed them in a broad ray of moonlight in front of him, a little to his left, and seated herself with the grace of a daughter of the East. He could have touched her with his foot, but he neither spoke nor moved. She had so placed herself that as he sat his eyes, unless he averted them purposely, must rest upon her.

Sleep had vanished completely with her advent. He had been but little disposed to it before she came, but her presence had chased every sign of it away. What a vision of human loveliness she was! a moon picture of beauty! Her face was bent and her eyes cast down; yet he could distinguish each perfect feature, the full mouth, the arched eyebrow, the straight little nose. The limbs were rounded and soft in the blush of youth and womanhood. She folded her hands upon her lap, and, but for the restless playing with the diamond rings upon her slender fingers, he might have imagined that she slept. He thought that perhaps she intended to lie down presently and sleep till morning, but she made no attempt to do so.

How long they thus sat he did not know. He was the first to break the spell of motionless silence. He made a slight movement with his hand, passing it across his eyes as though to shut out the vision.

The girl looked up and breathed his name. He let his eyes rest upon her again, and for the first time he read truly all that lay in their depths. Perhaps hitherto he had been wilfully blind; but now the veil was uplifted. Slowly but surely he learnt a truth that he had never faced before; the conviction was borne in upon him with overwhelming force. What he had sought in vain from one woman was offered unasked by another. A passionate yearning love shone in the gaze that met his.

The cold English girl with her barren friendship faded and was lost in the torrid colours of the Oriental passion which blazed before his dazzled vision.

Sorely did the lonely man need comfort. Terribly did the aching heart long to find a haven of oblivion and peace. He was forsaken by his brother, rejected by the woman he loved. Why! oh! why should he refuse the lesser gifts if they brought balm and healing and blessed forgetfulness?

The night wind stirred the palmyra fronds and the beam of moonlight crept away from the gleaming white draperies. The figure grew more dim but the eye remained gazing up into his with eloquent entreaty. He could see them in the dim shadow of the verandah. They seemed to cast a spell upon him, to hold him enchained whilst his heart rioted in a tumult of thoughts new and uncontrolled.

The girl leaned towards him and held out her arms. Still he did not move nor utter a word. Once again she breathed his name.

For one moment Felix hesitated as the girl’s warm breath touched him, and the scent of the jasmin shed their subtle perfume around him.

Then, like a man in a dream, he rose, and without daring to look at her he strode out into the night. On and on he paced, never slackening his speed till he found himself in his own room. He barred the door with fierce haste and flung open the great Venetian shutters of the window. Then he threw himself on his bed, and grasping the white linen in agony he cried,—

“Great God above, save me from the power of the devil!”

Chapter XV

A Terrible Encounter

“Her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a two-edged sword.”
— Proverbs

The little dasi was better the next morning. Felix was glad to assure the Zemindar that her sight would be saved. Great care would still be needed, and it would be some time before the child could leave the darkened room and resume her butterfly life in the zenana.

With the fresh morning breezes came fresh life to the medical man. The scenes of the night faded like a nightmare, and he went about his work with the feeling of one who had been saved from some great calamity. As he approached the dispensary the usual busy scene with its knot of ailing people awaited his coming; he scanned their faces in search of Minachee’s. She was not there and he felt her absence a relief. He had arrived at a definite decision concerning her. She must be removed. After the words she had spoken last night her presence as a voluntary attendant at the hospital could no longer be allowed. With this in his mind, as well as other matters, he rode back to the Zemindar’s house after his work was finished at the dispensary.

“You must place this business in the hands of Major Brett at once,” he said to the Zemindar.

The native made no reply, and Felix was in doubt whether he agreed with what was said. He continued,—

“The woman will get a long term of imprisonment especially as she drew a knife to stab the child. Where is the dasi?”

“She has left the place, but I do not think she is far away.”

“We must do something for the daughter. She will be without any natural protector.”

“She is under the protection of the poojaries with the rest of the temple women. Better leave her alone. When her mother is gone she will probably be sent away to a larger temple. She needs more work than she has here.”

“Will you come with me now, Zemindar, to the police office, and we will see about having the dancing-woman arrested at once. There should be no delay or she may escape.”

“She will not escape,” the other replied calmly.

“I will drive with you if you like,” said Felix, anxious to get him to move in the right direction.

But the Zemindar shook his head with stolid obstruction.

“Not now, Doctor. There will be time to-morrow. Early in the morning I will see Major Brett; not today.”

Felix endeavoured to shake him in his determination, but words were useless; the Zemindar stood firm, and there was nothing more to be done but to ride home.

“May I take any message to the police officer?” asked Felix as he mounted his horse.

“I wish to speak first to the poojaries. There will be time to-morrow,” replied the Zemindar.

“To-morrow! to-morrow! what a land of tomorrows this is!” said Felix as he cantered away.

No sooner was he gone than the Zemindar clapped his hands. At the signal three men came forward from behind a shrub, where unnoticed they awaited the departure of the Englishman.

“Well?” said the Zemindar, as the men salaamed low before him.

“We have discovered that the woman your Honour wants has gone to Rajapet. She went there last night.”

“And her object?”

The men hesitated.

“Well?” repeated the Zemindar impatiently.

“Your Honour will remember that some jewels were missing at the time of the dasi being sent away. Suspicion fell on the water-woman: your Honour will remember that she was properly punished—a little tying of the thumbs——”

“Yes, yes; well?”

“It was the dasi who took the jewels and hid them at Rajapet; she sent them by her daughter in a parcel. The girl believed she was carrying temple jewels.”

“And how do you know this?”

“The toll-bar keeper’s wife found it out. She told her husband, and he told us.”

“And the dasi has gone to fetch the jewels?”

“Yes; and afterwards she will leave the country. The cartman has orders to be there to-night with his bulls.”

The Zemindar gave the men some directions in a low voice; they made the usual obeisance and disappeared in the direction of the stables.

All was perfectly still in the temple compound at Rajapet. In the afternoon the old poojari sat upon the temple steps as usual, wrapped in contemplation. When the sun disappeared behind the distant hills, he turned into the dark, murky building, and lighted the dim lamps before the idol, chanting as he did so the necessary muntras in a thin nasal voice. The place resumed its silence and the little world relapsed into its habitual slumber. The glowing crimson of the setting sun on the cloudless sky faded quickly, and the darkness of an Indian night covered the earth.

A bullock cart, drawn by a pair of white bulls, came slowly towards the temple, and stopped at the gate. At the same moment a female figure with her cloth drawn hood-fashion over her head came out from the temple, carrying the customary bundle with which every Hindu travels. She did not utter a word, but crept quickly under the arched cover of the cart. The bulls started off at once in the opposite direction to Chengalem. As they trotted along, the occupant of the cart hung up a piece of blue cotton cloth across the entrance at the back, as is the fashion when native caste women travel. Having screened herself from observation, she smoothed out the carpet which was laid over some straw at the bottom of the cart, and prepared to settle for a night’s sleep. The bundle was placed under her head as a pillow, and the bed thus formed was by no means uncomfortable. When all was ready she did not lie down at once; she sat peeping through the extemporised curtain with her eye fixed on the road she was leaving behind her. Her keen sight penetrated the darkness, and she was satisfied that no one was in pursuit.

Suddenly the cart stopped, jerking her backwards. She turned and looked through the opening in front where the driver sat. Three men stood in the road arresting the progress of the bulls. The driver shouted and pricked his animals with the goad. But he was unable to make them stir. Two of the men passed round to the back of the cart, and tore aside the curtain. It was too dark to see what was inside. One of them plunged into the depths of the cart, and tried to seize the woman. There was a sharp cry and he drew back with the blood pouring from a knife wound in the arm. At that moment the man who barred the progress of the bulls succeeded in slipping the yoke from their necks, and the cart fell forward. In another second Deva was rolling in the dust between the animals’ legs, as difficult to secure and quite as dangerous as an infuriated panther.

But her assailants were no children. She was quickly disarmed and bound. A cloth was tied over her mouth and she was carried to the side of the road. Except for a few frenzied words of abuse from the woman before she was secured, it had all been done quietly and rapidly and without noise.

The bulls were yoked again; there was a chink of rupees, and the driver trotted on his way down the road towards Palamcotta. When he had disappeared, the Zemindar’s closed carriage came up from the other direction. It was drawn by a pair of Persian horses. Deva was placed in it with two of the men to see that she did not escape. The third climbed up beside the driver and the carriage rolled swiftly back towards Chengalem.

Finding herself bound and disarmed, Deva made no attempt to struggle or escape. As soon as she was captured she knew she was in the hands of the Zemindar. She also knew that in houses like the Zemindar’s, there were ways of punishing refractory members of the family, which never met the eye of the European police officer. The Doctor could occasionally guess, when he treated some wound or burn, that accident was not entirely to blame. But as it was impossible to obtain any evidence, he was obliged to accept the patient’s own account of the manner in which the hurt had been obtained, and keep his suspicions to himself. Deva knew a good deal more than the Doctor, and her thoughts were busy with the Zemindar. Would he dare to strangle her? would he cause her to be poisoned? Her position as dasi would not avail much with a man who lived in such an odour of sanctity with the temple authorities. The munificent gifts which he made periodically to the poojaries covered a multitude of eccentricities on the part of the donor. A handsome donation would silence all questionings on their part.

The steaming horses drew up before the Zemindar’s door in a little more than an hour after the capture. Deva was lifted out of the carriage and carried into a small inner room. She was unbound, and the cloth moved from her mouth. Water and food were set before her, and a small lamp was lighted, which was placed high up in a recess out of her reach. It was the usual floating wick in a bath of oil, and the light from it was less than that given by an ordinary night light. It just made darkness visible; nothing more. The room was absolutely bare of furniture—it did not even possess the grass mat which is usually found in every Indian chamber. Deva knew the room well.

It was one in which the Zemindar was accustomed to see people on business. There were no windows in it except a small skylight; the light during the day was sufficient when the big door was opened from the verandah. It was admirably adapted for a prison, and probably this was not the first time such use had been made of it. At the top of the room was a honey-comb grating, formed of curved tiles laid one upon another, which communicated with a small gallery at the back of the Zemindar’s private apartments. From this point he could if he chose look down into the room, and he could hear all that passed. She did not expect to see him that night as it was late, and she knew that he did not like to have his rest disturbed.

When the caste man who served her with food was about to close the door, she asked for a sleeping mat and a pillow. He murmured something about bringing it presently, and the heavy door swung to on its hinges. The bolt was drawn and perfect silence reigned.

She left the food and water untouched—she feared poison—and, unable to rest, she paced up and down the chamber. Now and again a shudder passed through her frame. It was not fear. It would have taken a great deal more than mere imprisonment to awake fear in that wild breast. A dull rage burnt within her soul, rage against the tree spirit, rage against her daughter; but worst of all a mad, unreasonable hatred against the harmless child she had so cruelly injured. In a short time she heard the bolt withdrawn. She thought it was the man bringing the mat and pillow, but to her surprise when the door opened the Zemindar entered, accompanied by two of the men who helped to capture her.

The Zemindar’s face, fleshy and heavy with self-indulgence, wore its usual stolid expression. The angry light had died away from his dull black eye. The coarse sensual mouth drooped at the corners, and gave a slightly sinister expression to the lower part of the face. The small fat hands hung limply by his side. He regarded her in silence for a few moments, whilst she, suddenly arrested in her uneasy prowling, stood motionless in front of him. Her hands were clenched and her lips parted, her white teeth gleamed, and her eyes flashed defiance. She was ready for death, but it did not come. She glanced at his two attendants. There was neither the strangling cord nor the death-dealing knife in their hand.

“So, dasi, my warning was useless. You dared after all I said to lay hands on the child,” he said in a low even voice.

“I wish I had killed her! I will strangle Minachee for coming between her and the knife. Oh! that I had crushed the life out of the little fiend as I killed the light of her eyes. Did she suffer much, Zemindar? Did she writhe? Did she scream? Ah! ha! where is her beauty now? What will she be but a blear-eyed old woman? You will have to look for another dasi.”

He let her run on in this strain till she was exhausted; whether the words hurt him or no it was impossible to say. Now and then the lower lip twitched and the small eyes blinked.

“To-morrow I must hand you over to the police,” he said, when she became quiet.

“Police! Is that all you have in store for me?” she replied, looking up at him in scorn.

“That was what the Doctor Sahib asked me to do.”

“And what punishment will they give me.”

“They will give you two years in jail; perhaps longer.”

The prospect was not inviting to a caste woman.

“After that,” he continued, “there will be disgrace. You can never show your face here again. The poojaries will not allow it. You will have to go to some temple in the far north where your story will not be known.”

She knew that his words were true. Residence in a common jail would spoil her caste in the eyes of the townspeople, and she could never appear before them again. She would have preferred some bodily punishment from the hands of the Zemindar. Whatever he did, he would regard her caste as a dasi. It might be cruel, but if it did not mean death she could bear it. If he did not kill her—and he seemed so far to have no intention of doing so—he might possibly mean to brand her with a hot iron, or retaliate with the maddening red pepper, or tie her by the thumbs and hang her upon the wall. Relieved of the fear of death, she did not shrink from the punishment. What she wanted was life and liberty; time and opportunity for revenge—speedy revenge. To be handed over to the police and incarcerated in a common jail for two years, and then made to fly the country, an outcast, was worse than any bodily pain the Zemindar could inflict. Yet she would not let him see that his words had had any effect.

“It is not your usual custom, Zemindar, to hand over those who offend you to the police. Who cares for European punishment? It is no punishment at all—a good room, a comfortable bed, food and clothing, no pain; where is the punishment? Oh! by all means, hand me over to the police.”

She laughed contemptuously.

“Is it no punishment, with its loss of caste and loss of liberty?”

“None!” she cried audaciously, and in such convincing tones that any one but an Oriental might have been deceived. The Zemindar knew the value of her words, however.

“You would prefer to escape altogether,” he said.

She did not reply, but looked questioningly at him.

“There is a condition of escape,” he remarked quietly.

“With the loss of an eye or with a slit nostril? I am ready for anything you choose. I care nothing for you and your punishments.”

“At five to-morrow morning, half an hour before dawn, this door shall be opened on one condition, and no one shall molest you as you pass out.”

A smile of incredulity swept over her lips.

“And if you do not consent,” he continued in his deep even tones, “the door will open at sunrise, when you will find the police waiting to take you out with them.”

“And what is the condition?” she asked, her curiosity aroused.

He approached her, and whispered something in a low tone, which was lost to the two attendants.

“I cannot answer you,” she replied sullenly. “I do not know.”

“Very well, dasi, at six to-morrow the police will be here.”

He lingered, thinking she might change her mind; but it was in vain. She refused to utter another word.

“Remove the lamp,” he said to one of his men.

It was taken down from the recess and the Zemindar departed. The door closed behind him, and Deva was left in the darkness of her prison. A very faint light fell from the skylight, the waning moon not having yet risen. She had no fear of the darkness, and so far congratulated herself that she was safe, and possessed a whole skin. She had escaped beyond her expectations, and was beginning to think that her position as dasi had been a check on the Zemindar. Yet she could not but wonder at his forbearance. It puzzled her completely. It was not at all like him to take a thwarting so gently and quietly. She had had her experiences in his house, and was accustomed to see summary justice meted out to those who dared to cross his will. Did he really mean to hand her over to the police? They were for the most Mahomedans and low caste Hindus. Although the European officer would see that her caste was not deliberately broken, it was galling to think that she would be brought into contact with men who had hitherto regarded her with respect and awe. As a criminal her position was altered. She dreaded the scornful word and light laugh, so readily meted out by the Hindu to those who have fallen upon bad times. She pondered over the Zemindar’s condition. Why should she not accept it? But it was too late. She no longer moved about the room, but sat down on the bare brick floor and leaned against the wall. Sleep was impossible, and she beguiled the time with planning schemes of vengeance, to be carried out as soon as she was free. Yes; freedom she must have at any price. She had remained thus for some time, when the door opened again, and the Zemindar entered with the same attendants, one of whom carried a lamp.

“Have you thought of what I said, dasi? Is the door to be opened at five or six?”

“How do I know that your word is true?” she asked.

He read the hesitation in her face, and hastened to reassure her.

“When I make a promise, as I do now, you know that I keep it.”

“Yet, for all that, you are a man of dark ways,” she rejoined distrustfully.

“Try me!”

There was a pause, and she thought of the police.

“Come here,” she said.

He approached, and she whispered something in his ear. He was satisfied. He turned to his men and said,—

“At five o’clock, when the gong sounds in the Sepoy lines, open this door, and let her go forth— if she chooses,” he concluded beneath his breath. “The greys shall be ready, dasi,” he said, as he turned to go.

He signed to the men to remove the untouched food and water, and they left her, closing and bolting the door behind them.

Deva would have gladly laid down, but the bricks were harsh and uncomfortable. Their uneven surface hurt her soft flesh, and she preferred to sit as before, resting her head against the wall. The Zemindar’s manner puzzled her. He was so calm.

She expected anger, but none was forthcoming. It made her uneasy, and until she should step forth into the fresh morning air, she could not believe that he meant to give her her liberty.

But if it came, how would she use it? What exquisite piece of torture could she devise for him. No! she would not touch him! Pah! How could that over-fed body of his be made to feel pain? It was through the light of his zenana that he should suffer. Never should he enjoy in peace the budding blossoms sent him from the temples. The blind child—she could not have escaped blindness she felt sure— would presently be put aside and a new plaything installed. This should be her opportunity, and she would see that Minachee—fool that she was!—did not frustrate her designs this time.

There was a slight sound in the recess where the lamp had stood. She listened and looked up instinctively, though the room was too dark to allow of her seeing anything. Was it a bird or a bat? It ceased, and her thoughts wandered back to their evil course. It began again—a soft sound as of a hand passing over the brickwork at the back of the recess. A grating noise was distinguishable, like the removal of a brick from its position in the wall. It was not caused by any animal she felt sure, but by a human being in the next room at the back of the wall. Deva had no fear. She knew no one could enter by so small an opening. She therefore continued seated, and listened idly, without troubling herself further as to the cause. The brick was removed, and there was a faint creaking of wicker-work, as though a basket were placed at the opening. For some minutes she heard nothing. Then there was a curious gliding sound, as of a rope being drawn over the bricks. Something fell close to her; and then all was silent.

What was it? She was puzzled. Was it a large rat or bandicoot? She heard no pattering feet; all was perfectly still and quiet. She remained in the sitting posture she had first assumed, with her back against the wall, and waited, her curiosity growing, but with no fear in her heart. The position was not altogether comfortable. She missed the grass mat and pillow, which she began to fear would not now be brought. She made a slight movement of a limb to ease her position. It was instantly responded to by a movement on the part of the mysterious body which had entered the room. Whatever it was, it was alive; of that she had no longer any doubt. But what could it be? She lifted her hands, and gently clapped them to frighten the rat or bandicoot to a further corner. The motion was instantly responded to. A long, low hiss fell on her ear, and her eyes, following the direction of the sound, fancied they could detect the dim, dark mass of a serpentine body.

She was appalled, and her heart stood still, only to throb like a sledge-hammer immediately afterwards.

Memory brought to her mind with a sudden vividness the tales and legends she had heard, when she lived in the Zemindar’s house.

Now she understood the restraint he had put upon himself! Now she knew what her fate was to be! This was what he had reserved for her! Her brain, quickened with apprehension, recalled the tales of the Zemindar’s ancestors, and their traditional practices. In the old days, before the British rule was established, these ancestors—much bigger men than their grandson—were said to have punished infidelity in their zenanas by a night spent in company with a cobra. The zenanas were large, for the Zemindars were rich men, and the women were beautiful. A strong bodyguard was maintained to protect the zenana. The young soldiers who formed it were imported from the north, and they had fair Mahratta blood in their veins. The interviews between the frail girls and the deadly serpents were said to have been frequent.

In her surprise and terror Deva made an involuntary movement, and drew up her feet. The creature responded by another hiss, and she heard its writhing body moving slowly over the bricks. Would it attack her? She kept perfectly still. She knew something of the nature of cobras. Unless irritated, it would make no attack, and its first endeavour would be to escape. Herein lay her safety, her only safety. If it found no means of escape, its fear would turn to anger which, slowly rising, would eventually cause it to become aggressive.

The cobra worked its way across to the opposite side towards the door. There it searched for an outlet. But the door closed firmly upon the threshold, and there was neither chink nor hole to afford egress. For a short time the creature wriggled its way backwards and forwards in front of the door, now with rapid serpentine movement, now sulkily and sluggishly. She could not easily distinguish it, the light was so faint. Finding no way of escape there, it followed the line of the wall. Deva with strained sight tried to keep her eye upon the reptile. She became alive to the fact that, if she retained her position against the wall, it must come up with her, and it would regard her as obstructing its path. She dared not rise to her feet: to do so would expose her bare ankles.

The snake reached the first corner where it paused. Passing on, it stayed longer in the second corner. There, it seemed to Deva, to have found what it wanted. Ah! she might still hope to be saved. The creature was so far only sullen; its wrath had not been roused. If it could only squeeze itself into some chink or cranny it would do so, and she would be safe.

But no! it moved on again, and was approaching her. It was working its way along the very wall by which she sat, and she was obstructing its course.

With a movement of terror she leaped forward into the middle of the room. Then crouching she waited motionless, fearful of irritating it. She could just distinguish the raised head and extended hood, as it gave vent to another warning hiss. She listened and shuddered. She had no weapon wherewith she might defend herself. A light cane would have been sufficient; but there was nothing. Even the water bottle was gone. As the blood beat and throbbed in her veins, her eyes became clouded, and with dimness of vision came confusion and loss of presence of mind. When the snake lay still she could no longer distinguish it. She gazed with staring eyeballs around her, losing in her terror the geography of the room. Where was she? How near was the wall behind her? Where was the snake? She listened for the low gliding sound of the scales, but she could hear nothing. She stretched out a hand behind her to feel for the wall, and as she did so her bangles chinked together. Again the prolonged hiss fell on her ear like a gentle breath of steam escaping from a pipe. It sounded close behind her. Involuntarily she made a movement away from it, crouching still to guard her uncovered feet. So she rested, breathless and motionless, her ears strained to catch the slightest sound, her eyes bloodshot with attempting to penetrate the darkness.

How long she remained thus she could not tell. Her limbs were growing stiff; she must move or she would be convulsed with cramp. As far as she could judge in her agitation, she imagined she was in the very centre of the room, and she fancied that she could detect the dim outline of the serpent’s body lying against the wall at the end. She stretched out an arm. What a relief it was! There was no sound. Very cautiously she moved an aching leg and extended it, so as to ease the stiffening knee-joint. Was the reptile sulking in the corner? It seemed so, and she earnestly hoped that it might be so. It was very still. If she could only last out till the early hours of the morning, without coming into contact with the deadly serpent, she would be safe. She felt sure, now, that the Zemindar would be true to his word, and that the door would be open at five—open to give freedom to the living or the dead, as the case might be. How long would it be before deliverance came? How many hours had passed since she first heard the warning hiss? It seemed like a lifetime. Surely morning must be close at hand!

She sank into a sitting posture, and keeping her strained gaze upon the cobra against the wall she extended her feet in front of her with the utmost caution, avoiding anything like a jerk or startling motion. All was silent. She was thankful to observe that the reptile continued to sulk in the corner; her back ached, and she missed the wall against which she had leaned. The aching increased. She drew in her feet, being less careful now that each movement did not meet with that terrible response. She made no attempt to leave the spot. The cobra, after the manner of its kind, would keep to the wall, if its irritation at her presence were allayed. She would be safe in the centre of the room. She scarcely knew how to bear the aching of her back. To give it a little ease, she pushed her hand out behind her to lean upon it, and take some of the weight of her body off her spine. She never took her eyes for one moment from the dark spot against the wall which kept strangely still. She thrust her hand along the floor slowly and cautiously, and as she did so it came in contact with a cold scaly body, so smooth and cold that it gave the impression of being slimy.

An irrepressible scream burst from her lips, as her touch was greeted with an angry hiss. She bounded to her feet, and with extended hands found the wall. The hideous creature roused at last to aggressive anger pursued her. She could hear its scaly length being drawn behind her. She also was well aware that in speed a snake can outstrip a human being.

She ran along the wall, guiding herself by her hands, for her eyes seemed filled with blindness. The corners confused her, the room being longer one way than the other. She heard the hiss again and again and quickened her steps, till it was a mad race round the darkened chamber. Then the thought rushed suddenly across her brain that she might be overstepping the snake. Losing the last vestige of her presence of mind, she crossed what she thought was the length of the chamber. It was only its breadth. She dashed against the opposite wall with stunning force, and fell back in a heap upon the floor.

The maddened reptile followed closely on her steps, its beady eyes penetrating the darkness as no human vision could do. Before she could recover her feet, she felt a sharp sting upon her arm above the elbow, like the sudden prick of a darning needle. The cobra’s fangs penetrated her flesh.

She made a frenzied grasp in the direction of the pain, and caught the snake’s writhing body. What cared she how often it seized her arm! The deadly deed was done. Again it struck, and as it did so she gave its coily length a vicious twist which broke its spine. Again and again she wrenched and twisted, giving vent to a scream of rage and despair each time. Then she fell over on her side and with one hand drew her cloth over her head. The other hand still grasped the disabled reptile, which writhed impotently by her side. It made no further attempt to strike its victim; its one desire now seemed to be to drag its broken body away.

Deva moaned; the poison was rapidly doing its work, and the deadly stupor, from which no human being ever recovers, was setting in. Visions passed, before her eyes—the devil-tree, the horrible sacrifice the dance, the blinded dasi and the triumphant Zemindar. The moans died away; the convulsive twitching ceased, and all was still.

There was a slight movement at the grating, as of some one leaving it, who had been listening. The Zemindar was late in going to rest, but a sigh of self-satisfaction escaped him as he threw himself on the low broad teakwood cot, and drew the blue satin coverlet over himself. He was in a sound sleep two minutes after his head touched the pillow, and he did not awake till the yellow light of dawn touched the sky.

Punctually at five the two men fulfilled the order of the Zemindar to the letter. The door of Deva’s prison was thrown open. Well indeed might their master promise that she would walk forth free, if she chose! They left her untouched as she lay, with the reptile beside her. They fastened back the big door, and brought sleeping mat and pillows, which they placed in a tumbled heap near her.

Soon after sunrise Dr. Manning rode up to enquire after his little patient. The Zemindar was in the room. In answer to his queries Felix said,—

“She will recover her sight. She is progressing admirably; far better than I could hope at first.”

“It is due to you, Doctor; and I owe you much;” replied the Hindu with something like real gratitude in his heart.

“Have you done anything about punishing the woman?”

The other made no reply and Felix regarded him with curiosity. It was so unlike an Oriental not to seek revenge. He continued,—

“I think you had better place the matter in the hands of the police. Two days have elapsed since the outrage was committed, and she may escape. It would be best for the child not to see her hanging about; it might upset her nervous system and undo the good we are now doing.”

“You shall summon the police, Doctor, when you have seen the dasi.”

“Seen her! Is she here?”

“She came to my house last night. I would not admit her to the zenana, but gave her a room downstairs with food and water.”

Felix rose from the low stool on which he had been sitting by the side of his patient.

“Let me see the woman at once.”

The Zemindar appeared perfectly willing, and his apparent openness with absence of all sign of revenge puzzled the medical man. It was difficult to believe that the woman had deliberately placed herself in the power of her enemy; and still harder was it to credit the Zemindar with generosity and forgiveness in such a case.

They went to the small chamber which had been the scene of the terrible encounter in the darkness of the night.

“What is this! Dead?” cried Felix, as his eyes fell on the swollen body.

He bent over her and examined her closely. He suspected treachery; he had never heard of the tradition in the Zemindar’s family, but he knew that the marks of serpent’s fangs were not infrequently made artificially on the bodies of those who had been poisoned. He suspected for a moment that this had been the case now. But the suspicion was dispelled by the sight of the cobra. The marks of the fangs in her arm were genuine, and there was another wound on the wrist where the creature had struck a second time. Her convulsed fingers, gleaming with jewelled rings, still grasped a coil of the scaly body in a death grip. There was no doubt about the cause of death. He turned to the Hindu.

“Where was she sleeping?”

“Here, in this very room, which she herself chose when I refused admittance to the zenana. She placed the door open, and asked for mat and pillow, which were given. The room has not been used of late. Probably the snake was accustomed to enter by night. She may have obstructed its path, or even touched it in her sleep. There is no doubt, Doctor, but that the great All Father sent her the punishment. She was a bad woman, a wicked woman, who would only have lived to do worse evil.”

The Zemindar had a very vague idea of the person he spoke of as the great All Father. He did not believe in the tree-devil; at the same time, he had no conception of the Christian’s Deity. He believed in a supreme Deity, one of whose attributes was revenge, and who had, therefore, to be propitiated by the poojaries in the temple. He did not trouble himself to think much about the matter, or he might have taken unction to his soul for having done the work of revenge for the great swami of his imagination.

Felix was not satisfied. He suspected foul play, and he did not scruple to show his distrust by searching closely over the body for marks of violence. Not a scratch nor bruise was visible. She had been bound when captured with cotton cloth, such as the men wore as turbans or loin cloths, and her flesh had been unhurt. He was obliged to admit that his suspicions were unfounded, and that death had been solely caused by the bite of the cobra, a too common cause of death in India.

“There is no need to send for the police now,” he said, as he threw a sheet over the body, “She is beyond all earthly punishment, poor soul! You must hand over the body to the poojaries, and they will see to the burning.”

There was nothing more to be done. Coroner’s inquests in those remote parts were not necessary where the doctor certified the cause of death. Felix was about to depart when the Zemindar detained him.

“The woman brought a small bundle with her last night.”

He did not think it necessary to add that he had found the missing jewels in the parcel.

“Oh!”

“The contents concern you, Doctor. I am grateful to you for what you have done. I know that you will receive no gift beyond your usual fee. Perhaps I may be of service in some other way. Will you look at the bundle?”

“Certainly; where is it?”

The Zemindar clapped his hands. One of the men who had been out the evening before brought a small bundle into the room. It was tied in a large red handkerchief. Felix unknotted the kerchief and laid it open. In so doing he displayed a white linen shirt stained with blood, and a black suit of dress clothes.

“My brother’s!” he cried in a low, choked voice.

Although he had taught himself to believe that Will was dead, he had never yet been brought face to face with the unmistakable evidence of the fact. It was somewhat of a shock, coming, as it did, so unexpectedly. Everything the poor lad wore that night was there, down to the black silk socks daintily embroidered with tiny red sprays.

“You say that she brought these things with her; then it must have been she who killed him?”

The Zemindar nodded his head and remained silent.

“And being dead herself, the secret of his death dies with her. Where can she have hidden him?”

He was but speaking his thoughts aloud. The Hindu, however, answered him.

“The secret is not lost altogether. Last night when she came and asked for shelter, I spoke to her. I said, ‘Dasi, how is it that you dare to show your face here? Do you not know that I could punish you for this evil deed?’ She replied with her usual effrontery and boldness, ‘I know that the Zemindar will never harm one of the temple servers.’ ‘But the police will take you. The Doctor Sahib is putting the case in the hands of the major—the hunting cheetah, as the people call him, for his cleverness in catching those who do evil.’ She quailed at the mention of the police. She feared to lose her caste, I said, ‘I bear you no ill-will because the child will recover. I will lend you my swift Persian horses to escape if you will tell me one thing. What became of the young European, the Doctor’s brother?’ I was well aware, Doctor, that you would hold news of your brother dearer than jewels and gold. At first she would not tell, but said she would leave at once and hide from the police. ‘Better take the Persians. Forty miles will they carry you, and you will be safe in one of the large temples, where you can never be found.’ I did not wish to let the police catch her. The temple people would not like one of their dasis to fall into the hands of those low caste men. So she said, ‘I do not like the police. I will take the horses half an hour before dawn and go; I will sleep for a few hours now, for I am tired.’ ‘And the Englishman?’ ‘He was at the devil-dance that night. He dared to touch the tree, and the spirit drank his blood.’ She would say nothing more, but that was enough. At five this morning, according to my promise, the greys were ready, but she, as you see, was not able to depart.”

Felix listened to this curious story with absorbing interest, but when the end came he was visibly disappointed. It was so vague, and conveyed nothing more to his mind than he knew already from the sight of the clothes. Not so the Zemindar.

“You do not see the drift of her story. The spirit drank his blood. That is how the people talk of the goats they kill in honour of their swami. I do not believe in these sacrifices. I am an educated man.”

He spoke with a lofty scorn.

Felix replied, “ We can easily guess that he was killed that night; but what have they done with him?”

“He was made a sacrifice to the tree-devil.”

“Impossible!” cried Felix. “It is too monstrous a thing to believe in these days!”

The Zemindar smiled indulgently. He did not want to open the eyes of the Englishman more than was necessary.

“Let us say, then, that in the frenzy and madness of the evening he was murdered, because he disturbed their ceremonies. He was probably buried with the remains of the sacrificial animals not needed for the feast.”

“We opened the grave and found a buffalo. A curious attempt was made to avoid disturbance of the ground by planting an aloe over the spot.”

“The aloe keeps away the prying feet of the hyena and jackal. You found a buffalo and nothing else?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Did you search beneath?”

“Yes.”

“And at the side? was there no tunnel where the body of a slim youth might be hid?”

“None.”

“Was it a large buffalo?”

“A huge cow.”

“Ah! and did you look inside the cow?” “No!” almost shouted Felix in his excitement.

“Then search again. You will find him there,” said the astute Hindu, whose mountains of flesh held a mind as full of subtlety as the body was of fat.

As he watched the Doctor ride away the indulgent, contemptuous smile returned.

“What fools these Englishmen are! They have such strength, yet they cannot see beyond the length of their noses.”

And he turned back into his house to resume the routine of his daily life.

Chapter XVI

Light and Love

“To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign,
I turn.”
— Goldsmith

There remains little more to add to this story of the intertwining of a few Anglo-Indian lives with the lives of a few Hindus. The intertwining was but a touching; there was ho intermingling. The Hindu with his strange creed and code of morals must ever be an inscrutable being to the Briton; and the Briton with his strange philanthropy is equally incomprehensible to the Hindus. They touch and feel, see and hear, but they do not understand; so says the European after thirty years’ residence and work in the country to the youth of six months’ service. The youth, be it noted, usually receives the statement with an incredulous smile. “How is it,” he asks himself, “that the old Anglo-Indian knows less than I have learnt in six months?” The answer comes when he in his turn retires in his old age.

When Felix communicated the information he had received that morning to Major Brett, that officer was considerably excited. The thought that he had been so near the discovery, and yet so completely outwitted and thrown off the scent, was very galling. He had fondly imagined that he was up to all native tricks, and that he and his staff of picked men were equal to the most subtle machinations of the wily Hindu. But he was wrong. A second examination of the grave by the sacrificial stone was made in accordance with the Zemindar’s suggestion, with the result that the remains of poor Will were discovered, where that astute Hindu had said they were to be found.

The news of the discovery spread rapidly, and the little station of Chengalem was startled and perturbed. Much sympathy was felt for Felix, and when, in due course, the body was borne to the cemetery there was an attendance at the funeral of all the European ladies and gentlemen in the place. Beryl was amongst the former. She bore in her hands a beautiful wreath of eucharis lilies and maiden-hair fern, and her tears fell unrestrainedly as the coffin was lowered into the grave—this time dug in consecrated ground, and hallowed by holy words reverently spoken by the chaplain.

Felix stood bareheaded by the side of the clergyman. His face was stern with the repression of the emotion he naturally felt. Beryl from beneath her thick black veil glanced at him through her tears. There were lines on the white face that betokened how deep the sorrow was that rested on his heart. Her woman’s instinct made her long to console and comfort, to take the dear head to her bosom and smooth away the premature furrows. The vision of the dasi which had risen so fatally between herself and her love, had faded like a hideous nightmare on the morning’s awaking. Her heart with a sudden reaction went out towards Felix, but the opportunity was gone. She herself had precluded the possibility of tendering loving sympathy and such sweet ministrations as could now soften his grief. He had asked for her love and she had denied it. It was too late, the deed was done, and as far as she could see there was no undoing it. He had accepted her refusal as final, seeing good reason for it in the fact, as he supposed, that she did not love him. And with her somewhat reserved and proud nature she could not stoop to the small feminine arts by which a coquette can allure a man back to her side. She went on her way with her usual sweetness and gentleness. A close observer might have detected a certain subdued manner and a slight nervousness, which was due to the shock she sustained on the memorable night of Will’s disappearance. But even if Felix had been less occupied with his own affairs, and able to read it, he would have ascribed the change in her to sorrow at the fate that had overtaken her late boyish companion.

Major Brett’s first action after the recovery of Will’s body was to seek for the old poojari. But he was gone. There was no trace of him to be found. And even if he had been taken the major knew how hopeless it would have been to have produced any evidence against him. The only person who might have given evidence was Deva, and she was dead. Deva’s daughter had also disappeared, but on enquiry it was found that she had been sent no further than Rajapet. There he sought her out, and she put no obstacle in the way of the cross-examination he was anxious to carry out. He elicited nothing incriminating. On the contrary, he was very soon convinced of her innocence with regard to the murder; but he discovered that Minachee suspected her mother of foul play, and she was also aware that the jewels she carried that night to Rajapet were not her mother’s, and she shrewdly guessed that they were stolen, hence her agitation on being questioned so closely concerning her doings on the night of the devil-dance.

As to the cause of the murder, Major Brett was less satisfied. He would gladly have assigned it to jealousy and anger on the part of the mother at interference with the daughter. And the anger might very well have culminated in the last rash act on the boy’s part in being present at one of the heathen poojas. But the interview with Minachee left a dread on the major’s mind, that there was another cause. It was unpremeditated without doubt; but his sudden and opportune appearance suggested to the fertile mind of Deva a greater and richer offering to the tree-devil than was customary or legitimate in these enlightened days of British rule. Felix, too, had his doubts as to whether his brother shared the fate of the poor goats and sheep sacrificed that night. But whatever may have been their thoughts, neither of the men spoke of them, and the deed was put down as simple murder, committed on the spur of the moment in a blaze of anger at the intrusion.

The affair caused the proverbial nine days’ wonder. There was an official enquiry, which led to a Government order that the dances were in future not to be held, excepting in the presence of a responsible native official, and then the matter sank into oblivion.

Felix applied for leave on urgent private affairs, and at the same time he asked for a transfer to another station. Of the latter he said nothing to his friends. The leave was granted at once; for the story of his brother’s death was known at headquarters. On the eve of his departure he turned into the club to say good-bye to his friends, whom he knew would be assembled there as usual.

“So you are off at once on a holiday,” said O’Brien. “I am very glad of it, old man. You want a change after all the anxiety you have been through.”

“You will not be present at O’Brien’s wedding,” remarked Bankside.

Felix laughed.

“I will send you something, O’Brien, by way of a wedding present to represent my goodwill.”

“Thanks, old boy; but send it to her. What is given to her pleases me more than what is given to me.”

“Sly dog! He knows the old adage,—‘What is yours is mine; what is mine is my own.’ And the missus will find it out after the honeymoon,” said Bankside.

“Cynical old bachelor! I pity you,” retorted O’Brien.

“How long leave have you got?” asked Colonel Leigh.

“Six months.”

“And a very nice time too. You just get the summer in England. Vile place, England, in the winter.”

“When are you going to be married, O’Brien?” asked Felix.

“Next month; and we are going to honeymoon on the Nilgiris. You should follow my example, Manning.”

“The old story; the fox without a tail,” murmured Bankside.

“Marriage is not in my line, just now,” replied Felix.

“I bet you don’t escape this summer,” cried the prospective bridegroom. “You will have nothing to do when you get home but make love to the girls. And, thank Heaven, the old country is as full of pretty girls as the hedges are of roses.”

After a little more good-humoured chaff Felix drew Major Brett aside. It is due to the latter to say that he had completely overcome his prejudice regarding the Doctor. He looked upon Felix as the one brilliant exception that proved the rule. His intimate knowledge of the language and the offending drop of Oriental blood that coursed through his veins were forgiven, and the Major admitted to himself that the medical man was above the average human being. He recognised and respected his devotion to his profession, and his unselfishness; and he admitted that his conduct with regard to Will, though open to a possible charge of weakness, was not in anyway to blame. It was about Minachee that Felix spoke.

“I want you to see that the girl is placed in proper hands. I have made arrangements for her to be taken into the mission house at Palamcotta.”

“Is she willing to go?” asked Major Brett in some surprise.

“She says so.”

“And the poojari’s consent, have you gained that? He is her guardian now at Rajapet, and being her mother’s uncle we must regard his wishes,” said the Major.

“He has made no difficulty at all. I was surprised, I must confess, at his quiet acquiescence,” replied Felix.

“Perhaps the lengths to which her mother went have alarmed him. If the girl will go willingly I shall be very glad indeed. Anything would be better than the continuation of this degrading life in the temple. I will see her off myself and send a caste man as an escort.”

With many words of thanks from Felix the two men shook hands heartily and parted. Felix went on to the ladies’ portion of the club. It was not without emotion that he thought of the farewell he had yet to take with Beryl. He was surprised at himself, though he had conquered his love and buried it with other sorrows in poor Will’s grave. He knew that the farewell was probably final, as he did not intend to return. But she was not aware of his decision. Fate might ordain that their paths should cross again, but the chances were against it; at least, for some years to come. There was no difficulty in finding Beryl. She was with her friends, but sitting apart, silent and pre-occupied. It was not so easy to get the tête-à-tête he desired. He had nothing definite in his mind to say, and he almost wondered at his new-born eagerness to be alone once more with her.

He answered the volley of questions that greeted him as he came up to the group. He explained satisfactorily where he was going and how he meant to spend his holiday. He was questioned about his ship, his cabin companions, his successor who was to take over charge immediately from him. When the catechising was at an end and a lull came in the conversation he passed round to Beryl’s side. She had listened without joining in the chatter; her eyes turned from him, but her ears dwelling on every word he uttered. The group broke up into twos and threes and he found an opportunity of saying,—

“Will you come for a little turn, Miss Holdsworth?”

She rose at once and they wandered down the broad path leading away from the tennis courts to the more secluded garden.

“I am off to-morrow and shall have no other opportunity of seeing you. Will you do something for me?”

“I shall be very glad,” she said. It was odd how her voice failed her.

“The spot in the cemetery,” he explained. “It needs some mark: a marble or granite cross. Will you choose it for me? I have the epitaph here.”

He pulled an envelope from his pocket and placed it in her hands. But she gave it him back.

“Of course I will do all that you wish, but it cannot be put up just yet. You will be back here yourself in six months’ time. Leave it till then and we will do it together, Dr. Manning,” she said.

She looked at him with a question in her troubled eyes. He had not intended to tell her of his intention of not returning, but something in her face compelled him to speak.

“I have applied for a transfer, and when my leave is ended I shall be posted to another station.”

Beryl made an involuntary little movement, but controlled herself instantly. Her small hands were tightly clasped and she did not trust herself to speak. She knew as well as he did what the transfer meant, and that they would probably not meet again for years.

“This place has sad memories for me,” he continued. “I am sorry to leave the people. They love me, I know. But their love for me did not save my brother’s life. I shall be glad to get away to fresh scenes and new work. Wherever I go in India I shall find work; and therein lies my consolation and my refuge.”

Still she did not speak. She had been wondering how she should get through the six months he would be absent. Now she had to contemplate a parting for ever. The thought stunned her.

“Things have turned out so differently from what I hoped,” he went on. “Only two months ago I was eagerly looking forward to a happy home in a brother’s house, and to the possession of the priceless treasure of a sister’s love. Afterwards I allowed other dreams—rash dreams they were—to fill my mind. Every corner in this place is full of sad memories, and I am coward enough to fly from them.”

“Are you flying from me?” whispered Beryl, half choking.

His dark eyes gazed into hers with a sudden burning query, roused by her few words. Was this the cold, loveless creature with whom he had vainly pleaded before? Wild hope rushed through his heart, springing to life unbidden as he looked at the girl before him.

“Beryl!” he cried in apprehension, like some wounded creature that has been hurt before and dreads the returning blow.

But no blow came; the coldness, the reserve, the foolish pride were all gone; and a humble, nearly heart-broken woman stood before him mutely asking his forgiveness. The dark pall of sorrow was lifted from his life. The sunlight of love and happiness poured in upon his horizon with the brilliancy of the unclouded Indian sun as it rises in the golden east of the tropics.

She touched his hand. It was enough. No explanations were needed; no words were wasted. Each found the haven of bliss in the other, and was in rest and in peace.

The following day Felix left Chengalem. A few weeks later Beryl and her mother followed him to England, where the wedding took place just before his leave ended.

Major Brett was faithful to his trust. He made all the necessary arrangements for Minachee’s journey south to Palamcotta. He had been over to Rajapet more than once, and each time he had no difficulty in seeing her. She greeted him with the same bright smile, and she was always the same sparkling, beautiful dasi she had ever been. He wondered much at her quiet acquiescence in all the plans made for her future disposal.

On the appointed day the caste man was ready and the rail tickets were bought, but no Minachee appeared. The train steamed out of the station, and the Major who had taken the trouble to go there himself, rode angrily to Rajapet to enquire why she had failed to keep her promise.

The bird had flown. Minachee had disappeared. Was it likely that a dasi would thus tamely change the tenor of her life? The air of the heathen temple with its curious licence and strange restraints was life and breath to her. She merely temporised till Felix left; and when he departed she took wing to other scenes, where the drumming of the tomtom and the orgy of the heathen pooja filled her wild heart with a gladness that made her life complete.

The End