“We fashion our ideas, not only of men and things, but of gods, after our own images. Race, temperament, individuality, the influence of social surroundings; all of these move us in different ways to become anthropomorphic.”
— Haldane, Human Experience.“Thousands of spiritual creatures walk the earth Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep.”
— Milton.
Dick Dangerfield and his wife, Elaine, had been married three years. Two and a half had passed very happily except for one thing: Dick would dearly have liked to have had a son. For the matter of that a daughter might be included. But so far fortune had not favoured the couple, and there was no nursery at the Grange.
Elaine was indifferent to the absence of the nursery. As is so often the case, husband and wife were of widely different temperaments.
Dick loved the country with all its pursuits. No sport came amiss. He delighted in the garden, fancied himself as a grower of orchids, and took a great interest in his glass-houses. The quiet, home-like life in the well-appointed country house that he had inherited from his father suited him exactly, and filled his days with quiet joy and pleasant occupation.
His wife was happy enough at first, but when the novelty wore off she became tired of looking round the same garden beds, watching the setting of fruit, visiting the stables and hunters, and taking the dogs out, or running over dull country roads in her car. She longed for the excitements of town, the roar of the traffic, the glitter of the shops, and the thrill of the theatre.
Dick was too good-natured to deny her anything that gave her pleasure. When she proposed to go to her club and have a round of gaieties for a week or ten days, he consented heartily, his only anxiety being over the state of her banking account, lest she should run short of money. He replenished it nobly, and sent her off with the assurance that he would be quite contented if left to himself for a few days.
Being of a sociable nature as well as thoroughly domesticated, he missed her company more than a little. This she was not allowed to discover. No complaint passed his lips, and when she returned in the same breezy manner in which she left him he rejoiced in his own quiet way. She was ready to ride with him, motor where he liked, visit the tenants, and inquire after their children, crops, and cattle.
“I am sure that it is a good thing for us both, Dick,” she would assure him, “to be separated sometimes.”
“I could do without it,” he would return, with an uneasy expression in his rather prominent eyes that was unfamiliar to Elaine.
She laughed and dismissed the thought that he was not quite as contented with the arrangement as she was herself. The lover seemed to come back after these short absences. It stirred her blood and made her realise that the world held something more than theatres and dances.
I must have a fling now and then and you must put up with it, old darling, and not be selfish,” she cried. “I’m off again the week after next.”
Dick made no reply. He did his best to accommodate himself to circumstances, to smile and look pleasant when he was far from feeling anything of the sort. If only there was a nursery! He choked down the thought. What was the good of “ifs” in such a case? They started useless regrets. He straightway walked over to the kennels and spent half an hour looking at Fancy’s litter of puppies that had opened their eyes a few days ago.
One day Elaine brought back from London a man. She sent no notice of her intention to her husband beyond a telegram on the morning of the day of her return. She announced the fact in the abbreviated language acceptable with most people in these days. There was a lingering touch of old times about Dick which he would never lose. He could tolerate the telephone, but he had never liked the blunt, uncourteous wire.
Elaine’s telegram said that she was bringing a Raymond Browne back with her on a week-end visit.
Dick had heard of Raymond Browne from his wife as being one of her regular dance-partners. He had put a few idle questions since Elaine seemed to like talking about him. Browne was the secretary of a small, select London club. His duties were light. He had an assistant to address envelopes, keep accounts, and be on duty in the office all day. This left him with plenty of time for social functions. Raymond was highly ornamental, dressed well, and was a model of good manners and courtesy. He was also a good judge of wines, and was by way of being an epicure over all food. No club, great or small, could boast of a better table than was to be found at his.
For such a man Dangerfield had no use at all. Browne cared nothing for sport, did not know an apple-tree from an elm, and imagined that gooseberries grew on espaliers. He did not ride, nor play lawn tennis; knew nothing of golf; hated an open motor-car, and admitted that he had never fired a gun in his life. He skimmed the newspapers, skipping the politics and scientific information; and, except for a novel occasionally, he rarely read a book. His conversation was about actors and actresses, and he was never at a loss for gossip concerning society. Dancing in all its latest phases was an unfailing topic of interest, and Elaine was always ready to practise a new step at his invitation.
Dangerfield tried honestly to enter into these subjects, but failed lamentably. He only displayed his ignorance when he ventured a remark, which usually brought a frown to Elaine’s brow and an indulgent smile on Raymond’s lips. Dick dropped out of the conversation and presently slipped away, leaving his wife and her visitor by themselves. He did his best to hide the fact that he was bored stiff, and caught himself more than once counting the hours that would terminate the week-end visit. He saw that Elaine was fascinated, and because she was happy he was content to put up with the presence of the man.
Raymond Browne’s fourth visit lasted a whole week, during which time Elaine seemed to be living only to cater for his amusement.
Browne’s visits were repeated until it so happened that Elaine rarely returned from London without her “pal” as she called him. During the time she was at home she was entirely occupied in giving “Raymond,” as it had now become, a good time.
Dick was no fool. He wondered how the man got away from his job for a week at a time. A little of this sort of thing went a long way with him, and at last he spoke. He went straight to the point quietly and without any show of temper, and told his wife that he would be glad if Browne’s visits were less frequent. He did not for a moment believe that he came without an invitation with probably some pressing on the part of his hostess. Dick asked her to make it clear to her friend that it was not always convenient to have the same visitor.
This she refused indignantly to do. Raymond should come down to the Grange as often as he pleased, the oftener the better as far as she was concerned. It was her house quite as much as her husband’s. She was going to invite her friends as she chose. Before they knew where they were, Dick and his wife found themselves involved in an unseemly quarrel. They broke off abruptly, Elaine to hide her passion of tears in her room, and Dangerfield to find his unwelcome guest and say what his wife refused to say.
Quietly and concisely he conveyed the information that he would be much obliged if Browne came less often to the house and occupied fewer of Mrs. Dangerfield’s hours. The guest did not take it pleasantly. He cut his visit short and departed with a curt farewell.
What he said to Elaine, Dick did not know, but he must have spoken hotly of the inhospitable action, for he left Elaine furious. She astonished her husband by her volubility on what she called his outrageous conduct. She loaded him with reproaches, took his behaviour as a personal insult, lost her head completely, and let her tongue run on beyond all reason.
Finally she threatened to break every tie and set conventions at defiance. She would go abroad with Raymond, she declared, quite forgetting that he depended on his secretaryship for his living; and that she had no reason for believing that he was prepared for extremes. Dick, she said, might help himself as he could.
Fortunately her words carried no conviction to the mind of the unhappy husband. His faith in her rectitude was unbroken. Passionate speech did not necessarily mean wild actions. Her wrath would the down and she would be herself again. He tried to soothe her ruffled feelings, saying that he would be glad to see her friend at some future time; but she would have none of it.
“I shall leave you!” she cried furiously. “I will not stay another day in your house. I shall leave you for ever!”
“No need for you to do that, my dear,” replied Dick very quietly. “You shall have a free hand in the disposal of yourself. All I beg of you is to ‘do nothing in a hurry,’ as the old adage says, ‘but catch fleas!’”
His attempt to give the conversation a lighter turn was not successful. He felt as though he were speaking to a passionate and unreasonable child, one who could not be taken seriously. His words only served to inflame her the more.
“You vulgar man! How dare you be so low! so common!”
“It’s better than being sinful!”
“Sinful! you cruel beast! You don’t love me! you never have loved me——”
Here her feelings were too much for her. Her reproaches came to an end in tears.
“Elaine darling! don’t accuse me falsely. You know very well that you are the one woman in my life whom I have loved.”
She was aware that he spoke the truth. She possessed his love whole-heartedly. It was as strong as ever, though it might not be quite so demonstrative. If he had followed the quarrel up as the lover it might all have ended happily and have blown over by the morning. But Dick was by nature self-restrained and undemonstrative. If he had seized her in his arms, half smothered her with violent kisses, if he had shaken her till her pretty short locks were all out of place, the difference might have been made up. But he did nothing of the kind. To tell the truth, such a disorderly proceeding never suggested itself to his mind.
Dick with his power of self-control missed his opportunity and was left to wonder how he, a peace-loving man, had been dragged into an undignified squabble.
Elaine gave him no more opportunities of healing the breach. She whirled herself back to town to find consolation in the company of her latest infatuation.
This time she purposely prolonged her visit in London and remained three whole weeks at her club. She did not write. It was her way of punishing the offender. Towards the end of the time she looked for a letter from Dick. She was convinced that he would write and express his regret. He would ask her to forgive him, and probably he would add an invitation to Raymond Browne by way of holding out the olive-branch. Disappointment met her on both counts. She received no entreaty to return and no invitation came for Raymond.
Her curiosity was aroused. What was he doing? He could not be philandering with other women in his solitude. He was not that sort of man. She knew him to be of a fastidious nature, and she believed implicitly in his loyalty to herself.
She returned to the Grange in more or less of a repentant mood. The punishment had lasted long enough, and she was ready to forgive if she found him in a kinder attitude towards her own conduct. Cub hunting had begun. The partridges were strong on the wing, as they skimmed in large covies over the hedges from turnip field to stubble. In the coverts the cock pheasants crowed, sitting in the young oaks in happy ignorance of their fate. These were sights and sounds that had always delighted Dick and brought the light of anticipation into his blue eyes.
A surprise awaited her. The house appeared as usual well-found, clean, and bright with flowers. The comfort of it struck her afresh after an unusually long spell of her club. The master was nowhere visible. She concluded that he was out motoring or riding round among his tenants, who were always pleased to see him. She went into the dining-room in her restless wandering about the house, and noticed that for lunch the butler had laid for one only. She turned to him quickly:
“Where’s the master?” she asked, her heart giving a sudden throb of apprehension. The butler, stolid and impassive as it was his duty to be, glanced at her with an expression of surprise that was quickly suppressed.
“Mr. Dangerfield is not in, madam.”
She asked no more questions. If Dick was away from home on a visit he had probably left a note to explain his absence.
“There is a letter for madam lying on the writing-table in the smoking-room. Shall I fetch it?”
“No,” she paused. “I shall want the car this afternoon. You may let the chauffeur know.”
“At what time?” the man asked, full of a curiosity he dared not show.
“After tea.”
Elaine walked out of the room and went straight to Dick’s sitting-room. It opened into a passage through which he could reach the garden and stables without passing into the front hall. Formerly it was known as the gun-room. Since she and Dick had come to live in the ancestral hall it had been called the smoking-room, although Dick was not a smoker.
Between the two French windows leading into the garden was a large writing-table. Conspicuous on the blotter lay an envelope addressed to herself in Dick’s large handwriting. It contained a letter which was short and to the point.
“Dear Elaine,
“I suppose you meant all that you said. That being so, I again ask you to do nothing in a hurry. Play about with your new joy-stick till you have quite made up your mind which of us two you prefer. Then let me know, and I will do my best to make you happy. For I love you heart and soul, as I have always done, and shall always love you to the end.
“Your loving husband,
“Dick.
“P.S.---By-the-by, I sail for India to-morrow.”
The southern mail train from Bombay drew up at one of the large stations on the route. The passengers hurried to the refreshment-room, Dick Dangerfield among them. He found himself guided to a table by an attentive Indian waiter. A family party, travelling south like himself, had already taken their seats. The party consisted of an Anglo-Indian named Fernandez, his wife, his daughter Daphne, and a friend, Ralph Molena, a young tobacco merchant with the Jewish blood of the west coast of India in his veins.
Mrs. Fernandez and Daphne had been on a year’s visit to England. They travelled out on the s.s. Lassa, the same boat that brought Dangerfield, but as they were second-class and he first, they had not met on board. Fernandez had been to Bombay to meet his wife and daughter. Molena, who was engaged to Daphne, had accompanied him. Dangerfield was continuing to travel first-class by train. The Fernandez family occupied a second-class compartment.
It was only in the railway restaurants that they were likely to meet the Englishman. The refreshment rooms were without distinction between first and second class. The third-class Indian travellers had no wish to intrude. They preferred to buy what they wanted of the hawkers of fruit, cooked rice, and milk on the platforms, and to consume their food in dark corners where they could escape the eye of the stranger.
Mrs. Fernandez had caught sight of Dangerfield’s luggage on the platform at Bombay. She had read his name and observed that he had no personal servant in charge of it. She judged from this fact that he had just arrived in the country. She did not wait for an introduction.
“Our name is Fernandez. My husband, Mr. Fernandez, my daughter, and Mr. Molena, a friend. You are Mr. Dangerfield?” she asked with a touch of the accent that marks the Anglo-Indian.
“Yes, that’s so,” he replied, looking at her with a sudden misgiving that she was someone he had failed for the moment to recognise.
“I saw it on your luggage. Are you in any of the services?”
“No, I’m at a loose end, amusing myself.”
“A globe-trotter?”
“If you like to put it at that.”
“In search of impressions, eh, Mr. Dangerfield?” said Fernandez, showing very white teeth in an amiable smile.
“——and emotions?” added the daughter in a soft drawl. It was the first time she had spoken.
“Impressions and emotions!” repeated Molena, his large mouth widening in appreciation of Daphne’s apt addition. “India is full of them.”
Daphne’s grey eyes were resting speculatively on Dick.
“To ‘sense’ impressions and emotions in India to the fullest extent you must be psychic,” she remarked. “Are you psychic?”
Dangerfield was at a loss for a reply. How was he to know if he was psychic? All his life he had lived in the country and occupied himself with country pursuits out of doors.
“I don’t quite understand,” he said apologetically.
“She means, have you ghost-eyes?” said Molena with a short laugh that irritated the girl. She turned her own eyes on the speaker with a glint that indicated a sudden flash of temper.
“Ghost-eyes!” repeated Dangerfield, glancing from one to the other. “I never heard of such things. What are they?”
“Eyes that can see the psychic world,” replied Daphne. “Some people can feel as well as see it. It is all round us.”
“Can you see and feel the psychic world yourself, Miss Fernandez?” he asked.
“Oh, my!” cried Mrs. Fernandez, looking at her daughter with an uneasy expression. “You must not believe all Daphne girl says. She is full of fancies.”
In her agitation Mrs. Fernandez dropped into the colloquial expressions of her class, another pinprick for her sensitive daughter. Daphne hoped that her year’s visit to England had made both herself and her mother thoroughly English, and had rubbed off all sign of the country-born. This may have been the case with Daphne herself, but with her parents it was too late to attempt to teach old dogs new tricks. Daphne took no notice of her mother’s remarks. She answered Dick’s question without haste.
“You want to know if I am sensitive to the psychic world. I believe I am”---she paused a few seconds and added---“I know that I am.”
“I am not aware of any other world but the one that I see around me. Moreover, I am quite certain that I have no desire to be put in touch with any other,” said Dangerfield.
“Have you no curiosity about the mysterious unknown?”
“None whatever,” he replied in a decisive tone that indicated the dismissal of the subject from his mind.
“Then you will have very few impressions and be spared many emotions.”
“You should get Miss Fernandez to tell you about some of her own psychic experiences,” said Molena, as though he were moved with the spirit of a showman and were proud of a performer.
She turned her eyes on her lover with an incomprehensible expression that might have had its origin in love or in secret hate. Shortly before she left India for England she had been persuaded by her mother to promise that one day she would become his wife. It was not a lover’s glance that she threw at him. Dangerfield caught sight of it and read it as intense dislike, if nothing greater.
From Daphne’s pale, ethereal face Dangerfield’s eyes went to Molena. Although he was not of a dark complexion, he had the features that frequently go with a dark skin. His lips were thick and his eyes heavily lidded. His ears were remarkably big and thick and they matched his lips. On the whole, was Dick’s conclusion, Mr. Ralph Molena was not exactly the person to inspire a girl like Daphne with love.
Mrs. Fernandez seized the opportunity offered by the pause in the conversation to resume her questioning.
“Are you going far south, Mr. Dangerfield?”
“To Madura,” he replied.
“That is our station. My husband is an overseer in the Public Works Department. Mr. Molena has a tobacco estate in the Madura district; also a cigar factory. Do you smoke?”
“No, I have never taken to it.”
“A pity; he could have given you some splendid cigars. You will find a good rest-house at Madura.”
“I hope to go to a friend.”
“It will be more comfortable. The Indian dâk bungalows have nothing attractive about them.”
“You will not be so free to come and go if you are with a friend,” said Daphne. “Impressions are easier gained when one is alone.”
“There you are again, Daphne!” cried her mother in a reproachful tone. “We all know that you are too fond of your own company, girlie.” Curiosity drew her back to the Englishman. “Who is your friend at Madura, Mr. Dangerfield?”
“Mr. Ashmere, the Government engineer.”
“Indeed! He is my husband’s chief,” cried Mrs. Fernandez with more excitement than she had shown hitherto.
“You will find the family very pleasant,” remarked Fernandez.
“The family! I thought his wife was in England,” said Dick.
“Mrs. Ashmere and her daughter came out by the mail that left England just before the Lassa. You will not see much of them; they will probably be in Madras. She seldom stays in Madura while her husband is in camp.”
“Is he often in the district?”
“During the greater part of the cold season, unless the floods are out. He comes back to his bungalow when the rains are at their heaviest. In the hot weather he will go to the Pulney Hills, which are in his district.”
Dangerfield asked no questions about Mrs. and Miss Ashmere. He was not curious, a fact that did not escape Daphne’s notice. The engineer’s daughter, she concluded, was not the attraction that had drawn him to the East. She gazed at him with half-veiled eyes, speculating on the reason for his presence there. He did not appear to be a man who was anxious to acquire impressions nor to experience emotions. He might have social leanings, but, if so, he would not be attaching himself to an engineer, who would be spending the best part of the next five months in the wilds of the district except for a short holiday at Christmas. Some unknown cause must be at the bottom of this visit.
Could it be that he had been crossed in love? Not probable that any woman would throw him aside, concluded Daphne. Perhaps the lady had died. Pity welled up instantly in her heart at the thought. She would be kind to him; but she must be careful. She had already received a lesson that should have taught her caution as to how she bestowed a quality that was so near akin to love.
In appearance Dangerfield was considered by his friends to have some claim to good looks, although there was nothing striking about his regular features. His large blue eyes were inclined to be prominent. They were steady in their regard, developing now and then an absent-minded stare that betrayed wandering thoughts. He seldom studied the appearance of a person. All that he wanted to know was gathered in a few moments of attentive contemplation.
Daphne was differently constituted. She had a penetrating, almost piercing glance which was never fastened on inanimate objects. She focussed her eyes on people and read their minds like an open book. She was trying now to read Dick’s as she sat at the table trifling with some fruit.
“Have you ever seen Miss Ashmere?” she asked.
“Six months ago I met her and her mother in London.”
“A beautiful girl.” The remark was not made in the shape of a question; it was a statement of fact.
“I did not see enough of her to form an opinion.”
Here Mrs. Fernandez broke in upon the conversation and turned it by asking if Dick wanted a guide on his arrival in Madura.
“Would he be of any use?”
“If you are really anxious to do any sightseeing I should say he was an absolute necessity. Have you a dressing boy?”
“No, I am looking after myself.”
“A most uncomfortable way of doing things in this country,” said Fernandez. “You’ll lose half your property.”
“You must have a servant,” put in Molena. “We all have our dressing boys.”
“And if you really intend to travel about and see temples and places of interest you ought to have a guide to make arrangements for you,” added Mrs. Fernandez. “There’s a man at Trichinopoly named Jacob——”
“Oh, mother!” protested Daphne.
“He’s a good, honest servant.”
“Yes, nothing but a dressing boy, and, in addition---he’s a pariah.”
“That would not matter,” objected her mother.
“A pariah carries no weight with the temple people. Singara of Madura would be far better.”
“Singara! he’s a moonshi.”
“If he is paid to act as guide he will undertake the billet,” said Daphne.
“Jacob would do it for half the money,” persisted her mother. “He would act as servant as well. Mr. Dangerfield will have to engage a dressing boy in addition if he employs Singara.
Daphne turned to Dick. “Money any object with you?”
“None whatever.”
“Then let it be Singara if you really wish to gain a few impressions.”
“The only thing I don’t like about Singara is the fact that he is spooky,” said Molena, rising from his seat at the table. No one endorsed his remark, which was received in silence. He looked at Daphne, and added: “Isn’t he, darling?”
She lifted her shoulders as though casting off any responsibility for the moonshi’s attributes.
“It makes Singara the more interesting, always supposing that one has the ghost-eyes we were talking about,” she observed.
By this time Dangerfield was interested and no longer indifferent about a subject that affected him so closely.
“How can we find this man you speak of?” he asked.
“The stationmaster at Madura will tell us where he is,” replied Daphne. “I hope he will not be already engaged by other visitors.”
The same party of five met again at another station for dinner. Here the train for the south picked up travellers from the east and the west.
A European with the appearance of having been in India for some years entered the refreshment-room. He was not old; not even elderly, but climate and exposure to the sun and wind had lined his face and robbed him of his flesh.
He was George Stockton of the Forest Department.
He caught sight of Dangerfield, and seemed inclined to come forward and make his acquaintance. Dick was on the point of joining the Fernandez family and failed to observe the stranger.
Daphne’s hand went up to her bosom, and her long, slender fingers closed over an insignificant trinket set with a dark square stone. She wore it as a pendant hung on a thin gold chain. From the manner in which it was tucked into her dress it could scarcely be considered an ornament.
Stockton hesitated, abandoned any design he might have had of making Dangerfield’s acquaintance, and turned in another direction. One of the restaurant servants came forward and guided him to a table at the other end of the room. Daphne, who was closely watching him, smiled. Her eyes sought Dick’s. He had taken a seat next to her at a table laid for six.
“I don’t know who he is,” she said as if in reply to a question that perhaps she read in his eyes.
Other passengers drifted into the room, but no one ventured to occupy the empty place at their table. Fernandez remarked on the fact.
“So much the better,” said Daphne. “It’s just as I was wishing---and I was wishing hard,” she added with a satisfied expression that was not lost on her mother.
“Shuh! child! How foolish you are with your wishing! How often have I told you that you will get yourself into trouble with your wishing this and your wishing that!” said Mrs. Fernandez, a note of irritation in her voice. Her dark “satin black eyes” dwelt anxiously on her daughter.
“I’m not afraid of anything, and so far I have never had cause to be,” responded the girl with a confident toss of the head. A challenge echoed in her tone and words. It was a challenge not to her mother, but to Fate. It made the elder woman shudder; but the father still regarded his daughter as a child, and paid no attention to her trifling with occult powers that she knew nothing about.
Molena, always attentive to every word spoken by Daphne, again smiled proudly. Dangerfield observed the smile, and concluded that the man was very much in love whatever his fiancée might be. Molena beamed at Dick.
“Mr. Dangerfield, you don’t know how clever Miss Fernandez is! She has always been able to get what she wants.”
“If I wish for it,” said Daphne, with a sudden little sigh as though a memory had flashed across her brain.
As Dangerfield’s eyes rested on Molena’s face and loosely knit body he could not help wondering if the fragile dainty-looking girl had ever wished to possess such a lover or such a husband.
“Oh, my!” exclaimed Mrs. Fernandez, dropping into the clipped pronunciation which is peculiar to those born in the country. It was a sure sign of her perturbation of spirit. “Haven’t you read Jacob’s story of the Monkey’s Paw?”
“A creepy, spooky story,” remarked Dick.
“It ought to be sufficient to warn people against unholy wishes,” added Mrs. Fernandez quickly.
“Don’t say unholy. It is too strong a word. Let us say injudicious,” protested Dick with the good-natured intention of smoothing down Mrs. Fernandez. “There is no harm at all in desiring to keep our pleasant little party intact. I think that was her aim in wishing for the absence of the stranger. I am altogether with Miss Fernandez in that respect.”
He was successful. His words had the effect of chasing away the shadow of discomfort that had fallen on the others. The two men were relieved, and mother and daughter were sufficiently gratified that he should be content to remain with them without seeking other companionship. In his ignorance of the public opinion ruling society in India he was not aware of the high compliment he was paying the family by attaching himself to their party.
Before they finished the stranger rose from his seat and wandered on to the platform disappearing from view. There was no hurry to join the train. It had to wait until the mails had come in from other directions.
“I am going to find out how much longer we shall be here,” said Fernandez, rising from the table. “No need to go back to our dusty carriage until the signal is up for our departure.”
“I shall come with you,” said Molena.
“Let us know in good time,” observed Mrs. Fernandez, who was feeling sleepy. “I don’t want to be hurried and hustled at the last moment.”
“I’ll come and tell you myself,” replied her good-natured husband.
His wife moved towards the entrance of a large and airy waiting-room adjoining the restaurant and sank into a comfortable lounge chair where she had the benefit of what breeze there was. The two men walked away in the direction of the train by which they were travelling. It was drawn up alongside the platform lower down. The expected trains were signalled. They would not have long to wait.
Daphne left the table and Dangerfield followed her. She glanced round in search of seats. Her hand had gone once again to the little pendant as though she was making sure that it was still in its place.
She must value it highly, thought Dick; or it might be just a trick of nervous fingers.
They seated themselves not far from Mrs. Fernandez. The noise of escaping steam and the chattering of the natives as they hurried backwards and forwards made conversation a little difficult. Stockton passed down the platform. Dick caught sight of him and his curiosity was raised.
“I think you mentioned that the man who has just passed is in one of the services,” he said.
“It was my guess; I don’t know him.”
“What makes you think so?”
“His general appearance. His face is thin and weatherworn, very different from yours.” Dick’s colour deepened slightly. He could not have said what it was in her words and manner that caused him to flush. “His clothes are veranda-made, and have been much washed by ignorant dhobies; and he is wearing a huge pith hat instead of the neat trilby——” He stirred uneasily. He had not yet adopted the necessary sunhat, which is the fate of all who go to the East. “Forest service or Salt if you ask me,” she added.
“I wonder why he turned away from us. He was making straight for our table as though he intended to take the vacant seat.”
“I did not want his company,” she replied petulantly.
“Why? What was wrong with him?”
“Nothing; but he would have been an intruder.”
“You might have found him very pleasant.”
“Not at that particular moment.”
“Anyway, he seemed to come to the conclusion that he would not be welcome.”
“As I intended he should,” she rejoined quickly.
He glanced at her, inclined to suspect that she had some queer belief in her own psychic power.
“How could you possibly convey to him the impression that you did not wish him to join us?”
Again her fingers clasped the pendant.
“Shall I tell you a secret?”
“Do; I hope it is exciting and mysterious,” he replied lightly.
“You see this little stone set in silver and surrounded by moonstones?”
He leaned forward to examine it more closely. A peculiar scent that she used filled his nostrils. It was like nothing he had come across in England. Its aroma conveyed a swift impression of ease and luxury, of cool, large rooms furnished with couches and cushions, a half-darkened atmosphere, exotic flowers, silent attendants moving like shadows to and fro. It was the setting for beautiful women. The impression was vague and fleeting; gone before he could realise it in its detail.
He lifted his eyes and met Daphne’s gaze as she leaned back in her chair. A curious sensation of sudden abandonment to some new force thrilled him.
It half frightened him in its strength and its possession of his senses. He glanced down at the trinket once more, continuing to hold it in his hand.
“Ah!” she breathed. “It is as I thought. You are not insensible to psychic forces; but you are new to them. You are on the threshold of a world of whose existence you have hitherto been ignorant. It is so with many Englishmen.”
With an effort Dangerfield brought his thoughts into some kind of order and concentrated them on the stone.
“Well?” she said. “What do you see in it? Anything peculiar and unusual?”
In the strong electric lights that were shining over the doorways he caught the gleam of a crimson ray in the depths of the stone.
“Is it a ruby or a cinnamon stone?” he asked.
“It is neither. Among jewellers it is known as an Alexandrite. It is rare, and not often to be found in the market. Superstitions are attached to it, and those who possess an Alexandrite never like to part with it. By day it is a dull green; by night it has a red ray that is not visible to every eye. If you are psychic it reveals itself plainly.”
“I caught the red gleam right enough, whether I am psychic or not. It is the colour of blood,” he added, not knowing why he used the term blood.
She nodded in acquiescence, and smiled as she hid the trinket in the fold of her dress.
“This is a wishing stone,” she said.
“I have never heard of such a thing,” he observed. Her remark seemed almost childish.
“If I hold it in my hand until it is blood-warm and then wish for something, the wish will come true.”
In spite of his instinctive desire not to hurt her feelings by any show of incredulity, he smiled. Her quick eye detected the curving of the lips, although he composed his face immediately.
“You don’t believe me!” she cried. “It is the truth. My father and my mother know that I have the gift, and they are always angry if they think that I am using it.”
“I don’t see why they should be angry if there is no harm in it, no danger to yourself or to the person you are trying to influence,” he said, in the tone that he might have used to a child had it claimed mysterious powers for one of its toys.
She saw that he was sceptical as to the virtue of her wishing stone, and it annoyed her more than a little. She was shrewd enough to suspect that his very gentleness towards her belief was of the nature of tolerance for the ignorance of the half-educated.
“If there was nothing in it and it was all pure fancy, would my people be angry?” she asked. As he did not reply she continued. “You will learn to have faith in many queer things in India after you have been in the country a little time.”
“I am here as a visitor, a spectator, I won’t say an inquirer, because I am only amusing myself in the hope of diverting my thoughts.” She glanced at him sharply, but it escaped his observation. He continued: “I bring an open mind free from prejudice, and I have no axe to grind. Therefore I am quite ready to be convinced.”
“Of the power of evil in human affairs?”
“Or of good.”
“There is no power for good here. The good is quiescent, ‘sleeping’ the people call it. Evil is the only power that is active and can make itself felt in India.”
“An unpleasant superstition if you analyse it.”
“If the force benefits a person what does it matter if its source is good or evil?”
“And so you are not afraid of calling the force that you believe resides in your wishing stone into action?” he asked.
“I am not afraid. Nothing has occurred to cause me to regret its use.”
“Perhaps you have been careful and have never desired evil.”
She did not reply. If she had been tempted to desire misfortune for any of her friends or enemies, she was not prepared to admit it.
He was still under the impression that the whole thing was foolish, and he thought that her parents were unwise in attaching any importance to her claim. He felt inclined to speak out and for her own good beg her to give up her belief in her talisman. Being an Englishman with the usual reserve of his class, he held his tongue. Who was he to dictate to a stranger met casually on a journey with every prospect of being parted from her for good in a few hours? She watched him closely and read his thoughts, possibly his half-formed intention.
“I can see that you disbelieve in my wishing stone,” she said.
“It is rather a tall order to ask me to place my faith in such a thing. Say, rather, that I am not convinced of its efficacy. I have had no experience on which I can form an opinion.”
“On the contrary, I have had my experience,” she said, with the persistence of one who was anxious to be taken seriously.
“And you are convinced?”
“Convinced that I have only to wish for a thing---provided always that I am clasping my stone---and my wish will be fulfilled.”
“You want me to believe that the stranger was headed off by your action?”
“I am positive that he was. I deliberately held my stone and wished him elsewhere. You yourself saw what happened.”
Dick recalled the fact that he had noticed the pendant in her fingers at the time.
“Shall I show you what it will do?” she asked suddenly.
“Please, if you are not afraid of using it for some trivial purpose.”
“My father told us that he would return and let mother know how soon the train started. I will call Mr. Molena instead of father.”
She held the stone in the palm of her hand. It was a slight action that would have escaped the notice of a casual observer ignorant of her purpose. In two or three minutes, rather to Dick’s astonishment, he caught sight of Molena hurrying towards them, an amiable smile on his big mouth.
“The two trains for which we have been waiting are just coming into the station,” he said, as he reached them.
The servants in the restaurant were beginning to make ready for another set of hungry passengers. Daphne’s eyes caught Dangerfield’s. A glint of light shone in their pale depths suggestive of triumph.
“Very good of you to come and warn us. Mr. Fernandez kindly promised to bring us the information,” said Dick, curious as to the reason for the change.
“He has gone to our compartment to make sure that our seats are not appropriated by the new passengers. He was just coming himself to tell you about the trains when the guard asked if there was room for two more passengers in our carriage. He had not seen Mrs. and Miss Fernandez and thought that Mr. Fernandez and I were alone.”
“It is a sleeping compartment and will only hold four,” said Daphne.
“Quite so; he did not press it, of course. Mr. Fernandez asked me to bring you a message.” He turned to Daphne. “He thinks that you and your mother had better come now and secure your places.”
“How soon will the train start?” asked Daphne.
“Not for ten or fifteen minutes.”
She made no movement to do as he wished.
“Better come, darling,” said Molena, in his most persuasive tones.
“Very well; but it won’t be nearly so comfortable in the train as it is here,” she said, rising reluctantly from her chair into which she had settled luxuriously. “Mother, I see, is just awake. Please take her to the carriage. Mr. Dangerfield and I will follow.”
Molena prepared to carry out her wishes and approached Mrs. Fernandez. In his happy, good-natured way he was quite willing to leave his fiancée to the care of the new-found friend. It raised him in Dick’s estimation to find that there was no sign of jealousy on the lover’s part and no resentment at the absence of any demonstration of responsive regard on the part of the lady.
“Well?” ejaculated Daphne, as soon as Molena had passed out of hearing. “He came at my call.”
“Your father sent him,” replied Dick.
She smiled with an irritating superiority. Her belief in her own power was strengthened by what had happened.
“Of course my father sent him. Does it matter how a deed is accomplished so long as it is done?”
“You mean that it need not necessarily be of the nature of a miracle.”
“The fulfilment of a wish usually comes from the working of a natural law.”
“If it is effected by the working of a natural law, I don’t quite see where the force of the wish comes in. Whether you wish it or not, the event is brought about by something over which you have presumably no control.”
“I disagree with you,” replied Daphne. “The mysterious psychic force that is put in motion by the virtue of the wishing stone makes use of natural causes to bring about the desired result.”
“All the same,” said Dangerfield, who was not going to let her believe that he had been convinced by what had happened. “It would have been more effective if Mr. Molena had been drawn to you by some inner attraction, some influence that operated directly upon him without the intervention of your father. Mr. Fernandez provided an outside energy that was perfectly natural and could not possibly be attributed to so-called occultism.”
“Which means that you are just as incredulous as you were even after the demonstration that I have given you,” she said resentfully.
“Miss Fernandez, please don’t take me for an obstinate sceptic. I would willingly believe every word you tell me; but the thing is altogether so strange that I must have time to assimilate it.”
“You will come across some strange things that you will say you can’t believe, if you get off the beaten track in this country. In the end you will be compelled to believe whether you profess to be incredulous or not.”
“If so I will willingly admit that I am beaten by circumstances that are too strong for me. May I ask you one thing? Have you ever wished ardently for something and found that your talisman has failed you?”
They had arrived at the carriage in which they were travelling. Daphne’s reply hung on her lips, as though she were unwilling to admit failure. Her father relieved her of the necessity of answering Dick’s straightforward question by addressing him.
“Mr. Dangerfield, you’ve got a companion at last.”
“Have I? Who is it?”
“The stranger we have seen in the refreshment-room. He is Mr. George Stockton, of the Forest Service, transferred south to take up a vacant appointment.”
In a Pullman railway car in India there are only four seats. Dick arrived at his compartment to find the three other berths taken. One was already occupied by the man he had seen in the refreshment-room. The other two berths were appropriated in the names of two Englishmen who had come from a large military station. They were army men going down to Madras for short leave, as they informed their companions later on.
The man who was in possession of the second seat on Dick’s side of the carriage began by apologising for having removed some of Dick’s impedimenta, which had been scattered about while he was sole occupant of the carriage.
“Sorry to have taken liberties with your luggage. I looked for your servant to tell him to move your things, but I could not find him.”
“I have no servant,” said Dick.
“Has he been taken ill on the road?” asked the other with sudden concern.
It is no uncommon occurrence in the cool season to have Indians struck down with cholera as they are travelling on the train.
“No; I’ve only just landed at Bombay. I shall pick up a man at Madura where I am getting off.”
“Madura! I’m going there myself. May I ask if you have any friends at Madura?”
“Ashmere of the Public Works Department.”
“A real good fellow, if I may say so,” responded the other with warmth. “I’ve met him. I hope to see something more of him while I am at Madura, although our work doesn’t dovetail at all. He’s a Government engineer, roads and ditches as we familiarly call his side of the Department. I’m Forests. You’re not in any of the services I gather.”
“No; just playing about to amuse myself. I wanted to get out of England and thought I should like to see something of India, so I accepted Ashmere’s invitation to come out and pay him a visit.” Presently he said: “I wonder how soon we shall start.”
“We do nothing in a hurry in this country, not even with our fast trains.” Dick’s memory went back to the occasion when he had used that very expression in talking to his wife. “We shall not make a move until the new passengers have had their food. They will be out of the refreshment-room soon. Two of them are to fill up our compartment; army men I gather. We were lucky to have our dinner in comfort before the crowd came in.”
Dangerfield’s curiosity had been raised by Daphne. He had not believed her assertion that she had made her influence to be felt by the stranger. At the same time it would be satisfactory to hear from his own lips that Stockton’s movements originated in himself.
“I saw you in the restaurant. I thought at first that you were going to join the table where I was sitting,” he said.
“That was my impulse when I caught sight of you.”
“What made you change your mind?”
He answered without hesitation.
“The party you were with. As soon as I saw them I decided to dine by myself.”
“They are pleasant people,” remarked Dick, wondering what was the cause of his evident antipathy.
“I dare say, but they are not my sort.” He paused as though he did not intend to say more. Then, as Dick’s eyes dwelt on him with a question in their depths, he added: “I don’t feel that I have much in common with Eurasians.”
“They call themselves Anglo-Indians. Is there any difference between the two terms?”
“None whatever. They---they get on my nerves.”
“They seem friendly enough, this Fernandez family,” said Dick.
“I am sure you would find them so.”
Stockton unfolded a newspaper and began to read as though he would put an end to the conversation. Dangerfield settled himself into his seat and allowed his thoughts to wander. He was considering the reason given by his companion for not following his first impulse. If it arose as he hinted from dislike of the class, it was not due to the psychic influence Daphne had claimed for her wishing stone. She had nothing to do with the divergence of the forest officer. Of course, it was foolish boasting on her part when she claimed to have power to control his movements.
At the same time Dick could not quite forget the appearance of Molena in place of Fernandez, who had promised to come. Molena could have secured their seats quite as well as the older man.
There was an increase in the bustle and noise on the platform that promised a speedy departure. Stockton put down the paper and glanced out of the window. Dick thought it might be as well to explain the reason for his ignorance of the ways and customs of the country.
“This is my first experience of India, as I said,” he remarked. “I have never met Anglo-Indians before. To tell you the truth I did not know that such a class existed. The young fellow, Molena, interests me.”
“Where did they---I mean, where did you pick them up?”
“Mrs. and Miss Fernandez travelled out from England on the same boat that brought me. They were second class. We did not meet till we left the boat. Fernandez and Molena, who appears to be engaged to the girl, went up to Bombay and joined them there.”
“I am glad that you found them pleasant,” remarked Stockton conventionally and with indifference. It held a hint that he was not interested in the Fernandez family. “Here come our two fellow- travellers. They’ll talk racing and polo and golf. Nothing but sport and active service interests them.”
“It’s the same at home, I fancy.”
With many apologies for disturbing the two already in occupation they settled themselves down with the help of their servants. It was a revelation to Dangerfield to see how Englishmen in India were waited on by expert Indian domestics. The arrangements for sleeping were effected quickly, and nothing was apparently forgotten.
“Does this carriage go to Madras?” asked one of his servant.
“No, sir.”
“Then why haven’t you secured a through carriage?”
“All taken up by the other passengers, sir.”
“And we shall have to turn out at the junction for Madras?”
“Yes, sir.”
At which his master gave vent to an exclamation of disgust. Very early before dawn the two servants reappeared and swept their sleepy masters out on to a cold platform. Dick and his companions saw no more of them. Some hours later the train made a halt at a station where a meal that might be called a late breakfast or an early lunch was ready.
“Come and breakfast with me,” said Stockton, “and give those people a miss.”
“I’m afraid I can’t. I promised to see them again here and breakfast with them.”
Dangerfield was a man of his word. He would have preferred to have accepted his companion’s invitation. He found him very good company in spite of his inclination to be impatient with the world in general. An expression was frequently on his lips. It indicated the strain of the tropical climate. He declared that this person or that, this subject or that, “got on his nerves.” It was easy to see that his nerves were out of order by the rapidity with which he showed irritation. It was like an unexpected electric flash, gone as soon as it betrayed itself.
That Stockton was good-natured Dick could not doubt. He had experienced his kindness of heart when he instructed his servant to secure chota hazri for Dangerfield as well as for himself, at a station where a waggon of tea was wheeled up and down the platform. Those who extended a hand for it or possessed a servant received the cup and plate of toast. Dangerfield, unaware of the necessity of looking after himself in the absence of a servant, did no foraging. At a word from his master the forest officer’s boy supplied his need.
The two passengers descended from their carriage to seek the restaurant.
“Don’t make any more promises to join the Fernandez party till you know your ground a little better,” said Stockton.
“Oh, do you think so? All right, I’ll be careful,” replied Dick, inclined to wonder why the caution had been given.
“You say they belong to Madura, where you yourself are going.”
“So they tell me.”
“If they wish to improve their acquaintance with you, you will find it difficult to cut loose.”
“Right-o!”
Stockton used the term “ wish.” Dangerfield’s thoughts instantly reverted to the wishing stone and he smiled.
The Fernandez family was already seated at a table. A chair was turned down to secure a place for Dangerfield. As he entered the room and hurried forward he noted that Daphne’s hand was covering her pendant. She smiled as their eyes met and at once lowered her hand.
“Good-morning, Mr. Dangerfield,” cried Mrs. Fernandez, pleasure lighting up her old face. “I was wondering if you would join us, or whether you would remain with your new fellow-traveller.”
“And I was just wishing with all my heart that you would not disappoint us!” cried the unabashed Daphne, making no attempt to hide her play with the trinket.
Mrs. Fernandez turned on her daughter with annoyance.
“Daphne girl! don’t talk so foolishly! Of course Mr. Dangerfield kept his promise.”
“And of course our Daphne called him!” added Molena with a gratified chuckle.
Stockton came in a few minutes later. He seated himself at the other end of the room, and deliberately chose a chair with its back to the Fernandez party. Daphne again caught Dick’s eye and made a little grimace.
“Rude, isn’t he?” she said under her breath. “Shall I make him come? It would serve him right.”
“He would be poor company for us and would spoil our pleasant little party,” he replied.
The last words were lost to the rest, whose attention was occupied by something that Fernandez was saying. It was of the nature of gossip, like most of his conversation. The subject was Stockton, whose servant he had come across.
“Mr. Stockton has been transferred to our district rather suddenly.”
“Why?” asked Mrs. Fernandez.
“To take over charge of Mr. Henley’s appointment.”
“I am sorry Mr. Henley is leaving,” she remarked. Turning to Dangerfield to explain and possibly to interest him in their conversation. “He lived in the bungalow next to ours,” she concluded, looking to her husband for support.
There was a slight pause, and Fernandez shot a swift glance at his daughter, as though in doubt if he should give them all his news. He decided that it was a fact that could not be kept secret and must be known to all alike before long.
“Henley is dead.”
“Dead! Oh, my!” wailed Mrs. Fernandez. “And he lived so close to us! Was it cholera or smallpox?”
“Neither; it was an accident. A big branch fell from a forest tree and killed him on the spot.”
Daphne made no sound. Her eyes were fixed on her father. She was waiting breathlessly for more. She had her own reasons for wanting further news.
“Poor Mr. Henley!” lamented Mrs. Fernandez. “He was such a nice man! But, Alfonso, why didn’t you write and tell us? You said nothing about it in your last letter, and I told you to let me have all the news!”
“My dear, I have only to-day heard of it——”
“Tell us about it, father,” said Daphne with an effort; her voice was almost inaudible.
“He was having some trees felled in the Sirramullee Hills——”
“And one fell on him!” cried Mrs. Fernandez, her voice raised in horror.
“Nothing so simple as that. He was passing through some partially cleared forest on his way to his camp by a path used by the woodcutters. Something caused him to stop. Whether he heard a call, or the recollection came of an order that he had forgotten to give the maistry, no one knows. As he stood beneath the tree there was a crash, and a great limb fell. The branch struck him on the head, killing him on the spot.”
“Did anyone see the accident?” asked Molena, who was much impressed.
“A forest peon was in attendance. He was walking thirty feet or more behind his master. He heard the crash and saw him felled to the ground. The peon was terribly frightened; it was all so sudden. The man said that the branch came down as though it had been hurled purposely by the tree with the intention of killing him.”
Molena listened with an intentness that puzzled Dick.
“This has probably made a lot of talk among the peons and woodcutters,” he remarked, looking at Fernandez for a reply.
“What sort of talk, Mr. Molena?” asked Dangerfield.
“Gossip as to the cause of the accident. Mr. Fernandez can probably tell us what is being said.”
Fernandez responded readily enough, giving them all the information he had picked up.
“The story is that Mr. Henley had just issued an order to the maistry and his gang of coolies to cut down several of the old forest trees that he thought were injuring the young growth beneath. They were too old to be of any use for building purposes, but they might have stood for another thirty or even fifty years. As it was they were taking up the room of young trees that were of value.”
“He was quite right to order their removal,” said Molena. “I have been felling trees on my own estate at Dindigul for the same reason.”
“You would hardly believe, Mr. Dangerfield, how dangerous old forest trees can become,” said Fernandez. “They have a trick of falling at odd and unexpected moments. Probably there will not be a breath of wind at the time. Suddenly the silence of the forest is broken by a grinding crash and down comes a tree. If there are other trees near it, it may fall into their arms and be partially supported till it rots away and drops in pieces. If it stands in a clearing, as this one stood, it comes down to the ground solidly like a dead stricken giant, smashing itself in its fall.”
“Did the tree that killed Mr. Henley fall?”
“No, it only lost a large limb, and the limb struck him as he halted in his walk. There is something very peculiar about the natural death of a tree,” remarked Fernandez. “The living creatures that make their homes in it leave it when it is near its end. No bird will build in its branches, and the monkeys give it a wide berth. Bees forsake its hollow trunk, and rats and squirrels desert their holes and nests.”
“Do you think that some instinct tells them that the tree is unsafe?” asked Dangerfield.
“Who can tell? The wild creatures of the forest have knowledge that is beyond our ken. It is strange and uncanny.”
“The jungle men say that the devils who live in the trees whisper the news,” remarked Molena.
Mrs. Fernandez and Daphne had taken little part in the conversation. The former was thinking more of Henley than of the psychology of the trees. She had beliefs and superstitions, and at her age they were not likely to be shaken. A study of the discoveries of Sir Jhagadis Bose would only have deepened her faith in the old legends that she had heard from her mother.
Dangerfield brought an open mind to bear on the new theories Bose was promulgating of plant life; its system of respiration, its power to sleep, the heartlike action of its flow of sap. Quite recently Dick had been reading of the extraordinary phenomenon of death in plant life; how death in the vegetable world, according to the author, followed the line that it took in the animal world.
There was the same curious discharge of electricity at the critical moment in the vegetable world as in the animal.
“Poor Mr. Henley,” sighed Mrs. Fernandez. “I am sorry for him. I liked him.”
“I did not,” said Molena suddenly. His eyes were on Daphne, who kept hers down. She was very still and silent. It seemed to Dick that she had been stunned by the news and was unable to pull herself together.
“Was he married?” asked Dangerfield. “I always think that an accident of this kind is so much more to be regretted when a widow is left, and perhaps a family.”
“He had no relations out here,” said Mrs. Fernandez. She turned abruptly to her daughter. “Was there a wife, Daphne?”
“How can I tell?” she replied, catching her breath with a sudden gasp.
“You saw more of him than we did. He was often at our bungalow when he was not in camp. The very last time you met him you must needs get up a quarrel with him. You ought to be sorry for it now.”
Mrs. Fernandez blundered on blind to the fact that her words, spoken before a stranger, set the girl’s teeth on edge. Something in her mother’s speech angered her. Her eyes glittered. Unconsciously her hand went up to the pendant and she played with it nervously. Her mother noted the action.
“Leave that stone alone, Daphne girl!” she exclaimed sharply. “You’re always fingering it, particularly when you’re put out.”
The girl shivered as if in fear and dropped the stone quickly.
“I wish you would put it away altogether,” continued Mrs. Fernandez, who came near to losing her self-control. “It isn’t pretty. No one can call it ornamental.”
Daphne, at the end of her endurance, rose hastily to her feet. She looked round about her and her lips trembled.
“Come along!” she said. “I am sure it is time to go back to the train. We shall be left behind.”
She spoke breathlessly, and Dick could not help thinking that a deadly fear was springing up in her mind. Her mother left her chair in more leisurely fashion, her irritation vanishing immediately, although she was still labouring under the discomfort of a thought that disturbed her.
“You were playing with that horrid thing when you were quarrelling with Mr. Henley, for I saw you at it,” asserted Mrs. Fernandez.
“That was more than a year ago, Mrs. Fernandez,” said Molena, anxious to mollify the mother and turn aside the reproaches that it was evident stung severely. “I should not trouble about matters that happened so long ago. It was before you went to England.”
But Mrs. Fernandez, once on the warpath, must have her say. She was not to be so easily silenced.
“Time doesn’t count when you venture to make use of an object that you believe possesses a mysterious power,” she added, her voice rising and her words coming more rapidly than ever with her clipped enunciation.
Dangerfield interposed, addressing Daphne.
“Let me take you to your carriage, Miss Fernandez,” he said with his customary good nature. “Mr. Molena will look after your mother. Your father has already gone in that direction.”
He drew her away at once, slipping his hand in her arm in brotherly fashion. He was sorry for her distress, although he was not aware of what caused it.
“Mr. Dangerfield!” cried Daphne impulsively, and under the influence of some strong emotion that she could not hide. He thought that he detected tears in her eyes. “I didn’t wish Mr. Henley evil! not really! Indeed, I didn’t!”
“Of course not,” he replied gently.
“We quarrelled; I am not going to deny it.”
“Was it a bad quarrel?”
“Yes; he made me very angry.”
“May I know why you fell out?”
“He had led me to believe that he was a single man. He behaved altogether like an unattached bachelor.”
“And you found out that this was not the case?”
“Yes; he confessed that he had a wife in England. I was very angry and hurt.”
“Why should you be angry? Would you take it unkindly if I told you that I had a wife in England?”
She gave him a startled glance as she asked:
“Have you any ties in England?”
“None to which I intend to plead guilty.”
“Anyway, you have not been making love to me.”
He drew the inference without putting it into words.
“You must forgive him. I feel sure that he would not have wished to deceive you purposely. It must have been a mistake.”
“It was nearly a year and a half ago. I accepted Mr. Molena just after our quarrel.”
“Telling him all about it?”
“I hid nothing. Ralph was wonderfully kind, and has been all along. I am sure that he loves me, but---but——”
“You don’t love him,” he concluded for her.
“My mother took me to England, thinking that I might get over my attachment---she called it my infatuation---for Mr. Henley. She guessed at the truth though I would not admit it to her. When I quarrelled with Mr. Henley I lost control of myself. I was in a blind fury because I had believed hitherto that he was going to ask me to be his wife. He was an Englishman. I am country-born. My pride was hurt as well as my affections, for I had given him my whole heart in perfect faith that he would not deceive me.”
It was a strange confession. Perhaps she found it easier to make to a kindly stranger who would refrain from reproaches than to confide in one of her own family.
“I lost all control of myself and broke out at him. While I spoke I did not notice what I was doing. My hand went up to the stone and I clutched it without any real intention of making use of its power.”
“You are wrong in placing faith in a trinket like that.”
She continued without heeding his words.
“I said: ‘I wish you may die in your forests alone and without a friend near you. You have broken my heart.’ I didn’t really mean it. I did not really want him to die----”
She gasped, unable to proceed as the full force of the effect of her evil wish rose up before her in all its wickedness. The colour left her face. She was like old ivory in her pallor. After a few seconds she proceeded.
“And when he did not the I thought---I hoped—— You asked me if the stone had ever failed me. In this case I believed that it had failed. Now I know that my wish has been fulfilled. Oh, Mr. Dangerfield, it is dreadful! I have killed him——”
“No, no! You must not believe it!” cried Dick, sorry for the girl. He had no faith in her superstition, but he could see that she was genuinely distressed.
“He is dead! He died in the forest just as I said!”
They reached the carriage. She entered it and threw herself on a seat. Dangerfield hurried off to his own compartment. He did not notice that as Daphne dropped into her seat she quietly fainted away.
Dangerfield went back to his compartment. He was disturbed in his mind. He had joined his new friends at table on three separate occasions. The last had ended rather tragically.
In a few hours they would reach Madura, where they would disperse, going their different ways; Stockton to take up the work left so suddenly by Henley, Dick to find his friend Ashmere, Molena to his luxurious house in the middle of his tobacco fields, and the Fernandez family to their own bungalow.
Dangerfield was not at all anxious, in spite of Stockton’s warning, to cut his connection with his new friends. They had aroused his interest, and in the troubled state of mind that had been produced by his own unhappy private affairs, he grasped at any diversion that might take his thoughts off himself. He found something new and arresting in the characters of the Anglo-Indian party. Although adopting the ways of the English and claiming English nationality, they differed in manners and speech from the ordinary Britisher of the middle class.
He had ridiculed Daphne’s claim to be the possessor of psychic power, but it had made an impression on him in spite of his incredulity. Had she told him ghost stories and vowed that she had seen spectres, he would have disbelieved in her visions and dismissed them from his mind.
But she had no such tales to tell. She simply claimed to be in touch with a supernatural power, the origin of which was a mystery that she could not explain. Her appearance lent assistance to the idea. She had the fragile ethereal look of one who was sensitive to the spiritual world.
In support of her claim she had professed to give a demonstration that in her opinion should have been convincing. It was a trifling event of a harmless nature. He had looked upon her claim as childish and not associated with evil. Until the incident connected with Henley’s death, he had been amused and entertained.
He recalled the demonstrations that she professed to have exhibited. There were four in all. The first was that he himself should join their party. Of his own free will and without any influence one way or the other he had done so. He could not have given a definite reason for his action. It may have been due to his dislike of his own company just now and his innate sociability. In any case, he was unaware of any outside influence drawing him one way or another.
The second demonstration was that Stockton should keep away and not join their party. The forest officer’s antipathy to Anglo-Indians was sufficient to account for his avoidance of them.
The third was the claim that she had summoned Molena in place of her father. Unasked Molena had given a reason for his movements on the occasion, and it had nothing to do with any mysterious call.
Here was a fourth incident which was of a very different character. It held tragedy, and there was no saving grace of childish trickery about it. He could not help feeling shocked at Daphne’s readiness to take the blame for it on herself. She practically claimed to have been directly instrumental in bringing about Henley’s death in a sudden and violent manner.
Of course, it was folly on her part. It was more than foolish; it was reprehensible. Could she possibly lay claim in all seriousness to having compassed a man’s death? She would be nothing less than a murderess if such were really the case.
But she was not a murderess, he said to himself. It was not to be credited. She could not have done it even in imagination. It was unnatural; it was the fancy of a savage, uncivilised woman of primeval passion, not the fancy of a gentle, educated girl. The idea could only emanate from an uncivilised imagination, a savage temperament.
It seemed as though she was giving way to a form of hallucination that might prove disastrous to her mental equilibrium. The worst of it was that the delusion concerning the supposed virtue of the wishing stone had its subtle lure. It gave her a sense of power, the power to bring about a tragedy, a condition of things in accordance with her own unrestrained passions.
He was conscious of a sudden regret. He had missed an opportunity. He might have reasoned with her and possibly have brought her to see the folly of her superstition. How could she have anything to do with bringing death upon a human being except by physical violence?
The train moved out of the hot, dusty station and passed into the fresh noontide air. The sun was at its hottest, but there had been some cooling showers in the night, forerunners of the north-east monsoon winds that would bring more rain. In anticipation of the promised downpour, the vegetation was awakening from its hot weather sleep. The trees, stripped of their leaves by the recent heat of summer, were clothing themselves with fresh green foliage. The sap, the mysterious life-blood of the tree, was pulsing through stem and branches to reach the budding twigs.
Stockton had laid aside his paper and was looking at the landscape. Dangerfield felt that he might speak if he had any subject to discuss. There was one topic on which he could not keep silence any longer. Possibly Stockton might be able to throw a little light on it.
“I have been hearing the details of the unfortunate death of Mr. Henley, the forest officer of Madura,” he said.
“So the tale has already got abroad,” remarked Stockton, with a cynical smile.
“I had it from Mr. Fernandez.”
“And he would have it from the subordinate railway officials on the line. Perhaps he has gleaned some of the details from my own servant. Trust a man of that class to pick up every rag of gossip that is in the wind.”
“Henley’s death interested them more than a little. They knew him personally.”
“They are interested because of the superstitious gossip that is attached to the circumstances of his death,” said Stockton.
For a moment Dangerfield wondered if any hint of Daphne’s claim to complicity had reached the ear of his companion. It could not be so. The Fernandez family would not be speaking of it, and it was known to no one else but himself, unless Daphne had confessed to others, which was not likely. Stockton continued:
“The country-born cannot shake off his belief in some of the Indian traditions that have their origin among the people. It is perfectly natural.”
“I did not gather that Fernandez or Molena held any superstitions regarding Henley’s death,” remarked Dangerfield.
“It would not be surprising if they did. You cannot pass your time in close touch with the people of a country without lending an ear to their traditions and creeds.”
Dangerfield was silent. The truth of his companion’s statement went home. He himself had been only a few hours in Daphne’s society when he had already been attracted by what she would have termed the psychic influences of her wishing stone. Stockton continued his remarks:
“The lower castes of South India are animists. Even some of the higher castes, who profess a philosophical form of Hinduism, are not altogether free from animistic beliefs. These beliefs are of the nature of pantheism and should be more properly called superstitions. The people of Dravidian extraction---hillmen, jungle tribes, ryots, road-workers, pariahs---firmly believe in Pan, although they do not give him the classical name. Nature for them is a vast colony of elemental spiritual forces, all alike inimical to humanity.”
“I must read up the subject.”
“You will miss a good deal if you don’t.”
“Is it possible to see something of their worship?” asked Dangerfield.
“Their ceremonies of propitiation,” corrected the other. “I don’t call the pooja they do to a rock or tree spirit worship. It isn’t in the same category as Christian worship.”
“Anyway, I should like to be brought into touch with their beliefs and practices.”
“You’ll arrive at that soon enough! Your difficulty will be when, like me, you want to get away from the whole bag of tricks, the devils and their works.”
“Do you come up against them?”
“I am always being held up in one way or another by the superstitions of the coolies. Only the other day I wanted some special work done all in a hurry. The maistry informed me that his gang had gone off at the call of some local poojaree to take part in a devil dance. It was to be held in a village at the foot of the hills on which I was working. He assured me that if they neglected the call they would fall victims to the wrath of all the demons in the neighbourhood. They would be plagued with cholera, wild beasts and snakes, forest fires, and all sorts of accidents.”
“Did they come back to work?”
“At their own blooming convenience. It was three days before I could get a hand’s turn done. During the first twenty-four hours they collected round their swami and made preparations for a big feast. For the second twenty-four hours they danced and drank themselves blind. The whole of the third day was required to enable them to recover from their stupor.”
“After that I suppose they put themselves into the work.”
“It was too late; the opportunity was gone. We had three days of heavy rain that filled the holes made for planting with water. The consignment of young plants perished. You can’t plant in waterlogged holes, and your nurseries have no sort of a chance under such circumstances.”
“I wonder if you would mind telling me the details about Henley’s death,” said Dangerfield.
“You heard that he gave orders for the removal of a tree in which a demon was supposed to reside?”
“Mr. Fernandez did not mention that fact. He merely said that a branch fell on him as he was standing under the tree, killing him on the spot.
“It was a sacred tree, and he had ordered it to be cut down. The coolies believe that the devil killed him, and nothing anyone can say will convince them to the contrary.”
“Why did he order the removal of one of their sacred trees?”
“He thought that it would be best down as it was showing signs of decay. Then, in spite of knowing its state, he must needs go and stand underneath it!”
“I wonder what made him do that,” remarked Dick, with the memory of Daphne’s story fresh in his mind.
“He must have thought of something when he was walking away that he had to say to the maistry, and was debating with himself whether he should go back. While he was considering the question the branch fell, and the mischief was done.”
“Was there anything to cause it to come down so suddenly?”
“The reason was quite natural. It was no miracle. On the contrary, it was an accident that I should have been on the lookout for if I had been there.”
Dangerfield’s interest grew, and he asked:
“Do you know what it was?”
“Yes, and I’ll tell you; but let’s have a drink first.”
Stockton recharged his pipe, which was seldom out of his mouth, and lighted it. When that was done to his satisfaction, he foraged in his tiffin basket and produced a flask of whisky with two bottles of soda-water. These last were wrapped in damp cloths. The evaporation had kept the contents fairly cool.
“No whisky, thanks,” said Dick. “Half a bottle of soda-water will be very acceptable.”
When they had finished, Stockton settled himself down again and took up the thread of the conversation.
“Like the forest officials at home we have our pests to contend with. They are more formidable in this tropical climate than in England.”
“In greater quantities?”
“Not only in numbers, but in size and strength. There’s a small beetle in the forests that can only live and bring up its family in a stream of sap. You’ve seen what children call ‘cuckoo spit’ at home? The beetle has the same nasty habit as that little green varmint, and must have its constant bath of sap to preserve its existence. The beetle is not content with froth. It must have its stream. It is a borer, and it makes its presence known by a tell-tale dripping of the sap, which is as clear as water. The result of its operations is that the branch at that particular point becomes thoroughly rotten. One day the weight of the foliage in its new spring growth is too great for its strength. Down comes the huge limb with a crash, and woe betide the unheeding creature who, like Henley, is within reach of it.”
“With the evidence before their eyes can’t the woodmen see that the cause is perfectly natural?”
“Impossible, their convictions are so deeply rooted.”
Dangerfield thought of Daphne and her convictions.
“The woodmen can surely see for themselves where the borer has been at work.”
“And they will tell you that the borer is the devil himself in the form of a mischievous beetle. ‘Could a small insect bite through the thickness of the branch?’ they will ask. And then they will grin in an irritating manner as though pitying your ignorance.”
Dick recalled Daphne’s smile when he expressed his disbelief in her talisman.
“Their superstitions are deep-set,” continued Stockton. “And one must not forget that the jungle tribes have little or no education at all. It would take generations of schoolmasters to eradicate their belief in the devil. Everything in the shape of a misfortune that happens is, according to them, the work of a malignant spirit that has not been sufficiently propitiated.”
Dangerfield’s thoughts again flew to Daphne and her credulity. Had she inherited her superstitions from remote ancestors of the dim past? The blood of the country ran in her veins. Those forebears of hers were animists. Was Mrs. Fernandez credulous herself? Possibly it might be the cause of the irritation she showed when Daphne’s folly was apparent. The older woman was afraid. She had just that touch of superstition that roused her credulity and made her fear that there was a grain of truth in the creed of the forest folk.
“Is it of any use attempting to combat superstition?” asked Dick.
“Not in this country; and I never heard of it being of much use in our own.”
“What do you do when you come up against it---as you say was the case the other day?”
“I make the best of it. I don’t waste time fighting against it. I sent at once for another consignment of plants to be forwarded at the first break in the showery weather. They came, and are safely planted.”
“You will have to deal with the question of this tree and the order for its felling.”
“I’m quite ready. If the jungle men and their poojarees ask to have the tree spared, I shall give way to their desire. I live and let live. The tree may stand till it drops, for all I care.”
“I wonder if Mr. Henley had a reason for condemning it.”
“He wanted to clear the ground, I am told, for a fresh plantation. He should have had all the other trees down and have made a particular point of preserving this one---as I shall do, if I think it advisable to continue with the clearing. The first cyclone will lay the devil-tree low, in spite of its ghostly tenant, as soon as it loses its sheltering neighbours. The jungle-people will say that the demon has forsaken the tree and has chosen a new abode.”
“I wonder if Henley had a reason for ordering the tree to be felled. Did he want to get rid of it because it had become an object of superstition?” persisted Dick.
“From what I have heard of him it was characteristic. His love of order was at the bottom of it. It would have spoilt the symmetry of his lines, and been in the way of his planting. He was known to be a man who would waste hours straightening up rows of seedlings in his nurseries, and in cutting his footpaths as if he was dealing with one of the London parks.”
“An orderly mind.”
“And the deuce of a waste of time and labour. The woodcutters and coolies will not be troubled with that sort of thing while I am boss.”
“And the tree?”
“Will remain standing as long as the cyclones spare it. The hillmen will do pooja underneath it during the day, and they will take care to give it a wide berth at night. I shall do so also if I am that way, but not for the same reason.”
“I should like to see it,” said Dick. “Would it be difficult to get there?”
“Not a bit if you have a car. You drive to the foot of the hills, a rough road probably, but you may be sure that there is some sort of a track. Then you have a stiff climb. Have you got a car?”
“Not yet. I want to buy one.”
“Your new acquaintance, Fernandez, can help you in the matter. Most likely Henley’s will be for sale. Come to my camp for a few days, and have a look round. I don’t know how I shall be off for tents for sleeping. If I can’t manage for you at night you can spend the days with me, and go to the nearest dâk bungalow to sleep.”
Stockton leaned back, tucked his travelling cushion under his head, and in another five minutes was asleep.
The sun was already in the western sky when the train pulled up at the station of Madura. The town is one of the large cities of the south, with a temple known throughout the whole of India.
The railway platform was thronged with Indians, some of whom had just alighted; others were taking the vacated seats in the hot, dusty carriages.
Stockton hurried away, with a farewell to Dangerfield and a repetition of the invitation he had given him to come out to his camp and see the primeval jungle for himself. The forest officer’s boy removed his master’s property with the celerity of an experienced travelling servant.
Dangerfield, having no man to help him, did not find it so easy to get clear of the train. A small crowd of clamouring coolies gathered round the door of the compartment, ready to enter and seize his different bits of luggage at the smallest encouragement. They had already discovered that he had neither boy nor peon.
He was looking out of the carriage door, in the hope of seeing a porter, when his eye fell on the figure of Molena pushing his way through the crowd towards him.
“Miss Fernandez asked me to find you. She felt sure that you would want help, being a stranger and having no servant,” he said with his broad, amiable smile. “Has Mr. Ashmere sent a peon to meet you?”
“He doesn’t know that I am arriving by this train,” replied Dangerfield, who was more glad than he could say to have assistance.
“Didn’t you send him a wire?”
“I forgot to do so. In fact, I didn’t know that I should be so helpless without a servant to wait on me.”
“That is a thing we can soon remedy,” said Molena, turning to a smart, trim-looking Indian standing near. It was his own personal servant, who had come to meet his master. He gave him an order and the man hurried away.
“I have sent my servant to ask Mr. Fernandez to lend you a peon, one of the D.P.W. men, who will look after your luggage.”
Dick thanked him, and almost immediately a belted messenger arrived, wearing the badge of the Department. The crowd of coolies melted away at sight of the peon, only two or three remaining. They had been singled out to handle the luggage.
“You have let Mr. Ashmere know that you are on the way out to him?” asked Molena.
“Certainly; but I could not say what day the mail would arrive, or name the train by which I should travel.”
“If by any chance he is out in camp, and not prepared to put you up, I shall be pleased if you will come and stay with me till he comes back.”
Dangerfield was not a little surprised as well as pleased. The invitation had a true ring about it. He again expressed his gratitude as they moved towards the exit, where he found the Fernandez family.
“I have ascertained that Singara, the guide, is disengaged,” said Fernandez. “He prefers to be called a moonshi. He is here on the lookout for a sightseeing traveller. You can engage him at once.”
A sedate, dignified Hindu approached. He was clothed in white. His turban of fine white muslin was folded with particular care. It had bands of gold following the lines of the folds. He was of a brown complexion, lighter in tint than the people on the platform. Probably he had Mahratta blood in his veins. His eyes were large, of a cool brown that showed the black pupils. In appearance he looked like the managing clerk in some office where responsibility was required.
He gave Dangerfield one scrutinising glance, and then averted his eyes unless he was personally addressed. He understood English and spoke the language well.
Dangerfield asked his terms. He stated them at once in English money. He would require five pounds a month. Being a caste man he would provide his own food.
“I shall be glad to engage him,” said Dangerfield to Fernandez. “Perhaps he will find me the servant you say I shall want as well.”
Daphne drew near. She had recovered from her indisposition, but looked wan and sad.
“This is just what I have been wishing for you,” she said, in a low voice.
“I couldn’t desire anything better. I am very grateful to Mr. Molena and to your father.”
“They are delighted to be of use,” she replied. “Mr. Molena is going to drop you at Mr. Ashmere’s house and find out if he is there. You see, Mr. Dangerfield, my wishing stone can benefit other people besides myself.”
They began to walk through the big station towards the doors that opened on to the station yard.
“Wouldn’t it be wise to leave off using your talisman for the present, Miss Fernandez?” said Dick, as the rest of the party dropped behind.
“Not if it brings you luck. Singara might have been engaged. There isn’t another man in the place who would have suited you so well. He is well educated, and I am sure he has psychic powers. Through him you will see strange things.”
“All the same, although I am duly grateful, please don’t think of using the stone on my behalf again.”
“May I not wish you good luck?”
“Let it rest at this point. Let it be a last good turn. May I ask where you got your stone?”
“From Singara. I gave him fifty rupees for it.”
They reached the station compound. By this time the third-class passengers had cleared off on foot or in country carts. A car drove up. He recognised his own luggage on it as well as Molena’s suitcase. He bade the Fernandez family a warm farewell, promising to look them up before long. They had been most kind. He felt none of the aversion that had been shown by Stockton towards these Anglo- Indians.
The forest officer, although he was an Englishman, had driven off without troubling himself to discover if any help was needed. He had taken it for granted that Ashmere would have arranged that a servant met his visitor. It is true that Stockton had given him a casual invitation, friendly enough in its way. Then he had straightway forgotten the very existence of his fellow-countryman and concentrated his attention on his own affairs. It must be said for him that he was more than a little inconvenienced by the sudden move to Madura, coming as it did at the beginning of the monsoon rains; and although he had not betrayed the fact, he was troubled about Henley’s death. He had yet to find out if the story of the strange fall of the branch was true, and whether it was the result of an accident. The branch of a tree can be caused to fall by sawing it partly through. It did not always require the aid of the borer beetle.
The Anglo-Indians had not allowed themselves to be absorbed in their own affairs to the exclusion of all thought of the stranger’s need. Fernandez and Molena before leaving the station had seen that Dangerfield had been provided for. And Daphne had remembered Singara.
The Englishman was driven to Ashmere’s bungalow. He was at home and gave his visitor a warm welcome. Molena departed beaming over the hearty thanks expressed by Dangerfield.
Dangerfield and Ashmere had dined and were sitting in the broad, cool veranda of the engineer’s bungalow.
“I’m sorry I didn’t wire to you of my arrival at Bombay to let you know the precise time of arrival. I hope it didn’t put you out,” said Dangerfield.
“Not at all, I knew you might turn up any day. My wife and daughter were obliged to go to Madras. They asked if you would forgive them for running away.”
“Of course! I should have been sorry to upset their plans.”
“They had invitations for the beginning of the season. There will be several private dances which Ruby will enjoy. It will be her first Indian season.”
“Pity you can’t join them,” said Dangerfield sympathetically.
“My dear boy!” protested Ashmere. “Our life out here means strenuous work, to say nothing of the responsibilities attached to it. It’s the wives and daughters who play.”
“What particular job have you in hand just now?”
“Irrigation. I was only waiting for your arrival to go into camp.”
“That will suit me exactly,” remarked Dangerfield.
“When you wrote you said that you hoped to see something of the district. I determined to take you out into camp. I make no apologies for carrying you off at once.”
“I’m ready.”
Ashmere glanced at him with a smile. He may have wondered for a moment at his readiness to get away from English society. The Ashmeres had known Mrs. Dangerfield, and it had always been supposed that Dick and his wife were on the best of terms.
“Have you a car?” asked Ashmere. “Didn’t bring one out from home with you?”
“No. I must buy one. I hear Henley’s is for sale.”
“Poor old Henley! Yes, you can probably get that and his sleeping tent as well. Can you drive?”
“I should prefer to have a chauffeur.”
“Your new dressing boy came while we were at dinner. He has been put in charge of your room and clothes. Singara sent him. By-the-by, how did you get hold of Singara?”
“Through the Fernandez family. I believe Miss Fernandez had something to do with it,” replied Dick.
“Good-natured people. Fernandez is one of my subordinates and he’s country-born.”
“Does that mean something of the nature of the bar sinister?”
“Not at all. There’s nothing about the family that they need be ashamed of.”
“Stockton didn’t fancy them,” said Dangerfield.
“There’s a strong prejudice against the class. Those who take exception to the country-born forget that it is through no fault of his own that the Anglo-Indian has a touch of the East in his blood.”
“Stockton called Fernandez a Eurasian.”
“It’s the old name for the class. The term seemed to carry disrespect, so it was altered at their own request.”
“I found the Fernandez family distinctly pleasant,” said Dangerfield, determined to be loyal to his friends of the railway journey. “Molena, the tobacco grower, who is engaged to the girl, was particularly kind. He really went out of his way to be civil.”
“He’s a west coast Jew by birth, but not by religion. He has no pretensions to good looks, one of the ugliest fellows I ever saw.”
“He is very devoted to Miss Daphne,” observed Dangerfield.
“A good match for her. He is a wealthy man, making a pot of money with his cigar factory. He has imported experts to superintend the manufacture of the cigars. Pays them well, too, and advertises his goods. He calls the cigars after his own name, Molenas. So Miss Daphne secured Singara for you. She did you a good turn.”
“I said I wanted a guide and interpreter; someone who could show me what was worth seeing.”
“Singara can do that all right, and a good deal more if he chooses,” added Ashmere, with a smile that Dangerfield was unable to understand.
“Do you know his history?” asked Dick. “Miss Fernandez told me nothing except the fact that she thought he would suit me.”
“Bazaar gossip says that he once practised as a saddhu, a religious ascetic. Anyhow, he has found the moonshi business more paying, combining it as he does with interpreter and guide. He will be able to interest you in all sorts of things while I am busy with my work.”
They talked camp details, and Dangerfield was pleased to find how few difficulties presented themselves in the arrangements. All that was needed was money, of which he had plenty.
“How about buying what I want? Can the things be purchased here?”
“Singara will do all that for you if he has your authority.”
“When do you think of getting out into camp?”
“As soon as possible. In fact, I have already sent on my kit and have told the tent lascars to expect me at any time.”
“Where are you going?”
“To one of our rivers. It is by no means the largest that we have in the south, but in my opinion it is the most troublesome. For the greater part of the year it is mild and gentle in its character. As soon as the monsoon blows and the rains fall, it comes down in flood like a starved wild beast, destroying and devouring everything within its reach.”
“Is it on the rampage now?”
“No, but it will be shortly. Then it will break down its embankments---we call them bunds---burst its tanks, overflow its weirs---anicuts---and wash away roads and bridges, for which, if you please, I, the engineer, am responsible. Up in the hills where it rises it does comparatively little harm. It is when it comes into the plains that it is most dangerous; when its huge mass of flood water reaches the irrigation systems; then the river gets out of hand and plays the very devil with the country.”
“What have you to do?”
“Be on the spot so that watchers on the bunds and bridges don’t shirk their work. When the pressure is over the water is manageable, we control the irrigation, the filling up of the tanks and the inundation of the fields, and there is peace and contentment for another season.”
“And you will be off immediately?”
“To-morrow at the latest. I was only waiting till you arrived. You’ll have to follow as soon as you have secured the car and the tent.
“I’ll see about both at once. I wonder if Singara is here.”
The moonshi was within call. He came and received his orders, declared himself able to procure everything that was needed on the shortest notice.
“Have you brought any books with you?” asked Ashmere.
“Only two or three, and those I read on the voyage.”
“I’ve just had a box up from Madras from my library. I have taken what I want for the trip. Perhaps you would like to choose two or three. You will have heaps of time for reading in the middle of the day.”
“What sort of books have you got?”
“Novels, travels, gossip. You can make a selection to-morrow morning after I have gone.”
The next day saw Ashmere depart. The sun was just showing itself above the horizon. The air was fresh and cool and Dangerfield could not help envying his friend the drive out into the country.
“No use offering to take you,” said Ashmere, who perhaps guessed at the desire that had sprung up in his visitor’s heart. “I am going on an inspection round. I shall be out in the sun all day and dead beat by the time I get into camp.”
“By-the-by, how shall I find your camp?”
“Singara knows where it is and the way. He and your boy had better travel with you in the car. It isn’t far, thirty-five miles at the most, and I can promise you a fine day,” he concluded, with the grim smile of the Englishman who in the plains has more of the sun than is conducive to his comfort.
Dangerfield stood on the bank of the river that was troubling his friend’s peace of mind. So far it had done nothing; but knowing the character it possessed, the engineer was dreading what it might do.
The stream, reduced to a minimum by the fierce heat of the dry season, meandered in a sleepy, peaceful manner through a bed of gleaming sand like a silver cord carelessly thrown down. Here and there it spread out into glassy pools where a mass of bedrock held it up. The dhobies appropriated these spots to pound their “wash” on the polished surface of the stones. It had probably been the chosen spot for fifty generations of washermen.
Buffaloes wallowed and rolled in the tepid water. Bathers shared the river with them. Women bearing shining brass waterpots plodded across the hot stretches of sand and filled their vessels for cooking purposes.
There was plenty of room in that wide expanse between the river banks for dhobies, buffaloes, bathers, and water-drawers without jostling each other. Men, women, and animals moved in leisurely fashion. As Dangerfield gazed at them he felt something of the lethargy that underlay their actions.
He glanced across the flat landscape through which the river had cut the groove of its course. A line of blue hills bounded the whole of the western horizon. The mountains were deceptive in their appearance as regards height and grandeur. They were collectively the Western Ghats with peaks rising to seven and eight thousand feet in height, although they did not look it.
From those mountains the rivers running eastward to the Bay of Bengal through the Peninsula gathered their waters. Twice a year at each monsoon countless tributaries sent their contributions down narrow, rocky gorges. Torrents poured in rapids and waterfalls through tunnels of dense tropical vegetation to the foot of the hills.
There these noisy children of the forest were gathered into wide channels. They formed a vast volume of water, deep, swift, but silent. As the floods increased and travelled they became gigantic uncontrollable forces of nature.
Dangerfield, looking at the bed of the river from its high banks, could not believe that the narrow winding thread of silver, flowing gently over the stretches of sand, ever took the form of a giant, terrible in its strength.
But he had been assured that without warning the flood would descend, sweeping everything before it, threatening the dam that was to control and regulate the distribution of the waters. It would fill its course till the river was brimming from bank to bank.
Then woe betide the unwary washerman, the slow-moving buffalo, the careless bathers, and the weary waterwomen. Lingering on the warm sand, possibly snatching an hour’s sleep on the fringe of a shining pool, the flood might catch them on the muddy bore that heralded its coming and carry them away beyond all human help.
Singara told the tale of the river’s evil doings as he stood at his employer’s elbow.
“And when will the river come down to the plains?” asked Dangerfield.
“When the monsoon has set in.”
“A week hence?”
“Who can say, sir, when a son will be born or when rain will fall?” was the characteristic reply.
As they stood there Ashmere arrived hot and tired from the round he had been obliged to make on foot. They were not far from the camp, which was pitched at a little distance from the river bank on slightly rising ground. He had been on a tour of inspection where no motor-car could help him. Ankle deep in hot sand he had plodded to the dam, climbed up the rough steps to the top and walked along the apron where the water would strike it. The huge sluices were open in readiness, and if the flood happened to be exceptionally heavy the gaping mouths could be opened still wider.
“You call this one of your smaller rivers,” remarked Dangerfield. “Any one of our English rivers would be lost if you turned it loose here.”
“This is small by comparison with the Krishna, the Cauveri, the Vigai; but it takes the cake for violence when it does come down.”
“Are you satisfied with your preparations?”
“As far as I can be---from my point of view. The Hindus might say that I have neglected to propitiate the river god with a sacrifice of blood, a cock or a goat,” Ashmere concluded with a tired smile.
“It has a familiar spirit, then?”
“In India everything has its presiding deity to make or mar matters for poor brown humanity.”
“The land seems to be full of psychic influences attributed to evil spirits,” said Dangerfield. “It is a curious belief---superstition, perhaps I ought to say.”
Ashmere smiled as he made answer:
“When I came out to the country I professed to disbelieve in devils. I don’t now. Anyway, they exist in the imaginations of the people if nowhere else.” Dick remembered Stockton’s story of his coolies. “I have never yet seen a river in India without its so-called devil.”
“If you come to that,” observed Dangerfield, “we had them in England in the past. The rivers at home were not without their deities in the old days, judging by the Roman altars that have been fished up. Is pooja done nowadays to the river god here?” Ashmere pointed to a stretch of bedrock cropping out of the sand. A low, square temple with a wedge-shaped tower stood on it.
“You see that little temple in the river-bed between us and the anicut?” he said. “The oldest inhabitant will tell you that a human sacrifice took place twice every year just before the rains came, to propitiate the local spirit.”
“And now what happens?” asked Dangerfield.
“Now a beneficent Government obliges the zealous villagers to use a goat or a buffalo instead.”
“The belief that a river needs a human life to keep it or its presiding spirit in a good humour is not peculiar to India,” said Dangerfield. He was more than a little interested in this question of animism. “It is believed that the river takes life without a with-your-leave or by-your-leave. I was reading the other day that the Irrawaddy claims a life a day.”
“I have heard the saying. One or two of our English rivers have an unpleasant reputation of a similar kind. I know of one in the west of England that is said to take a life every year. After a pause he added: “There is something uncanny about a river if you have much to do with it. It seems to impress its personality upon you. It gets on your nerves.”
Dangerfield’s thoughts flew to Stockton, who had used the same expression, but not with regard to rivers.
“Perhaps it is living in close association with one of the physical forces of nature that produces the impression,” he said.
“The doctors would tell you that the tropical climate impoverishes the blood and that the nerves are consequently not properly nourished.”
“And don’t you think that they may be right?”
“I can’t tell. I’ve lived in India long enough to doubt all my original impressions, the impressions and convictions that I brought out with me. Things react on you out here unaccountably till you begin to look for the fulfilment of these ignorant Hindus’ superstitions. With regard to the river I feel that I am up against a force in nature that I am supposed, as a Government engineer, to control. Whether I control it with my sluices and anicuts, or whether it does what it likes with me, I am not prepared to say.”
Then he laughed, altering his tone entirely as though half ashamed of having been betrayed into the admissions he had just made.
“I suppose this sounds piffle to you, Dangerfield, just out from home as you are. You are one of the few remaining squires left to poor old England. Your tenants will miss you on the estate.”
“I wanted a change,” said Dick shortly. He did not give a reason for his desire.
Well, you will have it here if you choose to go a little below the surface and look for your interests among the people.”
“Will they be doing pooja to the river god while I am here?” he asked.
“They are sure to be at it before many days, perhaps hours.”
“I wonder if I could see it.”
“If you ask Singara to take you down to that little temple in the river-bed you may get a sight of something of the kind. Don’t go without Singara. He will know the ropes and will keep you from falling foul of any of their prejudices.”
“Would their caste feelings be hurt at my being a spectator?”
“They are animists and their blood sacrifices admit of all classes among their worshippers. Singara will see to it that you are at a suitable distance. The rites will be performed by poojarees who will have maddened themselves with drugs. If you happened to get in the path of one of them, I would not answer for the consequences; but unless you pushed your way into the crowd of worshippers you are not likely to give offence.”
“I shouldn’t do that, of course. What time will they be doing pooja?”
“Between eleven and one at night.”
They were strolling towards the tents. Singara had fallen behind. It is possible he may have heard their conversation. He knew his place better than to join in or make any comment. Ashmere turned to him and asked when the pooja would take place.
“To-morrow night, sir,” was the reply.
“I should like to go,” said Dick.
“You must excuse me if I beg off,” said Ashmere.
“Certainly,” Dick hastened to say. “Do you think that human sacrifices take place in these days?” he asked.
Ashmere looked at him with a peculiar expression.
“India is a very conservative country when once you get away from the towns,” was the reply.
“We have been told that the British Government has put a stop to suttee and human sacrifices,” said Dangerfield.
“It has assuredly done its very best in that direction.”
“And you don’t think they occur?” he pressed.
“If they do by any chance, they come under the terms of suicide and murder, and are treated as criminal offences.”
They reached the tents, and Ashmere turned into his to have his bath and forty winks before dinner. Dangerfield, fresh and unfatigued, called Singara.
“This evening after dinner, when Mr. Ashmere goes to bed, I should like to go to the river temple, and look at it. To-morrow night you must place me in a position where I can see the pooja.”
“Yes, sir. It can easily be done.”
“Be at the entrance of my tent at half-past ten.”
Having given his order, Dangerfield took up his book and stretched himself on his long camp chair under the shade of the tent fly.
Ashmere’s offer of books had been very acceptable to Dangerfield. Like most people who live in the country at home he found time for a good deal of reading. His taste was wide---sport, natural history, travels, and biographical works attracted him. Novels he had little or no use for, unless they had a sporting interest.
Among Ashmere’s books he found a recently published work on Central America. The author wrote of the wonderful remains of temples that were to be found in the jungles. The builders, judging from their work, were architects of a high order. In the absence of any signs of a gradual development of their art, the writer conjectured that they were colonists who had arrived in the country bringing their skill with them. He suggested that they might have come from the fast disappearing island of Atlantis. In addition to their arts and crafts they brought their religion with them.
Under the copy of a mural drawing in the text of the book he found the description: “A human sacrifice.” He looked closely into it, attracted by the title. It represented a poojaree about to sacrifice a child to one of the gods of Mexico. With one hand he held the child by the hair of the head. In the other was the sacrificial knife, a two-bladed weapon, twelve or fourteen inches in length. He stood before a large urn-shaped receptacle that was piled high with bleeding human hearts.
The expression on the face of the officiating poojaree was terrible. It was a mad fanaticism, probably produced then, as in these days, by drugs. On the child’s face was terrified apprehension. Its limbs were drawn up convulsively, the fingers and toes were turned down, the eyes were starting from their sockets. The child fully realised its fate. Its heart was to find a place presently on that ghastly pile.
Dangerfield glanced again at the poojaree in the picture. His hideous mouth, made still more repulsive by the introduction of two tusks in the upper jaw, was blackened. What did it mean? It could be nothing else than a representation of the blood of his victim, which he pretended to drink from the decapitated head, even as the Hindu poojaree of the present day pretends to drink from the decapitated head of the sacrificial goat.
If the picture represented the blood sacrifices of a people who lived on the lost island of Atlantis ten thousand years ago, the goat sacrifices of the Hindus were a strange survival of a widely spread practice among the primitive people of the earth.
Dangerfield laid aside the book with an expression of disgust, only to take it up again presently and examine it afresh. The author did not go into the question of the antiquity of the rite, nor of its origin. He merely reproduced the picture, and left the reader to draw his own inference.
The dressing boy, Joseph, appeared with the intimation that it was time for his master to change for dinner.
Dangerfield dismissed his servant, and came out of his tent to watch the coming of the night.
The sun disappeared behind the line of mountains, and the short tropical twilight followed, with its curious lights---sometimes called the afterglow. For a few minutes the colours of the landscape were enhanced, as if nature were putting on a halo of glory. The Indians believe that it is the precise moment when the spirits of nature are released from imprisonment and are let loose on earth. These elementals have their liberty until the reappearance of the sun.
A grey light followed the afterglow. It was neither daylight nor twilight, and it heralded the night. Far away in the distance the jackals began their hungry yelps as they coursed across the parched fields towards the villages.
He was conscious of a change in the temperature the moment the sun disappeared. In addition, he felt another change that was not physical. He had lost the mentality of the day, and had entered into another state that was associated with sleep and dreams. The familiar sights---the distant anicut, the wide river bed with its narrow stream, the banks that stood like cliffs of loose soil twenty to thirty feet high, the distant groves of palms on the horizon marking the spots where mud huts clustered---vanished as the grey light faded into the darkness of the night. He lost the vivid sense of reality given by the sunlight. The aspect changed into something vague. The values of size and distance altered. Colour faded, and the shadows held mysterious depths which his eye could not penetrate.
The horizon in the east grew lighter with the rising of the moon, not yet full. The sky was cloudless, except in the west, where mists were gathering low on the mountains. He had heard much of the Indian moonlight, and was ready to endorse all that had been said in its praise.
The dinner gong sounded. He walked across to the big tent, where he found Ashmere, refreshed and rested, but drowsy from his long exposure to the sun and disinclined to talk. When dinner was over Dick excused himself, and returned to his tent to prepare for his midnight ramble. At half-past ten he came out into the full moonlight. Singara was there ready for the walk.
“Have you a stick, sir?” he asked.
“Here it is.”
“Beat the ground with it at each step. The snakes will move out of our path if they hear it.”
“Are there snakes?”
“Hundreds, sir; but you will not see them. They will get out of our way, if they possibly can.”
“Shall we find any pooja going on this evening near the little temple?”
“I can’t say, sir. To-morrow night the villagers have been called for the sacrifice, and they have been told to bring their goats.”
“We will go to-morrow. To-night we will look at the place where they will hold the festival. You must show me all that is in your power to show.”
The moonshi glanced at him sharply, but asked no question. “You must show me all that is in your power” embraced a wider meaning than the speaker was aware of. As he led the way, Singara replied simply:
“Very good, sir. As your honour pleases.”
They reached the river-bank and passed down a zigzag path to the sandy bed below. Now and then Dangerfield stopped to glance at the silvery surface of a pool or the gleaming stream. The harsh cry of a night bird fell on his ear. He was naturalist enough to recognise it as the cry of one of the heron tribe. To the villager the cry was the scream of one of the myriad of released spirits going forth into the night to find opportunity to work evil.
Dangerfield’s intention was to proceed no farther than the temple. Half a mile beyond it the great dam loomed like a gigantic wall. The side facing them was still in deep shadow, the moon being in the eastern sky.
“Was the anicut put up by the English?” asked Dangerfield.
“No, sir. It was built a very long time ago, in the time of the gods, so the people say. Through neglect it was broken and would no longer hold up the water, so that it could run into the channels and tanks. The water went to waste in the sea.”
“Which meant that there could be no cultivation of the fields,” remarked Dick.
“An Indian rajah with a good heart heard the cry of his starving people,” continued the moonshi.
“He called them together---men, women, and children---and bade them carry stones and help the masons to build up and repair the walls. The masons came from the Mahratta country, where they were very clever at laying blocks of stone. It was done without mortar. The rajah paid the workers in rice. He half emptied his treasury to buy the grain necessary for such a multitude. The labourers grew strong, working and eating, and the dam was raised once more as the gods of old had built it. It was strong enough to hold up the water till the tanks were full.”
He stopped speaking, and they walked on in silence.
“Yes? Is there more to tell?” asked Dangerfield.
“Then the poojarees came, sir. At the sight of them fear entered into the hearts of the people.”
“Fear?” repeated Dangerfield, looking keenly at his companion.
“Fear because they knew beforehand what the servants of the river god would ask. It was the custom. The poojarees went about among the villagers saying that the work, however strongly it was done, would not resist the fury of the river in flood unless a blood sacrifice was made. They had come themselves on purpose to do it; and it must be accomplished before the waters rose.”
Again Singara stopped speaking. Perhaps he considered that he had said enough. If he had been addressing Ashmere it would have been more than sufficient. The engineer would have smiled, as though he were listening to children’s tales. There was no smile on Dangerfield’s face. The story for him had nothing flippant or foolish about it. It was legend and folklore of intense interest to a leisured man who had read variously.
“So it was a case of sacrificing, goats and cocks, such as we are to see to-morrow night,” remarked Dangerfield.
“The occasion was great, and they were told that they must give something of more value than their goats and cocks.”
“What was required?” asked Dangerfield, knowing the reply.
“They demanded their children, and they were obliged to give.”
The temple was not far off. When he came closer to it he found it larger than he had at first imagined. Built upon a flat piece of bedrock that projected from the sand, its foundations stood higher than the riverbed. The original builders of the dam had selected similar outcroppings for the foundations of their curtain half a mile farther down. The temple faced up the river towards the mountains from which the waters came.
“How high does the river rise?”
“Sometimes to the top of the dam.”
“And the temple, what happens to it?”
“It is nearly submerged. The force of the flood is lessened by a natural bar of rock, that forms a backwater here and sends the flood over to the other bank. So the temple is saved from being washed away. When the whole of the tower appears again the people know that the rains in the hills have ceased.”
Steps led up to the temple from the river-bed. They were worn smooth by the action of the water and by the feet of thousands of worshippers through many generations.
“And so pooja was done and the anicut stood firm?”
“Yes, your honour. It was a great tomarsha. The story of it is still in the mouths of the people. Their ancestors saw it. The tale was handed down, and it will be remembered for many years. It happened before the British arrived in India.”
“Before any restrictions were imposed on the poojarees.”
The air was still and cool with the evaporation given off by the pools of water. Not far from the temple slept a washerman, with his bundles of dirty clothes arranged as a bed. At dawn he would begin his beatings and slappings, while the wading birds silted the disturbed water through their soft, porous beaks.
Dangerfield was strangely interested in the scene. It seemed a fitting setting for the actions of a heathen people. The Indian night was unfamiliar. In England he knew all that was suggested by the varying moods of Nature---a cool, windy day, a warm spring morning, a day of good ground rain much needed for the crops. They had always reacted on him, each in its own separate way. Here he was learning an aspect of a tropical night, when Nature, instead of closing its eyes in sleep, awoke. The hot sun induced sleep. The darkness chased away slumber and set every nerve quivering and receptive to impressions. “Thousands of spiritual creatures walk the earth unseen,” wrote Milton. There was truth in what the old poet said.
Singara’s legend lingered in his mind. He thought of the far past when, at the rajah’s bidding, the people toiled at the reconstruction of the life-giving dam. They must have had overseers, as in the present day; maistries, as they are still called. They used no whips like the old Egyptians. The labourers took their own way with the work, busy from six in the morning to six at night. Contracts were not necessary. The time limitation was set by the bursting of the monsoon. The anicut must be completed before the river rolled down and curled its turbid flood over the sunbaked bed.
He stood with the moonshi at the foot of the steps leading up to the doorway of the shrine. It had no door and the entrance was never closed. Seated on a small platform inside the building was a hideous image, black with innumerable libations of oil and the smoke of primitive lamps. A burning cotton-wick floating in crude vegetable oil shed a flickering light on the figure, which was not more than three feet high. The expression on its features had a curious resemblance to the drawing of the Mexican poojaree in the book he had been reading. It was a ferociously rapacious expression, a devil ready to devour all that was swept by the floods into its maw.
Dangerfield wondered how many centuries had seen the image sitting there, waiting for the blood that the poojarees declared must be given in propitiation; for how many ages had the swirling body of water submerged it?
He turned to the moonshi to ask a question, and found to his astonishment that he was not alone. A strange old man had joined them. His hair hung, uncombed, over his shoulders. His chest was rubbed with ashes, and round his neck were bead necklaces made of hardened nuts gathered in the forest. His loins were girded with a time-stained cloth that once might have been white. His eyes, small and black with contracted pupils, glittered in the moonlight like those of a bird of prey. They were fixed on Dangerfield with an intentness that suggested mental as well as physical observation. Dick turned to the moonshi.
“Who is that man, and what does he want?” he asked sharply.
“I will tell your honour,” was the quiet reply.
“He is the keeper of the temple, sir, and the astrologer---the magic man---of the village,” replied Singara. “He does pooja to the river god.”
Dangerfield looked at the weird figure with curiosity.
“How long has the old man known the river?”
The moonshi acted as interpreter, and put the question.
“For more than seventy years, he says,”
“How many floods has he seen?”
“Too many to count, sir.”
“And famine times, when no water came?”
“The saddhu says that he has seen six.”
The poojaree turned and glanced towards the open shrine, a stone’s throw distant. He had tended it for more than half a century. It was unlucky, in his belief, to mention evil times or sickness in the hearing of the idol. Singara questioned him again, and drew from him various bits of the history of the past, long forgotten by the busy agriculturists who benefited by the irrigation.
“One year was a very bad year. The swami was very angry. The people did not bring their gifts and make the usual blood sacrifice. So the clouds were shut up and sent away to the sea, and the water was withheld. There was no rice, no fruit, no sugar-cane, no betel-leaf. The sickness came, and many died.”
“Tell him that I wish to see the pooja.”
Singara translated. The saddhu wagged his head in compliance. Then he asked a singular question:
“To-morrow night or this night will it be his honour’s pleasure to see pooja?”
“There is no pooja to-night, Mr. Ashmere tells me,” said Dangerfield a trifle sharply. “It is to take place to-morrow.”
A pause ensued. The saddhu seemed to be looking to the moonshi for instruction. Singara, as if in reply, made a gesture of assent, and broke the silence.
“Will your honour be seated and rest before walking back?”
He pointed out a smooth boulder half-buried in the bank. It was about fifty feet from the temple, and commanded an uninterrupted view of the open space in front of the shrine. Singara made Dangerfield as comfortable as he could under the circumstances. The poojaree looked on with approval. He made a remark in Tamil.
“What is it?” asked Dangerfield.
“He says that your honour has eyes to see.”
He recalled Daphne’s speech that he possessed ghost-eyes.
“Then let me see something,” he said half seriously, as he fell in with their humour. He did not for a moment believe that they could startle a disbeliever like himself with visions of the supernatural.
“Will your honour give the saddhu a present, just to bring good luck?” asked Singara.
Dangerfield took five rupees from his pocket and dropped the coins into a receptive palm. The eyes of the old man glistened. It was a large sum in his estimation. With many self-satisfied wags of the head he tied the money in a corner of his ragged loincloth.
A vapour was floating over the surface of the water, and the moon was slightly obscured. The shadows were softened and rendered less sharp, increasing the sense of indistinctness. A breath of cool night air brushed Dangerfield’s cheek. It was like a draught of fresh water.
He glanced up and then down the course of the river. The distant dam, as well as the river-banks, were partially veiled in mist. He was conscious of a strange stillness and isolation. Yet he was not alone. The moonshi was seated near him. Dick fancied that he had fallen asleep. His head was bent forward, and not a muscle of his body moved; but he was not asleep. Suddenly Dick was aware that his companion was wide awake, and his eyes were fixed on the vacant space before the shrine. The saddhu had disappeared.
“Is anything going on inside the temple?” asked Dangerfield.
“The old man is going to do pooja that master may see.”
Singara’s voice sounded dreamy and low. As he spoke the saddhu reappeared at the entrance of the shrine. He held in his hand a pan of live charcoal, on which he sprinkled aromatic gum. The blue smoke from the incense floated upwards, diffusing a pleasant scent. Having censed the shrine, the poojaree advanced towards Dangerfield and held the pan of charcoal before his eyes. The Englishman fixed his gaze upon the red coals in vague expectation, but nothing happened, to his disappointment. The red glow continued bright, but without a flame.
After an appreciable pause, the old man stepped aside with a salaam and removed the pan of charcoal. He turned to the moonshi, who was following his movements closely, and said a few words. Singara nodded his head in assent, and once again the saddhu vanished.
Without being conscious of drowsiness, Dangerfield was enveloped in a dreamy atmosphere that was distinctly pleasant. He felt that he was in a curious receptive condition with regard to impressions. The stillness of the soft Indian night and the absence of companions who imposed on him the duty of making conversation encouraged the sensation.
Suddenly, with a start of surprise, he became aware that figures were moving beyond the temple, issuing from the misty distance and coming towards the building. The mist dispersed, and the moon shone out in its full splendour. The crowd increased, and gathered in front of the building. Dark forms emerged from the shadows and grouped themselves on the sands, standing clear of the temple steps.
Dangerfield turned to Singara. The moonshi was alert and awake. His eyes were not on the scene, but rested on himself in a steady gaze.
“Who are those people over there and what are they doing?” demanded Dick. Singara did not reply. He added impatiently: “I suppose they have come to worship the river god.”
“Perhaps, sir, I don’t know,” murmured Singara soothingly. As the other seemed about to ask more questions he added: “It is best not to talk.”
“All right. You don’t want them to notice us. I understand,” he responded, sinking back into the calmness induced by the silence about him. “This is a bit of luck for me,” he thought. “I shall not have had my walk for nothing.”
By this time the crowd had grown dense. He could not see their features, their dark skins made it difficult to distinguish faces. From their movements he judged that they were strongly excited over something that was about to take place at the temple. He concluded that they would presently sacrifice a few goats by way of a preliminary rite connected with the morrow’s big feast. It struck him as strange that he should hear no sound. Possibly silence was enjoined on the worshippers as well as on himself.
After a short space of time the men and women drew back, leaving a clear pathway through their midst. Someone of importance must be approaching, he thought. He was right.
Along the open way left by the crowd a group of people advanced bearing on four gilded poles a handsome square of jewelled cloth. Beneath it was carried a girl of about ten years of age, not yet fully grown. She was dressed as a bride in a rich, silk saree bordered with gold. On her arms and neck were heavy barbaric ornaments set with gems. Her hair was adorned with gold bosses and bands and her ears were hung with tassels of pearls. On her instep rested silver anklets, to which a number of little bells were attached.
As she was carried slowly through the worshippers, they bent before her, prostrating themselves on the ground. Some instinctive knowledge told him that they were doing honour to the bride of the river.
Two poojarees followed closely. They were bare to the waist. Their long hair fell over their shoulders. On their foreheads they bore the same sect marks that he had noticed on the saddhu. Grey ashes were smeared over their breasts. The light was too dim for him to be able to distinguish their appearance in detail, but somehow, he knew not why, he pictured the expression on their faces as similar to that on the countenance of the Mexican poojaree.
The procession stopped directly in front of the shrine and just short of the steps. One of the poojarees touched the girl’s forehead. She lifted her chin so that the full light of the moon fell on her features.
Dangerfield judged her to be beautiful in the regularity and delicacy of her face. Again he had a sense of knowing by intuition rather than through actual vision. He understood that it could not be otherwise. The people were giving a bride to the river, perfect in every respect, and worthy in their opinion of a deity.
One of the poojarees advanced to the door of the temple and received from someone in attendance a brass bowl, in which water gleamed in the moonlight. He returned to the girl, who was now standing on her feet at the foot of the steps.
It was difficult to distinguish the actions of the poojarees. They seemed to be hastening through the ritual, stripping her of her jewels and saree and carrying them to the temple to place before the image.
Dangerfield looked round for the goats which Ashmere had informed him would be provided by the people. He could see no trace of them. He would have inquired of the moonshi, but recalling the silence enjoined on him he did not speak.
Suddenly and without warning there came a change, swift and terrible. Into the peace and silence of the night tragedy entered, thrusting its horrible finger among those simple worshippers.
The poojaree who held the bowl dipped a bunch of green leaves into the water and sprinkled the girl’s upturned face. She shook her head as if to free her eyes from the crystal drops.
A two-handled sword flashed in the moonlight in a wide sweep, and the girl sank to the ground.
The crowd drew nearer, obstructing the view. One of the poojarees struggled up to the shrine, thrusting aside anyone who crossed his path. He deposited something before the image. Then he turned and faced the excited worshippers. It seemed to Dangerfield that the poojaree of the Mexican god lived again. The illusion was intensified by the fact that on the lips of the man there was the selfsame stain as was depicted in the drawing.
Dangerfield bounded to his feet. Enlightenment came with a flash through his brain.
He had unwittingly been the witness of a human sacrifice, a revolting rite of the barbarous past revived secretly in the dead of night without the knowledge of the authorities. The conviction took possession of him with a suddenness that gave him a shock.
The moonshi rose and moved to his side. Dangerfield had forgotten his very existence. He scarcely recognised him in the intense excitement of the moment.
“Where’s that old saddhu, the keeper of the temple?” he demanded angrily.
“He sleeps, sir,” replied Singara, in his soft, cultivated tones which had a soothing effect. “He is sleeping at the foot of the temple steps in his customary place.”
Dangerfield gazed round in bewilderment, not to say amazement. The crowd was gone. The girl and the worshippers clustering round her had vanished. The assembly, large as it was, had melted into the air and the solitude of midnight enveloped the place.
“Where are the people who have been doing pooja?”
“They will do pooja to-morrow night, sir, not to-night,” returned the moonshi, in the same soft voice that seemed to act with a quieting effect on Dangerfield’s nerves. At the same time the man made a slight movement with his hands, his eyes never leaving the face of the Englishman.
“But they have done their pooja already!” cried Dick. “They had a girl for the sacrifice, not a goat. I saw her myself. I saw her plainly in the moonlight. There was a man with a sword. Where is he?”
“Perhaps your honour slept. The sand is warm; it helps to bring sleep if one is tired.”
Dangerfield glared at his companion irritably.
“Didn’t you see the crowd yourself?”
“I saw the old poojaree, but no one else. He was very grateful to your honour for the present.”
“Where is he? Bring him here.”
“I gave him leave to go to his mat and sleep. He was not needed any longer.”
Dangerfield looked towards the temple. He could distinguish the outline of the old man’s form as he rested like an inanimate log on the top step of the platform of the temple.
“I will go and look at him,” said Dick, who had his own reasons for wishing to examine the spot closely. It was in his mind to find the pool of blood that must have been formed by the decapitation, and of pointing it out to Singara. It would be a proof of the correctness of his statement, as well as evidence when he came to tell his story to Ashmere, as he intended.
Singara made no objection to the proposal. On the contrary, he led the way, passing down the lower slope on to the bed of the river. They approached the recumbent figure. The old man had swallowed his pill of opium and was in the deep sleep induced by a strong narcotic. It was impossible to rouse him till the effect of the drug had passed away.
“Look at him well,” said the moonshi. “He will not wake. He has taken the dose that keeps away the fever that comes with the night wind.”
Dick bent over the saddhu. It was not difficult to identify the ancient guardian of the temple. Like a dead body he lay with the cotton loincloth, now used as a sheet, rolled round his spare figure, and a small block of wood, shaped to the neck, as a pillow.
Dangerfield returned to the spot at the foot of the steps where the girl stood. He glanced down at the bedrock, rough and black, out of which the steps were cut. No sign of a stain could he discover. Not a drop of blood nor of any other kind of liquid had been spilt. He stooped and passed his fingers over the stone surface. It was as dry as a long, hot season could make it. What was more, it still retained the warmth of the fierce Indian sun.
“It is strange, very strange. Am I not to believe the testimony of my own eyes?” he said, more to himself than to his companion.
“To-morrow night the people will bring goats and make their sacrifice to the river god,” said Singara, his eyes upon Dangerfield with an intensity that might have puzzled the Englishman if he had not been so preoccupied with the vision he had seen.
Again he protested, describing once more the vivid scene.
“My sight is good; it can’t have deceived me. Are you sure that you saw nothing yourself?”
“There was nothing to see but the temple which stands here and its old saddhu.”
“You may say what you like,” replied Dangerfield angrily. “Am I not to believe the evidence of my own eyes?” he demanded again. “Pooja was done and the victim---I am positive that the offering was---was——”
He hesitated, oddly confused and bewildered. The attitude of the moonshi was that of a person who was listening to the tale of a dreamer. At the same time the consciousness came over Dick that he was not able to offer any proof in support of his statement, and without proof he could not speak convincingly. With less assurance he began his story again.
“The sacrifice was——”
He stopped, feeling a curious distaste to use the word “human.” The assertion was already beginning to sound improbable.
The moonshi quietly but firmly interrupted him.
“Believe me, sir, there has been no pooja to-night and no blood offering.”
He spoke respectfully and his listener could not take offence. The vividness of the scene was fading. It was difficult to recall the details which were becoming blurred and indistinct. The crowd had appeared suddenly, unexpectedly. It had disappeared unaccountably, apparently in the space of a minute or two. When Dangerfield considered these facts he found it difficult to believe that hundreds of men and women could have dispersed in a few seconds of time. His eyes must have followed their retreating figures as they straggled homewards.
The girl, what became of her? He did not remember her being carried away. Her body vanished even more mysteriously than the worshippers.
Then there were the two poojarees, the one with the sword who performed the sacrifice, the other who offered it and personated the terrible thirst of the god of the river. They would have stayed by the shrine if only to look after the valuable gold ornaments offered with the girl.
Yet another strange feature of the vision---already he was beginning to think of it as a vision---was the total absence of all sound. He had heard no shouts, no cries of “Govinda! Govinda!” that accompany pooja at the goat feasts of the people in South India.
Dangerfield looked at his watch in the brilliant moonlight. It was past one o’clock. In a distant banyan-tree a cuckoo, wakeful to the moon, cried: “ Koo-ee-yu! Koo-ee-yu!” It did not escape his ear.
“You may well ask, ‘Who are you?’” he said, addressing the bird. “You might add, ‘What the deuce are you doing here at this time of night?’”
They climbed the bank and walked in silence to the camp. Far on the horizon thin streaks of electricity darted over the heads of heavy clouds that were gathering and taking shape in the Western Ghats.
Dangerfield slept late the next morning. Being a “man without a job” there was no necessity to turn out sooner than he chose. He and Ashmere met at ten o’clock for breakfast in the big tent. The latter had been busy since six.
“How about your midnight walk?” asked the engineer.
“I was not in bed till nearly two.”
“No wonder you are late. What did you see?”
“I thought I saw many strange sights. The shadows of the night were deceptive and played tricks with my brain.”
“You are right there. They are deceptive. Anyway, no pooja was done, I understand.”
“Who told you about there being no pooja?”
“The moonshi. He assured me that there wasn’t a soul stirring but the old custodian of the temple.”
Dangerfield did not reply. He had been conscious of a strong desire to relate his experiences, but if the moonshi could not support him, and he had no proof to substantiate his statements, what was the good of making them? Singara, with his knowledge of the country and the people, would carry more weight than a stranger like himself if any tale was told.
“There will be plenty of pooja to-night,” said Ashmere. “All the villagers for miles around will be present. Nothing pleases them more than a big feast, as they call it.”
“Couldn’t you manage to come with me tonight?”
Ashmere gazed at him in surprise. It was no idle request. Dick had unconsciously thrown an appeal into his voice. There might be a repetition of last night’s incidents. If so it would be just as well that a Government official should be present.
“Perhaps it would be advisable. Maybe less arrack will be drunk if they know that I am present.”
“Do they drink at these ceremonies?”
“Rather! but we don’t interfere. It is a religious ceremony, and Government decrees that the Indian is to have a free hand where his religion is concerned.”
“What about the suppression of suttee and human sacrifice?”
“You had me there!” laughed Ashmere. “I ought to have added a free hand ‘in reason.’”
Having nothing better to do than to take a walk, Dangerfield thought he would go and have another look at the spot where he had sat the previous night. It crossed his mind that possibly a glance at it might remove any doubt that still lingered as to the reality of the scene. Singara accompanied him.
They went down to the river by the path they had taken the previous night, passing straight on to the temple. Dick glanced at the spot where he sat. It was near enough to the building to allow of a good view of any action that might be taking place at the foot of the steps, and again he was puzzled. They found the old saddhu awake and squatting on his heels by the side of the shrine.
In anticipation of the coming ceremonies he had so far exerted himself as to hang a string of green leaves of the margosa-tree on the lintel of the doorway. Round the neck of the image was a wreath of fresh jasmine flowers. A lamp burnt by the side of the image.
The poojaree, recognising Dangerfield as his benefactor, salaamed, touching his forehead with his fingers. He spoke in Tamil, asking a question of the moonshi which was answered with an assenting wag of the head. It seemed to satisfy the old man.
“What does he say?” questioned Dangerfield.
“He says that your honour must come to-night. There will be a great tomarsha.”
“Does he admit that there was one last night?”
“To-night the people will offer goats,” said Singara, ignoring the question. “And one goat will be bought with your honour’s money.”
“Oh! so I am to be a contributor to the sacrifice,” said Dangerfield, with a grim smile.
He spoke indifferently, for his attention was occupied with other matters than the approaching rites. His eyes were everywhere searching in the broad light of the afternoon sun for any sign that would testify to the reality of the scene he had witnessed the night before. He was not successful. The saddhu’s small black eyes dwelt upon him bright and observant as a bird’s, as though the ancient custodian read his inmost thoughts. The moonshi continued talking. Occasionally the old man spoke, adding his contribution to the history.
“In the old, old time, the saddhu says, the people did not give goats.”
“What did they offer?”
“They offered one of their daughters.”
“As they did last night, eh?”
The moonshi continued his story undisturbed by the interruption.
“Many years ago before the country came under British rule the people cried out about giving their daughters to the river god. The girls were wanted as brides for the young men. So the practice was discontinued and a horse was substituted. The enemy came from the north and took away the horses, so the people brought buffaloes instead. At last there were not enough buffaloes to draw the plough and the poojarees were given goats. If there were not enough goats, cocks were provided. It is hundreds of years since a child or a horse has been sacrificed; and your honour is aware that the British Government would punish human sacrifice in the name of murder.”
“So I have been told,” said Dangerfield. “Was the river god satisfied with all these changes?”
Singara again left his query unanswered. Dangerfield’s eyes were on the shrine itself. He could see the image through the open doorway.
“Would your honour like to go up the steps and examine the idol?”
The moonshi had fathomed the curiosity of the sightseer from the West.
“If the old man has no objection.”
“None whatever, sir. Perhaps your honour would like to leave a little offering in front of the image.”
Dangerfield was not sorry to have the opportunity of looking round at close quarters for a sign of what took place in his belief last night. He mounted the steps with alacrity, stopping in front of the open doorway. He looked inside the shrine, his eyes searching every corner for the brilliant, gold-embroidered saree, for trace of the jewels worn by the victim. He recalled the fact that she had been relieved of her saree and her ornaments. They were carried to the shrine and deposited there. Except for fading flowers and a thick layer of sandy dust the shrine was occupied solely by the image itself. Nothing else was visible. The small recess in which the idol was placed was filled by it. There was no room for anything more. The ledge in front, where the offerings were laid, was narrow and bare.
Dangerfield drew out a ten rupee note and placed it before the idol.
As the sun dipped into the west he returned to camp. He went to his tent to make his preparations for dinner. There was still some time to spare before it would be announced. He joined Ashmere who was seated in a deck chair enjoying a cigarette.
“Where have you been this afternoon?” he asked, with the indifference of a tired worker.
“I walked to the little temple.”
“You will have had enough of it when you have finished,” remarked Ashmere, amused at his friend’s keenness and energy over an object with which he himself was bored more than a little. “Did you see anything to interest you last night?”
Dangerfield gave a short laugh. Was he already half ashamed of his memory and inclined to discredit the evidence of his own eyes?
“If I described all I imagined I saw, you would laugh and call me a credulous ass.”
Ashmere turned in his chair to look at him.
“H’m! I am not so sure of that. You had the moonshi with you.”
“And the old poojaree as well.”
“He’s a sly old man, if you like! considered a bit of a magician in his way, like so many of these saddhus. There’s nothing they don’t know about hypnotism and raising the devil if they think there is anything to be got out of it. Did you give him any money?”
“A few rupees.”
“Then you have a claim on him which he will make good. You have contributed to the tomarsha. I hope you won’t be disappointed. I don’t think that you will be. I did it once, but I’ll never do it again,” he concluded explosively.
“What did you do?”
“It didn’t happen in this district, but it had to do with one of the irrigating rivers in the south like this. I was very anxious to have a bit of work finished by a certain time. It was the repair of a channel conducting the water from the river to a large reservoir. I was young and enthusiastic in those days. I promised the gang of villagers employed on the bund that I would give them twenty rupees to buy goats for pooja if they would complete the bund before the waters came down. It practically involved the irrigation of that taluk.”
“Did they do it?”
“Rather! Slaved night and day with just such a moon as we have now to help them. The money was well earned. Goats are cheap. They bought a fine flock for their sacrifice and entreated me to attend the ceremony.”
“As we shall be attending it to-night?”
“Not quite. Although I took no active part in the rites, the people counted me as one of themselves, a worshipper, and they let me know it. All the time they were busy in front of just such a little temple as we have here, I was impressed with a curious conviction that I, as one of the worshippers, was making a personal appeal to that blood-thirsty beast of a river god. I was presenting him with a ghastly offering, in return for which I expected from him compliance in bringing down the water and I demanded consideration for my work on the dam.”
“It sounds rather like a nightmare,” remarked Dangerfield, as his companion became silent.
After a slight pause Ashmere continued.
“As the poojarees snicked off the heads of the goats----they did it with a two-handled sword after sprinkling the head of the animal with water---and the blood fell from the animals’ bodies on to the parched and thirsty sand of the river-bed, I had the uncomfortable feeling that I, personally, was propitiating an evil spirit and helping to assuage its horrid thirst. I couldn’t get rid of the haunting fear that I had unwittingly identified myself with my brown brother and descended to his spiritual level. I confess that I felt humiliated.”
Again there was silence. Dangerfield broke it.
“You don’t believe in animism, do you?”
“Of course I don’t,” he hesitated as though afraid of committing himself by any admission. “I don’t forget that it is one of the most ancient beliefs, a wonderful survival from a remote prehistoric past.” Dangerfield’s thoughts flew to the Mexican picture with its prehistoric poojaree. He did not allude to it, however, but made a suggestion that Ashmere’s sensations were due to his being in close touch with his labourers.
“You soon shook it off, of course.”
“In this particular case it took some time to clear my mind and restore the balance. I assured myself over and over again that the whole show was tommy-rot from beginning to end. All the same I could not divest myself of the impression that somehow I had been roped in.”
“Not with your consent,” protested Dick.
Ashmere did not reply immediately. Presently he continued as though recalling a disagreeable incident that lingered in his mind and was surrounded with a certain atmosphere of mystery.
“I could not shake off the impression,” he said half reluctantly, “that I had challenged the devil and that I had put myself in his power; that one day the greedy fiend would take my life as well as my goats.”
“Did anything more occur in connection with it?”
“A curious incident happened. A few days later, after the water had risen, I was walking over a scaffolding to inspect the dam that regulated the flow of water into a channel. There was a point in the dam which showed a weakness. I was about to step on to a plank that temporarily bridged over from the bund of the channel to the river-bank. My overseer, who was just behind me, caught my arm and drew me back on to the bund. The plank had lost its support at one end and was in a see-saw condition, which I had not observed. If I had stepped on to it I should have been pitched into the river and sucked down by the water through the sluice-gate, where I should have stuck and been drowned.”
“Was it carelessness on the part of your labourers?”
“Not that we could see. The current had bitten a piece out of the river-bank and carried away the support of the plank. The accident would have been quite natural and simple and as likely to happen to one of the workmen as to me. With these Indian rivers one never knows where one is. The bed is wide enough one would think. The current has been allowed to shape its own course. But for all that, the river in full flood will just play as it likes with its old lines and cut and carve new ones. It will take unaccountable bites out of its banks. It will devour a village and sweep it away in an hour or two. The river is like the personification of a living and invisible life-force endued with a greed for human and animal lives. It is possessed of an illimitable potentiality that is not always beneficial to man, although we endeavour to control it and force it to be beneficial.” He laughed apologetically. “I am afraid you will think that I am talking blatant animism.”
The butler announced dinner, and they rose from their chairs.
“Which you don’t believe in,” said Dangerfield.
“Theoretically I don’t believe in it, but living among these people---practically---well, one doesn’t know what to believe.”
Again the flood of memory swept over Dangerfield---the scene before the temple and the Mexican representation of a human sacrifice. Was his vision only a trick of suggestion? a reflex of the brain in response to a stimulation by the mind?
The moon was later in its rising as it had reached the full, but it was well above the horizon before the worshippers of the river god assembled round the shrine.
Ashmere and Dangerfield seated themselves in the same spot from which Dick had seen his strange vision of the previous night. Singara was with them, silent, observant, ready to give his services if they were needed. At the same time he was equally ready to efface himself if he was not required and sink back into the silent contemplation that is characteristic of the educated man of the East.
Dangerfield did not, however, lose sight of the guide at any time. He felt a certain satisfaction in the presence of the moonshi. He could not have defined the reason. The man was not necessary as an attendant nor was he in any way a companion. He was exactly what he professed to be, a guide with knowledge and understanding. If left to himself he always walked a few paces behind his employer; but should the need of an interpreter arise Singara was on the spot at once ready to see and hear and speak. He was willing to give information, but Dangerfield found that he had to ask for it.
Ashmere was also satisfied with the moonshi’s attendance. It relieved him of having to act as showman and of having to answer the questions that were so frequently on Dangerfield’s lips.
This evening Singara fell more than ever into the background. The two Englishmen forgot his presence altogether, as he intended they should. He was quite ready to answer any query Dangerfield might like to put, but he was not so anxious to reply to the man who had been in the country a longer time. What he feared was the smile of incredulity. They both knew the path that led to the temple. A guide was not necessary. They carried stout sticks with ringing iron ferrules.
Singara was not an animist. He was a follower of Vishnu, and wore the trident mark of Vishnu on his forehead. It denoted, not his caste, but the religious sect to which he belonged. The followers of Vishnu take no part in blood sacrifices.
Their faith is a philosophic deism. The practice of his religion consisted of domestic ceremonies, performed in the house by the purohit, and enjoined by a guru who visited the family periodically. Once a year the moonshi took his family on a pilgrimage to one of the big temples where offerings of jewels, money, and grain were accepted. No blood was shed. Rites were performed in the temple---anointing the image of the deity with oil, garlanding it with flowers and adorning it with jewels. Camphor and incense were burnt before it, and since these accessories were provided by Singara for the occasion, he, or rather the women of his family, were assured that they would receive the favour of the god.
The modern follower of Vishnu will say that the image represents the Great All-Father, the Creator, Preserver, and Destroyer, and he will be deeply hurt if his faith is confused by the stranger with the animism of the half-civilised Dravidians of the southern plains, or with the still vaguer superstitions of the wholly uncivilised tribes of the hills. The Vishnuvite and Shivite leave the agriculturists, the toddy-drawers, the herdsmen, and the wild people of the jungles to do as they please. This was Singara’s attitude towards the worship of the river god.
It must be remembered that the moonshi had once been the disciple of a saddhu. The saddhu, whatever his caste or sect, is always a man of mystery wherever he may be found in India. He need not be of any particular nationality or faith. He may even be a European and a Christian if he chooses to adopt the life. By the practice of rites involving austerities and asceticism he attains merit and occult knowledge. He places himself in touch with the psychic world and acquires an extra sense not possessed by uninitiated human beings.
They reached the temple. Nothing was changed. It had the same dusty fossilised appearance it had worn on the previous day. A light was burning as usual inside the shrine, a dim yellow point of flame produced by a floating wick in a saucer of crude oil. Fresh garlands of flowers hung upon the neck of the idol, the ugly misshapen figure with protruding eyes and a large mouth furnished with canine teeth, the figure that Dangerfield had seen the night before.
Dark forms moved about the temple in the broad moonlight. People were gathering from all directions, coming by the river-bed or by little zigzag tracks running down the sides of the banks.
In the congregation of the worshippers the scene was a repetition of last night’s performance with a marked difference. To-night the sound of raucous excited voices filled the air, giving the scene a reality that it had not possessed before. The ghostly silence that had invested it with the unreality of a vision was not there. The sense of mystery that Dangerfield had felt so strongly was absent and the whole affair had lost its romance.
Goats were arriving, driven up by noisy boys armed with long sticks. The lads were the sheepdogs of the herd, and they added their shrill shouts to the bleating of the uneasy animals. The noisy, excited chattering of the crowd increased the din.
Every minute the company was augmented by fresh arrivals, till the river-bed round the temple was black with human and animal life. The men were bare to the waist. The women were draped in dark blue sarees that toned in with the shadows of the night. Their bare feet on the soft sand made no noise as they glided backwards and forwards, never still a moment, but their shrill, excited voices filled the air with a continuous clamour.
To-night Dangerfield was impressed with the reality of what passed before his eyes. There were the actual people in the flesh, solid and real, preparing to offer their sacrifice to the river god. They were noisy and excited. Reverence and awe were entirely absent. It was just as if a fair were being held. The worshippers having done their duty to the deity by providing the wherewithal to make a sacrifice, considered themselves free from all further responsibility. The goats were rounded up near the foot of the steps and presented to the poojarees who had come forward to receive them. The animals were led one by one to the man who held the sword, the poor things being docile enough.
Each goat in turn was placed before the shrine on the exact spot where Dangerfield had seen the girl standing. A poojaree approached carrying a brass basin of water in one hand and a bunch of green leaves in the other. He sprinkled the water on the head of the animal. It shook its head to free itself from the drops. The action was the signal for the sword to flash in the moonlight. By a twist of the wrist the head was severed from the body. It was caught up and carried to the shrine to be laid before the image.
This was repeated over and over again. Dangerfield gazed at the ceremony without surprise. There was a curious familiarity about it; he seemed to know beforehand what would happen. Yet he was aware with a growing conviction that it was not quite the same as that which he had looked upon the evening before. He felt that the mental attitude of the worshippers was not the same. The exaltation of last night’s rites was gone. He had a curious impression that this modern rendering of a very ancient ceremonial sacrifice had lost its virtue by the substitution of goats. It was deprived of its mysterious spiritual appeal to a dreaded power, and it degenerated into a disgusting orgy consisting of commonplace slaughter.
“How childish! how futile!”
The words escaped his lips unconsciously. He was not aware that he had spoken aloud.
“I agree with you,” said Ashmere.
He started and broke confusedly into some kind of explanation.
“I didn’t mean that the disorderly, undignified ceremony that is taking place is reprehensibly childish. What I feel is that if there is anything in it, a few goats——” He stopped, embarrassed by the sentiments he was voicing. What was he about to say? Something that was best kept to himself. Was he actually questioning the method of appealing to a mysterious spiritual power? Did he really believe that if the power had to be invoked to aid humanity in obtaining benefits for its physical needs, it required something more than the produce of a shambles?
He pulled himself up, sharply aware that he was on dangerous ground. He was facing problems of an unknown world, a world that was enveloped in impenetrable mystery. The questions that presented themselves to his mind only served to reveal to his consciousness his stupendous ignorance.
“There isn’t anything in it,” asserted Ashmere, as Dangerfield relapsed into silence. “There is no river god,” he continued, with an unnecessary vehemence. “He only exists in the imagination of these ignorant masses. Come along. Let’s be off to bed. We’ve had as much as we can stand of this butchery.”
The animals were still being slaughtered. Dangerfield had seen enough and was quite ready to go, but his mind was occupied with the ceremony. He wondered if the goat purchased with his rupees had been slain yet. Of course, it was not his goat, he reminded himself. It was presented by the old man. The fact that it was bought with money given by him was no link. The rupees had changed hands, and with the change he personally was detached from the affair, which did not concern him.
As they walked homeward Ashmere, in a hurry to seek his pillow, drew ahead. At the same time Dangerfield fell back to join Singara, with whom he was anxious to speak. He waited till Singara came up level with him.
“You saw the ceremony to-night,” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you also saw something of what happened last night?”
This time he put his words in the form of a question. Singara did not reply.
“You and the old saddhu looked back into the past, the far past. Didn’t you?”
Still there was no reply, unless it was to be found in the steady gaze of those deep-set, Oriental eyes that held so much in their depths.
“And you took me with you.”
“Your honour’s sight is good when the veil is lifted,” replied the moonshi. “It is not everyone who has the power to see.”
“What I want to know is how the thing is done.”
“How the veil is lifted?” asked Singara slowly. “It is difficult to explain, sir.”
They were walking along a path that ran by the top of the river-bank, following its course. The moonshi stopped and, pointing down to the sands some twenty feet below, said:
“Your honour sees the course of the great stream. It is empty now except for the narrow watercourse and the pools. In a few days’ time the sand, with its pools, will have disappeared. There will be a great body of muddy water, which will stretch from bank to bank and hide all that is now visible to the eye. Can your honour see it---before it appears---in imagination?”
“Roughly speaking, of course I can. It doesn’t require much effort to visualise it since I have seen many other rivers in flood.”
“And when the river is full will it be difficult to recall the sandy bed which will have vanished and be no longer visible?”
“It should be easy.”
“And the people who are here to-night? Your honour will be able to see them gathered with their sacrificial animals round the temple?”
“That, too, will be easy to visualise,” Dangerfield admitted, wondering where all this questioning would lead him.
“It is the same whether your honour looks backwards or forwards. The vision through the memory may be conjured up in the brain at will. It is easier still if the eyes actually rest on the background of the picture. The visions are further assisted by the knowledge of what has taken place in the past and what is likely to take place in the future.” He spoke of visions, not recollections.
“I am not sure that I can command my memory to the extent you are claiming for it,” said Dangerfield.
“It is only a matter of practice,” was the reply.
The Englishman turned with sudden inspiration on him.
“It was you! you and the old saddhu who visualised what I saw last night!”
The moonshi did not reply.
“It is admitted by scientists,” continued Dangerfield, “that impressions of actions are recorded on some mysterious film of the brain. But we have no power to reproduce the film unless we have the assistance of memory. On rare occasions the scenes reveal themselves after they have been forgotten. We don’t know why nor how it is done. When the phenomenon occurs we sometimes call it a dream, a vision, second-sight.”
“We of the East claim to have made an advance on the learned ones of the West,” replied the moonshi quietly.
“In what way?” asked Dangerfield. It would have surprised him to learn that Singara was familiar through the Public Library of Madura with the writings of some of the leading European psychologists and their most recent pronouncements on the relation of the brain to the mind.
“You wait for the revelations to come to you. We call them up at will.”
“And they come at your bidding?” asked Dangerfield, regarding his companion curiously. “Do you claim the power of being able to transfer your impressions to others?”
“Your honour should be able to answer that question himself after last night’s experience.”
Some days later as Ashmere rose from the breakfast-table he said: “To-day I must return to the bungalow.”
“Aren’t you going to wait for the water to come down?” asked Dangerfield, slightly surprised.
“Can’t spare the time to kick my heels now my work is ended. I think I have made everything safe, as safe as it is possible with a great hulking stream like this.”
“How soon will the river rise?”
“Heaven knows! In a day or two or in a week or ten days. The thing to be done is to be ready. That’s all there is to it. One can’t do more.”
“What time shall you be moving homewards?”
“We’ll have a picnic lunch after the tents have gone and get off immediately afterwards. Singara knows the way home. Your personal kit will go in your car. The sleeping-tents are being struck and will soon be on the road.”
Dangerfield inquired how Ashmere was going to reach Madura.
“I am making a long round,” he replied. “I shan’t be back at the bungalow before eight o’clock. You must excuse a late dinner.”
Dick had a feeling of actual regret that he was leaving the river. It had interested him more than a little. He would have enjoyed seeing the flood roll down, filling up the huge waterway and spilling itself into the innumerable channels that gaped dry and thirstily for the water.
Between breakfast and lunch there was time for a walk. The sun was warm, but the November breeze was fresh and cool. Singara, faithful to his trust, accompanied him.
He passed along the top of the bank that stood like a cliff on the seashore, its steep, broken face towards the river-bed. Bunches of sunbaked pampas grass grew here and there. They had more grey than green in them and the feathered heads had been blown by hot, dry winds into rags that had lost their satin sheen. The patches of grass appeared small and insignificant until he reached them. The rough strands, many feet in length, had sawlike edges. They cut his clothes and his skin as he tried to pass through instead of making a detour round the coarse growth. The grass, like other natural features, had its relative proportions. Nature was on a gigantic scale and was invested with the attributes of a giant to match the river.
Dangerfield’s ancestral acres had seemed broad and wide before he left them. Now, as he contemplated the Indian landscape with the river and the limitless fields of the cultivators, his own property in England, bounded by hedges and metalled roads, seemed small and puny compared with this wild expanse.
His tenants, housed in well-built farmhouses and cottages of which he was proud, were civilised human beings, well-ordered and well-regulated. Here the people were only semi-civilised, content with mud hovels and practising a barbarous worship of devils. Ever present with these uneducated agriculturists was the river, possessing at times a huge uncontrollable energy, which the dwellers on its banks ascribed to a supernatural power. The power might be malevolent or benevolent. The only way of keeping it within bounds was by the erection of enormous dams. As Dangerfield, with Singara by his side, gazed round he was conscious of having acquired a new estimation of the forcefulness of Nature.
It was apparent that Ashmere himself was not insensible to a similar consciousness. He did not overrate his own powers when set in opposition to those of Nature. He knew what he had to deal with. He did his best to control the forces that would prove destructive. If he should not be successful, he must let it pass. To fret and worry over the inevitable would do no good to himself nor to the heathen multitude who would suffer if he failed.
Dangerfield looked down from the top of the bank at the shining sands of the river-bed with its silver thread of running water and its glassy pools. The scene had a strange appearance of permanency about it. It was difficult to imagine that it could change its nature.
The washermen were busy beating the clothes of the villagers upon the flat rock their ancestors had used. The buffaloes wallowed in the stream, getting rid of the flies that tormented them. The women with their waterpots fetched water for cooking. Children paddled and men bathed in comfortable security. They all went about their usual occupations with leisurely ease and with a fatalist’s disregard of what the future might hold for them.
Inland the cuckoo screamed his never-ceasing song of “Koo-ee-yu, Who are you?” as he flew from tree to tree in the distance. Flocks of green parrots scurried about with noisy hysterical shrieks and arrowlike flight, searching for the wild figs among the branches of the banyan-trees.
Not a soul showed any sign of anxiety, although it was no secret that the flood came silently and swiftly. The unthinking Oriental dismissed the future from his mind, and went about his daily task satisfied that he had done all that was possible to safeguard his interests with his pooja.
While the Government engineer relied on the strengthening of his long lines of masonry, the people were satisfied with the propitiation of the river god.
“I must see the river when it is full,” remarked Dangerfield to the moonshi.
“Your honour can drive over in the day. The news will be brought to the engineer’s office. Possibly he may have to go himself; but not unless there is danger of a breach anywhere.”
“I suppose it is a grand and welcome sight for the people.”
“They will return to their fields and will be busy letting the water run from the channels on to the land. The supply is strictly regulated. A ryot may not lower the bund of his channel where the water comes in, otherwise he robs his neighbour of his supply. There used to be constant litigation and sometimes fighting over the channels in the old days.”
Singara became historical and legendary, knowing that he had a ready ear for his tales.
Dangerfield found a pile of letters awaiting him on his return to the bungalow. He had given an order that they were not to be forwarded to camp; they had, therefore, accumulated.
He searched through the pile for signs of Elaine’s writing. There was neither letter nor card from her. He was disappointed.
Instantly he reproached himself, and demanded why he should be disappointed. Recalling the letter he had left on his writing-table for her, he reminded himself that he had expressed his annoyance decisively. He had gone straight to the point with no beating about the bush. It was characteristic of him to be open and direct of speech. There was nothing that required an answer in the letter he had left behind him. Then what had he been unconsciously looking for? he asked himself angrily. He must have been nursing a hope that Elaine would not take his decree in silence. He fully anticipated a voluble protest in a screed of many sheets. Reproaches, self-excuses, anything would have been more acceptable to him in his present mood than silence.
He went methodically through the rest of his correspondence. It mostly referred to business, and was extremely uninteresting. One letter, however, rose above the dead level of business. This was from an old friend, and contained some trivial gossip about the doings of mutual acquaintances. Towards the end he read: “I met your wife at the Army and Navy Stores. She was looking remarkably well. She told me that you had gone off on a shooting expedition to India, and hoped to get a tiger.” (Good for Elaine! he thought. No forsaken wife pose for her. Too much pride!). “She gave me the address of your agent in Bombay. She was just off on an excursion to the Mediterranean with a large party of friends on one of these big steam yachts. She was, as usual, brimming over with fun and high spirits. I fancy she means to have a good time. She mentioned some of the people who were going.”
Then followed some names, several of which were known to Dick. Among the party was Raymond Browne, whom he had rudely designated the “joy-stick.”
He dropped the sheets on his knees. So, then, Elaine had taken him at his word. He had told her not to be in a hurry, but to choose between himself and her new favourite. A winter trip to the Levant would afford ample time to come to a decision. It might do something more in his own prolonged absence. A reaction might send her back to her husband. There was nothing like a sea voyage, he had heard, for bringing out the innate selfishness of an individual and showing him up in his true colours. The Mediterranean voyage would be sufficient for this.
But the more he thought it over the less he liked the situation, which he could not deny was more or less of his own making. He felt his anger rise, first at Elaine herself, for having deliberately arranged to spend at least three months in Browne’s society on board ship. Secondly, he was furious with Browne for attaching himself to a married woman’s skirts. There was no actual harm in the fact of the couple being of the party, which was large, but harm and scandal might arise at any minute. It all depended on their discretion. What Browne’s might be he could not say, as he had only a superficial knowledge of the man. As to Elaine, she was habitually impulsive and thoughtless.
He was deeply annoyed with himself. Already he was repenting the haste with which he had acted. He had warned his wife against undue haste, and here he was confronting an action of his own which was criminally hasty and ill-considered. The letter he had left behind was abrupt. Running through it was deep-set anger, controlled though it might be. He had not believed that she would take him at his word and seek the companionship of the other man. She could not, in her sober senses, believe that it would be for her advantage to exchange himself, whom she knew so well, for a self-centred, self-indulgent man like Raymond.
And what was Browne about? He had small means and expensive tastes. He was not a man to burden himself with a woman brought up in luxury, as Elaine had been. Foolishly as she had behaved, Dick found it difficult to believe that she was actually unfaithful to himself. She was not bad at heart. It was a species of madness. He hoped that the shock of his action in leaving the country would bring her to her senses. He was ready to forgive, ready to take her in his arms and restore her to her place in his heart, if she showed a proper spirit of repentance and would give up her flirtation.
A heavy depression fell upon him as he refolded the letter from his friend and placed it with the others. His mind was full of doubts that sprang up suddenly, all the stronger for having been lulled and overlaid by the distraction he had found in the camping expedition.
He did not keep a copy of his letter to Elaine. The memory of the declaration of love that he had made in it came back. At the time it had seemed convincing, as he meant it should be; but now that he thought it over, he recalled the fact that it followed closely on a cold-blooded proposal. He suggested that she should deliberately make her choice between himself and another man. The proposal was, in its way, an insult to a woman who had no intention of leaving her husband. It was calculated to make her extremely angry. It took for granted that she contemplated a change which would bring disgrace on herself and dishonour upon her husband.
During the time he was in camp, motoring here and there, and spending several hours by the river in Singara’s company, his mind had been preoccupied with all he had seen and the speculations aroused by close observance of the Hindu and his psychology. The English mail, even though Elaine had not written, brought his thoughts once more to his wife. What he read in his friend’s letter roused a sudden desire to return to Europe and join her.
His thoughts were scattered by the arrival of a car. The sun was just setting. It was early for Ashmere, unless he had cut short his tour of inspection. To his surprise he found it was a visitor. Molena, the tobacco merchant, was shown in. Dick rose to his feet and welcomed him warmly.
“I am glad to find you here, Mr. Dangerfield. I was afraid you would not have returned from camp,” he said as he took the offered chair.
“I only arrived a couple of hours ago.”
“Has Mr. Ashmere come back?”
“Not yet. I am expecting him at about eight o’clock, in time for a late dinner.”
Molena received the information with relief.
“I want to have a word with you in private,” he said, “if you can spare me a few minutes.”
“With pleasure,” responded Dangerfield, wondering what the man could have to say. Then, as Molena remained silent and abstracted, he continued: “How are your friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fernandez and their daughter?”
“It is about Miss Fernandez that I want to speak to you, sir. You remember the news we received on our arrival here about Mr. Henley’s accident? Daphne has taken it very much to heart.”
“I am sorry it has troubled her. She will get over it in time,” Dick replied. He felt the awkwardness of speaking to Molena of his fiancée’s errant affection for another.
“It is not that she is breaking her heart about his having been a married man when she believed all along that he was single.”
“Then where does the trouble come in?”
“It is the wishing stone. We cannot convince her that his death was accidental. She persists in believing that it was due to a desire on her part that some catastrophe of the kind should overtake him through the evil power exercised by the spirit of the stone, a force which she herself controls.”
Dangerfield lifted his hand in protest.
“But this is nothing less than sheer superstition,” he said with some vehemence. “Forgive me for speaking so plainly. Can’t you persuade her that it is so? She is entertaining a heathenish belief in black magic!”
“I have tried to convince her that his death would have occurred whether she had desired it or not, but she loses patience with me and gets angry. Her hand goes to the stone, and---and---sir, I am afraid,” he concluded, with a lowering of the voice.
“Good heavens, man! you don’t believe in it yourself, do you?” cried Dangerfield in astonishment.
Molena did not reply. He evaded the subject. Perhaps he felt ashamed of himself. He continued hastily:
“Mrs. Fernandez thinks that it will divert her daughter’s mind from the subject if we push on with the wedding. I am quite ready. The new house that I have built on the estate is finished. I have furnished it sufficiently to take up our residence in it. It may amuse Daphne to complete the furnishing herself.”
Molena looked at Dangerfield wistfully, as though he wanted support and commendation. It was given readily.
“You have done well to try to rouse her interests in other matters. She must forget the past.”
“That is exactly what her father says. I will do all I can to make her happy.”
“I am sure you will!” Dick responded warmly.
There was a pause. Molena was not at his ease.
There was evidently something more on his mind, for he showed no sign of making a move.
“Would it be too much, sir, to ask you to call and see her? She might possibly be more influenced by your arguments than by ours,” he said.
“I will call on Miss Fernandez with pleasure, if you think I can do any good. I suppose she has a circle of friends here. They ought to be able to cheer her up and take her mind off morbid fancies.”
“Yes, she has several friends,” Molena replied. “But unfortunately they more than half believe that she is correct in her statement that she was instrumental in bringing about Henley’s death.”
“Is it possible that they can be so credulous?”
“They pity her, and regard her convictions as serious. I am not sure that they don’t envy her the possession of the stone.”
“Couldn’t you laugh her out of it?”
Molena looked serious and troubled.
“In this country no one regards the mysterious as a laughing matter,” he replied solemnly.
“Mysterious, do you call it?”
“There is no other term for it. Daphne had reason to desire an unholy thing. She wished, without giving it a thought, that Henley, in fulfilment of that wish, might the suddenly in the midst of his work. He died. How can you explain it?”
“Accident, coincidence, chance,” said Dick in no uncertain tone.
“It is through accident that most human desires are fulfilled,” answered Molena.
Plainly Molena shared Daphne’s belief in the occult power of the stone, and, this being so, the girl would receive no help from her lover in combating her foolish superstitions. Her mother showed anger at mention of the subject, and her father held himself aloof, as though he did not care to take upon himself the responsibility of ridiculing it. It occurred to Dangerfield that perhaps he might be able to accomplish what the others failed in. If he could by chance do any good, he was not the person to shirk the attempt.
“Very well, Mr. Molena. I will see Miss Fernandez to-morrow. I will do my best to disabuse her mind of the strange belief that has taken hold of it.”
Molena rose preparatory to taking his departure, but he did not offer his hand. There was something more on his mind that he wanted to say.
“Mr. Dangerfield, do you think that you could persuade Daphne to give up her wishing stone?”
“Do you mean lay it aside in her jewel-case? She wears it constantly now, doesn’t she?”
“I have begged her many times to let me have it. I should like to take it away from her altogether.”
“And what does she say?”
“She refuses, and grows angry if I press it.”
That’s a pity. The more her temper is roused the more likely she is to show obstinacy on the point. Better let the matter rest.”
“Will you try to secure it?” Molena asked, with unconscious entreaty in his voice. “She might be inclined to place it in your keeping with the understanding that you would return it whenever she asked for it. The spell would be broken, at any rate for a time.”
“I’ll make the attempt, that’s all I can say. And don’t worry yourself, Mr. Molena,” said Dick with a kindliness that reassured the despondent lover.
Dangerfield had been invited urgently to interfere in the affairs of an Anglo-Indian family. He was asked to deal with a neurotic girl whom he only knew as a chance acquaintance. She was obsessed with an Oriental superstition from which she apparently had not sufficient strength of mind to extricate herself. It was not in his line. He would have been more at home treating a pet spaniel for some canine trouble.
He was convinced that it was beyond his power to influence this child of the East, even though Western blood ran in her veins. The superstition was the legacy of an Indian ancestress whom the family preferred not to acknowledge.
Daphne was exceptionally fair of complexion for one of her mixed race. As is so often the case where the European traits show themselves in the body, the mind was Oriental. This fact was revealed in many little ways; in her belief in the supernatural, in a love of the ease and luxury of Eastern life, and in the attraction that dark races find in the fairer nations of the North. She turned to an Englishman like a flower to the sun, and found him irresistible.
Dangerfield was beginning to understand the complex temperament of his Anglo-Indian friends. He had experienced already in his own person the hold these Indian beliefs could obtain over the mind. He had no Eastern blood in his veins, yet he had not been able to shake off the strange impressions produced by his intimate association with the river. Even now that he had left its proximity the great waterway retained its grip upon his memory. He felt its call. He knew that he would not be satisfied until he had seen it awake with its latent force roused into action and its full strength put forth for good or evil.
At eight o’clock on the following morning he presented himself at the bungalow occupied by Fernandez. It was not far from Ashmere’s house, and the road was shaded by an avenue of magnificent trees. He wondered idly how often Henley had traversed the path to while away an hour or so in the company of the girl who doubtless welcomed him warmly.
He was met in the portico by a well-trained servant, who conducted him without a word through the drawing-room and into a veranda. It opened on to a garden full of blossom. Palms and ferns embowered the veranda and gave the spot an atmosphere of seclusion as private as a curtained room. A cowslip creeper on the lattice filled the warm morning air with its delicate sweetness as the rays of the sun touched it. In a scarlet hybiscus outside a pied robin poured forth it cheerful song.
Daphne was lying at length on a pile of cushions that more than filled the long cane lounge, half sofa, half chair. She was wearing one of her English frocks, with shoes and stockings to match. Her smooth neck and arms of the tint of ivory were bare. They were displayed as freely as her ankles. The only ornament she wore was the slender gold chain with the Alexandrite pendant. It was evident that she was expecting him. A man must indeed have been blind if he had failed to see that he was not only expected, but that certain preparations had been made to give him a flattering welcome.
A comfortable chair was drawn close to the lounge. Near it was a dainty table set out with fruit, and coffee-cups suggesting a late but none the less acceptable chota hazri.
As he entered she half rose to greet him, planting one foot on the cashmere rug that covered the floor. He took the extended hand. She closed her other over it. Her fingers sparkled with rings that could only have been the gift of her wealthy lover. She sank back languidly on her cushions as she released his hand with a lingering touch, and drew up her foot.
“Sit down, Mr. Dangerfield,” she said. “How good of you to come and see me!”
“It is very pleasant to meet again,” he replied. His tone was conventional rather than cordial.
“I have been wishing”---Daphne corrected herself with a slight self-consciousness that was self-accusing---“longing, I should say, to see you. It seems——” Her voice died away in a soft sigh. He might imply what he chose. The time of his absence had seemed long and weary to her if he liked to think so.
“It is kind of you to say so,” he replied without enthusiasm.
He settled himself into the large, downy cushions that were at his back with a luxurious sensation that had been absent in camp.
“You have been out in the district with Mr. Ashmere my father tells me.”
“I didn’t see Mr. Fernandez by the river.”
“He was not in that direction. He had to go to the Sirramullee Hills to examine some work that is being done to the bund of a big tank.”
There was a pause. The atmosphere of the bungalow was permeating his senses. It was a contrast to the open-air existence that had lately been his experience. He found it surprisingly soothing to his nerves, which had not yet recovered from the jar they had sustained the evening before when he had read his English mail letters. Daphne’s eyes under their long, dark lashes continued to dwell upon him like those of a witch who was busy with the working of her spells.
Dick, half conscious that he was being dominated by the personality of the girl, stirred himself and asked a question concerning the health of Mrs. Fernandez. Daphne assured him that she was quite well. According to her usual custom she had gone to the market with her cook. Daphne mentioned casually that she rarely went herself. She preferred to be at home, and she was pleased to see anyone who was kind enough to waste half an hour with her.
The servant entered bearing a silver tray with hot coffee and milk, which he poured out and offered to the visitor and his mistress. The conversation again dropped into a silence that lapped the Englishman in a sensuous atmosphere as he sipped some of the best coffee he had ever tasted. It was all strangely restful and acceptable. He was roused from the lazy dreaminess that was creeping over him by Daphne’s voice.
“It was in the Sirramullee Hills that Mr. Henley lost his life.”
“I remember hearing of the incident——”
She interrupted him with passionate speech.
“Incident do you call it? It was a tragedy.”
“I suppose it may be called a tragedy. The loss of a human life can only come under that term.”
“And I cannot forget it. It was my doing. I blame myself. His death lies at my door!” she wailed, covering her eyes with her small, nervous hands. Suddenly her arms were stretched towards him, as though she was entreating Dangerfield’s pardon for her wickedness.
He moved among his cushions with a vague impulse to respond. He resisted it and did not rise. His hands closed over the arm of his chair as though he held himself back by physical force.
“Oh no, don’t say that! It was not your doing.”
“But it was! it was!” she reiterated. “Night and day I think of it. I dream of it. I cannot tear the memory out of my heart.”
Tears gathered in her eyes. Slowly she withdrew her empty arms and clasped her hands across her breast with a tragic gesture that seemed to come naturally to one who was given to theatrical displays under strong emotion. The action was apparently unconscious, with an absence of artificiality. It carried conviction and he was touched, as she intended he should be, by her evident agitation and grief. He was filled with a desire to comfort and console.
“The memory will fade in time if you modify your view of it. You are inclined to exaggerate the circumstances, which were probably purely accidental.”
“I will do my best,” she said, like a sweet, repentant child who had been scolded for a weakness. The transition from passionate self-accusation to a lovable submission was sudden and disarming. It was calculated to open still wider the fountain of his pity.
“I hear that you are to be married soon. That in itself ought to bring happier thoughts and help you to forget,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness.
She glanced at him with a sudden flash of her wet, shining eyes. To be deprived of her tragic grief was not at all to her liking. She wanted to hug her sorrow and be the object of pity and condolence. If he wished to comfort her that was not the way to do it. A commonplace assurance such as he had just given her would not serve the purpose.
“My mother is hurrying the wedding on because she imagines that it will stop my moping. But I am not ready to be married. I take no interest in it whatever.”
“You ought to take an interest in what concerns you so closely,” he protested.
“I can’t! I hate it! I am being forced into it against my will!”
He felt dimly that he was being drawn into an exhibition of more pity than was advisable. He struggled against it and made an effort to detach himself altogether from the situation that she was creating. It was no concern of his, he told himself. The Fernandez family had only come into his life for the few hours that they had been together on the journey down from Bombay, and then it had been confined to the minutes spent in taking their food at the restaurants.
The recollection of Molena’s anxious face returned. He had made him a promise. He would do his best to persuade Daphne that her self-reproaches were unmerited. Molena had begged him to make an effort to get possession of the stone which in her belief had wrought so much evil. So far he had lost sight of this object and done nothing towards its accomplishment.
Daphne divined the fact that she was losing her hold on him. This was not to her liking. She made another effort to rouse his sympathy and capture his undivided attention.
“Mr. Dangerfield! I must make a confession,” she cried suddenly. “Otherwise you will not be able to understand the nerve-wracking time that I have been through. Ever since I was a small child my heart has turned towards the pure-blooded Englishman. I grew up with the determination to marry an Englishman; to give myself to him body and soul with a lifelong devotion. You have heard how I was deceived in Mr. Henley——”
“Wasn’t it a case of self-deception, if I may say so?” said Dick.
She did not answer his question, but continued her story, absorbed in her own sorrows. It was self-pity backed by a desire to justify herself that prompted the confession, as she called it. She would not be satisfied till she had disarmed his criticism and had won him over to give her a generous, unqualified measure of pity.
“He posed as a bachelor!” she cried, in a voice that trembled with anger. “He lived like one. Believing him to be heart-whole and without ties, I felt that the way was open——” Her voice broke and again the tears welled into her eyes. Dangerfield was conscious of a temptation. He had no right to offer the consolation her heart was craving for. It was for another to do that. Pulling himself together he asked:
“Would you have had him go about with a label on his back? ‘Henley, the married man!’”
She raised her head and gazed at him with half a smile, which he was glad to see after the threatened tears.
“He wilfully deceived me. You have not deceived me. You don’t require a label. From the very first I knew that you were a married man.” Her eyes dwelt on him as though she were reading his inmost thoughts. “You are not happy in your marriage,” she continued slowly. “And you will not speak of your wife willingly. She has given you great offence, which you find difficult to forgive.”
While she spoke he noticed that her fingers grasped her talisman. Was it a stone of divination as well as a wishing stone? He was astounded at her revelation and not a little disturbed. How could she possibly have come by the knowledge of his difference with Elaine? It was uncanny. So also was the expression in her eyes. They were fixed upon him as though she was exercising some mysterious power of thought-reading. Dick preserved his self-possession. He put aside the question of his own private affairs, and went determinedly back to the subject of Molena.
“If you will forgive me, I should like to say that I consider you are fortunate in your choice. From the very first I liked Mr. Molena, and the more I see of him the higher is my opinion of him.”
She lapsed suddenly into the trivial.
“He is so---so---ugly!” she said lamely.
He smiled at the childishness of the remark, and replied lightly: “Believe me, you have every prospect of happiness with a good fellow like Molena; far better than with many Englishmen I know.”
“I hate him,” she repeated in a low voice. “I might like him better if he wasn’t quite so---perfect in character.”
Turning sinuously on her cushions she faced him as he sat by her side. He resolutely avoided the eyes that dwelt on him with a soft, lingering gaze. They were attune with the atmosphere she had created round herself in her bower of greenery and sweet exotic blossom.
That she found gratification and pleasure in the study of his form and features was manifest. His was a very different figure from Henley’s. The forest officer, though not more than forty, showed his years of residence in a tropical climate. Dangerfield’s flesh was firm, with a glow of red blood under the skin. His limbs, well-knit with outdoor sporting activities, were those of an athlete. She knew that they would be hard and sinewy to the touch, and the white skin smooth and cool.
He was gradually becoming conscious that the mental air was not good for him, however acceptable the physical entourage of the bungalow might be. He knew that he ought to be going. The recollection of the promise he had made to Molena, however, caught him in its meshes. He could not leave till he had made an honest attempt to secure the stone.
“Miss Fernandez, I want you to do me a great favour,” he said abruptly.
“What is it? I like granting favours to Englishmen when they make their requests as you do.”
“Will you place that little stone of yours in my keeping?”
There was a seductive silence, as though she was considering his request with the intention of granting it. The fingers of the right hand crept up to the Alexandrite and closed gently over it.
“Aren’t you afraid of it?” she asked.
“Not in the least.”
“You believe that you would not be tempted to make use of it?”
“I am sure that I should not. You see, I don’t believe in it as you do,” he replied as he might have answered a child.
“Belief would come with possession.”
“Indeed it would not. I should be so pleased for more reasons than one, if you would entrust it in my keeping.”
“That is what Ralph is constantly telling me,” she replied, with a smile that seemed to say that her lover had less weight with her than her visitor. Dick’s blood was strangely stirred, but he replied quietly:
“Then presumably he is of my opinion.”
“What is that?” she asked quickly. At the same time she threw out her disengaged hand, and let it rest lightly on his knee. Involuntarily he shrank at her touch, and would have drawn away, but the big chair he occupied was not easily moved.
“He believes with me that though the stone may appear to bring about the fulfilment of your wishes, at the same time it brings you sorrow.”
It was a bold and rather desperate measure to introduce Molena’s name in this way. It implied a discussion of the matter with him which had never taken place. If she had pressed him for an explanation he could not have given chapter and verse for his statement. Daphne was startled.
“I don’t see how it could possibly bring me sorrow.”
“It reacts on yourself.”
This was an entirely new view to Daphne---as it was to Dick himself---and he could see that she was impressed. The idea had come as a flash, and he had adopted it at once. The suggestion diverted her thoughts into a new channel.
He had no belief whatever in his theory, for it was purely fanciful, as fanciful as was her belief in the psychic property that she attributed to the stone. As it gathered form in his mind it pleased him, and he determined to work it for all it was worth. He felt justified in opposing one superstition with another, and as he evolved his new theory he became the more urgent in pressing it upon her. With her hand still resting confidingly on his knee and her eyes fastened on his face in alluring wistfulness, he was encouraged to go on.
“Let me put before you the facts that are making you so unhappy.”
“Yes, yes!” she cried, with an eagerness suggesting an appealing simplicity.
“You wished Henley ill because you believed he had wilfully deceived you. The evil overtook him. You were blind to the reactions. In bringing what you probably called punishment on his head for his deception, it has reacted on yourself, the author of the wish, and it has given you pain.”
“I had not looked at it in that light,” she said in an awed voice.
“In these days there is a great deal of talk about reactions and relativity. We are not content to take the events of life with the ignorance of children. We are cultivating a new estimate of cause and effect, and considering how far our actions reflect on ourselves as well as on others.”
He was gratified to note that she was deeply impressed by his novel view of the situation.
“I must be careful,” she said.
“It is not enough to say that you will be careful. You are impulsive, apt to take action without due thought. You may not be able to exercise care.”
“Don’t you trust me?” she asked, giving him a pat that might imply reproach for his want of confidence.
“It is not a matter of trusting you. The circumstances might be too strong for one of your impulsive temperament. The stone is not only in your possession, but, as you wear it constantly, it is always ready at hand for use. If you met with sudden and acute annoyance——”
“You mean that I might unconsciously use it,” she said quickly as he hesitated.
“When we are provoked, we cannot say what we may or may not do,” he answered.
She gave him a look which he could not fathom. Was he carrying her with him or was she laughing in her sleeve at his counsel?
“I quite agree with you,” she replied seriously enough. “The spur of the moment was always a stumbling-block with me and apt to master me.”
He returned to the point with persistence.
“Let me have the stone. Let me remove an evil influence out of your path,” he pleaded with greater urgency than he thought himself capable of in a matter that did not really concern him.
She appeared to be considering his proposal, and he was beginning to have some hope that he might prevail.
“I will think it over,” she said.
“I don’t ask you to give it to me. All I ask is the privilege of relieving you of a reactionary influence that may bring you unhappiness.”
A pause ensued. He lifted himself from his cushions and leaned towards her.
“Give it me, please, Daphne. It will be for your good.”
She stirred as he used her name again. It had slipped from him without thought. The hand that had rested on his knee was withdrawn, and she fumbled with the snap of the slender gold chain. He concluded that he had won his point, and rose from his chair.
“Let me unfasten the snap,” he said.
“Yes, please do!” was the reply as her fingers fell away from the chain, leaving it resting on her bare neck.
As he grasped the obstinate snap, with no other thought than to release the talisman, she raised her arms and encircled his neck. Drawing him down till she could reach his lips she left a soft, voluptuous, lingering kiss upon them before he realised what she was about. It was the kiss of the child of the East, who knows no restraint where her passions are roused.
He straightened himself in silence, a strange tumult in his heart. As he withdrew from the smooth bare arms that held him so closely he was sensible of their unwillingness to let him go. He was conscious of a mad impulse to lean over her as she lay there and take her pulsing body in his arms. The scent of the attar of roses from the ivory neck filled his nostrils and added to the intoxication of his senses begun by the touch of her lips.
“You shall have that as a reward for your good intentions,” she whispered, and would have lifted her face to his with invitation, but for the sound of a voice in the entrance-hall beyond the drawing-room which fell faintly on their ears.
It proved his salvation, for it broke the spell and summoned prudence to his assistance. He resumed his seat startled and unnerved. Daphne smiled at his confusion. She lost nothing of her self-possession, but was cool and collected, and not a little amused.
“If ever I wish to get rid of my talisman I shall bear in mind your offer and claim the fulfilment of your promise to keep it for me safely till I want it again.”
As she was speaking her mother entered the veranda from the drawing-room. She had returned from her morning’s shopping in the market and had dismissed the cook in the hall with final injunctions before joining her daughter. Daphne lifted herself from the nest of pillows and placed her feet on the floor.
“I have just been thanking Mr. Dangerfield for an offer he has made to relieve me of my wishing stone.”
Mrs. Fernandez glanced sharply at her daughter, but she learnt nothing from Daphne’s face. Then she turned her eyes on Dick, who by this time had recovered his self-possession, although his mind was still in a turmoil. He was unlikely to regain his equilibrium as long as he remained in the proximity of the siren. He was not at his ease, and this Mrs. Fernandez attributed to boredom. She knew her daughter’s weakness for talking about herself. Probably the Englishman, new to the country, had heard enough. But she was not going to allow him to depart without satisfying her curiosity concerning his experiences in camp.
“Don’t run away, Mr. Dangerfield, just as I have come in. What have you been doing with yourself in the district with Mr. Ashmere? He is a very pleasant companion, my husband says.”
He was relieved to speak of his adventures by the river. The conversation became easy, and while he talked his nerves grew steady once more. He avoided Daphne’s eyes, they were too eloquent, and addressed his remarks to her mother. They spoke of Singara.
“I find him silent and reserved even when I question him about things of the country,” remarked Dangerfield.
“They are all like that, until they get to know you thoroughly,” said Mrs. Fernandez. “Then you hear things, strange things sometimes, which you can’t account for. I suppose the people were beginning to do pooja. They usually do a good deal in that way just before the river rises.”
“They were making blood sacrifices at night. I believe I gave them a little assistance.”
“In what way?”
“I presented some money to the old poojaree of the temple, and he spent it on a black goat.”
“Oh! You shouldn’t have done that!” cried Daphne, breaking into the conversation abruptly.
“Why? What harm will it do?”
“It will bring you to the notice of the river demon.”
“And what if it does?”
“The sacrifice of the goats is supposed to be an acknowledgment on the worshipper’s part---the sacrificer’s part, I should say---of the devil’s power. It will take your life.”
Dick glanced at her. It was the first time they had exchanged any conversation since the incident. A fleeting thought suggested that he had reason to be afraid of a mischievous spirit that had no connection with the river.
“The flood when it comes may claim you.”
“I am not afraid of the river,” he replied shortly.
“Were you present when the goats were killed?” asked Mrs. Fernandez.
“Yes, Mr. Ashmere and I watched the ceremony from the river-bank. We were some distance away from the temple and on the top of the bank.”
“Where was Singara?”
“With us. I take him everywhere.”
“Quite right, too. I rather wonder he did not raise an objection to your being there.”
“Now you mention it I believe he did. But if I want to see anything that interests me, I pay no attention to his protests. His business is to follow and act as interpreter if I need his services as such.”
Daphne, who had been listening intently, spoke again.
“Mr. Dangerfield, you are rash,” she said.
His eyes dwelt on her for a few seconds.
“Rash!” he repeated. “I believe I am in some matters. I am running risks possibly, but not with regard to the river.”
Something in his words brought the colour to her cheek, and she allowed her mother to pick up the threads.
“What else do you intend to see in the district?” asked Mrs. Fernandez.
“Mr. Ashmere says that there is an interesting temple near the foot of the Sirramullees. I can do the journey in the day.”
“Quite easily with the car. It is well worth a visit if you are interested in temples.”
“If I prefer to stay a night I understand that there is a good resthouse on the road near the temple. I forget its name.”
“The Kolam dâk bungalow. It stands by a little tank in a bit of jungle,” said Mrs. Fernandez.
“That’s it. I remember now.”
“Whatever you do, don’t stop the night at Kolam,” exclaimed Daphne.
“Why not? Isn’t it healthy?”
“It’s healthy as far as I know, but the house is haunted.”
“Oh, Daphne!” cried her mother. “How fanciful you are! You need not repeat all the silly tales you hear.”
“It’s a mistake to go into haunted places when there is no necessity.” She turned to Dick. “Don’t stay the night at Kolam. You will be safe enough during the day, but not at night.”
“You might as well give me a reason for your warning,” he said.
He was feeling normal again and more composed in his mind.
“I have already told you; it is haunted.”
“By what particular ghost?”
“By the ghost of a waterman.”
“It doesn’t sound very alarming. What does the ghost do? Rattle chains and wring his hands like the traditional ghost of an old English castle?”
“He pours pots and pots of water over the bathroom floor, which he sweeps down continuously with his broom.”
“I am not afraid of ghosts. I am a good sleeper, and if I stop there for the night he won’t disturb me. He may wash the bathroom from sunset to sunrise if he likes. I shall sleep through it.”
Dick rose to take his leave, and they did not delay his departure, for it was getting near to the time for the big breakfast. He shook hands with Daphne, and as he did so there was a question in his eyes. She understood.
“No, no! Please don’t ask me for it. I know what you want, what you would say.”
She spoke more vehemently than was necessary, her fingers gripping his so that he found it difficult to release himself from the clasp of her hand.
“Very well, we will leave it so. If at any time——”
“Yes, if I change my mind I will remember that you will be willing to keep my treasure for me.” Then she added in a lower voice to reach his ear only: “I would give you anything else, anything that you liked to ask. But not my charm.”
He was turning away when he stopped.
“By-the-by, you haven’t told me why the ghostly waterman is so busy. What is he washing away with his pots of water?”
There was a pause. Mrs. Fernandez’s eyes were upon her daughter with disapproval. Daphne, however, was not to be restrained from telling her spooky tales. She replied in a tragic tone.
“Blood!”
Madura is one of the large towns of South India. Its temple, dedicated to the worship of Siva, is the chief point of interest. In addition to the thousands of pilgrims who come from all parts of India for the festivals, it draws numbers of Europeans and Americans. The attraction for these visitors lies in the architecture and richness of the sculpture.
After breakfast the engineer’s one object was to hurry away to his office and leave Dangerfield to amuse himself as he would. He advised him to pay a visit to the temple, lent him a guide-book, and recommended him to Singara’s care. Having done so much he went off to his work and put his guest out of his thoughts.
In leisurely fashion Dangerfield prepared to carry out the suggested programme. Under the guidance of the moonshi and the chauffeur he reached the temple and did his best to take an interest in everything that was presented to his eye.
It was a difficult task. His attention wandered. The guide-book related the tale of Minakshee, the dancing girl, who is commemorated in the temple. The words floated before his eyes and escaped his brain altogether. Singara told him of Siva, to whose worship the building was dedicated. He explained the difference in the religious rites offered to Siva and those in which blood sacrifices were made to a river demon.
The moonshi noted that his employer’s attention wandered and instantly stopped speaking. His silence passed unnoticed. Singara was quite content that it should be so. It was never his way to talk for talking’s sake. His curiosity was, however, raised. He knew of the call paid that morning lasting a full hour. He was not ignorant of the character of the lady. It was easy for the astute Hindu to make a shrewd guess at what was happening. A spell was in process of being woven to capture the Englishman as the forest officer had been caught. He did not forget that Miss Fernandez possessed a charm. He himself had provided her with it. What machinations was she up to? What was her aim? The Englishman was a man of means or he would not be in India without some employment. But Singara did not forget that he owed his present employment to the overseer’s daughter.
Dangerfield could not shake himself free from the memories of the morning. They intruded on him when he was idling in the bungalow and equally when he was sightseeing in the temple. He found himself constantly recalling the details of his interview, reconstructing the incidents. They eluded him, all excepting the kiss. The memory of the touch of her lips and her hands haunted him and stood out with a vividness that was in marked contrast to the confused recollection of the rest of the incidents.
The kiss! It was no dream, no hallucination. Had he led up to it himself? He could not remember that he had done so. Was he not completely taken by surprise? It was her doing, not his. He tried to attribute it to the spontaneous act of a childish impulse. Yet he could not quite bring himself to believe that it was only a hasty kiss snatched on the spur of an unguarded moment. The more he dwelt upon it, the more convinced did he become that she had led up to it deliberately and had lured---yes, lured him into accepting it.
A wave of anger passed through him. How dared she do such a thing! She was in no doubt about his condition, that he was a married man with a wife in England. Was it possible that she had known all along that Henley was in the same circumstances?
And the kiss. It was not the shy kiss of an impulsive, emotional child. It was warm and clinging, with just that touch of experience in it that relieved the man of a fear that he had taken advantage of innocence.
Each time the memory of it returned his pulse throbbed with an unusual rapidity, and the hot blood raced through his veins. His indignation gradually melted and gave place to sensations that disordered his mental balance. Looking back on it, he began to wonder if he had been unnecessarily scrupulous in refusing to take advantage of all she had offered. She had been prepared to feel the pressure of his arms about her yielding body. Her face was lifted ready to repeat the kisses and return his with interest had he been disposed to give them.
What had he done? Startled and confused he had drawn back and straightened himself stiffly. He had detached himself from the soft hands whose touch, lingering and confident, sent a strange thrill through him. He had placed himself out of reach of the full lips, as soft and alluring as the hands. He had refused her offering. What must she think of him?
“The temple of Madura was built by King Tirumal Naick. The great pillared hall was known as his choultry.”
It was Singara’s voice, and Dangerfield was suddenly conscious that the moonshi was addressing him. He looked up and found his eyes fixed on him. Recalling his thoughts Dick asked:
“Let me see, have we seen the pillared hall?”
“We passed through it ten minutes ago, sir, and I pointed out the Dravidian sculptures, the finest of their kind “
“Ah, yes, of course,” he replied hastily, a little ashamed of having betrayed his inattention and absence of mind. “I noticed that the carvings were very fine and in beautiful preservation.”
“They have been done since the Muhamadans were conquered. Probably there were even finer sculptures in the old days, but they were utterly destroyed——” Singara’s voice died away. He had once again lost the ear of the Englishman.
What if he had been surprised by Mrs. Fernandez with Daphne in his arms? What explanation could he have given? He was thankful,that he had not yielded to the temptation and taken advantage of the girl’s invitation. Yet somehow he was left with a feeling that he had not seen the adventure through. He had shut it off abruptly before he need have done. He had acted like a timid fool. The cup had been presented to his lips and he had been afraid to taste its sweets. But---no! that was not the way in which an Englishman and a married man should regard the incident.
He wondered if she would attempt anything of the kind again. If she did he would not be taken unawares. He would not allow himself to be decoyed into something that jarred on his moral senses.
Then he thought of Molena. He wondered if she tried her tricks on him. It would not be disloyal if she did. He was her legitimate lover and privileged to be the object of her blandishments. They belonged to him and to him alone. What would Molena have said could he have seen her distributing her favours to an Englishman whose acquaintance she had so recently made? Smiling, good-tempered Molena! Would he have objected? Or was his faith in his fiancée so great that he would have approved of her action as another evidence of her power of winning all human beings to herself “And now, sir, we have finished the temple,” said Singara, with a resigned sigh. “Shall we drive to the Teppakolam and look at the lake, the tank of the raft?”
Dick’s thoughts were roughly broken. Daphne and her lover were banished from his mind for the time. He listened to the moonshi’s description of the voyage round the lake of the illuminated raft bearing its precious burden of the image adorned with jewels.
From the picturesque tank he was driven to Tirumal Naick’s palace, and shown the magnificent durbar hall that had been turned into a court of justice.
That evening Ashmere gave a little dinner, a bachelor party of men who were bridge players. Among them was Stockton. He greeted Dangerfield kindly and inquired when he intended to pay him a visit in camp.
“Better put it off for two or three weeks,” he said, as Dick declared his willingness to come at once. “The rains have begun in the Western Ghats. We shall get some of the downpour on the Sirramullees. No Indian hills are pleasant in wet weather.”
Ashmere looked across at him.
“If the monsoon has broken we shall have the river in flood before long,” he remarked.
“That means work for you,” responded Stockton.
“Or anxiety. Anyway, I have done all I can to make matters safe,” said Ashmere. “By-the-by, Stockton, how do you like your work? Henley was an orderly chap from all accounts.”
“In his work, but not in his personal affairs. I’ve been clearing up his private papers, sorting out what may be sent to his wife and destroying others of no consequence to anyone but the dead man himself.”
“A man is a fool to keep private papers in this country where death comes so suddenly.”
“Unless he has some friend whom he can rely upon to destroy them.” There was a slight pause. “Was Mrs. Henley ever out in India?” asked Stockton.
“I believe not. She preferred to stay in England like so many wives nowadays.”
“Hard on him, poor fellow!” said another guest, who had known Henley in Madura. “He took leave as often as he could get it, and he was always talking of her and their little boy. No one could accuse him of posing as a bachelor. Did he leave any money?”
“Very little,” replied Stockton. “A man can’t save with a wife to keep at home. I believe she has some means of her own. By the way,” he continued, with a sudden change of subject, the connection of which with Henley Ashmere did not see. “I hear that preparations are being made in the bungalow next to mine for a grand wedding. Miss Daphne Fernandez is marrying Ralph Molena, the tobacco manufacturer. Do you know her?”
“Yes, her father is one of my overseers.”
Stockton glanced at Dangerfield. He recalled to mind the incidents of the journey down. The forest officer was not a man to question servants about his neighbours, but Indians have a way of repeating any little bits of news that they can pick up and of passing them on without encouragement. He had learned that Dangerfield had not dropped the Fernandez family altogether. Dick showed no sign of interest in the conversation. Stockton was curious to know if the acquaintance begun on the road was ripening into an intimacy. Another guest broke in with a question that introduced a safer subject.
“I say, Stockton, do you see any leopards on your hills?”
“Not enough deer and wild pig to bring us many leopards.”
The conversation turned on big game, a familiar subject with all the men present but Dangerfield. Being new to the country he had nothing to offer in the way of experience, although he could have been eloquent about pheasants and other game had his hearers been interested.
All through the discussion on Henley’s affairs he had remained silent, but he had been extremely interested. So, then, the man had not posed as a bachelor. He recalled Daphne’s statement that she had been led to believe him to be single. His thoughts drifted on to Stockton’s remarks about the private letters left behind and his abrupt change to the wedding. He congratulated himself on the fact that he had not been drawn into any correspondence himself with the daughter of the overseer.
His neighbour made some trivial remark about a golf tournament that was in progress, and Dick’s mind was deflected from Henley and the Fernandez family.
It was switched back to it after the guests had departed and the bridge-tables were empty. His servant put a note in his hand as he was moving off to his room, having said good-night to Ashmere.
“From Mrs. Fernandez, sir,” said the man.
“Is the messenger waiting for an answer?”
“No, sir; no answer.”
He opened the letter. It was an urgent request from Mrs. Fernandez that he would call and see her at eight o’clock next morning. She wished to have his advice on a matter connected with the approaching wedding.
“I shall not go,” he said to himself, as he threw the note on to his dressing-table with a touch of impatience and a yawn. The air was soft and he was tired out and not on the best of terms with himself. “No, certainly I shall not go.”
Nevertheless he went.
He found Mrs. Fernandez in her pretty drawing-room expecting him with the confidence of an old friend. She had seated herself near the French window that opened on the veranda where he had sat with Daphne among the ferns and crotons. He was under the impression when he shook hands with her mother that the girl was there waiting to greet him. He glanced towards the veranda before he took the seat offered by Mrs. Fernandez near her own chair. She divined his thoughts.
“Daphne is out this morning,” she said. “She offered to go to the market herself and do the shopping.”
A curious sense of disappointment took possession of him, which was annoying. He ought to have been thankful that the little minx was absent. After what he had heard the night before at the dinner-table he could no longer ascribe childish innocence to her apparently artless confession about a broken heart. If it was common knowledge in the place that Henley had a wife, it was not likely that she, Daphne, would be the only person to be ignorant of it. He had it in his mind to tell her that he had discovered the false nature of her statement.
When he received the note from Mrs. Fernandez asking him to call, he believed that he saw Daphne’s hand in the invitation, and his first impulse had been to refuse to go. In the morning, on second thoughts, he persuaded himself that it was his duty to see her and “talk to her like a father.”
Also he was more than a little anxious to resume his old attitude of a friendly acquaintance. He wished to show her that he did not intend to be drawn into anything in the shape of a flirtation. Whether she was aware of Henley being a married man or not, he decided that she should be in no doubt about his own condition. She would have to understand that she must shape her conduct accordingly, if she wished to retain his respect and his friendship. He sat down by the side of Mrs. Fernandez and she went at once to the point. She began to explain a difficulty that had presented itself with regard to the marriage of her daughter.
“I wanted so much to see you about the invitations that I am sending out. My husband tells me that I must limit them to people of our own class. He makes one exception. That is Mr. Ashmere, his superior officer.”
“I am new to the country and I don’t know what the custom is. Probably Mr. Fernandez is right.”
She looked so distressed that he feared she was going to cry. He was sorry for her.
“Whom do you particularly wish to ask in addition to Mr. Ashmere?”
“You, Mr. Dangerfield, you yourself.”
“Please don’t have any scruples on that score. I will come to the wedding with pleasure if you will invite me,” he said warmly. She could not doubt the genuineness of his assurance. Her face cleared and her placidity returned.
“How good you are! a friend worth having!” she replied. “You will not be going into camp?”
“If I am, I will come back for it. I will be with you without fail.”
“Then I shall ask you and Mr. Ashmere and leave the rest of the Government people alone. My daughter will be very glad when she hears that you will be present.”
They talked of other matters, Mrs. Fernandez happy in having the undivided attention of her visitor. It was getting time for him to be taking his leave. He was not in a hurry to get away. He was beginning to think that an exchange of a few words with Daphne would be rather pleasant than otherwise. He found that he was no longer regarding her as a siren to be avoided, and he lingered on in the hope that she would appear. He had risen and shaken hands with Mrs. Fernandez, who showed no disposition to keep him now that she had received his promise that her invitation to the wedding would be accepted. As he turned to go Daphne entered, joyous and pleased with herself and the world. She gave him her ungloved hand and he felt the pressure of her fingers.
“That’s right! I haven’t missed you. I’m glad to find you here.” She turned to her mother. “Cook has been lucky this morning. He found some florican in the market. The birds are in fine condition. He wants to know if he is to cook them for breakfast or keep them for dinner.”
This was sufficient to despatch Mrs. Fernandez hot-foot to the kitchen.
“I must be going or I shall be late for breakfast,” he said.
“One minute, one little minute,” she pleaded, laying her hand on his arm. He thrilled at the touch and the pressure he felt. “Were you very angry with poor me yesterday?” Her eyes looked into his and the hand crept up to the elbow.
“Angry?” he repeated. “Oh no!”
“You are reserved and shy and perhaps I shocked you?”
“No, but it is as well to be prudent and circumspect,” he replied lightly.
“Good boy! We will both be very prudent. You want to go. I can feel your restlessness. Well, you shall go. Come and see me soon. Walk straight in. I shall be in the veranda where you found me yesterday.”
She was tall enough to reach his lips. He was anticipating it, wondering if he had sufficient moral courage to shake her off. But she made no attempt to repeat the kiss. On the contrary, she cast him loose abruptly, turned from him, and moved into the hall, where she gave him her hand. The table servant was passing into the dining-room, busy over preparations for the big breakfast. Mrs. Fernandez came in from the back veranda with a grateful farewell.
“So glad you will come. It is so good of you.”
And Dick found himself walking away down the carriage drive with a curious sensation which was very like disappointment. Could it be possible that his disappointment was due to her restraint? He decided that it would be advisable to allow two or three days to pass before he repeated his visit.
Another English mail came in. Dangerfield looked through his budget half hoping, half fearing to find a letter from Elaine. There was nothing from her, not even a post-card to give him an address to which he might write. Where was she? On the blue Mediterranean with that fool Raymond Browne in attendance. The thought of it was sickening. If she wanted a trip out of England, why could she not have come with him?
“You did not invite her to join you,” said conscience. “Your original intention was to spend the winter at home in the country, hunting and shooting during the day and sleeping after dinner like a tired sporting dog.”
He found a letter from his sister. It was unusually long for her and exceptionally personal. She wrote with the candour of a near relative, commenting freely on his behaviour to his wife.
“What on earth induced you to go off suddenly like this to India? What do you care about India with all your excellent shooting at home? You don’t seem to have consulted Elaine, nor, as far as I can make out, to have offered to take her with you. It is the most foolish thing you have ever done in the whole course of your life. You have simply asked for trouble. You must not be surprised if you get it.”
Dangerfield was not often the recipient of a letter from his sister. She was a busy woman with a house of her own and a husband. The latter demanded his full share of her time and attention. Four children and a large establishment with social duties kept her busy and engrossed every hour of the day.
Before she married she had imagined herself progressive and up-to-date in all she did. Now that she was a wife and mother, although still a woman of fashion, the sphere of her activities was changed. An inherited instinct roused her into the fulfilment of duties connected with her married life. She does not concern this story except so far as her influence was felt by her brother in altering his attitude towards the conduct of his wife. Dick had a high opinion of her. She was the only person in the world who was at liberty to talk to him plainly and criticise his conduct without giving offence. He had no brother. Even if there had been another brother and sister, the same intimacy might not have existed as had always existed between Dick and this sister. A perfect understanding kept them the best of friends. When it came to a vital issue, as at the present moment, she spoke out definitely and to the point without any beating about the bush.
“Elaine, I admit, is a little idiot, but remember she was your own choice and you married her without asking my advice. I could have told you that she was not suited for a dull, country life.”
This was a fact that he had discovered for himself.
“She has been making a silly show of herself with this Browne person. I know him and I know her. There is nothing in it---or was nothing in it---but pure folly as long as you were in evidence. No one would have dared to think evil of anything Elaine might have done as long as her husband stood by and smiled.”
It was putting the case in a new light, as if the writer were laying the blame for all that had happened on his shoulders. Hang it all! did she mean to imply that a wife might play the giddy goat as long as her husband was fool enough to stand by and support her? Was it not bringing ridicule upon his head and making him contemptible in the eyes of lookers-on? This was startling. It was contrary to his conviction that he had exercised exceptional self-restraint in his behaviour towards the culprits. He read on.
“Don’t let me upset your plans and spoil the enjoyment of your trip.”
As if there was any question of enjoyment in this purposeless visit to India!
“The mischief is done. There is nothing to be gained by racing back to England all in a hurry. She has gone off with a large party of friends on one of these big touring liners to the South of Europe. Heaven only knows when she will come home. If you lose her you will only have yourself to thank.”
Again he paused to contemplate this new view of the circumstances. Apparently it was his sister’s opinion that he was responsible for the trouble that had occurred. It was disturbing. Hitherto he had felt himself to be the injured party. The tables had been turned, and the blame had been solidly dumped upon his shoulders by his sister, whose sympathy was with the woman and not with the man, even though that man was her own beloved brother. He could not understand it.
“I have only one thing to add,” she continued. “If Elaine gives you a second chance, show her that she is something more to you than your hunter, your gun, and your retriever. The salvation of you both lies in the creation of a nursery,” concluded this wise young mother of four sturdy little Britons.
He re-read the letter. Her words carried conviction. At the bottom of his heart he knew that he could not justify his desertion of his young wife. He made one or two attempts to reply, but tore up the sheet before he reached the end of the first page. Nothing he could say in excuse would carry any weight with his sister.
If he had known where to find Elaine, he would have turned his back on haunted rocks and trees and the spooky rivers of India and would have gone straight to his wife. But she had given him no address to which he could write or cable. He recalled the fact that he had not asked her for an address. He might write to their mutual home, but she had probably left directions that no letters were to be forwarded.
A sense of being derelict and solitary came over him. It brought depression and a horrible misgiving that he had made a mistake. He was giving Elaine a lesson in learning how to do without him, a lesson full of danger to married people whatever their ages might be.
To get away from thoughts that were unpleasant and disturbing he made an expedition to Trichinopoly, which contained several temples that always had their attraction for the European visitor. He was absent two or three nights. It felt like a week. The day after his return he found his way to the overseer’s bungalow.
“You have been a long time in coming to see me again, Mr. Dangerfield,” said Daphne, as he walked into her veranda one morning after his return from Trichinopoly.
“Have I? Let me see, how many times have I called——”
“Oh, don’t count as if we were adding up the housekeeping book.”
“To be exact, I have been here nearly every day for the last ten days. You ought to be dead sick of me by this time.”
Their intimacy had increased. She encouraged him to lecture her when she was in the humour for it. She had a tender little way of submitting to his scoldings which was flattering to his vanity, making him feel as if he were dealing with a child. Occasionally she was capricious and deliberately set herself to bring about a sudden little quarrel. It passed like one of the whirlwinds of the plains called by the Indians “devils’ chariots.”
The gusty squabble was followed by a fit of repentance that was irresistible. She took upon herself the blame and begged for his forgiveness. She refused to smile and be happy until he had assured her that he was not angry. He felt compelled to give her proof of it, and it was beginning to be surprisingly easy to do so without much pricking of the conscience.
“Sick and tired of you, Dick!” she repeated softly. “I am wondering how I shall be able to live without you.”
“You will have your husband.”
“My purse of gold!”
“He is something more than that. You don’t seem to realise what a good fellow Ralph Molena is.”
“Don’t scold me---dear!” she said, her eyes assuming the childish expression that disarmed him at once.
Insensibly he was being drawn under her spell in spite of his knowledge of her character. He recognised the paganism that was in her blood, her love of luxury, her deep-seated passionate nature. It was the paganism of her ancestors, unconscious and ineradicable, and it touched a side of his own nature, the existence of which he had hitherto been unaware. There was something in the climate, in the mental atmosphere of the country, that seemed to have let loose a new spirit in him, and to that spirit this child of the East appealed.
But the old conscience was not to be silenced altogether. It roused a resistance that cause him to slip his chair back so that the inviting hand could not reach him. He pretended not to see it, for he knew now to what it led. Since he had received the letter from his sister, Elaine had been more frequently in his mind, and when he thought of his wife, the wiles of other women lost something of the seductiveness.
He intended before long to move away from Madura and go down to Madras. First he must see Stockton at his work. He also wanted to pay another visit to the river when it was in full flood. It would not be long now before the waters came down. He would then banish Daphne from his life and from his memory. Probably he would never see her again. She would leave the station and go to the palatial mansion on the tobacco estate, where she ought to be happy and contented with her indulgent husband.
Molena was an enigma. Whenever Dick met him he always smiled and beamed on the Englishman as though he were the one person he wished to meet. There was never a sign of jealousy, yet the bridegroom could not have been altogether ignorant of his bride’s predilection for Dangerfield’s company. Their relations were a mystery.
In one particular Dick felt that he had failed Molena. He had not yet secured the wishing stone. He had been weak and not sufficiently persevering. If he could have gained possession of the charm to which she pinned her faith, he would have been more reconciled to the flirtation into which he had lapsed more often than he cared to acknowledge. It would have been a means to an end. So far it had led to nothing but the idling away of a few pleasant hours, which he was going to forget.
He intended to make another effort to persuade Daphne to part with her precious charm. To that end he had brought with him a wedding present. It was in the form of a pendant on a gold chain. A handsome diamond star was inset upon a bed of pearls on the upper side. The reverse was a plain gold surface with Dei Gratia engraved upon it.
He drew the case containing the trinket from his pocket. Opening it he displayed the jewel and laid it upon her lap. She gazed at it in surprised delight.
“Is this for me---really for me?” she cried.
“A wedding present, with my best wishes.”
“It is beautiful!” She looked up at him with shining eyes. His own dropped before hers, and his pulse quickened. “Oh, Dick! how am I to thank you?”
Her arms were extended towards him with an invitation he did not accept. She made a little sound of reproach and disappointment. Then she lifted the diamond star to her lips and left a lingering kiss upon it. He knew the kind.
He avoided her glance and entrenched himself behind the stolid attitude that she was beginning to know too well for her liking. There had been moments when she had used all the charms of which she was mistress to break down that wall of defence. He may have had his moments of weakness, but he was not as weak as poor Henley.
She could not brook partial success. When she failed she gave way to gusts of anger that jarred on his nerves. He dreaded these outbursts. They were apt to end in reconciliations that undid the resistance he had put up to her wiles. To avert the storm which he feared was brewing he began to talk of the trinket.
“I want to draw your attention to the two words which I asked the jeweller to engrave on the back.”
“Never mind the engraving. I love the diamonds.”
“The words are better than the diamonds. Dei Gratia means ‘By the Grace of God.’ That little sentence should protect you and save you from all harm.”
Her eyes rested on his face as she asked the question.
“How will they save me from misfortune?”
“You have, by your own admission, allowed evil wishes to enter your heart.” He paused, and her long lashes fluttered down for a moment over her eyes. “If you are tempted---those words will counteract the evil and render it harmless.”
“Oh, Dick! You are my guardian angel! I feel that I shall be safe under its protection.”
“You will only be safe by giving up your wishing stone,” he rejoined quickly. “I want you to replace it with this. I asked you once before to let me have it. I ask you again now that 1 am replacing it with a charm that can only bring you happiness.”
He could see for himself that his words did not carry conviction. She showed no sign of compliance with his desire.
“Put it on, Daphne, and let me have a look at you.”
“If you will unfasten the clasp of my chain.”
He drew back.
“It is beyond the powers of my clumsy fingers. You can do it yourself if you choose,” he replied with a touch of roughness that brought a swift flush of anger to her cheek.
“I can’t! I won’t! Dick! come here!”
Once more her arms were extended invitingly as she lay upon the sofa. Her head was thrown back and her eyes shone with entreaty. He did not stir.
“Dick! darling Dick! Do let me thank you. There can be no harm in allowing me to give you one little kiss in gratitude for your beautiful present. Why are you so cold and cruel all at once? Are you afraid of Ralph? He need never know---and if he knew, would he mind? I give him his liberty, and he gives me mine. Just one! You make me so unhappy when you behave like this. It is not natural to you. Dick! just one!”
It was hard to resist her pleading. He was lonely and sad at heart and sorely needed a little love. His wife had taken herself off and put herself outside his life. Would she care if he gathered flowers by the wayside and yielded to a child like this?
She put the chain of the wedding gift round her neck. The diamonds sparkled just above the dark Alexandrite.
“There! Now will you let me thank you?”
“It is not necessary; it is not advisable,” he replied awkwardly. “I don’t like the two pendants together. Light and darkness; angel and devil. Give me the wishing stone, and let us see how the diamonds look alone.”
Her hand closed over the talisman with a strange jealousy, and an impish smile curved her full lips.
“No---no---not unless I am paid for it!”
“For your own good---for your own happiness---Daphne!”
She rose slowly from the lounge and came towards him. Before she could throw herself upon him he rose to his feet. She laughed gleefully.
“You can’t escape. I am going to have my way.” He took refuge in sternness.
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Daphne. Have you no consideration for Molena’s feelings?”
“Aren’t you rather late in talking about Ralph’s feelings? What about mine?”
He dared to smile. His smile infuriated her. She burst into an angry torrent of words.
“Very well! have it your own way. Be as hard and as cruel as you choose. You are no better than the rest. I don’t want your gifts.”
She snatched off the diamond pendant and threw it at him. It fell to the floor, where it lay unheeded. Her fingers gripped her own trinket as she burst into passionate speech.
“I hate you for a cold-blooded Englishman. No wonder you had to come out to India alone like Mr. Henley and the rest of them. Your wife would be well rid of you. May she be free before long to choose someone else who will be more worthy of her love than you.”
Her torrent of abuse left him dumb. Her vituperation was too unreasonable and childish to require any answer. Previous experience had shown him that she could lose her temper on slight provocation and drop into undignified accusations. He had never seen her quite so angry nor found her so voluble.
“I think I had better be going, Miss Fernandez,” he said. He did not offer her his hand, but turned away stiffly.
Her hot, impetuous words pursued him from the drawing-room, where, he was thankful to find, she remained. His immediate dread was lest she should follow him out into the hall, or even the front veranda, and make a scene. The servants of the house were within call and hearing. Never had he left the bungalow with such speed or with greater relief in having made his escape without further complications.
As he entered Ashmere’s house he encountered his host.
“The river has come down, I hear,” was the greeting of the latter.
“Is it full?” Dick asked.
“From bank to bank, a very satisfactory volume of water; rather more than usual with this monsoon, which is not so heavy as the sou’-west in July. We are holding it well within bounds.”
“Are you going to have a look at it?” asked Dangerfield.
“I must inspect all the spots I’ve been tinkering at,” he said, with a note of regret in his voice. “I shall have to give up the club tennis tournament, worse luck, for these confounded dams, sluices, bunds, and overshoots. They must be attended to, and the business can’t be deferred.”
“I am not playing in the tournament——”
“I ought not to be, but the Judge’s wife persuaded me.”
“---so I shall be free to go and look at the river. I wonder how I had better set about it?”
“You can do it in the day easily. You can drive to the place where we camped. I shan’t be there,. My work lies far away, over the fields. You have the moonshi to look after you, so you will be all right.”
“When do you go?”
“Before daylight to-morrow morning. I advise you to start between six and seven yourself, and come back in the evening. You will have a good view of the river from our old pitch.”
“You won’t be camping there again?”
“Too much water about. I shall drive to the points I want to see, and if I am obliged to stop a night I shall put up at a resthouse.”
“That’s an experience I haven’t had yet.”
“You will probably sample the resthouses when you pay Stockton a visit. Don’t wait up for me to-morrow night. The servants will give you dinner when you get back. If I do manage to come home I shall be late. It all depends on how I find things. Don’t forget to tell your boy to go to the butler and ask him to pack a tiffin basket for you.”
The following morning the two men started on their different ways. Ashmere was off before dawn. Dick went later. He was going straight out, and home again when he had satisfied his curiosity.
The aspect of the country had changed completely since he had last seen it. The fine, penetrating dust was laid, turned to a sticky mud. Whirlwinds no longer danced in the sun, carrying columns of dead leaves and rubbish over the parched earth and making chariots for the devils’ pleasure. The fields that were whitened with the drought and burnt to ash-grey when he last saw them were covered with sheets of gleaming water. The deposit of leaf-mould brought down by the flood from the forests formed a valuable top-dressing, and conferred the blessing of fertility without the assistance of man. Over all blazed the same tropical sun, turning mud into molten gold for the ryot.
The few trees visible on the level plain were already clothed in fresh green foliage. Grass was springing up on the sides of the bunds that formed a network of miniature aqueducts over the face of the land.
Where the mud huts of the agriculturists clustered, groves of palms flourished. No idlers were to be seen loitering under the banyan-tree that marked the centre of the village. Men, women, and children were all at work in the fields, including the washermen, who possessed their patch of land with the rest. The buffaloes that wallowed in the stream before it became a raging flood were being forced to drag the plough, squelching knee-deep through mud and water.
The owners of the soil were guiding the streams down the network of channels with careful hands, so that the thirsty land might drink its fill. Not a drop of the precious liquid ran to waste anywhere. It was thick with the silt that was to make it doubly valuable and save the necessity of manuring the land.
The highroad was raised above the level of the fields. It was still dry and dusty. Only a shower or two had fallen locally. The water that spread in sheets for miles on either side was the gift of those hills in the west that lay cloud-capped and blue along the edge of the level horizon.
The car drew up near the old camping site where the ground was slightly raised above the surface of the fields; and though it was necessary to pass through two or three pools, the water was shallow and the car proceeded easily to the old pitch. Dangerfield and Singara stepped down on to a dry spot and made their way to the path on the riverbank.
“We will go first in the direction of the temple,” said Dick.
“It will be almost covered by the water, sir,” replied the moonshi, as he followed.
The river was not spilling its waters over the banks. Great sluices provided for the overflow, and every field was bunded to hold the water as it ran by regulated channels on to the cultivated ground.
They arrived at the river-bank and Dangerfield gazed down in wonder at the sight that met his eyes. In place of bare sand with chains of shining pools linked together by a silver thread, he saw a flood of turbid water reaching high up towards the top of the banks. It stretched from side to side, swirling down in an erratic course with gigantic eddies.
The great body of water was full of a colossal energy. It was heaving with a sinister strength and with a movement such as might mark the deep breathing of some gigantic creature hidden beneath the surface. Curved reflections from the sun wreathed it with smiles. It seemed inspired by the knowledge of its own capability to work for good or evil. Good, in that it gave its waters generously on either side where they were needed. Evil, because of its demand for life, the life of vegetation, the life of the animal and of the human world.
Living creatures that lingered too long in its path were sucked down and carried to its depths. The trees of the forest leaning confidingly over the mountain torrents were torn from the crumbling banks and borne down to be cast on the broad, whirling surface and carried on to mudflats and swamps near the sea.
The old poojaree was sitting by the river on the bank near the temple. The square top of its squat tower appeared just above the water. Dick greeted the old man, who salaamed. He had not forgotten the donor of the rupees.
“I should like to talk with the saddhu,” said Dangerfield to Singara. “Will you translate and tell me exactly what he says? Ask him how the flood came down.”
The poojaree fixed his small, deep-set eyes on the Englishman. He was quite prepared to answer questions as long as his replies were received seriously. The shadow of a smile would render him dumb in an instant.
“The water came down without warning like a wave of the sea. It rolled this way and that with a thousand small waves behind it. It spoke to the pools and thickened them with mud. It picked up the stream in its arms, carrying it along and spreading it out so that it covered dry places. This was at its first coming. Then followed larger waves and the water rose and covered the river-bed till it reached both shores.”
“Did it catch anyone on its tide?”
“A dhoby. I warned him, but he took opium in his curry and it was not a time to eat opium. His two wives drove the donkeys home with their bundles. They would have driven their husband also, but he would not go with them. He said, ‘Let be, I shall see the water when it comes, and I will run.’ But he slept heavily in the warm sand. The waves lifted him up and rolled him over; he could not keep his feet. It is hard to pass through water that is running fast and washing holes in the sand. He was carried down to the swamps and now his widows mourn on the bank.”
He indicated two figures sitting by the river on their heels, their dark sarees drawn over their heads. In appearance they were like a couple of birds of prey. In reality they were a pair of miserable women on whom the greatest misfortune had fallen. Condemned for the rest of their lives to widowhood, they had nothing but poverty and disgrace before them.
“Did you warn the owners of the buffaloes that wallowed in the streams?”
The old man wagged his head in vigorous assent.
“They had plenty of time to bring up their beasts from the river-bed. No cattle have been lost in these parts.”
A note of self-satisfaction sounded in his voice as he made the statement. He was not to be caught tripping in what he considered to be his duty.
“How did you know the floods were coming?” asked Dangerfield, wondering that the poojaree had not been caught himself. He remembered his weakness for opium.
The saddhu glanced round and then up at the sky.
“There were signs,” he said. “The trees knew; the margosa put forth its buds. The birds knew. The long-legged birds that walk in the pools flew away down the river to the part where the high banks end and the water spreads over mudflats near the sea. The jackals knew. All night long they talked more loudly than ever of food, plenty of food that was coming on the face of the waters. They followed the long-legged birds.”
“Food? What does he mean?” asked Dangerfield of the moonshi.
“The drowned things. When the river god has eaten the life, he tosses aside the dead bodies. The jackals accompany the flood. They get fat on the pigs and cattle and sheep and——”
He stopped short, but Dangerfield, remembering the fate of the dhoby, understood.
“Then there are the kites,and vultures. A long time they have fasted in the hot season. Now they sit upon the dead bodies and feast.”
“And the women come for no more water?”
“It is not necessary. They draw from the tanks and channels.”
“But the water is thick and muddy.”
“It is sweet all the same for cooking. It stands a few hours and becomes clear like rain-water.”
Dick pointed to the temple.
“Will it be covered entirely?”
“All these years your servant has never seen it quite covered---and he is an old man.”
“Why isn’t it washed away?”
“It is placed out of the way of the flood. The swami himself chose the spot. Your honour will see that the strength of the water goes to the other bank. It misses the temple and flows harmlessly round the rock upon which it is built.”
Dangerfield understood. The temple was in a backwater and out of reach of the full force of the flood. He put his hand in his pocket and the saddhu caught the sound of the chink of silver. Receptive fingers like the claws of a very ancient bird of prey were extended for the rupees. The old man salaamed and called Dick “swami.” Finding that the big master had no more questions to ask, he went off with the springing step of the barefooted in the direction of a distant village, where there was a temple to the local goddess, to which he had attached himself temporarily while the river had possession of the other building.
Dangerfield strolled away in the opposite direction. If he could come up with the two widows he determined to give them a present of a few rupees. As he approached they rose and drifted down the bank. He turned to Singara.
“Why do they move? I don’t want to frighten them away. They have as much right to be here as I have,” he said.
“They are widows, and widows must always remove themselves from the sight of others who are not so unfortunate as themselves. It is unlucky to meet or to speak to a widow.”
“More superstitions! One cannot stir without coming up against superstition out here,” thought Dick, but he said nothing of this to the moonshi.
Strolling a little further down he observed that the women watched him and were careful to keep their distance when he moved. Presently he stopped and, leaving the path, he approached the edge of the bank. It was like the edge of a cliff.
The water had a strange fascination for him. He liked to stand still and study its motions as it rolled past below his feet. He could fancy it a living creature confined within limits from which it could not escape, struggle and writhe as it might. The beast seemed inspired with a spirit of mischief and mockery even while it was duly kept within bounds and controlled by the engineer.
Dangerfield glanced round for the moonshi. Singara was standing a few yards behind him, observant, unemotional. The sight of the water was no novelty to him. He may have wondered what interest it held for the Englishman. He had no land that asked for a gift from the river. Dick beckoned to him to come forward, but the signal escaped the moonshi’s notice---or the astute Hindu had reasons of his own for remaining where he was. For once he did not respond to the summons.
Dangerfield gazed across the gleaming expanse. He took it to be at least half a mile to the opposite bank, and he was not far wrong. As he watched the surface of the water it gave him evidence of what it could do in spite of the restrictions laid upon it by man. Just in front of where he was standing the turbulent flood tossed to the surface the dead body of a village pig. It was swollen to the shape of a hogshead. Its four legs stuck out at right angles. It was sodden, and its taut skin reflected the sunlight. The body floated round in wide circles. Hovering above on poised wings were two vultures ready to drop upon it with sharp claws as soon as they were convinced of its stability. They were baulked of their prey. The pig was caught by an eddy and was sucked down into a whirlpool. Fifty yards further on it was thrown up to the surface again, as though the river had no use for it, and the big birds followed its course.
A tangled mass of vegetation attracted his eye. It was flotsam brought down from the hillside in the forest. The foliage, fresh with the green of young growth, was crushed and bruised in its rough voyage. Long strands of tough, woody creepers had been torn away with the fall of the tree. The river had rolled the mass over till tree, bushes, and creepers were inextricably knotted together. The boiling water played with the spoils of the jungle as it had toyed with the dead pig.
The river did not interest Singara, except as a force of Nature that held danger for the unwary. He looked right and left. The temple man had disappeared, but the two forlorn widows had again squatted on their heels at the extreme edge of the bank and resumed their wailing and their watch across the waters. They had concluded, if they thought at all on the subject, that the Englishman with his caste attendant, the moonshi, did not intend to follow in their direction any longer.
Did the poor souls hope to see their husband again? If so, it could only be in company with the dead pig and the debris of the forest. Many hours ago his body had been borne to the flats near the sea, where the current was not sufficient to carry him further. His bones, such as had been left by prowling beasts of prey, were already whitening under the tropical sun.
The women were left without even the satisfaction of the funeral rites. The man’s future happiness in the next world depended on the performance of them according to their belief. His widows would have been ceremoniously stripped of their ornaments, their heads shaved, and their coloured sarees exchanged for coarse, unlovely material the colour of the river sand. Now they would not have even this attention in public. They would be stripped and shaved by an impatient relative in private.
Dangerfield’s attention was suddenly attracted by the sight of an object that he took to be a raft. It was some distance away on the other side of the river.
The current, as the old saddhu had pointed out, did not confine itself to the centre of its bed. It struck with its full force against the left bank and was sent at a tangent across to the right. There it gathered a fresh impetus and rolled back again on the left.
From the far distance, the raft came in a slanting course towards the spot where Dangerfield stood. He turned to Singara.
“See! a raft! probably out to save life,” he cried. “Come to the edge and look at it. You can’t see it from where you stand. What is it going to do?”
The moonshi held back and maintained his position.
“I have a good view of it from here, sir,” he said. Again he glanced aside with the same uneasiness.
What did he fear? The river could not leap from its bed and overwhelm them as they stood there.
“You get a much better view from where I am standing,” said Dangerfield.
Was it a command? The moonshi took it as such. Very unwillingly he obeyed, stepping carefully over the rough ground between the path and the edge of the bank. He placed himself by Dangerfield’s side.
“You notice that the raft is coming over to us. Do you think that the people on it intend to land here?” asked Dick.
“There is no possibility of landing on this bank, sir,” replied Singara.
He wondered if the Englishman realised the conditions of an Indian river in full flood, with its rotten banks and its rapid, powerful current.
The raft did not seem to be under any control. It whirled round in wide circles, taking a course of its own, like the mass of floating vegetation that they had seen. Dangerfield peered at it, screwing up his eyes in the strong midday sunlight. He thought he could distinguish a form.
“It is the roof of a hut,” pronounced Singara. “The palm leaves of the thatch are still bound to the framework.”
“I thought it was a queer shape for a real raft. Hallo! there’s a dog upon it!”
“Some village higher up has been flooded,” remarked the moonshi.
They waited in silence, Dangerfield’s eyes fastened to the floating object. Singara’s were watchful of their surroundings.
“Shall we stand back a little, sir?” he asked.
“No, why should we? I want to see this raft come ashore. We may be able to rescue the poor brute of a dog!”
A strong surge of water sent the floating roof with a fresh impetus towards the bank on which the two men were standing.
“Great Scot!” he cried in sudden perturbation. “It isn’t a dog. It is a child! It’s an Indian child, and it’s alive!”
The little creature looked about six years old. It was on all-fours, clinging desperately to the thatch. Its face seemed petrified into an expression of such terror as Dick had never before witnessed. Its mouth was wide open, and its lips drawn back. It was too much paralysed with fear to be able to scream or call for help.
With irregular speed the raft continued to approach, now swinging along on the flood, now checked and held up until it was snatched away by another whirlpool.
“We must save the child!” cried Dangerfield in intense excitement. “I can’t see the little thing drown before my eyes without making an effort.”
“Impossible, sir,” replied Singara sharply.
His eyes were not upon the river’s victim. He was watching the bank that stretched away on either side.
“Is there no way of getting to the water’s edge?” Dick asked.
He made a step or two towards the broken side of the bank. The roof seemed to be within a few feet of the spot where he stood. In reality, it was some fifteen feet distant. Had he been on a level with the water he thought that he might snatch at an opportunity and drag the child from the jaws of death. But, unfortunately, the surface of the water was six feet or more below the top of the bank. There was no foothold on the steep shelving sides, and the child was below his grasp. The roof struck the bank. It was hurled against it; he could feel the shudder of the earth at the impact.
At the same moment his arm was seized, and before he could make any resistance he was pulled back violently by Singara.
The earth upon which he had been standing sank slowly beneath his feet. A wide semicircular crack appeared. Another pull from the moonshi’s strong arm and he was drawn into safety.
The great half-moon slice of earth, like a huge bite out of the river-bank, crumbled, and sank into the seething water, carrying tons of soil into the brown, boiling flood.
“Back, sir! Get further back or the river will have us both,” implored Singara, whose face paled before the danger that menaced them.
Dangerfield required no second bidding. He sprang to firmer ground beyond the path, which now lay perilously near the broken edge of the bank.
“Shall we be safe here?” he asked as soon as he could find his voice.
“We ought to be, but it would be better to get out of reach of it altogether,” was the reply.
“What caused the bank to cave in?”
“The current had undermined it. The roof gave it a blow and helped the work of the stream.”
“The child? What has become of it?”
Singara extended a hand towards the floating mass.
“The river has taken the child,” he said without emotion.
The roof was continuing its journey upside down. The collision with the bank had caused it to turn over. Dick could distinguish the framework that supported the thatch. Nothing clung to it now. Already it was slowly rolling over again, like the tree with its tangled bunch of vegetation. Before long the thatch of palm leaves would be stripped from the frame, and the roof would break up into a shapeless mass of logs.
Dangerfield had sustained a shock. If it had not been for Singara’s warning and help he would have sunk down with the crumbling bank, and have been drowned with the child.
“You saved my life, moonshi,” he said presently.
“By the grace of the Great God,” was the quiet reply.
“Were you suspicious that the bank would give way?”
“Who could tell what it would do at the bidding of the river? The river takes life while it gives life with its waters.”
“Then the goats were not sufficient?”
“They were all the people had to give,” replied the moonshi, and under his words lay the fatalism of the Oriental.
They were walking parallel with the river, but at a more discreet distance from its greedy maw.
Singara hung back, allowing Dangerfield to get on ahead. His deep-set eyes swept the landscape. Nothing escaped him.
“It will be wise,” he said, rejoining Dangerfield, “to leave this place. The flood is at high-water mark. It will continue to flow at this level for some hours. While it is so high no one can say what may happen. The flood is strong enough to go where it chooses.”
“Do you mean that it may alter its course?”
Dick had heard of the eccentric actions in this respect of the Indus and other big rivers of India.
“If it thinks fit to do so,” replied Singara. He spoke of the river as though it were a living, sentient thing.
“You believe that it possesses what we call will-power, a power to eat away its banks and change its channel; that it can secure for itself without man’s assistance the lives believed by the people who live near it to be necessary to build up its strength?”
“Provided the Great All-Father gives permission.”
“What about the lesser gods; the god of the river, for instance, to whom pooja was done at the temple?”
“The lesser take their power from the greater. Are they not all servants of the Great God?”
Dangerfield walked slowly towards the spot where he had left the car. He intended making a round of the irrigated district, where the raised highways allowed the car to pass. He was still occupied with the thought of how very nearly he had fallen a victim to the river’s greed. It was the narrowest escape from a sudden death that he had ever experienced. The more he dwelt upon it, the more he was impressed with the appalling danger in which he had been. It had come suddenly and unexpectedly. So absorbed was he in the peril he had passed through that the existence of the washerman’s widows faded from his memory.
The moonshi, however, bore them in mind, as a Hindu anxious to avoid them would do. He hung back and allowed Dangerfield to go on ahead. Glancing round, his eyes searched the river-bank closely. Not a soul was in sight. He did not think it necessary to draw his employer’s attention to the fact. To the Oriental it was the decree of fate. He was not inhuman in character. His hand would have been as ready as the Englishman’s hand to deliver even an unwanted widow or an orphan child from danger had it been possible. But he was too much of a fatalist to regret incidents involving life and death that could not be averted.
Moreover, at the bottom of his heart there lurked a sense of congratulation that useless lives, as he considered them, had been taken instead of his own and Dangerfield’s. The river was no respecter of persons.
The women and the child served to gratify its lust for life.
Singara followed on with a deep sigh of satisfaction. He kept his eye on Dangerfield, who, however, had received his lesson and showed no desire to approach too near to the crumbling banks again. Dick had plenty of food for thought now that he had leisure to consider the incident. He was impressed by his narrow escape. Had he sunk into the river with the caving-in of the bank nothing could have saved him. Of that he was convinced. He must have been drowned, and---Elaine would have been left a widow, like those two forlorn women he had seen mourning for their husband.
Elaine a widow!
It was an unpleasant thought. If he died she would be able to follow her own inclinations without scandal or hindrance. She had very little money of her own, only a few hundreds a year---sufficient for dress and pocket-money. But as his widow she would be rich, and able to marry whom she chose.
He shuddered as he wandered on. The river had lost its fascination for him. His one wish now was to get away from it. He had no desire to see its ravages, nor watch its destruction of life. It was an energy to be feared rather than admired, to be avoided rather than sought. He felt that if, like Ashmere, he had to live with it, and study its eccentricities, he should get to hate it.
A sudden flash of memory brought back to his mind Daphne’s tempestuous outburst. If he had been drowned would she have claimed that she had compassed his death by the power of her wishing stone? With her hand upon her trinket she had expressed a hope that his wife might be free, and all because he would not allow himself to be drawn further into a species of lovemaking that was not to their credit.
He pulled himself up sharply. The wishing stone was all nonsense, so was the belief in the river’s thirst for blood. So was all this ridiculous superstition that jumped in his face whenever he looked into the inner life of India; whenever he allowed himself to be lured away from the practical European view of the subject.
“Widow!” the word lingered like a bitter taste in his mouth. He recalled the two melancholy figures on the bank. The moonshi had declared that it was unlucky to meet them. He glanced towards the spot where he had last seen the two. They had disappeared. He supposed that they had tired of their wailing and had gone back to their hut. The recollection of the floating hut-roof was not so easily banished.
He entered the car and, under the guidance of the moonshi, he was driven through villages---deserted by the inhabitants for the fields----and along bunded highways. By sunset they reached the bungalow.
Ashmere came in earlier than he expected. He found everything intact and safe, no burst banks nor wash-aways. They dined together in comfort. The engineer was tired. It was not until he had lighted his after-dinner cigarette that he was inclined to speak of his day’s work.
“It’s a big flood,” he remarked, “bigger than we have had at this season for some years past. It was wanted badly. The tanks were terribly low and they will take some filling. You saw the river?”
“I had a good view from the place where we camped. It is a wonderful sight. Any mischief done?”
“Not much in my district, but there has been some loss of life.”
“I suppose that’s inevitable.”
“It ought not to be with the precautions that are taken. What loss we have is entirely due to the stupidity of the people. They will not pay any attention to warnings. A recently built hut a little way up the river was washed out. The inhabitants fled, all but an old grandfather, who climbed on to the roof with his grandson. The family had been warned not to settle so near the river.”
“Any other lives lost?”
“A dhoby sleeping under the influence of opium in the warm sand. He was carried away on the first spate. This afternoon I was told that his two wives---it seemed that he couldn’t get along with the help of only one---have been drowned as well. Silly idiots! They were sitting wailing and weeping close to the edge of the bank. It gave way and they fell into the river.”
“I saw them, but I did not know that they were drowned,” said Dangerfield. “I would have given them money, but they avoided me.”
“As in duty bound. Widows bring bad luck. So far the bag of the river god has not been a large one. An old man, a child, two widows, some pigs, and an obstinate washerman. I dare say that I shall hear of a few more later on.”
There was silence. Dangerfield was thinking how strange it was that with a loss of five lives no one expressed any regret. Ashmere spoke again.
“Have you had an invitation to the Fernandez wedding?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Are you going?”
“I think so. To go back to the subject of the river for a moment. I happened to see the child on the roof as it was floating down.”
“Was the old man there?”
“No, the child was alone, and clinging to the sodden thatch. I don’t think I ever saw such an expression of terror on a human face as that child wore. I shall never forget it. I wish I could have saved it.”
“I hope you didn’t attempt anything of the kind,” said Ashmere quickly.
“Singara wouldn’t allow me.”
“Quite right, too! If you had tried to grip the floating mass, the pull of the current on the heavy roof would have drawn you down. You would have had no purchase on the rotten sandy bank. It would simply have caved in with you.”
Dick needed no reassuring on this point.
“So I had to see the little thing drown before my eyes,” said Dangerfield, as though he were confessing a sin.
Ashmere smiled rather sadly.
“You are still feeling the raw edge of sentiment. We all suffer from it when we first arrive in this country,” he said.
“In what way do you mean?”
“The frantic impulse---instinct, if you like---to save life at any cost. It isn’t done among the Indians, and after years of close association with them one’s own instinct grows blunt. A man takes no foolhardy risks. He knows that out here the odds are heavily against him. The Englishman devotes his energies to saving the lives of the community, of the masses, as I am doing, rather than the life of the individual.”
“You? How do you save lives?”
“What is my work but a stupendous effort to save the people of this district from famine? If my sluices and dams, my channels and reservoirs were not in working order, the water would run to waste and thousands of people would the of starvation, to say nothing of their cattle.”
“But couldn’t the life of the individual be saved as well?”
“It depends upon the cost. A man’s life can be saved if he will only help himself. The family that chose a site below flood mark for its habitation, the drugging dhoby, his two silly widows, what can you do with such people short of shutting them up, which would be impossible?”
“I suppose there is nothing for it but to warn them.”
“They were warned by no less a person than their own poojaree.”
“I wonder they didn’t listen to the old man.”
“In a country stuffed with fatalism and superstition, warnings are no good. It is the undeveloped mentality that one has to fight against. When you realise what that is, you don’t break your toes kicking against a stone wall whose foundations were firmly fixed in the concrete of prehistoric ages,” concluded Ashmere. He sighed and shook himself free of “shop” and reverted to the Fernandez wedding. “This business is going to make a bit of a splash. We will go to this wedding, you and I, it will only be decent of us.”
The turn he gave to his words invested them with a kind of apology which struck Dangerfield as peculiar.
“If Mrs. Ashmere were here would she go?”
“Certainly, and your wife would probably not object to join us if she were here.”
“I wish she were here,” responded Dangerfield.
It slipped out, a spoken thought rather than an observation made to his companion. Ashmere glanced at him.
“Pity you didn’t bring Mrs. Dangerfield,” he said, busying himself with lighting another cigarette. “My wife would have given her a good time in Madras while you were seeing India from another point of view.”
“She had made her plans for spending the winter in the South of Europe.”
“Mrs. Dangerfield and my wife have always been good friends. Mrs. Ashmere says that she is so bright, so full of joyousness. She used to remind her of a spring day and primroses.”
There was a pause. A spring day and primroses! joyousness! It was exactly what Dick was missing at the moment without being aware of it. Ever since he had been in India he had been conscious that something vital to his happiness had gone out of his life. And he had driven it out by his own foolish act. Something within him had gone dull and flat.
The study of the psychical world of India, fascinating as it might be, was not filling the gap left by Elaine’s sudden withdrawal. He could not forget. The flirtation he had been lured into by Daphne was turning to ashes in his mouth. It did not compensate for the estrangement. He hated himself for ever having given way to the girl’s cajolery. It must end, he said to himself. Ashmere was speaking.
“This wedding will be a big show,” he was saying. “Champagne and all that. Fernandez will get up to the neck in debt from which he won’t be clear for four or five years.”
“Surely it isn’t necessary to plunge to that extent?”
“It’s their way, their custom. Their forefathers did it. Probably the next generation will follow the same line and see no harm in it.”
“Molena has plenty of money, I understand.”
“Plenty, and he will treat Daphne liberally when she is his wife, but he won’t pay his father-in-law’s debts.”
“Why shouldn’t he when he is so well off?”
“My dear fellow, it simply isn’t done. Fernandez will not worry himself over the matter. People born and brought up in this country don’t view these matters in the same light as we do.”
Again Dangerfield’s thoughts dwelt on Daphne and he considered her code of morals. It seemed that to bring himself into close touch with the East another raw edge of acute English sentiment would need filing down and readjusting.
The following day Dangerfield set off to pay his promised visit to Stockton, stopping at a temple on his way, which he had been advised to see. Singara accompanied him.
The sun was not far from its setting. The heavens were flooded with gold into which rosy tints were stealing. Against the vivid sky stood the hills, solid masses of purple and brown madder. The scene was a magnificent assemblage of colour, a display common to the south of India.
Looking down from a great rock that rose like an island in the heated plain, Dangerfield could distinguish the old trunk road running southwards towards Cape Comorin. It was marked by its border of huge banyan-trees. The trees threw a welcome shade across the dusty highway, and tempered the heat and glare of the blazing sun for the traveller.
On one hand lay the long range of the Sirramullees, which he was to visit with Stockton. On the other were the Pulney Hills, which rose higher than the Sirramullees and were above fever height.
It was to the Pulneys that the Europeans went when the heat of the plains became exhausting.
Dangerfield had not climbed the rock to look at the view, but to visit a small temple that stood on the top of the rock. He seated himself upon a piece of masonry. His recent experiences continued to perplex him. He was conscious of having received impressions that were rousing many questions in his mind not easily answered.
Something more had happened than a passing show. He had been in close contact with human beings who were untouched by modern education or civilisation, and it had left him puzzled. Never before had he come across men and women who blindly followed the dictates of superstition. They were nothing more nor less than the slaves of an instinctive fear of the forces of Nature. In the West man had to a great extent mastered the earth, the sea, and the air by the aid of science. The Indian had progressed no further than a recognition of the energies of Nature; he sought to control them by propitiation and sacrifice. The Hindus had before them the work of the engineer and scientist, but it taught them nothing. Their superstitions remained as deeply embedded in their minds as ever. The spirits were there and the Europeans had discovered the secret of enslaving them, of making them work. This was their fixed belief.
Dangerfield was attracted by the animism of the Dravidians. In its crude primitiveness it seemed linked with the practices of the ancient Mexicans and more nearly allied to prehistoric times than to modern religion. It was the Maya superstition shorn by a benevolent Government of its acute inhumanities.
The moonshi’s attitude towards animism was curious. At first Dangerfield was inclined to believe that Singara viewed it from the same standpoint as himself, but in this he erred.
Singara undoubtedly recognised the forces of Nature, but he attributed to them immeasurable dimensions, far beyond those assigned by the scientist.
In his opinion they were not powers to be propitiated, but mysteries to be avoided. They were of a sinister character and actively inimical to life. Propitiation was not necessary. Scientific control might avail to a certain extent, but he believed that the length, breadth, and depth of Nature’s energy had not yet been gauged; nor had it been harnessed and brought under subjection. It was, therefore, best to stand aside, and, where it was possible, to avoid contact with a mysterious power, the origin of which was unknown.
He was a fatalist. Perhaps it helped. Fatalism is a great sedative to the Oriental.
In the emotional Daphne, Dangerfield was conscious of another phase of superstition.
She believed in the existence of an occult force, controlled in some unknown manner by the possessor of the stone. Dick wondered if her credulity went so far as to lead her to perform secret worship of the mysterious energy that she claimed for it. Had she the power, ascribed of old to the witch, of weaving spells? Was she trying to get him into her toils? It looked like it.
He had realised his peril with a sudden vividness that startled him. He determined to avoid her. She held more danger for him than the river. He could keep away from the river without much difficulty. But Daphne could not be so easily eliminated from his life. She haunted his memory. His thoughts reverted to her constantly. He felt the touch of her soft lips, her caressing hands; his nostrils were filled with the scent of her hair and her neck. A suspicion shot through his brain. Could she be summoning him to her side with her hand upon the stone now, at this very moment?
He thrust the suggestion away, and resolved that he would not see her again.
But he had promised to attend the wedding. Well, he would go back to Madura for it, and keep away from the house until the hour of the ceremony.
By way of wresting his thoughts from Daphne, Dangerfield made an effort to concentrate them on his wife. Two more English mails had arrived without bringing any communication from Elaine, or news of her movements.
He received another letter from his sister. It was short, and written in a vein of annoyance. She was irritated by what she considered must be the outcome of their foolish separation, and she was annoyed with her brother for having widened the breach, and allowed it to become serious.
It was leading towards divorce, she repeated with much underlining of her words. Publicity could not be avoided, and it meant disgrace to the good name of Dangerfield. This was where the shoe pinched.
She pointed out that if the affair came into the divorce court, it was his business as a gentleman to arrange matters so that Elaine could sue. He must on no account allow her name to be smirched. But the whole affair was lamentable. Apart from ways and means, she said, it was intolerable to contemplate her brother figuring in the public eye as a divorce. Better that he were dead, and Elaine a widow.
The words brought Dick face to face with a sudden sense of disaster. Divorce---with perhaps Daphne’s name involved!---just as the girl was on the point of marrying a decent man, and of establishing herself as a rich and happily wedded wife. There was no other woman with whom he had been associated out in India. His soul revolted against the meanness and injustice of it, the cowardice of dragging Daphne through the mud and ruining her life to enable a spoilt, wilful woman---as he was beginning to dub Elaine---to go to another husband.
His innate chivalry made itself heard. Was he to take advantage of the girl’s warm emotion and make a tool of her? It could be done, but he was not the man to do it.
However, he had not climbed the rock merely to ruminate. There was something of interest to see. He would do well to examine the deserted and desecrated temple that crowned the eminence before the sun disappeared behind the hills. He rose from the piece of broken wall on which he had been sitting, resolutely putting aside the thoughts that were growing more gloomy each hour that he spent by himself. He missed Ashmere’s cheerful companionship. He would be glad to join Stockton the following morning, and see something of the Indian hills after his stay in the plains.
The shrine, once so jealously guarded from the eyes of the world, stood open to man and beast alike. The slanting rays of the sun penetrated the outer veranda and shed sufficient light to illuminate the inner chamber. It was a small, square room, with no exit but the opening that served as entrance. In old days it had doubtless been jealously screened by extensive verandas of brick and wood, long since fallen into ruin and removed by the villagers.
A strong smell of bats greeted him at the entrance.
He stopped on the threshold and glanced round at the dusty, unswept interior. Nothing remained but the low, flat, bevelled stone upon which the image had once rested. It was square, and on its face was the outline of a tortoise, the effigy of eternity, on which the idol was placed.
Under the impression that he heard a voice just outside the building he withdrew. Possibly Singara was coming to look for him. He had left the moonshi with the car, preferring to visit the shrine alone. He glanced round, but could see no one. He had the place to himself.
The image, he had been told, had long since vanished. It had been desecrated by the killing of a cow before it. Afterwards it was broken in pieces, and the fragments were thrown into a natural reservoir at the bottom of the rock. The pool was deep, and no one had made any attempt to dredge out the remains. A legend asserted that the pieces occasionally came together again, and the idol might be seen in its old position, seated on the back of the tortoise. Its appearance boded ill for those to whom a sight of it was vouchsafed.
Then a curious thing happened. Before leaving the place Dick returned to the shrine, and glanced in at the doorway. The platform was no longer unoccupied. With something of a shock, he distinguished in the gathering shadows of the interior the dark figure of an image seated there. It had its arms crossed, and in its hands it held the usual emblems of regal power. Round its neck was the customary garland of oleander blossom, limp in its faded beauty.
He was puzzled. When he had looked into the shrine on the first occasion he could have sworn that it was empty. He must have been mistaken. Some wealthy Hindu had restored the sanctity of the temple by the payment of fees for various purificatory ceremonies. An image had been supplied, and pooja had already been performed by worshippers. It was an interesting fact, and he would let Ashmere know of the restitution of the shrine to favour. It was he who had related its history.
He took a rupee from his pocket and laid it in front of the idol. Always liberal and openhanded, Dangerfield had acquired the habit of tipping, and he liked to carry it on in India.
The idol was smeared with oil as well as garlanded. Its eyes were closed, and it was human without any indication of the monstrosity characteristics that occur in the figures of South Indian demons.
The shrine was bare except for the rude carvings in high relief that ornamented the walls. Every space had been used by the sculptor. The groups of pillars that supported the roof, the frieze below that ran the whole length of the walls, all were crowded with representations of dancing women and their musicians.
Dangerfield looked round for the appearance of a poojaree, or some custodian of the temple, but apparently the place was deserted. As the idol had recently been the object of pooja he did not venture to enter the shrine, having no wish to offend. Turning away, he followed the path leading from the temple to the rough steps cut in the rock, at the bottom of which the car awaited him. On the top step stood Singara.
“It is late, sir. We ought to be moving on,” said the moonshi, as his quick glance swept over the hills.
“I’m ready. I think I have seen everything here. I was interested in the image which the Hindus have placed in position on the back of the tortoise.”
“There is no image in this shrine, sir,” his eyes fastened on the Englishman with sudden inquiry.
“You are mistaken,” answered Dick, stopping in his walk as he was about to go down the stairs. “I have just left the temple, and have seen a figure seated on the tortoise.”
Singara’s expression of incredulity nettled him. Was the man going to deny the evidence of his own eyes? He was willing to admit that he had received strange impressions as he sat by the river-bed in the moonlight. The moonshi was at his side at the time. To-day, before the sun had set and without a companion---psychic or otherwise---he had no reason to doubt that all was real fact that met his sight. In broad daylight it could not possibly be a vision. The thing was plain, “plain as a pike-staff,” and not to be controverted, he mentally told himself. The new idol had doubtless been installed with the customary pooja of offerings and anointing with oil. The only item missing was the lighted lamp, the floating wick in a saucer of oil, which in all probability would be brought after sundown.
“Come and see for yourself, moonshi.”
Dangerfield retraced his steps; his companion followed reluctantly.
“Come on!” he repeated impatiently. “You won’t believe me till you have seen it.”
Singara made no reply. He allowed Dangerfield to keep well ahead, with the result that Dick arrived at the entrance first.
The sun had not yet touched the hills, although it was not far from its setting. A ray of golden light came through the doorway and illuminated the interior as it could not have been illuminated earlier in the day.
The chamber was empty and the low platform was bare. The outline of the tortoise was visible in its entirety.
Dangerfield could scarcely believe his eyes. No one had approached the shrine while he was there. An image such as he had seen could not possibly have been removed without his knowledge. There was no second path to the building and only the one entrance through which he had peered. The rock on which the temple was built was without any vegetation; it was too bare to support even a few blades of grass.
“Well! I’m---” he began, then stopped and turned to Singara. “What does it mean? what did I see?”
“I cannot say, sir. Many curious tales are told of this rock and its temple. But who can say what truth there is in them?”
Dangerfield looked sharply at him.
“If you had been by my side I should have thought that you had opened my eyes as you did that night by the river. But you were with the car you say, too far away to be in touch; what?”
The moonshi turned the palms of his hands uppermost, a gesture common to a Hindu where the Frenchman would shrug his shoulders and the Englishman raise his eyebrows.
“I waited for your honour until I feared that you had forgotten that we have some miles to drive to reach the resthouse where we are to meet Mr. Stockton. I was coming to remind you.”
“What was it that I saw?” demanded Dick, as they went quickly round the little building to look for a temple attendant who might be hiding behind it. They returned to the opening. Dick repeated his question.
The moonshi did not reply. He was gazing at the tortoise engraved on the slab. Dick’s eyes followed his and he caught sight of the rupee that he had laid down in front of the image. He stepped over the threshold with the intention of picking it up.
“Leave it, sir!” cried Singara, putting out a detaining hand.
Dick turned and looked at him.
“For any scamp to pick up who happens to be prowling around to-night or to-morrow morning?”
“What is once given to the gods must never be taken back even by the giver. No thief will venture up here to-night.”
“What will become of the money?”
“It will go to the proper person permitted by the gods,” replied the moonshi rather vaguely.
“You believe that someone is hiding here?”
“No, sir. I assure you that no man, woman, nor child would dare to stay here. It has a bad name among the villagers. Few come up the rock even in the daytime when the sun is shining.”
“What do they fear?”
“It is said---I can’t say what truth there is in it---that strange things are seen which promise evil for the seer.”
“Then the image was an apparition?”
“I can’t say, sir,” Singara replied uneasily, his restless eyes on every corner.
“And came to tell me that I may expect bad luck?”
“The people say that the gods do not come to tell good news.”
Dick did not reply. He was thinking that his sister’s letter conveyed quite enough bad news. He did not need the apparition of a Hindu idol to confirm it. He stepped inside the shrine.
“I am going to have a look round,” he said. “I want to be sure that there is no image here.”
The moonshi watched him anxiously, but did not attempt to follow. The platform occupied most of the shrine. There was only just enough space to allow of a passage round it. The carvings of grotesque figures in deep relief modified its bare emptiness. The sculptures represented dancers posturing in the semi-religious nautch, which is performed daily before the image of the god in all Hindu temples in the south rich enough to support a staff of poojarees and nautch girls. The attitude of the fat figures was not pleasing to the European artistic eye. On the friezes below were recumbent figures, kneeling and sprawling among monstrous animals.
Dangerfield, having assured himself that the chamber contained no human being, and possessed no other opening except the little covered drain that carried away the water once used in the ablutions of the image, returned to the doorway. He was not sorry to escape from the stuffy atmosphere with its strong, furry odour of bats. He turned at once towards the steps that led to the foot of the rock.
Singara followed him, but before leaving the shrine the moonshi, with a quick movement, entered the chamber and laid down a second rupee by the side of that which Dick had left.
Dick made no comment, but drew his own conclusions. The moonshi, for all his professions of belief in philosophic faith that held itself superior to animistic superstitions, was not above propitiating the powers of evil when he came across what he believed was a manifestation of their existence.
Dangerfield stepped into the car and it slid away from the foot of the rock, its lonely temple, and its strange ghosts. He had often heard of the apparition of human beings, but a ghostly image was something new. He wondered if it drew the spirits of its old worshippers. They should have rallied round the object of their ancient adoration. Perhaps if he had stayed long enough——
He was puzzled by what he had seen. He could not disbelieve the evidence of his own eyes in broad daylight. His recent experiences had taught him that there were many strange occurrences in the country that were not easy to explain. Perhaps Stockton, an eminently practical man, would be able to suggest a solution of the temple mystery. It was evident from Singara’s conduct in leaving his offering at the shrine that it was useless to look to him for a practical explanation. His rupee was given in a very different spirit from that which influenced Dangerfield. Singara left it as an offering to the demon of the place, whose influence was evil and whose existence he was not prepared to deny.
The sun disappeared behind the hills. The colours of its setting faded, leaving the cold, deathly greyness that follows the brilliant aftermath. The short twilight deepened into the darkness of the night. The darkness was increased by the gathering of clouds on the hills. They grew denser and extended over the plain. Lightning flickered and streamed through the thick masses of vapour.
By the time the car had done ten miles the rain began, and the pace became slower than ever. It was not a drizzle, but a tropical downpour. The noise on the roof of the car, with the accompaniment of crackling peals of thunder, made the travelling extremely unpleasant.
Suddenly the car swerved, passing through a gateway that opened on the highway. It drew up under the thatched portico of a bungalow. The chauffeur descended and spoke to Dangerfield.
“A resthouse, sir,” he said, in explanation. “Does your honour wish to stay?”
“Most certainly,” replied Dangerfield, glad to find shelter. He was expecting to be obliged to go some miles further on, as he had been given to understand that the place where he was to sleep was twice the distance away. The opportunity of escaping from the rain came as a pleasant surprise. “We could go on to the next resthouse if your honour wished to do so,” remarked the moonshi.
“Why should we if there is room for us here?”
The chauffeur appealed to the bungalow servant who appeared. The man came forward and answered directly to Dangerfield. He had been in service with an Englishman and spoke the language well.
“The bungalow is empty and there is plenty of room for master,” he said. “I can cook a good dinner for your honour. Got nice things in the storeroom.”
He spoke with evident anxiety to keep the visitor. “This is not the resthouse Mr. Stockton advised your honour to stop at,” objected the moonshi, who made no attempt to move from his seat.
“Does that matter?” asked Dangerfield, with a touch of irritation. He had seen enough of an Indian thunderstorm to be glad to take any sort of a shelter that would protect him from its violence. “Is there any objection to stopping here?”
Singara regarded him with a questioning look that held a doubt as to the wisdom of the proposal. He slowly descended from the car as he replied:
“No, sir, if your honour is satisfied.”
“How far is the dâk bungalow Mr. Stockton mentioned?”
“Fifteen miles; perhaps a little more.”
Here the resthouse servant interposed.
“Master, please excuse. Five miles farther on a small river has risen and is running over the road. By to-morrow morning it will have gone down and the car will be able to pass.”
“That settles the question,” said Dick, mounting the steps up to the bungalow. “No flooded rivers for me at this time of night.”
The rain poured and a stream of water found its way along the carriage drive to the road. His servant followed, carrying his master’s suitcase. The chauffeur rummaged in the veranda and found some empty sacks that he spread over parts of the motor. The moonshi said a few words in his own tongue to the servants, who wagged their heads in assent, and the decision of the master was accepted.
“We stop here for the night,” said Dangerfield decisively, as there seemed to be an atmosphere of doubt. “I am not going out again into such weather as this.”
He glanced round wondering if they were as pleased as himself to be safely under cover, but he could read nothing from their impassive faces. Only the moonshi had ventured to make an objection, and he was silenced by the information that the floods were out over the road. Fatalists all of them! Under the circumstances the Englishman could not be blamed if he became one also. For it was true that the road was impassable, and it was a choice between stopping in a dry, well-built bungalow, or spending the night in a car half swamped in the jungle.
A wide veranda ran along the length of the house. Three rooms opened into it. The centre room was used for the dining and sitting room. On either side were bedroom suites consisting of a sleeping-room and a good-sized dressing-room with a portion cut off for the bath. This portion was tiled and edged with a coping that prevented the water when it was released from the bath from overflowing into the part of the chamber that was furnished as a dressing-room. It all looked clean and comfortable.
The bungalow matey, as he was called, accompanied Dangerfield through the rooms and directed the dressing-boy to take the suitcase into the bedroom on the left. Then with an amiable smile he waited for orders as to the meal that was to be prepared.
“Can you give me dinner?” Dick asked.
“Yes, sir; in one hour’s time,” was the ready reply in English.
A waterman appeared and a kitchen woman, both grinning a welcome that should have been gratifying to the most reluctant visitor.
Lamps were lighted; the circular dining-table was covered with a white cloth and there was a pleasant clinking of glasses, spoons, and forks as the table was laid.
“Master will have a hot bath?” asked the matey. “In ten minutes it will be ready for your honour,” added the man, as Dick readily assented.
The car was left under the shelter of the portico. At right angles to the bungalow was a long, low building consisting of servants’ quarters, kitchen, and rooms for the dependants of travellers.
Whatever the moonshi and Dangerfield’s own servants may have thought of his decision, it was evident that the staff belonging to the resthouse were pleased to have guests. They bustled through the preparations with a cheerfulness that astonished him, considering the weather they were having.
The dressing-boy announced that the bath was ready. It was a section of a large wooden barrel. At the bottom was a bung-hole stopped with a cork. When the waterman had occasion to empty the bath he removed the cork and swept the water down towards the hole where it found an exit into a drain outside.
Clean towels were hanging on a towel-horse, and everything contributing to the comfort of the traveller was provided. The bath was most refreshing. It mattered little to Dick, now that he had a good roof over his head, how the rain came down or how the thunder rolled round the heavens and the lightning flickered. Its blue gleams penetrated the tiled roof and seemed to shine through it.
As Dick splashed the refreshing hot water over himself, he was full of self-congratulation that he had “struck,” as he called it, such a first-class dâk bungalow. He determined to tip the servants well on his departure. He thought he had never met a more cheerful and willing crowd.
He dressed in leisurely fashion, and on return to the centre room was told that dinner was ready. He had made a picnic lunch in the car on his way to the rock temple and had not troubled about afternoon tea.
He sat down with a good appetite and did full justice to the dinner of hot soup, salmon cutlets, fried sausages and mashed potato, a chicken curry, custard pudding, and peaches. That the dishes, with the exception of the curry, were all prepared from tinned food was a matter of indifference to him. The cook, under the direction of the matey, was an adept at serving tinned things. A cup of excellent coffee followed the savoury of chopped hard-boiled egg and olives. After dinner he settled himself in a long-armed chair.
While he dined the violence of the storm abated. It did not pass away into the distance. The rain ceased as suddenly as it had begun and the thunder stopped. The vivid electric discharges were discontinued with an abruptness that suggested a switching off by machinery.
An uncanny stillness and calm followed close on the heels of the riot of the elements. The wind dropped and the foliage, no longer quivering under the heavy patter of the downpour, became motionless. The drip of the trees and the gurgle of water as it ran down the sloping ground became audible. The dampness of the air kept Dangerfield inside the central room. The servants, having cleared away and duly inquired if he needed anything more, retired to their quarters. He had the bungalow to himself.
It is one of the phases of Indian life which the Englishman experiences after he arrives in the country. He is not prepared for the loneliness of his habitation, and it is apt to get on his nerves if he has no companion of his own race living with him. The servants are within hail, but they are not on duty. Their quarters are under another roof, and they are completely separated from the bungalow, which sinks into silence, except for the mysterious sounds of the night.
Dangerfield’s attention wandered from his book. His brain was active, and the thoughts that occupied it were of Elaine. He had brought his sister’s letter with him. He took it from his pocket and studied its contents again. His sister had interpreted the incident correctly. Elaine was giving herself to this man. The absence of her husband had paved the way for her folly. If Dick had maintained his position and presented a strong front, he might have saved a silly woman from herself. It remained now for him to make the best of it.
Then followed the allusion to the disgrace it would bring upon the family if he took action against Elaine. The course that would rouse the least scandal would be to sacrifice himself, to arrange that he should be the one to be divorced. His sister evidently saw the difficulty of carrying this out, and again expressed her opinion that it would be better for all concerned if Elaine became a widow. No scandal could possibly be attached to such an event—— There she left it for his consideration.
When he first read it, his anger was roused. He had been distinctly happy in his life as a country squire. He had been proud to show the world that the English squire still existed and could make a good thing of life. The sentiment had been ruthlessly dispersed. How could he ever go back to the old position after having divorced his wife? Still less could he hope to be reinstated among his old-fashioned friends if he so arranged matters that she was enabled to divorce him.
Whichever way he looked at it the past was gone irrecoverably. His sister was right. The salvation of the family from disgrace lay in one course, Elaine’s widowhood.
It was strange how the idea strengthened in his mind as he sat there alone with his thoughts, brooding over the subject until it had him in a tight grip. He became conscious of a change in his outlook on life. At home he had viewed Elaine’s conduct and judged it from the standard of a hedged-in conventionality, the peculiar property of the great middle-class of Britain. He had come out to a country where there were no corresponding standards. Ever since his arrival in India he had been receiving impressions from entirely new influences that were undermining the old convictions inherited from his conservative parents.
If Elaine was no longer happy with him, surely in these later days the world would be of opinion that she had a right to seek happiness elsewhere. His sister had not put it in so many words, but he thought that he could read between the lines; she had a vague sympathy with her sister-in-law. According to modern ideas it was the husband’s duty, where a divorce was necessary, to assume the responsibility.
How long he remained brooding in his chair, going from one depth to another, he did not know. He had sunk into a kind of day-dream which was causing him to fall into a hopeless condition of accepting the inevitable. He was experiencing one of the worst fits of depression that had ever been his lot. In fact he was abandoning himself to fatalism.
He sat up with a start to find his servant standing by his chair. Had he been asleep and dreaming? No, it was no dream.
“Yes? What is it?” he asked, as if the man had spoken.
“Will your honour have another whisky and soda before going to bed?”
“No---yes! bring me one at once,” he replied, feeling strangely confused.
He looked at his watch. It was past ten o’clock. He was not in the habit of taking alcohol at night. This evening he felt an unaccountable desire for a stimulant; something that would dispel the cloud of depression that had fallen on him since dinner.
“Bring it to the bedroom. I’ll undress and go to bed. Is the storm likely to come back?”
“No, sir; it will be fine now till to-morrow afternoon.”
Dangerfield rose and went to his room. The servant returned with the glass to find his master divesting himself of his dinner-jacket. Dangerfield drank the whisky and soda and was soon in bed. The man inquired if there was anything more that he could do for his master before he left the bungalow.
“Where are you sleeping?”
“In the room next to the kitchen, sir.”
“Will anyone be in the bungalow?”
“The watchman stops in the back veranda. If your honour calls he will come and take orders.”
“He is not inside the house?”
“No, sir; his duty is to walk round the house and see that everything is safe.”
“The moonshi, where is he?”
“In the room on the other side of the kitchen, sir.”
The boy waited to receive the word of dismissal.
“You can go. Leave the hurricane-lamp alight in the sitting-room. The little oil-lamp will be enough for me here by the bed.”
Dangerfield listened to the sound of the footsteps of his servant as he left the bedroom and passed through the sitting-room into the back veranda. They were lost in the distance as the “boy” made his way to the godown.
Dangerfield was once more alone. The watchman was still in his hut, a separate little mud-building hidden behind the kitchen. Silence and loneliness closed over Dick, leaving him with a strange sense of being derelict and friendless. He was annoyed with himself for being sensitive to a trivial condition of solitariness that ought not to have affected him in the slightest degree.
There was nothing whatever to fear. The doors were securely closed against the prowling jackal, the only wild animal likely to intrude. Its visit, if made, would be solely in search of food. Snakes might possibly glide through the bathroom drain, but they were more probably haunting the temporary pools, where frogs were to be found.
The bed was comfortable; his servant had seen to that. And the pillows were his own, brought from the car with his own rugs. The whisky sent a glow through his being and should have speedily induced the slumber that was necessary after his journey. He would not long be alone, he thought. The following day would see him with Stockton for a companion.
For some time he tossed on his bed, tormented by an unusual restlessness for which he could not account. He was in the habit of dropping off to sleep soon after he laid his head upon his pillow.
Perhaps it was due to his mental disturbance caused by reading over again his sister’s letter. The point round which his thoughts gathered was the expression she had used regarding Elaine’s freedom.
“It would be better if she were a widow than a divorcée.”
To be fair to the writer he did not suppose that she meant anything more than she actually said. No hidden suggestion lay under the words. The writer in her hasty and superficial grasp of the situation did not fully realise that widowhood for Elaine could only be compassed by her brother’s death. Perhaps if she had considered the case she might not have written so carelessly.
In his restless, wakeful state the idea of setting his wife free in this way took hold of him. He could not rid himself of it. It was extremely improbable that the end could be attained by accident. The instinct of self-preservation was strong in him. There had been the possibility of an accident when he was near the flooded river, but it had passed and it was not likely to occur again. He was safely housed in a stoutly built building and he was secure from any attack by the wild beasts of the jungle.
How was the deed to be accomplished? If not by accident there was only one other method.
He thrust the thought aside. It seemed a suggestion of the Evil One himself; not the demon of the river, nor the demon of the rock temple, that chose to manifest itself in the shrine when he was visiting it. Nothing less than the devil of his own creed could have put the thought of suicide into his mind. He turned on his side and brought all his will-power to his assistance to banish the appalling suggestion. A little later blessed oblivion came. His hot and tired eyes closed in sleep and he forgot his anguish of mind in a dreamless slumber.
How long he slept he could not have said. Consciousness returned abruptly. It was not the comfortable awakening that succeeds a good night’s sleep. It was the sudden breaking of his rest prematurely, a shock caused by an unusual sound.
Someone was busy in the bathroom. He heard the sound of water being poured from a waterpot. Then came the swish of the waterman’s broom as he swept it down the drain. More water was dashed on to the tiles and again the broom was used.
It was irritating to be disturbed by the man’s activity in the middle of the night when he, like the rest of the servants, should be in his room. Dangerfield recalled the fact that he had heard the tub being emptied immediately after he had taken his bath before dinner. The disturbance annoyed him more than a little. The man had no business in the bathroom at this time of the night.
Then he remembered that the house was a dâk bungalow. He came to the conclusion that a late traveller had arrived and had been using the bath, a liberty that should not have been taken, as there was similar accommodation on the other side of the house. He listened for sounds of a late supper in the sitting-room. Silence reigned in every part of the building but the bathroom. The swilling down ceased as suddenly as it began and once more everything was quiet.
It was impossible to sleep again. He had been thoroughly roused and annoyed into the bargain, and was hopelessly wide awake. At the end of fifteen or twenty minutes he slipped out of bed, put on his dressing-gown and slippers, and went into the sitting-room.
Everything was in its place as it had been left by the matey when his own dinner was cleared away. The hurricane-lamp had been placed on the dinner-waggon where the glass and battered electroplate were set out. A row of worn old dinner-knives, ground sharp with much cleaning on the knife-board, was neatly arranged by the forks and spoons. At the head of the row was an ancient carving-knife, its blade ground down to half its original width. His eyes lingered on it unaccountably.
With an effort he pulled himself together. The sinister train of thought that was unconsciously forming in his mind increased. Seizing the lantern he strode off to the dressing-room. His clothes hung on the big clothes-horse looking like a mutilated ghost of himself. He passed on to the corner where the bath stood in its little tiled space.
The tub was half full of clean, cold water, just as it had been left by the waterman in readiness for his honour’s bath in the morning. The bricks on which the tub stood were dry. No water had flowed over them recently. He could not detect a sign of recent splashing, such as the waterman must have left had he washed down the sink only a short time ago.
Dangerfield was conscious of a queer feeling of confusion. He was so certain of the nature of the sounds that had awakened him that he found it difficult to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
Again he examined the spot where the bath stood. The sides of the tub were free from drips. They were as dry as the paved floor on which the bath stood. He tried the door that led to the back of the bungalow. It was small and used by the waterman when he came into the bathroom on duty.
It was fastened with a clumsy, old-fashioned bolt on the inside. No one could enter from outside until his servant had slipped the bar back from its socket. If the waterman had been present in the bathroom, he could only have reached it by passing through the bedroom. To return, the man would have been obliged to go by the bedroom and sitting-room as he came. Before the threshold of this door the watchman had laid his sleeping-mat and pillow.
Dangerfield returned to the sitting-room and replaced the hurricane-lantern on the dinner-waggon. Instead of going back to bed he threw himself into the long-armed chair. What ailed him? His thoughts were chaos, and he could not throw off the sense of mental disorder that seemed to have overwhelmed him. His eyes wandered restlessly round the room.
How those old dinner-knives gleamed in the lamplight! His glance returned constantly to the dinner-waggon. And he caught himself listening for a repetition of the noise that had disturbed him.
Had he been dreaming? The impression left on his brain was too vivid for a dream. The sound made by the splashing had not been the nebulous vision of sleep. It had awakened him into a sharp perception, and it had continued after he was fully roused into consciousness. It might have been going on while he was asleep, but it continued for some minutes after he was awake. It only ceased when he raised himself from his pillow to spring out of bed.
As he sat there alone with his thoughts, listening intently for a movement of any kind, he became aware of the stillness of the night. The nocturnal voices of Nature were audible, but they were faint, coming as they did from the jungle outside. They diverted his attention and took off the strain of waiting for the return of ghostly sounds that were inexplicable.
The relaxation gave an opportunity for a return to the subject he was considering before he went to bed. Elaine came back into his mind with a forceful and insistent personality. It seemed as though in some mysterious manner she was compelling him to help her by setting her free to follow the newly created desires of her heart.
Those glittering knives! What could the bungalow matey have done to sharpen and polish them as if they were a set of razors, headed by a well-worn butcher’s knife? Curse him for his infernal energy!
Accompanying this mental turmoil was a terrible feeling of depression. It overwhelmed him like a noxious gas, pervading his whole being. Out of the murk of evil thoughts a suggestion took shape and became clearer as each minute passed.
Did he want to live? Was there anything in the wide world worth living for? Life without Elaine would be intolerable. After all what did his existence matter? Of what value was his life to himself or to anyone else in the world?
By a single act on his part he could give her the desired freedom. It would be a generous deed as far as she was concerned. And in it he might find peace and mental rest, which had forsaken him since he left England.
The atmosphere of the closed bungalow was stifling without being hot; he wondered if he would feel better if he could get out into the open air. He rose to his feet and stood up with a sudden determination to break away from the horrible obsession that with each passing hour tightened over his senses. Some evil influence haunted the place. What time was it? He had left his watch under his pillow.
He caught up the lantern once more. Its light was reflected from that line of steel that drew his eyes with an extraordinary fascination. He turned from the knives as though they were alive and were able to spring up at him, forcing him to take one of them, the old carver for choice, in his hand.
He moved away quickly, driven into flight by a nightmare terror, an unreasonable panic. Carrying the lantern he went into his bedroom. His watch told him that it was half-past three. He had arranged with the bungalow matey and his servant to have early tea before sunrise; and to go on his way with as little delay as possible so as to join Stockton for breakfast. It was some time yet to dawn, too soon to expect the servants to be moving.
He listened, fancying that he could hear footsteps in the dressing-room. He entered carrying the light and walked to the end where the bath stood. The place was just as he had seen it, the tub holding the clean water, the bricks and tiles dry, and the place still and quiet.
His eyes fell on his suitcase, which his boy had left lying open on a chair. It was his custom to carry a tiny automatic in a pocket on the inside, made specially for it. His object in keeping it there was to have it ready to hand should it be needed for protection in this foreign land. If a thief ventured to show himself he could at least give him a fright by firing over his head.
It was odd. The pistol was not there. His servant must have removed it at Ashmere’s bungalow to clean it and had forgotten to replace it.
Should he get back into bed? The idea of tossing about for a couple of hours, a prey to the thoughts that were making life hideous, did not commend itself. He preferred to go to the sitting-room and spend the rest of the night in the long-armed chair.
Once again the fit of depression came upon him with an increasing force and with the evil urge towards self-destruction. He replaced the lantern on the dinner-waggon, and as he did so the gleam and glitter of the knives riveted his attention. He turned away with an abrupt movement and sank into the chair.
How easily he could accomplish the freeing of Elaine if only he had the little automatic in his hand. Held resolutely to his temple, a quick end, a painless death would follow. It would all be over in a few seconds, in less, in a single second. He was in a retired spot where his deed would shock no friends. But the weapon had been removed by Fate out of his reach.
His busy brain, set working by some mysterious influence, passed back from the automatic to the knives. His eyes turned in the direction of the dinner-waggon. There they lay, their murderous blades shining with devilish invitation. It was the big carver that held his gaze. If it had been new, broad in the blade, and thick in the back, it would not have had the same deadly lure. It was its thin, narrowed blade, its handiness, and its razor edge that cast its spell upon him.
He rose from the chair and moved round the room in a purposeless fashion, asking himself questions that he could not answer; that he did not attempt to solve.
Why had he come to India? What was he doing there? Not amusing himself by any manner of means! He was not in pursuit of information for any favourite study. He was not even interested in any feature of South India. He had drifted into the vicinity of a big river by chance. Ashmere had given him an invitation. It was an opportunity of escaping from a condition of life that had suddenly become intolerable. He had run away from Fate in cowardly fashion, hoping to escape from the jealousy and suspicion which, whether he chose to admit it or not, were overwhelming him with misery. It was intolerable. He could not bear it. He must put an end to it!
Confound it all! how his mind ran on the subject. He never remembered having had such a fit of the blues.
It was his sister’s letter with her cursed suggestion of widowhood for Elaine that had upset him. Why had not the river taken him instead of the washerman, the man who left two widows to whom widowhood was the greatest calamity that could have befallen them?
He stopped in his aimless perambulations before the dinner-waggon with its row of knives. Here was the very thing he needed in the absence of the automatic. So fine and sharp was that ancient carver, it would sever the big artery in his neck with one swift, determined slash.
His hand went out towards it and his fingers were about to close over the yellow ivory handle, when a voice said:
“Your honour is awake I see.”
It was Singara. Dangerfield’s hand dropped to his side, and he turned to the moonshi with a catch in his breath.
“I can’t sleep. I was disturbed by the waterman slushing water down a drain.”
Singara studied him closely.
“I am sorry you were disturbed, sir,” he said softly, as though he would soothe a ruffled temper.
“The man woke me and I can’t sleep again.”
“I have spoken to him and threatened to have him fined. It won’t occur again,” the moonshi replied after a slight pause.
“Then he did actually empty the bath and fill it again? I am surprised. I couldn’t find a sign of it when I looked. The place was quite dry.”
“He was busy outside the bathroom window, sir; not inside the room.”
“What the deuce does he mean by working at night like that?” said Dangerfield, still irritated and depressed. “And why aren’t you asleep yourself?”
“The watchman told me that your honour was moving about the house. I have ordered the early tea to be brought,” said Singara. His voice seemed to have a calming effect on Dangerfield’s nerves. “There is a late moon. It has risen and it is sufficient to light the way. The stream will be lower. If your honour will dress as quickly as possible we might start after taking tea.”
“How much farther have we to go before we get to the place where Mr. Stockton is staying?”
“Thirty miles or a little more. It will take us a couple of hours at least, perhaps more. The road is not good.”
While they talked the bungalow matey came in and began to make preparations for the chota hazri. Dangerfield went to his bedroom. During his absence the knives vanished. Only one remained and that was the smallest of the lot. It was half hidden under an archway of dry toast. A table-lamp was lighted and the hurricane-lantern, carried by his servant, preceded Dick to his bedroom.
“What about breakfast?” he asked as he turned to follow.
“We shall find it ready at the dâk bungalow where we meet his honour the forest officer.”
Dick’s man was busy with his preparations. The sound of water being poured from an earthen pot was heard. This time there was nothing mysterious about it. It was the real thing. The waterman had brought the hot water from the kitchen and was preparing the bath.
“A disturbed night, had you?” said Stockton at breakfast. “You should have come on here,” he spoke with a touch of brusqueness without showing any surprise.
“We were held up by the storm. The rain was terrific and the road was under water. We passed through it, however, this morning, as the flood had gone down. No car could have managed it during the storm. We should have been marooned.”
“That would have been worse than being stranded at the resthouse. At any rate, you had a good roof over your head. It’s a well-built bungalow.”
“I’m not sure that the car wouldn’t have been more comfortable,” replied Dangerfield.
“I hope the servants didn’t give any trouble,” observed Stockton. His curiosity was roused, but he was reluctant to show it.
“Well, as a matter of fact, it was the activities of the waterman that disturbed me.”
“How was that?”
“In the middle of the night the fellow was swishing water about outside the bathroom. What he was doing I can’t think. The moonshi heard him and sent him about his business, so Singara told me.”
“Did you see the man?”
“No, and there was no sign that he had come into the bathroom. So it couldn’t have been the ghost I was told of when I was in Madura. Miss Fernandez warned me not to spend the night at Kolam because the bungalow was haunted, but I never gave it a thought till I had left the place this morning and was driving here.”
“The chattering hussy!” It was evident that Stockton was not enamoured of the young woman. “Did she tell you what the ghost was doing?”
“It was supposed to be washing blood from the floor of the bathroom. Have you ever heard that a murder was committed there?”
“No, murder is not the tragedy that is connected with the house.”
He stopped as though unwilling to repeat a tale that he did not believe.
“What was it? I’m all curiosity,” said Dangerfield. “Did anything really happen?”
“It was suicide.”
Dick felt a tremor pass through him. Laying down knife and fork and allowing his bacon to get cold, he pressed his companion to tell him the tale.
“Did it really happen?”
“Well, yes, it did; and a ghost has grown out of the story. A young fellow in the service had started to go to Colombo to meet the girl he was to have married. On the way he was given a telegram from the girl, sent from Colombo. She informed him, in rather a cold-blooded manner, that she had met a man on board ship with whom she had fallen in love. She had married him in Ceylon and was honeymooning at Kandy. It was someone who had an appointment in Burmah. A nasty jar, you’ll admit. It was of no use to go on. He stopped the night at Kolam, intending to return to his station the next day and cancel his leave. The shock upset his mental balance. He couldn’t sleep, and wandered about the bungalow all night. He found the dinner-knives ready to hand, and used the carver.”
Stockton relapsed into silence, adding after a pause:
“It was a bad business for the waterman the next morning. They say he ran away after clearing up the mess, and was never heard of again.”
Dangerfield listened in silence. He remembered those knives, and his experience of the lure of their glitter in the lamplight. It was only the opportune arrival of the moonshi that saved him from a similar fate. Some strange influence had been at work which had upset his mental balance. He had received impressions that he could not account for, and how near he had been to succumbing he dared not think. He was conscious of being vaguely irritated against himself for being so weak.
“You hadn’t heard of the suicide until now?” asked Stockton, noticing the effect that his story had on him.
“Not a word.”
“If there was nothing supernatural---or shall we say unaccountable---in the sounds of the waterman’s activities, why couldn’t you get back into bed and go to sleep again? I shall be curious to hear what your experience was.”
The absence of any disposition to chaff on the part of Stockton encouraged Dick to describe his sensations.
“To begin with, I was by this time wide awake and had lost all inclination to sleep. Secondly——”
He paused, just a little bit unwilling to make the admission.
“Yes, and secondly——”
“I was overwhelmed by a sudden fit of the most awful depression I have ever experienced.”
“Ah!”
Stockton did not smile as he made the exclamation, nor express any surprise. It implied that Dangerfield’s story was nothing more than he expected. It encouraged Dick to continue.
“I can’t account for it. My mentality is of the commonplace level-headed kind. I am not a believer in ghosts, and I have never in England come up against what are called ‘psychic influences.’”
“Nor am I a believer,” rejoined Stockton quickly. “But I’ve met men who have spent the best part of their lives in India---perhaps I had better not talk of them. I can only say that you can’t tell what you will believe when you’ve stayed some time in the country.”
He paused, and Dangerfield went on with his tale.
“Although I don’t believe in ghosts, I am quite ready to admit that I am not always at a buoyant optimistic level. My food may disagree with me and lower my animal spirits considerably.”
“It could not have been your food last night. The bungalow matey gave you a well-cooked dinner. He is a good cook.”
“First rate; he deserved his tip. Have you ever slept in the Kolam bungalow? If not, have you met anyone who has passed the night there?”
“We generally arrange to spend the day at Kolam, but we move on here after dinner for the night.”
“Then the place is avoided by those who know it, and you haven’t heard of a man sleeping there?” said Dick.
“There was a man---I never met him, as I wasn’t here then---who deliberately braved what we call the spooky atmosphere of the bungalow. They told him the story; and, to add to its terrors, they doubled the case, and assured him that the tragedy happened twice. They thought it would choke him off, but it didn’t. It only reinforced his determination.”
“Was he superstitious?”
“Not a bit of it! They said he was a botanical crank collecting plants and bugs of sorts. They had to give him his head and let him have his way. I believe he had a hell of a night.”
“What did he see and hear?”
“He admitted that he saw nothing, but he heard the waterman busy about three in the morning. He owned up to the suicidal depression that you say you felt.”
“And bolted the next morning?”
“On the contrary he stuck it out and stayed till the servant brought him his early tea. Then, instead of getting away as quickly as he could, he sent for a bamboo ladder and climbed up into the roof, which he thoroughly inspected.”
“Did he find another poor disappointed devil hanging to one of the beams?” asked Dangerfield grimly.
“He discovered something---so he said---that was far more exciting, and which he vowed was the cause of all the trouble.”
“What was it?”
“A poisonous fungus. He was as pleased as if he had discovered a gold mine. He said it was extremely rare and uncommon. It was growing all over the rafters and beams. According to his account the spores given off, when the thing is in an inflorescent state, affect the constitutions of human beings like a poisonous gas. They produce the most appalling fits of depression. The spores mature in the rainy season such as we have just had.”
Dangerfield remained silent. He was puzzled. The explanation was plausible and appealed to his practical common sense; but he had never in his life heard of such a strange growth. Had he been troubled with nausea or any sign of poisoning, he would have accepted the theory of the presence of an unhealthy, noxious fungus. But there were no signs of physical disorder in his attack of the blues. It had been entirely mental. Presumably the mysterious influence that produced the disorder of his mental equilibrium must have been psychical and not physical.
“Do the servants know of the curious effects produced by sleeping in the bungalow?”
“Rather! Even the watchman prefers to walk round the outside of the bungalow to dozing in the veranda. You won’t catch any of the servants passing the night under the roof. They have very comfortable quarters in their outhouses. As they make their wood fires inside their rooms, the smoke keeps the mushrooms from growing. Of course they know nothing of the botanist’s theory. They believe that the ghost of the suicide haunts the place. It has turned into a devil, they say, and does its best to persuade others to follow its example and commit suicide. Not a pleasant thought! I prefer the fungus theory. Come along, if you have finished breakfast. It’s time we were off.”
Dangerfield had no opportunity of asking further questions. His companion was anxious to get to the scene of his daily labours. He had no moments to waste in psychical speculations, which he resolutely rejected as capable of being explained away by science, or by some matter-of-fact reason in which nothing mysterious lurked.
They drove into the hills till the road became too difficult for the car and dwindled into a coolie track. Two country ponies were waiting to take them to the scene of Stockton’s work. They passed through scrubby jungle that, in spite of recent showers, bore signs of the scorching breath of the hot season. Bamboo and thorny acacia gave place to forest, what remained of it; for charcoal burners had long since denuded the hills of primeval growth.
A succession of forest officers had done their best to repair the destruction by making nurseries and planting young trees. They were continuing their good work in spite of the destructive fires occasioned by the hill tribes to obtain a patch of ground here and there for their primitive agriculture.
The scenery, after the dead level of the plains, fascinated Dangerfield. Little streams swollen by the recent rains tumbled down their boulder-strewn, courses, over walls of rock, among freshly foliaged trees. In the wider valleys the water had gathered into jheels or lakes, where the snipe and wild fowl were to be found in beds of reeds and sedges. The sporting instinct of the English squire was stirred, and for the first time since Dick had arrived in the country he regretted his gun. Where the ground was comparatively level and capable of drainage the forest officer had been busy with his nurseries of young plants and seed beds. In other places they found trees in various stages of growth. Among them some veterans stood, hoary with age. They were long past their prime. Dangerfield wondered why they had not been removed. He was told that they were preserved for the sake of the shade they afforded to the young trees.
Before one of these Stockton drew rein. At its foot was a stone, oiled, and recently garlanded.
“This is the tree that Henley ordered to be felled. You see that it is out of line with the others, not that it mattered in the least. This isn’t exactly a public park. The tree is supposed to be under the guardianship of a devil in whose honour the stone is set up.”
“Is this where he was killed?” asked Dick with a sudden concentration of his thoughts. They were inclined to wander to more intimate subjects.
“Yes, look at that jagged stump.” He pointed to a broken branch. “He was standing just underneath it. You can see with your own eyes how rotten the branch was. The rot had penetrated more than halfway through. Only a small portion is white and living. It was supporting the whole weight of the bough. Then came the showers and a growth of foliage. The additional weight brought it down with a crash.”
“And that’s the work of the borer beetle?”
“Of the kind that attacks growing trees. It is not the death-watch of our cathedral beams, but it is probably its first cousin.”
They lunched under the shade of an overhanging rock that was crowned with a tangle of ferns and jungle.
“By-the-by, did you pull off your visit to the rock temple on your way here?” asked Stockton, when they had paid due attention to the contents of the tiffin basket. “And did you find it interesting?”
Dangerfield described his experiences, not omitting the apparition of the image and its mysterious disappearance.
“I’ve heard of the ghosts of human beings, but the ghost of a graven image is rather a big pill to swallow.”
“It was some Hindu masquerading as the idol,” suggested Stockton, who was not going to admit that the appearance was psychic in any way.
“If that was the case, it is beyond me altogether how the image could have vanished. There was no possibility of it being carried away without my seeing it.”
“Was the moonshi with you?”
Dangerfield smiled; he knew what was in his friend’s mind.
“I left him to wait with the car while I went up the rock to look at the temple. As I was some time away he followed, but by the time he arrived the image had disappeared.”
“What explanation did he give?”
“None. He is curiously reticent in that respect, when the explanation is not obvious. I have not yet made out what his beliefs are; whether he thinks it is all humbug or whether in his secret heart he is convinced that there is some inexplicable force at work.”
“Did he tell you that your eyes had deceived you?”
“He neither denied it nor confirmed the vision. If the stars were to fall his equilibrium would not be upset. I wonder sometimes if he himself possesses any occult powers, hypnotic or mediumistic,” said Dick, recalling his experience by the river.
“You bet he has! Some of these caste men have what is called second sight.”
Stockton launched forth into a story of a Brahmin who was a patient in a hospital. The man was a seer, and electrified the matron and nurses by foretelling the changes that were about to take place in the hospital staff. He had no means of knowing the probable official movements, not being connected with the staff in any way.”
“Did his prophecies come true?”
“Every one of them, unlikely as they seemed to be at the time. A sudden and unexpected death was the cause of the change. The man couldn’t have foreseen it unless he had second sight.”
“I make no claim to second sight; never had any experience of it in England, and I don’t know why I should have it now,” remarked Dick. “It is very hard to believe that the image I saw seated there was not real flesh and blood.”
“You are right. It was probably real enough; one of those half-mad ascetics that don’t look human.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Posing as the idol, in the hope that you would bestow upon him the usual largesse of the globe-trotter. Mad they may be, but not mad enough to lose sight of the main chance.”
“If that was the case, how the devil did he do the vanishing trick?” asked Dangerfield.
“Are you quite sure that he was not hiding in the building?”
“He couldn’t possibly have concealed himself. The shrine was empty, and contained absolutely nothing that would have served as a hiding place even for a dog.”
“The walls, you say, were covered with grotesque carvings in high relief?”
“Crowded with them.”
Stockton continued with a smile at the reminiscence he had to relate.
“I’ll tell you what happened to me once. I was going through a nursery of young sandalwood plants. They are much valued by well-to-do Hindus who have gardens, and they command a ready sale. There had been some thieving going on. Though I had the beds watched we couldn’t catch the thief. We had reason to believe that he moved on all-fours under cover of the plants like a jackal. I thought I would take a spell at watching myself.
“Sure enough, I spotted him in broad daylight, just about mealtime, when every man is thinking more about his curry than anything else. He was making neat little bundles of my precious seedlings ready to carry away, which he was hiding rather cleverly in stacks of faggots of brushwood. I gave chase. The fellow scooted towards some open uncultivated ground. It was strewn with boulders and covered with thorny scrub about two or three feet high.
“‘Now I shall have my man,’ I thought. I could get along faster with my boots and leggings over the rough ground than he could with his bare feet and shanks. Suddenly the scoundrel disappeared, did the vanishing trick like your idol. He was clear in the open, with no jungle within a hundred feet, and he vanished with my eyes upon him. I hunted up and down, working like a poaching lurcher on a field after a hare. I could see nothing of him.
“The sun was hot and I gave it up, returning to my nursery to collect the plants that the fellow had prepared for carrying away. Would you believe it! As I glanced back over the rough ground, I saw what I took to be a low flat boulder, half-buried in the scrub, get up, turn into a man, and run for the nearest bit of jungle. I was too far off to follow, and I didn’t know his ‘brier patch’ as he did. I had to let him go. My only consolation was that he hadn’t succeeded in carrying off his loot.”
“Then you think——?”
“If you had prodded those works of art round the walls you might have found your man. Though what you would have gained by tracking the idiot down I don’t know. He hadn’t stolen anything, like my rascal.”
“No, he hadn’t even taken up the rupee I laid before him thinking he was the image.”
“But he had his eye on it, you may be sure. No, no more mysterious disappearances for me; just common or garden chicanery where I have to deal with the wily Hindu,” said Stockton, the sceptic.
Dangerfield found that when he was with the practical forest officer, the disconcerting events that puzzled him were all explained with a plausibility that was comforting at the moment, but had no lasting quality.
The apparition of the image and the evil it boded led nowhere, unless he attributed the terrible night he had passed at the dâk bungalow to its appearance. Its disappearance might have been accounted for by the simulation of the man as a carved figure; in which the incident was robbed of its import and became commonplace trickery.
The example Stockton gave of his own experience should have helped to convince him. But when Dick tried to recall details he could not get rid of the conviction that the appearance of the carvings on the wall were unaltered when he left. He could not recall any disproportionate bulge in the bas-relief that might have been due to the presence of a bit of brown-skinned humanity that was clinging to it.
The idol was invisible when he first glanced into the shrine. At the second glance he had seen it seated on the tortoise with arms crossed and a faded garland of flowers hanging limply on its neck. He could swear to it. He turned to meet the moonshi. When he came back the figure had vanished, leaving no trace of its departure. It had happened in less than a minute, while he took those few steps towards Singara and had his back to the building.
Like all men who are not superstitious by nature, Dangerfield was more startled and puzzled by the manifestation of the unaccountable than an individual of a psychic temperament would have been. Such a man might be prepared to accept a bit of occultism that was inexplicable on the face of it. More than once he repeated the facts to himself.
“I saw the image with my own eyes. Am I to believe or disbelieve my physical sight? The image disappeared. Where it had been seated there was a vacant place. The tortoise was visible in its entirety. Again I ask myself, ‘Am I to disbelieve my own eyes?’”
He recalled the action of the moonshi. Singara would not have added a rupee to the offering already made had he not seen something himself. Then there was the warning quickly given against removing the coin which Dangerfield had left on the platform.
His train of thought was broken by Stockton, who drew his attention to the plantations and seed beds in a sheltered valley, pointing out with the pride of the agriculturist their flourishing condition. He gave Henley credit for knowing his job.
“I suppose you intend to respect the superstition of your forest guards and woodmen, and leave the devil-tree standing?” observed Dick.
“Rather! I always adopt the line of least resistance when it is not to the detriment of my employers’ interests. The people may keep their devils intact. I don’t mind as long as the men will do their work.”
“You don’t honestly think that there is anything in all this strange superstition?” asked Dangerfield a little diffidently. He wished to pose as an unbiassed inquirer who was interested in a country that he had never seen before, and its people.
“My dear fellow!” cried Stockton in protest. “Disabuse your mind of the idea that it has any truth whatever in it. The beliefs of these jungle men are the outcome of the credulous fancy of prehistoric ancestors.”
This was how Stockton was inclined to talk. It did not satisfy Dangerfield, and he questioned further.
“What is the foundation of it, then; what is the remote origin of their belief, of their propitiation and worship of the forces of Nature? It must have been the outcome of some strange experiences. It can’t have been the result of pure fancy.”
“I know nothing of the history of their peculiar creeds. I have to deal with the facts as they exist, and I can always find a practical reason for what at first appears mysterious. I could tell you a heap of stories of jungle incidents which the Hindus account for supernaturally, but for which I can find a perfectly natural reason, like the forest peon and his dog——”
“What was that?”
“Years ago one of the peons on these hills had a favourite dog, a big yellow beast, lean, and long in the leg. The peculiarity of these dogs is that they attach themselves violently to their owners, and will have nothing to do with any other human being.
“A woodman belonging to a jungle tribe owed the dog a grudge. It had caught him stealing, had pinned him down by the leg, and held him till he was secured. The man had twenty-one days’ for his thieving.
A couple of months later the peon took a day off to go on a pilgrimage to his temple. He left the dog shut up in his hut. When he returned it was gone. He went out into the jungle and called it. Now and then he fancied he could hear it whimpering near a mountain stream that ran through a thick piece of jungle. Creepers matted the trees together and made the growth almost impassable. He thought that it might have been caught and held a prisoner in a cave or fissure in the rock, but he could find no trace of it. Night after night he was certain that he heard it whimpering, and he gave himself no rest in his search. The cries ceased. Then the jackals betrayed the secret, helped by the kites. He found his faithful friend and companion.
“The poor beast had been muzzled and cruelly shackled with rope. It had been tied up in a piece of sacking and hoisted to the top of a tree. It was screened by thick growth, and was unable to give tongue to summon its master to its rescue.
“The peon cut it down, and then sought out the only person who had a reason for treating the dog badly. The woodcutter did not deny his evil deed. He actually smiled in the face of the peon, the greatest insult that can be offered to a superior. The peon cursed him for all he was worth, and they say that he placed a spell on the woodman. It was to the effect that the dog should chase him to the end of his days. It was quite certain that the spell took a terrible effect on him. Probably it was a case of hypnotism.
“The woodcutter used to run till he was exhausted, just as if he were being pursued by some animal. When he could run no further he fell to the ground and shrieked with terror. This went on to the end of his days.
“One morning he was found dead, close to the bit of jungle where he hung the dog to die of slow starvation. His body was covered with the marks of an animal’s teeth, as though a dog or a jackal had bitten him to death.
“They say if you listen on moonlight nights you can hear the baying of the dog and the screaming of the man as the dog pulls him down, although he has long since disappeared from the scenes.”
“Are any sounds really to be heard?”
“Yes, I have heard them myself. They are the screams of night-birds, owls and night-hawks, herons and flying-foxes; possibly of monkeys quarrelling over their roosting-places. But it is of no use assuring these idiots that the blood-curdling sounds they hear are made by the jungle night-birds and beasts. Even if you point out a bird shrieking overhead they will declare that it is the dog or the man himself, fulfilling the curse that is placed on them, one to be pursued, the other to pursue. No, the foundation for their superstitions is nothing more than ignorance and credulous imagination.”
Dangerfield glanced at him with a sudden vague suspicion. His companion was curiously anxious to prove that every event invested with an atmosphere of mystery could.be accounted for in a reasonable way. Stockton had been very glib with the explanations he had given for the strange experiences that had come to Dangerfield. Was it possible that the forest officer’s scepticism was a kind of shield adopted to protect himself against influences that penetrated and that must be reasonably accounted for, if a man was to live a sane life in the loneliness of the jungle?
The reason put forward as a solution to the mystery of the bungalow with its deleterious atmosphere, a poisonous fungus growing in the roof-tree; the disappearance of the image; the fall of the limb of the forest tree that killed Henley; the ghostly cries of the night, although convincing to a certain extent while he listened to Stockton’s positive statements, lost some of their value when they were considered later.
As the river was invested with a psychic force, so the hills and forests apparently had their own mysterious forces. The people who were associated with the river recognised its force and allowed their actions to be governed by it. The jungle tribes were equally cognisant of the forces that they believed dwelt in the trees and stones and shaped their actions accordingly.
All human actions, even those of the most modern nations, were founded on the experience of the ages, thought Dick. Stockton was speaking again. He was in a reminiscent vein, and Dick was only too glad to listen.
“We had a queer old fossil among our woodmen in the district where I was last. He was supposed to know the monkey language.”
“Have they a language?”
Stockton regarded him oddly for a moment before he replied:
“All animals have a means of communication with their own species, call it a language or not, as you like. I should say that they and the birds understand more than we imagine of each other’s talk. Otherwise, how do you account for the warnings they are able to give when an enemy is near? You must have seen something of the sort in your own woods at home, haven’t you?”
Dangerfield recalled the warning chatter of jays when they discovered the presence of a dog; the ominous silence of the singing birds and various other familiar traits of the country life at home.
“What about your old woodman?” he asked.
“We had a lot of wanderoo monkeys in the jungle near us. They are grey beasts, as mischievous as they make ’em. They pulled up our young plants and scratched the seed beds with their fingers till I was driven wild at the damage that was done.
“One day I brought out my gun and I threatened to go down into the valley where they congregated---they love the warm rocks on the sunny side of a hill out of the wind. I said I was going to teach them that the place was too unhealthy for them, warm and comfortable as it might be. Then perhaps they would trek to another sheltered spot some miles away.
“The old fossil saw me with my gun and heard the peons laugh as I made my threat. Suddenly he ran forward and threw himself at my feet. He begged and prayed me to spare the ‘little brothers,’ as he called them. It was unlucky to kill them, he cried. It would bring evil upon his tribe. I think he regarded them as the tribe’s totem or mascot. I didn’t want to offend the sensibilities and run against the superstitions of the hillmen.
“‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll let them off this time, but if I have any more trouble, I’ll shoot the whole lot, I promise you.’ Then I added, half in joke: ‘You can go and tell your little brothers what the big master says.’
“He grovelled after the manner of his kind at my feet. Then he rose, girded up his loins and trotted off into the jungle. The peons stopped laughing as they watched him loping away with his long, thin legs, looking for all the world as if he would drop on all fours and gallop like a wanderoo.”
“Did he go to the monkeys and report what you had threatened to do?”
“My men assured me that he did. He knew the monkey talk, they declared, and he would be certain to let them have my message somehow. Anyway, it was an extraordinary fact, I had no more trouble with them for some time. Whatever it was that he said, or did, they left my plantations severely alone.”
“How was the trick done?”
“I couldn’t tell you. The peons spied on him; followed him into the jungle and watched him. They said that he used to hold long conversations with a very old monkey, as fossilised as himself. It was the leader of the troop. The two used to be seen squatting in front of each other while they jabbered and grinned and gesticulated just like a couple of hillmen having a powwow over a boundary line. Of course, these forest servants are awful liars. If you want to have your hair raised they will do it for you with all sorts of ghastly tales. But you are not bound to believe them.”
“Do you think that there was any truth in their story that the hillman understood the monkeys’ language?”
“Impossible to say. The peons’ tale was that he made a bargain with them.”
“What was it?”
“That he would be their servant as long as they kept away from the nurseries. He was to cook food for them. You see, like all animals, they are terrified of fire. If they only dared to handle the cooking-pots, say the peons, they would be on an equality with man. There is very little difference between the intelligence of a jungle-wallah and a cunning old wanderoo.
“But, mind you, there is a difference that can never be bridged, as you shall hear presently. Part of the bargain consisted in keeping the old hillman supplied with millet and raw vegetables, which, of course, the monkeys stole from the villagers at the foot of the hills. They also brought him firewood which he had to cut up himself. They left him to make the fire and deal with the cooking-pots over the flame and smoke. It was only when he had beaten out the fire and scattered the ashes that they ventured to approach to receive their portions. I lost the old man from my gang of woodcutters, but others were ready to take his place.”
“And you heard no more of him?”
“On the contrary, you can hear of him to this day if you like to listen to the peons’ tales. It ended in a tragedy.”
“Yes? Go on.”
“You shall have the whole story for what it is worth. It contains no mystery, and yet the connection between the man and the monkey is extraordinary. Don’t ask me to vouch for the truth of it. I had it from the peons.”
“Who get their information from the hillmen, of course.”
“Yes, and the peons are as credulous as the hillmen. Monkeys are like men in more ways than one in spite of their limitations. In common with mankind they chatter. The news spread among the hills that the monkeys in this particular valley had discovered a daily supply of cooked food. The little people love cooked grain, as I have already said, even more than they love ripe fruit.
“The rumour brought relays of uninvited guests from other valleys where they did not keep a chef of their own. They swarmed in at the dinner hour with the result that there was not enough food to go round. Short commons made them all very angry.
“Here’s just where the difference shows in intelligence between man and beast. The woodman harangued them and did his best to explain why the supply was short. It was of no use to let them see his empty pots. They clamoured for more. He tried to convince them that though he could cook the food, he was utterly unable to increase its quantity in the process; that if they wanted more they must bring additional grain and vegetables. Being animals they were too stupid to follow his arguments. It was like trying to explain to a dog how and why a door is locked against it. They were convinced that he was to blame and they worked themselves into a rage. They threw chunks of wood at him and bits of rock which hit him. Then he lost his temper also.”
“And gave up his work with a lightning strike like the modern cook at home?”
“It would have been better for him if he had adopted that course. Smarting under the blows that he had received he determined to have his revenge. The next morning he filled the big pot with mud from the bed of the mountain stream hard by instead of millet. He boiled it as if it were grain. Allowing the usual time for the cooking, he beat out the fire and left the hungry creatures to help themselves as soon as it was sufficiently cool. Then he made tracks as fast as he could leg it.
“They say that the screeching and fighting that went on when the monkeys discovered the trick was terrible. It was heard in camp, and it wasn’t until the dark hours of the night that peace and quiet reigned in the valley.”
“A dangerous thing to play tricks on an animal and deceive it,” remarked Dangerfield, who knew the traditions of his own country. “They have long memories. Bulls and dogs can both be vindictive.”
“Same here. Half the accidents we have with elephants in this land is through the teasing and deception of the mahouts. Give an elephant a bit of dry wood instead of the chunk of juicy sugar-cane it has been accustomed to receive, and it nurses a grudge against the deceiver until the opportunity comes to crush him underfoot. The beast has no sense of humour.”
“And the woodcutter?” asked Dangerfield, as his companion ceased speaking.
“Oh yes, the old woodcutter! He got the wind up and bolted. But the grandfather wanderoo was not too infirm to follow him and scent him down. Some thirty miles away the hillman was found dead on the hillside. He had been strangled. On his neck were the marks of fingers. The verdict was murder against some unknown man. The peons declared that the murderer was none other than the old wanderoo. They may have been right.”
“Do you know what became of the monkey?”
“It is not a pleasant story, but---well, the old beast was found dead a couple of weeks later not far from the place where the woodcutter had met his fate.”
“Old age?”
“No, starvation. The hillman had blinded it.” Stockton was silent, and his listener refrained from asking for details that could not be anything but extremely unpleasant. Presently he continued:
“Afterwards the seed beds, which had been left untouched while the old man played the part of cook, were grubbed up, and the young plants in the plantations were shamefully destroyed. I lost patience at last. Totem or no totem, I determined to shoot the brutes. The peons didn’t like it. They were sure that I should bring bad luck on the camp. I killed as many as came within range of my gun. I ordered the bodies to be hung up by the nurseries as a warning. It stopped the raiding.”
“And the peons, what had they to say?”
“That if the old wanderoo hadn’t lost his eyes and died of starvation, I should have met with the same fate as the hillman. I should have been strangled---but that is all nonsense.”
Stockton lighted a second cigar. He had found a good listener to lure him on to other stories of his experience in the depths of the jungle.
He went off into another tale, too long to be told here in detail. It was about a hillwoman and a rock snake of the python breed. Some mysterious bond existed between them. The snake lived in a warm crevice in the boulder. A devil was supposed to haunt the rock, and had made the snake its slave. One day the woman was found dead with the snake wound round her body. It had squeezed the life out of her.
“Why did it do so if they had been friends so long?”
“No one knows. Perhaps she stopped the supply of goat’s milk which she had been in the habit of offering to the rock devil. The snake had drunk the milk and it resented her neglect.”
“Was that the opinion of the peons?”
“They had another solution of the mystery which they firmly believed in. They declared that the snake, being the servant of the devil, was compelled now and again to provide a human sacrifice for the devil.”
Stockton poured himself out a whisky and soda.
“I wonder what the bond could have been,” said Dangerfield.
“It is impossible to account for every mortal thing that happens, for this reason,” replied Stockton, as he put down his glass. “One hasn’t always the necessary information nor the time to hunt it up. And, after all, it does not matter in the least. Your explanation won’t be accepted by the jungle people. They will cling to their own beliefs.”
“Have you ever come across any incident that you could not explain?” asked Dangerfield.
He got no answer. Instead Stockton started on yet another jungle episode, involving the mysterious disappearance of one of his peons. And there we will leave him.
Dangerfield was back once more at Madura. His mental balance was in a measure restored. Stockton’s company was a tonic in itself. It was not violently exhilarating, but it maintained a never-failing level of steady optimism. His leaning towards the practical side of every question safeguarded him against the lure of the mystical. He could not be accused of having ghost-eyes.
It amused and interested Dick to hear him plausibly explaining every incident in which others might have scented the psychical. Stockton was full of tales, and possessed a long memory, but he had nothing evasive about him. He faced his facts boldly, and pieced together the evidence with a skill that would have done credit to an astute police officer. He had a way of listening sympathetically which drew legend and happenings in the nearer past from the men of the jungle as well as the peons who are closely connected with them and sometimes taken from their ranks.
Stockton succeeded in breaking through the reserved silence of Singara, and drawing him into conversation. What the two spoke of Dangerfield could not tell. It was in the language of the country. When they spoke in English the subject was not very intelligible on account of the interpolation of Hindu words, the meanings of which were unknown to Dick.
To the very end of his visit to Stockton, Dick could not decide in his mind if the forest officer was as sceptical of so-called psychic influences as he professed to be. The fact remained. Dangerfield recovered his mental balance. When he returned to Ashmere he was normal. Carving knives and automatic revolvers held no sinister attraction for him, and the wild thought of suicide was banished.
The Fernandez wedding was to take place shortly after Dick’s return. He was careful to keep away from the family. He had his own reasons for not wishing to meet the bride until the wedding day. He found plenty to amuse him in the cantonments. He had been made an honorary member of the club, and was never at a loss for a game out of doors or under the club’s hospitable roof.
He still had his car, which he intended to retain as long as he was in the country. He took breezy runs along the old trunk road between Tuticorin and Madras. Or if he cared for a longer journey he could reach the sea. The dreary line of sandy shore with its monotonous breakers held no interest for him. The fishermen in their log boats were busy on the near horizon, drifting with the currents as they laid their nets. They never came ashore where he happened to be standing, so his curiosity as to their catch was not satisfied. He missed Stockton with his weird tales as he passed rocks and trees bearing the marks of pooja done to the earth spirits they were supposed to harbour. He could get nothing from Singara by way of legend anent their existence. He frequently passed groups of stones bearing the figures of snakes intertwined. As far as he could discover, the worship of serpents was a cult of the prehistoric past. Yet with the superstitious awe of the spiritual world the country people propitiated a snake stone here and there, not knowing in the least to what particular demon they made their offerings.
On the second morning after his return to Madura he was seated in the veranda of Ashmere’s house, a recent magazine in his hand. The showers had called forth a wealth of blossom in the garden, and the scent of Persian roses hung in the fresh morning air.
Breakfast was over and Ashmere had gone to his office, not without a glance of envy towards his more fortunate friend; Dick had no need to attend a stuffy room where several clerks, without haste or hustle, were making fair copies of reports for headquarters.
A peon arrived at a run. Instead of looking for a servant to take in the letter he carried, he made his way straight up to Dangerfield’s chair. He salaamed and with both hands he tendered the pink note, saying something in his own language which Dangerfield did not understand.
The note was from Daphne. It contained a frantic prayer that he would come to her at once. She was in dire distress, she declared. She must see him without delay. He alone could help her, and she implored him to come.
He looked up at the waiting messenger, who knew a little English, but could speak less.
“Tell missie that I will be with her in ten minutes.”
“Yessar! Very sick, die soon!”
He became voluble in his own language, and departed as quickly as he came.
Sick? Was Daphne suddenly taken ill? He could not disregard such an urgent call as this. He ordered his car, and within the ten minutes was at the bungalow.
Daphne herself met him at the portico. The sight of her relieved his mind on her behalf. It must be her father or mother who had been struck down. She could scarcely speak for her distress. In her hand she held the trinket on its chain. She had removed it from her neck, and was carrying it in such a way that it might have been a deadly snake.
“Take it! Oh, take it! Never let me set eyes upon it again!” she cried, as the tears rolled down from her eyes.
He accepted the stone, and hastily slipped it into his waistcoat pocket, chain and all.
“What is the matter? What has happened?” he asked.
She raised her arms as if in wild despair, and threw herself on his breast.
“I have killed him! I have murdered him! He will die, and it will be all my fault!” she wailed in between her sobs.
“Who is dying? Your father?”
“It is Ralph. Oh, save him! Save him!”
He led her to the sofa and firmly disengaged himself from her clinging arms.
“Now, Daphne, pull yourself together, and tell me all about it,” he said as he arranged the cushions under her head.
“I wished him dead, and they tell me he is dying!”
“Dying?” he repeated. “You must be mistaken. What is the matter with Mr. Molena?”
“It is cholera. Only last night he was here. We quarrelled. It was all about you. He was jealous, and accused me of loving you more than I loved him. It made me very angry. I lost my temper, and I told him that I wished he was dead.”
Her sobs recommenced with wailing and moaning. It distressed him to see her abandonment to such unrestrained grief.
“Do you really believe that the fact of your wishing him dead would bring it to pass? You foolish, foolish child!”
“But I had my hand on the stone at the time without noticing what I was doing. Of course it came true. My stone never fails me. This morning he was seized with the sickness and---oh, Dick! they say he cannot get over it! If he dies it will be my doing. I killed Mr. Henley and now I have killed Ralph. Put the deadly thing away. I will never touch it again!”
“You are talking nonsense, Daphne. Of course I will take good care that the stone is put away in some place where it can’t work on the imagination of anyone.”
“The mischief is done,” she moaned.
“Nonsense!” he cried sharply. “It is too soon to say if the illness will be fatal or not.”
“Ah, you. don’t know what cholera is! It carries people off in a few hours. As soon as they told me that he was ill, I remembered the stone and my wicked words as I held it in my hand. You warned me that it would come back upon me! You were right! It is bringing me misfortune. What shall I do without Ralph? I shall die of grief if I lose him.”
“I thought you told me that you did not love him; that you hated him?”
“I only hated him when I wanted you,” she whimpered. “Ralph is to be my husband. You——”
Dangerfield frowned and instinctively drew away. If ever he had been attracted she was fast disillusioning him.
“You are talking rather wildly, Daphne. Try to pull yourself together,” he said, with a touch of severity.
“A girl must have a husband if she wants a home of her own,” she replied, not in the best of tempers.
Dick rose from the chair he had taken, with the intention of leaving her. She put out a detaining hand and caught his wrist.
“Don’t go away! don’t forsake me in my trouble. I have no one but you to comfort and console me. Dick! darling Dick! I want you!”
She would have drawn him into her arms had he not stepped back out of her reach. Pity for her was dying out and anger taking its place in his heart.
At this moment Mrs. Fernandez entered the veranda. She was half blinded by her tears and did not comprehend the scene that was being enacted by her daughter.
“Oh, Mr. Dangerfield!” she cried, extending both her hands. “What bad news this is! Mr. Molena is going to die! What shall we do? Everything is ordered for the wedding to-morrow and there will be no wedding. We shall have to put it off. Such a disappointment to everybody. And then there is the expense! Oh, my! The Madras firms won’t take back the goods, the ices and creams and cakes and jellies——”
Her words died away in a succession of sobs. When the fit of weeping subsided he asked where Mr. Molena was at the present time. Was he in hospital or at his own house?
“He is at his own house on the estate, where he went last night after leaving us. He has lately had a gang of fresh coolies from Trichinopoly, where the cholera has been very bad. They must have brought the sickness with them. This is the season for it, and——”
She was interrupted by the entrance of her husband. He shook hands with Dangerfield and turned at once to his wife.
“Ralph wants to see Daphne. He is troubled in his mind about a little tiff they had last night. He wants to ask her pardon and be assured that she forgives him.”
Mrs. Fernandez looked doubtfully at her daughter, who had hidden her face on her cushions.
“You hear, girlie, what daddy says?”
“Ralph has sent his car for you, Daphne,” continued her father, “to take you to his house. I will go with you, my dear. Get up and put on your hat. There is no time to be lost.”
“Oh, I can’t go! I can’t go! I’m --- I’m frightened. I shall catch the dreadful disease!”
She rolled to and fro like a passionate child impatient of any control. Mrs. Fernandez laid a soothing hand on her shoulder. It was shaken off in a fit of temper.
“Darling! You must go! There is no danger or the doctor would not have allowed the message to have been sent,” pleaded the old woman, in deep distress.
“I won’t go! I dare not! I shall catch it and the too. It is cruel and heartless of him to send for me, to ask me to go!” cried Daphne, doing her best to work herself up into such a rage as would send away her distressed parents in despair.
Dangerfield moved quietly down the veranda steps unnoticed by the family. He was filled with disgust at Daphne’s heartlessness. How could he ever have had the smallest toleration for such a selfish young woman? He stepped into his car and drove away, leaving the unhappy parents to plead in vain with their daughter, while she gave herself up to a storm of tears that were entirely selfish.
Ashmere came in to lunch. His first remark related to the calamity that had befallen his subordinate.
“There will be no wedding in the Fernandez family for some time to come,” he said.
“Is Molena dead?”
“Not yet, and if he struggles through, which is quite possible, it will take him a couple of months to build up his strength.”
“I hope he may be spared,” observed Dick.
“I hope so, too. If he dies it will be a bad thing for the Fernandez family. The girl will lose the jointure that would have been hers, and she will be on her father’s hands till she can pick up someone else. Not an easy matter. The cigar merchant is an uncommonly good fellow in his way. I hope he will pull through.”
Dangerfield’s thoughts were upon the girl and her cowardly refusal to go and see her lover when he was said to be dying. He was still more disgusted at her readiness to take consolation from another man. The hot blood mounted to his brow as he recalled the way in which his own feelings had been played upon and he had been drawn on to pity her. Molena was far too good for her. Dick did not wish for the death of the man, but he could not help saying in his heart that it would serve her right if she lost her Ralph. The memory of her tears made him downright angry. They were for herself and not for the man who loved her. He was roused from his unpleasant thoughts by. Ashmere, who was speaking again:
“Whether Molena lives or dies, as I was saying, there will be no wedding in the immediate future. By the time it takes place---if it takes place at all---you will have left Madura.”
“In that case I think I might start for Madras in a day or two,” remarked Dangerfield.
“Yes, do; you have taken your rooms at the hotel?”
“For a fortnight, and then I must decide whether I go up north or go home.”
“Better see all you can of India now you are in the country. You will find my wife in Madras. I’ll wire to her that you are coming down. I hope to join her in a few days.”
“You won’t mind if I forsake you?” said Dangerfield.
“Not a bit! I have to go into the district, so you would be left to your own devices if you stayed on here. You’ll find my wife and daughter much better company than myself. There’s trouble in the district over one of the bunds now that the water is falling. I am afraid it has been broken down purposely.”
Dangerfield had no wish to be left alone in Ashmere’s bungalow. If Daphne got wind of it she would be seeking him out again to recover her stone and pose for pity and consolation.
That night, before going to bed, Dick took from his pocket the trinket she had given him and examined it. It appeared to his inexperienced eye—he was not a judge of rare gems---of small value. The Alexandrite possessed no sparkling charm. In its dark bottle-green depths the strange red ray gleamed like the glow of a tiny fragment of red-hot cinder. It could only be distinguished by artificial light, and was not visible by daylight.
The stone was set in a band of beaded silver. The jeweller’s workmanship was rough and crude, but strong. A ring of metal large enough for the chain to pass through was welded to the band. The chain was of European make and might have been purchased anywhere. Dick would have liked to have known the history of the stone itself. It had probably once been the property of some temple looted by the Muhamadans.
The talisman rested on the palm of his hand, growing warm from contact with his skin. Dick smiled as his eyes lingered on it in speculation as to its past history.
“To think that an educated man or woman could put faith in such a trifle!” he said to himself. “I would not have believed it possible that Daphne and her mother were so superstitious! Yet that silly child is convinced that it brought about Henley’s death at her bidding and now Molena is to suffer through the same devilish agency. Preposterous!”
He turned it over and searched for some sign of engraving, a word in Arabic or a Persian cabalistic mark, but could find nothing on the stone or its setting.
“What was the ritual to procure the fulfilment of a wish? Let me think. It has to be held in the palm of the hand with the fingers closed over it, till it is of the same temperature as one’s body. Then the wish has to be expressed in words.”
He laughed as the childish absurdity of it struck him afresh.
“What rubbish! What rot!”
He was about to place the trinket in his collar-box with his sleeve-links and studs when the mocking humour invoked by the scepticism of Stockton suggested an experiment on his own behalf.
“Why shouldn’t I wish for something? It is like seeing the new moon, or meeting a piebald horse, when one is entitled to have a wish. In this case it shall be nothing evil, nobody’s death, if you please, or loss of fortune.”
He considered for a few minutes, his fingers closed over the talisman, as he had seen Daphne close hers, and he said:
“It shall be something great, a regular poser for the little imp that is said to pull the strings.”
He held out his hand and opened his fingers. With a whimsical smile he addressed the charm:
“I wish, I wish to see my wife in twenty-four hours, alive and well and safely detached from her fool of a joy-stick. She is in the Mediterranean cruising about the Ionian Islands, so you need not pretend that you don’t know where to find her.”
A hearty laugh escaped him, such as he had not indulged in since he left the Old Country. It did him good.
“I think I have given Daphne’s charm a poser!” he said.
Then he put the stone in his collar-box and snapped down the lid.
Dangerfield left Madura by a train that landed him in Madras in the morning. He was engaged to lunch with Mrs. Ashmere at the hotel where she had established herself with her daughter. Ashmere was to join her in a few days, and at the end of his short leave they were to return to Madura. Later in the New Year, when the weather became warm, she hoped to go to the Pulney Hills, where her husband could see something of her without leaving his district.
Ashmere had given Dick a warm invitation to be their guest on the hills, but this he refused. He felt that he must be on the move. It was impossible to settle down at a hill station and drop into the social life acceptable to those who had endured the heat of the plains. At the bottom of his heart Dangerfield was dreading a return of the depression that had seized him at the Kolam bungalow. He alone knew how very nearly it had mastered his self-control.
This secret dread of the return of another fit of depression showed that his belief in Stockton’s plausible explanation of the why and the wherefore had not carried conviction. The fungus theory almost made him laugh when he caught himself thinking it over. He was afraid of being alone with himself. His refuge seemed to be in movement and the company of crowds.
From the train as it ran northwards he saw many temples and stones marked with the red and white stripes of animistic pooja. Each building contained its platform supporting the monstrous figure of the earth spirit which the people believed ruled their destinies. He thought of his visit to the desecrated rock temple, and wondered for the fiftieth time if he could have been deceived and tricked into taking brown-skinned human flesh and blood for a grotesque carving in stone.
His memory went back to the vision of the sacrifice that he had seen at the river temple the evening before the killing of the goats. How would Stockton have explained it? Hypnotism, of course; an excited brain anticipating the picture before it reached his eyes.
But it was difficult for Dick to believe that he of the practical temperament could have been the victim of a vivid imagination stimulated, as it were, by the study of the Mexican human sacrifices. He recalled Kipling’s “Bridge Builders,” where Peroo, the head lascar, asks the question that no one who has lived in India can answer:
“Has the sahib forgotten; or do we black men only see the gods?”
The account of the wishing stone and the weird powers claimed for it by its owner would have roused all Stockton’s scorn. Dick would not have cared to repeat the childish tale. Henley’s death had been accounted for in a natural way. His own peril by the river was anticipated by the watchful moonshi. Molena’s illness was reasonably ascribed to his importation of coolies from an infected district. In these later days it is well-known by the medical faculty that the germ may be spread by carriers who need not be themselves the victim of the disease.
Accompanied by his servant and the moonshi, whose services he decided to retain as long as he was travelling in India, he drove from the Central Station to the hotel where he had engaged his rooms. His invitation to lunch was for two o’clock. He had plenty of time to breakfast, write a letter or two, and settle himself in.
The hotel where Mrs. Ashmere and her daughter was staying was not far off. It was with mixed feelings that he thought of his visit to his old friend. She would have many questions to ask about Elaine as well as himself. He was ignorant as to how much she knew of Elaine’s erratic departure to the Mediterranean. How was he to account for their separation if he was to remain truthful? He was not a good liar, and much preferred to face facts as they existed, however uncomfortable it might be; and he was ready to acknowledge that there had been differences between them. Above all things he determined to take all the blame upon himself. He intended her to believe that it was he who had forsaken Elaine; he who had acted on the initiative and left her to console herself in any way she chose. No need to mention Browne.
Dick was shown into Mrs. Ashmere’s private sitting-room. She met him with the warmest of welcomes, which did his sinking heart good. To his great relief she never once mentioned Elaine, but continued to ask him about his adventures while staying with her husband. She took the liveliest interest in the vagaries of the river, and described it as her husband’s troublesome child.
“And, do you know, I really believe that he loves it in spite of its mischievous character,” she concluded.
“I can understand. It is keeping him at Madura now when he ought to have travelled down to Madras with me,” responded Dick.
“It is a strange feature of the Englishman’s life in India. He grows attached to his particular work and hates handing over charge to anyone else,” said Mrs. Ashmere. “Didn’t you find Mr. Stockton absorbed in his forest work?”
“He could think of nothing else, and the stories he had to tell of his peons and his woodcutters would fill a book.”
“He was careful to explain the tales, however weird they might be,” she observed with a little laugh. “We meet him on the hills, and I shall be glad to see him at Madura now he has been transferred to the district. When he tells me one of his tales I never allow him to give me the reason for the accident, or whatever the event may be. It spoils it all if once he begins explaining——”
The sound of high-heeled shoes on the mat approaching the curtained doorway caused Mrs. Ashmere to break off in what she was saying.
“Here comes my daughter Ruby. You saw her in London before we came out. She has a friend with her. The two girls have much to say to each other,” said Mrs. Ashmere. Ruby was a pretty girl, and her mother was proud of her.
She entered, and ran to Dick with both her hands extended in welcome. Her companion hung back, but Mrs. Ashmere took her by the arm and led her forward.
“Mr. Dangerfield, I think you know our friend,” she said with a smile.
He turned from Ruby, and literally gasped as his eye fell on a familiar figure.
“Elaine!” he cried, breathless with astonishment.
“Dick! Oh, Dick!” was the ecstatic reply.
In a moment she was in his arms, forgetful of all else, clasping him round the neck, and hugging him, with kisses, till he was half-choked. Ruby showed her appreciation of the situation by dancing round the couple with little cries of delight. Whatever might have been their feelings she was overflowing with sheer happiness and sympathy.
“How did you get here?” he asked as soon as he could find his voice. The sudden joy of meeting her had been almost too much for him.
“I came on from the Mediterranean.”
She seized his hand and carried it to her lips in a way that sent a thrill through him.
“How did you manage to break away from——”
He stopped in embarrassment. It was far from his wish to reproach her with the wilful abandonment of her husband.
“Ah! my joy-stick, as you rudely called him, you horrid boy! I’ll tell you. It’s a lovely little romance. Listen, Ruby.”
She caught Ruby round the waist, and the mad couple jazzed and circled round Dick and Mrs. Ashmere till they were both giddy.
“Come and sit down, Mr. Dangerfield,” said Mrs. Ashmere, seeing how bewildered he appeared. He had received a shock from which he had not yet recovered.
They seated themselves, and the delirious dancers glided to their side.
“Now, Dick, I’ll tell you all about it. Ruby and Mrs. Ashmere, you must prepare to be thrilled, because it’s a love story. I had a friend---had, please observe. His name was Raymond Browne. He fell in love, and I pitied him, for he was very hard hit.”
“Oh, Elaine! you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” cried Mrs. Ashmere in reproach.
“He wasn’t in love with me!” retorted Elaine. glancing wickedly at her husband as she added: “No such luck! He fell for someone much more important than me. The object of his devotion was the beautiful daughter of a whisky king of the name of John Jones. You all know his name quite well, although you may not patronise his special brand. It is on all his round-shouldered bottles, and on half the hoardings in London.”
“Wasn’t she attracted to Raymond Browne?” asked Ruby. “I’ve met him in England. Good-looking boy!”
“She went stark crazy over him.”
“Then why——?”
“The usual trouble. Oh, why were parents ever born?” said Elaine with a sigh of regret which drew a laugh from Mrs. Ashmere.
“To torment their offspring,” replied Ruby, touching her mother’s arm.
“The fly in the ointment, the thorn in the rose,” remarked Mrs. Ashmere with a droop to the corners of her mouth which made them all laugh.
“Well?” said Dick. “Go on, darling. This is all news to me; though why you didn’t tell me ages ago I don’t know.”
“Men can’t keep secrets if they belong to clubs,” replied Elaine with a toss of her fair hair. “To go on with my story. The whisky king, Mr. John Jones, would not hear of it. Raymond had nothing to keep a wife on, he said.”
“That’s true enough,” commented Dick. He received a pat on the shoulder with orders to be silent and listen.
“Mr. John Jones turned up very rough,” continued Elaine, glancing round to see that she had secured the ears of the company. “Juliet Jones belongs to my club, and she and I had rather chummed up over Raymond. I told her to buck up, go in and win. Faint heart never won a good-looking boy, I said, and I offered to help her. First of all, to put old whisky-bottle off the scent, we agreed that Raymond was to make violent love to me. He did, didn’t he, old dear?” She put both her little hands into Dick’s right, the hand in which he had held the talisman, and went on without waiting for a reply.
“Juliet was to talk to her father of our wicked goings-on---which she did. This disarmed all suspicion. We carried on for some weeks, while Juliet took away every shred of character I ever possessed. Whenever the coast was clear she had her innings while I did watchdog. This disarmed all suspicion.”
“Good for you!” cried Ruby.
“Very wrong, very wrong, indeed!” was Mrs. Ashmere’s comment, but she did not look severe while she made it.
“Then Juliet took to weeping and moaning over her terrible fate. She complained to her father, of course, that I had stolen her man, and that I was playing old Harry with my good husband’s feelings. Mr. Jones was awfully sorry for you, old darling, and wasted such a lot of pity on you. He told Juliet that I was good-for-nothing and ought to be scrapped in the municipal incinerator. Horrid of him, wasn’t it?”
“But why did you run away with Browne to the Mediterranean?” asked Dick, who was beginning to feel as if a small cyclone was raging round his head.
“Raymond found out, we all discovered that Mr. John Jones intended to take his broken-hearted daughter on this trip, thinking that it might divert her attention and help her to forget him. Raymond determined to go in the same boat. I persuaded him that it wouldn’t be of any use unless I went too. Juliet begged and prayed me to help her and off we went.”
“You ought to have confided in your husband, Elaine. It was very wrong of you not to do so,” said Mrs. Ashmere.
“If the silly old darling hadn’t cut up so rough I might have told him. But I knew that he would want to come too, and that would have given the whole plot away. So we went off and left poor Dick to read up the divorce rules---at least, that is what we supposed he would do. We never thought that he would take himself off to the East.”
She spoke of the divorce laws as if they related to a game like lawn tennis.
“You silly child,” murmured Dick.
“It was a jolly party, but we still had to play up. The great thing was to set Mr. John Jones’ mind at rest about Juliet.”
“And you did it?” asked Ruby, full of admiration for her clever friend.
“Rather! After we had recovered from the Bay of Biscay and got our sea legs, I told Raymond that we must get a move on. We might have gone all the way there and back again without coming to checkmate in the game.”
“I wonder Juliet wasn’t jealous,” remarked Dick.
“She was too much of a sport and not so wooden-headed as someone I know! One moonlight night we three were sitting together---the old man was playing bridge in the smoking-room---and we held a consultation. I told Raymond that I should have to give him up and go tooth and nail for Mr. Jones. He was quite agreeable. That very night I began my campaign. I waited for old whisky king to come out of the smoking-room and asked him to have a stroll on deck with me. I kept him away from the particular boat under cover of which Raymond was marking time with Juliet, and I made violent love to him.”
“Elaine!” protested Mrs. Ashmere.
“The next day I continued my tactics with the greatest success. He fell at once. I never had an easier conquest. He was so proud of having cut out a younger man.”
Elaine’s laugh of pure glee was infectious. Mrs. Ashmere ceased to frown. Ruby and Dick roared. She continued:
“Raymond moped and Juliet used dozens of hankies mopping up imaginary tears. She even learned to sob quite prettily. It was all done according to plan. Meanwhile I saw to it that all this was properly observed by the hard-hearted parent. I dwelt on the cruelty of the older generation towards the younger. I accused parents of being jealous of their children who were younger than themselves, and said that there ought to be a lethal chamber for all such parents when they got out of hand and oppressed their juniors.”
“Well done, Elaine!” cried Ruby, clapping her hands. “What did the old whisky king say?”
“It penetrated. My dears! it got home to the very bottom of the round-shouldered bottle. He really was rather an old darling. I began by thinking him a dreadful brute, but I changed my opinion later.”
“I hope you didn’t fall in love with him,” remarked Dick.
“That’s another story, dearest,” she replied, with a twinkle of mischief in her sunny blue eyes. “I’ll tell you all about that later on.”
“Don’t switch her off her story, Mr. Dangerfield,” pleaded Ruby, who wanted to hear the end. “How did you bring the old man round?”
“I asked him---I had to let him hold my hand while I did it—— You don’t mind, do you, darling?” she asked, smiling up at Dick.
“It doesn’t seem to matter whether I mind or not. Go on with the story of your wickedness.”
“My self-sacrifice, you mean!”
“All right, have it as you like. I don’t mind now I’ve got you safe back again.”
“I asked Mr. John Jones why he was so down on poor Juliet. I said I had taken on Raymond in sheer pity and ‘Now I’ve forsaken him for you!’ I said. ‘I feel a perfect pig. But it was a failure,’ I added, ‘I couldn’t console Raymond, try as I would!’ and I tried my best to look woebegone and sad.”
“I hope he was duly impressed,” remarked Mrs. Ashmere.
“It wasn’t exactly a walk-over, but I didn’t intend to give it up. Not me! I had another go at him. ‘Look at them!’ I cried, as they walked past us separately, each of them the picture of misery. ‘They take no interest in the beautiful scenery that we are passing. He mopes and she is crying her eyes out. Can’t you see for yourself how she has aged? She’s getting old and ugly on crossed love, and she’ll die. Her death will be at your door, my dear.’ He liked being called ‘my dear.’ It went a long way to help matters on in the right direction. After a good long pause I said quite softly: ‘Why don’t you let her have her way and marry him?’ ‘You coaxing little minx!’ he said. I felt I was making progress.”
Again Dick laughed, as though he knew something of the ways of this “coaxing little minx.”
“‘Why shouldn’t they marry?’ I asked. ‘Because he hasn’t a penny in the world but his secretaryship,’ was the old man’s reply. ‘Were you any better off when you began?’ I asked. I had him there and he couldn’t reply. He began life by being head bottlewasher to the firm or something like that. I saw I had scored, and I made haste to follow it up and get my knife in properly. ‘Why don’t you take Raymond into your office and make him whisky-taster or something like that, something useful. He’s accustomed to buy for the club.’”
“What did he say to that?” asked Ruby, full of admiration for her friend’s courage and ingenuity.
“He roared with laughter. It was good to hear him. It brought Juliet, full of curiosity, to see what I was doing with her father. Then he called me a witch and beckoned to his daughter. She came, looking rather frightened. ‘Go and ask that fellow Browne if he would like a billet in the firm of John Jones the whisky king!’ You should have seen her joy. It was like the sun breaking out after a long, wet February fill-dyke month of dismal days.”
“How perfectly delicious!” exclaimed Ruby. “Weren’t they frightfully happy?”
“I felt that my mission was over,” continued Elaine. “After Raymond, whom, of course, I had to give up, Mr. John Jones did not fill the gap. A poor sort of joy-stick I thought him. A pressing wire from my devoted husband——”
“I never wired to you, darling!” protested Dick.
“You didn’t wire because you hadn’t any idea of where I was. If you had known I was certain you would have wired and I traded on that conviction. According to your telegraphic bidding I broke away from the ship at Port Said and came on here.”
“How did you know I was in the south of India?” asked Dick.
“Ruby kept me posted in all your moves.”
“Oh!” was all Dick could say. He thanked his lucky star that Ruby had her news second or third hand from her father’s letters to her mother. Madura was a closed book so far as he was concerned and should remain so. The disconcerting events, whether physical or psychological, were best buried in oblivion.
The lunch gong sounded. As they went into the dining-room Elaine said:
“We must give Raymond and Juliet a wedding present. They will be married as soon as they reach home.”
“What you please, darling,” replied Dick, ready to give his wife the new moon if it was procurable.
“A cocktail set, I think. They will be able to get their liquors at trade prices.”
Two cocktail sets were required. The second was received by Ralph Molena three months later on his wedding day. He recovered from his illness and Daphne believed that his recovery was entirely due to the sacrifice she had made in giving her talisman to Dangerfield.
The wishing stone lay hidden in Dick’s collar-box forgotten by its custodian and leading an inactive existence among studs and sleeve-links and tiepins.
One day Dangerfield recalled it to mind. They were just leaving Benares, the city of treasures. They had been visiting a jeweller’s shop, and Elaine had feasted her eyes on a wealth of precious stones, cut and uncut, set in gold or silver or collected in bulk unset for customers to choose from. She was shown an Alexandrite, but was not particularly attracted. Pearls and diamonds appealed to her youthful taste more than the quaint and curious.
The sight of the Alexandrite reminded Dick of Daphne’s treasure. When he returned to the hotel he went to his dressing-room to search for the trinket with a view of showing it to Elaine and offering it to her. He did not intend to expatiate on its supposed virtues. He had no desire to infect his wife with the little Anglo-Indian’s superstition.
The stone was not there. He called his dressing-boy and asked him if he had seen it. He was met with assurances that he had not touched it. But he would look for it. It had probably fallen out of the collar-box and was lying loose in the suitcase.
That evening the man brought it with a tale of having found it, as he had suggested, at the bottom of the suitcase. He explained with many apologies that it must have dropped out of the box in the course of their travels. It had hidden itself, as the boy put it, under master’s shirts.
“What an ugly thing!” cried Elaine, when he showed it to her. “You don’t expect me to wear a stone like that! It is set in dull silver, and that not of the purest kind, judging by its leaden colour.”
“It’s a curiosity,” he replied, a little hurt at her scornful attitude towards an object that was priceless in Daphne’s eyes. But Elaine was ignorant of its mystical property.
“May be anything in its extreme ugliness. I don’t consider it suitable for an Englishwoman to wear. Might please one of those coolie girls on the road.”
“I quite agree with you,” he rejoined abruptly. “The jeweller to-day showed us a stone called an Alexandrite.”
“That hideous dark green gem, which he said looked red by candlelight?” questioned Elaine.
“This stone has the red ray.”
“Let’s look at it.”
She took it again, and carried it to the light, turning it this way and that to catch the mysterious glow.
“I don’t see any sign of a red glow in the stone,” she remarked as she handed the trinket back to him indifferently. Had she known its reputed virtues she might have shown more interest.
Dick received it without comment. When she had gone to her room he examined the stone closely by lamplight. It was true as Elaine had remarked. There was no sign of the red fire in its dark depths.
He was puzzled. Had virtue gone out of the mysterious wishing stone now that it had fallen into the hands of a sceptic? But was he a sceptic?
He recalled his first and only experiment with it. All that he had then desired with the stone lying blood-warm in the palm of his hand had been fulfilled.
He returned it to the collar-box. He did not intend to test its power again. The thing had lost all interest for him, and he agreed with his wife. It was undoubtedly an ugly ornament, which, as an ornament, held no attraction for the fastidious Englishwoman.
After his return to England he showed it to an expert in precious stones.
“This is not an Alexandrite,” said the expert. “It is a piece of bottle-glass shaped like the stone and substituted for the original by one of your servants. A Hindu would never allow a gem that he believed to be a talisman to leave his country.”
“What would be its value if it were the real thing?” asked Dick, wondering if he had lost something precious.
“Not great. There is no demand for gems that are not handsome and brilliant in themselves. As a model of a charm worn by a Hindu woman this trinket may have a certain value as a curiosity. Nothing more.”
Dangerfield called to memory the moonshi, whom he had paid off when he and Elaine had embarked at Bombay for England. The trinket was missing at Benares. It must have been there that the glass model was substituted. The real wishing stone had probably gone back to its original owner, Singara. The red ray was doubtless intact, and executing the will of its possessor with the consent of the gods. Dick did not regret it. On the contrary, he was well content to leave India and all its belongings behind him. Even before he set foot in old England again his impressions, disconcerting though they might have been at the time, seemed dreamlike. He recalled Kipling’s pronouncement that he puts in the mouth of one of his inimitable characters:
“Know ye the riddle of the Gods? When Brahm ceases to dream the Heavens and the Hells and Earth disappear. Be content. Brahm dreams still. The dreams come and go, and the nature of the dreams changes, but still Brahm dreams.”