On the Face of the Waters: A Tale of the Mutiny

by Flora Annie Webster Steel

For Jim Douglas was already on his way back to Delhi, on his way back to more than Delhi if he succeeded in carrying out a plan which had suggested itself to him when he heard of General Hearsey's belief that the priests conducting the agitation against widow remarriage and the abolition of suttee were leagued with the Mohammedan revival. Tara, the would-be saint, was still in Delhi. He had not sought her out before, being in truth angry with the woman's duplicity, and not wanting to run the risk of her chattering about him. Now, as he had said, the whole position was changed. He had no common hold upon her, and might through her get some useful hints as to the leading men in the movement. She must have seen them when the miracle took place at Benares. The thought made him smile rather savagely. Decidedly she would not care to defy his tongue; from saint to sinner would be too great a fall.

So at dusk that very evening he was back in his mendicant's disguise, begging at a doorway in one of the oldest parts of Delhi. An insignificant doorway in an insignificant alley. But there was a faded wreath of yellow marigolds over the architrave, a deeper hollow in the stone threshold; sure signs, both, that something to attract worshiping feet lay within. Yet at first sight the court into which you entered, after a brief passage barred by blank wall, was much as other courts. It was set round with high irregular houses, perfect rabbit-warrens of tiny rooms, slips of roof, and stairs; all conglomerate, yet distinct. Some reached from within, some from without, some from neighboring roofs, and some, Heaven knows how! possibly by wings, after the fashion of the purple pigeons cooing and sidling on the purple brick cornices. In one corner, however, stood a huge peepul-tree, and partly shaded by this, partly attached to an arcaded building of two stories, was a small, squalid-looking, black stone Hindoo temple. It was not more than ten feet square, triply recessed at each corner, and with a pointed spire continuing the recesses of the base. A sort of hollow monolith raised on a plinth of three steps. In its dark windowless sanctuary, open to the outside world by a tingle arch, stood a polished black stone, resting on a polished black stone cup, like a large acorn. For this was the oldest Shivâla in Delhi, and in the rabbit-warrens surrounding this survival of Baal worship lived and lodged yogis, beggars, saints, half the insanity and sacerdotalism of Delhi. It was not a place into which to venture rashly. So Jim Douglas sat at the gate begging while the clashings and brayings and drumings echoed out into the alley. For the seven fold circling of the Lamps was going on, and if Tara did not pass to this evening service from outside, she most likely lived within; that she lodged near the temple he knew.

So as he sat waiting, watching, the light faded, the faint smell of incense grew fainter, the stream of worshipers coming to take the holy water in which the god had been washed slackened. Then by twos and threes the Brahmins and yogis--the Dean and Chapter, as it were--passed out clinking half-pennies, and carrying the offertory in kind, tied up in handkerchiefs.

The service was over, and Tara must therefore live in a lodging reached from within. And now, when the coast was clearing, he might still have opportunity of tracing her. So he rose and walked in boldly, disappointed to find the courtyard was almost empty already. There were only a few stragglers, mostly women, and they in the white shroud of widows; but even in the gloom and shadow he could see the tall figure he sought was not among them, and he was about to slip away when, following their looks, he caught sight of another figure crouching on the topmost step of the plinth, right in front of the sanctuary door, so that it stood faintly outlined against the glimmer of the single cresset, which, raised on the heap of half-dead flowers within, showed them and nothing more--nothing but the shadows.

He drew back hastily into the empty arcade, and waited for the widows' lingering bare feet--scarcely heard even on those echoing stones--to pass out and leave him and Tara alone. For it was Tara. That he knew though her face was turned from him.

The feet lingered on, making him fear lest some of the mendicants who must lodge in these arcades should return, after almsgiving time, and find him there. And as they lingered he thought how he had best make himself known to the devotee, the saint. It must be something dramatic, something to tie her tongue at once, something to bring home to her his hold upon her. The locket! He slipped it from his neck and stood ready. Then, as the last flutter of white disappeared, he stepped noiselessly across the court.

And so, suddenly, between the rapt face and the dim light on which its eyes were fixed, hung a dangling gold oval, and the Englishman, bending over the woman's shoulder from behind, could see the amaze flash to the face. And his other hand was ready with the clutch of command, his tongue with a swift threat; but she was too quick for him. She was round at his feet in an instant, clasping them.

"Master! Master!"

Jim Douglas recoiled from that touch once more; but with a half-shamed surprise, regret, almost remorse. He had meant to threaten this woman, and now----

She was up again, eager, excited. "Quick! The Huzoor is not safe here. They may return any moment. Quick! Quick! Huzoor, follow me."