The Marriage of Meldrum Strange/Chapter 12

HE next few days were in some respects the most remarkable in Ommony’s adventurous career, although at the time he was too occupied to realize it. He fretted for the future of his forest like a woman with one child and, being a man of action, it occurred to him that the only way to prevent one of those unforeseen slips that send men’s plans agley was to keep every one else busy.

He had to keep good-tempered and apparently serene, which in itself was difficult enough; to think in two languages, which was easy; to divine the thought of Hindu priests and a Bengali babu, in which practise had made him proficient; to foresee chance, which is impossible; and to be everywhere at once, which is mainly metaphysics. He accomplished marvels; but all men have their limitations.

His opinion of Strange by that time was much lower than any man may safely entertain about any other man. The trunk arrived by elephant, and he sent it to the Panch Mahal. Then, fearing that Strange might walk abroad and stumble upon facts too plain to be misinterpreted, he begged his sister to see as much of the millionaire as possible and use her tact to the utmost to persuade him to stay indoors. She consented. She always had been sisterly and loyal; many a difficult negotiation Ommony had pulled off with her devoted aid. But she disgusted Jeff Ramsden by so obviously aiding in a plot that he thought outrageous.

“Women are all cut from the same piece!” Jeff grumbled to himself, and left them as much as possible alone, strolling off for exercise whenever she put in appearance.

The raja was another difficulty. Ommony managed him by harping on the Ville Lumière string. He persuaded the raja to get busy packing, not, however, encouraging him to leave Chota Pegu yet, for fear he might meet some high official in Bombay or elsewhere and let the cat out of the bag—a thing he would delight in doing.

Then Zelmira Poulakis needed wise counselling. He insisted to her that the danger was Molyneux, who might at any moment fly off the peg and stop the whole proceedings with a high hand.

“Brass-face is a hard nut for his own sex; but he’s putty in a woman’s hands,” he told her. “He’s another of these convinced bachelors who’d rather flirt than feather a nest. Go riding with him. Use the raja’s horses. Keep Brass-face off the lot as much as possible.”

Zelmira complied. She was nothing if not a good sport; and a good sport, of either sex, was the one thing under heaven Molyneux admired. So Molyneux attached himself to her court as mounted baronet-in-waiting and the two rode all about the countryside with a Hindu sais behind them, who entertained the other saises in the stables afterwards with imitations of the Brass-face sahib’s, “Hah-hah-hah.” But he could not describe Zelmira’s answering music; she laughs like Titania, which is over the head of an Indian groom’s histrionics.

Then there was the babu. Something had bitten him. He was getting uppish. He had altogether too much to say—too many notions—too much independence altogether. He did not even clamor for emolument. The wine of the conspiracy had gone into his head. He talked of “we, ourselves, and us,” as if Ommony and he were partners, and he senior. When ordered to do one thing he frequently did another; ordered to say one thing, he sometimes said the opposite. Abused and threatened for it, he tried to look chastened, but failed, and could be heard chuckling the instant Ommony’s back was turned. Yet Ommony dared not get rid of him at that stage of proceedings. The babu knew too much.

Besides, Chullunder Ghose would have to serve as go-between; almost as master of ceremonies. Some one who knew English and could interpret the priests’ requirements would have to be in attendance, and none except the babu was available. Ommony himself could hardly put in an appearance. He intended to witness the initiation, but from hiding, along with Charley Mears; and it was likely anyhow that Strange would object to having any white man, except his own friend Jeff, to witness rites that he felt sure Strange hoped would be outrageous.

And that thought brought another in its wake. He knew Molyneux. He dared bet on what Molyneux would do in any given set of circumstances. Nothing less than fatal injury would restrain Molyneux from witnessing the ceremony—a certainty that presented advantages, but an obstacle as well. Objections raised by the priests themselves would weigh nothing in Molyneux’s estimate, who would present himself at the front gate, demand admittance and obtain it. That might stop the whole proceedings.

“Tell you what,” he said to Molyneux. “You don’t want to appear in this officially, I suppose?”

“, sir, no!”

“Strange might jib at that, too. He’d hate to be made a fool of in front of a uniformed British official.

“I don’t blame him.”

“The raja won’t be there, of course. The priests and he don’t hit it off. Why don’t you borrow an outfit from the raja. You’ll look splendid in it, and Strange won’t know you’re not an Indian prince. He doesn’t care in the least what Indians think of him.”

“Hah-hah-hah!” The monocle went into place. “Gad, Ommony! By, that ’ud be a good joke, wouldn’t it! Think the raja’s finery would fit me? Eh?”

Ommony took heart of grace. As a machine-gun man will test the mechanism that he knows is perfect on the eve of action; as a hunter tests a trap-fall; as a doctor feels a convalescing patient’s pulse, he could not keep himself from testing what seemed to him the one uncertain link.

“You’ve no objection then to going through with it?”

“By gad, no!”

“No fear of your calling it off at the last minute?”

“None in the world.”

Ommony sighed silently, relieved beyond expression, and went off for another interview with the priests, who he knew might not be trusted, but whom he felt he could manage none the less. Molyneux was dynamite. If he exploded, nothing invented could contain or hold him. The priests were mercury, elusive and dangerous, but likely to flow down-hill along the line of least resistance.

On the way he met Charley Mears, and stepped aside behind a garden wall to talk with him.

“Is everything ready?” he asked.

“Sure bet. I got the camera in place while Strange was showing your sister the inner courtyard. But it’s my belief Strange don’t care a hoot. He saw me once, and I think he recognized me. He avoids that room up-stairs as if he knows my things are in there and don’t want to seem to know. The door’s locked, but he’s never even tried to open it.”

“That’s just fortunate coincidence.”

“Well: he’s looked everywhere else. I asked Jeff what he thought about it, and Jeff just snorted. He’s not fit to speak to—wanders off on his own like a bear with a sore head.”

“Last minute nerves, that’s all,” said Ommony. “Over the top tomorrow, and all’s well.”

“Yes, I guess it’s nerves all right. I’ve a hunch there’s a peg loose. However, you’re running it.”

“Everything’s in first class shape,” said Ommony, and laughed, and left him.

Then the priests: another matter altogether. They were aloof and alone in a quiet temple that had seen its better days, perhaps, but still exuded an atmosphere of changelessness and influence. Its outer court was hidden among sar-trees and surrounded by a wall on which the legends of the gods were carved with no mean skill. The centuries had smoothed and subdued all harshness, and a bell that tolled frequently suggested in mellow tones that there was comfort in austerity—a thought improved on by the doves, that cooed all day long in an endless hymn of mother-magic.

There was no space in the courtyard where an unclean heretic from oversea might stand; but there was an outer court—a sort of jail-yard, cut off by high, squared masonry, where those untouchables who sweep the streets and make themselves generally useful may squat and listen to beatitude afar off. Ommony was in their class for the time being. He entered the enclosure with suitable reverence, and stood still until a twice-born venerable with shaven head and straggling beard hailed him reasonably insolently from a platform set above the wall. With becoming diffidence Ommony drew nearer.

The platform was designed, with a round hole on the side toward the unclean department, so that riff-raff from the dregs of the less-than-Brahmin world might stand underneath and be blessed by curt phrases, as it were spat down at them. They might even make their wishes known by standing beneath with faces upturned, that being a properly repectful [sic] attitude, calculated to enhance the priestly dignity. But it was excruciatingly uncomfortable; and the view to be had of the underside of a priest—a sort of worm’s-eye view of heaven—added nothing to the charm.

THERE was silence for quite a long time, while the priest waited for Ommony to speak first, and he waited for the priest, neither man choosing to overstimulate the other’s pride. The of it was, that if you looked up you looked suppliant; and if you looked down you naturally presented a hang-dog aspect to the haughty ecclesiastic. However, those were the two alternatives; if you stepped back you were beyond the pale, not speechless necessarily but according to the rules inaudible.

The temple bell boomed three times, its golden note shimmering away into infinity, before Ommony could master his exasperation to the point of speaking first.

“Are all things ready?” he demanded.

“All what things?”

Ommony laid his head right back to see better through the hole, but had to squint because the sun was in his eyes.

“You listen to me!” he retorted angrily. “This affair has gone too far for any high-horse business. If you don’t talk frankly you can call the whole thing off and we’ll let the Government interfere.

That is roughly what he said. The Urdu of it, literally set down, would not appeal to a western sense of the proprieties. The words he actually used were penetrating—pierced even priestly armor—brought response.

“There is no need for the sahib to feel indignant.”

“No, no need! Permit me, sahib!”

He turned and found Chullunder Ghose behind him, looking meek and amiable, which surely implied he was full to the cranium of mischief. What was worse, it implied the babu had been spying. Why had he followed Ommony in there uninvited? Why should he approach the priests at all by that humiliating route, when there was another fairer court reserved for persons of his intermediate state of unrighteousness?

However, the babu seized the upper hand by storm before there was time to prevent him. Standing well back, so that he could see the priest over the edge of the platform, he began to hurl abuse at him, insulting him with every epithet Bengali imagination could invent, ending breathless on the point—his real argument:

“Moreover, you are a fool. This sahib has brains. You should treat him with deference.”

Whereat the incredible occurred. The priest called to some one beneath him in the inner courtyard. There was a pause, after which keys were heard to jangle on a ring. Then a small door set deeply in a corner of the wall was opened cautiously; and through the opening, but touching neither door nor wall, an arm emerged and beckoned Ommony and the babu.

“Quick, sahib! This is a high honor!”

The babu, almost pushing Ommony in his excitement, hurried through after him and a lean priest locked the door at their backs. Even so, they were not in the inner courtyard, but in a sort of cell without a roof, with another small door at the far side, through which the man with the keys disappeared. It was like a pen for sorting animals, where they might perhaps be disinfected before admission to the main corral; only there was a stone bench along one side, and Ommony sat down on it.

“High, very great honor!” said the babu, squatting at his feet.

Before they had time to exchange a dozen words the inner door opened and two priests entered, neither of whom was the same who had spoken from the platform. By their air these were men higher up, although they wore no insignia to prove it. They had no need to swagger. Their assurance was too absolute to call for self-expression. Self-conscious sanctity had no more use for sanctimoniousness. They had come to study an insect, and proceeded.

“What do you want?” asked one of them, as if that might be interesting.

Ommony took his time about answering. He was seated, and it did not run counter to his humor to keep them standing. What little wind he could feel in his sails, so to speak, that minute was so light that he pondered before deciding on which way to lay his helm. And before he made decision the babu robbed him of what little wind there was.

“The sahib comes to ask your honors’ excellency whether all is in order for the initiation? Are there hitches?”

“No, no hitches.” Just three words, spoken without apparent movement of the lips, in a voice devoid of emotion. Then: “But delay,” said the other priest; and if he noticed the look of exasperation that swept over Ommony’s face he gave no sign of it.

“The sahib is in haste,” said the babu, glancing from Ommony to them and back again.

No statement ever was more true, but it had no effect on the priests. They were as interested as anglers might be in the protests of a dying fish. Ommony could not afford to let proceedings hang fire. Strange might cut loose any minute. Molyneux might change his mind and decide the Central Government should interfere. Zelmira—even his own sister—might make some mistake. He himself was nearly worn out with sleeplessness and worry; and there was no certainty that the raja might not betray the whole plan any minute. If the raja should see Strange

“It is time,” he said simply, mastering the impulse to stand up and storm at them.

“Then why does he wait?”

That was the ultimate of insolence, expressed superbly. No frown—no curling lip—no hauteur; merely interest, addressed to the babu, not to Ommony. Ommony decided it was time to lose his temper.

“I’m here to tell you I propose to wait no longer!” he answered indignantly. “It’s time for you to carry out your promises.”

“To what does he refer? We made no promises.”

To the babu again, not to Ommony; as if the babu were his keeper. The babu began to speak, but checked himself. The other priest had a word to say:

“It is for suppliants to promise. We have ears, and we remember.”

“What does he mean?” demanded Ommony, trying to turn the tables by directing his question at the babu instead of at them. But he gained nothing by it; the priests’ indifference was that of graven marble.

“Sahib, it is as this babu said. They make no promises to any one. They make stipulation, and await sahib’s promise, same not having yet been made.”

“What do they want?”

“Promise of Panch Mahal.”

“It isn’t mine,” said Ommony. “How can I promise them what doesn't belong to me?”

The babu made no pretense to knowing that. He turned to the priests. The exchange between him and Ommony having been in English, he interpreted.

“Neither does his necessity belong to us,” one of the priests answered.

Ommony swore fervently under his breath, not caring whether the priests saw his discomfiture or not. They obviously understood the situation. They had let him lay his plans to the point where success depended solely on themselves, and now took advantage of that to spring impossible demands. How could he promise them Strange’s property?

“Tell them I’ll do my best,” he said angrily.

One of the priests permitted himself the luxury of a thin, hard smile.

“They want definite promise,” said the babu, without waiting for the priests to say the obvious.

Ommony got to his feet disgusted, feeling for his pipe.

“All right,” he said. “Let ’em call the whole thing off.”

He did not know what he was going to do, except to turn his back on the priests and have no more dealings with them. He supposed he must go first to Molyneux and confess failure; then, presumably, to Strange and plead with him. He liked that thought about as much as a condemned man enjoys the prospect of the gallows. However, what was the use of arguing? He laid his hand on the door leading to the outer court. But it was locked.

“Let me out,” he said angrily.

But while his back was turned he had given the enemy time for conference. It does not take long for priests of that religion to exchange glances and a nod. They made no move to let him out, and he turned on them again. One of the priests said something in a low voice to Chullunder Ghose.

“Their excellencies say,” said the babu, “that the Panch Mahal is theirs by right. No white man will be allowed to occupy it.”

The priest spoke again. The babu interpreted.

“They need it for their purposes. They would be careful for the forest.”

The other priest said something in an undertone. The babu’s quick ear caught the words, and he turned them promptly into English—

“Moreover, in the matter of the forest, it is not wise to offend the servants of the gods.”

The implied threat was obvious enough, but Ommony’s spirit surged in him instantly. They were temporizing! They did not wish to close the discussion! Then there was a weak joint in their armor somewhere. He prayed to whatever gods there might be to point it out to him, but the gods seem always humorously dumb in an emergency.

He looked at the priests. They were emotionless. His eye fell on the babu squatting before them in a pose of reverent humility. Reason, intuition, instinct, all three warned him that the babu was playing for no hand but his own. Ergo, if the babu had a private understanding with the priests then he might be the weak joint. But how to prove it? And what then?

Possibly they thought he, Ommony, was somebody whose yea or nay amounted to more than it really did. The babu might have given them to understand that. Priests think in terms of autocracy, and most of India deludes itself as to the real power, or lack of it, that legally belongs to an official!

“Ask them what they think of me?” he demanded suddenly.

The question took the priests entirely by surprize. They smirked at each other, confessing they did not know how to answer it. Their true thoughts would have been so insolent as to make further approach impossible. They had a thousand thoughts about him in the relative, where temporary delusions are acceptable for the sake of convenience. Which thought did he mean?

“Nothing!” was the answer they would have liked to give; but one does not give that kind of answer to a government official at whose hands advantage is sought. One of the priests said something very quickly. The babu caught it and interpreted—

“They say, they know the sahib’s influence can prevent a transfer to themselves of legal title to the Panch Mahal.”

To tell the truth and deny that would have been mere stupidity.

“I promise not to try to prevent it,” he said simply.

“If a transfer is arranged, will the sahib permit it?”

“Yes.”

That was all. The priests nodded, saying something as they turned to go.

“The ceremony may take place tomorrow,” said the babu, as the man came with the keys to turn them out through the other door. So Ommony went, feeling mystified. What had they up their sleeves? What, he wondered, did the babu know about it?