The Marriage of Meldrum Strange/Chapter 14

P IN the little hot room with a hole in the wall that provided view of the whole courtyard, Ommony stood sweating beside Charley Mears, who had abandoned native costume because there was no more need of it. Charley was arrayed in white duck pants and an undershirt. He looked like a gun-layer going into action. But his gun was a machine with a powerful lens, whose food was sensitized film instead of cartridges.

The window was shuttered, which made the air stifling, but there were holes through which a man could see, and Ommony, wiping the sweat from his neck, clapped an eye to each hole in turn repeatedly, careful not to trip over the camera legs that were spraddled out in three directions so that the camera looked like an enormous spider ready to spring on its prey below.

“Can’t see my sister anywhere,” he grumbled. “Did you notice her come in?”

“No,” said Charley. “I was sighting the machine.”

“!” remarked Ommony.

He realized that he had seen too little of his sister during the last few days, and she had all the family proclivity for launching off on independent lines of action. Brains she had, and loyalty she had, but scant sense of obedience, and too much reliance on her own judgment. He recalled more than one occasion when she had taken her own course without waiting to consult him. Where the dickens was she?

“Strange is looking much too pleased with himself,” he said presently.

“It’s my belief he knows this camera’s up here,” said Charley, squatting down at last beside his gun, since all was ready. “He glanced up here once or twice,” he added, wiping the sweat off his hands on the seat of his pants. “Gee! Is that what they call music?”

“Who let the crowd in?” Ommony demanded. He had been busy talking to an emissary from the priests in one of the other rooms, and the man had been so deliberately stupid that everything had to be said three or four times over, so that Ommony had missed quite a lot of what went on.

“Dunno,” said Charley. “The babu acted usher.”

“ that babu!”

“He seems like a kind of a humorous guy to me,” said Charley. But that remark was only further irritation.

Ommony had worse than doubt of the babu. He more than suspected him. He was willing to take oath that Chullunder Ghose was up to mischief on his own account, making money out of the proceedings in some ingenious way. For one thing, he was nearly sure he had an understanding with the priests; and he did not flatter himself for one minute that his own bargain with the priests was worth an anna if the priests should discover another means of getting what they wanted. They had promised nothing—merely permitted him to infer that they would fulfill their part; and he would not have felt much easier even if they had made a definite promise.

“Rascals!” he muttered, over and over again.

Well: it was too late now to change anything or call the whole proceedings off. He foresensed disaster; but in that event he knew what he would do. There would be pictures, that much was certain—pictures that would make Strange look ridiculous—that, if a Government a thousand miles away should see them, would show Strange in an intriguing light. If worse came to worst, he would go down into the courtyard and dare Strange to do a thing about the forest—threaten him—tell him of the pictures. And there was a rope-ladder all ready for Charley to make his escape with the exposed reels. If Strange should laugh at the threats, then the reels should go to Simla and be shown there.

His whole plan began to look like a nightmare that might end any way except satisfactorily, and the infernal music in the courtyard heightened the suggestion, grating on nerves already on end from lack of sleep and proper meals. He had tried to oversee too many things at once, and knew it. Charley, eyeing him thoughtfully; diagnosed stage-fright and tried to comfort him.

“You should worry,” he said. “You’ll have done your best. That’s all a man can do.”

But Ommony’s creed is stern. He must save the forest. India, the world, the universe would undoubtedly continue to evolve, whatever happened. But there would be no excuse acceptable in face of leagues and leagues of slaughtered trees. There was his life’s work. When his own hour came to face his Karma there would be the dreadful question—just, simple, inescapable—“What ha’ you done?”

Not what the other man did. What had he, Cottswold Ommony done? Where were the trees entrusted to his keeping? Sincerely, simply, he would rather die than fail the forest. His own personal honor and advantage weighed nothing in the scale.

“Gee! The light off that wall’s perfect!” said Charley, scattering encouragement at random in the hope that some might stick.

“Keep Strange in focus. That’s the main thing.”

“Can’t do a close-up from here, you know. He’ll show small but recognizable.”

“Are you ready?” Ommony snapped suddenly. “Shoot then!”

And the crank of the camera began turning steadily, sixteen times a minute.

Below, the weird stringed-instruments burst into sudden spasms of twanged noise and the flutes screamed through that while the thumping of the tom-toms rose and fell. Out filed the nautch-girls from behind the screen—bare of stomach—breasts hidden under tinselled shields—shirted to the knees in pale-blue gauzy stuff. Half moved to the right, half to the left, until their line stretched from end to end across the stage and they all stood motionless, leaving a gap in their midst through which the forty-ninth, the “leading lady,” came.

She was unlike all the others—prettier; and such scant garments as she wore were bronze instead of blue. The bosses on her breasts were studded with uncut jewels, and her bracelets glittered. In either hand she held garlands made from flower-buds threaded on strings, and as she swayed her lithe body those shook until they looked like wind-blown blossoms falling from the trees. But that was not their purpose. She had other use for them.

Strange sat smiling with a big cigar stuck upward in the corner of his mouth, having his money’s worth so far by the look of him and much too pleased with himself.

“You wait!” muttered Ommony. “You forest-robber! Wait!”

But he had an eye, too, for Zelmira, whose jeweled bracelet rose and fell as she tried to find some intelligible rhythm in the music. It did not seem to Ommony that she was paying sufficient attention; she should have been watching for her cue, instead of whispering to Molyneux and laughing at the man’s jokes. Molyneux was perfectly capable of spoiling the whole thing by keeping her there beside him, instead of letting her slip away behind the scenes.

However, the nautch was on. Ommony’s urgent business was to stand ready to hand Charley a fresh reel and slip the exposed one into its steel box, so that they might miss as few incidents as possible.

THE music diminished to proportions in which some ryhthm [sic] was at last perceptible, and the forty-nine girls began to sing, swaying from the feet upward, rather like plants seeking to uproot themselves than women dancing. The long line moved in ripples like waving corn, and the gong was a wail, mad-melancholy, but redeemed by golden notes and the faint, far-away peal of a bronze bell struck from behind the scenes at intervals.

It was a long dance, and a language. Each motion was a symbol that had meant the same since India arose from prehistoric sea-bed and became a land; plainer and fuller of meaning than words to eyes uneducated in the changing symbols of the West. It was a simple enough story, of seed, rain, growth and harvest, with fertilizing wind ablow through all of it, and all the while a lipped hymn to the ancient Gods who cause such sequences to be—melancholy only because men refuse to recognize the breath of God in all things.

These were the temple virgins—institution older than the hills—no more conscious of the inner meaning of the ancient rite than their audience, that looked for phallic impropriety, and found it, India having descended into evil days. Production, reproduction, birth and evolution, all were mocked in a rite designed to glorify them. But it pleased Strange. He chewed on his cigar, and smiled with hands across his stomach, like a bald-head in the front row at the Gaiety. It was expensive. He had paid too much for the Panch Mahal. But this was a pretty good make-weight they had thrown in.

You could see him wondering what the fellows at the club would say when he told them all about it. Not many Englishmen, and no Americans had ever seen that dance. There was one Englishman who did not want to see it, and the village audience chuckled, for the padre-sahib, who had been sitting out of sight of them on a low chair in front of the image of the four-faced god, came around and sat between it and them, where he could not see the stage.

The music changed, as if the padre-sahib’s mood invited it. It defied him—mocked his disapproval—rose into a wild confusion of wailing wind and thrumming strings, with the drums doing galloping foot falls. The eight-and-forty nautch-girls stood nearly motionless, swaying only slightly from the waist. But she in the midst with a glittering gossamer shawl to aid her, began a serpent dance, like the fabled madness of the pythons in the spring. And that was devilish.

“Get this!” urged Ommony. “Focus on her now, and follow her whatever happens!”

“, she moves too quick!” said Charley. “She’s the goods, if she’d go slow!”

“Aim for her and nothing else! We’ll get some of it.”

There came eight priests charting, and walking slowly out from behind the screen—filed down the steps—and stood in line between them and where Strange sat—backs to the audience—cutting Strange off, as it were, from the common herd. And Ommony laughed, for he saw Jeff Ramsden nudge Strange and clench his fist. There was going to be a fight unless the priests should watch their step, and that would serve perfectly. Anything, in fact, would serve that should give Zelmira her chance to rescue Strange from a predicament.

But Strange whispered behind his hand, and Jeff sat back again apparently contented. And why had Zelmira not vanished behind the wings? She should have gone already, but there she sat still beside Molyneux, without a trouble in the world, to look at her.

“Another reel, quick!” snapped Charley. “This is hot stuff!”

The python-dance was languishing to long, slow, undulating movements that the camera could record, and fingers slippery with sweat worked feverishly to snap the fresh reel in and resume cranking. Ommony clapped his eye to a hole in the shutter again, and almost shouted:

“Get this now! Get this! Are you sure you’re on?”

“Sure, I’ve got it. It’s good.”

Slowly down the steps the nautch-girl came, pausing on every step to let the python-spirit torture her into new, monstrous shapes. The priests’ chant and the music rose to wilder heights. The other nautch-girls swayed in a sort of delirious ecstasy, humming obbligato to the priests. The native audience moved in unison, their breath expiring in great gasps all together. Suddenly Strange let his cigar fall, and sat bolt upright.

“Keep her in the picture now!” said Ommony excitedly.

The dancing girl ceased writhing like a snake and suddenly ran toward Strange as if he were her only love. For a second it looked as if she would embrace him, and all the audience drew its breath in sibilantly. But instead, she tossed the garlands over his neck and swept back six paces, pausing as if to admire him, while the music and the chorus rose to a scream and the tom-toms thundered.

Next she advanced and threw her veil before him, knelt on it as if imploring him, and backed away withdrawing veil and all as if he had rejected her advance and she was broken-hearted. Then forward again as if to fall into his arms, he grinning, and away before he could touch her, not a thread of her gossamer shawl as much as brushing against his sleeve.

“Hah-Hah!” laughed Molyneux; and for the first time it seemed to dawn on Strange that possibly he was being mocked. He began to look uncomfortable and a trifle flushed.

“Hah-Hah!” Molyneux laughed again, and the audience all began to laugh too, because that kind of jeer is contagious.

But the dancing girl danced on, and the music wailed and shrieked in time to the dinning tom-toms until Strange, feeling all eyes on him, glanced to right and left looking as if he would like to escape. It is all very well to be made a lot of, but to be worshipped in public by a lady in diaphanous attire is more than even millionaires can stand. He glanced up once as if he knew the camera was recording everything.

“Did you see that?” said Charley.

And as he spoke the woman let her gauzy shawl fall over Strange’s head and shoulders. The audience yelled as if she had crowned him king.

“Did you get it?” squealed Ommony.

Strange did not know what to do. He simply sat there looking foolish. But Chullunder Ghose appeared from behind somewhere and stood beside him, urging, protesting, gesticulating. Jeff Ramsden laid a hand on Strange’s sleeve, but Strange shook it off; and the girl began to dance as if luring Strange on to heaven knew what behind the dragon-screens.

Chullunder Ghose took him by the right arm and almost pulled him out of the chair, ignoring Jeff’s protests. Jeff shook his fist in the babu’s face, and Molyneux barked “Hah-Hah!” again, while the audience squealed above the din of music. The girl began backing away, and Strange, yielding to Chullunder Ghost, got up and followed her.

“Oh gorgeous!” chuckled Ommony.

“’Nother reel quick!” snapped Charley.

They re-loaded like a destroyer’s gun-crew at battle practise, in time to catch Strange sprawling up the steps in the girl’s wake, for somebody or something tripped him. And when he reached the stage the nautch-girls all surrounded him and danced in a whirl, so that for a minute nothing could be seen of Strange at all; it was as if he had been swallowed. They had his coat and collar off, for some one flung them at Zelmira’s feet, where she sat beside Molyneux, bubbling laughter. And when the whirling circle broke at last and the girls spread outward either way along the stage the python-girl was gone, and there stood Strange arrayed in a peacock robe and turban with aigrette, looking pompous and ridiculous with boots and trousers showing underneath. Zelmira’s laugh rang like a peal of bells, and Strange frowned at her.

“ the woman!” muttered Ommony. “She’s done for herself now, that settles it!”

It was hotter than a Turkish bath in there, but a cold chill swept over him at the thought that none now would have sufficient hold on Strange to make him let the forest go. Half of the plan had failed with Zelmira’s influence. Surely Strange would never listen to her now. Well; there was the other half of the plan—the alternative. Strange looked ridiculous enough, and worse was coming. There would be the pictures to hold over him by way of threat.

Chullunder Ghose, acting fat, obsequious impresario, climbed the steps and began tutoring Strange again—pointing toward the wooden dragon-screen. His words were totally inaudible in the din of drums and music, but he seemed to insist on something prearranged, with one hand gesturing toward the priests, as if he spoke for them, and with the other pushing Strange toward the dragon-screen. And out of the mouth of the dragon came a hand—a woman’s—certainly the python-dancer’s, for the wrist had the same heavy, jeweled bracelet.

The music crashed, and ceased. In silence, broken only by a crow’s caw on the roof, Strange walked toward the hand, and seized, and kissed it three times. Crash! went the music again, and the native audience seemed suddenly to go mad, rising and leaping and yelling as if all their future had depended on that one piece of foolishness.

“Have you got that?”

“Got it all!”

“Good! Carry on now! I’ll go below. You keep on cranking as long as you’ve a foot of film left!”

Ommony nearly broke the key in his eagerness to get out—slammed the door nearly off its hinges—and ran stumbling down the stairs, kicking open the door at the bottom and wading through the audience like a man waist-deep in sea-water. Zelmira nodded to him, but he took no notice of her; she had failed the forest, and was out of his calculations for good and all. He was actually off his head that minute—worn out with worry and fear and lack of sleep—fired by the sight of victory almost within his grasp. Strange was still standing there, ridiculously foolish with his turban awry, looking rather like Henry the Eighth and holding the hand through the screen.'

“Chullunder Ghose! Tell him what that means!” yelled Ommony, not recognizing his own voice, it was so strained and high-pitched.

Jeff Ramsden, understanding men as some know horses, began making his way toward him. The babu grinned, aping humility, bowing and salaaming to Strange, too deferent [sic] at last to play a leading part. He began to back away and nearly fell off the stage.

“Strange, you’re married!” Ommony roared, his voice cracking strangely. “That’s the custom! What’ll you do now? Every one of those nautch-girls has to marry before she dies. Most of ’em marry trees. That one’s got you! Now then!”

Strange had the effrontery not even to seem sheepish, or annoyed. Jeff, getting close enough at last, put his huge arm under Ommony’s and tried to quiet him; but Ommony only drew strength from the contact, not calmness.

“You’re married, you hear me? You’ve married a nautch-girl before witnesses!”

It was unseemly—horrible; Ommony was screaming at him. Strange with his hunger to exploit had probed the man’s secret passion to its depths and driven all that was evil in him to the surface. He was worse than a woman with her child condemned to death, for in that hour he lacked power to plead—a primitive, abysmal human stricken to the heart and fighting back. He struck Jeff’s arm away, and Molyneux rose from his chair to help restrain him. But Strange’s answer brought them all to a standstill.

“May I have a Christian ceremony then?”

The last chance gone! The monster was willing to marry a nautch-girl! He would use that technicality to reenforce his claim on the forest! Ommony stood dumb, bewildered, with the world swaying under his feet, unconscious of Jeff’s arm again through his—staring at Strange as at Nemesis.

And Strange let go the hand. Grinning, he stepped to the side of the screen to bring the woman forward; and she came, looking scared, because Ommony fainted away.

She was Ommony’s sister.

IT WAS an hour before he returned to consciousness, and the priests, the nautch-girls and the crowd were all gone. Two women were slapping his hands, and he recognized Zelmira first—hazily, as one awaking from a bad dream. He shook his head at her.

“Go away!”

“We’re friends. You know me,” she answered.

But he only shook his head again.

“You failed. You promised me you’d be behind the screen and marry Strange. Why didn’t you?” he murmured.

“I couldn’t. How could I? I’m Lady Molyneux! Sir William Molyneux and I were married this morning at seven o’clock.”

“I’ll be !” murmured Ommony; and Molyneux’ responsive “Hah-Hah-Hah!” seemed to revive him quite a little. He turned his head to see who held the other hand, and looked into his sister’s eyes.

“You always would do things your own way,” he grumbled. “Have you saved the forest?”

“Yes. Here’s Meldrum. He’ll tell you so.”

Ommony sat up suddenly. Memory galvanized him.

“Good, Kate, you’re married to him!”

“No,” she said smiling, “not quite. We’re waiting for you to attend the wedding. When you’re ready we’ll begin.”

“You saved the forest?” he repeated.

“Surely.”

“Marry any one you like!”

“Oh closer than a brother!” she laughed delightedly. “Come, Meldrum. Tell him.”

So Meldrum Strange came forward and played the man.

“Old fellow,” he said simply, “if I had known how your heart was wrapped up in those trees I’d never have caused you such agony. I beg your pardon.”

“By, Ommony, shake hands with him!” roared Molyneux. “He’s played the game. He turned the tables on you. He’s a good sport after all. What’s more, he’s given this Panch Mahal to those rascally priests. No chance for anybody now to get a foot-hold. Go on, shake hands!”

“Not yet,” said Ommony. “Where’s Charley Mears?”

“Here. I’m all right,” said Charley. Then he answered the question unspoken on Ommony’s lips. “Strange has been decent. He bought the film for enough to finance a picture-shooting trip all through the Indian jungles. Darned white of him, I’ll say.”

“All right, I'll shake hands with you, Strange,” said Ommony.

BUT Ommony was ill, and very nearly at death’s door. He collapsed when he had seen his sister married, and they put him to bed on the cot in the Assembly-room, the women taking turns to watch him; and for four-and-twenty hours he raved in delirium, calling to half the Gods of India to come and save his trees, while half a dozen naked junglis camped in the courtyard afraid of every one, but more afraid they might lose Ommony. They found roots in the jungle, and they killed fresh meat, and brought them and laid them at the threshold, where the women stumbled over them and carried them in—to hide them and pretend they had been put to use.

So the junglis tell you to this day that they own Ommony by right of capture from death’s claws. It was they who brought him his dog Diana, to stand guard by the bed; and she did, never stirring until he was well enough to recognize her.

Then came a night when the women might safely leave him; and he awoke after dark, believing himself all alone with the dog. But after a while he heard another sound beside her breathing, and saw a white-robed figure dimly outlined in the night-lamp glow—a figure like a great, fat idol—motionless. For a long time he thought it was an idol, until he remembered there was nothing of that kind in the room. So he coughed, and it brought the thing to life.

“This babu salaams respectfully, hoping sahib is remarkably better!”

“Did the dog let you in?”

“No, sahib. She-dog was most cantankerous, until memsahib, sahib’s sister, tendered philharmonic offices. She-dog yielded to blandishment and shrewd behavior. Have sat still.”

“What do you want?”

“Sahib’s swift recovery.”

“What else?”

“Oh, just to round out.”

“What?”

“Emolument!”

“You rascal! You drew pay from Madame Poul—from Lady Molyneux.”

“Yes, sahib. Likewise percentage from priests in form of cash, and subsidy from raja, plus gift from Mellidrum Isstrange, added to share of profit from sale of soda-water. Am well contented. Oh, no reason to complain. However, sahib being babu’s friend, in view of Karma and advantage of beneficence—have thought it well to—permit sahib to—acquire much merit by—by contributing likewise and rounding out—emolument? Eh? Yes, sahib? Your very humble and obedient servant! Chullunder Ghose prays to all the gods for your honor’s full recovery!