Voices in the Night. Flora Annie Webster Steel

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      Jack Raymond looked towards the springy step and determined pose of the head which was approaching him with alarm; but Jerry had already run forward, slipped his hand into the girl's, and said--

      'He says you're to come too, because he is going to tell us all about the gwaves.'

      'Not all,' protested Jack Raymond resignedly; 'but if Miss Drummond can spare us a minute, I'll show you John Ellison's.'

      The girl's face lit up. 'Isn't that about all?' she asked quickly. 'The very name seems to dominate the place still. Jân-Ali-shân! That's what the natives call him, your father says, Jerry. It means the "Spirit of Kings." A good name, isn't it, for the man who held this garden against all comers, even starvation?'

      Her head was up, her voice rang; but the thrill did not pass to the man's heart from these as it had from the clasp of that little hand, which some day would have a man's grip.

      'There was a heap of bunkum talked, though, about the actual physical privations of the mutiny time; they had iced soda and Moselle cup on the ridge at Delhi, you know, Miss Drummond,' he said, out of pure contrariety.

      'I should like to be sure of that,' she began indignantly.

      'I should like to be sure of a lot of mutiny tales,' he interrupted; 'but there's a halo of romance on our side and a shadow of fear on theirs, which plays the deuce with abstract truth. I wish we could forget the whole business.'

      'Forget! Forget our glorious past!'

      'Was it so glorious? I asked Budlu once'--he pointed to a white ghostlike figure which had begun to follow them from the cemetery gate--'how a mere handful of us here kept their thousands at bay. Budlu is supposed to have been inside, during the siege, as a child's bearer--that's why they made him caretaker; but I've reason to believe he was outside--not that it matters now! Well, his answer was: "The sahibs had nothing to do with it. It was the dead women and the dead babies. Every one knows that the strength of the strongest man is water before the ghost of a mother and child."'

      They had reached the slope of that gentle hollow where, even in their bitterest stress, the living had crept obstinately, under cover of night, to lay their dead to rest in the shadow of the deserted church, and he paused to point downwards to a tall cypress and add, 'There is John Ellison's grave.'

      Lesley paused too. Calm and still in the moonlight, the grassy slopes, set with flowers and blossoming shrubs, seemed to centre on that hollow of heroes' graves, as they, in their turn, centred round the plain plinth, with its marble slab under the cypress tree.

      There were but two words on it--'John Ellison'--but they filled the eye, the heart, the brain.

      Lesley Drummond stood looking at them silently, and Jack Raymond stood watching her, approving her silence. But Jerry, whose round childish face had a curious ghostly look on it, as if he were seeing visions, went creeping on round the plinth, his grey eyes wide; a stealthy little figure dreaming of torches and deaders and crack-bang firings over walls. But he was back in a second, his face eager, startled.

      'Oh, if you please--he's quite, quite shot--lyin' there close by. Hadn't we better buwy him?'

      'Bury him? who?' asked Lesley; but Jack Raymond had grasped the child's meaning, and was passing to the other side of the plinth to see for himself. Then he looked up from the figure of a man which lay on its back, its head supported on the first step of the plinth, asked a question of Budlu the caretaker in Hindustani, and finally turned reassuringly to Lesley.

      'It is only an idle sweep of a loafer, Miss Drummond, who has rather a queer story. Stay! I'll wake him--Budlu reports him sober--and he will tell the story himself, I've no doubt.' As he spoke, a vigorous shake roused the sleeper to an oath, then to a stare, finally to a bland smile as he rose.

      'Bin overtook by slumber, sir,' said a rich, mellow voice as (possibly in evasion of more salient faults in his personality) the owner of it began to brush away the dust and dry twigs which clung to his dirty drill-clothing. 'The w'ich we all of us shall be w'en our time comes to lie within the silent toomb--b.' He prolonged the final syllable into a reminiscent humming of a funeral hymn until his task was done. Then he looked up, and showed in the moonlight the face of a man about forty, smooth shaven, of the bulldog type, with the mobile lips of a born comedian.

      'I done my level best with the job you giv' me down country, sir,' he continued affably, yet with a furtive apology lurking beneath his assurance, 'but it done no sort of dooty by me. I gone down two stone in a six weeks with them pestilential chills, so w'ot with plague follerin' famine like the prayer-book, sir, I made bold to cut back to Nushapore. I 'adn't a grave bespoke there, sir, as I 'ave here; an' so I didn't want no

      "Death's bright Angel speakin' in a chord a-ga-ain."'

      Once more that prolongation of the final syllable was followed by an appropriate tune.

      'If you don't mend your ways, my man,' said Jack Raymond severely, 'you'll have no grave bespoke here either. The authorities won't allow----'

      'Can't 'elp 'emselves, sir,' interrupted the loafer, touching the battered billycock hat which he had resumed after a careful dusting. 'It's the Queen's regulations, sir, that them as went through the siege may wait for the las' trump in an 'ero's grave beside 'is, if they choose. An', Lord love you! I do choose, for they chris'en me in token I shouldn't fear the very day 'e died.' He laid his hand on the slab.

      'That was why they called you John Ellison, wasn't it?' asked Jack Raymond, with a side-look at Lesley, which the loafer appraised, for he replied coolly--

      'Yes, m'lady! Mr. Raymon', 'e know the story correc'! My father died o' the drink a few days afore we come into the Garding Mound, an' my mother--savin' your presence, m'lady, she didn't 'ave bin to church with 'im through 'er real 'usband 'aving deserted 'er or died, cruel uncertain--she popped off a few days after I, so to speak, popped in. That was nigh on a nine-months' sequent. So I was through the siege, m'lady, from the beginnin', an' 'avin' no one to promise an' vow when they Holy baptismed me the day 'e died, they called me John Ellison. And an uncommon good name it is, m'lady, though I've took it to a sight o' queer places since; for I seen a deal o' life at 'ome an' abroad, as the sayin' is. Bin in a surplus chore singin' 'ymns seven year, m'lady; an' pickin' up sticks for a Aunt Sally two. Then I served my way out to see

      "--the place where I was born"'--

      he paused for a faint humming--'an' Mr. Raymon', good gentleman, 'e 'ave put me in to a many jobs, but only local demons; they ain't some'ow bin no sort of permanent. An'

      "So the world goes round and round

       Until our life with sleep is crowned--d--d."'

      He was fairly afloat this time with his rich mellow voice, when Jack Raymond bid him shut up and not play the fool. Why couldn't he stick to work when it was given him?

      The jauntiness disappeared in a curiously dignified dejection. 'By the Lord 'oo made me, sir,' he said contritely, 'I dun'no. I begins well; then--I--I don't! I git on the lap foolin' round them bazaars, until I 'aven't a feather ter fly with. Then 'e begin to dror me to 'im--m.' He paused again to indicate the slab, and the final syllable merged into the whole first line of 'They grew in beauty side by side.' 'Beg parding, sir,' he went on, anticipating reproof, 'but the warblin' fetches me 'ome so often, wot with penny gaffs an' such like, that it gits a continooal hold on me too frequent.'

      'You'll СКАЧАТЬ