Chapter Twenty One.“Have Heart and Hope, my Friend.”Far away up the river Karoon, my children, lies the city of Akwaz, and it was for this place our three little gunboats, theComet, thePlanet, and theAssyria, now started.But for the anxiety that I could not help noticing was depicted on my dear master’s face, this expedition would have been altogether as nice as a picnic.We—my master, the priest, Jock and I—went in theComet, with one hundred Highlanders.Our whole force did not amount to much over three hundred men, and yet with this little mite of an army we were going to attack a town, the size and strength of which we were not even sure of.I, however, felt no fear, because I heard master say that whatever men dare, they can do.Well, in due time we reached the town, and we landed, attacked and captured it.Persians are not cowards. They can fight well, and this army of about nine thousand men would, doubtless, soon have destroyed our bold little force, had it not been so arranged as to look like three invading armies.Then, of course, we had the support of the gunboats, and, as master said, it was but right to give the Persian general his due. He must have thought that our troops were but the advance-guard of General Outram’s whole force. And so he and his army ran away.“Did much fur fly, Shireen?” asked Cracker.Not much, said Shireen. You see, Cracker, we didn’t get so near to the enemy as you did to the butcher’s dog that day you saved life, else brave Jock McNab and master would have made plenty of fur fly.From the river, the town of Akwaz and the broad sheet of water, with its beautiful wooded islands, and the wild and rugged mountains far behind, formed a scene which was lovely in the extreme.On the evening after the day on which our gallant force had routed the enemy, and captured the town with all their stores, the priest and my master sat long on deck, talking of the past. I sit on the priest’s knee. There was a calm or repose about this man that to me was very delightful, and as he smoothed me while he talked to master, I purred and sang with my eyes half closed.I was not asleep, however, and I could hear every word they said.I noticed, too, that this good priest spoke ne’er a word about himself, or his own affairs. He seemed to interest himself in master and in him only. This I thought was very unselfish and considerate of him. It was kind of him, too, to keep master and me company at all, for he was still very weak from his wounds, and a less brave-hearted man would have been confined to his hammock.At last we got up steam and departed for the camp at Mohammerah, and not only our General Sir James Outram, but all our soldier and sailor companions-in-arms were rejoiced to see us, and hailed us as the heroes of Akwaz, which we undoubtedly were, despite the fact that we had suffered but little loss.But that same day news came which delighted some of us, but grievously disappointed most.Peace had been proclaimed, and we were to fight no more. This was looked upon by our brave soldiers as a downright shame. Just as the campaign was opening out so hopefully, and there was every prospect that we would, in course of time, conquer the whole of Persia.But two of our number were very glad of the news, and these were that dear, big priest, and my own beloved master.They went out together at sunset to talk matters over, as they wandered slowly up and down among the shady date trees. Jock McNab accompanied them at a little distance, and I trotted quietly between the two.At last they sat down at a spot which afforded them a beautiful view of the river.“War is a terrible thing, my friend,” began the priest. “Are you not glad that peace is concluded?”“War is, as you say, a terrible thing,” replied my soldier-master; “yet I fear we redcoats like it. You see, we all look forward to honour and glory. Every private carries a marshal’s baton in his knapsack, figuratively speaking, and yet, for one reason, I am glad this war is over.”“Ah! I knew,” said the priest smiling, “that I should soon reach down to that which is next your heart.”“How true and good you are!” said Edgar.“And do you know what I have done?” continued the priest. “What I have dared to do?”My master turned quickly round to him.“You have been to see the General!” he said quickly.“Indeed I have.”“And you have told him all the story?”“I have told him almost all.”“And he—”“He is going to help us.”“Heaven bless you, dear friend, all your life.”Edgar extended his hand, which the priest shook right cordially.“Now, you know,” the priest said, “I had to tell the General that you were interested indirectly in this affair, and then he at once told me that you and I could go to Bagdad in theComet, which was going there on state business. That he would gladly give an asylum and all assistance to the English lady, Miss Morgan, and to her maid, if she had one, no matter whether she were English or not. Then he shook hands with me and told me to go and talk the whole matter over with you.”My master sat thoughtfully looking at the river for a time, then he turned once more to the priest.“I can see exactly how the land lies,” he said smiling. “How good and thoughtful of the General.”“Yes, he is our friend.”“His horror,” added the priest, “at the villainy displayed by a father, who would sell his young and beautiful daughter to the Shah against her will, was plainly discoverable in the manner in which he stamped his foot, and cried, ‘Scandalous! Shameful!’”“And the allusion to the maid—” began Edgar.“That, you know,” said the priest, “is left for you and for me to interpret, as best we may. Miss Morgan must have a maid, must she not?”“Certainly. Every English lady must have a maid,” said my master, smiling a happy smile.“And it wouldn’t do, would it, for the English General to be implicated in the abduction of a Persian noble’s daughter?”“No, certainly not.”“And so you see that—”“Yes, yes, I see,” cried master, laughing right heartily now. “Beebee must, for the time being, become Miss Morgan’s lady’s-maid. Ha! ha! ha! It is droll.”“Yes, it is droll.”But then master’s face fell.“Ah! my dearest friend,” he said, “we may, after all, be counting our chickens before they are hatched.”“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the priest. “I have set my heart upon having this strange adventure end well, and end well it must and shall.”“Unless—”“I know what you would say, captain. Unless Beebee has already been taken off. But I do not think this is at all likely. They do not do things very rapidly in Persia. They are a calm, contemplative kind of people. But, nevertheless, Beebee is doomed to a fate too horrible to think of if we do not rescue her.”“Do you think,” said Edgar eagerly, “it will be very,verydifficult?”“I do think it will be somewhat difficult. But have heart and hope, my friend. Let me recall to you a motto that I have heard from your own lips.”“And that is?”“‘Whate’er a man dares he can do.’”“And now,” said Shireen, “I am going to reserve the last part of my story till we meet again, for, Cracker, your folks must think you are lost, and I can see that the cockatoo yonder is standing on one foot and half asleep.”“Cockie wants to go to bed,” cried Uncle Ben’s pet, arousing himself, and lifting his great white, yellow-lined wings as if he would fly.“As for me,” said Cracker, “I’d sit and hear you talk all night, you bet.”“And so would I,” said Warlock.“The more I see and learn of cats,” continued Cracker, “the more I respects them like, and I don’t care a rat’s tail what the other dogs say about me. There’s that butcher’s rag of a bull-terrier, for instance, goin’ and tellin’ the whole village that I’m often seen in cats’ company, and that I’m half a cat myself. Well, I says, says I, I might be something worse. But, bless you, Shireen, next time I meets he, I’m going to let him out.”“I wouldn’t kill him quite,” said Shireen.“Oh, no. I’ll just shake him like. They kind o’ dogs can be killed over and over again, and don’t take much hurt. Besides, you know,” he added knowingly, “it will teach the varmint manners.”“I say, you know,” said Warlock, “I think the quarrel with the butcher’s cur should be mine.”“Nonsense, Warlock, he would swallow you up.”“All! you don’t know how much fight there is in me when I’m fairly angered. Well, I keep company with Tabby here. We hunt together, don’t we, Tab?”“That we do.”“And fish together. So just let that butcher’s dog come across me.”“Tse, tse, tse!” said the starling, admiringly. The chameleon simply warmed his other hand before the fire.I’m not sure, that as far as that goes, Chammy wasn’t the wisest in that group of friends. Catch Chammy fighting! He would take a hundred years to make up his mind to do it, and then he wouldn’t.“By-the-bye,” said Shireen, “though human folk will have it that dogs and cats don’t agree, there is plenty of true stories told by naturalists to prove that when a dog and a cat, indeed, I might say any dog and any cat are brought up together, they agree like lambs upon a lea. They will wander about together just as Warlock and Tabby do. Eat out of the same dish without quarrelling, and sleep together on the same mat at night.“I see,” added Shireen, “that master and Uncle Ben haven’t quite finished their game yet, so while we wait I may as well tell you a little story about cat and dog life. It is mentioned and authenticated in a book called ‘Friends in Fur.’” (Same author.)This story is told of a cat called the “Czar,” and a doggie whose name was “Whiskey.” And it is doublyà proposbecause, like Warlock yonder, Whiskey was a Scotch terrier, and he lived in a country village far away in the north of bonnie Scotland. In the same house dwelt the Czar, a splendid, large, rough-haired cat, who, it was said, had been imported from Russia—hence his name.My friend, Harrison Weir, to whom I am indebted for the speaking illustrations contained in this book, once owned a cat of this breed, and a very handsome cat it must have been. He speaks of it thus in his book called “Our Cats,” page 30; “The mane, or frill, was very large, long and dense, and more of a woolly texture, with coarse short hairs among it, the colour was a dark tabby. The eyes were large and prominent, of a bright orange, slightly tinted with green; the ears large by comparison, with small tufts full of long woolly hair; the limbs stout and short, the tail being very dissimilar as if was short, very woolly and thickly tipped with hair, the same length from base to tip, and much resembled in form that of the British will eat. Its motion was not so agile as that of other cats, nor did it apparently care for warmth, as it liked being out of doors in the coldest weather. Another peculiarity being that it seemed to care little in the way of watching birds for food, neither were its habits like those of the short-haired cats that were its companions.“It attached itself to no person, as was the case with some of the others, but curiously took a particular fancy to one of my short-haired silver tabbies; the two appeared always together. In front of the fire they sat side by side. If one left the room the other followed. A down the garden paths they were still companions; and at night they slept in the same: box; they drank milk from the same saucer, and fed from the same plate, and, in fact, only seemed to exist for each other. In all my experience I never saw a more devoted couple.”No two animals in the world could have loved each other more dearly and devotedly than did the Czar and his little wise companion, Whiskey.Whiskey, I need hardly tell you, Cracker, was like Warlock there, the gamest of the game, but of course he never showed his teeth to the Czar. They took their meals from the same dish, only Whiskey seemed to have compacted to have all the bones. They were also constantly together, all day long, except when Whiskey’s duty to his master called him afield, and at night they shared the selfsame bed; the Czar often taking Whiskey in his arms because he appeared to be the biggest. I’m not sure, indeed, that the Czar did not awaken Whiskey when that little gentleman took the nightmare. Be this as it may, they were, altogether, as loving as loving could be.And once or twice a week this kindly couple used to go out hunting together.“Just like Warlock and me,” said Tabby.Yes, said Shireen, and they cared nothing for game laws, and took no heed of the keepers, except to hide or run from them; for this cat and dog were a law unto themselves apparently.On their hunting expeditions they used to go out together in the morning, and after spending all the long day in the woods and wilds, they invariably came home before dark.This coming home before nightfall was no doubt a suggestion of Whiskey’s, for a dog can neither see so well in the dark as a cat, nor can his constitution so easily withstand the clews of night. But the very fact of the Czar’s consenting to keep early hours to please his Scottish friend, is another proof of how dearly he must have loved him.And almost every night these sons of Nimrod brought home with them some trophy from the hunting-ground. Sometimes it was a rabbit, more often a bird—if the latter, Whiskey generally had the honour of carrying it, and very proud was he of the distinction; if a small rabbit, the Czar bore the burden.And so things went on till one mournful night, when Whiskey returned later than usual and all alone. He came into the house, but lay down on the mat near the door, and from that he would not budge an inch. He refused his porridge and all consolation, and lay there in a nervous and acutely listening attitude, starting up whenever he heard the slightest sound outside.His mistress at last went to bed and left him.It must have been long past midnight when Whiskey came dashing into his mistress’s bedroom, knocking over a chair in his excitement, and barking wildly as he rushed hither and thither.When his mistress got up at last poor little Whiskey preceded her to the door, barking again and looking anxious and excited.Outside a pitiful mew was heard, and as soon as the lady opened the door in rushed the Czar on three legs. He had left one foot in a horrid trap.And now nothing could exceed the kindness of the dog towards his wounded companion and playmate. He threw himself down on the rug beside her, whining and crying with very grief, and gently licked the bleeding stump where the cat himself had gnawed it off to save his life.And every day for weeks did Whiskey apply hot fomentations with his soft wee tongue to pussy’s leg, until at last it was completely healed.But they had no more romping together in fields and woods, for the Czar’s hunting-days were over—in this world at all events.“Cornered at last,” cried Uncle Ben, laughing, as he looked at the chess-board. “No, you haven’t a move. Ho! ho! Well, I’ve had my revenge.”“And I,” said the Colonel, “shall have mine another evening.”“Right you are. Now, good-bye, Lizzie and Tom. Come, Cracker, old dog, you go my way, don’t you?”So good-nights were said, and hands were shaken, and off went Uncle Ben and his cockatoo adown the road towards his bungalow, where his man Pedro was waiting to place before him his frugal supper.
Far away up the river Karoon, my children, lies the city of Akwaz, and it was for this place our three little gunboats, theComet, thePlanet, and theAssyria, now started.
But for the anxiety that I could not help noticing was depicted on my dear master’s face, this expedition would have been altogether as nice as a picnic.
We—my master, the priest, Jock and I—went in theComet, with one hundred Highlanders.
Our whole force did not amount to much over three hundred men, and yet with this little mite of an army we were going to attack a town, the size and strength of which we were not even sure of.
I, however, felt no fear, because I heard master say that whatever men dare, they can do.
Well, in due time we reached the town, and we landed, attacked and captured it.
Persians are not cowards. They can fight well, and this army of about nine thousand men would, doubtless, soon have destroyed our bold little force, had it not been so arranged as to look like three invading armies.
Then, of course, we had the support of the gunboats, and, as master said, it was but right to give the Persian general his due. He must have thought that our troops were but the advance-guard of General Outram’s whole force. And so he and his army ran away.
“Did much fur fly, Shireen?” asked Cracker.
Not much, said Shireen. You see, Cracker, we didn’t get so near to the enemy as you did to the butcher’s dog that day you saved life, else brave Jock McNab and master would have made plenty of fur fly.
From the river, the town of Akwaz and the broad sheet of water, with its beautiful wooded islands, and the wild and rugged mountains far behind, formed a scene which was lovely in the extreme.
On the evening after the day on which our gallant force had routed the enemy, and captured the town with all their stores, the priest and my master sat long on deck, talking of the past. I sit on the priest’s knee. There was a calm or repose about this man that to me was very delightful, and as he smoothed me while he talked to master, I purred and sang with my eyes half closed.
I was not asleep, however, and I could hear every word they said.
I noticed, too, that this good priest spoke ne’er a word about himself, or his own affairs. He seemed to interest himself in master and in him only. This I thought was very unselfish and considerate of him. It was kind of him, too, to keep master and me company at all, for he was still very weak from his wounds, and a less brave-hearted man would have been confined to his hammock.
At last we got up steam and departed for the camp at Mohammerah, and not only our General Sir James Outram, but all our soldier and sailor companions-in-arms were rejoiced to see us, and hailed us as the heroes of Akwaz, which we undoubtedly were, despite the fact that we had suffered but little loss.
But that same day news came which delighted some of us, but grievously disappointed most.
Peace had been proclaimed, and we were to fight no more. This was looked upon by our brave soldiers as a downright shame. Just as the campaign was opening out so hopefully, and there was every prospect that we would, in course of time, conquer the whole of Persia.
But two of our number were very glad of the news, and these were that dear, big priest, and my own beloved master.
They went out together at sunset to talk matters over, as they wandered slowly up and down among the shady date trees. Jock McNab accompanied them at a little distance, and I trotted quietly between the two.
At last they sat down at a spot which afforded them a beautiful view of the river.
“War is a terrible thing, my friend,” began the priest. “Are you not glad that peace is concluded?”
“War is, as you say, a terrible thing,” replied my soldier-master; “yet I fear we redcoats like it. You see, we all look forward to honour and glory. Every private carries a marshal’s baton in his knapsack, figuratively speaking, and yet, for one reason, I am glad this war is over.”
“Ah! I knew,” said the priest smiling, “that I should soon reach down to that which is next your heart.”
“How true and good you are!” said Edgar.
“And do you know what I have done?” continued the priest. “What I have dared to do?”
My master turned quickly round to him.
“You have been to see the General!” he said quickly.
“Indeed I have.”
“And you have told him all the story?”
“I have told him almost all.”
“And he—”
“He is going to help us.”
“Heaven bless you, dear friend, all your life.”
Edgar extended his hand, which the priest shook right cordially.
“Now, you know,” the priest said, “I had to tell the General that you were interested indirectly in this affair, and then he at once told me that you and I could go to Bagdad in theComet, which was going there on state business. That he would gladly give an asylum and all assistance to the English lady, Miss Morgan, and to her maid, if she had one, no matter whether she were English or not. Then he shook hands with me and told me to go and talk the whole matter over with you.”
My master sat thoughtfully looking at the river for a time, then he turned once more to the priest.
“I can see exactly how the land lies,” he said smiling. “How good and thoughtful of the General.”
“Yes, he is our friend.”
“His horror,” added the priest, “at the villainy displayed by a father, who would sell his young and beautiful daughter to the Shah against her will, was plainly discoverable in the manner in which he stamped his foot, and cried, ‘Scandalous! Shameful!’”
“And the allusion to the maid—” began Edgar.
“That, you know,” said the priest, “is left for you and for me to interpret, as best we may. Miss Morgan must have a maid, must she not?”
“Certainly. Every English lady must have a maid,” said my master, smiling a happy smile.
“And it wouldn’t do, would it, for the English General to be implicated in the abduction of a Persian noble’s daughter?”
“No, certainly not.”
“And so you see that—”
“Yes, yes, I see,” cried master, laughing right heartily now. “Beebee must, for the time being, become Miss Morgan’s lady’s-maid. Ha! ha! ha! It is droll.”
“Yes, it is droll.”
But then master’s face fell.
“Ah! my dearest friend,” he said, “we may, after all, be counting our chickens before they are hatched.”
“Nay, nay, nay,” cried the priest. “I have set my heart upon having this strange adventure end well, and end well it must and shall.”
“Unless—”
“I know what you would say, captain. Unless Beebee has already been taken off. But I do not think this is at all likely. They do not do things very rapidly in Persia. They are a calm, contemplative kind of people. But, nevertheless, Beebee is doomed to a fate too horrible to think of if we do not rescue her.”
“Do you think,” said Edgar eagerly, “it will be very,verydifficult?”
“I do think it will be somewhat difficult. But have heart and hope, my friend. Let me recall to you a motto that I have heard from your own lips.”
“And that is?”
“‘Whate’er a man dares he can do.’”
“And now,” said Shireen, “I am going to reserve the last part of my story till we meet again, for, Cracker, your folks must think you are lost, and I can see that the cockatoo yonder is standing on one foot and half asleep.”
“Cockie wants to go to bed,” cried Uncle Ben’s pet, arousing himself, and lifting his great white, yellow-lined wings as if he would fly.
“As for me,” said Cracker, “I’d sit and hear you talk all night, you bet.”
“And so would I,” said Warlock.
“The more I see and learn of cats,” continued Cracker, “the more I respects them like, and I don’t care a rat’s tail what the other dogs say about me. There’s that butcher’s rag of a bull-terrier, for instance, goin’ and tellin’ the whole village that I’m often seen in cats’ company, and that I’m half a cat myself. Well, I says, says I, I might be something worse. But, bless you, Shireen, next time I meets he, I’m going to let him out.”
“I wouldn’t kill him quite,” said Shireen.
“Oh, no. I’ll just shake him like. They kind o’ dogs can be killed over and over again, and don’t take much hurt. Besides, you know,” he added knowingly, “it will teach the varmint manners.”
“I say, you know,” said Warlock, “I think the quarrel with the butcher’s cur should be mine.”
“Nonsense, Warlock, he would swallow you up.”
“All! you don’t know how much fight there is in me when I’m fairly angered. Well, I keep company with Tabby here. We hunt together, don’t we, Tab?”
“That we do.”
“And fish together. So just let that butcher’s dog come across me.”
“Tse, tse, tse!” said the starling, admiringly. The chameleon simply warmed his other hand before the fire.
I’m not sure, that as far as that goes, Chammy wasn’t the wisest in that group of friends. Catch Chammy fighting! He would take a hundred years to make up his mind to do it, and then he wouldn’t.
“By-the-bye,” said Shireen, “though human folk will have it that dogs and cats don’t agree, there is plenty of true stories told by naturalists to prove that when a dog and a cat, indeed, I might say any dog and any cat are brought up together, they agree like lambs upon a lea. They will wander about together just as Warlock and Tabby do. Eat out of the same dish without quarrelling, and sleep together on the same mat at night.
“I see,” added Shireen, “that master and Uncle Ben haven’t quite finished their game yet, so while we wait I may as well tell you a little story about cat and dog life. It is mentioned and authenticated in a book called ‘Friends in Fur.’” (Same author.)
This story is told of a cat called the “Czar,” and a doggie whose name was “Whiskey.” And it is doublyà proposbecause, like Warlock yonder, Whiskey was a Scotch terrier, and he lived in a country village far away in the north of bonnie Scotland. In the same house dwelt the Czar, a splendid, large, rough-haired cat, who, it was said, had been imported from Russia—hence his name.
My friend, Harrison Weir, to whom I am indebted for the speaking illustrations contained in this book, once owned a cat of this breed, and a very handsome cat it must have been. He speaks of it thus in his book called “Our Cats,” page 30; “The mane, or frill, was very large, long and dense, and more of a woolly texture, with coarse short hairs among it, the colour was a dark tabby. The eyes were large and prominent, of a bright orange, slightly tinted with green; the ears large by comparison, with small tufts full of long woolly hair; the limbs stout and short, the tail being very dissimilar as if was short, very woolly and thickly tipped with hair, the same length from base to tip, and much resembled in form that of the British will eat. Its motion was not so agile as that of other cats, nor did it apparently care for warmth, as it liked being out of doors in the coldest weather. Another peculiarity being that it seemed to care little in the way of watching birds for food, neither were its habits like those of the short-haired cats that were its companions.
“It attached itself to no person, as was the case with some of the others, but curiously took a particular fancy to one of my short-haired silver tabbies; the two appeared always together. In front of the fire they sat side by side. If one left the room the other followed. A down the garden paths they were still companions; and at night they slept in the same: box; they drank milk from the same saucer, and fed from the same plate, and, in fact, only seemed to exist for each other. In all my experience I never saw a more devoted couple.”
No two animals in the world could have loved each other more dearly and devotedly than did the Czar and his little wise companion, Whiskey.
Whiskey, I need hardly tell you, Cracker, was like Warlock there, the gamest of the game, but of course he never showed his teeth to the Czar. They took their meals from the same dish, only Whiskey seemed to have compacted to have all the bones. They were also constantly together, all day long, except when Whiskey’s duty to his master called him afield, and at night they shared the selfsame bed; the Czar often taking Whiskey in his arms because he appeared to be the biggest. I’m not sure, indeed, that the Czar did not awaken Whiskey when that little gentleman took the nightmare. Be this as it may, they were, altogether, as loving as loving could be.
And once or twice a week this kindly couple used to go out hunting together.
“Just like Warlock and me,” said Tabby.
Yes, said Shireen, and they cared nothing for game laws, and took no heed of the keepers, except to hide or run from them; for this cat and dog were a law unto themselves apparently.
On their hunting expeditions they used to go out together in the morning, and after spending all the long day in the woods and wilds, they invariably came home before dark.
This coming home before nightfall was no doubt a suggestion of Whiskey’s, for a dog can neither see so well in the dark as a cat, nor can his constitution so easily withstand the clews of night. But the very fact of the Czar’s consenting to keep early hours to please his Scottish friend, is another proof of how dearly he must have loved him.
And almost every night these sons of Nimrod brought home with them some trophy from the hunting-ground. Sometimes it was a rabbit, more often a bird—if the latter, Whiskey generally had the honour of carrying it, and very proud was he of the distinction; if a small rabbit, the Czar bore the burden.
And so things went on till one mournful night, when Whiskey returned later than usual and all alone. He came into the house, but lay down on the mat near the door, and from that he would not budge an inch. He refused his porridge and all consolation, and lay there in a nervous and acutely listening attitude, starting up whenever he heard the slightest sound outside.
His mistress at last went to bed and left him.
It must have been long past midnight when Whiskey came dashing into his mistress’s bedroom, knocking over a chair in his excitement, and barking wildly as he rushed hither and thither.
When his mistress got up at last poor little Whiskey preceded her to the door, barking again and looking anxious and excited.
Outside a pitiful mew was heard, and as soon as the lady opened the door in rushed the Czar on three legs. He had left one foot in a horrid trap.
And now nothing could exceed the kindness of the dog towards his wounded companion and playmate. He threw himself down on the rug beside her, whining and crying with very grief, and gently licked the bleeding stump where the cat himself had gnawed it off to save his life.
And every day for weeks did Whiskey apply hot fomentations with his soft wee tongue to pussy’s leg, until at last it was completely healed.
But they had no more romping together in fields and woods, for the Czar’s hunting-days were over—in this world at all events.
“Cornered at last,” cried Uncle Ben, laughing, as he looked at the chess-board. “No, you haven’t a move. Ho! ho! Well, I’ve had my revenge.”
“And I,” said the Colonel, “shall have mine another evening.”
“Right you are. Now, good-bye, Lizzie and Tom. Come, Cracker, old dog, you go my way, don’t you?”
So good-nights were said, and hands were shaken, and off went Uncle Ben and his cockatoo adown the road towards his bungalow, where his man Pedro was waiting to place before him his frugal supper.
Chapter Twenty Two.“Go Home, my Friends, it is All Over.”The school stood quite in the suburbs of the little village—the girls’ school I mean—and there was nothing very unusual about it. Year in and year out, with certainly no more holidays than they deserved, the teachers—orphan girls both—laboured all day long at their duties, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were well beloved by their sometimes noisy pupils, to whom their wish, however, was always law; and the children generally made a good show when examination time came round.It was in here, one hard frosty day, that Shireen dropped on her way down town, to pay her usual round of visits.She had just left Uncle Ben’s bungalow, after a long talk and song with the sailor, and a few words to Cockie, the cockatoo, who, if he did not say very much, was a wonderful mimic, and made many droll motions. He never saw a boy, for example, without going through the movements of using a whip. Perhaps Cockie believed with Solomon, that it was a pity to “spare the rod and spoil the child.”There was a kind of general welcome to Shireen when she entered the school-house; but, strangely enough, she went straight up to the desk, and paid her compliments to the two teachers before doing anything else.Then Shireen looked about her from the seat she had taken, namely, a high three-legged stool. She could, from this elevation, see a large number of her little friends, with whom she would hold a little conversation presently. But there was one homely, good-natured face that she missed, and one of the teachers, as if reading her thoughts, stroked her back and head, as she remarked with a smile.“Emily isn’t here to-day, Pussy.”“No,” said the other girl. “Emily has been a good girl, and worked hard; and she has finished her education, and gone home to keep house for her father.”So Shireen did not stop so long to-day in the school as was her wont, for the chief attraction was gone. But she dispensed her favours among her friends freely enough before she went. And they were not all girls, either, whom Shireen regarded affectionately. For though it was a girls’ school, there were tiny, wee pests of fair-haired boys there, not an inch bigger, presumably, than the school tongs, and of one or two of these Shireen seemed very fond.Down the room she trotted at last, however. She was not long in meeting with an adventure, for round the distant corner came Danger, the butcher’s bull-terrier. There wasn’t a good tree within fifty yards, so Shireen had a race for it. She got up into the sycamore safely, nevertheless. Danger coming in a good second, and stopping to bark savagely up at her.Shireen raised her back and growled defiance down at him.Then she taunted him.“Why don’t you come up?” she cried derisively. “Why don’t you climb the tree? Because you can’t, clever though you think yourself. Fuss! Futt! Wouldn’t I make the fur fly out of you if you did come up. And wouldn’t I carve my name on your nose, just. Go home! Go home, you ugly brute. Mind, you’ll catch it when Cracker meets you. Oh, he’ll give it to you properly next time.”The dog trotted off at last, and then Shireen came slowly down.She meant to-day to pay all her other visits before going to Emily’s, because then she would have longer time to stay with her. So she went first to see Jeannie Lynch, at her mother’s tiny earthen-floored cottage. Jeannie’s mother was an invalid, and would never be better. But she could just sit by the fire in her high-backed chair, and do knitting, while Jeannie attended to the housewifery. Shireen found the girl busy washing up the dinner things, and singing low to herself. But there was a subdued, chastened kind of a look on her pretty face, which was habitual to it, for Jeannie was lame, and, I’m sorry to say, the village children teased her and called “Box-foot” after her. So even when she went out to do shopping for her mother, she limped along the street, looking fifty years of age, instead of the eleven summers that made up the sum total of her existence hitherto. She looked, indeed, as if she owed people an apology for her somewhat ungainly appearance.Shireen loved her, nevertheless, and she loved Shireen, and it wasn’t for sake of the drop of milk Jeannie always put down for her, nor in the hope of catching the mouse that nibbled paper in the cupboard, that pussy always stopped at least an hour at this humble dwelling.But she had to go at last, because she must see Mr Burn-the-wind, and also little Alec Dewsbury. Alec was one of the afflicted. At school one day, when quite a tiny lad, he had somehow injured his spine, and on a small, stretcher-bed he had lain helpless for years. Often in summer he lay out in the garden under the tree’s green shade, where he could hear the birds sing, and look up at the sailing clouds, with the rifts of blue between; and higher still in imagination, far, far away beyond the blue, where they told him God and angels dwell, though God was everywhere. In winter his stretcher stood in a cosy corner of his cottage home; and kind people brought him books and papers to read. But Alec’s pale face always lit up with joy when Shireen came in, for he had no pet of his own.“I wonder,” he said to his mother one day, “if cats go to heaven? Oh, surely they do,” he added, before she could answer. “I’m certain all good and beautiful creatures go there. Besides, mother, we know there are cows and bees there.”“What put that in your head, lammie?”“Because it’s a land flowing with milk and honey, you know; so there must be cows and bees there.”Alec was a very, very old boy for his years.The blacksmith, on this particular day, was in very fine form, and making the sparks fly in golden horizontal showers just as Shireen trotted in to say “good-day.” He had four ragamuffins of rosy-faced children, perched high on a bench, with their legs dangling in the air, to whom he was relating an old-fashioned fairy-tale, which made them laugh at one moment, and stare with wonder and astonishment the next. Shireen knew all four children, so she jumped up, and seated herself beside the smallest, a mite of a girl, who at once declared to the others that pussy loved her “bestest of all.”Then the blacksmith smoothed Shireen with the back of his hand, because it was the only unsoiled portion of that horny fist of his, and then he went on with his story.While they were all listening, Lizzie and Tom ran in. Tom had his skates slung over his shoulder; and his sister carried a basket, which contained many a dainty, and many a little luxury for the aged and the indigent sick.Like pussy herself, Lizzie and Tom were always welcome, whether they had a basket or not; because, even when they did not bring little gifts of jelly, or beef-tea, or books, or snuff and tobacco, they brought smiles, and the sunshine of their innocent and winsome ways.But to-day, neither Lizzie nor Tom stayed long with Burn-the-wind, because the former had her basket to lighten and hearts to lighten thereby, and because Tom noticed there was no horse to be shod at present, and he knew that the ice on the mill-pond was inches thick.“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried Lizzie, as they got nearer to the top of the street. “Something surely has happened. Look, Tom, at the lot of the people, and they are carrying somebody. Oh, Tom, it is Emily, I know and feel sure.”Yes, it was Emily.Poor girl! Only the day before, she had returned from school for good. She was going to settle down now, she told everyone of her intimate friends, laughing gleefully. She was going to do her father’s little house-keeping; and poor old dad, as she called him, would in future have many a comfort he had missed since mother died.And baby, too, would not be so much neglected, and could be taken out every forenoon, after father had gone back to work.There was a bit of garden, too, behind the humble cottage, with a nice grass plot in the centre; there, in spring and summer, the daisies grew, and the yellow celandines.Bobby, her infant brother, could roll on the grass when it was dry and fine, while she did the gardening all around. And this would be so delightful, because then she would never want a flower to place on mother’s grave.So you will observe, dear reader, that it was all beautifully arranged.Alas! and alas! If I were writing an altogether imaginary story, the somewhat sad and sombre ending to this chapter would be altered. But there is far more of truth in my story than anyone will ever know.That day then, when Emily took her little brother out in his far from elegant perambulator, she heard the sound of a band. A wild-beast show was stationed on the village green it seemed, and there was a triumphal procession through the streets of the little town. Poor Emily stood aside to see it pass, for, despite the fact that children would be admitted to the great marquee for half-price, this procession was the only part of the show she would see. But she marvelled much at the lordly ungainliness of the elephants; at the queer, old-fashioned visages of the camels, and at the wisdom of the piebald pony, and the wit of the immortal clown who rode him, who had appeared—didn’t the bills tell her so?—before every respectable crowned head in Europe. But she stood agape with astonishment when she saw the beautiful and airily dressed “Lion Queen,” perched high on top of her gilded carriage.Then the procession passed on, and Emily resumed her journey with the perambulator. Not far up the street she remembered that she wanted some tobacco for her father, and that she had passed the shop. She left the perambulator where it was for a few minutes, till she should run back and make the little purchase.As she stood at the counter she heard the quick rattle of wheels, and a noise of galloping hoofs, and then the shout of “Horse ran off!” fell upon her car.“Oh, the baby!” cried Emily, and dashed out of the shop.The perambulator, with the child in it, laughing and blinking in the sunshine, stood right in the track of danger.But Emily, heedless of everything except the desire to save her brother, rushed on towards it. Nearer and nearer came the horse. People shrieked as they saw the girl at the perambulator.One push sent it clear away from under the very hoofs of the fear-maddened horse. Next moment, Emily herself was down.Then the sorrowful procession.Two hours after Lizzie and Tom had seen Emily borne by kind and loving hands into the humble cottage that had been her home, the doctor came out.He shook his head sadly.“Go home, my friends,” he said, “it is all over.”He jumped into his carriage and was driven away. But tears trickled down the cheeks of men in that little crowd; faces were buried in aprons, and women wept aloud.The grief of poor Emily’s father was something to see and remember for ever and a day. I am not going to attempt to describe it. He was a good man, and a Christian; yet, not that night, nor for many nights and days, was he able to see the light, and to say from his heart: “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, blessed be His name.”As to Shireen—I must tell you about her. She never left the cottage while Emily’s poor little body lay there; and had you entered the house the night before the funeral, you would have seen the poor father sitting by his half out fire, absorbed in grief, and Shireen upon the coffin-lid.In the cat’s face sorrow, intense sorrow, predominated; but there was also a touch of anger also. Why was her favourite here in this dark box? What had they done to her? Who had done it?Ah! there was a mystery somewhere, which this little feline playmate and friend of the deceased girl failed to fathom. Can we, in our wisdom? Alas, no!
The school stood quite in the suburbs of the little village—the girls’ school I mean—and there was nothing very unusual about it. Year in and year out, with certainly no more holidays than they deserved, the teachers—orphan girls both—laboured all day long at their duties, and had the satisfaction of knowing that they were well beloved by their sometimes noisy pupils, to whom their wish, however, was always law; and the children generally made a good show when examination time came round.
It was in here, one hard frosty day, that Shireen dropped on her way down town, to pay her usual round of visits.
She had just left Uncle Ben’s bungalow, after a long talk and song with the sailor, and a few words to Cockie, the cockatoo, who, if he did not say very much, was a wonderful mimic, and made many droll motions. He never saw a boy, for example, without going through the movements of using a whip. Perhaps Cockie believed with Solomon, that it was a pity to “spare the rod and spoil the child.”
There was a kind of general welcome to Shireen when she entered the school-house; but, strangely enough, she went straight up to the desk, and paid her compliments to the two teachers before doing anything else.
Then Shireen looked about her from the seat she had taken, namely, a high three-legged stool. She could, from this elevation, see a large number of her little friends, with whom she would hold a little conversation presently. But there was one homely, good-natured face that she missed, and one of the teachers, as if reading her thoughts, stroked her back and head, as she remarked with a smile.
“Emily isn’t here to-day, Pussy.”
“No,” said the other girl. “Emily has been a good girl, and worked hard; and she has finished her education, and gone home to keep house for her father.”
So Shireen did not stop so long to-day in the school as was her wont, for the chief attraction was gone. But she dispensed her favours among her friends freely enough before she went. And they were not all girls, either, whom Shireen regarded affectionately. For though it was a girls’ school, there were tiny, wee pests of fair-haired boys there, not an inch bigger, presumably, than the school tongs, and of one or two of these Shireen seemed very fond.
Down the room she trotted at last, however. She was not long in meeting with an adventure, for round the distant corner came Danger, the butcher’s bull-terrier. There wasn’t a good tree within fifty yards, so Shireen had a race for it. She got up into the sycamore safely, nevertheless. Danger coming in a good second, and stopping to bark savagely up at her.
Shireen raised her back and growled defiance down at him.
Then she taunted him.
“Why don’t you come up?” she cried derisively. “Why don’t you climb the tree? Because you can’t, clever though you think yourself. Fuss! Futt! Wouldn’t I make the fur fly out of you if you did come up. And wouldn’t I carve my name on your nose, just. Go home! Go home, you ugly brute. Mind, you’ll catch it when Cracker meets you. Oh, he’ll give it to you properly next time.”
The dog trotted off at last, and then Shireen came slowly down.
She meant to-day to pay all her other visits before going to Emily’s, because then she would have longer time to stay with her. So she went first to see Jeannie Lynch, at her mother’s tiny earthen-floored cottage. Jeannie’s mother was an invalid, and would never be better. But she could just sit by the fire in her high-backed chair, and do knitting, while Jeannie attended to the housewifery. Shireen found the girl busy washing up the dinner things, and singing low to herself. But there was a subdued, chastened kind of a look on her pretty face, which was habitual to it, for Jeannie was lame, and, I’m sorry to say, the village children teased her and called “Box-foot” after her. So even when she went out to do shopping for her mother, she limped along the street, looking fifty years of age, instead of the eleven summers that made up the sum total of her existence hitherto. She looked, indeed, as if she owed people an apology for her somewhat ungainly appearance.
Shireen loved her, nevertheless, and she loved Shireen, and it wasn’t for sake of the drop of milk Jeannie always put down for her, nor in the hope of catching the mouse that nibbled paper in the cupboard, that pussy always stopped at least an hour at this humble dwelling.
But she had to go at last, because she must see Mr Burn-the-wind, and also little Alec Dewsbury. Alec was one of the afflicted. At school one day, when quite a tiny lad, he had somehow injured his spine, and on a small, stretcher-bed he had lain helpless for years. Often in summer he lay out in the garden under the tree’s green shade, where he could hear the birds sing, and look up at the sailing clouds, with the rifts of blue between; and higher still in imagination, far, far away beyond the blue, where they told him God and angels dwell, though God was everywhere. In winter his stretcher stood in a cosy corner of his cottage home; and kind people brought him books and papers to read. But Alec’s pale face always lit up with joy when Shireen came in, for he had no pet of his own.
“I wonder,” he said to his mother one day, “if cats go to heaven? Oh, surely they do,” he added, before she could answer. “I’m certain all good and beautiful creatures go there. Besides, mother, we know there are cows and bees there.”
“What put that in your head, lammie?”
“Because it’s a land flowing with milk and honey, you know; so there must be cows and bees there.”
Alec was a very, very old boy for his years.
The blacksmith, on this particular day, was in very fine form, and making the sparks fly in golden horizontal showers just as Shireen trotted in to say “good-day.” He had four ragamuffins of rosy-faced children, perched high on a bench, with their legs dangling in the air, to whom he was relating an old-fashioned fairy-tale, which made them laugh at one moment, and stare with wonder and astonishment the next. Shireen knew all four children, so she jumped up, and seated herself beside the smallest, a mite of a girl, who at once declared to the others that pussy loved her “bestest of all.”
Then the blacksmith smoothed Shireen with the back of his hand, because it was the only unsoiled portion of that horny fist of his, and then he went on with his story.
While they were all listening, Lizzie and Tom ran in. Tom had his skates slung over his shoulder; and his sister carried a basket, which contained many a dainty, and many a little luxury for the aged and the indigent sick.
Like pussy herself, Lizzie and Tom were always welcome, whether they had a basket or not; because, even when they did not bring little gifts of jelly, or beef-tea, or books, or snuff and tobacco, they brought smiles, and the sunshine of their innocent and winsome ways.
But to-day, neither Lizzie nor Tom stayed long with Burn-the-wind, because the former had her basket to lighten and hearts to lighten thereby, and because Tom noticed there was no horse to be shod at present, and he knew that the ice on the mill-pond was inches thick.
“Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” cried Lizzie, as they got nearer to the top of the street. “Something surely has happened. Look, Tom, at the lot of the people, and they are carrying somebody. Oh, Tom, it is Emily, I know and feel sure.”
Yes, it was Emily.
Poor girl! Only the day before, she had returned from school for good. She was going to settle down now, she told everyone of her intimate friends, laughing gleefully. She was going to do her father’s little house-keeping; and poor old dad, as she called him, would in future have many a comfort he had missed since mother died.
And baby, too, would not be so much neglected, and could be taken out every forenoon, after father had gone back to work.
There was a bit of garden, too, behind the humble cottage, with a nice grass plot in the centre; there, in spring and summer, the daisies grew, and the yellow celandines.
Bobby, her infant brother, could roll on the grass when it was dry and fine, while she did the gardening all around. And this would be so delightful, because then she would never want a flower to place on mother’s grave.
So you will observe, dear reader, that it was all beautifully arranged.
Alas! and alas! If I were writing an altogether imaginary story, the somewhat sad and sombre ending to this chapter would be altered. But there is far more of truth in my story than anyone will ever know.
That day then, when Emily took her little brother out in his far from elegant perambulator, she heard the sound of a band. A wild-beast show was stationed on the village green it seemed, and there was a triumphal procession through the streets of the little town. Poor Emily stood aside to see it pass, for, despite the fact that children would be admitted to the great marquee for half-price, this procession was the only part of the show she would see. But she marvelled much at the lordly ungainliness of the elephants; at the queer, old-fashioned visages of the camels, and at the wisdom of the piebald pony, and the wit of the immortal clown who rode him, who had appeared—didn’t the bills tell her so?—before every respectable crowned head in Europe. But she stood agape with astonishment when she saw the beautiful and airily dressed “Lion Queen,” perched high on top of her gilded carriage.
Then the procession passed on, and Emily resumed her journey with the perambulator. Not far up the street she remembered that she wanted some tobacco for her father, and that she had passed the shop. She left the perambulator where it was for a few minutes, till she should run back and make the little purchase.
As she stood at the counter she heard the quick rattle of wheels, and a noise of galloping hoofs, and then the shout of “Horse ran off!” fell upon her car.
“Oh, the baby!” cried Emily, and dashed out of the shop.
The perambulator, with the child in it, laughing and blinking in the sunshine, stood right in the track of danger.
But Emily, heedless of everything except the desire to save her brother, rushed on towards it. Nearer and nearer came the horse. People shrieked as they saw the girl at the perambulator.
One push sent it clear away from under the very hoofs of the fear-maddened horse. Next moment, Emily herself was down.
Then the sorrowful procession.
Two hours after Lizzie and Tom had seen Emily borne by kind and loving hands into the humble cottage that had been her home, the doctor came out.
He shook his head sadly.
“Go home, my friends,” he said, “it is all over.”
He jumped into his carriage and was driven away. But tears trickled down the cheeks of men in that little crowd; faces were buried in aprons, and women wept aloud.
The grief of poor Emily’s father was something to see and remember for ever and a day. I am not going to attempt to describe it. He was a good man, and a Christian; yet, not that night, nor for many nights and days, was he able to see the light, and to say from his heart: “The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away, blessed be His name.”
As to Shireen—I must tell you about her. She never left the cottage while Emily’s poor little body lay there; and had you entered the house the night before the funeral, you would have seen the poor father sitting by his half out fire, absorbed in grief, and Shireen upon the coffin-lid.
In the cat’s face sorrow, intense sorrow, predominated; but there was also a touch of anger also. Why was her favourite here in this dark box? What had they done to her? Who had done it?
Ah! there was a mystery somewhere, which this little feline playmate and friend of the deceased girl failed to fathom. Can we, in our wisdom? Alas, no!
Chapter Twenty Three.En Voyage for Bagdad.Winter had passed and gone. It had fled far away to Norland hills, and spring reigned in its stead.Sweet-voiced, hopeful spring! Spring, that is always so full of love and joy. Spring, with the balmy wind that whispers softly through the woods and groves, mingling its voice with the purling song of the brooklet and rill, sighing over fields of waving corn, and wooing the odours from a thousand wild flowers. Spring, with its chorus of joy-birds, whose melodies ring out from every woodland, every thicket and grove, till all the green earth seems to lift up its voice in a chorus of gladness and mirth. Sweet-voiced, hopeful spring, the poet’s one season of all the seasons of the year.The old castle lawn was beautiful again, green with verdure and starred over with daisies, and out there now Lizzie and Tom were able to play and gambol once more, where Uncle Ben, with his cockatoo, and the Colonel used to sit there in their good straw chairs, smoke their pipes, and talk together of the days of auld lang syne.Out on this lawn on one particularly blue skied sunny afternoon, Shireen and her friends were assembled, Warlock looking as wise as ever, Vee-Vee as gentle and loving, and Cracker, with his droll, rough, kindly face, all willing to please.“Shireen,” said Cracker, “we haven’t heard you speak for a long time.”Shireen paused in the middle of the operation of face-washing and sat on her mat for a moment or two, with her paw raised thoughtfully in front of her.“You see,” she said at last, “it takes some time for grief like what I suffered for poor Emily to die away. Oh, mine isn’t gone even yet, and somehow I feel older since they took and buried my girl friend. But this is not going to prevent me from concluding my story, and I’m sure I ought to be glad to see you all around me on this lovely afternoon, and to know that we are all alive and well.”“Let me see, where did I leave off in my story about my master and Beebee?”“Oh, I remember,” cried Warlock. “You and your master were about to start on a long journey up the great river to a town called—what was it called though?”“Bagdad!” cried Shireen. “I have it all now. Yes, and the kind good-natured priest was going with us.”Well, my children, Bagdad, you know, is far away to the north, and high up the winding Tigris. Oh, that river does wind to be sure, in and out, out and in, and sometimes it really flows north when it might be saving time by keeping on towards the sunny south, or the golden east. But I dare say, after all, the river knows best, and is in no great hurry to leave this lovely land.Not all lovely is it, though, for even at the places where the river winds the most, the banks are low and wide, stretching afar on each side, and bounded by rising hills, with here and there a tuft of palm trees.But at other places the river goes hurrying on rapidly, as in terror and dread of the very wildness of the scenery, tall beetling cliffs, impassable jungles and bare-scalped rocks, rising brown above the greenery of storm-rent woods and forests. This is the home of many a strange and beautiful bird, the resort of many a savage beast.“Grand opening for sport, Shireen,” said Cracker.“Ah, Cracker, you are strong and big and brave, and your teeth are like daggers of ivory, but short indeed would your existence be if you attempted sport in this lovely wilderness. There are beasts herein, Cracker, one touch from the paws of which would end all your joys and troubles as well.”“I’m not going there then, Shireen. Yorkshire or Scotland is good enough for me, and I’d as soon tackle a Bingley badger as a Bagdad tiger, you bet.”On and on went our little vessel, Chammy, up the waters of the broad, deep river.“How happy I should be to-day,” I heard my master remark to the priest, “if it were not for this ever-abiding anxiety.”He put one hand upon his heart as he spoke.“We must trust to Providence and do our best,” replied the priest with a smile. “You are not giving way to despair, are you, my friend?”“No, my best of friends. But I cannot help feeling within me a strange comminglement of hope and doubt, of joy and fear. Oh, Antonio, if anything happens to that dear child, I shall not want to live one single hour longer. I should—”“Hush! hush!mon ami, I feel certain it will all come right.”My master grasped his hand.“How much I admire your repose, your calmness, and your perfect trust in Providence.”Most of the officers had now congregated round the bows, one or two only being on the little bridge, for we were within but a few miles of the strange quaint city of Bagdad. But what a lovely picture the river and its banks now made! Here was many a beautiful house and charming villa, in whose gardens or lawns lovely children were playing. There were flowers everywhere, and everywhere were orchards all in bloom, pink, crimson, and snow-white.The river was very rapid here indeed, so our progress was slow; but except my master, no one on board I believe would have cared to have it any quicker.He was standing astern, near the wheel, gazing dreamily into the water, when the priest advancing, led him aside. Then he pointed to a strange-looking building on a low hill, surrounded by waving woods. It seemed partly a villa and partly a fort.“They are there!” said the priest. “Miss Morgan and her maid.”I could see the colour come and go on my dear master’s face, and really felt sorry for him at that moment.“Pray Heaven,” he said, “we are not too late, Antonio.”“Better now,” said Antonio, “leave all to me. This is a matter of life and death. If I keep calm and cool my head will be clear and I shall succeed. If I lose my presence of mind for one moment, Miss Morgan and her maid may—”“What?”“Die.”“Antonio!” said my master, “I leave all to you. I trust you thoroughly.”Our little steamboat was now rapidly getting near to Bagdad, the city of Kaliphs, and all at once we rounded a bank, and there burst upon our gaze a scene which is as impressive as any, my children, I have ever witnessed.Perhaps our sudden appearance caused as much astonishment to the people of Bagdad as their strange city caused to us. For very quickly, before indeed we had thought of casting anchor, boats began to crowd shyly round us; boats strange in shape, boats laden with strange passengers and gaily-dressed Turkish men and women, whose veils scarce concealed their beauty, boats flitting hither and thither on trade or pleasure bent, and high up the stream a wonderful bridge built of boats.The city itself, along the side of the river, seemed a city of palaces, of domes and minarets, of cupolas and towers. There was beauty and brightness everywhere, and the tall waving palm trees, that shot upwards their green-fringed tops against the blue sky and fleecy clouds, lent to the whole scene additional charm.But anchor was let go at last, right in front of the charmingly-kept gardens of the British Consul, and master, with Antonio and other officers, went on shore to visit him.That night the Consul himself came off to our little ship, and master confided to him—for he was a kindly man—the whole story of Beebee, and sought his advice.This was willingly given.“It seems strange, however,” said Mr Wilson, the consul, “that she should have been sent to Bagdad.”“This was no doubt for safety,” said Antonio, “although the visit was said to have been recommended by the Persian doctor for health’s sake, and she is as strictly guarded here as she would be in her own country.”“Well,” said Mr Wilson, “any assistance that is in my power to give you, you may depend upon. Meanwhile, I think that your plan of getting Miss Morgan and her maid away by stealth affords the best chance for the safety and perhaps the lives of both.”Two days after this all was arranged, and Antonio, dressed as a travelling merchant of Persia, and accompanied by myself, dropped down stream in a hired boat.But little did I know then the important part I was to play in the delivery of my poor mistress from the fate that threatened her.
Winter had passed and gone. It had fled far away to Norland hills, and spring reigned in its stead.
Sweet-voiced, hopeful spring! Spring, that is always so full of love and joy. Spring, with the balmy wind that whispers softly through the woods and groves, mingling its voice with the purling song of the brooklet and rill, sighing over fields of waving corn, and wooing the odours from a thousand wild flowers. Spring, with its chorus of joy-birds, whose melodies ring out from every woodland, every thicket and grove, till all the green earth seems to lift up its voice in a chorus of gladness and mirth. Sweet-voiced, hopeful spring, the poet’s one season of all the seasons of the year.
The old castle lawn was beautiful again, green with verdure and starred over with daisies, and out there now Lizzie and Tom were able to play and gambol once more, where Uncle Ben, with his cockatoo, and the Colonel used to sit there in their good straw chairs, smoke their pipes, and talk together of the days of auld lang syne.
Out on this lawn on one particularly blue skied sunny afternoon, Shireen and her friends were assembled, Warlock looking as wise as ever, Vee-Vee as gentle and loving, and Cracker, with his droll, rough, kindly face, all willing to please.
“Shireen,” said Cracker, “we haven’t heard you speak for a long time.”
Shireen paused in the middle of the operation of face-washing and sat on her mat for a moment or two, with her paw raised thoughtfully in front of her.
“You see,” she said at last, “it takes some time for grief like what I suffered for poor Emily to die away. Oh, mine isn’t gone even yet, and somehow I feel older since they took and buried my girl friend. But this is not going to prevent me from concluding my story, and I’m sure I ought to be glad to see you all around me on this lovely afternoon, and to know that we are all alive and well.”
“Let me see, where did I leave off in my story about my master and Beebee?”
“Oh, I remember,” cried Warlock. “You and your master were about to start on a long journey up the great river to a town called—what was it called though?”
“Bagdad!” cried Shireen. “I have it all now. Yes, and the kind good-natured priest was going with us.”
Well, my children, Bagdad, you know, is far away to the north, and high up the winding Tigris. Oh, that river does wind to be sure, in and out, out and in, and sometimes it really flows north when it might be saving time by keeping on towards the sunny south, or the golden east. But I dare say, after all, the river knows best, and is in no great hurry to leave this lovely land.
Not all lovely is it, though, for even at the places where the river winds the most, the banks are low and wide, stretching afar on each side, and bounded by rising hills, with here and there a tuft of palm trees.
But at other places the river goes hurrying on rapidly, as in terror and dread of the very wildness of the scenery, tall beetling cliffs, impassable jungles and bare-scalped rocks, rising brown above the greenery of storm-rent woods and forests. This is the home of many a strange and beautiful bird, the resort of many a savage beast.
“Grand opening for sport, Shireen,” said Cracker.
“Ah, Cracker, you are strong and big and brave, and your teeth are like daggers of ivory, but short indeed would your existence be if you attempted sport in this lovely wilderness. There are beasts herein, Cracker, one touch from the paws of which would end all your joys and troubles as well.”
“I’m not going there then, Shireen. Yorkshire or Scotland is good enough for me, and I’d as soon tackle a Bingley badger as a Bagdad tiger, you bet.”
On and on went our little vessel, Chammy, up the waters of the broad, deep river.
“How happy I should be to-day,” I heard my master remark to the priest, “if it were not for this ever-abiding anxiety.”
He put one hand upon his heart as he spoke.
“We must trust to Providence and do our best,” replied the priest with a smile. “You are not giving way to despair, are you, my friend?”
“No, my best of friends. But I cannot help feeling within me a strange comminglement of hope and doubt, of joy and fear. Oh, Antonio, if anything happens to that dear child, I shall not want to live one single hour longer. I should—”
“Hush! hush!mon ami, I feel certain it will all come right.”
My master grasped his hand.
“How much I admire your repose, your calmness, and your perfect trust in Providence.”
Most of the officers had now congregated round the bows, one or two only being on the little bridge, for we were within but a few miles of the strange quaint city of Bagdad. But what a lovely picture the river and its banks now made! Here was many a beautiful house and charming villa, in whose gardens or lawns lovely children were playing. There were flowers everywhere, and everywhere were orchards all in bloom, pink, crimson, and snow-white.
The river was very rapid here indeed, so our progress was slow; but except my master, no one on board I believe would have cared to have it any quicker.
He was standing astern, near the wheel, gazing dreamily into the water, when the priest advancing, led him aside. Then he pointed to a strange-looking building on a low hill, surrounded by waving woods. It seemed partly a villa and partly a fort.
“They are there!” said the priest. “Miss Morgan and her maid.”
I could see the colour come and go on my dear master’s face, and really felt sorry for him at that moment.
“Pray Heaven,” he said, “we are not too late, Antonio.”
“Better now,” said Antonio, “leave all to me. This is a matter of life and death. If I keep calm and cool my head will be clear and I shall succeed. If I lose my presence of mind for one moment, Miss Morgan and her maid may—”
“What?”
“Die.”
“Antonio!” said my master, “I leave all to you. I trust you thoroughly.”
Our little steamboat was now rapidly getting near to Bagdad, the city of Kaliphs, and all at once we rounded a bank, and there burst upon our gaze a scene which is as impressive as any, my children, I have ever witnessed.
Perhaps our sudden appearance caused as much astonishment to the people of Bagdad as their strange city caused to us. For very quickly, before indeed we had thought of casting anchor, boats began to crowd shyly round us; boats strange in shape, boats laden with strange passengers and gaily-dressed Turkish men and women, whose veils scarce concealed their beauty, boats flitting hither and thither on trade or pleasure bent, and high up the stream a wonderful bridge built of boats.
The city itself, along the side of the river, seemed a city of palaces, of domes and minarets, of cupolas and towers. There was beauty and brightness everywhere, and the tall waving palm trees, that shot upwards their green-fringed tops against the blue sky and fleecy clouds, lent to the whole scene additional charm.
But anchor was let go at last, right in front of the charmingly-kept gardens of the British Consul, and master, with Antonio and other officers, went on shore to visit him.
That night the Consul himself came off to our little ship, and master confided to him—for he was a kindly man—the whole story of Beebee, and sought his advice.
This was willingly given.
“It seems strange, however,” said Mr Wilson, the consul, “that she should have been sent to Bagdad.”
“This was no doubt for safety,” said Antonio, “although the visit was said to have been recommended by the Persian doctor for health’s sake, and she is as strictly guarded here as she would be in her own country.”
“Well,” said Mr Wilson, “any assistance that is in my power to give you, you may depend upon. Meanwhile, I think that your plan of getting Miss Morgan and her maid away by stealth affords the best chance for the safety and perhaps the lives of both.”
Two days after this all was arranged, and Antonio, dressed as a travelling merchant of Persia, and accompanied by myself, dropped down stream in a hired boat.
But little did I know then the important part I was to play in the delivery of my poor mistress from the fate that threatened her.
Chapter Twenty Four.“Remember, it is for Freedom, and for Life itself.”“Oh! Miss Morgan,” cried Beebee. “How is this all to end?”My mistress was sitting on the balcony of the room when she made this remark, and Miss Morgan, her English governess, was by her side.The window overlooked the orchards, that went sweeping down towards the banks of the swift-flowing Tigris; and on the far horizon, high above a cloudland of trees, rose here and there the painted cupolas and gilded minarets of the great city of Bagdad itself.“I hardly know yet, my dear child, how it will end. I have prayed, Beebee, prayed long and earnestly, and I have hope, and for some reason or another which I cannot explain, I associate the passing of that British steamer with our deliverance.”“And I, too, have prayed to the Christian God; but somehow he gives me not the hope that He seems to give to you. Suppose,” she added, “we could escape to Bagdad, and reach your British ship, would she give us shelter?”“As a last resort I may counsel this, Beebee, mine; but, ah! think of the risk. The chance of discovery is very great, and you know what discovery means.”“Yes,” sighed Beebee, “it means, to me at all events, death, and a bed beneath yon dark flowing river. And yet I feel I should like to take the risk, dear teacher. In a few days, at most, we shall be sent back to our own home, for the peace has come. Then, oh, dear Miss Morgan, it will be too late.”“See how lovely the sunset is,” she added, with a sigh, “and listen, teacher, to the song of those happy birds. Ah! every creature is happy that is free. I—I—oh, teacher, I am the veriest slave!”Poor Beebee leant her head on the shoulder of her companion, and burst into tears.It was at this very moment, my children, that I, led by some unerring instinct that I cannot even describe to you, crept through the orchard and leapt upon the balcony with a joyful cry.Antonio had brought me within two hundred yards of the house.“Your mistress is not far off, Shireen,” he said; “go, seek her.”I had sought her. I had found her. Oh, happy hour; but for a time neither she nor Miss Morgan knew me.Beebee looked up when I came in, her face still streaming with tears.I sang aloud, and rubbed my head and back against her; and at last a light seemed suddenly to dawn upon her. She stared at me for a moment almost in fright, and superstitiously. Then gradually a smile crept around her lips and eyes.“Oh, teacher!” she cried. “Can it be possible? Take her up, quick, and look for the ruby.”“Yes, yes, I am right,” she added quickly, as Miss Morgan exposed my gum for a moment, and showed the gem set fast in my tooth. “Oh, I was sure of it!”And then I was held fast to Beebee’s beating heart.Miss Morgan was looking strangely puzzled. She was thinking.“I cannot understand,” she said, at last. “What can it possibly mean, Beebee? And howcouldShireen have come here?”“You cannot understand,” cried Beebee gladly. “Oh, but I do. They tell us love is blind. It is false. For I can see; I can see it all. My prince is near at hand, and soon he will come. He is, indeed, he must be in that very ship that passed on up the river to Bagdad.”Miss Morgan’s eyes now began to gladden with joy.“What you say must be true,” she said. “And deliverance is at hand. We have but to wait.”I felt happier now than ever I had done in my life before. Night fell soon; and I retired with my dear mistress into the luxuriously-furnished apartment, just as slaves began to light the lamps.They took no notice of the strange pussy.By-and-bye, the tall, black, fierce-eyed eunuch himself came in, with boys bearing refreshments. But even he did not know me. He had not Beebee’s eyes of love.Beebee talked to him to-night pleasantly too. She even teased him a little, as she used to do when more of a child.He looked pleased, happy even. He seemed to love his mistress; and yet, this man, at the bidding of his master, Beebee’s father, would have thrust her shrieking into a sack, and cast her into the Tigris, whose dark waters close, every month, over many a lovely female form, doomed to death by their heartless husbands.“How long now,” she asked the eunuch, “before we return to our own lovely Persian home? Oh, I am sick of Bagdad.”“But two, three days, then I have the order.”“Ah!” he added, “my little bird-mistress will rejoice when at last the Shah sends for her!”Beebee clapped her little hands.“Indeed, indeed, I shall be joyful,” she said, “when the day of my deliverance comes.”I slept that night in Beebee’s apartment; but the whole of next forenoon wore away and nothing unusual occurred, and I began to notice that sadness was once more stealing over the face of my young mistress.But when it was once more close upon sunset, the eunuch glided silently up to the window of the balcony, on which Beebee sat, with Miss Morgan and me.“Would the ladies be amused?” he asked. “A Persian merchant, with a box of jewellery and many fine things, would like to spread his wares at their feet?”A quick glance passed betwixt Miss Morgan and Beebee, and the latter smiled and nodded assent.In a few minutes more, Antonio, the priest, prostrated himself on the mosaic, before the now veiled ladies; but was told he might arise and show his wares.He lost no time in doing so, and Beebee lifted up her hands and laughed with delight. For here were gems and jewels, rich and rare; dresses of every description, and toys of curious workmanship.“Oh, Jazr!” she cried to the eunuch. “You have been always so good and kind to me, and I may not again have such an opportunity of presenting you with a gift. Wear, for my sake, Jazr, this chain of gold, and think of me when I am far away, as I soon shall be, you know.”The eunuch was profuse in his thanks.“And now,” added Beebee, “go, good Jazr, and bring me my two favourite female slaves. You have to-day made Beebee happy, and she will show her joy by giving them also gifts of value.”Next moment Jazr was gone.Though he was not absent from the room a minute, for he had but to go a little way along the passage and clap his hands, there was time for a few words to pass between Beebee and Antonio.“You know me?” he said in English.“Yes, yes,” in a quick whisper.“Buy this gold watch as a gift for Miss Morgan, and open it when alone. Buy, also, this large parcel of silk. It contains all you will require to insure your safety.”In half an hour more, Antonio, the Persian merchant, was gone, and the whole house and garden had resumed their usual quiet.Hours passed away. Then over all the country fell the silence of the night, scarce broken even by the song of birds in the orchards and groves.The window of Beebee’s sleeping apartment was fully thirty feet above ground; but it overlooked a wild piece of jungle or woody thicket, into which, if anyone could drop, he or she would be beyond the walls of this prison villa, and presumably free.Oh, children, continued Shireen, after a brief pause. I am very old now, but were I to live as long again, I should not forget the anxiety and terror of the hour that succeeded midnight.In Beebee’s apartment slept two girl slaves, and on a mat outside the door, the red-eyed eunuch, Jazr, himself. There was a dim light in the room, that came from a little taper floating in a glass of oil. That was all; and it just served to render things dimly visible.Quick though my hearing was, I heard no footstep when Miss Morgan stood beside Beebee’s couch, and lightly touched her shoulder. She was dressed in a long dark cloak of some kind, the hood of which was over her head.One finger was on her lip, as if to counsel silence and caution. But there was no need of this, for Beebee had been awake for some time, and knew now that the hour of action had come.She got up at once, but slowly, cautiously.My heart beat high with dread at that moment, for there was the sound of talking outside the door. Miss Morgan held up a finger, and both girls paused, waited and listened.It had been but the eunuch talking in his sleep, for he soon resumed his heavy breathing, and as far as he was concerned, all seemed safe for the time being. Miss Morgan now stepped across to the place where the two little slave-maids lay, and bent for a moment over them. Both were sleeping soundly, and she drew a breath of relief.Then she went directly to the window, followed by Beebee and myself. It was an open jalousie, and to a hook in the wall I noticed that a thin ladder of silken ropes had been attached and flung over.This was the most trying moment.By the taper’s pale glimmer I noticed that my dear young mistress was white with fear.Miss Morgan now took me on her shoulder, and next moment swung herself over the window-sill, descending, it appeared to me, to certain death in the awful darkness.When her head was level with the sill, she beckoned to Beebee.“When I give the signal,” she whispered, “hesitate not a moment, but speed downwards. Remember, it is for freedom, and for life itself; and, Beebee, for your prince.”How brave Miss Morgan was!In two minutes’ time, though it seemed to me it was an hour, we had reached the ground. Then Miss Morgan held fast the end of the silken ladder, and gave the signal.There was no response!What a fearful moment that was! Surely my mistress had fainted, or had the slaves awakened and held her?I glanced upwards. Oh, joy! Against the dim, grey light above the trees, and against our prison wall, something dark was visible. And descending too.It mustbe; itwas, Beebee.But see; she is still ten feet at least above the ground, when from the window, high above, comes a piercing shriek.The slaves have awakened and given the alarm.Beebee has paused in her descent. She is petrified with fear.Next moment she lets go her hold and falls.Ah! but inanimate though she be, for she has fainted, she is safe. Strong arms have caught her; and next moment, while the great bell of our prison villa clangs forth from the turret its iron notes of alarm, we dash into the deepest, darkest part of the wood, guided by Antonio, the priest, who is carrying Beebee, and in a few minutes more are close by the river’s brink.Clang—clang—clang, goes the dreadful bell!There is not a moment to lose. Lights are already springing up here and there, by the side of the dark stream. A boat is now liable to be intercepted or even fired upon.Antonio steps lightly into the skiff. Miss Morgan—I still clinging to her shoulder—quickly follows, and takes Beebee, still insensible, from his arms.One light push, one touch of the oars, and we are off and away into mid-stream, and soon speeding down the dark river to freedom and to safety.I think that even Cracker himself drew his breath more freely now that Shireen had reached this part of the story. There could not be much more of it. Only they all wanted to hear the very, very end. So they waited in silence.The forest would have been searched, said Shireen, everywhere; and everywhere next day, boats would dart up and down the river. But all too late, for we were all safe and sound on board that little British boat, and gaily steaming down the river.A few weeks after this we reached Bombay, and here, once more, I had to part with Beebee, my mistress; for the terrible Indian Mutiny had broken out, and I and my master had to stay with our regiment; while Miss Morgan and her pupil, with the dear, good priest, Antonio, sailed homewards round the Cape.Heigho! sighed Shireen. That was a terrible war, and it would take me weeks and weeks to tell you of all I heard and saw. And it was all very, very sad, too.But dear master gained what he called honour and glory; though for the life of me, my children, I never could see where that came in, or what it meant, but it is something that soldiers and sailors greatly love, and often sigh for.The longest time has an end, Warlock, and when the horrors of the mutiny were all things of the past, and the sun of peace shedding once more its soft rays over beautiful India, master and I found ourselves sailing back to Merrie England.Yes, Tabby, we sailed in the dear old corvetteHydra, and Tom was there—Tom Brandy. Need I say that I was happy?The first place that master started for, when the ship reached English shores, was his aunt’s pretty home in Yorkshire.Almost the first words he said, when his good old auntie sailed smiling into the room, were,—“Well, my dear aunt, I am so pleased to get back alive and well; but tell me, how is the blackamoor?”“Oh, your blackamoor,” cried his aunt, laughing. “She is not far away, nor Miss Morgan either; and she is the dearest, sweetest child on earth. Here she comes!”Yes, there she came. And never had I seen her look more lovely, more gentle, and good.Children! a marriage took place sometime after this, and Beebee became the wife of Colonel Edgar Clarkson.“What!” cried Warlock. “Our master that is now?”“Yes,” said Shireen, nodding.“And,” said Tabby, “Beebee is our mistress?”“None other.”“Oh, how delightful! How charming!”“Tse, tse, tse!” said Dick, the starling, and off he flew to Lizzie, who, with her brother Tom, was reclining on the lawn, making gowan garlands (the gowan is the mountain daisy) to hang around their favourites’ necks.Dick alighted on Lizzie’s head, and at once began to go through the motions of bathing and splashing in the sheen of her bonnie hair.But Dick’s departure seems the signal for the breaking up of the party. For lo! shades of evening have begun to fall.“And in the painted oriel of the West,Whose panes the sunken sun incardines,Like a fair lady at her casement, shinesThe Evening Star, the star of love and rest.”So “good-nights” are said, and hands are shaken, then slowly homewards to his bungalow, by the pathway under the lindens, swings honest Ben and his cockatoo; while the shadows deepen beneath the trees, and the blackbird trills his last sweet song.Behind him walks Cracker—a garland of gowans around his neck—all the way to the bungalow gate. Here he stops a moment to receive Ben’s friendly farewell pat, then gives his droll old stump of a tail a shake, and trots slowly home alone.The End.
“Oh! Miss Morgan,” cried Beebee. “How is this all to end?”
My mistress was sitting on the balcony of the room when she made this remark, and Miss Morgan, her English governess, was by her side.
The window overlooked the orchards, that went sweeping down towards the banks of the swift-flowing Tigris; and on the far horizon, high above a cloudland of trees, rose here and there the painted cupolas and gilded minarets of the great city of Bagdad itself.
“I hardly know yet, my dear child, how it will end. I have prayed, Beebee, prayed long and earnestly, and I have hope, and for some reason or another which I cannot explain, I associate the passing of that British steamer with our deliverance.”
“And I, too, have prayed to the Christian God; but somehow he gives me not the hope that He seems to give to you. Suppose,” she added, “we could escape to Bagdad, and reach your British ship, would she give us shelter?”
“As a last resort I may counsel this, Beebee, mine; but, ah! think of the risk. The chance of discovery is very great, and you know what discovery means.”
“Yes,” sighed Beebee, “it means, to me at all events, death, and a bed beneath yon dark flowing river. And yet I feel I should like to take the risk, dear teacher. In a few days, at most, we shall be sent back to our own home, for the peace has come. Then, oh, dear Miss Morgan, it will be too late.”
“See how lovely the sunset is,” she added, with a sigh, “and listen, teacher, to the song of those happy birds. Ah! every creature is happy that is free. I—I—oh, teacher, I am the veriest slave!”
Poor Beebee leant her head on the shoulder of her companion, and burst into tears.
It was at this very moment, my children, that I, led by some unerring instinct that I cannot even describe to you, crept through the orchard and leapt upon the balcony with a joyful cry.
Antonio had brought me within two hundred yards of the house.
“Your mistress is not far off, Shireen,” he said; “go, seek her.”
I had sought her. I had found her. Oh, happy hour; but for a time neither she nor Miss Morgan knew me.
Beebee looked up when I came in, her face still streaming with tears.
I sang aloud, and rubbed my head and back against her; and at last a light seemed suddenly to dawn upon her. She stared at me for a moment almost in fright, and superstitiously. Then gradually a smile crept around her lips and eyes.
“Oh, teacher!” she cried. “Can it be possible? Take her up, quick, and look for the ruby.”
“Yes, yes, I am right,” she added quickly, as Miss Morgan exposed my gum for a moment, and showed the gem set fast in my tooth. “Oh, I was sure of it!”
And then I was held fast to Beebee’s beating heart.
Miss Morgan was looking strangely puzzled. She was thinking.
“I cannot understand,” she said, at last. “What can it possibly mean, Beebee? And howcouldShireen have come here?”
“You cannot understand,” cried Beebee gladly. “Oh, but I do. They tell us love is blind. It is false. For I can see; I can see it all. My prince is near at hand, and soon he will come. He is, indeed, he must be in that very ship that passed on up the river to Bagdad.”
Miss Morgan’s eyes now began to gladden with joy.
“What you say must be true,” she said. “And deliverance is at hand. We have but to wait.”
I felt happier now than ever I had done in my life before. Night fell soon; and I retired with my dear mistress into the luxuriously-furnished apartment, just as slaves began to light the lamps.
They took no notice of the strange pussy.
By-and-bye, the tall, black, fierce-eyed eunuch himself came in, with boys bearing refreshments. But even he did not know me. He had not Beebee’s eyes of love.
Beebee talked to him to-night pleasantly too. She even teased him a little, as she used to do when more of a child.
He looked pleased, happy even. He seemed to love his mistress; and yet, this man, at the bidding of his master, Beebee’s father, would have thrust her shrieking into a sack, and cast her into the Tigris, whose dark waters close, every month, over many a lovely female form, doomed to death by their heartless husbands.
“How long now,” she asked the eunuch, “before we return to our own lovely Persian home? Oh, I am sick of Bagdad.”
“But two, three days, then I have the order.”
“Ah!” he added, “my little bird-mistress will rejoice when at last the Shah sends for her!”
Beebee clapped her little hands.
“Indeed, indeed, I shall be joyful,” she said, “when the day of my deliverance comes.”
I slept that night in Beebee’s apartment; but the whole of next forenoon wore away and nothing unusual occurred, and I began to notice that sadness was once more stealing over the face of my young mistress.
But when it was once more close upon sunset, the eunuch glided silently up to the window of the balcony, on which Beebee sat, with Miss Morgan and me.
“Would the ladies be amused?” he asked. “A Persian merchant, with a box of jewellery and many fine things, would like to spread his wares at their feet?”
A quick glance passed betwixt Miss Morgan and Beebee, and the latter smiled and nodded assent.
In a few minutes more, Antonio, the priest, prostrated himself on the mosaic, before the now veiled ladies; but was told he might arise and show his wares.
He lost no time in doing so, and Beebee lifted up her hands and laughed with delight. For here were gems and jewels, rich and rare; dresses of every description, and toys of curious workmanship.
“Oh, Jazr!” she cried to the eunuch. “You have been always so good and kind to me, and I may not again have such an opportunity of presenting you with a gift. Wear, for my sake, Jazr, this chain of gold, and think of me when I am far away, as I soon shall be, you know.”
The eunuch was profuse in his thanks.
“And now,” added Beebee, “go, good Jazr, and bring me my two favourite female slaves. You have to-day made Beebee happy, and she will show her joy by giving them also gifts of value.”
Next moment Jazr was gone.
Though he was not absent from the room a minute, for he had but to go a little way along the passage and clap his hands, there was time for a few words to pass between Beebee and Antonio.
“You know me?” he said in English.
“Yes, yes,” in a quick whisper.
“Buy this gold watch as a gift for Miss Morgan, and open it when alone. Buy, also, this large parcel of silk. It contains all you will require to insure your safety.”
In half an hour more, Antonio, the Persian merchant, was gone, and the whole house and garden had resumed their usual quiet.
Hours passed away. Then over all the country fell the silence of the night, scarce broken even by the song of birds in the orchards and groves.
The window of Beebee’s sleeping apartment was fully thirty feet above ground; but it overlooked a wild piece of jungle or woody thicket, into which, if anyone could drop, he or she would be beyond the walls of this prison villa, and presumably free.
Oh, children, continued Shireen, after a brief pause. I am very old now, but were I to live as long again, I should not forget the anxiety and terror of the hour that succeeded midnight.
In Beebee’s apartment slept two girl slaves, and on a mat outside the door, the red-eyed eunuch, Jazr, himself. There was a dim light in the room, that came from a little taper floating in a glass of oil. That was all; and it just served to render things dimly visible.
Quick though my hearing was, I heard no footstep when Miss Morgan stood beside Beebee’s couch, and lightly touched her shoulder. She was dressed in a long dark cloak of some kind, the hood of which was over her head.
One finger was on her lip, as if to counsel silence and caution. But there was no need of this, for Beebee had been awake for some time, and knew now that the hour of action had come.
She got up at once, but slowly, cautiously.
My heart beat high with dread at that moment, for there was the sound of talking outside the door. Miss Morgan held up a finger, and both girls paused, waited and listened.
It had been but the eunuch talking in his sleep, for he soon resumed his heavy breathing, and as far as he was concerned, all seemed safe for the time being. Miss Morgan now stepped across to the place where the two little slave-maids lay, and bent for a moment over them. Both were sleeping soundly, and she drew a breath of relief.
Then she went directly to the window, followed by Beebee and myself. It was an open jalousie, and to a hook in the wall I noticed that a thin ladder of silken ropes had been attached and flung over.
This was the most trying moment.
By the taper’s pale glimmer I noticed that my dear young mistress was white with fear.
Miss Morgan now took me on her shoulder, and next moment swung herself over the window-sill, descending, it appeared to me, to certain death in the awful darkness.
When her head was level with the sill, she beckoned to Beebee.
“When I give the signal,” she whispered, “hesitate not a moment, but speed downwards. Remember, it is for freedom, and for life itself; and, Beebee, for your prince.”
How brave Miss Morgan was!
In two minutes’ time, though it seemed to me it was an hour, we had reached the ground. Then Miss Morgan held fast the end of the silken ladder, and gave the signal.
There was no response!
What a fearful moment that was! Surely my mistress had fainted, or had the slaves awakened and held her?
I glanced upwards. Oh, joy! Against the dim, grey light above the trees, and against our prison wall, something dark was visible. And descending too.
It mustbe; itwas, Beebee.
But see; she is still ten feet at least above the ground, when from the window, high above, comes a piercing shriek.
The slaves have awakened and given the alarm.
Beebee has paused in her descent. She is petrified with fear.
Next moment she lets go her hold and falls.
Ah! but inanimate though she be, for she has fainted, she is safe. Strong arms have caught her; and next moment, while the great bell of our prison villa clangs forth from the turret its iron notes of alarm, we dash into the deepest, darkest part of the wood, guided by Antonio, the priest, who is carrying Beebee, and in a few minutes more are close by the river’s brink.
Clang—clang—clang, goes the dreadful bell!
There is not a moment to lose. Lights are already springing up here and there, by the side of the dark stream. A boat is now liable to be intercepted or even fired upon.
Antonio steps lightly into the skiff. Miss Morgan—I still clinging to her shoulder—quickly follows, and takes Beebee, still insensible, from his arms.
One light push, one touch of the oars, and we are off and away into mid-stream, and soon speeding down the dark river to freedom and to safety.
I think that even Cracker himself drew his breath more freely now that Shireen had reached this part of the story. There could not be much more of it. Only they all wanted to hear the very, very end. So they waited in silence.
The forest would have been searched, said Shireen, everywhere; and everywhere next day, boats would dart up and down the river. But all too late, for we were all safe and sound on board that little British boat, and gaily steaming down the river.
A few weeks after this we reached Bombay, and here, once more, I had to part with Beebee, my mistress; for the terrible Indian Mutiny had broken out, and I and my master had to stay with our regiment; while Miss Morgan and her pupil, with the dear, good priest, Antonio, sailed homewards round the Cape.
Heigho! sighed Shireen. That was a terrible war, and it would take me weeks and weeks to tell you of all I heard and saw. And it was all very, very sad, too.
But dear master gained what he called honour and glory; though for the life of me, my children, I never could see where that came in, or what it meant, but it is something that soldiers and sailors greatly love, and often sigh for.
The longest time has an end, Warlock, and when the horrors of the mutiny were all things of the past, and the sun of peace shedding once more its soft rays over beautiful India, master and I found ourselves sailing back to Merrie England.
Yes, Tabby, we sailed in the dear old corvetteHydra, and Tom was there—Tom Brandy. Need I say that I was happy?
The first place that master started for, when the ship reached English shores, was his aunt’s pretty home in Yorkshire.
Almost the first words he said, when his good old auntie sailed smiling into the room, were,—
“Well, my dear aunt, I am so pleased to get back alive and well; but tell me, how is the blackamoor?”
“Oh, your blackamoor,” cried his aunt, laughing. “She is not far away, nor Miss Morgan either; and she is the dearest, sweetest child on earth. Here she comes!”
Yes, there she came. And never had I seen her look more lovely, more gentle, and good.
Children! a marriage took place sometime after this, and Beebee became the wife of Colonel Edgar Clarkson.
“What!” cried Warlock. “Our master that is now?”
“Yes,” said Shireen, nodding.
“And,” said Tabby, “Beebee is our mistress?”
“None other.”
“Oh, how delightful! How charming!”
“Tse, tse, tse!” said Dick, the starling, and off he flew to Lizzie, who, with her brother Tom, was reclining on the lawn, making gowan garlands (the gowan is the mountain daisy) to hang around their favourites’ necks.
Dick alighted on Lizzie’s head, and at once began to go through the motions of bathing and splashing in the sheen of her bonnie hair.
But Dick’s departure seems the signal for the breaking up of the party. For lo! shades of evening have begun to fall.
“And in the painted oriel of the West,Whose panes the sunken sun incardines,Like a fair lady at her casement, shinesThe Evening Star, the star of love and rest.”
“And in the painted oriel of the West,Whose panes the sunken sun incardines,Like a fair lady at her casement, shinesThe Evening Star, the star of love and rest.”
So “good-nights” are said, and hands are shaken, then slowly homewards to his bungalow, by the pathway under the lindens, swings honest Ben and his cockatoo; while the shadows deepen beneath the trees, and the blackbird trills his last sweet song.
Behind him walks Cracker—a garland of gowans around his neck—all the way to the bungalow gate. Here he stops a moment to receive Ben’s friendly farewell pat, then gives his droll old stump of a tail a shake, and trots slowly home alone.
The End.