Sir Henry Lennoxhad resigned his post, and the military despotism in Khemistan proper was at an end. The Europeans at Alibad journeyed in two detachments to the port on the river to bid farewell to the old warrior, who was making his last triumphal progress amid the tears and lamentations of the people to whom, according to his enemies and their newspapers, his name was a signal for universal execration. The General and his flotilla of steamers passed on, and Major Keeling returned to Alibad, refusing to be comforted. The epoch of the soldier was over, that of the civilian had begun, and, like his old commander, he detested civilians as a class, without prejudice to certain favoured individuals, with a furious hatred. Mr Crayne, the newly appointed Commissioner, was not only a civilian but a man of such an awkward temper that it was said his superiors and contemporaries at Bombay had united to thrust the post upon him. It was not his by seniority, but they would have been willing to see him made Governor-General if it would remove him from their immediate neighbourhood. In him Major Keeling perceived a foeman worthy of his steel, and before the new ruler had fairly arrived in the province, they were embarked upon a fierce paper warfare over almost every point of Mr Crayne’s inaugural utterance. After a hard day’s work, it was a positive refreshment to the soldier to sit down and compose a fiery letter to his obnoxious superior; and since he was one of those to whom experience brings little wisdom, he repeated with zest the old mistake which had made him a by-word in official circles. More than once in former years, when he thought he had made a specially good point in a controversy of this kind, or forced his opponent into a particularly untenable corner, he had sent the correspondence to the Bombay papers, which were ready enough to print it, salving their consciences by printing also scathing remarks on the sender. They gave him no sympathy, and the military authorities sent him stinging rebukes; but as if by a kind of fatality he did the same thing over again as often as circumstances made it possible. His friends and subordinates looked on with fear and trembling, and whispered that the only reason he was still in the service was the fact that no one else could keep the frontier quiet: his enemies chuckled while they writhed, and said that the man was hard at work twisting the rope to hang himself, and it must be long enough soon.
It was unfortunate that Ferrers should have chosen this particular time to ask for leave in order to pay a visit to his uncle. He was heartily sick of the frontier, and the prospect of the Christmas festivities at Bab-us-Sahel was very pleasant. Moreover, he was anxious to bring himself to Mr Crayne’s remembrance. These months of hard service in a detestable spot like Alibad ought to have quite wiped out the memory of his past follies, and the uncle who had refused a request for money with unkind remarks such as made his nephew’s ears tingle still, might be willing to help him in other ways now that he could do so without cost to himself. By dint of studiously respectful and persistent letters congratulating Mr Crayne on his appointment, Ferrers had succeeded in eliciting a sufficiently cordial invitation to spend Christmas at Government House, provided he could obtain leave. His uncle did not offer to pay his expenses; but for the provision of the heavy cost of the journey he relied, in his usual fashion, on the trustfulness of the regimentalshroff—an elastic term for an official whose functions included both banking and money-lending. The obstacle came just where he had not expected it, for Major Keeling refused to grant him leave. It was true that Ferrers had already had the full leave to which he was entitled, and had spent it in hunting, but a more prudent man than the Commandant might have felt inclined to stretch a point, with the view of conciliating the ruling power. Not so Major Keeling. If he had felt the slightest inclination to grant Ferrers’ request, the fact that he was Mr Crayne’s nephew would have kept him from doing so; but as it was, he rated Ferrers severely for asking for leave at all when the freebooter Shir Hussein was still at large in his district and foiling all attempts to lay him by the heels. Exasperated alike by the refusal and the rebuke, Ferrers rode back to Shah Nawaz in a towering passion, and casting aside the restraint which he had hitherto maintained, gave vent to his feelings by inveighing furiously against the Commandant in the presence of Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq. The Mirza listened calmly, and with something like amusement, saying little, but the few words he uttered were calculated to inflame his employer’s rage rather than to allay it.
“Keeling has made up his mind to persecute me for being my uncle’s nephew!” cried Ferrers at last. “I won’t stand it. I’ll appeal to the Commissioner. He can’t refuse to take my side when he sees how I’m treated.”
“It may be he will remove you to another post, sahib,” suggested the Mirza.
“I only wish he would! I’d go like a shot.”
“It may be that Kīlin Sahib wishes it also.” The suggestion was made in a meditative tone, and Ferrers turned and looked at the Mirza.
“What do you mean? Hasn’t he just refused to let me go?”
“It is one thing to go for a while and return, and another to depart permanently, sahib,” was the answer.
“You mean that he hopes to make me throw up the frontier altogether? What business has he to try and turn me out?”
“Nay, sahib, it is not for me to say. But it may be he has no desire that there should always be one near him who might carry tales to your honour’s uncle.”
“What tales could I carry? The man’s straight enough. He does himself more harm by one of his own letters that I could do him in a year.”
“Even if your honour told all that you know?”
“Why, of course. What are you driving at, Mirza? I wish you wouldn’t be so abominably mysterious.”
“If Firoz Sahib knows nothing now that his honoured uncle would care to hear, it may be he might learn something.”
“There you go again! What is it? Do you know anything?”
“Is it for the dust of the earth, the poor servant of Firoz Sahib, to utter words against the great Kīlin Sahib, the lord of the border? The lips of my lord’s slave are sealed.”
“That they’re not. You’ve gone too far to draw back now. If you don’t tell me what you mean, I’ll have it out of you one way or another.”
“Nay, my lord will not so far forget himself as to utter threats to his servant?” said the Mirza, in a silky tone which nevertheless reminded Ferrers that his dependant could make things very unpleasant for him if he liked. “As I have said, I may not bear testimony against Kīlin Sahib; but who shall blame me if I enable my lord to see with his own eyes the things of which I speak?”
“By all means. Splendid idea!” said Ferrers, divided between the desire of conciliating the Mirza and a certain reluctance to spy upon the Commandant. But this quickly gave place to excitement. What could he be going to discover? “When can you do this?” he asked. “And how can you manage about me?”
“If my lord will deign to put on once more, as often in the past, the garments of the faithful, and will pledge himself to say nothing of what he sees save what I may give him leave to reveal, I will lead him this very night to a certain place where he shall see things that will surprise him.”
“Oh, all right!” said Ferrers, forgetting that he was putting himself once more into the Mirza’s power. “Thedaffadarmust know we are going out in disguise, in case of an alarm in the night, but he had better think we are going to try and track Shir Hussein. You look after the clothes, of course. Do we ride or walk?”
“We will ride the first part of the way, sahib, and two ponies shall be in readiness; but the place to which we go is apir’s tomb in the hills this side of the Akrab Pass, and there we must walk. But we shall return to the ponies, and be here again by dawn.”
The Mirza bowed himself out, and Ferrers whiled away the rest of the day in vain speculations. Was he about to discover that Major Keeling amused himself with such adventures as he and his friends at Bab-us-Sahel had been wont to undertake? He thought not, for, though born and partly brought up in India, the Major had always spoken with contemptuous dislike of Europeans who aped the natives, or tried to live a double life. Of course that might be only to throw his hearers off the scent, but still—and Ferrers went over the ground again, with the same result. He had not come to any decision as to what he was to expect to see by the time the Mirza thought it was safe to start, and he could get no satisfaction from him. He was to judge with his own eyes, and not be prepared beforehand for what he was to be shown.
It was a long ride over the desert, which shone faintly white in the starlight. There was no wind, and the whirling sand which made travelling so unpleasant in the daytime was momentarily still. The distant cry of a wild animal was to be heard at times, but no human beings seemed to be abroad save the two riders. It was different, however, when they had reached the mountains, and, picketing the ponies in a convenient hollow, began to climb a rocky path, for here and there in front of them was to be seen a muffled figure. Once or twice they passed or were overtaken by one of these, with whom the Mirza exchanged a low-toned greeting, the words of which Ferrers could not distinguish. Sooner than he expected they found themselves entering a village of rough mud-huts, which had evidently grown up around and under the protection of a larger building, a Moslem sanctuary of some sort. This must be the tomb of thepir, or holy man, of whom the Mirza had spoken, thought Ferrers; and he noticed that muffled figures like those he had seen on the way up seemed to be thronging into it. The place was built of rough mud-brick, but there were rude traces of decoration about the walls, and some architectural features in the form of a bulb-shaped dome and two rather squat minarets. Ferrers and his guide joined the crowd at the entrance, and were pressing into the building with them, when Ferrers felt the Mirza grasp his arm, and impel him aside. They seemed to have turned into a dark passage between two walls, while the rest of the crowd had gone straight on, and a man with whom the Mirza spoke for a moment, and who was apparently one of the keepers of the tomb, closed a door behind them as soon as they had entered. Still guided by the Mirza, Ferrers stumbled along the passage until a faint gleam of starlight through a loop-hole showed him that there was a spiral staircase in front. The steps were choked with sand and much decayed, but the two men made shift to climb them, and came out at last on a fairly smooth mud platform, which was evidently the roof of the tomb. The Mirza walked noiselessly across it until he came to the dark mass which represented the bulging dome, and Ferrers, following, found that rude steps had been devised in the mouldering brickwork, so that it was possible to mount to the top. Once there, a sudden rush of oil-fumes and mingled odours reached him, and he would have coughed but for the Mirza’s imperative whisper ordering silence. Following his guide’s example, he lay down on the slope of the dome, supporting himself by gripping with his fingers the edge of the brickwork, over which he looked. He had noticed that although from the ground the top of the dome appeared roughly spherical, it was in reality flattened, and now he found that this flat effect was caused by the absence of the concluding courses of brickwork, which would answer to a key-stone, so that a round hole was left for the admission of light and air. They could thus look right down into the building, upon the actual tomb, marked by an oblong slab of rough stone, immediately below them, and upon the men whom they had seen entering, now seated on the floor in reverential, expectant silence. The place was lighted by a number of smoking oil-lamps, which revealed the rude arabesques in blue and crimson decorating the walls, and brought out a gleam of shining turquoise and white higher up, where were the remains of a frieze of glazed tiles, and which were also accountable for the fumes which obliged Ferrers to turn his head away every now and then for a breath of fresh air.
After one of these interruptions, he became aware that a service of some kind had begun. A voice was droning out what sounded like a liturgy, and the congregation were kneeling with their foreheads to the floor, and performing the proper genuflexions at suitable intervals. Presently the Mirza grasped his arm again, and directed his attention to the officiating reader. Ferrers could only discern him dimly, and saw him, moreover, from behind; but presently it began to dawn upon him that the figure was in some way familiar. The man was very tall, and, for an Oriental, of an extraordinarily powerful build. His flowing robes were of purest white, but his girdle was scarlet; and round a pointed cap of bright steel, in shape like the fighting headgear of the Khemistan Horse, he wore a scarlet turban. After a time he had occasion to turn round, and Ferrers, with a thrill for which he could not at first account, saw his face. Again there was that impression of familiarity. The thick black hair, the bushy beard, the strongly marked features, the keen eyes—Ferrers knew them all; and when he realised what this meant, he was only prevented by the Mirza’s arm from slipping off the dome. To find Major Keeling reading Arabic prayers in a Mohammedan place of worship was a shock for which nothing he had hitherto seen had prepared him.
Presently the service came to an end, and the reader disappeared from view. From the movements of the audience, it seemed that they were grouping themselves round him at one end of the building; and, at the Mirza’s suggestion, Ferrers slipped and shuffled round the dome until he reached a point opposite to his former position. Here he could again obtain a glimpse of the white and scarlet figure, seated now in a niche in the end wall, with the congregation sitting before him like disciples in the presence of a teacher. What followed was more or less of a mystery to Ferrers, for it was difficult to see clearly, and almost impossible to hear. All spoke in low voices, and the mingled sounds rose confusedly to the opening in the dome. But it seemed evident that reports of some kind were given in by certain of the audience, whose attire showed them to belong to various tribes, or even to different regions of Central Asia; that orders were issued, and small strips torn from the teacher’s white robe blessed and distributed among those present. All this was highly interesting; but from what followed, Ferrers, whose religious sense was by no means keen, drew back revolted. To see his Commandant breathing on the eager hearers who crowded round him as he rose, or laying his hands on their heads, according as they entreated a blessing or the favour of his holy breath, was bad enough. But there were some who suffered from bodily ailments, and the teacher must needs lay his hand upon the spot affected and mutter a prayer; and for those who had sick friends at home he must write charms on scraps of paper and mutter incantations over them. Then, just as he was about to leave the place, a very old man pushed forward and grasped his robe.
“O my lord!” he cried, and his high quavering voice reached Ferrers clearly, “strengthen the faith of thy servant. Months ago I disobeyed thy commands, and sought a sign from thee in the daytime and in the presence of the ignorant and the infidel. Thou didst pour scorn upon me, such as I well deserved, but pardon me now. All those that are here have seen thy power, save only thy servant. Only a little sign, O my lord—to behold fire breathed from thy lips, or a light shining round thee——”
The teacher held up his hand for silence, and answered in the same low voice as before. Though Ferrers strained his ears, he could not hear what was said, but the Mirza was at his side.
“The Sheikh says that he will show the faithful a new miracle,” he whispered. “Many of them have seen him breathe fire, but now a sweet odour, as of roses, shall suddenly encompass him, that they may know the worth of his prayers.”
“The odour of sanctity!” chuckled Ferrers, in mingled amusement and disgust; and presently, rather to his astonishment, a faint but distinct perfume of attar of roses made itself felt among the oil-fumes which rose through the opening. To the crowd below the scent must have been much more evident, and their expressions of joy and wonder broke out loudly. The old man who had asked for a miracle flung himself down in transports of delight, and kissed the ground before the Sheikh’s feet, and there were urgent entreaties to be led forth at once against the enemy, which were promptly refused. When the teacher had disappeared from view, the Mirza touched Ferrers’ arm, and they scrambled down the dome and crept to the side of the roof, where, sheltered by the minaret, they looked over the edge. The red and white of the Sheikh’s dress were clearly discernible, but it was not easy to see what was going on among his supporters. As Ferrers’ eyes became accustomed to the darkness, however, he perceived that a shallow grave had been dug, and that a coffin was ready to be committed to it. He looked round at the Mirza with horror. Were these men about to dispose of the body of some member of their mysterious association who had been false to his vows, and suffered for it? But the Mirza’s whisper was reassuring—
“It is the body of a man of Gamara, who died here yesterday. The Sheikh will utter spells which will preserve it from decay, that when the friends are about to return home they may take up the body and bury it in the burial-place of his fathers in his own land.”
The Sheikh’s incantations were lengthy, and before they were over the Mirza and Ferrers descended the staircase again. As they passed the loophole at its foot, the Mirza directed Ferrers’ attention to a brazier filled with glowing charcoal which stood in a recess in the opposite wall.
“The Sheikh had smeared the wooden walls of the niche in which he sat with attar of roses before the service began, and placed this brazier here,” he said. “He knew that as the heat penetrated through the wall, the perfume would make itself felt.”
“Wily beggar! he leaves nothing to chance,” said Ferrers, and stopped suddenly with sick disgust. The successful charlatan of whom he spoke was a British officer, a man whose hand he had grasped in friendship.
They groped along the passage, and slipped out noiselessly by the door into the crowd of disciples. When the funeral was over the Sheikh bade farewell to his followers, and mounted a black horse which had been brought forward in readiness. Ferrers restrained himself with difficulty from whistling to the horse.
“If it was Miani, he might know my whistle,” he said to himself; “but I can’t believe Keeling would use him on such a business as this.”
The Sheikh rode off alone, and the assembly melted away quickly. Ferrers and the Mirza picked their way down the path in silence, found their ponies, and said nothing until they were at a safe distance from the hills. Then Ferrers turned to his companion.
“What does it mean?” he said.
“He that you have seen is the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, sahib. Whether he is also any one else is for you to say.”
“But is it possible that the man can be a British officer all day and a Mohammedan fanatic at night? Who is the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, by the way—not the old joker who lives in the hills to the west?”
“The same, sahib.”
“But what is he driving at? Who is he going to war with?”
“It is not for me to say, sahib; but it may be that he designs to conquer the nations even as far as Gamara.”
Ferrers reflected. To Major Keeling, as to many British officers at the time, the name of Gamara was like a red rag to a bull, and it was one of their favourite dreams that one day a British Indian army would sweep the accursed spot from the face of the earth. It was not inherently impossible that, despairing of seeing the dream ever fulfilled by constituted authority, Major Keeling should proceed to make it a reality by methods of his own. But the means—the mummery, trickery, dissimulation that were necessary,—how could he stoop to them, and yet pose as an honourable man?
“Have you ever spied there before?” asked Ferrers of the Mirza.
“Often, sahib.”
“And what have you seen at other times?”
“Always the same sort of things, sahib—plannings and pretended miracles. But I can show you more than this in another place, only it may not be yet for a time.”
“Let it be as soon as possible.” Ferrers rode on silently. It did not occur to him to inquire what had suggested to the Mirza the idea of spying on Major Keeling, or what result he hoped to gain from it. He scarcely heard Fazl-ul-Hacq’s voice adjuring him not to breathe a syllable about what he had seen until he gave him leave, for he was asking himself a question. Next week he must go into Alibad for Christmas, and meet Major Keeling at every turn. How could he treat him as if he knew nothing of his proceedings?
WhenFerrers rode into Alibad next week, to spend his Christmas there, his excitement had died down. He had not received the additional evidence against Major Keeling which the Mirza had promised him, and he understood that he must be content to wait for it. But he had schooled himself into quietness since that eventful night by dint of dwelling chiefly on the ridiculous side of what he had seen, and found the recollection rather amusing than otherwise. He felt that he could meet the delinquent without any inconvenient display of wrath, and was prepared to enjoy to the full such Christmas festivities as the resources of the station might provide. He wondered, with something very like mirth, on what sort of footing he would find himself with Penelope this time. Hitherto it had seemed as if he could not remain in the same mind about her for two days together. But surely it must be her fault, if she could not keep him faithful. No doubt if he found her looking well and bright, more especially if the other men seemed inclined to pay court to her, his suspended affection would revive; but if she looked pale, and was too dull for any one to care to talk to her, it was not likely he would wish to seek her out. If she was no longer interesting, how could he possibly be interested in her, and was he to blame that this was the case?
Thoughts of this kind were vaguely forming themselves in his mind as he rode, when a cloud of dust in front announced the approach of another horseman, and presently resolved itself into Colin, his face wearing a determined expression which told that, as his Covenanting forefathers would have said, something was “laid upon his mind.” Ferrers wondered what was the matter, but Colin said nothing until he had turned his horse and they were riding side by side. Then he inquired with startling suddenness—
“Are you still in the same mind about Penelope as when we last talked about her?”
“Why, Colin, have you come out to ask me my intentions?” asked Ferrers, much amused.
“I’m not joking. If you feel as you did when you sent her that message by me, I think the time is come to announce it openly. Do you feel inclined to speak to her yourself on the subject?”
Ferrers shrugged his shoulders, and yielded, in his usual fashion, to the influence of the moment. “I should be delighted, but how is it to be managed? Lady Haigh watches over her like a dragon when I am there.”
“I will undertake Lady Haigh if you will seize your opportunity. Penelope is unhappy in her present anomalous position, I am certain. She distinctly gave me the impression that she had thought you unkind and neglectful. Of course I defended you as best I could, but you should have been there to speak for yourself.”
“But I thought it was Penelope’s own wish that I should keep my distance?”
“So I thought,” was the troubled answer; “but now I think it might have been better if you had not held aloof quite so much. I may have mistaken her—I was so anxious to bring you together again that I would have agreed to almost any terms.” Ferrers laughed involuntarily, but Colin’s forehead was puckered with anxiety. “Perhaps you should have refused to take her at her word——”
“Or at your word,” suggested Ferrers.
“Well, perhaps if you had been more eager, refused to be kept at a distance in this way, she might have liked it better. Women seem to find some moral support in an engagement, somehow——”
“What a young Solon you are, Colin! Well, give me a lead at the right moment, and I’ll play up to it. So poor little Pen is miserable, is she?”
“She is not happy, and she won’t talk about you. She must think you have treated her badly—don’t you agree with me? I daresay she has the idea that I might have helped her more. I hope it will be all right now, and that I am not wrong in——”
“Oh, look here, Colin, don’t trot out that conscience of yours,” said Ferrers, with rough good-nature. “We’re going to put things right, at any rate, and you can’t quarrel with what you’ve done yourself,” and Colin consented to leave the subject. He was honestly anxious to do what was best for his sister, with an unconscious mental reservation in favour of what he thought was best; and the barrier which the last few months had raised between Penelope and himself was a real grief to him. Penelope had learnt to carry her burden alone. Colin could not understand why it should be a burden at all, and she could not confide in Lady Haigh without seeming to accuse Colin. Her sole comfort hitherto had been that Ferrers made no attempt to enforce what she regarded as his threats in the message sent by Colin, and she looked forward to Christmas-week with absolute dread. She hoped desperately that he might still hold aloof; but this hope was destined to be shattered as soon as he reached Alibad.
Colin brought him up immediately to pay his respects to Lady Haigh, who still held her court in the fort, for at the very beginning of the rains one of the newly built houses had subsided by slow degrees into its original mud, and Major Keeling would not allow the ladies to move until the others had been tested and strengthened. Lady Haigh’s policy was unchanged, it was evident. She kept the conversation general, and made it clear that she would remain on guard over Penelope until Ferrers was safely off the premises. But Colin had come prepared to throw himself heroically into the breach.
“I think Captain Ferrers and my sister have something to say to each other,” he said, and offered his arm to Lady Haigh with formal courtesy. “Perhaps you would not mind showing me the view from the ramparts again?”
No one was more astonished than Lady Haigh herself at her compliance with the invitation; but, as she said later, when she was politely handed out of her own drawing-room, what could she do but go? The one glimpse she had of Penelope reassured her. The girl’s colour had risen, and it was evident she resented her brother’s action, and was not inclined to accept his ruling tamely. For the moment Ferrers was the more embarrassed of the two. He fidgeted from one chair to another, and then took up a book on the table near Penelope and played with it, not noticing the start with which she half rose to rescue it from his hands. It was a battered copy of Scott’s Poems, the pages everywhere decorated with underlining and marginal notes.
“Why, I believe you have got hold of the Chief’s beloved Scott!” he cried. “He might have found a respectable copy to lend you.”
“I should not have cared for that,” she replied. “It is his notes that interest me.”
“Oh, you find the Chief an object of interest?” Ferrers looked up sharply. “Do you see much of him?”
“He comes in fairly often.” Penelope’s tone was curiously repressed. “I think he likes to talk to—us.”
“And what may you and he find to talk about?”
“The province, chiefly. Sometimes the battles he has been in.”
Ferrers laughed forbearingly. There was little need to fear a rival in a man who could see a girl constantly for six months, and still talk to her on military and civil themes at the end of the time. “And you find that enlivening?” he asked. “Well, there’s no harm in it, but I wouldn’t advise you to become too confidential with him. He’s not the man you think him.”
“I did not know I had asked your advice on the subject,” said Penelope coldly.
“Oh, didn’t you? but you see I have a right to give it; and I tell you plainly I don’t wish you to make an intimate friend of Keeling.”
“Even supposing that you had such a right, I should never think of bowing to it unless I knew your reasons.”
“Do you really wish me to give them? I thought you might prefer to go on believing in your friend.”
“I wish to hear the worst you can say of him, and I shall go on believing in him just the same.”
“Will you? I think not. What would you say if I told you I had seen him, a week ago last night, playingimamat apir’s tomb out near the Akrab—reciting prayers, writing charms, pretending to work miracles, and all the rest of it?”
“A week ago last night?” said Penelope faintly. Then she pulled herself together. “I should say you had been mistaken.”
“Mistaken? Am I not to believe the witness of my own eyes?”
“I would not believe the witness of my own eyes in such a case.”
Ferrers wondered at the decision with which she spoke, not knowing what was in her mind. On the night he mentioned, she had remembered, while lying awake, that she had left the book she was reading—one of Sir Dugald’s—on the ramparts. Fearing it would be spoilt by the dew, she roused her ayah and told her to go and fetch it, but the woman whimpered that she was afraid—there were always ghosts in these old forts—and hung back even when Penelope said she would come too. They reached the rampart safely, however, the clear starlight making a lamp unnecessary, and rescued the book. As they turned to descend the steps again, the pad of a horse’s feet upon the sand reached their ears, and looking over the parapet, they saw Major Keeling ride past on Miani. There was no possibility of mistake, and Penelope had never dreamt of imagining that the rider in undress uniform and curtained forage-cap could be any one but the Commandant. He was bound on one of his restless wanderings over the desert, and her heart sent forth a silent entreaty to him to be prudent. But now, as she said, she was willing to disbelieve the evidence of her own eyes if it gave support to this story of Ferrers’.
“I suppose you think I am a liar?” he demanded resentfully.
“I think you have either made a mistake or been deceived. Do you believe it yourself? What are you going to do.”
Ferrers was nonplussed. He had disobeyed the Mirza’s injunction, and spoken without waiting for the further evidence promised him. He might have put himself into a very awkward position if Penelope should tell any one of what he had said, and he decided to temporise.
“Of course I should never think of saying anything about it. As you say, it’s a case in which one can’t take seeing as believing. You won’t say anything about it, of course?”
“Is it likely?” demanded Penelope indignantly. Ferrers surveyed her with growing interest, and became suddenly sorry for himself.
“You flare up if any one says a word against the Chief, and yet you believed a whole string of accusations against me, simply on Lady Haigh’s word,” he said.
“I thought you acknowledged they were true? At any rate, you did not value my opinion of you sufficiently to take a single step to justify yourself.”
“What was the good? You were prejudiced against me. If you had cared for me enough to give me a chance, it would have been different, but I saw you didn’t, so I set you free.”
“And bound me again the next morning.”
“I had seen you by that time, and I couldn’t let you go. But what sort of life have you led me since—keeping me at arm’s-length all these months? Surely you might have been a little kinder——” Ferrers stopped abruptly, for there was something like scorn in Penelope’s eyes. “The fact is, you don’t care a scrap for me,” he broke out angrily.
“Why should I?” asked Penelope.
For the moment he was too much astonished to answer, and she spoke again, quietly, but with an under-current of indignation which drove her charges home. “Why should I care for you, when you have never shown the slightest consideration for me? Have you ever thought what a position I should have been in, but for Lady Haigh’s kindness, when I landed at Bab-us-Sahel? No, I know it was not your fault that the letters miscarried; but you know you had no wish to see me when you heard I had arrived. You were glad—glad—to be rid of the bond, and so was I. And then you got Colin on your side—why, I don’t know—and made him persuade me to renew my promise, because it would be a help and comfort to you, and you could work better if you saw me now and then. You have never been near me if you could possibly help it, and for all the help and comfort I have been to you I might as well have been at home. You may say I don’t care for you if you like, but I know very well that you don’t care for me.”
“But I do!” cried Ferrers involuntarily. “On my honour, Pen, I never knew what there was in you before. You are the girl for me. I always felt you could keep me straight, but it never struck me till now how sharply you could pull a fellow up.”
“You seem not to understand that I don’t want the task. I wish you to give me back my promise.”
“I won’t, then. Come, Pen, we shall have a week together now, and I’ll show you I do care for you. Let’s forget all that’s gone by, and begin again. I have fallen in love with you this moment—yes, by Jove! I have”—he spoke with pleased surprise—“and we’ll be as happy as the day is long.”
“You don’t seem to see——” began Penelope, in a scared tone.
“Oh well, if you are going to bear malice——” he spoke huffily. “I hadn’t thought it of you. Why shouldn’t you let bygones be bygones, as I do? Of course I haven’t been exactly what you might call attentive, but I’m going to begin fresh, as I said, and you needn’t think I’m going to let you go. My uncle will get me a post in Lower Khemistan, in a nice lively station, with plenty going on; and I’ll cut the Mirza, and you shall have a jolly big bungalow, and horses and carriages, and get your dresses out from home. When shall we be married?”
Penelope’s eyes gathered a look almost of terror as she listened in mingled perplexity and alarm. “I don’t want to marry you,” she said, forcing her lips to utter the words.
“Then you must want to marry some one else. Who is it?”
For a moment she hesitated. Could she, did she dare, confess to him the secret which she had only lately acknowledged even to herself—that she had given her heart unasked to the keen-eyed swarthy man who never talked to her of anything but war and work? To some men it would have been possible to confide even this, but she felt, rightly or wrongly, that with Ferrers it was not possible. She could never feel sure that he would not in time to come fling her sorrowful confession in her face, and use it to taunt her. She answered him with desperate hopelessness, and, as she told herself, with perfect truth. She had never had any thought of marrying Major Keeling. It would be enough for her if their present friendship continued to the end of their lives, or so she believed.
“There is no one,” she said. “Can’t you understand that—that——”
“That you don’t want to marry me?” cried Ferrers, laughing, his good-humour quite restored. “No, Pen, I can’t. You’re feeling a little sore now, because you think I’ve neglected you, but you shan’t complain of that in future. I shall make furious love to you all this week, and before I go back to that wretched hole we’ll announce the engagement.”
He was so gay, so well satisfied with himself, so utterly incapable of understanding what she felt, that Penelope’s heart sank. She made a final effort. “Please listen to me,” she faltered. “I ask you definitely to release me from my promise.”
“And I definitely refuse to do anything of the kind. There! is honour satisfied now? You’ve made a brave fight—enough to please even Lady Haigh, I should think—but it’s no good. The fortress has surrendered. I’ll allow you the honours of war, but you mustn’t think you are going to escape scot-free. Come!”
She allowed him passively to kiss her, and then sat down again at the table, utterly exhausted. “Please go away now,” she said. “I will tell Lady Haigh of—what you wish, and no doubt she will arrange for you to come here when you like. I will try—to be a good wife to you.”
“You’d better!” said Ferrers gaily, as he departed. He was conscious of a new and wholly unaccustomed glow of feeling—a highly creditable feeling, too. He was actually in love, and with the very person who would make him the best and most suitable wife he could choose. He had not the slightest faith in the seriousness of Penelope’s resistance, and felt genuinely proud of having overcome what he regarded as her grudge against him. If she had only shown herself capable of indignation and resentment earlier, he would have fallen in love with her long ago. As it was, she might make their engagement as lively as she pleased, and then settle down into an adoring fondness like Colin’s, which would suit him admirably. Meeting Colin, he told him the good news, adding that they had decided not to announce the engagement for a week, as Penelope was still rather sore about their past misunderstandings, and Colin hurried back to the fort, to find Penelope with her head bowed on her arms on the table.
“Why, Pen!” he said in astonishment, “I hoped I should find you so happy.”
Penelope raised her head, and looked at him despairingly. “Oh, Colin!” was all she said. It seemed incredible to her that, after the long years in which they had been all in all to each other, he could be as blind as Ferrers to her real feelings.
“But, Pen, is it right to imagine slights in this way? I know he may have seemed cold, but he thought it his duty to hold aloof. And he has worked so hard and so steadily at Shah Nawaz, looking forward to the time when he might speak to you again. I am sure the thought of you has helped him; I know it. And now you turn against him, when he needs your help as much as ever.”
“I can’t help any one, I am too weak,” moaned Penelope. “I want some one strong, who can help me.”
“A strong man would not need your help,” said Colin, in the slightly didactic tone with which he was wont, all unconsciously, to chill his sister’s feelings. Her heart protested wildly. She could help the strong man of whom she was thinking, she knew, but the opportunity was denied her. “George does need you,” Colin went on, “and will you refuse to help him because he has wounded your self-love?”
“You don’t understand. We should never be happy.”
“One must not think too much of happiness in this world—only of what one can do for others.”
“I know that, but still—— Colin, do you mean to tell me that if you were married you wouldn’t want your wife to be happy?”
“That is different,” said Colin, flushing. “If she was not, I should fear it was my fault; but what has George done that you should not be happy with him? He is a splendid fellow—his good temper and rough kindness often make me ashamed of myself. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“I suppose not, if he thought about it,” said Penelope doubtfully. “But oh, Colin, he doesn’t know when he hurts. You think only of him, and he thinks only of himself, and no one thinks of me—except Elma. I wish I had listened to her all along!”
“If you are determined to be so uncharitable,” said Colin gravely, “you had better break your promise, and send Ferrers about his business. I could not advise you to do such a thing, but I quite allow that my conscience is not a law for yours. I see no prospect of happiness for you, certainly, while you are in your present frame of mind. I think you have met with too much attention since you came to India, Pen, and it has warped your judgment. But, as I said, don’t let my opinion influence you.”
He stood before her in his unbending rectitude, rigid and sorrowful, and Penelope gave way. She could not add alienation from Colin to her other troubles, and how could she tell him that in addition to her personal distaste for Ferrers there was against him the insuperable bar that he was the wrong man?
“I can’t but be influenced by your opinion, Colin,” she said. “And I never meant to say all this. Don’t let us refer to it again, please; I shall not break my promise.”
Ferrerswas very well pleased with himself. He had done his duty, which had turned out, in a most unwonted manner, to be also his pleasure, and he felt justly entitled to enjoy his Christmas holiday to the full. It amused him immensely to see Lady Haigh forced to countenance his constant presence at the fort, and his attendance on Penelope whenever she went out. On learning the state of affairs, Sir Dugald had absolutely and categorically forbidden his wife to do anything that might lead to a second rupture of the engagement. Once was enough, he said grimly; and, fume as she might, Lady Haigh judged it well to obey. It could not be expected that the fact should improve her temper, but Ferrers was in too complacent a state of mind to be affected by her sharp speeches. He did not even fear that she would succeed in prejudicing Penelope against him a second time, guessing shrewdly that after one irrepressible outburst of disgust, she would prefer to maintain silence on the subject, and in this he judged correctly. Penelope’s anxious endeavours to do as he wished flattered him pleasantly, and he reciprocated her efforts with a kindness which had something of condescension in it. “Feeble as they are,” it seemed to say, “you want to please me, and I will be pleased,” and Penelope was too much broken in spirit to resent his attitude. She was not altogether unhappy. Even in Khemistan there were at this season bright bracing days, when a gallop over the desert could not but be a joy, even though an unwelcome lover and an uncomprehending brother were riding on either side of her. If at night she dedicated a few tears to the memory of that vain dream of hers, it was only because it returned to her in spite of her strenuous efforts to bury it. There was a kind of restfulness in feeling that her fate was fixed without reference to her own desires, and she was fervently anxious to be loyal to the two young men who were both so willing for her to be absolutely happy in their way.
In his abounding self-satisfaction Ferrers thought less of Major Keeling’s delinquencies than before, and as the days passed on without any fresh instance of them, became inclined to let the matter drop. If the poor beggar found any fun in dressing up as a native and pretending to work miracles, why in the world shouldn’t he? It would not affect Ferrers when he got transferred to another district, and this might happen at any moment. Keeling must be a perfect fool to have spent his time in Penelope’s society to such little purpose, and might really be left to his folly. But in coming to this conclusion Ferrers was reckoning without the Mirza, whom he had not brought with him to Alibad. After what had passed, he could quite understand the man’s desire to keep out of Major Keeling’s sight, and he accepted the responsibility of turning aside any questions that might be asked about him. But on the last evening of his stay, when he was in his room at Colin Ross’s quarters, whistling gaily as he tried on the emerald ring with which he intended to clinch his formal engagement to Penelope on the morrow, a low tapping reached his ears from the back verandah, and it flashed upon him at once that the Mirza was there. With a muttered curse on the man for disturbing him, he put away the ring and went out softly, to find his follower standing in deep shadow by a pillar.
“Salaam, sahib!” was the Mirza’s breathless greeting. “Now is the moment of which I spoke to you. I have watched and spied around Sheikhgarh night after night, until at last I can show you the full measure of Kīlin Sahib’s treachery.”
“Oh, hang it all! I don’t want to go pottering about the desert to-night,” said Ferrers angrily. “Why can’t you tell me what you’ve found out?”
“Nay, sahib, it is for you to see it with your own eyes. So far it is only the sahibs who will turn their backs on the man. After to-night, the Memsahibs also will draw away their garments from touching him.”
The idea sounded promising. It would be good policy to be able to prove to Penelope the reasonableness of the warning he had given her, and which she had scouted, and he beckoned the Mirza in.
“You have brought my disguise, I suppose?” he said.
“Yes, sahib, and I have the ponies waiting outside the town. The moon will not ride till late, so that we may hope not to run across Kīlin Sahib on his way to Sheikhgarh.”
“Defend me from ever leading a double life! It’s too much trouble,” said Ferrers, with a yawn, for he was sleepy. What an immense amount of riding Major Keeling must get through night after night, if he went first westwards to Sheikhgarh and then eastwards to the Akrab! And how in the world did he manage to cram so much activity into the daytime? He must be able to do almost without sleep. It was really a pity such a fine soldier and ingenious plotter should be such a rascal! “Why don’t you go into partnership with Keeling Sahib, Mirza, instead of showing him up?” he asked. “You two might rule Asia, he as Padishah and you as Vizier.”
“Am I a dog, to work with perjured men and those false to their salt?” snarled the Mirza. Ferrers laughed unkindly.
“Oh, don’t try to come the righteous indignation dodge over me: I know you a little too well for that. Now just touch up my face a bit. If there’s a moon, it’ll be harder for me to pass muster if we meet any one than it was by starlight.”
The toilet completed, they slipped out, and, by dint of traversing unsavoury alleys and skulking close under walls, managed to evade various sentries and reach the desert unchallenged. The Mirza made straight for the spot where he had picketed the ponies, and directed their course rather to the south of the hill which commanded the town on the west. The route on this occasion did not lead through the open desert, but up and down hill-paths and dry nullahs, and Ferrers wondered where they would find themselves at last. When they reached a kind of cave in which the Mirza remarked that they must leave the ponies, they were in a part of the hills with which he was totally unacquainted, so far as he could tell in the darkness. The Mirza seemed to know the way well, however; and warning him that the slightest noise would be dangerous, as the Sheikh-ul-Jabal’s servants kept the neighbourhood closely patrolled, led him up what seemed a goat-track in the rocks. He would not allow any loitering for rest, saying that the moon would soon rise, and they must be in shelter first, and by dint of great exertions they reached their goal in time. It was a kind of ledge or shelf on the side of the cliff, overlooking what seemed to be a pile of huge rocks below; but as the moon rose, Ferrers perceived that the apparently shapeless masses were the rude towers and buildings of a hill-fort. The site had been well chosen, for, with the short range of the native matchlocks, it could not be commanded from any of the surrounding hills. From his position Ferrers could see between two of the towers down into the courtyard, and he was startled to perceive a black horse standing saddled in front of the building which represented the keep or chief apartments of the place. The horse was held by a servant, and presently another servant appeared with a torch, and a third brought a bag of food and a skin of water, and fastened them to the saddle. Then, as Ferrers watched, there appeared on the threshold the majestic figure in white and scarlet which he had last seen at thepir’s tomb. The Sheikh turned for a moment, apparently to give directions to several women, the flutter of whose robes could be seen by the torchlight, and then came out upon the steps, followed by three children, two boys and a girl, whose ages might run from ten to twelve. All three kissed the Sheikh’s hand, the boys holding his stirrup while he mounted, and he gave them his blessing as he rode away. In the clear mountain air the opening of the gate in the entrance-tower was plainly audible, and presently a gleam of white and scarlet and steel beyond the fort showed that the Sheikh was riding down the path. Ferrers stood up, in a state of anger which surprised himself.
“What does it mean?” he demanded. “Who are those children?”
“It is for you to say, sahib. As for me, I have no doubt. They are the children of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal.”
“Which means that Keeling is married to a native woman, and they are his children,” said Ferrers. “Is it conceivable that a man can be such a traitor? False to his country and his race! I say, Mirza, let us go after him and put an end to his treachery.”
But the Mirza held him back. “Nay, sahib, it must not be. Has it not often been told me that the way of the English is to do all things slowly and according to forms of law? You know how the traitor can be punished after the English manner; then do not act as would one of the hill-people, which can only harm yourself.”
Ferrers saw the force of the reasoning, and followed his guide slowly down the dangerous path. His mind was in a whirl. Marriages between Englishmen and native women were far more common in those days than in these, but Major Keeling was the last man he would have expected to contract one. This, then, was the explanation of his insensibility with regard to Penelope! But he had sat beside her, talked to her, touched her hand, behaved like an honourable man who was free to seek her if he chose, while only a few miles off his unacknowledged wife and children were leading a secluded existence within stone walls. It occurred to Ferrers that it would be a good idea to arrest them and bring them to Alibad, there to confront Major Keeling with them suddenly; and he asked the Mirza whether the fort was well defended. The Mirza assured him that not only was the garrison ample for defence, but watchmen were posted on all the hill-tops round, and it was only by bribing one of these, over whom he had obtained some hold in the past, that he had been able to reach the point of vantage they had occupied. It was practically impossible to approach the place undetected, he said, and before long there came a startling proof of the truth of his words. Just before they reached the cave where the horses had been left, Ferrers trod on a loose stone, which rolled down the hillside with a terrifying clatter. Instantly a hail from the hill on their left was answered by another from the right, and followed by one from the fort itself.
“Mount and ride for your life,” panted the Mirza to Ferrers, as they stumbled into the cave. “There is no hope of escaping unnoticed now.”
They had the ponies outside the cave in a twinkling, and were mounted and riding down the path in another second. Stones rolled down under the ponies’ feet, voices ran from hill to hill, and presently, when the forms of the intruders were perceived, bullets began to fly around them. Fortunately for Ferrers and the Mirza, the ponies were sure-footed, and none of the Sheikh’s matchlockmen waited to take good aim. They dashed out on the plain at last, unhurt, and from the nullah behind them there rang out a last shot and a sharp cry, a man’s death-cry.
“The sentry who suffered us to pass,” remarked the Mirza casually. “They have a short way with brethren who have been false to their oaths, as I should know.”
He seemed to feel he had said too much, and refused to answer Ferrers’ eager questions as to when he had been a member of the brotherhood, and why he had left it. They rode briskly back to the outskirts of the town, and dismounted. The Mirza guided Ferrers through the byways to Colin’s quarters, and left him there, carrying off his disguise for safety’s sake, and Ferrers tumbled into bed and slept heavily.
He did not wake till late, when he found the whole place in excitement over the arrival of the mail. There were letters for him, but he disregarded them all in favour of a telegram which had been forwarded by boat and messenger from the point where the wires ended. It was dated from Government House, Bab-us-Sahel, and came from his uncle, announcing curtly that Mr Crayne was cutting short his Christmas festivities on account of some complication which had arisen over the affairs of a deposed native prince up the river. He considered that his presence on the spot would enable the difficulty to be more easily settled, and he was coming up the river by steamer as far as the station which was the window by which the Alibad colony looked into the larger world. He would be glad to see his nephew during his stay there, and he was requesting Major Keeling to grant him a week’s leave, which would be ample for the purpose.
Ferrers’ feelings when he read the missive were mixed. Much depended on this interview, and the impression he might make on his uncle. But should he go to meet him as an engaged man or not? It was impossible to tell what Mr Crayne’s mood at the moment would be, but the probability was that he would find grounds for a grievance in either alternative. On the whole, thought Ferrers, it would be better to suppress all mention of Penelope until he had fathomed his uncle’s intentions towards him. If he had no benevolent design in view, his prejudices need not be considered; but if he had anything good in store, it might be necessary to proceed with caution, and not reveal the truth until Mr Crayne had seen Penelope and honoured her with his approval. Ignoring his own former changes of feeling, Ferrers was now sufficiently in love to feel certain that his uncle must approve of her.
With this in his mind he left the emerald ring in Colin’s charge, and prepared for his journey, receiving a curt notice from Major Keeling that the leave requested by his uncle was granted, riding out to Shah Nawaz to inform the man who was taking his place that another week’s exile was in store for him, and bidding farewell to Penelope and Lady Haigh. Penelope was too much relieved to see him go to take any offence at the postponement of the engagement, and Lady Haigh hailed his departure in private as offering an opening for the “something that might happen,” much longed for by herself, to prevent matters going any further. Ferrers saw through her at a glance, and rode away laughing. He had an idea that he might be able to induce his uncle to pay a flying visit to Alibad and make Penelope’s acquaintance, and then he remembered suddenly that he had in his possession information that would bring Mr Crayne to Alibad if nothing else would. He had given up the idea of extending mercy to Major Keeling by this time. He wanted to see him disgraced, driven from the army and from the society of Europeans, and forced to herd with the natives whose company it was clear that he preferred. He had not a doubt that his uncle’s feelings would accord with his, and he devoted a good deal of time while on his journey to going over the different points of his evidence, and deciding on the form in which he would present it.
It was not until his second evening at Mr Crayne’s camp on the river that he found his opportunity. The secretary and other officials who were dragged in the Commissioner’s train, gathering that he would like a talk with his nephew, had gladly effaced themselves on various pretexts, and Ferrers and his uncle were left alone together. For some time, while they smoked, Ferrers endured a bombardment of short snappy questions, delivered in tones expressive of the deepest contempt, as to his past career and his financial position, and heard his answers received with undisguised sniffs. Then his chance came.
“What d’ye think of that man of yours—Keeling?” demanded Mr Crayne.
“He is—a fine soldier,” responded Ferrers guardedly.
“What d’ye hum and haw like that for, sir?” Mr Crayne added a strong expression. “I won’t be put off by puppies like you.”
“I have no wish to put you off, sir,” said Ferrers with dignity; “but you will understand it is difficult to give a candid opinion of one’s commanding officer.”
“I’ll give you a candid opinion of him, if you like!” cried Mr Crayne. “He’s the most arrogant, hot-headed, interfering, cantankerous fool that ever wrote insubordinate letters to his superiors!”
“Oh, is that all?” The nephew’s face wore a pitying smile.
“All? What more d’ye want, sir? And what d’ye mean by grinning at me like that, sir? I won’t stand impudence.”
“And yet you have to stand Keeling’s? He is indispensable, isn’t he?”
Another volley of strong language, which Ferrers understood to convey the information that Mr Crayne would feel deeply indebted to any one who would enable him to bundle Major Keeling out of the province for good and all. When the flow of vituperation ceased for a moment, he spoke—
“I have been anxious to ask your advice for some time, sir. Circumstances have come to my knowledge about Major Keeling——”
“That would break him—smash him—if they came out?” gasped Mr Crayne, becoming purple in the face. “Go on, boy; go on.”
Ferrers began his tale, at first interrupted continually by what he considered impertinent questions as to his relations with the Mirza, his grounds for accepting evidence from him against Major Keeling, and so on; but by degrees the interruptions ceased, and he was allowed to finish what he had to say in peace. Then Mr Crayne chuckled.
“I knew the man was a hot-headed fool, but I never thought he was a double-dyed ass!” he cried triumphantly. “He’s set a trap for himself, and walked into it. He might have written insubordinate letters till he died, and not given me such a handle against him as this. What are you looking horrified about, sir, eh?”
Ferrers disavowed the charge stoutly, though his uncle’s glee had set his teeth on edge. “I don’t quite see——” he began.
“Eh? What? Don’t see it? Don’t see that the fellow has personated this Sheikh-ul-Jabal for ten years, and made away with the allowance he was supposed to pay over to him? Used it to support his precious black-and-tan family, of course. No, there’s no law against a man’s marrying a black woman, or a dozen, if he wants ’em, and he’s at liberty to become a heathen, for all I know, if he doesn’t force his notions down other people’s throats; but embezzlement—that’s a different thing.”
“Oh, but—by Jove! this is disgusting,” said Ferrers. “I really don’t think——”
“Oh, you’re young, and innocent, and romantic,” said his uncle, drawling out the epithets, which Ferrers felt were quite undeserved, with immense relish. “What does it matter if the man chooses to live like a nigger when he’s off duty? Plenty of ’em do. But giving false receipts for government money—that’s where we have him.”
“But how can he have managed it?”
“Oh, it’s been cleverly done. I allow that. It must have begun with that Nalapur affair ten years ago. Of course the real Sheikh-ul-Jabal was killed with his brother-in-law Nasr Ali, and old Harry Lennox, in his eagerness to get his conscience whitewashed for what he had done, never took the trouble to see whether he was alive or dead, but granted the allowance when it was asked for. And your fine Commandant has simply pocketed it from that day to this!”
“But how did he impose himself on the brotherhood and the Sheikh’s followers?”
“Why d’ye ask me? I wasn’t there. But we’ll call my secretary, and ask him about the Mountain sect. It’s his business to get ’em all up, and he’s a dab at finding out facts. Not that I let him think so. Here, you sir, Hazeldean!” he raised his voice, “Come here!”
The secretary came hurrying up, in evident perturbation. He was a nervous-looking youth, with the round shoulders and hesitating manners of the student, and gave the impression of having been waked from a dream by a rough shock.
“Why are you never at hand when you’re wanted, sir?” demanded Mr Crayne. “It’s scarcely worth while asking you, but perhaps among all the perfectly useless information you manage to stow away you may have picked up something about the Sheikh-ul-Jabal and his sect?”
“Indeed I have, sir. The subject has interested me very much since I came to Khemistan, and learned——”
“Then let’s hear what you know about it,” snapped Mr Crayne.
“The Mountain brotherhood claims to be the direct survival of a terrible secret society formed in Crusading times,” began the secretary, as if he were repeating a lesson, “which furthered its objects by the murder of any one who stood in its way. There were seven stages of initiation, and in the lower the brethren professed the most rigid Mohammedanism, but in the higher the initiates were taught that good and evil were merely names, and all religions alike false. Absolute obedience to the rule of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal was the chief point in the vows taken, and when he ordered the removal of any one, it took place at once. Some of the Crusading leaders were accused of having entered the brotherhood, and this accusation was especially brought against the Templars. The order seems to have existed in secret ever since it was supposed to be stamped out, and the present Sheikh-ul-Jabal is actually a pensioner of the Company’s, living somewhere near Alibad, which was what attracted my attention to the sect at first. Some writers think that the Druses——”
“That’ll do,” said Mr Crayne curtly, interrupting the hurried monologue. “I didn’t ask you for a lecture. Can you tell me the exact membership of the order at the present time, or anything else that is practical?”
“I—I’m afraid not, sir. There are no means of ascertaining such facts as that, I fear. But I believe an important book has been published in Germany dealing with the sect, if you would permit me to order it for you——”
“No, I won’t. What good is a German book to any civilised man? You are always ready to stock my library with books you want to read. You can go back to your grinding, sir.”
The secretary departed with alacrity, and Mr Crayne turned to his nephew—
“We see that the sect has always been willing to accept European recruits, at any rate, which looks promising. The murder part of the business has been dropped, apparently, or I should scarcely be sitting here, after Keeling’s letters to me. Well, I shall pay a flying visit to Alibad, and thresh the matter out. Must give the man a chance to justify himself, though he’ll be clever to do it. If he offers to pay back the money, I may have to let him retire and lose himself. If not, there must be an inquiry. You’ll be prepared to give evidence, of course?”
“It’s an awkward thing to witness against one’s commanding officer, sir.”
“What, trying to back out of it, eh? What d’ye mean, sir? I’ll have your blood if you fail me.”
“I could not remain in the regiment after it, sir.”
“Oho, you want to get something out of me, eh? Well, other regiments won’t exactly compete for your services, either. It must be something extra-regimental, then. What about the languages? I hear you used to knock about among the niggers when you were down at the coast. Do any good with it? Like to go to Gamara?”
“In what capacity, sir?”
“Governor-General’s agent, I suppose. They’re talking of sending an envoy to hunt up that fool Whybrow. You know he’s disappeared? If you come well through the business, you’re a made man.”
Ferrers did not hesitate. Whybrow was not the only man who had entered the Central Asian city and been seen no more. It was the dream of every generous mind in India to force an entrance into the dungeons there, and set the captives free. How proud Penelope would be of him if he accepted and performed the coveted task!
“I should like nothing better, sir,” he said.
“Well, I think I have influence enough to get you the appointment. But you’ve got to do your work first, or I’ll break you.”
“Whatcan it be? Who is coming?” cried Lady Haigh, running out on the verandah, as a horse galloped into the courtyard of the fort.
“There’s only one man who would come to pay a call in that style,” said Sir Dugald, following her more slowly. Before he reached the verandah, Major Keeling had thrown himself from the saddle, flinging Miani’s bridle to a servant who ran up, and was at the top of the steps.
“I want your help, both of you,” cried the Commandant. “Was anything ever more unlucky? There’s Crayne taken it into his head to come on here from the river, and we’ve never exchanged a civil word in our lives. I can’t even put him up, either. The only room I have that’s big enough to hold his magnificence is full of saddlery—that new cavalry equipment, you know—and he’ll be here to-night, so there’s no time to cart it away. Can you take him in, Lady Haigh? There are those unoccupied rooms, if you don’t mind, and we could dine him in the durbar-hall. Of course I’ll send up every stick of furniture I have, for the Parsee’s stock is precious limited—I looked in as I came along. We must do our best for him, for the credit of the frontier, though he is such an unpromising brute.”
“Of course,” said Lady Haigh eagerly, “and we must try to put him into a good temper, for the sake of the frontier. We’ll do everything we can. You will send up what servants you can spare, won’t you? and I’ll set them to work. And you will act as host at the dinner?—oh, you must. Your position and his demands it. We can pretend that the durbar-hall is our recognised room for dinner-parties.”
“Very well, but this reminds me that I must build some sort of place to lodge strangers in when I have time. One never expects distinguished visitors up here now, somehow. A quiet dinner to-night, I suppose, as he’ll only just have ridden in, and a regularburra khanato-morrow? He’ll scarcely stay more than the two nights. Well, I’ll send up my servants and household goods. I’m really tremendously obliged to you, but I knew I could count on you and Haigh.”
He galloped away, and Lady Haigh proceeded to plunge her household into chaos, and thence into a whirl of reconstruction and rearrangement. She was in her element on occasions of this kind, and such servants as averred that their caste did not permit them to do anything they were told found it advisable to keep out of her way. Sir Dugald retired to the ramparts with the work he had in hand, thus escaping from the turmoil; but Penelope was kept as busy as her hostess, and, like her, had only time for a brief rest before it was necessary to welcome the distinguished visitor. Wonders had been done in the few hours at their disposal, if only Mr Crayne had had eyes to recognise the fact, and the solecontretempsthat marred the evening was not Lady Haigh’s fault. Major Keeling was summoned away to inquire into a complicated case ofdacoityand murder at a village some miles off, and it was impossible for him to return in time to join the party.
To those present it seemed, however, as if this was not altogether a misfortune. Mr Crayne had a playful habit of jerking out unpleasant remarks in the interval between two mouthfuls of food, without even lifting his eyes, and continuing his meal without regarding any protest or disclaimer. Before dinner was half over he had told Lady Haigh that her cook did not know how to make curry, criticised adversely the gun-horses, which were the pride of Sir Dugald’s life, and dear to him as children, and sent Ferrers’ heart into his mouth by the announcement that things seemed to have got precious slack at Alibad, but that he was come to pull the reins tighter, thanks to a warning from his nephew. Soon afterwards he told Colin that he ought to have been a parson instead of a soldier, and Penelope that if she came down to Bab-us-Sahel she would see how far behind the fashion her clothes were—which is a thing no self-respecting girl cares to hear said of her, however hopelessly crossed in love she may be. But the climax was reached when he frowned malevolently at his plate, and observed—
“Fine state of things up here. For years Keeling has blazoned himself throughout India as the only man who could get this frontier quiet and keep it so, and yet he can’t make time to eat his dinner or show proper respect, but has to go and hunt murderers.”
Every one was thunderstruck by this outburst, but to the general astonishment it was Penelope who responded to the challenge.
“That is not fair, Mr Crayne,” she cried indignantly. “If you knew the frontier as we know it, you would wonder that it’s as quiet as it is. The settled inhabitants are perfectly good, and so are the tribes close at hand that know Major Keeling. But fresh tribes are always wandering down here, who haven’t heard of the new state of things. They were always accustomed to raid the villages, and rob and murder as they liked, and they don’t know that they can’t do it now. In time they will all have learnt their lesson, but it may not be for a long while yet.”
“Upon my word, young lady!” said Mr Crayne, actually pausing to look at her. “Has Major Keeling engaged you as his official advocate? He ought to be thankful to have found such a champion.”
“Miss Ross has only said what we all know and feel,” said Lady Haigh, coming to Penelope’s rescue as she sat silent, flushed but undaunted. “We are all Keelingolaters here, Mr Crayne; and don’t you know it’s very rude to say things against your hostess’s friends at her own table?”
Mr Crayne accepted the rebuke with remarkable meekness. “I bow to your ruling, ma’am,” he said, with something like a twinkle in his eye. “At your table, and in your hearing, I am a Keelingolater too. Sir Dugald, a glass of wine with you, if you please.”
“You have conquered that old bear, Elma!” said Penelope afterwards to her friend. “I could never have made a joke of what he said.”