"I can't think why there was no letter for me!" lamented Marian Cowper.
"Perhaps it will come by a special runner to-morrow," suggested Honour."Papa would send it on, I am sure."
"But it ought to have come to-day. Charley has never missed his proper day before."
"Perhaps he was too busy to write."
"Too busy! As if he would let anything keep him from writing to me!"
"I didn't mean that he would not wish to write, but that he might not be able," explained Honour with care.
"Of course. You needn't apologize for Charley to me, thank you. If he doesn't write it's because he can't, and any one else would understand how I feel about it—especially when it is getting so near the time for him to come back." Marian's nerves were evidently on edge, as she moved restlessly about the room, and shot out her sentences at her sister like darts. "I wish you wouldn't sit there so quietly. You don't sympathize a bit. If Charley doesn't come up here next month as he promised, I don't know what I shall do. At any rate, if anything happens it will be his fault."
"Oh, Marian, how can you be so unfair?" cried Honour, with her usual earnestness. "You know poor Charles will come if he possibly can. And how dreadful to say it would be his fault if anything went wrong!"
"I didn't say 'if anything went wrong'; I said 'if anything happened,'" corrected Marian pettishly. "And I don't know why you should say 'poor Charles.' He would be perfectly happy if he was here with me, and so should I. He understands things—oh, I do want him so!"
"Oh, don't cry," entreated Honour in alarm. "Dear Marian, you will only do yourself harm, you know, and you were so anxious he should find you well and cheerful. Just finish your letter to him, and then let us sit out on the verandah a little before going to bed. The Antonys' guests will be leaving, and you know how pretty the torches look among the hills."
"How can I finish my letter when I don't know whether there is anything in his to answer?" complained Marian. "Well, I will leave it unsealed, and put in an extra sheet if necessary. I'll come out in a minute. I'm sorry I am so cross, Honour. After all it isn't your fault that you are not Charley."
"Of course not," said Honour indignantly, and there was more than a suggestion of what was known, in those days of distended skirts, as "flouncing" in the quick rustle with which she left the room. Somehow Marian and she seemed perpetually to rub one another the wrong way, and every one thought it was her fault, because Marian was always so bright and pleasant in public. Marian received plenty of sympathy and wanted more, but Honour felt that a little would be very pleasant to herself. Yet why should her thoughts in this connection be suddenly discovered to have flown to Gerrard? "He understands," she said to herself, and blushed hotly in the darkness to remember that these were the very words Marian had used of her husband. Giving herself a little shake, as though to get rid of the momentary foolishness, she bent her thoughts sternly to the subject of Sir Edmund and Lady Antony's dinner-party. Ladies in the hills whose husbands were on service did not accept invitations in those benighted days, and Honour had naturally remained with her sister. Their bungalow stood a little higher than the Resident's Lodge, and the effect of the torches by which all the guests were lighted along the hill-paths was very pretty from their verandah.
"Marian," she called out, "the people are beginning to leave. Some one is coming up our path."
"Oh, it is only the new people—a judge or something and his wife—who have taken Hilltop Hall. But I shall have finished before they pass the gate. I should like to see what they are like."
But long before the usual procession—a gentleman on a pony, a lady in ajampan, and torchbearers and servantsad libitum—which Honour was expecting could have reached the gate, it was opened and two people came up the steep path to the bungalow. By the light of the torch carried before them by a servant, Honour recognised Lady Antony, with a burnouse thrown over her evening dress, and her husband. Her heart stood still, for such a visit could only mean bad news. Sir Edmund and his wife were fond of dropping in informally on their young neighbours, but to leave their guests, at an important entertainment in their own house—this was unheard of. Honour ran to the top of the steps to meet them.
"Oh, what is it?" she cried, lowering her voice so that it should not reach Marian. "Is it papa?"
"Sir Arthur is well. I have a letter from him," said Sir Edmund."Your mother is also in good health."
"Then who is it?" demanded Honour fearfully. "Is it either of my brothers? Oh, not—not Charles?"
"Hush! let me break it to her," said Lady Antony, as Marian's pretty sparkling face, the eyes wide with astonishment, appeared at the window. "Dear Marian," she took the girl's arm and led her back into the room, "I have something to say to you."
"What was it—cholera?" Honour was asking with dry lips of Sir Edmund as they stood on the verandah.
"No, unfortunately." Honour's eyes met his in perplexity. "It was murder. This morning I received news that Captain Cowper and Mr Nisbet had been wounded in a street-tumult at Agpur, but that Cowper's injuries were so slight he did not wish his wife alarmed about them. To-night your father sends a runner to say that the poor fellows were pursued and murdered outside the city."
"How dreadful!" was all Honour could say.
"Dreadful indeed," said Sir Edmund gloomily. "I have no doubt that Sher Singh will be able to clear himself of any complicity in the crime, but I fear he must have shown culpable weakness. And weakness is difficult to distinguish from wickedness at a time when men's passions are excited, as they are bound to be by this news."
"But what does it signify about Sher Singh? It is poor Charles we have to think of, and poor, poor Marian!" cried Honour indignantly. Sir Edmund's eyes looked beyond her.
"Pardon me; we have the whole question of the treatment of native states, the whole principle of justice to the native, to think of. Eyes blinded by the natural, though unholy, desire for revenge are little fitted to see clearly. There is grave reason to fear that even now hasty steps have been taken, which may compromise our future action. I understand that young Charteris crossed the frontier, or was about to cross it, on the news of the outbreak. My brother reports that he has ordered him to return immediately, but it is almost impossible that the harm has not been done."
"What harm?" demanded Honour. "Mr Charteris hoped to save poor Charles, of course. Then, when he knew he was too late for that, he would try to rescue his body."
Sir Edmund looked at her with a kind of despair for her feminine obtuseness. "That is quite out of the question," he said, "and Charteris knows it. If he went on, it would be——"
"You don't mean that Marian will never know where her husband is buried—never be able to visit his grave?"
"It is highly probable. My dear young lady, what can it signify where our vile bodies lie? They are in God's keeping, whether cast out on the face of the ground or laid in a churchyard at home."
"Oh, don't!" Honour could have shaken Sir Edmund. "Can't you see? Oh, please don't say anything of that kind to Marian, as if she had not enough to bear already."
"I do not think I introduced the subject——"
"I must see how poor Marian is," interrupted Honour, and left him hastily. She had a momentary vision of her sister sobbing in Lady Antony's arms, but a warning hand upraised forbade her to enter the room, and she returned unwillingly to Sir Edmund, who had forgotten all about the difference of opinion in the hurry of his thoughts.
"I shall go down to-morrow night," he said, as though speaking to himself. "I cannot be sure of James when it is a question of keeping these young fellows in order. Charteris must return at once, of course, and one can only hope that he may not have done irreparable harm."
"What harm could he do, with only a few men, against Sher Singh's whole army?" demanded Honour.
"The harm of making it appear that the case has been prejudged. Sher Singh may have been innocent of all but cowardice, but to send an army against him without inquiry will force him in self-defence to throw himself into the arms of the war-party. He must be approached without show of force, and his life guaranteed to him if he will consent to submit his conduct to an impartial court of inquiry—such as the Durbar here."
"You think only of Sher Singh!" cried Honour hotly. "I think of poorCharley murdered, without a finger raised to save him. I want SherSingh punished—do you hear?" with a stamp of her foot—"and I hope MrCharteris will do it, and not care what orders you send him!"
Sir Edmund had been looking at her as though she were a pigmy viewed from a mountain-top, so she told herself indignantly, but now his eyes flashed, and a tinge of colour crept into his sallow, haggard face. "If, as I understand, you have some influence with Mr Charteris, I would advise you, for his sake, not to make him acquainted with your views, Miss Cinnamond," he said coldly. "The natural warmth of a young man's constitution is sufficiently powerful to lead him astray, without being raised to fever-heat by the uninstructed interference of sentimental females."
"I shall certainly not attempt to influence Mr Charteris, but I hope to hear that he has acted as I would wish him without that," Honour managed to say before the lump in her throat prevented her speaking. With her head held very high, she walked away to the end of the verandah, and finding a seat in the shadow of the creepers, hid herself there and wept silently—for Charley Cowper lying unburied outside the walls of Agpur, for Marian, bereaved of love and hope at nineteen, for the child that its father would never see, and a little for Honour Cinnamond, who had intended to do such great things, and was such a failure all round. Sir Edmund forgot her existence, as she knew he would, and walked up and down the verandah with bent head and hands clasped behind his back. Sometimes he trod firmly and even whistled in a meditative way, and then he would pull himself up suddenly and creep backwards and forwards in silence, remembering the task in which his wife was engaged. It was long before Lady Antony came out, with swollen eyes, and called softly to Honour before taking her husband's offered arm.
"I have persuaded your sister to go to bed, and it would be kinder not to disturb her again to-night. Her good old ayah is with her, and I hope she may get some rest."
"But I must go to her!" protested Honour. "She would think it so unkind."
"Better not, dear, I think. In fact, I may say she begged not to be disturbed. I did not tell her, lest something should happen to prevent it, but you will be glad to hear that the runner had orders to lay a doubledâkfor the Lady Memsahib at all the stations as he came, so I hope we shall see your dear mother here some time to-morrow."
The news was inexpressibly welcome, but Honour bade good-night to Lady Antony with distinct resentment. As though Marian would not choose to have her own sister beside her at this time of desolation instead of a servant! For a moment she thought of taking things into her own hands, and bidding the ayah go to bed while she would watch, but peeping into Marian's room she saw her lying exhausted on the bed, a tired sob breaking from her at intervals, while the old Goanese woman rubbed her mistress's feet gently, crooning a soft unintelligible song. She could not be banished, certainly, but at least Honour might share the watch, and presently she made her appearance armed with pillows and a coverlet, intending to lie down on the sofa in her sister's room. Old Anna looked at her warningly as she entered, but Marian heard the rustling of the bedclothes and glanced up sharply.
"Please go to bed properly in your own room, Honour. I want nobody butNanna."
"I will only lie down here, in case you call. I won't say a word," said Honour, unmoved by the glitter in her sister's eyes, from which the film of weariness had vanished. Marian raised herself on her elbow.
"I will send Nanna if I want you. Please go." As Honour still hesitated, her voice rose higher. "Go, go! I don't want you here. You never appreciated my dear Charley."
"Go, missy, go!" entreated the old woman. "Missus not know what she done say." But Honour was too deeply hurt.
"Oh, Marian, how can you say such a thing? Why, if I had not liked him for himself, I should have loved him because he was so fond of you, dear fellow!"
"You said to mamma that he was so very ordinary. I heard you through thechiks," persisted Marian, holding her with accusing eyes.
"I didn't mean you to hear. How could I tell you were there? And I learned to know him better afterwards—how good and kind he was." Honour defended herself desperately.
"It was not my hearing you, but your saying it, that mattered. I could laugh at it at the time, knowing what he really was, but now—I can't bear to have you in the room with me, to-night, at any rate, when you misjudged him so."
"Oh, Marian, how can you be so unkind? If I was in trouble, I would not keep you away."
"You would not be in this kind of trouble. You couldn't be. It isn't in you." Marian hurled her shafts deliberately. "You don't understand what it is to care for any one as I care for Charley, and I believe you never will. You can let two men go on making love to you at once for more than a year, because you can't make up your mind which of them you like best."
"Is that my fault? I don't like either of them in that way."
"No, but you like knowing that they think of you, and care for you, and watch for the least crumb of kindness you are willing to throw them. When you thought poor Charteris was dead, you luxuriated in misery with that very foolish young Gerrard, who ought to have given you the choice of taking him or leaving him there and then, and when Charteris came back, you snubbed him. And if Gerrard should be killed now, in trying to save my dear Charley, I suppose you and Charteris would mingle your tears over him. No, Charteris has more sense. He won't let himself be treated——"
Honour's eyes were bright. "Oh, do you mean that Mr Gerrard is helpingMr Charteris? Sir Edmund did not mention him."
"They are co-operating, Lady Antony told me—making forced marches in the hot weather, to avenge Charley if they can't save him. But you don't care—or if you do, it's only because you like to think you can be an inspiration to them without giving anything in return. You don't want to marry either of them, but you won't break with them so long as they are willing to dangle about you."
"I don't want to marry either of them, it is true, but if they are willing to be my friends still, why should I break with them, as you call it?"
"Because each of them thinks that you will be willing to marry him one day, and you know it. You are rather proud of their constancy, and your own firmness in not yielding to either of them. But it is not a thing to be proud of; it is a thing to be ashamed of and sorry for. You could make far more of either of those men by coming down from your pedestal and marrying him in an ordinary everyday way than by standing up above him and giving him good advice. I know you have some delusion that it is better and higher to be as you are, but I tell you that I had rather have married my Charley and known him as he really was and—yes, and even lost him—than stood on high and given good advice to a whole army. Oh, Charley, my dear kind Charley—and I behaved so badly to you when you went away! I never kissed you!"
A fresh paroxysm of tears succeeded the angry words, and Honour yielded to the ayah's whispered entreaties, and left the room. Grief and resentment combined to give her a very disturbed night, and when Lady Cinnamond arrived, tired and travel-stained, about mid-day, after an unbroken journey from Ranjitgarh, she was shocked at her daughter's appearance. But there was no time to think of Honour, for Marian, hearing her mother's voice, had tottered to her door.
"Oh, dear mamma, I have wanted you so much! You understand, you know all about it."
Not until the evening did Honour see her mother again, and then LadyCinnamond crept out on tiptoe into the verandah.
"Honour, love, I have been so longing to speak to you, but I could not leave poor Marian until she fell asleep. I am very anxious about papa. He has never been alone in the hot weather before, and he is so terribly imprudent."
"You would like me to go down and take care of him? I shall be delighted, mamma. I find I must be thankful if any one will let me even stay near them."
"Dear little one, you must not think——"
"I do not think, mamma; I know. I know that Marian has begged you to send me away, and said she shall go mad if she sees me about. She said almost as much as that to me last night. I suppose I deserve it somehow, but I really don't see how."
"Onora, dear child, you must not misjudge poor Marian. She has had a fearful blow, and is hardly responsible for what she says. You know that I would never send you away from me. But I see that I must stay here with her for the present, and it makes me so unhappy to leave dear papa——"
"And you do know how I long to be of use to any one, don't you, mamma? I wanted to comfort Marian, but she would not let me. Oh, mamma, she said such cruel, unjust things. And is it my fault if I can't—if I can't——?"
"No, my love, certainly not. And if you have been—well, not very wise, in what you have done and said, no one who knew you could possibly credit you with any but the best motives. And you will take care of papa, and see that he does not go out in the sun unnecessarily? I feel that it is very cruel to send you down to Ranjitgarh again in the heat, my precious one."
"What does it signify, mamma? I am sure Marian would be rather pleased if I died. No, I ought not to have said that. I am really glad to have some idea what the hot weather is—even though I shall be in a cool house, with every comfort. They have nothing of that sort, have they—marching in the heat to punish Charley's murderers?"
"Who—those two young men? Oh, my dear child, is it always to be they, and not he?"
"I don't know; how can I tell? Oh, mamma, they are both so good, and they do everything together, and I think it is so splendid of them both to have risked everything like this. If only they were both my brothers!"
"I suppose I should have been too proud with two such sons added to those I have. One of them as a son-in-law would quite satisfy me, if it satisfied you, dearest. But that seems too much to hope for," said Lady Cinnamond despairingly.
But when Honour reached Ranjitgarh, under the escort of Sir Edmund Antony—who fell ill again the day after his arrival, and was promptly ordered back to the hills by his doctors—she found that the general opinion of Charteris's and Gerrard's conduct reflected his verdict rather than hers. Charteris was the head and front of the offending, for Gerrard's self-suppression in placing himself under his orders had had the unlooked-for effect of concentrating attention, and blame, on the man nominally responsible. Charteris had precipitated matters by his hasty action, he was driving Sher Singh to revolt, he would set all Granthistan in a blaze, and incidentally be wiped out himself—in which case he would richly deserve his fate. The confused rumours which came through of the skirmishes preceding the battle near Kardi created an atmosphere highly unfavourable to a cool consideration of his reports when they arrived. The rumours spoke of defeat, retreat, heavy loss—the reports of positions maintained and a steady pressure on the foe, and as such a measure of success, attained by unauthorised and unprecedented means, was in itself most improbable, the rumours received far greater credit. The action of Lieutenant Charteris became a public scandal, focussing Anglo-Indian attention on Granthistan to a highly undesirable extent. The newly arrived Governor-General, Lord Blairgowrie, who possessed two supreme qualifications for his high office in a total ignorance of things Indian and a splendid self-confidence, wrote several of his well-known incisive letters to the Antony brothers, reflecting upon the discipline of their subordinates. Unkindest cut of all, old Sir Henry Lennox grasped joyfully at the chance of avenging a few of the wrongs he and his Khemistan administration had suffered at the hands of Granthistan, and—with the readiness to submit official matters to public arbitrament which so curiously distinguished the men of his day—addressed to the press a series of communications reflecting with equal severity on Charteris's moral character and his military capacity.
A copy of the Bombay paper in which these letters appeared was sent to Sir Arthur Cinnamond by a friend who thought he ought to know what was being said, and it fell into Honour's hands. Sir Arthur, dozing over a cheroot in the hottest part of the day, was rudely awakened by the apparition of the tragic figure of his daughter, holding out the offending journal.
"Papa, have you read this? Do you see what they say?"
"Eh, what, my dear?" Sir Arthur groped for his glasses, and settled them on his nose. "Oh, that nonsense of Lennox's, I see—most improper interference; like his—er—er—usual impudence to meddle in our affairs."
"But the things he says about Mr Charteris, papa—that he ought to be court-martialled!"
"Well, my dear, you need not be frightened. Old Harry Lennox ain't commanding in Granthistan."
"But it's just as bad if he only deserved to be court-martialled, and we know he doesn't. As if Mr Gerrard would ever have joined him if he had been merely trying to bring himself into notoriety at the expense of disobeying orders!"
"There's no doubt that he moved without orders, my dear girl. And if you ask me, I have a shrewd idea that he was in no hurry to open his orders when they reached him, lest they should direct him to retire. Ought to be broke, the young scamp! But hang me if I wouldn't have done the same in his place!"
"Oh, papa, I am so glad you feel like that! You are writing to him? Do you know, I was going to ask you to let me put in a note, that he might see there was one person on his side."
"Oho, you sly little puss!" cried Sir Arthur, highly amused. Honour looked offended, and her father shifted his ground rapidly. "No, no, Honour, I couldn't think of it—without consulting your mother, at any rate. But I tell you what I will do—add a postscript that my family send their kind regards to him and Gerrard. Mustn't leave poor Gerrard quite out in the cold, but I think they'll understand that—eh?"
"There is nothing to understand," said Honour, departing with dignity.
"So it's Charteris!" said Sir Arthur to himself. "Somehow I had an idea it was the other. I'm almost sorry. He will take it hard, poor chap!"
Sitting in Charteris's tent, in their shirt-sleeves, the two inconvenient young men whose inconsiderate action was casting British India into turmoil talked over their prospects. The remainder of the Habshiabad force had beaten off the detachment opposed to it, and rejoined Gerrard and the guns, and Chand Singh and the Agpur army had continued their precipitate flight. On the evening of the battle, the long-delayed despatches from Ranjitgarh caught up Charteris at last, ordering him to retire forthwith into Darwan, since it would be impossible during the hot weather to move reinforcements sufficient to ensure the capture of Agpur. Before they slept that night, he and Gerrard had deliberately made up their minds to put the telescope to the blind eye. Retreat now would mean not only perfect liberty for Sher Singh to move in any direction he chose, but also that that direction would inevitably be Darwan, where the disaffected artillery and Bishen Ram's Granthis would joyfully flock to his standard. All the work done in pacifying the country would then be wasted, and what was worse, Sher Singh would be provided with a second base of operations against Ranjitgarh, and a means of communication with his desired ally, Abd-ur-Rashid Khan of Ethiopia. Since to retire would be to incur fresh danger, as well as to sacrifice the advantages already won, they determined to advance, and boldly, though with all possible respect, notified their decision to James Antony. His reception of the news astonished them, for their cool estimate of the chances against them, and readiness to take the risk, seemed to have touched a sympathetic chord in his iron nature. In the letter which lay now on the camp-table between them, the acting-Resident generously associated himself with their resolution, approved of the measures by which they had forced his hand, and promised to use his influence in trying to induce the military authorities to send the desired reinforcements.
"Old boy," said Charteris with emphasis, after reading the letter once more, "we are made men."
"If we succeed," Gerrard reminded him. "If not, we drag down JamesAntony as well as ourselves."
"The Colonel won't be in a forgiving mood," agreed Charteris. "Strikes me, Hal, that but for this latest illness of his we should find ourselves in the wrong box even now."
"If he will only let us catch Sher Singh, he can try him as much as he likes when we've got him," said Gerrard. "We give no guarantees, but we take him alive if we can. That ought to meet Sir Edmund's wishes."
"Talking of taking Sher Singh alive is just a little bit like selling the bear's skin before you've killed him, ain't it? Any one viewing our present situation impartially would say we were more likely to be taken alive ourselves—and in that case I fear we shouldn't long remain so."
"We can't very well stay as we are," said Gerrard drily.
"True, O most sapient Hal, and we can hardly expect Chand Singh to attack us unprovoked. He knows too well that his game is to stay quiet in the plain there and wait for us to come down, like Colonel Carter's 'possum. Therefore we must make the plain uncomfortable—not too hot to hold him, for that we can't do, but simply rather warm. I suggest that you take two of your guns to-night round by that nullah on the left, and tickle him up a bit in the morning. It won't be a particularly quiet corner for you, but you can post two other guns in support, and we'll back you up. If Chand Singh retreats again we'll follow him, if he attacks we've got him."
"Quite so. If he don't see how ill-mannered it is to block the road in this way to two gentlemen in a hurry, he must be politely removed. But listen, Bob! It sounds almost as if—— And yet they can't possibly be attacking."
"Charteris, do you know that Chand Singh is advancing?" cried Warner, coming in hastily.
"Advancing? He must be mad."
"Advancing in line, with flags and music. They say Sher Singh is there too, on an elephant."
"Then he is delivered into our hands," said Charteris, and Gerrard and he hurried out of the tent and looked over the plain, where the distant dust-cloud, through the rifts in which came glimpses of colour and flashing steel, and bursts of barbaric music, showed the approach of the Agpuri host. Rukn-ud-din came towards them as they gazed.
"Her Highness sends her salaams, sahib, and she will lead her troops to-day."
"Ah, this is the day of vengeance, then?"
"So it would appear, sahib, since the brother-slayer yonder has consulted a famous soothsayer of the unbelievers, who declares that this day his arms shall be invincible."
"So that's why they are coming on!" said Charteris. "Who's this?" The newcomer was a Habshiabadi in gorgeous raiment, who announced to Gerrard that his Excellency Dilir Jang Bahadar sent his salaams, and with Jirad Sahib's permission, would lead his master's forces into battle.
"With all my heart," said Gerrard, and as the man moved off he observed to Charteris, "This will leave me free to fight the guns for you, Bob, if you wish it. Funny to think of that old sinner Desdichado as fired with martial ardour, ain't it? Suppose he thinks it looks as if it ought to be a soft job, but I only hope he'll be as good as his word, for I hear that in the last fight before I joined you, when I came on with the guns and left him in command, he spent the time under a tree with a case-bottle of arrack, and the troops looked after themselves."
"You must supersede him promptly if he shows any signs of hanging back to-day. But I'm uncommon glad to have the guns in your hands, old boy, even if it's only at the outset. Hal, if we break up Sher Singh's army to-day, they must send us our siege artillery and let us finish this job—they must."
"I only wish they had sent it already—or even given the order. The news of that would have been enough. Do you like the look of your Granthis, Bob?"
"About as little as you do. One could wish that our Mr James had shown his affection in any other way than by sending us another Granthi regiment, but it was impossible to refuse it. It's one comfort that with your fellows we are more than a match for them now if they turn rusty, and by posting them on the right we can get them in flank with our whole line. You think we can't do better with the guns than keep them where they are until we advance? All right, then. Warner will lead the Darwanis, and the doctor will gallop for us."
The surgeon, who had been sent on by James Antony with the reinforcements, was young and active, and having at present no patients, since the native troops scouted him in favour of their own hakims, was ready to take any part in the fighting, from heading a cavalry charge to bringing up ammunition, but found himself relegated to the post of galloper. He took up his position behind Charteris in the centre, Warner and General Desdichado commanding the nearer troops on either hand, while Gerrard with the guns, and Bishen Ram with the two Granthi regiments, occupied the extreme left and right respectively, the whole position being roughly crescent-shaped. Nothing but utter madness, it seemed, could lead an army into the hollow it commanded, and Charteris sent out scouts to see whether Sher Singh's advance was not a blind, intended to mask a flank attack. But the scouts returned periodically to say that there was no sign of any other movement than the one in front, and as the enemy came closer, it was clear that their whole force was in the field. Gerrard allowed them to approach until they were well within the horns of the crescent, then, when with a final crash of music they quickened their step to charge up the low hill in the centre, his guns opened with tremendous effect. But even the cannonade seemed to produce little diminution in Sher Singh's crowded ranks, and they rolled on up the hill as though they would overwhelm the defenders by sheer weight of numbers. Gerrard, rushing from gun to gun to point each in turn, lest the gunners in their excitement should fire upon Charteris's position, urged his men on to load and fire with something like desperation. The enemy were not suffering as they should, beneath the fire of his guns on the one hand and the musketry of the two Granthi regiments on the other. A sudden suspicion seized him, and he looked across through the smoke at the opposite horn of the crescent. But no; it was dotted with white puffs. Bishen Ram's men were firing with admirable precision and coolness, but somehow their shots did not seem to take effect. The reason occurred to Gerrard suddenly; they were firing with powder only. Dearly would he have liked to plant a shell or two among the treacherous scoundrels, but just now he could not spare the time. He redoubled his efforts, and at last his half-incredulous eyes discerned between the smoke-clouds that the tide was rolling back from the centre. Charteris was visible for a moment, standing in his stirrups and waving his cap vigorously, and Gerrard fired once or twice into the sullenly retreating Agpuris, to dissuade them gently from rallying and facing the hill again. But presently the doctor arrived in hot haste, with orders to him to hold his fire for the present, since Charteris meant to assail the enemy with successive charges of cavalry. Almost before the smoke had cleared away there was the rush of a torrent of men and horses down the hill, and the confused mob of Agpuris was cloven as though by a wedge. The point of the wedge was a slender figure on a black horse, an oddly shaped cloth, half brown and half white, streaming behind it like a veil. The Rani was heading the avengers of her son.
There was no time to watch the prowess of the Rajputs and Rukn-ud-din'sMoslems, for Warner came galloping up.
"I am to fight your guns, Gerrard; you are wanted to lead the Habshiabadis. Their precious general took care to bring something with him to keep his courage up, and when we nearly lost the hill just now, I suppose he took too much of it. At any rate, he's quite incapable, and his men are demanding to go on alone."
Gerrard mounted his horse and galloped back to where Charteris, sword in hand, was riding slowly up and down in front of the ranks of the eager Habshiabadis, pressing back with the flat any man who pushed forward. He turned sharply to Gerrard.
"Look here, Hal; the Rani is going for vengeance, not victory—thinking of nothing but cutting through to Sher Singh's elephant. Her men will be swallowed up, unless you can make a diversion. Break the enemy up a bit, and I'll bring the Darwanis down and finish 'em."
"Better ride round the hill and come at them from a different direction," suggested Gerrard.
"All right. I'll support you," and as Gerrard led the disgusted and protesting Habshiabad cavalry away from the fight, Charteris sent off the doctor to Bishen Ram, whose soldiers had remained inactive since they had been ordered to cease firing for fear of hitting the Rani's horsemen. Now they were to advance and attack the portion of Sher Singh's troops immediately below them, thus creating a diversion and distracting attention from the direction in which Gerrard would make his charge. Charteris was watching the mêlée in the plain rather than the doctor's progress, but presently an exclamation from his Darwanis made him look round. The Granthis had risen to their feet, and before the doctor could give his message, saluted him with a volley. He turned his horse and rode back, pursued by a dropping fire, some of the bullets falling among the Darwanis, to their intense excitement.
"They fired at me!" he gasped indignantly. "A bullet went through my hat, and another grazed my leg. My horse is hit, too."
"Well, don't be so precious injured about it," said Charteris. "Most men would think they were uncommon lucky to escape from the fire of two regiments with nothing worse. When you have finished counting your bruises, just ride to Warner, and tell him to lay every gun he has dead on the Granthis. If they attempt to fire or to move down towards Sher Singh, he is to fire upon them. If they persist, let him mow them down without mercy—plug into them with grape and canister and everything he's got."
The doctor rode away, and Charteris turned his attention again to the field, where the Rani, supported by a lessening phalanx of her men, was steadily cutting her way towards Sher Singh. Watching through his glass, the Englishman saw a movement in the gilded howdah of the Rajah's elephant, saw that a man in gleaming crimson and a golden turban was taking careful aim with a long matchlock. Charteris had barely time to remember the tale of Sher Singh's skill in shooting which he had heard at Adamkot before the Rani flung up her arms and fell from her horse into the turmoil seething round her. The man in the howdah received a second gun from an attendant, and turned in another direction, that in which Gerrard was just appearing at the head of the Habshiabadis. Charteris shouted a useless warning, realising as the words left his lips that his voice could never carry across the din of battle, but even while he shouted, Gerrard's sword flew from his hand and he pitched forward on his horse's neck. More Charteris could not see, for the Granthis under Bishen Ram uttered a yell of triumph and sprang forward to hurl themselves into the strife, but Warner was ready for them, and a shell bursting in front of their line gave them pause. Another advance, another shell, and then a shower of grape, adroitly directed at a stream of men trying to edge their way down into the plain by a side-path, and after a half-hearted volley directed at the guns over the heads of the fighters below, the Granthis gave up their attempt to move. It was now or never, for the Habshiabadis were wavering, evidently uncertain whether to stay and succour Gerrard or to continue their charge. Charteris saw that if success was to be attained he must risk every man he had, and pausing only to send the doctor to tell Warner again to keep the Granthis back at all costs, he hurled himself and his eager Darwanis into the fray. The unsupported guns and the disaffected regiments on the hill were the only portions of his force left outside themêlée. Before this desperate expedient Sher Singh's spirit quailed. He left his elephant, and mounting a horse, spurred out of the battle towards Agpur. Disgusted by his disappearance, his men held out for a while, but Charteris and his wild horsemen were riding them down on one side, and the rallied Habshiabadis on the other, and they were without a leader. They broke at last, and made for Agpur in headlong flight, pursued so closely by the Darwanis that Warner durst not fire upon them. Charteris was chasing his own men now, turning them back with praise and promises, threats and curses, seizing one man by the arm and another by the bridle, in deadly fear that they would carry the pursuit too far, and be caught when Sher Singh's men turned at bay. With the assistance of their own chiefs, he succeeded at last in shepherding back all but a few who had gone too far to be reached, and was met as he returned by a deputation of Granthis, very stiff and austere in wounded dignity, demanding why they had not been allowed to take part in the fight, and why Warner Sahib had turned his guns on them.
Never was there so innocent and so deeply injured a body of men. Asked why they had fired at the doctor, they replied promptly that they thought he was ordering them to retire from the position they held, when they were anxious only to throw themselves upon Sher Singh's flank and cut off his retreat, as the advance prevented by Warner could witness. Charteris declined to take their grievances too seriously. Their behaviour had been most suspicious, and he was fairly certain that if Sher Singh had shown signs of winning they would have joined him at once, but it was possible that Gerrard held a different opinion, and he wished to consult him before taking any definite step. Promising to consider their protest and give them an answer on the morrow, he rode on to look for his friend, but before he could reach the spot where he had fallen, he was stopped by a little procession of sorely wounded Rajputs, carrying on a litter of crossed spears a body covered with a cloak. Rukn-ud-din and several of his men, not one unwounded, followed, and Charteris saluted as he met them.
"You carry her Highness's body to the burning?" he asked.
"Aye, sahib," answered the leader of the Rajputs, the Rani's cousin. "Daughter and wife and mother of kings, she has died as a king should die, and the burning of a king shall be made for her. But I beseech your honour to be witness to a certain thing." He unwrapped from his arm the discoloured cloth, dipped in her son's blood, which the Rani had worn when she left Agpur to demand vengeance, and divided it lengthwise with his sword. "Half of this I will take, and the other shall be borne by Komadan Rukn-ud-din, who has been faithful to his lord and his lord's mother, and to the salt he has eaten. As the dead bore it, so will we bear it, until the blood of Kharrak Singh can be blotted out in the blood of him who slew him."
Rukn-ud-din limped forward and received the ghastly trophy, and Charteris saluted again and passed on. The fight had raged hotly where Gerrard had fallen, and it was some time before they found him. The doctor did what he could for him on the spot, and then advised his being taken at once to the camp, where Sher Singh's bullet might be extracted, and his other injuries properly treated. His friend's insensibility alarmed Charteris almost more than the actual wounds, and he gave his horse to the groom, and walked beside the bearers, trying to induce them to keep step, and not jar the patient unnecessarily. It was therefore an unfortunate moment for a large and frowsy—he would almost have said snuffy—figure to lurch forward and clasp him in an expansive embrace.
"Eh, man, that was a gran' fight, yon!" it hiccoughed, then relapsed into dignity and Hindustani. "What a battle we have had, sahib! What a victory we have won!"
"We, indeed!" said Charteris, releasing himself with strong disgust."General Desdichado, I suppose?"
But the General, apparently unconscious of his momentary lapse of memory, was not responsive to English. "The Sahib was pleased to say——?" he inquired politely.
"I say this, you old villain, that you nearly lost us the battle, and if Lieutenant Gerrard should die, I give you my word I'll have you shot for neglect of duty in the face of the enemy!" cried Charteris furiously.
"The Sahib is pleased to forget that I am accountable only to my own master," said the General, and retired in good order, though with as much haste as was compatible with a very unsteady walk.
The unpleasant business of extracting the bullet brought Gerrard to his senses, and Charteris found his hand wrung almost to numbness as he knelt by his side. Those were the days before anaesthetics, and a bullet in the shoulder required a good deal of torture before it could be got rid of.
"I thought it was all up with me, Bob," whispered Gerrard when the operation was over.
"Not just yet, old boy. If it had been an inch or two more to one side, now——"
"When I went down among the horses' feet, I meant. It was you got me out, old fellow, I know."
"Had to do a good many things first, I'm afraid, and it wasn't very easy to find you. Case of 'None could see Valerius, And none wist where he lay.' By the bye, Hal, should you say that thosedangawalas[1] of Granthis were playing fair to-day, or not? Did they fire as Sher Singh advanced?"
"Oh yes, they fired," said Gerrard dreamily.
"You don't mean that they fired at us?"
"No, they fired—all right—but——" his voice became weaker, and he seemed satisfied not to finish. The doctor made Charteris a sign not to disturb him further, and he was obliged to give the Granthis the benefit of the doubt.
* * * * * *
An attack of fever, complicated by his wounds, kept Gerrard from all rational conversation for some time, but when he recovered his senses, he thought that it was still the night of the battle. On the roof of the tent brooded the gigantic shadow of Charteris in his shirt-sleeves, writing busily by the usual light of a candle-end stuck into the neck of a bottle.
"Bob!" said Gerrard weakly. Charteris was at his side in a moment.
"Want anything, old boy? By Jove, I'm uncommon glad to hear your voice again—talking sensibly, that is.
"But it's only a few hours since you brought me in here."
"A few fiddlesticks! My dear fellow, it's three weeks."
"Bob, have they sent us the siege artillery?"
"No, and they won't. Guns are too precious to move without escort, and British troops are too expensive to cart about in the rains. So here we are, twiddling our thumbs till better times come."
"But what about the country—and Sher Singh?"
"Sher Singh is safe in Agpur. We've got him shut up there, at any rate. But Granthistan is in a blaze, Hal. The Commander-in-Chief is on his way up-country. It's another Granthi War—thanks to their delay."
"And our Granthis?"
"Oh, they marched off bag and baggage to join Sher Singh the other night, when the news came that we were not to be reinforced till the cold weather. I didn't hear of their going till they had nearly reached Agpur, and I wasn't particularly anxious to stop them when I did."
"Better rid of them. You know they fired blank all day—the day of the battle, I mean?"
"That was the trick, was it? I couldn't get it out of you. Not that it would have made much difference if I had known, I suppose. I tell you, Hal, there was a moment when, if only the heavy artillery had come up, we held Sher Singh in the hollow of our hands. He was in such a panic when he got back to Agpur that he actually fired on his own troops when they crowded across the bridge after him. They would have handed him over to us like lambs if we could have threatened the city then. But it's no use crying over spilt milk. I'm going to make use of this interval in hostilities to send you to Ranjitgarh for a bit, old boy. If they won't use the river to send us our big guns, we may use it to recruit our invalids a bit. It can't be as hot at Ranjitgarh as it is here. But I put you on your honour to come back. No one must lead the Habshiabadis into Agpur but you. You will find me relegated to my original obscurity by that time, with a duly appointed Brigadier—anya jawan[2]—riding roughshod over my tenderest feelings, but you can still swagger as the officer accompanying the forces of a friendly state."
Gerrard had not been listening. "Bob," he whispered, "I—I can't go toRanjitgarh."
"Why not, old boy'?"
"She may be there. They will have fetched the ladies down from the hills if there is trouble."
"I think not. Old Cinnamond has taken the field, but there are plenty of troops in Ranjitgarh. But if she is there, Hal?"
"I might speak—I ain't master of myself, Bob."
"Well, my dear fellow, and why not? Have you forgot what I said—that you were to have the next turn? Speak, by all means, and take her with my blessing, if she'll take you."
"Bob, I won't have it. I have been making a fool of myself when I didn't know what I was saying, and you are behaving like a brick because you are sorry for me."
"Ton my word, it's nothing of the sort. I can say now what I wouldn't say once, that I had rather see her happy with you than unhappy with me. I'm not going to let you outdo me there, you see, though I may be a little bit late."
"Good old Bob!" said Gerrard weakly.
"Not a bit of it. Ain't we chums, old boy? Now remember,popgoes the weasel!"
[1] Mutineers.
[2] New hand.
"My dear, I fear you will think I have been indiscreet."
Mrs James Antony looked up, and caught her husband's humourously deprecating expression. "Oh, James, I know that means you have done something dreadful, and want me to get you out of the difficulty!" she sighed. "Well, love, what is it?"
"I have sent akasidto meet poor Gerrard, to tell him he is to come to us, and we will take no refusal. As soon as the man was gone, I remembered that you would probably object to his being thrown into Miss Cinnamond's company."
"But surely you must see for yourself, love, that it would be most awkward for both of them? I almost think I had better ask Mrs Jardine to take in dear Honour for the time. She would be delighted, I am sure."
"You know best, my dear. If Lady Cinnamond would not mind finding herself under such an obligation to Mrs Jardine, it is not for me to make objections."
"She would dislike it extremely, love, as you well know. But what else is there to be done?"
"I don't myself see why there should be any awkwardness at all," said James Antony sturdily. "If Miss Cinnamond is going to marry Gerrard, they had better come to an understanding and get it over, and if not—why, they will have to meet in the future, and they may as well begin now. If the girl chooses to be silly about it, she had better go back to her mother."
"But, James, love, you don't consider. How could I let her go back, knowing that poor dear Mrs Cowper has taken such a dislike to her sister? Now that she has lost her babe, it would be terrible if they met before time had softened her grief a little. And it is not as if dear Honour were in the least to blame. I am sure she was keeping house for her father most beautifully when he was compelled to take the field. We are indebted to the Cinnamonds for so many civilities that it would be hard indeed if we could not help them out of a difficulty by entertaining the poor girl for a while."
"Quite so, my dear, but it would also be hard if the poor girl could not help us by assisting to entertain a fellow-guest for a while. In fact, I consider that by bringing them to a mutual understanding we should be doing a kindness not only to the young people themselves but to the General and Lady Cinnamond."
"Certainly they have no objection to Lieutenant Gerrard," said Mrs Antony meditatively.
"None whatever, my dear, so that we shall positively be furthering their wishes. Come, Jane; ain't I only wise in bringing my indiscretions to you to set right, since you are such a dab at getting me out of a mess?"
"Fie, James, what slang! Indeed I don't wonder you affect to consult me, since it seems to me you will get your own way undisturbed."
James Antony might go on his way with his great laugh, and his wife shake her head at him in purely simulated reproof, but the results of their involuntary diplomacy were hardly as satisfactory to the objects thereof as to themselves. Gerrard's heart gave an ecstatic bound when his host mentioned casually on meeting him that Miss Cinnamond was staying at the Residency during the absence of her father at the front and her mother in the hills. All the way from the camp within sight of Agpur, during the hot voyage diversified with interludes of sniping from the river-banks, he had assured himself persistently that nothing should induce him to take advantage of Bob's generosity. But these good resolutions were forgotten as he lay in the palanquin which conveyed him from the landing-place to the Residency, listening, without comprehending what was said, to James Antony's gruff voice firing off items of latest intelligence like minute-guns. In a few moments he would see Honour, look into her frank eyes, hold her cool hand, begin the siege of her heart in which his faithful love—freed from the disturbing influence of Charteris's presence—must surely succeed in breaking down the rampart of maiden coldness within which she had entrenched herself. Yes, he was glad of Charteris's absence; thankful for it. Bob had bidden him of his own free will to go ahead, and was he to waste the opportunity for which he had so long yearned in vain?
But disappointment was waiting for him at the Residency. Honour remained so persistently in the background behind Mrs Antony that it seemed almost as if she was hiding. Her hand barely touched Gerrard's, her eyes shunned his, and her manner was constrained—almost awkward. Before Gerrard had crossed the verandah he had divined a reason for this change: she had read her own heart at last, and it was Bob Charteris that she loved. And here was he, lagging miserably superfluous on the stage for three or four weeks, while Charteris was held fast by his duties before Agpur, and was as unaware of his good fortune as he was unable to profit by it.
Second thoughts brought, if not a degree of hope, at least a less complete yielding to despair. Perhaps it was not Charteris whose image blinded Honour to the presence of her other lover. It might only be that people had been talking, that Mrs Jardine had presumed to offer Honour some advice inconsistent with the delicate nature of the situation, perhaps urged her to terminate it in Gerrard's favour, since she had, unasked, taken his candidature under her wing. That would be quite sufficient to account for the girl's coolness and constraint. The battle was not, then, absolutely lost, and it might even yet be possible to turn it into a victory. Gerrard would be very cautious, very diplomatic, and would keep their intercourse on the safe ground of their common preferences in prose and poetry, until he had enabled her to dissociate him in her mind from his too zealous champions.
Save in one respect, Honour responded to this treatment with a readiness that was almost embarrassing. Her novel shyness fell from her when it became clear that Gerrard was not intending immediately to speak to her of love, and in discussing the new Dickens and the latest Tennyson she revealed herself to him almost as freely as of old. James Antony agonized his wife by portentous nods and winks behind their backs, indicative of the complete and final understanding now in course of accomplishment, but Mrs Antony was not so well satisfied, though she was unaware of the exact nature of the rift in Gerrard's lute. One day Honour broke into a deep discussion of the social and educational topics touched on in thePrincesswith a question which had no relation to them whatever. It was clear that her thoughts were far from Gerrard's exposition of his views, or why should she suddenly have asked how long it took him to reach Charteris at Kardi with the guns after receiving his note entreating him to hasten? Gerrard set his teeth. It was Charteris, then. He answered the question fully, and also the others by which it was followed. Honour's curiosity on the subject of the unauthorised operations in Agpur seemed insatiable, and bit by bit she drew from him the whole history of the campaign. Following her lead, he made a loyal endeavour to keep Charteris in the forefront of his narrative, smiling bitterly to himself when once or twice she questioned him directly about his own doings. This was mere politeness, of course, it was Charteris in whom she was really interested.
The irony of his own anticipations struck Gerrard forcibly after a fortnight or so principally spent in talking about Charteris. Outside the air was filled with wars and rumours of wars, with reports that the Granthi army was moving on Ranjitgarh, or that this or the other Sirdar was about to cut the communications with Agpur, and in the society of James Antony and his intimates these were the topics that everybody discussed. But spending the mid-day hours in the damp heat of the drawing-room, where paper grew mouldy and the covers peeled off books, under the influence of the rains, with Mrs Antony occupied at a discreet distance with reading or letter-writing, Gerrard endured what would have been martyrdom but for the bitter-sweet sense of Honour's presence—possessing which he could not be wholly miserable. Continually there forced itself on him the change in her since the days when they had lamented together the supposed death of Charteris. She was restless, prone to a curious impatience, and the literary interests which had first drawn them together satisfied her no more. Only one explanation could fit the facts. Bob Charteris was not literary in his tastes, and Honour, with her heart awakened, had learnt to know that life was more than books.
As the time approached for Gerrard's return to active service, it struck him that she had perceived her unconscious cruelty, and was endeavouring to atone for it. He loved her the better for the thought, though it made him all the more miserable, since the tenderness in her voice, the tears he sometimes surprised in her eyes, must spring from a pity that was not at all akin to love. No doubt, too, she was thinking of Charteris, keeping the field in the rains, and extensively abused on all sides as the cause of the war, and Gerrard would have liked to assure her that he understood, and to prophesy a general revulsion of feeling when the Agpur business had been brought to a successful conclusion. But apparently sympathy was at a discount with Honour, for the slightest attempt to approach the subject—even an honest effort to assure her that Bob's safety should be his first care in the future, for her sake—brought back at once the sense of constraint, and made her manner hard and impatient, not to say snappish. Their final parting took place in public, but this was Gerrard's own fault, for he could not trust himself alone with her. He might have been a weak fool to hang about her for so long, but to offer himself as a bearer of tender messages for Charteris was beyond him. She was very pale, and seemed to find difficulty in speaking, and he guessed at once that she was envying him his good fortune in seeing her lover so soon. But his selfishness in refusing to volunteer as a messenger was rightly punished, for Mrs Jardine, who had seen fit to appear at the Residency to borrow a fancy-work pattern from Mrs Antony, just as he was about to start, was not minded to leave things longer in the uncertainty which had tried her so deeply.
"What! no message for poor Mr Charteris?" she inquired archly, as Honour's hand touched Gerrard's to the accompaniment of a single murmured word of farewell.
"Miss Cinnamond knows that I should feel honoured in carrying any message of hers," he said stiffly.
Honour blushed red, though she looked annoyed. "Oh, give him my best wishes, please!" she said lightly.
"Very distant and suitable, I'm sure!" muttered Mrs Jardine, much disappointed, but Honour did not hear her.
"Youhave not asked for any message—for yourself," she murmured, looking at Gerrard's sword-belt as if she had never seen one quite like it before.
"I did not venture—it is only your kindness that makes you think of it," he stammered.
"Perhaps you would rather not have it?" She raised her eyes for an instant and looked at him bravely. "My very best wishes—to you."
"Bus, bus!" shouted James Antony from the foot of the steps. "Don't be all day binding ladies' favours on your helm, Gerrard, my boy. Get it over; it ain't as bad as it looks."
He ran up the steps again, and his great hand descended heavily on Gerrard's shoulder, and Gerrard, thrilled through by the glance Honour had turned upon him, and with all his preconceived ideas shattered and clashing under the impact of a wholly new thought, must perforce allow himself to be hurried away, vaguely aware that Mrs Jardine, baulked of her expected sensation, was apostrophizing the acting-Resident as a "naughty man!" At the foot of the steps he turned suddenly. One word with Honour, even in Mrs Jardine's hearing, and his doubts would be resolved for ever. But James Antony fairly dragged him on.
"No looking back now, my dear fellow. You must make me your messenger if you have anything to say. Do you forget that they are waiting for you at theghat?"
Gerrard mounted his pony reluctantly, then looked eagerly round. Honour's face might end his doubts as easily as her voice. But she was not to be seen; Mrs Jardine was nodding and smiling alone in the verandah, rather to the disgust of Mrs Antony, who was dimly visible in the doorway of the drawing-room. Gerrard could not detect the form crouched behind her spreading skirts, the face peering under her falling sleeve, and once again doubt attained mastery over his mind. If Honour had meant really to rebuke him for his backwardness, then was he indeed the most blessed of men, but perhaps she was only mildly chaffing Charteris's friend. It was not like her, but could one moment at parting give the lie to the experience, the settled certainty, of weeks of close intercourse? And she had not cared to wait to see him ride away!
During the river voyage, despite the ample opportunity he enjoyed for forming definite conclusions, Gerrard remained balanced between two contradictory opinions, and he was still much tumbled up and down in his mind when he landed and fell into the eminently bracing company of Charteris. British troops and siege-guns—not now to be spared from Granthistan—had come and were still coming up from Bombay, and the lines which had been fortified by the Darwanis and Habshiabad force were now only part of an extensive position. Charteris pointed out the various spots, much changed now since the battle in which Gerrard had received his wound, as they rode up to the camp.
"Then you are under the yoke again, Bob?" said Gerrard.
"Rayther, just a very few! The Brigadier has determined in his own mind that I am dead set upon presuming, so, to make it impossible, he snaps my head off every time he sees me, and at once."
"Hard luck, old boy!"
"Oh, I share it with my betters. By the bye, is it true that theGovernor-General has been powdering Sir Edmund's wig?"
"In a way. Antony wanted to promise Sher Singh his life if he would surrender, and the G.-G. came down upon him like a hundred of bricks. Told him that if he had put forth any such proclamation he would have to recall it, I believe, but happily things had not gone so far."
"I'm sorry for Sir Edmund, but I back Blairgowrie—which is jolly handsome behaviour, since he has written some uncommon nasty things about me. 'Pon my word, Hal, I'm right glad that they refused us our siege-guns, and left us here tied by the leg for the hot weather."
Gerrard looked at him in astonishment. "But if we had been able to stamp out Sher Singh's rebellion—as we could have done if they had supported us properly—it would have saved this second Granthi War, Bob."
"That's just it. We should have gone on trying to govern through the Durbar, and declaring that we were merely taking care of the country until Lena Singh comes of age, knowing that if he ever reigned alone it would mean the destruction of all we had done. But now the farce is at an end, and they must annex Granthistan. Ourikbal[1] stands fairly high, but it can't take the risk of a war bad enough to drag the C.-in-C. from his Olympian retirement every two or three years. I'm sorry for Sir Edmund, who has done his very best to bolster up the Durbar, but facts are too strong for him."
"He will take it hard," said Gerrard. "Here is my camp, I see—mycampoo,[2] I should say," as they were met by a cluster of salaaming Habshiabadis, who testified loudly their joy at his return. "But why shouldn't I report myself to the Brigadier at once, Bob, and then come back and settle in?"
"Because you ain't wanted, my boy. You don't go dropping in on your General in that promiscuous style. You wait till it's convenient to him to send for you, and then you apologize for your existence in the most abject terms at your command. I happen to know—friend at court, you see—that you'll be summoned about sunset, and if you behave very nicely, and answer prettily when you're spoken to, you may even be honoured by an invitation to dinner."
"Learning one's place!" said Gerrard, with a wry look.
"Exactly—as I have been doing. Our days of independent action are over, old boy. If we had been allowed to capture Agpur it might have been different, but I don't know. Who wouldn't go from governing kingdoms to take up regimental work again?"
Gerrard did not possess the art of banishing unpleasantness with a jest, and his brow was clouded as they rode up to his tent between the lines of the Habshiabadis. For them, however, he had nothing but praise, rejoicing their hearts by admiration of their discipline, and learning, as he expected, that Charteris had continued their military education during his absence. General Desdichado was still maintaining a judicious seclusion, owing to a fresh attack of illness, it seemed, and Charteris remarked on the curious character of the ailment, which invariably became acute when there was a question of the General's coming in contact with any British officer.
"Scandal says that nothing but Sadiq Ali's direct command keeps him in the field at all," he added. "Otherwise he would sneak back to Habshiabad, and drink himself to death there in peace."
They were inside the tent now, and Charteris turned suddenly on his friend. "Well, Hal, what news? Is that blessing of mine wanted, or not?"
"It's no good pretending I don't know what you mean, but on my life, Bob,I can't tell you."
"Can't tell—in a matter of this kind? Nonsense!"
"It's this way. Almost the whole of the time I was there I could have sworn she cared for you. We talked of nothing but you and your doings."
"Precious little in that. You did just the same when you thought I was dead, and it meant absolutely nothing."
"But it makes every possible difference when we both know you are alive. At any rate, I was too jolly downhearted to court another refusal. But just as I came away, she looked at me in a way that made me think—and something that she said——"
"And you didn't make sure? My young friend, it strikes me that you fear your fate a good deal."
"Our Mr James hurried me away. But I am afraid—and I don't mind saying so—of risking my last chance."
"Why your last? I wish I were coxcomb enough to be sure it was your last, and that you would lose it."
"But even if she refused us both again, you can't go on persecuting a girl who has said no to you three times."
"Why not? I shall go on asking her, if she says no a hundred times.It's for her own good. No girl can really wish to be an old maid."
"Rather than marry you or me, perhaps."
"That shows how little she knows about it. But I give you my word she ain't going to lose a good husband through any slackness of mine. You won't find me wasting my opportunities as you have been doing."
"You pitch it pretty strong, Bob, but I believe I deserve it. Still, it was not my fault that I could not settle things that last moment. Will you do this for me, old boy? When we get back to Ranjitgarh, leave me free to speak to her if I meet her first. If I find that it is you after all, I promise you to make no attempt to persuade her, and if you meet her first, of course you will find out for yourself."
"I believe you, my boy! And I only hope we may find out definitely. This uncertainty plays the very mischief with a man when he has time to think of it."
"My dear Bob, you don't mean to say you would rather know that all was up with you than be able to go on hoping?"
"That I would! One can set one's teeth then, and grin and bear it, but it's horrid disturbing, when you're trying to give your mind to regular hard grinding work, for the thought of all that kind of thing to be always intruding."
"If I didn't know you better than you know yourself, old boy, I should say not only that you didn't care a pin for her, but that you couldn't. Why, how could one carry on work at all without those very thoughts to help one?"
"You're getting libellous, Hal. It's the uncertainty, not the thoughts, that I find disturbing. If she would take me—bless her!—I'll lay you anything you like she would be the Commander-in-Chief's lady in the shortest time on record."
"Bob, it's precious hard on both of us. Whichever gets her, one of us must be miserable."
"Let us make quite sure that she's happy, then. But it's a little late to be talking like this, ain't it? What I find most cause to blame in you, Hal, is a tendency to the sentimental. Turn your mind strictly to business—namely, to receiving the orderly who is about to summon you to the presence of the high and mighty Speathley."
After the warning he had received, Gerrard was not likely to be late for his appointment, but when he arrived at Major-General Speathley's headquarters, it was evident that the Brigadier thought it salutary for junior officers to cool their heels a little in his anteroom. A number of other men were hanging about, and a low buzz of conversation filled the tent. Gerrard was known by name to most of those present, and he was soon in possession of the chief item of interest which was agitating the camp. That morning's reconnaissance had been pushed as far as Ratan Singh's tomb, which had been occupied without opposition, and a careful search had revealed the shallow grave in which the dishonoured remains of Nisbet and Cowper had been hastily hidden after the tragedy in the spring.