Читать книгу The Warden of the Marches - Sydney C. Grier - Страница 7

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“Have you heard the latest, Miss North?” asked Fitz Anstruther, as he escorted Mabel to the scene of action. The five men who were staying in the house had nearly come to blows in deciding who ought to enjoy this privilege, but Fitz had stepped in and disappointed them all equally by the calm announcement that it was his by right. Officially he was Major North’s deputy, and it was only fair that the pleasures as well as the duties of the post should devolve upon him. The justice of the contention was grudgingly admitted, and Fitz was the proudest man in Alibad when he drove to the ground that morning in his smart new buggy, with Mabel, the glories of her gown hidden by a tussore dust-cloak, seated beside him.

“No. What has the Commissioner done now?” she asked.

“Bahram Khan has entered his name for the Keeling Cup!”

“And that is equivalent to saying that the sky has fallen?”

Fitz regarded her pityingly. “You don’t see it as we do,” he said. “Wait until you have been out a little longer. It seems that in order to cement the reconciliation he has brought about, the Commissioner saw fit to invite the Nalapur Princes to honour us with their presence to-day. The Amir and Bahadar Shah didn’t quite see themselves figuring in the triumphal procession, and both discovered that they had urgent business at home. But Bahram Khan duly turned up last night with his train of attendants, and is condescending enough to join us in our sports to-day. The Commissioner has a theory that in such mimic warfare as this the fusion of the English and native races proceeds apace, and Bahram Khan is doing his best to gratify him by poking himself into the race for the Keeling Cup—our very tiptop, crack, pucca event!”

“But did General Keeling patronise races? I shouldn’t have thought they were at all in his line.”

“They were not; but then, this isn’t a race in the ordinary sense of the word. It was first run just at the time when everything in Khemistan was named after him, and besides, it recalls one of his own pet dodges. They say that he used to subject the men that wanted to serve under him to pretty severe tests, and this was one of them. He used to rouse them up in the middle of the night, and they had to turn out without boots, catch a strange horse, and ride him round the town without a saddle, and with only a halter for a bridle.”

“It’s to be hoped that the town was smaller in those days than now?”

“Of course it was, but we don’t exact such a test as that. The ponies are all turned loose on the course without saddles, and the men, in slippers, have to catch them and mount. Any man who catches his own is disqualified. Then they have to get them round the course without bridle or whip of any kind. I have noticed that the spectators are always pretty nearly dead with laughing before the end, while the competitors get black in the face with restrained emotion.”

“But you don’t mean that General Keeling really treated his officers in that way?”

“I do, indeed. He had to weed them out, you see, or he would have been overrun with volunteers. Oh, you may have full confidence in my veracity, Miss North, even though I once had a report returned me by a jealous Secretary with the remark that I should do well to quit the Civil Service for the path of romantic fiction. The pains I took over that report! You see, I had an inkling that it would be seen by a very exalted person, who is great on us juniors’ cultivating a literary style in our official writings. I can truly say that there has never been such a literary gem sent in since Macaulay left India. It was written in the most beautiful English—though I say it—full of tender touches and delicate conceits, and as to quotations, and Oriental imagery, and wealth of imaginative detail——! Ah well, it’s better not to think of it,” and Fitz sighed deeply.

“Why? Did it bring down upon you a rebuke from the Great Great One?”

“No, alas! for it never reached him. The Secretary intercepted it, naturally enough. Who would ever have looked at his minutes again after it? But at least it furnished him with an ideal to strive after. I have reason to believe he is in a lunatic asylum at this moment. The effort was too great, you see.”

“That was rather close,” said Mabel irrelevantly, as the wheel shaved the basketwork tray of an itinerant sweetseller by the roadside.

“He shouldn’t be so intent on his prospective gains. Look how many of the fellows there are about! That shows we are near the ground. They flock to this place from all quarters when they know there’s a tamasha on.”

They had reached the enclosure by this time, and Mabel found herself surrounded by an admiring throng. Pale-faced ladies from other stations glanced at her dress casually, and continued to gaze long and fixedly, her Alibad admirers brought up friends to be introduced, and both the old slaves and the new displayed a keen anxiety to post themselves for the day in the neighbourhood of her chair. With the exception of the race for the Keeling Cup, the sports were wholly military in character, and the programme was a lengthy one, but Mabel did not find the hours pass slowly. Everything was new and interesting, from the splendid native officers, with fierce eyes gleaming under enormous turbans, who dashed up on fiery steeds and bore away triumphantly an unresisting tent-peg, to the latest recruit who exhibited his coolness by holding out his bare hand, with what Mabel considered privately an excess of confidence, for his daffadar to cut a lemon upon it. There was the inner circle of troopers of the Khemistan Horse, reinforced to-day by such veterans as old Ismail Bakhsh and his fellow-chaprasis, keenly critical, but above all things solicitous for the honour of the regiment. There were the notables of the district, grave and bearded men in flowing robes, who looked as though they might have sat for a gallery of Scriptural portraits, but who exhibited an anxious deference when Dick glanced their way, which suggested that their relation with him in the past had occasionally been that of criminals and judge. At the farther side of the course was the motley throng of dwellers in the native town, and hangers-on of the cantonments, with faces of every shade of brown, and clothes and turbans of every variety of colour. And lastly, close at hand, there was the little group of English, not taking their pleasure sadly, for once, but making the most of the rare opportunity for the exchange of news and opinions. The Commissioner was the centre of attraction here, naturally enough, or at least, he shared the general attention with Mabel; but she was quite aware, as she met his benevolent smile, that he was making her a graceful present of a portion of the homage due to himself.

The last event but one upon the programme was the tug-of-war between six men of the Khemistan Horse and six of the Sikhs who formed the Commissioner’s escort—a contest which was fought out with the greatest obstinacy, but in which the visiting team finally secured the victory, to the unconcealed lamentation and resentment of the local representatives and their friends. The triumphant Sikhs found no sympathisers except among the sahib-log, and the English applause was cut short by the necessity of preparing for the last race, in which it was a point of honour for every man to take part who could possibly do so.

“A solemn sacrifice to the memory of the adored General Keeling!” said Mr Burgrave in a low voice to Mabel, as they watched their late companions assembling upon the course.

“Oh, but what is that native doing?” cried Mabel, forgetting what she had heard only that morning, as a tall lithe man, wearing the green turban of a descendant of the Prophet, stepped out from the group of notables and joined the competitors.

“That,” was the bland answer, “is Bahram Khan, hitherto the bugbear of the frontier; henceforth, I hope, our friend and ally.”

“I don’t like to see him there. He spoils the look of it,” she said impulsively.

“Bahram Khan offends your eye? Ah, Miss North, you must pardon a poor statesman the dulness of his perceptions! I am no authority upon æsthetic questions, I must confess, whereas you—well, you could scarcely not be one.”

A smile emphasised the compliment, and Mabel turned away rather hastily, and addressed a casual remark to Flora Graham. Compliments were all very well, but she did not approve of the adroit way in which Mr Burgrave repressed her whenever she touched on political subjects. Flora had no eyes for any one but Fred Haycraft at the moment, however, and Mabel was obliged to turn her attention to the course. The signal for starting was given just then, and there ensued a wild mêlée of men and horses, the men as eager to mount as the horses were determined not to be mounted by any one but their own masters. Presently one or two successful athletes forced their way out of the scrimmage, and by degrees most of the competitors secured a mount of some kind, but some were still vainly struggling when the foremost appeared round the curve of the course.

“Oh dear, he has no chance!” wailed Flora, referring to her fiancé, who was one of these unfortunates. “That’s Bahram Khan’s pony he has got, and of course it won’t let a white man mount it. Well, every one must see that it isn’t his fault. Oh, he’s up at last!”

But this tardy triumph was of little avail, for just as Fred Haycraft urged his unwilling steed on its way, Bahram Khan, mounted on the bay pony which was the especial pride of Fitz Anstruther’s heart, trotted gently past the winning-post. The absence of hurry, as the luckless Fitz remarked afterwards, was at once the finest and the most irritating part of the performance.

“The nigger’s won!” remarked a grizzled old officer who had served under General Keeling, in blank amazement, and as the truth of his words broke upon those around him, they were received with a low whistle of dismay. The Commissioner, who had himself led the applause in which the rest were too much stunned to join, glanced round sharply, and at the same moment Mabel found Dick at her side.

“Look here, Mab. You’d better ask the Commissioner to give the prizes. I never thought of this. These fellows are not like us—they don’t understand things. Get into a back seat quickly, without any fuss.”

Mabel stared at him blankly. She was to relinquish her part in the events of the day, the glorious hour to which she had been looking forward for more than a week, to disappoint all her admirers, and hide herself and her gown where no one could see them! But Dick’s face was adamant, and he repeated his order peremptorily, until she rose and moved reluctantly towards the Commissioner, touching him on the arm.

“My brother says I had better ask you to distribute the prizes,” she said, with disappointment in every tone. Mr Burgrave looked at her in astonishment, then his face took a harder set as his eyes fell on Georgia, who was endeavouring to console Flora for her lover’s ill success. Of course it was her doing! A faded woman in a gown that might have been new two seasons ago—how could she be otherwise than jealous of the radiant vision at his side? “And no wonder, poor thing!” said Mr Burgrave to himself, with contemptuous pity, but she must learn that it would not do to make mischief where her beautiful young sister-in-law was concerned.

“My dear Miss North,” the Commissioner’s voice took on its most fatherly tone, “don’t be afraid. Nothing would induce me to rob you of your pleasure.”

The words were loud enough for Dick to hear, and Mabel saw him frown angrily as she returned to her place, half-proud and half-afraid of her triumph. He said nothing, however, but took his stand immediately behind her, the very embodiment of silent displeasure. The sense of his disapproval served to irritate her further, and she heartily wished him away. His rigid face would quite spoil the effect of the picture she had intended to present, and he was taking up the room of other people whose attendance she would have preferred. But she was determined not to give in, even when the Commissioner’s encouraging smile smote her with a feeling of treachery, in that she had appealed to him against Dick.

The regimental prize-winners came up in their order, the natives, now that the momentary excitement was over, wearing a look of stately boredom, which seemed to declare that sports and prizes alike were a species of child’s play, in which they took part merely to humour the unaccountable whims of their officers. With the officers it was different, for Mabel read in their faces that although sports were good, and to earn a prize was better, both these faded into insignificance compared with the joy of receiving that prize from her hand. This was the very feeling that it most pleased her to inspire, and she loved the “boys,” as she called them in her thoughts, better than before, if that were possible.

But this glow of pleasure was shortlived. A brief pause followed the appearance of the Sikh head-man to receive the tug-of-war prize, and Mabel felt, without turning her head, that Dick’s silent disapproval had infected all the Englishmen around. Once more she hardened her heart. It was detestable to see this wretched racial snobbishness in the men she had admired so much. They would have liked to spoil the whole affair, and deprive her of the one piece of romance which had come to brighten the humdrum proceedings, rather than allow a native not belonging to the regiment to carry off a prize. She, at least, was above such petty considerations, and Bahram Khan should receive as gracious a smile as any of his fellow-competitors. One other person was of her mind, she saw, for the Commissioner clapped his hands lightly, and with infinite condescension, as Bahram Khan swaggered up. Mabel stepped forward, and met the glance of the bold eyes under the green turban. As she did so, she understood suddenly the secret of Dick’s displeasure. The smile faded from her lips, and the hand in which she held the Keeling Cup trembled. She stopped and faltered, and her pause of distress was evident to the men behind her. How they responded to her mute appeal she could not tell, but the look of insolent admiration disappeared from Bahram Khan’s eyes, into which she was still gazing spell-bound, and was, as it were, veiled under his former expression of contemptuous indifference towards his surroundings. A few words from the Commissioner, and the Nalapur Prince retired, leaving behind him a general feeling of awkwardness. If it had been arranged that anything else was to be done at this point, no one remembered it. People stood about in little groups, and talked somewhat constrainedly. Something had happened, or rather, there had been an electrical instant, and something might have happened, but it was not quite easy to see what it was. The crudest conception of the facts was voiced by Mrs Hardy, who had torn herself from her school-work to be present at the prize-giving, and now seized upon Georgia.

“MABEL STEPPED FORWARD, AND MET THE GLANCE OF THE BOLD EYES UNDER THE GREEN TURBAN”

“Oh, dear Mrs North, how unspeakably painful all this must be to you and your husband! You must feel the charge of Miss North a dreadful responsibility. I would never have said a word while she flirted merely with our own officers, or even with Mr Burgrave—though really the lengths to which she goes—! But to set herself deliberately to dazzle a native——”

“Mrs Hardy,” cried Georgia, flushing angrily, “please remember that you are speaking of my sister. I am certain that Mabel has never dreamt of such a thing. She may be thoughtless, but that is all.”

“It is very sweet and good of you to say it, but I am afraid your eyes will soon be disagreeably opened. No rational being could doubt that Miss North is setting her cap at the Commissioner, and that would hardly be a match you could welcome, would it? Look at her dress—so absurdly unsuitable at her age. Oh, I know to a day how old she is, Mrs North, and I will say that eight years between you don’t warrant your dressing as if you were mother and daughter. But I grant that Miss North is one of the people who always look younger than they are, while you invariably look older.”

The expression of Mrs Hardy’s sympathy rarely corresponded with the good-will which prompted it, but Georgia received the stab in heroic silence, and cast about for some means of changing the subject.

“I suppose we may as well go home now,” she said at last in despair, rising as she spoke. “Where is my husband, I wonder?”

“Over there, talking to the Commissioner and Bahram Khan,” responded Mrs Hardy. “Dear me! something must have happened. There is a messenger who seems to have brought some news. How grave they all look! What can it be?”

Watching eagerly, they saw Bahram Khan take his leave of Mr Burgrave and Dick and rejoin his friends. As the two gentlemen returned to the rest of the company the Commissioner said, slightly raising his tones in a way that attracted general attention, “Well, except for the sake of the poor fellow himself, I can’t pretend to be sorry. The way is now clear for important developments.”

Dick’s reply was inaudible, but the Commissioner rejoined sharply, “Of course you put this down to Bahram Khan’s account?”

“I make no accusations,” said Dick, unmoved. “You can’t perceive more clearly than I do that it’s impossible to connect him with it.”

“You deal in ambiguities, I see.” Mr Burgrave’s temper was evidently ruffled.

“There is no ambiguity in my mind,” was the reply, as Dick beckoned to a servant to fetch up his dog-cart. “Are you coming with me, Georgie, or shall I take Mabel?”

“Oh no, Mr Anstruther will drive her home,” said Georgia, aghast at the thought of an encounter between Dick in his present mood and Mabel at her prickliest. “Dick,” as the Commissioner turned to speak to Mrs Hardy, “what has happened?”

“Hush! speak lower. Bahadar Shah is dead.”

“What! poisoned?”

“No, shot. He was out hunting, and one of his most trusted servants was carrying his spare gun loaded. As he handed it to him it went off, and Bahadar Shah was shot through the heart.”

“And what happened to the servant?”

“The rest fell upon him and clubbed him to death immediately.”

“But of course it was Bahram Khan’s doing?”

“’Sh! He has established a satisfactory alibi, at any rate.” Dick helped Georgia into the cart and took the reins, and they were well on the road home before he spoke again. “It is the killing of the servant that’s the most suspicious feature to me. It would be just like Bahram Khan to bribe him to murder his master on the understanding that his escape should be secured, and then to make matters safe by bribing the rest to put him out of the way.”

“But surely that would only involve admitting more into the secret?”

“What secret? Bahram Khan is anxious for his cousin’s safety, and charges the servants to show no mercy to any one that attacks him. The utmost you could prove against him would be an idea that an attempt on his life might be made—not even a guilty knowledge, far less instigation.”

“How did he receive the news?”

“In the most orthodox way, deep but restrained grief. He must go to Nalapur to be present at the funeral and comfort his bereaved uncle, he told Burgrave, just as if his uncle would not sooner see a man-eater come to comfort him. How Burgrave received the news, you heard.”

“Yes. His manner was indecently callous, I thought.”

“Oh no. His saying what he did was one of his calculated indiscretions, like unveiling his policy to Timson coming up. No papers here, you see, so he must make his revelations by word of mouth. Ugh! the man turns me sick. Did you notice his bit of by-play with Mab?”

“She didn’t realise what you meant, Dick. Things here are so new to her, you know.”

“Oh, why should a man be doomed to have a fool for a sister? If I had said to you what I said to her you would have understood.”

“Perhaps Mab hasn’t studied you as closely as I have.”

“No, the Commissioner is her object of study at present. Nice cheerful prospect, isn’t it—to have that chap for a brother-in-law?”

“Ye-es,” said Georgia hesitatingly, “but I’m not quite sure it will be that, Dick. I think there’s some one else.”

“And the Commissioner is only making the pace for him? No, no, Georgie; that’s a little too thick. Of course I know there are dozens of others, but who is there that has a chance against Burgrave?”

“If I tell you, you’ll only laugh. It is a very little thing, but it’s the straw to show which way the wind is blowing. You didn’t notice, when Bahram Khan had had his prize, how Mab was left sitting alone for a minute. I knew just how she felt, ashamed and miserable and wounded, and I wanted to go to her, but Mrs Hardy had got hold of me, and I didn’t think she would improve matters. The Commissioner didn’t see—he never does see what other people are feeling, unless he happens to be feeling the same himself—but Fitz Anstruther did. He was by her side in a moment, saying just the kind of things that would lead her to forget her mortification. If he had seemed to intend to help her, she would have been angry, but it looked quite accidental, as if it was simply that he took pleasure in her society, and jumped at the chance of enjoying it when he found her alone for a minute. She will be grateful to him ever after, and that may be the beginning of even better things.”

“Oh, you match-makers! The idea of coupling Mab and Anstruther, of all people! And you back him against the Commissioner?”

“I do; unless Mab is deliberately playing for a high official future.”