CHAPTER XXII.
BACK AS FROM THE DEAD.
The stranger who stood upon the veranda of Major Archer’s bungalow was tall and thin, with a haggard face, worn and sharp of feature, and full of deeply cut lines, such as a long-continued anguish never fails to graven on the features. His weary eyes were deeply sunken under his brows, and were outlined with dark circles. His hair was streaked with gray, and his long ragged beard was half gray also. His face was white like death, and unutterably wan. His garments were torn, and hung about his lank body in rags, save where they were ill-patched with bits of rags and vegetable fibres.
Was Major Archer right? Could this haggard and pitiable being be Sir Harold Wynde of Hawkhurst, one of the richest baronets in England, who was supposed to have perished in the clutches of a tiger?
It seemed incredible—impossible.
And yet when the heavy eyelids lifted from the thin white cheeks, and looked upon the major, it was Sir Harold’s soul that looked through them. They were the keen blue eyes the major remembered so well, so capable of sternness or of tenderness, so expressive of the grand and noble soul, the pure and lofty character, which had distinguished the baronet.
Yes, the stranger was Sir Harold Wynde—alive and well!
“You know me then, Major?” he said. “I am not changed, as I thought, beyond all recognition!”
He held out his hand. The major grasped it in a mixture of bewilderment and amazement, and not without a thrill of superstitious terror.
“I—I thought you were dead, Sir Harold,” he stammered. “We all thought so, Graham and all. We thought you were killed by a tiger. I—I don’t know what to make of this!”
Sir Harold let go the major’s hand and staggered to the bamboo couch upon which he sank wearily.
“He’s not dead—but dying,” muttered the major. “Lord bless my soul! What am I to do?”
He clapped his hands vigorously. A moment later his Hindoo servant Karrah glided around upon the front veranda.
“Bring brandy—sherbet—anything!” gasped the major, pointing at his guest. “He’s fainting, Karrah—”
Sir Harold lifted his weary head and gazed upon the Hindoo. The sight seemed to endue him with new life. He leaped to his feet, and his blue eyes blazed with an awful lightning, as he pointed one long and bony finger at the native, and cried:
“Traitor! Viper! Arrest him, Major. I accuse him—”
The Hindoo stood for a second appalled, but as the last words struck his hearing he flung at the baronet a glance of deadly hatred, and then turned in silence and fled from the bungalow, making toward the jungle.
Something of the truth flashed upon the major’s mind. He routed up his household in a moment, and dispatched them in pursuit of the fugitive.
Aroused by the tumult, Mrs. Archer came forth from her chamber. She was a portly woman, and was dressed in a light print, and wore a cap. Her husband met her in the hall and told her what had occurred. Restraining her curiosity, she hastened to prepare food and drink for the returned baronet.
Meanwhile Sir Harold had sank down again upon the couch. The major approached him, and said:
“You look worn out, Sir Harold. Let me show you to a room, where I will attend upon you. My men will capture that scoundrel—never fear. Come with me.”
The baronet arose and took the major’s arm and was led into the central hall of the house, and into one of the four rooms the house contained. It was the room in which his son had died. The windows were closely shuttered, but admitted the air at the top. The floor was of wood and bare. A bedstead, couch, and chairs of bamboo comprised the furniture.
At one side of the room were two spacious closets. One of these contained a portable bath-tub, a rack of fresh white towels, and plenty of water. The other contained clothes depending from hooks.
“You’ll find your own suit of clothes there, Sir Harold,” said the major. “I intended to send them to England, but I am as fond of procrastination as ever. It’s just as well though, now. You can take them home yourself.”
Sir Harold sat down in the nearest chair.
“Home!” he whispered. “How are they—Octavia? Neva?”
“All well—or they were when I heard last.”
“Tell me what you know of them?” And Sir Harold’s great hungry eyes searched the major’s face. “They believe me dead?”
“Certainly, Sir Harold. Everybody believes you dead. And I am dying to know how it is that you are alive. Where have you been these fifteen months? How did you escape the tiger?”
The desired explanation was delayed by the appearance at the door of Mrs. Archer, who brought a jug of warm spiced drink and a plate of food. The major took the tray, and shut his wife out, returning to his guest.
Sir Harold was nearly famished, and ate and drank like one starving. When his hunger was appeased, and a faint color began to dawn in his face, he pushed the tray from him, and spoke in a firmer voice than he had before employed.
“I have imagined terrible things about my wife and Neva,” he said. “My poor wife! I have thought of her a thousand times as dead of grief. Do you know, major, how she took the report of my death?”
“I have heard,” said the major, “she nearly died of grief. For a long time she shut herself up, and was inconsolable, and when she did venture out at last, it was in a funereal coach, and dressed in the deepest mourning. There are few wives who mourn as she did.”
Sir Harold’s lips quivered.
“My poor darling!” he muttered inaudibly. “My precious wife! I shall come back to you from the dead.”
“Lady Wynde is heart-broken, they say,” said the major. “One of the men in our mess, a lieutenant, is from Canterbury and hears all the Kentish gossip, and he says people were afraid that Lady Wynde would go into a decline.”
“My poor wife!” said Sir Harold, with a sobbing breath. “I knew how she loved me. We were all the world to each other, Major. I must be careful how she hears the news that I am living. The sudden shock may kill her. Have you any news of my daughter also?”
“She was still at school when I last heard of her,” answered the major. “There is no more news of your home, Sir Harold. Your family are mourning for you and you will bring back their lost happiness. You ought to have seen your obituaries in the London papers. Some of them were a yard long, and I’d be willing to die to-day if I could only read such notices about myself. That sounds a little Hibernian, but it’s true. And your tenantry put on mourning, and they had funeral sermons and so on. By all the rules, you ought to have been dead, and, by the Lord Harry, I can’t understand why you are not.”
Sir Harold smiled wanly.
“Let me explain why I am not,” he said. “You remember that I was taking my last ride in India, and was about to start for Calcutta, to embark for England, when I disappeared? Some three days before that I had a quarrel, if I might call it so, with the Hindoo Karrah—”
“I know it. He told me about it for the first time this morning.”
“You understand then that I had incurred his enmity by kicking him out of this house? I found him stealing the effects of my dead son. He had also stolen from me. The letters he was stealing he was acute enough to know were precious to me, and there was George’s diary, for which I would not have taken any amount of money. The scoundrel meant to get away with these, and then sell them to me at his own terms. I took back my property, and punished him as he deserved. I have now reason to believe he went away that night to his friends among the hills—”
“He did. He told me he did. But what did he go for?” cried the major excitedly.
“You can soon guess. The next morning Karrah came back, professing repentance,” said Sir Harold. “I reproached myself for having been too harsh upon the poor untaught heathen, and took him back. He accompanied me upon that last ride, and was so humble, so deprecating, so gentle, that I even felt kindly toward him. We rode out into the jungle. I was in advance, riding slowly, and thinking of home, when suddenly a monstrous tiger leaped out of a thicket and fastened his claws in the neck of my horse. I fought the monster desperately, for he had pinned my leg to the side of my horse, and I could not escape from him. We had a frightful struggle, and I must have succumbed but for Karrah, who shot at the tiger, wounding him, I think, in the shoulder, and frightening him into retreat.”
“And so you escaped, when we all thought you killed?” cried the major.
“My horse was dying,” said the baronet, “and I was wounded and bleeding. I thought I was dying. I fell from my saddle to the ground, groaning with pain. Karrah came up, and bent over me, with a devilish smile and moistened my lips with brandy from a flask he carried. Then, muttering words in his own language which I could not understand, he carried me to his own horse, mounted, with me in his arms, and rode off in the direction in which we had been going, and away from your bungalow.”
“The scoundrel! What was that for?”
“After a half-hour’s ride, we came to a hollow, where three natives were camped. Karrah halted, and addressed them. They gathered around us, and then Karrah said to me, in English, that he hated me, that he would not kill me, but meant me to suffer, and that these men were his brothers, who lived a score of miles away up among the mountains. I was to be their slave. He transferred me to their care, disregarding my pleas and offered bribes, and rode away on his return to you. I was carried on horseback, securely bound, a score of miles to the north and westward. How I suffered on that horrible journey, wounded as I was, I can never tell you. A dozen times I thought myself dying.”
“It is a wonder you did not die!”
“It is,” said Sir Harold. “We went through savage jungles, and forded mountain torrents. We went up hill and down, and more than once leaped precipices. I was in a dead faint when we reached the home of the three Hindoos, but afterward I found how wild and secluded the spot was, and that there were no neighbors for miles around. Their cabin was niched in a cleft in a mountain, and hidden from the eye of any but the closest searcher. Had you searched for me, you would never have found me. It was in a rear hut, small and dark, with a mud floor, and windowless walls, that I have been a prisoner for fifteen months, major. My enemies, for the most part, left me to myself, and I have dragged out my weary captivity with futile plans of escape. Ah, I have known more than the bitterness of death!”
“If we had only known it, we’d have scoured all India for you, Sir Harold,” said the major hotly. “We’d have strung up every native until we got the right ones. But that episode of the tiger—for it seems that the tiger was only an episode, coming into the affair by accident, but greatly assisting Karrah’s foul treachery—threw us off the scent, and made us think you dead. Why did we not suspect the truth?”
“How could you? Don’t reproach yourself, major. My chiefest sufferings during these horrible fifteen months have been on account of my wife and my daughter. To feel myself helpless, a slave to those Hindoo pariahs, bound continually and in chains, while Octavia and Neva were weeping for me and crying out in their anguish, and perhaps needing me—ah, that was almost too hard to bear! Now and then Karrah came to taunt me in my prison, and to tell me how he hated me, and how sweet was his revenge. He told me that you had heard through a friend that my poor wife was dying of her grief. After that I tried, with increased ingenuity, to find some way of escape. Last night the three Hindoos went away—upon a marauding expedition, I think. After they had gone, one of the women brought me my usual evening meal of boiled rice. I pleaded to her to release me, but she laughed at me. She went out, leaving the door open, intending to return soon for the dish. The sight of the sky and of the green earth without nerved me to desperation. I was confined by a belt around my waist, to which an iron chain was attached, the other end of the chain being secured to a ring in the wall. I had wrenched my belt and the chain a thousand times, but last night when I pulled at it with the strength of a madman, it gave way. I fell to the floor—unfettered!”
“You bounded up like an India rubber ball, I dare swear?” cried the major, wiping his eyes sympathetically.
“I leaped up, and darted out of the door. There was a horse tethered near the hut. I bounded on his back and sped away, as the woman came hurrying out in wild pursuit. I knew the general direction in which your bungalow lay. I rode all night, going out of my road, but being set straight again by some kindly Hindoos; and here I am, weary, worn, but Oh, how thankful and blest!”
The baronet bowed his head on his hands, and his tears of joy fell thickly.
“You’re safe now, Sir Harold,” cried the major. “I hear a hubbub outside. My fellows have got back, with Karrah, no doubt. I want to superintend the skinning him, and while I am gone, you can refresh yourself with a bath, and put on a suit of Christian garments. My wife is dying to see you. I hear her pacing the hall like a caged leopardess. Get ready, and I’ll come back to you as soon as you have had a little sleep. You’re among friends, my dear Sir Harold; and, by Jove, I’m glad to see you again!”
He pressed Sir Harold’s hand, catching his breath with a peculiar sobbing, and hurried out.
His servants had returned, but Karrah had escaped. The major indulged in some peculiar profanity, as he listened to this report, and then withdrew to his wife’s cool room, and told her Sir Harold’s story.
The baronet, meanwhile, took a bath and went to bed. He slept for hours, awakening after noon. He shaved and trimmed his beard, dressed himself in the suit of clothes he had formerly worn, and which were now much too large for him, and came forth into the central hall of the dwelling. Major Archer was lounging here, and came forward hastily, with both hands outstretched, and with a beaming face.
“You look more like yourself, Sir Harold!” he exclaimed. “Mrs. Archer is out on the veranda, and is full of impatience to see you.”
He linked his arm in the baronet’s and conducted him out to the veranda, presenting him to Mrs. Archer, who greeted him with a certain awe and kindliness, as one would welcome a hero.
The little Archers were playing about under the charge of an ayah, and they also came forward timidly to welcome their father’s guest.
Tiffin—the India luncheon—was served on the veranda, and after it was over, and the young people had dispersed, Sir Harold said to his host:
“When does the next steamer leave for England?”
“Three days hence. You will have time to catch the mail if you write to-day,” said Major Archer.
“Write! Why, I shall go in her, Major!”
“Impossible, Sir Harold. You are not fit for the voyage,” said Mrs. Archer.
“I must go,” persisted the baronet, in a tone no one could dispute. “Think of my wife—of my daughter. Every day that keeps me from them seems an eternity. Major, I was robbed by Karrah of every penny I possessed. Plunder was a part of his motive, as well as desire for revenge. I shall have to draw upon you for a sufficient sum for my expenses.”
“It’s fortunate, and quite an unprecedented thing with me, that I have a couple of hundred pounds in bank in Calcutta,” said the major. “I wish it were a thousand, but you’re quite welcome to it, Sir Harold—a thousand times welcome. I appreciate your impatience to be on your way home. If it were I, and your wife was my Molly, I’d travel day and night—but there, I’ve said enough. I’ll go to Calcutta with you, and see you off on the Mongolian. I wish I could do more for you.”
“You can, Major. You can keep silence concerning my reappearance,” declared Sir Harold thoughtfully. “My wife is reported to be dying of grief. If she hears too abruptly that I still live, the shock may destroy her. Major, I am going home under a name not my own, that the story of my adventures may not be bruited about before she sees me. I will not reveal myself to any one in Calcutta, nor to any one in England, before reaching home. I will go quietly and unknown to Hawkhurst, and reveal myself with all care and caution to Neva, who will break the news to my wife.”
“Sir Harold is right,” said Mrs. Archer. “Lady Wynde and Miss Wynde should not first hear the news by telegraph, or letter, or through the newspapers. Their impatience, anxiety, and suspense, after hearing that Sir Harold still lives, and before they can see him, will be terrible. The shock, as Sir Harold suggests, might almost be fatal to Lady Wynde.”
“My wife is always right,” said the burly major, with a glance of admiration at his spouse. “Sir Harold, you cannot do better than to follow your instincts and my Molly’s counsels. It is settled then, that you return to England under an assumed name, and see your own family before you proclaim your adventures to the world. What name shall you adopt as a ‘name of voyage,’ to translate from the French?”
“I will call myself Harold Hunlow,” said the baronet. “Hunlow was my mother’s name. I am rested, Major, and if you can give me a mount, we’ll be off at sunset on our way to Calcutta.”
It was thus agreed. That very evening Sir Harold Wynde and Major Archer set out for Calcutta on horseback, arriving in time to secure passage in the Mongolian. And on the third day after leaving Major Archer’s bungalow, Sir Harold Wynde was at sea, and on his way to England. Ah, what a reception awaited him!