CHAPTER XVI.
A CESSATION OF HOSTILITIES.
If, after Stratford had told his story, the party at the Mission had been informed that the most anxious portion of their stay in Kubbet-ul-Haj was still to come, the idea would have seemed absurd, and yet the joyful night on which the treaty was signed proved to be merely the prelude to a fresh period of uneasiness. Far from being able to pack up and start at once on the return journey to the British frontier, the members of the Mission found that their departure must necessarily be delayed for at least a week. The camels and other baggage-animals which had been taken from them had been sent for safe-keeping to a town three days’ journey off, the governor of which was a creature of Fath-ud-Din’s. It was therefore needful to send after them, and, if the governor would consent to give them up, then to bring them back, which in itself involved a considerable delay. But this was not all. Jahan Beg in Fath-ud-Din’s place bore a certain resemblance to the ass in the lion’s skin. As he said himself, he laboured under the great disadvantage, as compared with his predecessor, of being too scrupulous for the post.
“I should have thought I had learnt by this time to do in Ethiopia as the Ethiopians do,” he grumbled one day to Stratford and Dick, who were entertaining him on the verandah of the Durbar-hall with coffee and conversation; “but I find now that I have some remnants of a Christian conscience left somewhere about me still, old renegade though I am. I simply haven’t got it in me to take the measures which the situation demands. Fath-ud-Din in my place would have had no difficulty. He would merely have had his predecessor brought before him, and tortured until things went smoothly. But he knows that I am not the man to do that, and it gives him a tremendous pull over me when I want to find out something he knows, or when some of his people have to be kept quiet. It isn’t dignified for me to be always going to the mouth of the dungeon and shouting down questions which he refuses to answer, and I have put it to the King that we must try another plan.”
This meant that Fath-ud-Din was to be released from the dungeon and kept as a kind of state-prisoner in the Palace. The new plan was successful in so far as he was more disposed to answer questions relating to his past stewardship; but it worked badly when it emboldened his adherents to resist the new Vizier on the ground that he was still afraid of his predecessor, and could not act without his help. The mob of the city, who had always been Fath-ud-Din’s warmest friends, resented his downfall keenly, and lost no opportunity of testifying their hatred to Jahan Beg and the English strangers, to whose influence that downfall was to be ascribed. Once more the Mission was guarded on all sides by soldiers, this time in order to prevent a murderous attack by the mob, whose attitude was extremely threatening. A further danger arose from the fact that there was reason to believe that the soldiers themselves were not altogether to be depended upon, and this added enormously to the anxiety of Stratford and of Jahan Beg. So long as the soldiers could keep down the townspeople, and the Grand Vizier could keep down the soldiers, things were fairly safe; but at any moment a chance spark might fire the train, and an explosion occur, the first results of which would be the murder of Jahan Beg and the massacre of the British Mission. No one left the house during these days of terror, and the gates were barely opened to admit traders and messengers. Within, every man had his revolver ready to his hand, and heaps of sand-bags were in readiness to barricade the entrance to the archway in Bachelors’ Buildings and the windows of the Durbar-hall. The Mission premises were in a state of siege.
During all this anxious time, however, no change was made in the social life of the little colony. In spite of alarms from without, and the abiding sorrow of Sir Dugald’s speechless and unconscious condition, the usual routine of work and meals remained unbroken, and the gatherings on the terrace after dinner were not abandoned. To Georgia there seemed at first something heartless, almost wicked, in keeping up appearances in this way at such a crisis; but it was Lady Haigh herself who pointed out to her the reasons for the insensibility which she was inclined to reprobate.
“There is the effect on the servants to be considered, my dear,” she said. “If we went about looking dishevelled and woe-begone, and refused to take our meals at the proper hours, we should have them deserting right and left. It will help the men, too, more than anything if they see us cheerful and apparently unconscious of danger. I believe that Mr Stratford and Major North would be almost heartbroken if they imagined that we knew as much about the state of things as we do.”
“But that is very foolish,” objected Georgia. “Why don’t they take us into their councils and let us all know authoritatively the worst we have to fear?”
“My dear, men are not made that way. They like to think that they have succeeded in hiding their apprehensions from us, and that we are pursuing our butterfly existence untroubled by thoughts of danger. And if it makes them happier to think so, we won’t undeceive them. We will dress for dinner, and talk cheerfully, and give them a little music in the evenings, and do our best to help them in whatever way we can.”
“But I don’t like it, Lady Haigh. They are treating us like babies.”
“Well, dear child, we know we are not babies. It is hard, I know, when you feel that you could give them valuable help—or, at any rate, moral support—if they would pay you the compliment of taking you into their confidence; but I believe that this is the way in which we can help them most, and sooner than add a finger’s weight to the burden those two dear fellows are bearing, I would take to bibs and a rattle again!”
And Georgia, while she marvelled, perceived that thirty years of married life teach some things about the other sex which are not included in the curriculum of any university or medical school. It was not without a certain degree of envy that she acknowledged to herself that she would have been willing to exchange a small portion—perhaps even an appreciable amount—of her medical knowledge for a share of that acquaintance with the world and with male human nature which lay behind Lady Haigh’s shrewd hazel eyes. For Dick was still obdurate and unapproachable, and after the enlightening which had come to her on the day of the signing of the treaty, she did not dare to make any of those overtures by means of which she had occasionally succeeded in re-establishing peace after their former quarrels. There was always the risk that he might misunderstand—or was it not rather that he might too well understand?—her motive.
“If it was merely an ordinary disagreement,” she said to herself, hopelessly, “I am not too proud to hold out a hand of friendship, but now!—I know I said some hard things to him, but he had said worse to me—though I shouldn’t mind now what he said if only I knew that he cared. And I thought he did care—that day when he called me Georgie—what could it have meant but that? It can’t be, oh! it can’t be, that he has been trying to lead me on, and make me care for him, in revenge for my refusing him long ago? I won’t believe it of him. It isn’t like him—he wouldn’t do it. If it was that—if he could be such a wretch, I would—yes, I could forgive him anything but that!”
Dick’s feelings during this period were scarcely more to be envied than Georgia’s. Having assured himself that nothing on earth could make him more miserable than he was already, he was fiercely eager that the crown should be given to his misery by Georgia’s engagement to Stratford, for the announcement of which he looked daily, but which did not take place. On the contrary, Stratford went about his work as usual, apparently unconscious that anything of the kind was or could be expected from him, while Georgia looked “about as wretched—well, as I feel!” said Dick to himself. He could not reasonably believe that Stratford cared for her, after his friend’s explicit denial of the fact; but it became abundantly clear to him that he ought to be made to do so, if Georgia’s happiness depended upon it. For a day or two he thought seriously of informing him that he must—under penalties which Dick did not specify to himself—ask her to marry him, since he had evidently been trifling with her feelings; but, happily, a vague impression that a marriage entered upon under such conditions was scarcely likely to turn out well restrained him. The more immediate certainty that Miss Keeling would bitterly resent such an interference in her affairs did not trouble Dick; it maddened him to see her looking as she looked now, and her happiness must be secured in spite of herself. In the meantime, he did his best to hate Stratford, both for his past conduct and his present callousness as to its results, and found it very difficult. The man was his friend and good comrade, and absolutely innocent of any wish to quarrel, and Dick would find himself sitting on the office table and talking familiarly to him as of old. Then he would call up the haunting remembrance of Miss Keeling’s pale face and reproachful eyes, and divided between the desire to avenge her wrongs and the fear of betraying her secret, become so snappish that any one but Stratford would have taken offence and demanded an explanation. But Stratford had a large fund of patience to draw upon, and he was sorry for Dick. He saw that things were not going well with him, and although he was too prudent to seek to interfere, he was determined not to make matters worse by taking up any of the gauntlets which his friend was perpetually flinging down.
Another person who viewed the state of things with much interest and uneasiness was Lady Haigh. During her long and philanthropic, if slightly autocratic, experience of English life in the East, she had engineered to a satisfactory conclusion a good many love affairs, and she had welcomed the first signs of this one as affording a fresh scope for the exercise of her particular talent. But she had now for some days been driven to the opinion that Dick and Georgia were playing at cross-purposes, a form of recreation which she regarded with the utmost horror, and she yearned to do something to set matters right.
“Nothing on earth shall induce me to interfere,” she assured herself. “Interference is a thing I abhor. But if either of them should give me the chance of saying a word, I shall certainly step in.”
Fortune favoured Lady Haigh. Coming out on the terrace one evening at dusk, after a long watch in Sir Dugald’s room, she saw Dick crossing the court towards her. He had just seen that the sentries were properly posted, and the flag hauled down for the night, and now he mounted the steps and found the terrace apparently empty. Lady Haigh was standing motionless in the shadow of the doorway, and she heard him sigh, for no obvious reason, as he threw himself into one of the chairs, and then propound despairingly for his own benefit the well-worn conundrum, “Is life worth living?”
“I am sorry to hear you say that, Major North,” said Lady Haigh, in her brisk tones, as she moved forward out of the darkness, and sat down opposite to him. “You are very high in the Service for a man of your age, you have the best possible prospects, a sufficiency of money, and a record which would make most men’s mouths water. Don’t you think that you are a slightly unreasonable—not to say ungrateful—man?”
“I must beg your pardon for being so trite,” said Dick, on the defensive at once. “If I had known you were there, I would have tried to couch my question in more original language.”
“But you would still have asked it?”
“I’m afraid so. You think me a discontented beast, don’t you, Lady Haigh?”
“That I can’t decide until I know what grounds you have for your discontent.”
“It isn’t for my own sake—at least, I come into it too, of course, but it is chiefly on another person’s account.”
“Come, this does you great credit, Major North. That the world should become clouded for you on account of some one else’s troubles—when everything with which you have to do is going on so well”—she could not resist this hit at the reticence which Stratford and he had maintained on the subject of the dangers that threatened the party, but he did not notice it—“this shows a most unselfish spirit. Are the misfortunes of this other person absolutely beyond remedy?”
“They ought not to be, but I can’t for the life of me see how they are to be set right,” said Dick, moodily.
“Well, I am very sorry to hear it. If at any time you think I can be of any help towards setting them right, be sure you let me know. The chief, I may say the only, pleasure I have just now lies in helping other people.”
She rose as though to go indoors, but Dick stopped her.
“If you can spare me a few minutes, please stay and let me tell you about it now,” he entreated. “I am awfully puzzled—and worried—and—and miserable. I want you to look at things quite apart from me. If I could only see her happy, I might get over it in time, I suppose, but now——”
“My dear boy——” Lady Haigh began, then, hoping that he had not observed the slip, altered it to, “My dear Major North, you must please explain yourself a little. Who is the lady to whom you refer—not Miss Keeling?”
“Yes, it is Miss Keeling,” said Dick, rather guiltily.
“But is Miss Keeling unhappy?”
“How you women hang together!” he remarked, with some bitterness. “You must have seen it, Lady Haigh, and yet you won’t say a word to help me out. I feel as if I had no business to talk about it, even to you—and yet you are the only other woman here—and it isn’t as though I was betraying her confidence, for she never told me. She only let me see unmistakably——”
“I am afraid you won’t believe me,” interrupted Lady Haigh, “but I really don’t understand you. If I can do anything whatever to help either you or Miss Keeling, you may count upon me, as I said just now; but please don’t think I want to pry into your private affairs.”
“I’m a fearful bear,” said Dick, penitently, “and it’s awfully good of you to be willing to take so much trouble about us, when Sir Dugald is ill, and you have so much to be anxious about. I’ll make a clean breast of the whole thing, for I am quite at the end of my tether, and I can’t see what to do. It doesn’t signify what happens to me, you know, but——”
“Do you know that you are frightening me, Major North? What desperate enterprise has Miss Keeling got on hand that you should talk about her and yourself in this strain?”
“It’s nothing of that kind. It is only that I want to see her happy. Perhaps you don’t know that for some time lately I have been beginning to hope that one day she might get to care for me?” Lady Haigh smothered a smile, and nodded assent. “Well, it was on the day that the treaty was signed that I found out all at once that it was Stratford she cared for.”
“Mr Stratford?” cried Lady Haigh, with a start. “Are you quite certain?”
“I had no idea of anything of the kind until she turned on me and asked why I had let him go to the Palace to save her, and said she would never speak to me again if anything happened to him. I couldn’t mistake that, could I?” he asked, with a dreary smile. “It was all clear to me at once, and I can’t tell you what an arrant and unmitigated and contemptible brute I felt for having let him go. I’m sure I should never have had the face to go near her again if he had got killed.”
“Well, but wasn’t it all right when he came back?”
“No, indeed; it is all wrong. He doesn’t care for her; he told me so himself before he went. Now, you know, no one can be astonished at her caring for him, he is such an out-and-out good fellow; but if he doesn’t care for her, what is to be done? That is what I am addling my brains over, and if you can suggest anything, Lady Haigh, I shall bless you for ever.”
“What was your own idea as to what ought to be done?”
“Well, it’s pretty clear to me that if Miss Keeling had a father or a brother out here, it would be his business to take the matter in hand, and bring Stratford to book—ask him his intentions, and that sort of thing. I don’t want to say anything against him, but it’s quite plain that he isn’t doing the proper thing; and if he has made her care for him with those high and mighty A.D.C. airs of his”—Dick spoke with the lively bitterness of a man who has known and suffered far from gladly the wiseacres of a viceregal entourage—“he ought not to be allowed to cry off like this without even asking her to marry him.”
“Then the propriety of your assuming the rôle of Miss Keeling’s brother, and representing the matter to him yourself, has not suggested itself to you?” Lady Haigh waited with keen anxiety for the answer, which came with a groan.
“Hasn’t it indeed? But how is a man to do such a thing without giving the girl away? Don’t tell me you think I ought to do it, Lady Haigh! I’ll do it if you say I must; but really, you know, I am absolutely the worst fellow that ever was born for a delicate job of that kind. Stratford told me himself on that very day that tact was not my strong point, which is putting it mildly, and this sort of thing simply cries aloud for tact.”
“You are quite right, it does, and I am truly thankful that you have not felt called upon to attempt it.” Dick heaved a sigh of relief. “But do tell me, Major North, why you are willing to put aside your own hopes in this way, and bring Mr Stratford to book?”
“Because I want to see her happy,” growled Dick.
“You think she is not happy?”
“Look at her face. Ever since that day, she has looked quite different. Perhaps you haven’t noticed it, for she keeps a cheerful expression for company. But I have come upon her unexpectedly, and seen her when she thought no one was looking, and her face—well, it made me want to pulverise Stratford, that’s all. She put on the cheerful expression again as soon as she caught me looking at her, just as though I didn’t know all about it, and wouldn’t give my right hand to help her,” he concluded, resentfully.
“Major North,” said Lady Haigh, solemnly, “if your insight into character was only equal to your goodwill, you would be a very clever man, but as it is——” there was an expressive pause, then Lady Haigh bent towards him, and spoke very low and distinctly. “You are quite right not to speak to Mr Stratford, it would only do harm; but I think you ought to speak to Miss Keeling herself. What you have told me is news to me, and if I am not mistaken, it will also be news to her. You would tell her, of course, that you had discovered that she was in love with Mr Stratford, and was pining for him, because he would not ask her to marry him. That is the kind of fact about oneself which one has a right to know. Tell her, by all means. I don’t guarantee that you will escape with your life, but a storm clears the air sometimes. On second thoughts, don’t tell her. I really think it would be scarcely safe. Lay your own story before her—without any names, if you like—and see what she says. That is my honest and candid advice, without any kind of joking. If you won’t take it, I fear I can’t help you.”
And Lady Haigh rose and went into the house, leaving Dick stupefied. He felt utterly bewildered, and was conscious only that he must have made some egregious mistake, which Lady Haigh had perceived, but would not point out to him for fear of spoiling the game. In spite of her assurance that she was not joking, he yet hesitated to accept her last piece of advice. What possible good could it do to tell Miss Keeling his story, even supposing that he could succeed in finding her alone, and that she would vouchsafe to listen to him? It looked like stealing a march on Stratford, too; but, of course, that was absurd. Stratford was in possession of the field, and if it was no good attempting a serious attack on his position, how could it serve any useful purpose to make a feint of an assault upon it? It could only render Miss Keeling more unhappy still, for Dick felt sure that she would pity even him when she learnt how the words which had escaped her lips in her first grief and despair had gone to his heart. There seemed to be no way out of the dilemma, and Dick decided very quickly that he would not in any case follow Lady Haigh’s counsel, for fear of complicating the situation further. At least he could keep his own feelings in the background, while waiting anxiously for something to turn up that might relieve him from the necessity of taking any step at all. As it happened, however, the explanation he dreaded was precipitated by an event of so much importance that it actually obscured in his mind for the time the whole question he had discussed with Lady Haigh.
Bad news reached the Mission on the following morning. The district which had hitherto been ruled by Fath-ud-Din was in open revolt. The governor of the town to which the baggage-animals had been sent refused to surrender them except to Fath-ud-Din or the King in person, and this necessitated the despatch of a military expedition to enforce compliance with the royal order. Jahan Beg could not venture to leave the capital, and although Rustam Khan was to be sent in command of the forces, the business was likely to be a long one in the present unsatisfactory state of the army. This meant a further period of detention at Kubbet-ul-Haj for the Mission, and Stratford and Dick, feeling that they could not impose upon the ladies much longer with any hope of success, broke the news to them with elaborate care. Lady Haigh, true to her self-effacing creed, received it with suitable alarm; but Georgia puzzled the two men by exclaiming, “Is that all?” in a tone which showed that their considerate method of making the announcement had prepared her to hear things much worse than the reality. Dick thought that she was failing to realise the gravity of the news, and anticipated a reaction when she began to perceive fully what it meant; and when he came upon her on the terrace after dinner that evening, he thought that the reaction had come. Lady Haigh had been called away, and Dick, emerging from the lighted dining-room to make his usual tour of inspection, found Georgia sitting alone and gazing into the darkness. Something in the desolation of her attitude went to his heart, and he approached her impulsively and laid his hand upon her shoulder.
“For heaven’s sake, Miss Keeling, don’t give in now!” he said, hoarsely. “You and Lady Haigh have kept our hearts up all this week by your pluck and cheerfulness.”
“I don’t think I am afraid,” said Georgia, without looking at him. “One could always defend oneself, you see, if the mob broke in, and that would probably ensure death at once, and I have seen too many deathbeds not to know that death is generally easier than most people think. No, it is the isolation, the fearful loneliness, the feeling that there is not one of these people, to whom we have been trying to do good, that does not hate us heartily.”
“Oh, I hope it’s not so bad as you think——” began Dick; but his clumsy attempt at consolation died on his lips. “How long have you known that things were as bad as they are?” he asked her.
“As long as you have,” returned Georgia, with some scorn.
“Not really so long? We were trying to save you from the knowledge. We hoped——”
“Yes, I know; but, unfortunately, you had to deal with an old campaigner and a New Woman, you see. Lady Haigh and I were able to read the signs of the times as well as you and Mr Stratford; but we pretended that we knew nothing about things, for the sake of sparing your feelings. Now, do you think you have treated us properly? I don’t demand information as a right; I only ask whether it was fair—whether it was even kind—to try and keep us in ignorance? We have at least as much at stake as you have.”
“At least?” he repeated, bitterly. “I can tell you that I would give my life gladly to know that you were in Khemistan and safe out of this. Now you can’t say that I haven’t spoken plainly.”
“But why not have told us the worst before, and let us talk it over, and get what comfort we could out of that? Facing a danger boldly makes it seem much less terrible. It is the guessing, and the wondering, and the putting two and two together, and the anxiety as to whether there has been any fresh trouble, of which we know nothing, to make you and Mr Stratford look graver and graver every day, that have been so dreadful this week.”
“Have a little pity for me, Georgia,” he said, almost roughly; and she realised, with a sudden tightening of the heart, that he had used the same words that other day. “Do you think it’s an easy or a pleasant thing for a man to tell the woman he loves—as I love you—that such things are before her as seem to be before us now? No, don’t start and turn your back on me—you have brought this on yourself. You laughed at me when I told you I loved you long ago, and again and again since we first met this year you have shown me pretty plainly that nothing I could do would ever change your tone. When I begged your pardon after that fuss about your doctoring the Chief, and you wouldn’t listen to me, I couldn’t have believed a woman would have spoken in such a way to the greatest blackguard on earth, let alone a man that had put himself at her mercy. Your mercy, indeed!—I believe you enjoy tormenting me. But you can go too far—even with me. Under ordinary circumstances I should have respected your wishes, and not persecuted you with my unwelcome attentions; but this is not an ordinary time, and you have goaded me beyond bearing, and I tell you—and you shall hear it—that I shall love you till I die—and beyond. You can’t alter it.”
He paused, expecting an outburst of anger, but Georgia’s head was turned away from him, and she made no answer.
“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he said at last, apprehensively, his conscience smiting him for his roughness. “I know by what you have said that you have enough to bear already.”
“I am not crying!” said Georgia, resenting the accusation indignantly, and for one moment she turned her eyes upon him. They were shining, but not with tears. Dick thought that it was with anger, and her words served to confirm him in his belief. “I have tried to be patient with you,” she went on quickly, and her voice seemed to him to be throbbing with wounded pride, “but you are too unfair. You say you love me, but how do you treat me? Since we met last March—as you said just now; you see that I can hoard up grudges as well as you—you have done nothing but parade your contempt for me, and for everything I care for. What do you know about the New Woman? What do you know about me? and yet you have persecuted me continually with the name, which you, at any rate, meant to be one of reproach. I don’t know what your idea of love may be, but I think that it ought to teach a little tenderness—a little consideration for the other person’s feelings. How dare you tell me that you love me? You might, if you could bend me to your own pattern; but you can’t, and so you have done your best to show that you dislike me. Not that your dislike signifies to me in the least, of course,” with superb disdain, “but I don’t see why you should render yourself generally unpleasant by exhibiting it.”
“Make a little allowance for me, please. I loved you, and you would not listen to me. I daresay I have made an awful idiot of myself, but——”
“Don’t say that you had excuse. I was always willing to be friends with you, if you would only——”
“Friends? I don’t want your friendship. There can be no such thing between you and me. I must have all or nothing.”
“And by way of getting all, you did everything you could to make it impossible for me to give you anything? I am not a Griselda, and if you will excuse my saying it, I don’t think nature intended you for a Petruchio. Were you really under the impression that the best way of winning a woman’s heart was to abuse all her friends and pour contempt on all her interests? How could I learn to care for you?”
“I am very sorry, Georgie,” said Dick, humbly enough.
“It is possible to be sorry too late,” Georgia went on mercilessly; but he interrupted her with a burst of passion.
“Don’t I know that? Hasn’t it tormented me day and night since I knew that you cared for him? Don’t try me too far. I have done my best not to worry you since that day, and if I could do anything to make you happy with him, I would; but I can’t stand it if you begin to moralise on the subject. You expect too much of a man.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Georgia, turning round quickly. Her face had grown very pale. “Who is the person you are talking about?”
“Why, Stratford, of course,” said Dick, off his guard. Georgia’s eyes flamed.
“Stratford? You thought I was in love with Mr Stratford? After that, I don’t think there is anything more that need be said, Major North. Will you kindly let me pass?”
But he would not. Despair gave him courage, and he put his arm across the doorway. “Georgie, I’m an idiot and an ass and an utter fool, but give me another chance. I do love you, and if you will only let me try again, now that there’s no other fellow in the way, perhaps you might come to care for me a little in time.”
Georgia wavered, and was lost. She had caught sight of his face in the moonlight, and there was an expression in his eyes which completed what his eager, halting words had begun. “Oh, Dick, don’t look at me like that,” she entreated, laying her hands on his arm. “You may try again.”
“Try again? Georgie, may I really? How much does that mean?”
“Take the night to think over it,” said Georgia, trying to slip past him indoors; but he caught her hands and held her prisoner.
“You said just now ‘how could you learn to care for me?’ I thought you meant that it was impossible. Did you mean that there might be a chance? Just the one word, dear.”
“Yes,” said Georgia, in a voice which was somewhat muffled. “At least, I mean no. I have cared for you a long time.”
“What a beast I have been!” was the next coherent remark uttered by Dick.
“You were rather a trial,” was the murmured answer.
“But I