CHAPTER XIII.
THE DIE IS CAST.
HOW long Penelope sat in the drawing-room, staring with stony eyes straight before her, after Major Keeling had gone out, she did not know, but she was roused at last by hearing another horseman ride into the courtyard, and walk across the verandah with clinking spurs. She could not face any one just now, whoever it might be, and she ran to the door, intending to take refuge in her own room, but found herself confronted by Ferrers, who broke into a cheerful laugh.
“Just the person I wanted!” he cried. “Now, don’t run away.”
“I—I must,” she faltered. “It’s time to dress for dinner.”
“Oh no, it isn’t, not even for me, and I have to go to my quarters and get back here. I want to speak to you.”
“But have you arrested that man—your munshi?”
“No; he knew better. Went back and collected his belongings, and made himself scarce. We shan’t see any more of him, so it’s all right.”
“All right, when he brought false charges against Major Keeling, and tried to support them by murder? How can you say so?”
“Well, the poor wretch was very useful to me, and I never had any reason to complain of him. Of course he’s done for himself now, but I’m glad I haven’t got to hunt him to earth. Why shouldn’t he get away if he can? Now, don’t look horror-struck and reproachful. It isn’t as if I had helped him off, even. He was gone long before I got there, and I left orders that he should be arrested at once if he showed his nose about the place. What more could I do? You women are so vindictive. You’re as bad as my uncle. He rode out to meet me with Colin, and his language was quite disgraceful when he heard the Mirza had decamped. I knew Colin would feel called upon to testify in another minute, so I told him to ride ahead with the escort, while I had it out with my respected relative.”
“But I don’t understand. What made him so angry?”
“Why, of course he wants the Mirza caught and punished, lest people should say he had employed him to trump up a false charge against Keeling. And so he turned regularly nasty to me, and said I had got him into a most unpleasant position, and in future I might go to the dogs in my own way, for he washed his hands of me. When he became offensive like that, I thought it was time to open his eyes a bit, and I did. I told him he had ruined my prospects here by coming and trying to make a tool of me to satisfy his grudge against the Chief, and I wasn’t going to be thrown aside now. It was all very well for him to fall into Keeling’s arms and swear eternal friendship; but if that friendship was to remain unbroken, my mouth would have to be shut. He had got me to bring charges against my commanding officer, promising me protection, and if I chose, I could show up a very pretty little conspiracy for getting Keeling out of the province——”
“But surely”—gasped Penelope—“you believed in the charges yourself? and Mr Crayne too?”
“Of course we did. It was the Mirza who played us false, but that has nothing to do with it. It’s my uncle’s business to cover the retreat of his own forces, and so I told him, and he swore he’d never lift a finger to save me from being hanged. So then I tried him with you. He’s taken rather a fancy to you, you know, and I gave him a hint last night how things were. So I told him I knew you’d never drop me, whatever happened, and asked him how he’d like to see you sticking to a disgraced man, and marrying him upon nothing but debts. Of course he said if you were such a silly fool as to do it you’d deserve what you got, but I could see he was a bit waked up. He cooled down by degrees, and at last we came to an agreement. He’s to put matters right with Keeling, so that I can stay on here for the present, and as soon as possible he’ll put me into an extra-regimental appointment of some kind. He may be able to get me sent as envoy to Gamara. What do you think of that?”
“Gamara—that dreadful place? Oh no!”
He laughed, with some condescension. “Why, of course it’s the danger that makes the post such a splendid thing to get, little Pen.”
“I wasn’t thinking of the danger. It is the frightful wickedness of the place.”
“And you couldn’t trust me there! What a flattering opinion you have of me! But that doesn’t signify. Look here, Pen, I want our engagement announced to-night. My uncle will do it at the dinner-party; he was quite pleased with the idea. Here’s the ring I’ve been keeping for you. Let me put it on.”
But Penelope drew back from him. She had endured much, but this was impossible. To sit at dinner between Major Keeling and Ferrers, and be the subject of the congratulations, toasts, and jests which the suggested announcement would involve, conscious all the time that the heart supposed to belong to the one man had been given to the other—how could she stand it? She spoke with indignant decision. “No, you must wait till to-morrow. You may make your announcement to-night if you like, but I shall not appear.”
“Nonsense, Pen! What do you mean? What would the fellows say?”
“They may say and think what they please, but if the slightest allusion is made to anything of the kind, I will never speak to you again. I won’t wear your ring. Take it back, or I will throw it away.”
“Well, of all the——!” Ferrers was puzzled and slightly alarmed. “There’s no need to fly out at me like a little fury, Pen. If you don’t want the engagement announced to-night—why, it shan’t be, of course. But what am I to say to my uncle?”
“Anything you like. Say I don’t feel well. Tell him it was the eclipse, if you want an excuse.” She laughed mirthlessly.
“Oh, very well; but I hope you’re not going to take up fancies, and go on like this——”
“If you are not satisfied, you have only to release me from my promise.”
“Not I. If you said you hated me I’d marry you just the same, and you don’t quite do that, do you?”
Her gleam of hope had vanished. Ferrers’ smile showed he had no intention of releasing her, and she wished with impotent rage that she could give him the faintest idea of the utter repulsion, the loathing dislike, with which he inspired her. But he would not see it for himself, and she would not stoop to entreat her freedom again. With a laughing recommendation to get a little colour into her cheeks before the evening, he left her, and she was thankful to be allowed to escape.
The evening was a terrible one to her, although she had foreseen that it would naturally fall to Major Keeling to take her in, as the only lady in the place besides Lady Haigh. The Chief was in one of his black moods, so the other men whispered to one another; and Penelope sat beside him through the stages of that interminable dinner, and waxed desperate. He could do much for her sake, but he could not speak and act as if the interview of that afternoon had never taken place, and he said barely a word during the meal, while the settled gloom in his eye when it rested upon Ferrers terrified Penelope. She threw herself into the breach, talked nonsense with the other men, as if despairing of getting a word from him, tried manfully to cover his silence, and knew all the time that she was wounding him afresh with every word she spoke. As soon as she and Lady Haigh were in the drawing-room she went straight to her guitar-case, and, getting out the instrument, tuned it to the utmost pitch of perfection. Presently Lady Haigh, who had been watching her anxiously, came and tried to take the guitar out of her hands.
“You mustn’t sing to-night, Pen,” she said; “I’m going to make you rest quietly in a corner.” But Penelope resisted her efforts.
“No, Elma,” she said. “I am going to sing the whole evening. If you want to help me, ask for another song whenever I stop—only not sad ones. Otherwise——”
The entrance of the men prevented the rest of the sentence, and Lady Haigh could do nothing but obey. She was conscious of the thundercloud on Major Keeling’s brow, and thought she could guess at its cause; but she seconded Penelope’s efforts nobly, scouted any sad songs that were suggested, and made the gentlemen agree with acclamation that Miss Ross had never sung with such archness and expression in her life. In her mind was running a line from one of the songs which Penelope had laid down with a shudder,—
“Go, weep for those whose hearts have bled
What time their eyes were dry,”—
and she knew that the only chance was to leave her not a moment for thought. It did not surprise her when, after the guests were gone, Penelope took up the guitar once more, and deliberately snapped the strings one after the other. It would be long before she could touch it again without living through that evening’s agony afresh.
Morning came, and with it Ferrers, but by no means in a lover-like frame of mind. His feelings were deeply injured, and he was full of grievances. After leaving the fort the night before, his comrades, taking their cue, as they considered, from Major Keeling, had all but cut him. It had been understood that Ferrers had made a full apology, and expressed his deep regret for the charges he had brought, and that Mr Crayne’s mediation had induced the Commandant to overlook the matter. But Major Keeling’s attitude at the dinner-party, his apparent inability to address a single word to Ferrers, had given the other officers a welcome opportunity of marking their sense of the younger man’s conduct. Ignorant as they were, and as Ferrers himself was, of the new cause of quarrel between the two, they came to the conclusion that his behaviour had been so unpardonable that only the strongest pressure from Mr Crayne had prevailed upon Major Keeling to overlook it even officially, and in their loyalty to their Chief they hailed the chance of copying his demeanour. The faithful Colin, who was much perplexed by Major Keeling’s uncharitable behaviour, and almost felt impelled to remonstrate with him, was the only exception, and managed, quite unintentionally, to fan the flame of Ferrers’ indignation by the fulness of his sympathy. Fortunately for Penelope, Ferrers had not time to recount his ill-treatment at length, and was only concerned to have the engagement fully recognised before he started to escort his uncle back to the river.
“Now, Pen,” he said as he came in, without troubling himself to bid her good morning, “I must have this thing settled. My uncle wants to see you before he goes, so don’t try and play fast and loose with me any more.”
Silently Penelope held out her hand, and he put the ring on her finger, only to find that it would not stay on.
“Why, your hand must have got thinner since I had the ring made!” he cried, taking the fact as a personal injury. “And I wish you wouldn’t look so white and washed-out. It was quite unnecessary for you to sing so much last night—though of course it was just as well to try to cover Keeling’s bearish behaviour as much as possible—and naturally you’re tired after it. This place doesn’t suit you, I’m certain.”
“I will wind some silk round the ring to keep it on,” said Penelope wearily; “and I shan’t sing any more, George.”
“While I’m away, do you mean? How fearfully touching! Well, you won’t see much of me for some time now. I mean to go back to Shah Nawaz and see if I can’t do something to cut the ground from under the feet of these fellows who think they’re too good to speak to me. Then I shall be off to Gamara, and when I come back we’ll be married, and my uncle will find me a berth somewhere. Hang it, Penelope! can’t you look pleased? I never saw such a girl for throwing cold water on everything. You know how fond I am of you, and how I want to have a good position to give you, and you don’t care a scrap! I might as well be going to marry a statue.”
“I am very sorry,” she said, screwing up her courage for the effort, “but you know how it is. I have asked you to release me, and you refuse.”
“Oh, it’s that again, is it? You’re trying to work on my feelings by looking pathetic? Then just understand, once for all, that I won’t release you, and it’s no good trying to drive me to it. You haven’t the least idea what it means to a fellow to be really in love with a girl; but I can tell you this, that I won’t give you up to any man alive—do you hear?—to any man on earth. So you may as well make up your mind to it.”
Did he suspect? Penelope could not decide, but she resigned her hope of freedom once more, and allowed him to take her to his uncle, who received her very kindly, and promptly despatched Ferrers to see whether things were nearly ready for the start.
“I wanted to say this to you, my dear,” he said, with obvious embarrassment, “that you’ll be wanting to send for pretty things from home, and I should like you to look upon me as your father for the occasion. Young brothers don’t know anything about gowns and fallals, do they?”
Penelope looked at him, unable to speak. Pretty things from home for a wedding at which sackcloth and ashes, or the deepest mourning, would be the only wear that could accord with her feelings! The old man misunderstood her look.
“There, there! don’t thank me, my dear. I’ll settle it with your friend Lady Haigh, but I thought you might like to know. Pretty gowns for pretty girls, eh? And I’m doing it with an eye to my own advantage, too. Don’t stint yourself in frocks, Miss Pen. I rather want a lady to do the honours down there at Government House. What if I gave George some post that would keep him at Bab-us-Sahel, and you two set up housekeeping with the old man, eh? How would you like that, my dear? Better than the frontier, eh?”
Penelope owned to herself frankly that it was. Latterly the possibility of finding herself alone with Ferrers in some isolated station, with no other Europeans within reach, had weighed upon her day and night. In Mr Crayne’s house, eccentric as he might be, she would find protection if she needed it. She did not ask herself from what she would need protection, or renew the useless reflection that the prospect in which she expected to need it was hardly a hopeful one. She looked up at Mr Crayne again.
“I should like it much better,” she said; “and it is very, very kind of you to think of it.”
Mr Crayne did not seem wholly satisfied. Perhaps it struck him as strange that his company should be welcome in the circumstances. He pushed back Penelope’s hair, and kissed her forehead.
“My dear,” he said, “the pleasure will be wholly mine. And if George beats you—why, I shall be at hand to interfere, you see.” He looked for a laughing, indignant denial, but Penelope started guiltily, and flushed crimson. For the moment she felt as if he had read her secret thoughts. “My dear,” he cried, in real alarm, “I don’t think you are quite happy about this. What is it?”
But Penelope had regained her self-possession. Bad as the state of affairs might be, she had too much loyalty to discuss it with Ferrers’ uncle. “I am going to try to be happy,” she said, looking him straight in the face. “And Captain Ferrers is satisfied.”
“Yes, George is satisfied, and so he ought to be, lucky young dog! Found a wife much too good for him, eh? I don’t mind saying that George has disappointed me in the past; but with you to help him, my dear, he must do well. And you mean to keep him in order, eh? So much the better! Why, there he is clinking his spurs outside. Thinks I’m encroaching on his privileges, eh?”
Bestowing a second kiss on Penelope, Mr Crayne left her to his nephew, and went out to see the camels loaded, and incidentally to wrestle with his misgivings, which were difficult to banish.
“It’s Keeling if it’s any one. I thought so from the first, and his face last night makes it almost certain. And the girl ain’t happy either. But why should I look after Keeling? He’s old enough to manage his own affairs. No one could expect me to take his side against George. Besides, this is George’s one chance. If any one can keep him straight it’ll be a woman. Keeling can get on all right by himself. Daresay the girl sees it. She seems to have made up her mind—wouldn’t thank me for interfering. Hang it all! I’m not going to interfere, if she’s willing to take George in hand. Must think first of one’s own flesh and blood.”
And his meditations having thus led him, by a somewhat different route, to much the same conclusion as that which Colin had long ago reached, Mr Crayne bade his scruples trouble him no more.
Four days later Ferrers dropped in at the fort again, on his way back to Shah Nawaz, after leaving his uncle at the river, and was asked to stay to tiffin. The invitation was given, with impressive solemnity, by Sir Dugald, Lady Haigh having flatly refused to offer Ferrers any hospitality. She would have liked to see him forbidden the house, and urged that Penelope would be much happier if he were, to which Sir Dugald replied that in that case it was a pity she had promised to marry him, but that it was not her hostess’s business to keep them apart. The Chief had accepted the man’s apology, considering that he had acted in good faith, and it was impossible to go behind his decision. Nothing could have been more correct than Sir Dugald’s attitude, nothing more heroic than his efforts to treat Ferrers as he might have done any other comrade; but the old frank friendliness was gone. Come what might, Ferrers had put himself out of the circle of those who loved to call themselves “Keeling’s men.” It was not merely the charges he had brought, but the attitude of mind that they revealed—the readiness to admit the possibility of a stain on Major Keeling’s honour—which had made the difference. Sir Dugald’s anxious cordiality and laborious attempts to make conversation on indifferent topics confirmed the impression produced by the scarcely veiled aversion of the other men the night of the dinner-party, and showed Ferrers that he had committed the unpardonable sin of the frontier. Many things could be forgiven, but not a want of loyalty to the leader. From henceforth he was an outsider.
Out of sheer pity for Penelope, Lady Haigh softened so far as to second her husband’s efforts, and do her best to make the meal less uncomfortable, but the harm was done. Ferrers had come in excited, brimful of some news which he was anxious to tell, but withheld in order that he might be pressed to tell it, until the constraint by which he found himself surrounded sealed his lips. It was no better when he was alone with Penelope afterwards. She did all in her power to make him feel himself welcome, and questioned him on every point of his journey, with the double object of convincing him of her interest in him, and of keeping Major Keeling’s name out of the conversation. It was far easier not to mention him at all than to hear him belittled, and she knew Ferrers’ opinion of him by this time. But her efforts to please her lover were vain, perhaps because of this very reservation, and Ferrers expressed his disappointment to Colin as they rode out of the town together.
“It’s pleasant to feel that there’s some one who cares for one’s news,” he remarked. “You could guess I had something to tell, couldn’t you?”
“I was sure you had news of some sort. Well, what is it?”
“I gave Penelope a hint of it the other day, but she didn’t seem to take any interest,” Ferrers grumbled on; “and to-day again—I said I’d tell her about it if she’d ask me nicely, but she wouldn’t. There’s no meeting you half-way with Pen; one has to make all the running oneself. She doesn’t care what happens to me; but when I said that as soon as we were married we would drop that fellow Haigh and his ugly wife, she looked ready to cry.”
“She and Lady Haigh are great friends,” said Colin, anxious to make peace, “and they have both been very kind to her. You would not wish her to be ungrateful, surely? But I haven’t heard your news yet.”
“Ride as close to me as you can, then. I don’t want those sowars of yours to hear. Well, then, my chance is in sight at last. I know where to find Shir Hussein!”
“The outlaw?” asked Colin, rather disappointed.
“Of course. And I mean to catch him and his gang, and so leave Khemistan in a blaze of glory. You shall have a share in it, because you’re the only fellow that has treated me decently over this business. The rest will look pretty blue when they hear about it.”
“But where is he? Is his band a large one?”
Ferrers looked round mysteriously. “A good deal bigger than most people think. No wonder he has given us so much trouble! But he makes his headquarters in one of the ruined forts in my district, not so far from Shah Nawaz. The fact is, that’s why he has gone free so long—I never thought of looking for him there. But one of my spies met me on my way back from the river with the news, and the joke of it is that I know the place. I camped there for a week once, trying to get some shooting. Well, you see, since I know my way about there, we can do with a much smaller force than would otherwise be needed. I shall have to ask for some help from here, which I should hate if Porter or Haigh, or Keeling himself, had to come too, but I shall only ask for a small detachment with you in charge. Then we’ll astonish them all.”
“But why don’t you want the Chief or any one to know about it?”
“They’ll have to know that I want help to capture Shir Hussein, unfortunately, but I don’t want them to know what a stiff job it is until it’s over. Don’t you see that they would do me out of the credit of it if they could? They’re jealous of me—horribly jealous—because I happen to be the Commissioner’s nephew. Can I help it? Is it my doing if he gets me a post somewhere else? I didn’t come here because I liked the frontier—merely as a sort of favour to Old Harry—and if I’m offered a chance of leaving it I won’t refuse, but I don’t want to go as if I had been kicked out. Of course they would do anything rather than let me end up with a blaze of fireworks, but I think we can manage it in this way. Only mind you keep things dark, and make a point of coming when I send for help.”
“Am I to tell the Chief what you think of doing?”
“Certainly not. He’s as bad as any of them, now that I’ve managed to put his back up. It’s all his own fault, too. If he had been like some men, one could have asked him long ago in a chaffing sort of way about the suspicious facts that had come to one’s knowledge, and we should have been saved a lot of trouble. You stand by me, and keep your mouth shut, and we shall do it.”