CHAPTER V.
COLIN AS AMBASSADOR.
“THE curious thing was that we had no fighting,” said Major Keeling. They were seated at the luncheon-table, and Lady Haigh had imperiously demanded an account of the doings of the force since its departure.
“No fighting!” she cried reproachfully. “And you have kept us in agony two whole days while you went out for a picnic!”
“It was more than a picnic,” said her guest seriously. “It is one of the most mysterious things I have ever come across—a complete success, and yet not a matchlock fired, though every one and everything was ready for a big fight.”
“I must get to the bottom of this,” said Lady Haigh, with the little air of importance to which Major Keeling always yielded indulgently. “Let me hear about it from the beginning. Dugald, you don’t mean to say that you started out under false pretences when you told me you were going after a band of raiders?”
“Not at all,” answered Sir Dugald, with imperturbable good-humour. “We found the raiders, sure enough, at the village which gave the alarm. They had plundered the granaries, got the cattle together ready to drive off, and were just going to fire the place when we came up. It was rather fine when they realised it was the Khemistan Horse they had to deal with, and not a scratch lot of villagers, for they left the cattle and decamped promptly. Our only casualty was a trooper who came upon two laggards at bay in a corner, and tried to take them both prisoners. Of course we went after them, and several of the villagers, who had appeared miraculously from their hiding-places, came too. It was a long chase, and we stuck to them right up to the frontier. Well, we guessed that this was the band which has made its headquarters at Khudâdad Khan’s fortress, Dera Gul. The Amir of Nalapur has always protested his inability to catch and punish them, so, as we had caught them red-handed on our ground, I thought we would run them to earth. The raiding must be stopped somehow, and if the Amir can’t do it, he ought to be grateful to us for doing it for him.”
Major Keeling nodded emphatically. “If he doesn’t show proper gratitude, I’ll teach it him,” he said.
“They rode, and we rode,” Sir Dugald went on; “and as they had the start and travelled lighter, we had the pleasure of seeing them ride into Dera Gul and shut the door in our faces. When we summoned Khudâdad Khan to give them up, he told us to come and take them, and they jeered at us from the walls and bade us be thankful they let us go home safe. The place is abominably strong, and they had several cannon ready mounted, and plenty of men, so I thought the best thing I could do was to take up a position of observation, and send for reinforcements and the guns. But as I was writing my message, one of our friendly ryots advised me to send for Kīlin Sahib, and not trouble about the guns. ‘You will see that they’ll surrender to him,’ he said. I didn’t believe it, but he stuck to his text, and my ressaldar, Bakr Ali, agreed with him, though neither of them would give me any reason; so I added to my chit an entreaty that the Major would accompany the reinforcements if possible. And he came, saw, and conquered.”
“No thanks to myself,” said Major Keeling. “I summoned Khudâdad Khan to surrender, and he did so at once, with the worst possible grace, merely stipulating that he and his men should be considered our prisoners, and not handed over to Nalapur. I knew the Amir would be precious glad to get rid of them, so I consented. And after that—Haigh, you will agree with me that it was a queer sensation—we rode up into the fortress between the rows of scowling outlaws, spiked the five guns, took stock of the provisions, and left Harris and a squadron in charge of the place until we can hand it over to the Amir. The outlaws we brought back with us, and I mean to plant them out on the newly irrigated land to the west after they have served their sentences. ‘It was a famous victory.’”
“Yes, but how?—why?” cried Lady Haigh. “What made them surrender when they saw you?”
“If you could tell me that I should be much obliged. There’s a mystery somewhere, which is always cropping up, and this is part of it. Why, almost wherever I go, the Maliks and elders meet me as an old friend—no, not quite that, as a sort of superior being—and inform me with unction that all my orders are fulfilled already, and that they are ready to join me with all their fighting men as soon as I want them. It’s the same with the wild tribes, even those from over the frontier. Sometimes I have thought there must be a mistake somewhere, and asked them if they know who I am, and they say, ‘Oh yes, you are Sinjāj Kīlin Sahib, the ruler of the border for the Honourable Company,’ with a sort of foolish smirk, as if they expected me to be pleased. I can’t help thinking they are mistaking me for some one else.”
“Or some one supernatural—some one of whom they have heard prophecies,” suggested Lady Haigh breathlessly.
“But you can’t very well ask them that—whether they take you for Rustam come to life again—lest they should say they never thought of comparing you to any one of the kind,” said Ferrers. The tone, rather than the words, was offensive, but Major Keeling ignored it.
“But they do think something of the sort, I believe,” he said. “At least, when I was present at a tribal jirgah the other day, an old Malik from a distance remarked that as he had not seen me before, it would be very consoling to him if I would give a slight exhibition of my powers. He would not ask for anything elaborate—if I would just breathe fire for a minute or two, or something of that kind, it would be enough. I told him I wasn’t a mountebank, and the rest hustled and scolded him into silence. But after that very meeting another old fellow, who had been most forward in nudging the first one, and had looked tremendously knowing as he told him that fire-breathing was not a custom of the English, got hold of me alone, and whispered, ‘You won’t forget, Highness, that on the night of which I may not speak you promised I should ride at your right hand when the time comes?’ Without thinking, I said, ‘If the night is not to be spoken of, why do you speak of it?’ and the old fellow stammered, ‘Between you and me, I thought it was no harm, Heaven-born,’ and after that I could get no more out of him. Whatever I asked him, he thought I was trying to test him, and took a pride in keeping his mouth shut.”
“It really is most mysterious,” said Lady Haigh, “and might be most embarrassing. Do you think you go about paying visits to Maliks in your sleep, Major Keeling? Because, you see, you might do all sorts of queer things as well.”
“I know nothing whatever about it—it is totally inexplicable,” said Major Keeling shortly, rising as he spoke. “I am sorry to break up your party, Lady Haigh, but Captain Ferrers and I have some business together, and he ought to be on the way back to his station before very long.”
Seeing that he was not to escape, Ferrers followed the Commandant, and passed a highly unpleasant half-hour in his company. From a scathing rebuke of the criminal carelessness which had led to the late regrettable incident, Major Keeling passed to personalities.
“What have you been doing to yourself?” he asked sharply. “You ought to be as hard as nails with the life you lead at Shah Nawaz. But perhaps you don’t lead it. You look like a Bengal writer.”
“With this examination in view——” began Ferrers with dignity.
“Hang these examinations! They spoil the good men and make the bad ones worse. I’ll have no one up here who would sacrifice his real work to them. If you can’t keep your studies to the hot hours, when you young fellows think it’ll kill you to go out, better give them up. Your munshi must be a queer sort if he’s willing to work all day with you. Who is he, by the bye? Fazl-ul-Hacq?—not one of the regular Bab-us-Sahel munshis, surely? Next time you come in, make some excuse to bring him with you, and I’ll have a look at him. He never seems to be forthcoming when I hunt you up at Shah Nawaz, and when a man keeps out of sight in that way it doesn’t look well. You think he’s all right, I suppose?”
Now was Ferrers’ chance. With one effort he might break with his old life and throw off the Mirza’s yoke, exchanging his solitary indolence at Shah Nawaz for the incessant activity which was the portion of all who worked under Major Keeling’s own eye. But to do this he must confess to the man he disliked that he felt himself unfit for responsibility, and that he had practically betrayed the trust reposed in him. Moreover, not a man in the province but would believe he had been deprived of his command as a punishment. This thought was decisive, and he answered quickly—
“Yes, sir; I believe he is an excellent teacher, and he makes himself useful as a clerk when I want one.”
“Well, don’t let him become indispensable. That plays the very mischief with these fellows. They think they’ve got the Sahib under their thumb, and can do as they like, and very often, when it’s too late, the Sahib finds out that it’s true. Give your man his rukhsat [leave to depart] in double quick time if you see that he’s inclined to presume.”
Wondering savagely what Major Keeling would think of the actual terms which prevailed between Fazl-ul-Hacq and his employer, Ferrers acquiesced with outward meekness, and took his leave. Colin Ross had promised to accompany him part of the way back, and with a couple of troopers as escort they rode out into the desert. As they passed the hospital, Dr Tarleton appeared on the verandah, and shook his fist at Ferrers.
“You rascal!” he cried. “Those words of command you gave me were all humbug. Just wait until I get you in hospital!”
“What does he mean?” asked Colin, as Ferrers rode on laughing.
“Oh, he was trying to drill a lot of non-combatants this morning, and asked me how to get them out of a corner. Of course I favoured him with a few directions, with the result that his squad got more gloriously mixed up than ever. Only wish I had seen them!”
“Tarleton is a good fellow,” said Colin, with apparent irrelevance.
“Don’t be a prig, young ’un. Must have a bit of fun sometimes. What is a man to do, stuck down in a desert under a commandant who’s either a scoundrel or silly?”
“You mean what the Major was telling us at tiffin? But it’s perfectly true: they did surrender the moment they saw him.”
“I daresay. He has carefully circulated all these rumours about his miraculous powers, and then pretends to be surprised that the niggers believe them. He’s a blatant theatrical egotist—a regular old Crummles. ‘I can’t think who puts these things in the papers. I don’t.’ Oh no, of course not!”
“If you mean that Major Keeling is a hypocrite, I don’t agree with you.”
“Now don’t get white-hot. If he isn’t, then he has read Scott till his brain is turned. You’re such an innocent that you don’t see the man does everything for effect. His appearance, his perpetual squabbles with headquarters, his popularity-hunting up here, the idiotic things he does—they’re all calculated to produce an impression, to make the unsophisticated stare, in fact. Why, one of my patrols came across him riding alone at midnight not long ago, miles away from here. The man must be either mad or a fool.”
“I think you are wrong,” said Colin seriously. “I believe him to be sincere, though mistaken on some points.”
“What! he’s in your black books too? How has he managed that?”
“He has forbidden me to preach publicly to the men,” was the answer, given in a low voice, but with strong feeling—“said it would lead either to religious persecution or the suspicion of it, and that I must be satisfied with showing them a Christian life, and teaching any one who might come to me privately of his own accord. But that isn’t enough. They don’t come, and how can I reach them?”
“Poor old Colin!” said Ferrers, much amused. “What a Crusader you are, far too good to live nowadays. Fancy finding you in rebellion against constituted authority! I’ll back you to get more and more stubborn the worse he bullies you.”
Colin’s face flushed. “No, I was wrong to speak as I did,” he said. “It is possible the Major may be right, though I cannot see it. In any case, it is my duty to submit for the present.”
“Which means that you won’t accept my sympathy against the great Keeling. You always were a staunch little chap, Colin. Bet anything you stick up for me behind my back just as you do for him.”
“Of course,” said Colin simply; “you are our oldest friend.”
“That’s all very well, but your sister doesn’t feel as you do. It was pretty clearly intimated to me to-day that I was not to call her Penelope, by the bye. She’s done with me, I see. She scarcely spoke a word to me the whole time I was there.”
“No, no; indeed you are wrong,” said Colin eagerly. “She is ill, and can’t talk much. She knows your wishes perfectly. Why, you can’t think I would ever let her disappoint you?”
“You wouldn’t, perhaps, but Lady Haigh would be precious glad to see her do it. Look here, Colin, give your sister a message from me. Put it properly—that while I accept her ruling, and won’t venture to address her at present—you know the sort of thing?—yet I fully intend to claim her promise some day, and I regard her as belonging to me, and I trust she does the same. Make it as strong as you like.”
“I will. I didn’t know you took it to heart so much, and Penelope will be glad to know it too. I’m sure she has an idea that you don’t—well, care for her as you once did. But now I can put that right. You know that there’s no one I would sooner have as a brother-in-law if—if all was well with you.”
“Yes, yes, all in good time. There is one of my patrols over there, so you had better turn back now. All right!”
Colin turned back with the escort, and Ferrers pursued his way, fuming inwardly. He did not wish to deceive his friend. Was it his fault if Colin was so ridiculously easy to deceive, and persisted in believing the best of him in spite of all evidence to the contrary? Ferrers knew what his last sentence had meant. There were certain books with which Colin had provided him, entreating him to read them, when he went to Shah Nawaz, and which he was always anxious to discuss with him when they met. Since the only form of religious study to which Ferrers had given any attention of late was the convenient philosophy expounded by the Mirza, which proved right and wrong to be much the same thing, and man to be equally irresponsible for either, he congratulated himself on having so skilfully evaded cross-examination.
As for Colin, he rode back to Alibad with a serious face, and, instead of stopping at his quarters, went on to the fort to find Penelope. He was full of generous indignation over the treatment Ferrers had received, and he was glad Lady Haigh was out of the way. Penelope raised her tired head from her cushions in surprise as he entered.
“Why, Colin! Is there anything the matter, dear?”
“I am disappointed in you, Pen,” he returned gently, sitting down beside her. “You have treated poor George very unkindly to-day.”
Reproof from Colin, though he was only her own age, was very grievous to Penelope. “Oh no,” she cried, trying to defend herself; “I scarcely spoke to him, and I’m sure I said nothing unkind.”
“That was just it. You said nothing to him, and he is deeply hurt.”
“But he was so rough and noisy, Colin, and talked so loud. I could scarcely bear him to be in the room.”
“It is not like you to be selfish. He wants a helping hand just now, and you think only of his voice and manners. It is a terrible responsibility to push a man back when he is trying to climb up.”
“If that was all,” said Penelope, rather warmly, “I would give him any help I could. But you know you said he wanted more than that.”
“Of course he does.” Colin drew back and looked at her in astonishment. “Why, Pen, he has your promise.”
“No, no,” she said restlessly, “not quite a promise. I—I don’t like him, Colin. He is quite different from what he used to be. Even his face has changed.”
“Your promise,” he repeated. “I know you took advantage of his generosity to withdraw it for a moment, but you renewed it again immediately when I pointed out to you what you had done. Penelope, is it possible that you—my sister—wish to break a solemn promise? What reason can you possibly have for such a thing?”
Penelope writhed. She had no reason to give, even to herself. All she knew was that she had felt to-day as never before the incubus of George Ferrers’ presence, the utter lack of sympathy between herself and him. If she contrasted him with any one else, it was done unconsciously.
“I don’t believe he wishes it himself,” she said. “He doesn’t care for me. He doesn’t behave as if he did.”
“He told me himself,” returned Colin’s solemn, accusing voice, “that while he would not venture to appeal to you at present, it was his dearest hope to claim your promise some day. It is your privilege to help him to raise himself again to the position he has lost. What can be a more noble task for a woman?”
Penelope could not say. Alone with Lady Haigh, it was easy to agree that woman was an independent being, with a life and rights of her own; but she would never have dreamt of asserting this to Colin, to whom a woman was a more or less necessary complement to a man. Ferrers needed her, therefore she would naturally accept the charge—that was his view.
“Would you wish me to marry him as he is now?” she asked desperately.
“No,” he answered, after a moment’s consideration: “I am not quite happy about him, and that is why I am most anxious you should be kind to him. With your sympathy to help him on, and the hope of claiming you at last, he will find the path much easier to climb. Surely this is not too much to ask?”
It sounded eminently fair and reasonable, but Penelope felt that it was not. There was a flaw somewhere which Colin did not see, and she could not point out to him, even if she could be sure that she saw it herself. Ferrers did not care for her, she was convinced, even in the careless, patronising style of his early days, and yet he insisted on keeping her bound. But perhaps he loved her in some strange fashion of his own, of which she could have no experience or conception. And Colin thought that the sacrifice was called for. She turned to him.
“I—I will try to like him, and help him—and do as he wishes,” she said, finding a strange difficulty in speaking.
“Of course. I knew you couldn’t do anything else,” said Colin, with such utter unconsciousness of the mental struggle she had just gone through that Penelope found his calm acquiescence almost maddening. She was glad to be saved the necessity of answering by the sudden entrance of Lady Haigh, who turned back to rebuke a servant for not having drawn up the blinds, and then discovered Colin.
“You here?” she cried. “Why, an orderly came up ten minutes ago to ask if you had come back, and I said you hadn’t. That old wretch Gobind Chand, the Nalapur Vizier, is to come here to-morrow instead of next week, and every one is as busy as possible. And you have been making Penelope cry! Well, I hope Major Keeling will give you the worst scolding you ever had in your life—for being so late, I mean, of course.”