CHAPTER XX.
IF SHE WILL, SHE WILL.
IT would be pleasant to state that the shock Eveleen had received turned her in one hour into a normal wife, and that feminine intuition taught her to care for her husband in his weakness without jarring him by too great eagerness, but it would not be in accordance with the facts. Perhaps the ladies who disliked her were justified in saying that she was unwomanly. At any rate, the truth remains that she was absolutely incapable of realising that there are times—and a good many of them—when the soul of a sick person yearns for nothing on earth but to be let alone. She could not let Richard alone. If she was not doing some totally unnecessary and undesired thing for him, she was thinking of something to do, and if she could not think of any thing, she was asking him to suggest something. His bearer knew exactly how to make him comfortable in bed, but it would have been asking too much of Eveleen to expect her to believe this. She was quite certain she could arrange things more to his taste than any one else, and she arranged them complacently to her taste, only to see a possible improvement in less than five minutes, and to proceed to make it. Richard’s hours were passed in undergoing a continual series of experiments—each of which had to be talked about beforehand, discussed while it was in progress, and made the subject of mutual congratulation when it was over, until the next inspiration dawned on Eveleen’s mind. He could not quite decide whether the talking made it worse or better. It added the tortures of anticipation to those of realisation, certainly, but it might have been worse if he had been seized upon without warning. He was too weak to protest, too weary to be sarcastic, though he derived not merely bodily satisfaction, but a glimmering of amusement, from the air of portentous patience with which his bearer would take any and every opportunity of the Beebee’s absence to reverse each and all of her arrangements, and make his master comfortable in his own way. Perhaps it was as well that Eveleen’s inventive brain provided her with so many new and infallible ideas for the better treatment of the sick, since she could never be quite sure that the arrangement she found in force on her return might not have been her own latest experiment but one, and not the bearer’s at all. Her satisfaction in having her husband all to herself, and being able to do everything for him—she told him so perpetually—was so complete that Richard had not the heart to disturb it, and sufferance being the badge of the bearer’s tribe, he refrained likewise. The surgeon was the only person whose authority she acknowledged—to a certain extent,—and he knew better than to wound her, and probably provoke a scene, by throwing doubts on her capacity as a nurse. What he did, and earned thereby the patient’s sincerest gratitude, was to insist on her taking regular exercise—or in the enthusiasm of her self-sacrifice she would have forsworn even her beloved rides. The doctor used to detect, or so he imagined, a faint smile in the eyes of the man on the bed when he took upon himself, with friendly violence, to propel Mrs Ambrose from the sick-room. “Just a short ride, my dear madam, beside your good brother’s palkee”—for the surgeons had fulfilled Brian’s darkest anticipations by condemning him to a recumbent position and no riding for a week at least—“to cheer him up and give you a little change of scene. Otherwise”—darkly—“we shall have you unable to resume your kind care of Ambrose to-morrow, and what would become of him then?” with, it is to be feared, a perceptible wink directed towards the patient.
Richard’s constitution—mental as well as physical—must have been a good one, for he succeeded in surviving not merely his own imprudence on the day of the battle, but his wife’s nursing after it, and in arriving at the point when the surgeon said cheerfully, “Now we ought to see some improvement every day!” But the forecast was not justified. There was no relapse, but also no further improvement. The patient remained in the same state day after day—unwilling or unable to attempt exertion of any kind, still asking merely to be let alone. It was only natural that Eveleen should become impatient. Her active mind had run ahead of reality so far as to picture him convalescent and established out of doors in the shade, with herself fetching and carrying for him and anticipating his slightest wish. The trifling drawback that there was no shade out of doors did not at first suggest itself to her. The hot weather was coming on fast, and the emerald greenery which had made the country round Qadirabad such a refreshing sight to Indian eyes was growing brown and parched. Happily the Residency had been built to suit the climate, with thick walls and heavy chunamed verandahs, and an abundant supply of the mud-brick ventilators evolved by local talent—erected on the roof to catch every breath of air, and convey it in the form of wind down a kind of chimney into each room, accompanied by a disproportionate quantity of dust. But even in the Residency Eveleen gasped for breath behind the close-drawn blinds, and felt that life was only worth living when night and darkness made it possible to move about again outside, though only to find that all her favourite leafy spots were sere and dry. Then—probably by force of contrast—the thought of Bab-us-Sahel and the sea suggested itself to her, and instantly her mind was made up that a trip to Bab-us-Sahel was what Richard needed to restore him to health. Of course he would never shake off his lassitude here, with the hot breath of the desert blasting the vegetation and burning everything up. A voyage down the river—peacefully floating onwards night and day, drawing nearer each hour to real sea-breezes—that was what would cure him, and he must and should have it. She said so—without a thought of encountering opposition—to Brian, just promoted to a gentle ride morning and evening instead of the humiliating palkee, and was astonished and wounded to find that he did not agree with her.
“Can’t you leave the poor fellow alone?” he demanded. “Sure he only wants not to be teased and worried.”
“But who teases and worries him, I’d like to know? It’s rousing he wants—any one could see that.”
“Ask the doctor, can’t you? and see what he’ll tell you.”
“I will not. Don’t I know what my own husband wants better than any doctor?”
“But Ambrose don’t want to go to Bab-us-Sahel.”
“Does he not, indeed?” triumphantly. “I asked him would he like it, and he said he would greatly.”
“I wonder did he even know what you were talking about? Plenty of times I don’t believe he’s so much as listening.”
“Y’are very polite, indeed! I know better.”
“But see here, Evie, the floods will be coming down any day now, and you wouldn’t be safe in any country boat—only a steamer, and you know there ain’t one to spare.”
“Sure that’s the very reason we ought start at once—to make the voyage before the floods begin. They don’t come till a full fortnight after this—I was asking about it this morning—and that’ll give us oceans of time.”
“You can never tell. They would as likely have begun a fortnight ago—only they have not. Anybody will tell you there’s no reckoning on ’em.”
“Well, I can’t help that——” with a sudden shifting of her ground. “I tell you we are going.”
“You can’t go without getting leave. Even if the doctor would let you, Ambrose is on the staff, and you can’t go carrying him off to t’other end of nowhere without a word to the General.”
“Sure I’ll write and ask him. Will that satisfy you?”
“Will you wait for the answer? Nonsense, Evie! y’are behaving like a bit of a child. Look now what I’ll do for you. I’ll go see the General and tell him all about it. He’ll be at Khanpur—or maybe even on his way back here, and I suppose you will take what he says from his own mouth. If he thinks it safe you will go, and if not, you stay here like a rational being. You can trust him. Is that settled now?”
“I’ll be quite satisfied if I once see the General and settle it with him,” agreed Eveleen—which was not quite the explicit pledge Brian would have exacted had he been giving his full mind to the matter. But Brian was uncomfortably conscious of ulterior motives in his opposition to the plan. He was arguing quite as much for his own benefit as Richard’s. The General would give him leave to escort his sister and the invalid to Bab-us-Sahel, he was sure—only too readily, indeed, for he did not want to go. He wanted to be back at his proper work—not leaving Stewart and Frederick Lennox to win all sorts of laurels without him. Khanpur had fallen without a blow—Khemistan is full of Khanpurs, but this was Kamal-ud-din’s pleasure-capital on the edge of the desert, quite distinct from his grim fortress of Umarganj in its deepest depths. The inhabitants met the Bahadar Jang with acclamations, and testified the utmost gratitude to him for delivering them from the Arabit tyranny, but they could only hand over the shell without the kernel. Kamal-ud-din, with his baggage and the remains of his army, had escaped into the desert, presumably to Umarganj, and Sir Harry settled down, with what patience he could command—which was very little—to wait at Khanpur while his subordinates continued the pursuit. It was not etiquette for him to move against Umarganj in person, lest so great a potentate should incur the disgrace of a check before a small desert fort, and he was beginning to pay some attention to Indian opinion, which he had despised so heartily when he landed. But he learned to wish that he had disregarded it on this occasion, for Kamal-ud-din contrived marvellously to baffle his pursuers. He was heard of in many places—now far ahead of his enemies, then at the spot they had just left, and at this time there was a rumour that he had managed to elude the troops altogether, and break back towards the river. With the hot weather and the inundations close at hand, this was a serious matter, and Brian anticipated a regular drive—a combined effort to put an end once and for all to the young Khan’s power for mischief. Little wonder, then, that Eveleen’s insistence on the trip to Bab-us-Sahel failed to meet with sympathy.
Being anxious to get back to active service at the earliest possible moment, Brian had obeyed orders so virtuously with regard to his wound, that the surgeons were quite glad to have an opportunity for rewarding him. His request was so modest—merely to ride out to Khanpur with a supply convoy, which must necessarily travel slowly and by night, pay his respects there to the General, and return, thus at once testing his strength and increasing it, and the doctors sped him joyfully. So did Eveleen. He felt bitterly afterwards that he ought to have extorted a promise from her that she would make no move until his return, but it is probable that at the time she had no thought of anticipating it. According to her wont, she was entirely convinced that things were going to happen as she wished, and referred to Brian’s mission as though the General was merely to be informed politely of the proposed journey instead of being asked to permit it. Brian found this trying, and ventured to point out the misconception, whereupon she faced round upon him with flashing eyes.
“D’ye tell me Sir Harry would have the heart to keep Ambrose here sick when a month or so at Bab-us-Sahel would set him up entirely? It’s yourself is making the difficulty, Brian, and if you say any more I’ll know you don’t want us to go.”
This was precisely the case, but it seemed rather heartless to admit it to an affectionate wife torn with anxiety for her husband, and Brian said no more. His disobliging attitude rankled in Eveleen’s mind for a while after he started, but as so often happens, it was opportunity that provided the impulse to action. She was sitting with Richard as usual, and after a night largely sleepless by reason of the heat, was dozing in her chair—not restfully, but spasmodically. She was too tired even to resent actively the fact that the bearer had seized upon the chance of doing something for his master, and was remaking the bed—if it could be called making when there was so little to make. He was talking, too, and Richard was answering drowsily, or rather acquiescing, at due intervals. It was something about a Parsee trader whose business required his immediate presence at Bombay. He had secured boats and a guard of armed men for the voyage down the river to Bab-us-Sahel, but though he was intensely anxious to get there before the floods began, he was horribly afraid of the wild tribes plundering on the banks, and would give anything for the countenance and protection of European fellow-travellers. By Richard’s murmured assents, the information evidently conveyed nothing to him, but Eveleen was wide awake by this time, and sat up suddenly.
“How did you hear this Firozji would like to take European passengers in his boat, bearer?” she asked—in Persian which was very much of the “station” order, but which long practice enabled Abdul Qaiyam readily to understand. But he did not seem very clear about his answer. The matter had been talked about among the servants. They might have heard of it from Mr Firozji’s servants—he did not know. Eveleen suspected at once that her desire to go down the river had been discussed—as everything was discussed—by the servants, who were always at hand to see and hear, and that one of them knew sufficient of Mr Firozji’s affairs to conceive the idea of bringing the two parties together in return for a tip from the Parsee, and possibly another from herself. But to quarrel with the means by which her wish might be attained would indeed be to look a gift-horse in the mouth, and she questioned the bearer further, finding him better informed than his previous vagueness might have suggested. To secure the escort of Europeans, Mr Firozji would be willing to give up to them his own large and comfortable boat, occupying a smaller one himself, and his servants would undertake catering and cooking, so that only personal attendants need be taken. This clinched the matter. Eveleen bade Abdul Qaiyam summon Mr Firozji to wait upon her as soon as possible, and then turned her attention to the not unimportant detail of getting the doctor’s leave for the move. She met the poor man with shock tactics.
“Such a wonderful chance!” she cried triumphantly when he came in on his evening visit—“splendid, I’d say, only the General hates the word so. You know the way I have been longing and wishing to get Ambrose down the river, but there wouldn’t be any boats going?”
It was the first the surgeon had been told of it officially, but he also had servants, and they also talked. Therefore he was able to answer with truth, “I have heard of it, certainly.”
“Well, and now here’s the very thing—old Firozji in the Bazar going down with more boats than he wants, all in a hurry to avoid the floods, don’t you know. He’ll be glad of European passengers, we’ll be glad to travel with him, so did y’ever hear anything nicer?”
“I am not surprised at his welcoming European fellow-travellers, but I doubt your finding him the safest of company. He’s afraid of the Codgers, of course.”
These were the Kajias, the wildest of the wild tribes of Lower Khemistan, who in the mouth of the British troops naturally became the Codgers, and their Khan the King of the Codgers. The Kajias it was who had been so bold as to raid the outlying houses of Bab-us-Sahel, and Sir Henry had sent the Khan a stern reproof and orders to come in and surrender. Eveleen laughed as she thought of it.
“And the Codgers will be afraid of us. Sure the General has put terror upon them—so that’s all right. After these two victories no one would dare touch a European.”
“I trust you may be correct. But——”
“Ah, then, don’t but at me! Be good and kind like yourself, and help me to make my bandobast in time.”
“Why, when do you want to go?”
“I haven’t seen Firozji yet, but the way the bearer spoke I’d say he would start to-night if he could—and what could be better? I mean”—she explained kindly—“that Ambrose won’t have the worry of looking forward. He’ll wake up out of this drowsy state and find himself on the beautiful cool water, and he will be pleased!”
“There’s something in that,” said the surgeon meditatively, and went and looked at Richard, in whose eyes he caught a fleeting gleam of recognition, which passed as quickly as it came. “But I fear you won’t find it particularly cool on the river. The glare from the sand and the water will be precious trying, after the shade here. You don’t know what it means to be cooped up in a small boat in the hot weather, with nothing but a mat roof between you and the sun, and no possibility of finding even a rock or a tree to shelter you.”
“But it won’t be for very long,” cheerfully. “And nothing could be hotter than ’tis here.”
The surgeon was well aware of the contrary, but Eveleen looked so tired and washed-out that he could not bring himself to dash her hopes. He remembered another objection, however. “But what about getting leave? You can’t spirit away the General’s political assistant without asking him.”
“Why, now, what could be better?” she cried joyfully. “My brother has gone to see Sir Harry and get leave for this very trip, only I never thought we’d find a passage so easily. Sir Harry can’t refuse, and Brian must come on after and overtake us.”
“Or fetch you back, if Sir Harry should refuse.”
“He will not, I’ll answer for him. ’Twould be as much as to say he didn’t wish Ambrose would get better.”
“I have no doubt you would tell him so, ma’am. And you ain’t afraid of the responsibility of looking after your husband with no doctor at hand?”
“Why, what can doctors do for him?” ungratefully. “Ah, now”—realising what she had said,—“you know what I mean. You have done all you can—you said so,—and here he lies in this state, and you can get him no further. You’ll tell me what I’ll do if he seems worse, and I’ll do it. Why would I be frightened at all?”
“I don’t see that the voyage can do him any harm so long as you ain’t shipwrecked or attacked by the Codgers,” said the surgeon dubiously; “and at Bab-us-Sahel you will be able to turn him over to Gibbons. But for pity’s sake don’t go and get marooned on a sandbank, or besieged in some barren spot on the shore without a bit of shade, till your brother comes and rescues you. I can’t answer for Ambrose if he’s exposed to the sun again, remember. The heat is bad enough; you will have to keep the bearer pouring water over him most of the day in any case, I expect.”
“I will, I will; and if we have to be besieged I’ll be sure to pick out a shikargah or some other nice place. And you will see about a pass for us, if one’s wanted, like the angel that y’are, and see that no one would try to stop us, will you not?”
“But I would gladly keep you back myself until your brother was here to take charge of you, if I didn’t know it would mean that you would probably be prevented from going at all. Hang it, ma’am! I wish you had sent me a chit to tell me what you wanted. How is a man to consider things coolly with a flood of blarney pouring on his head?”
“But sure I don’t want you to consider things—only to do them,” said Eveleen innocently, and he went off laughing. That morning it would have seemed absurd that she should actually find her wishes fulfilled by the evening, but so it happened. Mr Firozji, a short elderly man, who contrived somehow to be both stout and wizened at the same time, was evidently waiting outside for the doctor to go. He was very rich, very timid, and so grateful for the prospect of having Major and Mrs Ambrose as fellow-passengers that he would have promised almost anything to secure them, and Eveleen had to insist that they should pay their share of the boat hire and other expenses.
“’Twould be a fine joke against Ambrose to save his pocket by putting him under an obligation to a black man, but I won’t be teasing him when he’s so ill,” she said virtuously to herself. “Though Firozji would maybe think it only fair to pay for the protection of our presence,” she added a little ruefully. “It’s well I’m not timid, for it looks as if my courage would have to do the whole party.”
It was not the first time in her life that she had felt nervous over the fulfilment of one of her impulsive wishes, but she had never had the feeling quite so strongly as to-night. Abdul Qaiyam and Ketty had it too, for they both enquired anxiously if she was not going to wait for the young Sahib. She was obliged to be very firm and cheerful with them over the process of packing, realising that they would not be sorry if they could manage to delay things till the opportunity was lost. Despite the heat, she flew about from the sick-room to her own room and then to the verandah, deciding what must be taken, and seeing with her own eyes that it was packed. Abdul Qaiyam would never let his master go short, she knew—if Richard suffered it would be through forgetfulness, not malice,—but she had an idea that she herself might find various things lacking that were indispensable to comfort unless she looked after them herself. Richard remained in the same lethargic state until the servants lifted him to carry him down to the boat. Then there came another of those brief flashes of full consciousness, and he looked disturbed—even protesting. Eveleen had a moment of terror lest her plan should fall through even now. She bent over him and smiled into his face.
“Off to Bab-us-Sahel!” she said brightly. “Do y’all the good in the world!”
He seemed to try to say something, but in the effort the drowsiness came over him again, and she was guiltily conscious that she was glad. Once get him safely on board, and he might regain command of his senses as soon as he liked. He was certain to make a fuss—especially about her not waiting for Brian’s return—but she would point out triumphantly that his return to consciousness was the best possible proof of the wisdom of her action. The surgeon came to see them on board, and gave anxious directions as to what was to be done if various things happened, and she listened and did her best to label them and stow them away in the proper compartments of her mind. A number of friends were waiting to see them off, for the sudden journey had given every one the idea that Richard had had a serious relapse, and the only chance of saving his life was to take him at once to Bab-us-Sahel, regardless alike of the unpropitious season and the dangers of the way. They were very quiet and sympathetic as he was carried down the path, but a certain revulsion of feeling was perceptible when Eveleen followed. Ambrose looked no worse than he had done for days, and Mrs Ambrose certainly had not the look of strain that the situation demanded. Just a little anxious, no doubt, as any woman is when she is trying to remember whether she has got everything before starting on a journey, but with a look of something like triumph as well. The condolences and good wishes fell rather flat, and as they returned up the cliff by torchlight the ladies told their husbands that either Mrs Ambrose was trying to get rid of the Major by carrying him off away from medical aid, or she was going down the river for some purpose of her own, regardless of the effect on him.
The chill of disapproval made itself felt, and Eveleen was conscious of depression of spirits. The boat was as comfortable as had been promised, their possessions were easily arranged so as to leave ample room for moving about, and one or two suggestions which the doctor made for the invalid’s comfort were instantly carried out. Yet she did not feel happy. The surgeon’s last remark had been that they ought to have a guard of soldiers—he was certain the General would have sent one had he been there,—and anyhow, where were these armed servants of Firozji’s? Mr Firozji explained anxiously that a boat had gone to fetch them, and they would catch up the party below the camp, and the doctor said he hoped it was all right, but his tone was doubtful. Eveleen remembered it when the boatful of guards joined the other two. They were armed, certainly—to the teeth, but they were a wild-looking set, more like outlaws from the hills than the servants of a law-abiding elderly merchant. But had Mr Firozji said they were his servants? She could not remember that he had, and it looked very much as though he had selected his guardians from among the masterless men who had been left without occupation by the defeat of the Khans. If she had guessed that he had carried one of the root principles of Indian housekeeping so far as to guard against trouble from the Kajias by going to some trouble to obtain members of the tribe as his escort, she would have been still more uneasy, but she told herself that it was too late to turn back now, and she must hope for the best. She took out Richard’s pistols, and made sure that they were loaded, and determined to sleep with them under her pillow and a supply of ammunition within reach of her hand. After all, Brian ought to catch them up in two days at most—less if he took a fast boat and kept the crew up to their work. It did not occur to her that Brian might be in no hurry to get back from Khanpur. He was a man of many friends, and there was plenty to hear from all of them, and he had no particular objection to leaving Eveleen to cool her heels at Qadirabad, as he believed, for a day or two. The longer his return was delayed, the more likely was she to have some new plan in her head—completely ousting the Bab-us-Sahel one,—or the floods might even have begun, and the journey be out of the question.
The surgeon’s warning came back to Eveleen many times in the course of the next day, and when evening came she would readily have confessed that at the Residency she had not known what heat was. In her anticipations, the voyage had offered all the advantages of a steamer except its speed, coupled with the absence of smoke and smell, and the delight of being near the water. But she found that with the greater speed of the steamer went the pleasant sensation of moving air, and that the long hot hours when there was no breeze to fill the sails, and the river-current seemed incredibly slow, provided a new form of torture—such as might be experienced by a speck of dross on the mirror-like surface of a huge cauldron of molten metal. Even Richard was conscious of it, as she could not but see. He did not recognise her—not even her voice when she spoke to him,—but he gasped feebly, with now and then a pitiful little moan. The fear gripped her that he might die before her eyes, and with threats and bribes she induced one of the boatmen and a servant of Mr Firozji’s to keep the roof of the cabin continually wet with buckets of water, while Abdul Qaiyam performed the same service for his master beneath it. It was no light task, for the heat seemed to dry things at once, and leave them even drier than before; but she threw all her energy into the business of keeping the men at their work, and when evening came her husband was a little easier. She had a moment to rest, and to notice what she had not done before—the threatening look of the sky. Mr Firozji, in a quavering voice which sounded absurdly small for his substantial bulk, opined that they were going to have a thunderstorm, and Eveleen did not need him to tell her that if this extended far up the river, it would mean that the dreaded inundation would begin at once. Other people realised this as well, for the lazy boatmen began to work with some appearance of energy, and the headman of the guards came into Mr Firozji’s boat to urge some course of action upon him, which he refused, though with a fluttering politeness which betrayed alarm. Since there was still no breeze, it was necessary to pole the boats along, as this wide unsheltered channel was not a safe place in which to be caught by the storm; and the boatmen poled to such good purpose that before the rapid darkness fell, the flotilla was moored under the lee of an island—or rather sandbank—which promised some protection from wind and current.