CHAPTER III.
COLONEL BAYARD’S BURDEN.
THE famous city of Qadirabad, the seat of such government as Khemistan possessed, was not reached from Bab-us-Sahel without difficulty. There was a ride across the desert first, which was so much to Eveleen’s taste that she begged they might go the whole way by land. But there was no camping equipment available, and Khemistan was destitute of rest-houses, and there at the Bunder lay the steamer, booked to make the journey in four days—what more could reasonable woman desire? But Colonel Bayard had been right in saying that if the steamers plying between Bombay and Bab-us-Sahel were small and uncomfortable, those on the river were worse. Owing to her light draught, the passenger accommodation of the Asteroid was limited to a single cabin, the berths in which—so a friendly subaltern confided to Mrs Ambrose—were constructed of a wood specially selected for its hardness. Had not Colonel Bayard come to the rescue by having a tent pitched for her on deck, Eveleen must have turned every one else out, and as it was, she felt guilty of grievously restricting the space available for exercise. The salient characteristic of the scenes through which they passed—as of all else that she had yet encountered in Khemistan—was mud. Sometimes they were steaming through a country so absolutely level that there seemed no reason why the river should remain where it was instead of overflowing on either side—and derelict channels and stretches of marsh showed that the river itself was of the same mind. More often they found themselves passing between banks of mud which formed a kind of natural aqueduct, confining the river in a course high above the general level of the country, and the wash of the steamer caused portions of these banks to dissolve and slide gently into the water. Sometimes one bank was high and the other low—looking for all the world as though the river were being softly tilted sideways to allow the water to run off, and in this case the higher bank was generally wooded, with tall spindly trees above and a mass of dense undergrowth below. These woods were the famous shikargahs of the Khans—their hunting paradises, formed artificially like the New Forest, and by similar methods, as the many remains of ruined and deserted villages showed. They were strictly preserved, and such villages as still existed were at a discreet distance from them—dismal collections of mud-heaps surrounded by a network of irrigation canals. The canals were shockingly kept up, but the crops were wonderful, and Colonel Bayard pointed out to Eveleen the obvious fertility of the soil, giving so much in return for so little. He sighed as he remarked that under a civilised government the whole land might be a garden, and then changed the subject by telling her droll anecdotes of his friends the Khans.
Despite the waste of a good deal of powder and shot on various crocodiles and aquatic birds—which invariably escaped unscathed—the four days passed in such hot and confined quarters were long and wearisome, and the passengers beheld joyfully the palms and greenery which marked the approach to Qadirabad. The place was surrounded by a belt of gardens, above which, as the steamer rounded a bend of the river, rose in the distance a vast battlemented wall and great round tower, bearing an absurd resemblance to Windsor Castle. This was the Fort—or rather, fortress—palace of the Khans, dominating the city proper, but the British Agency was closer at hand, in a garden overhanging the river. It was a settlement rather than a house, for besides the large block of buildings erected by Colonel Bayard—in which the humorous detected a resemblance to a champagne-case set on end, its divisions represented by the arches of the several tiers of verandahs—some of his subordinates had built bungalows for themselves, and the native servants and hangers-on had a village of their own. There were quarters for the guards, a bazar, gardens and orchards, and the whole was surrounded by a wall some five feet high, of the usual mud-brick. Eveleen was astonished by the size of the community, for the work of the Agency required the services of a large number of resident Europeans, while there were fifty or sixty more, employed at Sahar or other places higher up the river, who made it their headquarters on occasion. Some of the local white men were married, but mostly to country-born women, so that Eveleen was unquestionably the Burree Beebee. Had her claims needed support, it would have been supplied by the chivalry of Colonel Bayard, who insisted that the Ambroses should take up their quarters in his own house, and consider him as their guest while he was there. For the next few months, he said, he would be little in Qadirabad, as duty called him up the river, to look after the supply arrangements for the British forces returning—or more literally retreating—from Ethiopia, and he was sure his wife would like to think the rooms he had prepared for her were in the occupation of his friends. As Richard Ambrose acted as Resident in his chief’s absence, the arrangement seemed natural, but Eveleen had qualms when she saw the elaborate and expensive furniture—not lest she should spoil it, but lest Mrs Bayard should think it had not been treated with proper respect. One trial was spared her. Almost with tears in his eyes, her husband implored Colonel Bayard not to impose upon her the task of housekeeping on so large a scale, and she was saved from the certainty of disgracing herself by reducing the Resident to bankruptcy. It is true that she considered the arrangements of the responsible secretary to be at least as lavish as her own had been, but at any rate he was in the habit of keeping accounts.
It had not occurred to her that in the absence of all household duties time might hang a little heavy on her hands. There were plenty of people to ride with her morning and evening, but in office hours she was the only idle person in a hive of industry. That, at least, was her husband’s view, of which she was irreverently scornful. The native clerks might be hard worked, but she declined to believe it of the Europeans, who did nothing, so she declared, but sit and smoke, and now and then sign their names to the documents that were put before them. How much better for them to spend the pleasant hours of mid-morning and late afternoon—which would so soon become too hot for outdoor exercise—in healthful cross-country gallops! But the Indian official day was far too firmly established to be overthrown by one mutinous Irishwoman, and Eveleen had to make her own occupations. She was training the little horse Bajazet—to the mingled amazement and scandal of her neighbours, who pointed out unsparingly defects of form and action which betrayed his mixed blood. He had a horror of natives—probably due to ill-treatment in his youth—and his mistress went through stormy scenes with half a dozen syces, dismissing one after another before she found one who would do as he was told. This was a meek patriarch who was content to sit by, shrouded in the horse-blanket, while Bajazet was put through his paces and learned to follow Eveleen about like a dog. Once he came up the verandah steps after her, but he was ruthlessly ejected by the orders of her husband, who vowed he would not have the place turned into an Irish cabin, and she was obliged to content herself thereafter with teaching him to ask for dainties without coming in search of them.
The unwritten law which restricted her unescorted rides within the limits of the Agency was naturally a challenge to the Irish mind, and Eveleen never rested until it was abrogated in her favour. It was not as if she wanted to go into the town, she said—who would? And indeed, Qadirabad—for all its imposing appearance and historic renown—was a sadly uninteresting place. Very soon after her arrival, Eveleen was taken up to the Fort gate, to look thence down the long line of the Grand Bazar, and obtain a general view of the city. A wilderness of mud hovels, broken in places by the dome of a mosque or the blunted pyramidal tower of a Hindu temple, with a two-storied house within high walls here and there, but never a tree to relieve the monotony until the eye hailed the grateful greenery of the encircling gardens on the horizon—all was squalid, mean, miserable. The Bazars—famous throughout Asia for their manufactures—seemed to have fallen upon evil days, for such pottery and lacquered ware as was to be seen was of the poorest, and the gold and silver work and precious stuffs of old were hardly to be found nowadays. A reason might be discovered for this in the bands of armed men constantly to be seen in the narrow streets, eyeing the peaceable craftsmen as inferior beings permitted to exist in order to minister to the needs of their superiors, but by no means to lay up wealth for themselves. The Khans were not Khemis by race. A century ago they had come from Arabitistan, across the mountains to the north-west, swooping down resistlessly upon a people “quiet and secure” and practically defenceless. They had parcelled out the country among their rude retainers, who remained as feudal chiefs, and Khans and Sardars alike drew upon the inexhaustible reservoir of Arabitistan for warriors of their own race to maintain and extend their dominion. Without this continual reinforcement, the soft life of the plains and inter-marriage with the conquered people might have enfeebled the ruling caste, but with fresh hordes of wild Arabit horsemen to be summoned at need, they remained a power to be respected—if not particularly respectable. With tulwar and shield and lance, the wild men swaggered where they would, responsible only to the Khans—and not always very amenable to them—and caring nothing for anybody else. Eveleen admired their showy little active horses, the ease and grace of the riders, and the bright silks and embroidered shawls of their apparel, but she had sense enough to realise that they were not people it would be desirable to meet if she were riding alone.
But if the town was barred, the garden-belt outside it was surely a very different thing. The Arabit horsemen were seldom to be found in the neighbourhood of the Agency—unless one of the Khans should happen to be paying a state visit to Colonel Bayard—and the country was fairly open. What danger could there be for Eveleen if she did not go too far away, respected shikargahs, and avoided growing crops? Yes, she would take a mounted orderly—it would only be like a groom—but not—oh, please not!—an escort of the irregular force known as the Khemistan Horse, which had been enrolled as the Resident’s guard. How could she ride at her ease if she had always to tag about with an army behind her? Playing the part of the Importunate Widow, she succeeded at last in imposing her will on Colonel Bayard, and that unfortunate man, most unfairly cast for the part of the Unjust Judge, found that he had carefully cultivated a thorn for his own side.
He was in his office one day, discussing weightily with Richard Ambrose the various matters of importance which might arise during his absence, when sounds of dispute outside interrupted their deliberations. Some one was demanding to be allowed to enter, and was being respectfully but firmly repulsed by the scandalised attendants—and the voice left no doubt who the intruder was.
“Mrs Ambrose, as I live!” exclaimed Mrs Ambrose’s husband in unflattering disgust. “What bee has she got in her bonnet now? Excuse me one moment.”
“Mrs Ambrose appears to wish to see me,” said Colonel Bayard, with his unfailing kindness. “We can’t let an English lady be turned away by the chobdars. Come! Good morning, ma’am; is there something you want me to do for you? Good heavens! what has happened? Has any one dared——?” for Eveleen’s face was flushed and tearful, and her lips trembled too much to speak. She wrung her hands together wildly.
“Murder—a woman!” it was a kind of hoarse scream.
“You have been attacked? No?” as his eye ran quickly over her speckless habit. “What is it, then? Sit down and tell us about it.” He led her to a chair, and waved the attendants away. “You have had a shock? A glass of wine!” he signed to a waiting servant. “Now let us hear what it is.”
“Compose yourself, for Heaven’s sake!” growled Richard Ambrose—not encouragingly, but the harsh tone proved more effectual than the Resident’s kindness in enabling Eveleen to pull herself together. With her fingers tightly pressed against one another she sat upright and spoke jerkily.
“’Twas a poor woman—just a bit of a girl. Her father and her husband had quarrelled. The horrid wretch—the husband, I mean—went straight home—and called her out. The creature came—and stood before him trembling. He took hold of her hair—her beautiful long hair—and twisted it—into a rope—and strangled her with it—her own hair——” Her voice rose into a scream again.
“Yes, yes—very distressing,” Colonel Bayard patted her hand kindly. “These things will happen here, we know, but you are new to them. And you were passing, and saw it done?”
“Saw it?” she cried furiously. “D’ye think I would not have broke my whip over the brute’s head, and poked his eyes out with the bits after? No, I was passing, and heard the old women keening—her mother and her mother-in-law—and I went in there and saw—her poor face—and her hair—— And I made the syce ask them about it, and they told me, and I came straight back to you at once, that you might get the wretch found out and punished!”
“But, my dear lady, where do you think he is?”
“Why, in hiding, of course!” in surprise.
“Not a bit of it! A man don’t go into hiding in Khemistan for little accidents like that. I dare be bound the fellow is now boasting to his friends of the revenge he has taken on his father-in-law, and every one of ’em is sympathising with him. That’s all.”
“But d’ye mean nothing will be done?”
“Nothing whatever.”
“You mean you will do nothing?”
“My dear Mrs Ambrose, what could I do? Killing is no murder here, where a woman is concerned.”
“But it ought to be. You could go to the chief Khan——”
“He would merely laugh at me. ‘Murder, you say, sahib? Who was killed? A woman? and the man’s wife? and he was angry with her father? Why, of course he killed her. It was the natural thing to do.’ And that’s precisely what it is—in Khemistan.”
“And you let them go on like this? You say nothing——”
“What could I say? And what good would it do? It ain’t as though the poor creature were alive, and I could save her by intervening. It’s too late—unfortunately.”
He added the last word in deference to the stormy look in Eveleen’s eyes as she rose from her chair, knocking down the untasted glass of wine at her elbow.
“You needn’t say any more. I see how it is—perfectly. If Ambrose killed me, ’twould merely be, ‘Only a woman—only his wife—and he was angry with her—and it served her right!’” defiantly.
“If Ambrose killed you, I would hang him with my own hands, and you know it very well!” said Colonel Bayard, between jest and earnest. Then his tone changed. “But you have no right even to associate such a thought with your husband, Mrs Ambrose. It is abominably unfair to him, and only to be excused because you are a little unstrung at this moment.”
“Just look at his face, then!” cried Eveleen recklessly. “Is there black murder in it, or is there not, I ask you?” and she departed—leaving two discomfited men behind her—to cry her eyes out in her own room, until her husband, really alarmed, insisted on a visit from the doctor, and—so near is bathos to tragedy!—the administration of a composing draught.
That incident was closed. Eveleen made numberless irrevocable resolutions that never, no, never! in any circumstances whatever would she attempt to appeal again to the compassion, or even the sense of justice, of those two stony-hearted men—but evidently she was one of the people to whom things are bound to happen. Colonel Bayard had gone to pay his farewell visit to the Khans, attended by Richard Ambrose and other subordinates, and preceded by chobdars bearing silver sticks and similar insignia of dignity, when the remaining occupants of the Residency became aware that Mrs Ambrose had another row on hand. They guessed it when she returned from her ride at a tearing gallop—the syce left behind somewhere on the horizon—and dashed up to the office verandah, demanding eagerly to see the Resident Sahib. It was clear she had forgotten all about his absence, for those who were peering at her through the tatties reported that she made a gesture of despair, and mounting again, rode round to her own quarters with a slow hopelessness very different from the ardour with which she had ridden in. She sent her horse away, but stayed walking up and down the verandah without going to change her habit, her sun hat thrown aside. The two men whose rooms were on the opposite side of the courtyard could see the white figure passing and repassing across the dark space left by the updrawn blind. Sometimes she came to the steps to call a servant, and sent him on some errand—evidently to see whether the Resident had returned without her hearing him, but in vain.
“If that woman tramps up and down much more, she’ll drive me distracted. What’s the matter with her?” demanded one of the watchers irritably at last.
“Couldn’t say,” was the laconic reply of his companion.
“Well, you might risk a guess, anyhow. Tell you what, I’m going to see. Are you game to come too?”
The other reflected. “I suppose Ambrose ain’t likely to consider it an intrusion?”
Captain Crosse characterised Scottish caution in unsuitable language. “I always knew Ambrose would make trouble by bringing his wife up here, but since he has brought her, one can’t in common humanity leave the unfortunate creature to walk her feet off for want of some one to help her. I’m going, and you have got to come too. Here goes!”
They went across to the Ambroses’ verandah, and Eveleen turned a despairing face upon them at the sound of Captain Crosse’s hesitating greeting, “Can we do anything, Mrs Ambrose? We were afraid something must be wrong.”
“Sure I don’t know what to do!” she burst forth. “I’m in the most frightful trouble. Do come in, the two of you, and tell me is there anything you can do. But I don’t believe anybody but the Resident will be any good, and it seems as if he’d never be back!”
“Sit down and tell us about it, ma’am,” urged Captain Crosse, while the young Scotchman pulled a chair forward. “To fret yourself into a fever will do nobody any good, and be precious uncomfortable for you.”
Eveleen hesitated, pushed back the damp hair from her temples, and dropped into the chair. “It’s because there’s no time,” she said despairingly. “Colonel Bayard said it was too late before, because the poor creature was dead, but this time she could be saved, only there’s no one to do it—— I suppose,” with reviving energy, “you wouldn’t come with me and rescue her?”
A glance had passed between the two men over her head, and now, as she sat up eagerly and grasped the arms of the chair preparatory to rising, Lieutenant Haigh said, with discouraging slowness, “But who is it you want to rescue, Mrs Ambrose—and what from?”
“The poor girl—child, rather. They carried her off—I saw the dust of their horses in the distance——”
“But who carried her off?” patiently.
“Sure how would I know? A band of Arabit horsemen—they brought a palki, and forced her in——”
“But who was she? and where did they take her? Try and tell us exactly what has happened.”
Eveleen glanced upwards, as though in search of patience, and still holding the chair, as if to anchor herself to it, spoke with exaggerated deliberation. “She was a pretty little young girl—I have often seen her; she would peep out in a shy sort of way and smile at me. To-day she was not there, but the old father—he’s a poor sort of fellow, that—was crying fit to break his heart and throwing dust in the air, and the mother—that’s worth two of him—was all bleeding where the wretches had knocked her about when she tried to hold her daughter back, and the neighbours would all be sympathising with them—but they ran away like mice, every one of them, when they saw me.”
“But who had carried her off, and whither?” repeated Sir Dugald Haigh. He was a poverty-stricken soldier burdened with an inherited baronetcy.
“Sure I told you”—with some irritation. “A band of Arabit horsemen, and they would be taking her to the Fort. The parents were inconsolable—they said she was to have been married next week.”
“They would be—they’ll have to return the gifts,” said Sir Dugald drily. Then his tone changed. “Well, ma’am, that puts an end to the business. When a girl—or a woman either, for it would have made no difference if the marriage was a week ago instead of a week hence—is taken to the Fort, there she stays.”
Eveleen gazed at him, horror-stricken. “Any girl—and against her will—and no one minds?”
“That’s the way here,” curtly.
“You see, Mrs Ambrose”—Captain Crosse took up the parable—“it ain’t the same with these people as it is with us. The Arabits take a girl when they want her just as they take anything that pleases ’em from a shop in the Bazar. These women don’t mind that sort of thing—rather like it, in fact—think it a bit of an honour, as you might say.”
“If you had seen that poor old father and mother, you would never believe that!” indignantly.
“That’s just for to-day. It’ll be all right when they have got over it a bit. A ruler always exercises this power in the East—why, just as it was in the Bible, you know.” He spoke with increased confidence, feeling that the thing had been set on a proper footing. “I assure you there are thousands of these women in the Fort—place is swarming with ’em. So you see, it’s quite the right thing here.”
“But how can it be right just because it’s always done? And I am sure it’s not done in India.”
“Not in our districts, of course; but believe me, in some of the native states within our borders, not only would the girl have been taken, but the parents would have been killed for offering resistance, and the house set on fire—for a warning to others, you see.”
“I don’t see that makes it any better—horrid though it be. What is Colonel Bayard here for if it ain’t to stop things of this sort from happening?”
“’Pon my word, ma’am——!” began Captain Crosse, quite taken aback, but Lieutenant Haigh spoke slowly.
“You are making a mistake, ma’am. The Resident is here to seek to persuade the Khans to keep their treaties with us, so that we may be able to leave them in the enjoyment of their authority.”
“Authority to murder women and carry off girls? And he calls himself an Englishman and a Christian!”
This was high treason, but though Captain Crosse showed signs of flight, Sir Dugald argued patiently on. “You must know yourself, Mrs Ambrose, that there’s no better-hearted person in the world than the Resident. But he has enough to do with his proper business, and the Khans have no mind to make it easy for him. They choose to go on destroying villages to extend their shikargahs, and plundering traders, and intercepting the river traffic by demanding tolls, and they do it, never caring a pin about the difficulties they are making for him.”
“Then he ought just wash his hands of them!” declared Eveleen defiantly. “If I were in his place——”
“My dear Mrs Ambrose, what is the matter?” Colonel Bayard and Richard came up the verandah steps, to find her confronting the two men. She looked at him stormily.
“It’s a fool I am to expect anything——!” she began, and stopped, unable to speak.
“Mrs Ambrose was unfortunately a witness—or nearly so—of the carrying-off of a girl to the Fort, sir,” said Sir Dugald; “and the lamentations of the parents have affected her sadly.”
“Positively, my dear Richard,” said Colonel Bayard, “you must not allow Mrs Ambrose to distress herself in this way. She will make herself ill, and our little society here will lack its brightest ornament.”
Eveleen looked at him with absolute abhorrence. “And that’s all you have to say about it?” she demanded.
“My dear lady, what can I say? The custom of the country permits the rulers to recruit their zenanas in this way, and how is a stranger to prevent it?”
“Go to the Khans and get her back! Tell me now, what’s the use of their calling you their father and their mother if they’ll not do what you tell them?”
“I fear their confidence stops short on the threshold of the zenana,” said Colonel Bayard gravely. “But suppose, to gratify me, they consented to the release of this girl—do you think she would choose to be released? Nay, she would hug her chains, as you consider them, and entreat to remain in the Fort.”
“The worse for her, then, the wretched creature! But sure you’d have brought the Khans to book, and shown them the law was stronger than they are.”
“What law? They would have been constrained by friendship, nothing more. The English law don’t run here. The will of the ruler is the law—at least, it comes to that.”
“And Colonel Bayard can reconcile it with his conscience to use all his endeavours to prop up a system under which such things can happen!” she cried. Her husband glanced round aghast to see the effect of this blasphemy, but the other two men had discreetly faded away, Colonel Bayard looked at her sadly.
“What can I say? I do my best for these people, but they will do nothing to help me—to justify me. Yet to use force—to compel them to virtue—would be an outrage, an iniquity. Ain’t it better for them to govern themselves, even badly, than to be governed, however well, by us?”
“Ah!” cried Eveleen suddenly, “that’s it, that’s it! You think of them and of us—and not for one moment of the creatures they misgovern, the women and the poor.”
“As Heaven is my witness, I do think of them—and constantly,” he replied, with deep solemnity. “It is my earnest hope to ameliorate their condition by influencing the Khans—in time. But never will I be a party to seizing more territory under the pretext of seeing justice done.”
“In time!” echoed Eveleen scornfully, but her husband interposed with crushing effect.
“That will do, my dear. The Resident will think you are an advocate of Women’s Rights, if you don’t take care. You will find it advisable to rest a little after all this excitement, and it would not be amiss to change your gown.”
When Richard spoke in that tone, he could have shifted an iceberg, so Eveleen was wont to complain, with some confusion of thought. On the present occasion, he certainly shifted her. She found herself sitting on the couch in her bedroom, all the fight gone out of her, while he stood before her, his face wearing what she called its hatefullest expression.
“Now look here, my dear,” he said coldly, “there has been enough of these heroics. Twice over you have badgered Bayard in a way that would have made any other man on earth jawab [dismiss] me on the spot, and it is not to happen again. Why he don’t forbid you to set foot outside the compound I don’t know.”
Defiance revived. “I do,” said Eveleen. “Because he knows ’twould be no good.”
“Believe me, you would not find it easy to pass the gates in the teeth of the guard.”
“As if I’d dream of trying it! I’d jump the wall, of course.”
He recognised the futility of argument. “At any rate, if he chooses to leave you full liberty, I am going to restrict it. You won’t be able to ride much longer in office hours, happily—the sun is getting too hot—but as long as you do, you will be good enough to avoid the villages. If you can’t ride past these people without interfering in their concerns, why—take another direction, if you please.”
“I don’t mind,” listlessly. “Sure it’s no pleasure to me to see such shocking things happening, and nobody with the heart to lift a finger to prevent them!”
“Do you mean to say that after what Bayard told you, you still expect——”
“Expect? I don’t expect anything of him at all. But will you tell me that if Sir Harry Lennox was here, there would nothing be done?”
“That old ruffian? Oh, I dare say he’d be capable——”
“You may call him all the names you like, but I tell you he would have hanged that murderer the other day, if it had been a Khan upon his throne. And to-day he’d have ridden up to the Fort and broken the gates down, and let all the women out.”
“And a nice thing that would be! Try to borrow a little common-sense, my dear, even if you don’t possess any. The Fort is full of women, and you talk calmly of turning ’em all out of doors—penniless, homeless, accustomed to a luxurious existence! Take my word for it, they wouldn’t thank you! A few might be silly enough to accept the offer of freedom, but they would precious soon come begging to be let in again. They have everything women can want—at any rate, these women—good food, fine clothes——”
“Food and clothes!” scornfully. “Why, I have food and clothes!”
“And ain’t you happy, pray?”
“I am the most miserable woman alive!” with tremendous emphasis and absolute—if transitory—conviction. For once Richard Ambrose was staggered. Astonishment, remorse, resentment, incredulity—she read them all in his face for one moment. Then he recovered himself.
“Pooh, pooh, my dear! you exaggerate,” he said sharply.