CHAPTER XXI.
THE DEAD THAT LIVED.
THERE was some grumbling when it became known that only half the garrison was to go to work on the defences at a time, the other half remaining under arms, but Colonel Graham knew the enemy too well to omit any precaution. He thought it most unlikely that the armistice would be allowed to expire without an attempt to surprise the defenders of the fort, and it was highly probable that Bahram Khan’s departure was intended purely as a blind. Hence the sentries were posted as usual upon walls and towers, and scouts were thrown out in both directions along the line of the canal, so that the working-parties might safely give their full attention to the matter in hand. As usual, the first work to be done was the digging of several graves, for the earthquake had found victims both in the refugees’ quarters and in the hospital, where two of the wounded had died of sheer terror, but when the funerals were over, the rubbish-heaps were attacked with a will. Stones and pieces of brickwork of manageable size were put aside to strengthen the makeshift rampart on the inner bank, while the dust and loose earth was carried some little distance, and spread evenly over the ground, so as to offer no cover whatever. When this had been done, Runcorn pressed forward the all-important work of the further clearing of the canal, a dirty and laborious job which it would require months to accomplish properly. As things were, the whole of the time at the disposal of the garrison produced very little apparent effect, and it needed unfailing tact and the constant force of example to keep the weary labourers at work. Colonel Graham took his turn with the rest, so that the younger men could not for very shame rebel against the task, while Mr Burgrave, for whom active labour was out of the question, stimulated the ardour of the native workmen by offering rewards for the best record of work done.
To the inmates of the Memsahibs’ courtyard, the armistice brought little change. They were allowed to cross the canal, and walk about a little on the opposite bank, but they were forbidden to venture upon the irrigated land by themselves, and no one was at liberty to escort them even as far as the outlying pickets. Mabel and Flora carried the baby across, that it might breathe the air outside prison walls for the first time in its life, as Mabel said, and they sat upon a heap of crumbling rubbish amidst clouds of dust and watched the men at work, until it dawned upon them that their room was more desired than their company, whereupon they returned to the fort, and found a seat upon the ramparts. On ordinary occasions this was forbidden ground, but the armistice had been faithfully observed so far, and in spite of his misgivings Colonel Graham gave them leave to enjoy the air and sky while they might.
“Oh dear! I feel like the naughty little boy in the spelling-book,” sighed Mabel. “Everybody is too busy to talk to me. Isn’t it dull, Flora? I do wish something would happen.”
“Why, what a martial spirit you are developing!” said Flora. “Do you yearn for an attack at this moment?”
“Oh, nonsense! I don’t mean that sort of thing. I mean something interesting.”
Her eyes strayed involuntarily to the spot where Fitz was at work down below, and the thought crossed her mind that she would make him look up at her.
“But I won’t,” she decided. “He would know I was thinking of him, and he doesn’t deserve it.” She had only spoken to him once since the earthquake, and then it seemed to her that his manner was almost apologetic, as if he knew he had offended her, but was anxious to show that she need not fear a repetition of the offence. “So I suppose he did put his arm round me,” she reflected, “but if I wasn’t angry, why should he behave as though I had been? If he does care for me still, why should he be so anxious to pretend he doesn’t? Flora!” she turned suddenly upon her friend, who was engrossed in trying to read some meaning into the baby’s inarticulate gurglings, “have you said anything to Mr Anstruther about our talk the other day? about wholesome neglect, I mean?”
“I?” asked Flora, looking up quickly, “to him, about you? Mab! as if I would ever give away another girl to any man in the world! Of course not. You ought to know me better than that.”
“I didn’t really think you had,” said Mabel lamely. “It was only—” she stopped, for the thought in her mind was that she wished there had been some such explanation of Fitz’s silence, since in that case she could at least have felt sure that he had not changed his mind.
It was the evening of the third day of the armistice, and as the sun began to set, the tired labourers in what was pleasantly called the “back garden” were able to look with pride upon the result of their toil. It is true that all were not satisfied with it, for the inexorable Runcorn, finding the work he had mapped out actually accomplished, was anxious to make further improvements. Since, however, the erection of sangars on the roof of Mabel’s room and of the hospital had rendered it possible to bring a converging fire to bear on all parts of the temporary breastwork, the Colonel considered any more tampering with the canal-banks unadvisable, and work was declared to be at an end. The sowars and other natives had already been marched back into the fort, but the white men lingered for a few minutes’ idleness in the fresh air. Runcorn was still urging his point on the rest, who were lounging in various attitudes of ease on the bank, when a shot was fired overhead.
“What’s up?” shouted Woodworth.
“There’s a fellow on Gun Hill,” answered Winlock’s voice from the ruined tower. “He seemed to be displaying a good deal of interest in our arrangements, so I sent a gentle reminder pretty near him.”
“Don’t you go breaking armistices, or we shall get into trouble,” Fitz called out, and the subject dropped, but presently a hail from the farthest scout in the direction of the bridge brought every man to his feet.
“He’s stopped some one—only one man—perhaps it’s a messenger!” cried Beltring. “Take your guns, you idiots! it may be a trap,” as the rest started off at a run. “Bring him with you, and retire on the next man,” he shouted to the Sikh, who obeyed, keeping his bayonet pointed at the stranger’s breast.
“What is it?” inquired the white men breathlessly, as they ran up, to find the two stolid Sikhs guarding a feeble figure in native dress.
“Don’t fire,” said the new-comer in English. “Don’t fire!”
“No, no, they won’t,” said Woodworth impatiently. “Who are you?”
“Don’t f—” began the stranger again, then looked round helplessly. “I can’t—I can’t—” he faltered, then threw off his turban with a hasty movement of the hand. “Don’t you—any of you——?” he murmured.
“Are you English?” demanded Woodworth, with considerable misgiving, as he took in the details of the man’s appearance—the unkempt hair, the scanty grey beard, the lack-lustre eyes, and the bony face, with the lips trembling pitifully.
“Not one of you?” went on the stranger, recovering himself a little. “Anstruther!”
“I do! I do!” cried Fitz, with a mighty shout. “You fellows, are you blind? It’s the Major!”
“The Major? Impossible!” was the cry, as Fitz wrung the new-comer’s hand with painful warmth. The idea seemed absurd, but gradually conviction grew upon the rest, and they stood round in awkward silence. Dick’s eyes sought their faces one by one.
“What is it?” he asked, turning anxiously back to Fitz. “Will no one tell me? Is—is—how is——?”
“As well as possible,” cried Fitz joyously. “Never given you up for an hour, Major. And the baba is a boy, the pride of the whole place.”
“Thank God!” said Dick fervently, and at the words the last remnants of the distrust with which the rest had regarded him melted away.
“Forgive us, Major. We’ve thought of you so long as dead that we couldn’t believe our eyes,” said Woodworth. “Have you been a prisoner all this time, after all?”
“North, my dear fellow!” Colonel Graham broke into the group and seized Dick’s hand. “Thank God you’re alive! This will be new life to Mrs North. But look here, we mustn’t let her see you like this. The fright would undo any good she might get.”
“I suppose I am rather a scarecrow,” said Dick slowly. He spoke with a curious hesitation, as though the words he wished to use would not come to his lips. “But I have been at death’s door until very lately, and now I have had no food for three days.”
“Woodworth,” said Colonel Graham, “post a sentry before the door of the ladies’ courtyard, and don’t let any one go in to carry the news. Happily they are none of them on the walls this evening. Now, North, for your wife’s sake, to save her an awful shock, you’ll come to my quarters and have a bath and a shave and something to eat, and get into some of my clothes. You’ll be a different man then. Can you walk?”
“I have walked a good deal yesterday and to-day, but I can do a little more,” said Dick, accepting gratefully the arm which was offered him.
“Close round, and let us smuggle him in,” said Colonel Graham to the rest. “We don’t want the men to hear the news before Mrs North. Let them think it’s a messenger who has got through in disguise.”
The other men waited outside the Colonel’s quarters until, after the lapse of a miraculously short space of time, Dick came out again. They raised a subdued cheer when they saw him, for once more in uniform, he looked his old self. The feebleness was gone from his gait, and he held himself erect again. His hair and moustache, though greyer than before, had resumed their usual aspect, and the straggling beard was gone, so that but for the excessive thinness, which made the clothes hang loosely about him, he seemed little changed. The rest pressed forward to shake hands with him.
“We were a set of fools not to know you, Major,” said Beltring, “but at the moment I hadn’t a doubt you were a spy.”
“Well,” said Dick, as the others laughed shamefacedly, “that didn’t matter; but when you all stood and looked at me without speaking, I made certain something frightful had happened. See you all afterwards; I can’t wait now.”
He passed on into the inner courtyard, where Mabel and Flora were sitting talking in the verandah. Both sprang up as his shadow came between them and the sunset.
“Dick!” shrieked Mabel. “Then Georgie was right after all! But don’t stay here.” She was dragging him in the direction of Georgia’s room. “I daren’t keep you from her a moment.”
Forgetful of everything but the unconquerable faith which was justified at last, she would not detain him even to greet him herself, but he drew back on the threshold.
“Oughtn’t you to break it to her? The shock might be too great.”
“The shock? She’s expecting you, has been for weeks!” cried Mabel hysterically. “Oh, Dick, I could die of joy!”
“Mab,” came in Georgia’s tones through the half-closed door, “I hear Dick’s voice. Bring him in—bring him in.”
“Oh, go on. She mustn’t get up; it’ll hurt her,” cried Mabel, pushing the door open.
“Georgie, if you get up,” cried Dick, charging into the room, “I’ll—Oh, Georgie, Georgie!” He fell on his knees by the bed, and there was a long silence, interrupted only by broken words and sobs. As for Mabel, she banged the door, and rushed away to cry somewhere in private.
“My poor dear boy!” said Georgia at last, her voice still trembling, as she passed her hand over Dick’s forehead, “you have wanted me very much, haven’t you?”
“Your boy is a very old boy, I’m afraid—quite grey-haired now, Georgie. Wanted you? of course I have—words can’t express how much.”
“I know. And you called to me one whole day and night, didn’t you?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so. But how did you know?”
“I heard you. I tried to get to you, Dick, but they wouldn’t let me.”
“It’s a mercy they didn’t. Oh, Georgie, you blessed woman, what it is to see you again!”
“And—?” cried Georgia. “Oh, you’ve forgotten—I’ve forgotten! Look here, Dick. You have never even thought of him. Take him up, and hold him in your arms.”
“Don’t you think it’s happier as it is?” inquired Dick, poking the baby gingerly with a tentative finger.
“It? It’s your son, Dick. Take him up at once. I want to see you together. Now, isn’t he splendid?”
“Little beggar’s not a scrap like you,” grumbled Dick.
“No,” said Georgia, with entire satisfaction; “every one says he’s the image of you.”
“Oh no; not really?” protested Dick in dismay.
“Why not? He’s a beautiful baby. Look what lovely eyes he has. And see how good he is; mens aequa in arduis ought to be his motto, I always say.”
“Oh, very well; if he feels it a hardship for me to hold him, I quite agree,” and the baby was returned with elaborate gentleness to the basket which served as a cradle.
“Dick, aren’t you pleased? Don’t you really like him?” Georgia’s eyes were full of tears.
“Like him? My dear girl, in a day or two I shall be prouder of him than you are. But you see, it’s you I’ve been thinking of all this time, and I can’t think of anything else yet. I want to sit by you and look at you and hold your hand for hours and hours, and think of nothing but that I’ve got you again.”
“I won’t accept compliments at my baby’s expense,” laughed Georgia through her tears.
“Ah, he’s quite taken my place, I see. Now, old girl, I’m only joking. There!” Dick lifted the baby again, and laid it carefully in Georgia’s arms; “you hold him, and let me look at you both.”
Mabel, in the meantime, was sobbing in a corner of the verandah. Her tears were purely tears of joy, but her attitude, as she sat crouched on the floor (for the boxes which had once served as seats were now a portion of the breastwork), was desolate enough to melt the heart of any sympathetic spectator. So, at least, it seemed to Fitz, who came hurrying through the passage, and pulled up, in astonishment and alarm, just in time to avoid stumbling over her.
“What is it, Miss North? Anything wrong?” he asked anxiously.
“Oh no; it’s only—that I’m so—happy,” said Mabel, between her sobs. “I came here to be out of the way,” she added, rising with all the dignity she could muster, and shaking the dust from her skirts, “but it seems impossible to find a place where one can be by oneself.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. Please don’t let me interrupt you. I only came to ask when the Major would like to see the men. They are wild to welcome him back. If you will just ask him, I’ll go away directly.”
“I won’t disturb him and Georgia now,” said Mabel. “If the men come in an hour’s time, I’ll tell him before that, and he will be ready to see them.”
“Oh, thanks.” He turned to go, then hesitated a moment, and came back. “I want just to say one thing, Miss North—about that promise you gave me.”
“Oh, don’t!” cried Mabel hysterically. “You haven’t treated me fairly about it. It’s cruel to keep such a thing hanging over me, so that I am in terror whenever I see you.”
“Why, what a low brute you must have thought me! But really I didn’t mean to be such an out-and-out cad as all that. I thought you knew me better—and I did try to show you what I meant. You couldn’t imagine that I would hold you to a promise which I practically forced you to make?”
“Oh!” said Mabel. An unprejudiced listener would have said that she had not only expected but desired to be held to her promise. But Fitz was not unprejudiced, and he went on earnestly.
“This is how it was. I told you I should go on hoping, you know (and I do still, for the matter of that). And I had a sort of idea that you might be changing your mind just a little—of course it was awful cheek on my part—and I thought I’d put it to the test. So I asked you for that promise, just to see how you’d take it. But when I saw how you felt about it, I never thought of going any further. Didn’t you understand, really? I thought I must have made it clear that I was quite content to be your friend until you could give me more—of your own free will. Oh, you must have seen.”
Mabel’s heart felt like lead, but she made a gallant effort to appear indifferent. “Of course I saw that you avoided me——” she began.
“Oh no—it has been you who avoided me,” protested Fitz.
“Oh, well, it’s very much the same,” wearily. “And I am sorry to say I misjudged you. I thought you were trying to make me feel that you had a hold over me. I must apologise for that. Then you give me back my promise?” she added suddenly.
“Not at all. I am keeping it for another time.”
“But that’s a trick. You are just as bad as I thought.”
“You must really imagine that I have a perfect mania for being refused. I have told you that I believe you’ll have me yet, and that I shall go on hoping until you do. Don’t you see that I’m keeping your promise in store solely out of consideration for you—to save you from the very unpleasant necessity of letting me know when you do make up your mind?”
“I believe—you are laughing at me!” said Mabel, in wounded and incredulous amazement.
“Laughing—I? Not a bit of it. Look at me and see. I am serious, if you are not. Well, you see, I have only got back the freedom of which I deprived myself at first. Say it was by a trick, if you like—though I didn’t intend it so—but I don’t think you need be afraid of the way I shall use it. I shan’t waste the promise, I assure you. Until the right time comes, I am nothing but your friend, and the promise is exactly as if it didn’t exist.”
“But,” protested Mabel, “you seem to expect me to—to——”
“Haven’t I just said that I want to save you from anything of the kind? You see, it’s not as if I had any number of opportunities to waste. I have only the one, and I don’t mean to use it until I can lay it out to good advantage.”
“Well,” said Mabel desperately, “I think you are most ungenerous. You want me to feel myself entirely dependent upon your forbearance—and you call yourself a gentleman!”
“Miss North, do you wish me to give you back your promise?”
“Yes, of course. Why not?”
“Because, if I do, you will naturally feel bound in honour to give me a hint when your feelings change. You couldn’t intend us both to go on in misery because my mouth was shut and you wouldn’t speak?”
“You seem to put me in the wrong at every turn,” sobbed Mabel. “Oh, I wish you would go away!” and he went.
Now, at least, Mabel ought to have been happy. But she was not. After assuring herself several times over that she hated Fitz, she proceeded to give the lie promptly to her assurances, while looking the situation in the face.
“He will make it depend on me,” she lamented to herself, “and it’s simple cowardice on his part, because he thinks I should refuse him again. Well, I know I said I should, but I meant to give him a little hope. As it is, I don’t like him to be so masterful, and I won’t give in. He has managed to get a horrible hold over me, but I will not let him see it. I won’t give in. Oh dear, why can’t he ask me properly? why can’t something happen to put things right? If he knew how I cared for him, I wonder whether he would say anything? But I am glad he doesn’t guess; yes, I—am—glad. If I let him see it, he would think he could ride roughshod over me ever after. No, he wouldn’t, he’s too generous, but I should hate his being generous at my expense. I suppose I don’t care for him enough, or I should be glad to give in. So it’s better as it is.”
She dried her eyes with great determination, whereupon another thought came immediately to fill them again with tears.
“What shall I do to-morrow morning? Each day I have thought, ‘Perhaps he will speak to-day!’ and now I know he won’t, unless I let him see in some way—but I won’t! I won’t! I won’t! What an idiot I am! I feel like the foolish woman who plucks down her house with her own hands. Oh, why has Georgie got everything and I nothing? But I have, of course. I have got Dick back again just as much as she has, and I suppose I don’t deserve anything more. But I don’t know why this particularly horrible thing should happen to me. It’s not as if I had ever led any one on—except poor Eustace. I did really flirt with him at first, so I suppose this is my punishment. If he knew he would say it was only just. But the rest—why, Captain Winlock or Mr Beltring or Captain Woodworth would propose to-morrow if I held up my little finger. I could have any of them I liked—except the right one. It would serve him right if I flirted with one of them now, and made him jealous—” she grew suddenly cheerful, for the idea pleased her. “I should like to make him miserable a little, after the way he has treated me, and I could do it so splendidly. But I suppose he was rather miserable when I was engaged to Eustace, and it would be distinctly hard on the other man. I never thought I was such a wretch,” with a repentant sigh, “but it was a temptation for the moment. And to think that I should be going on in this way when I ought to remember nothing but that Dick’s alive! I’m a perfect beast, and I will be glad. I’ll try and think only of Georgie, and perhaps I shan’t feel quite so miserable then. Oh dear, I wish there was some way of letting people know you were sorry without giving in!”
No such paradox offered itself, however, and suddenly remembering her duty, Mabel went to give Dick the message Fitz had brought from the men. A short time afterwards they filed into the courtyard, first the half who were off duty, and then those from the walls, who came as soon as they were relieved. On all of them Dick impressed his absolute command that the enemy should not be in any way informed of his return. The men were disappointed, for they had looked forward to publishing the tidings in one of those contests of scurrility in which they engaged at every opportunity, sometimes with the invisible defenders of General Keeling’s house, and sometimes with the rash spirits who crept up under the ramparts at night, risking their lives for the sole delight of taunting the garrison. But Dick’s word was law, and the Ressaldars assured him that nothing should leak out to give the enemy an inkling of what had happened. When they had retired, and the guards had been set for the night, a festal gathering took place in the inner courtyard. Georgia was carried into the verandah, and Mr and Mrs Hardy and Mabel and Flora brought out all the seats they could muster, and placed them round her couch; Colonel Graham, the doctor, and Fitz came in, and Dick related his adventures.
“There really is awfully little to tell,” he said, “because, you see, I was knocked silly at once, and I can only remember one moment in a whole long time. I suppose it was the evening of the fight in the Pass. I was being carried along by a lot of native women—at least, that is how I interpret the thing now, but at the moment I couldn’t tell what to make of it. It might have been rather weird if I had had time to think of that, but no sooner had I opened my eyes than the woman who was holding my feet saw that I was looking at her. She screamed and let me drop—that she might put on her veil, I suppose—but that finished me for the moment. I don’t remember anything more until I found myself in a cave, with an old fakir sitting a little way off, absorbed in meditation. I was too weak to talk, and I seem to have had visions of the cave and the old man, off and on, for hundreds of years. At last, when I had been sensible rather longer than usual, I managed to get out sufficient voice to ask him where I was. He told me I was in his cave, which was not much information, but I couldn’t think of anything else to ask him at the time. The next day I asked him how I had got there, and he said the Hasrat Ali Begum had sent and asked him to take care of me, and I had been let down into the cave by ropes from above. He evidently believed in letting his patients severely alone, for he pursued his meditations assiduously except when I worried him with my impertinent questions. I couldn’t think how I came to be there, and I hammered at him until he let out the truth. I daresay he was wiser not to tell me before, for as soon as the whole thing flashed upon me, I was mad to get away. You see, the old chap was so very holy that he had no disciples and never went out into the world, and even his food was brought to an appointed place by his admirers, and left there for him to fetch. He knew about the fight in the Pass, but he couldn’t say whether any of the escort had escaped, or whether this place had been taken by surprise and everybody wiped out. You may imagine the state I was in, and the threats and prayers and promises I lavished upon the old man, until he was at his wits’ end to know what to do with me. He preached me a long sermon one day upon patience and resignation, pointing out, first, that I must not think he bore me ill-will—quite the contrary, since I had saved him from being hung for murder in a very hard-sworn case when I first came here; second, that if he departed from his usual custom so far as to go out and ask the news, suspicion would immediately be excited, and I should be done for; third, that it was not he that was keeping me there, but the wounds I had got, which prevented me from moving.”
“I should think so!” cried Dr Tighe, unable to keep silence longer. “Ladies and gentlemen, the patient before you was as good as dead, ought by rights to be dead now, yet there he sits and talks. Will you think of it, Mrs North? This husband of yours has had a bullet actually through his heart. He’s a living miracle. The difference of the minutest fraction of an inch of space, the minutest fraction of a second of time, would have meant that you would be a widow at this moment. How it is you are not, I cannot explain—I tell you frankly. Though it may seem to the vulgar mind to reflect upon our common profession, I imagine that being let absolutely alone may have had something to do with it, but I can’t tell. Be thankful that you’ve got him back, and take good care of him in future.”
“I will; I will, indeed,” said Georgia fervently, squeezing Dick’s hand.
“I regard you with an evil eye, Major, I don’t deny it,” went on the doctor. “You’re a living falsification of every canon of surgery. You had no business to survive that wound, much less to live through the absence of treatment you met with. It’s a slap in Mrs North’s face, I call it, to say nothing of mine. But let us hear some more of your reprehensible proceedings.”
“Well,” said Dick, “I remember that sermon very well, because I was panting the whole time to get away. I thought that some day, when old Faiz-Ullah was saying his prayers, I might crawl past him, and slip out. I did manage to crawl to the entrance, though I thought I should have died in doing it, but when I got there I found only a precipice in front. At the side was a rope-ladder by which my elderly friend was accustomed to get to the spot where his food was left, but of course I could as soon have flown as climbed it. I simply lay there like a log, until the old fellow happened to miss me, and came to look. I must have got a touch of fever or sunstroke, for I had awful nightmares after that—oh, horrors and tortures beyond conception! Faiz-Ullah must have been frightened, for at last he made me understand that he had seen the Begum’s servant, and she was going to try and bring my wife to cure me. That set me off on a new tack. The horrors went on just the same, but Georgia was always there, on the other side of a gulf, and I couldn’t get at her. She knows how much I wanted her”—he stole a glance at Georgia, down whose face the tears were streaming—“but I don’t think any one else can ever guess how bad it was. Well, she didn’t come, as you know, but the old woman who had tried to fetch her sent me a message, which I suppose she took the trouble to invent, just to satisfy me. If I insisted upon it, Georgia would come, she said, but to reach me she must run the gantlet of so many dangers that it was scarcely possible she could get through. Was she to come? I’m thankful to remember that I had strength of mind enough to say she wasn’t to think of it. Of course she couldn’t get the message, but a man doesn’t like to feel——”
“Oh, Dick, as if I should have thought of the danger!” murmured Georgia.
“We know you didn’t, Mrs North,” said Colonel Graham, “and that’s why I agree with North that it’s a good thing he left off calling you.”
“I don’t know why,” said Dick, “but after that I was happier, somehow. I used to have the idea that Georgia was there, and we held long conversations”—Georgia’s eyes met Mabel’s significantly—“and so I grew better. Of course I was wild to get away, but there was always that rope-ladder, and the very thought of it turned me sick. Old Faiz-Ullah promised faithfully that in a few days he would help me up it, and escort me through the mountains to this place, so that I might get in if I could, and three nights ago he went to meet the Begum’s servant when she brought the food, intending to ask if they could find me a pony. But that night there was the worst earthquake I have ever felt”—the rest exchanged glances—“and he never came back. The noise was fearful, and as shock after shock came, I never for a moment expected to live through it. But the cave was not damaged, and when I crawled out in the morning, the rope-ladder was still there. I waited for the old man, but he did not come, and there was no food left. At last I decided that something must have happened to him, and I determined to make the attempt sooner than starve to death. I don’t know how long I hung between heaven and earth on that awful ladder, but I got to the top at last, and followed Faiz-Ullah’s track. Before very long I found him, poor old fellow! crushed under a fallen rock, qu