The Advanced-Guard

Penelope coloured. “I daresay it’s silly,” she said; “but that is how I feel.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
“FOR THINE AND THEE.”

About a year after Colonel Keeling’s marriage, there came a time when troubles crowded thick and fast upon the Alibad colony. An earthquake did terrible damage to the great irrigation-works, which were fast approaching completion; and when this was followed by unusually heavy winter rains, the result was a disastrous inundation. It was a new thing for Khemistan, and especially its northern portion, to be afflicted with too much rain instead of too little; but the change seemed to have the effect of making the climate even more unhealthy than usual. The European officers who rode from village to village distributing medicines and food, and encouraging the people to rebuild their houses and cultivate their spoilt fields afresh, fell ill one after the other; and there was almost as much sickness among the troopers of the Khemistan Horse, most of whom came from another part of India, and found the salt desert a land of exile. The alarm caused by the Nalapuri invasion had at last drawn the attention of the Government to Colonel Keeling’s reiterated requests for a larger force; and he had been allowed to raise a second regiment, which he was moulding vigorously into shape when the troubles began. It was these new men and their unacclimatised officers who went down so quickly, and must needs be invalided to the coast; and the Commandant found himself left with little more than his original force and European staff when the news came that Gobind Chand was threatening the frontier anew. From Gobind Chand’s point of view the move was a timely one, if not the only one possible to him, for the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, at the head of the young Amir’s troops, was shouldering him mercilessly out of Nalapur, quite content to leave to Colonel Keeling the task of dealing with him finally. By dint of avoiding a pitched battle, and presenting a resolute front to his pursuers, the ex-Vizier had contrived to keep his force almost intact, and a golden opportunity seemed to be presenting itself for dealing a blow at one of his chief enemies while he was already in difficulties.

So black was the outlook that Colonel Keeling thought it would be well to send the ladies down as far as the river, at any rate; but they rebelled, pointing out that such a step would cause the natives to despair of the British cause. Lady Haigh flatly refused to go; Penelope said she would go if her husband wished it, but entreated so piteously to be allowed to stay that he, dreading the journey for her, and little able to spare an escort, consented on the condition that she left off visiting the native town to take help to the sufferers there. After all, it was Lady Haigh who was seized with fever and had to be nursed by Penelope, and she was scarcely convalescent when the two husbands were obliged to leave Alibad once more under the protection of the ever-useful Fencibles, and march to the north-east to repel Gobind Chand. The old Hindu had developed a remarkable power of generalship at this stage in his career. He refused steadily to come out on the plains, or even to show his full strength in the hills. His plan was to lead the small British force a weary dance through broken country, eluding capture when it seemed inevitable that he must be caught, and watching for an opportunity of surprising the weary and dispirited troops.

But it was such an emergency as this that brought out the strongest points in Colonel Keeling’s character. To find in the ex-Vizier a foeman worthy of his steel sent his spirits up with a rush; and, as he had no intention of playing into Gobind Chand’s hands, a very short experience determined him to strike out tactics of his own. Somehow or other it became known in the British camp that Colonel Keeling felt considerable anxiety as to the good faith of Nalapur, now that he was so far from Alibad. What could be easier than for the Sheikh-ul-Jabal to swoop down on the practically defenceless town and level it with the ground? Hence it was very natural that the Commandant should divide his force, sending back the larger portion, under Major Porter, for the defence of the town, and retaining only one gun and a small number of troops for the pursuit of Gobind Chand. Whether Colonel Keeling had exercised his reputed powers, and actually detected spies among his camp-followers, or was merely making a bold guess, certain it is that two or three individuals who had attached themselves to the British force in order to assure the Commandant that the number of Gobind Chand’s adherents had been grossly exaggerated, contrived to become separated from it in the darkness, and by inadvertence, no doubt, to fall in with the enemy’s scouts, and relate what Kīlin Sahib was doing. Therefore, as Porter marched away with his force, and the dust of their passage was seen vanishing in the direction of Alibad, Gobind Chand was able to concentrate his men round the hollow in which the British camp lay. Incautious as Colonel Keeling might have been, he was not the man to be taken by surprise, and he broke camp in some haste, and effected a safe retreat. But this retreat was in itself an encouragement to the enemy—especially since the British force did not make for the plains, but seemed fated to wander farther into the hills—and Gobind Chand followed close upon its heels. At evening things looked very black for Colonel Keeling. He and his small body of men were holding a low hill which was commanded on all sides by higher hills. The valley surrounding it had only one opening, that to the north, by which he had entered, and across which Gobind Chand was now encamped, and it seemed quite clear that he had been caught in a cul-de-sac. He was clearly determined to fight to the last, however, for his men kept up a perfect pandemonium of noise at intervals all night. They fired volleys at imaginary enemies, performed trumpet fantasias at unseemly hours, and dragged their solitary gun, with much difficulty and noise, from place to place on the crest of the hill, apparently to find out where it would be of most service. In the morning Colonel Keeling looked at Sir Dugald and laughed.

“It’s Gobind Chand or me to-day,” he said. “If he doesn’t advance into the valley in half an hour, we are done.”

Before the specified time had elapsed, however, the vanguard of Gobind Chand’s force was pouring into the valley, the besieged keeping their gun for use later. Taking advantage of the cover afforded by the rocks with which the valley was strewn, the enemy, cautious in spite of their superiority of numbers, settled down to “snipe” at the hill-top. Colonel Keeling was radiant, and his men needed nothing to complete their happiness when they heard him muttering concerning “stainless Tunstall’s banner white,” “priests slain on the altar-stone,” “Fontarabian echoes,” and other things outside their ken. Suddenly, as he was making the round of the hill-top, and pushing his men down into cover, for the twentieth time, he found himself confronted by one of his own chaprasis from Alibad, who, with a respectfully immobile face, held forth a letter. The Commandant turned it over as if he was afraid to open it.

“How did you get here, Rahim Khan?” he asked.

“By a rope from the top of the cliff, sahib.”

“Fool! could the enemy see you?”

“Nay, sahib; I was hidden by this hill as I crossed the valley.”

No further reason for delay offering itself, Colonel Keeling turned his back upon the man and opened the letter. As he drew out the enclosure his hands shook and his dark face was white. As if by main force he unfolded the paper and held it before his eyes, which refused at first to convey any meaning to his mind:—

An exclamation of thankfulness broke from the Commandant, and he brushed something from his eyes before turning again to the chaprasi.

“There will be a hundred rupees for you when I return, Rahim Khan. You had no message but this?”

“One that the Memsahib’s ayah brought me, from her mistress’s own lips, sahib. It was this: Say to the Sahib, ‘Is it well with thee, as it is well with me?’”

“Then say this to the ayah: Tell the Memsahib, ‘It is well with me, since it is well with thee.’ Stay,” he wrote hastily on the back of the doctor’s note two or three lines from what Penelope always told him was the only one of Tennyson’s poems he could appreciate:—

“If you deliver that safely, it will mean another hundred rupees,” he said, giving the note to the chaprasi with a smile. “You had better be off at once. It will be pretty hot here presently.”

The man still lingered. “Is there going to be a battle, sahib?” he asked.

“Doesn’t it look like it?” Bullets were flying round Colonel Keeling as he spoke, and he laughed again.

“You are certain you are just going into battle, sahib?”

“Certain; but I am not asking you to go into it with me. Get out of the way of the bullets as fast as you like.”

Rahim Khan retired, but with dragging steps, and made his way slowly to Sir Dugald, who was in charge of the gun. To him he gave a second note, which he took from his turban. Sir Dugald tore it open, and for the moment his heart stood still, for he thought it referred to his own wife; but on turning it over he saw that it also was addressed to Colonel Keeling.

“How dare you give me this, when it is meant for the Colonel Sahib?” demanded Sir Dugald.

“I must have given the wrong chit, sahib,” and a third note was produced, this time addressed unmistakably to Sir Dugald.

“If the Karnal (Colonel) Sahib found that the dust of his feet had hidden the chit from him, he would be very angry,” murmured the apologetic voice of Rahim Khan, “but seeing it is Haigh Sahib who does it, his wrath will be appeased.”

“I see. You want to shift the responsibility from your shoulders to mine. Well, be off!” said Sir Dugald, with an uneasy laugh. He could scarcely meet Colonel Keeling’s eye when he hurried down to him a minute or two later, brimful of his good news, and anxious to be assured that Lady Haigh also was going on well; and he was grateful to Gobind Chand for choosing this juncture to launch a detachment of his men at the steepest, and therefore least defended, side of the hill.

“Now is our time!” cried Colonel Keeling, hurrying away. “You can fire the signal-shot, Haigh.”

The gun boomed forth, and the shot fell in the very opening of the valley, causing the rest of Gobind Chand’s men to rush forward, in the belief that they would be safer within the range of fire than at its limit, an idea which seemed to be justified by the fact that Sir Dugald left the gun as it was, instead of depressing the muzzle to cover the enemy actually in the valley. But as the besiegers, much encouraged, rushed forward with shouts to scale the hill, there came a sharp rattle of musketry from the cliffs which commanded it on both sides. The dark uniform of the Khemistan Horse showed itself against the grey and yellow of the rocks, and Porter on one side and Harris on the other became clearly visible as they ran along the ranks pushing down the muzzles of the carbines, and adjuring the men to fire low for fear of hitting the Colonel’s party. Then also the defenders of the hill, who had been lying hidden among the rocks, started up and poured their fire into the disorderly ranks of the besiegers, so that only one or two daring spirits survived to reach the summit and provoke a hand-to-hand fight with tulwars. Outwitted, and conscious that they, and not their opponents, were in a trap, Gobind Chand’s force remembered only that there was still a way of escape; and the wave which had surged three times halfway up the hill retreated sullenly, then broke in wild confusion, and rushed for the opening of the valley. But Sir Dugald was ready for them. His gun dropped shot after shot in the narrowest part of the passage, until a barrier of dead and dying barred those behind from attempting the deadly rush, and when the boldest had been able to persuade their more timid comrades, who stood huddled in a terrified mass, to make one last united effort to burst through, they found themselves confronted by a force composed of every alternate man of Porter and Harris’s commands. The heights were still occupied, the defenders of the hill had deployed and were advancing on them from behind, in front were stern faces and levelled carbines. There were no Ghazis with Gobind Chand, and the bulk of his followers were not particularly heroic by nature. They knew that their leader was wounded, and they threw down their arms and yelled for quarter. A narrow pathway was cleared beside the ghastly heap in the entrance of the valley, and they were made to step out man by man, and carefully searched, for notwithstanding their losses, they were still more than thrice as numerous as Colonel Keeling’s force. There was no question of letting them go, for this would have meant for them either a slow death by hunger or a swift one at the hands of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal; they were to be planted out, under strict supervision, in small colonies in different parts of Upper Khemistan, and they rather welcomed the prospect than otherwise.

It was long before the prisoners were all disarmed, their spoil collected, a meal provided for them, and the different bands set on the march, duly guarded, for their various destinations; and not until then did Sir Dugald venture to give Colonel Keeling the letter which was burning in his pocket. He saw the sudden fury in the Commandant’s eyes as he realised the truth, and braced himself to meet it.

“You—you dared to keep this from me all these hours?”

“It was her wish. She made Tarleton promise.”

Colonel Keeling turned and shouted for his horse. “I will never forgive you if anything goes wrong!” He flung the words at Sir Dugald as he mounted, then clattered furiously down the rocky track, followed by his orderlies. One of them fell from his saddle exhausted before half the distance was covered, the horse of the other broke down when Alibad was barely in sight; but about sunset a desperate man rode a black horse white with foam at breakneck speed through the streets, and reined up precipitately in the compound of Government House. The servants, gathered in whispering groups, fell away from him as he sprang up the steps, but the old khansaman ventured to speak as he saw his master pause to unbuckle the sword which clanked behind him.

“It is not necessary, sahib,” he murmured humbly; but Colonel Keeling looked straight through him, laid the sword noiselessly on a chair, and went on, to be met by Dr Tarleton, who caught him by the arm.

“Keeling, wait! There were bad symptoms, you know——”

His friend brushed him aside as if he had been a feather, stepped past the weeping ayah, who threw herself on her knees before him and tried to sob out something, swept back the curtain from the doorway and crossed the room at a stride, then fell as one dead beside the dead form of his wife, in whose hand was still clenched the note he had scribbled on the battlefield.

There he remained for hours, his arms outstretched across the bed, no one venturing to disturb him, until Lady Haigh, her eyes bright with fever, tottered into the room, and laid a hot hand on his shoulder.

“Come!” she said. “Colonel Keeling, you must. She would have wished it. You must change your clothes and have something to eat, and then you must see the baby—Penelope’s baby.”

She could hardly bring her trembling lips to utter the name, but it disarmed the angry protest she had read in his face. The child which had cost Penelope’s life! how could he regard it with anything but aversion? but how she had loved to think of it, planned for it, worked for it! He turned to Lady Haigh.

“I will see the—the child at once, if you please, that you may feel more at ease. Then Tarleton must take you in hand. Haigh must not be left alone, as I am.”

The ayah stood in the doorway, with a curiously wrapped-up bundle in her arms. Lady Haigh took it from her, and started in surprise, for on the child’s forehead was a large black smudge, something in the shape of a cross.

“Who did this?” she asked sharply. “Please take her, Colonel Keeling. My arms are so weak.”

“My Memsahib did it herself,” whimpered the ayah sullenly, with a frightened glance towards the bed.

“Nonsense, Dulya! Make her say what it is,” she appealed to Colonel Keeling.

“Speak!” he said, in the tone which no native ever disobeyed.

“It was shortly before the—the end, sahib, and Haigh Sahib’s Mem had swooned, so that the Doctor Sahib was busy with her, and my Memsahib, who had the baba lying beside her, asked me for water. Then I brought it, and she made that mark which the Sahib sees, on the baba’s forehead, and uttered a spell in the language of the Sahibs, saying ‘Jājia! Jājia!’ very loud. Then I saw that she was making a charm to avert the evil eye from the baba, but that her soul was even then departing, so that she used water instead of something that could be seen. Therefore, when she was dead, I made the mark afresh with lamp-black, saying ‘Jājia! Jājia!’ as my Memsahib had done, that her wish might be fulfilled. But the English words I knew not. Perhaps the Sahib can say them?” she added anxiously.

“What can it mean?” asked Lady Haigh, who had dropped into a chair.

“She was baptising her,” said Colonel Keeling simply. “Poor little Georgia—Penelope’s baby!”

“Surely she must have meant Georgiana or Georgina?” suggested Lady Haigh, delighted to see him interested in the child.

“No, it was a fancy of hers, she told me so once. She wanted to name it after me, but she didn’t wish people to think my name was George.” He spoke with a laugh which was more like a sob.

“I know. She had a dislike to the name.” Lady Haigh knew well why this was. “She would never even call you St George, I noticed.”

He bent over the child to hide the working of his face, and kissed its forehead. “It’s not even like her,” he said, as he gave it back to Lady Haigh.

“No; she was so pleased it was like you. Colonel Keeling, don’t steel your heart against the poor little thing! Think how Penelope loved it. I know she hoped it would comfort you.”

“Nothing can comfort me,” he answered; then added quickly, “Lady Haigh, do me one more kindness. Keep the servants, Tarleton, every one—away from me to-night. They will want to take her away from me in the morning, I know. I must stay beside her to-night.”

The strong man’s humble entreaty touched Lady Haigh inexpressibly. She offered no further remonstrance, but signed to the ayah to depart, and drawing the curtain behind her, left him alone with his dead. She gave the servants their orders, which they obeyed thankfully enough, induced even Dr Tarleton to retire, sorely against his will, to his own quarters, and crept wearily into her palki to go home. She had risen from her sick-bed to return to the house of mourning, drawn thither by a horrified whisper from her own ayah to the effect that “the Karnal Sahib had fallen dead on beholding the body of the Memsahib,” and she knew that she would pay dearly for the imprudence. But unutterable pity for the desolate man and the motherless child quenched all thought of self.

Silence reigned throughout the great house, whence the servants had departed to their quarters. Even the watchman had been forbidden to occupy his accustomed post on the verandah, and in the absence of the regiment and the general disorganisation, no one had thought of posting any sentries about the compound. The sounds in the town died out by degrees, until only the occasional distant howl of a jackal broke the stillness. Colonel Keeling did not hear it, any more than he did a stealthy footfall which crossed the compound. The old khansaman, crouching, contrary to orders, in a corner of the side verandah, heard the step, and covered his head in an agony of terror. Was not the Sahib seeking to recall the Memsahib’s soul to her body? and was it not returning? But Colonel Keeling heard nothing, until the curtain was drawn aside by a hasty hand, and a man stood in the doorway looking at him, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment. For a moment both men gazed at each other, then a change passed over Colonel Keeling’s face which was terrible to see. Deliberately he drew the sheet over his wife’s face, then crossed the room and hurled himself upon the intruder.

“You—you!” he snarled, forcing him back into the hall. “Was there no grave in Gamara deep enough to hide your shame that you must bring it back here?”

The other man struggled in his grasp a moment, then, realising that his adversary was endowed with a mad strength before which his efforts were like those of a child, submitted to be forced down upon the floor. Colonel Keeling stooped over him with murder in his eyes.

“What have you to say before I kill you as you deserve—traitor, renegade, Judas?” he hissed.

“Nothing—except to thank you for saving me the job,” was the reply, spoken with difficulty, for a hand was on the prostrate man’s throat. The grip was loosed, and Colonel Keeling rose to his feet and stood glaring at him, his fists clenched at his sides.

“You’re right. The job is not one I care for. You can go, and relieve the earth of your presence yourself.”

“Don’t be afraid. Life is not so delightful as to make me cling to it. Yes; I’m down. Kick me again if you like.”

“Go, while I can keep my hands off you, will you?”

“Tell me where to find Colin Ross, and I will. He’s not at his old quarters, and I don’t think he would turn his back—even on me.”

“You miserable hypocrite! At his old quarters? when you stood by to see him martyred in the palace square at Gamara! Don’t try to throw dust in my eyes. I know the whole story.”

But the man sat up with a look of genuine horror. “On my honour, Keeling—good God! what can I swear by to make you believe me?—I know nothing of this. Tell me what you mean. When did it happen?”

“Less than a year after you disappeared. Colin went to find you—rescue you——” In spite of himself, Colonel Keeling was moved by the terror on the man’s face. “He was denounced by your friend Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq, imprisoned and tortured, then beheaded because he would not turn Mussulman and enter the Khan’s army. You were present, in command of the troops. You saw it all.”

“That was not Colin. That was Whybrow. Now I know what you mean.”

“Whybrow—whom you went to save?”

“And did not. Yes. But where is Colin?” he broke out fiercely. “You say he arrived at Gamara, was imprisoned—you know this? It is not merely a rumour of Whybrow’s fate? Then he must be there now—in the dungeon where I saw Whybrow——” his voice fell.

“No, no, he could not have lived so long—if all they say is true.”

“How do you know what a man can bear and live? You despise me, and abuse me, but you have never had the choice given you between Islam and being eaten alive by rats in an infernal hole underground. That is where Colin is—and that’s what Fazl-ul-Hacq meant when he was dying. There was some order he wished to give, and did not want me to hear, but he couldn’t get it out—curse him! If Colin had died or been killed, I should have heard of it. And that is where I shall be if I can live to get back there.”

“You mean to save him?” Colonel Keeling’s voice had taken a different tone.

“There is no saving any one from the dungeons of Gamara. But I can die with him. Was there no one”—with sudden fierceness—“who had common humanity enough to put that fellow in irons, or send him home as a lunatic, instead of letting him come after me? He was bound to be a martyr, but to let him rush upon his death in that—that way!”

He stopped in shuddering disgust, then laughed wildly.

“And how has the world gone with you, Keeling? Got your promotion, I see, but not exempt from trouble any more than the rest of us! But what mild, milk-and-water, bread-and-butter lives you lead down here! You should come to Gamara to see what primitive human passions are like.”

“Will you go?” asked Colonel Keeling, putting a strong constraint upon himself.

“You might let me have a word or two with the only Englishman I shall see till Colin and I meet among the rats in the well! Any messages for Colin? I suppose Penelope has forgotten us both long ago?”

“If you mention her name again I will kill you.” Colonel Keeling’s grip was on his throat once more. “She is lying there dead—dead, do you hear? and all the trouble in her life was due to you. Go!” and he released him with a thrust which sent him reeling against one of the pillars of the hall. But the shock seemed to have calmed him.

“Dead—just now? She married you, then? I found all the place deserted—I didn’t know. Sometimes I think my mind is going. If you knew what my life has been in that hell——! Forgive me, Keeling. I am going. Wish me good luck!”

“God help you!” said Colonel Keeling fervently.

CHAPTER XXVII.
AFTER TOIL—TOIL STILL.

Nearly three years after Penelope’s death, Sir Dugald rode into Alibad as a stranger. The long illness which followed on Lady Haigh’s exertions on behalf of her friend so exhausted her strength that she was ordered a voyage to the Cape as the only hope of saving her life, and despite her frantic protests, her husband applied for two years’ leave and took her there, much as an unrelenting warder might convey a reluctant prisoner to his doom. He was rewarded by an opportunity of seeing service in one of the perennial Kaffir Wars of the period as galloper to the general commanding, which served also to mitigate his disappointment at being absent when a little war, outside the borders of Khemistan, gave to Colonel Keeling the local rank of Brigadier-General, and to the Khemistan Horse the chance of distinguishing themselves beyond the bounds of their own district. Mr Crayne had retired, and his successor proved to be that rare being, a civilian who could make himself liked and trusted by his military subordinates—one, moreover, who knew and appreciated the work which had been done on the Khemistan frontier, and was anxious for its continuance. The development of the resources of the country, at which Major Keeling had so long laboured single-handed, was now pressed forward in every possible way; and Sir Dugald, as he rode, noted the handsome bazars which had replaced some, at least, of the old rows of mud huts, and the growth of the cantonments, which testified to an increase in the European population. The trees which he had seen planted were now full grown, the public gardens were worthy of their name, and there was nothing warlike in the aspect of the weather-beaten old fort, which seemed as if the passage of years would reduce it by slow degrees to a heap of mud grown over with bushes.

Fronting the fort, but almost hidden by the trees with which it was surrounded, stood General Keeling’s house, and Sir Dugald rode into the compound, to be saluted with evident pleasure by several of the servants, who came to ask after the Memsahib. As he entered the well-known office, he had a momentary glimpse of a grey-haired man in shirt-sleeves, writing as if for dear life, and then General Keeling jumped up and welcomed him joyfully.

“How are you, Haigh? Delighted to see you, but never thought of expecting you till to-morrow. You haven’t dragged Lady Haigh up-country at this pace, I hope?”

“No, sir; I left her at the river. The fact is, Mr Pater wants me to go on with the steamer.”

“And not come here at all? Why, man, your house is all ready for you.” The bright look of welcome had gone from General Keeling’s face, leaving it painfully old and worn. “But I know what it is. King John”—alluding to the imperious ruler of a neighbouring province—“wants more men.”

“He does, and he asks specially for gunners. It’s by no wish of mine, General; but the Commissioner is anxious to send every man we can spare. The news doesn’t improve.”

“No, of course not. How could it? Haven’t I been telling them for thirty years that we should have to reconquer India if they didn’t mend their ways, and they only called me croaker and prophet of evil? Well, time brings about its revenges. For the last ten years John would cheerfully have seen me hanged on the nearest tree of my own planting, and now he steals my officers to keep his province quiet. Go, Haigh, certainly; and every man I can spare shall go, as Pater says. We have got lazy and luxurious up here of late. It’ll do some of these youngsters good to go back to the old days, when a man’s life and the fate of the province depended on his eye and his sword. Not but that I have a fine set of young fellows just now. They all want to come up here—flattering, isn’t it?—and I have to thin ’em out.” He laughed, and so did Sir Dugald, who had heard strange tales of the General’s methods of weeding out the recruits who offered themselves to him. “But how long can you stay, Haigh? Only to-night? Oh, nonsense! Where are your things?”

“I left them at Porter’s, sir.”

“How dare you? I’ll have them fetched away at once. Send a chit to Porter, and say I’ll break him if he tries to detain them. But tell him to come to dinner, and we’ll have Tarleton and Harris and Jones, and yarn about the old times—all of us that are left of the old lot.”

He broke off with an involuntary sigh, and Sir Dugald wrote his note. Presently General Keeling turned to him with a twinkle in his eye. “Don’t tell Lady Haigh on any account, but I can’t help feeling relieved that she isn’t coming up just yet. I know she’ll want to give me good advice about my little Missy there, and Tarleton and I are so sinfully proud of the way we have brought her up that we won’t stand any advice on the subject.”

Surprised, Sir Dugald followed the direction of his eyes, to see in a corner, almost hidden by a huge despatch-box, a small girl with a curious pink-and-white frock and a shock of dark hair.

“She would play there quietly all day, never coming out unless I call her,” said General Keeling. “If she isn’t with me, she’s with Tarleton, watching him at his work. He gives her an old medicine-bottle or two, and some sand and water, and she’s as happy as possible, pretending to make up pills and mixtures. Or she begs a bit of paper from me, and writes for ever so long, and brings it to me to be sealed up in an official envelope—making up returns, you see. Missy,” raising his voice, “come here and speak to Captain Haigh. He held you in his arms when you were only two or three days old, and you have often heard about him in your Godmamma’s letters.”

The child obeyed at once, disclosing the fact that her embroidered muslin frock (which Sir Dugald had a vague recollection had been sent her by his wife) had been lengthened and adorned by the tailor at his own discretion by the addition of three flounces of common pink English print. She held out a little brown hand to the stranger in silence.

“Does us credit, doesn’t she?” asked her father, smoothing back the elf-locks from her forehead. Sir Dugald’s domestic instincts were in revolt at the idea of the child’s being brought up by two men, without a woman at hand even to give advice; but there was such anxiety in General Keeling’s voice that he crushed down his feelings and ventured on the remark that Missy was a very fine girl for her age.

“We are not very successful with her hair,” the father went on. “The ayah tries to curl it, but either Missy is too restless, or Dulya doesn’t know quite the right way to set about it. It never looks smooth and shiny like children’s hair in pictures.”

Sir Dugald wisely waived the question, feeling that he was not an authority on the subject. “Can she—isn’t she—er—old enough to talk?” he asked, with becoming diffidence.

“Talk! you should hear her chattering to Tarleton and me, or to her favourites in the regiment. But she doesn’t wear her heart upon her sleeve with strangers. If she takes a liking to you, it’ll be different presently.”

“Do you let her run about among the men?”

“She runs nowhere out of my sight or Tarleton’s or Dulya’s. But the whole regiment are her humble slaves, and the man she deigns to favour is set up for life, in his own opinion. What would happen if she took a dislike to a man I don’t know, but I hardly think his skin would be safe. Commendation from me is nothing compared with the honour conferred by the Missy Baba when she allows a stiff-necked old Ressaldar to take her up in his arms, and is good enough to pull his beard.”

“She is absurdly like you, General,” said Sir Dugald, disapproval of what he had just heard making itself felt in his tone, in spite of himself, while Missy rubbed her rough head against her father’s sleeve like a young colt.

“Horribly like me,” returned General Keeling emphatically. “Run away and play, Missy. I can scarcely see a trace of her mother in her,” he went on, with something of apology in his voice. “You know what my wife was—that she couldn’t bear me out of her sight. I changed the arrangement of this room, you remember, because she liked to be able to see me through the open doors from where she sat, so that I could look up and nod to her now and then. But Missy is almost like a doll, that you can put away when you don’t want it, she’s so quiet in that corner of hers. No; there is one thing in which she is like her mother. If you say a hasty word to her, she will go away and break her heart over it in her corner, instead of flaring up as I should do——”

“Or writing furious letters?” suggested Sir Dugald slily.

General Keeling smiled, but refused to be turned from his own train of thought. “Haigh,” he said earnestly, “take care of your wife while you have her. Mine took half my life with her when she went. If you could imagine for one moment the difference—the awful difference—it makes, you would go down on your knees and implore your wife’s pardon for everything you had ever done or said that could possibly have hurt her, and beg her not to leave you.”

“Oh, we rub along all right,” said Sir Dugald hastily, in mortal fear that the Chief was going to be sentimental. “Elma takes everything in good part. She understands things almost as well as a man.”

General Keeling smiled again, rather pityingly. Perhaps he had some idea of the lofty tolerance with which Lady Haigh would have heard the utterance of this handsome testimony. “My little Missy and I understand one another better than that,” he said.

“Do you think of taking her home soon?” asked Sir Dugald.

“Not of taking her home. My home is here. I suppose I must send her home some day—not yet, happily. If there was only her present happiness and mine to consider, I would never part from her, but dress her in boy’s clothes and take her about with me wherever I went.”

“Heaven forbid!” said Sir Dugald devoutly.

“Don’t be an old woman, Haigh,” was the crushing rejoinder. “What harm could come to her where I was—and when the whole regiment would die before a hair of her head should be touched? But Tarleton thinks it would tell against the girl when she grew up, and I remember my own youth too well to subject her to the same sort of thing. No, I shall get your wife or some other good woman to take her home and hand her over to her mother’s friend, Miss Marian Arbuthnot. You must have heard Lady Haigh speak of her? They all studied together at that College of theirs, and now Miss Arbuthnot has a school or seminary, or whatever they call it, of her own.”

“Surely her views are very advanced?” Sir Dugald ventured to suggest.

“I am glad they are. I hope they are. If it should turn out, when Missy grows up, that she has a turn for doctoring, I shall beg Miss Arbuthnot to cultivate it, if it can be done. There’s a lady doctor in America, you know, and I hope there’ll be another here.”

Sir Dugald looked the dismay he felt. “So unwomanly—so unbefitting a lady!” he murmured.

“Do you mean to tell me that her mother’s daughter could be anything but a perfect lady?”

“Considering that she will have been brought up by Tarleton and yourself, sir, I should say she would be more likely to turn out a perfect gentleman,” said Sir Dugald gravely, and General Keeling laughed aloud.

“Well,” he said, “there’s no need to settle Missy’s future as yet, and she will choose for herself, of course. After all, my motives are purely selfish. Do you know that our only trustworthy friend in Nalapur is that excellent woman, the Moti-ul-Nissa, young Ashraf Ali’s sister? Well, you remember what a little spitfire she was as a girl, when you and I saw her. Her friendliness dates entirely from the time when your wife and mine took refuge at Sheikhgarh, and my wife won the young lady’s heart by showing her what to do for her sick brother. Think what a prop it would be to our influence here if there was a properly trained lady who could win the hearts of other women in the same way!”

“You want to see Missy a female politician, then?”

“I want to see her able to get at these unfortunate secluded women and find out what their real views and wishes are. The Moti-ul-Nissa has about the wisest head in Nalapur, but her wisdom might as well be in the moon for all I hear of it until after the event. Her brother is altogether under the influence of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal, and the old man can’t forgive me because I pointed out to him that the same person could not be head of his sect and Amir of Nalapur. He has had to adopt the younger brother as his spiritual successor instead of the elder, and he would like to pay me out; but the Moti-ul-Nissa does all she can for us. That rascal Hasrat Ali leads her a life. Her children have died one after the other, and the brute would divorce her if he dared. The poor woman always sends to inquire after Missy when I am at Nalapur, and I should like to send her to see her, but I daren’t. You never know whose agents may be among the crowds of women in those big zenanas, and I can’t run any risks with Missy. But think what it will be when she grows up, if she cares enough for the poor creatures to do what she can to help them!”

“I shall think more of her if she does what she can to help you, sir,” said Sir Dugald obstinately. “But I suppose this grudge of the Sheikh-ul-Jabal’s means that there is no hope of a treaty with Nalapur for the present?”

“None, so far as I can see, which is a bore, just when our authorities have been wrought up to the proper pitch. Pater will back me at the right moment, and we can offer the Amir a handsome subsidy if he will keep the passes open and let caravans pass freely, and allow us to station a resident at his capital. Of course that means practically that we guarantee his frontiers, but have power to move troops through his territory in case of a land invasion; and the increased stability it would give to his throne would make it well worth his while. The Sheikh and I are trying to tire each other out; but I mean to have that treaty if I live long enough, and the Moti-ul-Nissa will throw her influence on my side. When one has served one’s apprenticeship one begins to understand the ins and outs of these Asian mysteries.”

“Talking of mysteries,” said Sir Dugald, “have you ever heard anything more as to Ferrers’ fate after—the night you saw him?”

General Keeling’s face changed. “Strangely enough, I have,” he said; “but whether the story is true we shall probably never know for certain. I had it from a Gamari Jew who came to me in secret, and was divided between fear of his life if it ever became known what he had done, and anxiety to wring the uttermost pie out of me for his information. I took down the account from his own lips, and have it here.” He unlocked a drawer and took out a paper, glanced across at the corner to make sure that Missy was engrossed in her own affairs, and leaning towards Sir Dugald, began to read in a low voice:—

“‘I was in the city of Gamara a year ago, when there was much talk concerning Firoz Khan, the Farangi chief of his Highness’s bodyguard, who had disappeared. Some said he had been secretly slain, others that he had been sent on a private errand by his Highness. One day there was proclamation made throughout the city that two men were to be put to death in the palace square,—one a Christian, the other one who had embraced Islam and relapsed into his idolatry. Many desired to see the sight, and among those that found standing-room in the square was I. Now when the prisoners were led forth there was much astonishment among the people, for one of them was Firoz Khan; and those that looked upon him said that he bore the marks of torture. And the other was an old man and bent, blind also, and walking with difficulty, who they said had dwelt in the dungeons for many years. It was noticed that no offer of life was made to these prisoners, nor were any questions put to them; moreover, his Highness’s face was black towards every one on whom his eye lighted. But the prisoners spoke to one another in English,—which tongue I understand, having studied it in India,—and the one said, “I am a Christian, and a Christian I die,” and the other, kissing him upon the forehead, said, “George, we shall meet in Paradise, in the presence of God,” and turning to the people he cried, in a voice of extraordinary strength: “Tell the English that this man, who for his life’s sake gave up Christ, now for Christ’s sake gives up his life.” And when his voice was heard there fell a terror on the people, for they said it was a young Farangi that had long ago disappeared, whom they counted to be inspired of God, and there arose murmurings, so that his Highness commanded the executioners to do their duty at once; and the heads of the two men were struck off with a great sword, and their bodies foully dealt with, as is the wont in Gamara. I know no more concerning them.’”

General Keeling ceased reading, and his eyes and Sir Dugald’s met. For a moment neither spoke.

“I suppose there can’t be much doubt that it’s true?” said Sir Dugald at last.

“None, I should say; but we can’t expect positive proof.”

“It’s a curious thing,” said Sir Dugald, with some hesitation, “but when I told my wife, on the voyage to the Cape, what you had told me about Ferrers’ turning up again, she said at once that she believed poor Ross was alive still. She meant to tell you herself—it didn’t seem quite the sort of thing to write about—but when she was watching beside Mrs Keeling the day she died, she saw her smile when they thought she was insensible, and heard her say quite strongly, ‘They are all there, my father and mother, and my little sister who died—all waiting for me, but not Colin. Elma, where is Colin?’ My wife said something—you know the sort of thing women would say in answer to a thing of the kind—but when she thought it over, it occurred to her that it must mean Ross was not dead. That again is no proof, of course, but it’s curious.”

“Very strange,” agreed General Keeling. “Haigh, the more I think of it, the more I feel certain the Jew’s story was true. What conceivable motive could the man have for inventing it? He didn’t know that I had any particular interest in the poor fellows. Poor fellows! it’s blasphemy to call them that. Colin was a true martyr, if ever man was, and as for Ferrers——”

“Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it,” supplied Sir Dugald.

“Nothing; but what a miracle it seems that he was able to seize the chance! I sometimes ask myself whether I could have done what either of them did—lived out those years of martyrdom like Colin, or gone back to certain torture and death like Ferrers. We are poor creatures, Haigh, the best of us, and those of whom we expect least sometimes shame us by what they do. Well, they have seen the end of it now, I suppose—‘in Paradise, in the presence of God.’ As for me,” he added with a half-laugh, as he turned to lock up the paper again, “I’m afraid I shouldn’t be happy, even in Paradise, if I couldn’t take a look at the frontier now and then, and make sure it was getting on all right. Why, Missy, what do you want?”

The little girl had crept up to them as they talked, and was standing with something clasped to her breast, looking in wonder at their moved faces. As her father spoke, she held out shyly to Sir Dugald a large octagonal tile, covered with a beautiful iridescent glaze, in a peculiarly delicate shade of turquoise. “For Godmamma,” she said, and retreated promptly.

“Why, Missy, isn’t that the slab on which you mix your medicines?” asked her father, capturing her. A nod was the only answer. “It’s one of her greatest treasures,” he explained to Sir Dugald. “The men find them sometimes in the ruined forts round here, but it’s very seldom they come on one unbroken, and the man who found this one brought it to her. You really want your Godmamma to have it, Missy?” Another nod. “Well, Haigh, I wouldn’t burden you with it if I didn’t think Lady Haigh would really like it. These things are thought a good deal of.”

“Certainly I will take it to her,” answered Sir Dugald. “I am sure she will like it because Missy sent it.”

The response was unexpected, for Missy wriggled away from her father’s arm, and held up her face to Sir Dugald to be kissed.

“That ought to be gratifying,” said General Keeling, laughing. Both men were perhaps not ungrateful to the child for diverting their thoughts from the tragedy with which they had been busied.

“Gratifying, sir? It’s better than millions of the brightest diamonds to be kissed by Miss Georgia Keeling.”

“As fond of Dickens as ever, I see. What should we do without him? But you and Missy certainly ought to be friends, for she knew all about Paul Dombey long ago. The doll your wife sent her is called Little Paul, and drags out a harrowing existence of all kinds of diseases complicated with gunshot-wounds, according to the cases Tarleton has in hospital. Sometimes I am cheered by hearing that he ‘ought to pull through,’ but generally he is following his namesake to an early grave. But I see your things have come, and you will like to see your quarters. This visit is a great pleasure, believe me, and I only wish it was going to be longer.”

There was no further word of regret, but Sir Dugald realised keenly the disappointment that his friend was feeling. When they were breakfasting together the next day, just before his departure, he essayed a word of comfort.

“If things get much worse, General, we shall have you fetched down with the regiment to help in putting them right.”

General Keeling’s eye kindled, but he shook his head. “No, Haigh, my work lies up here. It would be too much to ride with the regiment through a mob of those cowardly, pampered Bengalis—too much luck for me, I mean. I have made out a list for Pater of the men I can afford to send on by the next steamer, and I must stay and do their work. I’m glad you will get your chance at last. John is a just man—like most of us when our prejudices don’t stand in the way—and his recommendations will be attended to. His is the show province, not left out in the cold like poor Khemistan. I only wish you and all the rest could have got your steps for the work you have done here; but at least I can keep the frontier quiet while you have the chance of getting them elsewhere.”

He stood on the verandah a little later, tall and bronzed and grey-headed, as Sir Dugald rode out at the gate. Beside him Missy, raised high on the shoulder of Ismail Bakhsh, with one hand clenched firmly in his beard, waved the other frantically in farewell. Reduced in numbers, the Advanced-Guard held the frontier still.

[The End]

FOOTNOTES.

[1] Syads are descendants of the Khalif Ali by the daughter of Mohammed, Khojas his descendants by other wives.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES.

Sydney C. Grier was the pseudonym of Hilda Caroline Gregg.

This book is part of the author’s “Modern East” series. The full series, in order, being: