The Warden of the Marches

And thus it came to pass that there was yet another night in which Georgia and Flora, unable to sleep, sat together in one of the bleak rooms of the Sarai, and held each other’s hands in an agony of fear and anxiety, while Mabel stole in at intervals from her watch beside Fitz to ask whether there was any news yet. Over and over again the anxious watchers persuaded themselves that they could hear the sound of firing echoed across the miles of desert which separated them from Dera Gul, and on each occasion they assured one another that the idea was absurd. Mrs Hardy came in several times to scold them for sitting up, twice spoiling the effect of her rebukes by administering hot coffee as a corrective, but she knew as well as they did that they could not bring themselves to face the solitude of their own rooms. At last, just as day was breaking, a messenger came from the signal officer at the camp to say that flash-signals of some sort were visible to the eastward, but the mists of the morning made it impossible to read them properly. There was still an hour or so more of weary waiting, and then Dick and Haycraft rode in together, the latter with his arm in a sling. He had been knocked from one of the scaling-ladders by a stone hurled at him, and the bone was broken, but otherwise he was only bruised. And what did even a broken arm signify, when there was victory at last?

“It was just as we thought,” Dick told Georgia. “As soon as we were inside the cave, I saw the door begin to come down—shutting out the stars, don’t you know? and a voice called out to us to surrender. But just when the door ought to have descended with a crash, it made a grating noise instead, and stuck fast, for the stones were piled about four feet high on each side. The enemy saw the dodge in a moment, and opened fire through the holes up above, but as we were all in the dark, it was a pretty wild affair. Two or three were wounded, and from the back of the cave came an awful scream—a woman’s scream. It was that wretched Jehanara, who had tried to escape up the staircase, and was shot down by mistake. So now we shall never know—or rather, the General won’t—whether she was deceived herself, or deceiving us. Then, as we got out of the place, we heard the sound of the attack on the other side, and we raced round to take part in it. Our men were already in at the breach the shells have made, and by the time we got up they were fighting hand to hand inside. We pressed the garrison back from point to point, until we came to the zenana. It seems that Bahram Khan had talked big about killing all his women before the end came, but his plucky old mother didn’t quite see it. She and the rest barricaded themselves in, all except Bahram Khan’s wife Zeynab, and kept him out. The fellow made a great fuss about breaking down the barricade, and went off to find a hammer or pickaxe or something to do it with, but we got there first. The men he had left fought to the last in front of the barricade, and behind it the old Begum held out stoutly until I came up, when she surrendered at discretion. Then we found out from one of our wounded that Bahram Khan and his wife had got away through the cave, with either two or three of his men, so that he is still at large, though the place is in our hands. Of course the regiment is scouring the country for him, and the tribes are all thirsting for the reward that will be offered, but it is a horrid bother.”

“Zeynab will scarcely be the help to him that Jehanara would have been,” said Georgia.

“No, but I don’t like his being loose. I shall get them to post a sentry at the gate here, as well as the Sikh at Burgrave’s door, and none of you must go outside without an escort. Mab mustn’t try any more of her adventurous rides.”

“Why, Dick, there’s no one for her to ride with at present.”

“No more there is, happily. Well, I shall be thankful if her devotion to Anstruther lasts long enough to keep her between walls just now. Bahram Khan driven desperate would be an ugly customer to meet out in the open.”

It was a source of considerable relief to Dick to learn that at this particular time Mabel was less likely than ever to quit her charge. Two or three days before, she had astonished Dr Tighe by demanding to be allowed to assist in dressing the patient’s burns. The doctor, who had contrived, with what he regarded as almost superhuman cunning, always to accomplish this process at a time when she was not on duty, was much perplexed by the request.

“Trust me,” he urged; “I’ll let you help as soon as it’s desirable.”

Mabel shook her head. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I want to know the worst while he is still unconscious. I think I can trust myself not to make any sign, but I am not sure, and if it is very dreadful—oh, it would break my heart if he thought I shrank from him because of his scars!”

“But, my dear young lady, that’s all the more reason for waiting. The wounds will be far less painful to look at when they are a little more healed.”

“That’s just it. If I see them now, at their worst, I can’t be horrified afterwards. I want to be able to judge of the improvement, so that I may cheer him if he thinks he is not getting on.”

Dr Tighe muttered fiercely to himself, but yielded at last, and allowed Mabel to act as his assistant at the next dressing. She thought she had schooled herself to bear the worst, but in spite of all her resolutions she shrank and shivered involuntarily when she realised the frightful change in the dark handsome face she had always secretly admired. Dr Tighe, going about his work with swift, practised fingers, said nothing, and pretended not to notice the drops of water which splashed upon him from the basin she held.

“Will he—can he ever look at all as he did?” she asked in a whisper at last.

“If things turn out as I hope, he will look no worse than a man who is badly marked with smallpox. There will be two or three ugly seams—here, and here”—he indicated the precise spots lightly with a finger-tip—“but the hair will help to cover them when it grows again, and if the mouth is much disfigured—why, you must lay your commands upon the patient to grow a beard.”

Mabel was crying. “Oh, it is too dreadful, too dreadful!” she sobbed.

“Then you had better leave the sick-room to me before he recovers consciousness. There’s no need to make things worse for him by raising false hopes. Either stick to him, disfigurements and all, or don’t let him know that he ever had the chance of marrying you.”

“It’s not for myself; it’s for him!” flashed forth Mabel. “Stick to him? of course I shall. He himself is not changed. But I can’t be too thankful that I have seen him like this. At least I know the worst.”

Again the doctor was puzzled. Was she forcing herself to keep faith, for shame or pity’s sake, or was she really in love still? He did not attempt to argue the matter with her, and nothing more was said on the subject for a day or two. Then the doctor stopped Mabel one morning at the door of the sick-room.

“One moment, Miss North. Has the patient ever exhibited any signs of consciousness in your presence—tried to speak, or anything of the sort?”

“Never,” said Mabel, in surprise. “I should have told you if he had.”

“I didn’t know whether you might be luxuriating in the sentimental satisfaction of feeling that you were the only person he recognised. You needn’t be angry; from your point of view it would be very natural. Well, I can’t make it out, then.”

“But has he spoken again—are there any signs——?”

“Not a word. But I can’t help thinking that there may be a kind of semi-consciousness about him—ability to distinguish light from darkness, or a loud noise from silence, perhaps—and I am almost certain that he knows when you are there. There are minute variations of temperature and pulse which correspond day after day, marking the difference between your presence and absence. It’s a queer thing.”

“And you think he will soon be quite conscious? Oh, doctor!” and this hope it was that kept Mabel so closely within the walls of the Sarai as to satisfy even Dick. But no further change in the patient’s condition seemed to reward her eager watchfulness. Dr Tighe said nothing more, and Mabel was afraid to ask questions. Any good news he would surely tell her, and she did not want to hear any that was bad. After another three days, however, he stopped her again outside the sick-room.

“Miss North, I’m going to give that poor fellow away. I won’t presume to inquire into your feelings towards him, but unless you can take him, scarred as he will be, without a qualm, you had better keep away from him in future. He is conscious, but he guesses how it is with him, and he means to tire you out. He has settled in his own mind that if he shows no gratitude for your nursing, and no interest in your presence, you will leave him alone, so that he won’t be tempted to take advantage of your pity for him. So he lies there like a log, and the self-repression is bad for him. I would be glad to see you end it one way or another.”

“Do you mean that he can speak, and see, and hear, but pretends he can’t?” demanded Mabel.

“No, no. He can’t see—because of the bandage over his eyes, if for no other reason—and he can’t speak intelligibly. But he can hear, and he can answer questions by moving his right hand for yes, and his left for no. That’s how I found it all out.”

“And he has pretended not to be able to hear a sound! Why, I might have said anything to him—anything! Happily I haven’t,” catching the doctor’s eye, “for Colonel Slaney told me so particularly not to excite him. But what do you want me to do?”

“To please yourself. Either make him understand that you mean to stick to him, or simply stay away. It’ll be better for him.”

“Which have you told him you expect I shall do?” asked Mabel, turning upon him. The doctor looked guilty.

“I’d have had the greatest pleasure in preparing the poor fellow’s mind, if I’d known,” he confessed; “but for the life of me I couldn’t decide which you’d be likely to do.”

“Thanks for your high opinion of me,” said Mabel, entering the room with a short laugh. “Perhaps you will kindly notice that I am putting an end to your doubts at this moment.”

Such was the confused condition of Dr Tighe’s mind that he did not at first realise the bearing of this sentence. Indeed, it was not until he was busy in his improvised surgery half-an-hour later that he perceived its full import, and made the bottles ring again with the shout of joy which greeted his discovery. As for Mabel, she sat down in her usual place beside the bed, and bent over the patient.

“Fitz,” she said very distinctly, “I want to speak to you. You needn’t pretend you can’t hear, for I know Dr Tighe has been talking to you. Raise your right hand when you mean yes, and your left when you mean no.”

No movement of any kind followed, but Mabel was not to be daunted.

“I understand,” she went on, “that you don’t like me to be here, and would rather I left off helping to nurse you?”

This time the right hand was unmistakably raised an inch or so.

“I have no right to offer any objection,” resumed Mabel, “but I don’t think you need have left Dr Tighe to tell me about it. I suppose I ought to have known that I had treated you too badly for you ever to care for me again.”

The left hand was shaken two or three times with pathetic vehemence.

“Then some one has told you,” indignantly, “how old and wretched I am beginning to look. Even Flora confesses it—I made her tell me—but she said she loved me just the same. I said I shouldn’t mind it, if it didn’t prevent my friends caring for me—and there were one or two to whom I felt sure it would make no difference. I never thought that you—— No, you are not to touch that bandage,” intercepting a feeble movement of one hand towards the eyes. “Do you want to be blind? But it’s better as it is,” with a heavy sigh—“better that we should part now. I mean, I couldn’t bear you to think me ugly.”

Again the left hand was shaken vehemently.

“Do you mean that it isn’t that? Then there’s only one other thing it can possibly be. You don’t believe I can be faithful, though you can; and you haven’t realised that it’s just this accident of yours which removes my objection to you. You know I said you would look so dreadfully young compared with me. Well, no one can say that now. You will look like a battered veteran, and though I have gone off so dreadfully, I shall look quite youthful beside you. Do you understand?”

The right hand was lifted somewhat doubtfully.

“I’m glad of that. Because, you see, I have told people that we are engaged, and it would be such a very uncomfortable thing if I had to contradict it. Now listen. Flora and I have agreed that I am not Queen Mab any longer, but if you agree it will be very rude.” Up came the left hand with alacrity. “That’s right; then I am still Queen Mab to you, and I lay my commands on you that this sort of thing is not to happen again. I mean to help nurse you, whether you like it or not, and you will get well much sooner if you make up your mind to like it. But even if you don’t, I won’t give you up.”

Both hands were raised, with an imploring gesture, and Mabel took them in her own, and hid her face in them.

“Because I love you, Fitz. You couldn’t have the heart to send me away after that, could you? Don’t try to talk; I understand.”

Returning to her watch that evening, Mabel met the Commissioner, who stopped to inquire after Fitz.

“He is conscious; he knows me,” she answered joyfully, adding, after a moment’s hesitation, “I think perhaps you will like to know that it is all right between us now.”

“I am very glad to hear it. I hope from my heart that you may be absolutely happy. As for Anstruther,” added Mr Burgrave, in his old courtly way, “there can be no question as to his happiness.”

“We shall always feel that we owe it very much to you,” faltered Mabel.

“It is extremely kind of you to say so. I am leaving early to-morrow, and that is a pleasant assurance to carry with me. I hoped I should meet you this evening, as I am dining at your brother’s, but I see you have other duties.”

“I am so sorry—I didn’t understand—how stupid of me!” cried Mabel. “Are you leaving the frontier altogether?”

“I am returning in the first instance to Bab-us-Sahel, to take up my regular duties again. My visit to the frontier has extended over a preposterous length of time, owing first to my accident and then to the rising, and I fear it has thrown the machinery of government a good deal out of gear. Personally, however, I cannot bring myself to regret it. I have enjoyed many important experiences, for which I did not bargain when I set out.”

Mabel’s eyes fell before the kindly look in his. “Can you ever forgive me?” she murmured.

“I have nothing to forgive. The fault was mine.” He bowed over the hand she held out to him. “The Queen can do no wrong.”

They parted, and Mr Burgrave went on to the Norths’ quarters, two small square rooms without a door, and possessing only one small window apiece, high up in the back wall. One side was open to the courtyard of the Sarai, and at night was somewhat inadequately closed by means of curtains and Venetian blinds. The dinner-table had been laid with the help of contributions from the Grahams and the Hardys, and the Commissioner pretended politely not to recognise his own reading-lamp, the only large lamp belonging to the community that had escaped the chances of war and earthquake. Flora, whose father was dining with the General, occupied Mabel’s vacant place, and did her part in helping to arrange the impromptu drawing-room at the back of the room. There were screens and a brazier, to mitigate the coldness of the evening air, and for furniture the camp-chairs which had played so many parts in the economy of the siege. Dick had received strict injunctions to offer his guest a cigar, and Georgia and Flora were prepared to efface themselves so far as to retire into the bedroom should Mr Burgrave’s principles forbid him to smoke in the presence of ladies, but their self-sacrifice was not needed. No sooner were the chairs arranged than the Commissioner, who had been helping to carry them behind the screen, prepared to take his leave.

“I will ask you to excuse me early,” he said to Georgia, “for I have a good deal of writing to do, and Mr Beltring has been good enough to offer to take poor Beardmore’s place for this evening.”

He hesitated for a moment, turned to go, and then came back again.

“I think perhaps I had better explain something that might perplex you in the future,” he said, speaking to Dick, but including Georgia. “It has to do with the frontier question.”

“I thought we had come to an agreement on that subject,” said Dick, with some apprehension.

“Pardon me, I agreed to withdraw my report in deference to your representations, but I still think your principles unsound—radically unsound.”

The rest gazed at him in alarm, and he went on. “Your custom of intervening in trans-frontier disputes, and practically exercising authority outside our own borders, is diametrically opposed to the traditional policy of the Government. I am bound to admit that it seems to succeed in your case, but it needs exceptional men to carry it out. You, Major, especially with Mrs North to assist you”—he bowed to Georgia—“are unquestionably a power to be reckoned with all along this frontier, but what would befall the ordinary civil servant who might be sent to succeed you?”

“That’s just it,” said Dick. “You mustn’t send us the common or garden office-wallah up here. Let me pick the right man—whether he’s a wild rattlepate like Anstruther, or a steady plodding chap like Beltring—and give him the right rough-and-tumble sort of training, till he knows the tribes like a brother, and there’s your exceptional man ready when you want him. Only he must be the right sort to begin with, and he must be caught young.”

“A possible clue to my own lack of success up here!” mused the Commissioner. “Still, I fear you will scarcely find that any Government will look with favour upon a system that would practically make the frontier a close preserve for you and your pupils. But this is what I wished to say. I can’t conscientiously work with you on your lines, though I have promised not to oppose you, and therefore I am recommending the severance of the frontier districts from those of Khemistan proper, and their erection into a separate agency under an officer answerable directly to the Viceroy. Don’t think I have tried to shift the responsibility from my own shoulders. It seemed that while we could not well work together, we might work side by side. I have done the best I can.”

He went out precipitately, one of the servants hastening to light him to his own quarters, thus restoring the lamp. Those left behind looked at each other.

“Poor old chap!” said Dick. “It’s about the worst thing he could have done for himself, and it’s not very much good to us. The Great Great One can scarcely be expected to welcome such a slap in the face as that. His own nominee, sent to carry out his very own policy, recommending its reversal, not because his views have changed, but simply because facts are against him!”

They sat talking round the brazier in the dusk for some time, until there was a footstep outside, and Beltring pushed aside the screen and entered. He had a paper in his hand.

“Why, you are all in the dark, Mrs North!” he said. “Never mind, I can tell you the great news. The Commissioner has just had a telegram that the rumour of the Viceroy’s resignation is true. Lord Torvalvin is coming out instead.”

“Torvalvin!” cried Dick. “Then the frontier’s safe.”

“And you will be Warden of the Marches still,” said Flora.

“That seems to make me out a sort of Vicar of Bray,” grumbled Dick.

“It’s only Flora’s poetical way of speaking,” said Georgia. “I’m sure it sounds much better to talk of keeping the marches than of running the frontier.”

“Yes,” said Flora. “I was thinking of the inscription in Sir Walter Scott’s hall at Abbotsford, about the ‘men wha keepit the marchys in the old tyme for the Kynge. Trewe men war they in their tyme, and in their defence God them defendyt.’”

“I like that,” said Georgia softly.

“Well,” said Dick, “it’s all very well for me, but Torvalvin’s coming out will be a fearful blow for Burgrave. I suppose he will feel bound to resign, for I certainly don’t see how they can work together. Did he seem much cut up, Beltring?”

“He didn’t show it, sir. Only said he thought you would like to see the telegram. Why, his lamp has gone out!” Beltring had reached the threshold on his way back. “Good heavens! what’s that?”

A wild uproar was arising from the camp, which stretched into the desert beyond the Sarai, and alternate cries of “Dīn! Dīn!” and “Ghazis!” were discernible.

“A Ghazi raid!” cried Dick, springing for his sword. “Georgie, take the boy and Rahah, and barricade yourself in with Mab and Miss Graham. You have two revolvers, and I’ll send help as soon as possible. Take the chairs. They’ll help you to build up a corner.”

Rahah ran out with the baby, and Dick and Beltring saw the ladies safely to the door of the sick-room, then rushed to the gateway, where they stumbled over the dead body of the sentry. The tumult in the camp still continued, shouts and yells coming from several directions mingled with the sound of shots, but in each case all was quiet again before they arrived at the point of interest. Such of the troops as were new to the frontier looked somewhat ashamed when they realised that the attack which had thrown the camp into confusion was the work of only four men, but the more experienced knew that four desperate fanatics, armed to the teeth, and determined to kill until they themselves were killed, were by no means foes to be despised. The one who had fought most obstinately wore a green turban, and Dick nodded grimly as he caught sight of his face.

“Bahram Khan! I thought so,” he said. “But I’m afraid there’s been the devil’s own work done in the Sarai. Bring torches.”

A number of officers ran back with him to the gateway, where the sentry was found to have been dexterously strangled from behind. Entering the courtyard, they turned towards the Commissioner’s quarters, which were still in darkness. Suddenly Dick’s foot slipped.

“Another body here!” he said, and some one brought forward a torch. To their astonishment, it was a woman who lay before them, dressed in rich native garments, which, with the coarse chadar covering her face, were soaked with blood. She had been stabbed in the breast, but was still breathing heavily. Sending a messenger for Dr Tighe, they went on, in growing dread as to what they might find. Their fears were justified. On the verandah lay the Sikh sentry, stabbed in the back, and on the floor of his office was the body of the Commissioner, hacked and disfigured almost beyond recognition with a hundred wounds. It did not need the verdict of Dr Tighe to assure the men who stood round that life was extinct.

“What can have been the reason? Why the Commissioner and not North?” were the questions that passed from mouth to mouth, as Dick tore down a curtain and laid it reverently over the body, with the help of Dr Tighe.

“Perhaps the woman can tell us something. She seems conscious now,” said some one, but when the doctor knelt down beside her she pulled her veil feebly over her face, moaning out a name the while.

“She won’t let me touch her. She’s a pardah nishin,” he said, rising. “It’s the doctor lady she’s asking for, Major.”

Dick went himself to fetch his wife, and the men stood aside a little as Georgia tried to stanch the gaping wound, which was draining the poor creature’s life away. The woman herself laughed weakly.

“It matters not, O doctor lady. I shall follow my lord.”

“You are little Zeynab?” asked Georgia gently, looking into the drawn face.

“I am that luckless one, O doctor lady, and I die thus for the sake of the kindness thou didst show me many years ago.”

“Don’t talk now,” said Georgia. “Tell me afterwards.”

“Nay, I must speak now, for soon it will be too late. Six days we have been hiding here and there, O doctor lady, my lord and his three servants and I, and this evening we were in the shadow of the oleanders beside the gate. Thence we saw the Kumpsioner Sahib return to his house with a light carried before him, and presently there came out a young sahib with a chit in his hand, and crossed the courtyard. Then my lord said, ‘It is time,’ and two of his followers slew the guard at the gate, while he and the third flung themselves like tigers upon the accursed Sikh on the verandah, and killed him without a cry. I, who had crept after them, saw the Kumpsioner Sahib sitting at a table with the light in front of him, and a pistol at his right hand—for truly he feared my lord, even in his own house—and I saw also that my lord had crept in like a cat, and was stretching out his hand over his shoulder for the pistol. But as he took away the pistol, the Kumpsioner Sahib saw his hand, and turned round and sprang up. Then one of the other men blew at the lamp to put it out, and the light burned low. And my lord laughed and said in the Persian tongue, ‘We meet at last, O Barkaraf Sahib. Thou didst indeed believe that victory was thine, but if Nāth Sahib’s sister is not for me, neither is she for thee. Death is thy bride.’ At first it seemed to me that the Kumpsioner Sahib was about to speak, but he stood up straight with his arms folded, and said nothing, until my lord added divers other taunts, when he said, ‘Take not the name of that lady upon thy lips, O low-born one. Dost thou fear to strike me, who am here unarmed, that thou speakest evil of a woman who is absent?’ Then my lord struck him with his dagger, and the lamp went out, and they all fell upon him, and stabbed him many times. And coming out, my lord found me, and said, ‘Go through the midst of the Sarai, and cry out aloud for the doctor lady, that she may come out and we may slay her and her son, and it may be the accursed Nāth Sahib himself also.’ But I would not, O doctor lady, and therefore it was that my lord stabbed me, and that I die now at his hand.” With a sudden convulsive movement, she tore away Georgia’s hand from the wound, and struggled to her feet, then staggered and fell. Georgia caught her in her arms, but the dressing had been dislodged, and the blood streamed forth again as the dark head dropped heavily on her shoulder.

They buried the Commissioner in the little cemetery at Alibad, and for days people went about saying that it was the irony of fate that his grave should be next to that of General Keeling. It was Georgia who chose the spot, however, and she thought otherwise.

“He would have been a man after my father’s own heart, if he had known him,” said Georgia, “though I don’t say they wouldn’t have wrangled on theoretical questions from morning to night. But when I think that with death staring him in the face, he would not say a word that might turn their thoughts to Fitz, who was only a few feet away, and absolutely helpless, I feel that he was one of the bravest men I have ever known.”

Not all the opinions expressed concerning the dead man were so favourable, however. On the evening of his funeral two Pathan soldiers from one of the relieving regiments met Ismail Bakhsh near the cemetery, and saluted him with marked friendliness.

“O brother,” they said, “we have heard that the famous general, Sinjāj Kīlin Sahib Bahadar, is wont to ride abroad upon this border by night. Is this so?”

“It is true,” returned the old trooper, “and I myself have heard him, not once nor twice. And, moreover, what these eyes of mine have beheld, it is not wise to relate.”

“Pray, brother, tell us when these things may be seen and heard? We have a great desire to make proof of them for ourselves.”

“Nay,” said Ismail Bakhsh, with a lofty smile, “for that ye must wait awhile. It is only when there is trouble on the border that the General Sahib rides, and”—with a wave of the hand towards the new-made grave—“the troubler of the border lies there.”

THE END

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:

Alterations to the text:

A few minor punctuation corrections—mostly involving the pairing of quotation marks.

Change three instances of “Mrs.” to “Mrs” and one of “Dr.” to “Dr”. Otherwise, minor spelling and hyphenization inconsistencies have been left as is.

[Title Page]

Add illustrator’s credit and brief note indicating this novel’s position in the series. See above.

[Footnotes]

Place the book’s sole footnote (Chapter XIX) in square brackets inline with the text.

[Chapter XI]

Change “said Bahram Kham approvingly” to Khan.

[Chapter XVII]

“and Ghulam Rasal, taking his place” to Rasul.

[Chapter XIX]

“broken off your engagemen” to engagement.

[Chapter XX]

“said the Comissioner with a smile” to Commissioner.

[End of Text]