this letter will give me that delightful privilege” (Tom had thought
this a very neat and effective opening). “I have not seen you for
nearly two years, but I have heard of you through the Covingtons,
and that you are _still unmarried_. Absence has made the heart grow
fonder in my case. I trust it has been the same in yours--at least,
that you have not forgotten _me_, and those jolly days we spent
together the year before last. I have just got my company, and I
write the same day to ask you to be my wife. I can now offer you a
comfortable home, and I am sure you would like India. If you could
come out this cold weather, and marry me in Bombay, I should esteem
it an honour.”
This sentence seemed somewhat cold and commonplace to Tom, so he added--
“Darling Miss Browne, you knew that I adored you, but dared not speak
sooner; if you love me, come out as soon as ever you can, and make
Blazapore a paradise--For yours most faithfully,
“TOM GALWAY.
“P.S.--I have the forget-me-nots still.”
Miss Browne perused this effusion with a very high colour, and equally
mingled portions of emotion, astonishment, and rapture! Now and then
she paused to re-read a sentence, as if she could not believe her
_eyes_. An offer of marriage! To go to India to be Mrs. Tom Galway!
Her brain was in a whirl. What an unexpected summons! What would the
Robinsons say, and the Fishers, and the Smiths? What bliss! what
triumph! Visions of a superb trousseau, of India, elephants, palm
trees, wedding-cake, and a sea voyage, all flashed through her mind.
Suddenly she looked over at her pretty, pale niece, who was pouring out
the coffee, and said rather sharply--
“Lily?”
“Yes, aunt?” lifting a pair of lovely brown eyes.
“You remember an officer who was here the summer before last; he was in
the Pioneers, and paid me a great deal of attention--Tom Galway?”
Lily nodded; she had now become extremely red.
“I have just had a letter from him.”
“A letter!” she echoed in a faint voice.
“Yes--containing an offer of marriage.”
“For----” began the girl, and then she stopped.
“For _me_, of course,” said her aunt, suddenly standing up and dusting
the crumbs off her apron. “Who else do you suppose?”
Poor Lily! the colour sank quickly from her cheeks, she was now as
white as the table-cloth. Miserable girl! her little love idyl had
been brief, uncertain, and uncomfortable--guiltily snatched moments of
conversation--secret gifts of flowers--stealthy promises--incoherent
farewells. She liked Tom Galway, good-looking, good-tempered, stupid
Tom--her one hope had been that he would return and claim her when he
got his company. He had not said so--in so many words--but somehow it
was understood, and when they parted she had given him a little bunch
of forget-me-nots, and he--he had kissed her hand! but then, of course,
Tom was notoriously stupid. He had certainly paid court to her aunt; he
had been obliged to walk and talk with her, to gain a footing in the
Grove at _all_, and in this Tom displayed unusual craft. Now all the
time he had been in earnest, as regarded Aunt Lavinia!--for she was
rich and he was poor--and he had only been amusing himself with _her_.
Oh, faithless--faithless--mercenary Tom!
“Well, have you _nothing_ to say?” demanded Miss Browne rather shrilly.
“How different you are to other girls! Why don’t you come round and
kiss me, and congratulate me, eh?”
Lily rose--certainly Lily was a stoic--and came and laid a marble cheek
against her aunt’s highly artistic skin.
“I--I--I--hope you will be happy, Aunt Lavinia,” she faltered.
“I’m _sure_ I shall. Captain Galway is good-tempered, handsome, and
passionately attached to me. You may make your mind quite easy about
my future. Why do you look so white and odd? Is there one drawback?
Come--speak out!”
“Don’t you--don’t you--think he is rather--rather----”
“What?” she snapped explosively.
“Rather--young?”
“Young! Why he is past thirty, nearly my own age.” (Oh, come! Miss
Browne.) “Young! Rubbish. The Queen was older than Prince Albert. Well,
I can’t stay here talking all day. I must send off a telegram. I must
run across and tell the Smiths and Joneses, and call in at Miss Tuck’s
about the trousseau. You might go round and look up that woman who
comes out sewing by the day. By-the-by, what’s to be done with _you_?
Tom never thought of that--foolish fellow! he is so taken up with _me_.
I’ll send you to board in some respectable quiet family--or a finishing
school--or somewhere.”
Then Miss Browne, Senior, set about her preparations with inconceivable
promptitude, and despatched the telegram and letters which threw Tom
Galway into such a transport of happiness.
The _Chusan_ arrived in Bombay two days before her time, and “Miss
Browne” was among the passengers; her toilettes were Parisian, and
her airs and assumption of youth were more ridiculous than ever. She
displayed Tom’s photograph in dead secrecy to about fifteen different
ladies, who marvelled at this handsome young man’s infatuation, and
subsequently nodded, and giggled among themselves and said, “_Money_.”
The yearly inspection was in full swing at Blazapore, so Tom had not
the smallest chance of getting leave to meet his _fiancée_ at Bombay.
She was expected to arrive in three days’ time, and all preparations
for her reception were nearly completed. Tom had had a long spell at
musketry on the ranges, and was resting himself in his own verandah
when Jack Murray arrived at a gallop.
“I say, Tom! Look alive!” he began breathlessly. “She’s come!”
“Who? Who has come?” said Tom, jumping to his feet.
“Why, she--Lily--Miss Browne. She drove up to the Cornwalls’ just
now--a strange lady, pretty figure, thick white gauze veil. So hurry
up! Hurry up!”
No need to repeat this injunction; Tom was already in his own
apartment, tearing off his dusty uniform, and shouting to his chokra
for his boots, his best suit, and a clean shirt. It was almost dusk
when he arrived at his colonel’s bungalow and was met by Mrs. Cornwall
in the verandah.
“She will be in the drawing-room directly,” she whispered mysteriously.
“She has had a cup of tea, and is taking off her hat; the _Chusan_ came
in before her time.”
“What do you think of her, Mrs. Cornwall?” asked Tom impulsively,
colouring as he spoke. “Isn’t she the prettiest girl you ever saw?”
Mrs. Cornwall coughed nervously, and replied, “Never mind all that
_now_. Go into the drawing-room. _I_ shall not intrude. Mind, you are
to come to dinner.”
Tom passed onward without another word. The drawing-room was darkish,
but he made out a slim white figure, that rose quickly at his entrance;
ere he could distinguish more she was folded in his arms.
“Oh, Tom! dear Tom!” she exclaimed rapturously.
_What_ voice was this? He drew back instinctively, and met Miss
Browne’s cold grey eyes smiling up into his face; he glanced sharply
round the room and faltered out, “Where--where is she--where is Lily?”
“Why, dearest? What an _odd_ question! She is at home, of course, at
Clifton.”
“Not--not--coming?” he stammered. As the awful situation assumed a
mental shape his very blood seemed turned to ice.
“No--certainly not. We shall be _far_ happier by ourselves, dear, and
you said nothing about her--never named her.”
“Never named her?” Was he going stark staring mad?
“By-and-by we will have her out, and get her married, if we can!” and
she laughed as much as to say, “Easier said than done!”
It was dusk--the expression of amazement, horror, and dismay which
passed over Tom’s features during this remarkable scene were completely
lost on Miss Browne. Happy Miss Browne!
“Tom,” she said, “how odd you are! But you _were_ always rather silent
and undemonstrative. Are you not glad to see me? Think of the thousands
of miles _I_ have come to see _you_.” And as she spoke she laid her
head confidingly against his shoulder.
“I--I--was out in the sun to-day, and my head feels queer,” he said,
drawing back.
Poor Tom was going through the most awful moment of his life, and
surely an unrivalled experience. But Tom was a gentleman, and could
not bring himself to divulge the real truth.
“You must be tired,” he stammered with a desperate effort. “I’ll see
you again, at dinner.” And without further remark he walked hastily out
of the room.
“Hullo! What’s _this_?” inquired Jack Murray, as to his intense
amazement he discovered his friend sitting in his bedroom, before his
dressing-table. “Back already! Why are you not sunning yourself in the
smiles of beauty?”
Then he caught a glimpse of his friend’s face. It was ghastly white.
And, lo! on the table before him were arranged a revolver, and a case
of razors!
“I’m taking my choice,” said Tom in a hoarse voice. “It must be one or
the other.”
Jack Murray was justly alarmed at the expression of his eye, but did
not lose his head for a second.
“What is it?” he asked coolly, reaching over and pocketing the razors.
“The sun, acting on confirmed softening of the brain? or have you had
a row _already_?”
“Row! Listen to me, Jack. I went over to see Lily, as I thought----”
“Yes, and as _I_ thought,” echoed Jack.
“Well, she was not there; but the aunt was. There’s been some infernal
mistake, and _she_ has come out to marry me.”
When Jack Murray heard this appalling statement, he stared for a
second, and then threw himself on his friend’s camp cot, and gave vent
to a succession of yells of laughter.
“Yes,” said his comrade, very sternly, “play to you, and death to me.”
After another violent paroxysm, Jack sat up, dried his eyes on his
coat-cuffs, and said quite seriously--
“You are in a tight place _this_ time, and no mistake. What on earth
are you to do?”
“Shoot myself!” was the brief reply.
“Rubbish! Stop a moment, I have an idea!”
“What good is an _idea_?” said Tom, scornfully.
“Promise to place yourself in my hands, and I’ll guarantee to get you
out of this business _alive_!”
“Nonsense! the woman is here; cake, trousseau, and all complete. Lily,
of course, is done with me. When the story is known I shall be the
laughing-stock of India. If I don’t marry her she will bring an action,
as sure as fate. No, no. _My_ idea is, a touch of the sun. Grove, the
doctor, is a good chap. He’ll say it was that. I’ve been on the ranges
all day--a touch of the sun, and this,” taking up the revolver as he
concluded.
“Put it down,” said his friend, angrily. “Listen to me. We must go over
there to dinner, and to-morrow you shall go on the sick list, and stay
there. All I want is _time_.”
Jack dared not leave his friend alone in his present condition
(suicidal), and after a long and exciting altercation he prevailed on
him to accompany him over to the colonel’s. Tom looked white, haggard,
and miserable; anything but the impersonation of a happy lover. He
sat beside his bride-elect, nobly representing “the death’s-head at
the feast”--his bride, who was dressed in a marvellous French toilette
of white brocade, whose ears, throat, and fingers glittered with
diamonds, and who was in exuberant spirits. The company were greatly
surprised at Tom Galway’s idea of “a pretty girl of nineteen,” but
politely dissembled their amazement. Possibly Tom was more worldly
wise than they had supposed. “The old girl”--such was their profane
definition--had evidently lots of money; but Tom was a deadly failure
as a lover; however, if Miss Browne was satisfied, there was no more to
be said!
After dinner there was a little music. Tom sat beside his _fiancée_ on
a conspicuous sofa, and looked as if he was awaiting execution, or was
thinking of all his dead relations. Jack played the banjo, and sang,
“Mary had a Little Lamb,” and various other silly songs, and presently
the guests went away. Mrs. Cornwall thoughtfully manœuvred so as to
leave the lovers to make their adieux alone. Unhappy Tom! He walked
abruptly over to “the wrong Miss Browne,” held out a limp hand, and
said good night, whereupon she rose, and looked as if she was going to
fall on his neck, and he turned precipitately and fled.
The next day Tom was in high fever--in real earnest. A touch of the sun
on the ranges. His head was shaved, and an hospital nurse procured.
Of course Miss Browne was tenderly anxious, and very much grieved and
concerned, but she saw no reason to sit in sackcloth and ashes. She
had seen other specimens of the officers of the Pioneers, and began to
think she was rather throwing herself away upon Tom Galway! She had
met Major Pratt at a dinner-party at the general’s--quite a little
impromptu affair--and he had noted the new arrival with interest. Her
income (trebled) had been casually imparted to him by Jack Murray as
a profound secret. Three thousand a year! What luck for Tom Galway!
If _he_ had only had such a chance--and the money was undoubtedly
there, for she talked intelligently of funds, shares, and mortgages.
Her diamonds were valuable, her dresses costly. She was not half
bad-looking either. He affected deep sympathy for her and Tom. “Lucky
Tom!” he exclaimed; “what envy, hatred, and malice he had stirred up in
Blazapore!” He sat close to her, and administered neat little speeches
and sugared compliments, and entreated her to look out for a wife for
him, and when she went away he squeezed her hand. The next day he
called, and the next day he called and brought a bouquet, and the next
day he called and brought a book, and the following day a tiger-skin.
He damned Tom Galway with the faintest praise. “He was good-looking.
Yes! but--now she must not fly at him--heavy, good-natured, but densely
stupid. Rather a butt, you know, and indeed only for him (Major Pratt)
would have got into one or two very nasty scrapes.” The major had made
up his mind to marry Miss Browne, and was calmly confident of his
ultimate success. Tom Galway was _hors de combat_, and all is fair
in love and war, and in the end it came to pass that Major Pratt
prevailed and carried off the prize! The little Miss Browne had seen of
Tom had not impressed her favourably; his shaven head, long bony hands,
shabby clothes, and gaunt appearance afforded a painful contrast to the
spruce, agreeable little major. Moreover, _he_ was a field officer and
not a junior captain, and a far more suitable match in every respect.
In an incredibly short time Jack Murray’s anticipations were realized.
A few honeyed speeches, a few drives with the major in Jack’s dog-cart,
a few bouquets and cheap but judicious presents, and Miss Browne had
exercised her sex’s privilege and changed her mind! She wrote a long
letter of apology to Tom, deploring her own cruelty and his broken
heart, praying that _time_ would alleviate his misery, and pleading,
as extenuating circumstances, Major Pratt’s irresistible fascinations
and her woman’s weakness. That same evening she and the major ran away
together. No one gave chase,--and they were ultimately married by
special licence in Madras.
Jack lost no time in bearing the great news to his friend. All
Blazapore was quivering with the shock. That mercenary little wretch
the major had carried off Tom Galway’s heiress. Unlucky Tom!
“It’s all right, Tom; here’s your release,” holding up the letter
that cried “Peccavi.” It had been consigned to Jack as a matter of
course, he being the major’s chief adviser and confidant. “She’s in the
regiment. I could not help that; we had to sacrifice _some one_, and
the major deserved it.”
“Oh, Jack,” said his friend, wringing his hand till the tears stood in
Jack’s eyes, “you have saved my reason, and my life.”
“Rubbish! If you had allowed _me_ to draft the first letter there
would have been none of this bother. Served you jolly well right for
addressing it to _Miss_ Browne.”
“She might have known,” stammered Tom. “She could not have thought that
I meant _her_.”
“There’s no saying. No fool like an old one. You wrote again last
mail, did you not? Wrote to the right one! I’ll take good care to see
you turned off myself this time. In a couple of months your hair will
have grown, and you’ll be fit to be seen, and then you can go down to
Bombay and marry the other Miss Browne.”
And he did.
“_IF YOU SEE HER FACE._”
“I heard a voice across the press,
Of one who called in vain.”
Barrack Room Ballads.
Daniel Gregson, Esq., B.S.C., political agent to the Rajah of
Oonomore (a child of seven years of age), and Percy Goring, his
junior assistant, were travelling from their own state to attend the
great Delhi durbar. Mr. Gregson was a civilian of twenty-five years’
standing, short of neck, short of stature, and short of temper. His red
face, pale prominent eyes, and fierce bushy brows had gained for him
the nickname of “The Prawn;” but he was also known as a marvellously
clever financier, ambitious, shrewd, and prompt in action; and by those
who were under him, he was less loved than feared. Young Goring was
just twenty-six, and much more eager to discuss good shooting, or
a good dance, than the assessment of land, the opium trade, or even
acting allowances!
The pair journeyed with due ceremony on the native state line, and in
the little Rajah’s own gilt and royal carriage. _He_ was laid up in
the palace with chicken-pock, and had wept sorely because he had been
unable to accompany his guide, philosopher, and friend to the grand
“Tamasha,” to wear his new velvet coat, and all his jewels, and to hear
the guns, that would thunder in his honour. Child as he was, he was
already keenly sensitive respecting his salute!
Meanwhile the agent and his subordinate got on capitally without
him, travelling at the leisurely rate of ten miles an hour, that
fine November afternoon, surrounded with tiffin-baskets, cigarettes,
ice-boxes, and other luxurious accompaniments. About four o’clock the
train came to a sudden standstill--there was no station to account for
this, merely a country road, a white gate, and a mud hut. The halt
resolved itself into a full step; Mr. Gregson thrust his red face out
of the window, and angrily inquired the reason of the delay.
“Beg your pardon, sir,” said the Eurasian guard, “there has been a
break on the line--bridge gone--and we can’t get forward nohow.”
Mr. Gregson glanced out on the prospect--the dusty cactus hedge, the
white telegraph posts, the expanse of brownish grass, black goats, and
jungle.
“Any village, any dâk bungalow?” demanded the political agent, who
might have known better than to ask.
“I’m afraid not, your honour. If your honour will wait here, we
will send a messenger to the next station on foot, and tell them to
telegraph for another train from the junction. This will arrive at
the other side of the break, and take you on about twelve o’clock
to-morrow.”
“And meanwhile we are to sit here!” cried Mr. Gregson, indignantly. “A
pretty state of affairs! I’ll send a memo to the railway engineer that
will astonish him,” he said, turning to Goring. “It’s four now, and we
shall be here till twelve o’clock to-morrow, if we don’t mind. We shall
be late for the durbar, and I shall have to wire, ‘unavoidably absent.’”
“I wonder if there is any sport to be had?” said Goring, descending
from the carriage, and stretching his long legs. “Any shooting, any
black buck?” looking at the guard interrogatively.
“Ah, that reminds me!” exclaimed Mr. Gregson. “The Rajah has a hunting
box somewhere in these parts--Kori; we can go there for the night.”
“Yes, your honour,” assented a listener, with profound respect; “but it
is four koss from here--a ‘Kutcha’ road--and a very poor part of the
state.”
“I vote we stop here,” said Goring. “We can shoot a bit, and come back
and dine, and sleep in the train. We shall be all right and jolly;
twice as comfortable as in some tumble-down old summer-house.”
“I shall go to Kori, at any rate,” rejoined his superior officer, who
resented opposition. “The place is kept up, and I’ve never seen it.
This will be a capital opportunity to inspect it.”
“But it’s four koss away; and how are we to get our baggage, and
bedding, and grub over?”
“Coolies,” was the laconic rejoinder. “Get them ready to start at
once”--to his head servant, with an imperious wave of his hand.
“There is no way of transport for your majesty,” said his obsequious
bearer with a deep salaam. “No ponies, not even an ekka--unless the
‘Protector of the Poor’ would stoop to a country cart?” (Which same is
a long rude open basket, between two round wooden wheels, and drawn by
a pair of bullocks.)
“I really think it is hardly worth while to move,” urged Goring, as he
cast a greedy eye in the direction of a promising snipe jheel. “It will
be an awful fag, and you know you hate walking!”
“You can please yourself, and stay here,” said Mr. Gregson, with
immense dignity, who, if he hated walking, liked his own way.
As the whole suite (not to mention the commissariat) were bound to
accompany him, Goring was compelled to submit; he dared not run counter
to his arbitrary companion, who, rejecting with scorn the lowly vehicle
that had been suggested, set out for Kori on foot, whither a long
string of coolies had already preceded him. The sandy country road
wound over a barren, melancholy-looking tract, diversified with scanty
pasture and marshy patches (or jheels), pools of water, tall reeds, and
brown grasses. It was dotted with droves of lean cattle, paddy-birds,
milk-white herons, and cranes--especially the tall sirius family, who
danced to one another in a stately, not to say solemn, fashion.
Truly a bleak, desolate-looking region, and, save one or two miserable
huts and some thorn bushes, there was no sign of tree or human
habitation. At last they came in sight of a wretched village--the
once prosperous hanger-on of the now deserted hunting palace--that
showed its delicate stone pinnacles behind a high wall; apparently
it stood in an enclosure of vast extent, an enclosure that must have
cost lakhs of rupees. Two sahibs were naturally an extraordinary sight
in this out-of-the-way district; the fame and name of Mr. Gregson,
a Burra-Burra sahib, had been spread before him by the coolies,
therefore beggars and petitioners swarmed eagerly round this great and
all-powerful personage.
Mr. Gregson liked to feel his own importance at a durbar, or an
official dinner, but it was quite another matter to have it thrust
upon him by a gang of clamouring paupers--the maimed, the halt, the
blind--crying out against taxation, imploring alms, and mercy. He was
a hard man, with a quick, impatient temper. An aged blind beldame got
in his way, and he struck her savagely with his stick. She shrank back
with a sharp cry, and Goring, who was ever known as “a sahib with a
soft heart,” spoke to her and gave her a rupee--a real rupee; it was
years since she had felt one!
“Although she is blind, sahib, beware of her,” said an officious youth,
with his hair in a top-not. “She has the evil eye!”
“Peace, dog!” she screamed; then to Goring, “I am a lone old woman;
my kindred are dead--I have lived too long. I remember the former
days--rich days; but bad days. Sahib, if you would be wise, go not to
the palace Khana.”
Goring was moving on when the hag hastily clutched him by the sleeve,
and added in a rasping whisper--
“_If you see her face--you die!_”
“She is mad,” he said to himself, as he hastened to join Mr. Gregson,
who had arrived at the great iron-studded gates in a state of crimson
fury.
“You say we have land--true!” shouted a haggard, wild-eyed ryot; “but
what is land without crops? What is a remission of five per cent. to
wretches like us? It is but as a carraway seed in a camel’s mouth! The
wild beasts take our cattle and destroy our grain, and yet we must work
and pay you, and starve! Would that the Rajah was a man grown! Would
that _you_ were dead!”
Mr. Gregson hurried inside, and banged the great gate violently in the
face of the importunate crowd.
“It is a very poor district, and much too heavily assessed,” said
Goring to himself. “There is not even a pony in the place. The very
Bunnia is in rags; the deer eat the crops, such as they are, since
the deer are preserved, and there is no one now to shoot them. It is
abominable!”
The palace was a pretty, light stone building, two stories in height,
with a tower at either end, and a double verandah all the way round. In
front of it a large space was paved with blocks of white marble, which
ran the whole length of the building, and it was surrounded by the most
exquisite gardens, kept up in perfect order--doubtless by the taxes
wrung from the wretched creatures outside its gates--a garden that was
never entered by its proprietor or enjoyed by any one from year’s end
to year’s end, save the mallee’s children and the monkeys. The monkeys
ate the fruit, the roses and lilies bloomed unseen, the fountains
dripped unheeded; it was a paradise for the doves and squirrels, like a
garden in a fairy tale.
The chokedar and head mallee (_he_ was a rich man) received their great
guest with every expression of humble delight. Dinner was prepared with
much bustle in the hall of audience, whilst Mr. Gregson and his junior
explored. There were long shady walks paved with white marble, immense
bushes of heliotrope and myrtle, delicate palms, fine mango trees,
peach trees, and orange trees. It was truly an oasis in the desert when
one contrasted it with the bare, desolate, barren country that lay
outside its walls.
“I shall bring the little chap here,” said Mr. Gregson, pompously. “We
will have a camp here at Christmas.” And then he strolled back to the
palace, and made an excellent dinner of roast turkey, and asparagus,
and champagne.
After this repast he got out his despatch-box and his cigarette-case,
and set about writing an official, whilst Goring took a chair, and
adjourned to the marble pavement outside the palace.
It was an exquisite night; a low moon was peering over the wall--the
air was heavy with the scent of syringa and orange blossoms; there was
not a sound, not a voice to be heard, not a soul in sight, save Mr.
Gregson, who, illuminated by two wax candles, bent eagerly over his
pen, as he sat in the open hall of audience.
Goring, as he smoked, thought of many things; of the half-famished
villagers; of the splendid shooting that was going to waste; of the
grand bag he could make, and would make, at Christmas. Then he began
sleepily to recall some stories--half-told stories--about this very
place; tales of hideous atrocities, and crimes that had been done here,
in the days of the Tiger Rajah, the present ruler’s grandfather. He was
gradually dozing off, when he was aroused by the sounds of distant
tom-toms, playing with extravagant spirit. The drumming came slowly
nearer and nearer; it actually seemed to be in the garden--louder and
louder--with a whispered murmuring and low applause, and as it were
the footsteps of a great multitude. But there was nothing whatever to
be seen, and it was as light as day. He moved uneasily in his chair,
and gazed behind him; no! nothing to be seen but his senior steadily
covering sheets of foolscap. He turned his head, and was aware of an
unexpected sight--as startling as it was uncanny! Two twinkling little
brown feet, dancing before him on the marble pavement! exquisite feet,
that seemed scarcely to touch the ground, and that kept perfect time to
the inspiriting sounds of the tom-toms; they were decked with massive
golden anklets, which tinkled as they moved, and above them waved a few
inches of the heavy yellow gold-embroidered skirt of the dancing-girl.
No more was visible. Round and round the fairy feet flitted, in a very
poetry of motion; faster and faster played the tom-toms. Such dancing,
such nimble feet, it had never been young Goring’s lot to behold!
Yes--but where was the rest of the body?
As he gazed in half-stupefied amazement, he suddenly recalled the old
hag’s warning, with an unpleasant thrill--
“If you see her face--you _die_!”
At this instant there was a scraping sound, of the pushing back of a
chair, of slow footsteps on the marble, of a loud cry, and a heavy fall.
Goring jumped up, and beheld Mr. Gregson lying prone on his face. He
rushed to his assistance, and raised him with considerable difficulty.
His eyes were fixed with an expression of unutterable horror. He gave
one or two shuddering gasps, his head drooped forward on his breast,
and he expired.
Goring looked round apprehensively. The feet had disappeared; the
tom-toms had ceased.
He shouted for help, and immediately a vast crowd of dismayed
retainers assembled around him, and Babel ensued.
“The Burra sahib dead! Well, well, it was ever an evil place. Ah, bah!
Ah, bah! It was the nautch-girl, without doubt.”
They further informed Goring that the old Rajah had once tortured a
dancing-girl on that very spot, and inhumanly disfigured her face. More
than one had seen her since, and perished thus.
That morning, at sunrise, the dead body of Mr. Gregson was placed in
a native cart, similar to the one he had so scornfully rejected, and
taken by slow stages to the nearest station and back to the city,
accompanied by Goring.
The doctors, European and native, declared with one consent that Mr.
Gregson had died in a fit--an apoplectic seizure.
Goring--wise man--said nothing.
_THE FORMER PASSENGERS._
“Who is whispering and calling through the rain?
Far above the tempest crashing,
And the torrent’s ceaseless dashing,
I hear a weary calling, as of pain.”
“If any one can help you, it will be Captain Blane.”
This sentence was uttered by a smart young clerk, in a shipping
office in Rangoon, who, clothed in cool white drill, leant his elbows
confidentially on the desk, and concluded his speech with a reassuring
nod.
I was _en route_ from Upper Burmah to Singapore, in order to attend my
sister’s wedding. Our flat river-boat was late, and when I presented
myself at the booking-office of the P. and O., I found to my dismay
that the steamer for the Straits had sailed at dawn, and that there
would not be another for a week! I was therefore bound to miss
the wedding, and waste my precious leave in Rangoon, thanks to the
leisurely old tub that had dawdled down from Mandalay.
I turned my eyes expectantly on Captain Blane, a short-necked,
weather-beaten sailor, in a blue serge coat with gilt buttons, and a
peaked cap. He surveyed me steadily, with a pair of small keen eyes,
and evidently did not receive the suggestion with enthusiasm.
“We don’t carry passengers,” he announced in a gruff voice. “My ship is
only a cargo-boat, a tramp; and we have no accommodation whatsoever.”
“No accommodation!” echoed the clerk, incredulously. “Oh, I say, come!”
“Why, you know very well that all the cabins are chock-full of cargo;
and we have never carried a passenger since I took command.”
“If there was any hole or corner where you could stow me, I don’t mind
how I rough it,” I urged; “and I’ll pay full first-class fare.”
“Oh, there’s lots of holes and corners,” admitted the captain. “And
you’d just get the ship’s rations, same as the officers and myself; no
soups and _entrées_--plain roast and boiled.”
“I’m not particular; I’m ready to eat salt junk and sea biscuit. I’ll
do anything, short of swimming, to get to Singapore by next Wednesday.”
“Is it so _very_ important?” demanded Captain Blane.
“A wedding. No--no,” in answer to his commiserating stare, “not my
own--but I’ve to give away the bride.”
“Well, well, I suppose I must try and stretch a point. Mind! I’ll take
you at your word about the passage money. ‘Never refuse a good offer,’
is my motto; so, Mr. ----?” and he paused interrogatively.
“Lawrence is my name.”
“Mr. Lawrence, if you’ll be down at Godwin’s Wharf to-morrow, at nine
o’clock, with your baggage and bedding and servant, we will lie off a
bit, and any sampan will put you aboard in five minutes. Ask for the
_Wandering Star_;” and with a nod between the clerk and myself, he
turned his back and stumped out.
“He is not very keen about passengers, eh?” remarked the clerk with a
laugh. “I wonder why?”
“I suppose because she is a dirty old cargo-boat. But any port in a
storm, or rather, any ship, in this crisis, for me!”
“Ah,” said the clerk, rubbing his chin reflectively, “I’ve a sort of
idea--though perhaps I dreamt it--that there is something rum, or out
of the way, about this _Wandering Star_.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’ll risk it,” I answered with a laugh, as I
followed the captain’s example, and took my departure.
Punctually at nine o’clock next morning I embarked in a sampan, and was
rowed down the swift Irrawaddy.
“That cannot be my steamer,” I protested, as the boatman made for a
long, low, raking craft, a craft of considerable pretensions! She
looked like one of the smaller vessels of the P. and O. fleet.
But sure enough the boatman was right, for as we passed under her
stern, I read in yellow letters the name--_Wandering Star_.
A closer inspection showed her to be simply what her commander had
stated--a tramp; she was dirty, rusty, and travel-stained. When I
clambered aboard, I found no snowy decks, or shining brasses, but
piles of cargo, bustling coolies, and busy blue-clad lascars. I was
immediately accosted by the captain, who presented me to the chief
officer, and to a fellow-traveller, a sallow, lanky youth of nineteen,
going to join his friends in the Straits.
“I thought he would be company for you,” explained the sailor. “We
are off in half an hour,” pointing to the Blue Peter at the fore.
“And we’re loaded to the hatches. Mr. Kelly here will show you your
quarters.”
As I followed the chief officer, I was astonished at the dimensions of
the _Star_; it was a considerable distance from the captain’s snug
cabin, near the bridge, to the poop. We made our way below, into a
long saloon with tables and seats intact, but the aft part piled high
with bales. There was a strange, musty, mouldy smell; it felt damp and
vault-like, and afforded a sharp contrast to the blazing sun and cobalt
sky on deck.
As my eye became used to the gloom, I noticed the lavish carving,
the handsome mahogany and brass fittings, the maple-wood doors and
panels--the remains of better days!
My cabin contained two bunks, and in one of these my servant, a Madras
butler, called “Sawmy,” had already arranged my bedding.
“I wonder you don’t carry passengers?” I remarked to Mr. Kelly. “What a
fine saloon! I should have thought it would have paid well.”
“She carried hundreds in her day,” he said complacently. “You see
there is where the piano was hitched, and there the swinging lamps,
and bookcase; but, all the same, it would never pay _us_ to take
passengers;” and he laughed--an odd sort of laugh. “We are not a
regular liner, you know, trading between two ports. Regular liners look
on us as dirt; but lots of ’em would give a good deal for our lines,
and our engines. There’s some of them I would not send my old boots
home in! We pick up cargo as we find it; one time we run to Zanzibar,
another to Hong Kong, another to the Cape, or maybe Sydney. I’ve not
been home this three years. I hope you’ll find your bunk comfortable;
the youngster is opposite, just across the saloon--you know your way
back!” and having done the honours, he left me.
Certainly, the _Star_ was much above her present business, and bore
the remains of having seen better days. Even my marble washstand was
not in keeping with a cargo-steamer. I opened the next cabin; it was
crammed to the door with freight--bird-cages in this instance. Every
cabin was no doubt similarly packed. I was not sorry to exchange the
earthy, chill atmosphere below for the bright sunshine on deck. Soon we
had weighed anchor, and were moving smoothly down the rapid Irrawaddy,
between high banks of tawny grass, gradually losing sight of the
shipping, then of the golden Pagoda, then of Elephant Point; finally
the _Star_ put her nose straight out, to cross the Gulf of Martaban.
The sea was calm, we were well fed and found, and made a pleasant party
of six; the captain, first and second officers, the chief engineer, and
two passengers. I slept like a top that night, and awoke next morning,
and found we were anchored off Moulmein, with its hills covered with
pagodas and palms. From Moulmein we put to sea, and still the weather
once more favoured us. The captain was a capital companion, full
of anecdotes and sea-stories; the chief engineer was a first-rate
chess-player, and I began to think I had done rather a smart thing in
securing a passage in this stray steamer. As the captain concluded a
thrilling yarn apropos of a former ship, in which he had been third
officer, I suddenly recalled the shipping clerk’s hint, and asked--
“Are there no stories about this one? has she no history?”
Captain Blane looked at the chief officer with a knowing grin, and then
replied--
“History?--of course she has. What do you call the log-book? That’s her
history. I suppose that chap at the office told you she was considered
an unlucky ship? Eh? Come, now, own up!”
“No; but he said he had an idea that there was something queer about
her--he could not remember what it was.”
“Well, I’ve been in command of her now four years, and I’ve seen
nothing to complain of. What do you say, Kelly?” appealing to the first
officer.
“I say that I never wish to put foot on a better sea-boat, and there’s
nothing wrong with her, as far as _I_ know.”
But Sawmy, my Madras boy, entertained a totally different opinion of
the _Star_. When I asked him why he did not sleep outside my door in
the saloon, he frankly replied--
“Because plenty devil in this ship; the chief Serang” (head of the
Lascars) “telling me that saloon plenty bad place.”
* * * * *
We were now within forty-eight hours of Singapore, when the weather
suddenly changed, as it frequently does in those treacherous seas.
The awning was taken down--sure presage of a bad time coming. The
ports were closed, and all was made ready for a blow; and we were not
disappointed--it came. We had a rough night, but I was not in the least
inconvenienced; I slept like a dormouse rocked in the cradle of the
deep.
In the morning my fellow-passenger (whose name, by the way, was
Mellish, and who had evidently “suffered,” to judge by his ghastly
appearance) accosted me timidly and said--
“Did you get up and walk about last night?”
“No.”
“Do you ever walk in your sleep?” he continued.
“Not to my knowledge--why?”
“Because last night some one came and hammered on my cabin door, and
shouted, ‘The ship’s aground.’ What do you think it can have been?” he
asked with a frightful face.
“I think there is no doubt that it was the hot tinned lobster you had
for supper,” I answered promptly.
“No, no, no, it was not a dream--it woke me,” he returned. “I thought
it was _you_. Then I tried to think it was a nightmare, and had almost
brought myself to believe it, and was dropping off to sleep, when a
cold, cold wet hand was passed slowly across my face;” and he shuddered
violently.
“Lobster!” I repeated emphatically.
“No, no. Oh, Mr. Lawrence, I heard moaning and whispering and praying.
I’m afraid to sleep in that cabin alone; may I come and share yours?”
“There is no room,” I answered, rather shortly. “The top berth is
crammed full of my things.”
At breakfast there was a good deal of movement, and now and then a loud
splash upon the deck. The captain, who had been tapping the barometer,
looked unusually solemn, and said--
“We are in for a bit of dirty weather; unless I’m mistaken, there’s a
cyclone somewhere about. I don’t think we shall do more than touch the
edge of it, and this is a stout craft, so you need not be uneasy.”
This was vastly reassuring, when the sky to the west changed from a
lowering grey to an inky black. The wind rose with a whimper, that
increased to a shriek; it lashed the sea with fury, lashed it into
enormous waves, and, laden as we were, we began to roll, at first
majestically, then heavily, then helplessly. We took in great green
seas over the bows, tons of water discharged themselves amidships, and
made us stagger and groan, but still through it all the engines thumped
doggedly on.
We seized our dinner anyhow; sitting, standing, kneeling, adapting
ourselves to the momentary angle of the vessel. It was a miserable
evening, wet and cold, and Mellish and I went to bed early. The
dead-lights were down, the hatchway closed behind us; we were entirely
cut off from the rest of our shipmates for the night, and the saloon
smelt more vault-like than ever. I turned away from Mellish’s grey
frightened face, and stammering, piteous importunities, shut myself
into my cabin, bolted the door, went to bed, and fell asleep. Meanwhile
the storm increased to a hurricane, the motion was tremendous. I was
flung violently out on the floor, as the _Star_ made one awful plunge,
and then righted herself. I was, needless to state, now thoroughly
awake, and scrambling back into my berth, and clinging to the woodwork
with both hands, lay listening to the roaring of the tempest, which
rose now and then to a shrill shriek, that had a terribly human sound;
my heart beat fast, as my ears assured it that I was not merely
listening to the raving of the gale, but actually to the piercing
screams of women, and the hoarse shouts of men! Just as I had arrived
at this amazing conclusion, the door of the cabin was burst open, and
an elderly man, in his shirt-sleeves, was hurled in.
“She’s going down,” he bawled excitedly, “and the hatches are fast.”
I sprang up, and the next lurch shot us both out into the saloon.
And what a scene did I behold by three lamps that swung violently to
and fro! Their fitful light showed me a large number of half-dressed
strangers, in the last extremity of mortal fear; there was the
horrible, selfish pushing and struggling of a panic-stricken crowd,
fighting their way towards the companion-ladder; the wild frenzied
distraction people exhibit when striving to escape from some deadly
peril; the tumult, the cries and shrieks of frightened women making
frantic appeals for rescue--cries heart-rending to hear.
Besides the dense struggling block at one end of the cabin, battling
fiercely for escape, there were various groups, apparently resigned to
their impending fate. A family at prayer; two men drinking raw brandy
out of tumblers; an ayah beating her head upon the floor, and calling
on “Ramasawmy;” an old lady, with a shawl over her head, and a Bible
on her knee; a young man and a girl, hand locked in hand, whispering
last words; a pale woman, with a sleeping child in her arms. I saw them
all. I saw Mellish clinging to the saloon hand-rail, his eyes glazed
with horror, and gibbering like an idiot.
The crash of broken crockery, the shrieks of despair, the roaring of
the wind, the sullen thundering of the seas overhead, combined to make
up the most frightful scene that could possibly be imagined.
Then all at once, a beautiful girl, with long dark hair, streaming
over a white gown, rushed out of a cabin, and threw herself upon me,
flinging her arms round my neck; she sobbed--
“Oh, save me--save me! Don’t let me die--don’t let me die!”
Her wild agonized face was pressed closely to mine; her frantic clasp
round my neck tightened like a band of steel--closer, closer, _closer_.
I was choking. I could not move or breathe. She was strangling me, as
she shrieked in my ear--
“It is coming now! _This is death!_”
There was one awful lurch, a grinding crash, a sinking sensation, a
vice-like grip about my throat--and outer darkness.
* * * * *
I was aroused in broad daylight by Sawmy, who had brought my tea and
shaving-water. I was lying on the floor of the saloon, and he was
stooping over me, with a frightened expression on his broad, brown
countenance.
“At first I thinking master dead!” was his candid announcement. “Me
plenty fraiding. Why master lying here and no in bed?” Why indeed!
A plunge of my head into cool water, and a cup of tea, brought me to
myself, and then I flung on my dressing-gown, and hurried across the
saloon to see what had become of the miserable Mellish.
He was stretched in his berth, with a life-belt beside him, rigid and
cold, and in a sort of fit.
With brandy, burnt brown paper, and great difficulty, Sawmy and I
brought him round. As soon as he had come to his senses, and realized
that he was still in the land of the living, he sat up and turned on me
quite ferociously, and said--
“And that’s what you call _lobster_!”
* * * * *
The weather had moderated considerably, and though I had no great
appetite, I was able to appear at breakfast. Mellish was too shattered
to join us, and lay in a long chair in the deck-house, sipping
beef-tea, and hysterically assuring all inquirers that “he would never
again set foot in the saloon--no, he would _much_ rather die!”
“I suppose you got knocked about a bit last night?” inquired the
captain, with a searching glance.
“Not exactly knocked about; I did not mind _that_ so much, but----” and
I hesitated.
“But you were disturbed?” he added significantly.
“Yes, very much so; I hope I shall never be disturbed in such a way
again.”
“Then I take it you’ve seen them--the former passengers? They are
generally aboard, they say, in dirty weather.”
“Whatever they were, I trust in God I may never witness such another
scene.”
“You don’t wonder now that we are not free of offering cabin
accommodation, eh? Not that I ever saw anything myself.”
“But you admit that there _is_ something.”
“So they say”--nodding his head with a jaunty air.
“And what is the explanation? _What_ do they say?” I asked impatiently.
“Just this. The _Wandering Star_ was once the _Atalanta_, a fine
passenger steamer, and, coming out her last trip, she fell in for the
tail of a cyclone, and came to grief off the Laccadives; blown out
of her course, engine-fires put out, went on a rock, and sank in ten
fathoms; every soul on board went down, except a steward and a fireman,
who got off on a hen-coop. It was an awful business--sixty-nine
passengers, besides officers and crew. She sank like a stone, no
time to get battered to pieces, and so she was right well worth her
salvage. A company bought her cheap; she was but little damaged--they
raised and sold her. She was intended for the pilgrim traffic, from
Bombay to Mecca, and in fact she did make a couple of trips; but
somehow she got a bad name; the pilgrims said she was possessed of
devils--ha! ha!--and so the owners put her into the wheat and rice and
general cargo trade, and we have no complaints. She has been at it
these five years, and is, as I take you to witness, a grand sea-boat,
and has fine accommodation betweendecks as well as aft; it’s only
in real dirty weather that there is anything amiss, and that in the
saloon. They say,” lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper, “they kept
the passengers below, battened down; they got no chance for their
lives. It was a mistake; they were all drowned like rats in their
holes. Mind you, _I_’ve seen nothing, and I’m not a superstitious man.”
“Would you sleep in the saloon?” I sternly demanded.
“No; for in a blow _my_ place is on the bridge. But I’ll not deny that
a second officer, who has left us, tried a bunk down there once, out of
curiosity, and did not repeat the experiment; he was properly scared;”
and the captain chuckled at the recollection.
“I suppose we shall get in to-night?” I remarked, as we paced the deck
together.
“Yes, about eleven o’clock. We are doing our twelve knots,
dirty-looking old hooker as we are!”
“So much the better,” I answered, “for you will not be surprised to
hear that I’m not anxious to occupy my berth again.”
I am thankful to relate that I slept on land that same night, and was
not “disturbed.”
* * * * *
I often glance at the shipping lists, to see if there is any news of
the _Wandering Star_. I note that she is still tramping the ocean from
China to Peru, and I have not the smallest doubt but that, on stormy
nights, the saloon is still crowded with the distracted spectres of her
former passengers.
_THE SECRET OF THE AMULET._
“Frailty, thy name is woman!”--HAMLET.
People said they were from the north--even from beyond Peshawar--the
two tall men, with fair skins and long brown hair, but no one had time
to ascertain their name or business, for between the sunset and dawn
both had fallen a prey to that horrible throat disease that seizes its
victims by the gullet, and strangles them almost on the spot. Thus
they died in the great serai at Hassanpur--leaving behind them three
stout Cabuli ponies, two rolls of bedding, and one little boy; also, it
was whispered in the bazaar, a considerable sum of money in excellent
Government notes; but this, the policeman in charge of the serai swore
by the soul of his father, was a black lie, and, with the sanction of
the authorities, he made over the child and three ponies to the keeping
of his maternal uncle, Ibrahim Khan (the same who lives at the corner
of the road as you go to the sugar-works). Ibrahim sold the ponies
to his satisfaction to officers in the cantonments, and suffered the
child to share his roof, and also his extremely frugal fare. An Indian
community is never slow to talk, and it was breathed from ear to ear,
that the traders had been wealthy, and that Nubbi Bux, the policeman,
and Ibrahim, his kinsman, had divided the spoil between them. One thing
was manifest: nought had descended to Kareem, the rightful heir!
He was a fair-skinned little fellow, with dancing dark eyes, who ran
about the roads almost naked, with an old flat copper amulet tied
round his neck by a piece of string; he was about four years of age,
as pretty as a bronze Cupid; the women petted him for his good looks,
and he found many congenial playfellows among the narrow alleys and
courtyards of the swarming _burra bazar_. Ibrahim, Kareem’s adopted
grandfather, was an avaricious old person, with a hooked nose,
pendulous underlip, and frowsy turban, who sat all day long in a shop
like a niche--it looked no bigger than a wardrobe--lined with empty
jars, bottles, broken lamps, cracked cups and saucers, and battered odd
volumes of worthless books. He did not sell much, but he served market
people with pulls at a huka, at a fixed price; and he was reputed to
lend money at enormous interest.
If you know the city of Hassanpur, where it lies between two capricious
rivers, and surrounded by a vast grain country, you must be familiar
with the long red bridge over the Kanat, on the parapet of which a
mendicant sits, who rests not from dawn till dusk calling, “Blind
man--blind man.” Just at the foot of the bridge is the great serai,
or wayside house, for travellers, with its lofty walls, spacious
inclosure, and entrance gate worthy of a mosque--both it and the
bridge were built by a rich native, who wished his name to go down to
posterity; but to thousands who cross the one, and hundreds who halt at
the other, it is unknown--no doubt they imagine both to be the work of
the all-powerful and ever-active Sircar (Government).
Kareem’s tastes did not lean to trade; far from it! he had no aptitude
in bargaining for kid skins, empty bottles, and kerosine oil tins. On
the other hand, he had an uncontrollable passion for horses, and when
he grew too old to build houses in the dust, and play baby games, he
used to hang about the serai and haunt the society of camel-drivers and
horse-dealers. He soon became acquainted with the manners and customs
of the divers kinds of beasts that crowded the inclosure; camels, ekka
ponies, buffaloes, mules, elephants, and squealing country-breds. He
knew all their peculiarities, and was not afraid of one of them. Many
and many a time, he played truant from the munshi and his lessons,
and many a time his angry grandfather sought him with a stick, and
drove him forth with blows and curses; but now--Kareem was a smart
lad of eighteen, and useful to traders and travellers. Moreover he
earned money, and Ibrahim viewed his visits to the serai with extreme
complacency. Within the last ten years he had become a well-known and
popular character. New arrivals and regular _habitués_ immediately
shouted for “Kareem, Kareem.” He was a person of far more importance
than the sleepy policeman in charge--not his original patron, who had
picked him up from between two dead men, and placed him out in the
world!
One hot April evening, as Kareem squatted idly at the serai entrance,
enjoying a huka and a “bukk” with a lad of his own age, he noticed a
cloud of white dust whirling down the bridge. No--it was not driven by
the wind, but caused by a wild runaway. In a second he had recognized
the collector’s little boy, on his chestnut pony, racing towards him
at break-neck pace--a huge lumbering camel carriage had frightened the
overfed, pampered Tattoo, and he was making for home at a mad gallop.
Kareem stood up, and dashed into the road; he was lithe and active as a
hunting leopard. As the pony passed, he sprang at it, like a starving
beast of prey, clung to its neck, and ran alongside until he had
effectually checked its career, but only just in time--only just before
it turned the sharp corner into the bazaar. The collector now rode up;
his face grey with fear. He knew too well what would have been the
child’s fate, had the fiery little animal bolted through those narrow
streets, impassable with ekkas and bullock carts, and he shuddered
as he wiped the perspiration from his face, and tendered Kareem his
tremulous thanks. But empty thanks were not to be his sole portion. As
he attached a leading rein from the pony’s bridle to the collector’s
shaking hand, that gentleman said, “Let me see you to-morrow morning at
nine o’clock,” and then the pair trotted soberly away.
Mr. Colebrook, the collector, lived in a fine square flat-roofed
bungalow, about two miles from the city, in the civil lines. It stood
in a spacious compound studded with fine trees, and was approached
by a winding gravelled avenue. Kareem went up this avenue, slowly
and doubtfully; he was not in the habit of frequenting such grand
dwellings, and presently he came to a dead halt, and sat down at a
respectful distance, under a cork tree; and here the collector saw him,
and beckoned him from his office verandah.
“Yes,” said Mr. Colebrook to himself, “a fine frank face, and surely
not a native of these parts.”
In answer to a question, Kareem replied--
“No, your worship, I am from the north--so they say.”
“They say?” echoed the gentleman. “What do you mean?”
“My father died in the serai fifteen years ago, your honour; no one
knew his name or country; and old Ibrahim took me; he says I am a
Cabuli or a Cashmeri. God knows.”
“And what is your occupation?”
“By your honour’s favour, I work in the serai, and earn from one rupee
to four rupees a month, according to the season.”
“Then you understand horses.”
“Oh!”--his face lighting up--“by your favour, yes; and I can ride.”
“Then, I will take you on as syce for my son’s pony--the one you caught
yesterday.”
Kareem salaamed to the very matting.
“Your pay will be seven rupees a month and clothes.”
Now, six rupees is a man’s pay, and Kareem was but eighteen. Kareem’s
heart was too full for words; he was almost overcome, and on the very
verge of tears. All his comrades knew that he was an odd, excitable
boy, and laughed and cried like a woman! His feet seemed scarcely to
touch the ground; he sped along as if they had wings, and he was a
second Mercury carrying home the great news--first over the wide white
roads, then across the railway, and finally he plunged into the bazaar.
Kareem ran along at a sling trot, hustling and thrusting his slim
body through the densely-packed thoroughfares; at last he arrived
at home and panted out his marvellous tidings to old Ibrahim. That
patriarch received the intelligence with so many exclamations of “Oh,
ye fathers!” and so much clawing of his beard, that Kareem felt
assured that he had been handsomely launched in life, and was indeed a
man of considerable importance; he lost no time, that same evening, in
hurrying to the bridge (a kind of local Rialto) and there expounding
his success to a curious and envious crowd of listening friends.
Among the crowd was Pera, Ibrahim’s grand-niece, Kareem’s former
playmate--and present idol. She was four years younger than him by
months and days, but thirty years his senior in experience, in worldly
wisdom, and in wickedness. Undoubtedly she was extremely pretty, with
wondrously-traced arched brows, red lips, and eloquent black eyes.
Nevertheless her grand-uncle detested her, and most of her own sex
bore her unconcealed animosity; they declared, “She was as false as
the devil, deep as the pit, and as dangerous as a snake with a head at
both ends.” People hinted that Abdool, her father, was in debt to his
uncle Ibrahim; and also that Pera was promised in marriage to Mindoo,
her cousin, a handsome hawk-eyed man, with a scar on his cheek and
minus one finger. There was some mystery about Mindoo. Once, he had
been absent for three whole years, and it was an unexplained absence;
for it was mere foolishness for his brothers to say that he had joined
a horse-dealer and had gone down to Allahabad. Does it take three years
to sell a dozen ponies?
Mindoo was a stalwart, taciturn man, and somewhat feared; therefore
no one called him a budmash to his face, or even in the ears of his
kindred. He worked with a carpenter who mended ekkas and gharries, and
was clever with the chisel and the saw. Nevertheless, people whispered
that he had never learnt this trade at Hassanpur in his youth--but in
Allahabad jail khana.
Pera was among Kareem’s audience, and listened, with unaffected
interest, to the particulars of his rise in life. He had been her slave
ever since she could speak, and now most of his scanty earnings went to
gratify her taste for cocoanut-sweets and coloured glass bangles. “You
will not scorn me now, Pera,” he pleaded, as they loitered together
near the tamarind tree. “Behold, I am in the collector sahib’s service.
I am to have seven rupees and clothes. I have as much wages as Mindoo!”
But Pera only peeped coquettishly round the corner of her orange saree,
laughed saucily, and ran away.
Kareem was soon installed in his new post, and wearing a smart blue
suit and gorgeous red turban, felt the sense of personal importance
accruing from new garments, when he encountered his old friends. His
duties proved to be trifling in comparison to his drudgery in the
serai, though, now and then, he had enjoyed the fierce, mad delight
of mounting some unbroken colt, and galloping it bare-backed over the
bridge, away along the Lucknow road, between the waving elephant grass,
past little brown houses with pumpkins on the roof, past pools half
filled with hideous blue buffaloes, scattering children, pariah dogs,
and goats, as if he was mounted on a whirlwind, and riding on the storm.
Here, he had merely to groom and feed an irritable little chestnut
pony, no bigger than a calf; to lead out the “lal Tattoo,” as Harry
Sahib called it, with its master on its back, of a morning over the
dewy maidans and along the shady roads. He ran with it as it cantered,
and even galloped, though once or twice he was suddenly obliged to
stop, and lean against a tree, his face grey and drawn, and groan
aloud with agony (he had, though he knew it not, advanced disease of
the heart); he would earnestly beseech Harry Sahib not to tell the
collector, and, as a bribe, would hold Harry Sahib in the saddle,
whilst he piloted him over tiny nullahs, to that young gentleman’s huge
delight. The little boy spoke Hindustani as his native tongue, and soon
he and his syce became sworn and intimate friends. Harry Sahib had no
mother, only a lazy, elderly European nurse, who liked her beer, her
slumbers, and her ease, and was secretly thankful to Kareem for taking
the brat off her hands. Otherwise, Harry Sahib might not have spent so
many happy hours about the stables, whilst his unsuspecting papa was
absent at Cutcherry. One day, whilst he was romping with his playmate,
and rolling over and over with him in piles of “bedding straw,” he
suddenly snatched at a cord round his neck, and a copper amulet came
off in his hand. They fought for it for fully five minutes. Harry held
it tight in his little fist, and screamed and kicked and even _bit_,
but refused to release it; in the struggle the amulet was broken, and a
small piece of parchment fell out, which Kareem instantly pounced on.
It was about two inches long by one wide, and was covered on both sides
with closely-written quaint characters. Kareem, with much abuse and
slippering, had learned to read the Koran and part of the Gulistan of
Sadi, but never such letters as these!
“What is it?” inquired Harry Sahib, impatiently.
“I cannot say, Hazoor. I never knew it opened.”
“Oh, I’ll get it mended, the brass thing; but can you read the chit
inside?”
“No, not this writing.”
“Let me show it to father; he can read anything!”
“Yes, his honour is a learned pundit, but I will not trouble him,” said
Kareem, independently.
He thought he would rather take it, and have it explained by a Moulvi
in a bazaar, nearer home. But in all the city quarter, was not found
one man who could translate it, though passed from hand to hand, and
learned patriarchs in horn spectacles pored over it, peered into
it, turned it backwards and forwards, and upside down, and decided
that it was in some dead tongue, and doubtless was a charm against
Jadoo (Magic) or the Evil Eye! Finally, Kareem fell back on his young
master’s advice, and, with much salaaming and many apologies, submitted
the little scrap to the collector. Mr. Colebrook examined it carefully
through his glasses, and then by means of a microscope, and asked
Kareem “how he came by it?”
“Protector of the Poor, it is all I possess, and was round my throat as
an infant.”
The collector was very busy just at this time and said, “As soon as
I have any leisure, Kareem, I will see what I can make of this,” and
Kareem withdrew with profuse thanks. For so long did his master ponder
over the parchment, that Kareem’s hopes faded away, and he had almost
forgotten the amulet, and believed its contents to be a myth. But one
day, at the end of the rains, he was summoned into the collector’s
office. That gentleman was alone, and, rising, closed the door, and
beckoning to Kareem to come near, said rather mysteriously, “I have had
great difficulty in making it out”--showing the writing. “Indeed I had
nearly given it up; but at last I got a clue, and I have read it!”
“Yes, your highness.”
“You must keep what I am going to read to you a secret”--Kareem’s eyes
sparkled. “It is for your own good, and now listen,” lowering his voice
to a whisper. “This”--displaying the scrap--“is in ancient Persian
characters, and relates to a treasure that has been buried for more
than three hundred years.” Kareem endeavoured to speak, but failed to
articulate. “Yes--apparently some of the spoils of Mahommed of Guznee,
who took and conquered the Punjab, and made twelve raiding expeditions
into Hindustan. Doubtless this is some loot that the victors failed to
carry off and concealed--possibly they were hotly pursued.
“It says”--now taking off his glasses and applying a microscope to his
eye and reading very slowly--“‘Eighty _koss_ north from Hassanpur, on
the edge of the Goomptee river, that is within fifty paces, near the
great bridge and between milestone and saal tree, I, Fateh Din, bury
a rich store of jewels and gold, by reason of one camel being sorely
wounded and the enemy pressing on fast. May Allah preserve it for me
and mine!’”
The syce’s eyes seemed double their usual size, his face worked
with emotion, he could not speak; he could only gasp and sob as the
collector went on--
“This is the catalogue, only a partial one apparently,” turning and
reading the reverse of the parchment.
“‘Two _khantas_ (necklaces) of rubies and pearls, very large. Four
_sirpech_ (forehead ornaments) of diamonds. Twelve _bazabands_
(armlets) of choice emeralds. Five _turals_ (plumes) of great
brilliants. One coat embroidered in seed pearls, five gold stirrups.’
“You must keep silent as the grave, Kareem,” said his master, laying
down the microscope. “It is possible that there is a quantity of gold
coin as well as jewels. The list seems broken off suddenly; it remains
entirely with yourself to be a rich man, and if you would be wealthy,
be silent. I am going into that part of the district this cold weather.
Can you hold your tongue for two months?”
“I can, sahib,” faltered Kareem, who was trembling all over.
“I think I know the place--the bridge was destroyed forty years ago,
but its piers are still standing; the old road, too, has fallen into
disuse since we have the railway and canal, but I believe I can put my
hand on the very spot, between the saal tree and the milestone.”
“And will all this treasure be _mine_?” whispered Kareem.
“Yes, since you claim it by the writing, which has doubtless been in
your family for many generations. Possibly your father was in search of
this treasure when he died.”
“Yes, most true, your highness.”
“Only for this paper in your possession, it would be claimed and
recovered by Government.”
“May I tell my grandfather, Ibrahim Khan?”
“I suppose you may--that is, if he is a cautious man; but mind this,
Kareem, to no one else; above all, to no _woman_.”
“No fear, your honour; I know that a slip of the tongue is worse than a
slip of the foot.”
“You are young to have learnt that lesson; bear it well in mind. And
now you can go.”
Old Ibrahim heard the splendid news that same night, as he and his
adopted grandson sat on the rug in the middle of the shop, with the
oil-lamp swinging between them; heard it with puckered face, twitching
claw-like fingers, and glittering eyes. What was the store he had
buried beneath the floor in comparison to _this_? _Two_ camel-loads of
gold and jewels! Oh! if he had only taken the worthless-looking amulet
when he appropriated the ponies and the money; it was the richest prize
of all; but alas! he was ever unfortunate.
“Let us go forth and seek it now,” he panted; “we will arise and take
two ekkas with strong ponies, and spades, and sacks, and start. I will
aver that we are gone to a marriage at Aligarh.”
“You would not be believed,” returned Kareem scornfully; “and how would
you get the ekkas, or buy spades, without raising suspicion? The place
is full of robbers and budmashes, and the distance is too long for
an old man like you; we would both be murdered. No, I will wait and
go with the collector sahib; he will lend carts, and we need have no
fear--we shall have the protection of the Sircar.”
“Oh yes, but you are a young man,” whined Ibrahim, twisting his hands
convulsively, “and in two months _I_ may be dead! Oh! and I know so
well where to sell gold and precious stones; where we shall get a
_great_ price quietly, and without question or dispute.”
“You will surely live two months,” rejoined Kareem. “At any rate, I
have given my word to the sahib, and it must be as he wills.”
From this time forward, a great change came over Kareem; he no longer
laughed and gesticulated and showed his teeth--white as the slit of
a cocoanut; he no longer gossiped in the serai, or gambled below the
bridge; he found his secret very burdensome, and his veins seemed
filled with a burning fever of restlessness; his eyes looked large and
his cheeks hollow; his song was no longer on his lips.
As for old Ibrahim, he now cared nought for his trade; and _what_,
asked the neighbours, had he and Kareem in common that they were so
often together, conferring earnestly in low whispers?
Kareem was much at home, too, and people began to marvel; he seemed
preoccupied and strange and proud; he refused to gamble; he took no
interest in kite-flying; instead of which, he was constantly muttering
into the ear of his grandfather. “Why? What were they talking about?
What was their secret?”
Kareem was recounting the list of spoil for the hundredth time, and
Ibrahim was bestowing much sage advice on his _protégé_.
“My son, above all keep the secret from a woman--from Pera; do not
let her mischievous eyes draw you into her snare. She is bad, she is
insolent to you; may her hair take fire!”
“But you know the proverb, a blow in the mouth from the hand of her we
love is sweeter than raisins,” argued the youth.
“And you love her?” shrieked the old man.
Kareem nodded his head.
“Oh, ye fathers!” exclaimed Ibrahim; “but she will marry that budmash
Mindoo.”
“She cares not for him, and I shall be rich.”
“Yes; and who has money in the scales, has strength in his arms. He who
has no money is destitute of friends. Hearken, my son; Pera will spend
your riches like flowing water.”
“Time enough to talk of spending when I possess them,” rejoined the
lad, prudently.
“Fair son of my old age, give me your promise to keep the news from
her; swear it by the beard of the Prophet.”
“I swear by the soul of my father; am I a child or a fool?” he demanded
angrily.
“Alas! in her hands you are _both_.”
Kareem’s altered manner was not lost on Pera, and she smilingly
promised her immediate circle to probe his secret, and that they should
all speedily learn why he gave himself airs like a Nawab.
She drew him on, and encouraged the infatuated boy, and gained her old
ascendency over him in less than two days. He entirely forgot Ibrahim’s
solemn warnings, and what chance has a wrinkled ugly old man against
the charms and the mocking words, and bright glances, of a Circe of
sixteen? She asked Kareem many searching questions, and flouted him,
ridiculed him, flattered him. One evening, as they leant over the
bridge together, she inquired--
“Why had he given away his kite? Why was he not at Buldoo’s wedding
feast? Why did he mope like a sick fowl? What secret was in his mind?”
His tardy answers were vague and confused, and all at once the truth
broke upon Pera with one lightning flash.
The scroll had been deciphered.
“Kareem, I see you no longer care for me,” she whimpered tearfully.
“I do,” he rejoined; “but to what avail? You are to marry Mindoo, the
dacoit.”
“He is no dacoit; neither am I to marry him. If you say so, I will
strike you on the mouth with my shoe,” rejoined this fiery lady.
“Nevertheless, both my words are true,” persisted Kareem, doggedly.
“They are _not_; Mindoo is old. Ah bah! thirty years old! he lacks one
finger; he has a hideous mark on his cheek, whilst you----” she paused
and smiled in his face expressively and said, “Oh, Kareem, what an owl
you are! And now shall I tell you what ails you?”
“Yes, if you can,” he answered with an incredulous laugh.
“You have found out what was written in the little scroll.”
Kareem started perceptibly.
“Yes, I see it is true,” and here she made a wild shot. “I’ll wager my
gold nose-ring, that it relates to _money_.”
Kareem grew very pale, and cast down his eyes.
“To a treasure: look at me, Kareem.”
He looked, impelled by the influence of her eyes, looked and was
lost--his face told everything.
“Pera,” he exclaimed tremulously, “you are a witch.”
“Kareem,” she rejoined, leaning her cool smooth cheek against his
(truly she was a bold, forward minx), “you are an owl; you always
_were_ an owl. Once you had no secrets from me.--Now begin and tell me
all about it.”
“I can tell you nothing,” withdrawing his eyes from those dazzling
black orbs, and gazing fixedly into the river.
“Oh, Kareem, alas! my first word was true, you no longer care for me;”
and her eyes filled with pure crocodile’s tears.
“I do, I do, beyond any treasure in the world,” he protested eagerly.
“Yes” (so there _was_ a treasure), “but you only pretend to love me; it
is all from the mouth, like idle words.”
“No, it is from my heart and soul; but you in your heart care not for
me, you care for Mindoo. You laughed the day I came home in my syce’s
clothes--you laughed when Hiram’s white Arab nearly killed me.”
“Pooh”--snapping her fingers playfully--“what is a laugh? I always
laugh! See, I still wear your blue glass bangles. I love finery; I love
laughing--and I love _you_. Oh, foolish Kareem, how shall I prove it to
you, since you doubt my word? Speak!”
“Marry me in two moons’ time,” was his prompt answer.
“Yes,” after a long pause, “but I must also prove _you_; I swear by
Allah to marry you, but first you must tell me your secret.”
And she looked up into his face and smiled, and he, gazing at her
parted red lips and glistening, eager eyes, wavered. She saw her
advantage, and instantly pressed it home.
Oh! miserable youth! why did you not attend to that cry of warning in
your ears--“Blind man, blind man, blind man”?
The sun hung low in a crimson sky, everything was defined and glorified
as in a golden light, from the curves of the shining river, to where
the flat horizon touched the glowing heavens. The couple on the bridge,
fair as another Paul and Virginia, stood out in black relief against
the yellow haze; as they leant upon the stone parapet, talking in
whispers, passers-by laughed and said, “Behold, Pera makes a fool of
Kareem again.” When at length they raised themselves up, and came
slowly homewards, there was a new, ecstatic, and triumphant expression
in Pera’s eyes--she KNEW. Nevertheless she had sworn by a most solemn
oath, never to reveal the secret of the amulet. It was already arranged
that she was to have a palki-gharri and two horses--just like a
_mem-sahib_--and a string of large pearls, and gold necklets, such as
would make the Bunnia’s wife poison herself from envy; for she and
Kareem were to be married by the first moon in December--and to live
happy ever after.
A month later, the collector’s camp was pitched within two miles of
the banks of the Goomptee. He had arrived there by slow marches, and
was within easy reach of the spot indicated in the parchment. Mr.
Colebrook set out on foot in the afternoon, with Kareem to carry his
fishing-rod, and to disarm suspicion. They walked for some distance
along the edge of the river in single file, till round a sharp bend
the old broken bridge appeared in view; the setting sun was shining
between the massive piers, as the Goomptee came swirling between them.
A pair of paddy-birds were having a mortal combat in the rushes, a
serious-looking blue kingfisher was perched on a stone, following his
avocation. Enormous fish (_rohu_) splashed about like porpoises; no
wonder they were so thriving! the Goomptee is a sacred river; on the
sand on the far bank lay a bleached white skeleton, and here, among the
tangled water-plants, was an old charpoy, legs upward, on which some
corpse had once been committed to the holy stream.
But naturally Kareem had no interest in these things; though his
master, a man of dreamy moods, paused for a moment, and in his mind’s
eye surveyed the great bridge as it once had been, covered with a
multitude of horsemen and camel-drivers--a predatory horde--flying
northward, with their spoils, and their streaming horse-tail standards.
He was sharply aroused from his reverie by a piercing cry, and turning,
he saw that Kareem had already made his way to the great milestone
(shaped like a gigantic thimble); there, too, was an ancient saal
tree; and his treasure-seeking syce was standing on the verge of an
enormous, recently dug, and perfectly empty hole. Miserable Kareem, the
world seemed to swim before his eyes; the tree, the milestone, and the
sky went round and round, as he turned a ghastly face and pair of wild
eyes on his master, and pointed to the cavity at his feet; it was all
that he could do.
“Yes,” cried Mr. Colebrook, “it is gone, no doubt of _that_, and gone
within a week; see the freshly-turned earth, the wheel-tracks. Oh, you
young fool! How many have you taken into your confidence besides old
Ibrahim? You see they have robbed you. Whom have you told?”
“But one,” stammered Kareem, in a hoarse voice.
“Look,” continued the collector, “they were in a great hurry”--poking
the earth with his stick as he spoke. “See, they left the spade;
here are bits of iron clamps; here are two gold coins, the boss of a
silver bit, and--yes, a trace of the thieves--and of course there was
a _woman_ in it,” as, stooping, he picked up something, and held it
towards Kareem. “Here is half of a blue glass bangle.”
Kareem stared, with great distended eyes; as he stood, he became of a
dull greyish colour, his lips were livid, and his face twisted out of
all recognition, with some spasm of horrible agony.
“_It is Pera’s_,” he shouted, with a wild, despairing scream, and flung
himself full-length on the ground, digging his hands into the sandy
soil.
“They have a whole week’s start, I am afraid,” said Mr. Colebrook, who
was still turning over the earth, “and will make forced marches; but we
may catch them. I shall send you off at once, on the young bay horse,
with a note to the joint magistrate; he will telegraph, and I believe
we will get them yet; they have too heavy a load to travel rapidly.
Kareem, don’t be a woman! Get up and listen to me, Kareem! Do you hear
me?” and he shook him gently. But Kareem would never hear anything
again in this world--Kareem was dead.
At first Mr. Colebrook could not, and would not, realize the truth; he
put his hand across the cold mouth; he laid his ear against the still
heart; it was no faint. Alas! no.
The shock had proved fatal to Kareem. To lose his fortune and his
beloved, in one and the same moment, was too crushing a blow for his
frail organization. Pera’s treachery had broken his heart.
When the collector had at last grasped the tragic fact, that the
active, bright-faced boy, who had started from the camp hardly an hour
ago, full of life and hope, was really dead, he was deeply concerned,
and he felt an unusual dimness in his eyes, as he stood gazing at this
unhappy heir of long-buried riches.
Then seeing a chuprassi in the distance, who had followed (unbidden)
afar off, he shouted to him to approach. The chuprassi came and
looked, and was amazed out of his usual impassive demeanour; and in an
extraordinarily short time a little crowd had assembled--what mystic
force is it that draws people to a tragedy, whether in a London
street, or an Indian jungle? Here were lean brown fishermen from the
river-banks; here were turtle-spearers, and half a dozen ryots, who had
abandoned their herds of gaunt white cattle--all come to look at a dead
lad.
The distance made it impossible to carry Kareem back to Hassanpur, and
bury him formally in the Mohammedan cemetery. “In the place where the
tree falleth there shall it be,” and he must find a resting-place in
the forest. Mr. Colebrook left two men to watch the body, whilst he
hurried to camp to make arrangements for the interment, and to break
the heavy tidings to Harry Sahib. The funeral obsequies were solemnly
conducted by Kareem’s fellow Mohammedan servants, and early next day
the collector was surprised to hear that Kareem had already been laid
to rest. The great hole, which for three centuries had contained his
lost family treasure, of gold and rubies, pearls and emeralds, now
received instead, their unfortunate and defrauded heir,--and proved his
convenient grave. Harry Sahib shed many hot tears upon it, and even
brought the “lal Tattoo” to see the place where poor Kareem was buried.
The collector instituted an immediate search for Pera, daughter of
Abdool, but she and Mindoo, the dacoit, had suddenly disappeared--“the
very day that his honour himself had gone into the district; no one
could tell what had become of them.” After a long and wholly useless
investigation, the following facts were elicited: Pera and Mindoo had
had accomplices in their flight; they had gone south; but few beyond
Mr. Colebrook were in possession of the third and most important
detail, viz. that with them, they had carried the secret of the amulet.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is
entered into the public domain.