One of the lights Chandni saw came from Lewis Gordon's tent. He was
hard at work, not altogether from sheer industry. Sleep with him--oddly
enough in one claiming such serenity of temperament--had to be
approached discreetly, and for many days past a disturbing current of
thought had required the dam of good solid official business before he
could trust himself safely to the waters of Lethe. He had not been
constantly in his cousin's company for six weeks without learning to
appreciate her infinite charm. She was emphatically a woman to ensure a
husband's success as well as her own. A man would never have to
consider enemies with her at his side, whereas with many others--Rose
Tweedie for instance--it might be necessary to fight your wife's
battles as well as your own. This comparison of the two arose from no
conceit on his part in imagining that any choice lay with him. Simply,
he could not avoid comparing the only two women in his daily
surroundings. At the same time he was fully aware that Gwen would marry
him if he asked her, and the question which had at first assailed him
in the hall at Rajpore, recurred again and again, disturbing him
seriously by alternate attraction and repulsion. He had seen too much
of fascinating wifehood to care for possessing a specimen himself, yet
Gwen would marry him because she considered it would further their
mutual interests; and that, surely, was a more reliable foundation for
a permanent contract than a girlish affection. Quite as pleasant, too,
as the hail-fellow-well-met liking, which seemed to be Rose Tweedie's
notion of love. George Keene and she were like a couple of boys
together. The remembrance jarred, though he went on working with a
smile at the thought of her eager readiness to take up the glove on all
occasions.
Rose, meanwhile, lay awake next door frowning over the same readiness,
and then frowning at her own frowns, since what was it to her if
Lewis Gordon were nice or nasty? He himself did not care what she
thought, and would end by marrying his cousin, though in his heart of
hearts----
Rose sat up in bed angrily. What did she know or care of Lewis Gordon's
heart? _Dieu merci!_ Gwen Boynton was welcome to it, but she should not
drag George Keene captive as she seemed welcome to do. George was too
good to hang round a pretty woman, like Lewis----
This was intolerable. To escape the tyranny of thought she rose,
slipped on her white dressing-gown, lit the lamp she had extinguished,
and sat down to read a stiff book till she felt sleepy. The process was
not a long one, for she was really fatigued, and ten minutes saw her
turning down the lamp once more.
What happened next she scarcely knew; only this--a glare of light--a
feeble crash. Then fire in her eyes, her face, her hands--fire at her
feet, licking along the thin carpet, soaking up the folds of her filmy
dress. The bed lay close at hand; she was on it in a second, wrapping
the blankets round her, and beating out the runnels of flame, with
eyes, brain, and body absorbed in the immediate personal danger. When
that was over, and she looked up, she sprang to her feet on the bed
with a cry. The fire was everywhere, creeping up the sides of the tent,
filling it with suffocating smoke. She wound her trailing skirts round
her and made a dive for the first outlet--for her only chance of
escape! The thick wadded curtain swinging aside let in a wind, making
the smouldering cotton flame; but the next instant she was outside,
constrained to pause, wondering if by chance it was nothing but a bad
dream. For the camp lay serene and peaceful in the moonlight; not a
sound, not a sign, even from her own tent. She stood positively
irresolute, staring back at what she had left. Was it a dream? Then,
suddenly a faint drift of smoke rose through a crevice in the cloth.
'Mr. Gordon!--Mr. Gordon!' She burst through the thick, guided by the
light in his tent to the nearest help. 'Your knife--quick! my tent is
on fire! Quick, or the whole camp will catch!'
The blood was flowing from a cut over her forehead, one arm showed bare
through scorched muslin, the draperies caught round her were singed and
blackened, the stamp and smell of fire was on her from head to foot.
Lewis, starting to his feet, stared at her.
'Oh, quick! please, quick! Your pen-knife--anything! Cut down the
tents--Mr. Fitzgerald said it was the only----'
He had grasped the position ere she could finish, snatched up a
hunting-knife and was out; she, with a pen-knife, close at his heels.
'Good God! how the wind has risen,' he muttered, as they ran. 'No, not
mine!--The mess-tent first; the wind is that way.'
As they flew past her tent, the scene seemed peaceful as ever; but ere
the guy-ropes of the next were reached, a swirl of smoke and flame,
prisoned until then by the outer fly of canvas, swept straight up into
the sky in the first force of its escape; then bent silently to the
breeze. So silently!--not a roar, not a crackle--just a pyramid of fire
splitting the taut canvas into long shreds, which the wind flung in
pennants of flame on the mess-tent as those two hacked silently at the
ropes. There was no time for words; no time for thought. A quiver
came to the solid-looking pile, a shimmer in the moonlight. Another
rope--another--then a sudden sway, a crash of glass and china from
within. Down! but with a creeping trail of fire within its folds!
There was no lack of helpers by this time. Knives, hatchets were at
work right and left upon the ropes lest the message of fire should find
the tents taut. Colonel Tweedie was shouting confused orders in front.
Dan Fitzgerald, after a quick inquiry if all were safely out, was back
in the rear row, where the danger grew with delay. The din was
deafening, yet the flames made no noise; it was the dark humanity
yelling, as it capered over the big tent, treading out the curling
snakes of fire. Seen against the glare of a burning pyramid behind, the
figures showed like the demons in a mediaeval Judgment beating the lost
souls down to the worm which dieth not.
Rose, standing to rest, now that abler arms were at work, felt a
hurried touch on her shoulder, and turned to see Lewis Gordon holding
out an ulster which he had fetched from his tent.
'Put it on,' he said unceremoniously, 'or you'll catch cold.'
She flushed with surprise, then, as she complied, realising for the
first time the havoc fire had made in her dress, continued to blush
with an odd feeling of resentment.
'Where is Mrs. Boynton?' she asked quickly, to cover her confusion. 'I
suppose you--I mean, she is safe, of course?'
'Of course. I haven't seen her though; but I heard your father calling
to her. She must be with him. I'll see.'
'Mrs. Boynton? God bless my soul, isn't she with Rose?' cried Colonel
Tweedie, who was still shouting excited orders to the crowd of coolies.
'She answered me and her tent is down. She must be out.'
'Mrs. Boynton! Has any one seen Mrs. Boynton?' Gordon's cry ran down
the line without response.
'Gwen!--Gwen! the fools must have cut the thing down on top of her!' He
had dashed up to the mass of ropes and canvas lying without beginning
or end, in hopeless chaos. 'Gwen! Gwen!--are you there?'
A muffled cry was audible now in the hush of the workers.
'Not stunned, that's one thing,' he muttered to himself before shouting
encouragement. Rose was at his elbow and caught his whisper.
'The sparks, for God's sake, Miss Tweedie! I trust you. If the tent
smoulders she may suffocate before we--Coming, Gwen, coming directly!'
But no obstacle against eager help was ever more successful than that
tortuous heap of heavy canvas, full of blind folds and entangled ropes,
stayed fore and aft, and still fastened beyond possibility of removal
to the bamboo-strengthened sides and the yet uncut guys. The seekers
dived into the folds again and again to find themselves meshed; while
Rose, with a sickening fear at her heart lest she should miss one,
watched the sparks and shreds drifting by in clouds settling here,
there, everywhere, and needing swift command to the little band of
helpers. 'Quick, quick!--yonder by the corner. Another there! Stamp it
out--quick! Well done!'
'What is it? what is it?' A new voice rose above the turmoil as Dan
Fitzgerald came running from the rear grasping the truth as he ran.
'No, no?' he panted. 'No use, Gordon--too long. Get to the guys, for
God's sake--the thickest--half a dozen men. Colonel, the right corner,
please, sir; Gordon, the left; Smith, round to the back. They are not
cut there, and see that the pegs hold--they _must_ hold. Miss Tweedie,
put a man to each stay as the front rises. I want the doorway--the door
_must_ show. Brothers,' he continued in Hindustani to the men who were
fast falling into place, 'we have to raise the tent again. _Remember,
the tent rises at the word!_ Gordon, are you ready? All ready?----
He paused, gave a rapid glance at the sparks, and lowered his voice.
'It has to be done sharp, Colonel, or----' Again he hesitated between
fear of letting the prisoner know her imminent danger, and fear of not
enforcing the necessity for speed. Rose understood, and racked by
anxiety as she was, felt a thrill of recognition at Dan's quick thought
which, even in such a moment, enabled him to remember that, as Mrs.
Boynton knew but little Hindustani, he could continue in that language.
'The tent is certain to catch fire, but it may be smouldering now; so
we must risk it. Remember that I _must_ get in and out before the
canvas yields, or---- So be sharp. Gordon! you give the word!'
There was an instant's silence, broken by a voice. Then a shout, a
heave, and Rose straining at a rope as she never strained before, felt,
rather than saw, something rise, pause, sink; rise again fluttering,
swaying.
'Higher! higher!' shouted Dan, standing close in, ready for a dive at
the door. 'All together, Gordon. Shah-bash, brothers! My God! it's
caught already!'
A blot of shadow near her showed the coming doorway, and, half clear as
it was, she saw Dan dash into it with the cry, which was echoed from
outside as a little runnel of fire quivered up the half-stretched
canvas.
'Stand fast! stand fast!' shouted Gordon at the guy. 'Run in, half of
you, to the bamboos; they may hold longer than the stays.'
Rose was at one in a moment and clung to it, seeing nothing, thinking
of nothing, but that irregular square of shadow. When would he come
through it again? The tangles within! how would he thread them? For the
pole having slipped from its supporting pegs had slid along the ground
and would not rise more than half-way; so the inner fly-sides must be
hanging in a maze--a maze of smouldering canvas. Horrible! a burning
pall! Ah! would he never come?
Suddenly came another cry, as a great sheet of fire ran up the right
ridge and the men at the rope fell backwards under the slackened strain
of the parting canvas; yet still the corners held. But for how long!
Oh! would he never come out?
'Mr. Fitzgerald! Mr. Fitzgerald! be quick, oh please be quick.'
It was a foolish, aimless little cry, yet somehow it raised a new idea
in her mind. What if he had lost his way in that hideous tangle? She
was at the blot of shadow in an instant calling again and again. Too
late! surely too late, for the bamboo lintel to which she clung so
frantically swayed. Not down yet--yes! down, and she with it, half
kneeling still. She heard a cry from Lewis bidding the others run in on
the fire and stamp it out; but as she staggered to her feet still
holding on to the lintel something else staggered out beside her.
'All right,' gasped Dan, before the great shout of relief rose up
drowning his voice. When it had passed and they crowded about him, he
had set Gwen's feet on the ground and drawn the folds of blanket from
her face, though his arm was still round her as she clung to him,
scarcely believing in her safety.
'Only frightened--half suffocated,' he went on, struggling to get back
his breath. 'Couldn't some one bring her a glass of water--don't move
yet--they will bring it to you here. It is all over--except the
shouting.'
Rose standing aside, giddy with sudden relief, could hardly believe it
could be over. Yet the coolies were rubbing themselves and laughing
over their sprawl in the dust when the tent collapsed, and the tent
itself was blazing away unheeded on the ground. Yes! it was over, and
so quickly that George Keene, roused by the crash of the messroom-tent,
came too late for anything save sympathy. He gave that to the full; not
unnecessarily, for in truth the condition of the camp was pitiable.
Lewis Gordon's tent, being the only one to windward of the original
outbreak, was left standing; the rest were either smouldering in ashes
or severely damaged beyond the possibility of re-pitching without
repair, while the extent of other injuries must remain unknown till
dawn brought light, and time allowed the fires to die out undisturbed;
for any letting in of air while the wind remained so high might cause a
fresh blaze.
Colonel Tweedie, looking a perfect wreck in his striped flannel suit,
fussed about uncertain and querulous, while George and Dalel Beg, who
had arrived from the palace, competed for the honour of putting up the
ladies during the remainder of the night; Dalel, minus the least
vestige of European attire, being re-inforced after a time by Khush-hal
Beg, breathless but dignified, bearing the Diwan's urgent prayer to be
allowed the honour of helping a beneficent Government in its hour of
need.
Dan with an impatient frown on his face waited for decision till his
patience failed. Then he buttoned-holed Lewis--who amid all the wild
costumes looked almost ridiculously prim in his dress suit--and
expounded his views vehemently, the result being that the Chief
concluded in favour of the palace. If, as was possible, they might be
forced into halting for several days, the old pile would hold them all,
and a regiment besides. So, after a time, odd little square dhoolies,
smelling strongly of rose-attar, came for the two ladies, and in them,
duly veiled from public gaze, they were hurried along, much to their
amusement. The gentlemen after a raid on Lewis Gordon's wardrobe,
following suit, all except the under-secretary, who, coming last, found
nothing available save a white waistcoat and a pair of jack boots, in
which additions to a pyjama sleeping-suit he looked so absurd that the
others sat and roared at him, as men will do at trifles when still
under the influence of relief and excitement, until George carried him
off to his bungalow, promising to return him next morning clothed and
in his right mind. Thus the night ended in comedy for all save Mrs.
Boynton. To her, clothes were anything but a triviality, and as she lay
among silk quilts and hard roly-poly bolsters in the little strip of a
room to which she and Rose were taken, pending the preparation of a
state suite upstairs, she mourned sincerely over the probable fate of
her wardrobe. Had it remained in the leather trunks escape might have
been possible, but, knowing they were to halt for a day at least, she
made the ayah hang up all the dresses round the tent. Poor Gwen seemed
to see them, like Bluebeard's wives in a row, getting rid of their
creases, and the thought of under-garments which might be uninjured
gave her no consolation.
Rose was more calm, remembering that her riding-habit had, as usual,
been moved in order to be brushed, and would most likely be produced
next morning. Besides, she was worn out by the excitement, and forgot
even the smart of a large scorch on her arm in the memory of that five
minutes during which she had waited for Dan to come out of the fiery
maze. Despite her boasted nerves, the stress and strain of it all came
back again and again, making her set her teeth and clench her hands.
Yet Gwen, who had so narrowly escaped a dreadful death, was grumbling
over the loss of her dresses. Rose, lying in the dark listening to the
plaintive regrets, felt scornfully superior, not knowing that her
companion was deliberately trying to forget, to ignore, a like
memory--the memory of her own feelings when Dan fought his way to her
at last. If that sort of thing went on he would end by marrying her in
spite of her wiser self; and then they would both be miserable. She was
not a romantic fool, and yet--a very real resentment rose up against
him as she remembered her own confidence, her own content. She felt
vaguely as if he had taken advantage of her fear, and that something
must be done to prevent a recurrence of this weakness on her part. If
she could only pay back the money he had paid for her, matters would be
easier to manage. As it was, even Lewis, with his easy-going estimate
of women, would not stand the knowledge of her indebtedness to another
man, so something must be done, something must be changed. That, oddly
enough, was the underlying grievance which found expression in petulant
assertions that Fate was doubly hard in making her fair; had she been
dark like Rose, the part of Eastern Princess she would have to play
until another consignment of civilised dresses arrived from Rajpore
would have been fun. As it was, she would look a perfect fright.
She did not, however. Had she not been aware of this fact ere she made
her appearance next morning in the long flowing robes and veil of a
Delhi lady, she must have gathered it from the looks of her companions.
But she had appraised herself in one of the big mirrors in the suite of
state apartments halfway up the stairs, and decided that she would wear
a similar costume at the very next fancy ball.
This in itself was sufficient to chase any save immediate care from a
mind like hers. In addition, even a stronger character would have found
it difficult to avoid falling in with the reckless merriment which had
seized on all the other actors in the past night's incident. Partly
from relief at its comic ending, partly because the charm of absolute
novelty, the zest of the unexpected, enhanced the pleasure of extremely
comfortable quarters--for Lewis in his capacity of personal _aide_ had
decided against the dark state suite of apartments on the second storey
in favour of the roof above, with its slender balconies, long arcades,
and cool central summer-house open on all sides to the air. Here, high
above the sand swirls, safe from the sun, they would be far better off
than in tents during the growing heat of the days Gwen, leaning against
a clustered marble pillar, looking down on the red-brown slant of
windowless wall spreading like a fort to the paved courtyard below,
said it was like living on a slice of wedding-cake. A solid chunk
below, above a sugar filigree; whereat George, delighted, assured her
that the whole palace itself viewed from afar had always reminded him
of the same thing. Filigree or no filigree, she said it was charming,
and the central hall of the twelve-doored summer-house was a marvel of
decoration; fast falling to decay no doubt, yet losing no beauty in the
process, since the floriated white tracery overlaying the background of
splintered looking-glass was so intricate that the eye could scarcely
follow the pattern sufficiently to appreciate a flaw. Seated there in
coolest shadow you could see through the inner arches to the long slips
of vaulted rooms on all four sides; through them again to the blue sky
set in its rim of level plain, save to the north where the view was
blocked by the Diwan's tower rising a dozen feet or more from the
terraced roof, with which it was connected by a flight of steps barred
by a locked iron _grille_. Thus the roof lay secure from all intrusion
except from the courtyard, whence an outside stair, clinging to the
bare wall, gave access to the state rooms below, and thence, still
slanting upwards, to the lowest terrace of roof. Rose, leaning over a
balcony looking sheer down to where the servants, like ants, were
running to and fro over the preparations for breakfast, declared she
would use one of the four little corner-rooms of the summer-house as
her bedroom. All it needed was a curtain at the inner arch, when it
would be infinitely preferable to those dreadful rooms downstairs all
hung with glass chandeliers and silvered balls, which made her inclined
to hang herself in sympathy. In the hopes rather, suggested Lewis, of
improving the style of the decoration; a remark which brought the
usual frown to the girl's face. In truth, Rose Tweedie in her trim
riding-habit did not suit her surroundings half so well as Gwen Boynton
in her trailing tinsel-decked robes. On the other hand, Colonel Tweedie
would have done better in not yielding to the temptation of playing
'Sultan' to Mrs. Boynton's 'Light of the Harem'; for native costume
does not suit an elderly Englishman. But the opportunity had been too
strong for him.
'My dear father,' said Rose helplessly, when she first caught sight of
her parent in a khim-khab coat and baggy trousers. She might have said
more, had not Mrs. Boynton's grave compliment on his appearance sent
the girl away impatiently to lean over the balcony once more, and
wonder if they were ever going to bring breakfast.
To her, when he appeared, went Dan Fitzgerald, without even a look at
the others.
'Thanks, Miss Tweedie,' he said in a low tone. 'I hadn't time to say it
last night. I _had_ lost myself, and your voice---- However, it can be
only "_thank you_," and you have that.'
Rose, with a smile, let his hand linger in hers for a second as their
eyes met; honest, friendly eyes.
And George Keene also passed straight to her.
'Better! That is all right. By Jove, you were bad, when I found you
outside the fuss when it was all over. You would have fainted, if it
hadn't been for the whisky and water--which, by the way, I stole from
Gordon's flask----'
'You didn't tell him?' interrupted Rose quickly.
'Not I! I knew you wanted it kept dark about the scorch. It's better, I
hope? Why, you have curled your hair over the cut on your forehead.
What a dodge!'
His young face was overflowing with a sort of pride in her pluck, when
Mrs. Boynton came up. She was in a mood which craved attention, and
some of her slaves had passed her by to give Rose the first word.
'What are you two discussing so eagerly?' she began. 'Good-morning, Mr.
Keene. How delightfully commonplace you look in exactly the proper
breakfast costume for a young Englishman!'
George blushed. He would have given worlds to say that she looked
anything but commonplace, but was too young to venture on it. But he
looked the sentiment, and Gwen smiled bewilderingly back at him. She
was made that way, and could not help it.
'Isn't it quaint up here?' she went on, leaning over the balustrade and
looking, as Rose had been doing, at the servants filing up the steps
with silver dishes of sausages and bacon, and all the accessories of an
orthodox English breakfast, regardless of the feelings of their
pig-loathing hosts. 'I declare, I have fallen in love with everything.'
'Yourself included, I hope,' added Lewis, joining the group; or, to put
it politely, you have fallen in love with everything, and everything
has fallen in love with you. And no wonder. The fact is, Gwen, that you
do suit your present environment to perfection. I should not have
believed the thing possible--but so it is.'
As he sat on the coping with his back to the landscape, he bent forward
looking at her critically--'No!' he went on; 'I should not have thought
it possible, but you look the part.'
'It must be awful, though, to be a native,' remarked George fervently.
His eyes were on Colonel Tweedie as he spoke. That conspicuous failure
was, however, only partly responsible for his opinion. In a more or
less crude form the childish hymn of gratitude for having been born in
order to go to a public school survives wholesomely amongst young
Englishmen.
'I don't know,' dissented Gordon languidly. 'A civilised conscience is
a frightful interference with the liberty of the subject. Personally, I
object to the native views of comfort, pleasure, and all that. But I
can imagine some very good fellows preferring them. They are not nearly
such a strain on the nervous system. For instance, Gwen, were you
really the Shah-zadi you look, there would have been no necessity for
sending back those brocades over which I found you weeping half an hour
ago. You would have appropriated them without demur. Wouldn't she,
sir?'
The Colonel gave his little preparatory cough, and looked grave.
'It wasn't a brocade, Colonel Tweedie,' protested Gwen. 'It was simply
the most lovely piece of old-gold satin in the world. It stood up of
itself, and yet was absolutely invertebrate in its folds. Perfect! The
same on both sides too. I had half a mind to be double-faced myself,
and take it when Mr. Gordon's back was turned.'
'Why didn't you?' retorted the latter cynically. 'You are the only one
of us who would not be criminally responsible for the action. Isn't
that so, sir?' He was mischievously amused by his chief's evident
dislike to the subject.
'Should I be responsible?' asked Rose, surprised.
'Your father would be, for your action. Wouldn't you, sir?'
This was too much even for reticent dignity.
'I--er--don't--I mean, doubtless; but--er--it is not--er--a subject
which comes within the range of practical politics.'
'I should hope not,' cried Rose. 'My dear dad! fancy your being
responsible for my actions. It isn't fair!' Her face of aggrieved
decision made the others laugh.
'Perhaps it isn't, Miss Tweedie,' remarked Lewis gravely; but I can
assure you that we officials are all responsible for our female
relations in the first degree. A merciful Government has, however,
drawn the line at cousins. So Mrs. Boynton could only lose her own
pension, if she were found out.'
Gwen made a _moue_ of derision.
'That is not much to risk. I wish I had known this before. Lewis! do
you think you could prevail on them to give me another chance with the
satin?'
'What on earth is delaying the breakfast?' fussed Colonel Tweedie,
moving off. He hated _persiflage_, especially between his guest and his
secretary.
'Coming, sir, coming,' said George, leaning over to look; 'there is a
regular procession of silver dishes filing up Jacob's ladder.'
'Oh dem silver dishes,' hummed Rose gaily, leaning over to look, too.
'How funny it is, isn't it?'
'Funny!' echoed Dan, 'it is simply appalling.'
Perhaps the sudden sense of the utter incongruousness of it all
accounted for the silence which followed, as they stood on the balcony,
which clung like a swallow's nest to the bare walls. Below them, beyond
the courtyard, lay the shadowy arcades of the bazaar and the great pile
of the Mori gate. Beyond that again the bricks and sand-heaps of
Hodinuggur, with the village creeping up to be crowned by the grass
palisades where the potter sat at work.
'Talking of bribes, said Dan absently, after the pause, 'I've often
wondered how a fellow feels when he has been informed that her gracious
Majesty has no further need of his services. They seldom go beyond that
nowadays, but that must be bad enough.'
'Very much so, if the bribe has been insufficient, assented Lewis,
'Mr. Gordon! how can you?' began Rose, pausing, however, at the sight
of his satisfied smile.
'You should adopt the sun with the motto "Emergo" as your crest, Miss
Tweedie. It would suit both your thoughts and deeds,' he replied
teasingly.
'Don't mind him,' put in Dan; 'he always was weak in his grammar, and
doesn't know that rise must be the correct present tense of Rose.'
'But, really,' persisted Lewis, when the laugh ended; 'if a man _had_
taken a bribe, the first thought to one of his _genre_ would naturally
be if the game was worth the candle. If he _hadn't_--why, dismissal
from the public service is not always misfortune. There is the
disgrace, of course, but, personally, I have never been able to
understand the sentiment of the thing; it appears to me strained. Half
your world, as a rule, dislikes you; it believes you capable of
murdering your grandmother at any moment. Yet the fact doesn't distress
you. It is inevitable that some people should think ill of you. So why
should you care when they invent a definite crime for you to commit? It
doesn't affect your friends.'
'Well, I don't know,' said George Keene sturdily. 'That's all very
philosophical, but I believe I should shoot myself.'
'No! you wouldn't, old chap; unless you wished people to consider you
guilty.'
'This conversation is becoming gruesome,' put in Mrs. Boynton; 'let us
change it; though Lewis is right, for Government service seems to me a
doubtful blessing----'
'But an assured income,' interrupted Dan, with a laugh.
Lewis Gordon turned on him quite hotly. 'I like your saying that,
Fitzgerald--you of all people in the world. Why, man alive! if I had
your power I would chuck tomorrow, and die contractor, engineer,
K.C.I.E.' and the richest man in India!'
Gwen Boynton looked up in quick interest. 'Really! do you mean that
_really_, Lewis?'
'I won't swear to the K.C.S.I.' or the superlative, but Fitzgerald
knows perfectly that I always say he has mistaken his line of life. We
want hacks. People to obey orders, not to give them.' As he spoke he
glanced meaningly at Colonel Tweedie walking about fussily, and then at
his friend's face.
Dan swung himself from the balustrade where he had been perched. 'Some
one must give orders, and I mean to stick on for my promotion. It must
come next year. So that is settled. Are you not coming to breakfast,
Mrs. Boynton?' She met his smile without response as she turned away.
'Dear me! the others have gone in already, and I was so hungry. But one
doesn't often get the chance, Mr. Fitzgerald, of considering an old
friend in a new character. It was quite absorbing--for the time.'
So the balcony was left to the sunlight, and some one who had been
watching it from an archway in the bazaar, withdrew to the shadow where
she rolled the little pellets of opium in her soft palms and prepared
for her midday sleep. The burning of the tents had been a real piece of
luck, the mem--that was she no doubt in the native dress--would be in
the palace for two or three days, and women were women whether fair or
dark. This one, too, looked of the right sort. Chandni's dreams that
day were of a time when she would have the upper hand in Hodinuggur and
become virtuous, for it paid to be virtuous under the present
Government. Dalel should start a women's hospital. Then the Sirkar
would give him the water every year, and the necessity for scheming
would disappear. In the meantime they must not be niggardly. That did
not pay with women, since, if they were of the sort to take bribes,
they were of the sort not easily satisfied.