THE OUTSIDER.
“Have you heard the latest, Miss North?” asked Fitz Anstruther, as
he escorted Mabel to the scene of action. The five men who were
staying in the house had nearly come to blows in deciding who ought to
enjoy this privilege, but Fitz had stepped in and disappointed them
all equally by the calm announcement that it was his by right.
Officially he was Major North’s deputy, and it was only fair that the
pleasures as well as the duties of the post should devolve upon him.
The justice of the contention was grudgingly admitted, and Fitz was
the proudest man in Alibad when he drove to the ground that morning in
his smart new buggy, with Mabel, the glories of her gown hidden by a
tussore dust-cloak, seated beside him.
“No. What has the Commissioner done now?” she asked.
“Bahram Khan has entered his name for the Keeling Cup!”
“And that is equivalent to saying that the sky has fallen?”
Fitz regarded her pityingly. “You don’t see it as we do,” he said.
“Wait until you have been out a little longer. It seems that in order
to cement the reconciliation he has brought about, the Commissioner
saw fit to invite the Nalapur Princes to honour us with their presence
to-day. The Amir and Bahadar Shah didn’t quite see themselves figuring
in the triumphal procession, and both discovered that they had urgent
business at home. But Bahram Khan duly turned up last night with his
train of attendants, and is condescending enough to join us in our
sports to-day. The Commissioner has a theory that in such mimic
warfare as this the fusion of the English and native races proceeds
apace, and Bahram Khan is doing his best to gratify him by poking
himself into the race for the Keeling Cup--our very tiptop, crack,
_pucca_ event!”
“But did General Keeling patronise races? I shouldn’t have thought
they were at all in his line.”
“They were not; but then, this isn’t a race in the ordinary sense of
the word. It was first run just at the time when everything in
Khemistan was named after him, and besides, it recalls one of his own
pet dodges. They say that he used to subject the men that wanted to
serve under him to pretty severe tests, and this was one of them. He
used to rouse them up in the middle of the night, and they had to turn
out without boots, catch a strange horse, and ride him round the town
without a saddle, and with only a halter for a bridle.”
“It’s to be hoped that the town was smaller in those days than now?”
“Of course it was, but we don’t exact such a test as that. The ponies
are all turned loose on the course without saddles, and the men, in
slippers, have to catch them and mount. Any man who catches his own is
disqualified. Then they have to get them round the course without
bridle or whip of any kind. I have noticed that the spectators are
always pretty nearly dead with laughing before the end, while the
competitors get black in the face with restrained emotion.”
“But you don’t mean that General Keeling really treated his officers
in that way?”
“I do, indeed. He had to weed them out, you see, or he would have been
overrun with volunteers. Oh, you may have full confidence in my
veracity, Miss North, even though I once had a report returned me by a
jealous Secretary with the remark that I should do well to quit the
Civil Service for the path of romantic fiction. The pains I took over
that report! You see, I had an inkling that it would be seen by a very
exalted person, who is great on us juniors’ cultivating a literary
style in our official writings. I can truly say that there has never
been such a literary gem sent in since Macaulay left India. It was
written in the most beautiful English--though I say it--full of tender
touches and delicate conceits, and as to quotations, and Oriental
imagery, and wealth of imaginative detail----! Ah well, it’s better
not to think of it,” and Fitz sighed deeply.
“Why? Did it bring down upon you a rebuke from the Great Great One?”
“No, alas! for it never reached him. The Secretary intercepted it,
naturally enough. Who would ever have looked at his minutes again
after it? But at least it furnished him with an ideal to strive after.
I have reason to believe he is in a lunatic asylum at this moment. The
effort was too great, you see.”
“That was rather close,” said Mabel irrelevantly, as the wheel shaved
the basketwork tray of an itinerant sweetseller by the roadside.
“He shouldn’t be so intent on his prospective gains. Look how many of
the fellows there are about! That shows we are near the ground. They
flock to this place from all quarters when they know there’s a
_tamasha_ on.”
They had reached the enclosure by this time, and Mabel found herself
surrounded by an admiring throng. Pale-faced ladies from other
stations glanced at her dress casually, and continued to gaze long and
fixedly, her Alibad admirers brought up friends to be introduced, and
both the old slaves and the new displayed a keen anxiety to post
themselves for the day in the neighbourhood of her chair. With the
exception of the race for the Keeling Cup, the sports were wholly
military in character, and the programme was a lengthy one, but Mabel
did not find the hours pass slowly. Everything was new and
interesting, from the splendid native officers, with fierce eyes
gleaming under enormous turbans, who dashed up on fiery steeds and
bore away triumphantly an unresisting tent-peg, to the latest recruit
who exhibited his coolness by holding out his bare hand, with what
Mabel considered privately an excess of confidence, for his _daffadar_
to cut a lemon upon it. There was the inner circle of troopers of the
Khemistan Horse, reinforced to-day by such veterans as old Ismail
Bakhsh and his fellow-_chaprasis_, keenly critical, but above all
things solicitous for the honour of the regiment. There were the
notables of the district, grave and bearded men in flowing robes, who
looked as though they might have sat for a gallery of Scriptural
portraits, but who exhibited an anxious deference when Dick glanced
their way, which suggested that their relation with him in the past
had occasionally been that of criminals and judge. At the farther side
of the course was the motley throng of dwellers in the native town,
and hangers-on of the cantonments, with faces of every shade of brown,
and clothes and turbans of every variety of colour. And lastly, close
at hand, there was the little group of English, not taking their
pleasure sadly, for once, but making the most of the rare opportunity
for the exchange of news and opinions. The Commissioner was the centre
of attraction here, naturally enough, or at least, he shared the
general attention with Mabel; but she was quite aware, as she met his
benevolent smile, that he was making her a graceful present of a
portion of the homage due to himself.
The last event but one upon the programme was the tug-of-war between
six men of the Khemistan Horse and six of the Sikhs who formed the
Commissioner’s escort--a contest which was fought out with the
greatest obstinacy, but in which the visiting team finally secured the
victory, to the unconcealed lamentation and resentment of the local
representatives and their friends. The triumphant Sikhs found no
sympathisers except among the _sahib-log_, and the English applause
was cut short by the necessity of preparing for the last race, in
which it was a point of honour for every man to take part who could
possibly do so.
“A solemn sacrifice to the memory of the adored General Keeling!” said
Mr Burgrave in a low voice to Mabel, as they watched their late
companions assembling upon the course.
“Oh, but what is that native doing?” cried Mabel, forgetting what she
had heard only that morning, as a tall lithe man, wearing the green
turban of a descendant of the Prophet, stepped out from the group of
notables and joined the competitors.
“That,” was the bland answer, “is Bahram Khan, hitherto the bugbear of
the frontier; henceforth, I hope, our friend and ally.”
“I don’t like to see him there. He spoils the look of it,” she said
impulsively.
“Bahram Khan offends your eye? Ah, Miss North, you must pardon a poor
statesman the dulness of his perceptions! I am no authority upon
æsthetic questions, I must confess, whereas you--well, you could
scarcely not be one.”
A smile emphasised the compliment, and Mabel turned away rather
hastily, and addressed a casual remark to Flora Graham. Compliments
were all very well, but she did not approve of the adroit way in which
Mr Burgrave repressed her whenever she touched on political subjects.
Flora had no eyes for any one but Fred Haycraft at the moment,
however, and Mabel was obliged to turn her attention to the course.
The signal for starting was given just then, and there ensued a wild
_mêlée_ of men and horses, the men as eager to mount as the horses
were determined not to be mounted by any one but their own masters.
Presently one or two successful athletes forced their way out of the
scrimmage, and by degrees most of the competitors secured a mount of
some kind, but some were still vainly struggling when the foremost
appeared round the curve of the course.
“Oh dear, he has no chance!” wailed Flora, referring to her _fiancé_,
who was one of these unfortunates. “That’s Bahram Khan’s pony he has
got, and of course it won’t let a white man mount it. Well, every one
must see that it isn’t his fault. Oh, he’s up at last!”
But this tardy triumph was of little avail, for just as Fred Haycraft
urged his unwilling steed on its way, Bahram Khan, mounted on the bay
pony which was the especial pride of Fitz Anstruther’s heart, trotted
gently past the winning-post. The absence of hurry, as the luckless
Fitz remarked afterwards, was at once the finest and the most
irritating part of the performance.
“The nigger’s won!” remarked a grizzled old officer who had served
under General Keeling, in blank amazement, and as the truth of his
words broke upon those around him, they were received with a low
whistle of dismay. The Commissioner, who had himself led the applause
in which the rest were too much stunned to join, glanced round
sharply, and at the same moment Mabel found Dick at her side.
“Look here, Mab. You’d better ask the Commissioner to give the prizes.
I never thought of this. These fellows are not like us--they don’t
understand things. Get into a back seat quickly, without any fuss.”
Mabel stared at him blankly. She was to relinquish her part in the
events of the day, the glorious hour to which she had been looking
forward for more than a week, to disappoint all her admirers, and hide
herself and her gown where no one could see them! But Dick’s face was
adamant, and he repeated his order peremptorily, until she rose and
moved reluctantly towards the Commissioner, touching him on the arm.
“My brother says I had better ask you to distribute the prizes,” she
said, with disappointment in every tone. Mr Burgrave looked at her in
astonishment, then his face took a harder set as his eyes fell on
Georgia, who was endeavouring to console Flora for her lover’s ill
success. Of course it was her doing! A faded woman in a gown that
might have been new two seasons ago--how could she be otherwise than
jealous of the radiant vision at his side? “And no wonder, poor
thing!” said Mr Burgrave to himself, with contemptuous pity, but she
must learn that it would not do to make mischief where her beautiful
young sister-in-law was concerned.
“My dear Miss North,” the Commissioner’s voice took on its most
fatherly tone, “don’t be afraid. Nothing would induce me to rob you of
your pleasure.”
The words were loud enough for Dick to hear, and Mabel saw him frown
angrily as she returned to her place, half-proud and half-afraid of
her triumph. He said nothing, however, but took his stand immediately
behind her, the very embodiment of silent displeasure. The sense of
his disapproval served to irritate her further, and she heartily
wished him away. His rigid face would quite spoil the effect of the
picture she had intended to present, and he was taking up the room of
other people whose attendance she would have preferred. But she was
determined not to give in, even when the Commissioner’s encouraging
smile smote her with a feeling of treachery, in that she had appealed
to him against Dick.
The regimental prize-winners came up in their order, the natives, now
that the momentary excitement was over, wearing a look of stately
boredom, which seemed to declare that sports and prizes alike were a
species of child’s play, in which they took part merely to humour the
unaccountable whims of their officers. With the officers it was
different, for Mabel read in their faces that although sports were
good, and to earn a prize was better, both these faded into
insignificance compared with the joy of receiving that prize from her
hand. This was the very feeling that it most pleased her to inspire,
and she loved the “boys,” as she called them in her thoughts, better
than before, if that were possible.
But this glow of pleasure was shortlived. A brief pause followed the
appearance of the Sikh head-man to receive the tug-of-war prize, and
Mabel felt, without turning her head, that Dick’s silent disapproval
had infected all the Englishmen around. Once more she hardened her
heart. It was detestable to see this wretched racial snobbishness in
the men she had admired so much. They would have liked to spoil the
whole affair, and deprive her of the one piece of romance which had
come to brighten the humdrum proceedings, rather than allow a native
not belonging to the regiment to carry off a prize. She, at least, was
above such petty considerations, and Bahram Khan should receive as
gracious a smile as any of his fellow-competitors. One other person
was of her mind, she saw, for the Commissioner clapped his hands
lightly, and with infinite condescension, as Bahram Khan swaggered up.
Mabel stepped forward, and met the glance of the bold eyes under the
green turban. As she did so, she understood suddenly the secret of
Dick’s displeasure. The smile faded from her lips, and the hand in
which she held the Keeling Cup trembled. She stopped and faltered, and
her pause of distress was evident to the men behind her. How they
responded to her mute appeal she could not tell, but the look of
insolent admiration disappeared from Bahram Khan’s eyes, into which
she was still gazing spell-bound, and was, as it were, veiled under
his former expression of contemptuous indifference towards his
surroundings. A few words from the Commissioner, and the Nalapur
Prince retired, leaving behind him a general feeling of awkwardness.
If it had been arranged that anything else was to be done at this
point, no one remembered it. People stood about in little groups, and
talked somewhat constrainedly. Something had happened, or rather,
there had been an electrical instant, and something might have
happened, but it was not quite easy to see what it was. The crudest
conception of the facts was voiced by Mrs Hardy, who had torn herself
from her school-work to be present at the prize-giving, and now seized
upon Georgia.
[image: images/img_042.jpg
caption: “MABEL STEPPED FORWARD, AND MET THE GLANCE OF THE BOLD EYES
UNDER THE GREEN TURBAN”]
“Oh, dear Mrs North, how unspeakably painful all this must be to you
and your husband! You must feel the charge of Miss North a dreadful
responsibility. I would never have said a word while she flirted
merely with our own officers, or even with Mr Burgrave--though really
the lengths to which she goes--! But to set herself deliberately to
dazzle a native----”
“Mrs Hardy,” cried Georgia, flushing angrily, “please remember that
you are speaking of my sister. I am certain that Mabel has never
dreamt of such a thing. She may be thoughtless, but that is all.”
“It is very sweet and good of you to say it, but I am afraid your eyes
will soon be disagreeably opened. No rational being could doubt that
Miss North is setting her cap at the Commissioner, and that would
hardly be a match you could welcome, would it? Look at her dress--so
absurdly unsuitable at her age. Oh, I know to a day how old she is,
Mrs North, and I will say that eight years between you don’t warrant
your dressing as if you were mother and daughter. But I grant that
Miss North is one of the people who always look younger than they are,
while you invariably look older.”
The expression of Mrs Hardy’s sympathy rarely corresponded with the
good-will which prompted it, but Georgia received the stab in heroic
silence, and cast about for some means of changing the subject.
“I suppose we may as well go home now,” she said at last in despair,
rising as she spoke. “Where is my husband, I wonder?”
“Over there, talking to the Commissioner and Bahram Khan,” responded
Mrs Hardy. “Dear me! something must have happened. There is a
messenger who seems to have brought some news. How grave they all
look! What can it be?”
Watching eagerly, they saw Bahram Khan take his leave of Mr Burgrave
and Dick and rejoin his friends. As the two gentlemen returned to the
rest of the company the Commissioner said, slightly raising his tones
in a way that attracted general attention, “Well, except for the sake
of the poor fellow himself, I can’t pretend to be sorry. The way is
now clear for important developments.”
Dick’s reply was inaudible, but the Commissioner rejoined sharply, “Of
course you put this down to Bahram Khan’s account?”
“I make no accusations,” said Dick, unmoved. “You can’t perceive more
clearly than I do that it’s impossible to connect him with it.”
“You deal in ambiguities, I see.” Mr Burgrave’s temper was evidently
ruffled.
“There is no ambiguity in my mind,” was the reply, as Dick beckoned to
a servant to fetch up his dog-cart. “Are you coming with me, Georgie,
or shall I take Mabel?”
“Oh no, Mr Anstruther will drive her home,” said Georgia, aghast at
the thought of an encounter between Dick in his present mood and Mabel
at her prickliest. “Dick,” as the Commissioner turned to speak to Mrs
Hardy, “what has happened?”
“Hush! speak lower. Bahadar Shah is dead.”
“What! poisoned?”
“No, shot. He was out hunting, and one of his most trusted servants
was carrying his spare gun loaded. As he handed it to him it went off,
and Bahadar Shah was shot through the heart.”
“And what happened to the servant?”
“The rest fell upon him and clubbed him to death immediately.”
“But of course it was Bahram Khan’s doing?”
“’Sh! He has established a satisfactory alibi, at any rate.” Dick
helped Georgia into the cart and took the reins, and they were well on
the road home before he spoke again. “It is the killing of the servant
that’s the most suspicious feature to me. It would be just like Bahram
Khan to bribe him to murder his master on the understanding that his
escape should be secured, and then to make matters safe by bribing the
rest to put him out of the way.”
“But surely that would only involve admitting more into the secret?”
“What secret? Bahram Khan is anxious for his cousin’s safety, and
charges the servants to show no mercy to any one that attacks him. The
utmost you could prove against him would be an idea that an attempt on
his life might be made--not even a guilty knowledge, far less
instigation.”
“How did he receive the news?”
“In the most orthodox way, deep but restrained grief. He must go to
Nalapur to be present at the funeral and comfort his bereaved uncle,
he told Burgrave, just as if his uncle would not sooner see a
man-eater come to comfort him. How Burgrave received the news, you
heard.”
“Yes. His manner was indecently callous, I thought.”
“Oh no. His saying what he did was one of his calculated
indiscretions, like unveiling his policy to Timson coming up. No
papers here, you see, so he must make his revelations by word of
mouth. Ugh! the man turns me sick. Did you notice his bit of by-play
with Mab?”
“She didn’t realise what you meant, Dick. Things here are so new to
her, you know.”
“Oh, why should a man be doomed to have a fool for a sister? If I had
said to you what I said to her you would have understood.”
“Perhaps Mab hasn’t studied you as closely as I have.”
“No, the Commissioner is her object of study at present. Nice cheerful
prospect, isn’t it--to have that chap for a brother-in-law?”
“Ye-es,” said Georgia hesitatingly, “but I’m not quite sure it will be
that, Dick. I think there’s some one else.”
“And the Commissioner is only making the pace for him? No, no,
Georgie; that’s a little too thick. Of course I know there are dozens
of others, but who is there that has a chance against Burgrave?”
“If I tell you, you’ll only laugh. It is a very little thing, but it’s
the straw to show which way the wind is blowing. You didn’t notice,
when Bahram Khan had had his prize, how Mab was left sitting alone for
a minute. I knew just how she felt, ashamed and miserable and
_wounded_, and I wanted to go to her, but Mrs Hardy had got hold of
me, and I didn’t think she would improve matters. The Commissioner
didn’t see--he never does see what other people are feeling, unless he
happens to be feeling the same himself--but Fitz Anstruther did. He
was by her side in a moment, saying just the kind of things that would
lead her to forget her mortification. If he had seemed to intend to
help her, she would have been angry, but it looked quite accidental,
as if it was simply that he took pleasure in her society, and jumped
at the chance of enjoying it when he found her alone for a minute. She
will be grateful to him ever after, and that may be the beginning of
even better things.”
“Oh, you match-makers! The idea of coupling Mab and Anstruther, of all
people! And you back him against the Commissioner?”
“I do; unless Mab is deliberately playing for a high official future.”