THE STRENGTH OF TEN.
For some months after Ferrers’ departure for Gamara, Colin was kept
a prisoner by the wounds received in the unsuccessful first attack on
Shir Hussein’s stronghold. Lady Haigh had insisted that he should be
brought to the fort, and she and Penelope nursed him unweariedly. His
convalescence was long and tedious, and complicated by attacks of
fever; but he exhibited a constant patience which, as Lady Haigh said,
was nothing but a reproach to ordinary mortals, and only showed what
terrible people the Martyrs must have been to live with. From the
first return to consciousness, his question was always for news of
Ferrers; and when he was at last promoted from his bedroom to a couch
in the drawing-room, he was still eager on the subject.
“Have you had many letters from George, Pen?” he asked his sister the
very first day.
“Two, I think. No, there must have been three,” she answered
indifferently.
“Do you mean to say you’re not sure? If poor George only knew what an
affectionate sweetheart he has!”
“They came when you were very ill. How could I think of them then?”
“I don’t know. It seems the proper thing, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t they be
generally supposed to be a comfort to you?”
“Possibly, by people who didn’t know the circumstances.”
“Why, Pen!” Colin gave her a puzzled look. “Couldn’t you read me a bit
here and there?” he asked coaxingly. “I should like to hear how the
old fellow is getting on.”
“I’m not sure that I can find them. I’ll look.”
She went into her own room, and returned presently with some crumpled
papers in her hand.
“There must have been three, but I can only find two. I remember the
_dhobi_ sent some message about a paper in the pocket of a dress that
went to the wash. I must have thrust it away and forgotten all about
it. Don’t look at me with huge reproachful eyes in that way, Colin. I
suppose you think I ought to work an embroidered case for George’s
letters, and keep them next my heart, don’t you?”
“I thought that was the sort of thing girls did generally. Of course I
mightn’t be allowed to see them, Pen?” He spoke in jest; but his eyes
were fastened hungrily on the letters.
“Oh dear, yes! I don’t mind. Why shouldn’t you?”
Colin was taken aback. He had no experience in love-affairs, but it
struck him that this was not quite as it should be. He smoothed out
the crushed sheets as she handed them to him.
“Why, they look just as if you had crumpled them up and thrown them
across the room!” he said.
“Well, if you are anxious to know, that is exactly what I did do, and
the ayah picked them up and put them carefully into a drawer.”
“Pen!” Colin was shocked. “What could you have been thinking about?”
“Oh, I happened to be in a bad temper, that was all, of course. Don’t
worry your head about it, dear. Now that you are better, I don’t so
much mind all the other things. I oughtn’t to be cross and horrid,
when I’m so thankful about you, ought I? but I’m tired, and we’ve been
anxious about you for so long.”
She bent over him and kissed his forehead, and Colin, though
perplexed, acquiesced in her evident desire to change the subject. But
he watched her anxiously, noticing the irritability which was so new
in her voice, and the restless unhappiness of her face when she
thought herself alone.
“Pen,” he said suddenly one day, “has anything gone wrong between you
and George?”
“Oh, nothing particular,” she answered listlessly. “It’s only that if
I knew I should never see him again, I should be perfectly happy.”
“Penelope!” he cried, aghast. “You would like him to disappear,
perhaps to be killed, like poor Whybrow?”
“No, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him. But if he would only
fall in love with some one else, and never come back here!”
“I don’t think you are at all in a right state of mind, Penelope.”
Colin’s didactic instincts were roused by this heartless speech.
“Nor do I,” she answered promptly. “I have known it for a long time.
The best that can be said of it is that I am forcing myself to do evil
that good may come--or that you are forcing me.”
“I?” cried Colin indignantly. “You know I want nothing but your
happiness.”
“You don’t think of my happiness at all. You think of me merely as a
means of reclaiming George, not as a person to be considered
separately.”
“I hope you are not going to adopt Lady Haigh’s jargon, Pen. It
doesn’t sound nice from a young lady’s lips.”
“Do you think that what I have gone through since Christmas has been
nice to feel?” she demanded hotly, then broke down and fell upon her
knees by his couch in tears. “Oh, Colin, I am very miserable. I can’t
bear it. Help me. Be kind as you used to be. Think of me a little, not
only of George. He has come between us ever since we came to India. I
can’t marry him--I can’t!”
Colin put out a shaking hand to touch hers. He had honestly thought he
was doing the best both for his sister and his friend in bringing
about a marriage between them, and the sudden revelation of Penelope’s
state of feeling came upon him with a shock. “Don’t, Pen,” he said
feebly. “I didn’t know you felt like this about it. I’ll speak to
George--awful blow--poor fellow----” his voice failed, and Penelope
sprang up in alarm.
“Oh, I have made you ill again! You are faint!” she cried in terror.
“Oh, Colin, don’t. I will marry him--it was always to please you.”
“No, no.” He lifted his hand with difficulty. “We will talk of this
again--not just now. I will think about it. Poor George! poor fellow!”
and as she fetched him a restorative Penelope felt, with a renewal of
the old bitterness, that his first thought was still for Ferrers, not
for her.
It was not until the next day that he returned to the subject; but in
the interval she caught his eyes following her wistfully, as though he
was trying to discover the reason for such hardness of heart. But his
voice was gentle as he held out his hand to her when they found
themselves alone, and said, “Now, Pen, come and sit here, and let us
talk things over.” It did not occur to her to resent this fatherly
attitude on the part of a brother no older than herself. He had always
stood somewhat apart, and taken the lead, and until the last few
months she had never admitted a doubt of his insight or his wisdom. He
looked at her searchingly as she sat down beside him. “There is one
thing I must ask first,” he said. “Is there any one else?”
The blood rushed to Penelope’s face, but she looked him straight in
the eyes. “There is,” she said. “But don’t look at me in that way,
Colin, as if I had been encouraging some one else while I was engaged
to George. I think you might know me better than that.”
“You should have told me about it.”
“How could I? There was nothing to tell. He didn’t speak until it was
too late.”
“But when he spoke, you came at once to the conclusion that you
preferred him to George?”
“Not quite that. It wasn’t so sudden. I--I liked him before, but
because he said nothing I thought he--didn’t care.”
“And now you wish George to release you that you may become engaged to
him?”
“It’s not that! He promised never to speak of that sort of thing
again. How dare you say such things to me, Colin? It’s not just--you
know it isn’t. If you knew anything about love--but you don’t---- It
is simply that I can’t promise to love and obey one man when I know in
my heart that I don’t love him, but some one else.”
She had sprung up from her low seat and confronted him with flushed
cheeks and grey eyes flashing. Colin hardly knew his quiet sister, and
he felt abashed before her indignation. “Forgive me, Pen,” he said. “I
only wanted to know all the ins and outs of the matter. Why didn’t you
tell me about it before?”
“Do you think you are an encouraging person to tell things to?”
demanded Penelope, still unreconciled. “No, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean
to say that. It was my promise, Colin. You were so shocked at the idea
of my breaking it, I thought I would sooner die. And so I tried to
forget the--the other, and to like George, but I couldn’t make myself
feel as I ought. I don’t want to hurt you--I know how fond you are of
George--but it was the difference, the dreadful difference between the
two men. I couldn’t help seeing it more and more.”
“And so you were very miserable?” She was beside him again now, with
her face buried in his cushions, and his tone was tender.
“So miserable. And I have felt so wicked, Colin. It was almost a
relief when you were so ill, and I couldn’t think of any one but you.
When Elma came and made me go and rest, I couldn’t sleep, because the
thought of George used to seize me like a terror. It was horrible to
think of his coming back.”
Colin was stroking her hair, but there was a little bitterness in his
voice as he said, “I seem to have been making a mistake all along. If
I had guessed there was another man it would have been different; but
I thought a girl could not want anything more than a kind husband,
whom she might hope to help by her companionship. I knew Lady Haigh
had prejudiced you against poor George----”
“No, that is not fair. I was quite willing to believe in George again
on your word, but he never took the slightest trouble to show me that
he cared for me. Even when I told him that before Christmas, he only
made a kind of pretence, as if he knew I should have to marry him
whether I liked him or not. I know I have been very wrong, Colin, but
it was in listening to George at all, when I knew I didn’t care for
him. It isn’t fickleness, really. I have tried hard to like him.”
“And now I must tell him that you prefer some one else, and want him
to release you?”
“No, tell him that I can’t marry him.”
“That is not enough. Do you think it is a pleasant thing for me to
have to confess that my sister has made a promise she cannot keep, and
that I must throw myself on his mercy to set her free? And poor George
himself! You may tell me I know nothing about this sort of thing, but
it will be a terrible blow to him. No, it is not your fault,
Pen--altogether. You should have spoken before, but I am to blame too.
I will undertake to settle the matter with George, and I only trust
that I may be mistaken in thinking how much he will feel it.”
“He won’t release me,” she said hopelessly. “I asked him myself.”
“Without giving any reason? Of course he thought it was merely girlish
fickleness or a love of teasing.” Penelope moved her head
unrepentantly. “Pen, you talk of my being unjust to you, but you are
frightfully unjust to George. As if any gentleman would keep a girl
bound when he knew she cared for some one else! You try to excuse
yourself by making him out a blackguard.”
“I can only judge him as I have found him,” she said, wondering
whether Colin’s firm faith in his friend had really a power to bring
out the best side of Ferrers’ character. Colin looked for good in him,
and found it; she expected nothing better than lack of sympathy and
consideration, and duly met with it. Was she herself in part to blame
for the unsatisfactory features of his conduct? If she had been able
to love him and believe in him with the whole-hearted confidence he
had inspired in her as a child, if she could have continued to regard
him as an ideal hero, accepting his careless favours with rapture, and
never dreaming of demanding more affection than he chose to give, he
might possibly have developed into the being she believed him.
Possibly, but not probably. An unreasoning devotion would in all
likelihood have wearied him, even if her sharp eyes had not beheld the
flaws in his armour; but it was not possible to Penelope to go about
with her eyes shut. Perfection she did not expect, but Ferrers could
never have satisfied her now that she was no longer a child, even had
his deficiencies, not been accentuated by the contrast with that other
lover of whom she strove conscientiously not to think, but whose very
faults she owned to herself that she loved.
For some time after her explanation with Colin, the subject of Ferrers
was not mentioned between them. Colin had discarded the idea of
writing to him, lest the letter should be lost or fall into the wrong
hands; but there was a tacit understanding that he was to meet him as
soon as he returned to India, and tell him everything. Even this
unsettled state of affairs brought comfort to Penelope. Her
cheerfulness returned, and she was uneasily conscious that Colin must
think her absolutely heartless when he heard her talking and laughing
with Lady Haigh, who was quite aware that he was inclined to consider
her Penelope’s evil genius. But one day there came news that put an
effectual end to all cheerfulness for the time. Penelope was crossing
the hall when she heard Sir Dugald, who was just coming out of the
drawing-room, talking to Colin.
“After all,” he was saying, “it’s much too soon to give up hope. Many
things might happen to interrupt communications. He may even be on his
way back already.”
A groan from Colin was the only answer, and Penelope asked anxiously,
“What is it, Sir Dugald? Is anything the matter?”
He looked at her before answering, and the look convinced her that
Lady Haigh kept him informed, possibly against his will, of the course
of affairs. “We are anxious for news of Ferrers,” he said. “Since the
letter which told of his arrival at Gamara, neither the Government nor
any one else has had a word from him.”
“And they think----?”
“They think--but we trust they are beginning to despond too soon--that
he may have shared poor Whybrow’s fate, whatever it was.”
For a moment--a moment for which she could never forgive
herself--Penelope was conscious of an involuntary feeling of relief.
No more of those letters, which had caused her such indignant misery
at first, with their calm assumption of the writer’s authority over
her, and their wealth of affectionate epithets (mentally repudiated by
the recipient), and which she had felt as a constant reproach since
her talk with Colin. Then came a quick revulsion of feeling. To what
horrors was she willing to doom this man who had loved her, merely to
save herself humiliation and discomfort? She ran into the
drawing-room, where Colin was lying on his couch with his face to the
wall.
“Colin, he must be saved!” she cried. “Don’t let us lose time. They
waited so long after the news of poor Mr Whybrow’s disappearance
before doing anything. Can’t he be ransomed? There is Saadullah
Kermani, the trader--he travels to Gamara, and would arrange it. I
will give all my money--it isn’t much in the year, but we could
realise the investments, couldn’t we?--and my pearl necklace is worth
a good deal, and there are my brooches and things. You would give what
you could, wouldn’t you? and I know Elma would help. Oh, and there is
Mr Crayne. We can get quite enough money together, surely?”
“It’s not a question of money.” Colin turned a white, drawn face
towards his sister. “If we knew that he, or Whybrow either, was in
prison, there might be some hope. Whether he was seized in order to
extort money or political concessions, we might come to terms. But if
he disappears, as Whybrow did, without leaving a trace, and the Khan’s
government deny that they know anything about him, what can we say?
The only thing is for some one to go and search for him, and it must
be done.”
“Oh, not you, Colin! not you!” cried Penelope, almost frantically.
“I shall not decide in a hurry. I mean to wait a week, in case the
letters have been delayed by snow in the mountains, or by fighting
among the tribes. If we hear nothing then, I shall write to the
Government of India, asking to be sent to look for him.”
“Oh, Colin, you mustn’t go!” she wailed. “You are all I have now.”
“It may not be necessary,” he said. “I can’t say more than that.”
Penelope thought afterwards that she had never spent such a long week
in her life. In terrible contrast to her former wish that Ferrers
might not return was her feverish anxiety to be assured that he was
actually on his way back. But no news came, and telegrams from
Calcutta told that the authorities there had very little hope. They
pointed out that they had agreed most reluctantly to send Ferrers to
Gamara, and their forebodings seemed in a fair way of being justified.
Nothing had been heard of Ferrers or from him by the end of the week,
and Colin wrote at once to offer his services to go in search of his
friend. The reply was prompt and decisive. The Government had no
intention of sending any further mission to Gamara.
“I must get leave of absence, and travel as a private individual,” was
all the comment Colin vouchsafed when he saw the joy which Penelope
could not hide. “It will make things a little more difficult, but
Government aid really doesn’t seem to do much good.”
“Oh, I wish I could speak to Major Keeling before he does, and beg him
not to grant him leave!” thought Penelope, as she saw him mount his
pony--he was allowed to ride a little by this time--and take the
direction of the town; but it seemed as though Major Keeling had
divined her wishes without hearing them. He was in his office,
digesting an acrimonious rebuke from headquarters on the subject of
the young officer upon whom he had seized to replace Ferrers, and his
refusal of Colin’s request was sharp and short.
“Go to Gamara--six months’ leave? Certainly not. We are short-handed
already. I wonder you have the face to ask it.”
“You can’t expect me to leave my friend to be tortured to death, sir.”
“What does it signify to you what I expect? You won’t get leave from
me to go on such a wild-goose chase.”
“Major Keeling, I earnestly entreat you to grant me this six months. I
cannot leave Ferrers to his fate.”
“What are you standing there talking for--taking up my time? You won’t
do any good if you stay till to-morrow.”
“He is my friend. I must try to save him.”
“And your brother-in-law that is to be? It makes no difference.”
“No, sir, that is not my reason. In fact, my sister has determined to
break off her engagement, and I shall have to tell him so, but----”
Major Keeling sprang up furiously. “What do you mean by coming here
and trying to tempt me, sir? You shall not go to your death for
Ferrers or any one else, unless it’s in the way of duty. Be off!”
Nothing but the enlightenment which broke suddenly upon Colin would
have sufficed to make him leave the office without irritating the
Commandant by further argument, but for a moment the discovery
overshadowed in his mind even the thought of Ferrers. He had felt some
natural curiosity as to the identity of the man whom Penelope
preferred to his friend; but as she did not offer to gratify it he had
not pressed her, thinking that Porter was almost certainly the person
in question. Now it occurred to him that Penelope might be of use in
asking for the leave which Major Keeling was so determined not to
grant, but he repressed the thought sternly. He would do nothing that
would allow Penelope or any one else to think that he recognised the
slightest bond between her and the man who had supplanted Ferrers.
Leaving the office, he saw Sir Dugald riding past, and joined him,
telling him of the unsuccessful issue of his application. Sir Dugald,
who may have been primed beforehand by Penelope, was much rejoiced,
and inwardly blessed Major Keeling’s wisdom, but was careful not to
hurt Colin’s feelings.
“It would mean certain death for you, after all,” he said; “and you
have your sister to think of, you know. Why not see what money can do?
Let us go and see that old sinner Saadullah. He might be able to make
inquiries for you, and he starts for Gamara in a week or two.”
They rode out to the piece of land on the north of the town which had
been set apart as a camping-ground for traders and small bands of
nomads, and threaded their way between the lines of squalid tents and
through the confusion of camels, horses, and human beings, towards the
encampment of Saadullah Kermani, which was somewhat withdrawn from the
rest. Most of the men who were hanging about saluted the two officers
with more or less goodwill, but a hulking fellow who was lounging
against a pile of merchandise stared at them open-mouthed, and on
being hastily prompted by a neighbour as to his duty, burst into an
insolent laugh. Sir Dugald turned his pony sharply aside, and seizing
the man by some portion of his ragged garments, shook him until his
teeth chattered, then released him and ordered him to beg pardon
unless he wanted a thrashing. Forced to his knees by his companions,
the man stuttered out some kind of apology, adding in a sulky murmur
something that the Englishmen could not hear.
“What does he say?” asked Sir Dugald of the trader himself, who had
come up by this time.
“Nothing, sahib, nothing; he is the son of a pig, one who cannot speak
truth. He utters lies as the serpent spits forth venom.”
“He said something about Gamara, and I wish to know what it was.”
“I said,” interrupted the cause of the discussion, “that the Sahibs
who ride here so proudly, and ill-treat true believers, would find
things rather different in Gamara, like their friend Firoz Sahib.”
“What do you know about Firoz Sahib?” demanded Sir Dugald.
“Only that he has turned Mussulman to save his life,” grinned the man.
“Oh, mercy, Heaven-born, mercy!” as Saadullah and his servants fell
upon him, all trying to beat him at once.
“No, let him speak,” commanded Sir Dugald. “Is this true that you
say?” he asked the man.
“I know only that one morning Firoz Sahib was not to be found in the
house that had been appointed for him, and it was said that he had
insulted his Highness, and had been given his choice of Islam or
death,” was the sulky answer.
“Did you hear anything of this?” asked Sir Dugald of Saadullah.
“It was talked of in the bazars, sahib; but many things are spoken
that have no truth in them,” replied the trader deferentially.
“Well, we will see you again. I would advise you to teach that fellow
of yours to keep his mouth shut.”
“It shall be done, sahib. He is a fool, and the grandson of a fool,”
and Saadullah pursued the two officers out of his camp with profound
bows. As soon as they were clear of the tents, Colin turned to Sir
Dugald.
“This settles it,” he said. “I shall throw up my commission and go to
Gamara.”