A WOUNDED SPIRIT.
Instead of appearing in the gardens that evening, Major Keeling rode
out, accompanied only by an orderly, to Sheikhgarh. He had never met
the Sheikh-ul-Jabal face to face since the day of the eclipse and of
his triumphant vindication, but important pieces of information had
come to him several times by strange messengers, testifying to the
friendliness of the recluse. Curious to relate, the destruction of the
marvellous legend which had grown up about the supposed identity of
the two men seemed to have had little or no effect. The dwellers on
the border and the tribesmen alike possessed a strong love of the
miraculous, and resented the attempt to deprive them of a wonder.
Taking refuge in the fact that only a very few people, and most of
those Europeans, had seen Major Keeling and the Sheikh side by side,
they maintained with obstinate pertinacity their original theory that
the one man led a double existence--as British commandant by day and
head of the Brotherhood of the Mountains by night. From this belief
nothing could move them, and as the result tended to the peace of the
border, their rulers had left off trying to convince them against
their will. It is to be feared that Ismail Bakhsh, the orderly,
foresaw a large increase of credit to himself from this journey, by
the unconcealed joy with which he entered upon it; and yet, marvellous
as were the tales he told on his return, his experiences were confined
to remaining with his horse at the point where visitors to the
fortress were first challenged. To Major Keeling’s astonishment, no
attempt was made to blindfold him on this occasion, the guards saying
that they had orders from the Sheikh to admit Kīlin Sahib freely
whenever he might come, and he rode with them to the gate of the
fortress, noticing the care with which the place was defended. This
time the Sheikh came to meet him at the entrance, and taking him up to
the room over the gateway, possibly from fear of eavesdroppers in the
great hall, sent away all his attendants as soon as the proper
salutations had passed. He seemed anxious, and was evidently expecting
news of importance.
“There is no message from Nalapur--no outbreak?” he asked eagerly, as
soon as they were alone.
“I have heard nothing,” answered Major Keeling in surprise. “What news
should there be?”
“It is well. Yet there must be news soon. The Amir and Gobind Chand
are, as it were, crossing a gulf by a rope-bridge--one false step
means destruction. But they will not return to firm ground.”
“But you sent me word that the Sardars refused to stand their
exactions and oppression any longer, and that they had been obliged to
promise to meet them, and inquire into their grievances.”
“True, and the assembly is to meet this week; but what will follow?
Are Wilayat Ali and the Vizier men who will render back the gains they
have extorted? Not so; they will divert the minds of the Sardars by
making war upon one of their neighbours. And which neighbour will that
be?”
“All right. Let them come!” laughed Major Keeling. “If they are fools
enough to hurl themselves on our guns they must. I have done all I
could to keep the peace. When is it to be--at the end of the week?”
“Nay, not so soon. They will but inflame the minds of the Sardars, and
send them home to prepare for war. It cannot begin yet.”
“Then what were you afraid of? You seemed to expect danger of some
sort.”
“I feared one of those false steps of which I spoke. The Amir and
Gobind Chand might have acted foolishly in trying to seize or murder
some of the Sardars, or the Sardars might have sought to avenge their
wrongs by killing them. Then the country would have fallen into such
confusion that I must needs act, and the time is not come.”
“Then you have an axe of your own to grind!” cried Major Keeling. “It
can’t be allowed, Sheikh. You must not plot against a neighbouring
power while you are on British territory.”
The Sheikh looked at him with something like contempt. “Why does
Kīlin Sahib thus allow his wrath to bubble up? To what purpose should
I plot against the Nalapur usurper? For myself I need no more than I
have here.”
“But what do you mean? Why should you take action?”
“Does not Kīlin Sahib see that it might fall to me to use all
possible efforts to restore peace if there should be civil war in
Nalapur? I am known to all parties, but attached to none of them, and
I am near of kin to the royal house.”
“I don’t believe that was what you meant, but you look honest enough,”
muttered Major Keeling in English. Aloud he said, “Well, Sheikh,
understand that you must not undertake anything of the kind on your
own account. I am responsible for this frontier, and I may be very
glad to make use of your good offices, but I can’t have you forcing my
hand.”
“Fear not,” said the Sheikh. “For another month I can do nothing, and
it is my strongest hope that Nalapur will remain peaceful at least as
long. If there is opportunity, I will send word to Alibad before
taking any step, but if Wilayat Ali and Gobind Chand move first, do
not blame me.”
“I don’t like all these mysteries, Sheikh. What is it that holds you
back for a month, and also keeps Nalapur quiet?”
“They are two different things, sahib. The lapse of time will set me
free to act, but the Amir and Gobind Chand will not go to war until
their embassy has returned from Gamara.”
“From Gamara? Why, that was the very---- What are they doing there?”
“Their embassy to the Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq,” said the Sheikh, evidently
enjoying his visitor’s astonishment.
“But I came to speak to you about that very man. What in the world
have they got to do with him at Nalapur?”
“Has Kīlin Sahib forgotten that the man was employed by Gobind Chand
and his master as a spy upon me, and that after attempting to slay me
he escaped? Disowned by Firoz Sahib, in whose service he had been, he
durst not remain in Khemistan, and he feared to return to Nalapur,
having failed in his mission. But both at Bab-us-Sahel and at Shah
Nawaz he had gained much information as to the plans and methods of
the English, and he knew that the Khan of Gamara would rejoice to
obtain this. Therefore he fled thither, and by reason of the news he
brought, and his own art and cleverness in making himself useful to
the Khan, was speedily raised to be one of his councillors and keeper
of the prison.” Major Keeling nodded assent. “But now the Amir and
Gobind Chand need his services again, for he knows many things about
the Brotherhood--of which he is a perjured member--and this stronghold
of mine, and some months ago it came to my knowledge that they had
sent messengers with rich gifts and great promises, to desire him to
return to Nalapur. That he dares not do, for if he sought to leave
Gamara after the favours he has received, the Khan would kill him; but
if the gifts were large enough, doubtless he would tell the messengers
all, or nearly all, that he knows. Therefore I say that Wilayat Ali
and the Vizier will not make war until the messengers return.”
“But you may not hear of their return. They may come back secretly.
They may have returned now.”
Again the Sheikh smiled pityingly. “Nay, sahib; was the
Sheikh-ul-Jabal born in the town of fools? Following close upon the
Nalapuri embassy went a messenger of mine in the garb of a holy
dervish, who entered Gamara only very shortly after them, and was
bound to remain in the city, performing the proper rites at each
mosque and holy place in turn, as long as they were there, and then to
attach himself to their caravan for the return journey. Having gone
with them as far as Nalapur, he will change his disguise and return
hither.”
“Then he has not returned yet?” asked Major Keeling meditatively.
“Have I not said it? Moreover, a secret word was brought me from him
by one in Saadullah Kermani’s caravan to the effect that he thought
the messengers would not leave Gamara for three or four weeks.”
“Three or four weeks after Saadullah? Then he may bring later news.
This is the very matter on which I came to speak to you, Sheikh. You
know that two of my officers have gone to Gamara and disappeared?”
“Firoz Sahib, who has adopted the faith of Islam, and Rāss Sahib,
whom the people call the Father of a Book,” said the Sheikh calmly.
“Those two; and we--I--want to know the truth about them, not simply
bazar gossip. When your man comes back, ask him if he has learnt
anything. If he has been keeping watch on Fazl-ul-Hacq, he ought to
have found out something, surely. If there is no news, it may mean
that they are both in prison still, and you might be able to suggest
some way of getting them liberated.”
The Sheikh stroked his beard slowly. “It may be so,” he said.
“Nevertheless, you may be well assured, sahib, that the bazar talk is
true so far as relates to Firoz Sahib. As to Rāss Sahib, they say he
is dead, and I am ready to believe it. But when my messenger returns I
will send him to you, and you shall ask him any questions you will.
But when he returns, then will be the time to keep good watch along
the Nalapur border.”
Quite agreeing with this opinion, Major Keeling took his leave, and as
he rode home, thought over what he had heard. The still unexplained
reason which kept the Sheikh from taking any active part in the
affairs of Nalapur must be in some way connected with his vow of
seclusion, he thought. Perhaps it had been taken for a term of years,
which would end in a month. He was more disappointed than surprised by
the Sheikh’s evident reluctance to help in taking any steps for
Colin’s rescue, but he could not help feeling that there was a change
in the man. Had he worn a mask hitherto, and was he now letting it
fall; or were his feelings towards the English altering, and his
friendship turning to hostility? Major Keeling had hoped that by means
of the host of agents who kept the Sheikh in touch with all parts of
Central Asia he would have been able to arrange at least that Colin
should be ransomed; but he could realise the risk involved in any step
that might reveal to the orthodox supporters of tyranny the presence
in their midst of members of the heretical brotherhood. However, if
the dervish brought no news, it might be possible to engage him to
undertake another journey to Gamara for the express purpose of
inquiring into Colin’s fate, and this was all that could be hoped for
at present.
To this conclusion Major Keeling came reluctantly just as he reached
the point from which Alibad could first be seen as he emerged from the
hills. The sun had already set, but the desert was lighted up by a
gorgeous after-glow, which was equally kind in bringing out the best
points of the view and in hiding its defects. Alibad was no longer the
cluster of mud huts which its ruler had found it. The white and buff
and pink walls of the new houses shone out brilliantly over their
screen of young trees, and the dun mass of the fort, with its squat
turrets, seemed to brood protectingly above the lower buildings. The
native town was a formless blur in the gathering darkness to the left,
and on the right, along the line of the temporary canal which supplied
the place until the great works already in progress should be
completed, were blots and splashes of green, marking the patches of
irrigated land where cultivation was in full swing. The programme
which Major Keeling had drawn up when he came to Khemistan was in
process of realisation, and that very fact chained him to the soil. He
had not allowed Penelope to see how much he was tempted to undertake
the mission she had proposed to him. It was the kind of thing that
appealed to him most strongly--to throw off the burden of routine,
have done with office-work, and plunge into the desert, where his hand
would be against every man’s, and his life would depend alternately on
his sword and his tongue. The proposal fascinated him even now; but
before him lay the town which was at once the sign and the result of
his labours. He shook the reins, roused Miani from a blissful
contemplation of nothing, and trotted briskly home across the plain,
followed by Ismail Bakhsh.
After this visit to Sheikhgarh there was another month of waiting.
Major Keeling warned all his officers to be on the look-out for a
fakir or dervish who might come with a message; but although several
members of the fraternity presented themselves as usual in search of
alms, and were given every opportunity to speak if they would, none of
them had anything particular to say. The month had more than elapsed
when one day a respectable elderly man, dressed like an attendant of
some great family, and with a scribe’s inkhorn at his girdle, asked
leave to present a petition to Kīlin Sahib. Applicants of this sort
were always plentiful, owing to the breaking-up of the huge households
maintained by all the native princes before the annexation; and it was
Major Keeling’s policy to find employment for as many of them as
possible, lest they should seek to obtain a precarious livelihood by
going up and down among the ignorant peasantry and agitating against
British rule. The man was admitted into the office, and Sir Dugald,
who was sitting at a little distance, saw him put his hands together
in a submissive attitude, and heard him begin to pour out a long
rigmarole in low tones. But almost as Sir Dugald distinguished the
words “dervish” and “Gamara,” Major Keeling rose from his chair.
“Come in here,” he said, opening the door of his private office.
“Haigh, you come too. Now, Kutb-ud-Din, let us have your story.”
“The servant of my lord has little to tell him, but it is that which
he is anxious to know. For when my lord’s servant was at Gamara
disguised as a most holy dervish, so that he wore no clothes but a
rough mantle, and painted his body blue, and left his hair and beard
wild and long, he heard one day of a great sight that was to be seen
in the square before the palace. And forasmuch as his religious
meditation was interrupted by the passing to and fro and the loud
speaking of those that hurried to see this sight, he asked them what
it might be. And one told him one thing and one another, but all
agreed that it was such a sight as would rejoice the heart of a holy
man, and therefore my lord’s servant determined to go thither. And
coming to the square, the people made way for him, so that he stood at
last in a good place, and saw the Khan and a great company of soldiers
and counsellors come out of the palace. And at the head of the Khan’s
bodyguard he saw the Farangi, Firoz Sahib, of whose conversion all the
city had been talking, so great were the festivities at his
initiation----”
“Stop!” said Major Keeling hoarsely. “Are you certain it was Ferrers
Sahib?”
“My lord’s servant will swear it, if my lord so wills. Has he not
often beheld Firoz Sahib, both here and at Shah Nawaz? Moreover, his
history was known to all in Gamara. It seemed to my lord’s servant
that Firoz Sahib had been drinking _bang_, for his eyes were bright
and his face flushed, and Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq, the renegade, rode at
his bridle-rein, as though to restrain him. And afterwards, when the
people were slow to disperse, he ordered the soldiers to charge the
crowd, and escaping from his friend the Mirza, rode down a Jew who
stood in his way, so that all who saw him fled. But that was not until
after----”
“After what? Go on,” said Major Keeling impatiently, as the man
hesitated.
“Let my lord pardon his servant, if that which he has to say is not
pleasing to his ears, for the dust under my lord’s feet can but tell
what he saw. There was led out into the square, before the Khan and
his court and army, another Farangi, wearing chains that would not
suffer him to walk upright, and clothed in shameful rags; and a
whisper went about among the people that it was the young sahib whom
they called the Father of a Book.”
“And was it?” demanded Major Keeling.
“How can the servant of my lord say? It so chances that his eyes never
rested upon the young sahib while he was among his own people. But
this sahib was young and tall and lean, and white like a wall--yea,
even his hair was white, yet reddish-white like that of the sahibs,
not pure white like that of the people of this land----”
“White--in those few weeks!” breathed Sir Dugald.
“Yes, yes, go on,” said Major Keeling to the narrator.
“And when the Farangi was brought out, proclamation was made by a
herald that his Highness, in his clemency, would offer the Kafir his
life on certain conditions, and that questions should be put to him in
Persian, and translated into Turki, so that the people might hear.
Then came forward Mirza Fazl-ul-Hacq, the accursed, and by command of
his Highness, asked the Farangi, ‘Wilt thou adopt the creed of Islam
and enter my army, like thy countryman yonder?’ But the Farangi,
drawing himself up in spite of his chains, made answer, ‘I am an
Englishman and a Christian, and I will neither enter thine army nor
become a Mohammedan. I choose rather to die.’ Then his Highness, in
great wrath, cried, ‘And die thou shalt!’ and the Farangi’s head was
struck off by an executioner with a great sword.”
“And did he never look at Ferrers Sahib, or speak to him?” asked Major
Keeling.
“Nay, sahib; he kept his eyes turned away from him.”
“That was not like Ross,” said Major Keeling to Sir Dugald.
“But suppose Ferrers had visited poor Ross in prison, sir--tried to
get him to abjure Christianity?” suggested Sir Dugald. “He could not
have much to say to him after that.”
“I don’t know. I should have expected Ross to think of him to the end.
And that was all?” asked Major Keeling of the messenger.
“That was all, sahib; except that the Farangi’s body was exposed at
the place of execution, with the insults customary when a Kafir has
been executed, and that among the crowd there were some who said, in
the hearing of my lord’s servant, that in slaying the young Sahib the
Khan had certainly invited judgments, for there was a spirit in him.”
“And that is all!” said Major Keeling heavily. “You have done well, O
Kutb-ud-Din, in bringing us this news. Here!” he scribbled an order
hastily, “take this to the pay-clerk without, and receive the rupees
he will give you. You may go. Now, Haigh,” he turned to Sir Dugald as
the old man bowed himself out with profuse thanks, “you must go home
and get your wife to break this to Miss Ross--and God help them both!”
Once more there had come to Penelope, who thought she had given up all
hope, a blow which showed her that she had been unconsciously
cherishing a belief in Colin’s safety. He might escape from prison,
might be ransomed, his captors might even relent and release
him--there was always the chance of one of these; but now hope was
definitely taken away. And one terrible thought was in Penelope’s mind
day and night--it was her fault that he had gone to Gamara. At present
she could not even remember for her comfort the happier days which had
preceded his departure; she could only look back upon the past and
judge herself more harshly than Colin had ever judged her. Day after
day and night after night she tormented herself with that most
unprofitable of mental exercises--unprofitable, because the same
circumstances are never likely to recur in the experience of the same
person--of going over the events of the last two or three years, and
noting where she might have acted differently, with how much happier
results! If she had only been altogether different! If she had never
allowed herself to lose faith in Ferrers, if she had refused to
believe in the revelations which met her at Bab-us-Sahel, if she had
been willing to marry him before coming to Alibad, instead of putting
him on probation! If she had only loved him better--so that he would
not have had the heart to leave her to go to Gamara, or, having gone
there, would have found her love such a shield to him that he could
not have denied his faith! Her reason told her that it was impossible,
that Ferrers and she had grown so far apart that the woman could not
have given him the enthusiastic devotion which had been showered upon
him by the romantic little girl; but she blamed herself for the
change. Colin had never altered--why should she? It must have been
something wrong in herself that had made her first fail Ferrers when
he needed her, and at last draw upon herself Colin’s stern rebuke by
declaring that she could not keep her promise. If it had not been for
her Ferrers would not have gone to Gamara, and, but for him, Colin
would not have gone either. She was morally guilty of Colin’s death
and Ferrers’ abjuration of Christianity. And thus the awful round went
on, every variation in argument or recollection bringing her to the
same terrible conclusion, until Penelope almost persuaded herself that
she was as guilty in the sight of others as in her own. Every one must
know that she had those two lost lives on her conscience. They were
sorry for her, but how could they help blaming her? and she withdrew
herself from their pitying eyes. Lady Haigh humoured her at first,
when she insisted on taking her rides at a time when no one else was
about; but when Penelope refused to go out at all, and sat all day in
a sheltered corner of the house-top, looking northward to the
mountains, she became seriously alarmed.
“Miss Ross not coming again?” asked Sir Dugald when the horses were
brought round one evening, and he had helped his wife to mount.
“No, I can’t get her to come. The very thought seems to frighten her.”
“Must be frightfully bad for her to mope indoors like this,” was Sir
Dugald’s prosaic comment. “Can’t you get her to exert herself a
little?”
“Really, Dugald, one would think I was Mrs Chick. Why don’t you tell
me to get her to make an effort? She and I are so different, you see.
If I was in dreadful trouble I should work as hard as I could--at
anything, and entreat my friends, if they loved me, to find me
something to do. But Pen has left off even the things she usually
does, and simply sits and cries all day. I can’t very well suggest to
her that it’s rather selfish, can I?--though I know it must make the
house dreadfully dull for you.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” said Sir Dugald kindly. “I have my consolations.
You are not a pale image of despair, at any rate.”
“And the way she refuses to see people! Of course, no one would dream
of expecting her even to appear at a dinner-party, but to rush away if
poor little Mr Harris comes in, or any of them! Dugald”--her voice was
lowered--“do you remember that poor Mrs Wyndham at Bab-us-Sahel, whose
husband died of cholera on their honeymoon? She went mad, you know.”
“My dear Elma, pray don’t suggest such horrors. Why not get Tarleton
to come up and see Miss Ross?”
“She won’t see him; that’s just it. But I have asked him to seize the
first opportunity he can of dropping in and taking her by surprise.
Then we shall know better what to do. Dugald!--I have an idea. Are you
ready to make a sacrifice?”
“When I know what it is, I’ll tell you.”
“Oh, but it would be better for you not to know, you see.”
“Thanks. I would rather not find myself pledged to throw up the
service, or get leave home, if it’s all the same to you.”
“It’s nothing of that sort--merely a way of spending the next two or
three months. No, it’s not expensive--not like going down to the coast
or to the Hills. But it will be very quiet and dull, and no chance of
fighting. Oh, don’t guess. I want to be able to tell the Chief that
you know nothing about it, so that if he is angry he mayn’t scold you.
You would sacrifice yourself to help Penelope, wouldn’t you?”
“H’m, well--within limits,” said Sir Dugald.