A TRAVELLER’S TALES.
Maurice, with a broad piece of flannel round his throat, appeared at
breakfast next morning as well as ever; and Alice, pale and languid,
took her place before the teapot as usual. She observed a change in
her husband. On other mornings he disappeared after breakfast, and was
never seen till luncheon, excusing himself on the plea of business with
the bailiff; and, in fact, unless absolutely obliged to ride or play
lawn-tennis, they saw nothing of him all day.
Alice had reason to know that many of his spare hours were spent with
Maurice. More than once she had come across the pair in the park,
Maurice riding Tweedle Dum, his father holding the bridle and relating
long and thrilling fairy tales--accounts of dwarfs, giants, and
fairy-princesses with golden hair; or they would be discovered on the
edge of a pond, sailing boats, or under the lee of a haycock, sharing
a leaf of strawberries. Maurice idolised his father, and Alice could
see that she no longer had the first and only place in his affections.
She felt no twinge of jealousy as she made this discovery; she was very
ready to share his heart with Reginald.
This particular morning her husband did not vanish as usual the instant
breakfast was over. He loitered about the grounds with the ladies, made
suggestions about the garden, and gave them a lesson in budding roses.
He distinctly put a veto on lawn-tennis as far as Alice was concerned,
but he fetched a chair, a book, and a shawl, and established her under
a tree, where she could look on. She caught his eyes fixed on her more
than once with a look of anxiety and concern in their dark depths that
puzzled her extremely.
What did this change mean? Could he be going to forgive her after all?
Her colour and her spirits rose at the thought; a little happiness
goes a long way at twenty. Revived by a whole morning’s rest, she was
meditating a move, when Geoffrey, with a broad smirk on his face and a
fat frog in his handkerchief, lounged up to her.
“Here,” said he, “is the frog who would a-wooing go;” and he added, as
he uncovered the treasure, “he is come to pay his addresses to you,
Alice,” making a feint of putting him in her lap.
“That he is not,” she cried, jumping up and dodging Geoffrey round a
tree. Round and round they went like a pair of squirrels, Mary and
Reginald gravely looking on.
“Did you ever see such a pair of children?” exclaimed Mary. “That’s
the way Alice used to go on before she was married. She had such wild
spirits; she was the life of us all at Rougemont. I would never have
known her to be the same person, she is so changed,” she observed, with
a reproachful glance at Reginald.
“I see you blame me for it all, Miss Ferrars; but Alice has only
herself to thank, no one else. You would say that I was changed too if
you had known me three years ago, before this unfortunate separation
between us. Alice has told you all about it, of course?” he asked with
conviction.
“No, not one word.”
“Do you mean to say that, living together in such close
intimacy--sharing the same room, and no doubt sitting up half the night
talking, as young ladies do--she has never made you her confidante?”
“Not with regard to you. On any other subject she is as open as the
day, but her married life she never alludes to; and well as I know her
and love her--childish and young as she is--she is the last person into
whose confidence I would thrust myself uninvited.”
Just at this instant Alice, who had hitherto eluded Geoffrey, came
running up exhausted and out of breath with laughing.
“Save me, Mary, save me!” she cried, stretching out both hands, and
at the same time catching her foot in the tennis-rope she would have
measured her length on the sward, had not her husband stepped forward
and caught her in his arms. It was altogether accidental, and only for
a second that he held her, but Alice became crimson.
“I cannot allow any more of this kind of thing,” he said, coolly
picking up his tennis-bat. “Helen will be back this afternoon, and I am
sure she will not hear of your going to the ball to-morrow if you knock
yourself up to-day. I am going into Manister now, and I leave you in
Miss Ferrars’ charge. I see Cardigan waiting, and as I have to change
my clothes I must be off.”
“By-the-way, Rex, before you go I want you to tell me something,” said
Geoffrey with an air of unusual solemnity.
“Yes?” responded Reginald, turning back and looking at him gravely.
“Look sharp, then, for I’m in a hurry.”
“You have been brought up amongst horses since you were the size of
Maurice, and ought to know all about them, both from a civil and
military point of view----”
“Well, what is it?” impatiently.
“On which side of a horse does the most hair grow?”
“The side the mane is on.”
“No; try again.”
“The off side!--the near side!”
“No. Give it up?”
“Yes, of course I do.”
“The outside! Good riddle, isn’t it?”
“No. Your own, I presume. I have no time to waste listening to such
nonsense. Now mind you don’t encourage Alice in running about and
tiring herself,” he concluded, as with a glance at his wife he walked
rapidly away.
“What does he mean?” asked Geoffrey with raised brows and an air of
veiled derision; “one would think you were made of sugar! I suppose he
is going into Manister to buy a glass case to keep you in! You don’t
mean to tell me you are about to set up as a young lady who faints and
goes into hysterics, or a delicate creature with nerves? If you are,
I’ve done with you!”
* * * * *
“Do not be alarmed; I think I shall reassure you at luncheon. I have
the appetite of a ploughman, and I am yearning for the gong,” replied
Alice as, shouldering her parasol, she turned towards the house,
followed by her two friends.
Helen arrived the same afternoon and related her adventures and news
at five-o’clock tea. She also delivered a short but severe lecture to
Alice for having taken a long ride, and looking pale, heavy-eyed, and
tired. In spite of Alice’s indignant denial she could not conceal from
herself that she _was_ very tired as she entered the drawing-room
just before dinner and wearily seated herself in one of the windows.
The only other occupant of the room was her husband, ensconced
in an easy-chair and almost concealed by a large newspaper. She
recognised him, however, by the slim brown hand that firmly grasped
_The Standard_. He did not take any notice of her entrance. “He never
did,” she thought with a sharp pang as she leant her head listlessly
against the window-sash and looked out. Suddenly the grass appeared
to heave, earth and sky seemed confusedly mixed. She turned her head,
the room was swimming round and round; she was going to faint. She
rose to escape to her own room whilst there was yet time, but it was
too late; she tottered, grasped blindly at a chair; somebody, tall and
strong, took her in his arms, and she remembered no more. Reginald had
been surreptitiously glancing at Alice for some minutes. Her dejected
attitude, the weary pathetic pose of her haughty little head, struck
him painfully. How white, how awfully white she was; was she going to
faint? She was; he saw her rise unsteadily and try to speak. In an
instant he was beside her, and saved her from a fall for the second
time that day. Very, very tenderly he carried her over and laid her on
a couch. How light and fragile was his burden--she seemed like a child
in his arms! She looked deathlike as he laid her down. He had never
seen a woman faint before, and was at his wits’ end to know what to do.
To leave her was impossible; he dare not. He rang the bell madly and
returned to his post. As he thought of the doctor’s words the previous
evening his heart stood still with horror. She looked so cold, so
marblelike, so utterly inanimate--could she be dead? He took up one of
her small limp hands and felt her pulse. As he was doing so, Helen and
Mary, to his great relief, came into the room.
“Ah, I’m not one bit surprised,” said the former composedly. “Run for
my salts, Mary. Fetch a glass of water and a fan, Regy. She will come
round presently.”
Her quiet matter-of-fact manner relieved him at once. Mary’s mind was
set at rest now and for ever on one subject--Sir Reginald did care for
Alice after all: loved her as a man like him could love.
One glance at him had been sufficient. Even now, though reassured by
Helen, his face was ashy white, and the hand that held the tumbler
of water shook visibly. By this time they were joined by Mark and
Geoffrey. Alice had revived; she sat up, looking very pale and dazed,
and announced “that she was all right and going in to dinner, and
really did not know how she could have been so stupid.”
She was quickly suppressed by Helen, who said:
“No, my dear, no dinner for you; you are going to bed, and Regy will
carry you upstairs.”
“Indeed he shall not!” cried Alice, a faint tinge of pink coming into
her cheeks, and starting up as though to leave the sofa. “No, no,”
she added, glancing nervously at her husband; his grave, anxious face
touched her and surprised her.
“Will you let Mark carry you?” said Helen soothingly. “He has had
plenty of practice with me, and he won’t drop you.”
“No, ten thousand times; why should anyone carry me? I’ve not lost the
use of my limbs; I am quite capable of walking upstairs. I shall stay
here for the present, whilst you all go to dinner. Pray go! Please go!
Don’t mind me. Helen will tell you,” addressing her husband, “that it
is nothing--nothing at all. Why, at one time I used to faint regularly
every day--I got quite into the habit of it,” with a reassuring smile.
“There is the gong. You really make me very uncomfortable all of you,
staring at me like this. Go,” she added, waving them away, “go to
dinner.”
Thus eagerly adjured they trooped off, with the exception of Helen.
Mary observed that one person barely touched a morsel of food, and that
was Reginald. He was silent and preoccupied, and answered at random
when addressed.
Towards the middle of the meal Helen came sailing into the room,
prepared to make up for lost time as she briskly unfolded her napkin.
“You may make your mind quite easy, Regy,” she said. “Alice will be
all right to-morrow. She was only worn out, poor child, and has gone
to bed, and is, I daresay, already asleep. How frightened you did
look! What would have become of you if you had seen her when she was
really ill, and her life hung by a thread from hour to hour?” she added
between two spoonsful of soup.
“How do you know I was frightened?”
“Your face spoke volumes, my dear boy; you were as white as this
tablecloth.”
“Is that how you look when you go into action, Regy?” asked Geoffrey,
looking up from his plate.
“Scarcely, I hope, or I would be a sorry example to the men.”
“Tell me, Rex, did you ever know what it was to be in a regular blue
funk?”
“I can’t honestly say I ever was on my own account--probably it’s a
treat in store for me--but I have felt fears for others that have made
my heart stand still more than once. The sensation must be the same as
abject personal fear--in other words, a blue funk.”
“Well, I don’t understand; explain yourself?”
“For instance, when I saw a gun and four horses suddenly back over the
edge of a pass, and ultimately go over--in spite of the horses’ frantic
exertions--a fall of two thousand feet, I trembled for the gunners.”
“So I should imagine.”
“Fortunately they flung themselves off in time.”
“Poor horses! what a horrible sight!” said Mary Ferrars. “I daresay you
have seen a good many such.”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say I have. For instance, I have seen a horse’s head
taken clean off with a shell.”
“Don’t, Reginald!” exclaimed Helen; “you are making me perfectly sick.”
“Well then, I won’t; I’ll spare you the rest of my experiences. You
want to know, Geoff, what I mean by ‘fearing for others’? Now, for
instance, if old Fordyce gets the regiment, I tremble for _you_. He has
seen the superb caricature you drew of him, nearly all nose; and he
strongly suspects that you are the ‘party’ that painted old Blowhard,
his favourite white charger, a dazzling shepherd’s-plaid. I shudder
when I think of _your_ fate, my young friend.”
“Stuff, rubbish, nonsense!” exclaimed Geoffrey contemptuously. “Do you
know what _I_ heard the other day? but I need hardly say that I did
not believe it: that you, Reginald Fairfax,--‘Fighting Fairfax,’ as
they call you--keep the young fry of the Seventeenth in glorious order.
‘Set a thief to catch a thief,’ I said. The benighted youths look
upon you as a happy blending of Bayard and Sir Galahad. I assured my
informant that ‘Still waters run deep’ was a proverb made expressly to
fit you, and that they little knew you.”
“Much obliged,” replied Reginald, stroking his moustache to conceal a
smile. “We have a very nice set of boys in the Seventeenth, and you
might do worse than exchange. I’ll see that they don’t bully you, and
do what I can to smarten you up.”
“Thanks for your noble offer, but the Fifth could not afford to lose
me. As to smartening me up, it would be impossible; it would be
painting the lily. Don’t you think so, Miss Ferrars? Don’t you think
I’m a very smart-looking young fellow? just as efficient, if not
actually as bloodthirsty, as our host, who revelled in the name of
‘Shaitan’ whilst in Afghanistan. It was a pretty little nickname given
him by the tribes. You can guess what it means,” nodding across the
table mysteriously.
“Enough of these mutual compliments,” exclaimed Helen. “It was not
Reginald himself, but his _horse_ that was called ‘Shaitan,’ my good
Geoffrey, and the Afghans had something else to do than find nicknames
for British officers.”
“By-the-way, Rex,” remarked Geoffrey, leaning back in his chair,
adjusting his eye-glass, and evidently stretching his long legs still
farther under the mahogany, with the air of a man who has dined to his
satisfaction, “what’s your opinion of the native of that part of the
world, candidly and impartially?”
“If you mean the Afridi of the period, my candid, impartial opinion
of him is that he is a dirty-looking ruffian, who would rob his own
mother, and cut his father’s throat for the sake of two rupees.”
“Inhuman monster!” ejaculated Helen, tragically.
“One old fellow told me _himself_ that there was nothing in life so
pleasant as sitting on the roof of one’s house, and shooting at the
wayfarers who came to drink at the well. He dwelt on the subject with
such pleasure, that I have no doubt that he looked back on it as one of
his happiest experiences.”
“Old brute!” muttered Geoffrey. “_How_ I should have enjoyed a pot-shot
at _him_! What sort of shots were they, take them all in all?”
“Not bad, considering their weapons and ammunition; a long Jazail
studded with brass, and rams’ horns full of very doubtful powder. They
are no use at a snap shot, or in the open; but give them _lots_ of time
to aim, and good cover behind a bit of rock, and they generally pick
off a fair share of stragglers. The first night we camped beyond Ali
Musjid we chose a bad place, a hollow, and the light attracted swarms
all round us. The bullets went everywhere, and the firing resembled
nothing on earth so much as a hot corner at a big battue.”
“Awfully pleasant for all you fellows!” ejaculated Geoffrey.
“We had only two casualties, strange to say, though some of the tents
were riddled. I need scarcely remark that we were more careful about
the site of our next camp.”
“No doubt you made yourselves very secure and luxurious when you were
permanently fixed at Dabaule?” inquired Helen.
“Comparatively speaking I suppose we were more secure, although Vaughan
caught an Afridi in his tent one night. He heard a noise, and putting
out his hand to get hold of a revolver, he caught the bare, shaven head
of one of these beggars. He gave the alarm, and some of us rushed in
and found him struggling with a powerful fellow, with the fiend’s own
expression and a knife between his teeth. We made an example of him
next day as a warning to others. But it was of precious little use;
they slaughtered our unfortunate grass-cutters and syces in the most
barbarous way, and sent us in our regimental barber with both hands cut
off. He did not seem to mind _that_ so much as eighty rupees they had
robbed him of, and he was utterly heartbroken about them--his savings,
his little all. So I promised to make up the money if he got well;
and, strange to say, he made a most wonderfully rapid recovery, and
seems to get on capitally with his two bare stumps.”
“Poor creature!” exclaimed Helen.
“How horrible!” cried Miss Ferrars.
“I suppose it was all open country?” remarked Geoffrey; “no roads, and
like a bleak sort of common, I always fancy it; with a few hills and
lots of stones and rocks.”
“That was the case in some places, but in others we had, after awhile,
a capital road, especially by the Kyber line, thanks to the sappers;
and some wag in one place put up a finger-post with ‘Madras to Cabul’
painted on it in large letters; and the road itself was as good as you
need wish to see; but in many parts we had no road at all, and it was
terrible work for the artillery, especially when the country was cut up
with lots of watercourses.”
“By-the-bye, Rex,” said Helen, helping herself to her second peach,
“how were you off for food?”
“Very badly, indeed, sometimes; and I assure you that I now know what
_hunger_ means, from downright practical experience.”
“Why, you had your rations and your mess,” cried Geoffrey.
“A pound of meat a day for a hungry man who spends, perhaps, twelve
hours in the saddle, with a bitter bleak wind to sharpen his appetite,
was not much to boast of; and sometimes the ration was bad, or bone.
When we had our permanent camp we fared well enough, and had a stew--a
big pot into which everything was thrown: game, rations, goat, etc.;
and as the pot was always kept going, it had a rich miscellaneous
flavour, difficult to describe, but most excellent.”
“Do you mean that it was not made afresh every day?” asked Miss
Ferrars, a fair amateur cook.
“Every day something fresh was added, but the original stew was about
three months old. Never cleared out, that was the beauty of it.”
“O-oh!” cried Helen, “how could you! how can you?”
“It was most superior, I assure you; our _pot-au-feu_ was noted, I can
tell you, Helen.”
“That will do. No more traveller’s tales for _me_, Rex”--rising--“I’m
going to see if Alice is asleep.”
As the door closed on the disgusted matron, Reginald said:
“Helen may turn up her nose at our stew, but if she had been one week
in camp, she would have appreciated it just as keenly as the most
ravenous among us.”
“Had you a mess-tent?” asked Geoffrey solicitously.
“Yes, a kind of one, when we were fixtures; nothing very luxurious,
I need scarcely say, and little or no mess kit. It was a sight, once
seen never forgotten, to witness our fellows going to dinner; various
figures in greatcoats and comforters solemnly approaching, and each
bearing in his hand his own drinking-cup, and plate, and knife and
fork. We lived in Spartan simplicity, I can assure you.”
“And how did you like it?” inquired Miss Ferrars.
“To be frank with you, not much,” returned her host candidly. “The
cold was simply awful--bad enough for us who come from a coldish
climate, but for our poor camp-followers and syces, natives of the
broiling plains, it was, in many cases, death. I could not say how many
camel-drivers and grass-cutters have been found frozen in their sleep.”
“But they had warm clothes,” said Mrs. Mayhew, with the air of
asserting an unanswerable fact.
“Yes; such as they were. A kind of blanket suit made to fit the
million. And then you saw tall men in clothes barely below their
miserable knees, and little men shambling along, one huge wrinkle.
These garments were better than nothing, that’s all.”
“And did you feel the cold yourself?” asked Mark, with sympathetic
interest.
“Sometimes; but I am a hardy fellow, and could stand it better than
lots of others. Duck-shooting of a winter’s day, at home, broke me in
pretty well, you know.”
“And was your appetite equally well broken in?” asked Geoffrey, with
raised eyebrows.
“I’m afraid not,” returned Reginald, with a laugh. “Many a time I have
gone to bed hungry.”
“But you could always buy?” said Geoffrey, combatively.
“Not always. When the surrounding country was nothing but stones and
brown grass, and there was no bazaar, no mess, nothing but our strictly
allotted ration, I declare I’ve sometimes envied my chargers, who were
pretty well off for hay. But of course these short commons were the
exception, not the rule,” he added cheerfully.
Mary gazed with blank, open-eyed amazement at her neighbour, and tried
to realise that this nonchalant, handsome host of hers, who seemed
to consider it rather an exertion to break a few walnuts, who was
surrounded by every luxury taste could devise or money could obtain,
had been quite recently a cold, hungry soldier, garbed in a sheepskin
coat; had confronted hardship and war, and had ridden up undaunted and
looked into the very face of death itself.