TRAGEDY
The annual Durbar for the reception of the Bhutan Envoy and the payment
of the subsidy had come and gone again. The _Deb Zimpun_, who had not
been accompanied by the Chinese _Amban_ on this occasion, had departed;
and of the few European visitors only Muriel Benson remained. Colonel
Dermot had been called away to Simla, to confer with officials of the
Foreign Department on matters of frontier policy. Major Hunt was ill
with fever, leaving Wargrave, who was still nominally attached to the
Military Police, in command of the detachment.
It was delicious torture to Frank to be in the same place again with
Muriel, to see her from the parade ground or the Mess verandah playing
in the garden with the children, to meet her every day and talk to her
and yet be obliged to school his lips and keep them from uttering the
words that trembled on them.
A few nights after the Durbar he dined with Mrs. Dermot and Muriel and
was sitting on the verandah of the Political Officer's house with them
after dinner. He was wearing white mess uniform. The evening was warm
and very still, and whenever the conversation died away, no sound save
the monotonous note of the nightjars or the sudden cry of a
barking-deer, broke the silence since the echoes of the "Lights Out"
bugle call had died away among the hills.
Wargrave looked at his watch.
"It's past eleven o'clock," he said. "I'd no idea it was so late. I
ought to get up and say goodnight; but I'm so comfortable here, Mrs.
Dermot."
His hostess smiled lazily at him but made no reply. Again a peaceful
hush fell on them.
With startling suddenness it was broken. From the Fort four hundred
yards away a rifle-shot rang out, rending the silence of the night and
reverberating among the hills around. Wargrave sprang to his feet as
shouts followed and a bugle shrilled out the soul-gripping "Alarm," the
call that sends a thrill through every soldier's frame. For always it
tells of disaster. Heard thus at night in barracks swift following on a
shot it spoke of crime, of murder, the black murder of a comrade.
The two women had risen anxiously.
"What is it? Oh, what is it?" they asked.
The subaltern spoke lightly to re-assure them.
"Nothing much, I expect. Some man on guard fooling with his rifle let it
off by accident," he said quietly. "Excuse me. I'd better stroll across
to the Fort and see."
But Mrs. Dermot stopped him.
"Wait a moment please, Mr. Wargrave," she said, running into the house.
She returned immediately with her husband's big automatic pistol and
handed it to him. In her left hand she held a smaller one. "Take this
with you. It's loaded," she said.
Frank thanked her, said goodnight to both calmly, and walked down the
garden path; but the anxious women heard him running swiftly across the
parade ground.
"What is it, Noreen? What does it mean?" asked the girl nervously.
"A sepoy running amuck, I'm afraid," replied her friend. "He's shot
someone----."
She swung round, pistol raised.
"_Kohn hai_? (Who's that?)" she called out.
A man had come noiselessly on to the shadowed end of the verandah.
"It is I, _mem-sahib_," answered Sher Afzul, her Punjaubi Mahommedan
butler. He had been in her service for five years and was devoted to her
and hers. He was carrying a rifle, for his master at his request had
long ago given him arms to protect his _mem-sahib_. Before her marriage
he had once fought almost to the death to defend her when her brother's
bungalow had been attacked by rebels during a rising.
"It would be well to go into the house and put out the lights,
_mem-sahib_," he said quietly in Hindustani. "There is danger to-night."
As he spoke he extinguished the lamp on the verandah and closed the
doors of the house. A second armed servant came quietly on to the
verandah and the butler melted into the darkness of the garden; but they
heard him go to the gate as if to guard it.
"You had better go inside, Muriel," said Mrs. Dermot, but made no move
to do so herself.
The girl did not appear to hear her. She was listening intently for any
sound from the Fort. But silence had fallen on it.
"Muriel, won't you go into the house?" repeated her hostess.
"Eh? What? No, I couldn't. I must stay here," replied Miss Benson
impatiently. In the black darkness the other woman could not see her;
but she felt that the girl's every sense was alert and strained to the
utmost. She moved to her and put her arm about her. Against it she could
feel Muriel's heart beating violently.
Suddenly from the Fort came the noise of heavy blows and a crash,
instantly followed by a shot and then fierce cries.
"Oh, my God! What is happening?" murmured the girl, her hand on her
heart.
Presently there came the sound of running feet, and heavy boots
clattered up the rocky road towards the Mess past the gate.
Then the butler's voice rang out in challenge:
"_Kohn jatha_? (Who goes there?)"
A panting voice answered:
"Wargrave Sahib _murgya_. Doctor Sahib _ko bulana ko jatha_"--(Wargrave
Sahib is killed. I go to call the Doctor Sahib)--and the sepoy ran on in
the darkness.
"O God! O God!" cried the girl, and tried to break from her friend's
clasp. "Let me go! Let me go!"
"Where to?" asked Noreen, holding the frenzied girl with all her
strength.
"To him. He's dead. Didn't you hear? He's dead. I must go to him."
She struggled madly and beat fiercely at the hands that held her.
"Let me go! Let me go! Oh, he's dead," she wailed. "Dead. And I loved
him so. Oh, be merciful! Let me go to him!" and suddenly her strength
gave way and she collapsed into Noreen's arms, weeping bitterly.
They heard the clattering steps meet others coming down the hill and a
hurried conversation ensue. Noreen recognised one of the voices. Then
both men came running down.
"It's the doctor," said Mrs. Dermot. "Come to the gate and we'll ask him
what has happened."
"Mr. Macdonald! Mr. Macdonald!" she cried as the hurrying footsteps drew
near.
"Who's that? Mrs. Dermot? For God's sake get into the house. There's a
man running amuck. Wargrave's killed. I'm wanted"; and the doctor,
taking no thought of danger to himself when there was need of his skill,
ran on into the darkness.
"I must--I will go!" cried Muriel.
"Very well. Perhaps it's not true. We must know. We may be able to
help," replied her friend.
And with a word to Sher Afzul to guard her babies from danger she seized
Muriel's hand, and the two girls ran towards the Fort in the track that
Wargrave had followed to his death, it seemed.
* * * * *
Pistol in hand Wargrave had raced across the parade ground. At the gate
of the Fort he was challenged; and when he answered an Indian officer
came out of the darkness to him.
"Sahib," he said hurriedly. "Havildar Mahommed Ashraf Khan has been shot
in his bed in barracks. The sentry over the magazine is missing with his
rifle."
Wargrave entered the Fort. Opposite the guard-room the detachment was
falling in rapidly, the men carrying their rifles and running up from
their barrack-rooms in various stages of undress. By the flickering
light of a lantern held up for him a non-commissioned officer was
calling the roll, and his voice rumbled along in monotonous tones. The
guard were standing under arms.
"Put out that lamp!" cried the subaltern sharply. It would only serve to
light up other marks for the invisible assassin if, like most men who
run _amôk_, he meant to keep on killing until slain himself. "No; take
it into the guard-room and shut the door."
In the darkness the silence was intense, broken only by the heavy
breathing of the unseen men and the clattering of the feet of some
late-comer. Suddenly there rang out through the night the most appalling
sound that had ever assailed Wargrave's ears. It was as the cry of a
lost soul in all the agony of the damned, an eerie, unearthly wail that
froze the blood in the listeners' veins. In the invisible ranks men
shuddered and clutched at their neighbours.
"_Khuda ke Nam men, kiya hai?_ (In the Name of God, what is that?)"
gasped the subaltern.
The Indian officer at his side answered in a low voice:
"It is Ashraf Khan crying out in pain, Sahib. He is not yet dead."
"_Subhedar_ sahib, come with me," said Wargrave. "Let your _jemadar_
(lieutenant) take the men one by one into the guard-room and examine the
rifles to see if any have been fired. We don't know yet if the missing
sentry did the deed."
The _Subhedar_ (company commander) gave the order to his subordinate and
followed Wargrave to the barrack-room in which the crime had been
committed. The sight that met the subaltern's eyes was one that he was
not easily to forget.
The high-roofed chamber was in darkness save at one end where a small
lamp cast weird shadows on the walls and vaulting ceiling. At this end
and under the flickering light a group of figures stood round a bed on
which a man was writhing in agony. He was struggling in delirious frenzy
to hurl himself to the stone floor, and was only held down by the united
efforts of three men. From a bullet wound in his bared chest the
life-blood welled with every movement of his tortured body. He had been
shot in the back as he lay asleep. The lips covered with a bloody froth
were drawn back tightly over the white teeth clenched in agony, and red
foam lay on the black beard. Out of the sweat-bathed, ghastly face the
eyes glared in frenzy. The features were contorted with pain. Again and
again the wild shrieks like the howl of a mad thing rang through the
long room and out into the night.
With tear-filled eyes and heart torn with pity Wargrave looked down at
him in silence. Ashraf Khan was one of his best men. "But where is the
doctor sahib?" he asked the native officer suddenly.
The _subhedar_ stared and shook his head. In the excitement no one had
thought of sending for the medical officer. Wargrave turned to one of
the men around the bed.
"Mahbub Khan, run hard to the Mess and call the doctor sahib. Here,
stop!" He remembered that Macdonald did not possess a revolver. For all
one knew he might encounter the murderer on his way. Wargrave thrust
Mrs. Dermot's pistol into the sepoy's hand, saying, "Give the sahib
that."
The man, who was barefoot, ran out of the chamber and went to his own
barrack-room for his shoes, for the road was rocky and covered with
sharp stones. The subaltern turned away with a sigh from the bedside of
his poor comrade. He could do nothing now but avenge him. As he walked
away from the group he trod on an empty cartridge case and picked it up.
It had recently been fired. It told its tale; for it showed that the
assassin had reloaded over his victim and intended that the killing
should not end there. If he were the missing sentry then he had nine
more cartridges left--nine human lives in his blood-stained hand. And as
the subaltern crossed the verandah outside the barrack-room the
_jemadar_ met him and reported that all the rifles of the detachment had
been examined and found clean except the missing weapon of the sentry, a
young Pathan sepoy called Gul Mahommed. It was remembered that the dying
_havildar_ (sergeant) had reprimanded him hotly on the previous day for
appearing on parade with accoutrements dirty. So little a cause was
needed to send a man to his death!
The first thing to be done now was to hunt for the murderer. While he
went free no one's life was safe. Wargrave shuddered at the thought of
danger coming to Muriel or her friend, and he hoped that they were
safely shut in their house. It was a difficult problem to know where to
begin the search. The Fort was full of hiding-places, especially at
night. And already the assassin might have escaped over the low wall
surrounding it. As Wargrave stood perplexed another Indian officer ran
up, accompanied by two men with rifles.
"Sahib! Sahib!" he whispered excitedly. "The murderer is in my room, the
one next that in which Ashraf Kahn was shot. I left the door wide open
when I ran out. It is now shut and bolted from the inside and someone is
moving about in it."
The subaltern went along the verandah to the door and tried it. It was
firmly fastened.
"Here, sahib!" cried a sepoy who ran up with a comrade carrying a heavy
log.
"_Shahbash_! (Well done!) Break in the door," said Wargrave.
Other men, who had come up, seized the long log and dashed it violently
against the door. The bolt held, but the frail hinges gave way and the
door fell in.
"Stand back!" cried Wargrave.
It seemed certain death to enter the room in which a murderer lurked in
darkness, armed with a rifle and fixed bayonet and resolved to sell his
life dearly. But the subaltern did not hesitate. He was the only sahib
there and of course it was his duty to go in. He could not ask his men
to risk a danger that he shirked himself. That is not the officer's
way, whose motto must ever be "Follow where I lead."
Wargrave sprang into the room unarmed. He was outlined against the faint
light outside. A spurt of flame lit the darkness; and the subaltern, as
he tripped over the raised threshold, felt that he was shot. He
staggered on. A rifle lunged forward and the bayonet stabbed him in the
side; but with a desperate effort he closed with his unseen assailant
and grappled fiercely with him. Struggling to overpower the assassin
before his ebbing strength left him he fought madly. The Indian officers
and sepoys blocking up the doorway could see nothing; but they could
hear the choking gasps, the panting breaths, the muttered curses and the
stamping feet of the combatants locked in the death-grapple. They could
not interfere, they dared not fire. In impotent fury they shouted:
"Bring lamps! Bring lamps!"
Then, groaning in their powerlessness to aid their beloved officer, they
listened, as a light danced over the stones from a lantern in the hand
of a running sepoy. The moment it came and lit up the scene they rushed
on the murderer wrestling fiercely with Wargrave and dragged him off as
the subaltern collapsed and fell to the ground. The glare of the lantern
shone on his white face.
"The sahib is dead!" cried a sepoy, and sprang at the murderer who was
struggling in the grip of the two powerfully-built Indian officers.
Others followed him, and his captors had to fight hard and use all their
authority to keep the prisoner from being killed by the bare hands of
his maddened comrades. Only the arrival of the armed men of the guard
saved him.
Frenzied with grief the sepoys bent over their officer lying motionless
and apparently dead on the stone floor. They loved him. Many of them
wept openly and unashamed. The _subhedar_ knelt beside him and opened
his shirt. The blood had soaked through the white mess-jacket that
Wargrave wore.
The native officer looked up into the ring of brown faces bent over him.
Suddenly he cried angrily:
"Mahbub Khan, why hast thou not gone for the doctor sahib as thou wert
told, O Son of an Owl?"
The face staring in horror between the heads of the sepoys was hurriedly
withdrawn, and Mahbub Khan, who had lingered to see the end of the
tragedy, turned and pushed his way out of the crowd.
Macdonald found the subaltern lying to all appearances dead on the
broken door out in the open, where they had gently carried him.
"Hold a light here," he cried as he knelt down beside the body.
By now a dozen lanterns or more lit up the scene. The doctor laid his
ear against Wargrave's chest and held a polished cigarette case to his
lips. Then he pulled back the shirt to examine his injuries.
"Oh, is he dead? Is he dead?" cried a trembling voice.
The doctor, looking up angrily, found Miss Benson and Mrs. Dermot
standing over him. The sepoys had silently made way for them.
"You shouldn't be here, ladies," he said with justifiable annoyance.
"This is no place for you. No; he's not dead. And I hope and think that
he won't die."
"Oh, thank God!" cried the two women.
The sepoys crowding round and hanging on the doctor's verdict could not
understand the words but saw the look of joyous relief on their faces
and guessed the truth. A wild, confused cheer went up to the stars.
"Mr. Macdonald," said Mrs. Dermot bending over him again. "Will you
bring him to my house? There is no accommodation for him in your little
hospital, you know; and he'd have no one to look after him in the Mess.
I can nurse him."
The doctor straightened himself on his knee and looked down at the
unconscious man.
"Yes, Mrs. Dermot, it's a good idea," he replied. "There is nowhere else
where he'd get any attention. My hands are full with Major Hunt. He's
taken a turn for the worse. His temperature went up dangerously high
to-night; and he was almost delirious."
He stood up.
"I can't examine Wargrave properly here. He seems to be wounded in two
places. But I hope it's not--I mean, I think he'll pull through. His
pulse is getting stronger. I've put a first dressing on; and I think we
can move him. Hi! stretcher _idher lao_. (Bring the stretcher here!)"
Suddenly Wargrave opened his eyes and looked up in the doctor's face.
"Is that you, Macdonald?" he asked dreamily. "Never mind me; I'm all
right. Go to poor Ashraf Khan. If he must die, at least give him
something to put him out of his misery. I can wait."
His voice trailed off, and he relapsed into unconsciousness. Ordering
him to be carried away the doctor, after a word with the Indian
officers, entered the barrack-room. It was useless. Ashraf Khan had just
died.
The crowd fell back in a wide circle to let the two hospital orderlies
bring up the stretcher for Wargrave and, as they did, left a group of
men standing isolated in the centre. All of these were armed, except one
whose hands were pinioned behind his back. His head was bare, his face
bruised and bleeding, and his uniform nearly torn off his body. It
needed no telling that he was the murderer.
Miss Benson walked up to him with fierce eyes.
"You dog!" she cried bitterly in Urdu.
The man who had smiled defiantly when the hands of his raging comrades
were seeking to tear the life out of his body and had shouted out his
crime in their faces, cowered before the anger in the flaming eyes of
this frail girl. He shrank back between his guards. The sepoys looking
on howled like hungry wolves and, as Mrs. Dermot drew the girl back,
made a rush for the murderer. The men of the guard faced them with
levelled bayonets and ringed their prisoner round; and the sepoys fell
back sullenly.
Suddenly a shrill voice cried in Hindustani:
"Make way! Make way there! What has happened?"
The circle of men gapped and through the opening came Major Hunt,
white-faced, wasted, shaking with fever and clad only in pyjamas and a
great coat and with bare feet thrust into unlaced shoes. He staggered
feebly in among them, revolver in hand.
"Heaven and Earth! Is Wargrave dead?" he cried and tottered towards the
stretcher.
Suddenly the pistol dropped from his shaking hand and he fell forward on
the stones before Macdonald could catch him.
"This is madness," muttered the doctor. "It may kill him. I hoped he
wouldn't hear the alarm."
"Bring him to my house too," said Mrs. Dermot.
Another stretcher was fetched, the Major lifted tenderly into it, and
the sad procession started, the sepoys falling back silently to make
way.
Major Hunt having been put to bed in one of the guest-rooms of the
Political Officer's house, Macdonald, with the aid of the subaltern's
servant, undressed Wargrave and examined his injuries, Noreen holding a
basin for him while Muriel, shuddering, carried away the blood-tinged
water and brought fresh. The shot-wound, though severe, was not
necessarily dangerous, and the bullet had not lodged in him. The doctor
was relieved to find that the bayonet had not penetrated deeply but had
only glanced along a rib, tearing the intercostal muscles and inflicting
a long, jagged but superficial wound which bled freely. Indeed, the most
serious matter was the great loss of blood, which had weakened the
subaltern considerably.
Wargrave did not recover consciousness until early morning. When he
opened his eyes they fell on Muriel sitting by his bed. He showed no
surprise and the girl, scarce daring to believe that he was awake and
knew her, did not venture to move. But as he continued to look steadily
at her she gently laid her hand on his where it lay on the coverlet.
Then in a weak voice he said:
"Dearest, I mustn't love you, I mustn't. I'm bound in honour--bound to
another woman and I must play the game. It's hard sometimes. But if I
die I want you to know I loved you, only you."
Her heart seemed to stop suddenly, then beat again with redoubled force.
Was he conscious? Was he speaking to her? Did he know what his words
meant? She waited eagerly for him to continue; but his hand closed on
hers in a weak grip and, shutting his eyes, he seemed to sleep. The girl
sank on her knees beside the bed and stared at the pale face that in
those few hours had grown so hollow and haggard. Did he really love her?
The thought was joy--until the damning memory of his other words
recurred to her and a sharp pain pierced her heart. There was another
woman then--one who held his promise. Who was she? He could not be
secretly married, surely; no, it must be that he was engaged to some
other girl. But he loved her--her, Muriel. He wanted to say so, he had
said so, though he strove to hold back, in honour bound. He would play
the game--ah! that he would do at any cost to himself. For she knew his
chivalrous nature. But he loved her--she was sure of it. Then the doubts
came again--did he know what he was saying? Was it perhaps only delirium
that spoke, the fever of his wounds? The girl suffered an agony worse
than death as she knelt beside the bed, her forehead on his hand. And
Noreen, entering softly an hour later, found her still crouched there,
weeping bitterly but silently.
Shortly after sunrise Macdonald entered the house, wan and haggard, for
he had not been to bed all night. Besides the hours that he had spent
with his patients he had been busy in the Fort all night. He had to make
an autopsy of the dead man, and, as the only officer available,
investigate the crime, examine the witnesses and the prisoner who calmly
confessed his guilt, and telegraph the news of the occurrences to
Regimental, Divisional and Army Headquarters. He found Major Hunt
sleeping peacefully; but Wargrave woke as he tiptoed into the room and
looked up at him, at first not seeing the women. He was fully conscious
and asked eagerly for an account of what had happened. Noreen and Muriel
shuddered at the delight with which he heard of the murderer's capture;
for they were too tender-hearted to understand his passionate desire to
avenge the cruel slaying of one of his men. When he turned away from
Macdonald and saw Muriel his eyes shone eagerly for a moment, then
seemed to dull as memory returned to him. He begged Mrs. Dermot to
forgive him for upsetting her domestic arrangements by his intrusion
into the house.
Later in the morning Noreen was sitting alone with him, having sent
Muriel to lie down for a couple of hours. She had not been to bed
herself, but after a bath and a change of clothing had given her
children their breakfast and bidden them make no noise, because their
beloved "Fwankie" was lying ill in the house. Yet she could not forbear
to smile when she saw the portentous gravity with which Eileen tiptoed
out into the garden to tell Badshah the news and order him to be very
quiet.
Now, looking fresh and bright, she sat beside Wargrave's bed. Since the
doctor had left him he had lain thinking. He felt that Violet must be
informed at once that he had been hurt but was in no danger, lest she
might learn of the occurrence through another source and believe him to
be worse than he really was. As he looked at Mrs. Dermot the desire to
ask her instead of Macdonald if she would be the one to communicate with
Mrs. Norton grew overwhelming, and he felt that he wanted to confide to
her the whole story, sure that she would understand. And she could tell
Muriel--for he had been quite conscious when he had spoken to the girl
in the morning. It was only right that she should know the truth, but he
shrank from telling it to her himself.
So he opened his heart to Noreen; and the understanding little woman
listened sympathisingly and made no comment, and undertook to explain
the situation to Muriel. So, an hour or two later, when Macdonald was
again with the subaltern, she went to her friend's room and told her the
whole story.
The girl's first feeling was anger at the thought of Frank making love
to a married woman.
"Seems to me it's the married woman who made it to him, from what I can
gather," said Noreen, a little annoyed with Muriel for her way of
receiving the story. "He did not say so, but it was easy to guess the
truth. Now, my dear, don't be absurd. Men are not angels; and if a
pretty woman flings herself at the head of one of them it's hard for
him to keep her at arm's length. And you've seen yourself in Darjeeling
how some of them, the married ones especially, do chase them." Her eyes
grew hard as she continued, "I remember how Kevin once was----." Then
she stopped.
"But Frank! How could he? Oh, how could he? And he loved her," sobbed
the girl.
"Don't be silly, Muriel. I tell you I don't believe he ever did. He
loves you now."
"Oh, do you think he does? What am I to do?"
"Nothing. Merely go along as you've been doing. Just be friendly. And
don't be hard on him. He's had a bad time. I've always felt that there
was something troubling him. Now I know; and I'm not going to let him
ruin himself and throw away his happiness for a woman who's not worth
it. He's the nicest, cleanest-minded man I've known after Kevin and my
brother. He saved my babies, and for that I'd do anything for him. I
feel almost as if he were one of my children; and I'll stand by him if
you won't."
"Oh, but I will, I will," cried the girl. "But how can I help him?"
"As I said, by acting as if nothing had happened and just keeping on
being friends. It oughtn't to be hard. See how he's suffering and think
how brave he's been. Remember, he loves you; and you do care for him,
don't you? I've an idea that he hopes that this woman is tiring of him
and may set him free. Of course he didn't say as much, but----." She
nodded sagely. Her intuition had told her more of his feelings in a
minute than Frank had dared to acknowledge to himself in many months.
"Anything I can do to help to bring that about I will."
The days went by; and Wargrave, aided by his clean living, the devoted
nursing that he received, and the cool, healthy mountain air, began to
mend. Major Hunt had recovered and returned to duty, relieving the
officer sent from Headquarters to command during his illness. Colonel
Dermot had come back from Simla with Frank's appointment to the
Political Department as his assistant in his pocket. The murdered man
had long ago been laid to rest by his comrades; but his slayer still sat
fettered in the one cell of the Fort awaiting the assembling of the
General Court Martial for his trial, and seeing from his barred window
the even routine of the life that had been his for three years still
going on, but with no place in it for him.
The period of Wargrave's convalescence was a very happy time for him.
Muriel had remained a whole month after the eventful night; for Mrs.
Dermot declared that, with the care of her house and children, she had
no time to nurse the subaltern, and the girl must stay to do it while he
was in any danger. So she lingered in the station to do him willing
service, wait on him, chat or read to him, give him her arm when he was
first allowed to leave his room, and did it all with the bright,
cheerful kindness of a friend, no more. She never alluded to his words
to her; but her patient somehow guessed that she had not been angered by
the revelation of the state of his feelings towards her. And from the
tenderness of her manner to him, the unconscious jealousy that she
displayed if anyone but she did any service for him, he began to half
hope, half fear, that she cared a little for him in return. But even as
he thought this he realised that he must not allow her to do so.
At last the time came when she had to return to her father down in the
vast forest; and bravely as she said goodbye to everyone--and most of
all to Frank--the tears blinded her as she sat on the back of the
elephant that bore her away and saw the hills close in and shut from her
gaze the little station that held her heart.
Wargrave, however, was not left to pine in loneliness after her
departure. All day long, if they were allowed, the children stayed with
him, Eileen smothering him with caresses at regular intervals. They told
him their doings, confided their dearest secrets to him and demanded
stories. And "Fwankie" racked his brains to recall the fairy tales of
his own childhood to repeat to the golden-haired mites perched on his
bed and gazing at him in awed fascination, the girl uttering little
shrieks at all the harrowing details of the wicked deeds of Giant
Blunderbore and the cruel deceit of the wolf that devoured Red
Ridinghood.
But the subaltern, had a grimmer visitor one day. The orders came at
last for Gul Mahommed to be sent to Calcutta to stand his trial without
waiting for Wargrave's recovery, the latter's evidence being taken on
commission. The prisoner begged that he might be allowed to see the
wounded officer before he left; and, Frank having consented, he was
brought to the subaltern's bedroom when he was marched out of the Fort
on the first stage of his journey to the gallows.
It was a dramatic scene. The stalwart young Pathan in uniform with his
wrists handcuffed stood with all the bold bearing of his race by the
bedside of the man that he had tried to kill, while two powerful sepoys
armed with drawn bayonets hemmed him in, their hands on his shoulders.
The prisoner looked for a moment at the pale face of the wounded man,
then his bold eyes suffused with tears as he said:
"_Huzoor_! (The Presence!) I am sorry. Had I known that night it was
Your Honour I would not have lifted my rifle against you. The Sahib has
always been good to me, to all of us. My enemy I slew, as we of the
_Puktana_ must do to all who insult us. That deed I do not regret."
Wargrave looked up sorrowfully at the splendidly-built young
fellow--barely twenty-one--who had only done as he had been taught to do
from his cradle. Among Pathans blood only can wash away the stain of an
insult. The officer felt no anger against him for his own injuries and
regretted that false notions of honour had led him to kill a comrade and
were now sending him to a shameful death.
"I am sorry, Gul Mahommed, very sorry," he said. "You were always a good
soldier, and now you must die."
The Pathan drew himself up with all the haughty pride of his race.
"I do not fear death, Sahib. They will give me the noose. But my father
can spare me. He has five other sons to fight for him. If only the Sahib
would forgive----."
Wargrave, much moved, held out his hand to him. The prisoner touched it
with his manacled ones, then raised his fingers to his forehead.
"For your kindness, Sahib, _salaam_!"
Then he turned and walked proudly out of the room and Wargrave heard the
tramp of heavy feet on the rocky road outside as the prisoner was
marched away on the long trail to the gallows. Two months later Gul
Mahommed was hanged in the courtyard of Alipur jail in Calcutta before
detachments of all the regiments garrisoning the city.
The subaltern had long chafed at the restraint of an invalid before
Macdonald took him off the sick-list and he was free to wander again
with Colonel Dermot in the forest and among the mountains. Before the
hot weather ended Raymond came to spend three weeks with him and be
initiated into the delights of sport in the great jungle.
When the long imprisonment of the rains came Wargrave began to suffer in
health; for his wounds had sapped his strength more than he knew and
Macdonald shook his head over him. Nor was he the only invalid; for
little Brian grew pale and listless in the mists that enveloped the
outpost constantly now, until finally the doctor decreed that his
mother, much as she hated parting from her husband and her home, must
take the children to Darjeeling. And he ordered the subaltern to go too.
Frank did not repine, after Mrs. Dermot had casually intimated that
Muriel Benson was arranging to join her at the railway station and
accompany her on a long visit to Darjeeling.
It was Wargrave's first introduction to a hill-station; and everything
was a delightful novelty to him, from the quaint little train that
brought them up the seven thousand feet to their destination in the
pretty town of villas, clubs and hotels in the mountains, to the
glorious panorama of the Eternal Snows and Kinchinjunga's lofty crests
that rise like fairyland into the sky at early dawn and under the
brilliant Indian moon.
As Mrs. Dermot could not often leave her children it was Muriel, who
knew Darjeeling well, who became his guide. Together every day they set
out from their hotel, together they scaled the heights of Jalapahar or
rode down to watch the polo on the flat hill-top of Lebong, a thousand
feet below. Together they explored the fascinating bazaar and bought
ghost-daggers and turquoises in the quaint little shops. Together they
went on picnics down into the deep valleys on the way to Sikkhim. They
played tennis, rinked or danced together at the Amusement Club; and the
ladies at the tea-tables in the great lounge smiled significantly and
whispered to each other as the good-looking fair man and the pretty,
dark-haired girl came in together when the light was fading on the
mountains. Frank forgot cares. He ceased to brood unhappily--for it had
come to that--on Violet, who, as her rare letters told him, had spent
the Hot Weather in the Bombay hill-station of Mahableshwar and was now
enjoying life during the Rains in gay Poona. She seldom wrote, and then
but scrappily; and it seemed to him certain that she was forgetting him.
And he felt ashamed at the joy which filled him at the thought. Was he
always destined to be only the friend of the girl he loved, the lover of
the woman to whom he wished to be a friend?