"Halloa, Raynier. I see the _dak_ coming," cried Haslam, putting his
head into the tent where the other was sitting, going over some official
papers with his Babu; for, even though this was a sort of holiday trip,
there were things to be attended to, and every day a Levy Sowar rode
into and out from Mazaran, a distance of about forty miles. To the rest
of the party this daily post was a daily event. They got English mail
letters--or news from the outside world. Haslam, for instance, whose
family was away in England, was wont to wax excited over the event. But
to Raynier it was more of a nuisance than otherwise. It brought him
official correspondence, but as for English letters he never got any,
and did not want any. So Haslam's announcement failed to awaken any
interest within him.
A little later there entered a chuprassi bearing a leather bag. This
Raynier unlocked, and proceeded to extract the contents by the simple
process of turning it upside down. The usual official matter--but--what
was this? An English mail letter?
There it lay amid the heap of long envelopes, and even before he took it
up a frown came over Raynier's face, for it was directed in the
handwriting of Cynthia Daintree.
What on earth could she have to write to him about? The envelope had
been re-directed on from Baghnagar, so she was evidently ignorant of his
transfer and promotion. He sat staring at the envelope, and the frown
deepened. He felt in no hurry to explore its contents, for his
instincts warned him that they would certainly prove unpleasant,
possibly mischievous. Well, it had to be done.
The letter was long and closely written, and a feeling of weariness and
repulsion came over him at the anticipation of having to wade through
all this. And--it began affectionately.
But before he had read far the mystified expression upon his face became
one of blank astonishment and dismay.
"Great Scott! The woman must be mad," he ejaculated, bringing his hand
down upon the table; all of which afforded huge if secret delight to the
Babu, whose keen native scent for an intrigue had led him to put two and
two together--the receipt of the letter in a feminine hand, and the
bewilderment and disgust evoked thereby in his master.
Good cause indeed had the latter for both. For the writer, after
referring to their quarrel, lightly, daintily and in a prettily
repentant way, proceeded to set forth that an excellent opportunity to
join him having now occurred in the shape of some friends who were
returning to India, she was coming out immediately--would, in fact,
already have sailed by the time he received this letter, and that they
could be married at Bombay when she landed, or from her friends' house
at Poonah. Then there was a good deal that was very high sounding and
gracious about turning over a new leaf and learning to understand each
other better and so forth, with a deft rounding off of affection to
close the missive effectively and clinchingly. No wonder he was dazed.
"You can go now, Babu," he said.
The Bengali rose and salaamed. There was going to be some fun now about
some mem-sahib, he was thinking to himself with an inward chuckle, for
he had seen that kind of thing before.
Raynier sat there thinking, and thinking hard. What on earth was the
meaning of it all? He went over in his own mind that parting scene.
There was no sort of ambiguity about it, he decided; no loophole or
possibility of doubt that it was absolute and final. He recalled her
own words, "Very well, then. It is your doing, your choice, remember."
There was no sort of reserve, no double meaning there, even if her
silence ever since had not shown that she had considered her
acquiescence final. And now she wrote coolly announcing her intention
of coming out, and marrying him straight off hand. Marrying him!
It is possible that never until that moment had he so completely
realised the intense feeling of emancipation which had been with him day
and night since the breaking off of that most mistaken understanding.
Of late, too, it had been stronger still upon him, yet now it was the
strongest of all.
The thing was preposterous--in fact, preposterous was hardly the word
for it. But what was to be done? To suffer himself to be led as a
sheep to the slaughter was simply and entirely out of the question. But
the unpleasantness of it all, the scandal it would create, the
ridiculous and even scurvy position in which it would place himself--
why, it was intolerable!
He scanned the letter. Even as she had said, she was well on her way
now. It was absolutely too late to cable and stop her--even if he knew
where, for he did not fail to notice that so important a little detail
as the name of the ship, or even of the Line, was deftly omitted. How
then could he meet her? Easily enough. She would cable him from Aden
as to the time of her arrival, she had said. And Aden was the last port
of call.
For all that he would cable on the off-chance of being in time to stop
her. Such messages were expensive, and he had an idea that it would in
this case prove a sheer waste of money. Ha! That was it. He would
send the message to the Vicar direct. He of course would know the ship
Cynthia was on board of, and would send after her to the first port of
call, and thus avoid humiliation for herself and all concerned. He got
out telegraph forms, and rapidly, though carefully, indited a couple of
messages. Then he lifted up his voice,--
"_Koi hai_!"
There entered a chuprassi.
"Take those at once, and tell Mehrab Khan he is to send them in to
Mazaran, now, immediately. Let him pick out the man with the best
horse, and tell that man to _ride_ it. You hear?"
"_Ha, Huzoor_."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
To another in the camp the post had seemingly brought tidings of moment.
Hilda Clive, in the seclusion of her tent, was scrutinising her
correspondence with anything but indifference. Several envelopes were
opened, their contents just glanced at, and thrown down. Then a quick,
eager look came into her face as she drew one sheet from its cover, and
settled herself to read. As she read on the look of interest deepened,
and a very soft, velvety glow rendered her eyes dangerously fascinating
and winning had any been there to see them.
"Just as I have thought," she said to herself, as she came to the end of
the communication.
"Now it will all come right. And yet--and yet--do things ever come
right? Well, this shall--yes, it shall." And the smile that parted her
lips and the light in her eyes rendered her face positively radiant, as
she rose, and with extra care locked away the correspondence she had
just been perusing with such happy effect. And ten minutes later
Raynier's bearer was notifying him, with profuse apologies for presuming
to intrude upon the notice of the great, that the Miss Sahib was
waiting, and ready to start upon the ride they were to take together.
Hilda Clives spirits were simply bubbling over, for she had just
discovered something she had set herself to find out, and the result was
in every way satisfactory. But they had not been long on the road
before she discovered something else--viz, that her escort, usually so
equable, and full of ideas and conversation, was to-day not himself. He
would give random answers, and his thoughts seemed to be running on
something entirely outside; in short, it took no more than a couple of
searchingly furtive glances to convince her that he had something on his
mind.
Their objective was the village of a sirdar of the Gularzai, and their
way lay through ten miles mostly of craggy mountain, all tumbled and
chaotic--shooting upward in a sea of jagged peaks. The path by which
they threaded the labyrinthine passes was in places none too safe,
frequently overhanging, as it did, the boulder-strewn bed of a mountain
torrent, now nearly dry. All of this Hilda Clive thoroughly enjoyed,
although she had to dismount while Mehrab Khan led her horse. This
Mehrab Khan was jemadar of the Levy Sowars, and wore a sort of khaki
uniform and a blue turban and _kulla_. For the rest, he was a very
smart and intelligent man, and by nationality was a Baluchi of the Dumki
tribe. By some intuition Raynier had at once singled him out as one to
be trusted. He liked to have him in attendance on such expeditions as
the present one, and would talk with him for hours at a time, and of
this preference the man was intensely proud.
As they emerged from the mountain passes upon the more open country,
they approached a camp of four or five shaggy herdsmen, who would hardly
give the salaam, but scowled evilly at them, leaning on their queer long
guns with sickle-shaped stocks. Hardly had they gone by than there was
a rush of two great dogs--guardians of the flocks pasturing along the
mountain side. Open-mouthed, with one ferocious bay, they came straight
for Hilda, who was riding on that side. In a moment she would have been
dragged from her horse, for Raynier's steed had taken fright, and it was
all he could do to keep the idiotic beast from incontinently bolting,
let alone come to her assistance. But Mehrab Khan, who was behind,
spurred alongside of her, and with a lightning-like sweep of his tulwar
cut down the foremost beast, nearly severing it in half.
The other sheered off, growling. But a savage, vengeful shout behind
told of a new danger. The herdsmen they had just passed came running
up, and it could be seen that two or three of them had drawn their
swords.
"Stay, brothers," called out Mehrab Khan. "Stay. It is the _Sirkar_."
Would they stop? It was little enough these wild mountaineers cared for
the _Sirkar_. The situation was critical. There were five of these
fierce, fanatical savages, fired with hate for the infidel intruder,
burning with a desire for revenge upon the destroyers of their property.
Raynier had got in front of Hilda Clive, whispering hurriedly to her on
no account to move, while Mehrab Khan and the other Levy Sowar, with
their rifles ready, faced the oncomers.
The latter, not liking the look of things, slackened their speed and
came to a halt, spitting curses.
"Why do they keep savage animals to rush out at people?" Raynier asked,
for, though he could talk Pushtu fairly well, he chose to put it through
Mehrab Khan. "Dogs of that kind are more dangerous than a pack of
wolves."
The men answered scowlingly that they were kept to protect the flocks,
and that dogs were of no use at all for such a purpose unless they were
fierce. Besides, they were not accustomed to strangers in a strange
dress.
"There's something in that," said Raynier.
"Would not the Huzoor pay for the property he had destroyed?" the
spokesman asked. "Such a dog as that was valuable."
Raynier replied that he would, but they must send or come to the camp to
receive it, as he did not carry money about with him. Then a bargain
was struck, allowing a trifle over for their trouble in travelling that
distance, and with a surly salaam, the herdsmen withdrew.
"Of course I might have refused to pay a single pice," Raynier said, as
he explained to the girl what had transpired. "But it is not sound
policy invariably to stand stiffly on one's rights, and it's better to
pay a few rupees than make enemies of these people. Besides, poor
devils, it is a loss to them."
Hilda agreed, only insisting that, as the liability was incurred in her
defence, she ought to be allowed to discharge it--a proposal which was
laughed to scorn.
"You see, now, what might have happened during that little moonlight
stroll of yours," Raynier went on. "And I don't think you'd find these
brutes so ready to turn tail as that panther was. By the way, I daresay
you'd rather turn back now?"
"Of course not. Why?"
"Only that you must have seen enough of the interesting Gularzai at
close quarters for one day."
"Then I haven't," she answered gaily. "I wouldn't give up this visit to
a real native magnate for the world."
"It was well done, Mehrab Khan," said Raynier, in Pushtu. "Thy stroke
was a worthy one, strong and swift."
And the Baluchi, proud and pleased, murmured his thanks.