THE GATE
It was at Baramula, which is the beginning of the real Kashmir, that
Edith Rand saw the watcher at the gate. At least so she christened him
to herself.
The girl and her aunt, Catherine Rand, had been sent to the hills by
Arthur Rand at the first contact with the lifeless heat of Calcutta.
A Southerner by birth and an easy-going gentleman of the old school,
he could not permit the women to face the climate of southern India
which was like a fever breath compared with the heat of Louisville in
midsummer.
His florid face had been almost purple when he kissed Edith good-by on
the platform beside the carriage of the Punjabi Mail. Edith had not
wanted to leave him. She knew that he was not well--this knowledge had
made her determined to come with him to India.
Moreover Edith fancied that the business venture that brought them to
India had not been going well. Letters from home had hinted at a stock
market slump and she knew that her father had invested heavily.
But the Southerner, reluctant to worry his daughter or his sister, had
smiled and said that he would join them within a few days in Kashmir.
He had handed Catherine Rand her inseparable traveling companion, a
pail of assorted medicines dear to her heart, wrapped in a black doth,
and waved good-by.
"My dear," admitted Edith's aunt, as the guard closed the carriage
door, "no one can do business in this Turkish bath. It was fortunate
that I brought my medicines. I fear that we all shall need them. Your
father is not well. He should never have come."
This had filled Edith with vague foreboding, a feeling that Arthur Rand
was concealing his worries from her. Murree and the fresh air of the
hills after the long train journey had revived her, and the joggling
carts that conveyed them to Baramula fascinated her.
They had passed through the gateway of Kashmir, threading mountain
passes, while cold winds bearing scent of pines, jasmine, and acacias
swept down on them. They moved in the shadow of cliffs. Vines and wild
flowers almost touched their hats as they passed by.
It had cast a spell upon Edith, a sleepy, pleasant kind of spell. She
yearned for a horse to ride among the mountain paths. Two English
ladies, officers' wives, who were with them had smiled at her
indulgently. The American traveler, they thought, was a beautiful
girl; they wondered just how she would fare in the army circles at
Srinagar. When she inquired if it were called the City of the Sun, they
responded that the natives interpreted its name so. They spoke of it as
"Sreenugger."
At Baramula the tongas had halted to change horses. At once a crowd
of natives pressed around them, shouting, pushing, bowing. Bearded
Afghans elbowed tattered Turkomans aside; slim Paharis gestured
frantically beside squat Kashmiri traders with arms full of shawls;
handsome Central Asian Jews pleaded with great play of brown eyes for
the _khanum_ to notice the unrivaled excellence of their heaven-devised
silks; self-appointed interpreters cried loudly that the _mem_-sahibs
should not fail to avail themselves of their matchless services.
Pockmarked beggars in garments that were miracles of rags continued to
wail for the never-ending _baksheesh_.
All--except the beggars--deprecated any idea of reward, and asserted
boldly and bodily their high integrity and the encomiums heaped upon
them by previous travelers. Noisy recrimination on the part of the
tonga drivers against the horde of rivals added to the confusion.
Through the mass of natives a carriage drove up behind splendidly
matched horses, scattering the ranks of the beggars. A diminutive,
uniformed figure dropped instantaneously from the seat beside the
driver and sought out Edith Rand. The military atom bent a turbaned
head and raised slim hands, crying in very fair English:
"Major-Sahib Fraser-Carnie presents compliments. Is this the American
Missy?" Adding complacently, "I am the orderly of the Major-Sahib,
Rawul Singh."
Edith was about to follow her aunt into the carriage, while Rawul Singh
attended to the forwarding of their baggage on the tongas, when a man
stepped from the crowd and thrust his arm over the carriage wheel. The
action surprised the girl, unaccustomed to the manners of the native
servants.
She saw that the man was as tall as the Afghans, but of a more
powerful build. His impassive broad face was the hue of burned wood.
Slant, black eyes were bent submissively before her. Yet she had the
impression that he had been looking at her intently for some time.
The aspect of the native was somber--one arm resting across the heavy,
gray woolen coat over his chest, his big head surmounted by a round,
black velvet cap. A scar, running from mouth to eye, increased the
grimness of the intent face.
Just for an instant the eyes of the man sought hers. Then, with a bow
he was gone. Edith fancied that he was still watching the carriage from
the crowd. As they sped away she looked back and thought that she saw
him climbing into one of the tongas.
She forgot him almost at once, in the glory of the drive along the
valley beside the flooded Jhilam that muttered through its gorge at
their feet. Those who have once entered the paradise of Kashmir do not
soon forget the gateway.
Edith laughed with the joy of it, seeing gray clouds twining among the
mountain slopes behind them. The edges of the cloud bank were touched
with a fiery purple from the concealed sun, when--as if an invisible
hand passed across the face of the sky--the sunlight was blotted from
their path.
The horses quickened their pace as the Afghan driver cracked his whip
and Rawul Singh spoke sharply in Turki:
"Drive, son of a pig! Would you discomfort the guests of your master?"
He glanced back reassuringly and met Edith's flushed, delighted
countenance. "Verily," he observed to the muttering Afghan, "this young
_mem_-sahib has no fear of a wetting or a storm."
Edith laughed as the carriage swayed and rattled onward, happy in the
rush of air, exhilarated by the challenge of the wind. Dust eddied
around them, and the poplar trees that lined the road turned their pale
leaves restlessly at the breath of the storm. In a few moments the
temperature dropped many degrees.
As the first heavy drops of rain fell, they swept under the trees that
almost covered one of the outer avenues of Srinagar, in the growing
darkness. Lightning flashes dazzled them, while a peal of thunder
brought a quick response from the apprehensive Miss Rand.
Just as the thunderstorm broke, the carriage jerked to a halt. Rawul
Singh sprang down and led the two women up a steep flight of steps in
a grassy slope. With the orderly almost carrying her aunt, and Edith
running ahead, they gained the shelter of a wide veranda as the rain
pelted down.
A white figure strode down to meet them, and the girl was assisted up
the veranda steps, breathing quickly with the effort of the climb. In
the darkness of the house a voice spoke close to her ear.
"You have come to the garden in a storm. Perhaps the gods are angry."
Edith almost cried out in surprise. A glimmer of lightning showed her
the dark countenance of Edouard Monsey. Blackness closed in on them
again. A curtain of rain descended upon the bungalow, and the road
became a mass of mud. Edith heard her aunt stumble on the porch.
For an instant she wondered whether they had come to Monsey's quarters
instead of the major's. Monsey wore an undefinable air of ownership.
She shivered slightly, chilled by the sudden cold. By now the full
force of the thunderstorm had swept upon them. The mat blinds rattled
with the impact of the wind gusts. Lightning flickered incessantly,
revealing the Afghan, water dripping from his beard, staggering up with
their hand luggage.
A spattering of drops that was almost a spray ran along the porch, and
Rawul Singh led them inside, lighting lamps that trembled in the air
currents.
"Is this the house of Major Fraser-Carnie?" Edith asked Rawul Singh
quickly, drawing away from Monsey, and arranging her disordered hat.
"Aren't we going to a hotel?"
The orderly glanced at her curiously, and Monsey replied. The major
was detained at the cantonment, settling some affairs of the natives.
Fraser-Carnie had arranged to take up his quarters at the Residency,
and they were to have full possession of the bungalow--Fraser-Carnie's
bungalow. There was no good hotel, he explained.
Monsey turned to go and in so doing spoke to Edith.
"You have not forgotten your promise?"
She shook her head and watched him depart, somewhat surprised that he
should go during the storm and without waiting for the arrival of the
major.
The shower had passed over Srinagar; the level sunlight shone on a
freshened vista of poplars and the water-stained wooden bungalows of
the European colony when Fraser-Carnie appeared to pay his respects.
Major Alfred Fraser-Carnie was ruddy and gray-haired. He was
good-natured, in a heavy kind of way, and not talkative until aroused
to the proper point. Well past middle age, he still made a presentable
figure on a horse.
Moreover, he did not shun an occasional sally into the polo fields
of the northern stations to keep himself fit. A surgeon, attached to
a cavalry regiment, he had labored conscientiously at his profession,
a labor increased by his own hobby-gathering material on the tribal
customs and environment of Central Asia. For many years he had been
looked upon as a total loss by marriageable ladies of the cantonments,
who spoke vaguely--as if by way of excuse--of an early attachment which
the major had been unable to forget.
He greeted Catherine Rand with unaffected heartiness, mentioning his
remembrance of former visits to Louisville, and took Edith's hand in
his, looking long into her face.
Edith was the first to finish dressing for dinner, and tripped
downstairs to find the major. Now that the storm had ceased a ruddy
light was flooding the house, and the blinds and mats had been flung
open. In a near-by compartment she heard the servants moving about,
setting the table.
On the threshold of the room she paused with a quick breath of
surprise. Framed against one of the French windows opening into the
veranda she saw the figure of a tall native that was unmistakably
familiar.
The man had been bending over some objects on the window seat, and now
he straightened, casting a startled glance over his shoulder. In the
brilliant light she could see the scar that ran from eye to cheek quite
plainly. It was the native of Baramula, the watcher at the gate, as she
had christened him whimsically.
With a leap he cleared the window seat and disappeared out on the
porch, as a great, shaggy mountain sheep might vanish from sight of a
hunter.
"What in the world!" thought Edith, because it was quite clear that
the man had no right to be in the house. Going directly to the open
window she looked out on the lawn, but saw nothing more of the uncouth
visitor.
Having assured herself of this, she glanced down, wondering what
the native could have been doing in the room. A thief, perhaps, she
thought. Yet his bearing had been more bold than furtive, and certainly
he had tried to take nothing with him in his flight.
Quickly she glanced around the room, with a woman's keen eye for
details in a strange house. She saw neat disorder. Trophies--fine heads
of mountain sheep and elk--hung from the walls. Twin collections,
European and native, of weapons were ranged systematically on either
side of the stone fireplace in which a blaze crackled cheerily.
Comfortable wicker chairs, bookshelves filled with much-used volumes,
green cotton curtains--all this was quite homelike.
On the window seat under her eyes stood a bamboo box filled with a
varied assortment of objects: some stained clothing, a tarnished
telescope, a notebook carefully tied up, and a volume of poetry. On the
clothing was pinned a slip of paper.
"Belongings of Donovan Khan," she read.
The two words did not seem to fit; the "khan" did not match with
"Donovan." Beyond this there was nothing unusual in box or contents.
Edith, perceiving this, felt a trifle embarrassed, as if she had been
spying unwittingly on another person.
Probably, she reflected, the big native was a servant of the
place--one who was not allowed in the front portion of the house.
Edith, unfamiliar with the customs of the people of Srinagar, did not
wish to play the part of a busybody. It was quite a trivial thing, she
thought And she said nothing at dinner that evening to the major about
the scarred native.
Once when Fraser-Carnie's eye traveled to the box she fancied that he
smiled.
"I have a duty to perform, Miss Rand," he observed. "A mutual
acquaintance, Whittaker by name, a very talkative chap you know, has
written me. His stories are quite a religion with him and he complains
that you did not believe one of his yarns." He glanced quizzically from
the attentive girl to her aunt. "About the man who was missing from
Kashgar, and all that It's quite true. There is his outfit, in that
box."
He nodded at the bamboo chest on the window seat.
"Then, his name was Donovan Khan?" Edith asked
"Quite so, to be sure. Donovan Khan."
Edith was interested. For the first time she felt the reality of the
odd story Whittaker had told. At the Château she had hardly thought of
it as true--until Monsey had chimed in. Monsey? She frowned.
And then she drew a startled breath. Whittaker had said that the native
who had been leading the caravan at Kashgar, the one who had killed
Jain Ali Beg, had been blind in one eye.
It had just occurred to Edith that the big native who visited the
drawing-room that evening had not seen her until long after she had
seen him. Then he had turned clear around to look at her. There had
been a scar, running from his mouth to his eye--the eye that must be
blind.
"Edith, my dear," her aunt was staring through her lorgnette, "you are
not ill, are you?"
She shook her head, laughing. "Only excited, Auntie."
Major Fraser-Carnie had said that the Kashmiris were harmless as
kittens and quite all right. Edith told herself that she was a silly
goose. There must be more than one native in Central Asia who wore gray
sheepskins and was blind in one eye. For all she knew there might be
hundreds.