As Barlow led the Gulab within the bungalow she drew, as a veil, a
light silk scarf across her face.
Upon the floor of the front room a bearer, head buried in yards of pink
cotton cloth, his _puggri_, lay fast asleep.
As Barlow raised a foot to touch the sleeper in the ribs the girl drew
him back, put the tips of her finger to her lips, and pointed toward
the bedroom door.
Barlow shook his head, the flickering flame of the wick in an iron
oil-lamp that rested in a niche of the wall exaggerating to ferocity
the frown that topped his eyes.
But Bootea pleaded with a mute salaam, and raising her lips to his ear
whispered, "Not because of what is not permitted--not because of
Bootea--please."
With an arm he swept back the beaded tendrils of a hanging
door-curtain, the girl glided to the darkness of the room, and Barlow,
lifting from its niche the iron lamp, followed. Within, she pointed to
the door that lay open and Barlow, half in rebellion, softly closed it.
As he turned he saw that she had dropped from their holding cords the
heavy brocaded silk curtains of the window.
His limbs were numb from the long ride with the weight of the girl's
body across his thighs; he was tired; he was mentally distressed over
the messengers he had failed to locate, and this, the almost forced
intrusion of Bootea into his bedroom, the closed door and the curtained
windows, her doing, was just another turn of the kaleidoscope with its
bits of broken glass of a nightmare. He dropped wearily into a big
cane-bottomed Hindu chair, saying; "Little wilted rose, cuddle up on
that divan among the cushions and rest, while you tell me why we sit in
_purdah_."
The girl dragged a cushion from the divan, and placing it on the floor
beside his chair, sat on it, curling her feet beneath her knees.
Barlow groaned inwardly. If his mind had not been so lethargic because
of the things that weighted it, like the leaden soles upon a diver's
boots, he would have roused himself to say, "Look here, a chap can't
pull a girl who is as sweet as a flower and as trusting as a babe, out
of trouble and then make bazaar love to her; he can't do it if he's any
sort of a chap." All this was casually in his mind, but he let his
tired eyes droop, and his hand that hung over the teak-wood arm of the
chair rested upon the girl's shoulder.
"Bootea will soon go so that the Sahib may sleep, for he is tired," she
said; "but first there is something to be said, and I have come close
to the Sahib because men not alone whisper in the dark but they listen."
The hand that rested on Bootea's shoulder lifted to her cheek, and
strong fingers caressed its oval.
"Would the Sahib sleep, and would his mind rest if he knew where the
two who rode are?"
Barlow sat bolt upright in the chair, roused, the lethargy gone, as if
he had poured raw whisky down his throat. And he was glad, the closed
door and the drawn curtains were not now things of debasement. Curious
that he should care what this little Hindu maid was like, but he did.
His hand now clasped the girl's wrist, it almost hurt in its tenseness.
"Yes, Gulab,"--and he subdued his voice,--"tell me if you know."
"They are dead upon the road beyond where you saved Bootea."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"It was too late, Sahib; and if you had gone there they would have
killed you."
"Who?"
"That, I cannot tell."
"You must, Gulab."
"No, Bootea will not."
Barlow stared angrily into the big eyes that were lifted to his, that
though they lingered in soft loving upon his face, told him that she
would not tell, that she would die first; even as he would have given
his life if he had been captured by tribesmen and asked to betray his
fellow men as the price of liberty.
He threw himself back wearily in the chair. "Why tell me this now,--to
mock me, to exult?" he said, reproach in his voice.
"But it is the message, Sahib, that is more than the life of a _sepoy_,
is it not?"
Again he sat up: "Why do you say this--do you know where it is?"
She drew from beneath her bodice the sandal soles, saying: "These are
from the feet of the messenger who is dead. The one the Sahib beat
over the head with his pistol dropped them,--and he was carrying them
for a purpose. The Sahib knows, perhaps, the secret way of this land."
In the girl's hand was clasped the knife from her girdle, and she
tendered it, hilt first: "Bootea knows not if they are of value, the
leather soles, but if the Sahib would open them, then if there are eyes
that watch the curtains are drawn."
Barlow revivified, stimulated by hope, seized the knife and ran its
sharp point around the stitching of the soles. Between the double
leather of one lay a thin, strong parchment-like paper.
He gave a cry of exultation as, unfolding it, he saw the seal of his
Raj. His cry was a gasp of relief. Almost the shatterment of his
career had lain in that worn discoloured sole, and disaster to his Raj
if it had fallen into the hands of the conspirators.
In an ecstasy of relief he sprang to his feet, and lifting Bootea,
clasped her in his arms, smothering her face in kisses, whispering:
"Gulab, you are my preserver; you are the sweetest rose that ever
bloomed!"
He felt the pound of her heart against his breast, and her eyes
mirrored a happiness that caused him to realise that he was going too
far--drifting into troubled waters that threatened destruction. The
girl's soul had risen to her eyes and looked out as though he were a
god.
As if Bootea sensed the same impending evil she pushed Barlow from her
and sank back to the cushion, her face shedding its radiancy.
Cursing himself for the impetuous outburst Barlow slumped into the
chair.
"Gulab," he said presently, "my government gives reward for loyalty and
service."
"Bootea has had full reward," the girl answered.
He continued: "We had talk on the road about the Pindaris; what did
they who whisper in the dark say?"
"That the chief, Amir Khan, has gathered an army, and they fear that
because of an English bribe he will attack the Mahrattas; so the Dewan
has brought men from Karowlee to go into the camp of the Pindaris in
disguise and slay the chief for a reward."
This information coming from Bootea was astounding. Neither Resident
Hodson nor Captain Barlow had suspected that there had been a leak.
"And was there talk of this message from the British to--?" Barlow
checked.
"To the Sahib?" Bootea asked. "Not of the message; but it was
whispered that one would go to the Pindari camp to talk with Amir Khan,
and perhaps it was the Sahib they meant. And perhaps they knew he
waited for orders from the government."
Then suddenly it flashed upon Barlow that because of this he had been
marked. The foul riding in the game of polo that so nearly put him out
of commission--it had been deliberately foul, he knew that, but he had
attributed it to a personal anger on the part of the Mahratta officer,
bred of rivalry in the game and the fanatical hate of an individual
Hindu for an Englishman.
"Now that a message has come will the Sahib go to the Pindari camp?"
Bootea persisted.
"Why do you ask, Gulab?"
"Not in the way of treachery, but because the Sahib is now like a god;
and because I may again be of service, for those who will slay Amir
Khan will also slay the Sahib."
"Gulab,--"
Barlow's voice was drowned by yells of terror in the outer room.
"Thieves! Thieves have broken in to rob, and they have stolen my lamp!
_Chowkidar, chowkidar_! wake, son of a pig!"
It was the bearer, who, suddenly wakened by some noise, had in the dark
groped for his lamp and found it missing.
"Heavens!" the Captain exclaimed. "Now the cook house will be
empty--the servants will come!" He rubbed a hand perplexedly over his
forehead. "Quick, Gulab, you must hide!"
He swung open a wooden door between his room and a bedroom next.
Within he said: "There's a bed, and you must sleep here till daylight,
then I will have the _chowkidar_ take you to where you wish to go. You
couldn't go in the dark anyway. Bar the door; you will be quite safe;
don't be frightened." He touched her cheek with his fingers: "Salaam,
little girl." Then, going out, he opened the door leading to the room
of clamour, exclaiming angrily, "You fool, why do you scream in your
dreams?"
"God be thanked! it is the Sahib." The bearer flopped to his knees and
put his hands in abasement upon his master's feet.
Jungwa had rushed into the room, staff in hand, at the outcry. Now he
stood glowering indignantly upon the grovelling bearer.
"It is the opium, Sahib," he declared; "this fool spends all his time
in the bazaar smoking with people of ill repute. If the Presence will
but admonish him with the whip our slumbers will not again be
disturbed."
The bearer, running true to the tenets of native servants, put up the
universal alibi--a flat denial.
"Sahib, you who are my father and my mother, be not angry, for I have
not slept. I observed the Sahib pass, but as he spoke not, I thought
he had matters of import upon his mind and wished not to be disturbed."
"A liar--by Mother Gunga!" The _chowkidar_ prodded him in the ribs
with the end of his staff, and turning in disgust, passed out.
"Come, you fool!" Barlow commanded, returning to his room, and, sitting
down wearily upon the bed, held up a leg.
The bearer knelt and in silence stripped the _putties_ from his
master's limbs, unlaced the shoes, and pulled off the breeches.
When Barlow had slipped on the pyjamas handed him, he said: "Tell the
_chowkidar_ to come to me at his waking from the first call of the
crows."