THE GIFT OF THE RAJAH
Olga danced that night with the feeling that she danced upon her grave,
reminding herself continually, as the hours slipped by, that it was her
last night of freedom.
The failure of Nick to appear for the supper-dances diverted her
thoughts from this but to send them with ever-growing anxiety into a new
channel. Where was Nick? What was happening to him? What could be
delaying him?
She had no partner to take her in to supper, refusing each one that
offered with the repeated declaration that she must wait for Nick. But
Nick came not, and momentarily her uneasiness increased.
Sir Reginald came to her at last, his kindly face full of sympathy.
"There is probably no occasion for alarm, my dear," he said. "Come, give
me the pleasure of your company at supper!"
She had to yield, for he would take no refusal; but she could eat
nothing notwithstanding his utmost solicitude. She was in a state of
mind to start at every sudden sound, and the food he put before her
remained untasted on her plate.
Sir Reginald watched over her with fatherly concern, but he could do
nothing to alleviate her anxiety. In his own private soul he shared it
to a considerable degree.
As they left the supper-room together, she turned to him piteously.
"Oh, do you think I might go back and see if he has returned? Really, I
can't--I can't dance any more!"
"Wait a little longer!" he counselled. "You needn't dance of course.
Stay quietly with me! He may walk in at any moment."
She longed to go, but could not refuse a suggestion so kindly proffered.
She stayed with him therefore, glad of his protecting presence, refusing
to dance any more on the plea of fatigue.
The whirling scene wearied her unspeakably. She found herself watching
Noel, who was frankly flirting with every woman in the room. It was
doubtless a safe pastime, but behind her gnawing anxiety a little spark
of resentment kindled and burned. How hopelessly fickle he was!
Hunt-Goring had apparently removed himself from the gay company
altogether, for she saw him not at all. His absence was the only
palliating circumstance in that hour of sick suspense.
It was growing late and the remaining dances were few, when a native
orderly entered the room and stepped up to Colonel Bradlaw, who was
standing with Sir Reginald. He murmured a few low words to which the
Colonel listened with a frown. It was his habit to frown always at the
unexpected.
He turned after a moment to Sir Reginald. "There's a messenger arrived
from the Palace with a box of sweets or something. What?" breaking off
ferociously as the orderly's lips moved soundlessly.
"Moonstones, _sahib_," murmured the orderly with deference.
"Moonstones," repeated the Colonel, in a tone of vast contempt, "to be
presented to the lady wearing the best make-up in the room. What on
earth am I to do, sir?"
"Accept with thanks, I should say," said Sir Reginald, with a smile.
"Oh, I don't mean that," said the Colonel, frowning still more. "But who
the dickens is going to decide as to the merits of the ladies' costumes?
Not I--and not my wife! It's too big a responsibility--that."
Sir Reginald laughed. "That is a serious consideration, certainly. I
should make them decide themselves. Vote by ballot. That ought to
satisfy everyone."
The Colonel turned to the waiting orderly. "Very well. Tell the
messenger to come in!" He made a sign to Noel, who had just ceased to
dance, that brought the young man to his side.
"Look here, Wyndham! You organized this show, so you may as well take on
this job. The Rajah has sent a prize for the lady wearing the best
costume."
Noel frowned also at the news. "Confound him! What for, sir?"
"Oh, I suppose he wants to make himself popular," said the Colonel,
still mightily contemptuous. "We can't refuse it anyway. Arrange for the
ladies to vote by ballot, will you? They will probably all vote for
themselves," he added to Sir Reginald. "But that's a detail. And I say,
Noel, get a table from somewhere, will you? It's your show, not mine."
Noel smiled upon his commanding-officer, an impudent, affectionate
smile. He and Badgers were close allies. "Very good, sir, I'll see to
it," he said, and departed.
Under his directions a table was brought in and placed at the end of the
room. The dancing was stopped temporarily, and the dancers lined up
against the walls. Noel, armed with a sheaf of note-paper went the
round, tearing off slips and distributing them as he went.
While this was in progress, the Rajah's messenger was admitted and
conducted to the table behind which stood Sir Reginald with Olga and
Colonel Bradlaw. He was a very magnificent person, turbaned and
glittering; he bore himself like the servant of an emperor. In his hands
he carried with extreme care an ivory casket, exquisitely carved, with a
lock of wrought Indian gold. The key, also of gold, lay on the top of
the casket.
The gift was plainly a costly one, and every eye in the room followed
it.
The messenger reached the table and bowed low. "With the compliments of
His Highness the Rajah of Sharapura!" he said, and deposited the casket
upon the table.
The Colonel glanced at Sir Reginald who at once responded. "Convey our
thanks to the Rajah," he said, "and say that the gracious gift will be
much appreciated! I shall give myself the pleasure of calling upon him
to assure him of this in person to-morrow."
The messenger salaamed again deeply, and withdrew.
"I wish he'd keep his precious moonstones!" grumbled the Colonel. "They
are more bother than they're worth. Hurry up, there, Noel! It's getting
late."
"Just finished, sir," came Noel's cheery answer. "I must just get a hat
to hold the ballot-papers."
He did not offer a paper to Olga, who still kept her place by Sir
Reginald, her young face white and tired under the pile of fair,
powdered hair.
"I think I shall go when this is over," she whispered to Sir Reginald.
"So you shall," he said kindly. "I will escort you myself. I expect we
shall find Nick waiting for us," he added, with a smile. "Some business
has delayed him, I have no doubt."
She tried to smile in answer, but her lips quivered in spite of her. She
turned her face aside, ashamed of her weakness.
Noel came up with the ballot-papers, and emptied them out upon the table
without a glance at her.
"I must get you to help," said Sir Reginald, drawing her gently
forward.
"I can manage, sir," said Noel shortly.
But the Colonel broke in, "Nonsense, Wyndham! One scrutineer isn't
enough."
And Noel pushed across a handful of papers to Olga without lifting his
eyes.
With fingers that trembled slightly, she began to sort, assisted by Sir
Reginald. Several of the papers bore her own name, a fact which at first
she scarcely noticed, but which very soon became too conspicuous to be
ignored.
"I believe it's yours," murmured Sir Reginald at her elbow.
"Oh, impossible!" she said, flushing.
But in a very few minutes the suspicion was verified. Noel looked up
from his sorting with a brief, "You've won!"
Olga raised her eyes swiftly, but he instantly averted his, and turned
to communicate the result to the Colonel.
The latter shook hands with her, and shouted the news in his loudest
parade voice to the assembled company. There ensued applause and
congratulations that Olga would gladly have foregone. Then, as her
friends began to press round, Sir Reginald stepped forward.
"It is my proud privilege," he said, "to present to Miss Ratcliffe in
the Rajah's name his very handsome gift."
He took the golden key from the top of the casket and handed it with a
bow to Olga.
She took it with a murmur of thanks, and stood hesitating, possessed by
a very curious feeling of dread.
"Open it!" said Noel impatiently.
"Open it for her!" said Sir Reginald, divining a certain amount of
nervousness as the cause of her hesitation.
Noel held out a hand for the key, and she gave it to him. There was a
sudden hush and a little thrill of expectation in the motley crowd
gathered round as he turned to fit it into the lock.
The key did not fit in very easily; it seemed to meet with some
obstruction. With a frown Noel pulled it out again. "What's the matter
with the thing?" he said irritably.
"Try it the other way up!" suggested Sir Reginald.
"I believe it's a hoax," said a man in the crowd.
Noel turned the key upside down amid an interested silence, and began to
insert it again in the lock.
As he did so, there came a sudden cry from the background, a man's voice
shrill and warning.
"Leave the thing alone! It's a bomb! I tell you, it's a bomb!"
"What?" The crowd scattered backwards as though a thunderbolt had fallen
in its midst, and a woman shrieked in panic.
A man--wild, unkempt, ragged--tore like a maniac over the polished
floor, making for the group at the table, waving one skinny arm.
"Noel! You damn' fool! Leave the thing alone!"
Noel whizzed round with the key in his hand. "Hullo,--Nick!" he said.
"Leave it alone! Leave it alone!" The voice dropped to a hoarse croak.
The man was close to the table now, and in amazement Olga recognized the
face of the old moonstone-seller. But it was convulsed with a terror
such as she had never seen on the face of any man.
The bony hand darted out towards the casket, and her heart stood still.
She knew that hand--wiry, energetic, capable.
"Nick!" she whispered. "Nick!"
He brushed her aside, and, again in that dry, breathless croak, "There
isn't--a moment--to lose!" he said.
In another instant he would have had the shining thing in his grasp, but
in that instant Noel's wits leaped to full understanding. He wheeled,
caught the newcomer by his tattered garment, and flung him violently
away.
"All right, you old joker!" he said. "My job!"
Dazed with horror, though still scarcely realizing, Olga saw him turn
and lift the ivory casket, holding it clasped firmly between his hands.
Then, with a set face, stepping warily, he moved to the window close
behind.
In the other part of the room women were crying and men deeply cursing;
but there near the table no one uttered a sound, till the ragged
creature on the floor sprang up crying hoarsely for a pail of water.
Noel's figure passed through the open window as he did so, smoothly,
unfalteringly, and so out upon the dark verandah.
Deftly, warily, he made his way. The thing between his hands weighed
heavily. It would have been no job for a one-armed man.
He passed down the verandah with every nerve strung to the moment's
emergency. Unquestionably he was not afraid, but he could have wished
that the place had been better illuminated. His progress would have been
considerably quicker.
He neared the flight of six steps that led down to the compound, and
suddenly became aware of a dark figure lounging in a wicker-chair ahead
of him. He saw the glow of a cigarette.
He raised his voice. "Hi, you! Clear out! Git--if you value your life!
There's going to be an explosion!"
He did not slacken his pace as he uttered his warning. He dared not
pause. His whole heart was set on reaching the compound in time.
The figure in the chair turned towards him. He heard the creak of the
bamboo. But it made no movement to rise.
"Confound you! Take your chance then!" said Noel between his teeth.
He came closer. He saw in a momentary glance the face behind the
cigarette. Heavy, drugged eyes looked up to his. Then in the dimness he
heard a sudden movement, a snarling, devilish laugh.
The next instant he kicked against an obstruction, staggered, fought
madly to recover himself, tripped a second time, and with a yell of rage
fell headlong.
There came a flash of blinding, intolerable brightness--a roar as of the
roar of a cannon, stunning, deafening, devastating,--the smaller sound
of wood splintering and falling,--and then a dumb and awful silence more
fearful than Death.
* * * * *
The first to arrive on that scene of darkness and destruction was the
old moonstone-seller. He seemed to be gifted with eyes of extraordinary
keenness, for he made his way unerringly, with the agility of a monkey
among the splintered _débris_. One corner of the mess-house had
completely gone, leaving a gaping hole into the ante-room. Dimly the
lamps within shone upon the wreckage. The crowd from the ball-room,
horror-stricken, fearful, were gathered about the doorway. The
atmosphere was thick with dust and smoke.
Light as an acrobat the moonstone-seller stepped among the ruins, then
paused to listen.
"Is there anyone here?" he asked aloud. "Noel, are you here?"
There was no answer. The awful, tragic silence closed in upon his words.
But it did not daunt him. Cautiously he crept a little further forward.
And now there came a voice from the room behind him, Colonel Bradlaw's
voice, harsh with suspense.
"Is the boy dead?"
"Don't know yet, sir," came back the answer. "Will you send a lantern?
Ah! Hullo!"
Something had moved against his foot. Something writhed and groaned.
The searcher stooped. "Hullo!" he said again. "Noel, is it you, lad? I'm
here. I'll help you."
A voice answered him--a smothered inarticulate voice. A groping hand
came up, clutching for deliverance. There came the slip and crackle of
broken wood beneath which some living object struggled and fought for
freedom.
The one wiry arm of the moonstone-seller went down to the rescue. It did
good service that night--such service as astonished even its owner when
he had time to think.
The man under the _débris_ was making titanic efforts, thrusting his way
upwards with desperate, frantic strength. Once as he strove he uttered a
sharp, agonized cry, and the man above him swore in fierce, instinctive
sympathy.
"Where are you hurt, old chap? Keep your head, for Heaven's sake! Where
is it worst?"
The gasping voice made answer with spasmodic effort: "My head--my
face--my eyes! Oh, God,--my eyes!"
There followed a cough as if something choked all utterance, and then
again that mute, gigantic struggle for freedom.
It was over at last. Out of the wreckage there staggered the dreadful
likeness of a man. The lantern had been brought and shone full upon the
ghastly sight. He was torn, battered, half-naked, and the whole of his
face was blackened and streaming with blood.
"Noel! Is it Noel?" asked Colonel Bradlaw.
And the man himself made answer, spitting forth the blood that impeded
his utterance.
"Yes, it's me! But I'm done, sir! I'm done! Bring a light someone! I
can't see--where I'm going!"
The moonstone-seller's arm was round him, holding him up. "All right,
lad! I've got you!" he said.
"But bring a light! Bring a light!" A note of panic ran through the
reiterated words "Confound it! I must see--I will see--I--"
"My dear lad, you can't see for a minute." It was Nick's voice, quick
and soothing. "This infernal blood has got into your eyes. Come and have
them attended to! You'll be better directly."
"No! It's not the blood! It's not the blood!" The words tumbled over
each other, well-nigh incoherent in their fevered utterance. And
suddenly Noel flung up his arms above his head with a wild and anguished
cry. "My God! I'm blind! I'm blind!"
With the cry his strength--that fiery strength born of
emergency--collapsed quite suddenly. His knees doubled under him. He
fell forward in utter, overwhelming impotence, and lay prone and
senseless at the Colonel's feet....