His first visitor in his retirement that evening was not Honour, but Mrs Jardine, who believed honestly that she had a special gift for cheering the sick. Gerrard had always been her favourite of Honour's two persistent suitors, and though she could not well in so many words congratulate him on being left without a rival, there were a good many heartening things that she could and did say. After deprecating any possible embarrassment on his part by assuring him that she came not because she liked him, but because when one had a gift it was a duty to use it, and it was a privilege to turn a gay and too probably heartless occasion of this kind into a means of doing good, she passed to her main object with a suddenness which would have seemed to some a little abrupt.

"And you have not caught one glimpse of a certain young lady yet?" Nods and becks and a mysterious archness of expression pointed the question. "My dear Mr Gerrard, she is handsomer than ever—in her own style, of course; you may take an old woman's word for it."

"But where shall I find the old woman?" inquired Gerrard, in a desperate attempt to do what was expected of him.

Highly pleased, Mrs Jardine gave him a tap with her fan. "Oh, you quiet young men are just as naughty as the rest—with your compliments, indeed! But if I were to repeat to you what a little bird told me, you would never, never betray me?" Earnest assurances on Gerrard's part. "Well, then, I hear that Miss Cinnamond is not very happy at home!"

"I am sorry to hear it," said Gerrard mechanically.

Mrs Jardine looked a little nonplussed. "Of course it is very sad," she admitted. "But surely it has its brighter side? The fact is, the General and dear Lady Cinnamond are everything to each other. There is really no place for the poor girl. I confess she has made her mother wear caps like other people—makes them for her herself, I believe—instead of that extraordinary Popish veil—so like a nun's, I call it—though even she has not been able to get her to do anything to her hair." Like most of her contemporaries, Mrs Jardine regarded it as almost indecent to display grey or white hair, and herself wore a "front" which could hardly be considered an attempt at deception, so transparently artificial was it.

"You were saying something about caps?" hazarded Gerrard, as Mrs Jardine remained silent, apparently sunk in contemplation of the persistent defects of Lady Cinnamond's appearance.

"Oh yes, of course. Dear me, what was it? Oh, I remember. Well, you see, though it is very good and loving of her to do it"—Gerrard had to cast his mind back to discover what "it" was—"and must be a great saving of expense, with the Calcutta shops so frightfully dear, and boxes from home quite out of the question—though on the General's pay and allowances, of course—— Still, as I was saying, no parents with any proper feeling would wish a girl to remain single just for that reason, would they? And she has had so many offers—which is only natural in a society like this, with Sir Arthur's position and title and everything. It must be a great blow to him, I am sure, this honour conferred on Colonel Antony." Gerrard looked, as he felt, bewildered, not seeing the connection, since Colonel Antony had no marriageable daughter. "Oh, you haven't heard that the dear Colonel has got his K.C.B.? They are all talking about it to-night—it was in the mail that came in this afternoon."

"I have not had time to open any newspapers," said Gerrard wearily. "I am glad to hear it, if the Antonys are pleased."

"Of course a mere worldly distinction of that sort could never make any real difference to dear Colonel Antony—Sir Edmund, I should say." Mrs Jardine's tone was severe. "But as a token of his Sovereign's approbation, it must raise his position among the people here."

"Nothing could ever raise Colonel Antony higher in the minds of the people who really know him," said Gerrard.

"All the more reason that he should have this honour to recommend him to those who do not," retorted Mrs Jardine triumphantly. "That is exactly what I was saying—— Dear me! what was I saying? Oh, I remember; we were discussing Lady Cinnamond's assumption of superiority—just a little out of place in the case of a foreigner—you agree with me? Well, what I was going to say was, why should Miss Cinnamond, who is not happy at home, refuse so many eligible suitors, if it was not that her heart is already engaged? There! I mustn't bore you any longer. Why, you are looking quite excited! Have I given you just one little tiny crumb of comfort? Don't thank me; doing kindnesses is my only pleasure."

The lavender moire antique squeezed through the doorway with much crackling of unseen starched flounces, but Gerrard had no time to analyse the effect upon himself of the news he had received. Sir Arthur Cinnamond was his next visitor, confirming the news of Colonel Antony's knighthood, and then came Captain Cowper to tell his chief that the acting-Resident was asking for him, and lingering to thank Gerrard, in the name of the whole Ranjitgarh force, for setting on foot such a capital little war as that with Agpur was bound to prove. The officer sent to bring Sher Singh to book could get no satisfaction from him, and was being kept fuming on the Agpur frontier in a most improper way, so that a punitive expedition was a practical certainty, and if Sir Arthur did not take the field in person, his son-in-law meant to get himself attached to some one who did, even if he had to go back to regimental employment.

"Marian is looking for you to take your part in this next syllable, Charles," said a voice in the doorway, and Gerrard looked up with a start to meet Honour's clear eyes. Mrs Jardine's confidences had inspired him with a wild hope that he might find in them something he had not seen there before, but they met his with their usual bright frankness. He ought to have rejoiced, having regard to the compact he had made with himself and with Charteris's memory, but such is the inconsistency of human nature, that he did not.

"Horrid bore!" drawled Captain Cowper. "Who would ever have thought of their hunting me out here? But I shall leave my sister-in-law to amuse you, Gerrard, so you'll be the gainer."

There was no embarrassment in Honour's manner as she took the vacated seat. "I have been so very sorry to hear of your trouble," she said gently, only waiting for Captain Cowper to depart.

She understood, then! Was there any other girl in the world who would have understood—that not the removal of a rival, but the loss of a friend, was the dominant thought in Gerrard's mind? He murmured his thanks with difficulty.

"Would it hurt you to tell me about it?" she asked, and the flood-gates were opened. All the rankling memories which Gerrard could no more have confided to James Antony than that worthy man could have comprehended them if he had, all the unavailing self-reproach—"If I had only done this!" "If I had not said that!"—all the self-depreciation which the persistent dwelling on Charteris's qualities produced naturally in the man who differed so much from him, were poured into Honour's ear.

"And the very last evening I was fool enough to take offence because he saw quicker than I did what was the right thing to be done! Do you think he turned rusty? Not a bit of it. He took it like a brick—actually apologised for offering me advice! There was never any one like him."

"No, I suppose not," said Honour softly. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not ask herself whether Charteris's virtues or Gerrard's account of them had brought them there. She took it for granted that it was the former, and spoke accordingly.

"And the worst of it is, we don't realise what our friends are until we lose them," she murmured.

"No, indeed we don't. One sees one's own unworthiness now, when it is too late—when the remembrance of what he was makes a barrier for ever——"

"A barrier—yes, of course; but a bond, too." This was a state of mind which Honour could thoroughly understand and appreciate. A life-long romantic friendship, absolutely precluded from becoming anything more, was just what appealed to her. It suggested what may be termed the Rolandseck ideal—the hero retiring from the world to an eligible hermitage, affording an extensive view of a desirably situated nunnery, where the heroine was similarly secluded—which, with its peculiar blending of religion and sentimentality, animated so many of her favourite books. "We can never forget that we have both known him, can we? You will tell me more about him, and we will keep his memory alive when all the world has forgotten him."

Whether the relief of unburdening his mind had served to clear her hearer's vision, or merely that the thought of the real Bob Charteris, most unsentimental of men, obtruded itself in all its incongruity with Honour's scheme for commemorating him, certain it is that instead of being grateful to her for falling in so exactly with his wishes, Gerrard was conscious of a distinct impatience. Was there no flesh and blood about the girl—no feeling, but merely sentiment? All unknown to himself, Gerrard had not been intending to suffer alone, and it was a blow to discover that what had meant to him a real and terrible renunciation was to her a mere matter of course, rather pleasurable than otherwise. He groaned as the truth forced itself upon him, and Honour looked up in alarm.

"I have done you harm—tired you," she said anxiously. "We must have another talk when you are better. I see my mother looking for me."

"Honour, it is time for us to go, dear," said Lady Cinnamond, coming in, and looking "like other people," as Mrs Jardine had said, in a huge halo of net and ribbon and flowers and blonde. Honour might make her mother's caps, but they had to be submitted for Sir Arthur's approbation, and as he was strongly of the opinion that there was nothing like roses for setting off a pretty face, the style was apt to incline to the decorated rather than the classical. Lady Cinnamond spoke kindly to Gerrard, and expressed the hope that he would look in now and then, glancing the while from him to Honour as though anxious to find something in their faces that might guide her what to say, but in vain. In sheer bewilderment she appealed to her daughter when they were alone.

"Tell me, Onora, did the poor fellow plead with you again to marry him?"

Honour turned quickly. "Oh no, mamma—how could he? Neither of us could ever think of it now."

"That was what made you cry, then?"

"Mamma! why should it? He was telling me about poor Mr Charteris, and I realised how little I had known him. I can say it to you, mamma—it is a privilege to feel that such a man has cared for one."

"Then if he had lived you would have married him, my poor little one?" cried her mother in dismay.

"How can I tell, mamma? One finds out these things too late. It is always so, isn't it?"

"And the poor young man who is not dead?" there was a hint of exasperation in Lady Cinnamond's voice.

"He doesn't dream of that sort of thing now. We shall always be friends, but never anything more."

"My dearest little foolish one, there are moments when I would gladly take you by the shoulders and shake you!" cried Lady Cinnamond in vehement Spanish. Catching her daughter's astonished eye, she calmed herself forcibly and spoke in English. "If you had seen that poor young man's face as you left the room, as I did, Honour, you would know what nonsense you are talking. Refuse him if you must, but don't keep him in torture."

"Dear mamma, you don't understand. Things are different now——"

"From what they were when I was a girl? I agree! And I prefer them as they used to be. There were your father and I, and his friends and my family trying to prevent our marriage. There were other men in the world, doubtless, but for me they simply did not exist. And we married, and people considered us very romantic. But to be romantic now, it seems, you must persist in remaining unmarried for the sake of a very worthy young man for whom you cared not a straw when he was alive!"

"I can't explain it, mamma. But one has one's feelings——"

"Quite so. And the poor Mr Gerrard has his also. But those you do not consider."

Gerrard's ill-used feelings were still unhealed a week later, when Sir Edmund Antony, learning of the imminent danger of war with Agpur, descended from the hills like a whirlwind to take command of the situation, and incidentally to upset as many as possible of his brother's arrangements. Having learnt all that Gerrard could tell him of the circumstances, he took occasion, while his secretary was at work on the fresh orders he had hastily drafted to Nisbet, the political officer in charge of the negociations with Sher Singh, to speak on more personal matters.

"I am sorry to see this continued depression of spirits on your part, Gerrard. The sin of despondency is one to which I myself am so conspicuously prone that I dare lose no opportunity of warning others against it."

"Forgive me, sir. Our conversation has led me to recall things so vividly——"

"True. But you feel, as you have assured me, that our friend Charteris fell in a good cause?"

"There could be no better, sir. But if only I could have died instead of him!"

Sir Edmund frowned. "These things are not in our hands. If Charteris's work was done, no efforts of yours or mine could have saved him. If your work is not done, all the powers of hell could not prevail to bring about your death."

"But his work was not complete, sir. There was so much in him that no one realised—he had had no opportunity to display it. You and I, and one other person, have some faint idea of what he really was, but no one else can possibly know—the world can never know."

Colonel Antony pushed back his papers. "And what then?" he asked sharply. "How dare you say that his work was not complete because the world knew nothing of it? The world! The world does not make a man great, any more than it is the world's recognition that makes his work valuable. The value of the work lies in the spirit in which it is done. I tell you"—he spoke as though to himself, with a far-away look in his eyes—"I have seen something of work and the world's recognition of it. You know the interest that I take in the history of our people in India, how my wife and I are always poking and prying among old manuscripts and records wherever we go. I have found there the histories of scores of forgotten heroes—men whose names, in any other service or any other country, would have been inscribed upon the nation's roll of honour. They marched half across India—hostile country, every foot of the way—at the head of a few hundred men, and faced and fought the might of empires at the end. They captured cities single-handed, and ruled them afterwards, and they pacified whole provinces, in spite of famine and plague and fever. Oh, they got their recognition—the thanks of the Directors, sometimes even of Parliament, swords of honour and trash of that kind. But who remembers even their names now? You will find their graves sometimes, neglected and defaced, in deserted cantonments, or the remains of their great bungalows grown over with jungle, and perhaps a legend or two will be hanging about among the natives—silly superstitious things, of no value in recalling the man as he was. They did their work, and good work—completed work, as you would say—and they had their recognition, but they are no more remembered now than Charteris will be next year, except by you and one or two more. Ah, Gerrard, we are all very anxious to see our names carved on the stones that men may remember us, but we have to learn that it is enough if God deigns even to build our bodies into the wall. If Charteris did well what he was permitted to do, he could have done no more if he had lived a hundred years."

The rapt gaze faltered, and the soldier-mystic became the keen administrator once more.

"How much longer are you to be on the sick-list, Gerrard? I am going to send you to Darwan."

"I shall not be able to use this arm for some time, sir. Otherwise the doctor said he would let me off in another week. But you were not suggesting that I should take up Charteris's work?"

"That is exactly what I do suggest. I have no other man to send, and no other place at this moment that is crying out for you. I should not send you to Agpur again, and you would hardly wish to go, I imagine. What is your objection to Darwan?"

"Simply that it was his work, sir. We were so different in every way—I had rather try almost anything else——"

"Do you wish to decline the post?"

"If you send me to Darwan, sir, I shall go."

"I am not going to order you to Darwan. There is another post, by the bye, that you can have if you choose, with less responsibility and an easier life. Old Sadiq Ali of Habshiabad has been plaguing me for an officer to help him to train his army and pull the state together generally. He is a stiff-necked old ruffian, but it is a soft berth compared with Darwan. You are at liberty to choose that if you please, but if you are the man I take you for you will select Darwan and carry on the work that Charteris began. I leave it in your hands."

"I will take Darwan, sir. I don't expect to succeed, but I will do my best."



[1] Office, study.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE IDEAL AND THE REAL.

The secretary came in with his hands full of papers, and Gerrard left the office, hardly knowing whither he went. James Antony, sitting in his shirt-sleeves among the records of his interrupted labours in another room, took a huge cheroot out of his mouth and called to him as he passed, but he muttered something unintelligible and hurried on. Up and down the stone-paved courtyard he paced, much to the perturbation of the sentry at the gateway, who found the form of madness with which the Sahib must be afflicted difficult to classify. Gerrard was wrestling with himself and with the impulse to throw up political employment altogether and go back to the routine work of his profession. When he and Charteris left Ranjitgarh together, he had envied his friend, and wished that his work also lay in the open air and among unsophisticated children of nature. But now the environment in which he had spent the past year had left its traces on him, heightening his natural tendency to proceed by sap and mine rather than by direct assault, and rendering him still less ready than before to cut Gordian knots when by any conceivable expenditure of time and patience they might ultimately be undone. In other words, his Agpur training had improved his fitness for work of the same kind, but left him worse adapted than before for the rough and ready methods necessary for the ruler of Darwan. And he was to succeed Charteris, whose success in these very rough and ready methods had been pre-eminent, and who would much have preferred to do the wrong thing at once rather than the right thing after a lengthy pause.

So much engrossed was Gerrard in his meditations that the jingling and clanking that told of the arrival of a party of horsemen at the gate of the Residency failed to attract his notice, and it was not until, as he turned in his backward and forward march, he came face to face with Bob Charteris sitting on his horse in the moonlight and solemnly regarding him, that he realised he was no longer alone. He stood speechless.

"Thought I'd wait and see how long you could keep it up—brown study as usual!" cried Charteris. "Why, I believe the beggar takes me for a ghost! Hal, old boy!" bending from the saddle he bestowed on Gerrard a most unghostly clap on the shoulder. "I'm come back to plague you; do you twig—eh?"

"Bob!" cried Gerrard, shaking hands with him rapturously. "My dear old fellow, I never was so glad in my life!"

"And I believe the fool really is glad, instead of having been thankful that his hated rival was safely out of the way," said Charteris compassionately.

"Glad is no word for it," said Gerrard. "Come and tell me all about yourself. I'm in the old place—you'll chum with me as usual, of course?"

"I believe you, my boy! But I must satisfy the natural curiosity of the higher powers first. I suppose it's true, as they told me at the gate, that the Colonel has come down like a wolf on the fold, and sneaked the conduct of affairs out of the hands of our Mr James?"

"Yes, he is here. You know he's got his K.C.B.?"

"Wish he had stayed up in the hills with it, then. I don't admire James Antony's taste in jokes, but his heavy hand appeals to me in connection with Sher Singh. Now I am afraid the erring brother will be received with tears of joy and forgiven on the spot and coddled afterwards, and I wanted him kept in suspense for a bit and then put on probation. He has given me some precious unpleasant moments, I can tell you. Well, you go off and prepare fatted calf and any other suitably symbolical prog you may have at hand, and I'll turn up as soon as I can."

Munshi Somwar Mal was in waiting to escort Charteris to his quarters when he emerged from his interview with the Resident, and greeted him with genuine pleasure.

"Now do the nightingales sing once more in the groves of friendship!" he remarked. "Verily for Jirad Sahib the flame of joy has of late burned low in the lamp of life, but now the oil of Chatar Sahib's presence will replenish it until it illuminates all Granthistan."

With similar flowery compliments he beguiled the whole way, and Charteris noted with admiration that he did not once repeat his metaphors. On the well-remembered verandah Gerrard's servant was putting the finishing touches to the supper-table, to furnish which he had raided the Resident's larder and suborned his cook, and Charteris threw himself into a chair with a sigh of satisfaction. Gerrard, moving things about energetically inside to make room for him, called out that he would come in a moment, and presently emerged and sat down opposite him.

"Well, this is just what I like—and a few over," remarked Charteris contentedly. "So I hear you are going to sneak my job, old boy?"

"I shall hand it back to you with the utmost pleasure, Bob, as you can well guess. But tell me how it is you are here at all."

Charteris assumed a deeply sententious manner. "You are not wholly unacquainted with the literature of our vivacious kindred across the Atlantic, I believe, Hal? Well, do you know the expression 'playing possum'? because that's what I did. I got a glancing bullet across my forehead, where this imposing scar is, just here, which stunned me at first, and must have made a ghastly-looking wound, but the unconsciousness didn't last more than a minute or two. At least, that's what I gather from seeing my precious Darwanis in full flight when I got the blood out of my eyes. Their way of conducting a retreat was always to fire a volley and then run away helter-skelter, and though I had been teaching them better manners, I always knew they would break if I wasn't there to stiffen them. I was a good deal knocked about, besides the wound on the head, and before I could manage to roll into the bushes, Sher Singh's men were back. I thought it well to appear more dead than I was, especially when I saw them going round and finishing off all our wounded that they could find. They were in a great hurry, and I gathered that your men had driven them off, and they felt it advisable to make themselves scarce. I was in full view, unluckily, and expected to get the coup de grace every moment, but when they came to me they took me up without troubling to see whether I was alive or not, and threw me over a horse. It was not what you would call a luxurious mode of travelling, and twice I managed to drop off, feet first, hoping they would leave me lying where I was and go on in disgust. They were disgusted—highly, but their remarks made it clear that Sher Singh had ordered you and me to be brought in dead or alive, preferably alive, so I condescended to exhibit signs of life, and they hoisted me up behind one of them. That was an uncommon disagreeable ride, I can tell you."

"I started to come back and look for you, Bob, but I couldn't get far enough."

"Of course you couldn't. Why, this alone"—he touched the sling of Gerrard's broken arm—"shows that you were much worse hurt than I was. But I was pretty well done for, and a most gruesome object, when we came up with Sher Singh. His manners ain't exactly ingratiating at the best of times, as you have more than once remarked to me, but when he saw my unlucky hair, his language was positively improper. You see, it was my misfortune—and your very good fortune, I'm inclined to think—that I wasn't you. He even sent for water and had some of the blood washed off my face, to make sure, I suppose, that we hadn't exchanged wigs in the hope of deceiving him, and when he was quite sure who I wasn't, I expected nothing better than to be cut into little bits there and then. But some one ventured to suggest something, and he came at me with great fury and demanded whether I knew where Partab Singh's hidden treasure was. I know I ought to have struck a heroic attitude and refused to speak, but as a matter of fact, I fainted. It was horribly ill-timed, for Sher Singh is bound to believe for ever that it was sheer terror of his alarming aspect that did it, but it was precious fortunate for me, for when I woke up I was in a palanquin, and they had tied up my head and looked after me a bit. Dear, good, sympathetic souls! how they did try to make things pleasant for me—always dinning into my ears that Sher Singh was fattening me for the slaughter—the torture, I mean! They used to congregate outside and discuss tortures in the halts, when I might have had a chance to get a little sleep if there had been any air, like a whole regiment of Fat Boys."

"If we had only known you were alive, Bob!"

"Oh, don't think I'm trying to make your flesh creep. All's well that ends well, and it's a useful experience to have been through. Shows a fellow he can stand a good deal more than he ever thought he could, I mean. But perhaps it was just as well it was me and not you."

"Complimentary, as usual!" Gerrard's laugh was a little forced.

"It's merely a question of nerves, old boy. You would have been picturing the details over and over again when the beggars were not talking about 'em, whereas I was able to put them out of my mind. Well, we got to Agpur at last, and once in the palace, Sher Singh set to work to try kindness. He let me take up my quarters—watched day and night, of course—in your old Residency, which looks a good deal the worse for wear since you left it. The servants you left in charge seem to have taken first choice when they heard you were hardly likely to come back, and then the palace servants and the guards had their turn. Your books were all torn to pieces—they must have thought you had gold-leaf hidden between the pages—and scattered all about the place. I camped in the ruins, and Sher Singh came to see me twice. He talked to me like a man and a brother, pointed out how important it was for him to find the treasure, what a guarantee of peace it would be, and how he was obviously the rightful owner now that his father and brother were dead. I agreed with him in everything, but declined respectfully to say whether I knew where it was or not. When he proceeded to threats, I told him that he must think me as big a fool as I was beginning to consider him. I was not going to tell him whether I knew the secret, because if I did know it, he would at once begin to make things very unpleasant for me, and if I didn't, he might kill me as useless. On the other hand, he could not proceed to extremities while he was still uncertain, because if I knew the hiding-place, he would have killed the goose that laid the golden eggs, and if I didn't, he would have thrown away uselessly his one chance of placating Antony. That was just when Nisbet was beginning to thunder at the gates of Agpur—or rather, a good way off them—so it appealed to him. Of course the flaw in the argument was that if he knew his business, his torturer might contrive to extract the answer to the question, and the secret, without killing me, but I had to treat that possibility as absolutely non-existent. Still, he found out the secret at last."

"Bob!" cried Gerrard anxiously.

"Sold again. This was how he did it. After dogging me all over the place, trying to discover by my face where the treasure might be hidden, they hit upon a new plan, by which, if the worst came to the worst, they could produce my body quite free from marks of violence, and so satisfy Antony. It was a fiendish thing, Hal. As soon as ever I went to sleep, day or night, they woke me up, and asked me if I knew where the treasure was. I stood it for two days and nights, but if it had gone on, I swear to you I must have given in; I was pretty near mad then. But curiously enough, Sher Singh discovered the treasury for himself in an odd sort of way. You know the great tank where the lotus grows? Well, one of Sher Singh's ladies brought some gold-fish with her from Adamkot and turned them into it. The fish all died—change of diet, I suppose, but she swore that the deaf and dumb boatman had killed them. It was clearly a case of 'Off with his head!' for the poor wretch couldn't defend himself, but he made signs that if they would let him off he would show them something. They were open to a deal, and he took them across to the thicket of bamboos, and showed them the door in the wall, making them understand somehow that old Partab Singh used to go that way often at night. They lost the scent when they found that the door only led down to the wild beasts' pit, but picked it up again by a very pretty bit of deduction. It was quite certain that the treasury couldn't be under the pit or under the tank, so that the passage leading to it must pass between them, and it must lie in the direction either of the palace or the Residency. They broke ground in the Residency direction first, sinking two or three shafts in likely places, while I watched them with great interest, and asked intelligent questions. It was the one way I had of getting a little bit even with them for what they were doing to me. They held to the Residency theory because they couldn't see otherwise how you managed to get at the treasure for paying the soldiers without being discovered, but Sher Singh never believed in it much. Once when he was a small boy his father let him come with him into the ordinary treasury under the zenana, and he heard what sounded to him like men working underground not very far off. He couldn't make out where the sound came from, and his father diddled him with some fairy-tale to account for it, but now he remembered. So he had every inch of the treasury walls examined, and they came on the air-hole looking into the passage. Then they had only to break down the wall between, and there they were—and I give you my word for it, Hal, I was thankful! When they were all busy watching what was being done, and the gold was being handed up through a shaft that they dug, I just dropped down and went to sleep. It wasn't for long, but when I woke up I felt fit to face Sher Singh or the devil himself."

"Pretty much the same thing, after all," said Gerrard grimly.

"I should rayther think so! But the worst was over. It seems that they were uncommon disappointed in the amount of the treasure. They expected sufficient to make them all rich for life, and there was only just about enough to settle Sher Singh comfortably on the gaddi."

"Just what I calculated—only it was for poor little Kharrak Singh."

"Well, they held palaver upon palaver to decide whether they should hang the expense and plump for immediate war, beginning upon me. Everybody talked very big about wanting to fight, but nobody really cared about it. The army have plenty of money left for the present, and want to spend it, and the secret messengers sent to see whether the Granthis generally would join in a rising against the English were not encouraging. It'll be just as well for Antony to know that they look forward to a shindy before very long, but they ain't equal to kicking it up in cold blood just yet. The council had no illusions as to the possibility of the Agpuris making head against us without allies, and your old friend Dwarika Nath, who has come back as Diwan, was very strong on the need of prudence."

"The old reprobate!" cried Gerrard. "Master and man are pretty well matched."

"So I should guess. At last they did me the honour to call me into consultation. There was no parade of tenderness for my feelings, but they did make it clear that while every man of them would have made it his particular business to see that you underwent the longest and most uncomfortable death that could be had, they considered me not half a bad sort. Therefore they did their best to frighten me into promising them all sorts of concessions in Antony's name, and all I could do was to invite them to kill me at once, since that would be far less painful to my feelings than the consequences that would follow if I attempted to negotiate treaties on my own responsibility. At the same time I dropped a hint that since the murder of a British officer was a prominent count in the bill Nisbet was presenting, it would undoubtedly be an extenuating circumstance if the said officer could be produced alive and only superficially damaged. We wrangled a good bit, but at last I agreed to act as mediator on the basis of the execution of Kharrak Singh's murderers, the retention by the Rani of her jaghirs or their equivalent in cash, and a settlement of the frontier question—all of them bitter pills for the Agpuris to swallow, but indispensable, I assured them, if their professions of goodwill were to be accepted."

"The execution of Kharrak Singh's murderers! You were pretty cool to demand that, and they must have been mad, or pretty well desperate, to grant it."

"Why, you have picked out the easiest condition of the lot. His official murderers, I mean. They confessed, four of them—what they were paid for doing it I don't know—and I saw them blown from guns myself. But paying the Rani's jointure—that was a bitter pill, I grant you. I had to engage that any jewels or cash in her possession when she dies—a natural death, of course, understood—shall return to Sher Singh, before he would promise, and even then it was like bleeding him white. And the rectification of the frontier, on which Antony laid such stress in his instructions to Nisbet, will be opposed by all Agpur when they hear of it. I hope our Mr James may be in power again when it comes to be settled, to carry it through by sheer strength of will, for I should be very sorry to be in charge of the negotiations unless I had overwhelming force at hand in support."

"I suppose there's no doubt that Sir Edmund will accept Sher Singh's submission on these terms?" asked Gerrard gloomily.

"None whatever, I should say, judging by the way he received them just now."

"And this is the end of it, then! Sher Singh gets all he wanted at the price of a few rupees to the heirs of the badmashes he has bribed to take his guilt upon them."

"My dear fellow, you can prove nothing against him, and we have no power to bring him to trial. I believe you and I are fated to be the instruments of exemplary vengeance upon him eventually, ain't we, according to the Rani? Till then we must be content to see him flourishing like the green bay-tree."

"But we need not supply the bay-tree with water and the soil that suits it, and with a gardener to look after it and railings to keep off the goats," grumbled Gerrard.

"Oh, you are getting too horrid technical for me," said Charteris, with a yawn. "I don't know what you feel about turning in, Hal, but your unfortunate servants will certainly think they ain't going home till morning. I have been riding all day, you know."

Gerrard laughed, and the sitting broke up. The two friends hardly saw each other the next day, so closely was Charteris closeted with Sir Edmund Antony and his brother, discussing the affairs of Agpur, and when he was released, Gerrard was sent for, to throw the light of his experience on the present situation. It was dark when he got back to his quarters, and he started when Charteris bounced up out of the depths of a long chair.

"I thought you were never coming! Hal, I've seen her."

His tone was so instinct with rapture that Gerrard's heart stood still. "Where?" he asked hoarsely.

"At the band. Driving with her mother. Lady Cinnamond was uncommon kind—let me ride on her side of the carriage. Hal, she blushed—blushed when she saw me! She was looking stunning—so pale and cool; she never has much colour in her cheeks, has she? She had on one of those worked muslin gowns, and a big floppy hat with black streamers to it, and black velvet round her neck—nothing pink or blue to take your eyes from her face."

"Yes?" muttered Gerrard, as Charteris paused in blissful contemplation of the picture he had evoked.

"Yes? oh, that was all. I rode beside her, and looked at her, and her hand lay on the side of the carriage quite close to me—I wanted to kiss it, but I didn't dare. And she let me hold it for a moment when I bade them good-day—at least, perhaps she didn't let me, but I did, anyhow—and she blushed, blushed divinely."

Gerrard sprang up and paced the verandah hastily. Charteris woke from his dream of bliss.

"Old boy, I'm sorry—'pon my word I am. But after all, she is free to choose, ain't she? With any other girl one wouldn't think much of a blush. But one never sees her change colour, and I came upon her suddenly, so she couldn't have been thinking of me before. I thought old Sir Arthur would never have done with congratulating me on my escape, and that sort of thing—and a man can't be rude to his prospective papa-in-law, can he? But when I saw the greys coming down the drive, and the two parasols in the carriage—why, I made myself scarce in no time, and the old boy positively beamed upon my departure."

"And having made sure of the lady and her parents both, when do you propose to clinch the matter?" demanded Gerrard savagely.

Charteris looked at him in surprise. "Why, Hal, you don't imagine that I meant to run away from our compact? We'll draw lots who shall speak first exactly as we arranged. Unless"—with sudden fierce suspicion—"you took your opportunity when you thought I was dead?"

"Bob!" cried Gerrard, so reproachfully that his friend could not doubt him. "I had given up all thoughts of it. I never went near her without talking of you."

"Oh!" said Charteris rather blankly. "I hope you haven't made her think I'm like a brute in a poetry-book? Because if so, she'll be disappointed."

"I can't help what she thinks," growled Gerrard. "I told her nothing that wasn't true."

"I don't suppose you did. But it's the finishing touches that count in these things, my boy. And if she chooses to fit me out with a halo and a pedestal—why, when she discovers the truth, I shall really be finished off. But after all," with reviving cheerfulness, "it ain't my fault if she is kind enough to endow me with imaginary virtues. She blushed, anyhow. And when a girl accepts a man, it's as if she gave him leave to teach her the difference between creatures in books, and fellows as they are. And if she's agreeable, why, so am I; with all my heart, says I. That's my theory."

"Bob, you are really in earnest? It isn't one of your jokes?"

"Jokes, indeed!" said Charteris, in high dudgeon. "I'll show you how much in earnest I am, Lieutenant Henry Gerrard. We'll go to business to-morrow, if you please."

"Then you wish to draw the lots to-night?"

"No, don't let us have any melodramatic nonsense with straws, or bits of wood of different lengths. We'll go down to the gateway to-morrow between one and two, when there's scarcely a creature about, and one shall look up the street, and the other down. Whoever can count twenty human beings first shall have first right to speak. Are you agreeable?"

"All serene. But what if we both call out at once?"

"Try again, of course. It ain't likely to happen twice. The sentry will think we have got a wager on, so there won't be any fuss."

* * * * * *

Charteris proved successful in the counting competition, announcing his twenty while Gerrard had only reached seventeen. As he was dining with the Cinnamonds that night, the fates seemed to be propitious. But when Gerrard came back from supping with the James Antonys, he found his friend reclining on the verandah, in an attitude suggestive of despondency.

"Sold again!" said a sepulchral voice from the recesses of the long chair.

"You don't mean that she has refused you, Bob?"

"Oh, don't I?" the voice suggested something more than sulkiness. "If I don't, I'm very much mistaken. She told me that I wasn't what she expected, in a way that implied I was a very poor creature indeed. If that was acceptance, all I can say is, I hope you may be accepted too!"



CHAPTER XV.

MUTTERINGS OF THE STORM.

"Onora, my dearest little one, have you anything to tell me?" Unable to bear the suspense any longer, Lady Cinnamond had pursued her daughter to her room.

"No, mamma; only that he is gone."

"But you have not sent him away?"

"I told him again that I could not marry him."

"But I thought you cared for him!" Lady Cinnamond's regret was not unmixed with indignation. "When you thought he was dead, you said——"

It was Honour's turn to be indignant. "I said I couldn't tell, mamma. And I don't like him as much now as I did when I thought he was dead."

"These poor young men!" lamented her mother. "Then is the unfortunate Mr Gerrard to be made happy at last? Or is it some one else?"

"It isn't any one!" cried Honour hotly. "Is it my fault if they will want to marry me? I am sure I have made it clear to them over and over again that I don't want to marry anybody."

"My child, that is a thing that nothing will make clear to a man," said her mother solemnly—"especially when it is plain that you take pleasure in his society."

"But I don't. Mamma, I never told you, but long ago, more than a year, I lent Sintram to Mr Charteris, without telling him how fond I was of it. He gave it back to me all smelling of smoke, and said that he couldn't make head or tail of it, but it struck him as uncommon silly."

"But, my dear, surely that ought to have warned you that your tastes were not congenial. What can have made you think your feelings had changed?"

"Oh, mamma, I don't know." Honour paused for a moment, then hurried on. "One doesn't remember that kind of thing when a person is dead, you know. And there seemed to be so many nice points about him that I had never guessed——"

"But which Mr Gerrard brought out? Well, your objection can't apply——" Lady Cinnamond broke off hastily. "I won't worry you any more to-night, dear."

"Good-night, mamma. I am sorry I was cross."

Lady Cinnamond left her reluctantly, for the rest of the family were on the tiptoe of expectation to hear what had happened, and she had earnestly hoped to be able to silence their jeers with the announcement that Honour was engaged like other people.

"Well, mamma, is he coming to see papa in the morning?" demanded Mrs Cowper eagerly, as soon as her mother appeared.

"No, dear; I am sorry to say she has refused him again."

"Fastidious little puss!" chuckled Sir Arthur. "Faith! it'll be the other that will come to-morrow."

"Isn't Honour a queer quizzical sort of girl?" inquired Mrs Cowper earnestly of her parents. "Do you think she will accept Mr Gerrard, mamma?"

"My dear, I am afraid to say, but I should fear not."

"Why should she, if she don't want him?" said Sir Arthur briskly. "Rosita, I don't like to see this eagerness to get rid of your daughters. It reflects badly upon your bringing-up of them, ma'am."

"Oh no, papa; how can you say so? It speaks well for mamma's happiness in her married life."

"I see Charles hasn't cured you of your pertness yet, miss—ma'am, I should say. Poor fellow! I wonder if I ought to have told him what he was bringing upon himself?"

Justice demanded that Marian should immediately rise and pull her father's hair, but in the middle of the operation she paused tragically. "Something has just struck me," she said. "Why do we all take it for granted that Honour must end by marrying one of these two men? It may be some one we have never thought of that she really cares for."

"My dear, don't imagine fresh complications," said her mother in alarm. "All the available young men have proposed, so that she could have had any one she liked."

"Perhaps she was afraid of her cruel father," suggested Mrs Cowper, deftly arranging Sir Arthur's hair into a curl in the middle of his forehead. "Don't touch that, papa, whatever you do. I want Charley to see it; it will give him a new view of your character. Of course it is the persistence of these two men that makes you feel that one of them is fated to succeed. Others come and others go, but they go on for ever."

"Perhaps it would be as well to forbid them both the house," suggested her victimised father.

"Not both at once, papa! Why, neither we nor Honour should ever know which was the right one, if they were both shut out together. You must do it in turn."

"And after making one welcome for a week or so, pick a quarrel with him and install the other? Precious undignified, my dear child, but a man must make sacrifices for the sake of his family."

"Ah, but that's just what you don't do!" cried Marian, roused to recollection of a grievance of her own. "How could you all but promise Charley that if a peaceful mission was sent to Agpur, he should command the escort?"

"But surely, my dear, I was sacrificing my own comfort in promising to spare him?"

"No, you were sacrificing me!" pouted his daughter. "I was making signs to you the whole time, not to let him go unless he would take me with him, and he won't. He has been horrid about it."

"My dear Marian, you could not possibly go, with the hot weather coming on!" cried her mother, aghast.

"Nor in any weather whatever," said Sir Arthur firmly. "Your signals were lost on me, Marian, but nothing would induce me to consent to your going to Agpur. The place is clearly in a most disturbed state, and the good faith of the new Rajah extremely doubtful."

"Then don't let Charley go," was the prompt rejoinder.

Sir Arthur raised his eyebrows. "You must settle that with your husband yourself, my dear. I have promised to allow him leave for the purpose if he wishes it."

"And he will say that you are depending on him to command the escort, and I must settle it with you!" complained Marian. "And nobody really thinks about me at all."

"My dear, it will be an excellent opportunity for Charles to bring himself into notice, whether the progress of the mission is peaceable or not. And if he goes, you and Honour shall have a run up to the hills, if Lady Antony will be so good as to look after you. But at present it is quite uncertain whether a mission will be despatched at all. We may have war instead."

"Well, I think you might send one of Honour's young men, papa," said Marian, half crying. "She doesn't care about either of them, and if anything happened to Charley I should die."

"Oh, my dear, we will hope she cares for Mr Gerrard," interposed Lady Cinnamond hastily, seeing her husband's brow grow thunderous. Marian had transgressed the unwritten law which forbade the General's womankind to meddle in the slightest degree with his professional appointments, and had added to her misdeeds by weeping.

"She doesn't. I don't believe she has it in her. You'll see, to-morrow," and with this Parthian shot Mrs Cowper quitted the room in tears, meanly leaving her mother to allay the tempest she had raised. On the morrow poor Lady Cinnamond was almost tempted to think as she did with regard to Honour, for Gerrard, putting his fortune to the touch without, as he assured himself, the slightest hope of success, met the same fate as his friend. Perhaps his way of broaching the subject was unfortunate.

"Our lamentations over Charteris were rather premature, weren't they?" he asked her, with an assumption of lightness which suited her mood as little as his.

"How could you mislead me so dreadfully about him?" demanded Honour, moved to indignation by her wrongs.

"Mislead you? Why, I never said a word that wasn't true!" Gerrard was unfeignedly surprised.

"I suppose not," she admitted unwillingly. "But you dwelt only on his good points, and I—I almost thought I had misjudged him. But when I saw him there was no difference. He brought a smell of smoke into the room with him, and talked slang, just as he always did."

"But why should one recall obvious things like that? Would you have had me try to belittle him to you—if you must think worse of a man for such trifles as smoking and using slang?"

"Trifles in your estimation, perhaps; not in mine."

"Well, at any rate it shows you can't care for him," said Gerrard despairingly, "or you wouldn't notice them."

"I consider that remark extremely rude and uncalled-for," said Honour, with spirit. "You have no right whatever to pass judgment upon my feelings."

"Pardon me, but how can I help it? Perhaps you mean that if Bob left off slang and smoking he would be all right?"

"And if I did, how would it concern you?"

"Oh, merely that I think you ought to tell him, or let me."

"You think he would do it?"

"Like winkin'. Oh, I beg your pardon. I would, I know, just as I would do any mortal thing you cared to ask me. Ask me, Honour. Can't you give me a bit of hope?"

"How can I? You would not be satisfied—either of you—if I said I would marry you just to escape from unpleasantness of this kind. I mean"—hastily, as she caught sight of his face—"I dislike so much hurting people's feelings, but with you and Mr Charteris I seem able to do nothing else. If you would only both take my answer as final, and let us all be happy and friendly together as we were before this idea came into your minds!"

"We weren't," said Gerrard doggedly. "I was introduced to you two days before Charteris was, and all that time I was in terror, guessing what would happen as soon as he saw you. And sure enough, he raved about you all night, until I put a stop to it by throwing things across the room."

"Please don't tell me things of that kind," said Honour, her colour rising. "They do not interest me. You have a great influence over Mr Charteris. Why not use it to make him see things sensibly, and give up these attempts?"

"Because I wouldn't do it myself. If you could say that you felt the least kindness towards one of us, then the other would withdraw—or towards any one else, then both of us, I hope, would do the proper thing and leave him in peace. But while there's still a fair chance—why, I shall hold on, and so will old Bob, if I know anything of him."

"That is exactly what Mr Charteris said," remarked Honour musingly. "Well, I am very sorry, and I wish I could get you to look at things more sensibly, but really it is not my fault."

"You can't even hold out any hope for the future?"

"It would merely be unkindness if I did. If you would only——"

"No, please, that's enough," said Gerrard, and withdrew. Charteris was waiting for him on their verandah.

"By the look of gloom on your ingenuous countenance, Hal——" he began.

"Oh, bus, bus[1]!" said Gerrard wearily. "Yes, old boy, we're in the same boat, as before."

"There's one comfort, she won't get her bachelor Governor-General for some time," remarked Charteris; "for this man Blairgowrie that they're sending out is married."

"I hate stale jokes!" muttered Gerrard.

"You seem to have come off rather worse than I did. Look here, Hal; I'm going to propose a modification of our agreement. I've had first try this time, and next time you shall have it, without drawing lots. It's precious hard on you, if you are the right man, that you should only be able to approach her when she's already been rubbed the wrong way by my impudent pretensions."

"I ain't the right man. No one is. But you're a good chap, Bob, and I'm not too proud to accept with thanks. At this moment, I confess it, I don't feel as if I should ever summon up courage to come to the scratch again, but no doubt it'll be different in a year or so."

"I believe you, my boy—especially when you know that if you don't take your chance, I shall. But what stately form comes this way? Our Mr James, as I live!"

"I happened to be passing, and I thought I would look in to tell you that it has been settled about Agpur," said James Antony, depositing his massive form in the chair vacated for him. "What! ain't there room for me unless you stand, Charteris? Shocking the luxury in which you young fellows live nowadays! Well, I'm glad the business is finished somehow, since my brother will perhaps be contented to trot peaceably back to the hills, but I can't say that your friend Sher Singh has got anything like his deserts. He is to be recognised and, within reasonable limits, supported, provided he fulfils certain not very onerous conditions. Nisbet is to visit Agpur City and settle the preliminaries of the frontier business and the affair of the Rani Gulab Kur's jointure, and will probably remain there as Resident. Well, well! if Sher Singh ain't loyal to us in future, he ought to be!"

"I hope Nisbet will have a strong escort, sir," Gerrard ventured to say, emboldened by the speaker's evident, though unexpressed, dissatisfaction with the arrangement. James Antony looked at him severely from under bushy brows. His loyalty to his more brilliant brother never permitted him the luxury of criticising his decisions in public, and he had gone farther than he intended in allowing his feelings to appear.

"The escort will be sufficient, of course. Charley Cowper goes in command—has special leave for the purpose. They start next week."

"Then I shall have to hurry back to Darwan," said Charteris.

"Just as well you should be on the spot," agreed James Antony. "You go to Habshiabad, I suppose, Gerrard?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Precious little enthusiasm over the prospect, I see. Well, it is a come-down for the acting-Resident of Agpur."

"That was entirely a thing out of the usual run, sir." Gerrard roused himself in self-defence. "I was warned not to expect to continue on that footing, and I didn't for a moment."

"I can find you plenty of work here, if you prefer it. Ah, I see," he laughed. "The woman is spoiling Eden, as usual. Get married, get married, and you'll think no more about her."

"Thank you for your advice, sir. Your own experience?" asked Charteris.

James Antony looked first furious, then almost contrite, and finally gave way to a huge burst of laughter. "Curious how one falls in with other people's way of talking, when one knows it is absolutely false!" he said. "No, it is not my experience, and you know it, you young dog. I married my wife because I couldn't do without her, and it has been the same story from that day to this. That's my experience, and you can't do better than follow it."

"But then one of us would have to put the other out of the way—eh, Hal?" said Charteris dolefully, as Mr James departed, his great shoulders still heaving with laughter.

* * * * * *

When Mr Nisbet and Captain Cowper left Ranjitgarh the following week, Gerrard went part of the way with them. They travelled by water, their respective escorts marching by land, and he would have a day or two to wait at one of the riverside towns until his men came up. The hot weather would soon begin, and the river was low, so that the progress of the boats was agreeably diversified by frequent groundings, now on the shore and now on a sandbank, and the heat and the glare of the water furnished an excuse for much grumbling. Nisbet was a quiet, inoffensive man, who found perpetual occupation and solace in writing, reading, re-reading and annotating innumerable documents, of which he seemed to carry a whole library about with him, but his contentment was powerless to infect his companions. Captain Cowper was low-spirited owing to the parting from his wife, for after inducing Sir Edmund and Lady Antony to postpone their return to the hills for two days that she might see him off, Marian had disgraced herself and her parents by making a scene—though happily not in public—at her husband's departure. Her frantic entreaties to him not to go, or if he must go, to take her with him, her dire forebodings of evil, had made it very hard for him to leave her; and when neither her father's anger, nor Lady Cinnamond's warnings that she would do herself harm, were able to quiet her sobs, Captain Cowper had been obliged to tear himself away from her clinging hands without a proper farewell. It was no comfort to picture her lonely misery in the hills, with no one but Honour, of whose tenderness he had the very lowest opinion, to act as confidant, and her husband spent many hours daily in writing letters, and making sketches of any object of interest that offered itself, for her benefit.

Little as he had in common with his two companions, Gerrard dreaded the moment when he would step ashore on the left bank of the Bari, thence to strike southwards and take up his new work at Habshiabad. The absolute isolation from men of his own colour which this would entail was not a prospect he could face with any pleasure. From Charteris he would now be separated by the whole breadth of Agpur, unless they both journeyed far to the south-west, where for a short distance the boundaries of Darwan and Habshiabad ran along opposite banks of the river Tindar, while of Nisbet and Cowper in Agpur itself it was unlikely that he would see anything, as the frontier dispute with which they were to deal concerned the other side of the state. Moreover, it was impossible not to feel that his work had been taken out of his hands and given to them to do. Whatever the situation in Agpur might be, he had contributed, however involuntarily, to make it what it was, and others were now about to take it in hand, without the advantage of his past experience, and with the drawback of inheriting whatever odium attached to him.

The evening before they were to reach Naoghat, Nawab Sadiq Ali's port on the Bari, and separate, they fastened up to the bank at a spot where there was no village, but only a few poor huts, and where a patch of marshy jungle held out the promise of wildfowl. Nisbet was busy with his office Munshi, completing a catalogue of papers relating to the affairs of Agpur, but Captain Cowper and Gerrard took their guns, and set off along the bank in opposite directions. The sport was poor, and after shooting a brace and a half of birds and walking a long distance, Gerrard was warned by the gathering darkness to retrace his steps. A white mass at the foot of a tree in one of the drier parts of the bog attracted his attention in the distance, and on coming near enough to see distinctly he found it was a respectably dressed elderly man sitting there motionless. As Gerrard approached, the old man rose and salaamed courteously, and disclosed himself as the scribe of the Rani Gulab Kur.

"O master of many hands, how is it I find you here?" asked Gerrard in surprise. "Are you waiting for a tiger to come and make a meal of you?"

"Nay, sahib, it is your honour I am awaiting. I bear a message from my mistress for your ear alone."

"But is her Highness in this neighbourhood? I should wish to wait on her and pay my respects."

"Her Highness is far away, sahib, but she does not forget the gratitude due to your honour for your faithfulness to the dead. When we passed through Ranjitgarh, it was told her that there was a project of marriage between your honour and the daughter of the General Sahib with the white hair, and she bade this slave note down the name, that she might, if opportunity offered, do good to the General Sahib and his family for your honour's sake. Hearing, then, that the Sahib who commands the troops going to Agpur is sister's husband to the daughter of the General Sahib, she judged it well to send a warning."

"Her Highness can hardly be so far away, after all, if she heard this news in time to send you to meet me here, O venerable one," said Gerrard.

"I speak but as I am bidden, sahib. Her Highness entreats you to warn that Sahib and his friend to put no trust in the fair words of Sher Singh—and this not so much because he is treacherous, though treacherous he is to the very depths of hell, as because he is weak. He sees it is not to his interest to provoke a war with the English at this moment, but he is entirely dependent on his Sirdars—by reason of his faulty title to the throne, and his non-fulfilment of the promises made to them before his accession—and they have no care for him and his safety. They have sent out messengers again, since those sent throughout Granthistan returned without promises of help, and are seeking to enlist Abd-ur-Rashid Khan of Ethiopia, promising him the city of Shah Bagh, which is to him as the apple of his eye, if he will invade Granthistan from the north when the rising begins. Let the Sahibs then beware, for blood once shed is not to be gathered up from the ground, and Sher Singh is not the man to defend his guests if the city be howling for their death."

"I will warn them," said Gerrard. "And now come and lodge in our camp for this night, and in the morning go your way and carry my respectful thanks to her Highness."

"It is forbidden, sahib. I depart immediately, to report to my mistress that I have performed her errand."

"So be it, then. Carry my deepest salaams to her Highness," and Gerrard went on towards the camp. After supper he told Nisbet and Cowper of the warning he had received for them. It caused no surprise.

"It's quite true about Abd-ur-Rashid," said Nisbet. "Ronaldson caught one of his messengers sneaking about in his camp near Shah Bagh, trying to corrupt his escort. That may have been in view of this very plan for a general rising, but he thought it was one of the usual schemes for getting hold of Shah Bagh again."

"If Abd-ur-Rashid and the Granthis can manage to agree, we are likely to come off badly," said Cowper.

"But they won't," said Nisbet. "The thieves are bound to fall out."

"After a time," said Gerrard, "but they may make it very unpleasant for you first. And suppose your Granthis take sides with the Agpuris? I took Granthis into Agpur and brought them out again, but then I had had them for some time first. I wish you knew more of your escort, and they of you."

"My dear fellow," said Cowper, yawning, "we know at least that no Granthi is to be trusted. They are a set of nimuk harams,[2] and we shan't trust them. Sir Edmund chooses to trust Sher Singh, as he would any native that ever walked, but that's all the goodness of his heart, and we ain't going to be led away by it. Forewarned is forearmed."



[1] Enough.

[2] Perfidious, false to their salt.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE MILD CONCERNS OF ORDINARY LIFE.

All too soon came the hour when Gerrard stood on the dilapidated landing-stage at Naoghat, and waved farewell to his travelling companions, after receiving Nisbet's urgent directions to send on at once any despatches that might arrive while he remained there, and Cowper's parting request to give his compliments to the old Habshi. This disrespectful term applied to Nawab Sadiq Ali, who traced his descent to a famous naval commander, a Habshi or Abyssinian, in the service of one of the Mogul Emperors. So much did the Badshah appreciate the society of his admiral that he grudged him to the sea, but compromised matters by bestowing on him a jaghir with a river frontage, which the Habshi's descendants, in the break-up of the empire, contrived to erect into the independent state of Habshiabad. Sadiq Ali was proud to reckon himself an old ally of the British, his father having stood fast by them during the Mahratta troubles of the early years of the nineteenth century, and a hostility equally ancient existed between him and his Granthi neighbours across the Bari, more especially those in Agpur. Partab Singh and he had enjoyed many a sharp tussle before they relapsed into reluctant peace, owing to the fact that their forces were so nearly matched as to render it useless for either to attack the other, and to the absence of border fighting during late years the Kawab attributed the deterioration observable in the spirit of his subjects. A kind of dry-rot appeared to have set in, under the influence of which the state was suffering, not only in military, but also in civil matters, and this had culminated in a regrettable incident which had only recently occurred.

When the Granthi War broke out, Sadiq Ali, equally unexpected and undesired, hastened to join the banners of the Commander-in-Chief with his horde of undisciplined followers, never doubting that he would be received with the delight such an accession of strength would have caused forty years before. But the military affairs of British India were differently organised nowadays, and native princes as allies were regarded with disappointing indifference, so that the bad condition of the Nawab's troops, rather than the good feeling he had displayed, attracted attention. When at a critical moment the advance of a British brigade was delayed by the Habshiabadis' plundering in its front, the Commander-in-Chief, who had learnt his soldiering in the Peninsula, lost his temper and swore at Sadiq Ali—who understood his meaning, if not his words—and threatened to clear his men out of the way with grape. The insulted Nawab withdrew his troops at once, and was making the best of his way with them to the enemy's camp, when he was overtaken by Major Edmund Antony, who, foreseeing the danger that would be caused by his defection, took upon himself the responsibility of speaking him fair and persuading him to delay. No other man in India could have induced Sadiq Ali to consent to spoil the effect of his dramatic reprisals by encamping for one night instead of carrying his indignation and his army over immediately to his hereditary enemies. Even the political officer whom all natives revered was obliged to take his stand alone before the advancing cavalry, and to warn the Nawab that if he joined the Granthi headquarters that night, it must be over his body, but he succeeded in his mission. The tents were pitched, and all night Major Antony rode backwards and forwards between the two peppery veterans, each of whom began by vowing that he was well pleased to see the last of the other, and would never exchange a word with him again. Since they both assured Major Antony that he was the sole human being they would have permitted to address a remonstrance to them on the subject, it was clear that they were agreed on one point, and the emissary laboured, not without success, to extend the area of agreement. With what every one in the British camp averred was superhuman ingenuity, he induced the Commander-in-Chief to apologise for his language, and to soothe the Nawab's wounded feelings by a reference in general orders, while Sadiq Ali voluntarily placed a body of picked troops under British command, and withdrew with the rest to his state. In the moment of his success Major Antony held out hopes that an officer might eventually be spared to reorganise and train the Habshiabad army, and since he had been at Ranjitgarh Sadiq Ali had reminded him of his promise at least five times before he had any one to send. Now at last Gerrard was available, and a deputation of high officials received him at Naoghat to express the Nawab's delight in his arrival.

Sadiq Ali's impatience to behold his new adviser could scarcely brook the delay caused by waiting for the escort to come up, and Gerrard became accustomed to the sight of exhausted messengers clattering in in clouds of dust to demand that he should start at once. But his dignity as Sir Edmund Antony's representative forbade this, and when he rode into Habshiabad at last it was in the midst of his picked troop of Granthis, who were obviously scornful of the military display with which the Nawab was prepared to welcome them. In his anxiety to improve his army, poor old Sadiq Ali had handed it over of late to a drunken European adventurer, who asserted that he had been in Ajit Singh's service, but whom Gerrard suspected, from certain peculiarities of equipment that he had introduced, of being a deserter from some Scottish regiment. This suspicion was deepened when it appeared that General Desdichado, as he called himself, had recently been seized with illness of such a severe character that it confined him entirely to his house, and even to his zenana—whither, of course, no intrusive visitor could follow him. After vain attempts to obtain an interview, Gerrard thought it well to leave his predecessor in peace with his arrack-bottle, and take the army in hand from the beginning. He had not expected, when he heard they had a European instructor, to find them ignorant even of the rudiments of drill as he understood it, and he was confronted with the difficulty that he could not possibly drill them all himself, and nothing would induce them to take orders from any of his Granthis. He thought of asking for a few Mohammedan non-commissioned officers from the force at Ranjitgarh, but before he could do so, Sadiq Ali, who followed him about in a state of admiring wonder and affection, learned his difficulty and promised to meet it.

Gerrard had no very high hopes in this direction when he appeared at the grand review arranged in honour of Queen Victoria's birthday, and attended by all the Nawab's subsidiary chiefs and their followers as well as by his own army, but his eye was quickly caught by a large body of mounted men whose ordered movements contrasted strongly with the free and easy methods of the Habshiabadis. There was something familiar in the aspect of the leader, and when he rode past the saluting-point Gerrard recognised him at once. It was Rukn-ud-din, and of the two companies which he led one was composed of Rajputs, and the other of the faithful remnant of the Agpur bodyguard. Sadiq Ali smiled to behold his ally's surprise, but declined mysteriously to say what Rukn-ud-din and his men were doing on his parade-ground. Jirad Sahib would doubtless wish to make inquiries for himself, he said, and Komadan Rukn-ud-din had already asked leave to pay his respects to him. In the interval between the review and the banquet which was to wind up the day, therefore, a gorgeous band of horsemen thronged the approach to Gerrard's quarters, and Rukn-ud-din presented his officers, the chief of whom was the Rajput Amrodh Chand, who was a cousin of the Rani's. Gerrard touched the sword-hilts they held forth, entertained them with coffee and conversation of a strictly non-committal character, and then withdrew from the verandah into his office for a few moments' confidential talk with their leader.

"You are surely not one of the Nawab's Komadans, Rukn-ud-din?" he asked him eagerly.

"Nay, sahib. I still eat the salt of the widow of my master."

"Then it is the Rani Sahiba who is entertaining these troops of yours? But is she not far away?"

"So far away as to be between this place and the river that parts it from Agpur, sahib."

"This is very serious." It was quite certain that Mr James Antony would not approve of the Rani's taking up her residence so close to her former capital, when she was supposed to be at Benares. "You know that I must report it to the Resident Sahib at Ranjitgarh?"

"Your honour will do as it is decreed you should do," said the Mohammedan tranquilly.

"But what is her Highness's object?"

"To avenge the blood of her house, sahib. She devotes herself wholly to the practice of austerities, after the manner of the idolaters. The women say that to behold her is to behold the corpse of one that has died in famine-time."

"You cannot mean that she is wholly destitute? Yet what is she living upon? Her allowance has not been paid to her, because she has not subscribed to the conditions upon which it was granted."

"Her Highness will never subscribe to those conditions, sahib. She will neither receive money at the hand of the murderer, nor covenant to bequeath him a single anna that she possesses. For her maintenance, she received from Antni Sahib's brother at Ranjitgarh the ten thousand rupees your honour carried with you to Adamkot from the treasury, and of his grace he added to them, by way of an advance, a sum sufficient to enable her to perform her pilgrimage to Kashi." Gerrard suppressed a smile when he realised that James Antony's eagerness to avert political complications by getting the Rani safely out of Granthistan had thus over-reached itself by giving her the means of remaining on its borders. "The sum was not a great one, to maintain the warriors from her father's state who have vowed their swords to her vengeance, as well as those who have remained faithful to their lord's memory, but it will suffice for a month or two longer," added Rukn-ud-din; "and it is the word of her Highness that this will be long enough. The time is near at hand."

"Will her Highness receive me?" asked Gerrard hastily, planning strong remonstrances in his mind. "You say she has returned to pardah?"

"She broke pardah once, sahib, designing to expiate her shame when she had seen justice done, but death and justice were alike denied her. She will break it again when she leads her troops in the field against the murderer, and that day she will rejoin her lord."

"Now look here, Rukn-ud-din; you are a sensible man and a follower of Islam. I want you to do your best to induce her Highness to allow me to pay my respects through the curtain, so that I may try to get her to lay aside these intentions."

"How could she do other than as she plans, sahib? It is well for each to observe the customs of his own people. But I have a word for you from her Highness's mouth. 'Entreat Jirad Sahib not to give me the pain of shutting my gates against him, for I have no mind to be teased with formulas of ceremony. But when he takes the field against him that may not be named, then let him send for me without apology, and I will come at the head of my troops. Until then let him use them as he will in fitting the Nawab's army for the fight.'"

"And right glad I should be to have you," said Gerrard heartily. "But I cannot keep the Rani's residence a secret from Antony Sahib and his brother. At any moment Sher Singh may discover it, and accuse them, though guiltless, of playing him false."

"I think he will not discover it, sahib. We have a short way with spies in Habshiabad. But your honour will do as you think best, and the men of my company are at your disposal to do with as you will."

The question was a perplexing one, and after dismissing Rukn-ud-din, Gerrard considered it carefully. He decided at last to write to James Antony that it had come to his knowledge that the Rani was residing in the Habshiabad state, and that he could if necessary convey to her the documents awaiting her signature, though she refused to admit him to her presence. Having thus transferred the burden of responsibility to other and eminently capable shoulders, he turned with an easier conscience to take advantage of the help offered him in his task. On the very day after the review, Sadiq Ali's regiments, some swollen to unwieldy size, others depleted to mere skeletons, were thoroughly overhauled, and the ten smartest men picked out of each hundred. These were turned over to Rukn-ud-din's Mohammedans to be drilled, and after a preliminary course set to drill their fellows. The higher education of the picked men proceeded side by side with the elementary training of the rank and file, while Gerrard's Granthis and the Rani's Rajputs, debarred from serving as instructors, proved most useful in representing alternately hostile armies and better disciplined allies, when something resembling manoeuvres was attempted. The work was hard and incessant, especially as the hot weather was now running its course, but Gerrard welcomed it as tending to divert his mind from the unsatisfactory state of his personal affairs. The Nawab was overjoyed to see his army really being licked into shape, and took to attending the training in disguise—invariably discovering himself by frantic abuse and promises of horrible punishment when anything went wrong. Even General Desdichado, still officially confined to his bed and unable to receive even a visit of condolence, mounted a telescope on his roof, so it was whispered to Gerrard, and watched the proceedings with breathless interest. This war-fever could hardly last, and Gerrard wondered when it would begin to die down. The expected outbreak at Agpur had not occurred, and in a short time Cowper's leave would be up and another man would take his place as commander of the escort. Both James Antony's political forebodings and the Rani's prophecies were proving unfounded.

Now came a messenger with a letter from Charteris, written in that extreme south-western corner of his dominions where Darwan and Habshiabad faced one another across the Tindar.

"Here I am, old boy, gazing hungrily across to you, while Tindar rolls between. Come and pay me a flying visit, I adjure you. You shall sleep each night on your own bank of the river if your scrupulous conscience won't let you quit your own state without leave, but take pity on an unfortunate chum doomed to go crusading—castle-destroying, that is—in the hot weather. I promised you one of Vixen's pups—as nice little beggars all of them as you could wish to behold—and who am I to presume to choose for you? I am entertaining so many dogs nowadays that I expect to be eaten out of house and home, so it's serious, you see. Happy thought—start a pack of hounds! That's another reason why you should come. I can't offer to show you at the present season 'the sport of kings, the image of war without its guilt, and only five-and-twenty per cent. of its danger,' but at least we can draw up an uncommon fine constitution for the hunt. I know you'll object that the conjunction of two such stars of chivalry as yourself and yours truly in the same firmament has hitherto boded war, red war, but was that our fault? Surely it was merely a proof of our innate foreknowledge of events that we managed to be in each other's neighbourhood just when united action was needed. Besides, there's no combustible material in these parts. That's waiting for the week after next, when the Agpur frontier business comes up for settlement, and I have to be back in the Adamkot direction. Come and see me, Hal, if it's only for a talk and a smoke. Upon my word, I am des-s-s-perately lonely! Bring a tail as long as MacTavish's if you like, and we'll indoctrinate them with the science of fox-hunting. Your old Hubshee would be something of a Jorrocks figure if we stuck him into a hunt uniform, I'll be bound,—Yours,

ROBERT.

"P.S.—Admire my self-restraint in keeping back so far the all-important information that mine will of course be a Bobbery pack."

Neither his friend's pathetic loneliness, nor the inducements he so lavishly offered, would have tempted Gerrard to leave the capital had it not been that he had ascertained from the Nawab that the jaghir which he had granted to Rukn-ud-din as the Rani's representative lay in the direction in which Charteris was now to be found. James Antony had replied with considerable asperity to the letter giving news of her whereabouts, as was only natural, since his agents had for a month been searching for her vainly in the neighbourhood of Benares. He sent the document which had been prepared for her signature, and directed Gerrard to use all possible means to obtain a personal interview, in which he was to assure her that no further steps would be taken to secure the payment of her jointure until she disbanded her troops and withdrew into British territory, where a suitable residence would be provided for her. This, as the natives would have phrased it, was an order, and Gerrard prepared to carry it out immediately, though without much hope of success. The Nawab acquiesced reluctantly in his leaving the city for a week, but was consoled by the prospect of his finding a noticeable improvement in the army on his return, and he calculated that by travelling chiefly at night he could do the journey comfortably, and secure a day or more with Charteris.

The Rani's reception of Mr Antony's messenger was much what he had expected. She had taken up her abode in a half-ruined fort, which had been repaired sufficiently for the purposes of defence, and was garrisoned by a second company of Rajputs, and Gerrard was refused admission at the closed gates. His urgent messages brought the old scribe down to parley with him, but the reproaches he addressed to the Rani for neglecting the monitions of her husband's chosen councillor were met by counter-upbraidings on the score of his neglect of the Rani's own expressed wish to be left unmolested. She would not receive him, she would not disband her troops nor retire into British territory, and least of all would she sign the document which was to obtain from Sher Singh the payment of her jointure in return for her promise to leave to him any savings of which she might die possessed. In these circumstances, all that Gerrard could do was to leave the paper for her consideration, with the most persuasive letter that he and Munshi Somwar Mal could frame in collaboration, and announce that he hoped to find her Highness in a better mind when he returned in three or four days' time.

If his reception here was disappointing, there was nothing lacking in the warmth of Charteris's welcome when he landed at his camp from the undignified conveyance of a charpoy supported on mashaks[1]—a small fleet of these vessels being in readiness to carry him and his train across the river. The puppies were duly exhibited after supper, and Gerrard made his choice, and then, though it was still early, for the crossing had to be made by daylight, Charteris dismissed him to sleep off his fatigues, promising that he should be called well in the middle of the night.

"To-morrow is a blank day as far as the administration of justice is concerned," he said. "I have threatened all my petitioners with atrocious pains and penalties if they so much as show their noses in camp, and you and I will go for a picnic. I know a bank where the wild thyme don't grow, but where one of my reformed robbers has a garden and a spring of sweet water, and will make us welcome to enjoy kaf[2] for a while."

Gerrard had his doubts as to the feasibility of this programme when he was dressing the next morning by the light of a candle-end stuck into the neck of a bottle. A whisper outside the tent reached his ears.

"Brother, is the Sahib awake?"

"Which Sahib, O foolish one?"

"Our Sahib, the red Sahib, the mad Sahib."

"Aye, he is awake, but he rides forth before dawn."

"Bad for Bob!" thought Gerrard, as a rustle denoted the withdrawal of the questioner, but he had not the heart to tell his friend of his fears when they met for choti haziri, and he saw his high spirits.

"We'll take the dogs with us a little way—do the beggars no end of good—and send 'em back to camp before the sun's up," said Charteris, as they mounted. "'Give the hounds a trot out by way of exercise'—eh?"

"Well, I hope it won't end in 'Dinner lost! 'ounds lost! self lost—all lost together!' What d'ye think of calling the hunt, old boy?"

"The Cut-'em-downs, if you're going to ride over my hounds," said Charteris, as a heedless puppy blundered in front of Gerrard's horse. "And call you Crasher."

"All right, Brusher!" laughed Gerrard, as they rode out into the cool darkness, an anxious dog-boy having extricated his charge. But before they reached the outskirts of the camp, the way was barred by a row of silent natives, some of them holding out papers, others extending empty hands.

"What's this?" demanded Charteris ferociously.

"Dohai, sahib, dohai[3]!" was the general cry.

"Well, I'll do you justice to-morrow, as I told you. Didn't I forbid you to come to me to-day?"

"Alas, sahib, a day is but as a moment to the great, but to the poor it is even as eternity," said an old man, who seemed to be regarded as spokesman.

"It would be a different tale if I wanted you to do anything for me in a hurry," growled Charteris. "What do you say, Hal?"