Part 32

George, seated three places lower down on the opposite side of the table, looked up anxiously and, meeting his wife's eyes, signalled a denial. "Yes, I'm sure it was you, George. Anyhow, it's a very good story. It was about a Lancashire coal-heaver--or was it a cotton-spinner? What do they do in Lancashire? I never can remember. But I know they make a frightful lot of money, and are horribly extravagant." She considered a moment. "Yes--it is extravagant, not mean. I get so confused. And one day when he was dying----"

Some one laughed, and Mrs. Brabazone glanced up perplexedly. "My dear, that isn't the point--at least, I don't think so. George, do tell it. It's such a good story."

The Judge, usually the soul of courtesy, turned a deaf ear and fixed his attention with an expression of almost passionate interest on Colonel Armstrong, who was seated on Mrs. Boucicault's left. The Colonel was discussing the prospects of the rains, his manner beautifully Anglo-Saxon in its optimistic serenity.

"I'm sure we can congratulate ourselves that the worst is over," he said. "As long as the banks at Bjura hold there is nothing to fear, and Rutherford promised to let us know the moment there was any danger--on account of the bridge, of course. Poor Matherson was rather rattled about the bridge. It's his first single-handed job, and a swollen river like that is a severe test. However, he's kept quiet, so we can presume that it's holding out."

Mrs. Boucicault smiled. She smiled very often--always when a reply was expected of her. It covered over her silence. It was a curious smile. It came suddenly and faded slowly, leaving behind it a kind of grimace. Her eyes, abnormally large and intensely blue, were fixed blankly on the length of the table. Its display of silver, the many flowers, the subdued lights, the noiseless servants whose dark hands reached out spectrally from the shadows, seemed to absorb her. Certainly it was a feast unequalled in the annals of Gaya's sociabilities. Some of the guests were even vaguely oppressed by it. A pace was being set which none of them could hope to keep up.

Dr. Martin, seated a few places lower down on his hostess's right, scarcely turned his eyes from her face. She seemed to fascinate him. His neighbour--the wife of a newly arrived Captain--decided that he was a very stupid little man. He rarely spoke, and seemed to have no appetite. Her inherited antipathy for civilians increased to dislike, and she pitied herself intensely. In despite, she amused herself with Captain Compton, who was her _vis-a-vis_, dilating rather maliciously on the glories of Simla, from whence she hailed.

The conversation never flagged. Its feverish persistency covered the splash of the rain outside the open windows and the sound of smothered, angry whisperings somewhere behind the curtained doorways. Mrs. Compton, who was an old hand at Indian life, sensed "nerves" in that perpetual chatter, in that resolute determination to shut out alike thought and silence. The last weeks had been almost unbearable. She herself had never experienced anything to equal the incessant downpour. But it was more than the climate. There was unrest in the air. From her husband she had heard mutterings to the effect that Armstrong, good soldier though he was, did not know how to tackle the ugly temper of his men--that a demand had been sent to headquarters for a battalion of white troops. Then other things had gone wrong--Rasaldu, Sigrid, Barclay--it was one long sequence of trouble.

And now tonight, Mrs. Boucicault sat at the head of the table with her staring, unseeing eyes and grey, powdered face, looking like a smiling death's-head.

Mary Compton thought of the man who lay paralysed and silent behind the walls, and wondered if beneath their gaiety the others thought of him and of the unknown hand which had struck him down. Things happened in India. They came out of the darkness like lightning--struck, and vanished. It was no wonder people had nerves. They were in the minority--in reality quite powerless. It was just bluff--splendid bluff.

Mrs. Compton bit her lip. She had nearly screamed. In the midst of her unpleasant reflections, the voices in the corridor had risen to an angry clamour. Suddenly the curtains were pushed violently aside. The butler entered backwards, expostulating, gesticulating, followed overwhelmingly by Mrs. Smithers. Her entry, her rain-soaked clothes and dishevelled grey hair might have been comic--might have caused amused surprise--discomfort; but there was something else about her--a resolution, a reality of tense anxiety which, reflected on the faces of those who saw her first, brought the rest to an instantaneous silence.

She looked round the table, and, seeing Mrs. Compton, who had half risen, burst into breathless speech.

"It's Sigrid--she's gone--she's been gone since this morning--I've waited--I couldn't bear it any longer. She'll die. It's her heart. And that man--that scoundrel--his real wife's down there now--crying her eyes out. It made me sick. I had to come. Mrs. Compton, you cared for her--you'll help me. Don't you know anything--don't you know where she's gone?"

The broken, incoherent flow came to a more resolute end. The servants made a movement as though to approach her, but Mrs. Boucicault waved them back. She had become suddenly alert and watchful, as though for something which she had long foreseen.

Mrs. Compton looked helplessly round the table.

"Does any one know--I haven't seen Mrs. Barclay for days----"

"You can call her Miss Fersen," Mrs. Smithers broke in doggedly.

"Well, you know who I mean. Perhaps she's taken shelter----"

"It was raining when she started out. That was this morning early--after that woman came----"

"What woman----?"

"Mrs. Barclay--a nigger, like him."

Mrs. Smithers was uncompromising--violent. She did not care that she interrupted, that forty of Gaya's most important inhabitants stared at her with varying feelings of consternation and annoyance. She was frightened. Her fear had tightened its hold with every hour of futile waiting, till what self-consciousness she had was stifled out of her. Her fear was everything. These people were nothing. Her disparagement of them expressed itself in every line of her grim, ashen features.

"You mean"--Colonel Armstrong leant back judicially in his chair, fingering the stem of his wine-glass "you mean actually that Mrs.--your mistress discovered this morning--that--that, in fact, her marriage had been illegal----?"

"That's it. She wasn't _his_ wife--never had been, thank God."

"Isn't it conceivable--I don't want to frighten you--that in her despair she may have done something rash?"

Mrs. Smithers jerked her head with a movement of utter contempt.

"You men seem to think we're always in despair if we lose one of you precious creatures--most times it's t'other way round. She was glad. It's the first time I've seen her happy for months and months. He's done away with her--and you sit there like a herd of stuck pigs----"

"Really, my good woman----"

"I'm not your good woman. A lot you care. She's one of your blood--worth the whole crowd of you--and you treated her like dirt just because she got into the clutches of one of your--your--wickednesses----"

"Smithy!" Mrs. Compton implored.

"I don't care--it's true."

Armstrong looked helplessly at Mrs. Boucicault; but Mrs. Boucicault was staring in front of her with that same look of tense expectancy. The new arrival from Simla shivered. She did not understand the scene, but she thought it vulgar and horrid. These out-of-the-way stations were very uncivilized. It was amazing how quickly the smartest people lost their polish.

Captain Compton came suddenly to the rescue.

"It's a queer thing," he said, in his deliberate way. "Meredith and Rasaldu and now Miss Fersen----"

"Rubbish!" Armstrong knitted his brows at his junior. "Meredith has probably taken the Rajah with him on his rounds. It's happened before. As to Mrs.--Miss Fersen, there are any amount of possible explanations. Her horse may have fallen lame. I've always set my face against this silly craze for riding alone, and now----"

He stopped. The stem of his wine-glass snapped under the sudden pressure of his fingers. The Simla woman gave a little scream and rose to her feet. He frowned at her. The men exchanged glances. The women were curiously still--looking towards the window. Armstrong laughed, mopping up his wine with his napkin. "'Pon my word, we're all suffering from nerves. Absurd. Some sentry----"

But no one listened to him. Compton got up and ran out of the window--down into the garden. They heard scuffling--a muttered exclamation--the sound of something soft and heavy being dragged up the steps. They sat still--waiting. They saw Compton hesitating on the threshold of the light. He was bending down----

"Give me a hand some one, for God's sake!"

George Brabazone pushed back his chair and turned to his assistance. Between them the huddled, shapeless something was pulled into the room. It lay inert. The shadow covered it. One of the men snatched up a light, holding it above his head.

"What is it----?"

"Tristram----"

"What--not----?"

"I don't know--tumbled off his horse. Pull the curtains--get the servants out of the room." Armstrong took over Compton's command. The natives fled noiselessly before his imperative gestures. The curtains were dragged across, shutting out the black, menacing gulf. They were all on their feet now--two brilliant lines of colour--with that blot lying in a pool of mud and rain----

"Give me wine--anything."

Tristram stirred. With Compton and Brabazone on either side of him, he dragged himself to his knees. The water dripped from his face--from his clothes. He was almost unrecognizable.

"It's nothing--they--missed me. Only winded----" He pushed the proffered glass aside. "Rasaldu--Meredith--both murdered yesterday--regiment mutinies--organized for tonight--not a soul to escape--any minute now. That was the first shot----"

"Where have you come from?"

"Heerut. Bridge gone. Had to swim for it----"

"Matherson----?"

"Gone--I don't know. Don't talk----"

"Of course not--we must act. Who's on duty to-night?"

"Farquhar--Haverton----"

"They must be warned."

"It's too late. It'd show them we were prepared. Our only chance is to take them by surprise-- What's that----?"

"Firing. Poor devils! We shall be the next. Who's at the bottom of this, Tristram?"

"Ayeshi--Barclay--what's it matter? Do something!"

They looked at each other. Something like a smile passed over their faces. They were very calm--very quiet. The men and women were equally aware that there was not much they could do. They were cut off by hundreds of miles from any real assistance. It would have taken an hour at least to have gathered the rest of Gaya together and prepared a defence that might suggest even a fighting chance. As it was, they had perhaps a few minutes--if one or two of them had a weapon in his possession it would be a great piece of luck. The thought of a five-chambered revolver--three chambers empty--which he happened to have slipped into the pocket of his military overcoat some days back--gave Compton such an absurd thrill of satisfaction that he laughed.

"We shall have to shy the spoons at 'em!" he said.

Mrs. Boucicault brushed the fluffy grey hair from her forehead.

"My husband has a few guns in his rack," she said quietly. "He used them for hunting, but they might do. I think there are some cartridges, too--I don't know--we might look."

"Better than nothing." Armstrong began to direct, heavily but systematically. "Compton, get the servants together. Shut them up and see that they don't get a chance to communicate with any one outside. Five of you had better keep a lookout. The rest stay here. It would be better to go on as though nothing had happened. We shall defend this side of the house--this room, in fact. We're too few for anything more. Mrs. Boucicault, please lead the way----"

He was obeyed. The women reseated themselves. Mary Compton began to talk. Mrs. Brabazone took up the tangled thread of her story and unravelled it laboriously. The dead white tablecloth and the brilliant colours of the flowers made their faces look vivid.

"It's like old times," Mrs. Compton declared. "I expect it's really a blessing in disguise. If we didn't have these periodical shake-ups our livers would never work at all. We do eat such dreadfully unhealthy things. Somebody pass me the almonds. Let's have our desserts now as well as in the hereafter!"

It was an old and rather feeble jest, but it served its purpose. The Simla woman laughed heartily. Mrs. Brabazone grumbled.

"People always seem to find something in Mary's remarks. It's base favouritism. I'm every bit as funny----"

"A lot more, my dear." Mrs. Compton's manner was that of a rather over-excited school-girl. She ate salted almonds vivaciously and threw one at Tristram, who had stumbled to a chair and sat there with his face between his hands. "You look like a drowned rat, Hermit--not a bit lovable. Where's Anne?"

He glanced up with bloodshot eyes.

"I--think she's dead," he said, hoarsely. "She died alone in Heerut. Sigrid has gone with Barclay. It was his offer--you understand? I shouldn't be here now if it wasn't for her. She and Anne--they thought of you--they neither of them funked."

They were silent for a moment. A spasm passed over Mary Compton's face. She reached desperately for the sweetmeats.

"Mrs. Brabazone--for mercy's sake, tell that Lancashire story of yours----"

"It's about a miner," Mrs. Brabazone began jerkily. "You know how horribly dirty they are. And one day he came home--he was very ill, you know, and his wife said----"

She laboured on with quivering lips. They listened attentively. A sound of shouting came from the barracks not a quarter of a mile distant. Tristram and Mrs. Compton exchanged glances.

"They're working up to concert-pitch----"

* * * * *

In the quiet, whitewashed soldier's room, Armstrong and Brabazone were collecting what weapons they could find. Mrs. Boucicault had underestimated, but even so there was not much hope to be found in the six double-barrelled guns and the few cases of ammunition.

Mrs. Boucicault stood at the foot of her husband's bed looking at him. They were both so still--the grey-haired, painted woman and the big man lying stretched out beneath the thin sheet--that Armstrong almost forgot them. But at the door he remembered and looked back.

"You'd better explain to your husband--I'll send some one to carry him--he must be where we are----" He hesitated, and then added gruffly: "You don't need to worry, Boucicault. You shan't fall into their hands, I give you my word of honour."

They went out. Still Eleanor Boucicault remained at her place at the foot of the bed. The man's eyes were fixed on her. They were distended. The dim light could not reveal their expression, yet all the life which had made its last stand in their depths seemed to gather together--with a supreme effort--to spread over his face--to swell the withered muscles.

The distant shouting reached them. The sound released her from her still absorption. She threw herself down on her knees beside him.

"They're going to kill us, Richard--they're going to kill us. It's the regiment--your regiment.--Colonel Armstrong says we can't do much. They'll just--just do what they like! Do you hear that shouting? That means they're coming. They know we're here--they know you're here. You made them hate us--just as you made me hate you." She gripped him by the shoulders, her words rushing down on him in a fevered, awful torrent. "It doesn't matter to me--I'm dying, anyhow. You've killed me. That's what I want to tell you. I didn't tell you before, because I thought you'd be glad. But now we're going to die together I want you to understand. Look at this----" She tore open the bosom of her dress.

"You did that--that time you struck me. It never healed--it never will. It's cancer. Oh, but I've had a good time all the same. I've spent your money, Richard. I've made you suffer. I've had you to hurt when I couldn't bear the pain any longer. And now--now you're just going to die like a rabbit in a trap." She burst out laughing. There was a long flat chest against the wall, and she went to it with quick, tottering steps and opened it. The neatly folded uniforms, the sword in its leather case--she flung the whole contents down before him with a shrill cry of bitter triumph. "You'll never wear them again, Richard. You won't go down fighting--_I_ shall, but not you--you'll just lie there and trust to us to have mercy on you. You're just a wreck--a crumbling, hideous ruin. That's why I hate you--why they hate you--those men who are coming to kill us. We loved you so. You were our god--our Bagh Sahib--and then you became--a devil."

She knelt down by the heap of red and gold splendour. She was crying, and the tears carved deep channels through the paint and powder.

"Bagh Sahib!"

She put her hand over her mouth. It was as though she had tried to smother a scream, but no sound had come from her lips. She shrank back from him, farther and farther back till she cowered on the floor, watching him.

Slowly--so slowly yet steadily that the movement seemed supernatural--he was lifting himself up. He did not look at her. His gaunt face was tense and absorbed as though the whole being of the man were turned inwards on the contemplation of a miracle. His arms hung straight at his sides. He lifted them--holding them out before him.

"Bagh Sahib!"

He pushed the sheet back and slipped his legs over the edge of the bed. They were mere sticks--fleshless, piteous--yet he stood up swaying like a tall reed in the wind. The woman, huddled on the floor, dragged herself to her feet and stumbled towards him. He put his arm round her shoulders, leaning on her.

"Nelly--poor Nelly--something in my head--it's better--help me----"

It was a child talking--a mumbling, broken appeal. Yet there was a purpose in him stronger than his weakness. He lurched across the room. "Nell--sweetheart--my uniform--my parade--things--my sword----"

"They're here--dear--you can't----"

A shot was fired--this time close at hand. He made an odd little sound like a laugh.

"They've not done with me yet--by the Lord--they shall meet Bagh Sahib again--we'll see who's strongest--even now----" He held out his palsied hands; he was gasping, but it was in the flood-tide of returning life. His eyes shone like a young man's. "Nell--you used to know the way--there wasn't a buckle you couldn't manage--quicker to spot things than a sergeant on parade. No mistakes now--Bagh Sahib never made mistakes--the smartest man in the Indian Army. By Gad--there's the sword--not rusty? No--that's like you--so--now--kiss me----"

Between each sentence there had been a gap of time. She had obeyed him like a woman possessed. Now he stood before her--a ghostly figure in the loose-fitting uniform--the shadow of the man whom she had once loved--but at least the shadow.

She clung to him--half supporting him, herself shaking from head to foot.

"My Richard----"

"Nell--sweetheart--help me--to go to them--just to the door--and then alone----?"

"Yes--yes----"

"Kiss me!"

Her poor, wizened little face glowed like a girl's as she lifted it to his. The years, with their bitterness, dropped from her memory. She did not need to understand more than one thing, that he had been given back to her as he had once been. Nothing mattered now--not even death itself.

"Lean on me, Richard--I am quite strong----"

They went together down the gloomy passage, his arm still about her shoulders. She had need of her boasted strength. At first his weight almost bore her to the ground. But with every step he held himself straighter, freeing himself from her support. At the door of the dining-room he stood upright, only his hands touching her.

He kissed her. Then he went in alone.

A handful of women still sat at the table and talked loudly and incessantly. The rest were helping the men barricade the verandah window. Mrs. Smithers worked with the grim energy of despair, keeping to Tristram's side as though his nearness brought her some comfort. It was she who saw Boucicault first, and in her consternation clutched at her companion's arm.

"Lawks a-mercy!" she whispered. "Look----!"

Tristram turned. It seemed to him that he had known even before she had touched him. Incredible though this thing was, it was also inevitable. The gaze of the two men crossed. Tristram waited for the hating, satiric smile, bracing himself to meet its triumph. But there was no change in Boucicault's face--scarcely recognition.

A bugle-call rang above the approaching storm.

Boucicault came forward.

"Gentlemen--gentlemen--this is child's-play! Do you suppose my fire-eaters care for a few arm-chairs and a crazy gun? Why, we've swallowed whole fortresses armed with cannon in my time. Who's in command here?"

He frowned round on them. Not even Armstrong himself moved. This man had risen from the dead. If their own nearness to death blurred the miracle of it, they were no less under the ban of a miraculous authority. Boucicault shrugged his shoulders. He crossed over to the window and pulled the curtains aside. To the right, towards the barracks, torchlights ran backwards and forwards like distracted fireflies, gradually converging together in a solid block of flame. A black rage settled on the old man's sunken features.

"Who the devil has been meddling with my men?" he cursed. "The 65th never revolted in its history. Whose fault is this? Can't somebody speak?" But they could only look at each other in pitying helplessness. He had forgotten. He was back in the old days when he had led his men triumphantly into a fire under which every other regiment had withered. He was Bagh Sahib, the hero, the demi-god. He had forgotten--and even if they could, they would not have penetrated that merciful oblivion.

He settled his helmet. His thin hand rested tremblingly on the hilt of his sword.

"The civilians stay here with the women," he said. "The rest follow me."

He went waveringly down the steps. And then only they recovered their power of action. Tristram was at his side as he reached the garden.

"Colonel Boucicault--you're not in a fit state----"

The light from behind him flashed into the cold eyes.

"Not fit? I'm more fit than those arm-chair soldiers." A wintry smile quivered under the grey moustache. "You were always confoundedly interfering, Major Tristram."

"What do you mean to do?"

"Take command of my regiment." He turned his back on them. Arabella, still panting and covered from head to foot in mud, had drawn his attention. "Your horse, Major, I am sure? Your mounts were always a disgrace to your service. Saddleless, too? However--better than nothing. Help me up----"

He was obeyed. They might have thrown themselves on him--held him back by sheer force, but they could not. He had taken command. Dr. Martin wrung his hands as though his own death were not howling at him within a couple of hundred yards.

"It's impossible--the man was paralysed half an hour ago--he ought not to be able to stand. If you allow him to go, I won't take the responsibility----"

Mrs. Compton shook him by the arm. Her eyes were shining like two points of fire.

"Shut up--don't you see--he's the Bagh Sahib--he can do things we can't--it's our only chance."