The Sirdar's Oath Part 13

The latter, not liking the look of things, slackened their speed and came to a halt, spitting curses.

"Why do they keep savage animals to rush out at people?" Raynier asked, for, though he could talk Pushtu fairly well, he chose to put it through Mehrab Khan. "Dogs of that kind are more dangerous than a pack of wolves."

The men answered scowlingly that they were kept to protect the flocks, and that dogs were of no use at all for such a purpose unless they were fierce. Besides, they were not accustomed to strangers in a strange dress.

"There's something in that," said Raynier.

"Would not the Huzoor pay for the property he had destroyed?" the spokesman asked. "Such a dog as that was valuable."

Raynier replied that he would, but they must send or come to the camp to receive it, as he did not carry money about with him. Then a bargain was struck, allowing a trifle over for their trouble in travelling that distance, and with a surly salaam, the herdsmen withdrew.

"Of course I might have refused to pay a single pice," Raynier said, as he explained to the girl what had transpired. "But it is not sound policy invariably to stand stiffly on one's rights, and it's better to pay a few rupees than make enemies of these people. Besides, poor devils, it is a loss to them."

Hilda agreed, only insisting that, as the liability was incurred in her defence, she ought to be allowed to discharge it--a proposal which was laughed to scorn.

"You see, now, what might have happened during that little moonlight stroll of yours," Raynier went on. "And I don't think you'd find these brutes so ready to turn tail as that panther was. By the way, I daresay you'd rather turn back now?"

"Of course not. Why?"

"Only that you must have seen enough of the interesting Gularzai at close quarters for one day."

"Then I haven't," she answered gaily. "I wouldn't give up this visit to a real native magnate for the world."

"It was well done, Mehrab Khan," said Raynier, in Pushtu. "Thy stroke was a worthy one, strong and swift."

And the Baluchi, proud and pleased, murmured his thanks.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A VISIT--AND ITS SEQUEL.

Sarbaland Khan's village was similar in every particular to that of the greater potentate which we have already seen. Many eyes were watching the approach of the party of four from the loop-holed mud walls, and the glances directed at them as they entered the central courtyard, if not uniformly expressive of good will, were visibly so of curiosity. For these wild beings, to whom raids and forays and blood feuds were as the very salt of existence, now beheld a strange sight--that of a man and a woman--Feringhi infidels--with no other protection than a couple of Levy Sowars, entering their village, quietly, fearlessly, unconcernedly, as though in their own town at Mazaran, and the man was of importance, for he represented the _Sirkar_ at Mazaran; yet here he walked alone into their midst, and to all appearances unarmed. Ya, Allah! but these Feringhi were a mad race--mad and incomprehensible. So pondered these wild mountaineers, salaaming gravely, as they peered at the strangers from beneath their s.h.a.ggy brows.

The chief received them courteously, inviting them at once into his house. Sarbaland Khan was a tall man with a fine presence and dignified manner, and was clad in snowy white from head to foot. But the appointments of his dwelling were plain in the extreme--the only ornaments being a curious lamp or two, and a beautifully decorated sword, which last, together with a couple of good magazine rifles, hung on the wall. Three or four of his relatives helped to entertain them, and Hilda Clive was vastly impressed with their natural dignity--indeed, she could hardly believe they were of the same race as the s.h.a.ggy, scowling savages who had so lately threatened them. Tea was brought in, served after the Russian method, and preserved fruits, and then she asked if she could visit the chief's wives.

"I can do more than even you can, you see, Mr Raynier," she said gaily, as permission having been given, she rose to follow the veiled figure who was summoned to guide her. "So now for the mysteries of the harem."

Raynier's talk with the chief was purely non-official, this being a merely friendly visit. He was asked about his predecessor, whom these people seemed to have held in some estimation--and then they talked about _s.h.i.+kar_. There were plenty of markhor in the mountains around his village, declared Sarbaland Khan, and if Raynier Sahib would like to come and stalk some, he would certainly find some sport. Then he sent for some fine heads that had been recently shot to show his guest, and presently these two, the up-to-date Englishman and the mountain chieftain, having got upon this one grand topic in common, set to discussing this branch of sport as animatedly as though fellow-members of an English house party. In the midst of which discussion Hilda Clive returned.

So strange are the writings in the book of Fate. At that very moment a horseman was spurring--his objective the village of Sarbaland Khan. No great time would it take him to reach it either, and did he do so with the message he bore while this friendly conversation was in progress, why, then, Herbert Raynier would never leave Sarbaland Khan's village alive.

Yet now they took leave of each other with great cordiality--Raynier expressing the hope of welcoming the Sirdar at the _jirga_, or a.s.sembly of all the chief's and maliks, to be held shortly at Mazaran; and so they fared forth.

"You have given me a most delightfully interesting experience, Mr Raynier," said Hilda Clive, as they rode campward. "And I admire the chief's taste. Two of his wives were very pretty, indeed, one quite beautiful."

"How many has he got?"

"Only three. I expected he would have had about thirty."

Raynier laughed.

"They're only allowed four apiece by the Koran," he said. "But I believe they find ways of driving a coach-and-six through that enactment. Fine fellow Sarbaland Khan, isn't he?"

"Very. Why, he's a perfect gentleman. Really he's quite a splendid-looking man."

"Many of these people answer to that description, that's why they are so interesting. Tarleton describes them as 'n.i.g.g.e.rs.' But then the British are first-rate at misnomers."

"I should think so. But how well you talk to them, Mr Raynier. Is it a difficult language to learn. Anything like Hindustani, for instance?"

"No. There's a lot of Persian in it. I went in for learning Pushtu some years ago, thinking it might come in useful--and it has. By the way, a strange thing happened in London not long before I came back. I can't help thinking that the man belonged to one of these tribes--but I never saw him again, nor yet the stick I armed him with."

Then he proceeded to tell her about the incident of the Oriental in the crowd on Mafeking night, and the part he and others had borne in his rescue. Hilda listened, keenly interested.

"And you never got back the stick?" she said.

"No, never. I was going to say--worse luck--but it wasn't. On the contrary, it was the only 'lucky' part of the whole business."

The dry, satirical tone did not escape his listener's abnormally acute perceptions. But the recollection seemed to revive the abstraction of thought which had characterised him when they had first set out, and which the incidents of their expedition had gone far to dispel. Now it all seemed to return. This, too, did not escape her, and she was striving to piece the two circ.u.mstances together. But as yet all connectedness failed.

They were returning by a somewhat different route, and were already about half-way to the camp. The sun was sinking, and the barren and rugged surface of rock and stunted vegetation was taking on a softer tinge as the westering glow toned down its asperities. But there was a feel in the air as of impending change, and the wind, which had died down altogether, now began to rise in fitful puffs, raising thin spiral columns like dust waterspouts, which whirled along at intervals on the plain around.

"Is there going to be a storm?" said Hilda.

"Yes. But not before we are in camp again."

He subsided into silence. It was possible that the strange oppressiveness in the atmosphere affected him, to the exaggeration of that which was on his mind, to wit the very disagreeable burden of the news he had just received. Or it may have been that the certainty was brought home to him that a month ago it would not have affected him to any appreciable extent. The unpleasantness, the scandal, would have been just the same, but, somehow, it would have mattered little then.

Now it did. But why?

What was to be done? was his ever-present thought. It was simply abominable that he should be pursued in this way. Had the woman no sense of shame? Evidently not. He had heard of s.h.i.+ps going down at sea with all on board; was he tempted to feel that this was clearly too good a piece of luck--seen from his point of view--to happen to the one which comprised among its pa.s.sengers Cynthia Daintree?

What was to be done? He looked at his companion. Should he frankly put the case to her? She was like no other woman he had ever known for clear insight into and ready grasp of the main facts or probabilities of any given question--at least, so he had found reason to decide during their somewhat short acquaintance--which, somehow or other, did not seem short. She could not be more than five or six and twenty at the outside, and yet the knowledge of human nature and capacity for the a.n.a.lysis of human motives she displayed was simply wonderful. He could put it to her as the case of a third party, or simply a case in the abstract, such as they had often debated and threshed out together, and then he laughed at himself in bitter contempt. Where were the qualities with which he had just been endowing her, that she could fail for one single instant to see through so miserable a device? He must put it to her frankly or not at all; and somehow Hilda Clive was the last person in the world to whom he desired to put it at all.

She, for her part, riding beside him, perforce in silence, was thinking of him and his unwonted taciturnity. Some trouble had come upon him-- that was certain, and she connected it with the arrival of the mail.

Could she but induce him to confide in her? Yet, why should he? She did not know. Still, she wanted him to; for a strange indefinable instinct moved her to the conviction that she could help him. During their acquaintance she had learnt to hold him in high esteem. She admired him, too, for his una.s.suming nature, the more so that she was able to gauge the real depth of quiet power that lay beneath it. She had noted the ease of his intercourse with these wild and turbulent, but interesting people--for this visit to Sarbaland Khan's village was not the first time she had been among them in Raynier's company--and noting it, knew that it bore testimony to the estimation in which he was held by them; for these sons of the desert and mountain, in common with all barbarians, are quick readers of character, and have no respect for that which is weak. And yet, could she have divined what was troubling him then it would have a.s.sumed such trivial proportions to her mind, so simple a solution, as to make her laugh outright. And she knew a great deal more about him than he did about her; indeed, the news she had received that morning, and which had somewhat elated her, mainly concerned him.

"What abstruse problem is weighing on your mind, Mr Raynier? Do you know that since we left the chief's village you have hardly spoken a word. And we are almost home again."

He started.

"I beg your pardon. How very remiss of me. Well, I was thinking of something. As a matter of fact, it's something that's worrying me more than a little."

"You had bad news?"

"Yes. And yet hardly in the sense of what people understand by bad news. But it was something of an extremely vexatious and worrying nature, and likely to cause me no end of unpleasantness."

"I'm so sorry," she said, in a tone which invited further confidence.

It decided him. He would tell her.