“But how ungrateful!” cried Lady Haigh. “I thought he professed to be so friendly to Major Keeling?”
“While he was under his protection, perhaps—not when he can treat with him as an independent power. And, after all, it has been clear all along that he was an old fox—what with his vows and dispensations, and his steady pursuit of a policy of his own when he persisted he had nothing of the kind in view. He was not exactly our willing guest from the first, you see, only driven to take refuge with us as the result of what he considers our treachery. He can’t forget that old grudge, and really one doesn’t wonder. It gives him a dreadful pull over us that he can always say he has seen the consequences of admitting a British force within his borders in time of peace, and doesn’t wish to see them again.”
“Then the Nalapuris will be as troublesome as ever?”
“Pretty nearly, I’m afraid; but as the Chief says, all he can do is to go on his own way, combining fairness with perfect good faith, and trust that Ashraf Ali may be induced to enter into a treaty when he is freed from his uncle’s influence. The worst part of the business at the present moment is that Gobind Chand has managed to escape into the mountains between Nalapur and Ethiopia, and has been joined by all who had reason to think their lives might not last long under the new state of affairs; and of course any discontented Sardar or rebellious Mullah will know where to find friends whenever he wants them. Keeling tried hard to induce the Sheikh to let a force from our side of the frontier co-operate with him in hunting the fellows down, so as to stamp out the rebel colony before it can become the nucleus of mischief; but he utterly refused, and professed to see the thin end of the wedge in the proposal. They’ll never be able to do it by themselves, and it’s bound to give us no end of trouble when we have to take the business in hand at last. But he won’t see reason.”
“Then has Wilayat Ali’s son joined Gobind Chand?” asked Penelope.
“Ah, you are thinking of your young lady friend. No; he was caught in time, and accepted the proposed marriage with resignation. So did the bride—if she didn’t even suggest it herself as a means of strengthening her brother’s position. Hasrat Ali is a Syad through his mother, so it is a very good match, and the Sheikh seems quite satisfied; but I rather think Ashraf Ali has some qualms. At any rate, he is giving her the finest wedding ever seen in Nalapur, and emptying the treasury to buy jewels for her. He has given her the title of Moti-ul-Nissa, and has had inserted in the marriage-contract a proviso that neither Hasrat Ali nor his household are ever to quit the city without his leave. That is to guard against his taking her away into some country place and ill-treating her, of course, so he has really done all he can.”
“Oh, poor girl! poor Wazira Begum!” cried Penelope, with tears in her eyes. “What a prospect—to marry with such a life before her!”
“They’re used to it—these native women,” said Sir Dugald, wishing to be consolatory.
“Does that make it any better? And you—all of you—acquiesce, and make no effort to save her!”
“My dear Miss Ross, what can we do? You know what these fellows are by this time. If one of us so much as mentioned the young lady, it could only be wiped out by his blood or hers, or both.”