“Surely she must have meant Georgiana or Georgina?” suggested Lady Haigh, delighted to see him interested in the child.
“No, it was a fancy of hers, she told me so once. She wanted to name it after me, but she didn’t wish people to think my name was George.” He spoke with a laugh which was more like a sob.
“I know. She had a dislike to the name.” Lady Haigh knew well why this was. “She would never even call you St George, I noticed.”
He bent over the child to hide the working of his face, and kissed its forehead. “It’s not even like her,” he said, as he gave it back to Lady Haigh.
“No; she was so pleased it was like you. Colonel Keeling, don’t steel your heart against the poor little thing! Think how Penelope loved it. I know she hoped it would comfort you.”
“Nothing can comfort me,” he answered; then added quickly, “Lady Haigh, do me one more kindness. Keep the servants, Tarleton, every one—away from me to-night. They will want to take her away from me in the morning, I know. I must stay beside her to-night.”
The strong man’s humble entreaty touched Lady Haigh inexpressibly. She offered no further remonstrance, but signed to the ayah to depart, and drawing the curtain behind her, left him alone with his dead. She gave the servants their orders, which they obeyed thankfully enough, induced even Dr Tarleton to retire, sorely against his will, to his own quarters, and crept wearily into her palki to go home. She had risen from her sick-bed to return to the house of mourning, drawn thither by a horrified whisper from her own ayah to the effect that “the Karnal Sahib had fallen dead on beholding the body of the Memsahib,” and she knew that she would pay dearly for the imprudence. But unutterable pity for the desolate man and the motherless child quenched all thought of self.
Silence reigned throughout the great house, whence the servants had departed to their quarters. Even the watchman had been forbidden to occupy his accustomed post on the verandah, and in the absence of the regiment and the general disorganisation, no one had thought of posting any sentries about the compound. The sounds in the town died out by degrees, until only the occasional distant howl of a jackal broke the stillness. Colonel Keeling did not hear it, any more than he did a stealthy footfall which crossed the compound. The old khansaman, crouching, contrary to orders, in a corner of the side verandah, heard the step, and covered his head in an agony of terror. Was not the Sahib seeking to recall the Memsahib’s soul to her body? and was it not returning? But Colonel Keeling heard nothing, until the curtain was drawn aside by a hasty hand, and a man stood in the doorway looking at him, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment. For a moment both men gazed at each other, then a change passed over Colonel Keeling’s face which was terrible to see. Deliberately he drew the sheet over his wife’s face, then crossed the room and hurled himself upon the intruder.
“You—you!” he snarled, forcing him back into the hall. “Was there no grave in Gamara deep enough to hide your shame that you must bring it back here?”
The other man struggled in his grasp a moment, then, realising that his adversary was endowed with a mad strength before which his efforts were like those of a child, submitted to be forced down upon the floor. Colonel Keeling stooped over him with murder in his eyes.