“If you mention her name again I will kill you.” Colonel Keeling’s grip was on his throat once more. “She is lying there dead—dead, do you hear? and all the trouble in her life was due to you. Go!” and he released him with a thrust which sent him reeling against one of the pillars of the hall. But the shock seemed to have calmed him.
“Dead—just now? She married you, then? I found all the place deserted—I didn’t know. Sometimes I think my mind is going. If you knew what my life has been in that hell——! Forgive me, Keeling. I am going. Wish me good luck!”
“God help you!” said Colonel Keeling fervently.
CHAPTER XXVII.
AFTER TOIL—TOIL STILL.
Nearly three years after Penelope’s death, Sir Dugald rode into Alibad as a stranger. The long illness which followed on Lady Haigh’s exertions on behalf of her friend so exhausted her strength that she was ordered a voyage to the Cape as the only hope of saving her life, and despite her frantic protests, her husband applied for two years’ leave and took her there, much as an unrelenting warder might convey a reluctant prisoner to his doom. He was rewarded by an opportunity of seeing service in one of the perennial Kaffir Wars of the period as galloper to the general commanding, which served also to mitigate his disappointment at being absent when a little war, outside the borders of Khemistan, gave to Colonel Keeling the local rank of Brigadier-General, and to the Khemistan Horse the chance of distinguishing themselves beyond the bounds of their own district. Mr Crayne had retired, and his successor proved to be that rare being, a civilian who could make himself liked and trusted by his military subordinates—one, moreover, who knew and appreciated the work which had been done on the Khemistan frontier, and was anxious for its continuance. The development of the resources of the country, at which Major Keeling had so long laboured single-handed, was now pressed forward in every possible way; and Sir Dugald, as he rode, noted the handsome bazars which had replaced some, at least, of the old rows of mud huts, and the growth of the cantonments, which testified to an increase in the European population. The trees which he had seen planted were now full grown, the public gardens were worthy of their name, and there was nothing warlike in the aspect of the weather-beaten old fort, which seemed as if the passage of years would reduce it by slow degrees to a heap of mud grown over with bushes.
Fronting the fort, but almost hidden by the trees with which it was surrounded, stood General Keeling’s house, and Sir Dugald rode into the compound, to be saluted with evident pleasure by several of the servants, who came to ask after the Memsahib. As he entered the well-known office, he had a momentary glimpse of a grey-haired man in shirt-sleeves, writing as if for dear life, and then General Keeling jumped up and welcomed him joyfully.
“How are you, Haigh? Delighted to see you, but never thought of expecting you till to-morrow. You haven’t dragged Lady Haigh up-country at this pace, I hope?”
“No, sir; I left her at the river. The fact is, Mr Pater wants me to go on with the steamer.”
“And not come here at all? Why, man, your house is all ready for you.” The bright look of welcome had gone from General Keeling’s face, leaving it painfully old and worn. “But I know what it is. King John”—alluding to the imperious ruler of a neighbouring province—“wants more men.”
“He does, and he asks specially for gunners. It’s by no wish of mine, General; but the Commissioner is anxious to send every man we can spare. The news doesn’t improve.”