“Sure I’ll write and ask him. Will that satisfy you?”
“Will you wait for the answer? Nonsense, Evie! y’are behaving like a bit of a child. Look now what I’ll do for you. I’ll go see the General and tell him all about it. He’ll be at Khanpur—or maybe even on his way back here, and I suppose you will take what he says from his own mouth. If he thinks it safe you will go, and if not, you stay here like a rational being. You can trust him. Is that settled now?”
“I’ll be quite satisfied if I once see the General and settle it with him,” agreed Eveleen—which was not quite the explicit pledge Brian would have exacted had he been giving his full mind to the matter. But Brian was uncomfortably conscious of ulterior motives in his opposition to the plan. He was arguing quite as much for his own benefit as Richard’s. The General would give him leave to escort his sister and the invalid to Bab-us-Sahel, he was sure—only too readily, indeed, for he did not want to go. He wanted to be back at his proper work—not leaving Stewart and Frederick Lennox to win all sorts of laurels without him. Khanpur had fallen without a blow—Khemistan is full of Khanpurs, but this was Kamal-ud-din’s pleasure-capital on the edge of the desert, quite distinct from his grim fortress of Umarganj in its deepest depths. The inhabitants met the Bahadar Jang with acclamations, and testified the utmost gratitude to him for delivering them from the Arabit tyranny, but they could only hand over the shell without the kernel. Kamal-ud-din, with his baggage and the remains of his army, had escaped into the desert, presumably to Umarganj, and Sir Harry settled down, with what patience he could command—which was very little—to wait at Khanpur while his subordinates continued the pursuit. It was not etiquette for him to move against Umarganj in person, lest so great a potentate should incur the disgrace of a check before a small desert fort, and he was beginning to pay some attention to Indian opinion, which he had despised so heartily when he landed. But he learned to wish that he had disregarded it on this occasion, for Kamal-ud-din contrived marvellously to baffle his pursuers. He was heard of in many places—now far ahead of his enemies, then at the spot they had just left, and at this time there was a rumour that he had managed to elude the troops altogether, and break back towards the river. With the hot weather and the inundations close at hand, this was a serious matter, and Brian anticipated a regular drive—a combined effort to put an end once and for all to the young Khan’s power for mischief. Little wonder, then, that Eveleen’s insistence on the trip to Bab-us-Sahel failed to meet with sympathy.
Being anxious to get back to active service at the earliest possible moment, Brian had obeyed orders so virtuously with regard to his wound, that the surgeons were quite glad to have an opportunity for rewarding him. His request was so modest—merely to ride out to Khanpur with a supply convoy, which must necessarily travel slowly and by night, pay his respects there to the General, and return, thus at once testing his strength and increasing it, and the doctors sped him joyfully. So did Eveleen. He felt bitterly afterwards that he ought to have extorted a promise from her that she would make no move until his return, but it is probable that at the time she had no thought of anticipating it. According to her wont, she was entirely convinced that things were going to happen as she wished, and referred to Brian’s mission as though the General was merely to be informed politely of the proposed journey instead of being asked to permit it. Brian found this trying, and ventured to point out the misconception, whereupon she faced round upon him with flashing eyes.
“D’ye tell me Sir Harry would have the heart to keep Ambrose here sick when a month or so at Bab-us-Sahel would set him up entirely? It’s yourself is making the difficulty, Brian, and if you say any more I’ll know you don’t want us to go.”
This was precisely the case, but it seemed rather heartless to admit it to an affectionate wife torn with anxiety for her husband, and Brian said no more. His disobliging attitude rankled in Eveleen’s mind for a while after he started, but as so often happens, it was opportunity that provided the impulse to action. She was sitting with Richard as usual, and after a night largely sleepless by reason of the heat, was dozing in her chair—not restfully, but spasmodically. She was too tired even to resent actively the fact that the bearer had seized upon the chance of doing something for his master, and was remaking the bed—if it could be called making when there was so little to make. He was talking, too, and Richard was answering drowsily, or rather acquiescing, at due intervals. It was something about a Parsee trader whose business required his immediate presence at Bombay. He had secured boats and a guard of armed men for the voyage down the river to Bab-us-Sahel, but though he was intensely anxious to get there before the floods began, he was horribly afraid of the wild tribes plundering on the banks, and would give anything for the countenance and protection of European fellow-travellers. By Richard’s murmured assents, the information evidently conveyed nothing to him, but Eveleen was wide awake by this time, and sat up suddenly.
“How did you hear this Firozji would like to take European passengers in his boat, bearer?” she asked—in Persian which was very much of the “station” order, but which long practice enabled Abdul Qaiyam readily to understand. But he did not seem very clear about his answer. The matter had been talked about among the servants. They might have heard of it from Mr Firozji’s servants—he did not know. Eveleen suspected at once that her desire to go down the river had been discussed—as everything was discussed—by the servants, who were always at hand to see and hear, and that one of them knew sufficient of Mr Firozji’s affairs to conceive the idea of bringing the two parties together in return for a tip from the Parsee, and possibly another from herself. But to quarrel with the means by which her wish might be attained would indeed be to look a gift-horse in the mouth, and she questioned the bearer further, finding him better informed than his previous vagueness might have suggested. To secure the escort of Europeans, Mr Firozji would be willing to give up to them his own large and comfortable boat, occupying a smaller one himself, and his servants would undertake catering and cooking, so that only personal attendants need be taken. This clinched the matter. Eveleen bade Abdul Qaiyam summon Mr Firozji to wait upon her as soon as possible, and then turned her attention to the not unimportant detail of getting the doctor’s leave for the move. She met the poor man with shock tactics.
“Such a wonderful chance!” she cried triumphantly when he came in on his evening visit—“splendid, I’d say, only the General hates the word so. You know the way I have been longing and wishing to get Ambrose down the river, but there wouldn’t be any boats going?”
It was the first the surgeon had been told of it officially, but he also had servants, and they also talked. Therefore he was able to answer with truth, “I have heard of it, certainly.”
“Well, and now here’s the very thing—old Firozji in the Bazar going down with more boats than he wants, all in a hurry to avoid the floods, don’t you know. He’ll be glad of European passengers, we’ll be glad to travel with him, so did y’ever hear anything nicer?”