“How does he ever expect to impress these people?” said Richard bitterly. “They won’t have an atom of respect for him.”
“Oh, you should hear him on the subject. He thinks we can’t compete with the Indians in matters of show and state, so he won’t try. They will be more impressed by seeing we can do without every single thing they care about, so he says. And I’m bound to say he lives up to his theories. I thought so when I dined with him—privately, I mean; not the burra khana—and found everything camp-fashion. The plates and dishes and so on came out of his canteens—he takes a couple about with him so as to be able to give dinner-parties, he told me—and what d’ye think was the principal thing on the table? Why, pork chops and common bazar stuff at that—and the old chap tucking into them with real gusto and pressing ’em on me!”
“Well, if he can survive that sort of thing, he ought certainly to impress the Khans,” said Richard drily. “But it’s a pity he don’t stay here under their eye, for they ain’t impressed a bit at present.”
But in this he was wrong, as appeared speedily. Due notice had been sent to the Fort of Colonel Bayard’s desire to pay a farewell visit to their Highnesses, and the proper message of welcome received in return. But the message was couched in terms more flowery and formal than quite suited the intimate relations which had prevailed between the Resident and his charges, and there was no sign on the road of the messengers who should have met the procession at stated points and implored the visitor to hasten, since he alone could pour the snow-cooled sherbet of delight into the parched mouth of expectation. The reason for this lapse from good manners appeared on the visitors’ arrival at the Fort, for it seemed that a sudden illness had prostrated the ruling family at one blow. One Khan after another for whom Colonel Bayard enquired was declared to be sick, the attendants adding intimate and distressing details on a scale that did credit to their memories—or possibly their imaginations.
“Oh, let them alone!” said Richard, in a hasty whisper. “They funk meeting you.”
“But why should they funk meeting me? Nay”—to the embarrassed attendants,—“if their Highnesses are indeed so ill, I must postpone my journey, for I could not dream of leaving Khemistan while those who have been to me as sons are lying between life and death. I will send my own physician to visit them, and I myself will spend each day at the Palace, that I may be at hand the moment they call for me.”
Hurried consultations ensued, messengers came and went, and at last the chief spokesman advanced again. “Let the Resident Sahib be pleased to enter. Rather than force him to delay his departure, and incur the wrath of his lord the General Sahib”—Colonel Bayard stiffened perceptibly,—“their Highnesses will bedew the blossoms of affection with the tears of regret even at the risk of their health.”
He paused for a moment to see whether the visitor would take the hint, then sighed and led the way in. Apparently the Khans thought it safer to receive their fallen friend in a body, for the official disregarded Colonel Bayard’s request to be allowed to pay his respects to them separately, which would have seemed more natural. If they did not appear to be sick, at any rate they all looked very sorry for themselves when he and his assistant faced at last the row of seated figures on their cushions. Long wadded coats concealed their pleated muslin tunics and wide silk trousers, and the only touch of brightness was given by the gay kincob which covered their flowerpot-shaped caps. As politeness demanded, one and all declared that the mere sight of the fortunate face of the Resident Sahib had instantly banished all traces of illness, and then hurried on to enquire whether he also was well and prosperous. The formalities of salutation, perfunctory though they might be, took some time when each Khan had to be addressed and to reply separately, and it was beginning to look as though the whole interview would be occupied with such matters, when Sir Henry Lennox’s health and prosperity came under discussion as well. The example was set by Gul Ali Khan, the venerable white-bearded head of the family, whose memory went back to the days of conquest, when the wild band of Arabit chieftains had swooped down from their fastnesses upon Khemistan, and dispossessing the native rulers, reigned in their stead. He was the last survivor of the conquerors, and wore with dignity the turban which proclaimed him Chief of his house—the coveted emblem which would not descend to the son for whom he would fain have secured it, but to an interloper, the son of his father’s old age. This interloper, Shahbaz Khan, a handsome dapper man—absurdly young-looking to be the brother of the aged Gul Ali—sat beside him, and took up the strain of affectionate enquiry. For the Khans positively overflowed with anxiety for the General’s health, and their enquiries were couched in such terms of affection that even Colonel Bayard—loath as he was to believe it—could not mistake their drift. His day was over and done with; Sir Henry Lennox was the rising sun.
It was a bitter pill, but Colonel Bayard would not have been himself had he not done his best to take advantage of this new loyalty to influence his faithless charges for their good. When all the questions all the Khans could think of on Sir Henry’s affairs had been asked and answered, and before they could start on those of the Governor-General, he interposed a courteous hope that their admiration for the General’s character would make it easy for them to satisfy him on the subject of the breaches of treaty. Instantly a change that might be felt passed over them, as though each face had withdrawn itself behind a veil. Gul Ali answered with dignity—
“The Resident Sahib need not fear. The treaties we have made we shall keep, provided the English keep theirs.”