The Forest Camp.
The following morning broke bright and clear, and save that there was a coolness in the air, and the bed of the tangi which had poured forth its black volume of roaring destruction the night before was wet and washed out—no trace of the wild whirl of the elements would now be visible.
Campian awoke, feeling fairly restored, though as he opened his eyes after his sound and heavy sleep he could hardly recall where he was, or what had happened—nor in fact, did he particularly care whether he could recall it or not. This frame of mind lasted for some time, then his faculties began to reassert themselves. The events of the previous night came back to him—the long, wearisome journey, the exhausted steed, the sudden onslaught of the Ghazis, the pursuit—then that last desperate effort for life—the rolling flood, the jezail shot, and—oblivion. Now a thought struck him. Where was he? In a tent. But whose tent? Was he a captive in the hands of his recent assailants? Hardly. This was not the sort of treatment he would have met at their hands, even if the unmistakably European aspect of all the fittings and tent furniture did not speak for themselves. And at that moment, as though to dispel all further grounds of conjecture, the purdah was moved aside and somebody stole softly in. Campian closed his eyes, surveying this unexpected visitant through the lids. Then he opened them.
“That you, Upward, or am I dreaming?”
“It’s me right enough, old chap. How are you feeling—eh? A bit buzzy still? How’s the head?”
“Just as you put it—a bit buzzy. But I say, where are we?”
“In camp, at Chirria Bach.”
“So? And where the devil might Chirria Bach be? I was bound for Gushki. Thought you were there.”
“Didn’t you get my letter at Shâlalai, saying we were going into camp?” said Upward.
“Not any. I got one—There was nothing about camp in it—It told me to come on to Gushki. But I fell in with two Johnnies there who were going on a chikór shoot, and wanted me to cut in—I did—hence concluded to find my way here across country instead of by the usual route. I’m fond of that sort of thing, you know.”
“Where are your things—and how is it you are all alone? This isn’t the country to ride around in like that—all alone—I can tell you.”
“So I’ve discovered.” And then he narrated the events of the previous day’s journey up to the time of his falling unconscious in the riverbed.
“Well you’ve had a devilish narrow squeak, old chap,” pronounced Upward, when he had done. “Do you know, if it hadn’t been for old Bhallu Khan, my head forest guard, hearing your gee scrambling through the nullah, you would never have been seen again. We heard the first shot. It seemed fishy, but it was no use bothering about it, because it was on the other side of the water. Then the tangi coming down kicked up such a row that we couldn’t hear ourselves speak, let alone hear the other shot. You were more than half in the water when we found you, and—I’ve been down to the place this morning—and the water has been over more than twice your own length from where you were lying when we hauled you out. Lucky old Bhallu Khan heard the racket—eh?”
“Rather. But, I say, Upward, I shot one of those brigands. Likely to be trouble raised over that?”
Upward looked grave. “You never can tell,” he said. “You see, in a case of that sort, the Government has a say in the matter. Don’t give away anything about the shooting to anybody for the present, and we’ll think over what is best to be done—or not done—Perhaps you only winged your man.”
“I hope so, if it will save any further bother. But, it’s a dashed cool thing assailing a peaceable traveller in that way. There’s no sort of war on here?”
“No, but the fact of your being alone and unarmed—unarmed, at least, so far as they could see—was a temptation to those devils. They hate us like poison since we took over the country and prevented them—or tried to prevent them—from cutting each other’s throats, so they are not likely to let slip an opportunity of cutting ours instead.”
“And after that first shot, practically I was unarmed, thanks to the swindling rascality of the British huckster in guaranteeing ammunition that jammed in the pistol. No more co-operative stores for me, thanks.”
Now again the purdah was lifted, and the bearer appeared, bringing in tea and toast. Salaaming to Campian, he told his master that the mem-sahib would like to see him for a moment Upward, responding to the call, promptly received a lecture for not merely allowing, but actively inducing, the patient to talk too much. It could not be good for one just recovering from a shock to the head to talk—especially on exciting topics—and so on—and so on.
Meanwhile in another tent Nesta Cheriton and the two younger girls were discussing the somewhat tragic arrival of the expected guest. To the former, however, his personality appealed more than the somewhat startling manner of his arrival.
“But what is he like, Lily?” she was saying—not quite for the first time.
“Oh! I told you before,” snapped Lily, waxing impatient, and burying her nose in a book—She was wont to be petulant when disturbed in the midst of an absorbing tale.
“He’s rather fun,” replied Hazel. “He isn’t young, though. He’s not as old as father—still he isn’t young.”
“I expect he’s quite an old fogey,” said Lily. “I don’t want to talk about him any more,” which reply moved Hazel to cackle elfishly, while cutting weird capers expressive of the vein mischievous.
“Rather. He’s quite an old fogey. Isn’t he, Lily?”
“I wish you’d shut up,” snapped that young person. “Can’t you see I want to read?”
But later on, viz about tiffin time, Campian being recovered enough to put in an appearance, Nesta found good and sufficient reasons for the reversal of her former verdict. As Hazel had said, the new arrival was not young; yet her own term, “quite an old fogey,” in no sense applied. And the reversal of her said verdict took this form: “He’ll do.”
This indeed, in its not very occult meaning, might have held good were the stranger even less qualified for her approval than she decided at a glance he was—for they had been quite a fortnight in camp, and on any male—save Upward, middle-aged and rangé, Nesta Cheriton’s very attractive blue eyes had not rested during precisely that period. And such deficiency had to her already come to spell boredom.
In Shâlalai the British army of all branches of the service had been at her feet, and this for obvious reasons. She was young, attractive beyond the ordinary, and a new importation. Now the feminine counterpart of the British army as represented in Shâlalai, though in some cases young, was unattractive wellnigh without exception. Furthermore, it was by no means new—wherefore Nesta had things all her own way; for Shâlalai, for social and every other purpose, was the British army—Upward and the agent to the governor-general being nearly the only civilians in the place. So in Shâlalai Nesta was happy, for the British army, having as usual when not in active service, nothing particular to do, swarmed around her in multifold adoration.
