Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  “How do you know?”

  “They told me.”

  “Um, Bing and Ping would better keep away. There’s no obligation to camp here.”

  “Only, if we fired Chamu I suppose the maharajah would be offended.

  He made such a great point of sending us a faithful servant.”

  “True. Gungadhura Singh is a suspicious rajah. He suspects me anyway.

  I screwed better terms out of him than the miller got from Bob White,

  and now whenever he sees me off the job he suspects me of chicanery.

  If we fired Chamu he’d think I’d found the gold and was trying to hide it.

  Say, if I don’t find gold in his blamed hills eventually — !”

  “You’ll find it, Dick. You never failed at anything you really set your heart on.

  With your experience—”

  “Experience doesn’t count for much,” he answered, blowing at his tea to cool it. “It’s not like coal or manganese. Gold is where you find it. There are no rules.”

  “Finding it’s your trade. Go ahead.”

  “I’m not afraid of that. What eats me,” he said, standing up and looking down at her, “is what I’ve heard about their passion for revenge. Every one has the same story. If you disappoint them, gee whiz, look out! Poisoning your wife’s a sample of what they’ll do. It’s crossed my mind a score of times, little girl, that you ought to go back to the States and wait there till I’m through—”

  She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

  “Isn’t that just like a man!”

  “All the same—”

  “Go in, Dick, and get dressed, or the sun will be too high before you get the gang started.”

  She took his arm and they went into the house together. Twenty minutes later he rode away on his pony, looking if possible even more of an athlete than in his pajamas, for there was an added suggestion of accomplishment in the rolled-up sleeves and scarred boots laced to the knee. Their leave-taking was a purely American episode, mixed of comradeship, affection and just plain foolishness, witnessed by more wondering, patient Indian eyes than they suspected. Every move that either of them made was always watched.

  As a matter of fact Chamu’s attention was almost entirely taken up just then by the crows, iniquitous black humorists that took advantage of turned backs (for Tess walked beside the pony to the gate) to rifle the remains of chota hazri, one of them flying off with a spoon since the rest had all the edibles. Chamu threw a cushion at the spoon-thief and called him “Balibuk,” which means eater of the temple offerings, and is an insult beyond price.

  “That’s the habit of crows,” he explained indignantly to Tess as she returned, laughing, to the veranda, picking up the cushion on her way. “They are without shame. Garud, who is king of all the birds, should turn them into fish; then they could swim in water and be caught with hooks. But first Blaine sahib should shoot them with a shotgun.”

  Having offered that wise solution of the problem Chamu stood with fat hands folded on his stomach.

  “The crows steal less than some people,” Tess answered pointedly.

  He preferred to ignore the remark.

  “Or there might be poison added to some food, and the food left for them to see,” he suggested, whereat she astonished him, American women being even more incomprehensible than their English cousins.

  “If you talk to me about poison I’ll send you back to Gungadhura in disgrace. Take away the breakfast things at once.”

  “That is the hamal’s business,” he retorted pompously. “The maharajah sahib is knowing me for most excellent butler. He himself has given me already very high recommendation. Will he permit opinions of other people to contradict him?”

  The words “opinions of women” had trembled on his lips but intuition saved that day. It flashed across even his obscene mentality that he might suggest once too often contempt for Western folk who worked for Eastern potentates. It was true he regarded the difference between a contract and direct employment as merely a question of degree, and a quibble in any case, and he felt pretty sure that the Blaines would not risk the maharajah’s unchancy friendship by dismissing himself; but he suspected there were limits. He could not imagine why, but he had noticed that insolence to Blaine himself was fairly safe, Blaine being super-humanly indifferent as long as Mrs. Blaine was shown respect, even exceeding the English in the absurd length to which he carried it. It was a mad world in Chamu’s opinion. He went and fetched the hamal, who slunk through his task with the air of a condemned felon. Tess smiled at the man for encouragement, but Chamu’s instant jealousy was so obvious that she regretted the mistake.

  “Now call up the beggars and feed them,” she ordered.

  “Feed them? They will not eat. It is contrary to caste.”

  “Nonsense. They have no caste. Bring bread and feed them.”

  “There is no bread of the sort they will eat.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. If I give them bread there’s no profit for you — they’ll eat it all; but if I give them money you’ll exact a commission from them of one pesa in five. Isn’t that so? Go and bring the bread.”

  He decided to turn the set-back into at any rate a minor victory and went in person to the kitchen for chupatties such as the servants ate. Then, returning to the top of the steps he intimated that the earth-defilers might draw near and receive largesse, contriving the impression that it was by his sole favor the concession was obtained. Two of them came promptly and waited at the foot of the steps, smirking and changing attitudes to draw attention to their rags. Chamu tossed the bread to them with expressions of disgust. If they had cared to pretend they were holy men he would have been respectful, in degree at least, but these were professionals so hardened that they dared ignore the religious apology, which implies throughout the length and breadth of India the right to beg from place to place. These were not even true vagabonds, but rogues contented with one victim in one place as long as benevolence should last.

  “Where is the third one?” Tess demanded. “Where is Pinga?”

  They professed not to know, but she had seen all three squatting together close to the little gate five minutes before. She ordered Chamu to go and find the missing man and he waddled off, grumbling. At the end of five minutes he returned without him.

  “One comes on horseback,” he announced, “who gave the third beggar money, so that he now waits outside.”

  “What for?”

  “Who knows? Perhaps to keep watch.”

  “To watch for what?”

  “Who knows?”

  “Who is it on horseback? A caller? Some one coming for breakfast?

  You’d better hurry.”

  The call at breakfast-time is one of the pleasantest informalities of life in India. It might even be the commissioner. Tess ran to make one of those swift changes of costume with which some women have the gift of gracing every opportunity. Chamu waddled down the steps to await with due formality, the individual, in no way resembling a British commissioner, who was leisurely dismounting at the wide gate fifty yards to the southward of that little one the beggars used.

  He was a Rajput of Rajputs, thin-wristed, thin-ankled, lean, astonishingly handsome in a high-bred Northern way, and possessed of that air of utter self-assuredness devoid of arrogance which people seem able to learn only by being born to it. His fine features were set off by a turban of rose-pink silk, and the only fault discoverable as he strode up the path between the shrubs was that his riding-boots seemed too tight across the instep. There was not a vestige of hair on his face. He was certainly less than twenty, perhaps seventeen years old, or even younger. Ages are hard to guess in that land.

  Tess was back on the veranda in time to receive him, with different shoes and stockings, and another ribbon in her hair; few men would have noticed the change at all, although agreeably conscious of the daintiness. The Rajput seemed unable to look away from her but ignoring Chamu, as he came up the steps, appraised
her inch by inch from the white shoes upward until as he reached the top their eyes met. Chamu followed him fussily.

  Tess could not remember ever having seen such eyes. They were baffling by their quality of brilliance, unlike the usual slumbrous Eastern orbs that puzzle chiefly by refusal to express emotion. The Rajput bowed and said nothing, so Tess offered him a chair, which Chamu drew up more fussily than ever.

  “Have you had breakfast?” she asked, taking the conscious risk. Strangers of alien race are not invariably good guests, however good-looking, especially when one’s husband is somewhere out of call. She looked and felt nearly as young as this man, and had already experienced overtures from more than one young prince who supposed he was doing her an honor. Used to closely guarded women’s quarters, the East wastes little time on wooing when the barriers are passed or down. But she felt irresistibly curious, and after all there was Chamu.

  “Thanks, I took breakfast before dawn.”

  The Rajput accepted the proffered chair without acknowledging the butler’s existence. Tess passed him the big silver cigarette box.

  “Then let me offer you a drink.”

  He declined both drink and cigarette and there was a minute’s silence during which she began to grow uncomfortable.

  “I was riding after breakfast — up there on the hill where you see that overhanging rock, when I caught sight of you here on the veranda. You, too, were watching the dawn — beautiful! I love the dawn. So I thought I would come and get to know you. People who love the same thing, you know, are not exactly strangers.”

  Almost, if not quite for the first time Tess grew very grateful for Chamu, who was still hovering at hand.

  “If my husband had known, he would have stayed to receive you.”

  “Oh, no! I took good care for that! I continued my ride until after I knew he had gone for the day.”

  Things dawn on your understanding in the East one by one, as the stars come out at night, until in the end there is such a bewildering number of points of light that people talk about the “incomprehensible East.” Tess saw light suddenly.

  “Do you mean that those three beggars are your spies?”

  The Rajput nodded. Then his bright eyes detected the instant resolution that Tess formed.

  “But you must not be afraid of them. They will be very useful — often.”

  “How?”

  The visitor made a gesture that drew attention to Chamu.

  “Your butler knows English. Do you know Russian?”

  “Not a word.”

  “French?”

  “Very little.”

  “If we were alone—”

  Tess decided to face the situation boldly. She came from a free land, and part of her heritage was to dare meet any man face to face; but intuition combined with curiosity to give her confidence.

  “Chamu, you may go.”

  The butler waddled out of sight, but the Rajput waited until the sound of his retreating footsteps died away somewhere near the kitchen. Then:

  “You feel afraid of me?” he asked.

  “Not at all. Why should I? Why do you wish to see me alone?”

  “I have decided you are to be my friend. Are you not pleased?”

  “But I don’t know anything about you. Suppose you tell me who you are and tell me why you use beggars to spy on my husband.”

  “Those who have great plans make powerful enemies, and fight against odds. I make friends where I can, and instruments even of my enemies. You are to be my friend.”

  “You look very young to—”

  Suddenly Tess saw light again, and the discovery caused her pupils to contract a little and then dilate. The Rajput noticed it, and laughed. Then, leaning forward:

  “How did vou know I am a woman? Tell me. I must know. I shall study to act better.”

  Tess leaned back entirely at her ease at last and looked up at the sky, rather reveling in relief and in the fun of turning the tables.

  “Please tell me! I must know!”

  “Oh, one thing and another. It isn’t easy to explain. For one thing, your insteps.”

  “I will get other boots. What else? I make no lap. I hold my hands as a man does. Is my voice too high — too excitable?”

  “No. There are men with voices like yours. There’s a long golden hair on your shoulder that might, of course, belong to some one else, but your ears are pierced—”

  “So are many men’s.”

  “And you have blue eyes, and long fair lashes. I’ve seen occasional

  Rajput men with blue eyes, too, but your teeth — much too perfect for a man.”

  “For a young man?”

  “Perhaps not. But add one thing to another—”

  “There is something else. Tell me!”

  “You remember when you called attention to the butler before I dismissed him? No man could do that. You’re a woman and you can dance.”

  “So it is my shoulders? I will study again before the mirror. Yes, I can dance. Soon you shall see me. You shall see all the most wonderful things in Rajputana.”

  “But tell me about yourself,” Tess insisted, offering the cigarettes again.

  And this time her guest accepted one.

  “My mother was the Russian wife of Bubru Singh, who had no son. I am the rightful maharanee of Sialpore, only those fools of English put my father’s nephew on the throne, saying a woman can not reign. They are no wiser than apes! They have given Sialpore to Gungadhura who is a pig and loathes them instead of to a woman who would only laugh at them, and the brute is raising a litter of little pigs, so that even if he and his progeny were poisoned one by one, there would always be a brat left — he has so many!”

  “And you?”

  “First you must promise silence.”

  “Very well.”

  “Woman to woman!”

  “Yes.”

  “Womb to womb — heart to heart — ?”

  “On my word of honor. But I promise nothing else, remember!”

  “So speaks one whose promises are given truly! We are already friends.

  I will tell you all that is in my heart now.”

  “Tell me your name first.”

  She was about to answer when interruption came from the direction of the gate. There was a restless horse there, and a rider using resonant strong language.

  “Tom Tripe!” said Tess. “He’s earlier than usual.”

  The Rajputni smiled. Chamu appeared through the door behind them with suspicious suddenness and waddled to the gate, watched by a pair of blue eyes that should have burned holes in his back and would certainly have robbed him of all comfort had he been aware of them.

  Chapter Two

  Thaw on Olympus

  Bright spurs that add their roweled row

  To clanking saber’s pride;

  Fierce eyes beneath a beetling brow;

  More license than the rules allow;

  A military stride;

  Years’ use of arbitrary will

  And right to make or break;

  Obedience of men who drill

  And willy nilly foot the bill

  For authorized mistake;

  The comfort of the self-esteem

  Deputed power brings —

  Are fickler than the shadows seem

  Less fruitful than the lotus-dream,

  And all of them have wings

  When blue eyes, laughing in your own,

  Make mockery of rules!

  And when those fustian shams have flown

  The wise their new allegiance own,

  Leaving dead form to fools!

  “Friendship’s friendship and respect’s respect, but duty’s what I’m paid to do!”

  The man at the gate dallied to look at his horse’s fetlocks. Tess’s strange guest seemed in no hurry either, but her movements were as swift as knitting-needles. She produced a fountain pen, and of all unexpected things, a Bank of India note for one thousand rupees — a new one, crisp and clean.
Tess did not see the signature she scrawled across its back in Persian characters, and the pen was returned to an inner pocket and the note, folded four times, was palmed in the subtle hand long before Tom Tripe came striding up the path with jingling spurs.

  “Morning, ma’am, — morning! Don’t let me intrude. I’d a little accident, and took a liberty. My horse cut his fetlock — nothing serious — and I set your two saises (grooms) to work on it with a sponge and water. Twenty minutes — will see it right as a trivet. Then I’m off again — I’ve a job of work.”

  He stood with back to the sun and hands on his hips, looking up at Tess — a man of fifty — a soldier of another generation, in a white uniform something like a British sergeant-major’s of the days before the Mutiny. His mutton-chop whiskers, dyed dark-brown, were military mid-Victorian, as were the huge brass spurs that jingled on black riding-boots. A great-chested, heavy-weight athletic man, a few years past his prime.

  “Come up, Tom. You’re always welcome.”

  “Ah!” His spurs rang on the stone steps, and, since Tess was standing close to the veranda rail, he turned to face her at the top. Saluting with martinet precision before removing his helmet, he did not get a clear view of the Rajputni. “As I’ve said many times, ma’am, the one house in the world where Tom Tripe may sit down with princes and commissioners.”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  He made a wry face.

  “The old story, Tom?”

  “The old story, ma’am. A hair of the dog that bit me is all the breakfast

  I could swallow.”

  “I suppose if I don’t give you one now you’ll have two later?”

  He nodded. “I must. One now would put me just to rights and I’d eat at noon. Times when I’m savage with myself, and wait, I have to have two or three before I can stomach lunch.”

  She offered him a basket chair and beckoned Chamu.

  “Brandy and soda for the sahib.”

  “Thank you, ma’am!” said the soldier piously.

  “Where’s your dog, Tom?”

  “Behaving himself, I hope, ma’am, out there in the sun by the gate.”

  “Call him. He shall have a bone on the veranda. I want him to feel as friendly here as you do.”