Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 14

  The accident had occurred near the middle of the ground, and opposite the place where Miss Westonhaugh and her uncle had taken up their stand to watch the contest. With a shake of the reins and a blow of the hand that made the thoroughbred bound his length as he plunged into a gallop, the girl rode wildly to where Isaacs lay, and reining the animal back on his haunches, sprang to the ground and knelt quickly down, so that before the others had reached them she had propped up his head and was rubbing his hands in hers. There was no mistaking the impulse that prompted her. She had seen many an accident in the hunting-field, and knew well that when a man fell like that it was ten to one he was badly hurt.

  Isaacs was ghastly pale, and there was a little blood on Miss Westonhaugh’s white gauntlet. Her face was whiter even than his, though not a quiver of mouth or eyelash betrayed emotion. The man who had done it knelt on the other side, rubbing one of the hands. Kildare and Westonhaugh galloped off at full speed, and presently returned bearing a brandy-flask and a smelling-bottle, and followed by a groom with some water in a native lota. I wanted to make him swallow some of the liquor, but Miss Westonhaugh took the flask from my hands.

  “He would not like it. He never drinks it, you know,” she said in a quiet low voice, and pouring some of the contents on her handkerchief, moistened all his brows and face and hair with the powerful alcohol.

  “Loosen his belt! pull off his boots, some of you!” cried Mr. Currie Ghyrkins, as he came up breathless. “Take off his belt — damn it, you know! Dear, dear!” and he got off his tat with all the alacrity he could muster.

  Miss Westonhaugh never took her eyes from the face of the prostrate man — pressing the wet handkerchief to his brow, and moistening the palm of the hand she held with brandy. In a few minutes Isaacs breathed a long heavy breath, and opened his eyes.

  “What is the matter?” he said; then, recollecting himself and trying to move his head— “Oh! I have had a tumble. Give me some water to drink.” There was a sigh of relief from every one present as he spoke, quite naturally, and I held the lota to his lips. “What became of the ball?” he asked quickly, as he sat up. Then turning round, he saw the beautiful girl kneeling at his side. The blood rushed violently to his face, and his eyes, a moment ago dim with unconsciousness, flashed brightly. “What! Miss Westonhaugh — you?” he bounded to his feet, but would have fallen back if I had not caught him in my arms, for he was still dizzy from the heavy blow that had stunned him. The blood came and went in his cheeks, and he hung on my arm confused and embarrassed, looking on the ground.

  “I really owe you all manner of apologies—” he began.

  “Not a bit of it, my dear boy,” broke in Ghyrkins, “my niece was nearest to you when you fell, and so she came up and did the right thing, like the brave girl she is.” The old fellow helped her to rise as he said this, and he looked so pleased and proud of her that I was delighted with him. “And now,” he went on, “we must see how much you are hurt — the deuce of a knock, you know, enough to kill you — and if you are not able to ride, why, we will carry you home, you know; the devil of a way off it is, too, confound it all.” As he jerked out his sentences he was feeling the back of Isaacs’ head, to ascertain, if he could, how much harm had been done. All this time the man who had done the mischief was standing by, looking very penitent, and muttering sentences of apology as he tried to perform any little office for his victim that came in his way. Isaacs stretched out his arm, while Ghyrkins was feeling and twisting his head, and taking the man’s hand, held it a moment.

  “My dear sir,” he said, “I am not in the least hurt, I assure you, and it was my fault for crossing you at such a moment. Please do not think anything more about it.” He smiled kindly at the young fellow, who seemed very grateful, and who from that day on would have risked everything in the world for him. I heard behind me the voice of Kildare, soliloquising softly.

  “Faith,” said he, “that fellow is a gentleman if I ever saw one. I am afraid I should not have let that infernal duffer off so easily. By-the-bye, Isaacs,” he said aloud, coming up to us, “you know you won the game. Nobody stopped the ball after you hit it, and the saices say it ran right through the goal. So cheer up; you have got something for your pains and your tumble.” It was quite true; the phlegmatic saices had watched the ball instead of the falling man. Miss Westonhaugh, who was really a sensible and self-possessed young woman, and had begun to be sure that the accident would have no serious results, expressed the most unbounded delight.

  “Thank you, Miss Westonhaugh,” said Isaacs; “you have kept your promise; you have crowned the victor.”

  “With brandy,” I remarked, folding up a scarf which somebody had given me wherewith to tie a wet compress to the back of his head.

  “There is nothing the matter,” said Ghyrkins; “no end of a bad bruise, that’s all. He will be all right in the morning, and the skin is only a little broken.”

  “Griggs,” said Isaacs, who could now stand quite firm again, “hold the wet handkerchief in place, and give me that scarf.” I did as he directed, and he took the white woollen shawl, and in half a dozen turns wound it round his head in a turban, deftly and gracefully. It was wonderfully becoming to his Oriental features and dark eyes, and I could see that Miss Westonhaugh thought so. There was a murmur of approbation from the native grooms who were looking on, and who understood the thing.

  “You see I have done it before,” he said, smiling. “And now give me my coat, and we will be getting home. Oh yes! I can ride quite well.”

  “That man has no end of pluck in him,” said John Westonhaugh to Kildare.

  “By Jove! yes,” was the answer. “I have seen men at home make twice the fuss over a tumble in a ploughed field, when they were not even stunned. I would not have thought it.”

  “He is not the man to make much fuss about anything of that kind.”

  Isaacs stoutly refused any further assistance, and after walking up and down a few minutes, he said he had got his legs back, and demanded a cigarette. He lit it carefully, and mounted as if nothing had happened, and we moved homeward, followed by the spectators, many of whom, of course, were acquaintances, and who had ridden up more or less quickly to make polite inquiries about the accident. No one disputed with Isaacs the right to ride beside Miss Westonhaugh on the homeward road. He was the victor of the day, and of course was entitled to the best place. We were all straggling along, but without any great intervals between us, so that the two were not able to get away as they had done on Saturday evening, but they talked, and I heard Miss Westonhaugh laugh. Isaacs was determined to show that he appreciated his advantage, and though, for all I know, he might be suffering a good deal of pain, he talked gaily and sat his horse easily, rather a strange figure in his light-coloured English overcoat, surmounted by the large white turban he had made out of the shawl. As we came out on the mall at the top of the hill, Mr. Ghyrkins called a council of war.

  “Of course we shall have to put off the tiger-hunt.”

  “I suppose so,” muttered Kildare, disconsolately.

  “Why?” said Isaacs. “Not a bit of it. Head or no head, we will start to-morrow morning. I am well enough, never fear.”

  “Nonsense, you know it’s nonsense,” said Ghyrkins, “you will be in bed all day with a raging headache. Horrid things, knocks on the back of the head.”

  “Not I. My traps are all packed, and my servants have gone down to Kalka, and I am going to-morrow morning.”

  “Well, of course, if you really think you can,” etc. etc. So he was prevailed upon to promise that if he should be suffering in the morning he would send word in time to put off the party. “Besides,” he added, “even if I could not go, that is no reason why you should not.”

  “Stuff,” said Ghyrkins.

  “Oh!” said Miss Westonhaugh, looking rather blank.

  “That would never do,” said John.

  “Preposterous! we could not think of going without you,” said Lord Steepleton Kildare loudly;
he was beginning to like Isaacs in spite of himself. And so we parted.

  “I shall not dine to-night, Griggs,” said Isaacs, as we paused before his door. “Come in for a moment: you can help me.” We entered the richly carpeted room, and he went to a curious old Japanese cabinet, and after opening various doors and divisions, showed a small iron safe. This he opened by some means known to himself, for he used no key, and he took out a small vessel of jade and brought it to the light. “Now,” he said, “be good enough to warm this little jar in your hands while I go into the next room and get my boots and spurs and things off. But do not open it on any account — not on any account, until I come back,” he added very emphatically.

  “All right, go ahead,” said I, and began to warm the cold thing that felt like a piece of ice between my hands. He returned in a few minutes robed in loose garments from Kashmir, with the low Eastern slippers he generally wore indoors. He sat down among his cushions and leaned back, looking pale and tired; after ordering the lamps to be lit and the doors closed, he motioned me to sit down beside him.

  “I have had a bad shaking,” he said, “and my head is a good deal bruised. But I mean to go to-morrow in spite of everything. In that little vial there is a powerful remedy unknown in your Western medicine. Now I want you to apply it, and to follow with the utmost exactness my instructions. If you fear you should forget what I tell you, write it down, for a mistake might be fatal to you, and would certainly be fatal to me.”

  I took out an old letter and a pencil, not daring to trust my memory.

  “Put the vial in your bosom while you write: it must be near the temperature of the body. Now listen to me. In that silver box is wax. Tie first this piece of silk over your mouth, and then stop your nostrils carefully with the wax. Then open the vial quickly and pour a little of the contents into your hand. You must be quick, for it is very volatile. Rub that on the back of my head, keeping the vial closed. When your hand is dry, hold the vial open to my nostrils for two minutes by your watch. By that time, I shall be asleep. Put the vial in this pocket of my caftán; open all the doors and windows, and tell my servant to leave them so, but not to admit any one. Then you can leave me; I shall sleep very comfortably. Come back and wake me a little before midnight. You will wake me easily by lifting my head and pressing one of my hands. Remember, if you should forget to wake me, and I should still be asleep at one o’clock, I should never open my eyes again, and should be dead before morning. Do as I tell you, for friendship’s sake, and when I wake I shall bathe and sleep naturally the rest of the night.”

  I carefully fulfilled his instructions. Before I had finished rubbing his head he was drowsy, and when I took the vial from his nostrils he was sound asleep. I placed the precious thing where he had told me, and arranged his limbs on the cushions. Then I opened everything, and leaving the servant in charge went my way to my rooms. On removing the silk and the wax which had protected me from the powerful drug, an indescribable odour which permeated my clothes ascended to my nostrils; aromatic, yet pungent and penetrating; I never smelt anything that it reminded me of, but I presume the compound contained something of the nature of an opiate. I took some books down to Isaacs’ rooms and passed the evening there, unwilling to leave him to the care of an inquisitive servant, and five minutes before midnight I awoke him in the manner he had directed. He seemed to be sleeping lightly, for he was awake in a moment, and his first action was to replace the vial in the curious safe. He professed himself perfectly restored; and, indeed, on examining his bruise I found there was no swelling or inflammation. The odour of the medicament, which, as he had said, seemed to be very volatile, had almost entirely disappeared. He begged me to go to bed, saying that he would bathe and then do likewise, and I left him for the night; speculating on the nature of this secret and precious remedy.

  CHAPTER IX.

  THE HIMALAYAN TONGA is a thing of delight. It is easily described, for in principle it is the ancient Persian war-chariot, though the accommodation is so modified as to allow four persons to sit in it back to back; that is, three besides the driver. It is built for great strength, the wheels being enormously heavy, and the pole of the size of a mast. Harness the horses have none, save a single belt with a sort of lock at the top, which fits into the iron yoke through the pole, and can slide from it to the extremity; there is neither breeching nor trace nor collar, and the reins run from the heavy curb bit directly through loops on the yoke to the driver’s hands. The latter, a wiry, long-bearded Mohammedan, is armed with a long whip attached to a short thick stock, and though he sits low, on the same level as the passenger beside him on the front seat, he guides his half broken horses with amazing dexterity round sharp curves and by giddy precipices, where neither parapet nor fencing give the startled mind even a momentary impression of security. The road from Simla to Kalka at the foot of the hills is so narrow that if two vehicles meet, the one has to draw up to the edge of the road, while the other passes on its way. In view of the frequent encounters, every tonga-driver is provided with a post horn of tremendous power and most discordant harmony; for the road is covered with bullock carts bearing provisions and stores to the hill station. Smaller loads, such as trunks and other luggage, are generally carried by coolies, who follow a shorter path, the carriage road being ninety-two miles from Umballa, the railroad station, to Simla, but a certain amount may be stowed away in the tonga, of which the capacity is considerable.

  In three of these vehicles our party of six began the descent on Tuesday morning, wrapped in linen “dusters” of various shades and shapes, and armed with countless varieties of smoking gear. The roughness of the road precludes all possibility of reading, and, after all, the rapid motion and the constant appearance of danger — which in reality does not exist — prevent any overpowering ennui from assailing the dusty traveller. So we spun along all day, stopping once or twice for a little refreshment, and changing horses every five or six miles. Everybody was in capital spirits, and we changed seats often, thus obtaining some little variety. Isaacs, who to every one’s astonishment, seemed not to feel any inconvenience from his accident, clung to his seat in Miss Westonhaugh’s tonga, sitting in front with the driver, while she and her uncle or brother occupied the seat behind, which is far more comfortable. At last, however, he was obliged to give his place to Kildare, who had been very patient, but at last said it “really wasn’t fair, you know,” and so Isaacs courteously yielded. At last we reached Kalka, where the tongas are exchanged for dâk gharry or mail carriage, a thing in which you can sit up in the daytime and lie down at night, there being an extension under the driver’s box calculated for the accommodation of the longest legs. When lying down in one of these vehicles the sensation is that of being in a hearse and playing a game of funeral. On this occasion, however, it was still early when we made the change, and we paired off, two and two, for the last part of the drive. By the well planned arrangements of Isaacs and Kildare, two carriages were in readiness for us on the express train, and though the difference in temperature was enormous between Simla and the plains, still steaming from the late rainy season, the travelling was made easy for us, and we settled ourselves for the journey, after dining at the little hotel; Miss Westonhaugh bidding us all a cheery “good-night” as she retired with her ayah into the carriage prepared for her. I will not go into tedious details of the journey — we slept and woke and slept again, and smoked, and occasionally concocted iced drinks from our supplies, for in India the carriages are so large that the traveller generally provides himself with a generous basket of provisions and a travelling ice-chest full of bottles, and takes a trunk or two with him in his compartment. Suffice it to say that we arrived on the following day at Fyzabad in Oude, and that we were there met by guides and shikarries — the native huntsmen — who assured us that there were tigers about near the outlying station of Pegnugger, where the elephants, previously ordered, would all be in readiness for us on the following day. The journey from Fyzabad to Pegnugger was not a lon
g one, and we set out in the cool of the evening, sending our servants along in that “happy-go-lucky” fashion which characterises Indian life. It has always been a mystery to me how native servants manage always to turn up at the right moment. You say to your man, “Go there and wait for me,” and you arrive and find him waiting; though how he transferred himself thither, with his queer-looking bundle, and his lota, and cooking utensils, and your best teapot wrapped up in a newspaper and ready for use, and with all the other hundred and one things that a native servant contrives to carry about without breaking or losing one of them, is an unsolved puzzle. Yet there he is, clean and grinning as ever, and if he were not clean and grinning and provided with tea and cheroots, you would not keep him in your service a day, though you would be incapable of looking half so spotless and pleased under the same circumstances yourself.

  On the following day, therefore, we found ourselves at Pegnugger, surrounded by shikarries and provided with every instrument of the chase that the ingenuity of man and the foresight of Isaacs and Ghyrkins could provide. There were numbers of tents, sleeping tents, cooking tents, and servants’ tents; guns and ammunition of every calibre likely to be useful; kookries, broad strong weapons not unlike the famous American bowie knives (which are all made in Sheffield, to the honour, glory, and gain, of British trade); there were huge packs of provisions edible and potable; baskets of utensils for the kitchen and the table, and piles of blankets and tenting gear for the camp. There was also the little collector of Pegnugger, whose small body housed a stout heart, for he had shot tigers on foot before now in company with a certain German doctor of undying sporting fame, whose big round spectacles seemed to direct his bullets with unerring precision. But the doctor was not here now, and so the sturdy Englishman condescended to accept a seat in the howdah, and to kill his game with somewhat less risk than usual.