Ortheris took up the tale--

"Jist then, little Buldoo kim up, 'oo was the son of one of the Artillery grooms--'e would 'av made a 'evinly newspaper-boy in London, bein' sharp an' fly to all manner o' games, 'E 'ad bin watchin' us puttin' Mister Benhira into 'is temporary baroush, an' 'e sez, 'What _'ave_ you been a doin' of, _Sahibs?_' sez 'e. Learoyd 'e caught 'im by the ear an 'e sez"--

"Ah says,' went on Learoyd, 'Young mon, that mon's gooin' to have t' goons out o' Thursday--to-morrow--an' thot's more work for you, young mon. Now, sitha, tak' a _tat_ an' a _lookri,_ an' ride tha domdest to t' Padsahi Jhil. Cotch thot there _hekka_, and tell t' driver iv your lingo thot you've coorn to tak' his place. T' _Sahib_ doesn't speak t' _bat_, an'

he's a little mon. Drive t' _hekka_ into t' Padsahi Jhil into t' waiter.

Leave t' _Sahib_ theer an' roon hoam; an' here's a rupee for tha,'"

Then Mulvaney and Ortheris spoke together in alternate fragments: Mulvaney leading [You must pick out the two speakers as best you can]:--"He was a knowin' little divil was Bhuldoo,--'e sez _bote achee_ an' cuts--wid a wink in his oi--but _Hi_ sez there's money to be made--an' I wanted to see the ind av the campaign--so _Hi_ says we'll double hout to the Padsahi Jhil--an' save the little man from bein' dacoited by the murtherin'

Bhuldoo--an' turn hup like reskooers in a Vic'oria Melodrama-so we doubled for the _jhil_, an' prisintly there was the divil av a hurroosh behind us an' three bhoys on gra.s.scuts' ponies come by, poundin' along for the dear life--s'elp me Bob, hif Buldoo 'adn't raised a rig'lar _harmy_ of decoits--to do the job in shtile. An' we ran, an' they ran, shplittin'

with laughin', till we gets near the _jhil_--and 'ears sounds of distress floatin' molloncolly on the hevenin' hair." [Ortheris was growing poetical under the influence of the beer. The duet recommenced: Mulvaney leading again.]

"Thin we heard Bhuldoo, the dacoit, shoutin' to the _hekka_ man, an' wan of the young divils brought his stick down on the top av the _hekka_-cover, an' Benira Thrigg inside howled 'Murther an' Death.' Buldoo takes the reins and dhrives like mad for the _jhil_, havin' dishpersed the _hekka_-dhriver--'oo c.u.m up to us an' 'e sez, sez 'e, 'That _Sahib's_ nigh mad with funk! Wot devil's work 'ave you led me into?'--'Hall right,' sez we, 'you catch that there pony an' come along. This _Sahib's_ been decoited, an' we're going to resky 'im!' Says the driver, 'Decoits! Wot decoits? That's Buldoo the _budmash_'--'Bhuldoo be shot!' sez we, ''Tis a woild dissolute Pathan frum the hills. There's about eight av thim coercin' the _Sahib_. You remimber that an you'll get another rupee!' Thin we heard the _whop-whop-whop_ av the _hekka_ turnin' over, an' a splash av water an' the voice av Benira Thrigg callin' upon G.o.d to forgive his sins--an' Buldoo an' 'is friends squotterin' in the water like boys in the Serpentine."

Here the Three Musketeers retired simultaneously into the beer.

"Well? What came next?" said I.

"Fwhat nex'?" answered Mulvaney, wiping his mouth. "Wud ye let three bould sodger-bhoys lave the ornamint av the House av Lords to be dhrowned an'

dacoited in a _jhil?_ We formed line av quarther-column an' we discinded upon the inimy. For the better part av tin minutes you could not hear yerself spake. The _tattoo_ was screamin' in chune wid Benira Thrigg an'

Bhuldoo's army, an' the shticks was whistlin' roun' the _hekka_, an'

Orth'ris was beatin' the _hekka_-cover wid his fistes, an' Learoyd yellin', 'Look out for their knives!' an' me cuttin' into the dark, right an' lef', dishpersin' arrmy corps av Pathans. Holy Mother av Moses! 'twas more disp'rit than Ahmid Kheyl wid Maiwund thrown in. Afther a while Bhuldoo an' his bhoys flees. Have ye iver seen a rale live Lord thryin' to hide his n.o.bility undher a fut an' a half av brown swamp-wather? Tis the livin' image av a water-carrier's goatskin wid the shivers. It tuk toime to pershuade me frind Benira he was not disimbowilled: an' more toime to get out the _hekka_. The dhriver come up afther the battle, swearin' he tuk a hand in repulsin' the inimy. Benira was sick wid the fear. We escorted him back, very slow, to cantonmints, for that an' the chill to soak into him. It suk! Glory be to the Rigimintil Saint, but it suk to the marrow av Lord Benira Thrigg!"

Here Ortheris, slowly, with immense pride--"'E sez, 'You har my n.o.ble preservers,' sez 'e. 'You har a _h_onor to the British Harmy,' sez 'e.

With that e' describes the hawful band of dacoits wot set on 'im. There was about forty of 'em an' 'e was hoverpowered by numbers, so 'e was; but 'e never lorst 'is presence of mind, so 'e didn't. 'E guv the _hekka_-driver five rupees for 'is n.o.ble a.s.sistance, an' 'e said 'e would see to us after 'e 'ad spoken to the Kernul. For we was a _h_onor to the Regiment, we was."

"An' we three," said Mulvaney, with a seraphic smile, "have dhrawn the par-ti-cu-lar attinshin av Bobs Bahadur more than wanst. But he's a rale good little man is Bobs. Go on, Orth'ris, my son."

"Then we leaves 'im at the Kernul's 'ouse, werry sick, an' we cuts hover to B Comp'ny barrick an' we sez we 'ave saved Benira from a b.l.o.o.d.y doom, an' the chances was agin there bein' p'raid on Thursday. About ten minutes later come three envelicks, one for each of us. S'elp me Bob, if the old bloke 'adn't guv us a fiver apiece--sixty-four rupees in the bazar! On Thursday 'e was in 'orspital recoverin' from 'is sanguinary encounter with a gang of Pathans, an' B Comp'ny was drinkin' 'emselves into Clink by squads. So there never was no Thursday p'raid. But the Kernal, when 'e 'eard of our galliant conduct, 'e sez, 'Hi know there's been some devilry somewheres,' sez 'e, 'but I can't bring it 'ome to you three.'"

"An' my privit imprisshin is," said Mulvaney, getting off the bar and turning his gla.s.s upside down, "that, av they had known they wudn't have brought ut home. 'Tis flyin' in the face, firstly av Nature, secon' av the Rig'lations, an' third the will av Terence Mulvaney, to hold p'rades av Thursdays."

"Good, ma son!" said Learoyd; "but, young mon, what's t' notebook for?"

"'Let be," said Mulvaney; "this time next month we're in the _Sherapis_.

'Tis immortial fame the gentleman's goin' to give us. But kape it dhark till we're out av the range av me little frind Bobs Bahadur."

And I have obeyed Mulvaney's order.

BEYOND THE PALE

Love heeds not caste nor sleep a broken bed. I went in search of love and lost myself.--_Hindu Proverb_.

A man should, whatever happens, keep to his own caste, race and breed. Let the White go to the White and the Black to the Black. Then, whatever trouble falls is in the ordinary course of things--neither sudden, alien nor unexpected.

This is the story of a man who wilfully stepped beyond the safe limits of decent everyday society, and paid for it heavily.

He knew too much in the first instance; and he saw too much in the second.

He took too deep an interest in native life; but he will never do so again.

Deep away in the heart of the City, behind Jitha Megji's _bustee_, lies Amir Nath's Gully, which ends in a dead-wall pierced by one grated window.

At the head of the Gully is a big cow-byre, and the walls on either side of the Gully are without windows. Neither Suchet Singh nor Gaur Chand approve of their womenfolk looking into the world. If Durga Charan had been of their opinion, he would have been a happier man to-day, and little Bisesa would have been able to knead her own bread. Her room looked out through the grated window into the narrow dark Gully where the sun never came and where the buffaloes wallowed in the blue slime. She was a widow, about fifteen years old, and she prayed the G.o.ds, day and night, to send her a lover; for she did not approve of living alone.

One day, the man--Trejago his name was--came into Amir Nath's Gully on an aimless wandering; and, after he had pa.s.sed the buffaloes, stumbled over a big heap of cattle-food.

Then he saw that the Gully ended in a trap, and heard a little laugh from behind the grated window. It was a pretty little laugh, and Trejago, knowing that, for all practical purposes, the old _Arabian Nights_ are good guides, went forward to the window, and whispered that verse of "The Love Song of Har Dyal" which begins:

Can a man stand upright in the face of the naked Sun; or a Lover in the Presence of his Beloved?

If my feet fail me, O Heart of my Heart, am I to blame, being blinded by the glimpse of your beauty?

There came the faint _tc.h.i.n.k_ of a woman's bracelets from behind the grating, and a little voice went on with the song at the fifth verse:

Alas! alas! Can the Moon tell the Lotus of her love when the Gate of Heaven is shut and the clouds gather for the rains?

They have taken my Beloved, and driven her with the pack-horses to the North.

There are iron chains on the feet that were set on my heart.

Call to the bowmen to make ready--

The voice stopped suddenly, and Trejago walked out of Amir Nath's Gully, wondering who in the world could have capped "The Love Song of Har Dyal"

so neatly.

Next morning, as he was driving to office, an old woman threw a packet into his dog-cart. In the packet was the half of a broken gla.s.s-bangle, one flower of the blood-red _dhak_, a pinch of _bhusa_ or cattle-food, and eleven cardamoms. That packet was a letter--not a clumsy compromising letter, but an innocent unintelligible lover's epistle.

Trejago knew far too much about these things, as I have said. No Englishman should be able to translate object-letters. But Trejago spread all the trifles on the lid of his office-box and began to puzzle them out.

A broken gla.s.s-bangle stands for a Hindu widow all India over; because, when her husband dies, a woman's bracelets are broken on her wrists.

Trejago saw the meaning of the little bit of the gla.s.s. The flower of the _dhak_ means diversely "desire," "come," "write," or "danger," according to the other things with it. One cardamom means "jealousy"; but when any article is duplicated in an object-letter, it loses its symbolic meaning and stands merely for one of a number indicating time, or, if incense, curds, or saffron be sent also, place. The message ran then--"A widow--_dhak_ flower and _bhusa_,--at eleven o'clock." The pinch of _bhusa_ enlightened Trejago. He saw--this kind of letter leaves much to instinctive knowledge--that the _bhusa_ referred to the big heap of cattle-food over which he had fallen in Amir Nath's Gully, and that the message must come from the person behind the grating; she being a widow.

So the message ran then--"A widow, in the Gully in which is the heap of _bhusa_, desires you to come at eleven o'clock."

Trejago threw all the rubbish into the fireplace and laughed. He knew that men in the East do not make love under windows at eleven in the forenoon, nor do women fix appointments a week in advance. So he went, that very night at eleven, into Amir Nath's Gully, clad in a _boorka_, which cloaks a man as well as a woman. Directly the gongs of the City made the hour, the little voice behind the grating took up "The Love Song of Har Dyal" at the verse where the Panthan girl calls upon Har Dyal to return. The song is really pretty in the Vernacular. In English you miss the wail of it. It runs something like this--

Alone upon the housetops, to the North I turn and watch the lightning in the sky,-- The glamour of thy footsteps in the North, _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_

Below my feet the still bazar is laid Far, far, below the weary camels lie,-- The camels and the captives of thy raid.

_Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_

My father's wife is old and harsh with years, And drudge of all my father's house am I.-- My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears, _Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!_

As the song stopped, Trejago stepped up under the grating and whispered--"I am here."

Bisesa was good to look upon.

That night was the beginning of many strange things, and of a double life so wild that Trejago to-day sometimes wonders if it were not all a dream.

Bisesa, or her old handmaiden who had thrown the object-letter, had detached the heavy grating from the brick-work of the wall; so that the window slid inside, leaving only a square of raw masonry into which an active man might climb.

In the daytime, Trejago drove through his routine of office-work, or put on his calling-clothes and called on the ladies of the Station; wondering how long they would know him if they knew of poor little Bisesa. At night, when all the City was still, came the walk under the evil-smelling _boorka_, the patrol through Jitha Megji's _bustee_, the quick turn into Amir Nath's Gully between the sleeping cattle and the dead walls, and then, last of all, Bisesa, and the deep, even breathing of the old woman who slept outside the door of the bare little room that Durga Charan allotted to his sister's daughter. Who or what Durga Charan was, Trejago never inquired; and why in the world he was not discovered and knifed never occurred to him till his madness was over, and Bisesa ... But this comes later.

Bisesa was an endless delight to Trejago. She was as ignorant as a bird; and her distorted versions of the rumors from the outside world that had reached her in her room, amused Trejago almost as much as her lisping attempts to p.r.o.nounce his name--"Christopher." The first syllable was always more than she could manage, and she made funny little gestures with her roseleaf hands, as one throwing the name away, and then, kneeling before Trejago, asked him, exactly as an Englishwoman would do, if he were sure he loved her. Trejago swore that he loved her more than any one else in the world. Which was true.