Miss Cayley's Adventures

by Grant Allen

  IX

  THE ADVENTURES OF THE MAGNIFICENT MAHARAJAH

  Our arrival at Bombay was a triumphal entry. We were received likeroyalty. Indeed, to tell you the truth, Elsie and I were beginning toget just a leetle bit spoiled. It struck us now that our casualconnection with the Ashurst family in its various branches had succeededin saddling us, like the Lady of Burleigh, 'with the burden of an honourunto which we were not born.' We were everywhere treated as persons ofimportance; and, oh dear, by dint of such treatment we began to feel atlast almost as if we had been raised in the purple. I felt that when wegot back to England we should turn up our noses at plain bread andbutter.

  Yes, life has been kind to me. Have your researches into Englishliterature ever chanced to lead you into reading Horace Walpole, Iwonder? That polite trifler is fond of a word which he coinedhimself--'Serendipity.' It derives from the name of a certain happyIndian Prince Serendip, whom he unearthed (or invented) in some obscureOriental story; a prince for whom the fairies or the genii alwaysmanaged to make everything pleasant. It implies the faculty, which a fewof us possess, of finding whatever we want turn up accidentally at theexact right moment. Well, I believe I must have been born withserendipity in my mouth, in place of the proverbial silver spoon, forwherever I go, all things seem to come out exactly right for me.

  The _Jumna_, for example, had hardly heaved to in Bombay Harbour when wenoticed on the quay a very distinguished-looking Oriental potentate, ina large, white turban with a particularly big diamond stuckostentatiously in its front. He stalked on board with a martial air, assoon as we stopped, and made inquiries from our captain after someone heexpected. The captain received him with that odd mixture of respect forrank and wealth, combined with true British contempt for the inferiorblack man, which is universal among his class in their dealings withnative Indian nobility. The Oriental potentate, however, who wasaccompanied by a gorgeous suite like that of the Wise Men in Italianpictures, seemed satisfied with his information, and moved over with hisstately glide in our direction. Elsie and I were standing near thegangway among our rugs and bundles, in the hopeless helplessness ofdisembarkation. He approached us respectfully, and, bowing with extendedhands and a deferential air, asked, in excellent English, 'May I ventureto inquire which of you two ladies is Miss Lois Cayley?'

  '_I_ am,' I replied, my breath taken away by this unexpected greeting.'May I venture to inquire in return how you came to know I was arrivingby this steamer?'

  I AM THE MAHARAJAH OF MOOZUFFERNUGGAR.]

  He held out his hand, with a courteous inclination. 'I am the Maharajahof Moozuffernuggar,' he answered in an impressive tone, as if everybodyknew of the Maharajah of Moozuffernuggar as familiarly as they knew ofthe Duke of Cambridge. 'Moozuffernuggar in Rajputana--_not_ the one inthe Doab. You must have heard my name from Mr. Harold Tillington.'

  I had not; but I dissembled, so as to salve his pride. 'Mr. Tillington'sfriends are _our_ friends,' I answered, sententiously.

  'And Mr. Tillington's friends are _my_ friends,' the Maharajah retorted,with a low bow to Elsie. 'This is no doubt, Miss Petheridge. I haveheard of your expected arrival, as you will guess, from Tillington. Heand I were at Oxford together; I am a Merton man. It was Tillington whofirst taught me all I know of cricket. He took me to stop at hisfather's place in Dumfriesshire. I owe much to his friendship; and whenhe wrote me that friends of his were arriving by the _Jumna_, why, Imade haste to run down to Bombay to greet them.'

  The episode was one of those topsy-turvy mixtures of all places andages which only this jumbled century of ours has witnessed; it impressedme deeply. Here was this Indian prince, a feudal Rajput chief, livingpractically among his vassals in the Middle Ages when at home in India;yet he said 'I am a Merton man,' as Harold himself might have said it;and he talked about cricket as naturally as Lord Southminster talkedabout the noble quadruped. The oddest part of it all was, we alone feltthe incongruity; to the Maharajah, the change from Moozuffernuggar toOxford and from Oxford back again to Moozuffernuggar seemed perfectlynatural. They were but two alternative phases in a modern Indiangentleman's education and experience.

  Still, what were we to do with him? If Harold had presented me with awhite elephant I could hardly have been more embarrassed than I was atthe apparition of this urbane and magnificent Hindoo prince. He wasyoung; he was handsome; he was slim, for a rajah; he wore Europeancostume, save for the huge white turban with its obtrusive diamond; andhe spoke English much better than a great many Englishmen. Yet whatplace could he fill in my life and Elsie's? For once, I felt almostangry with Harold. Why couldn't he have allowed us to go quietly throughIndia, two simple unofficial journalistic pilgrims, in our nativeobscurity?

  His Highness of Moozuffernuggar, however, had his own views on thisquestion. With a courteous wave of one dusky hand, he motioned usgracefully into somebody else's deck chairs, and then sat down onanother beside us, while the gorgeous suite stood by in respectfulsilence--unctuous gentlemen in pink-and-gold brocade--forming a courtall round us. Elsie and I, unaccustomed to be so observed, grewconscious of our hands, our skirts, our postures. But the Maharajahposed himself with perfect unconcern, like one well used to the fiercelight of royalty. 'I have come,' he said, with simple dignity, 'tosuperintend the preparations for your reception.'

  'Gracious heavens!' I exclaimed. 'Our reception, Maharajah? I think youmisunderstand. We are two ordinary English ladies of the proletariat,accustomed to the level plain of professional society. We expect noreception.'

  He bowed again, with stately Eastern deference. 'Friends ofTillington's,' he said, shortly, 'are persons of distinction. Besides, Ihave heard of you from Lady Georgina Fawley.'

  'Lady Georgina is too good,' I answered, though inwardly I raged againsther. Why couldn't she leave us alone, to feed in peace on dak-bungalowchicken, instead of sending this regal-mannered heathen to bother us?

  'So I have come down to Bombay to make sure that you are met in thestyle that befits your importance in society,' he went on, waving hissuite away with one careless hand, for he saw it fussed us. 'I mentionedyou to His Honour the Acting-Governor, who had not heard you werecoming. His Honour's aide-de-camp will follow shortly with an invitationto Government House while you remain in Bombay--which will not be manydays, I don't doubt, for there is nothing in this city of plague to stopfor. Later on, during your progress up country, I do myself the honourto hope that you will stay as my guests for as long as you choose atMoozuffernuggar.'

  My first impulse was to answer: 'Impossible, Maharajah; we couldn'tdream of accepting your kind invitation.' But on second thoughts, Iremembered my duty to my proprietor. Journalism first: inclinationafterwards! My letter from Egypt on the rescue of the Englishwoman whoescaped from Khartoum had brought me great _eclat_ as a specialcorrespondent, and the _Daily Telephone_ now billed my name in bigletters on its placards, so Mr. Elworthy wrote me. Here was anothernoble chance; must I not strive to rise to it? Two English ladies at anative court in Rajputana! that ought to afford scope for some rattlingjournalism!

  'It is extremely kind of you,' I said, hesitating, 'and it would give usgreat pleasure, were it feasible, to accept your friendly offer.But--English ideas, you know, prince! Two unprotected women! I hardlysee how we could come alone to Moozuffernuggar, unchaperoned.'

  The Maharajah's face lighted up; he was evidently flattered that weshould even thus dubiously entertain his proposal. 'Oh, I've thoughtabout that, too,' he answered, growing more colloquial in tone. 'I'vebeen some days in Bombay, making inquiries and preparations. You see,you had not informed the authorities of your intended visit, so that youwere travelling _incognito_--or should it be _incognita_?--and ifTillington hadn't written to let me know your movements, you might havearrived at this port without anybody's knowing it, and have beencompelled to take refuge in an hotel on landing.' He spoke as if we hadbeen accustomed all our lives long to be received with red cloth by theMayor and Corporation, and presented with illuminated addresses and thefreedom of the c
ity in a gold snuff-box. 'But I have seen to all that.The Acting-Governor's aide-de-camp will be down before long, and I havearranged that if you consent a little later to honour my humble roof inRajputana with your august presence, Major Balmossie and his wife willaccompany you and chaperon you. I have lived in England: of course Iunderstand that two English ladies of your rank and position cannottravel alone--as if you were Americans. But Mrs. Balmossie is a nicelittle soul, of unblemished character'--that sweet touch charmedme--'received at Government House'--he had learned the respect due toMrs. Grundy--'so that if you will accept my invitation, you may restassured that everything will be done with the utmost regard to the--theunaccountable prejudices of Europeans.'

  His thoughtfulness took me aback. I thanked him warmly. He unbent at mythanks. 'And I am obliged to you in return,' he said. 'It gives me realpleasure to be able, through you, to repay Harold Tillington part of thedebt I owe him. He was so good to me at Oxford. Miss Cayley, you are newto India, and therefore--as yet--no doubt unprejudiced. You treat anative gentleman, I see, like a human being. I hope you will not stoplong enough in our country to get over that stage--as happens to most ofyour countrymen and countrywomen. In England, a man like myself is anIndian prince; in India, to ninety-nine out of a hundred Europeans, heis just "a damned nigger."'

  I smiled sympathetically. 'I think,' I said, venturing under thesecircumstances on a harmless little swear-word--of course, in quotationmarks--'you may trust me never to reach "damn-nigger" point.'

  'So I believe,' he answered, 'if you are a friend of HaroldTillington's. Ebony or ivory, he never forgot we were two men together.'

  WHO'S YOUR BLACK FRIEND?]

  Five minutes later, when the Maharajah had gone to inquire about ourluggage, Lord Southminster strolled up. 'Oh, I say, Miss Cayley,' heburst out, 'I'm off now; ta-ta: but remembah, that offah's always open.By the way, who's your black friend? I couldn't help laughing at theairs the fellah gave himself. To see a niggah sitting theah, with hissuite all round him, waving his hands and sunning his rings, andbehaving for all the world as if he were a gentleman; it's reahly tooridiculous. Harold Tillington picked up with a fellah like that atOxford--doosid good cricketer too; wondah if this is the same one?'

  'Good-bye, Lord Southminster,' I said, quietly, with a stiff little bow.'Remember, on your side, that your "offer" was rejected once for alllast night. Yes, the Indian prince _is_ Harold Tillington's friend, theMaharajah of Moozuffernuggar--whose ancestors were princes while ourswere dressed in woad and oak-leaves. But you were right about onething; _he_ behaves--like a gentleman.'

  'Oh, I say,' the pea-green young man ejaculated, drawing back; 'that'sanothah in the eye for me. You're a good 'un at facers. You gave me onefor a welcome, and you give me one now for a parting shot. Nevah mindthough, I can wait; you're backing the wrong fellah--but you're not theEthels, and you're well worth waiting for.' He waved his hand. 'So-long!See yah again in London.'

  And he retired, with that fatuous smile still absorbing his features.

  * * * * *

  Our three days in Bombay were uneventful; we merely waited to get rid ofthe roll of the ship, which continued to haunt us for hours after welanded--the floor of our bedrooms having acquired an ugly trick ofrising in long undulations, as if Bombay were suffering from chronicearthquake. We made the acquaintance of His Honour the Acting Governor,and His Honour's consort. We were also introduced to Mrs. Balmossie, thelady who was to chaperon us to Moozuffernuggar. Her husband was asoldierly Scotchman from Forfarshire, but she herself was English--aflighty little body with a perpetual giggle. She giggled so much overthe idea of the Maharajah's inviting us to his palace that I wonderedwhy on earth she accepted his invitation. At this she seemed surprised.'Why, it's one of the jolliest places in Rajputana,' she answered, witha bland Simla smile; '_so_ picturesque--he, he, he--and _so_ delightful.Simpkin flows like water-- Simpkin's baboo English for champagne, youknow--he, he, he; and though of course the Maharajah's only a nativelike the rest of them--he, he, he--still, he's been educated at Oxford,and has mixed with Europeans, and he knows how to make one--he, he,he--well, thoroughly comfortable.'

  'But what shall we eat?' I asked. 'Rice, ghee, and chupatties?'

  'Oh dear no--he, he, he--Europe food, every bit of it. Foie gras, andYork ham, and wine _ad lib_. His hospitality's massive. If it weren'tfor that, of course, one wouldn't dream of going there. But Archie hopessome day to be made Resident, don't you know; and it will do him noharm--he, he, he--with the Foreign Office, to have cultivated friendlyrelations beforehand with His Highness of Moozuffernuggar. Thesenatives--he, he, he--so absurdly sensitive!'

  For myself, the Maharajah interested me, and I rather liked him.Besides, he was Harold's friend, and that was in itself sufficientrecommendation. So I determined to push straight into the heart ofnative India first, and only afterwards to do the regulation touristround of Agra and Delhi, the Taj and the mosques, Benares and Allahabad,leaving the English and Calcutta for the tail-end of my journey. It wasbetter journalism; as I thought that thought, I began to fear that Mr.Elworthy was right after all, and that I was a born journalist.

  On the day fixed for our leaving Bombay, whom should I meet but LordSouthminster--with the Maharajah--at the railway station!

  He lounged up to me with that eternal smile still vaguely pervading hisempty features. 'Well, we shall have a jolly party, I gathah,' he said.'They tell me this niggah is famous for his tigahs.'

  I gazed at him, positively taken aback. 'You don't mean to tell me,' Icried, 'you actually propose to accept the Maharajah's hospitality?'

  His smile absorbed him. 'Yaas,' he answered twirling his yellowmoustache, and gazing across at the unconscious prince, who was engagedin overlooking the arrangements for our saloon carriage. 'The blackfellah discovahed I was a cousin of Harold's, so he came to call upon meat the club, of which some Johnnies heah made me an honorary membah.He's offahed me the run of his place while I'm in Indiah, and, ofcourse, I've accepted. Eccentric sort of chap; can't make him outmyself: says anyone connected with Harold Tillington is always deah tohim. Rum start, isn't it?'

  'He is a mere Oriental,' I answered, 'unused to the ways of civilisedlife. He cherishes the superannuated virtue of gratitude.'

  'Yaas; no doubt--so I'm coming along with you.'

  I drew back, horrified. 'Now? While I am there? After what I told youlast week on the steamer?'

  'Oh, that's all right. I bear yah no malice. If I want any fun, ofcourse I must go while _you're_ at Moozuffernuggar.'

  'Why so?'

  'Yah see, this black boundah means to get up some big things at hisplace in your honah; and one naturally goes to stop with anyone who hasbig things to offah. Hang it all, what does it mattah who a fellah is ifhe can give yah good shooting? It's shooting, don't yah know, that keepssociety in England togethah!'

  'And therefore you propose to stop in the same house with me!' Iexclaimed, 'in spite of what I have told you! Well, Lord Southminster, Ishould have thought there were limits which even _your_ taste----'

  He cut me short with an inane grin. 'There you make your blooming littleerraw,' he answered, airily. 'I told yah, I keep my offah still open;and, hang it all, I don't mean to lose sight of yah in a hurry. Someother fellah might come along and pick you up when I wasn't looking; andI don't want to miss yah. In point of fact, I don't mind telling yah, Iback myself still for a couple of thou' soonah or latah to marry yah.It's dogged as does it; faint heart, they say, nevah won fair lady!'

  If it had not been that I could not bear to disappoint my Indian prince,I think, when I heard this, I should have turned back then and there atthe station.

  The journey up country was uneventful, but dusty. The Mofussil appearsto consist mainly of dust; indeed, I can now recall nothing of it butone pervading white cloud, which has blotted from my memory all itsother components. The dust clung to my hair after many washings, and wasnever really beaten out of my travelling clothes; I believe p
art of itthus went round the world with me to England. When at last we reachedMoozuffernuggar, after two days' and a night's hard travelling, we weremet by a crowd of local grandees, who looked as if they had spent thegreater part of their lives in brushing back their whiskers, and wedrove up at once, in European carriages, to the Maharajah's palace. Thelook of it astonished me. It was a strange and rambling old Hindoohill-fort, high perched on a scarped crag, like Edinburgh Castle, andaccessible only on one side, up a gigantic staircase, guarded on eitherhand by huge sculptured elephants cut in the living sandstone. Belowclustered the town, an intricate mass of tangled alleys. I had neverseen anything so picturesque or so dirty in my life; as for Elsie, shewas divided between admiration for its beauty and terror at thebig-whiskered and white-turbaned attendants.

  'What sort of rooms shall we have?' I whispered to our moral guarantee,Mrs. Balmossie.

  'Oh, beautiful, dear,' the little lady smirked back. 'Furnishedthroughout--he, he, he--by Liberty. The Maharajah wants to do honour tohis European guests--he, he, he--he fancies, poor man, he's quiteEuropean. That's what comes of sending these creatures to Oxford! Sohe's had suites of rooms furnished for any white visitors who may chanceto come his way. Ridiculous, isn't it? _And_ champagne--oh, gallons ofit! He's quite proud of his rooms, he, he, he--he's always asking peopleto come and occupy them; he thinks he's done them up in the best styleof decoration.'

  He had reason, for they were as tasteful as they were dainty andcomfortable. And I could not for the life of me make out why hishospitable inclination should be voted 'ridiculous.' But Mrs. Balmossieappeared to find all natives alike a huge joke together. She never evenspoke of them without a condescending smile of distant compassion.Indeed, most Anglo-Indians seem first to do their best to Anglicise theHindoo, and then to laugh at him for aping the Englishman.

  After we had been three days at the palace and had spent hours in thewonderful temples and ruins, the Maharajah announced with considerablepride at breakfast one morning that he had got up a tiger-hunt in ourspecial honour.

  Lord Southminster rubbed his hands.

  'Ha, that's right, Maharaj,' he said, briskly. 'I do love big game. Totell yah the truth, old man, that's just what I came heah for.'

  'You do me too much honour,' the Hindoo answered, with quiet sarcasm.'My town and palace may have little to offer that is worth yourattention; but I am glad that my big game, at least, has been luckyenough to attract you.'

  The remark was thrown away on the pea-green young man. He had describedhis host to me as 'a black boundah.' Out of his own mouth I condemnedhim--he supplied the very word--he was himself nothing more than a bornbounder.

  A TIGER-HUNT IS NOT A THING TO BE GOT UP LIGHTLY.]

  During the next few days, the preparations for the tiger-hunt occupiedall the Maharajah's energies. 'You know, Miss Cayley,' he said to me, aswe stood upon the big stairs, looking down on the Hindoo city, 'atiger-hunt is not a thing to be got up lightly. Our people themselvesdon't like killing a tiger. They reverence it too much. They're afraidits spirit might haunt them afterwards and bring them bad luck. That'sone of our superstitions.'

  'You do not share it yourself, then?' I asked.

  He drew himself up and opened his palms, with a twinkling of pendantemeralds. 'I am royal,' he answered, with naive dignity, 'and the tigeris a royal beast. Kings know the ways of kings. If a king kills what iskingly, it owes him no grudge for it. But if a common man or a low casteman were to kill a tiger--who can say what might happen?'

  I saw he was not himself quite free from the superstition.

  'Our peasants,' he went on, fixing me with his great black eyes, 'won'teven mention the tiger by name, for fear of offending him: they believehim to be the dwelling-place of a powerful spirit. If they wish to speakof him, they say, "the great beast," or "my lord, the striped one." Somethink the spirit is immortal except at the hands of a king. But theyhave no objection to see him destroyed by others. They will even pointout his whereabouts, and rejoice over his death; for it relieves thevillage of a serious enemy, and they believe the spirit will only hauntthe huts of those who actually kill him.'

  'Then you know where each tiger lives?' I asked.

  'As well as your gamekeepers in England know which covert may be drawnfor foxes. Yes; 'tis a royal sport, and we keep it for Maharajahs. Imyself never hunt a tiger till some European visitor of distinctioncomes to Moozuffernuggar, that I may show him good sport. This tiger weshall hunt to-morrow, for example, he is a bad old hand. He has carriedoff the buffaloes of my villagers over yonder for years and years, andof late he has also become a man-eater. He once ate a whole family at ameal--a man, his wife, and his three children. The people at Janwargurhhave been pestering me for weeks to come and shoot him; and each week hehas eaten somebody--a child or a woman; the last was yesterday--but Iwaited till you came, because I thought it would be something to showyou that you would not be likely to see elsewhere.'

  'And you let the poor people go on being eaten, that we might enjoy thissport!' I cried.

  He shrugged his shoulders, and opened his palms. 'They were villagers,you know--ryots: mere tillers of the soil--poor naked peasants. I havethousands of them to spare. If a tiger eats ten of them, they only say,"It was written upon their foreheads." One woman more or less--who wouldnotice her at Moozuffernuggar?'

  Then I perceived that the Maharajah was a gentleman, but still abarbarian.

  The eventful morning arrived at last, and we started, all agog, for thejungle where the tiger was known to live. Elsie excused herself. Sheremarked to me the night before, as I brushed her back hair for her,that she had 'half a mind' not to go. 'My dear,' I answered, giving thebrush a good dash, 'for a higher mathematician, that phrase lacksaccuracy. If you were to say "seven-eighths of a mind" it would benearer the mark. In point of fact, if you ask my opinion, yourinclination to go is a vanishing quantity.'

  She admitted the impeachment with an accusing blush. 'You're quiteright, Brownie; to tell you the truth, I'm afraid of it.'

  'So am I, dear; horribly afraid. Between ourselves, I'm in a deadly funkof it. But "the brave man is not he that feels no fear"; and I believethe same principle applies almost equally to the brave woman. I mean"that fear to subdue" as far as I am able. The Maharajah says I shall bethe first girl who has ever gone tiger-hunting. I'm frightened out of mylife. I never held a gun in my born days before. But, Elsie, recollect,this is _splendid_ journalism! I intend to go through with it.'

  'You offer yourself on the altar, Brownie.'

  'I do, dear; I propose to die in the cause. I expect my proprietor tocarve on my tomb, "Sacred to the memory of the martyr of journalism. Shewas killed, in the act of taking shorthand notes, by a Bengal tiger."'

  We started at early dawn, a motley mixture. My short bicycling skirt didbeautifully for tiger-hunting. There was a vast company of nativeswells, nawabs and ranas, in gorgeous costumes, whose precise names andtitles I do not pretend to remember; there were also Major Balmossie,Lord Southminster, the Maharajah, and myself--all mounted ongaily-caparisoned elephants. We had likewise, on foot, a miserable crowdof wretched beaters, with dirty white loin-cloths. We were all verybrave, of course--demonstratively brave--and we talked a great deal atthe start about the exhilaration given by 'the spice of danger.' But itsomehow struck me that the poor beaters on foot had the majority of thedanger and extremely little of the exhilaration. Each of us great folkwas mounted on his own elephant, which carried a light basket-workhowdah in two compartments: the front one intended for the noblesportsman, the back one for a servant with extra guns and ammunition. Ipretended to like it, but I fear I trembled visibly. Our mahouts sat onthe elephants' necks, each armed with a pointed goad, to whoseadmonition the huge beasts answered like clock-work. A born journalistalways pretends to know everything before hand, so I speak carelessly ofthe 'mahout,' as if he were a familiar acquaintance. But I don't mindtelling you aside, in confidence, that I had only just learnt the wordthat morning.

  The Mah
arajah protested at first against my taking part in the actualhunt, but I think his protest was merely formal. In his heart of heartsI believe he was proud that the first lady tiger-hunter should havejoined his party.

  Dusty and shadeless, the road from Moozuffernuggar fares straight acrossthe plain towards the crumbling mountains. Behind, in the heat mist, thecastle and palace on their steeply-scarped crag, with the squalid townthat clustered at their feet, reminded me once more most strangely ofEdinburgh, where I used to spend my vacations from Girton. But thepitiless sun differed greatly from the gray haar of the northernmetropolis. It warmed into intense white the little temples of thewayside, and beat on our heads with tropical garishness.

  I am bound to admit also that tiger-hunting is not quite all it iscracked up to be. In my fancy I had pictured the gallant andbloodthirsty beast rushing out upon us full pelt from some grass-grownnullah at the first sniff of our presence, and fiercely attacking bothmen and elephants. Instead of that, I will confess the whole truth:frightened as at least one of us was of the tiger, the tiger was stillmore desperately frightened of his human assailants. I could see clearlythat, so far from rushing out of his own accord to attack us, his onedesire was to be let alone. He was horribly afraid; he skulked in thejungle like a wary old fox in a trusty spinney. There was no nullah(whatever a nullah may be), there was only a waste of dusty cane-brake.We encircled the tall grass patch where he lurked, forming a big roundwith a ring-fence of elephants. The beaters on foot, advancing, halfnaked, with a caution with which I could fully sympathise, endeavouredby loud shouts and gesticulations to rouse the royal beast to a sense ofhis position. Not a bit of it: the royal beast declined to be drawn; hepreferred retirement. The Maharajah, whose elephant was stationed nextto mine, even apologised for the resolute cowardice with which he clungto his ignoble lurking-place.

  The beaters drew in: the elephants, raising their trunks in air andsniffing suspicion, moved slowly inward. We had girt him round now witha perfect ring, through which he could not possibly break withoutattacking somebody. The Maharajah kept a fixed eye on my personalsafety. But still the royal animal crouched and skulked, and still theblack beaters shrieked, howled, and gesticulated. At last, among thetall perpendicular lights and shadows of the big grasses and bamboos, Iseemed to see something move--something striped like the stems, yetpassing slowly, slowly, slowly between them. It moved in a stealthyundulating line. No one could believe till he saw it how the brightflame-coloured bands of vivid orange-yellow on the monster's flanks, andthe interspersed black stripes, could fade away and harmonise, in theirnative surroundings, with the lights and shades of the upright jungle.It was a marvel of mimicry. 'Look there!' I cried to the Maharajah,pointing one eager hand. 'What is that thing there, moving?'

  He stared where I pointed. 'By Jove,' he cried, raising his rifle with asportsman's quickness, 'you have spotted him first! The tiger!'

  The terrified beast stole slowly and cautiously through the tallgrasses, his lithe, silken side gliding in and out snakewise, and onlyhis fierce eyes burning bright with gleaming flashes between the gloomof the jungle. Once I had seen him, I could follow with ease his sinuouspath among the tangled bamboos, a waving line of beauty in perpetualmotion. The Maharajah followed him too, with his keen eyes, and pointedhis rifle hastily. But, quick as he was, Lord Southminster was beforehim. I had half expected to find the pea-green young man turn coward atthe last moment; but in that I was mistaken: I will do him the justiceto say, whatever else he was, he was a born sportsman. The gleam of joyin his leaden eye when he caught sight of the tiger, the flush ofexcitement on his pasty face, the eagerness of his alert attitude, werethings to see and remember. That moment almost ennobled him. In sight ofdanger, the best instincts of the savage seemed to revive within him. Incivilised life he was a poor creature; face to face with a wild beast hebecame a mighty shikari. Perhaps that was why he was so fond of big-gameshooting. He may have felt it raised him in the scale of being.

  He lifted his rifle and fired. He was a cool shot, and he wounded thebeast upon its left shoulder. I could see the great crimson stream gushout all at once across the shapely sides, staining the flame-colouredstripes and reddening the black shadows. The tiger drew back, gave alow, fierce growl, and then crouched among the jungle. I saw he wasgoing to leap; he bent his huge backbone into a strong downward curve,took in a deep breath, and stood at bay, glaring at us. Which elephantwould he attack? That was what he was now debating. Next moment, with afrightful R'-r'-r'-r', he had straightened out his muscles, and, like abolt from a bow, had launched his huge bulk forward.

  I never saw his charge. I never knew he had leapt upon me. I only feltmy elephant rock from side to side like a ship in a storm. He wastrumpeting, shaking, roaring with rage and pain, for the tiger was onhis flanks, its claws buried deep in the skin of his forehead. I couldnot keep my seat; I felt myself tossed about in the frail howdah like apill in a pill-box. The elephant, in a death grapple, was trying toshake off his ghastly enemy. For a minute or two, I was conscious ofnothing save this swinging movement. Then, opening my eyes for a second,I saw the tiger, in all his terrible beauty, clinging to the elephant'shead by the claws of his fore paws, and struggling for a foothold onits trunk with his mighty hind legs, in a wounded agony of despair andvengeance. He would sell his life dear; he would have one or other ofus.

  Lord Southminster raised his rifle again; but the Maharajah shoutedaloud in an angry voice: 'Don't fire! Don't fire! You will kill thelady! You can't aim at him like that. The beast is rocking so that noone can say where a shot will take effect. Down with your gun, sir,instantly!'

  IT WENT OFF UNEXPECTEDLY.]

  My mahout, unable to keep his seat with the rocking, now dropped off hiscushion among the scrub below. He could speak a few words of English.'Shoot, Mem Sahib, shoot!' he cried, flinging his hands up. But I wastossed to and fro, from side to side, with my rifle under my arm. It wasimpossible to aim. Yet in sheer terror I tried to draw the trigger. Ifailed; but somehow I caught my rifle against the side of my cage.Something snapped in it somewhere. It went off unexpectedly, without myaiming or firing. I shut my eyes. When I opened them again, I saw aswimming picture of the great sullen beast, loosing his hold on theelephant. I saw his brindled face; I saw his white tusks. But hisgleaming pupils burned bright no longer. His jaw was full towards me: Ihad shot him between the eyes. He fell, slowly, with blood streamingfrom his nostrils, and his tongue lolling out. His muscles relaxed; hishuge limbs grew limp. In a minute, he lay stretched at full length onthe ground, with his head on one side, a grand, terrible picture.

  My mahout flung up his hands in wonder and amazement. 'My father!' hecried aloud. 'Truly, the Mem Sahib is a great shikari!'

  The Maharajah stretched across to me. 'That was a wonderful shot!' heexclaimed. 'I could never have believed a woman could show such nerveand coolness.'

  Nerve and coolness, indeed! I was trembling all over like an Italiangreyhound, every limb a jelly; and I had not even fired: the rifle wentoff of itself without me. I am innocent of having ever endangered thelife of a haycock. But once more I dissembled. 'Yes, it _was_ adifficult shot,' I said jauntily, as if I rather liked tiger-hunting.'I didn't think I'd hit him.' Still the effect of my speech was somewhatmarred, I fear, by the tears that in spite of me rolled down my cheeksilently.

  ''Pon honah, I nevah saw a finah piece of shooting in my life,' LordSouthminster drawled out. Then he added aside, in an undertone, 'Makes afellow moah determined to annex her than evah!'

  I sat in my howdah, half dazed. I hardly heard what they were saying. Myheart danced like the elephant. Then it stood still within me. I wasonly aware of a feeling of faintness. Luckily for my reputation as amighty sportswoman, however, I just managed to keep up, and did notactually faint, as I was more than half inclined to do.

  Next followed the native paean. The beaters crowded round the fallenbeast in a chorus of congratulation. Many of the villagers also ran out,with prayers and ejaculations, to swell our tri
umph. It was all like adream. They hustled round me and salaamed to me. A woman had shot him!Wonderful! A babel of voices resounded in my ears. I was aware that pureaccident had elevated me into a heroine.

  'Put the beast on a pad elephant,' the Maharajah called out.

  The beaters tied ropes round his body and raised him with difficulty.

  The Maharajah's face grew stern. 'Where are the whiskers?' he asked,fiercely, in his own tongue, which Major Balmossie interpreted for me.

  The beaters and the villagers, bowing low and expanding their hands,made profuse expressions of ignorance and innocence. But the fact waspatent--the grand face had been mangled. While they had crowded in adense group round the fallen carcass, somebody had cut off the lips andwhiskers and secreted them.

  'They have ruined the skin!' the Maharajah cried out in angry tones. 'Iintended it for the lady. I shall have them all searched, and the manwho has done this thing----'

  I SAW HIM NOW THE ORIENTAL DESPOT.]

  He broke off, and looked around him. His silence was more terrible byfar than the fiercest threat. I saw him now the Oriental despot. All thenatives drew back, awe-struck.

  'The voice of a king is the voice of a great god,' my mahout murmured,in a solemn whisper. Then nobody else said anything.

  'Why do they want the whiskers?' I asked, just to set things straightagain. 'They seem to have been in a precious hurry to take them!'

  The Maharajah's brow cleared. He turned to me once more with hisEuropean manner. 'A tiger's body has wonderful power after his death,'he answered. 'His fangs and his claws are very potent charms. His heartgives courage. Whoever eats of it will never know fear. His liverpreserves against death and pestilence. But the highest virtue of allexists in his whiskers. They are mighty talismans. Chopped up in food,they act as a slow poison, which no doctor can detect, no antidote guardagainst. They are also a sovereign remedy against magic or the evil eye.And administered to women, they make an irresistible philtre, a puissantlove-potion. They secure you the heart of whoever drinks them.'

  'I'd give a couple of monkeys for those whiskahs,' Lord Southminstermurmured, half unnoticed.

  We began to move again. 'We'll go on to where we know there is anothertiger,' the Maharajah said, lightly, as if tigers were partridges. 'MissCayley, you will come with us?'

  I rested on my laurels. (I was quivering still from head to foot.) 'No,thank you, Maharajah,' as unconcernedly as I could; 'I've had quiteenough sport for my first day's tiger-hunting. I think I'll go back now,and write a newspaper account of this little adventure.'

  'You have had luck,' he put in. 'Not everyone kills a tiger his firstday out. This will make good reading.'

  'I wouldn't have missed it for a hundred pounds,' I answered.

  'Then try another.'

  'I wouldn't try another for a thousand,' I cried, fervently. Thatevening, at the palace, I was the heroine of the day. They toasted me ina bumper of Heidsieck's dry monopole. The men made speeches. Everybodytalked gushingly of my splendid courage and my steadiness of hand. Itwas a brilliant shot, under such difficult circumstances. For myself, Isaid nothing. I pretended to look modest. I dared not confess thetruth--that I never fired at all. And from that day to this I have neverconfessed it, till I write it down now in these confiding memoirs.

  IT'S I WHO AM THE WINNAH.]

  One episode cast a gloom over my ill-deserved triumph. In the course ofthe evening, a telegram arrived for the pea-green young man by awhite-turbaned messenger. He read it, and crumpled it up carelessly inhis hand. I looked inquiry. 'Yaas,' he answered, nodding. 'You're quiteright. It's that! Pooah old Marmy has gone, aftah all! Ezekiel andHabakkuk have carried off his sixteen stone at last! And I don't mindtelling yah now--though it was a neah thing--it's _I_ who am thewinnah!'