Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Tom whistled shrilly and an ash-hued creature, part Great Dane and certainly part Rampore, came up the path like a catapulted phantom, making hardly any sound. He stopped at the foot of the steps and gazed inquiringly at his master’s face.

  “You may come up.”

  He was an extraordinary animal, enormous, big-jowled, scarred, ungainly and apparently aware of it. He paused again on the top step.

  “Show your manners.”

  The beast walked toward Tess, sniffed at her, wagged his stern exactly once and retired to the other end of the veranda, where Chamu, hurrying with brandy gave him the widest possible berth. Tess looked the other way while Tom Tripe helped himself to a lot of brandy and a little soda.

  “Now get a big bone for the dog,” she ordered.

  “There is none,” the butler answered.

  “Bring the leg-of-mutton bone of yesterday.”

  “That is for soup today.”

  “Bring it!”

  Chamu was standing between Tom Tripe and the Rajputni, with his back to the latter; so nobody saw the hand that slipped something into the ample folds of his sash. He departed muttering by way of the steps and the garden, and the dog growled acknowledgment of the compliment.

  Tess’s Rajput guest continued to say nothing; but made no move to go. Introduction was inevitable, for it was the first rule of that house that all ranks met there on equal terms, whatever their relations elsewhere. Tom Tripe had finished wiping his mustache, and Tess was still wondering just how to manage without betraying the sex of the other or the fact that she herself did not yet know her visitor’s name, when Chamu returned with the bone. He threw it to the dog from a safe distance, and was sniffed at scornfully for his pains.

  “Won’t he take it?” asked Tess.

  “Not from a black man. Bring it here, you!”

  The great brute, with a sidewise growl and glare at the butler that made him sweat with fright, picked up the bone and, at a sign from his master, laid it at the feet of Tess.

  “Show your manners!”

  Once more he waved his stern exactly once.

  “Give it to him, ma’am.”

  Tess touched the bone with her foot, and the dog took it away, scaring

  Chamu along the veranda in front of him.

  “Why don’t you ever call him by name, Tom?”

  “Bad for him, ma’am. When I say, ‘Here, you!’ or whistle, he obeys quick as lightning. But if I say, ‘Trotters!’ which his name is, he knows he’s got to do his own thinking, and keeps his distance till he’s sure what’s wanted. A dog’s like an enlisted man, ma’am; ought to be taught to jump at the word of command and never think for himself until you call him out of the ranks by name. Trotters understands me perfectly.”

  “Speaking of names,” said Tess, “I’d like to introduce you to my guest,

  Tom, but I’m afraid—”

  “You may call me Gunga Singh,” said a quiet voice full of amusement, and Tom Tripe started. He turned about in his chair and for the first time looked the third member of the party in the face.

  “Hoity-toity! Well, I’m jiggered! Dash my drink and dinner, it’s the princess!”

  He rose and saluted cavalierly, jocularly, yet with a deference one could not doubt, showing tobacco-darkened teeth in a smile of almost paternal indulgence.

  “So the Princess Yasmini is Gunga Singh this morning, eh? And here’s Tom Tripe riding up-hill and down-dale, laming his horse and sweating through a clean tunic — with a threat in his ear and a reward promised that he’ll never see a smell of — while the princess is smoking cigarettes—”

  “In very good company!”

  “In good company, aye; but not out of mischief, I’ll be bound! Naughty, naughty!” he said, wagging a finger at her. “Your ladyship’ll get caught one of these days, and where will Tom Tripe be then? I’ve got my job to keep, you know. Friendship’s friendship and respect’s respect, but duty’s what I’m paid to do. Here’s me, drill-master of the maharajah’s troops and a pension coming to me consequent on good behavior, with orders to set a guard over you, miss, and prevent your going and coming without his highness’ leave. And here’s you giving the guard the slip! Somebody tipped his highness off, and I wish you’d heard what’s going to happen to me unless I find you!”

  “You can’t find me, Tom Tripe! I’m not Yasmini today; I’m Gunga Singh!”

  “Tut-tut, Your Ladyship; that won’t do! I swore on my Bible oath to the maharajah that I left you day before yesterday closely guarded in the palace across the river. He felt easy for the first time for a week. Now, because they’re afraid for their skins, the guard all swear by Krishna you were never in there, and that I’ve been bribed! How did you get out of the grounds, miss?”

  “Climbed the wall.”

  “I might have remembered you’re as active as a cat! Next time I’ll mount a double guard on the wall, so they’ll tumble off and break their necks if they fall asleep. But there are no boats, for I saw to it, and the bridge is watched. How did you cross the river?”

  “Swam.”

  “At night?”

  The blue eyes smiled assent.

  “Missy — Your Ladyship, you mustn’t do that. Little ladies that act that way might lose the number of their mess. There’s crockadowndillies in that river — aggilators — what d’ye call the damp things? — mugger. They snap their jaws on a leg and pull you under! The sweeter and prettier you are the more they like you! Besides, missy, princesses aren’t supposed to swim; it’s vulgar.”

  He contrived to look the very incarnation of offended prudery, and she laughed at him with a voice like a golden bell.

  He faced Tess again with a gesture of apology.

  “You’ll pardon me, ma’am, but duty’s duty.”

  Tess was enjoying the play immensely, shrewdly suspecting Tom Tripe of more complaisance than he chose to admit to his prisoner.

  “You must treat my house as a sanctuary, Tom. Outside the garden wall orders I suppose are orders. Inside it I insist all guests are free and equal.”

  The Princess Yasmini slapped her boot with a little riding-switch and laughed delightedly.

  “There, Tom Tripe! Now what will you do?”

  “I’ll have to use persuasion, miss! Tell me how you got into your own palace unseen and out again with a horse without a soul knowing?”

  “‘Come into my net and get caught,’ said the hunter; but the leopard is still at large. ‘Teach me your tracks,’ begged the hunter; but the leopard answered, ‘Learn them!’’

  “Hell’s bells!”

  Tom Tripe scratched his head and wiped sweat from his collar. The princess was gazing away into the distance, not apparently inclined to take the soldier seriously. Tess, wondering what her guest found interesting on the horizon all of a sudden, herself picked out the third beggar’s shabby outline on the same high rock from which Yasmini had confessed to watching before dawn.

  “Will your ladyship ride home with me?” asked Tom Tripe.

  “No.”

  “But why not?”

  “Because the commissioner is coming and there is only one road and he would see me and ask questions. He is stupid enough not to recognize me, but you are too stupid to tell wise lies, and this memsahib is so afraid of an imaginary place called hell that I must stay and do my own—”

  “I left off believing in hell when I was ten years old,” Tess answered.

  “I hope to God you’re right, ma’am!” put in Tom Tripe piously, and both women laughed.

  “Then I shall trust you and we shall always understand each other,” decided Yasmini. “But why will you not tell lies, if there is no hell?”

  “I’m afraid I’m guilty now and then.”

  “But you are ashamed afterward? Why? Lies are necessary, since people are such fools!”

  Tom Tripe interrupted, wiping the inside of his tunic collar again with a big bandanna handkerchief.

  “How do you know the commissioner is comi
ng, Your Ladyship? Phew! You’d better hide! I’ll have to answer too many questions as it is. He’d turn you outside in!”

  “There is no hurry,” said Yasmini. “He will not be here for five minutes and he is a fool in any case. He is walking his horse up-hill.”

  Tess too had seen the beggar on the rock remove his ragged turban, rewind it, and then leisurely remove himself from sight. The system of signals was pretty obviously simple. The whole intriguing East is simple, if one only has simplicity enough to understand it.

  “Can your horse be seen from the road?” Yasmini asked.

  “No, miss. The saises are attending to him under the neem-trees at the rear.”

  “Then ask the memsahib’s permission to pass through the house and leave by the back way.”

  Tess, more amused than ever, nodded consent and clapped her hands for Chamu to come and do the honors.

  “I’ll wait here,” she said, “and welcome the commissioner.”

  “But you, Your Ladyship?” Tom Tripe scratched his head in evident confusion. “I’ve got to account for you, you know.”

  “You haven’t seen me. You have only seen a man named Gunga Singh.”

  “That’s all very fine, missy, but the butler — that man Chamu — he knows you well enough. He’ll get the story to the maharajah’s ears.”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “You dassen’t trust him, miss!”

  Again came the golden laugh, expressive of the worldly wisdom of a thousand women, and sheer delight in it.

  “I shall stay here, if the memsahib permits.”

  Tess nodded again. “The commissioner shall sit with me on the veranda,”

  Tess said. “Chamu will show you into the parlor.”

  (The Blaines had never made the least attempt to leave behind their home-grown names for things. Whoever wanted to in Sialpore might have a drawing-room, but whoever came to that house must sit in a parlor or do the other thing.)

  “Is it possible the burra-sahib will suppose my horse is yours?” Yasmini asked, and again Tess smiled and nodded. She would know what to say to any one who asked impertinent questions.

  Yasmini and Tom Tripe followed Chamu into the house just as the commissioner’s horse’s nose appeared past the gate-post; and once behind the curtains in the long hall that divided room from room, Tom Tripe called a halt to make a final effort at persuasion.

  “Now, missy, Your Ladyship, please!”

  But she had no patience to spare for him.

  “Quick! Send your dog to guard that door!”

  Tom Tripe snapped his fingers and made a motion with his right hand. The dog took up position full in the middle of the passage blocking the way to the kitchen and alert for anything at all, but violence preferred. Chamu, all sly smiles and effusiveness until that instant, as one who would like to be thought a confidential co-conspirator, now suddenly realized that his retreat was cut off. No explanation had been offered, but the fact was obvious and conscience made the usual coward of him. He would rather have bearded Tom Tripe than the dog.

  Yasmini opened on him in his own language, because there was just a chance that otherwise Tess might overhear through the open window and put two and two together.

  “Scullion! Dish-breaker! Conveyor of uncleanness! You have a son?”

  “Truly, heavenborn. One son, who grows into a man — the treasure of my old heart.”

  “A gambler!”

  “A young man, heavenborn, who feels his manhood — now and then gay — now and then foolish”

  “A budmash!” (Bad rascal.)

  “Nay, an honest one!”

  “Who borrowed from Mukhum Dass the money-lender, making untrue promises?”

  “Nay, the money was to pay a debt.”

  “A gambling debt, and he lied about it.”

  “Nay, truly, heavenborn, he but promised Mukhum Dass he would repay the sum with interest.”

  “Swearing he would buy with the money, two horses which Mukhum Dass might seize as forfeit after the appointed time!”

  “Otherwise, heavenborn, Mukhum Dass would not have lent the money!”

  “And now Mukhum Dass threatens prison?”

  “Truly, heavenborn. The money-lender is without shame — without mercy — without conscience.”

  “And that is why you — dog of a spying butler set to betray the sahib’s salt you eat — man of smiles and welcome words! — stole money from me? Was it to pay the debt of thy gambling brat-born-in-a-stable?”

  “I, heavenborn? I steal from thee? I would rather be beaten!”

  “Thou shalt be beaten, and worse, thou and thy son! Feel in his cummerbund, Tom Tripe! I saw where the money went!”

  Promptly into the butler’s sash behind went fingers used to delving into more unmilitary improprieties than any ten civilians could think of. Tripe produced the thousand-rupee note in less than half a minute and, whether or not he believed it stolen, saw through the plan and laughed.

  “Is my name on the back of it?” Yasmini asked.

  Tom Tripe displayed the signature, and Chamu’s clammy face turned ashen-gray.

  “And,” said Yasmini, fixing Chamu with angry blue eyes, “the commissioner sahib is on the veranda! For the reputation of the English he would cause an example to be made of servants who steal from guests in the house of foreigners.”

  Chamu capitulated utterly, and wept.

  “What shall I do? What shall I do?” he demanded.

  “In the jail,” Yasmini said slowly, “you could not spy on my doings, nor report my sayings.”

  “Heavenborn, I am dumb! Only take back the money and I am dumb forever, never seeing or having seen or heard either you or this sahib here! Take back the money!”

  But Yasmini was not so easily balked of her intention.

  “Put his thumb-print on it, Tom Tripe, and see that he writes his name.”

  The trembling Chamu was led into a room where an ink-pot stood open on a desk, and watched narrowly while he made a thumb-mark and scratched a signature. Then:

  “Take the money and pay thy puppy’s debt with it. Afterward beat the boy. And see to it,” Yasmini advised, “that Mukhum Dass gives a receipt, lest he claim the debt a second time!”

  Speechless between relief, doubt and resentment Chamu hid the banknote in his sash and tried to feign gratitude — a quality omitted from his list of elements when a patient, caste-less mother brought him yelling into the world.

  “Go!”

  Tom Tripe made a sign to Trotters, who went and lay down, obviously bored, and Chamu departed backward, bowing repeatedly with both hands raised to his forehead.

  “And now, Your Ladyship?”

  “Take that eater-of-all-that-is-unnamable,” (she meant the dog), “and return to the palace.”

  “Your Ladyship, it’s all my life’s worth!”

  “Tell the maharajah that you have spoken with a certain Gunga Singh, who said that the Princess Yasmini is at the house of the commissioner sahib.”

  “But it’s not true; they’ll—”

  “Let the commissioner sahib deny it then! Go!”

  “But, missy—”

  “Do as I say, Tom Tripe, and when I am maharanee of Sialpore you shall have double pay — and a troupe of dancing girls — and a dozen horses — and the title of bahadur — and all the brandy you can drink. The sepoys shall furthermore have modern uniforms, and you shall drill them until they fall down dead. I have promised. Go!”

  With a wag of his head that admitted impotence in the face of woman’s wiles Tom strode out by the back way, followed at a properly respectful distance by his “eater-of-all-that-is-unnamable.”

  Then the princess walked through the parlor to the deeply cushioned window-seat, outside which the commissioner sat quite alone with Mrs. Blaine, trying to pull strings whose existence is not hinted at in blue books. Yasmini from earliest infancy possessed an uncanny gift of silence, sometimes even when she laughed.

  Chapter Three
>
  No Tresspass!

  There’s comfort in the purple creed

  Of rosary and hood;

  There’s promise in the temple gong,

  And hope (deferred) when evensong

  Foretells a morrow’s good;

  There’s rapture in the royal right

  To lay the daily dole

  In cash or kind at temple-door,

  Since sacrifice must go before

  The saving of a soul.

  The priests who plot for power now,

  Though future glory preach,

  Themselves alike the victims fall

  Of law that mesmerizes all -

  Each subject unto each -

  Though all is well if all obey

  And all have humble heart,

  Nor dare to hold in cursed doubt

  Those gems of truth the church lets out;

  But where’s the apple-cart,

  And where’s the sacred fiction gone,

  And who’s to have the blame

  When any upstart takes a hand

  And, scorning what the priests have planned,

  Plays Harry with the game?

  “Give a woman the last word always; but be sure it is a question, which you leave unanswered.”

  He was a beau ideal commissioner. The native newspaper said so when he first came, having painfully selected the phrase from a “Dictionary Of Polite English for Public Purposes” edited by a College graduate at present in the Andamans. True, later it had called him an “overbearing and insane procrastinator”— “an apostle of absolutism” — and, plum of all literary gleanings, since it left so much to the imagination of the native reader,— “laudator temporis acti.” But that the was because he had withdrawn his private subscription prior to suspending the paper sine die under paragraph so-and-so of the Act for Dealing with Sedition; it could not be held to cancel the correct first judgment, any more than the unmeasured early praise had offset later indiscretion. Beau ideal must stand.

  It was not his first call at the Blaines’ house, although somehow or other he never contrived to find Dick Blaine at home. As a bachelor he had no domestic difficulties to pin him down when office work was over for the morning, and, being a man of hardly more than forty, of fine physique, with an astonishing capacity for swift work, he could usual finish in an hour before breakfast what would have kept the routine rank and file of orthodox officials perspiring through the day. That was one reason why he had been sent to Sialpore — men in the higher ranks, with a pension due them after certain years of service, dislike being hurried.