Chapter XXVI

The dâk had been duly laid with six good horses, and Mallender's departure definitely fixed for the morrow. To celebrate his last ride at Wellunga, the little party had ridden unusually far afield,--indeed so far that on a certain eminence Tara pointed out to him a faint grey line on the horizon which she believed to be Seringapatam! But the young lady was mistaken. Through the golden haze of distance, the eyes of her imagination had merely descried a city in the air! It was late as the riders approached Wellunga, the sun was hot, and the animals were pretty well done, when within a couple of hundred yards of the General's bungalow, they heard frenzied yells from the direction of the bazaar, and coming from the same quarter, beheld a rolling cloud of yellow dust. As the dust gradually dispersed, there emerged from its shelter no less a sight than the processional horse--and man eater! He was loose, and rapidly approaching with streaming pink mane and tail. At first, he seemed only affected by the delight and abandonment of utter freedom, as he galloped headlong, kicking, squealing, and uttering a shrill equine war cry! but soon he descried the three horses, and Rustum, being of high degree, flung back a defiant challenge. In a second, the Khatiawari was chasing him open-mouthed, and Tara, frantically lashing her Arab, turned to fly; but Rustum was tired, the pursuer fresh, and full of pride and gram. Screaming and open-mouthed, he drove his prey right on to the brink of a deep nullah. Here he intended to overtake and destroy him,--for the Khatiawari came of an old native stock, who were bred and trained to kill, in the hideous horse-fights, so popular with the Rajahs of a bygone time.

Mallender instantly grasped the situation! There was not half a second to be lost; he wheeled about, drove his spurs into the brown, and with the intention of "riding him off," dashed between the monster and his victim.

The great white charger came thundering on, like some overwhelming, relentless force, and flung himself furiously with all his weight upon the intervener; there was a second's scrambling and scuffling, a crash of loose stones, and the next moment, the man and two horses had vanished,--been swallowed up by the yawning chasm.

The shrieks of the brutes were weird and blood-curdling, a mixture of rage, hate and agony. Meanwhile a howling, excited mob had come swarming out of the native town, and gathered round the scene; but no one appeared to be capable of doing anything beyond shout. Tara had dismounted, so had Tom! His face pale as death--of a dull shining whiteness; he looked dazed, and miserably uncertain what to do. As for Mrs. Beamish, the mainspring of the household, she sat in the verandah, facing the scene, with her apron over her head, her fingers in her ears endeavouring to deaden those ghastly sounds from the nullah; and truly, these were enough to freeze the marrow of the bones.

At this moment, an unexpected figure in every sense rose to the occasion. The old General, who for a long time had been unable to move unassisted, suddenly walked out into the compound, waving a stick--his scarlet dressing-gown fluttering behind him. To the spectators, it was almost as if the dead had returned to life!--This aged tottering veteran had suddenly cast off the weight of years, and once more taken the field. The sight was as startling to the crowd as the recent, and still hideously audible, horror. A ghost among living men, Richard Beamish stood perfectly erect, his old eyes flamed, his old voice shouted orders, he was as one inspired with a great spirit,--surely a miracle was wrought before their eyes!

In obedience to his orders, a peon ran to Tom with a loaded revolver, a number of men fetched well-ropes, a doolie was sent for, the apothecary summoned; all was done promptly, and by word of command. Presently Tom was lowered by ropes into the nullah, where he shot the Khatiawari through the brain;--the brown stud-bred was dead already. Next came the delicate and difficult task of extricating Mallender, and bringing him to the surface. Once there, and now that the screaming horses were no more, Mrs. Beamish became her normal self; a firm, well-trained, certificated nurse, and a messenger on the fastest horse in Wellunga was despatched to summon a doctor from a station fifty miles away. When the doolie was carried into the bungalow, bearing a still breathing man, the guiding spirit vanished; it was as if a bright flame had burst out, shone for a short time, flickered down, and expired.

The General was assisted to his chair, and once more relapsed into a huddled heap, a feeble old creature, who looked as if his backbone was shrunken and withered, shaking all over, from the reaction of an almost super-natural exertion.

His eyes fell on Tara,--white, stricken, and trembling.

"The child, thank God, is spared," and he lifted up his bony hands, "but the young fellow who saved her?"

"He is not dead, Richard," said his wife. "I have good hopes, and a surgeon will be here to-morrow. You have done wonders, and exhausted yourself; you must let Jessie and the _chokra_ put you to bed, and I will give you a sedative."

"Bed--bed!" he muttered peevishly. "Bed at ten o'clock! Well, begad, it's all I'm fit for _now_!"

Mrs. Beamish devoted the whole of her time and attention to the injured man, and summoned Tara to assist her with sponges and bandages; but when the girl saw the ghastly death-like face, and the stream of blood that pattered on to the matting, she fainted away, and the breathless "dresser," who had just appeared, succeeded to her post. In a miraculously short time the doctor arrived in a motor--the first that had ever penetrated into those parts--and after a careful examination of the patient, expressed his opinion that Mrs. Beamish and her assistant had done all that was immediately needful; the twisted ankle, the fractured arm, and the bites, might not have serious developments.

"The injury to the head is what I fear; it's in a dangerous place, and we may have inflammation, and suppuration," and he nodded gravely; "however, we will hope for the best. He looks a fine, healthy young fellow--all muscle. What's his name?"

"Mallender--Captain Mallender."

"What, the polo player?"

"I don't know; he rides splendidly, they say."

"He won't have a stick in his hand for many a day--if ever. I had better prepare you, and tell you that this crack in the back of his head may have an effect on the brain. He has had an uncommonly narrow squeak. Go on with the remedies, and I'll come again in two days." Then in another voice, he added, "I say, Mrs. Beamish, what a rum place you live in! My chauffeur had never heard of it, no more had I!"

"Yes, but it suits the old General--he prefers to be out of the world."

"Ah--'the world forgetting, by the world forgot!'"

"Oh, yes, we don't bother about society. Now, you must come and have some tiffin," added Mrs. Beamish hospitably. "It's all ready. I'm sorry you won't see my husband,--he is asleep."

"A great age, I understand."

"Yes, ninety-five next birthday."

"Well, ma'am, that speaks volumes for our much-abused Indian climate, doesn't it?"

"That is true, but then the General has a fine constitution, and a good conscience," declared his wife, with dignified complacency.

Thanks to the skilled nursing of Mrs. Beamish and Anthony's faithful attendance, Mallender, by slow degrees, crept back to this world--men in the prime and vigour of their youth do not die easily.--At first, his memory appeared to be a mere glimmering of things half seen, he took no interest in life, and was curiously lethargic.

When the doctor paid a final visit, he said to Mrs. Beamish:

"The young fellow is not fit to go to England; his head would never stand the journey. Try and rouse him, keep him interested and amused, then get him by easy stages to some place in the Hills. In a couple of months, he may be all right."

"We can move him up to my coffee estate," suggested Tom. "It's an easy road, and only a hundred miles from this; bearers and a doolie will do it in twenty-four hours."

"The very thing!" agreed the doctor, "but don't leave him alone; try and make him talk, talk to him,--and _rouse_ him."

This was by no means a simple prescription! Nothing seemed to rouse the invalid; not dogs, or picture papers, or even the prolonged visits of the good-natured Beaufort girls, who deafened the sufferer with their chatter, and loaded him with flowers and sympathy; but one day, after Tara had quitted the room, he said suddenly:

"Why is she so unlike--the others?"

"Bless me! That's a funny question," exclaimed Mrs. Beamish, laying down her sewing and surveying him critically.

"No," raising himself on his elbow. "Quite--quite--quite--what's the word? She is different from--all of you--why?"

Mrs. Beamish reflected for a moment, as she carefully threaded her needle; her patient exhibited interest for the first time, should she tell him something that would possibly startle and stir his stagnant mind?--or not?

"Well, then you shall hear," she answered, after a long pause. "But it's a secret, and I know you can keep one."

He nodded indifferently, with closed eyes.

"Will you be surprised when I tell you that Tara is not our daughter?"

"No," slowly opening his eyes, "more surprised if she _was_!"

"She is no more related to us than you are, and that's the solemn truth!"

"But how--why? Where did she come from?"

Mrs. Beamish made a hasty sign with her hand.

"Now I'm going to tell you, what's only known to three people; if it came to Tara's ears she'd break her heart, she is so proud--so awfully proud. The Beamish's are a very good old family, and she sets great store by that."

"Go on, please," he urged with unexpected animation.

Mrs. Beamish rose and went over and carefully shut a lofty double door, then looked out into the verandah, finally sat down satisfied,--and began.

"It's over nineteen years and more, since the General being uncommonly hale and busy, I took a holiday to see my sister Susan, who was in bad health at Bangalore. Her husband was a missionary; they lived a bit out of the way, up towards the Arab lines, where rents were cheap. Well, I was nursing her through a bad go of fever, and one evening I heard a carriage rumble under the porch. I thought it might be someone for James; for he was a good kind man, and well known.--People often coming to him about charity, or to consult him when in trouble; so I thought nothing whatever of it, till I saw the ayah walking into the room with a very young baby in her arms! She was a queer flighty sort of creature, but honest and kind-hearted. She told me that a _gharry_ with two horses had driven up, and the boy being busy in the cook-house she went out. There was only one person in the carriage, a stern-looking lady with diamonds in her ears, greyish hair, and proud eyes. She had an infant on her lap.

"'I want to leave this little baby with Mrs. Haines for a day or two,' she said, 'as we have sickness in the house,' and with that she handed out the child, and its bottle, and a parcel of clothes. As soon as the ayah had it in her arms, the lady called out to the 'garriwan,' who drove away at a terrible pace. The night was pitch dark, but the ayah thought that they went towards Trinity Road.

"Well, from that day to this, no one ever called for the baby. We did all we could to trace her belongings, but it was just as if the whole thing had been a _dream_. Susan, my sister, did not like to send the poor child down to the Home in Madras, she was so sweetly pretty, and evidently came of gentle folk; though her clothes were not very grand, a fine diamond ring was tied up among them, and three hundred rupees in notes."

Mrs. Beamish paused for a moment; she noticed that her companion's attention was captured at last.

"I wrote to the General, and asked him what I was to do? Susan's health was poor, and James Haines did not take to a young infant; I must confess she cried a lot, and he had terribly broken nights; so Richard said, 'Bring her along, and pass her off as ours. Up here, no one will know, and another in the family makes no difference.' She was christened Tara, after a girl in a book that the General thought a lot of. He was for calling her Dora, after his first wife, but when he came to look into it, he said his wife Dora might not like to have him thinking of another Dora, and the poor baby a _nobody_--but we look on her, and love her, as our own--indeed, if the old man _has_ a favourite, it's Tar!"

"So Tom and Jessie are not in the secret?"

"No one is in it out here but the General and myself, for Susan and James are dead; but some day I must tell Archie Murray."

"I never heard of anything so strange! I wonder if her people will ever trace and claim her?"

"Not likely; but if they did, we would not give her up--unless she wished it. I believe Tara comes of high folk, however low their morals were," added Mrs. Beamish. "Just you look at her hand and foot, and the turn of her neck; and she has a sort of mocking imperious way at times, is a great stickler for manners, and always a wish to be _first_. The girl wants a strong hand, and Archie Murray has that. Tara has a warm loving heart, a great courage, and is extraordinarily generous. She'd give you her last morsel, but she expects a high place and a lot of ceremony."

"Well, now," folding up her work, "I've left you something new to think of, haven't I? and I must go and see if my old man has taken his soup."

Mrs. Beamish had indeed given her patient something to reflect on; and so the beautiful, imperious, indulged Tara was a nameless foundling; rescued and brought up by this good, charitable woman, as her very own!

* * * * *

When the invalid was sufficiently recovered to creep about with a stick, and his arm in a sling, he often sat in the west verandah beside the General, whose sunken wistful eyes untiringly surveyed his beloved India and who liked to have Mallender near him,--although they rarely spoke. One was living in the past, the other's mind,--still somewhat blurred,--was anxiously scanning the future. At last even Mrs. Beamish admitted that Mallender was strong enough to adventure a journey, and it had come as on a previous occasion, to his last day.

Sitting beside the old man, he was astonished to hear him ask Tom to take down his sword, and bring it to him;--it was of an obsolete pattern with a hacked and dented brass scabbard, and its former wearer gazed at it, with a face drawn with emotion, then he said:

"My father gave me this in the year of our Lord, Eighteen hundred and thirty-five. I was a lad then; it has seen its share of service, and never, I thank God, been disgraced. I value it, next to my family here, more than anything in the wide world." Reaching feebly forward, and laying it across the invalid's knees, he said, "See here, Mallender, I give it to _you_."

"To me, sir!" he exclaimed, in astonishment. "Oh, no--no. The sword must remain in the family as an heirloom, it should belong to Tom. You offer me a great honour, but----"

"But Tom is not a soldier," interrupted the General impatiently, "and he wishes it to go to you. Many and many a mile has that sword travelled, and clanked and jingled beside me," and the old man's head fell on his breast. "I'd like to know that at last, it will return to England,--and you will hang it up in your home, and now and then look at it, and think of the old, old soldier who wore it in India for fifty years." Suddenly his voice broke, and the hero of Lucknow, Aliwal, Gwalior and Jhansi, wept.

* * * * *

Even outlandish Wellunga boasted its own correspondent; a certain scribbling baboo, had a brother in the newspaper office of a little rag in Madras, and now and then at long intervals supplied him with a par. or two of fashionable intelligence.

About five weeks after Mallender had reached Tom Beamish's coffee estate, the following appeared in the said little rag.

"Fearful panic occurred here lately on the occasion of a most
alarming affair. A terrible man-eating horse, value Rs. 2000, the
property of our honourable Mr. Rakar, broke loose, and all was
terror and screams; he chased the Arab ridden by our beautiful Miss
Beamish, and would have torn them limb from limb, but a young
mister rode between, and accepted the rage of the wild beast, who
knocked him and horse into a pitch dark nullah, and there devoured
them. The young man saved the lady's life, and was taken up
dead,--but breathing. His name is G. Mallender, and it is said,
that he comes from England."