The Ruby Sword: A Romance of Baluchistan

“I think so,” answered Upward. “We might make a picnic of it. Two fellows from Shâlalai who joined camp with me are coming back to-morrow or the next day, and we might all go together. What do you say, colonel?”

“Oh, I don’t mind. Getting rather old for clambering, though. Come along in to tiffin; that’s the second gong.”

Throughout that repast, Vivien addressed most of her conversation to Upward. Campian, however, who had pulled himself together effectually by now, was observing her keenly. When she did have occasion to answer some remark of his, it was as though she were talking to a perfect stranger, beheld that morning for the first time. Very good. If that were the line she desired to keep to, not in him was it to encroach upon it. He had his share of pride, likewise of vindictiveness, and some of the aggrieved bitterness of their parting was upon him now. But he remembered also that the ornamental sex are consummate actors, and felt savage with himself for having let down his own guard. And this impassiveness he kept up throughout the ordeal of again saying good-bye.

“Well, and what did you think of Colonel Jermyn, Mr Campian?” queried Mrs Upward, when they were seated at dinner that evening. The two men had returned late, having fallen in with more chikór on the way, and she had had no opportunity of catechising him before.

“He seems a pleasant sort of man,” returned Campian. “There was some scheme of cutting them into a kind of exploration picnic, wasn’t there, Upward?” he went on, with the idea of diverting an inevitable cross-examination.

“Them! You saw the niece, then?” rapped out Hazel. “What did you think of her?”

“Think? Why, that you are a shocking little libellist, Hazel, remembering your pronouncement.”

“It wasn’t me who said she was too black; it was Lily.”

“He’s mashed too,” crowed that young person, grinning from ear to ear.

“Why ‘too,’ Lilian? Is the name of those in that hapless plight legion?”

“Rather. You haven’t a ghost of a show. Down at Baghnagar she had three regiments at her feet. But she wouldn’t have anything to say to any of them.”

“That looks as if one had a ghost of a show, Lil,” replied Campian, serenely bantering. In reality, he had two objects to serve – one to cover the situation from all eyes, the other, haply to extract from the chatter of this hapless child anything that might throw light on Vivien’s life since they parted.

“Pff! not you,” came the reply, short and sharp. “There was one– once. She chucked him. No show for anybody now.”

“What a little scandalmonger it is,” said Campian, going off into a shout of laughter. He had to do it, if only to relieve his feelings. The information thus tersely rapped out by Lily, and which drew down upon the head of that young person a mild maternal rebuke for slanginess, had sent his mind up at the rebound. “Where did she get hold of that for a yarn, Mrs Upward?”

“Goodness knows. Things leak out. Even children like that get hold of them in this country;” whereupon Lily sniffed scornfully, and Hazel fired off a derisive cackle. “Do you think her good looking, Mr Campian?”

“Decidedly; and thoroughbred at every point.” The humour of the situation came home to the speaker. Here he was, called upon to give a verdict offhand as to the one woman who for years had filled all his thoughts, who still – before that day to wit – had occupied a large portion of them, and he did so as serenely and unconcernedly as though he had never beheld her before that day. “Why did she chuck – the other fellow?” he went on, moved by an irresistible impulse to keep them to the subject.

“He turned out a rip, I believe,” struck in Upward. “Lifted his elbows too much, most likely. A lot of fellows out here do.”

“You’ve got it all wrong, Ernest,” said his wife. “You really shouldn’t spread such stories. It was for nothing of the sort, but for family reasons, I believe; and the man was all right. And it wasn’t out here either.”

“Oh, well, I don’t know anything about it, and I’ll be hanged if I care,” laughed Upward. “I asked them to come down here for a few days soon, and they said they would. Then you can get it out of her yourself.”

Chapter Ten.

The Markhôr Cave

“There is a large section of our fellow subjects that votes Alpine climbing the most incomprehensible form of lunacy known to science, on the ground that to spend half one’s life, and putting the whole of it in pawn, scrambling up rocks and ice and snow, for the sake of getting to the top of some pinnacle which a hundred people have already got to, and thousands more eventually will, is to place one’s self beyond the pale of ordinary intelligence. But I wonder what such would say of a being of mature age, and laying claim to the possession of ordinary intelligence, who skips up in the middle of the night, and under the guidance of an Asiatic whom he can’t understand, and who can’t understand him, spends several hours crawling over boulders and along blood curdling precipices, on the off-chance of one shot – and the certainty of a miss – at an infernal wild goat, which is of no earthly use to you when you get him, except to stick up his head and brag about it ever after. The Alp-climber would have to cede to him the proud distinction of prize imbecile, I guess.”

Thus mused Campian, as, following in the wake of Bhallu Khan, he wormed himself warily around an elbow of rock, between which and space, was a foothold just twenty inches as to width, and precarious as to stability, he bearing in mind the while two considerations – firstly, the desirability of refraining from dislodging so much as a pebble; secondly, the necessity of refraining from dislodging himself. The first grey of early dawn was just breaking upon the mountain world, and here he was spread-eagled against a cliff of dizzy height and well nigh perpendicular formation: raked by a piercing wind, and wondering whether he should eventually get off it by the ordinary tedious process of slow and sure progression or by the rapid one of a false step – leading to pulverisation. As to one consideration, however, he laboured under no ambiguity of mind. Nothing on earth should induce him to return by the way he had come, even if it must needs take a week to go round by some safer way.

In due course however, the situation improved. The rock face grew less perpendicular, the path wider, and finally they found themselves in a steep gully. Here the old Pathân, pointing upward began signalling vehemently, the gist of which Campian took to be that he must proceed more noiselessly than ever, and that the ridge above being gained, they would find markhôr.

A clamber of a hundred feet – one pebble dislodged with a clatter, bringing his heart to his mouth, and a reproachful glance from Bhallu Khan – and they were cowering behind the top of the ridge. Campian wanted a few moments to steady himself after their long, hard climb. He could not shoot straight in a state of breathlessness, he declared.

It was quite light up here now, but the sun had not risen above the eastern mountain-tops. As they peered over the ridge, the valley beneath still lay in the grey half-dawn. But between it and their point of vantage, on the rock-strewn slopes beneath, something was moving, and it needed not the touch on the arm from the old Pathân and the barely articulated whisper to set Campian’s nerves tingling. He had already taken the rifle from the forester so as to be in readiness.

“Markhôr,” he whispered.

Bhallu Khan nodded. A solitary ram, with fine horns, was browsing unconcernedly. There was no getting any nearer. Campian set the sight at four hundred yards. Then resting the rifle upon the rock in front of him, he took a steady aim and drew trigger.

The roar of the piece among the echoing stillness of the craggy solitudes was like a peal of thunder. The markhôr gave one wild bound into the air, and a thrill of exultation went through the shooter. But the disappointed headshake of Bhallu Khan would promptly have undeceived him, even had not the quarry taken to its heels and gone bounding down the slope at a flying gallop. He let go a couple more shots from the magazine, but wider than the first. Then he threw up the rifle in mingled disgust and resignation, the markhôr now being a mere bounding and very badly frightened speck.

“No good!” he exclaimed. “Can’t do anything with certainty over two hundred yards, and that brute was nearer five than four. Well, I didn’t expect to, so am not disappointed, and it doesn’t really matter a little damn.”

The only word of this reflection understood by Bhallu Khan being the last, he smiled, and proceeded to expatiate in Hindustani, profusely illustrating his harangue with signs. But of this, for his part, Campian understood not even the last word.

He cared the less for his failure to bring down the game in that this had not been his primary object. The pretext of sport had been a pretext only. He wanted to explore the markhôr cave, and that quietly and by himself, wherefore, when a couple of days after their visit to Jermyn he had suggested to Upward a markhôr stalk, the latter, remembering his expressed views on the subject of hard toil inadequately rewarded, had evinced considerable surprise, but excused himself from joining on that very ground, which was exactly what Campian had expected.

Now they were no great distance above that cave, and he soon signalled Bhallu Khan his desire to proceed thither. Somewhat to his surprise, remembering the superstition attached, the old Pathân cheerfully acquiesced, and a downhill climb of about three quarters of an hour brought them to a position commanding its entrance. Signing him to remain there and watch, the forester crawled round to the rock above the gaping black fissure, where by dint of making a considerable noise, and rattling down showers of stones, he hoped to drive forth its inmate. But there came forth nothing.

“This markhôr is a fraud, anyway,” said Campian to himself. And he signalled Bhallu Khan to return just as that estimable Asiatic had himself arrived at the conclusion that there was no point in making further efforts to scare out of a hole something which was not within it. Then they sat on the rock together and conversed, as best they could by signs, while Campian breakfasted on some sandwiches and the contents of a business-like flask.

The sun had risen now, and was reddening the great craggy pinnacles on high with the new glow of day. Later on these would bear an arid and depressing aspect, but now they seemed to soar up proudly to the deepening blue. Meditatively Campian watched the line of light as it dropped lower and lower, soon to flood the valley with its fierce heatwave. Now it had reached the kotal, now it was just touching the junipers which embedded the forest bungalow. He could not see the latter from his present position, it being shut off by a rounded spur; but the immediate surroundings of it drew his glance. Not that they reminded him – oh, no! He had needed no mere reminder since that chance meeting three days ago. Bother thinking! Thinking was worse than useless. Springing to his feet, he signed Bhallu Khan that he wanted to explore the cave.

The fissure was easily approached, opening as it did on to a grass ledge. Campian produced a couple of candles, thereby betraying premeditation in this quest, and, lighting one, gave the other to the old Pathân. Then they advanced into the darkness.

The fissure ran at a slant for about ten yards, then it widened out, with a tolerably level floor, to an irregularly shaped rock chamber, seeming to extend about thirty yards back. The light was flickering and uncertain, and Campian, who was a little in front, felt his arm suddenly and violently seized, and a voice vociferated in his ear. For a brief fraction of a second the idea of treachery flashed through his mind; then he recognised in Bhallu Khan’s tone the vehemence not of menace but of warning.

He had been about to step on a broad, black stripe which lay across the floor of the cavern. Now he halted, his foot already raised. He lowered his candle. The broad, black stripe was a fissure – a crevasse. Of no great width was it – at that point only just wide enough to admit his own body – still it was wide enough. But what of its depth?

Motioning him to stand still, the forester picked up a handful of loose stones, and dropped them in one by one. Both listened. The stones took some time to strike anything, and then it was very far down. There was yet a further and fainter concussion. Bhallu Khan smiled significantly, and shook his head. Campian whistled. Both looked at each other. Then they examined the crevasse again. No current of air arose, which argued no outlet. But the thing was of ghastly depth.

“Your markhôr is a fraud, Bhallu Khan,” said Campian, as they inspected the floor of the cave, and emphasising the statement by signs. “There is no trace of such a thing ever having been into it.”

The other smiled again, and nodded assent. But just then a sound outside made them start and look at each other. It was that of a human voice. Bhallu Khan blew out his light, and Campian followed his example. Thus for a moment they waited.

Footsteps were advancing into the cave. Then the striking of a match. They made out the figure of a man approaching – a native – bearing a lighted candle, which he shaded with his hand. Behind him came another figure, which they could not make out.

“Salaam, brother,” said Bhallu Khan in Hindustani, at the same time lighting his own candle.

The effect on the newcomer was disturbing. He gave a violent start, dropping the candle, which went out. But by their own light Campian could see a business-like revolver pointed straight at him, while a full, clear, feminine voice cried out in purest English:

“Don’t move, or I fire!”

It was his turn to start now. That voice! There was no other like it in the world. He replied calmly:

“Yes. Pull off. You may as well. It won’t really matter much.”

“Oh!” Just a little cry escaped Vivien Wymer. She lowered the weapon, then laughed, and there was a note in her laugh which, in one less self possessed, less self reliant, might almost have been taken for hysterical. “Who would have thought of finding you – anyone – here?” she went on. “But I believe I was the more startled of the two.”

“Yes, I am sure you were,” he replied, advancing now into the light. “We haven’t said ‘How d’you do?’ yet, and it’s as well to keep up the conventionalities.”

She put forth her hand to meet his, and again they clasped hands. Again they had met under strange and unlooked for circumstances – here, in the semi-gloom of the mountain cave.