A Soldier and a Gentleman/Chapter 10

OLONEL STAPLETON sat before his tent, gasping in the stuffiness and trying to forget the spell that Yasmini had cast on him in common with every other man who came within the radius of her eyes. He lit a cigar, and swore at himself—gently, because unless the Colonel of a Regiment respects himself his men will not respect him—but comprehensively.

“I ought to be a long way from my second childhood yet!” he muttered. Then he pricked his ears.

“Headed this way, by gad! Shod horse—tired, too, and ridden hard! News from one of the troops, I’ll be bound.”

With an outlaw on the rampage, and military stores worth stealing under tents, even a General of Division would have been made to halt and give an account of himself before proceeding. None but members of the Regiment knew the password. But he heard the challenge and the answer, and no even momentary check. It was surely news from the scene of operations.

A foaming horse reeled out of the blackness and stopped, heaving and sobbing, before his tent. From his back a figure leaped who looked like a devil fresh from Tophet—who held a naked saber in his hand—whose long black hair was loose and tangled—but who brought the saber up to the salute like a soldier and a swordsman.

“Rung ho, Bahadur! Again I bring good news!”

“Why, Dost Mohammed! What in Heaven’s name?”

“Gopi Lall, Huzoor, is near—can be taken alive—at Yasmini’s!”

“Are you straight from there?”

“No, sahib.”

The Colonel sprang to his feet, stepped up to Dost Mohammed, and looked straight into his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re sane?” he asked.

“Sane, sahib, and not a little weary—but we lose time!”

“I myself left Yasmini’s less than an hour ago—much less. She invited me, and she did her best to prevent my leaving.”

“None the less, sahib, Gopi Lall is there.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Sahib, is there time for argument? I tracked him—I found his woman in the hills—I listened to her. Colonel sahib, I did not ride like this for the fun of it!”

“But, man alive, if Gopi Lall is really there, why should she ask me of all people not to go away?”

“Proof, Huzoor, if proof were lacking! With your Honor in her house, who would dare suspect her? With you in charge of operations against Gopi Lall, would the police or anyone dare look for him in the house where you were? Would a woman of the race and caste of Yasmini—under your favor, sahib—consent to receive an European in her house on any terms or for any motive not dishonest? Think, sahib! Colonel sahib—think and hasten!”

“Dost Mohammed, we must have other evidence than this. She’s a woman—a defenseless woman. I can’t on mere hearsay invade her house and search it, and put her to shame and inconvenience. I can have the house watched, surrounded; I’ve plenty of troopers here for that. But enter the house, accuse her, without evidence? I think not!”

“Colonel sahib, have I run this risk, put on this shame of a disguise, found his trail, and ridden thus, for nothing? Know you aught of Yasmini? Know you aught of me? Is a high caste woman, who lets down the purdah and receives Europeans, to weigh more in the balance than I? Am I a soldier, or a carrier of nurses’ tales? My record—is that nothing?”

He threw his hands up in a gesture of despair—but Colonel Stapleton had come to a decision.

“Orderly!” he called.

A man appeared, like an armed ghost from the shadows.

“Turn-out the guard!”

Half a minute later the clank of sabers told that the order had been obeyed.

“Have you a spare uniform where you can get it, Dost Mohammed?”

“Yes, Colonel sahib.”

“Then put it on. Hurry. Take command of the men and start at once. Surround the house unseen and unheard if possible. I will ride to the front door and ask admittance.”

The native officer saluted and made off, leading his foundered horse and talking to it caressingly. Colonel Stapleton went back into his tent and picked up a copy of the Indian Penal Code. He turned over the pages hurriedly.

“I always did say,” he ground his teeth as he muttered, “that police work is no business for a gentleman. Orderly!” he called. “Send Captain Boileau sahib here to me.”

“Ne hai, sahib.”

“What? Not here? Not in camp? What d’ye mean? When did he go?”

The orderly told of Boileau’s return on horseback, and of his setting out again on foot.

“Then that must have been his lantern that I saw. He’s back there, is he? Um-m-m!”

He was growing puzzled, and rather more suspicious than he cared to feel. At the moment he heard the guard ride off, so he called for his own charger and started after them, growing every second more resentful of the circumstances that could put such distasteful duty in his path. He rode alone to Yasmini’s little door and tied his horse outside; and Yasmini, alone, admitted him.

“The Colonel sahib—back—again—so soon?”

There were wonder and amusement, but mostly gladness, in her voice. She seemed to think that this was a sending of the gods.

“Madam,” he said with dignity (only he used the statelier native word that means ‘mistress of many servants’), “I am in receipt of information that has made this visit necessary.”

Her eyes opened wide, but she showed no sign of embarrassment—only interest and curiosity.

“Why wait here at the door? Will not the Heavenborn—-?”

Instead of finishing the sentence, she floated up the stairs ahead of him. He could have sworn that her little gilded slippers did not touch the carpet. He could have sworn, too, and much more positively, that though there was no maid there to close it the studded door slammed tight behind him.

He refused to sit. She reclined, cushioned and languorous, on a divan and lit a cigarette. But there were no maids there to protect her, and the Colonel was a man of manners. He stood before her, at least four yards away.

“I am told that the outlaw Gopi Lall is in your house!”

She laughed at him. It was silvery, fairy laughter, spontaneous, musical, irresistible—sheer, frank amusement. He was laughing too before he knew it—laughing and twisting his mustache, and fighting with the tendency to run away.

“Surely that is a wonder of a joke. Who is the wit? Name him, Colonel sahib.”

“A man of my own Regiment, mistress of many servants—a man whose word I must respect, at least to the extent of trying at all events to verify it. I have reason to suppose, too, that an officer of mine—the Captain Boileau whom you know—is also here.”

This time Yasmini was not amused. Her eyes changed and she clenched her little hands on a cushion in indignant anger.

“By what right—on whose honor—to what end—do you—dares anyone say that?” She snarled it like a tigress, and curled up on one elbow looking—all lovely though she was—like an animal about to spring.

“Curse!” muttered the Colonel to himself.

“Do I, then, keep a trysting place for British officers?”

“As I have already said, madam, I don’t know what you keep here, what you do here, or why you stay. You must excuse me if I feel obliged to say that it is hard to believe what you told me this evening. That story about hidden treasure is—ah—well—ah—is—I would like to believe it! Won’t you help me to?”

“You mean?”

“I mean that it is necessary that I should see for myself who or what is in this house. No one could regret the necessity more than I, but such is the fact.”

“You can not! You dare not!”

Now she was on her feet.

“It is against all custom—contrary to law!”

“The law is, madam, that I must ask admittance, then ask leave to search. If, after a reasonable time for reflection, that leave is refused me, I then have the right to use force if necessary.”

“That is not the law!”

She faced him with her chin up, eyes ablaze; and he felt his heart melting inside him at the sight of outraged womanhood.

“Go, sir! Leave me! You are insolent!”

“Madam, I shall be very glad to go when I am satisfied that you have no one hidden here. I have a most unpleasant duty to perform—one that you could make much easier for me if you would.”

“You shall not!”

She stamped her foot and looked even lovelier angry than when she purred.

“How dare you to search my house!”

“And I unfortunately must insist, much though I regret it.”

It was a deuce of a predicament for a man whose creed was courtesy! He had to keep reminding himself that a soldier was a man who did his duty under any circumstances.

“Are you a man of honor?”

Those amazing, blazing eyes seemed able to read into his mind! She saw that she had made a home thrust, but—cleverer than many of her kind—instead of following it up until the wound was numb, she changed her tactics instantly.

“Colonel sahib!”

Now she was pleading with him—with the pathos in her voice of a cruelly ill treated child. Reproach, petition, dumb questioning unbelief shone out of her eyes, and her movement even was in part.

“It was truth I told you. There is, there must be, treasure hidden here. I am here to find it, that is all. If I told what I know, the half of India would be here with pick and shovel to forestall me.”

“I am here to look for Gopi Lall, not treasure,” answered Stapleton. “If he is not here, my search can do no harm.”

“No harm? An insult to your honor is no harm, eh, Colonel sahib? Are all soldiers, then, outragers of women’s privacy—or are some soldiers better than the rest?’”

He pulled himself together with an effort, remembering that the sooner this beastly business was over and done with the better for him and her.

“Once more, madam, I ask your permission to search this house.”

“And I refuse it!”

“And I am a soldier and a gentleman!” thought Stapleton. Aloud he said, “Then I must fall back on my authority, and search without your leave.”

He stepped to the nearest door, which was hidden by a curtain to his left and to her right—nearer by two yards to him than her. But she was there before him. Those who had ever seen her dance could have believed anything of her, but to him her movement seemed to have been almost supernatural. She faced him, back against the door, with arms folded on her heaving bosom and her whole blue, gauzy dress vibrating with the passion that possessed her.

“Now! I dare you!”

“Madam, this house is surrounded. No one can get away unseen—not even you or I. There is no sense in trying to prevent me. Why, I could whistle and call up forty troopers to enforce my orders.”

“Do it, then! I dare you!”

She was a better hand than he at reading minds. If she were bluffing, she was certainly disposed to go the limit. Was he? Was he prepared to order in half a troop of cavalry, to trample through her house and upset things, and do by force what he could do so delicately? Not while he had one slim chance left of avoiding it!

His suspicions, of course, were thoroughly aroused by this time. No maids, no Boileau, no leave to search, Dost Mohammed’s positiveness, Yasmini’s concern—there were too many circumstances to explain away. Search he must, and would, although he hated himself more each instant. He reached past her, and felt under the curtain for the fastening of the door. In an instant she was at his throat!

No tigress ever sprang more quickly or more savagely. He felt her grip—and Heavens! how strong her little fingers were! He saw her free hand go to her bosom. Like a flick of light he caught the sheen of steel. So he set his throat muscles, and used both hands and all his strength and energy in the effort to obtain the knife. But she held it out, away from him, and her strong, lithe fingers gripped his throat until he had to spare one hand in the effort to wrench them loose.

Then the knife slithered for his ribs, and he guarded with his forearm only just in time. He seized her around the waist, raised her off her feet—she weighed almost nothing—and swung her round and round and round, hoping to lay her on her back. But her fingers still dug in and the supple, graceful little tigress drew in—in—in along his arms until her face touched his, then writhed, and twirled, and tripped him—him! The six-foot Colonel of a regiment of Bengal Horse lay struggling on his back, with a slip of a woman who weighed a hundred pounds his master!

She had lost the throat grip in the sudden fall, but would he shout for help? Would he let his troopers see him at the mercy of a dancer? Or let them see him fighting with a woman? He saw the gleam of the knife again, and seized her, and crushed her to him, and got the wrist at last. The fight that followed was the worst in his experience.

Even then, he would not hurt her willingly. He wanted the knife; with that in his possession, or tossed out of her reach, he had no doubt of what the end would be. But he could not get the knife. She seemed to want his lifeblood, and fought for it with the ferocity of a tiger-cat—although no animal that ever breathed would have shown half of her brain and courage. Her dancer’s muscles were as strong as his, and far more active; her very smallness placed him at a disadvantage, to say nothing of his gentlemanly fear of hurting her. She showed no fear of hurting him!

She tried to get her fingers in his eyes. Her hair was down and round her shoulders, and time and again she used it as a weapon of offense, shaking her head until it fell in waves over his eyes and blinded him. Then the wrist that held the knife would jerk spasmodically, and he would save himself by nothing else than sheer, brute strength. He held on tight to her slender wrist, but it felt like a steel wire hawser gloved in satin; a hold on the lance of a charging enemy would have been as easy!

They fought all over the floor of the room, up on their feet, then down again. His breath came short now, in labored gasps, and he doubted whether he could have shouted loud enough to make the troopers hear, even if he had cared to try. But she had begun to smile, through lips that had grown strangely cruel, and her breath came evenly. She would dance away from him, swoop in again and try to trip him, and dance away.

Once she all but got her wrist free, but he followed and held on; then she came in toward him like a flash of blue light, and tangled herself between his legs and threw him. He reeled to the floor with a crack that brought the sparks.

He heard her chuckle, saw the flash of steel again, collected all his strength for one more effort to draw her in and crush the breath out of her—when, “Hold!” cried a voice he knew. A second later Boileau had her in his arms, tight pinioned from behind, and held her helpless.

“I have the honor to report, sir, that I’ve just killed Gopi Lall, or somebody who answers his description.”

The Colonel rose to his feet, rubbing his head, and wishing he could rub a dozen places all at once. He noticed then that Boileau was panting too, that his mess jacket was blood soaked and torn in ribbons, and that there were bruises on his arms. He stepped up to Yasmini, and took her knife. She surrendered it quite readily.

“I can not fight two gentlemen!” she said, with the accent very strongly on the last word.

“Confound it, Boileau! This is a deuce of an unpleasant business! What did you say? Killed Gopi Lall? Where? How? Hold her! Hold that woman!”

“He need not hold me!” she answered scornfully. “I am helpless. I surrender.”

“Hold her wrists for the present!” commanded Stapleton. “Where did you say you killed him?”

“In the room at the end of that passage, sir.”

“Come and show me. Bring her, too.”

The Colonel took one wrist, and Boileau the other. Between them they led Yasmini along the passage.

“A neat way of repaying hospitality!” she sneered.

But her manner changed the moment that she saw what Boileau had to show.

He had lit two lamps before he left the room, and by their dim light they could make out what the room contained.

On the floor, by the divan near the window, in the room which Boileau had entered by means of the knotted rope, there lay a one-eyed monster of a man, stone dead. His one sound eye was starting from its socket, and the tongue protruded through scarred and ghastly blue-dyed lips. Both arms were curled—fists clenched, above his head in an attitude of dying agony, and from between them foul, greasy, black locks of hair protruded like a nest of snakes.

“Choked him, sir. Had to. Tried to knife me in the dark; then got a brand new hold on me, and tried to break my neck.”

His explanation was cut short by Yasmini. She shrieked, tore her hands loose, then threw her head back and wailed. It sounded like a love song, or a death chant—or else a chant about the death of love. And then she shrieked again. Boileau made a move to seize her wrists.

“Leave her alone!” commanded Stapleton.

Together they stood still and watched her, dry-eyed and terrible in grief—disheveled, and a dozen times more beautiful than ever. There was a knife in the dead man’s cummerbund, but neither of them noticed that.

Suddenly she sprang, seized the knife, and drew it. Stapleton and Boileau jumped on the defensive, ready to disarm her, but she took no notice of them. Instead, she knelt, and stared down at the dead man’s one protruding eye. Then, with a curse that raised the hair of both who watched, she plunged the long knife deep into the eye, and drew it out and plunged it in the body—and drew it out and plunged it in again—again—again!

“By gad, I can’t watch that!” swore Stapleton.

“Shall I—?”

“No. Don’t touch her. Yasmini!”

She stopped, and looked up. Then she rose and glared at both of them. They stepped forward, but she threw down the knife and stood with her bloody hands beside her, so they both stepped back again.

“Dogs! Devils! Rob me, would you, of revenge? You might have taken jewels—money—clothes—I would have laughed! Revenge was all I asked, or sought or lived for! Officers! Lords of India: Mouthers about honor! You have taken my honor from me. What is left?”

She was silent for a minute, fighting back her sobs; but if ever dumb eyes swore, hers blazed blasphemy.

“See—robbers of a woman’s honor!—I will show you.”

Drawing a key from her bosom, she went to another door, opened it, and motioned them to come and look. So they stood beside her and peered in, feeling like men about to pry on some one’s sacred secrets.

“I had that ready for him—for tonight! Until midnight my maids were to have watched, lest the police should get on his trail and interfere. I had no fear of soldiers—only the police. Had they come, I had another plan all ready—another place to lure him to. You fools—you honor-robbers—were but meant to allay police suspicions; they have watched this house from time to time of late. See! See what you have saved that murderer by slaying him!”

There was little in the stone-floored room except an iron chair, but the purpose of that was evident. It had twisted wire straps made fast to it; a man could have been bound in the chair with their aid so that he could not move. Beside the chair were braziers, heaped with charcoal; and by them pincers, and little rods of steel, and tiny awls, and lengths of wire, and needles—a complete assortment of instruments of torture!

“He would have lived three days, or more, under my hand!” hissed Yasmini between set teeth.

“But why? What had you got against the man?” Colonel Stapleton was more bewildered now than ever.

“I? Because that pig of pigs, that one-eyed plunderer of offal heaps, that carrion, slew my lover, my Prince, my Maharaja, the one love of my life! He ran! The rat-louse ran! He made suspicion fall on me. But I followed—I, with only a dozen maids to help me. I tricked him. I trapped him. I had a bone to pick with Gopi Lall! I would have picked it, but for you!”

“But how did you get him here?”

“The mad, conceited swine imagined that I loved him—as certain other dogs have done!”

She looked a little too hard at Boileau, when she said that, for his peace of mind.

“Sahib!” called a voice. “Huzoor! Colonel sahib!”

Stapleton walked over to the window and leaned out.

“Is that you, Dost Mohammed?”

“Aye. Have you found him, sahib?”

“Yes. He’s here. He’s dead.”

“Who killed him?”

“Captain Boileau.”

“Present my compliments to Captain Boileau sahib. Tell him that his hands will be undefiled when they are washed.”

“You’d better send two troopers up here, Dost Mohammed, to take charge of the body and watch until morning. Come up with them. Have you seen anything of the maidservants?”

“They are here, sahib, all here; they were watching in the jungle. We came on them before they could give the alarm.”

“Let them come up, then, to wait on their mistress.”

Twenty minutes later Colonel Stapleton and Boileau started campward side by side.

“Let this be a lesson to you, Boileau my boy! How did you come to be up there?”

“Saw a rope, sir, and climbed up through a window.”

“A bally ungentlemanly thing to do!”

“It put an end to another gentleman’s career, sir!”

“Yes. And for that, and another reason, I won’t refer to it again. But, as I said, let this be a lesson to you. If ever you get to be the Colonel of a regiment, don’t—don’t ever—on any grounds at all—insist on helping the police!”

“I’ll try to remember it, sir.”

“I feel as if I’d robbed that woman though that’s absurd of course. If anybody’d told me that once—ever in my life—I would lay hands on a woman, even in self-defense, I would have thought him mad. And here I’ve actually fought a woman. I had thought, and I have said repeatedly, that there are no circumstances under which a soldier can not be a gentleman. I retract it. There is one. When engaged on police duty he runs a very serious risk!”