CHAPTER XVII
Proving that all's well that ends well.
“Father dear,” said Jane Warburton, days later, “you are as platitudinously impressive as a Bishop!”
“A remark,” rejoined the financier, “which lacks in reverence both to the church and to myself.”
“Jane,” he said after a pause and, rather, as if the admission hurt him, “you are my only child, and I love you.”
“You don't exactly show it, dad!” came the quick reply.
“I show it in my own way.”
“Your own way is to …”
“To stop you from doing a foolish thing which you'd regret sooner or later.”
“One never regrets love, dad!”
“One does, too!”
And, for the tenth time, Mr. Warburton reiterated his objections to the marriage of his daughter and Hector Wade.
Mr. Ezra Warburton was a manly man—what is called so in lieu of a better term—who had always been in the habit of considering his daughter's sex as rather an indelicate intrusion into his business life—which was his whole life. Of course he loved her, loved her dearly, but the fact that she was a girl and not a boy somehow rankled; it was the only thing for which he had ever blamed his dead wife. Even then he would not have minded it so much, had not Jane, at an early age, exhibited certain man-like characteristics, chiefly a decisive and stubborn independence, which he would have admired in a son, but which irritated him in a daughter; the more so as Jane, with either conscious or unconscious cleverness, used her strictly feminine characteristics to back up and reënforce her masculine qualities—tempering steel with diamond, as it were—a combination which Mr. Warburton found it hard to combat.
The result was that she usually had her own way; and a further result was chromatic friction. As a rule, at least in minor matters, this friction was allayed by Mr. Warburton giving in, but in more important matters he acted differently at times, and showed a stubbornness which fully equaled hers.
He did so now, as he repeated that, even supposing that Hector had been innocently accused of cheating at cards, even granting that he had made a splendid success as de facto regent of Tamerlanistan, the fact of the old scandal which had driven him from England still existed, and could not be overlooked.
“What difference does that make?” demanded Jane. “He lives here—and not in England. He's through with Mayfair and Belgravia and the Horse Guards Barracks!”
“The greater his success here, the more his enemies …”
“He has no enemies—no personal enemies!”
“He will have pro rata with his success. Yes—the greater his success here, the more his enemies will dig into his past, and make capital out of the old scandal. And, sooner or later, he is bound to visit England. Chiefly if he marries you. You don't want to stay in Tamerlanistan all the rest of your natural life!”
And then he reminded her of her old promise not to marry Hector Wade until the latter had completely cleared his name.
Hector, when appealed to by Jane, agreed with Mr. Warburton.
He did not know what it was: either the subtle influence of the fatalistic Orient, or a deep conviction in his own heart; but, somehow, he felt absolutely sure that, sooner or later, the stigma and taint that marred his name would be removed.
“Why are you so sure?” asked Jane. “Have you heard from home? Has your brother confessed perhaps?” For, by this time, though Hector, faithful to the promise he had given his father, had not given her any explanation of the affair, she, putting two and two together, had made to herself a pretty clear picture of what had happened. “Or has your father …?”
“No, dear. It's something different. You see, I'm not a religious man—what goes under the name of religion, what? But I have a certain belief in the everlasting squareness and decency of—oh, you know—things!”
“Things!” mimicked Jane. “You are an inarticulate old dear, and I'm afraid you'll be a most unsatisfactory lover!”
“No, I won't!” he said, boyishly, just a little hurt. “And that's just what I mean. Love! You see, love is the greatest force in the world, and I do love you, heart and soul and body, and every last, deepest, finest, most secret thought in me. And—why—it's bound to come out all right—don't you see—sooner or later!”
“Yes,” murmured Jane, “it's bound to come out all right!”
It did, rather sooner than Hector expected; and it began, not many weeks afterwards, with the governor of the western marches entering the audience hall arm in arm with Musa Al-Mutasim, and proclaiming, with a great deal of self-righteousness, that—by the red pig's bristles!—he had now proved once and for all his loyalty which, so it appeared, glistened in his soul as “the early rays of the young sun glisten in the tree tops of a staunch forest, O Aziza Nurmahal!”
With which and, too, with a triumphant side glance at his twin brother and worst enemy, the governor of the eastern marches, he related that the confidential messengers whom he had despatched to his headquarters in the western province had returned, that his and Musa Al-Mutasim's armies had sworn fealty to the established government, and that even now a picked squadron under the command of Koom Khan was on the way, with the two sahebs as prisoners, to be dealt with as they deserved.
“As they deserve, by the horns of the Archangel Ashrafeel!” echoed the Arab, winking significantly at Wahab al-Shaitan, the chief executioner.
Three days later, amidst great excitement that spread from the streets and bazaars and mosques, where the cries of the populace were like a noise of a distant sea ebbing and flowing and whirling and eddying in regular beats, to the highest turret of the Gengizkhani palace where the “Watcher of the Far Places” broke into high-pitched ululations of triumph, Koom Khan rode into town. He was at the head of a picked squadron of the recent rebels—now loyal supporters of Aziza Nurmahal, as they shouted to the throng—and near the end of the cortège, astride donkeys, their hands bound behind their backs and their heads facing the animals' tails, came Mr. Preserved Higgins and The Honorable Tollemache Wade—butts for the crude jests of the populace, also for a number of decrepit lemons and melons and eggs.
A great wave of joy surged from end to end of the capital: the turmoil and strife was over, once more peace had returned to the land, and even the Sheik-ul-Islam, who had sneaked back into town, none knew when and why, gave pious and hypocritical thanks that Khizr, the green star of peace and plenty, was again blessing Tamerlanistan, quoting learnedly from the Koran, proving his point by quoting about ten chapters from the Marah al-Falah, and then reënforcing his opinion by five hundred lines from the Sharh Ayni.
Joy and excitement and an impromptu holiday—the noisy holiday of Asia—with tents and ambling coffee houses, cook shops and lemonade stands, toy booths and merry-go-rounds jumping from the ground like mushrooms—and bear leaders and ballad singers, ape leaders, fakirs, buffoons, jugglers, fortune tellers, snake charmers, and dancing boys in women's attire.
And, also impromptu, the love-making of Asia which is a trifle indelicate to Western ears and prejudices; the correct method of procedure being for the gallant man to tilt his turban or fur cap to a rakish angle—to show that he is a fast man—to tease his mustaches to the sharp points of a single, well-waxed hair, to shoulder his ashen stick, and to stalk about with a nonchalant, devil-may-care air until he sees a lady whose eyes seem to roll invitingly behind her veil. Then a graceful attitude and soft words:
“O Bride! O Female Pilgrim! O Dispenser of Delights!”—and whatever else the gallant man may have to say.
There is of course the chance that the Dispenser of Delights will refuse to dispense the same and will reply with some such little thing as: “May Allah cut out thy heart and feed it to the most unclean pigs of Syria! Curse thee for an unbelieving and thrice-unclean dog!” or: “Verily I declare that thy ancestry is rotten and thy manners deplorable! Verily I declare that thy female progenitors have been shameless and disreputable since the day of Allah's creation!”
Then the man's retort, with a proper drawl: “Wah, ya'l aguz—Ho, Old Woman!” and he would move away very quickly. For the temper of the fair ones of Asia is short and they may tell things about a man and his ancestry which never can be translated word for word into English—for reasons.
Joy and excitement, and cheers for Gulabian, for Koom Khan, for the princess, for Al Nakia!
Peace!
Friend would meet friend and greet each other with all the extravagance of the East, throwing themselves upon each other's breasts, placing right arm over left shoulder, squeezing like wrestlers, with intermittent hugs and caresses, then laying cheek delicately against cheek and flat palm against palm, at the same time making the loud, smacking noise of many kisses in the air.
When the prisoners were brought into the audience hall. Hector was utterly astonished to recognize his brother.
“Tollemache!” he cried. “Why—Tollemache …”
Then, quickly, he suppressed the words that were rising to his lips. He was here as the regent of Tamerlanistan and the other as a rebel—a slightly amused, slightly amazed, and altogether coolly collected rebel, in contrast to Mr. Preserved Higgins who believed, to quote his own words, in “bullyin' the other feller before the other feller gets a chance to bully you.”
“I s'y!” he shouted. “Wot's all this 'ere muckin' about mean—mykin' me ride a donkey 'indside-front, and pokin' me at the point of a bleedin' lance all over this 'ere plurry, second-'and continent? I'm goin' to raise a 'ell of a stink with the British government, I am. I'm a British subject—and no lousy, card-cheatin' …”
“Shut up, you damned cad!” whispered Tollemache. “I tell you that …”
And then he was suddenly silent. For the Princess Aziza Nurmahal, accompanied by Ayesha Zemzem, had entered the audience hall and was looking at him.
Long she looked, and steadily.
Hector Wade was in a quandary. By all the laws and rules of the land, it was his duty to sentence these two men to death.
Tollemache was his brother.
He said so to the princess, in a whisper.
“He is my brother, Aziza Nurmahal.”
“Then he, too, is of the blood of the Gengizkhani—”
“Yes …”
“And,” continued the princess, dreamily, “he, too, is the 'Expected One' …”
Hector had not heard her last remark. He did not know what to do or say.
Tollemache! His brother! He himself, on the other hand, was the regent of Tamerlanistan. There was his responsibility, his duty, toward the land, the princess.
His duty! Here it flooded through the mists of his brotherly affection—for he loved Tollemache, card scandal or no card scandal—like a naked, lonely hulk on a gray sea.
Yes, whatever his love for his brother, his duty came first. He couldn't help Tollemache. No! He couldn't help him—he repeated the words to himself over and over again—he couldn't help him, and no mistake.
He rose, about to pass sentence; and then, before he could speak, the princess raised her scepter.
“The durbar is over,” she said, in a clear, ringing voice.
“But,” protested Koom Khan, “the prisoners—the two sahebs—what punishment …”
“I am the autocrat of this land,” said the princess, “remember that, Koom Khan. Remember, too”—touching the ancient English blade which connected the fate of her clan with that of the Wades of Dealle—“that once I was forced to forget that I am a woman and …”
“I remember,” said Koom Khan, hastily, looking at the scar which disfigured his wrist.
“Good! The durbar is over. Let Higgins saheb be put in a stout prison. And as to the other saheb—I—I forgive him! For he, too, is of the Gengizkhani blood! His coming, too, was spoken of in the old prophecy—the wooing of the blades!”
And it was Jane who, being a woman and in love, thus wise beyond her years, put the right construction on the strange scene.
“Dad,” she said to Mr. Warburton, “the little princess is in love with Tollemache Wade. She practically told him so.”
“Most indelicate,” commented her father, who considered all the softer emotions as rather immoral.
“I don't know, dad. It's the custom in the Orient for the woman to make the advances to the man.”
“Can't say that, in this respect, the Orient differs so very much from the Occident,” rejoined her father cynically.
Later during the day Hector talked to his brother in private.
He remembered how, years earlier, Tollemache had been his boyhood hero. From cricket to rugger, from bird-nesting to running with the harrier hounds, from single-stick fencing to a bout with the gloves, there was nothing which the other had not been able to do. Even afterwards, when both brothers belonged to the Dragoons and when Tollemache had got into debt. Hector had not lost his admiration, had often interceded for him with their father.
That card scandal?
Why—Hector said to himself that he understood. The temptation had been terrible, there had been that chorus girl—Gwendolyn something-or-other. Why, it would be all right, if Tollemache would only make a clean breast of it, if he would only play the game!
He put it into words, impulsively:
“Tollemache! I'm no jolly good at this sentimental stuff …”
“Nor I. Rather un-English, what?”
“Rather. But—I say—I'm fond of you, you know—”
“Thanks, old chap, and right back at you!”
“Then why aren't you frank with me? Why don't you 'fess up?”
“Nothing to 'fess up,” smiled Tollemache. “Upon my word, I had no idea it was you who were regent here—Al Nakia—and all that sort of drivel. That cad of a Higgins never told me that …”
“I'm not speaking about that, Tollemache. I mean the old card scandal!”
The smile faded from the older man's lips.
“You believe it was I who cheated, don't you?”
“Of course!” came the blunt reply.
“Well—by God—though neither you nor the guv'nor ever gave me a chance to explain—I didn't!”
“You—you …?”
“I—did—not!”
And, suddenly, Hector understood that Tollemache was speaking the truth.
“Who did—then …?” he stammered; and then: “By Jingo, I have it! It's clear—as clear as daylight! It was Higgins!”
“Higgins? Rot! He has enough of the ready to burn it in chunks. A thousand quid is nothing to him!”
“I know. But …”
And Hector told his brother how Mr. Preserved Higgins, via Babu Bansi and Gulabian had heard of the prophecy of the blades, of the Englishman who, according to it, would come out of the West to save Tamerlanistan.
“So he went ahead and found out the name of the English family—our family, Tollemache—the Wades of Dealle—and he came to our house.”
“Yes. I remember. Under the pretext that he wanted to buy or rent Dealle Castle, wasn't it? But—how did he find out that we were meant in the prophecy—even before we did ourselves?”
“I don't know. But he did. And—you see, he's Mr. Warburton's old enemy, and both are after land concessions, as you know—he decided to—oh—how would you put it?”
“Get one of our family into his toils, what? Regular melodramatic style!”
“Exactly,” replied Hector. “After the scandal, he interviewed me, asked me to go to Asia for him. But I wouldn't play. I knocked him down. Then he got you. It's all perfectly clear.”
“Right-oh! Let's interview our amazing Cockney friend!”
They did, and they found Mr. Preserved Higgins at first inclined to bluster.
But Hector reminded him of the fact that he was regent of Tamerlanistan, and that a word to the executioner would …
“You wouldn't?” protested Mr. Preserved Higgins. “Ain't we both British gents? I s'y—look 'ere …”
“No use arguing,” said Hector. “Either you own up or …”
“Right-oh, cocky!” said Mr. Preserved Higgins, with that sudden and complete change of front which was one of his main characteristics and which, often, in the past, had given him the victory in financial battles. “You 'ave me by the short 'air on my neck. I own up, see? It was me cheated at cards. I used to myke oodles of tin at it, years back, when I was in South Africa and still belonged to these 'ere downtrodden masses.”
Pressed to be more explicit, he told how, on the day of the old Ameer's death, his faithful agent, the Babu Bansi, had cabled him, had followed it up by other wires which detailed the story of the prophecy and the blades, and that, for the reasons which the brothers had already guessed, he had made the acquaintance of their father, the earl, under the pretext of renting Dealle Castle.
“But how did you find out that it was our family which was meant by the prophecy?” demanded Tollemache.
“Nothin' to that, old cocky wax! The Babu, 'e cybles me a description of the escutcheon wot is on this 'ere old English blyde wot the princess 'as, and so I and a sandy-'aired gent wot's my confidential secretary does a bit of lookin' through the peerage and the orfice of 'eraldry, until we finds this 'ere escutcheon—a double-'eaded eagle, ain't it? You know the rest!”
“I do,” smiled Hector, “but you don't!”
“Wot you mean?”
“That you are going to cable over to London, to that secretary of yours, and have him put a full page advertisement in all the London dailies and the more important provincial papers, with a complete confession of what you did.”
“I won't,” said Mr. Preserved Higgins.
“You will,” rejoined Hector, pointing through the iron-barred window at the palace courtyard where Wahab al-Shaitan, resplendent in his crimson-and-black robe, his two-handed sword across his supple shoulders, was saying light words of love to Kumar Zaida, the little slave girl.
“Right-oh!” said Mr. Preserved Higgins. “I will!”
Thus it happened that a sandy-haired gentleman, the next morning, looking from the fly-specked window, at the gray, coiling streets of London City, went to the door, opened and read a lengthy cablegram, whistled through his teeth, and said to himself that the guv'nor must have gone batty in his bloomin' old belfry.
But, knowing Mr. Preserved Higgins of old, he followed the instructions to the letter, and caused Fleet Street and Bishopsgate Street and Lombard Street to zum with the greatest financial sensation of a decade.
“Extry—extry!” shrilled the newsboys. “Mr. 'Iggins, the fymous capitalist, mykes full confession … cheated at cards … extry—extry!”
It was a few days later that Hector Wade, walking through the palace garden arm in arm with Jane, suddenly stopped and put his finger on his lips.
“Listen!” he whispered.
For, from behind an immense, gnarled deodar tree, drifted voices, the princess' and Tollemache's, speaking in soft, gliding Persian which Hector translated to Jane in an undertone.
“Aziza Nurmahal!” said Tollemache, “I need thee, I need thee so! The thought of thee going out of my life—God!—I cannot stand it. I could not face existence without thee!”
And the princess' answer:
“And I, too, best beloved, I need thee. Without thee, life would be but the dust of the rose petal, with the sweetness, the perfume, gone forever! Without thee, I shall be as lonely as the gray cliff swallow! I need thee, dear, as thou needest me. Thou art the Expected One! Thou and I, together, will finally fulfill the ancient prophecy—the wooing of blades!”
And it was of the wooing of blades that, not many days later, when the palace and the town, the mosques and bazaars and caravanserais rang with shouts of joy to celebrate the double wedding, Tollemache marrying the princess, and Hector marrying Jane Warburton, Ayesha Zemzem, the old nurse, spoke to Koom Khan and Gulabian.
“Two heads are better than one,” she said, “when it comes to deal with such crafty rogues as you two—not to mention the governor of the western marches and Musa Al-Mutasim and many other scoundrels. The two Al Nakias! The two Expected Ones! Brothers and friends! And together rulers of this land! A brave wooing of blades indeed!”
“And a wooing of hearts,” said Kumar Zaida, the little slave girl, “a wooing of bodies and …”
“Silence!” shrilled the nurse. “Silence, shameless daughter of a pimple! Thou art too young to know aught of love!”
“And thou too old!” came the reply, as Kumar Zaida ducked and ran to escape the nurse's stick.