The Handsomest Man in India.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIII, Issue XIX, 4 November 1899, Page 807

The Handsomest Man in India.

The camp lay scattered broadcast across the face of the hill. Over it all, together with the unspeakable loneliness of the place, was an Indian sun, now setting redly behind a clump of flowering bamboos. “That’s the deuce of it,” remarked one of two kharki-clad men who were walking towards a bell tent pitched under a couple of dusty tamarind trees —which tent was their mess.

“That’s the deuce of it, old chap. When those blessed bamboos start flowering it always means something unpleasant, according to the natives. It’s plague this time, they say.” “Yes, poor devils!” the other answered. “They have it down there now on the plains—Heaven alone knows where it will end. Suppose it can’t reach us up here, otherwise they would not have ordered us to stay.”

“Confounded nuisance!” replied the first speaker. “Such a God-forsaken hole for a handful of Englishmen to grind out their existence in. Wonder if they’ll send us any one to replace the poor chaps who have died, or if they’ll just leave us here and forget all about us?”

His companion smiled gravely. They were the only two remaining officers of what had shortly before been a fairly large punitive expedition.

It was a curious turn of affairs, indeed, which had brought them thus together, face to face every day of their lonely life in that strange hill encampment. Before they left their cantonment with the expedition they had been sworn enemies, eating out their hearts with a hatred which almost amused the on-lookers.

Of course a girl was at the bottom of it all —a small creature with bright eyes and an aggravating little mouth; a girl who was so young that she saw no harm in making men love her for fun.

If only she had been a trifle older. People did not seem inclined to let her off on the score of her youthfulness; especially the men she trifled with. They swore to themselves about her heartlessness, and when next you heard of them they were mostly in command of small expeditions against rebellious natives. Maybe the two lonely men spoken erf here had smarted more than the others, and the case with them was a curious one. Mary Barrow had allowed them both to make ardent love to her, and quietly sent them about their business when they asked her to marry them.

She had seemed to take such a delight in their war-to-the-knife attitude towards each other. It puzzled many people, the two men themselves included; but Mary withstood them all and gave no sign. They went off with the punitive expedition without a word of farewell to her. But one of them noticed something as they marched past her father’s bungalow—Mary hiding behind a hedge of lentenna, watching their departure. He saw two big tears in the eyes he so dearly loved, and decided that they must be for his rival, even though she had refused him. He looked up at his rival now as they sat together outside their messtent, while the Indian evening played softly around them.

“George!” he thought. “What a strikingly handsome Johnny he is! What a' face! What a physique! Why, I’m a stunted pigmy beside him. and so are most other men. Yet little Mary refused him. I wonder she dared, for women are mostly afraid of physically big chaps like Heatherleigh. And all the time I believe she loves him. Strange!—yet I think she must do, else why those tears? I could swear they were there in her eyes; I’d swear to it against everything.” “Say, old chap,” he ventured aloud, “you’re singularly quiet, aren’t you? Nothing to talk about, eh?” “Nothing beyond our chances of being left up here till we rot,” Heatherleigh answered moodily. “Daresay we’ll get the plague in the end, and that will finish us all off nicely. We can bury each other till the last man pegs out.”

Dr. Powell shivered. “Maybe it won’t come,” he said steadily. “We have plenty of time to wait and see.” After a brief silence Heatherleigh spoke out sharply, a curious expression of feeling crossing his handsome features. “Powell,” he said, “I wonder what has become of the little woman we both loved so blindly? Suppose she’s ‘hipped’ many another Johnny since we left, eh? Jove! How I should like to see her again and give her a little lesson. I feel convinced that she has a heart somewhere. If- fate ever sends me across her path again I’ll find her heart and break it for her. It will save other chaps from being hurt as she hurt you and I.” Powell only grunted. He would have given his life to save the little woman even a finger-ache. “I fancy she must have had some reason for playing with us both,” he said, eventually. “Heatherleigh, my belief is that, in spite of everything, she secretly loves you.” Heatherleigh laughed nastily. “Wish to heaven she did!” he exclaimed. “Then I could give her her lesson.”

Powell’s face was newly marked with small-pox, and it made his plain countenance almost hideous. Heatherleigh had been down with the terrible disease first*, and Powell watched him day and night to prevent his good looks being spoiled for Mary. The doctor himself had not come off so well, Heatherileigh being ignorant on matters which stretched beyond the parade-ground and the orderly-room* (Nevertheless, he did his utmost for the sick man, and if Powell did come off with some ugly scars—well, he came off with his life as well, and the two men, so totally unlike, became friends. Their eyes looked away to the distant horizon, whifch skirted a desolate strip of scorched-up plain. It was the only view upon which their sight ever gazed, and the handful of white men under them gazed eternally at it too. They had no other recreation. They never quite remembered afterwards how it happened; but Powell and Heatherleigh, as they still watched, fancied that some curious moving spots suddenly appeared on the horizon line. They both started to their feet, paled a little, then sat down. They laughed stridently. “Couldn’t be anybody coming, could it?” Heatherleigh said in a thick kind of whisper. “No, of course it could’t!” Powell snapped almost crossly. They had grown so weary and sick of the longing to see a fresh face.

They watched for half an hour, and then it was nearly dark. By the end of that half-hour they knew that some one was indeed coming. Across the desolate plain could distinctly be seen a creamy white Arab horse, bearing on his back the form of a woman in a white drill

riding habit. Just behind her, also on Arabs, were two men in kharki. Powell and Heatherleigh had not spoken a word. Their surprise chained their tongues, and if their heartbeats were faster neither guessed. Someone was coming at last, and because the utter dreariness of their recent life had attacked their nerves, they were afraid to show themselves to each other. They remained absolutely mute; it was the safest plan, they decided. Just as the last streaks of day went out of the Indian sky, the figgures became easily distinguishable. Heatherleigh clutched Powell’s arm and held it as though in a vice. His breathing was hot and laboured; his eyes straining and expressionless with the stare in them. “Great Heavens!” he managed to finally cry out. “It’s little Mary Barrow! And here of all places on God’s earth!”

To say the least of it, Mary was just a bit of a nuisance in the camp. True, she never seemed to stir outside her tent; but she was always peeping out, and the men felt forced to pa.y more or less attention to their personal appearance, which was a troublesome matter on a short allowance of kharki. 'rhe party had been travelling in a different direction altogether, but were driven back by the rapidly advancing plague, and eventually found themselves undei* the jurisdiction of Powell and Heatherleigh Had the two men —Mary's father and a friend —put in an appearance alone, the others would have been crazed with gladness. But a girl as well! How thundering awkward! And that the girl should turn out to be little Mary Barrow! Heatherleigh had been almost praying for a chance to be revenged on her; yet now that she was here in answer to his prayer, he could not seem to advance matters one single bit. Mary kept her tent and Powell kept his. “Father,” Mary said to Colonel Barrow one morning, “I thought you told me that Dr. Powell was in this camp.” “Yes, my dear, so he is.”

“Humph! Then it is his back I see sometimes. Father, what’s the matter with his face?” “Marked with small-pox, my dear.” “Badly?” “Yes, badly.” Mary did not mention it again till evening. “How did he get small-pox, father?” she asked. “Looking after Heatherleigh.” “Captain Heatherleigh isn’t marked?” “No. Powell knew how to prevent that.” “Indeed!” Next evening, just as the Indian sun sank redly behind the flowering bamboos, Mary Barrow and Dr. Powell met face to face at the back of the mess-tent. It was their first meeting. and Mary had designed itShe started when she really saw him: she had no idea he was as bad as that. “Awful, isn’t it?” he said, grimly, reading her thought in her eyes. “Time will efface the marks a lot, you

know. And if it doesn’t —well, what matter? A chap may as well be pitted with small-pox as die of plague or liver. See those flowering bamboos, Miss Barrow —the natives declare that it is a sign the plague will come and remain a very long while. Quaintly superstitious, don’t you think?” "Oh, yes, indeed.” Such a strange meeting! He wished heartily that she would not stare at him so. “Never was a good looking Johnny, was 1, Miss Barrow?” he burst out, jauntily. “You are very rude to talk like that,” she answered. “I hear you were terribly anxious to save Captain Heatherleigh from* being marked—why so?” “No special reason. Only I thought as you were fond of him, you might like his beauty preserved intact. Anyway, I know most women would.” Mary winced. He had no right, surely, to talk to her in that way. Yet maybe, she thought, she had brought it on herself. “Yes,” she said, quite calmly and decidedly, “women think an awful lot of good looks.” He took her at her word, which made his suffering worse than ever. Captain Heatherleigh saw them standing there together as he walked towards the mess tent“Heavens!” he thought, “Is she at her old game again? And up here? Can’t she leave the poor old chap alone? She refused him once —surely that ought to lx? enough for any girl.” Mary took to holding little receptions in her father’s tent after that, and in spite of their feelings towards her, her levees greatly relieved the monotony for the men. Her little face grew daily smaller and whiter. Only Powell saw the change, and wondered what was the matter with her. Heatherleigh was making fast and furious love to her, and this time did not mean it.

“Don’t, old chap,” Powell often said to him. “Leave the little woman alone. Don’t hurt her. She was terribly young when we proposed to her. I fancy she is learning wisdom for herself now without any lessons from you.” Heatherleigh smiled. If he could break her heart he would do it, he said, and feel quite justified. Sb, while that little human drama was working itself out among the small white population on the hillside, the natives they had but recently driven back were brightening up their dahs and old rifles. A fresh party arrived at the camp, driven there also by fear of the plague. With them were two white women, and after that Mary Barrow did not seem to take things so seriously. Powell held aloof from her altogether. He just sat still and waited to see the result of Heatherleigh’s lesson. One morning early she startled them all by bringing a newly-brightened and sharpened dah into camp. That day there was work to be done—the pitching of tents in a close little mass and the making of mud fortifications round them. The plague might or might not come; but it seemed a dead

certainty now that the unfriendly natives intended paying them a visit. It became necessary to send out a reconnoitring party, to be back in camp at daybreak the following morning. Heatherleigh went, and as they did not return all next day, great anxiety was felt about them. Powell thought Mary looked whiter than ever, and towards evening suggested riding out some little distance to see if he could pick up any trace of the missing men. Colonel Harrow, who had taken temporary command, would not hear of it at first, but finally yielded. After riding for several hours, Powell was almost blinded for a second or two by suddenly coming upon a wild flare of light in a clearing in the jungle. Mad shouts reached his ear; for a brief space he stood paralysed. Gaunt black moving forms showed horribly in the hideous light of the naked lamps they carried. Powell dismounted, tied his horse to a tree, and stealthily made his way towards the scene of the revel, hoping that the darkness would conceal his presence. All at once a sight met his eyes which seemed to make the blood freeze round his heart. Those yelling demons were dancing madly round the prostrate forms of the men who had l>een sent out to reconnoitre. Merciful heavens! How had they managed to tumble into this? And where was lleatherleigh? There, standing erect in front of him. his big form bound to a treetrunk. his every limb rendered useless. Two women were, perched on old ammunition boxes, poking at his face with curious long, sharp, pencil-like instruments. The natives were shouting in a language of which Powell knew just sufficient to understand the work they were engaged upon. “The gods do not know him! They have not marked him! Mark him. mother! Destroy the womanly smoothness of his faee! Make him to look even as we do, who have been marked by the gods!” Being marked by the gods meant that they were all frightfully pitted with small-pox. Powell's fascinated gaze was chained to the appalling scene for fully sixty seconds. Then he suddenly pulled himself together. He must stop it somehow. The ghastly business must not continue. For little Mary's sake he must save Heatherleigh's life, and his good looks as far as possible.

Had he arrived too late? He had heard of this mysterious inoculation by native women to imitate smallpox—but never till now had he credited a single word of the report. Poor old lleatherleigh! He must be suffering positive agony. And little Mary —what would she say if she could see?

Powell felt absolutely hopeless when it came to the point of doing anything. Only strategy would avail, and no plan seemed likely to present itself to his brain. The women dug their instruments into HJeatherlpigWs face once more. Powell shivered convulsively as though he himself had felt the pain—then, ere he properly realised what he was doing, he rushed from the darkness right into their very midst.

They- paused at his sudden appearance. and immediately saw the livid small-pox marks. "Hold, mothers!" one of the ringleaders shouted. “Here is one whom the gods have marked, and he has dropped out of the sky. Let us hear what he has got to say?” Powell's eyes met Heatherleigh's agonised ones. Clearly the poor chap had already had more than he could stand.

“Speak!” yelled the native. “If you have any message from the gods, make it now.”

For another second Powell looked helpless, and felt worse; then an idea struck him.

“The gods are busy at the plague stations." he said, clearly, in a language they would nearly all understand. “But they marked me thus, so that you might know; then sent me from a far distance bey’ond the hills to warn you of your danger.” Fear crept into their dilated eyes. No one grinned or danced.

"Our danger?" they whispered, hoarsely. Powell heard them; and by degrees the great crowd closed in about him.

“Yes; your imminent danger,” he continued in a loud distinct voice. “It was but one week yesterday since the bamboos in this district . burst into

flower. The gods have declared that before those flowers shall die the plague shall strike this place on its way across the plains. Look!” His voice grew louder. “Look, and look, and look!" He pointed to some bamboos just over their heads, the blossoms on which already appeared to be withering. “They die! They die!" screamed the hysterical natives. Their limbs were drunk with toddy, but their brains were clear. “The gods have warned us! The plague will come. Fly! Fly from this spot, far beyond the hills; ay, even to the furthermost limits of our country. Fly! Fly!” Pen could never describe the wild confusion which followed; but ere daybreak there was not a sign of them anywhere. They had indeed fled, and they took Powell with them, declaring that as the gods had revealed one message they would likewise reveal more. lleatherleigh and his men did their l>est to rescue him; but it was a poor best in their terribly exhausted condition. They managed to crawl back to the camp on the hillside, and made their strange report. Mary Barrow's thin little face flushed hotly when she heard that they had left Powell to the natives. “You left him to such a fate as that?” she cried to lleatherleigh. looking straight into his eyes, and hardlynoticing the scars on his faee. "How dare you leave him! Don't you know those awful natives will butcher him- and tear him to pieces? How could you leave him ’ How could you?” lleatherleigh gazed narrowly into her little wistful face.

“It's an awkward position to explain to you.” he said slowly. “Y’ou see my first duty was to my men—l had to get them away; they were dying of exhaustion. We did our best, nevertheless, to get hold of poor old Powell; but the natives were too strong for us-” He turned on his heel and walked straight to his own tent. He sat on the bed for hours thinking, his face dripping with great beads of perspiration.

"1 said I'd break her lieart. and I’ve done it.” ran the gist of his thoughts. "But. oh! I never thought to break it like that! Poor little woman! So all the time she loved Powell, and now she will never set eyes on him again. What a sorry little story! If I had but known I'd have got him- back here somehow. I'd have sacrificed my own life and all the others to give him safely to her! Oh. oh! Poor little woman! How she will suffer, and it might have been different! Old Powell was right when he said she was too young to know her own mind at the time we spoke of love to her. If only she had been a little older things would have been so different. And now they are parted for ever. I have broken her heart in a way I never expected—and I would give my whole life to see her once more happy. Poor little soul!” A year had passed. lleatherleigh had regained much of his good looks—he was once more the handsomest man in India. The marks were still on his face. but. women never saw them; and men had discovered certain unexpected traits in his character which won their deep respect. Mary Barrow still suffered from the loss of Powell, though no one guessed it save Heatherleigh. He knew, because he had broken her heart. And as he watched her day by day he felt he could have willingly parted with his own life to be able to tell her that Powell was not dead. She had lost, her reputation for mild flirtation. She had grown older. One night, as Heatherleigh sat alone on the verandah of his bungalow—they had returned to the cantonment; long since —he started slightly at hearing some one slowly ascending the verandah steps. He looked up. A face from the dead confronted him! A ghost stood there! The ghost of the man he wanted most on all the wide earth to see! The ghost of Powell! “Merciful heavens!" he almost shouted. “One mouthful of brandy, old ehap. a low hollow voice whispered. “It has taken me all this time to escape from those demons, and I'm nearly done.”

Heatherleigh forced him into a chair. “Is it really you?” he shouted huskily. “Not a wraith? Your living self? It feels like you. Thank God, man, that you have come back.” He was thinking of Mary. “How did you get here? What have you been doing? Here’s the brandy! Quick! Swallow! Then talk!” At the end of half an hour they were still talking. “Mary loves you,” Heatherleigh was persisting. Powell would not hear it. "How could she be expected to,” he said, dejectedly, “with a chap like you knocking about. She told me herself that good looks count awfully with women." "Well, they don't. She didn't mean it. We are both of us absolute ninnies when it gomes to understanding the first beginnings of women. Now, then, old chap, there's the bath-room! Hurry up! Those old clothes will have to do—we've no time to get you any more. Make yourself as decent as you can with water and hair brushes, and then I'll take you over to the Barrows' bungalow myself, in case you miss your way. That poor little woman has been waiting long enough.” Powell rose sulkily. “I don't believe it.” he said. “She told me herself that she considered you the handsomest man in India.” “Come, old chap, hurry up! I’m not the handsomest man in India now, you know — those two native women spoiled my beauty for me. Lord! How they did hurt!”

“Look at your physique,” Powell was starting off, but Heatherleigh forcibly helped him along to the bathroom.

“Why, I'm an undersized pigmy compared with you," he finished fifteen minutes later, when he had rejoined Heatherleigh. His sudden appearance nearly took all the life out of poor little Mary. "Didn’t they kill you, after all?” she cried, with wide open eyes. “Didn’t they butcher you and tear you to pieces? Did they let you come back? Did they let you come back to —me?”

"Mary, do you care?” She nodded. "I have wanted you terribly,” she whispered. “Well, I'm bothered if I can understand it,” he ejaculated. “There's Heatherleigh—one of the biggest and ”

“That was just it,” interrupted Mary. “That’s just why I said No when you asked me to marry you. You see. I have always admired size, and Captain Heatherleigh happened to propose to me just before you did. and—and—well, never mind now. I shall never be so silly as to compare you with him again, for I love you more than all the world.”

It is doubtful whether he yet realises it, though Mary strives every day to show him more plainly. Anyway, he loves his little girl-wife with the great big heart of him, and though they are a small couple their happiness is gigantic.