The Grateful Indian Part 9

"And a child on the top of it," I rejoined, laughing; "all husbands are not like you, Laurie, who feel injured if I insist on carrying my own umbrella. Now look at Spira's face--there is something so lovely in that deep-tinted golden hair and those large mournful eyes. Don't look at her hands or ankles, please--hard work has spoilt them."

Spira now came up to me and kissed my hand, with a low obeisance, as her wont was; she did not speak when her husband was by--he greeted us frankly; then leaning on his long gun, said to me: "I have brought the fuel, the quinces, and the walnuts your Excellency desired; also the mutton-hams you bespoke--they are of my wife's own curing (I ask your pardon for naming her) and right well cured."

The articles were submitted to my inspection, approved of, and paid for, Basil asking very fair prices for them, and handing over the silver to Spira as if he could not be "fashed" to carry it. "Now, Basil," I rather maliciously said, "pray relieve your wife of that heavy load; she must be quite tired."

"Spira is used to heavy loads," replied the imperturbable Basil; "no wife in our hamlet can carry so large a sheaf of corn as she."

Apparently it gratified Spira to be thus compared to a beast of burden; for she crept up to Basil's side and kissed his sleeve. The little boy perched on her back, who had hitherto remained motionless, his face hidden against her neck, and only his tangled auburn curls visible, now threw back his head suddenly, and uttered a hoa.r.s.e cough. A thrill seemed to run through the mother's whole frame at that sound, and she lifted her terrified eyes to her husband. Whatever he might feel, he was too proud to betray anxiety in our presence; and taking the boy off Spira's shoulders he addressed him thus: "Fear not, Nilo, little Nilo; thou shalt live and grow up to be a man, and cut off more Turks' heads in thy day than thy father and thy grandfather, put together." So saying, he tapped a bright silver medal attached to his own breast--the Prince-Bishop's reward for extraordinary valour against the infidels.

The child looked up, amused; such a lovely child, of perhaps two years old, with almond-shaped deep-blue eyes, pearly complexion, and sweet dimpled mouth. I noticed, however, that the eyes were heavy, and the lip soft pink, not red, coral; his breathing came thick, and there was something of the same appearance of distress about him that I once witnessed in a dear little brother of my own, who died in an attack of croup. The sight roused within me feelings and memories that had long, long slept.

The sky, meanwhile, had clouded over, and some heavy drops began to fall--presaging one of those deluges of autumn rain which so often rush down at Cattaro. Mr Englefield urged me to return home, adding, "Had you not better offer shelter to your mountain friends? that pretty child hardly looks stout enough to bear a drenching."

I acted on the kind suggestion, and Spira was thankful to accept my offer; as by the time she had driven her mule to our door it rained in torrents. The Montenegrin standard of cleanliness being very low, I gave them an unoccupied room on the ground floor, and carried some food to them there. Spira scarcely tasted it, but crumbled some bread into a cup of milk and water for little Nilo, and coaxed him to swallow a mouthful or two. By degrees her shyness wore off, and I drew her out to talk of Basil and his exploits; how Basil had won a prize at a shooting match given by their Bishop, and how he was esteemed nearly as good a shot as that prince--not quite: n.o.body could quite come up to his skill, who could hit a lemon thrown up to a great height in the air! This seems a singular accomplishment for a Bishop in the nineteenth century, does it not? Then she related how Basil had last year defended a pa.s.s all by himself against five armed Turks; and how, in token of his approval, the Vladika had deigned to baptise their little child, and permitted him to be called Danilo (or Daniel) after himself. So far all was smooth; but when the little woman entered into particulars about the Turkish war, I was astonished to see how ferocious she grew. Her eyes flashed and dilated as she denounced those "unbelieving dogs;" and she talked of cutting off their heads as coolly as our sportsmen do of bringing home the fox's brush! I was shocked, and tried to bring to her mind the heavenly precepts of mercy towards our enemies; but she only looked bewildered, and said in reply, "Excellency, they are Turks."

Saddened, and rather repelled, I went back to your uncle; but scarcely five minutes later a ringing cry from Spira's part of the house made us both start. We hastened to the spot, and beheld little Nilo stiff and blue in his father's arms--his frame convulsed, and his throat emitting that kind of barking sound which accompanies violent croup. Basil, as he held him, looked the image of despair. As for Spira she had flung herself in a heap in a corner of the room, crying out, like Hagar, "Let me not see the death of the child!" Neither of them had an idea of trying any remedy, unless laying a leaden image of Saint Basil (the patron of Montenegro) on the baby's breast might be called such. When I stole to Basil's side to look at the poor child, and offer a suggestion of hope, he said briefly, "He is called; he must go, as our three others have gone before him; I know it by that hoa.r.s.e raven-note." Then breaking down altogether, he cried, "Nilo, Nilo, would I could die for thee, little one! would I could die for thee!" and the strong man sobbed as if his heart would break. Your uncle and I, deeply moved, took counsel together, and determined to try what could be done. I flew to my well-stocked medicine-chest, and weighed out some croup powders; your uncle, kind soul! went off in search of a bath and hot water. When I returned, I found the parents on the move, preparing to carry their child to a neighbouring church, that the priest might anoint it, according to the rites of the Greek communion, before its death. The rain had ceased, but a dense mist had gathered in and sent a chilly breath through the doorway where Basil stood with Nilo in his arms.

Spira was following--her hands clasped over her bright bodice, and her face looking ten years older than when she came in. So aghast was I at this sight, that I stopped Basil peremptorily, exclaiming in my wretched Slavonic, "Turn back, this instant, if you do not wish to kill the child!" The father glared on me angrily, and stalked across the threshold, muttering some word that sounded like "heretic;" but Spira, whose lovely eyes turned upon me with a ray of hope, happily interposed: she plucked him by the sleeve, kissed it, and said humbly, "Basil, the lady is good; I pray you hearken to her!"

Most providentially, the proud mountaineer's resolution gave way before this meek appeal. He turned back gloomily, let me take the child from his arms, let me have my own way, in short; I beckoned to Spira to help, and together we placed Nilo in the soothing warm water, and coaxed the medicine between those pearly teeth, which at first closed stubbornly against it. It was anxious work, with Basil's dark, distrustful eyes lowering upon me, but, thank Heaven, a blessed and complete success crowned our efforts. Half an hour later, the cold, stiff, little limbs had relaxed, the breathing had become soft, and natural glow and moisture had returned to the skin; the child knew his father, and lifted his hands caressingly to stroke Spira's face. Oh, the pure exquisite delight of those moments, and the deep thankfulness also! My heart silently overflowed with both. Basil and Spira were beside themselves with joy.

To be brief. We insisted on keeping Spira and the child with us till Nilo's strength was restored; as for Basil, he discovered that he must return to Montenegro that night. He stalked off through the misty moonlight, glad, I believe, of the fresh air and rapid climb as a safety-valve for his overflowing rapture. One look was all the thanks he offered me at that time, but what a world of feeling did that look convey!

The night pa.s.sed without further alarm.

Little Nilo quickly recovered his strength, all the more quickly, probably, from the unwonted care I insisted on bestowing on his ablutions and diet. He became a bonnie boy, and wound himself round our hearts, and very sorry we were when the time came for parting. Perched on his mother's back, he returned to the Black Mountain the day week of his seizure.

From that time, tokens of grateful, loving remembrance from our Montenegrin friends ceased not to flow in. It rained quinces, figs, and walnuts; poultry cackled at our door, the bringers running hastily off to get out of the way of payment; and, finally, an elaborate epistle from the parish priest of Cetigna (Basil's home) expressed the grat.i.tude of the village for this our simple act of kindness.

II.

"Oh, that I were where I would be."

Aunt Cattie was called away to see visitors, and it was not till after tea that the story could be resumed. Millie had chafed at the interruption, and said it was horrid of people to come, and bring one down from the Black Mountain to listen to talk about weather and fashions. Janie bore the delay more philosophically, observing that she could not have turned the heel of her stocking so correctly while thinking of Nilo and his poor mother. Archie remained silent, only when Aunt Cattie sat down and resumed her narrative, he was heard to mutter to himself that it was "awful jolly!"

The day that Spira left us, she said, was the last of your uncle's holiday. That evening we sat together before the hearth on which a pine log or two from Montenegro blazed. Your uncle cracked his walnuts in a thoughtful mood, and I sat listening to the wind which rose and rose till it blew a perfect gale; when it paused, as if to take breath, I could count the waves that plashed on the shingle, and hear the shouts of people on the quay welcoming the mail steamer from Ragusa.

"Laurie," said I at last, "are you going by that vessel to-morrow morning?"

"Yes," he answered, "I have made up my mind to go to Ragusa, and come to an explanation with John Popham; there has been a misunderstanding between us, Cattie--I may tell you this much--and he has been led to doubt not only the prudence of my conduct in the affairs of the house, but the purity of my motives also."

"Doubt your purity of motive!" I cried. "If he can do that, Laurie, it is not fit you should remain in his service another moment; it is not, indeed."

There was a quiet smile on his face as he sat opposite to me in the flickering firelight; he did not speak and I sat silent too, perusing the lines of that dear face with a strange unaccountable foreboding of evil.

"The man," thought I, "who can meet the glance of those clear, honest, grey eyes, hear the tones of that kindly voice, and harbour one suspicion, must be blind indeed. Heaven grant my Laurie be not too honest, too unsuspicious for his own safety! If he could only be persuaded to take half the care of that he does of the interests of those ungrateful Pophams, there would be no cause for fear."

Your uncle spoke at last.

"Wee wifie," he said, "one must not be in a hurry to break a connection of thirty-three years' standing. I was but two years old when Mr Popham, the father of Francis and John, first took me up. I was an orphan with a bare pittance to maintain me, and no near relations; and had Mr Popham been a less conscientious guardian, I might have been exposed to many privations, ay, and temptations too. As it was, he nursed my little inheritance carefully, put me to a good though strict school, and arranged that I should spend my holidays at his house. Mrs Popham (the mother of Francis, now head of our firm) was a mother to me also, and her early death was my first keen and lasting grief. It made Francis and me cling closely to one another, the more so because bereavement added much to the natural sternness of Mr Popham's character. Our holidays for the next three years were seasons rather of restraint than of enjoyment, but bright days returned when he married the second Mrs Popham, a young Greek of extraordinary beauty and gentleness. He only lived five years after that, and his death was a great misfortune to his younger boy John, who was left at four years old to the boundless spoiling of a doting mother. Francis's character was quite formed at that time, and his habits of business and order were very remarkable for one so young. At twenty, he took the direction of affairs, and with the help of experienced advisers, has managed them admirably for fifteen years. He and I have met but rarely, as my knack of mastering languages easily had caused me to be employed chiefly in the service of the house abroad, but I think our friendship is such as to stand the test of absence, ay, and of calumny too. I do not, cannot, believe he will endorse his brother's hasty censure of my conduct."

Laurie jumped up and paced the room awhile, then stood still, and said abruptly--

"Shall I read you an article in the last 'Quarterly,' Cattie? It's in my portmanteau somewhere; come and help me to look for it."

I linked my arm in his, well pleased, and we were crossing the hall and listening to the pattering of the salt spray against the window, when, lo! there came a sharp rap at the house door. Mr Englefield unbarred it cautiously, and started as he encountered a very tall and slight figure wrapped in a shepherd's plaid, and seeming to cower under the stormy blast.

"Mr Popham," he said, in a low, constrained voice; then observing the wet and forlorn plight of the unexpected visitor, he added anxiously, "Come in, sir, I beg; come in. Catherine, see that Mr Popham's room is got ready at once, and the stove lighted."

"Don't call me 'Mr Popham,' Englefield," responded the musical, pleading voice of the stranger. "Call me John or Johnnie, as in old days, if you don't wish to overpower me with shame and self-reproach. I have been an egregious fool, Englefield, and a most ungrateful one, and really know not in what terms to implore your forgiveness."

"It is granted as soon as asked," replied your uncle in his frank way, and he drew our guest in towards the blazing hearth, "Johnnie's" arm lovingly twining itself round his neck as they walked together. What a revolution was this! I stood by, in silent wonder, watching Laurie's brightening face, and glancing up curiously at the fair-haired stranger.

As I observed his youthful appearance, more that of nineteen than of his real age, twenty-two; his delicate features, glowing with excitement; and his deep, blue eyes, with tears gathering on their long lashes, I no longer marvelled at the tenderness with which my husband had always spoken of him; my recent dislike quickly melted away, and kind feelings sprang up in its place. These feelings speedily took the practical shape of providing dry clothes, supper and bed for our guest, who seemed really distressed at giving me any trouble. He positively declined supper, saying, "he had dined late on the steamer." As for bed, why it was hardly worth while preparing that, for he must be up and away by daybreak. "He should go with a lighter heart now Laurie had forgiven him."

"Go, and whither?" inquired your uncle who out or delicacy had restrained his eager longing to learn how the affairs of the house stood.

"I hardly know," answered Mr Popham; "that's the point I want to discuss with you, Englefield. I think I must go to Scutari, as that rascal Orlando Jones appears to have crossed the Turkish frontier in that direction. I must, at any rate, track and secure those diamonds.

I can never face Francis otherwise; you know they were entrusted to our care so specially."

My husband had listened in speechless astonishment to these disclosures, and I saw him turn pale. Mr Popham saw it too.

"Is it possible, my dear Laurence," he said, "that you had not heard of Jones's having absconded? Why, I wrote you five days ago a penitential letter, and a full, true, and particular account of the rascal's moonlight flitting; if, as it seems, you had never received my apology, I wonder you didn't shut your door in my face; but you _are_ the best fellow in the world."

"Nonsense," was the blunt reply; "drink that gla.s.s of mulled wine, John, I insist upon it, and then come with me. I must know all, that we may see what's to be done, and do it at once."

I saw little more of Laurie that evening; their voices might be heard through the thin wall in earnest talk. Then he went out into the town with a brow full of care and thought. He would not let young Popham go with him, but ordered him off to bed, observing.

"We will start early if I can obtain to-night from the authorities a pa.s.s into the Turkish dominions. My Cattarese servant, a sharp fellow, will soon find us horses and a guide for the journey."

"Then you are going with me? G.o.d bless you, Laurie," said John Popham, earnestly.

"Of course I am," growled your uncle.

With an aching heart, I put the finishing touches to Laurie's travelling gear, then went to bed, but not to quiet or refreshing sleep. There is generally something depressing, I think, in a very early setting out; my heart sinks now as I recall the breakfast by lamplight; faint, bluish dawn just marking the square outline of the window; the horses' tread, as our man servant walked them up and down before the doors--the last words and directions hastily given by the travellers. Laurie found a moment to take me aside and say: "Cattie, I think we shall be back very shortly; Scutari, whither we can trace Jones, is but a few miles distant and our journey attended with little or no risk, as we are well armed, fairly mounted, and provided with a pa.s.sport in due form. I have letters too to the Pasha which _may_ induce him to a.s.sist us in our search after that rascal."

"Have you much hope of catching him?" I asked.

Laurie shook his head. "I confess I have very little," he said; "yet it seems worth the attempt at all events; Johnnie is bent on making it, and I can't let him go alone, poor boy! Ah, had his letter reached me four days ago, as it would have done had he trusted it to fitting hands, we should have had a much better chance;" and he fairly stamped his foot with vexation.

Well, they started; it was a Tuesday, and several days dragged their slow length along, without any tidings of the absentees. Sat.u.r.day morning came, and brought a throng of mountain women to market, unaccompanied, for the first time, by their husbands. Spira was there, and delighted to see me, but even to her I could not hint my troubles, as the good understanding then existing between Austria and England and the Turks, was a very sore subject to a Montenegrin. So I replied but vaguely to her inquiries after my lord and master, and begged to know why _hers_ had not made his appearance as usual.

"Oh, your Excellency, he is much better employed," she replied, "than coming down here to buy salt; have you not heard? has n.o.body told you the new outrage committed by those Turkish dogs? our deadly foe, the Pasha of Scutari, without notice or warning, has attacked our Bishop's island fort of Lessandro, at the head of the Scutari lake, and taken it; ten of our men have been killed, my father's brother's son amongst them, and ten taken prisoners. The Bishop is mad about it, and Basil and all the picked men are flocking to him. The Pasha himself is at Lessandro,"

added Spira, "may a bullet from our Vladika's rifle whiz through his brain shortly! But what ails your Excellency? you shiver like our silver aspen leaves."

I did indeed feel great disquiet at the thought of the wild work my husband might be witnessing, and finding Spira's conversation too warlike to suit my taste, walked homewards slowly, bidding her follow with the marketings. In our sitting-room I found Mr Popham!

He came up and took my two hands in his, as if he had been the friend of a lifetime, instead of the acquaintance of an evening.

"I think, I hope he is safe," he said, looking very white.

"How safe?" I asked; "tell me _all_, Mr Popham, if you please."