The Weeping Ash

  Scylla had been studying him with equal curiosity. He was unlike anyone she had ever met before. To begin with, he was extremely tall; he would, she thought, easily overtop the Maharajah, who was the tallest person she knew. His beard, eyebrows, and mustaches were a bright gold-red in color, contrasting strangely with his bronzed, weather-beaten complexion. From under the bushy eyebrows looked out the most brilliant blue eyes she had ever seen—vividly, startlingly blue, they seemed lit by an inner light, as sunbeams glance through blue water. His face was long, thin, high-cheekboned, haughty, and hook-nosed like a Shahbaz hawk. And, strangest touch of all, he was dressed from head to foot in Scottish plaid: a jacket and trousers of black and green checkered material (later she learned that it was the Gordon hunting tartan)—even a turban, made from a length of the same material, topped with an egret’s plume, which was held in place by a diamond the size of a mulberry. Both he and his servant—a little man, brown and wrinkled as a nut, dressed in hillman’s clothes—were dusty, grimed, and weary-looking, as if they had traveled for days and days in the open country.

  “I come from Ziatur—I teach the younger princes in the palace,” explained Scylla. “That is how I know about the Maharajah. And, now I come to think of it, I can guess who you must be.” She switched to English from the Punjabi they had been speaking. “Are you not Cameron Sahib?”

  His rather fierce, probing look broke up into a smile.

  “I suppose you have heard about me from those two little monkeys, Amur and Ranji.”

  “Oh, many people talk about you in the court at Ziatur. The Maharajah has been hoping to see you these weeks past, I believe.”

  “Just as I feared! And that is why I stopped to try and bag old Whiskers, in there.” He nodded toward the cave. “I thought a fine new tiger pelt—and he was a beauty, as big as any I’ve come across—would help sweeten the news that I have only half the carbines I promised, and only a third of the cuirasses.”

  “Why is that?” she inquired with interest.

  “Why, because I have been used to buy arms in France. But now the French wish to keep their arms for themselves—or do their own selling.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed in sudden enlightenment. “Perhaps that is why—that accounts—”

  “Accounts for what?” he asked keenly.

  “One of the boys was saying that the French emissaries were trying to persuade the Maharajah to start a Francese compo in his army.”

  “The French? Are there French in Ziatur now?”

  “Two men. I do not know if they are traders or official emissaries.”

  “Their names?”

  “Ducroze and Valhomir.”

  He nodded as if the names were familiar to him. “That pair have been flattering and cajoling their way all across Central Asia. I have come across their traces everywhere. First they were at the court of the Shah of Persia, telling him that France will soon rule the whole of Europe; then they were in Kabul making love to the Amir, and now I find them even in Ziatur! Have they blackened my name to Bhupindra Singh?”

  “Oh no, I think he is wearying to see you. But they have made great friends with his son.”

  “Mihal? He must be a grown man by now. Has he much influence at court?”

  Scylla considered, and replied, “I would say, very much—in his own way. And more so, now that the Maharajah is ill and disinclined for activity.”

  Her own last words reminded her that she was tired—indeed, shaking with fatigue and reaction after the terrifying encounter with the tiger. Although the adventure had lasted only a few minutes, while it was going on the time had seemed to stretch out in a dreamlike, or rather nightmarish, manner, and she felt as if she had lived through several exhausting hours of experience. And she still had a sixteen-mile ride ahead of her.

  She said, “I must return to Ziatur, or my friends will begin to worry about me. Are you—”

  “You came out here alone? Without any escort or companions?” He looked at her in real astonishment.

  “After all, I did not expect to meet a tiger in broad daylight,” Scylla said, laughing. “If you had not been pursuing him he would have been holed up somewhere, fast asleep—like my brother. If I could have woken him, he would have been with me.”

  “Your brother—and now I have guessed who you are.” Cameron Sahib studied her again—his keen, piercing blue stare was highly disconcerting. Scylla blushed, aware that she was hot and dusty, her boots and trousers torn by brambles, her veil dirty and crumpled. She must present a very tatterdemalion appearance. But he went on quite civilly:

  “A brother and sister, English, living in the household of Miss Musson, the American missionary lady—but I am not certain if your name is Da Silva or Paget?”

  “It is Paget,” Scylla said, flushing again.

  “Miss Paget! Very good! I am happy to make your acquaintance,” he said, and swept her a formal bow.

  “Oh, this is so ridiculous!” She could not help laughing, but her curtsy was as graceful as she could make it in her pahari costume. “How can you possibly have heard of me? Do you come from Umballa?”

  “No, my dear ma’am, I have come from England.”

  “England? Then—”

  “And not only have I heard of you, but I even carry a letter addressed to you. However,” he said, with upraised hand checking her astonished exclamation, as he glanced sideways to verify the sun’s position, “you were right in what you said before, you should return to Ziatur immediately, or your friends will certainly worry about you. We too may as well proceed there, now that we are disappointed of His Royal Highness in there,” and he cast a last regretful glance toward the tomb entrance.

  “Have you horses?” asked Scylla, thinking that otherwise it would take them at least five hours to make their way to the city.

  “We do, but they are tethered a mile away. Therbah, go and fetch the horses,” Colonel Cameron said, and, still addressing the little man, he broke into a flood of unfamiliar dialect, pointing off, first through the bamboo thickets and then in a southeasterly direction. The little man nodded intelligently, touched his forehead in a gesture that was both respectful and dignified, then handed both muskets to his master and disappeared at a rapid trot among the bushes.

  “Mount your mare, ma’am,” directed Cameron. “She is all of a sweat, it will do her good to walk her for a mile, till she dries off—I will lead her until Therbah meets us with my pair. She is a beauty,” he added carelessly, noting Kali’s points. “Does she not come from Bhupindra Singh’s stable?”

  “Yes, my brother won her from Mihal at cards. Sir”—Scylla could restrain her curiosity no longer—“do, pray, tell me from whom in England you can possibly have brought me a letter?”

  He burst out laughing. “I will tease your curiosity a little longer! The letter is in my saddlebag—you must wait until Therbah brings it. This is our road, is it not, along the causeway?”

  As they left it, Scylla could not help glancing back at the temple with regret. Gilded in the late afternoon light the soaring red tower and glimpses of marble domes and tracery now appeared strangely magical among the fig and camphor trees; she wished, more than ever, that Cal had been with her to share the adventure.

  “So you and your brother have lived in Ziatur for the last four years? For it must be at least that since I left,” continued Colonel Cameron, walking easily beside the mare with the two muskets balanced on his right shoulder. “Have you never wished to see any more of the world, may I ask?”

  “Oh yes, sir, very greatly.” She glanced down—all she could see was the top of his turban and the egret’s plume, and the glint of red hair along one strongly marked cheekbone. “But what could we do? We had no money of our own—and Miss Musson, our guardian, wishes to remain in Ziatur. She is growing old—we cannot leave her. And although I confess I long to see England—France—Italy—many coun
tries!—my brother, I believe, would be quite content to pass the rest of his life here in northern India.”

  “He wishes to remain and help Miss Musson in her charitable activities?” inquired Colonel Cameron. “That is very creditable in a young man of his age.”

  Scylla was not certain whether in his voice she could detect a certain tinge of irony, but she replied calmly:

  “No, that is not precisely the case—though, to be sure, he is very fond of Miss Musson. But he is a poet, and poets, you know, having so many resources within themselves, are not particular as to their place of residence!—any situation will satisfy them.”

  “Is that so, indeed?” responded Colonel Cameron. “I have not had the fortune to be acquainted with many poets. Do you consider your brother to be a good poet?” he added.

  “Why, yes, sir, I believe he shows considerable talent,” replied Scylla judicially. “Up to the age of fourteen his work displayed no particular genius, but at that age he profited very greatly from the critical advice of our dear friend and guardian, Dr. Winthrop Musson, and I believe that his verses now can compare very favorably with those of Goldsmith or Gray or Cowper. And I myself greatly prefer them to those of Isaac Watts or Matthew Prior.”

  “Well—I shall look forward to reading them with great interest,” said Colonel Cameron. “I perceive that, as well as being a remarkably courageous young lady, you are a well-read one.—But tell me, you speak of yourself and your brother and your guardians—your own mother, I collect, is no longer alive?”

  “Our mother died, sir, six years ago. I think,” Scylla said matter-of-factly, “it was grief that killed her, after my father went off to England and left us.” Then she exclaimed, in a burst of overwhelming curiosity, “Oh, sir, the letter that you bear, is it from him? Have you—do you know our father in England?”

  Colonel Cameron turned, pausing a moment, to study her with interest and some compassion.

  “Were you so attached to your father, then, my child? Did you, too, miss him when he went off to England?”

  “No, I was not in the least attached to him,” replied Scylla bluntly. “He was never particularly kind to me. And I thought that he treated our mother with a wretched lack of civility and consideration. She came of a good Portuguese family on her father’s side. Why did he go off, leaving her with so little money? But of course if he has repented and sent us some money now, I shall try to think more kindly of him.”

  “Well, he has not done so, because he is dead,” replied her companion in an amused tone. “I am relieved to discover that you will not be too stricken at finding yourself doubly an orphan. However, in fairness to your father it must be said that he left India in some financial straits, having lost a great deal of money by gambling—”

  “So it is from him that Cal inherits the taste!” exclaimed Cal’s sister.

  “I understand, too, that a letter he had dispatched to your mother from England failed to find her, so I suppose he concluded that she had found some—” Some other protector, he had been about to say, but altered this to “some other source of revenue.”

  “Instead of which, I presume the letter arrived after she had died,” remarked Scylla rather bitterly. “And by that time, no doubt, my brother and I had gone with the Mussons to northern India. But, sir, pray satisfy my curiosity. What did my father do then? Did he apply to you? Did you meet him in England?”

  Colonel Cameron did not reply immediately. He was shading his eyes, looking westward. “Here comes the Therbah with our beasts,” he remarked.

  The two ponies that came loping toward the causeway, one ridden by Therbah, one led, were short, shaggy, and thickset in build, though with something of distinction in their head and bone structure. Their coats were so long that the hair almost reached the ground and covered their eyes. The dusty gray bestridden by Therbah carried a pair of heavy goatskin saddle bags, and Colonel Cameron, rummaging in one of these, found a packet wrapped in oiled cloth and extracted from it a letter in a somewhat grimy cover, which he handed to Scylla.

  “I can see, ma’am, that your curiosity has reached almost unbearable proportions,” he remarked, half gallantly, half teasingly, “so I will oblige you to restrain it no longer. Besides, in another fifteen minutes the light will be gone, so you had best read it while you may.”

  The letter was addressed to “Mr. and Miss Paget, last heard of in Umballa, India, by Courtesy of Col. Robt. Cameron.”

  Scylla would have torn it open, but the little servant, Therbah, forestalled her. “A moment, missy sahib,” he said, and, taking it from her, pulled from his belt a ferocious-looking curved kukri, or Afghan knife, and neatly slit it around the edges, handing it back to her with a polite salaam.

  About to read it, Scylla bethought herself of her only half-eaten picnic.

  “I have some chicken and fruit here,” she said. “While I read this, would you care—?”

  “Would we care, ma’am? You see before you two famished men!”

  So while she read they demolished the rest of the birthday feast.

  My Dear Cousins:

  Having, through no Merit of my own, succeeded recently to your Late Father’s Fortune, I am anxious to rectify this Sad Injustice, in so far as lies within my Power. Colonel Cameron has been so obliging as to undertake to seek you out when he returns to India. If this letter does indeed reach you, pray write to me and send me your Direction, so that I may share with you the competence which should, by rights, have been entirely yours. And if you should consider coming to England (which I sincerely hope may be the case, so that I may have the Pleasure of meeting two unknown Cousins) pray consider my house to be your Home for as long as you may wish to remain under its roof. I myself have known the discomfort of arriving unfriended and with but limited Resources in a Foreign Land, and it is my earnest wish to help you avoid such a Disagreeable Experience.

  Your sincere well-wisher and Cousin,

  Juliana Paget van Welcker

  Scylla read this epistle once, and then again, with the utmost astonishment.

  “Good heavens! Who is this Juliana? Have you met her, sir? Are you aware of the contents of this letter?”

  “Yes, I have met the countess,” he replied, negligently flinging a leg over his diminutive mount. “But—forgive me—I think we should now press on, for darkness comes so swiftly here. You may, after all, question me as we ride.”

  “You are very right.—But who is Juliana? Where did you meet her?” Scylla wanted to know.

  “I met her at Almack’s Assembly Rooms in London, ma’am.”

  “Almack’s!” breathed Scylla on a sigh of envy. “The very place of all others that I wish to visit! Oh, how lucky you are!”

  “To have been at Almack’s?” He glanced at her in surprise. “Why, it is the most insipid place in the world—nothing but lemonade and orgeat to drink, dismal, rigid propriety prevailing throughout, and the rooms crowded to the doors by young misses with not an idea in their heads, save that of catching a husband.”

  “Then why, sir, were you there?”

  “I consider it necessary to see any place once,” he briefly replied. “In fact, I was passing through London on my way to Scotland. Lady Jersey introduced me to the Countess van Welcker, as she had done with many others coming from the Indian continent, for the countess was attempting to ascertain the whereabouts of her missing cousins. When I told her that I would, in due course, be traveling east again, she ran into the cardroom, borrowed her husband’s tablets, and wrote this letter for me to give you, in the event that I should encounter you.”

  “But how—”

  “I had chanced to mention that I knew the Mussons, who are my compatriots—it seemed that a Dr. Musson had been mentioned to the countess as being one of those who might conceivably know of your whereabouts, since he and his sister had befriended your mother while General Paget still remained in
India. Now, is the chain of connection clear?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” said Scylla after some thought. “But who, precisely, is this Juliana Paget—you say she is a countess?”

  “At the time when I met her she had recently married a Dutch nobleman—a Count van Welcker who was in the service of the Prince of Wales. Miss Paget was, I understand, the granddaughter of your father’s elder brother.”

  “Our cousin once removed. I see. And she says that our father left her all his fortune. But I thought you said that he was in straitened circumstances through gambling debts? How can he have had any fortune to leave?”

  “When General Paget left India his fortunes were at low ebb. But it seems that he had saved the life of an Indian prince who, after a period of time had elapsed, rewarded him with considerable munificence; the money arrived when General Paget was on his deathbed, however, and, to spite his brother, with whom he had quarreled, he left the whole to that brother’s son, the father of this Juliana.”

  “Why should that spite his brother?” asked Scylla, puzzled.

  “Because the brother—yet another General Paget—had quite cast off his son, who would not follow in his father’s profession and go into the army. You appear to belong to a combative and contentious family, ma’am,” said Colonel Cameron with some amusement. It struck him as noteworthy that this member of it did not choose to repine over the neglectful behavior of her father—who, after all, having come into a fortune, might reasonably have been expected to make some provision for his abandoned children. Her interest was all in this newly discovered relation.

  “What was she like—my cousin Juliana? What age is she?”

  “I should judge, about your age, perhaps nineteen or twenty—very pretty, with a brown complexion, sparkling dark eyes, and dusky curls; very much attached to her husband, who seemed some ten or twelve years older.”

  “I should dearly like to meet her,” was Scylla’s reflection.

  “Well—now you will be able to, ma’am,” remarked Colonel Cameron dryly. “You have but to accept her invitation.”