Part 11 (1/2)

CHAPTER XV.

THE Pa.s.sING OF THE WOON.

Pick up the threads, the web is spun; For weal or woe, the task is done.

_Maraffa_.

”Good-bye, Phipson. We can never forget what we owe you--you and the poor boy who lies there. Come to us when you can. We will give you a warm welcome. It's a big country, and there's room for a young man with hands and feet. Good-bye again!”

Habakkuk shook hands cordially with Phipson, and pa.s.sed up the gangway of the Woon to join his wife, who had already said farewell. The siren whistle screamed shrilly, and with much laughter and good-humoured hustling the crowd on board left the decks, the paddles drummed, and the Woon sidled back from the quay, and then, turning gracefully round, steamed down the river, followed by a mult.i.tude of boats whose gaily dressed occupants formed bright groups of gorgeous colour on the gleaming water. Phipson stood and watched, and answered the wave of the white handkerchief from the stern; stood and watched until the convoy of boats became but little black specks, and the Woon entered a curve of golden water that reflected back the glories of the sunset and was lost to view. In the fore part of the s.h.i.+p, beside his belongings, sat Serferez Ali, who had cut his name, and was going back to enjoy his well-earned pension in his home in the Salt Range of the Punjab. He was rich with this and the rewards he had gained, and if at times he had done things which our civilization does not approve of, that did not the less make him a gallant old specimen of his cla.s.s.

Occasionally he would rise, and, walking to the inclosed s.p.a.ce reserved for horses, caress the soft muzzle of his roan, a round, black muzzle that thrust itself confidingly forward toward him.

”We are going back, Motee, my heart--going back out of this accursed land of swamps. Didst thou think, thou of the Waziri, that I would leave thee to die here? Nay, nay! We are going back to the land where women bring forth men. But we saw the a.s.sa.s.sin hang before we went--hang-like the dog he was; and Bullen, son of Bishen, thy old comrade, brave, but a fool, is now inspector in _my_ place. But comfort thee, my pearl, we are going _home!_”

The mare whinnied back to her master, and the old man sought his seat again, keeping one eye on a heavy bra.s.s-bound box and the other on his favourite.

At intervals he watched the broad fan of the electric light throw its white radiance across the river, and murmured to himself as he inhaled the grateful fumes of the hubble-bubble:

”Prophet of G.o.d! But these English are a wonderful race! Nevertheless, except for their cursed engines, the _khalsa_ would still have been.

_Ahi!_ those were the battles of giants!”

On the quarter deck Ruys, very pale and white, leaned back in a lounge chair, and Habakkuk stood beside her with a new light in his eyes.

They watched the thin scimitar of the new moon gleam out of the sky, and the gray mists creep up the river and enfold the dim and now distant outlines of the forest. They were leaving the country, leaving the East for good. One felt that to other and stronger hands must be left the work so well begun by him; and as for the other, she had gone through the furnace and had come out pure gold. From his post by the man at the wheel Skipper Jack watched the pair. He was a man whom the ordinary cares of the world troubled not, but on the present occasion serious misfortune had a.s.sailed him, and he was out of temper. His tobacco had run out, and he had sunk to the degradation of filling his pipe with the half-burned stump of a cheroot. Skipper Jack stood, therefore, hard by the man at the wheel, and, while his keen eyes evermore watched the s.h.i.+p's course, his tongue murmured strange oaths under his beard. But what was that, seen through the gloom, that crinkled up the gnarled features of the skipper into a sour smile of amus.e.m.e.nt? He saw it again, and in his astonishment almost dropped his favourite clay.

”Bust me foolis.h.!.+” he muttered to himself. ”Blowed if the parson ain't a-spooning the missis! Gr-r-r! the old pipe is out!”

THE WIDOW LAMPORT

But I laye a-wakynge, and loe! ye dawne was breakynge, And rarelye pyped a larke for ye promyse of ye daye: ”Uppe and sette yr lance in reste!

Uppe and followe on ye queste!

Leave ye issue to bee guessed At ye endynge of ye waye ”--

As I laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say-- ”Whatte and if it alle bee feynynge?

There be better thynges than gaynynge, Better pryzes than attaynynge.”

And 'twas truthe she seemed to saye.

Whyles the dawne was breakynge, I rode upon my waye.

Q. (_Oxford Magazine_.)