Speaker 1: If you see her face by Bithia Merry Croaker. I
heard a voice across the press of one who called
in vain barrack room ballads. Daniel Gregson, Esquire b s C.
Political agent to the Rajah of Unamore, a child of
seven years of age, and Percy Goring, his junior assistant,
were traveling from their own state to attend the Great
Deli d'urbar. Mister Gregson was a civilian of twenty five years,
standing short of neck, short of stature, and short of temper.
His red face, pale prominent eyes, and fierce bushy brows
had gained for him the nickname of the Prawn, but
he was also known as a marvelously clever financier, ambitious,
shrewd and prompt in action, and by those who were
under him he was less loved than feared. Yongring was
just twenty six, and much more eager to discuss good
shooting or a good dance than the assessment of land,
the opium trade, or even acting allowances. The pair journeyed
with due ceremony on the native state line, and in
the little Rajah's own guilt and royal carriage, he was
laid up in the palace with chicken pock, and had
wept sorely because he had been unable to accompany his guide,
philosopher and friend to the Grand Tamasha, to wear his
new velvet coat and all his jewels, and to hear
the guns that would thunder in his honor. Child as
he was, he was already keenly sensitive, respecting his salute. Meanwhile,
the agent and his subordinate got on capitally without him,
traveling at the leisure of ten miles an hour that
fine November afternoon, surrounded with tiffin baskets, cigarettes, ice boxes,
and other luxurious accompaniments. About four o'clock the train came
to a sudden standstill. There was no station to account
for this, merely a country road, a white gate, and
a mud hut. The halt resolved itself into a full stop.
Mister Gregson thrust his red face out of the window
and angrily inquired the reason of the delay. Beg your pardon, sir,
said the Eurasian Guard. There has been a break on
the line, bridge gone and we can't get forward. Nohow.
Mister Gregson glanced out on the prospect, the dusty cactus hedge,
the white telegraph posts, the expanse of brownish grass, black
goats and jungle. Any village, any dock bungalow, demanded the
political agent, who might have known better than to ask.
I'm afraid not your honor. If your honor will wait here,
we will send a messenger to the next station on
foot and tell them to telegraph for another train from
the junction. This will arrive at the other side of
the break and take you on about twelve o'clock to morrow.
And meanwhile we are to sit here, cried mister Gregson, indignantly,
a pretty state of affairs. I'll send a memo to
the railway engineer that will astonish him, he said, turning
to Goring. It's four now, and we shall be here
till twelve o'clock to morrow. If we don't mind, we
shall be late for the d'urbar, and I shall have
to wire unavoidably absent. I wonder if there is any
sport to be had, said Goring, descending from the carriage
and stretching his long legs. Any shooting any black buck
looking at the guard into progatively. Ah, that reminds me,
exclaimed mister Gregson. The Raja has a hunting box somewhere
in these parts, Cory, we can go there for the night. Yes,
your honor, assented a listener with profound respect. But it
is for koats from here, a cutcher road and a
very poor part of the state. I vote we stop here,
said Goring. We can shoot a bit and come back
and dine and sleep in the train. We shall be
all right and jolly twice as comfortable as in some
tumble down old summer house. I shall go to Corey
at any rate, rejoined his superior officer, who resented opposition.
The place is kept up, and I've never seen it.
This will be a capital opportunity to inspect it. But
it's four coasts away. And how are we to get
our baggage and bedding and grub over Coolly's, was the
laconic rejoiner. There get them ready to start at once
to his head servant with an imperious wave of his hand.
There is no way of transport, for your majesty, said
his obsequious bearer, with a deep'salarm. No ponies, not even
an echo, unless the protector of the poor would stoop
to a country cart, which same is a long, rude,
open basket between two round wooden wheels drawn by a
pair of bullocks. I really think it is hardly worth
while to move, urged Goring, as he cast a greedy
eye in the direction of a promising snipe jeal. It
will be an awful fag And you know you hate walking.
You can please yourself and stay here, said mister Gregson
with immense dignity, who, if he hated walking, liked his
own way, as the whole suite, not to mention, the
commissariat were bound to accompany him going was compelled to submit.
He dared not run, counter to his arbitrary companion, who,
rejecting with scorn the lowly vehicle that had been suggested,
set out for Cory on foot, whither a long string
of coolies had already preceded him. The sandy country road
wound over a barren, melancholy looking tract, diversified with scanty
pasture and marshy patches or jeals, pools of water, tall
reeds and brown grasses. It was dotted with droves of
lean cattle, paddy birds, milk, white herons and cranes, especially
the tall serious family, who danced to one another in
a stately not to say solemn fashion, truly a bleak,
desolate looking region, and save one or two miserable huts
and some thorn bushes, there was no sign of tree
or human habitation. At last they came in sight of
a wretched village, the once prosperous hanger on of the
now deserted hunting palace, that showed its delicate stone pinnacles
behind a high wall. Apparently it stood in an enclosure
of vast extent, an enclosure that must have cost lacks
of rupees. Two sahibs were naturally an extraordinary sight in
this out of the way district. The fame and name
of mister Gregson, a borough BurrH Sahib, had been spread
before him by the coolies. Therefore, beggars and petitioners swarmed
eagerly round this great and all powerful personage. Mister Gregson
liked to feel his own importance at a d'urbar or
an official dinner, but it was quite another matter to
have it thrust upon him by a gang of clamoring paupers,
the maimed, the halt, the blind, crying out against taxation,
imploring alms and mercy. He was a hard man with
a quick, impatient temper. An aged blind beldum got in
his way, and he struck her savagely with his stick.
She shrank back with a sharp cry, and Goring, who
was ever known as a sahib with a soft heart,
spoke to her and gave her a rupee, a real rupee.
It was years since she had felt one. Although she
is blind, Sahib, beware of her, said an officious youth
with his hair in a top knot. She has the
evil eye, peace dog, she screamed. Then to Goring, I
am a lone old woman. My kindred are dead. I
have lived too long. I remember the former days, rich days,
but bad days. Sahib, if you would be wise, go
not to the palace Connor. Goring was moving on when
the hag hastily clutched him by the sleeve and added
in a rasping whisper, if you see her face, you die.
She is mad, he said to himself, as he hastened
to join mister Gregson, who had arrived at the great
iron studded Gates in a state of crimson fury. You
say we have land, true, shouted a haggard, wild eyed riot.
But what is land without crops. What is a remission
of five percent to wretches like us? It is but
as a caraway seed in a camel's mouth. The wild
beasts take our cattle and destroy our grain, and yet
we must work and pay you and starve. Would that
the rajah was a man grown, Would that you were dead?
Mister Gregson hurried inside and banged the great gate violently
in the face of the fortunate crowd. It is a
very poor district, and much too heavily assessed, said Goring
to himself. There is not even a pony in the place.
The very bunya is in rags. The deer eat the
crops such as they are. Since the deer are preserved
and there is no one now to shoot them, it
is abominable. The palace was a pretty light stone building,
two stories in height, with a tower at either end
and a double verandah all the way round. In front
of it. A large space was paved with blocks of
white marble which ran the whole length of the building,
and it was surrounded by the most exquisite gardens, kept
up in perfect order, doubtless by the taxes wrung from
the wretched creatures outside its gates. A garden that was
never entered by its proprietor, or enjoyed by any one
from year's end to year's end, save the Malley's children
and the monkeys. The monkeys ate the fruit, The roses
and lilies bloomed unseen, The fountains dripped unheeded. It was
a paradise for the doves and squirrels, like a garden
in a fairy tale. The Chonkider and head Malley, he
was a rich man, received their great guest with every
expression of humble delight. Dinner was prepared with much bustle
in the hall of audience, whilst mister Gregson and his
junior explored. There were long, shady walks paved with white marble,
immense bushes of heliotrope and myrtle, delicate palms, fine mango trees,
peach trees and orange trees. It was truly an oasis
in the desert when one contrasted it with the bear desolate,
barren country that lay outside its walls. I shall bring
the little chap here, said mister Gregson, pompous. We will
have a camp here at Christmas. And then he strolled
back to the palace and made an excellent dinner of
roast turkey and asparagus and champagne. After this repast, he
got out his despatch box and his cigarette case and
set about writing an official whilst. Goring took a chair
and adjourned to the marble pavement outside the palace. It
was an exquisite night. A low moon was peering over
the wall. The air was heavy with the scent of
syringa and orange blossoms. There was not a sound, not
a voice to be heard, not a soul in sight
save mister Gregson, who illuminated by two wax candles, bent
eagerly over his pen as he sat in the open
hall of audience. Goring, as he smoked, thought of many
things of the hawk famished villagers, of the splendid shooting
that was going to waste, of the grand bag he
could make and would make at Christmas. Then he began
sleepily to recall some stories half told stories about this
very place, tales of hideous atrocities and crimes that had
been done here in the days of the Tiger Raja,
the present ruler's grandfather. He was gradually dozing off when
he was aroused by the sounds of distant tom toms
playing with extravagant spirit. The drumming came slowly nearer and nearer.
It actually seemed to be in the garden, louder and louder,
with a whispered murmuring and low applause, and as it
were the footsteps of a great multitude. But there was
nothing whatever to be seen, and it was as light
as day. He moved uneasily in his chair and gazed by.
Behind him, now nothing to be seen but his senior
steadily covering sheets of fool's cap. He turned his head
and was aware of an unexpected sight, as startling as
it was uncanny, two twinkling, little brown feet dancing before
him on the marble pavement, exquisite feet that seemed scarcely
to touch the ground, and that kept perfect time to
the inspiriting sounds of the tom toms. They were decked
with massive golden anklets, which tinkled as they moved, and
above them waved a few inches of the heavy yellow,
gold embroidered skirt of the dancing girl. No more was visible.
Round and round to the fairy feet flitted in a
very poetry of motion. Faster and faster played the tom Toms,
such dancing, such nimble feet. It had never been young
Goring's lot to behold? Yes, but where was the rest
of the body. As he gazed in half stupefied amazement,
he suddenly recalled the old tag's warning with an unpleasant thrill.
If you see her face, you die. At this instant
there was a scraping sound of the pushing back of
a chair, of slow footsteps on the marble, of a
loud cry, and a heavy fall. Goring jumped up and
beheld mister Gregson, lying prone on his face. He rushed
to his assistance and raised him with considerable difficulty. His
eyes were fixed with an expression of unutterable horror. He
gave one or two shuddering gasps, His head drooped forward
on his breast, and he expired. Goring looked round apprehensively.
The feet had disappeared, for Tom Toms had ceased. He
shouted for help, and immediately a vast crowd of dismays
made retainers assembled around him, and Babel ensued The borough
sahid dead, well, well, it was ever an evil place.
Ah bah ah bah. It was the notch girl, without doubt.
They further informed Goring that the old Rajah had once
tortured a dancing girl on that very spot and inhumanly
disfigured her face more than one had seen her since,
and perished Thus. That morning, at sunrise, the dead body
of mister Gregson was placed in a Native cart similar
to the one he had so scornfully rejected, and taken
by slow stages to the nearest station and back to
the city, accompanied by Goring. The doctors, European and Native,
declared with one consent that mister Gregson had died in
a fit an apoplect ex seizure. Goring, wise man said
nothing end of if you see her face By Bithia
Marry Croaker