‘And thou art our father and our mother,’
broke in Khoda Dad Khan with an oath. ’What
shall we do, now there is no one to speak for us, or
to teach us to go wisely!’
’There remains Tallantire Sahib. Go to
him; he knows your talk and your heart. Keep
the young men quiet, listen to the old men, and obey.
Khoda Dad Khan, take my ring. The watch and chain
go to thy brother. Keep those things for my sake,
and I will speak to whatever God I may encounter and
tell him that the Khusru Kheyl are good men. Ye
have my leave to go.’
Khoda Dad Khan, the ring upon his finger, choked audibly
as he caught the well-known formula that closed an
interview. His brother turned to look across
the river. The dawn was breaking, and a speck
of white showed on the dull silver of the stream.
‘She comes,’ said the man under his breath.
‘Can he live for another two hours?’ And
he pulled the newly-acquired watch out of his belt
and looked uncomprehendingly at the dial, as he had
seen Englishmen do.
For two hours the bellying sail tacked and blundered
up and down the river, Tallantire still clasping Orde
in his arms, and Khoda Dad Khan chafing his feet.
He spoke now and again of the district and his wife,
but, as the end neared, more frequently of the latter.
They hoped he did not know that she was even then
risking her life in a crazy native boat to regain
him. But the awful foreknowledge of the dying
deceived them. Wrenching himself forward, Orde
looked through the curtains and saw how near was the
sail. ‘That’s Polly,’ he said
simply, though his mouth was wried with agony.
’Polly and—the grimmest practical
joke ever played on a man. Dick—you’ll—have—to—explain.’
And an hour later Tallantire met on the bank a woman
in a gingham riding-habit and a sun-hat who cried
out to him for her husband—her boy and
her darling—while Khoda Dad Khan threw himself
face-down on the sand and covered his eyes.
The very simplicity of the notion was its charm.
What more easy to win a reputation for far-seeing
statesmanship, originality, and, above all, deference
to the desires of the people, than by appointing a
child of the country to the rule of that country?
Two hundred millions of the most loving and grateful
folk under Her Majesty’s dominion would laud
the fact, and their praise would endure for ever.
Yet he was indifferent to praise or blame, as befitted
the Very Greatest of All the Viceroys. His administration
was based upon principle, and the principle must be
enforced in season and out of season. His pen
and tongue had created the New India, teeming with
possibilities—loud-voiced, insistent, a
nation among nations—all his very own.
Wherefore the Very Greatest of All the Viceroys took
another step in advance, and with it counsel of those
who should have advised him on the appointment of
a successor to Yardley-Orde. There was a gentleman
