VIII

ACCORDING to habit, Mr. Cabot composed himself by the library table that evening for an hour’s reading before going to bed, but the book was soon lifted from his grasp and Molly seated herself in his lap. Although fingers were inserted between his collar and neck as a warning that the closest attention was expected, there followed a short silence before any words were uttered. Then she told him all: of being face to face with Barnard’s bull; of the narrow escape; of how Amos remained alone in the open field, and lastly, she gave the substance of what the rescuer had said to her, and that she had promised to be his wife. But on condition that her father should consent.

He received the news gravely; confessed he was not so very much surprised, although he had hoped it would come a little later. Andshe was very happy to find he made no objection to Amos as a son-in-law, and to hear him praise his character and pronounce him an honest, manly fellow. His behavior with the bull was heroic, but did not she think the reward he demanded was exorbitant? Was it not a little greedy to ask as a price for his services the entire value of the rescued property? It certainly was not customary to snatch away the object before placing it in the owner’s hands. “But he risked his life to save yours, and for that he shall have anything I own.”

The following morning, as she stepped upon the piazza, the doctor’s buggy came down the opposite avenue and turned toward the village. Could old Mrs. Judd be ill? or was it one of the servants?

An hour later, as there were still no signs of her bull-fighter she began to feel a slight annoyance. Perhaps after sleeping upon theevents of yesterday his enthusiasm had cooled. Perhaps his exceptionally wide experience in this field had taught him that the most delicate way out of such dilemmas was to give the girl the initiative, and perhaps, now that he was sure she loved him, all the fun had departed. Perhaps, in short, he was now realizing that he had committed himself. Although none of these suspicions took a serious hold there was a biting of the nether lip and a slight flush upon the cheeks as she re-entered the house: and in order that he might not suspect, when he did come, that his delay had caused the slightest feeling, or that anyone had watched for him, she returned to her room. A few moments later a note was brought in which was received with indifference, but which, after Maggie’s departure she opened with nervous fingers.

MYGirl: That bull, God bless him! smashed two of my ribs, the doctor says, but I know better. They were broken by an outward force, a sudden expansion of the heart, and I felt them going when you came into a pair of arms.Please come over, or I shall fly away, as I feel the sprouting of wings, and there is a cracking among the other ribs.Amos.

Please come over, or I shall fly away, as I feel the sprouting of wings, and there is a cracking among the other ribs.

Amos.

She went, and although their conversation that morning touched upon ribs and anatomy, it would, if taken as a whole, have been of little value to a scientist. It was distinctly personal. The one sentiment which appeared to have an irresistible fascination for the bull-fighter and his fiancée colored all remarks, and the fact that the dialogue would have caused them the most intense mortification if made public, tended in no degree to lessen their enjoyment. To a middle-aged person whohad never been in love it would have been unendurable.

Later in the day she intercepted the doctor and learned as much as possible of the patient’s condition. Two ribs were badly broken, he said; had been pressed inward to a serious extent, but so far there were no indications of internal injuries. Of this, however, he could not at present be absolutely sure, but he thought there was no great cause for alarm. The patient, of course, must keep quiet for a week or two.

Fortunately for Amos there proved to be no injury save the damaged ribs, but three long weeks elapsed before he was allowed to go up and down stairs and move about the house.

The last day of August proved a day of discoveries.

It was bright and warm, yet invigorating, the perfection of terrestrial weather, and Mr. Cabot and Molly, early in the afternoon, weresitting upon the piazza discussing the date of their departure, Amos occupying his favorite place upon the floor in front of them, his back against a column. When she informed her father that additional trunks or boxes of some kind would be needed, Amos said that such articles were going to waste in the Judd residence, and if she would but step across the way and select a few, it would be a lasting benefit to an overcrowded attic. This offer was accepted and they started off. After climbing the final stairs, which were steep and narrow, Molly seated herself upon an old-fashioned settle, the back of which could be lowered and used as an ironing table. “How I do love this smell of an attic! Is it the sap from the hot pine? And isn’t there sage in the air, or summer savory?”

“Both. With a few old love-letters and a touch of dried apples.”

“Whatever it is, I love it. The days of mychildhood come galloping back,” and with upturned face she closed her eyes and drew a longer breath. He bent silently over and touched her lips.

“What a breach of hospitality!”

“When a visitor insults a host by sleeping in his presence, it is etiquette to awaken her. And when lips with those particular undulations look one pleasantly in the eye and say ‘Amos, kiss us,’ what do you expect to happen?”

“From you I expect the worst, the most improper thing.”

“And you will always get it, O spirit of old-fashioned Roses!”

In opening a window he disturbed an enormous fly, whose buzzing filled every corner of the roof. “To me,” he said, “this atmosphere recalls long marches and battles, with splendid victories and awful defeats.”

“I don’t see why. To me it seems delightfully restful.”

From an ancient horse-hair trunk he brought forth a box, and seating himself at her feet, emptied its contents upon the floor.

“This is why,” and he arranged in parallel lines the little leaden soldiers, diminutive cannons, some with wheels and some without, and a quantity of dominos, two by two. “These are troops, and if you care to know how I passed the rainy days of boyhood this will show you.”

“But, what are the dominos?”

“They are the enemy. These lead soldiers are mine, and they are all veterans, and all brave. This is myself,” and he held up a bent and battered relic on a three-legged horse.

“And who are you in these fights, Goosey?”

“Napoleon, generally; often Cæsar and Frederick, and sometimes George Washington and General Lee.”

“But you have no head. Isn’t that a drawback for a commander?”

“Not with troops like these. I lost that head at Quebec, as Montcalm.”

She looked down upon him with a wish that she also might have been one of those absurd little soldiers and shared his victories.

“The cracks between the floor-boards,” he continued, “are railroads, rivers, canals, stone walls, or mountain ranges, according to the campaign.”

“They must have been a nuisance, though. Could not a soldier disappear and not return?”

“I should say he could! Why, those ravines are gorged with heroes, and that recalls the most humiliating event of my career. I was leading the charge of the Light Brigade, six of these cavalrymen, each representing a hundred men. I of course was in front, and it was a supreme moment. As we dashed across the open field—the cracks, mind you, didn’t count this time—I, the leader, suddenly disappeared, head downward, feet up, in an open field! Ofcourse the charge could not stop, and the others rushed on to a magnificent death.”

With a sigh he gathered the motley company together again, and laid them away in their box. She got up and moved about. “I should like to live in an attic. It is mysterious and poetic, and so crammed with history. Each of these things has its little story for somebody,” and she stopped before a curious feminine garment in India silk, of a long-ago fashion.

Pointing to a quaint old cap with ear-laps, she exclaimed, “What a funny rig that is! Put it on.” And she took it from its peg and placed it upon his head, then laughed and led him to a broken mirror that was hanging from a rafter. “Unless you wear it in New York next winter, I shall never marry you!”

“Then I promise, but at present it is a trifle warm.”

As he removed it a letter slipped from the lining and fell to the floor. She picked it upand turned it over in her fingers. “Why, it has never been opened! It is directed to Mr. Josiah Judd.”

Amos examined it, studied the date, then looked at the old cap. “He wore this at the time of his death, when he had just come from the post-office, and the Daleford postmark says December fifth, the very day before. That is very curious.” And he stood looking down at the letter, deep in thought.

“Why don’t you open it? You are the one who should do it, I suppose.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Where is it from?”

“India. From Mr. Morton Judd, his brother, the one who sent me here.”

“Oh, yes! I remember. Is Mr. Morton Judd alive?”

“No, he died ten years ago.”

“Well, please open it, for it may be interesting. Come over near the light.”

As they stood by the open window, leaning against the sill, he tore open the envelope and began reading aloud, she looking idly out upon some haymakers in a neighboring field. Their voices came faintly to her ears, and they made a pleasant picture in the afternoon sunlight with the village spires, the tall elms, and the purple hills for a background. She wondered if India was at all like New England.

DEARJosiah: The case ought to reach you about a fortnight after this letter, and if you will write to Mr. Wharton, or better still, visit him, he will see that there is no trouble at the Custom House. Give my love to Sarah, but don’t show her the shawl and the silks before her birthday, in January. What you say about the boy Amos does not surprise me, and I was only waiting for you to make your own discoveries. He gave clear indications when a very small child of this same facultyin which his mother and the rest of his family had great faith. In the box you will receive I send a book giving an account of the Rajah Sirdar Sing, his ancestor, a hero of prophetic powers who died ninety-eight years ago, so this boy, according to tradition, should inherit the same supernatural faculties. Be careful that he does not see this book before coming of age, as it might put dangerous ideas into his head, and if he should suspect what he really is great mischief might ensue. I am glad he is turning out such a sensible boy. But if he should ever come over here and make himself known it would cause a great disturbance, and might result fatally to himself. Am sorry to hear about Phil Bates’s wife. She was a fool to marry him. Your affectionate brother,Morton Judd.

Morton Judd.

Amos stood looking down at the letter and remained silent. She laid a hand upon his armand said, “What does it mean, Amos, about not letting you know who you are? Who are you?”

He looked up with a smile. “I don’t know; I can only guess.”

“Well, what do you guess?”

“I guess that I am the rajah of that province.”

“Really? Why, you don’t mean it! And have you always known it?”

“I don’t know it now, but I have always suspected it.”

“You funny old thing! Why, this is awfully exciting! And you never told me!”

“Why should I? Your father would only have hastened my departure if I had tried to pass myself off as a fairy prince; and you would have laughed in my face.”

“No. I am not so sure. But that was long ago, and to-day I should believe anything you told me.”

“Well, I believe you would,” and there, at the open window, he put his arm about her waist and did that unnecessary thing true lovers seem unable to resist. She jumped away to turn with an anxious face and look cautiously through the window. But the distant haymakers gave no signs of having received a shock.

“Could they have seen?” she demanded.

He looked over upon the sunlit field. “No, poor things, they missed it!”

But Molly moved away and seated herself upon a venerable little horse-hair trunk whose bald spots were numerous and of considerable extent. Brass-headed nails, now black with age, studded all its edges and formed at each end the initials of Josiah Judd.

“Tell me, little Amos, what happened to you as a child, that you should consider yourself a fairy prince.”

The trunk was short for two, but Amos, bya little pushing and crowding, managed to sit beside her.

“Well, in the first place, I was always too wise and too amiable for an ordinary mor—”

“No, no! Be serious.”

“Well, almost everything I remember seems to point in that direction. For instance, there was a separate seat for me on swell occasions; a sort of throne, I should say, and all the other people stood up. In the big hall I told you about where the fight took place, I used to sit in an ivory chair with gold ornaments on it, cocked up on a platform apart from other people. And that afternoon I was walking across the hall toward it when the fierce-looking chap with the beard caught me up and passed me along.”

“Gracious! This is very exciting! Go on.”

“I could give you this sort of stuff by the yard if the conditions were favorable. The conditions now are unfavorable.”

Their eyes met, but experience had taught her caution. “Go on. There are no rajahs in America, and you will do as I tell you.”

“That is very true, but we are too far apart.”

“And all the while you are crowding me off this trunk!”

“Yes, but at the same time I am holding you on. Do you see that old rocking-chair over there with one arm that is beckoning to us?”

There followed a brief, illogical discussion, then finally a gentle force was used by the stronger party, and a moment later the old chair groaned beneath a heavier burden than it had borne for thirty years.

After persistent urging the reminiscences were continued. “They always helped me first at table, no matter how old the other guests were, or how many or how swell. The bowing and saluting was much more elaborate towardme than toward anyone else, and in processions they always stuck me in front. Shortly after my father died there was a grand ceremony in a sort of courtyard with awnings over us, and I remember what an everlasting affair it was, and how my uncle and an old general stood behind my chair, while all the swells and panjandrums came up and saluted me, then passed along. I should say there might have been a million. I know I went to sleep and my uncle kept tapping me on the shoulder to keep me awake.”

“You poor little thing! But you must really have been something tremendously important, mustn’t you?”

“It seems so.”

“Well, go on.”

“After that there were some big reviews, and I sat on a white pony with officers in a semicircle behind me, while the troops marched by, and the generals and colonels all saluted.That was great fun. And I shall never forget my saddle of crimson leather with the gold trimmings.”

“How romantic! Why, it seems impossible!”

“Do you remember the head-dress in my mother’s miniature?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I find that sort of thing is only worn by royalty.”

There was a pause, during which the old chair rocked gently to and fro, but noisily, as if in protest against its double burden, while the voices from the neighboring field came drifting in the window and with them the occasional tinkling of a cow-bell.

“And to think of your being here in Connecticut, a farmer!”

“Thank heaven I am!” and there followed one of those foolish but apparently enjoyable scenes which no dignified historian is expected to describe. Stepping away from the rocking-chairMolly turned with a frown upon its remaining occupant as she pressed an escaping lock into position. Through the open window the setting sun sent a bar of light across the attic that illumined her hair with a golden touch.

“We must find that book,” she exclaimed, with an impatient gesture. “It will tell us the very things we wish to know. Come, get up, and hunt!”

Slowly rocking, with his head resting against the chair, he regarded her with admiring eyes, but showed no signs of haste. “There is but one book I care to study, and that is a poem in pink, about five feet six in length, with gilt edges at the top.”

She smiled sadly. “No, not a poem, but very ordinary prose, and you will get precious little wisdom from studying it.”

“On the contrary, every page is a revelation. Why, the binding alone is a poem! Merelyto hold it in one’s lap and look at the cover is a gentle intoxication.”

Wavering between a smile and a frown, she answered:

“I wonder if all rajahs are such transparent flatterers. But come! Find the book! It must be downstairs in the library.”

“No, it is not down there. I know every book among them.”

“Where can it be, then? tucked away in some trunk or drawer?”

“Probably.”

“Could it be in that?” and she pointed to an old cherry-wood desk just behind him. He turned and regarded it.

“As likely there as anywhere. It is the desk he used until he died.”

Molly opened the slanting top and found an array of pigeonholes filled with old papers. There were some very small drawers, all of which she opened, but they contained nobook, so she closed the top and opened the long upper drawer. It was almost empty, the only contents being a few envelopes of seeds, some tools, scattered cards, and a couple of marbles that ran about as the drawer was opened.

“I rather think you know this place,” and she lifted up a bladeless jackknife. “Only a boy could treat a knife in such a way.”

“Yes, I remember all those things. That wooden pistol has killed lots of Indians.”

The second drawer held among other things a camel’s-hair shawl, a bed-cover, a pair of woman’s slippers, a huge shell-comb elaborately carved, some black mits, and a package of letters; almost everything except a book. The third drawer and the fourth were equally disappointing. The lowest drawer was deeper and heavier, and it stuck. Amos sprang to help her, and together they pulled it open, then sat down upon the floor in front of it. The characterof its contents was much like the others, but Molly delved thoroughly among its treasures and she received her reward. As her hand was exploring a farther corner she looked up into his face with a look of excitement.

“Here is a book! It must be the one!” and a little volume was drawn forth.

“‘The Heroes of India!’ aren’t we in luck!”

It was a handsome little book, with a blue morocco cover and gilt edges, published in Calcutta. Turning over the leaves with eager fingers she came to a bookmark opposite a portrait, a steel engraving, showing the head and shoulders of a bejewelled prince.

“Why, it might be you! It is exactly like you! Look!” and she held it before him.

“So it is, but perhaps they all are. Let’s hear about him if you are sure he is our man.”

“Oh, I am sure of it! He is the image of you and the others are not;” and she began to read.

“He is the image of you”“He is the image of you”

“He is the image of you”

“Of all the royal families in India, none claim an existence more remote than that of the Maharaja Sirdar Oumra Sing. According to accepted history and tradition, this princely house not only dates back to the earliest centuries of Eastern history, but owes its origin to the immortal Vishn’u himself. It is a romantic story, in fact the survival of an ancient fable, poetic and supernatural, but, curiously enough, seems to be substantiated by the extraordinary attributes of a recent ruler. The Rajah Sirdar Sing, whose portrait heads this article, was perhaps the most popular hero of Northern India, and unless we eject the evidence of all his contemporaries, was possessed of powers that brought him the most startling victories both in peace and war, and over adversaries that were considered invincible. His kingdom, during his reign of thirty years, was nearly doubled in territory and enormously increased in wealth. In his own country to-day thereare none who question his prophetic powers: men of science and of letters, historians, high priests, lawyers, soldiers, all firmly believe in his immortal gifts. To us Europeans, however, these tales are more difficult of acceptance.“In the very centre of Sirdar Sing’s forehead the reader may have observed a faint spot scarcely half an inch in diameter, and this appeared, we are told, like a scar or a burn, of a lighter color than the skin and, except under certain conditions, was barely noticeable. But the tradition runs that when exercising his prophetic faculty this little spot increased in brilliancy and almost glowed, as if of flame.”

“In the very centre of Sirdar Sing’s forehead the reader may have observed a faint spot scarcely half an inch in diameter, and this appeared, we are told, like a scar or a burn, of a lighter color than the skin and, except under certain conditions, was barely noticeable. But the tradition runs that when exercising his prophetic faculty this little spot increased in brilliancy and almost glowed, as if of flame.”

“And so does yours!” and she regarded him with a look of awe.

“Go ahead,” he said, looking down at the book. “Let us hear the rest.”

“The legend is this:

“When Vishn’u in his Kr’ishn’a-Avatâra, or eighth incarnation, was hard-pressed in his war against the Kurus, he received great assistance from Arjuna, a Pân’d’u prince who, after a four days’ battle, and at great risk to himself, delivered to his immortal ally the sacred city of Dwârakâ. For this service and in token of his undying gratitude, Vishn’u laid his finger upon the forehead of Arjuna and endowed him with a knowledge of future events, also promising that once in a hundred years a descendant should possess this priceless gift. Although we may not accept this romantic tale, there is no doubt whatever that Sirdar Sing, the original of our portrait, was guided by a knowledge of the future, either earthly or divine, which neither scientists nor historians have yet explained. The next in order to inherit this extraordinary faculty, if there is truth in the legend, will be the son of thepresent rajah, whose nuptials have just been celebrated with such lavish and magnificent festivities.”

She paused for a moment, then with trembling fingers turned back to the title-page. The book was printed twenty-eight years ago, the year before Amos was born.

For a long time they sat on the floor talking; she asking many questions and he answering, until the listening objects in the attic began to lose their outline and become a part of the gloom. The sunlight along the rafters dwindled to a narrow strip, then disappeared; and the voices of the haymakers were long since gone when Amos and Molly finally climbed to their feet and descended the stairs.

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