"Your name is Lukshmun?" said Fazil.
"My lord, it is; I am your slave now and for ever:—till I die, if you permit me to serve you in my own way."
"And that is?"
"No matter now," said the creature; "you will find out. If I displease you, I will go away of my own accord and give no trouble; if I please you, let me be near you, and that is enough."
"How is this? You talk like a woman."
"Do you know anything of them, master?" replied the man. "Perhaps not; it takes a long life to know them, they say. Do I talk like a woman? Ah no, sir; to me you are the woman who has bewitched me, and I follow you blindly for the sake of the love I have for you, which sits in my heart."
"Since when, friend?" said Fazil, laughing.
"Since last night, when you were kind to that poor Brahmun girl who owes her honour to you, and long before that, of which I will tell you another time. Can I do anything now?"
"Hast thou eaten?"
"Yes; and I have enough here to last me two days," and he pointed to a bundle of cakes tied at his back. "I can give you one if you like, when you are hungry."
"I do not want it—I have eaten," said Fazil. "Can I trust thee already?"
"O, master!" cried the man piteously, as the tears started suddenly to his eyes. "Do not say that! I am a poor hunchback, who cannot say fine words, what is the use of my talking? If you mistrust me, bid me go. I will return to him who gave me to you—better that, than be doubted. Enough, shall I go?"
"No, stay," continued Fazil; "I will trust thee. Tie thy horse there, and give him some fodder from the bundle yonder.... That is well. Now go to the Kuchéri; say to the Näik, that Fazil Khan Meah wants the bundle of things given to him by Jánoo Näik, and he is to give it."
"And what if Jánoo is there, master? he will not allow it."
"That is why I do not go myself," said Fazil; "but if there is any difficulty I will come. Show this as a token, and it will suffice," and he took off his signet-ring.
"I will bring them without this, Meah, and yet I take it. Tell some one to mind the mare, else if she hears the horn she will break her rope;" and the man, throwing his coarse black blanket over him, shambled off at a quick pace towards the town. It was but a short distance. Fazil waited there looking at his own horses which were picketed in the street. He had no desire to rejoin his father, who was quietly smoking within. Fortunately, too, the priest rode up; said he wanted a hookah, dismounted, and went into the Mutt. He would be company enough.
Fazil watched the street narrowly. Had he done right in sending Lukshmun—ought he not to have gone himself? He could yet go if there were refusal, but there might be no occasion. In a little time, less then he had supposed possible, he saw the hunchback coming up the street at a sharp run, and as he reached Fazil, he put into his hand a heavy bundle of what felt like ornaments of gold and silver, tied in a cloth which was spotted with blood.
"Shabash!" cried Fazil, "it was well contrived. How didst thou get them?"
"Jánoo Näik is an ass, and the father of all the asses in Tooljapoor. I know him of old," returned Lukshmun. "He was there sitting like a scared owl on the steps of the Kuchéri. 'Come and drink,' says he to me. 'I will,' said I; 'wait, I have a message from the master to deliver.' Then I went in, and said to a Karkoon, 'Give me what Jánoo gave just now, the people are come for it.' He could not go in there, for he is a Mang. 'Take them,' says a Karkoon, opening a box; 'I don't like to touch them, they are bloody.' So I took them out, master, and here they are. As I passed Jánoo, I gave him a rupee, and told him to go to the Kullal's and get some drink ready, while I delivered my message—and he is gone. O, the owl, the owl! he will be drunk by this time; but, master, that man is as true as steel, and put these in trust; they were not loot to him. Wilt thou sell them here? No, not here?"
"Sell them!" cried Fazil, laughing; "no, surely—why?"
"O, the master never does—he always keeps the gold and silver, and buys them at his own valuation; but he gives us a share, nevertheless, and I shall miss mine of last night's work:—better, however, that the women have it."
"Ah! friend, I fear thou wilt have no such luck with me," returned the young man. "That is no loot, however; it will only go to its owner."
"Ah, Meah, I understand now," said the man quickly. "Yes, for her. Poor child! poor child! and when she sees the blood!—better throw that cloth away, and tie them up in a clean handkerchief."
"No," said Fazil, "keep it. It is evidence of the worst, and she needs to know it; but let us count them. Thirteen, you see, gold and silver; and look, there is blood on these anklets—let it stay. Yes, now I will trust thee."
Just then the Khan and the priest came out of the court, both accoutred for the march.
"I was seeing to the horses, father," said Fazil, in anticipation of his father's remarks, "and questioning this gift of Pahar Singh's; look at him—a strange being, is he not?"
Lukshmun advanced, prostrated himself, kissed the Khan's feet, but said nothing. The priest was acknowledged by a distant but respectful reverence only, and the hunchback seemed to regard him with antipathy.
"Strange enough, son," said the Khan, looking at him from head to foot: "ask thy mother about his horoscope when we get to camp. He may be lucky, after all—these hunchbacks often are so."
"My lord," said Lukshmun pleadingly, joining his hands, "all the Brahmuns like to try their hands on my nativity, and they all say I am lucky. For I am a twin, and they never could make out exactly which of the two was the eldest born; but they believed Rama was, who was always unlucky, and had a bad wife and worse children, and he was shot yesterday; so the bad luck and bad stars—sun and moon, and all—went with him; and now your slave is the luckiest of men, since he is the property of the noble Afzool Khan and his son Fazil. Surely the stars sent him."
"Thou hast a bold tongue," said the priest. "Peace, be silent."
"Ah, Maharaj!" returned the man, "holy men like you and the Brahmuns think too much upon divine glories, to mind what a poor fool like me says. I, too, know my prayers already, and shall become a Mussulman, when I have heard a few more of your reverence's sermons. O, they are wonderful! Bismilla—ir-rahman-ir-raheem!—--"
"Come," said the Khan, "they are beating the Nagárás everywhere, and as all are ready, we need not delay." So, mounting theirhorses, which were being led about, they rode on to the plain where the men were assembling fast, and closing in heavy masses upon their several standards. In a few minutes, the Paigah of Afzool Khan, Moro Pundit being in the midst closely guarded, moved on down the pass, followed by the Abyssinian cavalry; and their bright steel morions, gay scarves, trappings and standards, gleamed in the blazing sunshine. Yet it was not hot enough to be oppressive; a fresh westerly wind had arisen, driving before it large masses of fleecy cloud, which, as they passed, threw broad chequers of light and shade over the plain, rustling among the tall ripe corn, which bowed before it in golden wavy ripples, and refreshing the men who, though few had slept, were as yet unconscious of fatigue under the excitement they had gone through.
The people of the town watched the long line, that, owing to the rough nature of the road, straggled down the pass, with thankful hearts for deliverance from further molestation; and as the last of the men disappeared behind a shoulder of the mountain, a faint shout of "Jey Kalee! Jey Toolja!" rose from a group of men, consisting of the Nimbalkur and other chiefs who were assembling at his house. Others clustered about the edge of the tableland, and when they saw the long line emerge upon the plain beyond the groves and gardens of Sindphul, and heard the loud booming notes of the Nagárás growing fainter in the distance, many a heart breathed a prayer of thanks for deliverance, intermingled with defiance and deep curses on those from whose violence they had suffered.
In the temple a group of priests were sitting about the shrine weeping, and the image of the goddess still lay on its back, the ruby eyes flashing in the glare of the lamps now lighted about it. No one, as yet, dared to touch it, without some preliminary ceremonies of deprecation of her wrath. Within, the blood had been washed away—but without, in the court, it still lay in patches, blackening and cracking in the sun.
There is nothing, perhaps, more effectual to deaden, if not to relieve recent misery, than the sensation of rapid motion. Leaning back in the palankeen, with the doors now shut, and the fresh breeze blowing refreshingly through the open blinds, Tara felt herself hurried swiftly and smoothly along, while her attention was at once occupied and distracted by the occurrences of the journey. Sindphul, its temple and trees: the lane which was the bed of the rivulet, throughwhich the bearers plashed rapidly: the village gate now shut, and its bastions manned with men to keep out marauders: the long shady narrow lane, overhung with trees;—then, beyond, the plain, covered with rich crops of grain now ripening: the shouts of the men and boys, perched upon their stages in the fields, slinging stones at birds: the song, drawling and monotonous, of the bullock-drivers at the wells,—were all familiar objects and sounds to the desolate girl being carried rapidly by them. Would she ever see them again?
As they passed their own garden, she looked among the trees—perchance she might see Sudba, the old bullock-driver, or Purésh-ram, the gardener; but there was no one visible, else she had cried out to them. Were they dead, too? Ah! how often had she wandered among the trees there with her mother, and watched the butterflies among the flowers! The bearers stopped to change opposite the wicket gate, and she could see the bright beds of white jessamine, unpicked as yet, and large marigolds, and white and yellow chrysanthemums, which the men were saving for the Dusséra. Who would gather them now? Over them, the same bright yellow and white butterflies were hovering in hundreds, and the fierce green and blue dragonflies chasing each other, or darting here and there, quick as thought, and glistening in the sun. Then she remembered the omen in her garden as she sat spinning, and fell back on the pillow shuddering. It was true. She remembered too that the bird had sat for a while, and twittered a sweet low song. Was he that bird, that noble, gracious youth, who had spoken to her so gently, so kindly? She tried to follow the thread of this thought back, but failed. Her mind was sadly confused and wandering, now reverting to the omen, now to the objects she was passing, and the people they met:—who were they? what doing? whither going?—to the horsemen, the monotonous tramp of whose horses never ceased, some behind, some before, some around her,—fierce, dark-bearded fellows, whose very proximity she would have dreaded before,—who were now guarding her respectfully by his order; while the kind old man, to whose charge she had been specially committed, rode close to the side of the litter, and where the path was narrow, asked her, through the blinds, if she were well, and wanted anything.
Fazil, son of Afzool; she remembered the name. It was strange to Hindu lips, but had a musical cadence, which her memory retained as she repeated it to herself. Fazil, son of Afzool; and he had a sister Zyna. What would she be like? Would she be kind and loving to her? like Radha? Was he not beautiful, and very fair, almost ruddy.
Into all these channels, confused, and whirling her mind hither and thither like dust and straws before the wind, her thoughts wandered dreamily, apparently avoiding the bare, hideous fact that all weredead whom she loved—all who had protected her up to last night. But this would not long be denied its place. It was a horrible reality not as yet fully understood:—which her gentle mind could not grasp.
Dead! who saw them die? They were alive last night,—who had killed them? If she had seen them die, that, indeed, would be surety. No, it was not true. They could not be dead,—they could not have left her so helpless. It was some fraud, some deception. She had not gone far: Sindphul was close by: she would run and sit in the garden, and wait for her mother; and she half-opened the door of the litter. Shêre Khan rode by it, erect and stern, but bowed down to her as the door moved. "Do you want anything, lady?" he said. "Go to sleep; it will rest you."
The voice, kind as it was, dispelled the other thought, and brought back the bitter reality of desolation and the events of the night. How she had been lifted up—and the girl Gunga's laugh of triumph and mockery rang in her ears, and was before her eyes now, as she pressed her hands against them: the rude men who carried her down the steps: the fearful shrieks and din in the temple: the shots and blows, growing fainter as they carried her away: and, above all, the voice of Moro Trimmul, exulting with Gunga that they were safe from death, and had Tara captive. "To Rutunjun first," he had said, "and then——"
"From that worse than death he saved me," she thought, with a shudder. "Fazil saved me—Fazil, son of Afzool—else I were helpless with Moro now. And they were dead—her people, all dead? Yes, the detail Fazil had related was brief and circumstantial. The Bhópeys would not lie—why should they? They were weeping, and had taken him up dead. Her father, a negro had killed him, they said. She felt no hope could come out of this detail. They had lifted him up and put him.... No, she could not follow that. That beloved father, dead—disfigured with ghastly wounds!—mother, whom Jánoo had seen dead, and Radha ... all? He had said so. How could he—Fazil—know of Jánoo, or the Bhópeys, her father's dependants, so as to deceive her with names?"
So, round and round, whirling, dashing hither and thither like the motes in a sunbeam, staying nowhere, sometimes utterly blank, the girl's thoughts ministered to her fast growing misery. The hot dry eyes, red and swollen, looked out sometimes vacantly as the bearers changed shoulders. She felt powerless to move, careless as to what became of her. As the reality of the death of all, pressed on her mind occasionally with greater force, she sat up and gasped for breath, and again fell back upon the cushions; then the monotonous cries of the bearers as they shuffled along rapidly, and the dull tramp of the horses, with the sense of motion, were relief from mental agony: and, after a time, she slept.
The action of setting down the litter, awoke her with a start. Under some trees not far from a village gate, there was the small hut of a Fakeer. Shêre Khan was speaking to the old man, and the troopers were dismounting from their horses. Shêre Khan came to her.
"I have sent for the Josee's wife," he said. "The Syn here says she is a kind woman. She will bring you water and something to eat. We rest here while the men get their breakfasts, and the horses are fed. Fear nothing. Open the litter,—it is cool and pleasant in the shade under the trees," and then he left her.
So it was. She opened the door and looked out. A small grove of mango trees, with a smooth green sward below them, and some cattle and goats grazing there in the cool shade; a boy and a girl tending them looked inquisitively at her, and the girl came up shyly and sat down by her.
"Do you want water, lady?" she said. "I am the Josee's daughter, and those are my goats. I will go and tell my mother you want water. You are a Brahmun, are you not?"
Tara patted her head in assent—she could not speak; and the girl ran away, crying to the lad not to let her goats stray.
By-and-by the child and mother returned, and the latter brought a copper vessel of water and a drinking-cup.
"Here is water, lady," she said; "will you get out and wash your face? Surely, I know you," she continued quickly, as Tara turned her face to her. "Where have I seen you?"
"No matter," said Tara, "I do not know you."
"Perhaps not," said the dame drearily. "So many travellers come and go, and ... but no matter. Shall I cook anything for you? will you come to our house and bathe?"
"No," said Tara; "they will go on presently; I will stay here."
"Come hither, Ooma," she said to the girl, who was standing apart, and she whispered to her; "go, and come quickly," she added aloud.
"Do not send for any one else," said Tara; "I am well."
"Are you not ill?" said the woman. "Ah, your eyes are red and swollen."
"I have a headache," replied Tara; "it is so hot."
"Yes," said the woman, sitting down, and putting her arm kindly round Tara, and pressing her head against her own bosom,—"yes, you look tired and weary, but it will pass away. Wash your face and hands, and your feet—it will do you good, and refresh you. Put out your feet—so—I will wash them."
The cool water was refreshing as it was poured over her hands and feet; and after the woman had dried them with the end of her saree, she again laid Tara's head against her breast, and patted her as though she were her own child.
"You look so weary," she said; "have you travelled far?"
"From Tooljapoor," Tara replied.
"Is all well there?" asked the woman. It was a common question with no meaning to the asker, but of how much to Tara!
She could not answer, but clung, almost convulsively, to the kind breast on which she had laid her head.
"I see," said the woman; "so young and rich, and yet thou art in sorrow, lady—rest here." And she drew her the more closely to her, and patted her as before. So they sat till the child came back, who brought upon a plate, covered with a handkerchief, a few simple sweetmeats and some parched rice. "Eat," she said, "if ever so little; eat a bit of 'Luddoo,' and drink some water." Tara shook her head, and only nestled the closer to the soft bosom: it was strangely like her mother's.
"Poor thing, poor thing," thought the woman to herself, "what can ail her? Perhaps her husband is unkind. Eat, my rose," she said aloud, "eat this." And she broke off a piece of the cake and put it to Tara's mouth. "I made it myself, and it is quite pure and clean. Eat it; open your mouth." Tara did so mechanically, and she put it in.
Tara tried to eat, but her mouth was dry and hot; she could not swallow, and felt choking. The woman saw it, and rubbed her throat gently. The hardness and constriction seemed to relax, and she was able to swallow what she had taken, and to eat a little more, the woman feeding her.
"Good," she said kindly, "try again by-and-by. O lady, what heavy grief is on you that no tears come? Can I do aught for you?"
"Nothing," said Tara; "only do not leave me while they are absent."
So they sat silently. If Tara could have wept, it had been well; but that blessed relief was not to come yet. She was quiet, however, sitting there, almost stupified, resting her head against the woman's breast, who still patted her. Every now and then the great, sore, hot eyes looked out drearily. Some of the goats and cattle browsed under the trees, others had lain down resting in the shade. There was no sound but a faint rustle of the breeze among the leaves, the dim buzz of flies, and the droning song of a man, at a well in a garden near, singing to his bullocks, and the distant plashing rush of the water as it was emptied from the bag into the cistern.
And so they sat, till one by one the bearers gathered near them, and tied up their hookas on the palankeen as before. Then the horsemen came up, and she heard Shêre Khan asking her if she were ready, and telling the bearers to take up the palankeen. Tara had put the gifts she had received at the shrine under her waist-band, and remembered them. As the palankeen was taken up she tookthem out and put them into the woman's hand, who, expecting perhaps a few copper coins, stood looking at them in amazement.
"May your grief pass from you, and may God be merciful unto you, my child," said the woman. Ere Tara could reply, a bearer had shut the door, and the men ran on with renewed vigour.
Yes, the little change had refreshed her, and she again fell asleep, mercifully: and it was evening, and the shadows were lengthening fast, when she became aware that they approached a large town, passed through a busy bazar crowded with people, then emerged from it; crossed over a bridge, from which a large piece of water was visible on the left hand, and the towers and bastions of a fort washed by it; then the gloom of a deep-arched gateway, and light beyond. A respectably dressed elderly woman, in Mahomedan costume, took hold of the side of the palankeen, and ran along with it a short distance.
"Stop," she cried to the bearers,—"this is the place; put it down and go away."
Then Tara saw several other women advance and hold up a heavy sheet so as to screen her as she got out, and the door was opened; and Goolab, for she it was, speaking a rough dialect of Mahratta, bid her come forth. As she did so, and stood there, Goolab "took the evil off her," as was her custom;[13]and other women coming forward with plates, on which were coriander and mustard seed, waved them over her. Thus welcomed, Tara now stood waiting a signal to advance; and Goolab, seeing her trembling violently, put her arm round her, looking with wonder at the richness of her apparel and the heavy gold ornaments she wore, her exceeding beauty causing respect and silence even from the loquacious and privileged nurse.
"Enter," said a low sweet voice from within a curtain hanging across a doorway, which was slightly opened.
FOOTNOTE:[13]Women pass their hands over the person on whom the ceremony is performed from head to foot; then, turning the backs of their hands against their temples, make all their knuckles and finger-joints crack loudly. This is done to avert consequences of Evil Eye.
[13]Women pass their hands over the person on whom the ceremony is performed from head to foot; then, turning the backs of their hands against their temples, make all their knuckles and finger-joints crack loudly. This is done to avert consequences of Evil Eye.
[13]Women pass their hands over the person on whom the ceremony is performed from head to foot; then, turning the backs of their hands against their temples, make all their knuckles and finger-joints crack loudly. This is done to avert consequences of Evil Eye.
Tara advanced, still trembling, and clinging to Goolab, and trying to hide her face in the end of her garment; she was only sensible of the same sweet voice, as a girl of great, and to her strange, beauty, took her in her arms, embraced her, and said gently, "Peace be unto you! you are welcome, with the peace and blessing of Alla upon you!" and that another taller and older lady embraced her in like manner, and said the same. After that for a long while she remembered nothing.
When she recovered, she was lying upon a soft bedding in a small room, near an open window which looked out upon the lake that encircled the fort, glowing with the reflection of piles of sunset-clouds. On what seemed an island in the lake was a Hindu temple, with a high pyramidical roof, around which hung the rich foliage of several magnificent trees, and temple and trees were reflected double in the still water. These were the first objects that met her sight.
Then, turning round, the same young face that she had seen on entering the apartment bent over her, and a soft warm hand was passed over her face, and the ends of the fingers kissed in loving greeting; but the girl did not speak, though a sweet smile spread over her features, and she seemed to beckon with her left hand to another person behind her, whom Tara could not see. Another moment and her deliverer advanced, saluting her respectfully.
Fazil had ridden fast to overtake Tara, but had not succeeded. Twenty men, a light palankeen, and the hope of a liberal reward, had induced the bearers to put out their utmost speed, and they had well redeemed their promise of reaching their destination before sunset; but he had arrived soon after.
"Go away, brother," said Zyna, "do not speak to her now; you have seen that she is safe—that is enough."
"My sister," he replied in Persian, that Tara might not understand, "not so. It will grieve her, and thee too, sorely, but she must know the truth. Do not go away. I will speak to her in her own tongue, and show her these sad memorials which I have brought. It is mercy not to delay in such cases.—Can you listen to me, lady, a few moments?" he continued to Tara; "what I have to tell you is not worse than what you have already heard, but it will confirm it; and truth and reality are ever better than doubt."
"If you please to say it, sir," said Tara, who had arisen directly she saw Fazil approaching, and stood by the window.
"If—if—you saw anything that had belonged to them you would know it, perhaps," said Fazil hesitatingly.
Tara's bosom heaved so that she could not speak. She appeared as if gasping for breath, with the same distressing symptoms as when, in the morning, he had told her first of her bereavement,—and she trembled violently. She could not stand, and crouched down against the wall.
"O, not now, brother! not now," pleaded Zyna, who put her arm round Tara, and was supporting her.
But Fazil was merciless. "It must be," he said. "And now, lady, listen. If you had any doubt, these will remove it. After I left you the second time I went to the Kuchéri, for what JánooNäik told me he had left there, and these were given as having belonged to your mother, Anunda Bye, and your stepmother, Radha Bye. Look at them."
As he spoke he untied a bundle he held, and poured the contents at her feet; heavy gold and silver ornaments of some value, and a few rings.
Tara looked at them for a moment. The silver chain anklets, which were her mother's, were dabbled with blood, now dry on them; the gold pair had been made after those on her own feet for Radha's marriage, by her brother Moro. Enough—all were familiar objects. They swam before her eyes—the room seemed whirling round, and, weak as she was, she sank down again utterly unconscious, with Zyna crying over her.
"Let them remain," said Fazil, "she must see them when she recovers, else she will not believe. Show them to her one by one. I dare not stay;" and he left the room.
Tara had not however fainted, but she was gasping for breath, and Zyna called to Goolab to bring a fan, while she opened the casement of the window still more, to let in air. "He said—he said," sobbed Tara, trying to speak; "lady, I cannot speak—I am choking—O! why do I not die? He said——"
"He said you were to look at them all, one by one," said Zyna, trying to check her own sobs and tears. "He is kind. Fazil, my brother, would not give you pain unless it were for good. Look! here they are," and Zyna spread out the ornaments with her own hands, shuddering at the blood upon them.
Tara looked earnestly at Zyna; the eyes were full of misery—so full that Zyna could not bear them—passed her hands over her own, pressing them tightly, then looked away. Tara turned the ornaments vacantly over and over, sighing, and, as it were, catching her breath convulsively. There was one, a ring with a sapphire set in it, with which she knew her mother never parted, for she believed that without it evil would happen to her, and that it had brought prosperity. It used sometimes to be put on the altar when they worshipped Lakshmee, the Goddess of Wealth—else it never left her mother's hand; but it was there. Zyna did not know this then, but she saw Tara's hand tremble very much as she took it up and looked at it carefully. There was a dark stain inside, and Tara put down the ring, gasping, as it were, for breath, then took it up again.
Zyna watched wonderingly, the changing expressions which passed over the beautiful features: first despair; then, as it seemed to her, prayers were murmured in a language she did not understand, and the features appeared to relax, the upturned eyes glistened, there was a look as if of hope or triumph upon the face. She moved closer to Tara, still closer, as she thought she saw tears gatheringin the hot eyes. If Tara could only weep it would be well. Zyna passed her left arm round her, and gently drew the girl's head on er own shoulder and bosom; it fell softly there and rested; the hand which held the ring dropped on her lap, beating restlessly; but the other grasped her so that it almost caused pain. Kind nature did not suffer the terrible struggle to continue longer, else Tara had died; and with almost a shriek of pain, her tears burst forth uncontrollably.
"Thank God for it," said Lurlee, who had entered, and was standing over them, and who now passed her hands over Tara, as Goolab had done; "she will be easier for this, and the worst is past: let her weep. The blessing of Alla and the Prophet on thee, my daughter," she said to Tara. "I salute thee with peace! Thou hast entered at a fortunate moment, and there is joy following thy grief. Fear not; thou hast come to those who will be to thee what thou hast lost."
"She will require much care, mother," said Zyna; "feel how she is trembling; I will not leave her. Ah, yes—that is the reason; take away those things, Goolab; wash them and put them by."
Goolab took them up, and with all her choicest epithets of "Poor little rose! my pretty dove! my lily! my own life!" she tried to soothe the girl; but Tara heeded no one. Keeping the ring clutched in her own hand, she hid her face in Zyna's bosom, then suffered her gradually to lay her head down on her knee, and rock it softly. She dared not speak, but tried to look up gratefully, sometimes, and then clung the closer to her gentle nurse.
"Hush," said Zyna, as fresh bursts of tears often occurred, "I know what has happened, and I will not leave thee, Tara; no, never now. And he, my brother, says it too." So they sat and lay—the two girls—long into the night; and gradually, unable to resist the kindness lavished on her, Tara spoke a little, and Zyna encouraged it, and heard wonderingly, Tara's simple tale of trial and sorrow.
That night, too, her future fate was the subject of earnest debate, often approaching the verge of passion, between Afzool Khan, his son, and the priest. What could they do with a Brahmun orphan, a heathen unbeliever who was a captive, and a slave, by the laws of war? Long and earnestly did the priest plead that she should forthwith be sent to the royal harem. So beautiful a slave would be cherished, loved, and have every luxury at her command; she might become the mother of princes, and the head of the state; and Afzool Khan supported this opinion, which was borne out by texts from the law, plausibly quoted by the Peer.
But Fazil opposed them both, gently yet firmly, and at last almost fiercely. "She is my captive, if captive at all," he said; "my slave,taken in war, according to your own texts, Huzrut—and I can release her, or ransom her, or keep her, as I will. She has relatives at Wye, where we are going, and with your permission, father, she can stay with us till then; we will be her safeguard, honourably and truly. After that," he added with some little confusion, "she can act for herself, and of her own free will; but to send her to the palace, to be decked out and noticed for a while, and then flung aside—no, father; better she died, or better still that we now turned her into the street, to shift for herself among her own people."
"That would be inhospitable, son, if no more," returned his father; "well, boy, let her stay, and welcome. No matter," he thought to himself, "if he have his own way in this thing." The Khan was decidedly in good humour. The kichéri, kabobs, and some other dishes which were especial favourites, had been dressed to perfection by Lurlee, and were relished, as they can best be, with the zest insured by a long ride.
Lurlee had met him in good humour, and the stars were in propitious conjunction to welcome his arrival. The lady had nothing but good to say of Tara, whose beauty and sad history had at once deeply impressed her. "What if she be an infidel," she said, "she will make the better true believer. Let her stay with us, O Khan! she shall be a daughter to me," and the lady sighed. "There is nothing unlucky about the period of her arrival, for the sun was in conjunction with Jupiter, and she was born under Venus, she says; and as she is a Brahmun she knows all about her horoscope and the planets; besides, is not this Wednesday, and she arrived between five and six in the evening, under Venus, so that she is born to us under the same planet as she was born to her own parents? Is not that curious? and by-and-by I shall call her Fazila, according to the blessed scheme of nativity sent by the prophets. And listen further, Khan," continued the lady, pausing and examining her book. "Her name now begins with a T, and that stands for Air, and is lucky, because——" and she was nearly saying it aloud, only she checked herself in time, "because," she said to herself, "Fazil's name begins with an F, and that means Fire, and fire and air always agree best, because the one cannot exist apart from the other."
"I don't understand, Lurlee," said the Khan, "how it is. What about fire?"
"Never mind," replied the lady knowingly, "you will find out more by-and-by, Khan! there is a good deal to be done before then."
So Tara escaped another great peril which she knew not of, and remained as an honoured and welcome guest with her new protectors. And in a few days, when Afzool Khan had made the necessary arrangements, his army was ready to move on. These need nodetail at our hands, except as concerns two characters in our history who did not accompany it.
The first was Kowas Khan, who, recalled by the King to manage the affairs of his own troops, returned from Sholapoor to the capital. The young man regretted the necessity; for to share a campaign in real service with his friend Fazil, had ever been one of his most cherished plans. The King's order was, however, peremptory, and was obeyed. "When we return," said the old Khan to him as they parted, "the days of mourning will be expired, and thou shalt have thy desire."
With him was sent the Lalla, who, being naturally of an unwarlike nature, rejoiced at the prospect of escaping hardships of no ordinary kind. And was not Kowas Khan the late Wuzeer's son, and nominal Wuzeer himself? He might become actually so, and what a field for advancement was opened to him if this should be! "May your prosperity increase, may you be victorious," he said to the father and son as he took leave of them. "Inshalla! your poor servant will write you news of the city and court, after the true imperial fashion, which is more his vocation than recording battles; only remember that your slave is grateful."
Afzool Khan's army, now organized in all respects, set forward on its march. A few miles only were traversed daily, and it would require a month or more ere they could reach Wye. Sometimes a house was found for the ladies in a village or town near which the forces encamped; but more frequently they were in the Khan's tents, which were infinitely pleasanter. The two girls grew together, the more as the first restraint passed away; and the lady Lurlee and Zyna were never tired of hearing from the lips of the beautiful heathen, the simple story of her life, her widowhood, and her strange rescue from dishonour.
Was Tara happy? Yes; when she thought of what her fate must have been had she not been rescued from Moro Trimmul, or even if Fazil had yielded to her first entreaties, and let her go without inquiry. She knew not then of the further escape from the royal harem which Fazil had secured; but as it was, gratitude to him had already become the main feeling of her life. Of her parents' death she had no doubt whatever now. The other members of the family would have claimed the property and cast her off. Widow and priestess combined, she would have been helpless against the insult and profligacy of men of her own faith, and now she was at least safe. She was grateful, therefore, and, for the most part, happy too.
But often, as she wept bitterly under the old memories of an innocent and happy home, the loving arms of her mother seemed clasped about her once more, and her caresses almost palpably felt,while the glistening eyes of the goddess appeared to follow her, sleeping and waking, with a reproachful look of desertion. In these moments, Tara endured bitter grief; but ever at hand were the gentle remonstrances of her new mother and sister, and to them also were joined those of her deliverer which, in the constant association which grew out of a camp life, she felt becoming more and more powerful day by day.
Among the events which passed at Sholapoor after the arrival of the Khan, was the disposition of the prisoner Moro Trimmul. Heavily ironed and closely guarded, he had been brought from Tooljapoor on horseback, his irons loosened from one leg, and, when they were again riveted, he was consigned to the custody of the Khan's own troop. When the fate of the Brahmun hung in a balance, and Fazil, fearing him, and knowing his indefatigable and successful attempts in propagating the political influence of the Mahrattas, had at first urged his execution, then his transmission to Beejapoor,—there was not a dissentient voice in the small council; but at Sholapoor the aspect of affairs had changed: the priest and his father had sent for Moro Trimmul, and examined him in private; and the sullenness of the man had apparently broken down before the threats of being despatched to Beejapoor, and submitted to his fate with the King.
The Khan and the priest were no believers in the honesty of Mahrattas; and at the second of these examinations, the Brahmun was plied with temptation such as was difficult to resist, and to which he yielded with apparent reluctance, but yielded nevertheless. To assist them in speaking with the prisoner (for though the priest spoke Mahratta perfectly well, yet, as a language of infidels, rarely suffered it, as he said, to defile his mouth; and if he did, subjected that organ to an excessive purification at the hour of prayer),—a Brahmun, who belonged to the accountant's department of the state, by name Punto Gopináth, was employed by the Khan. Of this man he knew but little: but he was a good Persian scholar, as well as an intelligent official servant of the kingdom, and the Khan had no doubt of his fidelity.
Nor, indeed, Bulwunt Rao either; who, a bad interpreter himself, had, on all occasions, been allowed to be present, as a check upon the Brahmuns. Both had joined in trying to persuade Moro Trimmul to disclose the intentions of his master, and had always been met with the same answer, that the Prince only desired recognition of his rights, and that when he heard for certain of themarch of the force, he would be sure to send ambassadors to explain what had occurred. So it had come to this, that if ambassadors did arrive within a few days, Moro Trimmul was to be confronted with them; otherwise, that he was to be sent back to Beejapoor, to be dealt with as a traitor.
To Bulwunt Rao, whose Mahratta mind was capable of understanding and appreciating an indirect motive of policy, the Khan's determination seemed perfectly reasonable; and if Moro Trimmul could by any means be brought to consent to lead the force through the defiles beyond Wye, some effect upon the Rajah's position might be obtained. If not, who was to do it?
To Fazil, however, the position taken up by his father was so unintelligible, and so unlike his usual straightforward mode of proceeding, that he feared some extraneous agency was at work. It was not so, however: it was simply the power which strong minds exercise over weaker; and by the Brahmun's cool contempt of death, his certainty that Sivaji would beg for terms, and his willingness to assist if he did,—the Khan's suspicions were overcome.
Nor was it strange, perhaps, that after a time the Khan appeared to attach no particular culpability to Moro Trimmul's attempt to carry off Tara. He had explained the act, by her father having tired of her presence in the house as the jealous enemy of his sister, a new and beautiful wife, and had requested him to take her away to Wye, to devote her to one of the temples there. Some little force was, no doubt, necessary; but her father had authorized its being used, to prevent interference by her mother. What did he care about the girl?—as a widow she was impure, and her not having performed the rites of widowhood, placed her beyond the pale of respectability; yes, the Khan might make a Mahomedan of her, send her to the King, or do what he pleased with his slave, he had no concern for her now.
The Khan thought this state of the case on the whole more probable, in all its aspects, than Tara's own story, heard through Lurlee and Zyna. It did not affect her character, which Moro Trimmul spared no words to commend.
So the Brahmun grew into favour; and as he did so, the flattery which he distributed to the Khan and the priest had its effect, in procuring him liberty, first from his irons, and then of speech with Gopináth and other persons of his own sect, who came to converse with one so well known by reputation. The position of all parties continued thus till a few days after the force had left Sholapoor; when, one morning, as the Khan reached the halting-place for the day, the arrival of envoys from the Rajah Sivaji was announced in camp, and without delay they were summoned to the Khan's presence.
We need not follow the negotiations which ensued; we have onlyto do with those who took part in them. Most of us know, too, what Eastern negotiations are, when weakness is covered by temporizing expedients of falsehood or treachery. So it has been from the first, so it will be to the end. Moro Trimmul had well guessed what his master's policy would be when he laid his fate upon the result; and when he heard from Bulwunt Rao that the envoys had proffered submission, and begged of Afzool Khan to advance and partake of the Rajah's hospitality at Pertâbgurh, where the affairs pending in dispute could be amicably discussed, he was satisfied—he could understand what was to come.
His own liberation soon followed. Of what use was it confining an irresponsible agent, when real ambassadors had voluntarily met the Khan, and declared their master's intention to throw himself on the royal clemency? So Moro Trimmul was set free.
His first act was to seek Gunga. So long as he had been kept within the fort at Sholapoor he had heard nothing of her; but the day the force marched, he had seen her, attended by two stout footmen with sword and buckler, riding among the camp followers, as the division of horsemen, under whose charge he was placed, rapidly passed a crowd of them straggling onwards. She had not observed him, he thought, for she made no sign of recognition. It had been otherwise, however; and we must retrace a little this girl's proceedings, in order to comprehend her present position.
Under that strange fascination which often impels women to endure more from men who ill-use them than from those who caress them, she had been unable to remain at Tooljapoor, and after a brief struggle she had yielded to her destiny. When the Khan discharged her, and the temporary insensibility of Lukshmun had procured her the gold zone, which was valuable, the hard, mercenary nature which had grown out of her vocation, rose as a wall between her and Moro Trimmul, and yet but for a moment.
It said to her, "You have got all you can from this man, his fate is evil; you have had many escapes from him, and this is the last. Go! leave him, you could not save his life if you would; the Mussulmans hate him, and will destroy him, or imprison him for life. Enough that you have escaped; go, and be thankful." This was what she thought, as she picked up the zone when it rolled away, fastened it round her waist, and walked out of the room. Where was she to go? She dared not visit the temple. Dead bodies were still lying there, and there was blood about the streets. She went to Anunda's house, and looked into all the courts. She saw the dead negro lying among the flowers, and, horrified at the sight, she started back; and just as some men opened a door and tried to intercept her, she fled away in terror. She dared not trust herself in the quiet parts of the town nor in the camp; for there were many who would have thoughtlittle of a stab with a dagger, or open violence, to rid her of the zone and the valuable ornaments she had about her. The bazar, however, was safe, and she might meet some one she knew, and obtain protection.
There were many. Among them Jánoo the Ramoosee, now very tipsy, yet able to recognize her. He knew she was no friend of Anunda's or Tara's, and to her he told the same story as he had done to Fazil. "Dead, all dead!" he cried, as he staggered away—"dishonoured and murdered by the negroes; and they are buried in the hole beyond the well, without the gate. Go and see—go and see."
She went up through the gate idly, and sat down beside the great well. She dared not go beyond it. A large peepul tree hung over it, and a number of Hindu soldiers were cooking under its shade. She asked for a few hot cakes, and they gave them, and she ate them there. Then she wandered into the fields and gardens beyond, and so round to the Pâp-nâs temple, and sat down on the ledge of rock above the little stream, which thence leapt plashing down the precipice, looking over the broad plain, over which the light shadows of fleecy clouds were chasing each other.
Her eyes filled with tears, for there came back to her, hard and depraved as she was, many tender memories of the man whom she had loved passionately;—feared, hated with bitter jealousy, and again loved with that perversity which is part of the fiercest jealousy, and distorts every semblance of truth to serve its own purpose. The scene of Tara's inauguration came back to her memory, and her beauty. "It was not his fault, Mother," she cried out aloud; "it was thine, to send that lotos-faced girl to bewitch him, else he had been true to me, and thou art rightly served for it. He said thou wast a fiend, and feared thee not; nor do I."
Yes, Tara was gone; would the Mussulman boy, so grand, so beautiful, ever give up so lovely a captive? Surely not. "Let him have her," she said: "she will go away, far, far from me and him, and it is well. Yes, it is well, and what have I to do but follow and watch,—follow and watch?"
Then she rose, remembering her store of money in a pot under the fireplace, in a cloister of the temple, where she had lived. Her clothes, her property, would be gone; what matter, if that were safe?
So she rose up and ran lightly along the plain, back to the gate, avoiding the new graves; then passed down the bazar and into the temple court. All the dead had been removed. The scavengers were washing the court, which she crossed rapidly. As she expected, her room had been plundered, all her clothes were gone, but the fireplace had not been disturbed. She closed the door carefully, then sat down for a while with a beating heart, to see whether she were followed or not; no one came,—no one had cared to stop her, thoughshe had been seen. With a small iron bar which lay in a corner, she hastily dug up the clay plastering of the hearth, and took out the brass vessel she had hidden there, which contained her savings; there were upwards of a hundred rupees in it—wealth to her.
Tying these coins carefully into her waist-band, she again went out into the court, and proceeded to the temple. "Do not go there," cried a man sweeping; "it is not washed." But she went on.
It was not washed, and was ghastly with dried and clotted blood. She looked into the shrine, to see what had become of the image, venerated, feared, and yet even detested. It lay there as it had fallen. No one had yet dared to touch it, and the wicked eyes still glistened and sparkled in the light of the lamp which had been placed beside it. "Aha!" cried the girl exultingly; "lie there, liar and murdering devil, as he called thee. He did not fear thee, nor do I. Lie there, till they pick thee up; or why dost thou not rise thyself? Up, Mother, up! shall I help thee?" she cried mockingly, as she seized the stone hand; but she dropped it as instantly—it was wet and cold.
As she did so, she fancied the eyes turned spitefully towards her, and a horrible superstitious terror came into her heart when she looked at her hand and saw it was covered with blood. Then she shrieked and fled shuddering, out of the front entrance to the vestibule, across the court, up the steps, staying only for a moment to wash hurriedly in the sacred cistern. Thus she went into the bazar, and sought out a carrier who she knew possessed a strong pony, who agreed to take her to Sholapoor; and, purchasing a heavy, coarse cotton sheet, she wrapped herself in it, and, mingling with the crowd of camp-followers, rode after the force to Sholapoor.
For many days she could get no speech of Moro Trimmul. She had seen him taken to rivulets and wells to bathe, and he had also seen her; but though she daily tried, on one pretence or other, to get near him, she was repulsed. It was enough, however, that she knew where he was.
It was not long after his release ere he discovered her. She did not importune him, and he could hardly resist the devotion which had prompted her to abandon what had been her home and follow his fortunes. He trusted also to induce her, gradually, again to further his designs against Tara, which, now that her parents, and, as he believed, also his own sister, were all dead, appeared more probable of success than before.
If ever this selfish man had felt a pang of real grief in his life, it was when he had heard of his sister's death. Poor Radha! whom he had settled at last so well, when any provision for her had become next to hopeless—Radha, who, with all her faults, was part of his own rugged nature, polished and set in a more beautiful frame. It was impossible not to grieve for her. This was the first impression;afterwards there ensued an element of rejoicing in it, which daily grew stronger. That he was free—free to act: free from the keen perception and daring opposition of his sister, which, ever protecting Tara as with a shield, had only yielded to violence at the last.
Now Tara was within his reach, and, comparatively speaking, in a far greater measure than before. He knew her to be safe in the family with whom she had obtained protection. Their own high honour and strict respectability were guarantee for this. Knowing her helplessness, Moro Trimmul had but one source of alarm or apprehension: she might allow herself to be converted to the Mahomedan faith, or it might be done without her consent. Then, indeed, there would be no hope.
But, on the other hand, was she not a Brahmun—wonderfully learned for a woman, proud of this learning, and, above all, a self-professed devotee of the goddess?
"No," he thought, "they may attempt conversion, probably will do so, but she will resist it: and yet she should not be too long exposed to a double temptation." Now, therefore, as before, he discussed plans with Gunga as to what means could be employed to separate Tara from her new protectors, and carry her away into the wilds of his native province, where she could be effectually concealed; and his pursuit of the girl grew once more into a fierce and morbid passion, absorbing and deadening all other feelings of his life.
"The gods be praised!" cried Jeyram Bhópey to Wamun Bhut, late in the day after the attack upon the temple. "He has opened his eyes once more. Speak, Vyas Shastree; you are safe amongst friends: the gods be praised, and Toolja Máta, for this mercy, for we little expected to see you live."
"Who are you?" said the Shastree faintly. "I see very dimly, and it appears very dark.—Anunda! Tara!—--"
"I, Wamun, speak to you," replied the elder of the two priests, "and this is Jeyram Bhópey. We carried you away, and you are safe in the house of Gunnésh Hurry, Putwari of Sindphul.—Look, friends," he continued, speaking to others without the door of the room, "the Shastree is alive, and hath spoken, and asked for his wife and daughter."
Vyas Shastree was sensible that the room darkened again, as a number of men crowded to the door; but, feeling sick and faint from the exertion of speaking even those few words, thought himself dying, and relapsed again into insensibility.
Very anxiously did all those friends watch around the wounded man; and it was long before he showed any appearance of rallying strength. Night passed, and they hardly expected he would see the day; but still he breathed, and as morning was breaking, a warm moisture took the place of the chill, clammy, deathlike state in which he had remained previously, and then those attending him hoped that he would live.
He had received a fearful wound. Bareheaded as he was in the performance of the ceremonies so rudely interrupted, he had not thought of protecting himself; but, as the Abyssinians advanced, had caught a sword and shield offered him by a man in the crowd, who drew back and fled, and had passed to the front with some others, crying the shout of the goddess, "Jey Kalee!" "Jey Toolja!" and catching blows on the shield rather than returning them. But when a gigantic negro before him was pressing upon the front rank of those who defended the entrance to the vestibule, so heavily that it seemed as if they must give way, the old soldier spirit within the Shastree was stirred, and he struck desperately at the man. Stung by the pain of the wound, the negro instantly returned the blow with a furious cut, which laid open the crown of the Shastree's head from back to front. Well for him that the shield had greatly broken the force of it, or he had died instantly; as it was, the Shastree fell stunned, and was trampled upon by the advancing crowd; and lay there, unconscious, until the early morning.
Then the two friends who had watch him fall, and who, concealed in the recess behind the shrine, had escaped slaughter, came forth and sought for him. They found him under a pile of dead, still breathing, but utterly insensible. It was impossible to take him to his own house, for the gateway and bazar were filled with Abyssinians, and they feared a renewal of slaughter with the dawn; so they lifted the Shastree from the ground, obtained a bedstead from one of the closed archway rooms, put him upon it, and, being joined by several of the Bhópey priests, had broken open the postern by which Tara had been taken away, and carried him at once, unobserved, to Sindphul.
Had Tara remained where she had been first stopped, she must have seen her father borne past her, and would have been saved; but Fazil Khan had sent her palankeen to the trees by the back of the rivulet, about a gunshot's distance from the path, out of sight; and though those who carried the Shastree were challenged by Shêre Khan's horsemen, there was nothing suspicious in the fact of a dead body, for so it seemed, being carried away,—and the little procession had passed unnoticed.
Heera, the barber of Sindphul, was a skilful surgeon, and on his arrival at the house of the Putwari or accountant of the village, theShastree's wound was examined. The barber had seldom seen worse, and during the time which had elapsed since he had received it, the Shastree had become weak from loss of blood. So Heera shook his head. Still he did his best: the wound was sewn up skilfully, and a composing poultice of warm leaves and herbs applied to it, while the bruised body was fomented. All night had Heera watched anxiously with the friends about the Shastree, fearing the worst, for he was restless and feverish; but with the morning came refreshing sleep, and the warm moist skin for which the barber had so anxiously looked. Then he said, "If the gods please, the Shastree will live. Let him be kept quiet, and the room darkened."
At first the women of his family were hardly missed. All those who could escape had fled into the fields and gardens around little Tooljapoor, and many into the deep ravine beyond the town, or to adjacent villages. Sindphul was crowded with them, and no one dare return till the Mahomedan force had passed.
The Bhóslay of Sindphul had searched again and again through his village and its hamlets for the Shastree's wives and for Tara, but in vain. He had sent men to look for them in their own house, but they were not there. The place showed the signs of violence we already know of; and the men in charge of it could only hope that Jánoo Näik might account for them.
Jánoo had been sought, therefore, and found in the liquor-seller's shop drinking out his money; and when asked for Anunda and Tara, said, with drunken solemnity, that he had buried them all. The idea had possessed him that this was the safest answer for all questioners, and he held to it the more pertinaciously as his drunkenness increased. It was impossible not to fear that the story might be true; for all had seen Tara in the throng of priests and priestesses, and knew also that Anunda and Radha had been in the temple.
We left them crouching in a niche, as it were, of the rock, overgrown by long pendant creepers and grass, near the little spring, and there they passed the night. At early dawn Jánoo had come to them with his son, and told them that their house had been attacked in the night, and was no safe place for them. It was polluted, moreover, and they could not return to it. That Tara and the Shastree had escaped to Sindphul; that he dare not take them past the force which was guarding the town and pass, and that they must go to Afsinga, where all was quiet. He knew they had friends in a Brahmun's family which resided there, and thither Anunda and Radha suffered themselves to be guided by the boy, while Jánoo, after seeing them safe across the hill, returned to his post.
Weeping bitterly, hardly knowing whether to go on with the lad or to return, at all risks, to Tooljapoor, the two women had yielded to Jánoo's well-intended but mistaken direction. The path wasstony and rough, and their naked feet, unused to such places, were sorely bruised and cut in descending the rugged track by which, through the most intricate and gloomy ravines of the hills, they were guided. It was hardly four miles, perhaps, and yet, faint and wretched as they were, the sun was high in the heavens ere they reached their destination, and were kindly received.
They told their story; but what could be done? Who could go to Tooljapoor? The Brahmun to whose house they had betaken themselves was old and feeble, but a student who lived with him, and who had been absent since daylight to obtain information, returned about noon. He had no news of the Shastree or of Tara; but he volunteered to go again to seek them, and did so, returning at night with accounts of a fruitless search. Jánoo, he said, knew nothing of them, and he had found him telling the same story, that he had buried Anunda and Radha out of sight,—and understood—what the faithful but drunken creature had perhaps meant to convey to all inquirers—that they were safely hidden away.
Perhaps Jánoo would not have been absent so long had he been sober; but the excitement and his potations together had been too much for him. When he awoke, having lain down to sleep in the bazar, it was evening, and they were lighting the lamps in the shops. "It is too late now," thought he, "to go across the hills for the Shastree's wives, and they are safer where they are;" so he betook himself to the house. His men were there in charge. The dead negro had been taken out and buried, and some of the blood washed away; but the place was utterly defiled: the sacred fire had gone out, and the whole premises must undergo purification ere they could enter or inhabit it once more. Jánoo shrugged his shoulders—"They cannot live here," he said; "there is the hut in the garden at Sindphul, and I will take them there and hide them in it."
So in the morning, before it was light, he set out from Tooljapoor, and crossed the hills, with two of his men leading two stout ponies for the women, and reached Afsinga before the sun had risen. He brought no tidings of the Shastree; but it was reported generally in the town, he said, that he and Tara were at Sindphul; and, in any case, they must go there and live in the garden till the house could be purified, and fit to be again inhabited. This was scant comfort to Anunda and Radha; but Jánoo said that most families in the town were in the same predicament, that he knew the Shastree and Tara were not among the dead, and probability confirmed the report that they had fled in the confusion, and were safe.
It was hardly four miles to Sindphul by the road at the foot of the hills on the plain; and they set out, after their hospitable hosts had insisted upon their taking an early meal. Anunda would fain have gone by Tooljapoor, but Jánoo overruled it. There was no one there;they would only sit down and cry at the house door; and if the Shastree were at Sindphul, they would be delayed going to him. Nobody had been disturbed there; and the Bhóslay and the Putwari would advise them for the best in any case.
All these arguments overruled Anunda, and they set out with their guide. They met no one, except a few men watching in their fields by the wayside, who told them all was quiet. Jánoo would not even take them near the pass of Tooljapoor, but, striking across the plain by the Gosai's Mutt, and through the great mango grove, they reached Sindphul unobserved.
It is not a large village, and they were well known there. Passing up the central street, they had greetings from many friends, both men and women. At last they saw their own old gardener sitting weeping at the door of the Putwari's house; and Jánoo, who was leading Anunda's pony, took them thither. They were both sick at heart as they dismounted and entered. The Putwari's wife and his married daughter who lived in the house were kind people, and met them in the outer court. "He is alive," said the dame; "fear not. Heera has dressed the wound, and he has spoken to my husband, and asked for you. We told him we had sent for you, and that you were coming, and, behold, the gods have brought you." Then she led Anunda, weeping, into the inner court, and Radha followed. The men sitting about the door of the apartment got up, and, feeling they had no more to do, went out, all but the old Putwari.
"Vyas Shastree," he said, as the women approached the door, "be comforted; they are safe, and have come to you. Be gentle with him," he added to Anunda; "he is very weak, and Heera says if he is made anxious, or disturbed, fever may come on; therefore, be careful."
It was well meant to give them caution, but at such moments, nature will have its course. The women had existed—since the attack on the temple, and since they had fled with Jánoo—in a state of intense fear and misery which cannot be described; and yet one mercy had accompanied this dread, that they had not fully known what had happened in the temple, and so hope had sustained them. Now, however, there was no doubt; and in a paroxysm of mingled fear and thankfulness, they cast themselves beside the low bed, embracing their husband's feet, and weeping passionately. The Shastree was too weak to speak or move; he could only lift up his hand gently, as if to bless them and welcome them, while a faint but grateful smile spread itself over his pallid features.
For a little time, and as they sat silently beside him ministering to their wants—for Anunda was an unrivalled nurse, and had at once proceeded to arrange many things about him, as he liked—strange to say, they did not miss Tara; but Anunda's mind suddenlymisgave her. Her husband, whom her arrival had aroused, had again fallen into a doze, and she went outside to ask for her. The whole court had been left to them, and the door of the outer one was closed. "Tara," she called gently, several times, but there was no reply. She might be asleep, she thought, in one of the rooms which opened into it, and she searched in each in succession. There was no one. Radha joined her. "Where is Tara?" she said. "She should have been with him." True, she should have been with her father, but she was not.
The women turned sick at heart and sat down. A nameless terror seized them, so absorbing, that they could say nothing, but that she was not. Anunda dare not ask. Of the two, Radha was most self-possessed. Looking through the door, she saw the old Putwari's wife sitting outside it, and as if watching the place. She called her in, and the dame saw at a glance what was needed. O the misery of that mother's face! who, after trying to articulate "Tara," which her lips formed, as though she spoke the word, fell forward clasping the knees and feet of her old friend, and groaning in her despair.
"The gods have given thee one precious object, sister, and taken the other," she said. "Be thankful for what is spared thee."
Then Anunda thought Tara was dead, and so did Radha; but the woman resumed—
"And yet, why should I say so, Anunda? We know not; she has not been heard of. Let us wait. Hundreds of our friends fled from the temple and from the town. Many we sheltered here all yesterday till the force passed by; then they returned home. So Tara may be at some village near, and we have men watching at your house and at the temple. The Bhópeys will send intelligence if they get any."
"She is not in the garden?" asked Radha.
"No; we searched there long ago, and in all the gardens. No, she is not here, and you must wait. She was favoured of the Mother, sister, and will not be deserted. At least we know she was not killed."
Anunda was comforted for the moment by this, and the women went and resumed their watch by their husband. It was a relief, perhaps, not to speak—a relief, too, to find, in watching him and ministering to his wants, a diversion from the other care. Sooner or later Tara might come in. Jánoo had at once gone in search of her; the Bhópeys had despatched horsemen to every village around, and there would surely be news of her before nightfall.
But none came that night, nor the next day. The Shastree was not yet aware of Tara's absence; fever had begun—the fever of the wound—and he was unconscious of most things. Sometimes herecognized Anunda, and sometimes called Radha, Tara. It was a blessed thing then that he knew no more. Neither of the women relaxed for a moment in their work, and sat there by the bed, without sleep and without rest, looking for news of Tara; but none came. Messenger after messenger arrived, but with no tidings of her.
Late next day Jánoo returned. He must see Anunda, he said; he had news of importance about Tara, and, so far as he knew, she was not dead.
Anunda went to the man outside; he might not enter because of his impure caste.
Jánoo was a man of few words and scant ceremony, and he blurted out, "Moro Trimmul and Gunga took her away, lady. I was drinking last night with some of our people, who are strangers, and came from a distance, and who were dividing booty: and they said they had carried off a beautiful Moorlee as the disturbance broke out, and put her in a palankeen, and they were paid by Moro Trimmul, the reciter. They treated me and some of my people to liquor, and told us of this as a good piece of business. And I have not stolen them, lady; but the jewels you gave me are gone; they were given to Pahar Singh's hunchback, who came and asked for them in the Kuchéri in my name: but Pahar Singh will give them up; or if not, I will burn a corn-stack of his every night till he does."
All this was told rapidly and confusedly. The detail was hardly intelligible; but one great fact came out beyond all others, and if it were true, better Tara were dead—O, far better!
"Wait," said Anunda, "and I will come to thee again;" and she went in and whispered it all to Radha. She saw the girl's face flush and her bosom heave rapidly. "Gunga must have helped him," she said, "else he had not dared it, and I will see to it myself." So they both went out to the Ramoosee, and Radha at once declared she would go with him to the town above, and make inquiries.
She was shrewd and active. Accompanied by Jánoo and two of the Bhóslay's retainers, she soon found the man from whom Jánoo had heard of Tara, and listened to his story. They had known nothing of Moro Trimmul's purpose, he said, till that night of the recitation, or how the girl they took was to be decoyed away, or who she was; but as the disturbance began, she was brought out by him in his arms, and then they took her. Yes, he knew what had become of her. Moro Trimmul had been put in irons by the Mahomedan chief, and Tara had been carried off to Sholapoor. He and his companions had watched the palankeen from the rocks in the ravine where they had hidden themselves, because, if it had been left unguarded, they would have gone to it.
It was clear enough now, therefore, that Tara was gone, not dead.That would have been grief—bitter grief; but here was more misery than death would have caused. Who had taken their Tara? for what fate was she reserved? They could only think of her beauty as destined for some Mahomedan harem—reserved for a fate worse than death.
It was piteous to see the mother and the sister-wife prostrated under this misery and the state of their husband; and it was with difficulty that Radha was restrained from going at once to Sholapoor after the camp, and endeavouring to trace and reclaim Tara. If she had only done so—if this energetic girl, used to rough ways and rapid journeys, had been allowed to follow out her own plans, what misery might not have been saved to all! Hard she pleaded, that she could not be denied to her brother. She would force from him an account of Tara, and would bring her back.