A young lady—the sister, as Hoosanee had been told, of Grace Sahib—came in with her in the carriage, and an English officer whom Ganesh had recognised as the Captain Sahib Liston, had ridden into the city in their company. At the gate of the palace they had inquired for his Excellency the rajah. When Hoosanee informed them of the business on which he was bound, adding that he might not return till late, the ladies had left their names with him and gone on to the zenana, and the Captain Sahib had proceeded to the Residency, where he would probably spend the night.
While Hoosanee was giving his master this news a servant came in with a letter for the rajah. It was from Lady Elton—a rapturous, affectionate, incoherent little note, saying she had seen Grace, and thanking and blessing him for all he had done for them. 'My good Trixy is with me,' she wrote. 'The General would not let me come without one of the girls, and I think she will be a comfort to her sister. I will not see you to-night. When I feel my child's hand in mine my love and gratitude overcome me. I could only weep. I could not speak. But to-morrow morning, as early as you like, we must meet.' And she added, after a few more fervent, incoherent words. 'Both the General and I feel that you belong to us.' Pressing the letter to his lips, Tom wrote an answer hastily.
'My dearest Lady Elton,—I thank God from a full heart that you have come in safely. Command me as if I were your son. It will be my happiness to serve you. To-morrow, since it may not be to-night, I will bid you welcome in person. I am always in the garden early. You are an early riser, I know. If the journey has not tired you too much, perhaps you will meet me there. I must see youalone, if possible. Brotherly greetings and a warm welcome to Trixy. Yours always,'Thomas Gregory.'
'My dearest Lady Elton,—I thank God from a full heart that you have come in safely. Command me as if I were your son. It will be my happiness to serve you. To-morrow, since it may not be to-night, I will bid you welcome in person. I am always in the garden early. You are an early riser, I know. If the journey has not tired you too much, perhaps you will meet me there. I must see youalone, if possible. Brotherly greetings and a warm welcome to Trixy. Yours always,
'Thomas Gregory.'
A long night, haunted by the strangest dreams, passed over the young rajah's head. Now he would be chasing Lady Elton about the garden, trying to speak to her, and seeing her elude him, and waking up with a start just as his hand was on her arm. Then he would come suddenly face to face with her, and she would begin an incoherent story, which he could not understand. Again and again he leapt up thinking it was day, and again and again he composed himself to sleep; but, do what he would, he could not rest for the fever of his heart and brain, and before the sun was up he dressed and went out into the garden.
Ever afterwards he remembered vividly the impressions of that morning. He went out into a still and wonderful world. The green things of the earth, the flowering shrubs, the palms, the dark cypresses that lifted their column-like heads above the lower and lovelier foliage, the water that flowed in deep channels by the grass—all these seemed to be asleep. But a soft wind was stirring; far away there was a low confused murmur as of dawning consciousness, and over all stretched a cloudless heaven, pale and mysterious, in the zenith, where the little stars that had shone all night were passing, one by one, tremulously behind the radiant veil of the morning, and, on the eastern horizon, tinged with a dull red, quickening gradually, as if a hand were fanning it, into flame-colour and saffron. The beauty and tranquillity seemed for a few moments to soothe the fever of his heart. He felt a Presence in the garden. The strange words of the night before came back to him.We are stretching out our hands in the darkness—looking for God—and He is here within us.For an instant—a wonderful instant, which he remembered years afterwards with a passionate thrill of gratitude—a wild throb of expectation, the Divine was as near to him as his own quivering flesh and blood.
It was far too early yet for him to expect to see anyone out; but instinctively his feet turned in the direction they had so often taken lately, and, in a few moments, he found himself in the avenue that led from the English ladies' apartments to the pavilion where they were accustomed to meet in the morning.
He had scarcely entered it before he saw at its farther end, walking away from him into the open, the figure of a woman in a long grey cloak. He hastened to overtake it, then stopped, then went on again. Lady Elton? But could it be? The slow pace, the uncertain steps, the bent head, were strangely unlike her. The doubt was soon laid to rest. In the stillness she had heard his footsteps behind her, and she turned and came to meet him. That, too, was a moment which Tom will remember all his life. It was not only the pallor of the once comely face and the attenuation of the form that, when last he saw it, had been so pleasant to look upon in its full matronly beauty; it was the expression of the face, the looking out upon him suddenly like a spectre in the noontide, of that despair which, slowly, slowly, but, as he now knew, surely, had been stealing into his own heart and killing its joy. He sprang forward impulsively and threw his strong young arms about her. 'This is dreadful,' he said; 'I had no idea you were so weak. Why didn't you tell me in your letter?'
'I didn't feel quite so weak then,' she said, drawing herself away with a little smile that seemed to bring the Lady Elton of Surbiton and Meerut back again. 'No, no, you impulsive boy; I am not so feeble as all that. Give me your arm to steady me. There! I am better now.'
'Have they taken care of you? Did they bring you a cup of tea before you came out? Shall I have one made for you now?'
'No, thank you, dear. The little girl's ayah, Sumbaten, took every care of me. I don't think the poor little thing slept at all for fear Grace and I might want anything. Then, you know, I have Trixy to look after me. She is a very good child,' said Lady Elton. She was trying to speak lightly; but he knew very well that the effort was almost too great for her.
He followed her lead, saying he was so glad Trixy had come. They had a little English society in Gumilcund now, and he did not think she would find it dull; and was it true that Captain Liston had come in with them?
'Yes, by the bye,' said Lady Elton. 'It happened rather conveniently. He had been sent to Meerut from Delhi; did you hear how he distinguished himself there? No? Well, I must leave it to Trixy. The foolish children are engaged, you know. The General was obliged to give his consent, though we don't quite see how they are to live. In the meantime they are very proud of one another; and of course Bertie took an additional interest. So he came with us. I believe he is to join the army for Lucknow somewhere near this. But he was to see you and the Resident first.'
'I shall be glad of the opportunity of congratulating him,' said Tom; 'he is a first-rate young fellow, and Trixy was always a great friend of mine.'
As they talked they were walking on quickly, Lady Elton leaning on his arm. There was a secluded spot—a little ferny hollow—at no great distance from the pavilion. The blue waters of the miniature lake lay in front of it, and a little semi-circle of rocks and boulders, down which mimic cascades rushed continually, filling the basins of water in the hollow and keeping moist and cool the delicate mosses and rare grasses and ferns that had made it their home, formed a complete barrier between it and the rest of the garden.
Hither Tom, who could not speak freely until he was sure of perfect seclusion, guided Lady Elton's steps. She broke into an exclamation of surprise and pleasure when he led her in. 'I've brought you here because it is quiet,' he said. 'We can talk.'
He placed her in a low chair, under a fairy-leaved mimosa, drew up a cushion to her feet, and flung himself down beside her. 'Now, dearest Lady Elton,' he said, 'have pity upon me! Tell me about her.'
She was silent for a few moments, looking down upon him, her pale lips parted in a quivering smile, and her eyes dim with tears. 'I was just thinking,' she said, 'that I have not thanked you yet.'
'Would you thank a man for saving himself?' he said reproachfully.
She stretched out her hands with a little plaintive cry. 'Oh, Tom!' she whispered, 'Tom, my son!'
The words were like a spell. All in a moment his simulated calmness fled. He sprang to his feet, and, throwing himself on his knees, seized the pale, worn hands held out to him, and pressed them to his lips. 'God bless you!' he murmured; 'God bless you!'
'But, my dear, you must be quiet,' said the poor lady. 'There, get up, and let me have my hands again. Poor boy! poor boy! Do you care so much?'
'I care more than I can express—more than even you can understand. I thought I loved her then, but now——' and then he pulled up and looked at her strangely. 'Do you know everything?' he said. 'Does the General know? I must explain'—hurriedly. 'I did not know myself until the other day. But circumstances have come to light——'
'Dear child,' she said softly, 'we have always known——'
'My parentage?'
'We know more about you, I expect, than you know about yourself.'
'And still——'
'Sit down here beside me, Tom.' She pushed back the hair from his forehead and looked tenderly into his dark eyes. She was thinking of the past. For the moment the last few dreadful weeks—that chasm between the old life and the new—were blotted out. He was the boy he had been then, and she was his mother, understanding him as no one else did, and thinking of his friendship with a little motherly glow of satisfaction and pride.
'I will tell you the whole truth,' she went on. 'We were on your side—Grace and I. We believed we understood you better than the others; and—it seems a strange thing to say, but it is really true—if you had spoken a little earlier, you might have won our dear girl then. The news of your wealth made the General afraid. You see it was a wonderful change, and these changes of condition will sometimes show the character in such different lights. That is what the General said, at least. Then our dear girl, who, you know, is sensitive, heard some unkind and stupid gossip. It was rather about us than her; but it annoyed her all the more. It is an old story now,' said Lady Elton, the pink colour mantling her face, 'and I only tell you because Grace wished you to know everything. The silly people said we had known all about it long ago—that you would be rich, I mean—and that was why we had taken the cottage, and brought the dear girls next door to you and your mother. It was absurd, of course; but Grace took fire, and the General, who, you know, was against it then, went with her. I argued that he should find out what our dear girl's own feeling was before he gave her his advice, for I had my suspicions, and God knows I would have braved the backbiting of malicious tongues, if it would have secured her happiness and yours; but—well! you know the General. He would not be the man he is—one of the finest soldiers that ever lived—if he was not pretty firm in his own opinion. But what he has seen and heard of you in this dreadful year, what he knows of you, Tom, has changed all that. If our dear child——'
'Why do you hesitate?' said Tom hoarsely.
She paused for a few seconds, as if a wave of feeling too strong to be controlled had swept over her, and then she laid her hand gently on his. 'Will you tell me how it all happened—exactly?' she said pleadingly.
'How we found them, do you mean?'
'Yes.'
He gave the story clearly and rapidly, from the moment when he left Gumilcund for Dost Ali Khan's fort, to that when he saw Grace and Kit in the hermit's hut, and was assured by Bâl Narîn that they were alive. He said as little about himself as he could, and nothing whatever about his feelings. It was a plain record of facts. The story over, he stopped. 'Mother,' he said earnestly, 'I have told you all I can. It is your turn now. You have seen my darling'—his voice broke—'you who know her so much better than any of us—tell me what you think.'
She turned a little away, and looked up into the quivering branches of mimosa. A little striped squirrel was leaping gaily from branch to branch. Above, in the blue sunlit air, black and white mynas were darting. Tiny feathered creatures, bright as living gems, were flashing hither and thither through the light foliage. Ah! how peaceful: how happy, they all were! For a moment she could not speak. Nature, with her thousand joyous voices, seemed to be mocking at her pain. In the next moment she became conscious of those strained-looking, agonised eyes, and said faintly, 'I hope.'
'Is thatallyou can say?' asked Tom.
'No!' she cried; 'I have more to tell you, but give me time!'
He got up, walked to the margin of the lake, looked down into its waters with eyes that saw nothing, and then came back and stood beside her. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'you had rather say no more just now.'
'No,' she said, 'I must. I promised her. Sit down again, dear, close beside me, and give me your hand to hold. I am so foolish, do you know, that it seems to me sometimes as if all these dreadful things that have been happening were a dream, and then I must hold something not to drift away into confusion. But you are impatient. I will begin.
'She was not so much surprised to see me as they thought she would have been. They prepared her; then we went in together, Trixy and I, and there was such a beautiful colour in her face, such a lovely light in her eyes, that I could scarcely believe what they had told me about her weakness. All the evening they were busy looking after us and showing us the palace, and talking about Gumilcund and you. I thought my dear child was quieter than the others; but you know, she had never the same vivacity as her sisters, so this did not trouble me much. We all went to rest early. She had begged as a boon that she and I should be alone together. I thought she looked at me wistfully before she laid herself down to rest, but I would not let her talk, for I was afraid of exciting her. I was so tired myself and so happy that I fell into a deep sleep at once. What awoke me I can't tell. It was as if a spirit had taken me by the hand and told me to arise. There was a strange pain at my heart, just as if something was suffering near me, and I wondered what it meant. But I opened my eyes and looked round me, and saw the room flooded with moonlight, and smiled at myself for my foolish idea. Then I looked across to where my dear child was lying. She was awake, her eyes wide open, and—and—but I can't tell you. Oh, God! oh, God! I see it still—I shall see it to the end of my days—that look in my darling's innocent eyes!'
There was a pause. Tom, who was nearly beside himself with suspense, pressed her hand convulsively, tried to speak but could not, and sat staring out before him into vacancy.
Presently she went on:
'I was at her side in a moment, but at first she did not know me. I called her by her name, softly, for fear I should be heard, and began humming one of the little Indian songs that I used to lull her with when she was a baby. How I did it I can't tell, for my heart was like to break. Little Sumbaten heard us stirring and crept into the room, and I sent her away to make tea for us. Gradually the stony look left my darling's eyes; she recognised me, and we cried together, and I gave her the tea. Then, when we were alone again, she crept in beside me, and hiding her head in my arms, just as she used to do when she was an infant, told me what I have promised to tell you.'
She stopped again. It was as if the task she had undertaken was too hard for her.
Tom looked up at her pitifully. 'You are torturing yourself without cause,' he said. 'Why should you tell me? All I wished was that the burden should be taken fromher. She has spoken to you. It is enough.'
'But I promised; she will ask me,' said poor Lady Elton. 'Don't look at me so, dear. I must find a little more strength, and then—then—we shall rest, my dear child and I.
'You know how she left the fort; but you may not know that the wicked Soubahdar who took her away had a grudge against her father. I must try to tell you about him. He was a man I had always disliked, he was so smooth in his manners—not a common man at all. He had been educated well, and he had lived for many years with Englishmen, so that he knew what our ideas and feelings are. The General had treated him not only as a comrade but as a friend. They had shared the same tent; he knew that honour was dearer to him than life; and he meant—I can see it all now—to humiliate and punish him through her, our darling. When I think of it, Tom, when I think of it, I feel the blood curdling about my heart. But I must not——They left the fort together, this man, Grace, and the child. Grace soon found out that he was her enemy. But for Kit I think she would have killed herself, for she carried poison about with her; but she dared not take him with her and she could not leave him behind. Day after day they went on, travelling by unfrequented ways. In the villages through which they passed they were often subject to insult. He would bring crowds to stare at them, and they would tell her, exulting like fiends, about the massacres and outrages in the English stations. But here and there her gentleness won for them kind looks and words of pity. So they went on till a certain day when poor little Kit, who was nearly worn out, stumbled in the way and said he could go no further. The brute struck him with a whip; Grace caught him in her arms with indignant words. Then the Soubahdar looked at her; it was only a look, but she knew very well what it meant—for Kit murder, for herself worse. What power held his hand it is impossible to say. There was nothing to keep him from striking, but he did not. They went on until late, Grace half-leading, half-carrying Kit. She says that with that look a new spirit and strength seemed to have entered into her. They came to a little village by a river. She and Kit were given a mud hut to spend the night in. She put the child to sleep, but she would not sleep herself. Towards nightfall the Soubahdar came in; he had been drinking heavily. She feigned to be asleep, and he leant over her, muttering awful words of what he would do the next day. She kept her presence of mind; she says she never felt in the least danger of losing it. Then he threw off his weapons, the long knife and revolver he always wore, fell down like a log, and was fast asleep in two instants. I tell you all as she told it to me,' said poor Lady Elton, 'and indeed, indeed, I seem to see it now. It is passing before me like a nightmare.'
'God help you to forget,' said Tom fervently.
'Yes; but I must tell it first—all—all!
'My dear child made sure that he was asleep. Can't you see her—I can—listening, staring out into that dark place. If he had stirred she was lost. But he did not. She was not afraid, she says. All her womanly timidity had gone. Whatever was to be done—and I don't think even then she knew—she was ready. She got up and took careful note of everything. The hut had two doors: one looked towards the river, which was very deep and dark, and flowed close by. It was open, and partly blocked up by the Soubahdar, who had fallen half in and half out of the hut, with his feet towards the river. The other door looked out on the village. She opened it, and saw that the hut they occupied was at a little distance from the others, which were all perfectly still and dark. Then she closed it, fastening the latch with a piece of wire which she found on the floor. Kit was in his first sweet sleep. She crouched down beside him for a few moments to think. They might run away, but he would be sure to find them, and then their death—Kit's death—would be certain. There was only one way to be rid of him. As she was thinking, his wicked words came back to her, and she saw the awful look again. At the same moment Kit gave a little sobbing cry, and called out to her through his sleep. It was that, I verily believe, that gave my darling strength. Softly, as I can well imagine, she soothed him off to sleep again. Then she rose from her knees and went to where the Soubahdar lay, stupid and senseless in his drunken sleep. His long knife was beside him. She drew it out of its sheath, and—and——'
'She killed him!' hissed Tom from between his closed teeth. 'My brave little girl! My heroine!'
'She killed him!' echoed Lady Elton. 'Think of it, with those little slender hands! She did more; she dragged him across the little space of ground that divided them from the river. How she found strength for it God only knows. But before she knew, before she had recovered from the state of frenzy into which his threats had thrown her, she heard a heavy plunge, saw the dark waters part, and knew that her terror slept. All this time Kit was asleep. When it was over she awoke him, whispered that they had a chance of escape, tore him out of the hut so that he should see no traces of what had happened, and before the dawn of the next day had broken they two were far away from the village. You know the rest,' said Lady Elton wearily.
'Yes,' said Tom, 'I know the rest. My poor darling! My poor darling! Is it this that has been troubling her?'
'I am afraid it will never cease to trouble her,' said Lady Elton very sadly. 'If it had happened to anyone else! But Grace! Oh, can't you see—I can—how the gentleness, the tender womanhood, that are her very self, have been wounded—how everything in her, her whole nature, has suffered outrage?'
'Yes, yes! I see—I see too well! But, dearest Lady Elton, those are the wounds that time heals,' cried Tom. 'She has spoken: that is the great point. Don't ask me to despond; I can't. You will comfort her. Troubled! why she should rejoice—exult! The man she destroyed was a scourge to humanity. He was no man: he was a monster. Who knows how many murders he had committed, how many more were being planned by his evil mind? She was an instrument in the hands of God for dealing out to him the punishment he so richly deserved. My only sorrow is that no man was near to save her little hand—' For a moment his voice was choked with sobs; then he looked up, and there was a light, soft and wonderful, in his dark eyes. 'But you will tell her all this,' he said. 'You will tell her that there is no true man living who would not weep as I do that she should have had to deal the blow herself—who would not honour her from his inmost soul for her courage and devotion. Yes'—smiling—'I have no fear now. You will heal her; you will bring her back to us!'
'I will at least try,' said Lady Elton sadly. 'Our darling is in the hands of God.'
There was a depression, a weariness, in her voice which could not be mistaken, and, in fact, the telling of the story had been almost more than she could bear. In a moment Tom was on his feet.
'What a selfish idiot I am!' he cried, 'allowing you to exhaust yourself after this fashion. Come; I can't let you speak another word. Trixy will be looking for you, too. She will think we have spirited you away.'
'Ah, poor Trixy!' said Lady Elton, smiling through her tears. 'She is a little bit of a heroine, too. But she is differently constituted from Grace. She exults over her share in our little skirmish.'
And so, speaking lightly to hide the deep feeling that had almost overpowered them, they left the ferny hollow where the strange story had been told, and made their way slowly through the beautiful garden, radiant now with morning sunlight, to the ladies' pavilion.
Touching and tender beyond expression was the first meeting between Grace and Tom after he had seen her mother and heard the wild tale she had to tell.
It did not come about until the evening of that day. 'We must let her rest,' Lady Elton had said, and he agreed. But, when the daylight had fallen, he found his way to the door of the pretty little room that had been allotted to them. Aglaia saw him, ran in to tell Lady Elton, and then ran away again.
Grace was lying on the sofa, her pale gold hair spread about her like a cloud, white and weak, but with a look of dawning hope on her face that made her poor mother's heart tremble with joy.
'Tom is here,' she whispered, bending over her. 'May he come in?'
Her eyes gave the consent that her voice had scarcely strength to frame. Lady Elton went out and told Tom that he might go in, warning him, at the same time, that she was weak and that he must not stay too long.
In the next instant these two were looking one at the other silently, a strange, new consciousness between them. It was only an instant; but in that instant he took in all the details of the scene: the long, slender figure, in its white draperies, brought out into almost startling relief by the gorgeously embroidered cushions and shawls that lay about it: the pale, beautiful face, pure as an angel's, looking out wistfully from its shadowy cloud of hair: the sweet eyes, into which, for all these days, he had scarcely dared to look, for fear of seeing in them the horror, the spiritual fear, that, when he met it, almost maddened him—eyes, so gentle, now, with half dropped lids that veiled their childlike joy and wonder.
While he paused, spellbound, she smiled and tried to rise, a movement that at once awoke him from his trance.
'Don't! don't!' he cried. 'You mustn't.'
He rushed forward, flung himself on his knees beside the couch, and, with a look of infinite yearning, held out his arms. For a moment she drew back; in the next his love had conquered. He held her in his arms, her head upon his breast, her heart beating against his. It is a moment that will live with him as long as his pulses beat, and his eyes behold the sun. He was so happy that he scarcely knew what he did. All his young love and pity and devotion, all the pent-up torrent of agonised tenderness that, for these many days, had been surging about his heart, seemed suddenly to leap to the surface. Murmuring passionate, indistinguishable words, he rained kisses on her cheeks and lips and brow. She was his—his; and he vowed, by all that was sacred, that neither men nor demons should part them again. He would hold her—he would hold her—against the world! So, for a few moments, he raved.
Suddenly he stopped. She had drawn herself gently away from him, and he saw that her face was pale, and that her lips were quivering like a tired child's. Then, with a swift remorse, he entreated her pardon for his impulsiveness, and laid her head back tenderly against the pillows.
'Forgive me, dearest,' he said. 'It was the first delight. I have been so patient all these days; and you know'—bending over her with a radiant smile—'our feelings will not always keep within bounds. But I promise to be very quiet now, if I may stay a few moments. May I?'
'Yes; but you must sit down and be reasonable,' said Grace.
'Darling, I have never been anything but reasonable. And to-day above all days! Till I had seen your mother, till I knew what she and your father wished, I had made up my mind to say nothing. And you know, dearest, how well I have kept my resolution. Oh! don't you think it has been torture to see you, day by day, as I have done, to know what I know, and not to throw myself before you, and tell you plainly of my love and reverence?'
'Hush, Tom, hush!' said Grace, tears filling her eyes. 'You make too much of me. I am only a poor weak girl.'
'You are my queen, Grace, my angel, my wife!'
She opened her lips as if to answer; but he would not listen. 'No,' he said, 'not a word. A little "Yes," if you like. If you try to say anything else, Grace, I will seal your lips with kisses.'
He drew a chair beside her, and sat down.
'See how reasonable I am,' he said. 'Give me your hand to hold, so that I may know it is no dream, and we will talk about the future.'
'My beloved,' she said softly, looking at him with wistful tenderness, 'let the future care for itself! We have the present—the moment that is passing now. God in His mercy has given us that.'
'Yes,' said Tom, 'the loveliest moment that earth will ever give us, Grace——'
At this moment Lady Elton, who had been feeling a little uneasy, looked in.
'Haven't you talked long enough, children?' she said.
'I don't know about Grace; but I don't think I could talk long enough,' said Tom. And then he jumped up, like the boy he was, and threw his arms round Lady Elton's neck.
'Wish us joy, little mother!' he whispered. 'I have proposed, and she hasn't said "No."'
'Oh! Tom,' she cried, divided between tears and laughter, 'what a baby you are!'
'Am I? Then I am afraid I shall be a baby to the end of the chapter. I have never been so happy in my life.'
'God send you happiness always, dear,' she whispered. 'But your mother, have you thought of her?'
'Mother! it was the dearest desire of her heart that Grace and I should come together,' cried Tom. 'This will be the most delightful news to her. We must all go home together when the troubles here are over, and I can leave my post. Then, perhaps, you and I will persuade mother to come out with us for a cold season.'
'Ah! you are running far ahead,' said Lady Elton, sighing. 'However——'
'There is no reason why I shouldn't—isn't that what you meant to say?' interrupted Tom.
'What I meant to say and what I must say is, that they are waiting for you in the hall.'
'Very polite of them; but quite useless,' said Tom with a little laugh. 'I'm not cowardly as a general rule; but I really couldn't face them to-night. I shall have something to eat in my own quarters. Goodnight, little mother.' Then to Grace: 'Darling, you willpromiseme to sleep well.'
'I will do my very best,' she answered, smiling.
He left the room by a door that opened on to one of the passages, for he did not wish to pass through the hall. Grace listened silently, until the echo of his footsteps had died away, and then, to her mother's distress, she turned her face to the wall and wept.
When it became known in the palace that Grace and the rajah were formally betrothed, there was a joyful little tumult of excitement and delight. Lady Elton, who gave her piece of news in the hall after dinner, was surrounded and congratulated, and laughed at, and cried over in turns; and it was only with the greatest difficulty that she could prevent the little society from rushing in a body into Grace's room, and overwhelming her with the congratulations, which she was scarcely strong enough to receive.
The next morning all sorts of delightful rumours were afloat. Hoosanee had been met in one of the corridors carrying a basket of the loveliest white flowers that ever were seen, the rajah's morning greeting to his bride-that-was-to-be. Sumbaten, who was as much excited as anyone else, brought in word of having seen the rajah riding Snow-queen at break-neck speed—an outlet, the ladies said, to his excited feeling. They smiled one to another as they remarked that he was charmingly young, and would make a most amusing lover. But, in fact—it was Lucy, I think, who made this observation—they were all in love with him themselves; and if Grace hadn't been such a darling as well as a heroine, they could not have allowed her to appropriate him. It was true, indeed, that she was the only unappropriated lady in the palace; but this was a minor detail, and not worthy of being mentioned.
Some one had heard, heaven alone knows how, that the ceremony was to be performed according to the rites of the Church of England, and that a clergyman had been already sent for from Agra or Meerut, upon whose arrival it would immediately take place. Mrs. Lyster suggested that they should find out how Grace was before they disposed of her so summarily; but she found everyone firmly convinced that, being engaged, she would very soon be quite well. In confirmation of this benignant prophecy, cases without number were quoted. 'Ah!' said Mrs. Durant fervently, 'happiness is a great tonic! Think of how miserably ill I was before my darling Kit came.'
'We were all ill,' said Lucy. 'I was afraid to go to sleep at night for the dreadful dreams I had. Now I sleep like a top.'
There was another little person present who had pronounced views as to the tonic quality of happiness; but she was too much preoccupied at the moment to be able to enter into the discussion. Certain sounds, indistinguishable probably to the other members of the talkative little group, had fallen upon her ears. With a vague remark about seeing how Grace was, she left the summer-house. When in the avenue she stood, for a few moments, shading her eyes with her hand; then, smiling to herself, and looking very pretty in the process, she put on the broad-brimmed hat she was swinging in her hand, and turned down a narrow walk fringed with grassy borders and light-leaved acacias.
The sounds, which proceeded from a rich baritone voice singing in a subdued key one of the sentimental English love ditties, that were in vogue at the time, drew nearer. The girl in the straw hat stopped to listen, and there was a mischievous expression in her brown eyes. Then, quick as thought, she darted behind one of the trees. Presently a form followed the voice. It was that of an English cavalry officer in full uniform, with clanking sword and spurs—a tall spare young fellow, whose comely face, burnt brown and red by the sun, and lit by a pair of merry blue eyes, was about as pleasant a sight as it would be possible to look upon. This girl at least found it so, for her face was as red as summer roses, and her eyes were dancing with laughter. He, meanwhile, was looking out before him doubtfully. Seeing no one, he drew out his watch.
'I am sure of the path,' he said half-aloud, 'for I counted the turnings. Can I be early? No, I'm late.'
After another long and fruitless look, which penetrated to the very end of the path, he was turning away with a disappointed sigh, when the wild little creature behind the trees darted out upon him. 'Now Trixy!' he said reproachfully, but he caught both of her hands and held them fast.
She looked up at him audaciously, mimicking him. 'I counted the turnings. Can I be late?'
'Trixy, do you know that it is very naughty to play the eavesdropper? And what if I told you that I knew you were there the whole time?'
'You didn't, Bertie,' she said, blushing. 'I certainly shouldn't believe you did if you assured me of it till to-morrow morning. But don't; it would be monotonous. Besides, I have something to tell you—a great piece of news, a delightful piece of news.' She had linked her arm in his, and he was looking down upon her with an expression of love and admiration that made his frank face and blue eyes beautiful. As for Trixy, she would not for worlds have given utterance to her thoughts, which were irresistibly detained now and then by the vision of her own extraordinary good fortune.
'Can you guess?' she said, looking down that he might not see how her eyes were dancing.
'More arrivals?' he hazarded.
'No, no, guess again.'
'Has the rajah had news from the front?' he cried breathlessly.
'I haven't seen his Excellency yet,' said Trixy drily; 'but I believe he is to honour us with his company at breakfast, which is served in a place like a Greek temple. No, Mr. Bertie, my news is much, much more exciting. Do you give it up? Then I must tell you. Tom and our darling Grace are engaged.'
'Weren't they long ago?' said Bertie, looking puzzled.
'Weren't they long ago?' echoed Trixy. 'Do you know, Bertie, you can be a most uninteresting companion. I thought you would at least be pleased.'
'Why, so I am, Trixy.Ifthey only made up their minds yesterday——'
'But don't you see? Can't you understand? They are formally engaged. Tom acted like a gallant gentleman. He wouldn't say a word till mother came.'
'Oh! that's it, is it?' said Bertie, smiling indulgently. 'And now I suppose you are all in a delightful ferment. Love and lovers, wedding frocks and wedding favours——'
'We are not cynics,' said Trixy loftily. 'I know somebody who used to take a little interest in such things himself. Now, I suppose, when he has convoys, and important matters of that description to look after, he disdains frivolities.'
'If he could disdain them as delightfully as a little friend of his, Trixy, he might have some chance of earning a reputation for solidity.'
'Bravo, Bertie! I call that a well-balanced sentence. But, seriously, are you not glad?'
'I am very glad, Trixy, especially as his Excellency and I will be brothers. Perhaps he may show his fraternal feelings by giving us a lift up. I believe he could do anything he liked with our Government just now. Do you know, little Miss Mocker, that he is one of the most distinguished persons in India at the present moment?'
'I have heard other people say so,' said Trixy with some dignity. 'However, that doesn't matter much. The interesting part of it is that he is engaged to Grace.'
'And Grace is better?' asked Bertie.
'Ah! that is just it,' said Trixy, her eyes filling with tears. 'I may be a little goose—they all tell me I am; but there is something in Grace's face that troubles me.'
'She has had some terrible experiences,' said Bertie, shuddering, as he remembered his day and night at Dost Ali Khan's fort.
'I think they must have been worse than any of us imagine,' whispered Trixy. 'She told mother something the night before last. I asked mother to tell me; but she wouldn't, and there has been a scared look in her face ever since.'
'The rajah has a wonderful story to tell,' said Bertie. 'I was with him yesterday evening, you know. I believe he couldn't face the ladies.'
'And he told you he was engaged?'
'No: he didn't. He left me to infer it. I suppose, from what you say, that it was too near a bliss to be talked about,' said Bertie, smiling. 'And I think he was anxious and troubled. But I drew him on to tell me of his adventures and your sister's, and I think it did him good. I met him, you know, when he was in the depths, clue lost, and almost in despair, but pushing on with a plucky disregard of consequences that made us put him down as mad.'
'God bless him! He is a noble fellow, though heisa rajah and an Excellency!' burst out Trixy. 'Grace ought to get better. Shemust.'
'If she can, Trixy.'
'Oh! she can! she can! I felt like that after my wound. I was so weak and miserable, and everything was so wretched that I thought it would be better to die and be done with it all. Then you came in, my poor boy! and there was such a troubled look in your face. I couldn't bear it. You seemed to be asking me all the time not to give way. And so, one day I set my teeth together, and clenched my fists, and said to myself, "You are a selfish little fool! You shall get better, youshall." In two days I was on my feet, Bertie, and then—' in a lower voice, and looking up at him with dewy eyes—'Happiness came and cured me!'
The next words, which were chiefly of protest, were inaudible. Bertie had caught her in his arms and was covering her face with kisses.
'If you behave like that,' she said severely, when he had released her, 'I shall never tell you my experiences again. Look at my hair! And when I am just going to take breakfast with his Excellency. No sir! keep your distance, if you please; I can set it right myself.'
'God grant,' said Bertie fervently, 'that your experience may be your sister's!'
'She will have a much better-behaved lover,' said Trixy; 'Tomhas some spirit of reverence and romance. He will fall on one knee and kiss the tips of her fingers.'
'Will he?' said Bertie, with fine scorn. 'I should just like to lay a wager with you——'
'So should I; but there would be certain difficulties,' said Trixy demurely. 'Who would hold the stakes, and who would be umpire?' This last mocking question brought them in full view of the garden pavilion.
The rajah, looking a little shame-faced, it must be confessed, but otherwise very much his ordinary self, had joined the party of ladies, who were all congratulating him, each in her own characteristic way. Lucy dropped a deep curtsey and said that she had never supposed she would live to be a ranee's first cousin. She felt at least two inches taller. Mrs. Lyster, whose kind eyes shone brightly through quick tears, caught him by both hands and wished him all the happiness that even heaven itself could send. Kit came forward with a little manly stride that set them all laughing; said he was very glad; hoped they would make haste; but he and 'Billy' weren't at all surprised, they had known it all the time. Mrs. Durant shook her head, and begged the rajah to excuse him. The fact was everyone was spoiling Kit. Then the little Aglaia, her face flushed to a beautiful red, stood up before him, and kissed his hand.
'I love Grace almost as much as I love you now,' she said, in her sweet girlish treble, 'and, oh! may I stay with her?'
'Of course you shall, darling,' said Tom, stooping to kiss the little shining face. Was it a dream—a strange illusion? He looked up, smiling at himself for his folly; but it was with him still. He had seen, or fancied he had seen, Grace's expression in the pretty child's eyes.
At this moment, to the surprise and delight of everyone, Grace herself came in. She was leaning on her mother's arm, and Bertie Liston, who, standing at the door of the pavilion, and debating with himself whether he should go in, had caught sight of them and rushed to their assistance, was helping to support her. Grace looked pale and weak; but they thought there was a new brightness in her eyes, a new vigour in her voice.
As for Tom, no human being could have been happier or more brilliantly triumphant than he was that morning. Bertie had, of course, at once given up to him his place by Grace's side, and he led her to the table with a gentleness and reverence that amused and touched them all. He was quite as enchanting a lover as they had expected to find him; while the beauty and dignity of his appearance had never been so marked as now.
After breakfast he insisted that Grace should rest, impressing upon Lady Elton that they must not let her do too much. Then he went to his own business, which consisted principally in letting his intentions be known in the city, and consulting Chunder Singh and others as to the arrangements he should make to celebrate his marriage, and assure his wife a fitting position. He wrote also to his mother, and Mr. Cherry, and General Elton. This over, there came the usual work in court, after which one or two of the principal citizens waited upon him and begged his permission to present themselves at the palace with their congratulations and offerings.
He thanked them heartily, assured them that the palace would be open, and went off to consult Lady Elton about whether Grace could be present at a reception in the early evening.
Grace, who had been resting all the morning, sent back word that nothing would please her better than to see all who cared to come. So they carried her down into the hall, and while the daylight was fading, and the lovely golden hues of evening were winning their way through the marble lattices, she lay in the midst of her friends, receiving the visits of Indians of every degree, and thanking them, in gracious, gentle words, for the welcome they had given her.
None came without his gift—small gifts of fruit and flowers and sweetmeats, and larger gifts of jewels and rich caskets, and costly robes and embroidered stuffs and perfumes; and as she lay amongst them, her pale thin fingers straying from one to another, she looked, Trixy said laughingly, like a fairy-princess in a rainbow bower.
This day was a sample of several others. Those who could not be admitted the first day came the second and the third. Everyone was anxious to see for himself the gracious, beautiful lady, of whom such wonderful tales were told. Everyone desired to give some token, however small, of his reverence and affection for Byrajee Pirtha Raj, their ruler, who had returned to them in the person of his son. Grace received presents enough those three days to constitute in themselves a rich dower.
There was one, however, whom she expected daily, but who did not appear—Vishnugupta, the priest. At last she made inquiries about him. 'Is it because so many people are coming and going that Vishnugupta keeps away?' she said to Tom one day.
'I expect so; but I will ask about him,' he answered.
There were several Indians in the hall. He turned to one, who stood close by, and asked him if the priest had been seen lately about the city.
The man bowed his head low and covered his face.
'The holy man has gone,' he said.
'To his hermitage in the hills, I suppose?' said the rajah.
'No, Excellency, beyond.'
'What! has Vishnugupta other haunts?'
But here Grace touched his arm; and, turning, he saw a strange, indescribable yearning in her face.
'He is dead,' she said. 'I thought so.'
The man of whom they had been inquiring bent his head silently. He had not wished that his should be the voice to speak the word of ill omen; but it had been spoken and he could not deny it.
Grace said nothing more about Vishnugupta that night, but the next day she asked Tom to find out for her how he had died. There was little or nothing to know. After his last conversation with Grace he had started, as it was supposed, for his hermitage in the hills. Some had seen, or imagined, a change in his face—a rapt expression that had awed and solemnised them; but no one had spoken to him. The morning after the day he left the city he was found in a mango-tope at a short distance from the gates, his back against a tree—dead! His face, which, those who found him said, was turned towards the sun rising, had lost the tense and feverish look which it had worn so often in his lifetime. It was irradiated with the morning light, and a stillness—an expression of satisfied longing—seemed to rest upon it. This was what Tom heard and what he told Grace. She listened with a wistful smile. 'A beautiful death,' she said softly; 'I am glad for him.'
'He was an aged man. His death was natural,' said Tom with unusual eagerness.
'Death is always natural,' answered Grace, and she added after a moment's pause: 'What we call death. Isn't it wonderful, Tom, the power words have to mislead us? We think of death with horror; it is the word, the associations. If we were to look at it calmly, as it is——'
'Death means separation, Grace,' interrupted her lover hoarsely. 'To those who go it may mean everything you imagine. To those who are left——'
He broke down, for his own words seemed to choke him. With a force that had in it indescribable pain, Mrs. Lyster's phrase, spoken after his darling's first talk with Vishnugupta, came back to him: 'On the other side.' He rose hastily and looked down upon her with a piteous effort to smile. 'But why should we discuss these dismal topics, darling?' he said. 'Try to look a little less like an angel and I will tell you what I have been doing about our marriage.'
Thereupon he plunged into a long and not altogether new recapitulation of the arrangements that were being made for that glorious event, of the congratulations that were pouring in, and of his own plans, which grew more golden every day, for the wonderful life, radiating happiness upon all who came within the sphere of its influence, that they were to lead together. Generally these talks with Grace gave him fresh hope and courage, but to-day he left her, he knew not why, with a heavy heart.
For the next few weeks, however, there was little change. The household in the palace dropped once more into a regular mode of living. Lady Elton fell into her place at once. Anxious as she continued to be about Grace, her sympathy and gentleness made her the friend and adviser of everyone else. They called her smilingly 'the mother of the zenana.' From Trixy, who would persist in looking upon the bright side of everything, there emanated a spirit of courage and joyous animation that was as refreshing as the morning breeze in the desert. Captain Liston, who was presently to lead out a convoy of provisions and ammunition to meet Sir Colin Campbell on his march up country, became exceedingly popular both in the palace and in the city. Kit, whose smart figure in its semi-oriental dress was, by this time, a familiar sight in the streets and market-places of Gumilcund, followed Bertie about like his shadow, and proved a most efficient guide. The readiness, aplomb, and curious air of distinction that characterised the child, made him particularly attractive to the Asiatic multitude, so that he knew every nook and corner of the city, and was on the best of terms with everyone. To display his knowledge before so fine and complaisant a person as Bertie Liston was thoroughly agreeable to Kit, while the defection of Aglaia, who could scarcely ever be persuaded now to leave Grace, made the new companionship all the more delightful to him.
Lucy's parents being shut up in the Lucknow Residency, with the heroic survivors of that unparalleled defence, while her husband and Colonel Durant were with Sir Colin Campbell, much anxiety was felt as to the progress of the army and their efficiency to carry to a successful issue the great work committed to them. But though often troubled and depressed about their own individual friends, not one of this little company entertained any doubts as to the final result. England was bound to triumph. The slaughterers of women and children must bite the dust.
The first great event after Lady Elton's arrival was the departure of Bertie for the front. He went off in the highest spirits, promising all sorts of glorious performances, with letters and messages as often as he could find hands to carry them.
Trixy, of whom he used to say sometimes that she was game to the very finger-tips, saw him go away as if he were going to a party of pleasure. From the horse, on which she had ridden out, by the rajah's side, to see the convoy start, she waved her young hero a gallant farewell; and then, turning away, put her horse into a mad canter to deaden the pain at her heart. Yet the next day she seemed almost as joyous as ever. And indeed she was not unhappy. Awful qualms of heart would come over her at moments, and a spirit of mad rebellion against the world and things in general for such horrors as were being allowed in their economy, would seize and shake her. But actually her profound belief in her own and Bertie's good star prevented her from being orthodoxly miserable. Bertie gone, her attention was more fully concentrated upon Grace, with whom, as the days wore on, she began to feel a little impatient. When they were together she managed to control herself; but, now and then, she would let herself out to her mother. 'Grace ought to get better,' she would say. 'What is there to prevent her? It is too bad. That poor fellow looks gloomier and gloomier every day!'
It was useless for Lady Elton to argue that health and sickness are not in our own hands, or to point out that Grace was making every possible effort; Trixy would still insist: 'If there is nothing really wrong, she ought to begin to be more like other people. If there is, she should see a doctor. I could never give up without a fight,' said Trixy, setting her teeth together.
Then, with tears in her eyes, Lady Elton would turn away. It was true, too true! Grace was slipping away from them. It was not her own fault. Her mother knew this well. Honestly, loyally, she strove to shake off her invalid ways, to be amongst them, to belong to them. But, alas! with every day the failure became more apparent. She was like a broken flower that not even the sunshine can revive. Something within her had snapped. The spirit of vitality that conquers pain and weakness, that God-implanted love of the dear Earth and all her homely ways, which will so often bring a sick soul back from the brink of the grave, had gone never to return, even at the bidding of human love, with all its passionate sweetness.
Now and then, after a sleepless night, the strain which she put on herself would, for a moment, be relaxed, and then those who loved her best would see a strange hunger in her eyes. It was as if she was holding out her hands to them and imploring them to let her go.
One morning Tom saw, or fancied he saw, this in her eyes. They were alone, for Aglaia, Grace's constant companion, after looking up pleadingly into the rajah's face and receiving no responsive smile, had slipped away. He flung himself on his knees by the couch, and catching her hands, which were as soft as snow, and only a little warmer, gazed speechlessly into her eyes. 'What is it, dear?' she said faintly.
'Grace,' he cried, 'what do you want? where are you going? what do you see? oh, God! what do you see—that you should wish to leave us?'
An expression of pain and perplexity crossed her face. 'Wish?' she echoed as if she had not understood the word.
He laid his burning face on her hands. 'Darling,' he said humbly, 'is there anything we can do—anything we can give you? I would give my life, Grace, all I have and am, for you.'
But still she looked at him dreamily; and then all at once the futility of his prayers came home to him, and with a sob, which he could not repress, he rose slowly to his feet. Fool! Will even a child be drawn from its home by bribes and kisses? It was herhome, the vision sweet and awful of the Divine, that was beckoning to her, and he was trying, by his poor love, to hold her to the little joys and sorrows of life.
But reason as he would with himself, his heart was sore. Like Trixy, he could not give up without a fight, and, on the evening of that day, he sent for a doctor. His messengers travelled night and day. The doctor, a civilian of some experience, who had come out a year or two before, to make his fortune, lost no time. A week after the message had been despatched he was lodged in the palace.
He saw Grace, and was puzzled as men of his profession generally are by what seem like abnormal ailments. Who has any right to be ill, except by rule of thumb? Pushed into a corner, he spoke vaguely of mental shock, recommended quiet, which she had been having, Tom said despairingly, for weeks, and set himself to watch and take notes. Alas! the notes did not help him much. When he had been in close attendance upon her for a week he was further from that full understanding of her case, which, he had said, would enable him to deal with it satisfactorily, than he had been at the beginning.
And yet she was patient and perfectly submissive, taking everything he prescribed and never refusing to answer his questions.
So the days wore on. October passed away and November opened. It was such a November as has scarcely ever been seen even in Gumilcund. The burning heat of the summer and early autumn were over, and the glory and brightness of the Indian winter, the deep skies, the sunny days, the entrancing mornings and evenings had begun to be felt. The garden, with its overspreading foliage, its wildernesses of flowers, crimson and purple and orange; its arbours, covered with azure-blue convolvulus and lilac Bougainvillea, and its long avenues bordered with channels of flowing water, was in perfection. It was a happiness to explore it, a bliss to breathe its air. If anything could heal Grace, so they said to one another, it would surely be the beauty of this Indian winter. By the doctor's advice she spent her life in the open air. A wonderful couch and carriage in one had been designed, for her by the rajah, and skilfully executed by some of the clever Gumilcund mechanics. In this she was wheeled from place to place, making new and delightful discoveries every day. To those who watched her it would seem that, for days, her life was nothing more than a dream. But there were moments still when she was stirred up to a strong interest in life.
Such a moment was that when news came to Gumilcund of the final relief of the Lucknow Residency.
It arrived late in the evening. None of the ladies in the palace will ever forget that day. They were together in a little grove by the lake. They had been having tea out of the jewelled cups, which with other lovely things Tom had hunted out of his father's treasury to tempt Grace to eat and drink. After tea, Trixy, who, expecting news, had been in a state of irrepressible excitement for several days, seized upon the tiny boat, rocking in front of them, spun it out into the lake, and tried to quiet herself by pouring out some of her favourite songs. Those in the grove listened silently. They had been talking, trying to amuse one another and forget the intolerable ache of suspense. When Trixy's clear young voice came thrilling out on the evening air they all felt thankful for an excuse to be quiet.
A pretty group they made under the quivering light and shade of the acacias; Grace, on her long couch, her hands and face almost transparent now, but beautiful still, with a seraphic unearthly loveliness that can scarcely be put into words; and near her sweet Lady Elton, with Aglaia at her feet; then Kit, who had been a little sombre since Bertie left, leaning against his mother, half asleep, she with her arm round him, an expression of peace on her thin, worn face; in the centre of the group Lucy, robed in the white cashmere that was now her favourite wear, lying at full length on a tiger's skin, her pretty head supported on her folded arms, as she gazed with wide-open eyes into the waning glories of the evening sky; and at a little distance from Lucy, holding on her knee, in a state of complete eclipse, rosy baby Dick, whose mother had gone inside to prepare for the high ceremony of his evening toilet, the slight figure of Mrs. Lyster, her fingers playing absently with the baby's silken curls, as she looked out before her with gloomy eyes. It was Kit who brought life into the picture. He saw the rajah coming towards them, flourishing a letter in his hand. 'Post! Post!' he cried, rushing to meet him. 'Post!' echoed one and another; and in a moment all but Grace were on their feet.
Trixy heard the cry. For a second her brave heart almost failed her; then, calling all her resolution to her aid, she threw herself upon the oars, drew them through the water with the vigour of ten, and, in less time than it takes to tell, was on shore and racing Kit down the avenue. In the next instant she had seen Bertie's handwriting, had torn the letter open, had understood at a glance that the news was good, and was rushing back at full speed to the group by the lake.
When she reached them she was much too breathless to speak, but her face spoke for her. Lady Elton got up, and put her arms round her, for this brave, healthy young creature was swaying to and fro as if she would fall. That was enough for her. 'Don't, mother,' she whispered hoarsely, 'you will make me cry; and there's nothing to cry about.' Then Grace, who had seemed to be asleep a moment before, held out her arms, and Trixy fell into them with something like a sob. 'Let me go, my sweet little Grace,' she murmured. 'I don't even know what the silly boy has said yet.'
But by this time the rajah, who looked particularly young and handsome, was amongst them.
'I don't know what Captain Liston says, of course,' he said, looking round on them with a triumphant smile, 'but I have a message from Sir Colin himself. It was a hard fight; but they have done their work, and our Gumilcund guide-corps, as well as the men with the convoy, have done splendidly. It will be good news in the city. I expect we shall illuminate, and have all sorts of festivities to-morrow.'
'What fun!' said Lucy faintly; but she was looking towards Trixy with anxious eyes. That young person, who was once more the mistress of herself and the situation, had taken a seat under the swinging lamp, which Hoosanee had been considerate enough to hang up among the trees, and was unfolding Bertie's letter, parts of which she read aloud for the benefit of everyone.
It had been begun on the evening of the day when Sir Henry Havelock and the gallant Outram had shaken hands with Sir Colin Campbell. He had not been able, however, to despatch it at once, and he added a few lines on the following day. Several more important points had been gained; the rebels were completely demoralised, and flying in every direction; the line of retreat for the besieged had been organised, and the women and children and invalids were then being carried out to the Dilkoosha, where they were to rest for a night. Cawnpore, he believed, was to be their next halt. Lucy's father and mother were safe. He had seen her husband meeting them; they looked haggard and wasted; but already they were on the fair way to revival. Colonel Durant had won honour in the assault. He had himself had one glorious moment, about which he would entertain Trixy later. Sir Colin Campbell was one of the best men and finest soldiers it had ever been his lot to serve under. He would willingly lay down his life for him. In the meantime, though smarting in every joint from the exertions of the preceding day, he was thankful to say that he was sound in mind and limb. The Gumilcund men were trumps, every one of them. But of their gallant conduct the rajah would no doubt hear from other sources. To him, and the rest of the English society in the palace and Residency, he sent warmest greetings. The messages to herself, whose perusal occupied a few moments, Trixy did not think it necessary to give.
'That dear fellow gets more considerate every day,' she said, looking round her with a glowing face, as she folded up her letter. 'He doesn't forget anybody. I should like to answer his letter as soon as possible'—to the rajah. 'When are you sending?'
'I shall send off my congratulations to-night,' said Tom, smiling.
'Oh! then, excuse me everybody. I must write at once,' said Trixy.
To what vagaries she committed herself in the solitary recesses of her room, it would be unfair to relate here. All I can venture to say is that the letter which resulted, and which arrived in camp on the eve of the gallant fight that scattered Tantia Topee's army, broke the spirit of the rebels in the North-West, and gave back Cawnpore to the English, was received and read with a transport of admiring love and gratitude that its recipient would always maintain carried him scatheless and triumphant through the dangers of that tremendous day.
'I verily believe,' he said to Trixy later, when, after his own light fashion, he was narrating the exploit that had won for him the English soldier's dearest reward for gallantry—the Victoria Cross, 'I verily believe that I was too happy and proud a creature to die that day. There was no killing me.'
'The dark angel hovered over you, and had not the heart to strike,' said Trixy, whose bright eyes were dim with tears.
But this belongs to the future, for before she met Bertie again Trixy had some dark and bitter days to live through.
She was passionately attached to her mother, and while, without understanding Grace in the least, she had always had a sisterly regard for her, she had never loved her as she did now, when admiration, tenderness, pride in her as a heroine, and some little sense of exultation in the part she might play in the future had reinforced her sisterly feeling. And now, since the brief revival which followed on the news from Lucknow, inspired partly, as Trixy felt with a curious throb of tenderness, by sympathy for herself and Bertie, there was added to her love a devotion strong enough, the poor child believed, to fight with and overcome the invisible forces that were preying upon her sister's life. 'Grace shall not die, she shall not!' Trixy would say. 'I will prevent her.' For two or three days she would let no one but herself do anything for Grace, scarcely speak to her. With the energy and strong will that belonged to her, she would sweep them all away. 'She wants life—life, do you hear?' she would cry. 'You people are sad. You let her brood and dream.'
Even Tom was only allowed to see her at Trixy's time and in Trixy's presence. 'You will thank me some day,' she said to him one day, pressing his hand with sisterly cordiality, and for the moment he almost believed in her. 'If you bring her back to us, Trixy,' he said, with a sob in his throat, 'there is nothing I will not do for you.'
'Ah, I shall remember that,' she said, nodding to him gaily, and then she took her measures. Kit, the gayest and naturally the most effusive of the party, was taken into her counsels. He was told that it was his mission to be amusing, and he showed his sense of the honour conferred upon him by being so delightfully important that Trixy would almost forget her own mission in the amusement of watching him. Aglaia, on whose little life the shadow which was enfolding those dearest to her seemed to have fallen, was warned privately not to look solemn, and she, too, began to be amusing in pretty prim ways that were charming to behold. 'It is a perpetual little comedy with those children,' Trixy said to her mother one day.
She herself was perfectly radiant. For hours she sat beside Grace, chatting of the present and the future. She gave quiet humorous little pictures of incidents at Meerut, Yaseen Khan's importance, and their father's youthful vigour. She would even relate stories of scenes between herself and Bertie, blushing in the prettiest way as she repeated some of his silly speeches. She went back over the far past when they were all children together, raking up funny old stories of their nursery and schoolgirl days. She organised excursions to the city, Grace in a palki, and she and Kit riding beside her. For more than a week she was her sister's only physician, and even the doctor, who had looked grave at first, began at last to think that the new treatment was more successful than the old.
All sorts of rumours were in the meantime pouring in, and mostly of the vengeance that was overtaking the rebels. From the neighbourhood of Gumilcund, from Cawnpore, and, above all, from Delhi, came tales of wholesale executions, of indiscriminate slaughter, of men blown from guns in battalions, of dispossessed peasants and citizens dying in their multitudes from famine. The ladies heard all these things at the Residency, where there was stern exultation. The rajah—who was a little sombre in these days, fearing that the reconcilement to which he looked as a new and glorious era in the life of the nations might be indefinitely delayed if the conquerors could not see the wisdom of tempering justice with mercy—was urgent that from Grace all these dark tales should be kept, and her friends, knowing how sensitive she was, would not have been likely to disappoint his wish, even though Trixy, who kept a fierce and friendly watch, had been absent.
As it was, no change was made, and yet, with the onward sweep of the winter days, lovely beyond description, but burdened each one with its ghastly tale of horror, a cloud of depression, for which there was no accounting, dropped down upon her. Sleepless nights followed the sad days. The doctor, saying she was too weak to stand the continued strain, gave her anodynes that helped her through part of the night, but left her more exhausted than before. Then her mother, who had let herself be lulled by Trixy's determined hopefulness, grew alarmed. She could sleep but little herself, and one night she sat up and watched.
Grace had been given a strong opiate. Through the early part of the night she slept, with occasional starts. Then suddenly she opened her eyes, and cried out like one in deadly pain. Her mother stooped over her. 'It is a bad dream,' she said. 'Awake! I am here beside you.'
The girl looked at her. 'They are binding my eyes,' she cried with a strange bitterness. 'They think I can't see, but I can—I can! Oh, will no one do anything? Look! Do you see, do you see the horror in those eyes?'
'Whose? Whose? What do you mean, darling? There is nothing here,' said poor Lady Elton weeping.
'Nothing!' echoed the girl, 'nothing!' And she sank down on the bed sobbing. But the next instant she had sprung up again. 'They are going,' she cried—'a pillar of flame. It is killing the sweet blue of the sky—and the stars—the stars—are fading. Oh! Where do they go? What becomes of them? Some one told me once; but I have forgotten.' Then, after a pause, during which her eyes seemed to be searching. 'It is real,' she cried, 'the pain—the restlessness—the misery—it goes on. They cannot destroy it—for ever and ever and ever.' Her voice sank away to a sobbing sigh, and she sank back exhausted. Her mother took advantage of her quietness to whisper words of Christian hope and comfort.
'You forget, my darling,' she murmured. 'Thereisa refuge—a refuge for us all. He took the misery—He bore the pain. Look to Him—the Crucified—our Saviour.'
The girl looked up. The familiar words had penetrated the cloud of her delirium; but they brought with them no peace, rather a strange fierce anger of impatience that pierced her gentle mother to the heart.
'Our Saviour! but who is theirs?' she cried piteously, and then again came that awful heart-rending cry—inarticulate—the wail of a hurt and bewildered child. Lady Elton was on her knees by the bedside, tears raining from her eyes. 'It is breaking my heart,' she sobbed. 'Oh! Grace, don't you know me?'
Slowly the girl seemed to come back to herself. 'Mother,' she said, 'is it you?' Then with a strange smile: 'I was foolish to wish to see. Bind my eyes! Hide me! I dare not look.'
'My child! there is nothing. But come to me. Hide your dear head. My little darling! My baby! Oh! if I might hide you so always,' said the poor woman, 'as I did when you were really a baby!'
Grace lay perfectly still, her head on her mother's arm.
'You are better, love?' she whispered, stroking her hair with trembling fingers.
'Yes,' answered the girl. 'But it will come back again. Dear, you must let me go.'
The next day she was too weak to rise. Everyone was distressed, and Trixy's anguish was terrible. But after the first shock she persisted that it was nothing.
'Sick people are subject to these fluctuations,' she said fiercely; 'Grace will be better to-morrow.'
But Lady Elton knew that the summons had come. She told Tom of the scene of the night. As he listened a ghastly pallor overspread his face, and he staggered like one who has received a blow.
'Some one has told her these hideous stories,' he cried with sudden anger. 'The horror of them is killing her.'
Lady Elton put her tender, motherly hand on his shoulder. 'No, dear,' she said sadly; 'I have watched; and Trixy, and the child, Aglaia, have been with her from morning till night.It is impossible!'
For an instant he stood silent. Every particle of colour had fled from his face, and his eyes had a strained, unnatural expression that alarmed her.
'I will watch with you to-night,' he said.
'If she will let you.'
'She shall not see me. I will keep out of her way, while she is awake. Mother, you must let me. It is my right, and,' he added in a choked voice, as he turned from her,'perhaps I know more about these visions than you do.'