He went on into the Eltons' garden. Early as it was, the General was out. Dressed in morningdéshabillehe was sitting on the lawn, taking the early cup of tea which strengthened him for his work amongst his plants, while Yaseen Khan, his Indian servant, stood behind him, holding up a white umbrella.
The General welcomed Tom warmly. 'Good morning, my dear boy!' he said. 'Got over last night's shock, I hope. Sit down! Yaseen Khan, another cup. Yes, I insist. No sedative like tea.'
'Can I see my mother?' said Tom.
'Not yet, I am sure. She was very much excited last night, and seems to have had difficulty in resting. The last I heard was that she was asleep and not to be disturbed. You may as well take things quietly. Papers found?'
'No, General.'
'Dear! dear! And you say they are important?'
'They are of the deepest, the most incalculable importance to me.'
'You don't mean to say so? I wonder Cherry let them out of his hands.'
'But they were mine—the legacy of the dead man who has enriched me. I hoped to find his wishes, his instructions.'
'In fact,' said the General with a bland smile, 'they had no value except for you. Set your mind at rest, then. They will certainly be found. In the meantime here is your cup. Cream? Sugar? Now then, Yaseen Khan—that fellow is moving like a snail to-day. Don't stare, you son of an owl, but bring up that small table. Understand English? Of course he does. See him when Trixy-sahib speaks to him.' A smile had overspread Yaseen Khan's passive countenance, and he began to hop about briskly. 'There! her very name is enough,' said the General. And thereupon, beginning with Trixy, he talked about his little girls, giving anecdotes illustrative of their peculiar ways of meeting discipline, and of his own wise and subtle methods of bringing them to what he was pleased to call reason.
Grace came out while this tirade was in progress, and she caught the words: 'A firm hand, Tom. That's the secret. Let them know you mean what you say.'
'Are you making Mr. Gregory believe that you are a tyrant, dad?' she said, putting her arms round his neck and kissing him first on the forehead and then on the cheeks. 'Because——'
'Now, pull up, young woman,' said the General, winking mischievously at Tom, 'or I shall say that you are showing off before our young friend here.'
'Father!' Grace was erect at once, with blazing cheeks and eyes.
'You see,' said the General, in high delight. 'That's how I do it.'
Grace laughed and kissed him again. 'You are the dearest old goose in all the world, father,' she said. 'How you ever manage to make your men obey you is a mystery to me. They are afraid of him, Tom. Can you imagine it? I can't.'
'Another cup, Yaseen Khan!' said the General. 'We must stop this girl somehow.'
'Not a cup for me, dear,' said Grace. 'I came out with a message. Mother and I are having tea with Mrs. Gregory. She heard Tom's voice and she wants to see him.'
'Thank you. I was very anxious to see her,' said Tom, rising.
'But mother says you must be sure to say nothing to excite Mrs. Gregory,' said Grace, as they walked together towards the house. 'Her nerves seem a little unstrung by the shock.'
Tom promised to be careful, and he was shown into a room where he found his mother sitting up in bed, a fine Indian shawl of Lady Elton's thrown round her shoulders. She did not look ill—in fact, there was a brighter colour than usual on her face, while the only sign of the excitement of which Grace had spoken was in her eyes, which shone curiously.
'Why, mother,' said Tom, stooping to kiss her. 'I don't believe you are any worse for the shock.'
'No, I don't think I am,' she answered, looking at him fondly. 'It is such a relief that we are all safe. Did you hear that it was my fault?'
'I heard that you thought it was, mother.'
'But I should like to tell you how it really came about,' she said a little eagerly. 'I told you I was going to my room. Well! I lighted my candle and was on my way across the hall when I heard all the voices in the garden. I wanted to see if Grace was there, and knew I should know her by her light dress, so I put down the candle and went up to my room in the dark. And then, dear, I don't quite know what happened to me. I suppose I was dreaming about you, and dreaming of dear Grace too. I must have fallen into a dream or trance, for I certainly knew nothing until the servants came rushing out with cries of "fire." At that moment I remembered the candle on the window-sill, but, of course, too late. That's all. An accident, and happily, as Lady Elton says, no very serious consequences. Just imagine what we would have felt if it had happened a week ago.'
'I wish it had,' said Tom,'and then my papers might not have gone.'
'Papers?' echoed his mother, her voice fluttering strangely. 'Are they burnt, Tom?'
'Speak of them another time,' said Lady Elton.
'Remember your promise,' whispered Grace.
The colour had leapt to Mrs. Gregory's face, and her eyes, which glittered feverishly, were fixed upon her son.
'They can't have been taken away!' she whispered. 'Who would? Are you sure—are you sure they were not burnt?'
'Of course they were burnt,' said Tom, bending over her in great alarm. 'What else could it be? If you excite yourself like this, you will be ill, mother.'
'Oh, no!' she said. 'It is all right now.'
The excitement had died away as soon as it had arisen. She fell back upon her pillows, pale and smiling. Tom left the room relieved on her account, but feeling more baffled than ever about his papers.
It is at this point that the troubles of the writer of the above record began. For Thomas Gregory—the Tom whom he had been following through these curious vicissitudes of condition and fortune—became suddenly dim to him. He heard rumours indeed—the rumours which were circulating in the neighbourhood at the time, but these were vague and contradictory. Moreover, they touched only the surface of Tom's life. That he tried, or pretended to try, to find the lost papers; that he was unsuccessful; that he passed through a period of severe mental depression; that his mother, feeling alarmed at his condition, tried her utmost to make him marry and settle down; that her wishes were frustrated, some said by his wilfulness, others by the pride and folly of the girl he loved, who, having been twitted about her attentions to a wealthy man, was piqued into holding Tom at arm's length; and that, at length, to his mother's great distress, he resolved to go out to India; all this the writer has heard from those who were living in Surbiton at the time. There were rumours, too, of spiritualistic visitations both to the boy and to the girl. Those were before the days when spirits played their pranks, for a monetary consideration, before public audiences; and some said it was in obedience to these bodiless voices that they kept apart.
But all this is mere guess-work. I know, however, as a certain fact, having heard it on no less authority than Lady Winter's, that Tom's first care, after he came into his property, was to surround his mother with all the comforts and luxuries that money can give. A pretty house, which became later one of the show places of the neighbourhood, was built for her after his own design; and, in the meantime, she had carriages and horses, and good dress and good living, with, what was more to her than all her other luxuries put together, the opportunity of doing boundless kindnesses to her friends, and of exercising a large and benignant charity. Had it not been for her son's eccentricities, which were more marked after he came into his inheritance than they had been before, Mrs. Gregory, the world says, would have been perfectly happy.
Lady Winter and her son, neither of whom had the least taint of peculiarity, did their best to bring round the young heir, so at least I have heard, to more healthy views of life; and Mr. Cherry backed them up with his wise counsels; but Tom declined absolutely to do anything like other people.
Now this I could understand; but when I heard of other things—of the flirtation, for instance, between him and handsome Vivien Leigh, who, it was reported, had thrown off a former lover for his sake, of days and nights when no one, not even his mother, knew where he was—eclipses from which he would emerge with a white face and sunken eyes that made his friends shake their heads dolefully over him; of some of his doings at Surbiton, and in particular the magnificent river fête that he gave just before he left for India, and the fame of which lingers in the neighbourhood to this day—then, I confess, I was surprised, beginning at last to wonder ifmyThomas Gregory did really exist, as if he was not only a dream of my imagination. Various other reports, dealing mostly with his life in India, some of them curiously minute, had fallen under my notice; but they did not seem quite to fit in one with the other.
Then came the difficulty of selection. I had formed my own conception of his character—a conception seriously shaken already by what I had heard of him in Surbiton. Would not my selection, if I tried to choose amongst the materials offered to me, be coloured both by the conception I had previously formed and by the shock it had sustained, so that the image produced would be distorted, and, in no sense, answering to reality?
I was in this state of perplexity—on the point indeed of giving up the task of tracing the fortunes of the rajah's heir, when, by the mediation of a friend, who was anxious that the curious story should not be lost, a diary, kept spasmodically by Tom himself for some years, was placed in my hands, with liberty, under certain restrictions, to use it according to my own judgment.
It has been of inestimable service to me, not only in filling up blanks that would otherwise have remained vacant, but also as giving such a mental image of the man himself as no one but himself could draw. It is partly with a view of presenting the first outlines as it were of this picture—partly because they form a good introduction to the stirring events of his Indian life, that I have decided to give, almost as they stand, the daily jottings in Tom's diary during his first voyage to India.
S.S. 'Patagonia,'September, 1856.—I will do as I have been advised. I will write down my experiences, and some of the strange thoughts and contradictory impulses that are constantly with me. It is possible that in this way my purposes and aims may become more distinct to myself. I don't think there could be a better moment than this for beginning my record. In the little state-room which for the next few weeks is to be my home there is a perfect quietness. I can hear the movement of feet up above, and the throbbing of the engines as they beat the water, but there is nothing else. After the excitement of the last few days it seems like a blessed lull—a pause in my life.
It is three months now since I heard of the change that had come into my life. I look back upon those months as I might on a tumultuous stream that had borne me on its surface. Hurried from one mental and physical sensation to another, I have not had time so much as to think. I have felt like a foam-bubble on a wave, a toy ship in a storm. Before the tumult begins again, as it will, I suppose, when my feet touch the opposite shore, I must try to realise and define my position.
I am heir of my cousin, the rajah of Gumilcund, and I am going out to take possession of my inheritance. Besides land and money he left me the succession of his ideas, which succession I have lost through my own cowardly delay, and liability to be guided by theignis fatuusof passionate impulse. It is this succession which I am seeking to recover. From the lips of the men who knew him I may learn something of what my papers would have taught me. Meantime, and with a view to taking the best advantages of my opportunities, I am studying the Oriental languages, and trying my hardest to grapple with the difficulties of the Indian philosophies and religions. Until I know what my task will be I have made up my mind not to take up any strong personal interest into my life. I will live for this, and for nothing else.
Sometimes—I will confess it here—there have been moments when my nature has rebelled wildly against its self-imposed restrictions—moments when I have forgotten that the inheritance came to me with conditions which I must understand and fulfil before I can so much as know that it belongs to me—when I have craved passionately for the enjoyments of the senses.
Such a moment was that of my river-fête—Yes—and even now, although I know how illusive are the brief, sickly-sweet pleasures of the senses—my pulses will throb as I look back upon it. A night that seems like a century! Beautiful Vivien Leigh, the designer of the festival, as she was its queen, sat beside me. I remember a moment when she and I and some others were floating down the river on a painted barge. She was dressed in a robe whose colour was like that of ruddy flame; the white glitter of diamonds lighted up her dark hair; her wonderful, witch-like eyes, resting on mine, were drawing my soul away. I was close to her—I was going to speak—when—Oh! Grace! Grace! this once let me write your name. It was your boat, all lighted and dressed with streamers, that passed us by. You, my dearest, were there, with the rudder-strings in your hands, and your sisters—stately Maud and gay little Trixy, and gentle Lucy and Mildred—held the oars. How lovely you all looked in your white dresses! One of you called to me—it was Trixy I think—and I left my flame-coloured lady, and stepped down amongst you, and you gave me a pair of oars, and as I grasped them, carrying the boat forward by a vigorous stroke, I knew that the witchery had lost its power; that I was once more free.
I saw Mr. Cherry the day before I started. He is an admirable person, perfectly sincere in his creed and in his life; but how singularly illogical! I believe he thanks heaven for the loss of my papers, feeling convinced that it came about in answer to prayers of his own, for my salvation and guidance. He warns me, too, on scriptural authority, against spirits that peep and mutter. And yet, because I think that the curtain which hides the invisible from our senses has been once lifted for me, he calls me a mystic. 'My dear sir,' I could not help saying to him one day, 'I do believe that at this present moment you are far more a mystic than I am.' Mr. Cherry's keen head and clear judgment, when matters of business are in question, have, however, been exceedingly valuable to me. He has advised me concerning my correspondence with the Lieutenant-Governor, mapped out my route in India, and given me the names and addresses of those known to him in the East as the chief friends and associates of my cousin, the rajah.
—I have just been up on deck seeing the last of the English coast. We are off the Isle of Wight, where we stopped, for a few moments, to put off the Channel pilot. It is late in the afternoon, the atmosphere misty and irradiated with the hues of sunset, so that we seem to be floating in a rosy haze, through which the pale green shores of the land we are leaving gleam faintly. There is scarcely any wind, and the sea is as smooth as a lake in midsummer.
—I have been fortunate enough to find a person on board who can help me in my Persian and Sanskrit studies. He is, or seems to be, a pure Indian, by name Chunder Singh, such a handsome fellow, tall, well put together, with a face whose fine cast and quiet dignified expression, impress one at once! This afternoon I saw him looking at me with interest, whereupon I spoke, and finding he understood English well, talked with him for some time. I have spoken about him to the Captain, who says he is needy, and will, no doubt, be glad to give me lessons.
—Chunder Singh has met my advances with a gentleness and benignity that have charmed me inexpressibly. He was so princely in his manners that I felt half ashamed of offering him money for the help which he seemed so ready to give me; but when, with English awkwardness, I blurted out that, if he gave me lessons he should be adequately paid for them, he accepted my offer with a grace and dignity that caused me to blush over my own hesitation. This morning we met for the first time over my books with the crabbed characters to which I am extraordinarily glad to return. Chunder Singh, I am sure, will prove an admirable teacher.
—We are in the Bay of Biscay. There has been a considerable swell on all day, and the decks have been empty of passengers; but Chunder Singh and I have kept our feet. I like him more and more as the days go by; but I confess he puzzles me exceedingly. I think he is more than a professor of Eastern languages. His conversation, although free from any sort of bombast, leads me to believe that he has occupied a superior social position, and he has certainly mixed with men of mark. Then I fancy I can detect in his manner a peculiar anxiety about me—an interest, in fact, stronger than our respective positions and the period of our acquaintanceship seems to warrant.
I mentioned this to Colonel Trent—an intimate friend of General Elton's—who is travelling with us, and I put down his answer because it may be useful to me hereafter. I must be on my guard, he says, against inferring too much from manner in the East. The educated Asiatic has a courteousness far exceeding ours. We, when we wish to be friendly, speak to our companions about ourselves. He waits for his friend's confidences, and listens to them with the most courteous attention, which generally, however, is mere manner.
'I have spent twenty-five years in the East,' said Colonel Trent. 'I am not without acuteness, and I believe I know the Asiatic better than most Europeans. Well! I don't know him at all. That's just the difference between me and those others. They think they do, I know I don't. Between us and the native there is a great gulf fixed. I defy any man living to bridge it. Yes, it is so. You may see them in their hosts. You may have, as you suppose, friends amongst them. You may study their history, their language, their ways; but are you any the nearer to understanding them? Take one of the men whose characteristics you have been studying. Look into his eyes! Have you any distant idea about his thoughts? Watch his ways! There is not an antic he performs—not a word he lets slip unconsciously—that will not be a mystery to you. I would venture to lay a heavy bet that in a year that man would give you so many surprises and shocks that you would give up thinking you knew the native mind.'
This is certainly not encouraging from a man of so much experience; but I reserve myself. I shall find out more presently. In the meantime, and in the light of this conversation, it was no little curious to hear what Chunder Singh had to say on the relations between England and India. Our conversation took place this evening; in fact, as I have only just come down from the hurricane-deck, which we have pretty nearly to ourselves, every word of it is fresh in my mind.
'The situation is a strange one,' said the Indian meditatively. 'I doubt if the world has ever seen a stranger. You have come to us—not as a great nation that conquers another by the resources of a higher civilisation—but as a company of traders. Money-making—that was your object. Yet you sent us of your best—great soldiers, high politicians, men of lofty will and noble aims. And we, Asiatics, who adore in others the qualities we lack ourselves, have paid them homage, and fought under their banners in defence of the rights won from the weakness of our rulers. And so, out of the acts of a trading company, a great empire has grown. But let me tell you,' said Chunder Singh impressively, 'that the quality of the rule smacks of its origin. It is just in most cases, but it is not sympathetic, nor is its policy large and beneficent. With any other nation under the sun the results would be disastrous. But you English are a strange people. You go straight on. In your wildest flights you cannot forget that you have a conscience, and so you have won the respect of some and the superstitious dread of others, and your empire goes on increasing.'
'But you do not love us,' I said.
'How can we?' answered Chunder Singh. 'As in the Divine—which is the model of all excellence—the Supreme Spirit, from whom all flows, and to whom all must return—love must begin from above. Do you love us? You know you do not. I am not speaking of you individually, or of any other man. One here and there, considering the greatness of our land, may take an interest in us. But, as a nation, do you care for us?'
It was impossible for me to say that we did, knowing full well the contrary, and then those strange words, which echo still in my ears, were spoken.
'Let England look to it! Let her listen to the voices of her wise men! Let her know that if she does not bestir herself now the time will come when she must! She is standing to-day on the thin crust of a volcano, which, at any moment, may crack under her feet, sending her down into a gulf of fire, which it will take all her strength to quench.'
He would not explain what he meant, though I pressed him earnestly. No doubt his words were merely rhetoric—an idea of his own, coloured with Oriental exaggeration; but they haunt me in a very curious way. Can this, I ask myself, have had anything to do with the rajah's secret?
We are passing the coast of Portugal, a low, barren-looking country. Rain clouds are floating about; the sea is lumpy, and a veil of white mist covers the land; but this is sometimes lifted, and then the low, sandy coasts gleam out with a startling brilliancy. I hear that, if this wind holds, we shall put in at Gibraltar to-morrow.
—We did not put in yesterday. We were kept out at sea by a gale of wind that came rushing in from the Atlantic. What a day it was! No rest for anyone. The waves swept us from stem to stern, knocking us about till our timbers creaked; and the wind howled dismally in the rigging; and all day long there were shocks of crashing pottery and racing engines. It was a perfect Pandemonium. Being new to this kind of work I thought it alarming at first; and I shall never forget the chill that swept over me when, early in the morning, I looked out into the grey wilderness of leaping waves. I was quickly reassured by my friends. Colonel Trent laughed at the storm; the officers looked, if anything, more cheerful than usual; and the pale-faced ladies, who sat about in the saloon, were as calm as if they had been in their own drawing-rooms at home. I made acquaintance with several this morning, notably one Mrs. Lyster, whom I think I shall like.
In the night the wind abated, and when I looked out this morning I found that we were entering the Straits. The weather was delightful, much warmer than it had been, the sun flooding the sea with silver light, and a pleasant breeze blowing. The ship is steady, too, which, after yesterday's experiences, has been a great comfort to us all.
—I meant to have written every day; but since we left Gibraltar it has not been possible to do anything that requires attention, and writing has been out of the question. What a Mediterranean it has been! Stormy days, nights of black darkness and pelting rain; hurricanes that seem to drive the ship before them; and every day, and all day long, the wild symphony of the tempest in our ears. I think, however, looking back, that I have liked it. I have had a curious, inexplicable feeling of relief. I have not been obliged to do anything—even to think. That sense of responsibility, which, since my life fell into its new conditions, has weighed upon me so cruelly, was for the moment taken away. Sometimes, with an awe that was not altogether painful, I would wonder how it would be with me if I knew that the freedom was not for a few moments, but altogether; if, with one of those shocks of wave and wind, the engines should break, and the helm cease to work, and the ship settle down into the boiling sea, and the officers come with white faces to bid us prepare for death. After the first up-springing of passionate regret—I suppose there must be that while we are human—would there be this sense of relief intensified? No more beating about of the troubled spirit, seeking the right way and finding it not; no more pricking, heart-tearing activities; but in their place resignation, a quiet acceptance of the decree of the All-Merciful!
I was not so much engrossed in my own sensations as to be oblivious of what was going on around me; and I have, in the meantime, made one or two friends. The chief of these is Mrs. Lyster. She impressed me favourably at first, and I like her better and better every day. I find that she is Irish, which perhaps accounts for the delightful vivacity and naturalness of her manners. Though she has quite a host of troubles, having just left a party of boys and girls whom she adores, to join her husband in India, she never gives way to depression; and, in fact, it is only at odd moments that she allows herself the indulgence of thinking of her own affairs at all. The most of her time is taken up in making things as comfortable as possible for everyone else. I like her appearance, too, her slender, upright figure, her well-bred head and delicate face, with a sad look in the dark eyes and a humorous expression about the mouth, and her clever little hands that are always busy about kindnesses. As she is travelling alone, she has allowed me the pleasure of looking after her a little. At Gibraltar, where we spent the greater part of a day, I was her escort on shore. In the course of that excursion I found out, to my surprise and pleasure, that we have mutual friends. She knows Lady Winter very well indeed, and, having met my mother at Surbiton, where it appears she spent two or three days this summer, she may almost be said to know me.
Since then she has given me a piece of news which surprised and staggered me more than I could have thought possible. Vivien Leigh, the heroine of my riverfête, is married to a Captain Doncaster, in the 3rd Bengal Foot, a gentleman whom she has known since she was a child, and to whom she has been betrothed for the last year at least. They were married the day before our ship left the Docks, and will start for India in the course of the autumn. I sincerely hope that we may not come across one another. I never wish to meet Vivien again.
—The weather is much better. We have blue skies and sunshine, and a beautiful silken sea. What a change it makes in the ship! The decks, completely deserted a few days ago, are gay with people, and the ladies have brought out their pretty dresses and their dainty sewing work, and two or three children are playing about, and there is talk amongst the energetic of music, and dancing, and charades. Mrs. Lyster, of course, takes the lead. She is everybody's friend; and, besides being the most persuasive and genial of women, she is an old traveller, who has studied the art of organising talents. For my sake, I am sure—she will insist that I think too much—she has made me her lieutenant, and now all the time I can spare from my Oriental studies, which are in full swing again, is devoted to the task of persuading people to make themselves amusing, and, when I have succeeded so far, in bringing them up to Mrs. Lyster to be 'organised.'
—Since I wrote last we have passed Malta. We lay in the harbour of Valetta for a day and two nights, having freight to land. I went on shore, with Mrs. Lyster for my cicerone, as she knows the little town well. It was an enchanting day—the sky of the deepest blue, and the sea like sapphire—and I enjoyed everything: the little streets that seemed to slant up into the radiant sky, their whiteness making the blue more intense; the feel of the earth under my feet; the cathedral of the knights with its thrilling memories; the rush of quaintly-dressed people in the cathedral square; our drive into the barren-looking country outside the town; our saunter through the curiosity shops. And Mrs. Lyster was as charming and sympathetic a companion as one could wish.
In the course of our ramble through the shops we met several of our 'Patagonia' friends. The result of all this buying will, no doubt, be seen to-morrow, when, if this fine weather holds, the little masquerade which Mrs. Lyster and I have been planning is to come off on the quarter-deck. The idea was started by Mrs. Lyster, and we all think it excellent. A reception is to be held by the handsomest girl on board in the character of Britannia. Everyone presented is to wear a disguise and to speak and act in character with the impersonation. The first officer, to whom the names are to be given beforehand, will act as usher introducing the guests. When they are all assembled the Captain and one of the elder ladies are to pass them in review, in order to award a prize to the most striking and best-sustained personation.
The masquerade, which came off this evening, is over. I have taken part in it, and I am tired and bewildered; but I know I shall not be able to rest until I have tried to recall and to understand what has happened. So I have asked for a longer supply of light than usual, and I am sitting alone in my cabin writing it all down.
As soon as the masquerade was arranged I determined on my disguise. I would be an Indian of high rank. I consulted Chunder Singh, who with the most obliging readiness entered into my project, undertaking to dress and instruct me for the part. With this view we retired to his cabin in the early part of the day. He happened to have in his possession such a dress as Indian rajahs wear upon state occasions, decked out with jewellery which appeared to be of great value. In these he dressed me. Then he stained my face and hands a light brown, deepened the colour of my hair and eyebrows, and wound a magnificent turban round my brows. This done he began to show me the proper gestures to use and speeches to make, I in the meantime watching him closely, and trying to mould my behaviour on his. At first, so far as I was concerned, it was a mere game; but presently I felt as though an indescribable and mysterious change were coming upon me. I was not copying him only—his mind was being reflected upon my mind. I was, in fact, stepping out of my own individuality and into that of another. I might have thought myself the victim of a curious illusion had it not been that there was an answering change in Chunder Singh. For a few moments I saw him stand as if paralysed, then a wonderful light overspread his face, and with outstretched arms he came towards me slowly, murmuring 'Brother! Brother!'
To the end of my days I shall remember the misery of that moment. I retreated before Chunder Singh. I would copy his gestures no longer. I took off the dress and sent him away. As soon as it was done, however, I laughed at myself for my folly. What did my uneasiness mean? I was the successor of a rajah and the inheritor of his wealth. If I could play the part of a rajah, so much the better. When the evening came I sent for Chunder Singh, and said that if he would forgive my abruptness of the morning I would put on his dress again. I had told no one what I intended to be; not even Mrs. Lyster. Why I made all this mystery I can't exactly tell. It was partly, I think, to humour Chunder Singh. I remember even pretending that I should not appear at all, not being able to rig up a suitable dress. Only the first officer, to whom the names were bound to be given in, was in possession of my secret.
I think, at the last moment, I should have drawn back, if it had not been for Chunder Singh. As it was, almost everyone was out before I could make up my mind to be presented. In the meantime the curious change of the morning had come over me again, and I felt not so much acting a part as living in it. That others shared my illusion was evident from the puzzled faces of the little motley crowd, when I appeared among them, and was presented in my turn to pretty Britannia, under a high-sounding Indian title.
Gravely and reverently I made my salaam, and then stood aside. Colonel Trent was close by, looking well as an Arab sheikh. He looked at me scrutinisingly, and addressed me in Urdu. I had studied this dialect with Chunder Singh; but I confess I was surprised by the readiness with which I understood and answered the Colonel. We exchanged a few more words, and then he turned away from me, and I heard him say to one of the officers in English: 'I thought it was young Gregory; but I see I am wrong. Who is it?'
The answer I did not catch.
And next I saw the light figure of my friend, Mrs. Lyster, who was dressed as a gipsy, detaching itself out of a group, whose fortunes she had been telling. There was an expression of mingled triumph and malice in her face, which looked extraordinarily young, under its fantastic head-dress. I saw that she expected to find her friend, Tom Gregory, under the Indian prince's magnificent mask, and that she was jubilant over her own penetration in detecting him. I think I wished her to find me; but I could not help myself. For that hour I was the Indian rajah. When Mrs. Lyster had received my profound reverence, and gazed for a few moments speechlessly into my impassive face, the red colour flamed to her cheeks, and she turned away. But the first officer, who knew me, looked more bewildered than anyone else. Two or three times during the evening I caught him taking up convenient posts for observing me; but he did not seem to be able to satisfy himself. I happened to be near him when Mrs. Lyster, who was really mortified by her failure to detect me amongst the masqueraders, begged him to give up his secret.
'I promise not to make any use of it,' she said coaxingly.
'But I am bound, Mrs. Lyster,' he pleaded; 'and then, you know'—he was looking straight into my face—'our friend, Mr. Tom, might be nearer than we imagine. Think of his wrath if he heard me betraying him!'
'Nonsense; look for yourself. There is no one here,' said Mrs. Lyster.
'Except the rajah,' said the first officer, in a melodramatic whisper.
She started and glanced at me. 'What a turn you gave me!' she said pettishly. 'As it happens I know all about him. He doesn't understand a word of English.'
'Oh! doesn't he?' said the first officer, trying to tip me a wink, but breaking down in the process.
'Now don't you pretend to be so innocent,' said Mrs. Lyster. 'I have it all from the Captain. We took him on at Malta, and he has been living in his cabin ever since, and Chunder Singh persuaded him to come out in his warpaint and mystify us all. You see!' nodding her head triumphantly. And she added in a lower voice, 'What a handsome fellow he is! If it were possible really to like a native——'
But here, with a pang at my heart, I turned away, for I did not wish to hear any more.
Shortly after this the deck-lights were extinguished, and the little crowd of masqueraders went down to the saloon, where, over a champagne supper, the Captain was to announce his award. And now came what, to me, was the most curious part of it all. My name was called as the winner of the prize; but I did not respond. Thereupon there was a little explosion of laughter and ironical cheering; and Chunder Singh, who had been sitting beside me, pushed me forward. With the curious sensation of one awakened from a dream, I rose to my feet, said something, I don't remember what, and received the congratulations of my friends.
'You are a fine actor, my young friend,' said an old fellow near me. 'I never saw a thing carried off so well. You might have been amongst the darkies all your life.'
'I protest, I am not sure of him yet,' said another.
'Is he sure of himself?' This was from Mrs. Lyster, who sat exactly opposite to me at the table. I noticed, with a little pang, that her tone was chilly, and she looked at me with a gleam of something like anger in her eyes—I am afraid she will not forgive me for having disappointed her——
—My trick has produced consequences which I was far from expecting when I planned it. All of my 'Patagonia' friends, with the exception of Chunder Singh, who is almost irritatingly affectionate, have been giving me the cold shoulder. The Captain and the first officer are excessively busy whenever they catch sight of me. Colonel Trent has chosen to adopt a short, reserved manner which prevents me from addressing him much. Mrs. Lyster is politely cold, and several ladies, who had condescended to be gracious to me, have quietly relegated me to a much less intimate footing.
So far as these last are concerned I do not mind; but Mrs. Lyster and I have been too friendly for me to be able to give her up without a struggle. I asked her this morning how soon she meant to forgive me. She answered hurriedly, but with a spice of resentment in her manner, that she did not know what I meant; there was nothing to forgive, and then, to avoid more questions, she left me abruptly. In the afternoon she approached me of her own accord, and made an effort to be cordial; but the effort was too apparent for me to be able to feel very grateful.
What is the meaning of it all? Can she, can any of them, imagine that I am only playing the European? Mrs. Lyster cannot, for she knows all about me. But even allowing that it were so, not that I am an Asiatic, for that would be impossible, but that my sympathies reach out into the land where the ideas which have measurelessly enriched the spiritual heritage of the nations had their birth; nay, more, that some secret tie of blood or mental kinship does actually bind my life to that of the east—why should they, therefore, despise me? Ah! what a puzzle it is! What a strange, inexplicable tangle! Who, who, will ever set it right?
—This has been a busy week, for it has included our landing at Alexandria, our day up the Nile, our night at Cairo, and our caravan journey across the Desert to Suez, where we took ship again. It is night now. I have just come down from the hurricane-deck, where I have been talking to Chunder Singh. We are steaming quietly down the Gulf of Suez, with the shores of Arabia and Egypt looking dim and ghostly in the moonlight rising on either side of us.
My mind is full of the strange thing Chunder Singh has been telling me. I was right in my original suspicion. He did, and does, take a peculiar interest in me. It was for my sake that he came over to England, and for my sake that he is returning; but he would not seek to know me until I had bade my home friends farewell, and was launched, as it were, on my new life. He was the intimate friend and counsellor of my cousin, the rajah, who himself desired that he should make my acquaintance in this way. Other of his servants and retainers are to meet me in Bombay, and put themselves at my disposition.
This is, of course, rather startling news. I have scarcely realised it yet; but in the meantime my feelings are mingled. On the one hand I am thankful; I find it pleasant to know that I have been thought of and provided for in the great new land, which will presently open out before me. On the other I have a sensation of something like fear. It is as if the new life were seizing me, drawing me in, as if I should never again return to the old life, with all its sweet, homely ways. No doubt this is merely a sentiment. I ought to be thankful, and I am, that there is someone to whom I can speak of the future, and who, for the sake of those who have gone before me, as well as for my own sake, will advise and guide me.
One of the principal events of this week is that I have made a new friend. My friend is a little girl about seven years of age, though she looks much younger. She has white skin, just touched here and there with the daintiest rose-colour, tiny bewitching features, yellow hair soft as spun silk, and grey eyes that have a curiously pathetic look in them. In figure she is the lightest, airiest little creature; such perfect hands and feet, and so ridiculously small. Light as she is, I wonder sometimes that those feet can bear the weight of her. She trots about the deck in pink shoes that are like fairy's slippers—the most absurdly beautiful things! One of them fell off the other day, and she came to me to have it put on, and I never had such a difficult task in all my life.
It is only since the masquerade that Aglaia, who is quite a little queen in her ways, has deigned to take any notice of me. Before that she would not respond to my advances at all; now she is more friendly to me than to anyone else.
Her languid, sickly mother, who I do believe is taking the child out to India because she lacks energy and resolution to leave her behind, is only too glad of what she calls, no doubt, the child's infatuation, so that Aglaia is my constant companion. She is never in the way, dear little soul! flashing in and out of my cabin, carrying me off to the other end of the ship, where there is much more amusement for her than on the quarter-deck, sitting by gravely while Chunder Singh and I have what she calls our lessons, and falling asleep with her two dear little hands in one of mine, and her yellow head nestling up against my shoulder; she is always the same gentle, delightful little being. 'I love you,' she whispered to-night, just before her eyelids closed. I had been called in 'to help her,' to use her own expression, 'to go to sleep.' 'Don't go away ever!' I wish I could keep you, my little darling!
—It has been very hot lately, and some of us have slept on deck. I did so last night for the first time. Before I went to bed Chunder Singh had been talking to me on the ancient philosophies and religions of the East. The last subject we discussed was the old doctrine of metempsychosis, in which he is a profound believer. As I fell asleep under the stars I seemed to be listening to an argument respecting it. 'Why should it not be?' said a voice.
'There is no evidence,' said another.
'Is there evidence for anything spiritual?' said the first.
'For this there would be. Show me one with memory of a past!' persisted the second.
A mocking laugh floated through the air. Then the voice I had first heard spoke again. 'Come with me, sceptic,' it said, 'and I will show you.'
In the next moment I found myself in Aglaia's cabin. There lay my darling wide awake in her berth, her yellow hair tossed back upon her pillow, and her large grey eyes looking up into mine sorrowfully.
'Are those the eyes of a child?' said the first voice.
I turned and fled.
And next I was in a large church full of gaily-dressed people. A newly-wedded pair were moving slowly down the aisle to the music of a triumphant march. Suddenly the bridegroom vanished, and the bride stood alone. Wondering what this might mean I looked into her face and I knew it. The eyes, glittering with a fierce light which held mine, were those of Vivien Leigh.
It seemed to me then that the blood ran cold through my veins as I heard the mocking voice say:
'Are those the eyes of a woman?'
'A woman! A tigress!' I murmured.
The shock passed. I was on the ship again, lying out upon the deck, and a face, beautiful with tenderness, was stooping over me. 'Grace!' I cried, but the shadowy form eluded me. Then I heard a voice—hervoice—'Not Grace,' it said, 'Aglaia.'
'No, no,' I cried out piteously.
'Hush!' whispered the dear voice. 'She is lost, poor little creature! But be patient. I am coming down to help her presently.'
Here the voice died away, and while I was straining my ears to catch it I felt myself touched.
It was a real sensation this time, for my little friend Aglaia was at my elbow. She was in a white robe daintily trimmed with lace that went down to her tiny bare feet, and her pretty yellow hair was all ruffled with the wind. 'Look!' she said, pointing to the east. I obeyed her, and oh! what a spectacle it was. For while we had slept the rosy-fingered dawn, descending, had opened the windows of heaven.
Lost in rapture I was gazing in, when my little friend's small, plaintive voice recalled me to the earth.
'Aglaia is cold,' it said. 'Carry her.'
I stooped, wrapped her from head to foot in my plaidie, and took her up in my arms, whereupon she laughed out joyfully.
'That's nice,' she said. 'I'm glad you're so big. Let me look at heaven, and then I'll go down to mammy.'
The part of Tom's diary which deals with the early days of his stay in India is too elaborate and introspective to be largely used here. But the service it has rendered to the writer of this story in enabling him to trace its somewhat labyrinthine mazes is incalculable. He has, however, other sources of information. The servants whom Chunder Singh gathered round the young heir as soon as he arrived in Bombay—intelligent men all of them, and trained to their work by that notable man, Byrajee Pirtha Raj, the late rajah of Gumilcund—have given him many useful details. He has also been in communication with the friends and acquaintances whom Tom made on the road.
Chunder Singh, after making every arrangement for his comfort, left him in Bombay and proceeded at once to Gumilcund, Tom himself having determined not to go thither until he should have acquired a far greater familiarity with the language, and some insight into the manners and sentiments of the people. This knowledge he hoped to gain by travelling.
The glorious winter of 1856-7 was just opening when, accompanied by a retinue of servants and a string of camels and carts which contained everything necessary for a long camping-out tour, he left Bombay. He had been a great success amongst the little society of that picturesque Eastern capital, and he took with him a host of introductions to English people of the civil and military orders on his route, any of whom would have received him with pleasure; but he seldom took advantage of his privileges, mixing by choice with the people of the country. Hoosanee—the bearer of the late rajah and his own principal servant—was the medium of communication. When the work of the day was over—the long march, or the patient quest into the secrets of antiquity—Brahmin priests and Brahmin beggars, old soldiers, dispossessed landowners, and native merchants both Hindu and Mohammedan, would be introduced by him into the tent where sat the English-bred youth in his Oriental dress, ready and anxious to discuss the questions that separate East and West. On these occasions Tom would sometimes surprise himself. He would sit down ignorant. He would listen to what his visitors had to say and keep silence. Then suddenly, and to himself most mysteriously, a flash of inspiration would come, so that he would speak to them—not as a young man and a foreigner—but as one who knew the land, and had authority amongst its peoples.
It was a critical moment in the history of English dominion in India. Lord Dalhousie's policy of annexation had added to the empire vast provinces, the new rulers of which, impatient to see the fruit of their labours, made, in many cases with a stroke of the pen, such changes as, in the natural order of things, it would have taken years upon years to effect.
But society remained what it had been. There was no relaxation of the tyranny of caste—no attempt to educate those in whose hands lie the influences that mould the lives of the young. The people clung to their old customs with all the more tenacity for the change in the political order.
Meanwhile to the eye of the ruler, satisfied with the good he had effected, the tranquillity seemed to be absolute. The terror which in the following year was to sweep through the land, making the enlightened mad and the mild cruel, had not begun to work. Yet, to those who had the courage and wit to look below the surface, signs of agitation were not wanting. Fiery prophets rushed through the land predicting the speedy end of the new dominion; there were curious panics amongst the people and soldiery—curious outrages, put down at once, of course, and repented in dust and ashes; while sullen-hearted men, whose claims to dominion had been set aside, moved slowly through the cities of the Punjaub and the North-West Provinces, whispering to one and another that the measure of the stranger's tyranny was full, and that the times were ripe for revolt.
One of these malcontents Tom Gregory met.
He had been spending two or three days in and about Delhi, his camp being pitched under the shadow of that glorious monument of Moslem dominion—the Kootub Minar, which is several miles distant from the city.
The season was midwinter, and the weather had been enchanting. He spent his days in exploring the tombs, temples, and palaces of the city, and in the evening he rode back to camp over the desolate plain that lies between old and new Delhi.
One evening he was later than usual. The glow of the evening had faded and the darkness of a moonless night had fallen before he reached his camp. Hoosanee came out to meet him.
'Is all well, my lord?' he said, in a voice that trembled with emotion.
'All is well,' said Tom, laughing, 'except that I am a prey to hunger and thirst and fatigue.'
Hoosanee raised a silver whistle to his lips, and in a moment all the camp was in commotion.
Smiling to find himself the centre of so much subservience, Tom went into his tent, took off the European clothes he had been wearing, bathed, put on an Oriental robe, and, having dined in some haste, seated himself at the door of his tent.
Presently there fell a deep silence upon the camp. The syces were lying down beside their tethered horses; the servants and camp-followers were asleep; only Hoosanee, the ever-watchful, sat behind his master, motionless as a bronze image, but with eyes and ears on the alert.
It was not so dark as it had been. The moon, an orange ball, was swimming into sight, slowly and mysteriously, above the rim of the silent plain, and the fields of space were strewn with the white fire of an innumerable host of stars. By their light Tom saw dimly above his head the tapering shafts of the Tower of Victory, and the glorious arched gateway close by. On the other side, and but faintly discernible in this light, was the famous mosque, once a Hindu temple, beautiful with sculptured pillars, where the Rajpoots and their followers worshipped before the foot of the Moslem trod down their holy places.
With a throbbing heart the English-bred youth gazed round him. What was this that he felt—an understanding, a sympathy, a reaching out of his spirit as if these things were not new to him, but old—nay, as if they were a very part of his being? He tried to think it out, but he was tired both in body and mind, and, try as he would, he could not keep his thoughts in order. He was entering, indeed, upon that delicious drowsiness which is the prelude of sleep earned by hard labour, when a furtive movement aroused him. Alert in a moment, he sprang up to see before him a tall, lean figure, wrapped in a ragged robe.
'Who are you?' said Tom, 'and whence do you come?'
'I came out of the darkness,' returned the figure, 'and I go into the darkness again.'
'Come in and rest,' said Tom, lifting up the curtain of his tent.
The stranger hesitated. 'You are the new rajah of Gumilcund,' he said.
'I am the heir of the late rajah. Did you know him?'
Here Hoosanee stepped forward. 'Excellency,' he said, 'I know this man, and he was known to the late rajah, my master. He is a Brahmin youth, and the adopted son of a prince.'
'Call Ganesh,' said Tom, 'to give him food and drink.'
Ganesh, the chuprassie, or steward, a man of the highest caste, was, as Tom knew, the only person in camp from whom the Brahmin stranger could accept food.
He turned to him and entreated him courteously to enter.
'My brother will rest,' he said, using the picturesque form of speech of the country, 'and food and drink shall be brought to him.'
Without a word the stranger flung himself down on a pile of cushions. He looked round him boldly; but Tom noted with compassion the wild hunger of his eyes. From under his vestment he drew a cup and platter of silver, richly wrought, which contrasted strangely with his ragged robe. These Ganesh, the stately Brahmin steward, filled, the one with new milk and the other with rice and chupatties, whereupon the stranger, having saluted his host, turned away and ate and drank in a silence which Tom preserved until the meal was ended.
'Is my brother satisfied?' he said then.
'For to-day,' said the stranger. 'But the hunger will return.'
'Come again to-morrow.'
'And the following day?'
'Come the following day also.'
'How long will your tent be here?'
'Three days and nights.'
'And then?'
'I will go on to the higher country—to Nepaul—perhaps to Cashmere—but first——'
'Go to the higher country at once,' interrupted the stranger, 'or'—he looked at his host fixedly—'become one of us.'
'What do you mean?' said Tom.
'I will answer by a question. You are an Englishman?'
'I am.'
'But you do not love your people?'
The hollow voice had risen, and the question sounded almost like a threat.
Tom was surprised, but he answered quietly, 'Of course I love my people. Why do you ask me such questions?'
'I ask because I seek to know; because you are a mystery. See! You dress as we dress. You understand our language. You know our ways. There is sympathy in your face. Twice within this hour you have called me brother—me whom the Feringhees have cast out. Why is this?'
'I have a stake in your country,' said Tom gravely. 'The Supreme Spirit, who is over us as He is over you, has decreed that I shall take up the work of a great and good man, who was of you, and who has gone out from you. I do not know all I wish to know of his ideas; but I am convinced that he loved his people, and I am learning to know them that I may love them too. I call you brother because I am of your kin. From the same great Spirit we came forth.'
The stranger bowed his head. 'And unto the same Spirit we return. My brother has spoken truly. He has spoken as a sage.'
And thereupon, without answering Tom's entreaties that he would stay or return, he rose and took his leave.
The next day a strange thing happened. Tom was busy in camp all the morning, having letters to write and the accounts of his chuprassie to examine and settle. Early in the afternoon he rode into Delhi. He rode in by the Delhi gate, and made straight for the Chandni Chowk, the principal street of the town, where he intended making one or two purchases. Here he dismounted and gave his horse to the syce, who led it behind him. The Chandni Chowk was, in its way, a beautiful thoroughfare. It was very wide, and a double avenue of trees, having a canal of flowing water between them, ran along its centre, while on either side of the street were the stalls and booths where jewellery and curiosity dealers exhibited their wares. It being a Hindu holiday the town was crowded with people dressed in all manners of colours. As Tom walked along under the trees and basked in the golden glory of the evening he enjoyed keenly the life and movement about him. A little body of fat Mohammedan merchants were following him meanwhile with anxious looks, and he was thinking that he must give himself up as a prey to one of them when he heard loud shouting. Looking round to find out what it meant, he saw a smart English carriage drawn by two spirited ponies coming at a tremendous pace along the street. He had scarcely time to see that the driver was a lady before he became aware that a man, whose head and upper limbs were wrapped in a thick chuddah, was right in the way of the horses. In less than a moment he had dashed forward, seized the man, and drawn him back under the trees. In the next moment the horses were pulled back, and he heard a high, clear voice:
'So you are the knight-errant, Mr. Gregory?'
'Miss Leigh,' he cried. 'Vivien!'
'Excuse me,' said the lady, 'Mrs. Doncaster!'
'I beg your pardon; I had forgotten that you were married.'
She laughed. 'Are you married too?'
'No,' said Tom shortly.
'What are you doing, then?'
'I am travelling.'
Mrs. Doncaster laughed, then turned her pretty head round. 'By the by,' she said lightly, 'where is the unhappy person I nearly ran over? I ought to give him something to soothe his terrors.'
'Pray don't,' said Tom, who had recognised in the scowling passenger his guest of the previous evening. 'He is not a beggar.'
'Oh! isn't he? He looks very much like one, then, and they love money, all of them, the sordid wretches.'
'Here!' she threw out a rupee, 'take that! It's all I can spare, and it will be wealth to you.'
She spoke the last words in halting Hindustani.
The man whom she addressed—he had been gazing at her fixedly for the last few moments—spurned the coin with his foot, and it fell amongst a group of misshapen, half-naked beggars, who fell upon it fiercely, fighting one with the other for its possession. The noise drew the people together, upon which two or three of the native police ran into the midst of themêlée, shouting and striking right and left. The whole city seemed to be in commotion.
'You will be surrounded,' said Tom hurriedly. 'Whip up your ponies and drive through them!'
'Not at all,' said Vivien. 'This is a piece of fun to me.'
As she spoke the man whose action had provoked the disturbance drew himself up to his full height, gathered his chuddah about him, and having cast a glance of mingled hatred and scorn on the fair Englishwoman, took himself off.
Vivien looked after him, laughing. 'That's the best specimen of a native I've seen yet,' she said. 'I wonder who he is. Doesn't he just hate me?'
'Is it wise, do you think, to make these people hate you?' said Tom.
'Wise or not, it's amusing,' said Vivien. 'But Beauty and Prince are impatient, and those two idiot syces of mine look half dead with fear. Aren't they a handsome pair, by the by? I mean the ponies, of course—not the syces. Come and see me, Tom. I live in Cantonments. Ask for Captain Doncaster of the 3rd Foot. Anyone will tell you where it is. You are staying some time longer?'
'Three or four days.'
'Then be sure to come. I'll introduce you to my husband, and show you my serpents.'
'Serpents!' echoed Tom.
'Yes; serpents. Funny pets, aren't they? But they amuse me. I cow them, and then pinch them, and watch them hiss and spit. I have a cobra; he is grand when he's in a rage. That man reminded me of him. Wouldn't he just sting if he had the chance?'
'The crowd is thinning. Now is your chance,' said Tom, standing away from the carriage.
'Good-bye, then, till to-morrow, shall we say?' said Vivien; and she drove off, leaving Tom more disgusted than he had ever felt before.
He was thinking it all over in the evening, and wondering why he could not make up his mind never to see Vivien again, when, suddenly, the lean figure he had seen the previous night rose before him. 'My brother has come back, then?' said Tom kindly. 'I bid him welcome.'
The man did not answer, even by a sign. He stood erect and rigid in the lighted space before the tent.
'Come in and rest,' said Tom, 'and I will call Ganesh, and he shall give you to eat and drink.'
'Rest!' cried the Brahmin bitterly, 'rest is for men, and I am no man. I am a dog, a creeping thing, to be spurned by the foot of the passer-by. If you have any pity, kill me!'
'My brother is raving,' said Tom pitifully. 'Fatigue and want are breaking his heart. When he has rested and eaten he will be glad of the good gift of life.'
'Does your Excellency speak like a sage now?' said the Brahmin, with a sombre derision in his voice. 'Does he know what he says when he calls life good? I tell him that it is not good—it is evil.'
'Life need not be evil unless we make it so.'
'We!' shrieked the Brahmin. 'We! I see now that you know nothing. Look at me—this ragged robe, these wasted limbs, these eyes bright with the fever of famine, and say if I have made myself what I am. I was brought up as a prince. My father, who had no sons of his body, adopted me, and I lived in his palace, sharing his wealth and dominion, which were one day to be mine. He died, and your people denied my claim. I was not, they said, of my father's kin, and I had no right to succeed him. They would inherit for me and fulfil my duties. The fools! Cantheyraise up children to the departed to keep green his memory upon the earth? Cantheypay to his ashes the observance that is due? The funeral feast, the oblation of water and rice, the garment to clothe the shivering spirit, and the gifts to priests and teachers to redeem it—who will give them? Will they? Can they? They know that they cannot. While I wander homeless and ragged upon earth, my father and my father's fathers are in the pit, herding with demons and unfriended spirits. Never can they be redeemed; never, through all the crores of ages that are to come, can they ascend into Swarga. By the treachery of your people must the memory of the pious die out. And when the Feringhees become masters of us all, as they intend, there will be no more offerings for the dead. Childless our great ones will depart, and the pit will be fed with the savour of their beauty, and Swarga shall be a desert, and the gods will lament.'
He stopped, breathless, the veins standing out like knotted cords from his temples, and tears, that burned as they fell, chasing one another down his cheeks. As for Tom, who had been searching for something to say, he stood silent. What comfort could there be for trouble such as this?
But the man had a comfort of his own. All at once his demeanour changed. His tears stopped; his lips set themselves together; his frame seemed to dilate, and the ragged garments which he drew about him were like the raiment of a king. 'Did I say for ever?' he cried out. 'I was wrong. I see the imprisoned spirits rise, and my flesh is stirred, and the hair of my head rises up. The hour of release is coming—it is near. On the dial of eternity it is written. In blood and fire the dominion of the stranger-race shall come to an end.'
'Hush! Hush!' cried Tom. 'You are beside yourself.'
For an instant the man glared at him fiercely, then his eyes fell. 'Take me in,' he said hoarsely, 'and give me food and drink.'
Ganesh was called, and his wants were supplied, with reverent care; he, in the meanwhile, accepting what was done for him with the docility of a child. The meal over, he lay for a long time with closed eyes on the pile of cushions. At last, night having fully come, he rose. 'Sahib,' he said to Tom, 'you saved my life to-day, and I have not thanked you. At the moment I was angry. I had said to myself, why should I live? I will die. The proud-hearted daughter of the Feringhees shall trample me under foot, and my people will avenge me. But I have thought better of it, and now I thank you. The day may come when I may give you more than thanks. In the meantime, take this.' It was a piece of parchment, inscribed with strange characters, and tied round with a crimson thread. 'Do not seek to know what it contains,' went on the Brahmin, 'but keep it with you! If trouble or danger comes, and you desire help, show it to one of our people, and ask for him to whom it belongs. And now farewell!'
In the next instant the stranger had gone, and Tom was left alone with his amulet.
'The man is certainly mad,' he said to himself; and it was in memory of a curious incident rather than from any belief in the scrap of parchment's virtue that he hung it round his neck.
For reasons of his own, which he could not have explained to anyone, Tom determined not to see Mrs. Doncaster again; so marching orders were given to Hoosanee and Ganesh that night, and early on the following morning the train of bullock-carts and camels that carried the tents and baggage were on the move.
Tom followed them, taking one more ride round the town before he went. The last place he visited—this he remembered long afterwards—was Hoomayun's tomb. He entered within battlemented walls, mounted the massive platform on which the palace of the dead stands, and saw the marble tombs of the Emperor and his friends, lying each in the frost-bound silence of its vaulted hall. Then, from the elevated platform he looked out on the soft green fields that surround the city, and the river flowing peacefully on its way, while the towering minarets of the glorious Jumma Musjid, and the swelling cupolas of the Pearl Mosque, and the red battlemented walls of Shah Jehan's palace loomed mysteriously through the amber-coloured mist of the morning.
Silent and peaceful it lay, like a dream of past greatness; the city, incalculable ages ago, of proud Hindu warriors and earth-spurning priests; the capital, in later years, and the stronghold of Moslem dominion; the city swept by wave after wave of revolution, sacked, devastated, shifted hither and thither over the plain; but never destroyed; to-day the city of a shadow; to-morrow, what? As he gazed into the tranquil plain, he felt his soul shuddering within him. Grey antiquity seemed to be throwing its arms about him and pressing out his life. He panted for breath like one stifled. What was he, and his people, with all their greatness, what—what were they? Time, that, like the fabled monster devouring its own children, moves forward irresistibly, had brought them into being, and Time, when their days ran out, would thrust them from the path of the living. Or was Time also an illusion—a shadow thrown by shadows on the whiteness of eternity? Did nothing really exist? Nothing—the awful word echoed through his brain, like the knell of a dying faith. He groaned and pressed his hands together.
Hark! What was that?
'Is anyone there?' he said, looking round him.
He saw no one; but a voice answered, 'I am here.'
'Who are you?' said Tom.
'The same who spoke to you before. I came to you with your inheritance. You ask if there is a reality. I tell you that there is.'
'Then, in the name of Heaven, where is it to be found?'
'Listen!' said the voice. 'You are like many others who search afar off for the thing that is close at hand. Look within; not without. It is there that you will find reality, for you carry it about with you. You, not your body, but the self that animates the body, are the reality of which you are in search. Know this and you are free, but you cannot yet.'
'Why cannot I?'
'Because for the good of others you are bound to action. But be of good cheer! Give yourself to the influences that are carrying you along. Resist the solicitations of sense, and, in time to come, the knowledge that makes free shall dawn upon you.' Whether it was a voice outside of himself or a mere colloquy between contending trains of thought he could not tell. Little could he have imagined meanwhile that here, where he had stood, dreaming of the past, here, where the son of Baber and the father of Akbar slept, the last of his race would hide as fugitives, and that thence they would be taken to imprisonment and death by a rough English soldier, with a few troopers at his heels. Verily Time devoureth its offspring!
Tom's next place of rest was Meerut, a large military station about forty miles from Delhi.
It was afternoon when the cavalcade arrived. The camp was pitched in a little mango-tope near the native town, and in the evening—such an evening as is common in North India in winter, when the air is crisp and the sky cloudless—Tom, who was in European dress, mounted an Arab pony and rode into the station.
When he entered the Mall, which intersects the cantonments, and is the pride of every Englishman in the district, he found it full of life. Buggies, drawn by fast-trotting ponies, were flashing past; well turned-out English carriages, full of ladies and children in gay summer dress, were passing more slowly up and down, officers in mufti riding beside them; and here and there came an elephant, slowly pacing the ground, his driver between his ears, and a gorgeously dressed Indian gentleman in the howdah on his back.
Tom was looking out on the gay scene when suddenly he was pulled up; for a group of smiling faces were coming to meet him along the drive. For a moment he fancied himself in England again. There was his dear Lady Elton, as pretty and soft as ever, lying back amongst the crimson cushions of a phæton, and Maud was holding the reins, and Trixy and Lucy were smiling at him from the back seat.
'Tom!' they cried in one breath, as he drew rein.
'You here!' he exclaimed.
'I don't wonder you are surprised,' said Lady Elton, whose face was pink with excitement. 'We left home much sooner than we expected. The General wished for the girls' sake to take another summer at home. But he was wanted.'
'And as father wouldn't go out without mother, and mother wouldn't go out without us, we are all here,' said Trixy, putting her charming little face forward.
'I am afraid that is about the truth of it,' said Lady Elton. 'Where are you staying, Tom?'
'In camp. I have been living under canvas the last month, and a delightful life it is.'
'I should love it,' breathed Trixy.
'But you will come to us now, of course?' said Lady Elton. 'Now, do. We are a household of women. The General is out inspecting.'
'Tom likes women far better than men,' said Trixy.
'Can't you be quiet, scatter-brain?' said Maud, who had been waiting impatiently for the opportunity of putting in a word. 'Mr. Gregory' (turning her dark eyes upon Tom), 'I hope you will come. It will seem like old times.'
'When we sang and played together long, long ago,' piped Trixy.
'One of you at least hasn't changed,' said Tom, smiling at Lady Elton. 'Thank you a thousand times. If you will show me where your bungalow is and let me give directions about my things, I shall be only too glad to join you for a couple of days.'
'Good boy,' said Trixy, kissing the tips of her fingers to him, and Lady Elton smiled benignantly, telling him to come at his own time—everything should be ready for him, and Maud, who was even more dignified than she had been at Surbiton, gave him a courteous salutation and whipped up her ponies that Tom might see how well she could manage them. As for gentle little Lucy, who had been dumb throughout, she was wishing that Grace had been in her place.