And in fact that was the one drawback to an otherwise charming fortnight. Grace was away visiting. The pleasant, haphazard people did not quite know where she was. She had left them to visit an aunt at Lucknow, who was feeling dull after an only daughter's marriage, and had begged Lady Elton to spare Grace to her for a few weeks. She might possibly have gone on to Cawnpore, or perhaps to Agra, in both of which places the Eltons had intimate friends. They were expecting a letter daily. It was the hope of this letter coming that caused Tom to delay so long at Meerut. He certainly enjoyed the little break. For those few pleasant days he was able to fling off the burden of Orientalism that had been oppressing him, and to forget that there was such a thing as philosophy in the world. He was his old self—the Tom who had picnicked with the girls on the Thames, bantering Trixy, laughing at Maud, adoring Lady Elton, and losing his heart to Grace. The General came into Meerut two days after Tom's arrival. He had been inspecting troops in the district, and was exceedingly jubilant over the apple-pie order in which he had found everything. In the evening, when, the ladies having withdrawn, he and Tom sat together over coffee and cigars in the large cool verandah, he expressed his satisfaction freely. 'It is becoming the fashion,' he said, 'to run down our native contingent. Nothing more absurd! Properly trained and led, they are a splendid force.'
'But supposing fanatics got amongst them?' said Tom. 'There are a few of that sort about. I have met them.'
'So have the rest of us, my dear boy. You don't suppose I have served for thirty years in India without meeting religious and political maniacs? Why, the East is a hotbed for the species. They flourish like a bay-tree by a river. But look at the matter reasonably! Remember, it is to the soldiers they must appeal. Now what, in the name of Heaven, can the poor devils offer that our men should run after them? Money? They don't possess it. Plunder? Well, to be sure, something might be picked up at that little game, but the fellows have sense enough to know that it couldn't last long. No, no. They get more out of us than they could out of anyone else. And don't tell me, sir,' went on the General, working himself up to what Trixy called his boiling-point, 'that there is no sense of honour amongst them. For I know there is. Yes, sir,' bringing down his fist upon the table, 'I repeat it, there is! I am speaking from experience, mind, not hearsay. Why, I have had jemadars under me, who have been proof against temptations that would have corrupted half the Englishmen I know.'
It struck Tom that the General was trying as much to convince himself as to refute anyone else; but he was careful to give no hint of his suspicion, which, however, on the following day was curiously confirmed.
It was early in the forenoon. They had returned from their ride, and were sitting out in the verandah, the ladies busy over fancy-work, while Tom entertained them with a dramatic account of his travels. He had come to his experiences at Delhi, and the singular encounter with Mrs. Doncaster in the Chandni Chowk, when the General strode in, his face purple with indignation.
'Read this!' he said, striking the news-sheet in his one hand with the doubled-up fist of the other; and as Tom, at a sign from Lady Elton, who was not much affected by these outbursts, took the sheet from him, he muttered down in his throat, 'The fools! To make so much of a trifle.'
The trifle was the well-known incident at Dum-Dum, near Calcutta. A Lascar asked drink of a Sepoy. The Sepoy, being of high caste, refused haughtily to allow his drinking-vessel to be defiled by the lips of a low-caste man, whereupon the Lascar retorted that he would soon lose his caste altogether, as the Government were making cartridges greased with the fat of cows and swine.
It appeared from the article which Tom read aloud, that this story was flying through the length and breadth of the land, and the writer feared that, if something was not done promptly to reassure the high-caste men in the army, serious consequences would ensue.
The General heard it through, and then burst into a torrent of wrath. A nothing! Such a quarrel as might be seen going on any day in the bazaars to be magnified in this way! It was absurd. It was worse than absurd; it was criminal! If there was a panic, men like the writers of the article in question would be responsible for it. For himself, he knew the native army. They had their faults, but a finer body of men never breathed. He was glad—he was proud to say—that any day he would trust his life and honour in their hands.
Having delivered himself thus, the General calmed down, sent his bearer for a cooling drink, swallowed it at a draught, and, looking round on his wife and daughters, apologised for his heat, and begged them not to be disturbed.
They were not thinking of such a thing. Saucy little Trixy, whose eyes were twinkling merrily, pointed out that he was the only disturbed person present, except, perhaps, Tom, who did look a little serious; but then Tom was a 'Grif.' Tom protested with her; but she held to her point. He might be a rajah's heir ten times over, but he was a 'Grif' all the same. Why, the way he treated natives showed it. In the midst of which little discussion, Maud observed, tossing her shapely head, and with a fine expression of scorn on her face, that things would have come to a pretty pass iftheycould be afraid ofnatives. So far as she was concerned, she would not mind meeting any number of them with only her riding-whip in her hand. 'You know they are an inferior race; one can't help feeling it,' she said. And Lady Elton said, with her tranquil smile, that in Meerut, at least, they did not need to be afraid, as they had soldiers from England to protect them. So the incident passed off, and in a few hours it was forgotten; but Tom remembered it long afterwards.
The life at Meerut, meanwhile, was a very pleasant one. There were not many girls at the station, and the Eltons, being pretty, well-bred, charmingly dressed, and full of life and go, were considered a great acquisition by everybody. They were made the excuse for all sorts of gaieties. 'We mustn't let those girls be dull,' the men would say, and the unmarried consulted the married, and balls and picnics, riding-parties and military sports were got up in their honour. This was all in full swing when Tom arrived, and he, as the Eltons' guest, was included in their invitations, so that he had never been so gay before. Feeling bound to return the hospitality showered upon him, he took counsel with Hoosanee and Ganesh, and one evening his camp was decked out with flowers and bunting, and coloured lamps were hung upon the trees, and waxed cloths were laid out upon the ground in front of the tent, and at night, when the large full moon was rising, nearly all the European population of Meerut flocked out to dance and gossip, and sip champagne and coffee, and enjoy a picnic supper in the quarters of the mysterious Englishman, who was known already through India as the 'Rajah's Heir.'
That night brought Tom's stay at Meerut to a close. Hearing, on the following morning, that Grace was at Lucknow, and that as she had several more visits to pay there was not the least chance of her returning home for some considerable time, he could no longer be persuaded to delay. Early in the forenoon his camp was struck, and he followed it towards sundown; Maud and Trixy, with two or three young officers, riding out with him for some little distance.
When he insisted at last upon their drawing rein, Maud, who was riding in front with him, looked into his face with steady eyes.
'Good-bye, Tom,' she said. 'What message to Grace?'
'Will you take it if I send it?'
'Certainly,' holding out her hand.
'Thank you,' said Tom, grasping it warmly. 'Give her my dear love, Maud.'
'I will. Anything more?'
'Tell her,' hoarsely, 'that, whatever happens, I shall not lose sight of her.'
'Isn't that——?'
'A curious message,' broke in Tom, with a smile. 'I am afraid it is; but I can't help it. Good-bye.'
Then Trixy and her escort, a dashing young cavalry officer, called Bertie Liston, rode up, and the last farewells were spoken. The English party returned to Meerut, and the Rajah's Heir, followed as usual by his faithful servant, set his face towards the desert.
The marching for the next fortnight was delightful. Anything to equal the climate of this Indian winter Tom had never seen. Morning after morning there would be the same brisk, invigorating air; day after day the same dark blue heavens, unbroken by the lightest cloud, would overarch, like a blessing from the Almighty, the vast plains through which they were travelling; and evening after evening the same rose-lilac hue, wonderful beyond the power of words to describe, would steal over the sky. Hoosanee was their guide, and his ways afforded some amusement and occasionally a little annoyance to his master. While humble and reverent in his manner, he kept the control in his own hands. If Tom struck for independence hitches occurred. The meals were half-cooked, the beasts of burden were unmanageable, the coolies had fever. And the artful Hoosanee had adroit methods of making it appear that these annoyances were due to the disturbed arrangement. 'As his Excellency desires, very right indeed!' he would say when an order was given to him; but Tom soon saw that if it was not Hoosanee's desire also someone would suffer. So at last he gave up the struggle. At Bareilly, which lay on their route, Tom spent a few days, the Resident being an intimate friend of General Elton's. From him he heard that Lord Canning's policy was disliked by Europeans, and that there were rumours of disaffection in the magnificent army of Bengal. That this, even if it were true, would affect the security of India, of the North and North-West, did not seem likely, yet some were holding themselves on the alert. Leaving Bareilly, they crossed the Goomtee, and were soon on the borders of Nepaul proper, whence several days' quick marching brought them near the foot of the fine mountain range, within which, as in a basin, lies the heart of the valley kingdom. But the dangerous Terai—a region of marsh and jungle, difficult to traverse at all times, and in the rainy season deadly to travellers—had yet to be crossed. The road through this jungle was not so good as it has since become. Here and there it was so deeply encumbered with rank weeds and the stems of giant creepers that the coolies had literally to hack a way through for the carts, and this made the travelling slow and difficult. They accomplished it, however, without accident, encamped one night above the belt of miasma, and the next day, by dint of hard climbing, came to Sisagarhi, a peak in the second and higher of the two ranges that shut in the valley of Nepaul.
It was near sunset when they reached the camping ground. The day's march had been long and fatiguing. The gradients were excessively steep, and Tom had relieved his pony by walking for long stretches. When he reached the wished-for summit, he was so tired that he could scarcely move. But in the glory of the scene that lay before him his fatigue was speedily forgotten. Far, far below, lying in the deepest shadow, was the long fertile valley that forms the centre of the mountain kingdom. From it, as from a basin, rose the nearer mountains—range within range—green slopes running up into wild, naked crags, that flamed like beacons in the rose-red of the evening, and beyond these, radiant and awful, receding into unimaginable distance, the gleaming snow-peaks of the Southern Himalayas.
Tom was, as he would have expressed it, steeping his senses in the beauty of this marvellous spectacle, when he caught sight of Hoosanee, who was standing close by in a reverential attitude, and looking at him wistfully. 'Is anything wrong?' he asked.
'No, my lord,' answered Hoosanee.
'Then why do you look at me in that way?'
'His Excellency's dinner is served.'
'Dinner, when that is before me! Look out, man, and be ashamed of yourself!'
'If my lord will not eat, he will die,' said the Indian servant humbly, 'and then what use will these mountains do him?'
'Fine logic!' said Tom, laughing. 'And, strange to say, convincing.'
Hoosanee led the way to the table, which was at the door of his young master's tent. A dinner that would have satisfied the requirements of an alderman was spread out; but Tom was too much excited to do it full justice. 'A pity!' he said, as he pushed the untasted dishes away. 'But it can't be helped. Don't look so doleful, Hoosanee. I have taken enough, I believe, to keep me from dying until to-morrow.' Hoosanee bent his head, and was turning away. Tom called him back. 'Come here,' he said, leading him to a little distance from the camp, 'I have something to ask you.'
'It is time your Excellency should rest.'
'Leave that to my excellent self, Hoosanee, and do as I tell you. Now, then, sit down! This is a quiet corner, where none of them will see or hear us. Don't crouch, man; sit! and don't, for heaven's sake, look at me in that pitiful way, as if you thought I was bent on committing suicide to-morrow! I can assure you I have a thousand reasons for wishing to live a little longer. But tell me—why do you take such an interest in me?'
'Am I not my lord's servant?' said Hoosanee in a troubled voice.
'Of course you are; but that doesn't account for it altogether. Can love and devotion like yours spring up in a day?' The bantering tone in which Tom had begun to catechise his servant had gone. He was very much in earnest.
'The faithful servant is born, not made,' said Hoosanee.
'That is no answer,' persisted Tom. 'Speak to me plainly. Is it for my own sake or for the sake of others that you are so anxious about my safety?'
'It is for my lord's sake.'
'But how can it be?'
'Is it possible that my lord does not know?'
'I know nothing, my good friend. Enlighten me!'
Swaying himself to and fro, and speaking in a subdued whisper, Hoosanee said: 'When my master, the rajah, was dying he sent for me. Chunder Singh had been with him, and received his last wishes. I was sad that no word had been given to me, for not even his foster-brother loved my master as I did. He looked up, and saw that I was sad. He smiled, for he was ever glad that we should love him. "Chunder Singh," he said, "will tell my Hoosanee everything." And with that, Excellency, he fell back and died.'
There was a pause. The light of the evening had faded, and the glory of colour had gone. Pale and livid, like ashes of burnt-out fires, lay against the horizon the palaces of snow and ice; overhead, entangled in a wreath of vapour, flitted a white ghostly moon, and the little stars were twinkling out above the hills. Tom shivered, and drew his cloak about him.
'And what did Chunder Singh tell you?' he said, with a poor pretence of indifference.
'What he said, my lord, will sound strange in the ears of one of your Excellency's people. To them there is one life upon earth, and beyond is the infinite, and the man who misses his chance here is lost beyond the power of even the Supreme Spirit to redeem. Is this not true?'
'It is, at least, what some of our religionists teach,' said Tom. 'But how did you learn all this, Hoosanee?'
'From my master, Byrajee Pirtha Raj, who would often let his servant be present when he spoke of these things with wise men from the West. Sahib, our belief is not as theirs. We do not so limit the power of the Supreme. It is taught by our saints and sages that the life we lead here is but one in many—that we come and go, changing into new forms perpetually. While we are low, so they tell us, we have no power over these changes. Unconsciously we work out our destiny, and expiate the offences of which we have no memory. But to those who rise in being it is given to rise also in knowledge. These see behind them the path by which they have come, and the road they must travel on their way to the Supreme lies open in front of them. To this stage my master, the rajah, had come. Once more, it was revealed to him that he should return to the earth.'
Here Hoosanee stopped, and looked at his master in a strange, wistful way, like one pleading for a boon.
'Well!' said Tom. 'Go on! How was your master to return?'
'Does not my lord know? Has not his own heart told him?'
'I know this—that if I listen to you much longer I shall go mad. I was a fool to ask you anything.' So saying, Tom started up and strode off into the darkness.
He turned after a few moments, and saw Hoosanee following him. 'Come here,' he said, in a hoarse voice, 'and tell me who I am!'
'You are my master, Sahib.'
'Which master, Hoosanee? Him who has gone?'
'I see no difference, my lord.'
'Then I am both. Is that what you say?'
'I say nothing. Will not my lord rest?'
'You have put a maggot in my brain, Hoosanee, which will keep me from resting, I expect,' said Tom, speaking now in English.
But he was wrong. Contrary to Hoosanee's advice, his bed was laid out under the stars; and when, after an interval that seemed like a moment, he opened his eyes, to see a pale white dawn, ghastly as the face of the dead, stealing over the sky, and touching with cold fingers the gleaming tabernacles of snow and ice in front of him, he was conscious of having slept for many hours, and of feeling extraordinarily strengthened and refreshed.
So that day they went down to the foot of the hills, travelling thence by a good carriage road to Katmandu, the capital of Nepaul.
At Katmandu, the capital of Nepaul, Tom spent several days pleasantly. He was delighted with the city, the quaintness of whose architecture and the gay costumes and kindly ways of whose people gave him many new and agreeable sensations; while the reception accorded to him, both at the Residency and at the palace, which was presided over by that great and enlightened prime minister, Jung Bahadoor, left him nothing to desire.
Ever since he left Bareilly he had been thirsting for news; but news travelled slowly in the days before the Mutiny, and no one in the valleys had heard of the occurrence, which was looked upon by the enlightened as the breaking of the storm. On February 28, when Tom, with a light heart, was setting out to visit the English Resident at the Court of' the King of Nepaul, the 19th Native Infantry, standing trembling in their lines at Berhampore, were listening with dull hearts to the harangue of their irritated colonel, and refusing point-blank to receive the percussion-caps handed out to them.
From the wise and wily Jung Bahadoor Tom learned much concerning the true state of Indian affairs. He was relieved to find that in spite of the faults of the British raj—faults which this sagacious person was not slow to criticise—he had a profound belief not only in its general justice and beneficence, but that it was the only power which could for the present guarantee the land against anarchy. As such he and his people would support it.
At other times he spoke of the late rajah of Gumilcund, who had been one of his most intimate friends, giving the young heir much valuable information with regard to his character and aims. One evening, which Tom remembered long afterwards, on account of the influence it was destined to have upon his life, Jung Bahadoor invited him to a pavilion in the palace where he often spent his evenings. To the young heir their conversation was peculiarly interesting, although he did very little of the talking. Over his long hookah, which induced a meditative vein, the great minister recalled scene after scene out of the past—a past in which the late rajah of Gumilcund's name often figured. Tom heard of his cousin's wealth and magnificence, of his fine personality, of the adoration felt for him by his people. 'I believe,' said Jung Bahadoor, 'that they refuse to believe in his death.'
As he spoke he was looking at Tom absently. All at once his expression became tense and significant. 'What is the exact relationship between you and the late rajah?' he said.
Before that question could be answered Gambier Singh, captain of the king's bodyguard, who was frequently the bearer of messages from the court to the chief minister, and had the privilege of entering unannounced, came out on the pavilion. Seeing the minister engaged in conversation, he was about to deliver his missive and retire when, catching a full view of Tom's face, he pulled up short.
'What ails my friend Gambier Singh?' said Jung Bahadoor.
Recovering his presence of mind in a moment the young Ghoorka captain turned to Jung Bahadoor's guest, and saluted him reverently.
'The sahib must forgive the mistake of his servant,' he said; 'but by my head it is a wonderful likeness. I thought the dead had come to life.'
'My guest is the heir of our friend the good rajah of Gumilcund,' said Jung Bahadoor. 'I was myself struck with the likeness, though, strange to say'—turning to Tom—'I did not observe it till this moment.'
'The rajah was my friend and father. I salute his successor,' said Gambier Singh, making another deep salaam as he withdrew.
But his curiosity and interest were too strongly aroused to be thus easily satisfied. Late that evening, when Tom was resting in his tent, he introduced himself, making many apologies for the intrusion. A long conversation, of the deepest interest to them both, followed, and when they parted, somewhere about the small hours of the morning, they shook hands after the kindly English fashion, and exchanged promises of undying friendship.
Tom spent a week in and about Katmandu, enjoying Gambier Singh's friendship and the hospitality of the palace. Then he began to think that he ought to be on the move. He was actually making arrangements for a start, writing letters and studying maps by the light of a lantern which swung from the pole of his tent, when one evening Gambier Singh, whose invitation to an evening of revels he had just declined, strode in. The flash in his eyes and the abruptness of his movements showed that he was labouring under strong excitement. 'Have you heard the news?' he said, before Tom could speak.
'No; I have heard nothing. What has happened?'
Gambier Singh answered with a question. 'I am told,' he said, 'that you are leaving us?'
'Have I not told you so myself?' said Tom. 'I must go soon, or I shall be tempted to stay with you for ever.'
The young Captain bowed himself and pressed his palms together. 'Sahib, my friend and brother,' he said, 'if you are happy with us, as you say, let me beseech you to remain. We are peaceful, and the Ghoorka soldier, if savage to his foes, will be true to his salt. Over there,' and he pointed across the mountains, 'there will be wild work soon.'
'What do you mean? What has happened?' cried Tom, springing to his feet.
'I mean, my brother, that the revolt has begun.'
'Revolt! When? Where? Speak to me plainly I entreat of you.'
He was pale to the very lips. In that instant of time, while the dim mountain range which a few days before he had crossed so joyfully, frowned down upon him like a fortress, a hundred torturing images pressed upon his brain. The family-circle at Meerut, the General who would trust his soldiers to the death, gentle Lady Elton and the girls, Grace, wandering Heaven only knew where, reckless Vivien flinging her defiance at the crowd of Asiatics, his friends of the voyage, Mrs. Lyster, tender little Aglaia—what would become of them all if this dreadful thing were true? Oh! for wings to carry him over the mountains, that he might see with his own eyes what was going on! In the meantime, Gambier Singh's voice, which was much calmer than it had been, came to him as if from a great distance.
'Let my brother compose himself. It has only begun. The North and North-West are at peace.'
'Thank God!'
'But,' went on the young Captain, 'it is a hollow peace. Of this my master is assured. If your rulers are prompt, if they crush out the insurrection with an iron hand, there may still be peace, for the loyal will be strengthened, and the discontented will fear to rise. If not, the torch of rebellion will flame out fiercely. From province to province it will be carried, and the wild heart of the Asiatic, which discipline has kept down but not subdued, will take fire and leap out in rapine and murder.' Then, in a few words, he told the story of the mutiny of Berhampore. It was ominous, but not nearly so dreadful as Tom had imagined. He began to breathe more freely. 'Are you sure there is nothing more?' he said. 'You are not keeping anything from me?'
'No, by my master's head! But is it not bad enough?'
'Yes, it is bad. Still it is a warning. The evil cannot have gone very deeply yet. We have time before us.'
'Who knows?' said Gambier Singh, shaking his head; and he added, 'My brother will stay with us till the storm blows over!'
Tom paused for a moment, then turned his face, which was as white as death, to his companion. 'I cannot,' he said, 'a fire is consuming me. What it is, or whence it comes, I cannot tell, but I know that it will not let me rest. See, do not hold me back! I must recross the mountains. I must know what is happening. I must see the terror with my own eyes.' His voice sank, and then, in a moment, rose again, shrill and penetrating, 'I must save my people,' he cried, and fell back fainting into the arms of his friend.
It is early in the morning. The golden dawn is breaking over the eastern hills, and the awful snow-peaks of Himâla shine like the gates of Heaven, when, in the pathetic dream of earth's children, they rise before the eyes that have looked upon the river of death. Here and there some lower point, leaping up from the confused mountain-world, has caught the glory of the morning, and stands forth, a pale herald of the full glad day; but the valleys, with all their wealth of corn-fields, forests, and clustering villages, are in the deepest shadow.
They are the valleys we have just left, for we are on Sisagarhi again. A single tent is pitched here, but coolies are already busy loosening its cords, while the four small horses tethered close by are sniffing the morning air and neighing loudly. This, with the grunting of the camels as they kneel to be laden, and the harsh guttural cries of their drivers, breaks discordantly on the stillness of the morning.
The two young men who have been occupying the tent, and who are standing outside, watching with full hearts the preparations for departure, walk away together to a quieter spot. For a few moments they stand silent, gazing out upon the world of mountains. Then the taller of the two holds out his hand, which the other grasps.
'I have much to thank you for, Gambier Singh,' he says, in the Oordoo dialect. 'You have been a brother to me. I wonder when we shall meet again.'
'I think we shall meet before long,' says the young soldier, whose dark eyes gleam triumphantly in the morning light. 'My masters think that our help may be called for down below there. If it is so, I shall be given a command. We Ghoorkas will stand face to face with the proud Brahmin warriors who despise us and defeat them. Then my brother will seek me out, and we will tell over again the dreams we have dreamed in our valley.'
'They may not always be dreams,' says the young Indian, and, after a pause, 'You are sure my disguise is good?'
'It is no disguise. This is your true dress. This is your true character. If my brother had heard his own words when the fever was in his blood he would hesitate no longer. But the morning is advancing. Let us eat together before we part.'
'You will eat with me!' says the other in surprise.
'I am not a Brahmin,' answers the soldier. 'Have I not told you, besides, that you are one of us?'
They retrace their steps in silence, and, while the laden camels move off, partake together of the rice and kecheri, and chupatties which Hoosanee has been preparing for them, pledging one another, after the English fashion, in a glass of Persian sherbet. Then Gambier Singh rises.
'I would I could go with you,' he says, 'but I know it cannot be. Before we part tell me plainly what you will do.'
'Yes; I will tell you,' says Tom. 'I have been thinking all night, and it is only this morning that I have made up my mind. I intended to spend this summer in travelling. I wished to be more fully informed about the country before I presented myself to the people in Gumilcund as the successor of Byrajee Pirtha Raj. Then, again, I thought I would go to Meerut, warn my people there, and pass on the advice which Jung Bahadoor has given to me. But it has come to me that my words will be, in their ears, as empty tales. Beside, there are many of our soldiers there, so that they could surely hold their own in any rising. It would be well also, in case of the crisis you fear, that I should be in Gumilcund and should have made the acquaintance of her people beforehand. In this way, I shall be better able to guide her safely, and it is just possible that her loyalty may be of service to the State. Therefore I have decided to go to Gumilcund at once, trying by the way to pick up what intelligence I can. Hoosanee, who knows the road, will guide me. The people, I believe, will accept me for the sake of him who has gone from them. If it is so, I will stay in their city watching the course of events.'
'Should it be as we fear,' said Gambier Singh, 'what will you do?'
'I cannot tell yet. I must be guided by circumstances.'
'Promise me not to expose yourself unnecessarily.'
'Unnecessarily? No!'
'But——'
'My friend,' says Tom, holding out his hand, with a winning smile; 'it is impossible for me to say more. Before both of us the future is invisible. God has willed it so. Farewell! I dare not stay. Here or there we shall meet again.'
'May the Gods grant it!' says Gambier Singh.
And then he throws himself into his friend's arms, embraces him with tears, mounts his horse, and turns to ride down the hill.
Tom meanwhile, with many a backward look at the retreating figure, goes off slowly in the opposite direction.
And so the Rajah's Heir entered upon his next important journey. I find, by referring to his diary, which is my chief source of information, that although wearisome and full of perils, it was not without interest, and even enjoyment. He was much calmer, for he had laid out his plans for the near future, and the conflict between the old life and the new, that had helped to aggravate his illness, was over. Whether the fantastic belief of his Eastern friends was true, or whether having, as he now believed, blood of the East in his veins, the life and doctrines of the Indian sages did really, in some strange way, appeal to him, he did not ask himself. The result was the same. He was actually, for the time, an Oriental amongst Orientals.
The season was advancing. When he left the hill region and entered upon the plains he found the heat almost insupportable; but the deadly Terai was healthier than it had been a month before, when it was still reeking with the vaporous distilments left behind by the midwinter rains, and they did not experience much discomfort in crossing it.
The chief object of his journey being to find out as much as possible of the state of the country, he determined when they touched upon the borders of Oude to turn aside from the direct route and visit Lucknow, the capital of the province.
Oude was at that moment in a critical condition, and Lucknow was a perfect hotbed of agitation. The lately installed Commissioner, Sir Henry Lawrence, was indeed struggling manfully with the task of reconcilement and reorganisation, and if a crisis could have been averted, his was the only hand that could have done it. But it was not to be. He had come into his duties too late. Fanatics, suffered to flourish unchecked, had poisoned the minds of the people. Misunderstandings that might have been explained, little grievances that might have been removed, had given weight to their words and fuel to the smouldering fire of disloyalty, and now not even Sir Henry Lawrence, keen and far-seeing as he was, had any idea of the depth and extent of the disaffection. As for Tom, when he crossed the Goomtee, and saw the beautiful city, with its splendid palaces and mosques, lying spread out before him, still and beautiful as a dream, in the evening's golden glow, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that its peace was dangerously threatened.
Mounted on one of the elephants which Hoosanee had bought for him in Oude, and clothed in the richest Oriental dress, he rode through the city and its environs. Through the English quarter he passed hastily. He had been warned not to betray himself; but the sight of his countrymen and countrywomen taking their walks and drives was almost too much for his resolution. He had an insane longing to hasten back to his tent, throw off his Oriental garb, and mix amongst them as an English gentleman. In the native town he was received, much to his surprise, with every demonstration of respect. As, mounted on his royal beast, with two syces, dressed in gay clothes, running before him to clear the way, he passed through the narrow crowded streets, many left their work and bowed themselves reverently to the ground.
Gradually the crowd increased. Strange rumours flew from mouth to mouth. The agitators had promised the people a leader—a deliverer. Was this comely youth the leader they were to look for? It was whispered that he was; and, before he had reached the centre of the town, it was choked, as far as he could see, with swaying figures and eager, expectant faces. Never in his life had Tom beheld such a scene. It was a sea of humanity, in which he felt himself swallowed up. In terror lest some of the crowd should be trampled by the feet of the monster he rode, he stood up and cried out frantically to the driver to stop, and to the syces to clear his way.
As he stood, raised high above their heads, the confused cries of the multitude seemed to gather themselves into one cry, which echoed like thunder through the streets of the city. 'Speak to us!' From a thousand throats it rang out simultaneously—passionate—imploring—a herd of helpless creatures asking to be led. 'Speak to us! Speak to us!'
Then a single voice, winged with menace as well as entreaty, rose above the others. 'Will not my lord speak to us?' Again it rolled forth like the growl of a wild beast whose prey is escaping him, 'Speak! speak!'
Tom's uneasiness was increasing every moment. What should he do? To speak might have been to betray himself and to provoke a disturbance that he would give his life to avert. Yet every moment's delay made the danger of an accident more imminent. Hoosanee, who was riding close behind, came forward. 'For shame,' he cried out to the people. 'Will you presume to dictate to my lord? And what think you, that he will break the vow which does him honour, and tell his designs to such as you? Wait patiently, each one in his place, and you shall see what shall be!'
There was a moment's pause, for the people of an Asiatic crowd are easily put down; but all could not hear the words of the speaker, who, after all, was only the prince's servant, and presently the tumult began again.
Tom was in despair. He looked back to Hoosanee. Should he try to quiet them with quiet words; but what could he say—he who was a stranger amongst them? Hoosanee's agonised face gave him no help; but help came. All in an instant, and mysteriously, the crowd thinned away. It had flashed, like an electric current, through the city, that one known to the people—a prophet, who, under pretence of stirring up a religious revival, had been detected preaching sedition in the towns and cities of Oude, and shut up, had escaped from his prison and was now making his way in disguise to the place where the city malcontents had been accustomed to meet him. This was a vast underground tank and gallery, which, being approached through one of the most sacred of the Hindoo temples, was safe from the prying eyes of Europeans. Thither flocked the greater number of the people who had been blocking Tom's way; but many a backward look was cast at the royal youth, as, his eyes fixed and his brow sombre with thought, he was carried slowly through the throng which remained.
'Your Excellency has found favour in their sight. They would make him a leader,' said Hoosanee, when, an hour later, they were resting thankfully in camp.
'Why did my cousin die?' cried Tom, bitterly, 'or why was I brought up in ignorance of the people amongst whom my lot was to be cast? If I had known a little more; if I had been sure of myself, I might have spoken to them, and they might have heard me, and the destruction which is coming upon my people might, perhaps, have been averted.'
'Let his Excellency have patience,' said Hoosanee, soothingly. 'He is learning every day.'
That night Tom wrote to his mother. He had written in the same strain before, but never so earnestly. 'I beseech you,' he wrote, 'not for my sake alone, but for the sake of others, to lift, if you can, the veil of secrecy which covers our past. I am certain—how I dare not tell you—that I belong to this people, and I believe it is by birth; and, if so, I am passionately anxious to know the nature of the tie. Pardon me, dearest mother! I know how strongly you feel on this subject, and, but for dire necessity, I would not vex you by alluding to it. Say to me, once for all, that there is no kinship, by birth, between us and the East, and I will trouble you no more. I will be content to believe that there exists between me and this people a mysterious spiritual affinity. If, on the other hand, there is such a tie—if, through you or through my father, I draw my origin as I inherit my wealth from the East, it is time that I should know it.'
The letter written, he thought he would go out again and see the city by night. Wrapped in a long white chuddah, and attended by Hoosanee, he left his tent, which was pitched near the Martinière palace, on the banks of the Goomtee, and, after going through several narrow lanes, entered a broad road lined with palaces and gardens and English bungalows. The gates leading up to one of the palaces lay open, and its courtyard, with the windows and balconies above, were streaming with light from innumerable candles and oil lamps. Having sent Hoosanee to inquire what was going on, Tom heard that it was atomasha, or entertainment, given by the English to one another. Hoosanee intimated further that there would presently be a crowd of native men, and entreated his young master not to run the risk of detection by lingering amongst them. This, however, was precisely what the wilful young fellow meant to do; so Hoosanee, seeing that resistance was useless, stood back, while his master placed himself in the front rank of the crowd that were gathering together to see the show.
Presently carriages began to roll up. The night being clear and beautiful, most of them set down their loads at the gates. Tom could in many cases not only see his compatriots, but hear their voices. All of them seemed to be gay and light of heart. The scraps of talk which fell upon his ear were of the dance that evening, and of a concert and amateur theatricals that were coming off soon. Once he heard a high shrill voice exclaim, 'Provision the Residency? What nonsense! But Sir Henry can't be in earnest;' and another, a man's voice, answered, 'I can only say that I heard it. Preposterous, of course. If we want a revolt, the surest way to have it is to show that we distrust the people.'
That pair swept past him—a young English officer in uniform and a dashing, handsome young woman. Then came a sensation in the crowd. Many heads were bowed reverently, and a mingled cry—of adoration from some, and of contempt and defiance from others—broke forth. The excitement was caused by the arrival of the Chief Commissioner, Sir Henry Lawrence, whose carriage, drawn by four handsome little horses, preceded by outriders and followed by a native guard, was coming slowly along the street.
There was abundance of light from lanterns swung on poles above the road and flaming torches carried by footmen. Tom looked out and saw a picture which he will never forget. The chief—his lean, soldierly figure wasted with anxiety for the people whom, as he fervently believed, God Himself had committed to his charge; his face, that face which to see was to love, strong, yet curiously tender, deeply seared with lines that told of such spiritual conflicts as shake the soul to its depths; with mobile lips, round which a smile, half humorous and half melancholy, was hovering; and deep-set eyes that looked out steadily from under massive brows—was before him, and instinctively he bowed his head; he knew that he was in the presence of a hero. So far he had seen no one else in the carriage, he had eyes only for the chief; but as it swung round to enter the gates of the courtyard he became suddenly aware of another presence—'Grace Elton!' Wildly his heart throbbed as, in the disguise which it would have been the height of imprudence to throw off, he saw close in front of him the woman he loved. She was sitting back in the carriage, her eyes, pensive as ever, fixed meditatively on Sir Henry. She seemed to have been speaking, for her lips were half parted, and it appeared to him as if a shadow rested on the face which, with its divine expression of seraphic purity, was so infinitely dear to him.
A moment, and the vision was gone, and he saw Hoosanee at his elbow, looking grave and disconcerted. He told him that he was being noticed, and implored him by all that was sacred to come on.
'Have I a European dress with me?' said Tom, as they moved away.
'Not one,' answered Hoosanee. 'My lord will remember that the baggage-waggons were left behind us.'
'But you might have kept out one. I would give all I possess to be able to go into that ballroom to-night.'
Hoosanee hesitated. 'My master might go in native dress,' he said, 'if he would not betray himself.'
'Would it be possible?'
'It would be easy, my lord. Other Indians of rank have gone in. If my lord gives in his name as the Rajah of Gumilcund, and presents a largesse to the door-keeper, he will certainly be admitted.'
The result was as Hoosanee had predicted. When, an hour later, Tom was borne in a palanquin to the gates of the palace, his embroidered robe and gorgeous turban, with the magnificent fee he presented to the door-keeper, gained him immediate respect. No little to his embarrassment, he was taken straight to the daïs on which sat the Commissioner, surrounded by English officers and grandees of Oude. After the first shock, however, he played his part correctly. Sir Henry, supposing him to be an accredited guest, received him graciously, and conversed with him for a few moments. Then, feeling glad the ordeal was over, he stepped down and set himself to watch the dancers.
With a face like a mask—for he had learned the trick of Oriental passivity—Tom moved about the hall. He was in search of Grace, whom he saw presently dancing in a waltz with an elderly civilian. After they had danced two rounds her partner led her to a seat. Tom passed them, making a low salute, and then stood back, as near as he dared, with his face averted lest Grace should recognise him. Her light whisper penetrated to where he stood.
'Who is that Indian?' she asked.
'I really can't tell you,' answered her companion, 'which is a little curious, for I know all the natives of distinction hereabouts. He was certainly not at the last durbar. I must ask Sir Henry about him.'
'I should like to know,' said Grace. 'He has a fine face——'
'For a native,' broke in her partner.
'For a native, if you will; and do you know, it strikes me that I have seen it before.'
Here it occurred to Tom that he was doing a mean thing, and he moved away.
The next time he saw Grace she was taking her place in a quadrille, in the company of a young and very handsome cavalry officer. Tom did not feel quite so comfortable as he had done, but he held his peace. While they waited for the other couples to come her partner was protesting with her earnestly.
'You will break all our hearts,' he said.
'Then somebody else must mend them,' answered Grace.
'But, seriously, why are you going? Do you think it will be safer at Meerut?'
'I am not going to Meerut.'
'Not? I thought your home was there.'
'So it is; but I have promised to pay a visit to Nowgong.'
'Really! Such an out-of-the-way station. Excuse me; but are you wise?'
'Wise or not,' said Grace, her every word falling clearly on the ears of the tall Indian in the background who did not think it wrong to listen now, 'I am bound to go. My poor little cousin—you will remember her, by the bye; she married Captain Richardson——'
'Yes; I remember—a muff! I beg your pardon, Miss Elton. I mean the gentleman, not the lady. She was an angel. I hope nothing is wrong with her.'
'I hope not, too; but we have been receiving rather miserable letters lately, and Uncle is going to see her, and I have promised to go with him, and stay with poor little Lucy for a week or two.'
The quadrille had at last been got together, and Grace and her partner were called to attention; but the Indian had heard enough. When the dance was over he left the hall.
Acting on the urgent recommendation of Hoosanee, who saw reason to fear for his master's safety, should he continue any longer in this dangerous locality, Tom and his servants left the neighbourhood of Lucknow early the next morning. Two days' march of a perfectly uneventful character brought them to the English port and station of Futtehgur. There they crossed the Ganges and travelled on quietly over roads shaded with acacia, pipul, and cork trees, into the wide and fertile plains of Central India. Gumilcund was included within the bounds of what was called the Central Indian Agency, a district more or less under the Company's control. Like several other small native states that lay clustered together in this region, and that formerly had lived a life of pillage and internecine warfare, it had acknowledged the British as the paramount power, and an English resident had been accredited to its court. The government of the little State had, however, been so wise, just, and beneficent, that the position of the Resident was a mere sinecure. During the late reign his chief function had been to supply the rajah, whom he, in common with the rest of the world, admired and revered, with European society.
There were few amongst the English who did not enjoy a visit to Gumilcund. The courtesy and urbanity of the rajah, in whose manners the grace of the Asiatic and the simple dignity of the well-bred Englishman seemed to meet, with the novelty of the life to which he introduced his own and the Resident's guests, made the city popular. Some said that nowhere on the face of the earth was there a place to compare with it. Such statements, no doubt, savoured of extravagance; but Gumilcund did certainly possess certain advantages that are not to be met with elsewhere. For fifty years—ever since the son of Sir Anthony Bracebridge was given the title and dignity of rajah—it may be said to have been governed by one man, for although in that period son had succeeded to father, the ideas of the two, with regard to government, were practically identical.
The first rajah was a man of experience. He knew not only the barbarities of Indian social life, but also the plague-spots of Western civilization. He was, moreover, a strong man. When he undertook to weld the chaos of the State that had been given to him to govern into the ideal that lived in his imagination, every one of his measures, planned out beforehand with deliberateness, was carried through unflinchingly. He had wealth, which was one great factor in his success. He had besides—and this quality his son inherited—a power over men almost amounting to fascination. Reforms which, if introduced by any other ruler, would have certainly induced rebellion, were accepted from him without a murmur. When, after an unusually long reign, he left the State to his son, it was already well started on the path of progress.
The reign of the second rajah was no less fortunate than that of the first, while his wealth, which was drawn from other than Indian sources, continued to increase.
His life, as we know, was cut short by an assassin, a man from a neighbouring State, who translated into this violent deed the jealousy felt by many of the outlying peoples of the prosperity attained by Gumilcund under those who were spoken of far and near as her foreign rulers.
To the immediate friends and followers of the rajah his death was a terrible blow. They honoured him as a master: they loved him as a friend: they had been looking forward to the wonderful things which he would do in the future, and, in him, all their hopes were crushed; but, so far as the State was concerned, his work was done. Any one of the wise men he had been training could have governed it now, for every one within its borders was aware of the exceptional advantages of their position. And in fact, there existed at that time in Gumilcund such a social order as was scarcely to be found elsewhere. The State was prosperous, for all its resources had been wisely developed, and this prosperity was felt in every corner. There was no seamy side in Gumilcund. The back slums and dismal alleys that lie hidden in the centre of our own great Western towns were not to be found in its bright little capital. Idleness and beggary did not thrive in its streets, and they had long ago departed to find a home elsewhere. There were no intoxicants, and therefore there was little crime. Everyone who chose to work could find work to do; so, although there were inequalities of condition, there was no grinding poverty. Oppressive acts of any kind being promptly discovered and punished, the people had become tired of practising them. The women, too, were freer than in other parts of India, for although here, as elsewhere, they were shrouded in the graceful saree, they could move about the city at their pleasure. Taking it altogether, the State presented a curious example of what can be done by one-man government, when the people are pliable and the rulers wise and enlightened.
Of course such results could never have been reached had it not been for the tranquillity which the power of the British name, and the authority of her rulers, had given the district. In former days the very prosperity and quietness of the little State would have attracted towards it the hostility of its neighbours, which, indeed, the disastrous death of the late rajah proved. He had never been slow to recognize his obligation to the Paramount Power and to impress it upon his people; and this, combined it may be with the circumstance that the English had never been their actual rulers, but often their guests, was the cause of the love, amounting, in many cases, to reverence, with which English men and women were regarded in the city and territory of Gumilcund.
The sympathy was mutual. Little Gumilcund was tenderly regarded by the English. Even Lord Dalhousie, the great annexer, when the rajah wrote to him, that, being without heirs he had adopted a son, who, with the permission of the Governor-General, would succeed him, could not find it in his heart to decree the separation of Gumilcund from her native rulers. Had he known that the heir was, to all intents and purposes, an Englishman, the decision might have been different; but the rajah, in his letter, had given Tom the title which he would assume were his heirship to the estate recognised, stating that he was being trained and educated in England, and it was allowed to remain an open question. Under the English Resident the rajah's heir should govern the State, and if his rule proved as beneficent as that of his predecessors, his title would be confirmed.—If, on the other hand, he acted as so many young rajahs had done when they came to the supreme power, the rule would be taken from him and vested in an English Governor. So the Governor-General decreed, and then, having weightier matters to dispose of, he dismissed Gumilcund from his mind. Little could he have imagined that, in days to come, it would prove a bulwark of the dominion, which he had taken so much pains to build up, and a refuge, sorely needed for his distressed fellow-country people, in the midst of a hostile rebellious continent.
Returning from this digression, which was necessary if we would understand the position of the little State, the government of which our venturous young Englishman had come over to assume, I must briefly follow his further movements. He marched on quietly, for there was nothing to indicate that the convulsion which his friends had predicted was close at hand, and though he wished to reach Gumilcund, he was not in the least impatient.
Day after day, in this smiling tract of country, the same prospect met him. There were fields of green paddy and rustling sugar-cane, and sheets of feathery dal, with which the large blue-green leaves of the castor-oil plant contrasted curiously; and, interspersed with these, were tracts of marsh and jungle, and a few pleasant groves of mango and neem. April had opened. The heat was terrible in the day-time; but it was a dry heat, and Tom stood it marvellously well. For the most part they travelled at night or very early in the morning. During the forenoon, and in the awful noontide, their camp would be pitched either under a huge banyan tree by the wayside—whose dry, thirsty roots were hanging down raggedly to seek the soil, while its glorious over-canopy of leafage made a shelter from the sweltering sunlight—or in a grove on the outskirts of a village or town. Sometimes he slept, but oftener he thought and listened. How silent it was in these noontide hours! Now and then he would catch a rustle as a lizard or snake crept through the dry grass, or there would be a flutter overhead, where the little wild birds—parroquets and mynas—sought a precarious shelter, or a scream when some bird of prey swooped down upon them. But for the most part, even the vultures and the hawks, and the hideous flying-foxes, that hung in uncouth bags from the trees, were quiet. Man, meanwhile, was at peace, having no energy even for labour. Through the woods came no ring of hammer or axe: the tramp of the wanderer had ceased along the road, and long, swathed figures, motionless as the sheeted dead, lay under the trees and in the shadow of walls and houses. The whole earth lay weltering in a fiery bath. With the drawing on of evening there would be movement. Flocks of parroquets would rush out of the tree-tops screaming discordantly: birds of prey would prune their wings and set off slowly, with harsh cries, in search of food; and the confused murmur of a restless humanity would begin again.
Then the rajah's heir would emerge from his shelter, and, while his tent was being taken down, and his camels laden, would stroll into the nearest village. There he would often take his seat on the chiboutra, under a spreading tree, where the talkers met together to discuss, over their hookahs, such important matters as the price of grain and cattle. They welcomed him with the grave courtesy of Indians; but whether they spoke freely in his presence he could not tell. Except in one or two cases, when a Hindoo priest or a Moulvie from a distance had visited the district, he heard nothing which could lead him to suppose that there was any widespread spirit of disaffection, while English magistrates were often spoken of in his presence with a respect bordering on adoration. So he went on towards Gumilcund with an easier mind.
Amongst the introductions which Tom took with him to India was one to Dinkur Rao, Dewan or Prime Minister at the Court of the Mahratta Prince, Sindia, Maharaja of Gwalior. The Dewan was one of those remarkable men who, at critical times, stand out boldly from their fellows. Subtle of mind and sagacious, and possessing to a degree which, in a full Asiatic, is unusual, the executive talent through which great theories can be brought out in action, he had already steered the State, to the government of which he had been summoned when the youthful Maharaja attained his majority, through more than one dangerous crisis. Like Jung Bahadoor, he had fully realised the importance to his country of British over-lordship in the peninsula; and, unlike the Nana, Kunwer Singh, and the host of fanatic priests and prophets, who thought that to exhaust England and to drain her of her population would be an easy task, he held firmly to his belief in the strength, no less than the beneficence, of the Paramount Power.
As regarded his policy, both internal and external, Dinkur Rao might almost be said to have been the pupil of the late Rajah of Gumilcund; and although, being hampered by obstacles from which that enlightened ruler was free, such as an intriguing court, and a young sovereign of unstable mind, who had on one occasion at least deliberately reversed the wise measures of the Dewan and shut him out from his counsels, he could not give to his own people such happiness and security as was enjoyed by the people of Gumilcund, he was able, through the superior position of Gwalior and her larger resources, to exercise a more commanding influence on the policy of the nations of Central India than Gumilcund could have done, even if her wise ruler had lived to tide her through this dangerous crisis. The Dewan had heard of the probable arrival at Gumilcund of the rajah's heir. A certain amount of mystery surrounded him; but he believed him to be, like his predecessors, of mixed blood, and was not, indeed, altogether indisposed to suspect that he was actually the son of the late rajah by an English mother. As he had loved the father, he was ready and anxious to make the acquaintance of the son. When, therefore, having passed through the cantonments and pitched his camp on an open space outside the native city and fort of Gwalior, Tom sent in a messenger with his letter of introduction and a note from himself requesting permission to pay his respects to the Maharaja and the Dewan, Dinkur Rao started off, attended by a guard of honour, to meet and welcome him. Then, having received him with Eastern ceremony, he escorted him back to the city, and introduced him to the Maharaja, who set apart rooms in the palace for his use.
Tom spent three days enjoying the hospitality of Gwalior. Before the end of that time, he and the Dewan had become firm friends. In the long nights that they spent together on one of the palace balconies, while the Dewan smoked his hookah and looked up meditatively into the starlit sky, Tom unburdened himself of some of the thoughts and feelings that had possessed him since he entered upon his new life.
He was troubled by his inability to lay out the future. 'I make plans one day,' he said, 'and I change them the next, and I find no firm standing-ground anywhere.' He was troubled still more by the dual impulses that governed him, and by the way in which startlingly new thoughts and unbidden imaginations forced themselves upon his mind. 'I thought I knew myself,' he said sadly; 'but I find that my very will is not my own.'
The Dewan consoled him. 'It is a time of transition with you,' he said. 'The new has not yet accommodated itself with the old. Western ideas, and, if I may venture to say so, Western prejudices, are warring in your mind with the Orientalism which is its true element. You will settle down in time and then you will take the best out of both. Who knows that the Great Spirit may not have decreed that you shall be one of the reconcilers for whom the world is waiting? Your father, the great Byrajee Pirtha Raj, of blessed memory, believed that such would be, and that only then, when the East learned from the West and the West from the East, as now they interchange terrestrial products, would the earth and her long-troubled children enter upon the holy path that leads to spiritual freedom.'
'And do you think this time is near?' said Tom, trembling.
'Nay,' answered the Dewan, smiling. 'I am no prophet. The future is with the gods.'
'But you think that England does well to maintain her power in India?'
'I know that in England is our only hope. They are preaching independence to the people,' cried the Dewan, his excitement rising as he spoke. 'Govern yourselves, they say. Be free men! Throw the invaders from the West into the sea! The fools! Do they know what they mean? Are we then one nation in India? Can we be governed by ourselves? They know very well that we cannot. There is not one preacher of sedition at this moment who is not well aware that the retreat of the English would introduce a period of anarchy such as even our unhappy country has never known. And how could it be otherwise? Moslems, Hindustanis, Bengalis, Mahrattas, Sikhs, Punjaubis, Ghoorkas, hill tribes of the north, and hill tribes of the south—we are far more foreigners to one another than French and English, Spaniards and Germans. Which of all these, I ask you, shall govern the others? Who are to be the free and independent men, and who are to be the slaves?'
'The strongest would come to the front,' said Tom.
'The strongest, yes; and think of the sea of bloodshed and misery through which we should have to wade before that was proved. They know it very well, these preachers. I caught one, a Moulvie of great sanctity, preaching rebellion to my soldiers. Before I sent him to Yama I asked him this question: who is to govern us all, I said, when the English have gone? I asked it in the presence of the poor fools he had been trying to delude. If he could answer me I said I would spare him. There were three different religions amongst them, and he knew that if he pronounced for one the votaries of the other would tear him to pieces. So he stood dumb and was led away to death. No,' said the Dewan, 'however it may be in the future, those amongst us who are wise know that for the present the Paramount Power is needed. We may regret the necessity; but we should feel gratitude rather than aversion towards the strong hand that, by compelling our mutual animosities to be still, gives us time for such internal development as can alone make us great and prosperous. That at least is our attitude, and my master will maintain it—of this I am certain. Yes, even if his own soldiers desert him.'
In after days, when Sindia and his State were put to the test, Tom remembered those brave words well.
He paid one more important visit before going on to Gumilcund. It was to Jhansi, a little state and town lying to the south of Gwalior, which was one of the kingdoms, tributary now to the English, formed out of the ruins of the Peishwa's dominion after the Mahratta War. The late rajah was the last representative of the reigning family. His widow survived him. She was beautiful, talented, and strong. Her energy and ambition, held all her life long in reserve, were ready to leap forth when the moment for their exercise should come. She would govern the state—she a woman, and govern it as none of the voluptuaries who preceded her had done!
Her dream was destined to disappointment. The petition which she presented to the Paramount Power praying for the succession, first to herself and after her to her adopted son, was rejected. But the Government of India would not be unjust. A pension should be allotted to the widow of the rajah, and she should be permitted to reside in her own palace at Jhansi.
The Ranee gnashed her teeth. Had Jhansi been strong and rich she would have flung the Governor-General's pension in his face, and dared him to do his worst. As it was she bided her time. Yearning for vengeance with the fierce, concentrated passion of the strong in mind and helpless in body, she sat at home, brooding over her wrongs, but doing nothing. Her guaranteed income, so petty to her magnificence, was, in the course of time, reduced. The late rajah had left debts. The present governor refused to settle them. The Ranee stated, mildly enough, her inability to pay, and the governor of the province decreed that her pension should be mulcted of a certain yearly sum until the amount due from the late rajah's estate had been paid. And still the Ranee said nothing. Being too weak to rebel, she was too proud to murmur. But the sore in her spirit grew. Sitting with bowed head in the retirement of her palace, she heard of the worship in Hindoo temples being stopped for lack of funds, of priests and Brahmins wandering homeless through the land, and of kine being slaughtered in the very heart of the stainless city; but still she made no sign. Then, at last, the year of prophecy, with its strange portents, dawned. Flat cakes, the sacrament of union in life and in death, were carried from village to village. From one to another, through the crowded bazaars and markets, and into the temples defrauded of their gains, there flew a mysterious whisper of impending change. It penetrated to the palace where the Ranee sat, nursing her vengeance, and with a rapture, such as she had never hoped to know, her darkened spirit leapt to meet it. Destruction—death—torrents of blood—a great dominion established on strength and cemented by terror, passing away for ever. What could it mean but that the hour for which she had so long and so hopelessly craved had come? And now the Ranee put on a smiling face. She welcomed the English to her palace, and entertained them royally. 'We must bow to the will of the Supreme,' she said, when one and another expressed surprise at her changed attitude. She would even confer gravely with the English authorities on the emergencies of the time, and recommend measures for their security. But all the time she was adding to her bodyguard, and secretly drawing the discontented about her, and exercising her magnetic power of fascination on the troops.
Such was the state of Jhansi when the rajah's heir came knocking at the Ranee's door.
She had heard of his probable accession, and of his progress through Central India, and she was exceedingly anxious to see him; as soon, therefore, as he gave in his name he was admitted.
It was evening, the Ranee's reception-hour. This the captain of her lately enrolled bodyguard, a man of splendid stature and dull, forbidding face, told the visitor. Following him, he wound his way through some narrow passages, until a heavy curtain before a closed door pulled them up. The captain threw the curtain aside and opened the door, and a curious spectacle presented itself to Tom. He was in a large hall, paved and lined with marble, and lighted by beautiful perforated windows, through which streamed softly the golden light of evening. It fell on a motley crowd, barefooted and dressed in every variety of Eastern costume.
To Tom's eyes, dazzled by the sudden change, there seemed to be nothing but a confusion of swaying forms and faded colours. Halting for a moment to recover himself, he saw that the crowd which was spread thinly over the hall concentrated at its upper end. Thither his conductor led him, the throng parting right and left to allow him free passage. In front of him was a marble daïs, raised a few steps above the level of the hall. To this he lifted his eyes and found himself in the immediate presence of a woman of queenly figure. It was the Ranee. He thought, as he looked at her, that he had never seen a finer sight. None, indeed, knew better than the Ranee of Jhansi the effect of the senses upon the imagination; no one has ever been more skilful in use of the arts by which such influence as she desired was won.
That evening she was dressed in a robe of curiously figured satin and woven gold; a gauze veil, which softened, but did not hide her proud and beautiful face, was thrown over her, and her seat was a finely carved and gilded chair.
For an instant the English youth was bewildered; in the next he remembered the part he had to play; while the Captain was recounting his name and titles, he prostrated himself reverently. When he lifted his head, he saw that she was standing—a noble figure in her splendid raiment—and making signs to him to approach nearer to her. He mounted the daïs, the lady encouraging him by a smile. An attendant, in the meantime, brought forward a low chair, upon which, in obedience to the Ranee's invitation, he seated himself.
What was to come next? The experience being totally novel, he thought his most prudent course would be to wait. He sat silent, therefore, feeling conscious in every nerve of the keen and fervent gaze which, from under that silvery veil, was enveloping him.
'Are you one of us, my lord?' said the Ranee at length.
'I am the slave of her Excellency,' he answered, bending low.
'I have many slaves in name,' returned the Ranee, a proud and bitter smile playing about her lips.
'Surely her Excellency is unjust to her servants,' said Tom.
'You are right, Sir Stranger,' said one who stood by—a ponderous and unwieldy figure of a man, clad in white muslin tunic and crimson sash.
'Is he, Nawab?' said the Ranee, a flash of what looked like irony darting from her eyes. 'Then, let me beseech you, who have repeatedly called yourself my slave, to dismiss our friends, and to retire yourself. I would confer with this youth alone.'
For an instant the Nawab's eyes gleamed ominously, and his fingers played with the hilt of his sword; but the Ranee's gaze was upon him, and he recovered himself. 'Your Excellency's orders shall be obeyed,' he said.
He went down into the hall to make her wishes known, whereupon one after another made their salaams; so that in a few moments the hall was cleared. Our hero, as we shall imagine, was feeling anything but easy. What could the Ranee wish to discuss with him secretly? Had she any dangerous designs to communicate, and, if so, how could he—a man in disguise—receive such confidences?
The Ranee was too keen not to read the perturbation of his mind; but not keen enough, fortunately for him, to trace it to its true source. He was impressed, she believed, by her beauty and dignity. This was no new thing to a woman accustomed to homage; but the youth, fair looks, and ingenuousness of her new acquaintance made the incense of his adoration peculiarly sweet. She was unscrupulous, as we know; where she had wrongs to avenge she could be cruel; yet she was not without the generosity, which is the redeeming virtue of strong characters. Looking at Tom she formed a hasty resolution. He should not be drawn into the plot they were framing. She would prevent it. He had nothing to avenge. If he threw himself into the quarrel it would be for her sake; and, in the event of failure, he would lose not his raj only, but his life; while the fearful rapture of gratified hatred to which she looked forward as the sweetener of her fall would not exist for him. And so, to Tom's surprise, for the Dewan had begged him to listen with caution to anything the Ranee might have to say, she gave him prudent counsels.
'You have come to us at an uneasy moment,' she said. 'The hearts of the people are hot within them, and none of us knows what may happen. Had I been continued in the government of my state, I could have led it safely through this difficult time. But it was not to be. The English are wise, and they have dispossessed me.' Into her dark eyes there came a gleam of anger, and her brows knit themselves fiercely together; but in a moment she recovered herself. 'What is all that to you?' she said. 'You are a stranger. Take the advice of one who wishes you well, and wait and watch. Your state is small. Nothing will be asked of you by the English. Agitators will be afraid to trouble you. Until you know what turn things will take, you can keep quiet; and, if you lose your raj, you will preserve your life.'