Tom was deeply touched by the care for a stranger's safety which these words implied; but they unloosened his tongue, so that he said unthinkingly, 'You see danger of a rising?'
For fully a minute the Ranee looked at him. She seemed to be searching him through and through. Then her words dropped out slowly, as if hissed through her teeth, 'Therewillbe a rising; I am certain of it.'
Everything—her beauty, her kindness, her solitary position, a woman alone among all these men, and the fearful nature of the crisis to which she looked forward—seemed to rush together to Tom's brain in one overwhelming tempest cloud of thought. Wild with pity and terror, he flung himself at her feet. 'Gracious lady,' he cried, 'can you do nothing? Think, in heaven's name! Do not be angry with me, I beseech you! It is stronger than I am. I must speak. I have seen your face; I have listened to your voice with its words of good counsel, and I know its power. Speak you to the madmen who are stirring up strife. They will—they must listen to you!'
'You magnify my ability, Sir Rajah,' said the Ranee. 'I am only a poor pensioner of the English.'
'You are a queen,' said the boy chokingly. But he rose to his feet.
'I thank you for your good words,' said the Ranee gently. 'They are pleasant to me, and I shall not forget them. But say I did speak, and say my people listened to me, what then? Will the English give me back the power of which they have robbed me? Will they atone for the insults offered in their name to our families and our faith? Will they give us men of our own blood to be our rulers? I know they will not, and I, who, if they had been true to me, would have thrown the whole weight of my influence into their cause, I wipe my hands of them. If those who were once my people revolt—they revolt—what is that to me? I would not lift up my little finger to prevent them.'
'But,' said Tom chokingly, being moved to the heart, 'you will at least——'
'I will listen to you no longer, lest you make me angry. I have warned you, and that is enough. And now tell me about England. I have seen the name of the Island written on one of our maps. It is a small place, but the people must be restless and clever. I hear that they have dominions in other parts of the world, in America and the islands of the sea. How do they defend themselves when their soldiers are scattered?'
'Your Excellency,' said Tom, smiling, 'can have no idea of the power and resources of England. I have lived there since I was a child, so I ought to know. She has cities of vast size and overflowing with people. She has armies to which those you see here are but a handful ready at a moment's notice to be sent to the ends of the earth at her pleasure. She has great Generals—men of nerve and power and endurance—in her service. She has cities of workmen, who are forging every day the munitions of war; and she has fleets in constant readiness to transport her soldiers across the sea. You in India, who have never been over the black water, can have no idea of what England is.'
'Jung Bahadoor told me something of this, but I believed that he spoke largely for his own purposes,' said the Ranee. 'He has always cultivated the friendship of the English. You assure me that it is true!'
'How could I dream such wonders? It is true, every word of it,' said Tom, 'and I could tell you more.'
'Nay,' said the Ranee with a smile, 'you have told me enough. To know that they are strong will not make me love them more. Tell me of yourself. You are going on at once to Gumilcund?'
'With your Excellency's permission, I will start between night and morning.'
'Stay one more day, and look round you.'
'I thank your Excellency humbly.'
'That is well. Then I shall see you again at this hour to-morrow.'
He rose and bowed low, and having called some of the servants who were hanging about the ante-rooms, she committed him to their care; but Tom, acting on Hoosanee's advice, preferred sleeping in camp to sharing the noisy hospitality of the Palace.
Had Hoosanee had his will, they would have started that night, but Tom felt bound to visit the Ranee again. Never before had he met a woman of her type. She fascinated his imagination, so that he could scarcely sleep for thinking of her, and it was after a vivid dream in which the Ranee figured as a new Joan of Arc, leading her troops to victory, that he opened his eyes the next morning.
Hoosanee was standing over him with a cup of coffee. 'If my lord wishes to see anything of Jhansi, this is the time,' he said.
'All right, Hoosanee. Have Snow-queen saddled,' said Tom.
Snow-queen was an Arab mare of the highest lineage, which Tom had brought up with him from Bombay. She was full of spirit, could race like the wind, showed no signs of flagging until she was completely dead-beat, and was as gentle as a well-trained child in the hands of those who used her kindly. No one but her master and the syce, Subdul Khan, who had been with her since she was a foal, ever touched Snow-queen. To him, as to Tom, she was more like a human being than a beast of burden.
A few minutes after Hoosanee had given the order, Subdul Khan, who had already groomed and fed the beautiful white mare, was leading her gently up and down in front of their master's tent. A second syce led a horse for Hoosanee. Dressed in the half-Oriental, half-European style, which is the out-of-doors costume of many an Indian gentleman, Tom came out. His face, which had been pale and sad that morning, brightened when he saw his favourite, and he gave a low whistle, to which she responded by arching her neck, and pawing the ground.
'The White Ranee is impatient,' he said smilingly to Subdul Khan, as he gathered up the reins and vaulted on to her back.
'She will go like the wind, your Excellency. The day's rest has done her good,' said the groom, looking, with pride in his dark face, at his young master and the snow-white steed.
'Then let her go,' said Tom.
'One word, sahib,' said Subdul Khan, whose hand was still on Snow-queen's bridle. He spoke low and mysteriously, and Tom, fearing that he had made some uncomfortable discovery about his mare's soundness, stooped down to listen. But all Subdul Khan said was, 'Let me entreat my master to be careful. There are traitors in this place.' Before Tom could ask him to explain, Snow-queen, free at last, had set off, with her long, easy stride, tossing her mane and snorting joyously. The rapid movement was exhilarating. Tom's spirits rose till he felt ready to defy the universe.
'What do we care for traitors?' he said to his horse in English. 'We could escape, you and I together, if we were put to it, old friend! I can see you dashing through a crowd of them like a whirlwind. There! gently! gently!' Snow-queen, excited by her master's voice, and in mere wantonness of heart, had tossed up her heels and redoubled her pace. 'We are coming into civilised quarters, Snow-queen, and we must behave like civilised beings.'
They had crossed the Maidan, a wilderness of burnt-up grass, where the native troops, whose huts could be seen as a low, white line in the distance, were drilled and trained under their European officers. They were coming now upon a road, on either side of which the bungalows of the English military and civil officers, with the humbler dwelling-places of Eurasian and European clerks and mechanics, were scattered.
Here Tom drew up and waited for Hoosanee, who was some distance behind him. The gallop over the Maidan had satisfied Snow-queen for the moment, and she stood perfectly still, while her master, stroking her glossy neck caressingly, looked out before him.
It was very early indeed. The sun had not yet leapt over the rim of the vast plain; but the eastern heavens were glowing like a furnace, and from the dreadful zenith star after star was fading out. Beneath the sky the plain, with its villages and groves and burnt-up fields, and multitudes of freshly-kindled morning fires, round which, like busy ants, the people clustered, lay outstretched mysteriously. Not the Elysian fields themselves could have been more peaceful than this early morning scene.
Hoosanee came up, and they cantered quietly along the pleasantly shaded road that led through the European quarter. Early as it was there were many stirring. Slender, pale-faced English children, dressed in white blouses, were mounted on ponies led by dignified Indian servants. Several ladies were riding and driving, and from the bungalow-gardens came sounds of laughter and chattering, as little groups gathered round spread tables under the trees to enjoy the freshness of the morning.
Tom was looking out on this absently, his heart full of the wistful longing, which always possessed him when he saw English faces and heard the English speech, to mix with his compatriots as one of themselves, when a small face, which had been for some moments looking up into his face with questioning eagerness, detached itself from the multitude of confused impressions about him. He looked down and saw as quaint and pretty a group as it would be possible to imagine. The child, who had been looking up at him—a little girl dressed like a fairy in blue and silver—formed the centre of the group. A ridiculously small pony, decked out in gay trappings, and led by a smart little Indian groom, carried the child, and an ayah, swathed in spotless white, walked beside her.
'Why,' said Tom, pulling up, 'it is Aglaia!'
At the sound of his voice, the child, whose little face had been looking troubled, clapped her hands and laughed; and Tom, feeling quite unable to preserve his character of Oriental passivity, leapt to the ground, and caught her in his arms.
The ayah, who had taken him for an Indian of rank, looked at him in the utmost bewilderment; but her attention was happily diverted, for Hoosanee, too, had leapt from his horse and he was looking at her with a curious fixity. No sooner had she seen him fully than she broke into a little cry of 'Hoosanee! How did you come here?'
Tom looked back. 'Your Excellency,' said the man, his dark face glowing, 'the young woman is my sister Sumbaten!'
'Why,' said Tom, 'this is quite a romance. And where do you and Sumbaten live, Aglaia?' The child pointed with her small forefinger to a small building on the outskirt of the Maidan, which looked more like a tomb than a house. She was clamorous that Tom should go home with her at once. 'I've such lots of things to show you,' she said. 'Threenew dollies, and a tea-set, and a sweet little bird. Then there's my dada—you haven't seen my dada yet, have you?'
'No,' said Tom gravely. 'Is he nice?'
'He's lovely,' said the child. 'Come and see him now!'
'I am afraid I can't, Aglaia.'
'Why can't you, Tom?'
'I am going on to another place, where I have a beautiful house with all sorts of lovely things in it. You and your mother and father must come and stay with me there some day.'
'But you're quite close tomyhouse,' persisted Aglaia. 'Docome!'
Here Hoosanee stepped forward. 'His Excellency is being observed,' he said in a low voice. 'He would do well to mount and ride on.'
Two of the Ranee's body-guard, dressed in gaudy but ragged clothes, were strolling down the road, their swords clanking behind them. Hoosanee had been right in his surmise. Their master, the Nawab, had pointed Tom out to them the previous evening as a person to be suspected, and they had come out with the object of spying his movements. Had they heard him speak to the English child in English, his fate would have probably been sealed, for these men, who had served in British armies, knew the sound of an English voice. But Hoosanee's watchfulness had, for the moment, forestalled theirs. When they came up, Tom, who looked all the Oriental, was mounted and giving directions in Hindustani to Aglaia's servants. With reverent salaams the men passed on, and Hoosanee whispered to his sister that she should take the child away.
'Sahib, it is for their sakes,' he explained hurriedly to his master. 'We should draw suspicion upon them. Thebudmashesrespect nothing. They only wait for an opportunity to do wickedness.'
Aglaia was resisting the efforts of her ayah to draw her away. Her sweet violet eyes were full of tears, she could not understand the change in her friend Tom, or why he should look at her so solemnly, when she was so glad to see him. 'Won't you come?' she sobbed. 'I want you to see my dada.'
'Yes, yes,' said Tom low and hoarsely. 'Go home and I will come some day. Perhaps when you want me the most.'
'I want you now,' said Aglaia.
'Missy come away; come quick!' urged the poor little ayah whom Hoosanee's frantic signs were goading into desperation. 'The sun it is coming and mem sahib she scold poor Sumbaten.'
'Go on dear,' said Tom, lingering and feeling half disposed to follow her, while Hoosanee was writhing over his young master's folly and at his own inability to make him do what was wise, and then Snow-queen, the wisest of them all, as Subdul Khan said later, settled the question for them. She was impatient of standing, and Tom touched her inadvertently, and all in a moment she bounded away. She was seen darting like a flash of light across the Maidan and into the wilderness beyond. It was a wonderful sight, so said the few Europeans who witnessed it, marvelling at the daring and perfect horsemanship of a native. Later it was said that there was something uncanny in the business, for the beautiful white horse and its rider, though looked for diligently by one or two, were not seen again in Jhansi.
When Aglaia had finished her usual prayer that evening, she stopped. 'Mother,' she said, 'may I say something from myself?'
'Certainly you may, darling,' said Mrs. White.
Then Aglaia shut her eyes up tightly and clasped her hands. 'Oh! God!' she said. 'Thank you for sending Tom. Please may he come back soon!'
After that she lay down contentedly. 'I was going to cry,' she said. 'But I won't now. He's sure to come, isn't he, mother?'
Before her mother could answer she was asleep, and every night, up to a certain night that I shall have to tell of presently, she insisted upon adding this petition to her prayers.
Hoosanee, who was by this time in daily communication with Chunder Singh, was careful so to time the arrival in Gumilcund of the rajah's heir as to make it interesting and impressive. Tom, indeed, who wished to test the truth of the likeness to the late rajah, which so many of his friends had observed in him, and at the same time to put to the severest trial his own power of maintaining the character of an Indian prince, insisted that the people should not be prepared for his arrival, and, Chunder Singh agreeing with him, Hoosanee was obliged to give up his dreams of garlanded houses, and throngs of expectant people in holiday raiment. He indemnified himself by arranging that they should enter the city on the evening of a holiday, for then all the workers would be out of doors, and Gumilcund would look her best.
It was in the forenoon of a burning day that the little cavalcade halted. They were now within the boundaries of the Gumilcund State. Tom, who was looking at everything with the deepest interest, had already seen evidences of a higher prosperity than he had met with elsewhere. The splendidly kept roads were overshadowed with fine trees; there were wells and tanks in every direction; the villages, which echoed to the sounds of industry, were neater and more comfortable-looking than any he had seen in India; and, throughout the day's journey, he only saw one or two of the hideous vermilion-painted shrines to Mahadeo, which, elsewhere, were to be found at every corner.
They halted in a grove of fig trees, about two miles distant from the city. Here Tom's tent had been pitched, and, though far too much excited to sleep, he threw himself down for a few hours' rest.
'His Excellency will sleep in his own palace to-night, if we continue to meet with the favour of Heaven,' said Hoosanee, as he left his master to his repose.
Hour followed hour. The sun blazed down with the most terrible fierceness. Tom got up and went to the edge of the wood, and returned reeling and almost blind. He could do nothing, he could not even think, and he felt as if the day would never pass away. At last, towards afternoon, Hoosanee came in with the pleasant news that his meal and his bath were ready. Tom knew what was expected of him, and he was not surprised to see the finest of his Oriental suits, with jewels that had often caused him anxiety on the road, but that were now most carelessly displayed, laid out for him to wear.
'We are in Gumilcund,' said Hoosanee, with a proud smile, when his young master looked at the display. 'There are nobudmasheshere.'
Not without some sense of amusement, and curious consideration of what his friends at home would say if they could see him, the rajah's heir decked himself out. He wore a crimson satin tunic, sown with pearls, and the sash from which his sword hung was of golden tissue, and his turban of fine muslin richly embroidered shone with the fire of rubies and diamonds.
It was an absurd magnificence, which, Tom felt, would dwarf him, and, with an Englishman's impatience of merely personal display, he was about to fling aside these gaudy weeds and ask for something plainer, when, glancing into the mirror which Hoosanee held up to him proudly, he was aware of such a change as he had experienced on board the 'Patagonia,' on the occasion of his first putting on an Oriental robe. It came, this time, with a force that there was no resisting. For an instant his brain seemed to reel with the shock. Then, making a strong effort to draw himself together, he looked again, and tried to look calmly. For several seconds he gazed fixedly into those strange eyes that were gazing into his. Then he drew a deep breath. It was true. This image before him was not Thomas Gregory. There was a dignity in the figure, a determination in the face, a mingled fire and sadness in the dark eyes, such as he had never seen in the English youth whom he thought he knew.
What did it mean? Was he dreaming a madman's dream, or was it, could it be, that the awful thing which ever since he left home had been haunting him was true? Could another personality enter into and possess him? Would he never in all the future be certain at any moment of being himself? Questions such as these were forcing their way through his mind, when, all at once, the curtain at the door of the tent was slowly lifted, and, looking round impatiently, for he was in no mood to be intruded upon, he saw his friend Chunder Singh standing, with bowed head, before him. At the same moment his perplexity and distress vanished, and he knew that the curious conflict, so often renewed, was over for the time. The English youth had gone. It was the Indian prince and chief who addressed his follower.
'Welcome to my tent, Chunder Singh,' he said, heartily. 'What news do you bring?'
'I bring good news, my lord,' said Chunder Singh. 'We are at peace, and all the State is well-disposed to your Highness. It was your will that we should not warn the people of your approach; but the wind of rumour has been busy amongst them, and I find that they expect the return of their rajah. When my lord enters he will be received with acclamations.'
'I will only go amongst them upon one condition,' said the young rajah. 'You know that, Chunder Singh.'
'I know it well; but let my lord have no fear! We know by whose favour we live and prosper, and in all Gumilcund I believe there is no one who would be traitorous to the Paramount Power.'
The eyes of the young rajah glistened as he held out his hand, over which Chunder Singh, whose eyes were wet with tears, bent reverently, for he knew now that his old master had come back to him.
After this they made their arrangements. Hoosanee, who was called into their counsel, was in favour of their all entering together; but it was decided against him. The rajah should ride in on his snow-white horse, with only Subdul Khan, whose face was unknown to the people of Gumilcund, behind him; and the rest of the train should follow after about half an hour's interval.
The sun had by this time gone down; a rose-red glow of colour streaming over the plain transfigured the burnt fields into gardens of Paradise, and a thin white veil rising from a multitude of evening fires covered the face of the plain.
Feeling as if everything, and most of all himself, were unreal, Tom mounted Snow-queen, and, following the road pointed out to him by Chunder Singh, rode on rapidly for two miles. Then he drew rein, for he was within sight of the city. Dreamlike and wonderful in the evening light, the broad shield of the full moon rising above its battlements, it lay before him. It was all new; but he did not feel that it was new. It seemed to him rather as if he were coming to a spot where everything was familiar. He pushed on again, riding more slowly. A bridge thrown across a deep gully lay in front of him. He crossed it at a foot-pace and found himself under walls of red sandstone, thick and high, in the midst of which was a massive gate, flanked with towers, which lay hospitably open.
By this time Subdul Khan, his only attendant, was close behind him.
They rode in together, no one challenging them, and again Tom drew up and looked round him. He was in a dazzling little world of pink and white—pink houses that stood back from a wide white road, through the midst of which ran a canal of fresh water overshadowed with young trees, and white poles uplifting lanterns above the heads of the people, who in gay garments of pink and white were streaming along the road, and towards the centre of the city.
Keeping under the shadow of the trees so as not to attract the attention of any one, the rajah's heir followed the crowd. It was at once the gayest and the most orderly crowd that he had ever beheld. As he went on it grew thicker. Beautiful white kine, with garlanded horns, moved amongst them; flocks of white pigeons hovered overhead, alighting wherever there was a vacant space, and taking toll from the stores of yellow grain that were spread out on sheets at the doors of the houses; and the lowing of the quiet beasts, and the whirr of the doves' wings blended pleasantly with the buzz and rumour of the city. Subdul Khan urged his master to show himself; but he kept in shadow still. He was interested and moved as he had never been before. He felt more strongly than ever the mysterious kinship between himself and these people. He was tempted to prolong the dream-like sensations of the moment, and to put off the time when it would be necessary for him to act.
Moving on under the grateful shelter of the trees, with the unconscious crowd about him, he was aware of coming into a finer part of the city. Large and lofty houses, which were very much in the gingerbread style of architecture, being decorated lavishly with balconies or pavilions and pretty perforated stone lattices, stood back from the road, and here and there, as, going with the stream of the people, he followed the broad main road, he caught glimpses of quiet side streets and little open squares, surrounded with lighted houses, all in the same fantastic style. 'This is like a magnified toy city,' he said to himself. And now he had traversed the full length of the broad high road that leads from the principal gate to the market-place, and the avenue of trees which had been sheltering him from observation came to an end abruptly. Here for a few moments he pulled up. To plunge into the sea of light and movement that lay before him would be to attract the attention of the crowd, and before doing so he wished to understand what was going on.
The market place, of wide extent and planted here and there with groups of trees, was the centre from which the principal streets of the city radiated. It was here that all the fun of the evening culminated. After a little observation, Tom made out that the festival had to do with Rama, hero of the great Indian epic. His name was to be heard on every side. Processions of women, decked with garlands of flowers, were making the round of the market place, chanting his praises; men in long white robes, and elevated on small platforms above the heads of the people, were reciting fragments of the Ramayana; and in booths, closely surrounded with eager crowds, pictures of the hero and the companions of his exile were being exhibited.
This much he saw himself. Subdul Khan, in the meantime, who had alighted and tethered his horse to a tree, was, by his orders, mixing amongst the people. In a few moments he returned, his dark face all aglow with excitement. 'Allah is favourable to my master!' he exclaimed. 'He has come at a good moment. It is the festival of Rama's return to his city after his seven years of exile, twice told. There could not be a better omen. Let my lord ride down amongst them!'
Snow-queen had been standing like a marble image under the trees. Her master shook the bridle rein, and she moved forward. They had been in shadow, and they were now in full light. The effect was magical. In an instant the white horse and its rider became the centre towards which all that multitude of swaying figures converged. They were silent for a few moments. The suddenness of the apparition had struck them with awe, and it was to some as if a spirit had risen from the dead. But in the East the crowd is more attuned to marvels than in the West. The sense of awe was followed, in a moment, by a rapture that was almost intoxicating. Like an autumn wind that sweeps over the yellow corn fields, bowing the ripe ears to the ground, so the wild rumour ran, and hundreds of heads were bent, while the cry of 'Rama! Rama!' rent the air. In less time than it takes to tell, the trees in the market-place and the balconies of the houses that bounded it, and the platforms from which the reciters had been declaiming, were thronged with eager faces. Then from some one in the outskirts of the crowd there came another cry—a cry that thrilled Tom to the heart—'Rajah jee! Rajah jee!'
Those behind pressed upon those in front. Subdul Khan could with difficulty keep a little space between the horse and the people, and had not Snow-queen been as gentle as she was swift there would have been imminent danger of accident. But she stood quiet, or moved forward slowly as she was directed, arching her beautiful neck, and tossing her mane; and Tom, who, for a moment, had been uneasy, looked round him calmly and proudly. Then the acclamations were redoubled. They echoed and re-echoed through the square; they came rolling up the streets that opened into it; they dropped down like thunder from the roofs and pavilions of the houses. 'Rajah jee! Rajah jee! Protector of the poor! Cherisher of our city! Master of our lives! He has come back to us from the grave, and we are orphans no longer. Byrajee Pirtha Raj, our prince and deliverer, is here!' These and a hundred other cries rent the air, so that the whole city was in an uproar.
Tom, meanwhile, was silent. He would have spoken if he could, but the tumult was too great. He moved forward slowly across the great square, looking to the right hand and to the left. In the centre of the square he came to a full stop, the throng being so great that he could not go further; and then, all of a sudden, there was a lull, and a single voice, as of a herald, was heard to exclaim, 'Vishnugupta has come hither from his hermitage. Give place to the priest and prophet!'
In the next instant the crowd divided reverently, and, through this living lane, a tall supernaturally lean figure, dressed in a long white robe, its one arm, that was bare, holding aloft a silver cage, through which shone the glowing red of living brands, came slowly. It stopped in front of the white horse and its rider. The sudden apparition of the weird, white-bearded figure, with the glowing brands, and the smell of smoke in her nostrils, were almost more than Snow-queen could bear. To the consternation of Subdul Khan, she fell back upon her haunches, snorting violently. But Tom kept his seat firmly, soothing her with his hand and voice, and in a few moments she was quiet again.
Then the deep sepulchral voice of the priest came towards him. 'I have come up from the grave,' he said, 'to see you. Who are you, and whence have you come?'
Firmly and proudly his answer leapt out. 'I have come from the Islands of the Sea, to be the rajah of this city and state. They who were the rulers of this people have sent me to reign over them. Take me to the prince's house and I will speak to them there!'
He was scarcely given time to finish, for the acclamations, which broke forth more tumultuously than ever, mingled now with sounds of weeping, as if, for some, the shock of gladness was too great to be borne.
'Our eyes have not deceived us. The voice is the voice of our rajah. He said he would come back to us, and he has kept his word. Rajah jee! Rajah jee! Come in with rejoicing!'
Tears filled the young ruler's eyes, and his heart throbbed passionately. Oh, if he could only speak to these people as he would! For in the pity and rapture of the moment all his own hopes and wishes were melting away. He was ready to give up everything, even his personality, which seemed to be slowly receding from him, for the sake of this people—this flock without a leader—that surged round him. Strange and solemn, as some of us dream the entry into the new life—the life of the resurrection—may be, were the moments that followed. The voices of the crowd seemed to be drawing him towards them, while, far away, like a half-forgotten image in a vanished dream, he saw the English youth with whom he had lived since his infancy. Only an hour before he had fought passionately to retain his hold on what he vainly called himself. Now he was conscious of no self. He belonged to this people, and to the power that was working in him, transforming all his impulses to its own creative will.
Slowly—the priest with the cage of living coals in his hand making a way for him—he passed through the lane of mute figures, and silent expectant faces, in which the rapture of his own heart was reflected, till he reached the north side of the square. Right in front of him towered a structure, larger and even more fantastic and brilliant than any other he had seen in the city. In colour it was a pale yellow, which, under the many lights, looked like gold, and the whole of the facade was covered with balconies, pavilions, and pillared alcoves, that, narrowing up from a broad base, had its apex in a small open tower of glass and shining metal. Within this tower was a lamp with powerful reflectors, which cast a beautiful moon-like radiance over the whole building, and into the small enclosed court in front of it.
Before the arched gateway that opened into this court Vishnugupta paused, and muttered a few words of invocation; at the same moment a tongue of white flame issued from the cage of fire in his hand. 'It is a good omen,' he said joyfully. 'Let my lord enter without fear! The spirits of fire and air bid him welcome. His rule will be as spotless as his heart is pure.'
Of the days that followed the young rajah's entry into his capital but little record remains. He ceased almost altogether to write in his diary; Chunder Singh, being always reticent with regard to this period, there was no one about him who could supply the deficiency; and, to the deep distress of his English friends both at home and in India, he gave up writing to them. When, preceded by Vishnugupta, and followed by Chunder Singh, Hoosanee, and the foremost of the citizens of Gumilcund, he went into the palace, he entered upon a seclusion which might have been that of the grave.
But, though unheard of outside the state, he was busy within it. I gather from hints scattered through his later writings that, as day followed day tranquilly, he entered more completely into the life of the city; and that the people—many of whom believed with Chunder Singh and Hoosanee that in this comely stranger their own rajah had returned to them—received him as one of themselves.
It was not a happy time; no period of transition can be altogether satisfactory to oneself. Being highly strung by temperament, he felt the mental strain more than others, while the complete severance with the old life affected him painfully. Up to this there had always been something to connect him with the past. Jung Bahadoor, Gambier Singh, Dinkur Rao, and the Ranee of Jhansi had all spoken to him of England. Wherever he had been he had seen English faces and heard the English tongue; here he met no one but Indians. Even the Resident was absent. Owing to the death of the late rajah, he had been on duty for some time; his health, he said, was suffering; so, after welcoming the new ruler, he had started with his family to take holiday in a hill-station.
At first Tom felt disposed to congratulate himself on this isolation. He remembered what had been said to him on board the 'Patagonia'—that between East and West a great gulf is fixed. If, as he would sometimes imagine, he was to lay the first stone of a bridge to unite them, he must learn to stand firmly on both sides. Then, too, he had little time for vain regrets. He had begun to realise the magnitude of the task that lay before him, and all the energies of his nature were bent on preparing himself for it. The language, the religion, the laws, and social customs of his new country had all to be made separate subjects of study before he could presume to say that he understood its people; while, in addition, there was the duty—peculiarly sacred to him—of finding out what the aims of his predecessors had been, and of looking for and examining any records they had left behind them.
But after those first few days, filled to the brim with hard and unremitting toil, there came a sense of want. His old feelings might be stifled, but they were not dead. A dull craving, which he could not formulate, haunted him perpetually. During the night, which was his only time of relaxation from mental labour, there would come to him vivid visions of home, from which he would awake with a sick anguish that brought tears to his eyes and throbs of pain to his heart. Like a nightmare the sense of his isolation would weigh upon him; dear faces from the past would gaze at him reproachfully, and he would stretch out his arms to them with a bitter cry. He could not—he could not let them go.
Meanwhile, with the passion born of despair, he clung to what remained to him of his past life. He had brought away with him a little English New Testament, his mother's last gift to him. In the silence of his marble chamber, when everyone in the palace was asleep but himself, he opened and read it. How different it was from the subtle philosophies into which he was painfully working his way! Could it be only that the words were familiar and therefore dear to him? Or was there indeed some sweet majestic power in them, such as is to be found nowhere else in all the world? With a trembling heart he read them over:—'He that loveth his life shall lose it.' 'He that hath seen Me hath seen the Father.' 'This is life eternal, that they should know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent.' 'Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.'
They were not new to him; from his childhood up he had been instructed in them. They were so familiar to his ears as almost to have lost their sense to his heart. But now, coming fresh to him from these other religions, they smote upon his mind with a new power and beauty.
From the utterances he turned to the record of the life, and his wonder and enchantment grew. Its purity—he had never thought of this before, for he had not seen how men build up their deities—its selfless love, its courage, its devotion; these came upon him like a revelation. More than once in these silent nights he asked himself if this might not be the secret, this the reconciling element which, after these many ages of ignorance and disunion, would blend the two continents together so that they might move forward to a new era of blessedness. But as yet he said nothing, even to Chunder Singh.
The sultry month of April ran its course; the heat continued to be terrible; but the young rajah, in his large marble-lined rooms, artificially darkened and cooled with flowing water and the spray of fountains, suffered little inconvenience from it.
He heard daily of the outside world, and what he heard was reassuring. In these latter days of April it seemed to the English in the North-west Provinces—who were for the most part as ignorant of the inner life of the people about them as the infant is of the feelings of those who dandle it in their arms—that any danger which might once have existed was over. The soldiers had been convinced by a variety of telling examples that to fight against their salt would be the height of folly; and the people, even if they were disaffected, as a few acts of incendiarism, with a sullen demeanour towards the English, seemed to indicate, could do nothing without the army.
May opened, and still they held on their way quietly, and the rajah's heir began to hope that the fanatics were silenced by hard and stubborn facts, and that the bitterness, so long foretold, had run its course. Then, like a flash of lightning flaming across the blue of a cloudless sky, came the news of the revolt at Meerut.
There are many still living who will remember the horror and sickening dismay which flew from station to station as the story, discredited at first, pressed itself home to the minds of the conquering race. We had heard unpleasant rumours before, here and there a mutinous regiment, bungalows set on fire, outrages committed, muttered insults in the public highways; some of us, indeed, had been visited with vague apprehensions. But there was always some one of experience at hand to point out how foolish it was to be afraid either of the people or the soldiers, and we were only too glad to be reassured. So much the greater was the shock of this terrible intelligence. It is true that it was nothing like so dreadful as what we were to hear later. The mutineers were young in crime and fearful of punishment. As a fact, it was rather a herd of frightened wild creatures that rushed madly out of the burning station on that awful Sunday night than a victorious army triumphing in its first success. But this we did not know. All we saw and understood was the extraordinary audacity of this first definite move. Through the breathless days that followed we were momentarily expecting to hear of the mutineers being pursued and punished. Our servants looked at us strangely. Native officers and soldiers, who, in the first flush of surprise, had passionately sworn to be faithful, began to lift up their heads. Old English commanders, of the type of General Elton, who was away from home on a tour of inspection in the outlying districts, gnashed their teeth with impotent fury, and wondered what the people at Meerut were about. For the news we expected never came. The next distinct intelligence was that flashed from the telegraph station at Delhi by the young signaller, who, with the messengers of death yelling in his ears, was working his instrument quietly: 'The Sepoys have come in from Meerut, and are burning everything; we must shut up.'
Not till then did the full magnitude of the disaster that had come to us break upon our minds. Ah! what a change it was! Few of us can have any conception of its horror. From a life that is quiet, simple, and secure, to be plunged all in a moment into the dark, strenuous world of tragedy, nerves strung up, senses on the alert, affection made lurid by passion, heart-consuming anxiety the companion of our solitude. Can we imagine it? If so, we shall have a faint picture of the experiences of many of us in that terrible May and June.
When the Rajah of Gumilcund heard of the uprising, his brain seemed to reel with the shock. His impulse was to go to Meerut himself, but Chunder Singh dissuaded him. 'The English,' said this wise minister, 'have troops enough to defend themselves; and if my lord were stopped, as he well might be, for the roads will be infested with evil characters, of what profit will that be to his friends? My advice is that we take time to consider, that we look to ourselves, that we strengthen our defences and provision the city.'
'You are right. Yes, I acknowledge it. You are wiser than I am. Call the people together! Let us have a public council!' cried the young rajah, springing up. 'If the people side with me now, they have my affection and gratitude for ever.'
'They will,' said Chunder Singh.
In the beautiful Dwan-i-Khas, or public hall of audience, which was a large pillared pavilion, standing in the midst of an open court, surrounded by an arcade or corridor, all the principal people of the city were gathered together that evening. The court was literally packed. Within the pavilion, on a marble platform ten feet high, stood the young rajah, with Chunder Singh on his right hand, and Vishnugupta on the left.
Chunder Singh, to whom, as chief minister, it fell to open the proceedings, was deeply anxious. His voice trembled as he stood out and announced, in a few brief words, the calamity that had happened, with the rajah's orders that his people should attend to what he had to say upon the subject. But, in a few moments, his anxiety was gone, and he looked out before him with radiant confidence.
The young rajah's speech was admirable. Fortunately for himself, he had studied not only the religion and philosophy of this people, but their history. He stood before them, his mind stored with pictures out of the past. Better than anyone in that crowd he knew what the life of the peninsula had been before the strong hand of the English, guided by their orderly, methodical minds, had undertaken to weld the great chaos of contending states into one peaceful empire.
Of the internecine warfare that led to Mogul and Tartar invasions, of the brief prosperity that, however, did not penetrate to the smaller states, when the Moslem empire became consolidated under wise rulers, of the selfish and cynical policy of Aurungzebe that broke up the empire, of the horrors that accompanied its disintegration—piratical incursions on peaceful coasts, sackings of wealthy cities, forced contributions from those who, through industry and shrewdness, had attained to comfort, languishing in a slavery worse than death of hundreds of innocent people, fields ravaged, harvests swept away, and monuments of antiquity destroyed by a brutal soldiery—of these the young rajah spoke. He spoke quietly; but there was a repressed power in his voice and manner that told upon everyone in the assembly. Then, when their hearts were hot with passionate memories, and a tremor of vague apprehension was running through them, he told, in a few brief words, of the Power that, for these hundred years and more, had been growing up amongst them.
Here he appealed to the more intelligent amongst his audience, the wealthy merchants, and clever artificers, who had made Gumilcund what she was, and the reasonableness of his words impressed them.
He did not, he said, seek to deny that it was the lust of gain which had first brought the English to their shores. Other nations had come on the same quest, come and gone so far as their influence on the national life of India was concerned. But this nation had stayed. Why? In answer he bade them follow him while he showed how the conscience of a great nation had been struggling with its cupidity, and how conscience had conquered, so that by degrees the majesty of might became the majesty of right, till the English name was a watchword for those who strove to live righteously, and the English power was a refuge for the oppressed. Even the late annexations, the wisdom of which so many called in question, had been made in the spirit of mercy, and to stave off the anarchy which would surely have resulted from the continuance in the peninsula of selfish and oppressive governments. And what, he asked, were the men who had been set over the annexed provinces? Had England sent from her superfluous population men who desired only to enrich themselves? No: she had given India of her best. Brave, true, strong and noble, denying themselves, and thinking sternly and simply of their duty, were the citizens whom she had sent to govern India. 'I speak what I know,' cried the young rajah, 'for though I belong to you now, none of you are ignorant of the fact that England has been the home of my childhood. I am English and I am Indian, in a sense which it would be impossible for me to explain, and I speak with a full knowledge of the political position of both countries, when I say that England and India are necessary one to the other. I need not urge this upon you, my people, who are, I believe, deeply conscious of the benefits which have come to us from a strong and unselfish Imperial government. It is our desire that this power should be strengthened rather than weakened, and set on a broader rather than a narrower basis. But I would that my voice could resound through the land. I would that every citizen of this great empire could, at this awful crisis which some of us believe to be impending, see on which side his interest and safety lie. Then the army, which is being led astray by fanatics, would swiftly return to its allegiance, and peace and security would again reign amongst us.' He paused for a moment, and then his voice rose, and a passion of prophetic woe seemed to tear, him, as he cried, 'I know the English; they are fierce when they are roused, they are dogged when their hearts are set upon an object, and if they seem to fall back it will only be for a moment. They will triumph, and the vengeance they will exact will be in proportion to their consciousness of rectitude. Thousands will die the death of felons. Thousands will lose their all. Thousands will wander homeless through the land, cursing those who betrayed them. But that is not all. That is not even the worst, for death and the flight of years will dissipate the anguish upon which we may have to look. The disturbers of our peace will pass away, and a new generation will arise. But the sore left behind by the struggle will remain. The new civilisation, which we so fondly hoped to establish, will be thrown back. The seeds of a mutual distrust will be sown, and the union between East and West, to which my predecessors looked as enshrining the secret of the future, and holding within it the promise of a peace and happiness greater than the world has ever known, will be indefinitely delayed. For this,' cried the young orator, his voice rising and his frame seeming to expand, 'that the calamity which I foresee might be averted. I could wish that our little Gumilcund was a million-fold stronger and greater than she is. To take the van in the great contest which we see coming, to make for order against anarchy, to force upon others the views which we hold ourselves, and which we believe to be beneficial to us all, to cure the blood-fever which has seized upon the heart of these unhappy peoples, and to lead them back into the paths of reason and quietness—this we would do if we had the strength. We know that we have not. By the Supreme Spirit, which, call it by what name we will, every one of us acknowledges, our place amongst the nations has been allotted to us. We are to this people as a single grain in a heaped-up storehouse, as a little one in a multitude. But we can do something, and what we can do we will. We can be faithful to our convictions; we can make sacrifices for our faith; we can govern ourselves; we can be wise, prudent, firm and watchful. This, which I ask of myself, I ask of you.' His voice dropped, and there crept into its tones a curiously soft inflection as he went on. 'I am new to you, the tumult of your welcome is still ringing in my ears. I came to you an unknown man, and you received me with an honour and distinction such as are seldom accorded to a stranger. That I owe this not to my own merits, but to the merits of those who went before me, I am well aware; and when I say that it is in response to this welcome I venture to come forward as your leader, you will not mistake me. I am speaking in the name and by the power—present, as I believe, at this moment amongst us—of your late rajah, done foully to death by the hands and heads that are plotting this rising. Tell me then what your desire is. Let us confer together about the measures we should take for the proper defence of this city. Let us agree to open our gates to the fugitive and to shut them to the oppressor; and, whatever may be in the future, we shall have our reward, for we shall have within us what a Western scripture would call "the answer of a good conscience towards God and towards men," or, in the not less striking words of the Bhagavad Gita, the sacred lore, the divine wisdom, "worshipping by the performance of our duties Him from whom is the endeavour of men, we shall attain perfection."'
So ran the speech which the young rajah of Gumilcund addressed to his people on that memorable night. The effect was tremendous. As from one man the voices of the multitude rose in shouts of applause. 'It is the voice of the dead. Byrajee Pirtha Raj, our father, has come back to us from the grave. We will do his bidding.' So the tumultuous cries rang out.
Presently a herald went down amongst them, and imposed silence. Their rajah was pleased with their warm reception of his address; but business and not acclamation was the purpose of their coming together. There fell then a great silence on the assembly, in the midst of which the rich men and elders of the city came forward and proffered their help. The working guilds followed—manipulators of metal and precious stones, finance agents, masons, and provision dealers, from amongst each of which the rajah chose out one to represent the others, so that, in addition to his official retinue, he might have about him a council conversant not only with the wants but with the resources of the city. Surrounded by these, he left the Dwan-i-Khas and entered the Dwan-i-amm, Vishnugupta the priest charging himself with the task of dismissing the greater multitude.
All night long the young rajah and his people sat up in counsel, and when the morning of the 12th of May dawned, that day which in distant Delhi was to witness such terrible scenes, their measures were taken. The rich men contributed money; the mechanics promised their labour; volunteers offered themselves to reinforce the little army, and a special band of trustworthy soldiers were told off as the bodyguard of the rajah. It was universally determined that, if the mutineers came to Gumilcund, they should have a warm reception.
On the following day the rajah drew up an address, which, after being signed by himself and the principal men of the state, was to be forwarded to the Lieutenant Governor of the province. In it the loyalty of the state was set forth, and a refuge within the walls of its chief city was offered to any of the English ladies and children who might be thought to occupy positions of peril.
The public address was accompanied by a communication from himself of a much more urgent character. The Lieutenant-Governor, who had lately, he said, done him the honour of congratulating him on his accession, was well aware of the fact that, although an Indian rajah, he was more than half an Englishman. Nevertheless, owing no doubt to his position, he had gained an insight into native character which, he believed, was rare amongst English-speaking people. It was his profound conviction that what he had seen and heard was only the beginning of troubles, and he implored the English authorities to take their precautions. Then he reiterated his offer of refuge, mentioning several stations, amongst which were Jhansi and Nowgong, as to his certain knowledge eminently unsafe.
The letter was sent, and duly acknowledged. Whether it was believed or not, he never knew. Possibly, he said to himself, with a bitter smile, it was looked upon as a blind to hide some deep design.
As a fact, his offer was made known to those most nearly concerned, the civil and military officers of the suspected districts, and they smiled at it. They did not want a man more than half a native to instruct them as to their duties. Their chief duty was to preserve the allegiance of the troops, and if they sent away the ladies, those susceptible beings would be justly offended—precipitated, in fact, into the very jaws of ruin. The people at Jhansi were specially tickled by the solicitude of a foreign ruler on their behalf. They, with such an ally and friend as the good Ranee, whose affection for the English was well-known, to show themselves afraid! It was ridiculous. Such pusillanimity would meet with its proper desert in the alienation of the faithful and the triumph of the mutineers.
So the Rajah of Gumilcund was answered, as were Sindia, Holkar, and Dinkur Rao, with calm reserve; and if one or two poor mothers, as they clasped their children in their arms, wished that the chiefs could have seen it fit to send the little ones away, they bowed to the inevitable and tried to believe that all would be well. As for our rajah, he gnashed his teeth with impotent rage, for, with the answer to his letter and address, came like a grim commentary the echoes of the explosion at Delhi.
He had as yet heard no details. Sick with anxiety for his friends and compatriots in the now hostile city, he was compelled to hold himself in check, and attend to the business of the hour. Now and then, amidst his many preoccupations, the vision of pretty Vivien Doncaster, as he had seen her last, driving carelessly and proudly through a crowd whose cringing servility filled her with contempt, would return to his mind, making it reel with a curious, indescribable passion. Heaven knew he did not wish to humble her; but—and there, not being able so much as to formulate his wish, we would fling the thought of her aside.
It was with a very different feeling that he thought of others—Aglaia and her delicate mother, in the very heart of the district which he knew to be unsafe; and Mrs. Lyster, whom he had seen for a few moments, but without her recognising him, in the English quarter of Futtehgarh; above all, Grace! He had ascertained that she was at Nowgong, a small station about equidistant from Gumilcund and Jhansi, and garrisoned with detachments from the Jhansi regiments.
In addition to his public body of advisers, Tom had an inner council, consisting of Chunder Singh, Hoosanee, and others of tried faithfulness. Through these men he had organised a secret service commission, which came and went, bringing him certain news of the progress of affairs in the solitary English stations scattered amongst the native dependent states of the Central Indian Agency. It was in this way that he heard of the ardent profession of loyalty made by the garrison at Nowgong when it was known that insurrection was stalking abroad through the land, and of the relief and confidence amongst the little English community there. He knew, too, that Jhansi had made no sign, and that the Ranee was, or appeared to be, more friendly than ever. All this blinded neither him nor his advisers.
While they made use of the breathing-space afforded to them by putting everything in the city on a war-footing, Tom succeeded in conveying a warning to Grace and her cousin.
It happened on this wise.
Hoosanee, who could read his young master's mind like an open book, perceiving that this enterprise was of deep moment to him, and wishing on his own account to be brought in contact with the young Englishwoman, for whose sake, as the shrewd servant believed, the rajah had resisted the blandishments of the fairest and most fascinating women in India, determined to undertake the mission himself.
In the garb of a merchant travelling from station to station with specimens of the pretty garnet and silver ornaments for which Gumilcund is famous, he left the city late one night. He was alone; but, as he dressed poorly, carried little of value with him, and travelled at night and by the most unfrequented routes, he met with no hindrance. Between night and morning on the third day after he left his home he entered Nowgong. This done, it was a matter of little difficulty to gain access to the verandah of the small bungalow where, he had found out by careful inquiry, the little mem sahib Robertson and her big sister lived. He was in the verandah just after dawn. The chuprassie, believing him to be a respectable man, accepted a small fee, and the promise of a good commission if the visit resulted in business, for the corner of the verandah, where he allowed him to seat himself.
Here, then, Hoosanee took up his position. He squatted on his heels, after the Indian fashion, his face a mask, his long fingers busy with the small wares, which he had arranged against a background of azure blue satin in the most attractive fashion possible, and his ears and eyes on the alert.
Presently a calm, contemplative person in tunic, dhootie, gay crimson sash and turban, crossed the verandah and spoke to the chuprassie, who called out in authoritative tones for the Captain Sahib's horse. It came up, and a young Englishman in military uniform crossed the verandah. He did not look in the best of tempers. Muttering in English that these morning parades were the very mischief, he threw an angry word to the groom, who was trying in vain to check the fidgetiness of the horse, asked the chuprassie how much those fools of pedlars gave him for allowing them to hang about the compound, flung himself on his horse, and rode off at a quick trot. Two serious persons were busy meantime over a small table in the verandah. They laid it out with delicate china, brought in a steaming urn, and plates of fruit and cake, and waited with folded arms and melancholy countenances for their sahib-log to appear. In a few moments Hoosanee, who sat like an image in his corner, heard the sound of rippling laughter, followed by a rush of light garments through the house. A little white dog came bounding on to the verandah. It saw the stranger in the corner, and ran back barking vigorously. 'What's the matter, Vick?' said a small silvery voice. 'Ah!' as the owner of the voice, a pretty little woman with flaxen hair and soft blue eyes, came out upon the verandah. 'It's another of those pedlars. With garnets too! I love garnets!'
Hoosanee rose and bowed low. The little lady, who could only stammer a few words of Hindustani, asked him where he came from, and when he answered humbly that he was a poor man, who had no fixed home, but that the ornaments were entrusted to him by a merchant from Gumilcund, she nodded her pretty head.
'See about you after breakfast,' she said. 'Have you eaten this morning? Oh! by the bye,' in English, 'these people don't like you to know anything about their meals. I forgot that. Where did you say you came from?' again in halting Hindustani.
'My garnets come from Gumilcund, noble lady,' said Hoosanee.
'Gumilcund! Gumilcund!' murmured the little lady, gazing at him and thrusting forward her under lip. 'Now, where have I heard of that place? Was it—oh, yes! I remember. Grace saw the rajah at Delhi. Handsome fellow, like an Englishman she once met. As if a native could ever be like an Englishman. But Grace has such funny ideas.'
All this Hoosanee, who had studied the English language in the rajah's school at Gumilcund, understood perfectly.
The little lady ran back into the house, crying out, 'Grace! Grace! Come quickly! There's a man with garnets here; such beauties!' And, in the next moment, a young and very beautiful woman came out. From his corner Hoosanee looked at her. He had seen Englishwomen before, and some of them had been fair of countenance and of stately presence. But he had never seen one to match her who stood gazing at him now. Athim—not at his wares, as her little friend had done—that was what was strange to the Indian servant. Diplomatist as he was, and skilled in hiding his feelings, he could not keep the curious tremor which her questioning gaze excited in him from appearing in his face. His eyes dropped, and when he looked up again she had turned away. 'Come to breakfast, Lucy,' she said. 'I am sure the good man can wait. He has patience written in his face. By the bye' (looking round), 'where is Tikaram?'
Tikaram was the chuprassie. He had been keeping out of sight, for fear of being called in question about the salesman in the verandah; but hearing his name spoken in Grace's friendly tones, he stepped forward. 'Tikaram,' she said kindly, 'will you mind going into the village for me? If it is too far to walk, you can take my pony.'
'Too far! What a little molly-coddle you are with these servants, Grace,' interposed Lucy. 'You spoil them! Let me give the order. I know enough Hindustani—servants' Hindustani, which is what they understand.'
'My dear Lucy, allow me! I like to speak in my own way,' said Grace. She gave her order, which was that a certain small account should be paid, and Tikaram, bowing low, turned away; but, before he went, he glanced at the salesman in the corner.
'We will keep him till you come back,' said Grace, with a smile, for she knew the customs of the country, and believed that the small backsheesh which Tikaram might exact for his favour would not be a heavy toll.
They sat and chatted together in low tones. Hoosanee did not catch all they said; but he judged that they were anxious. Suddenly Grace, whom her cousin accused of being in a fidgety humour, thought of another errand, and the table-servant vanished. The bearer was sent after him, so that, before they had finished their breakfast, there was no one about but the ayah, who was squatted in the corner of the verandah, opposite to that occupied by Hoosanee, watching him sleepily.
To see the two English ladies alone was precisely what Hoosanee wanted. He now waited their pleasure with a lighter heart.
Breakfast over, they approached his corner, and while Lucy fingered his trinkets, asking the price of one and another, Grace continued to look at him earnestly. He ventured now to allow his eyes to respond. Then he said in a low voice, 'Does my noble lady understand Bengali?' The question was asked in the Bengali dialect.
'Yes,' said Grace, quietly. 'Are you from Bengal?'
'What gibberish are you talking now?' interposed Lucy, discontentedly. 'Do let us keep to business. Tell me the price of this?' holding up a pretty little garnet brooch.
'Tin rupya,' said the man, spreading out three of his long fingers.
'Too little if they're real—too much if they're not,' said Lucy in English. Then in Hindustani, with a little affectation of sternness, 'If you cheat me I will have you put in prison.'
'Why not take it into the house and compare it with my garnet necklace?' said Grace. 'Ayah will show you where it is.'
'Not a bad idea,' said Lucy.
She went in, the ayah following her, and Grace said hurriedly, in the dialect in which the salesman had just spoken, 'You have come to speak to us. From whom?'
'From one who wishes my noble lady well,' said Hoosanee. He paused, and then, 'Will my lady deign to look at these poor baubles instead of at her servant? In these evil days the leaves and the flowers have eyes.'
'Not here,' said Grace. 'Our servants, I am sure, would be faithful, for we have treated them well, and they love us; and the soldiers of the station have professed their goodwill and devotion. We did not ask them. They came forward of their own accord; if'—her large eyes distending—'I were only as sure of the safety of others as I am of our own, I should be happy. But we are strangely cut off here.'
They were continuing the little pantomime which the salesman had originated, and their voices were low and even.
'My noble lady is wrong,' he said, holding up one of his brooches to the light. 'Does the eagle who looks into the face of the sun behold, far below him, the fowler with his snare? Does the king of the forest, roaming at his will, see in the jungle the iron teeth gaping to devour him?'
'What do you mean, and who are you?' cried Grace. 'I am sure you are no mere salesman.'
'Such as I am, does my noble lady trust me?'
'Yes, yes. I cannot tell myself why, but I do. It seems to me that I have seen your face before.'
'Could it have been at Lucknow? I was with my master there.'
'At the door of the Dilkoosha,' cried Grace excitedly. 'Yes, I remember. Your master was the man in the long chuddah, who was watching the crowd. I saw his face when he looked at Sir Henry. It was as a man looks in prayer. He came into the reception afterwards.'
'Miss Sahib has a good memory,' said Hoosanee; 'but let me entreat her to speak with more caution!'
'Caution! Caution!' said the poor girl. 'I shall die of caution. I wish no ill to these people. Why should they wish ill to me?'
'Even because of your goodness—and your beauty,' said Hoosanee in a low voice.
Grace trembled. But before she could speak again Lucy came running out. 'What an untidy girl you are, Grace!' she said. 'Ayah and I hunted everywhere for your necklace, and found it at last in your bath-room. You deserve to be robbed, and only that these people are ten times better than they are painted you would be.'
'But how about the stones?' said Grace, making an effort to speak lightly.
'Well! I think they are all right. They look very much the same. But I am such a little idiot about these things, and so are you, my dear—worse, I think—because you believe everybody. Oh, dear! I do wish I could have a trustworthy opinion.'
'Mrs. Durant is considered a good judge of Indian jewellery,' said Grace.
'Why, of course she is,' cried Lucy, clapping her hands. 'You have a head, if you have nothing else; I will say that for you, Grace. And I wanted to hear how Colonel Durant was received by the troops this morning. Ayah, tell them to bring round the palki-gharry at once. Too late!' in answer to a mild protest from Grace. 'Why the sun isn't up yet—and I'll try to bring her back with me, shall I? She has just arrived, and has something to talk of besides servants and mutineers.'
'Do!' said Grace; 'and bring my little lover, Kit, too, if you can. I will keep the pedlar.'
In a few moments Lucy, accompanied by her ayah, drove off, and Grace turned her pale face to Hoosanee. 'Go on,' she said. 'Your master has sent you. He is the Rajah of Gumilcund.'
'You are right, most noble lady. My master, the rajah, has sent me. He has only lately come to rule over us; but already he knows the hearts of his people. He loves the English, and he would, if he could, avert these troubles. But he knows it to be impossible. The storm has broken, and it will sweep over the land and devastate it, and none can stay its course. This he bids me tell you, beseeching you to seek a refuge while you can.'
'That is easy to say,' said Grace faintly. 'But where are we to seek a refuge, and to whom is it offered? Flight was spoken of before; but we have been assured that, if we leave the station now, it will displease the men, who have again and again promised to be loyal, and so revolt would be hastened. God knows,' she went on passionately, 'that it is hard to wait. When I think of them all—my poor little cousin, who will not believe in danger, and that beautiful child, and the young men and women—it is like a burden at my heart. I can scarcely breathe. I seem to see all sorts of horrible things; and,' slowly, 'horrible things have happened already. It is no dream.'
'They have happened; they will happen again. But you, most noble lady, could escape. Could you—would you trust yourself to me?' Hoosanee spoke breathlessly.
'Alone?' said Grace, drawing back..
'No, not alone. I could arrange for the escape of two, perhaps of three.'
For a few moments Grace sat silent, with bended head, thinking; and the rajah's messenger watched her with a beating heart. He was thinking a little of himself, of the triumph it would be to enter Gumilcund as the protector and deliverer of the first of the English fugitives, of her, in particular, on whom his master's heart was set. But he thought of her too. He in his own humble way had fallen in love with the beautiful and gentle lady, whose manner to natives was so different from that practised by the generality of her countrywomen. He knew, moreover, as even his master could not, how cruel and shameless an Eastern mob could be; and the idea of her falling alive into the hands of the mutineers made him sick with horror. Hoosanee, we must remember, belonged to Gumilcund. Except during the last few months, when he had served the new rajah, who was much gentler in his manners to those depending upon him than any grandee of the East, he had never been brought into direct contact with English people. The bitter, personal hatred, compounded partly of race and religious antagonism, and partly of spite for a long series of small wrongs and humiliations—the hatred which made servants betray their masters and mistresses, and peasants gloat over the misery and degradation of Englishwomen, and villagers flog Englishmen in the presence of jeering crowds—was strange to him. But he knew that it existed, and the knowledge made him shudder for the fair woman his master loved.
Presently Grace looked up. 'We are not many,' she said. 'Would it be possible for us all to escape? The men, I believe, would be freer without us.'
'I could return for the others,' said Hoosanee, evasively.
'I think we might persuade my cousin to go, and sweet little Kit and his mother,' said Grace.
'Will my noble lady pardon me?' said Hoosanee, bending low. 'She must come first, or I must return whence I came alone.'
Grace looked at him as if she did not quite understand what he said. He repeated his words, speaking with a still deeper humility.
'Is it so?' said Grace, raising her head proudly. 'To save myself I must desert them?'
'In saving yourself, most noble, you will save others.'
'I will save all, or I will save none,' said Grace in a low voice.
At this moment the palki-gharry drove up, and a beautiful little boy, with long golden curls—like a girl, sprang out and leapt into Grace's arms. 'Why, my Kit,' she said softly, 'my little Kit!'
'We're going to stay all day,' he cried, 'mother and me. Where's Vick? Oh, there she is! Mayn't I go and play with her?'
'Yes, darling, run and play,' said Grace, releasing him.
A pale-faced lady, in a white dress and large straw hat, was in the meantime stepping out of the gharry. Lucy followed her. Both of them, Grace thought, looked scared.
'Well,' she said, smiling, 'have you asked Mrs. Durant about the garnets?'
'Send the man away,' said Lucy, pettishly. 'They have all been scolding me; Captain Durant, and Mr. Graham, and Mrs. Cockburn, and even Emily,' turning to Mrs. Durant. 'They say I ought not to have left you alone with a man like that. I'm sure one doesn't know what to do. If you're frightened, that's wrong; and if you try to forget things a little, and be cheerful, you're heartless. I wish I was dead and out of it all.'
'So would I if it were not for the child,' said Mrs. Durant. 'Grace! Grace! do you think they would have the heart to do anything to him?'
'We won't give them the opportunity,' said Grace, firmly. 'If the worst comes to the worst we will escape. I will find a means.'
They smiled. These were brave words; but the peril was not actually upon them. And yet, for what reason neither of them could tell, they felt encouraged. Grace was one of those who inspired confidence.
'Well,' said Mrs. Durant, with a stifled sob, 'if it is to be done I hope they'll do it quickly. Only for Kit, I don't think I'd mind so much. Charlie is so cross, and they come in with such dreadful tales, and the servants scowl at him when he scolds them; and he won't—he won't see that it would be so much wiser to conciliate everybody. Only for Kit I couldn't bear it! You see,' with a rainbow-like change, 'he has his curls still.'
'Yes,' said Grace, smiling. 'I thought you would not have the heart to shear Kit's curls. But come! you are both tired. Leave Vick and him to me, and go in and have a rest.'