Suddenly a sound came to him. It was as vivid to his sense as is the light of morning to the belated traveller—a voice clear and strong. 'Why,' it said, 'should this thing startle you? If a vision was granted to you, if you saw, beforehand, what would be in the future, and if now the vision is followed by what is, or appears to be, a reality, is that any reason why your strength and presence of mind should desert you?' A pause, and then, answering the thought of his heart, the voice went on, 'Fate! That is true. Everything is fate. But our resistances are predicted and foreseen as well as our trials. Arise and be of good cheer. This is no omen of evil, but rather of good. You say that the vision is not over. Again you are right. There is more to come, and in due time and place you will behold it; but tie not your limbs from present use in consideration of that which they may have to do in the future. In coming hither you have chosen rightly. She, like you, must "dree her dread"; but the Holy Ones love her, and will have her in Their keeping. Listen!'
At this moment—it seemed a strange and incongruous thing—there broke in upon the eager spiritual colloquy a sound so ridiculously common and familiar that, uneasy as he was, Tom could almost have laughed. It was the discordant rattle with which, in India, a snake-charmer and conjuror calls his audience together. The sounds came from behind Tom. Turning in haste, he saw a hooded snake rearing up its ugly neck and head within a few feet of him. Behind the snake, sitting crouched together and eyeing him curiously, was an old man, with coal-black face, white hair, and supernaturally bright eyes. He was wrapped in a dirty white chuddah; a cloth, containing his implements of trade, lay outspread before him, and he held in his hand a light wand, with which he was directing the movements of the snake.
When Tom turned he stopped his jabber for a moment to beg him not to be afraid, adding impressively that if he would only have patience, he would behold such a sight as he had never seen before. 'Others kill,' cried the old man, looking round on the soldiers who, pleased at any sort of fun, were crouching about him. 'They bring you a mongoose. There is a fight. The monster is killed. He lies stiff and stark before you. You clap your hands like silly children. But what is that? Nothing. I snap my fingers at them. No mongoose here, good sirs! No killing! I did not say no fight. Yes, you love fighting, and a fight you shall see! But a man will fight the monster; a man with his naked hands, and it shall be—not killed—but tamed! That is the true triumph, my masters—the true revenge! My enemy's blood, what is it? For a moment it fills my nostrils with its savour, in the next it is gone. But to tame him, to see him lie down at my feet and lick my hand, to spurn him once, and yet again; day after day to behold him grovel more deeply before me. This is joy! This is ecstasy! And it is this, in little, which I call you to behold.'
He spoke in a high key, and with the most extraordinary rapidity, holding his wand, as he spoke, over the head of the cobra, which moved uneasily from side to side as if it were trying to escape from some fascinating influence. His voice dropped and there was a lull. The serpent gazed at him sleepily. He crooned a low song, which seemed to have a stupefying effect upon it, for it dropped and lay like dead. The soldiers, meantime, stirred to the entrails by his address, showed all the symptoms of intoxication; some rolling about in speechless ecstasy, others dancing, singing, and shouting, so that, in a few moments, the camp was changed into a field of demons.
There came a cry from the snake-charmer. 'Give me room—room!' and, in the next instant, he had flung his wand aside, thrown off his chuddah, and leapt to his feet. At the same moment the serpent reared itself up, shot out its forked tongue, and threw its sinuous body at the man, who received it on his knotted arms. The hideous combat went on for some minutes. Now the man seemed to triumph and now the serpent. Tom was sick with loathing; but he could not turn away. An invincible fascination, helped by a suspicion that the combat had some mysterious importance for himself, kept his eyes fixed.
Suddenly the silence of the camp was broken. There came a cry of, 'Give place! The Ranee is coming!'
The combat was at its height—the man almost lost in the folds of the cobra, and the awe-stricken circle falling back—when Tom, who had kept his position near the snake-charmer, saw her come out. She was dressed in the brilliant robe of black and gold in which he had seen her first, and covered from head to foot, so that he could not see her face. With slow and dignified step she advanced towards them. She had crossed half the space that separated her from the snake. It had loosened itself from the man, and was turning in this new direction. Unable to restrain himself, Tom darted forward. 'Keep back!' he cried in English. 'You are mad!'
She spread out her arms, waved him back imperiously, and moved forward. At the same moment Tom saw on the face of the snake-charmer a look of such anguish and dismay that he thought his enemy had conquered and given him a deadly wound. Yet the snake had dropped and was lying at his feet, not dead, but spent.
Confused and troubled, Tom fell back. The lady was advancing still. She was within a few feet of the snake. Its master warned her back, but she took no heed of him. Then Tom, who could bear it no longer, turned away and covered his face with his hands. There was a moment of absolute silence. His heart beat with curious rapidity, there was a singing in his ears that almost deprived him of the power of hearing, and though feeling that this would be the time to get away, he seemed to lack the power to move a step. All at once there was a shout. It was followed by another, and then by another, 'Victory! victory! Our Ranee-jee, daughter of the Prophet, protected of Allah, has triumphed!' The cries rang through the camp, were taken up by those who clustered round it, and echoed back from the village, so that in a moment all the country seemed alive.
At the sounds Tom turned, and this was the strange sight he saw. In the centre of the vast circle and at some little distance from the snake-charmer, who, recognising probably a master in his craft, had drawn back, and was now close at Tom's elbow, stood the Ranee. She stood with her head proudly raised, so that she looked taller than before. One little foot was planted firmly on the ground, the other rested on the neck of the cobra, which cowered before her as if smitten with sudden fear. But the strangest part of all was that the black and gold saree had been thrown back and that her face was exposed. With parted lips Tom gazed. It was the face of a little child, soft and white, with rose-red lips, and smiling eyes, in which the golden light of summer dawns seemed to be sleeping, and—if he was not mad—if he was not dreaming—he had seen it before.
Tom's first idea was that she, like himself, was a prisoner, and he was about to commit the terrible imprudence of flinging himself at her feet, and begging her to accept his protection, when the snake-charmer passing him by, brushed him as if by accident, and pausing, made a low salaam, and breathed an apology. There was a look in his face which arrested Tom's attention; under cover of the clamour which had not ceased, he said in a low voice and in Marathi, which was known to his spies, 'Are you a friend?'
'I am his Highness's servant,' said the man, 'and I will help him to escape; but he must be prudent. The White Ranee is black of heart.' As he muttered the last words, speaking them in so low a tone that no one but Tom could hear, he was moving towards the Ranee. She greeted him with a smile of childlike triumph, and he prostrated himself at her feet. Then, resuming his wand, and singing his lullaby-song, he enticed the monster into its basket, while the Ranee, having looked round her proudly, threw the black and gold saree about her head, and returned to the tent. The snake-charmer began now to circulate among the soldiers. He was full of stories and jests, and wherever he went he was received with acclamations. Tom, who had taken up his station under the tree to which Snow-queen was tethered, watched him moving to and fro. Presently he noticed a strange thing. It was only as long as the snake-charmer was in the midst of each little group that its members were joyous or lively. As soon as he left them they became silent, most of them falling shortly into a heavy sleep. This must have been apparent to others besides himself, yet there were none who did not watch for and expect his coming. Night had fallen before he had made his round of the camp, and then all, with the exception of two sentinels outside the tent, were in a deep slumber. He crept now to the neighbourhood of Tom's station, and professed to curl himself up for sleep. The sentinels watched him drowsily. After a few minutes of perfect silence, one of them sat down and leaned his back against a tree. His comrade followed his example. They exchanged a few remarks to keep themselves awake. One drank from a bottle in his girdle and offered it to the other, whereupon their dropping remarks fell off into silence. And now no one in all the camp was awake but Tom and the snake-charmer.
It was nearing midnight, but the moon—which was on the wane, but which in this clear atmosphere diffuses a brilliant light—enabled them to see their way, and they both arose.
'Now is our time,' said the snake-charmer, chuckling. He was none other than Subdul, Snow-queen's groom.
'Are you sure they are well settled?' said his master.
'I have given them bhang, Highness. That, and the excitement of the evening, will make them sleep like the dead; no noise will awake them. But the nights are short; why does my master linger?'
'Are you suresheis not a prisoner, Subdul? Might she not come with us if we told her our design?'
'If my master means the Ranee, I tell him that she is black—black at heart and false of speech. Let not my master trust her.'
'What do you know of her, Subdul?'
'I know what these have told me. Does my lord know Dost Ali Khan?'
'The adopted son of the rajah of that name?' cried Tom, with some excitement; 'why, I entertained him once. I have now a pass from him about me. Has he anything to do in this?'
'He has everything to do. He is the hope of thousands. They crowd round him as their lord. If my master has won Dost Ali Khan's favour he is lucky. This man, my lord, this so-called prince, has, as I hear, persuaded the White Ranee to join herself to him. She was married to an English sahib, and she saw him slain. She looked on at the slaughter of her countrymen and women, and now, in her new lord's name, she is taking command of the murderers. If my master wants any more proof that she is a traitress——'
'Silence, Subdul! She is coming!'
'Master! master!' cried the man in strong excitement, 'now is the time to fly!'
'I must let her speak to me first.'
'No, no; let my master listen to me! She is a witch; she will enslave him.'
'Nonsense, Subdul; I know her, I tell you. Be silent!' murmured Tom, whose heart was beating strangely.
And all this time the White Ranee, with veil thrown back, and face looking pure and spiritual in the moonlight, was making her way quietly through the sleepers of the camp towards the spot where Tom was standing. They were alone now, Subdul having disappeared. Tom did not move, for a spell seemed to be over him; so she went close to him and laid her hand on his arm. Then a sudden trembling seized him.
'Who are you?' he said, in a low voice.
'Surely you know me,' she answered. 'I know you, Tom Gregory. Why did you run away from Delhi without seeing me again?'
'Why are you here?' he said sternly.
'You are impolite, my dear boy. A question should be answered.'
'This is no time or place for amenities, and you know it. Answer me! Are you a prisoner? For if so I will take you away with me and protect you honourably until I can restore you to your own people. If you are not a prisoner—if you have given yourself up to the enemies of your race, then I will leave you to reap your own punishment.'
The lady laughed. 'So stern all of a sudden!' she said.
'You are playing with me. You are wasting time.'
'Time was made for slaves, Tom,' said the lady, in a sweet girlish treble, 'and I am not a slave; neither are you. Sit down under this tree, and let us talk together quietly. Ah! how pleasant it is to speak to an Englishman again!'
'Vivien! are you mad?'
'Yes, I am mad, always mad, Tom; but madder than ever now. Be mad with me; you have no idea how delightful it is to live in a dream!'
'The dream will soon be over, my poor child. Do you think that you can tame men as you tame serpents?'
'Think? I am sure of it, Tom!'
'Then, if this is your dream, for heaven's sake awake! Good God! why do you look at me so?' cried the young fellow, in a sudden transport.
She was standing before him in the moonlight, her golden hair blown this way and that way with the wind, her eyes full of laughter, an expression half-mocking, half-pitiful, playing about her lips.
'Do you know how awful this time is?' he said. 'Are you human?'
She laughed. 'No,' she said, 'I don't think I am. Take my advice, Tom, and be inhuman too!'
'Vivien, you are playing with me!'
'Of course I am; I never do anything but play. I played with you, and if it had not been for Grace Elton, who is a very serious young person, I should have won you over as a playfellow. I played with Charlie Doncaster, poor boy! But he had not my animal spirits, and he was beginning to be grave and tiresome when—but I don't want to talk of disagreeable things. Well! The next was his Royal or Imperial Highness, Dost Ali Khan. I wonder, by the bye, if you remember him. I was within an ace of running over him in the streets of Delhi. It would have been a good thing for some people if I had succeeded. You saved him, didn't you? Set that as a make-weight against all your good deeds, Mr. Tom, and see what the result will be! But to return, as the story-tellers say. I was so much amused with his Highness that I took the trouble to cultivate him; and it was a very funny little episode, I can assure you. Heavens! how he hated me at first! I tell him sometimes that I am surprised he did not kill me, for I gave him heaps and heaps of chances. He let me live, however, against his better judgment, I believe, and now he is my slave. I can do whatever I like with him. What do you say to that for a game?'
'I say that you are mad—that you don't know what you are saying, and the night is passing. No more of this folly! Will you come with me or will you not?'
'Tom, what a baby you are! Never mind, I like you so! But be a wise baby if you can, and listen to me quietly. I amnotgoing with you. It would be absurd to begin with, and highly dangerous, all through. On the other hand, having found you, I don't mean to let you slip out of my fingers. So you must come with me. I must tell you that you have been so fortunate as to make Dost Ali Khan, his Imperial Highness of the future, your friend. He is the great man just now, for he is the only person in this part of the world who knows what he wants, so the rest of them look up to him. The soldiers, banded and disbanded, the native states, the fanatics of the towns, they are all waiting for his signal. When he gives it—Heavens! I begin to feel sane, as I think of it—what a conflagration there will be! However, that is beside the present question'—she stopped to laugh. 'I think I am speaking rather weightily,' she said; 'don't you? Now, to go on in the same strain, this exalted personage, whose ally I am, offers you his friendship. He doesn't wish you to fight for or with him, for he believes you would say "No," and he has a sort of conscience about destroying you. What he asks is that you will take me into Gumilcund—think of the magnanimity of it!—and keep me there until the explosion is over. Then, if the world doesn't meanwhile fall in ruins about us, we can decide about the future.'
She paused and went a little closer to him. A cloud had veiled the face of the moon so that, near as she was, he could only see her indistinctly; but he felt her—felt her in every nerve of his being, and for a moment he hesitated. Why should he not, after all, take her back to Gumilcund first, and leave her there in safety before setting forth on any other mission of rescue? He did not believe all she had told him. Either she was mad—as she said of herself—and in that case she ought to be protected from the results of her own mad actions; or else she was playing with him. Yes, she had herself spoken the word. But was she accountable for her own strange nature? Should she be punished because she could not see the awful realities that lay about her? Since, by some strange freak of fortune, she had been able so far to gain protection, was he to deny her the asylum that would make her safety sure?
While he reasoned with himself she stood by him. She did not speak, she did not stir; but as the silence prolonged itself a sigh, soft as the breath of a sleeping child, escaped her lips.
'Vivien!' he said tremulously, 'is that you?'
'Yes, it is I; I am near you. You will come with me, Tom?' she murmured; and, in low caressing tones, 'Dearest Tom!'
'Why do you say that?' he said, hoarsely.
'Listen to him, poor child!' she cried. 'Why? Can't you tell? Can't you imagine?'
'You are false!' he groaned; 'you have said it of yourself!'
'False to others, Tom; never to you!'
'False to one is false to all.'
'Listen to him!' she cried again. 'What an exalted standard! But, my young king, let me tell you that you are ungrateful and unjust. If I could only saveyouby being false toothers; if every subterfuge, from the beginning, was planned for this—that I might haveyou; that I might holdyourlife in my hands—what then?'
'Is it so?' he said hoarsely.
'You see!' she cried; 'you were cold because you did not understand!'
At this moment, when his will was passing away from him, and his heart was as wax in the midst of his body, there came a strange and sudden disturbance. Subdul Khan had been crouching behind them; his ear was to the ground, and all his senses were on the alert, for he feared treachery. Whether he did actually hear in the distance the rumble of gun-carriages and the sound of armed men on the march, or whether he merely professed to hear them to arouse his master, cannot be certainly known; but the effect was the same. Suddenly, with a cry of, 'The rebels are upon us!' he sprang to his feet.
Snow-queen was saddled, and so was the horse of Subdul Khan. They mounted them together, and while Vivien, with a ringing cry, to which none of the besotted men about her paid any heed, ran frantically through the camp, Snow-queen and her master, going like the wind, disappeared in the distance.
Hurry on, brave men! let the wind be your messenger; stop neither to eat nor drink; through the long sultry day and at nightfall, when the awful eye of day is closed and the stars come out pale and languid overhead, even until morning dawns and the terrible round of sweltering heat and blinding dust begins again—hurry on! By narrow and unfrequented ways, through villages whose favour has been bought, under the shade of trees, and across tracts of jungle, where you are obliged to go at a foot-pace, giving breathing time to the gallant beasts that have carried you so bravely—on and ever on, for two dreadful days and nights, that to one of you seem ever afterwards like an awful dream. And yet, you are too late. And well it may be for yourselves that you did not arrive earlier. For the storm has broken. In fire, and blood, and fever it is spreading from city to city, and Jhansi, the home and citadel of a woman scorned, has caught the dread contagion.
Up to June 1 they were at peace. The Ranee still sat smiling in her palace, and still she added to her body-guard persons of proved loyalty, and still the English believed her promises, and still the troops within the city proclaimed their faithfulness loudly. And why did the English need to fear? Meerut had not moved them. Delhi had not moved them. The native states, Gwalior and Gumilcund, and Rewah and Banda, were holding their hands. Nay, it was known that some of them had offered help to the Paramount Power in the re-establishment of order; and even if they had feared, what could they do? To show mistrust at this eleventh hour would be to undo all that had gone before, and to ruin everything.
On June 3 mysterious fires broke out; but even these did not unduly alarm them. They were attributed to accident. It was not until the 4th that their eyes were opened. Then the soldiers on parade, breaking away suddenly and causelessly as it appeared to those who had not heard of the secret messages that had been passing between the palace and the native lines, shot down their sergeant and seized the artillery, and with it made their way to the fort within the native city.
The Ranee still sat smiling in her palace; but when the news came to her she ordered the palace gates to be opened, mounted her horse and cantered over to the lines with her own faithful body-guard, who in her name had seized upon the treasury, behind her.
Some of the English officers had been hurrying to her palace. They were told on the way that she was in the hands of the mutineers, and instantly the full magnitude of what had happened darted upon them. They dashed back to the cantonments, calling as they went on the English and Eurasians to follow them into the Star Fort, the only building belonging to them now that was capable of defence. It all happened in a moment. Some of them had not even heard of the disturbance on parade. In the little house, once a tomb on the maidan, something had been seen; but no one clearly understood what had happened. 'Father will be in presently, and then we shall hear,' said Mrs. White to her little Aglaia, as she tried to soothe her off to sleep. But then the ayah rushed in like a wild creature, and with a cry of 'They are coming; hide!' tore the child out of her arms. She knew little more. Some one came and dragged her out of the house, and she was mounted on a horse, to which, crying out for her child, she clung because she could not help herself, and there was a mad, sick flight across the blaze of the maidan, with yells at her heels, which seemed to recede as she flew on, and then all at once she was in the Fort amongst a circle of frightened women, and her husband, who had not come for her himself, having work to do, was with the men, but her child—her little darling—was nowhere to be seen. She made a wild rush for the door. Even amongst the rebels there must be some one who would have mercy upon her. When they held her back by force her shrieks and cries were piteous to hear.
But all were not so helpless. In the little spell of time given them by the rebels who were quarrelling over the booty, the men looked up the stores of ammunition, and barricaded doors and windows, and allotted to every combatant his post, and to every non-combatant his duty; and the women gathered together the food which the more provident had brought in, soothed the children, and made arrangements for the night.
No one, meanwhile, could tell poor Mrs. White anything of her child. It was known, however, that some of the little English community had yet to come in, and the sanguine hoped that Aglaia, who was a general favourite, might be amongst them. Others feared that the ayah, seized by panic, or deliberately treacherous, had given her up.
Late that afternoon, when those in the Fort had made all their dispositions, the mutineers came clustering round, crying out that they should surrender. They were received by a strong and well-directed fire, which laid many of them low. This was not what they had bargained for, so they retreated in some confusion to deliberate.
Slowly and awfully the first night in the Fort passed by. The women slept, or tried to sleep. The men, fearing surprise, were on the watch. Early in the morning such food as they had was distributed with a little water and wine. Then two bold fellows—Eurasians—undertook to go out in disguise and try to bring relief from the nearest European station. Hopeless task! They were cut down before they were well clear of the cantonments. Those inside, meanwhile, heard guns being dragged into position to batter them to pieces. This attempt was soon given up, for the defenders of the Fort, several of whom were dead shots, peppered the artillery-men so freely, that after a score or so had been shot down, no one could be found to undertake the duty. If only there had been water and food in the Fort the defence might have been heard of with that of Arah. But hunger and thirst are to besieged men the deadliest of foes. No one could believe, moreover, that the good Ranee, though misguided by evil counsellors, could actually permit the slaughter of her English friends. After a little discussion it was decided that three officers, each of whom was well known to her, should go out as envoys, and treat with her for the surrender of the Fort. They went out gaily, but they never returned. 'What have I to do with English swine?' said the Ranee, when they were brought before her. The haughty words were their sentence. At her palace gates they were cut down; and the story of their fate was shouted derisively under the windows of the Fort.
Another council was held. The provisions, it was found, would, with economy, last another three days. It was hoped that, in the meantime, their desperate situation might be heard of, and a relief attempted. For another dreadful day and night they held out.
The morning of the third day dawned. The watchers were half dead with fatigue and anxiety; the children were crying out piteously for water; the women were faint, weary, and disheartened. When the sun rose the rebels made an attack in force; but they were driven back, and there were two or three hours of rest.
Then the Ranee sent the besieged a message. All she wanted was the Fort. Let those within surrender it, and they would be allowed to go in peace whither they desired.
Upon this another council was held. The boldest were for holding out. There was, indeed, little or no hope of successful resistance; but, if they must die, it would be better to die at their posts, fighting, like brave men, than to fall into the hands of their cruel and treacherous enemies. Had they been all men and combatants, this is the course they would have taken. Unhappily the larger number of the fifty and odd souls who were clustered together in the Fort were women and little children and men of peace. To them, as others urged, this offer of the Ranee gave the one and only loophole of escape that they could hope for, and so, with heavy hearts and ominous forebodings of evil, the brave men, who had counselled resistance, laid down their arms, the gates of the Fort were thrown open, and the Ranee's bodyguard marched in.
On the afternoon which witnessed the surrender of the English into the hands of the Ranee, two horsemen crossed the boundaries of the state, and stopped at a small village where one of them had friends. These advised them strongly to go no further, alleging that something extraordinary had been happening in the city. The two men refreshed themselves and their horses, and galloped on to a grove, which lay off the road, at a little distance from the village. Here, their horses being completely spent, they dismounted and let them rest. As they stood, with their hands on their bridle-reins, ready to mount and gallop at the least alarm, there came to their ears a rumbling noise as of distant thunder, and one of them—the master—said, 'We are too late. It has begun.'
'We are too late, Excellency. There is nothing for us to do now but to return whence we came,' answered the man.
'Go back you, Subdul! I must enter Jhansi, and see with my own eyes what is going on.'
'My master is not wise. He will not be able to help, and he will risk his own life, which is dear to his people.'
'Listen, Subdul!' said the young rajah, impressively. 'I have a friend in that city—a little child. She loves me and believes in me. All night long, while we were riding and resting, she has been beside me. I tell you it is no dream; it is a reality. She is calling me, and I must go. I must save my poor little Aglaia, or perish in the attempt. But you have no such call; and why should two of us risk our lives? Stay here, where you are known, or go back to Gumilcund.'
'Does his Excellency think that I would desert him?' said Subdul Khan, sorrowfully. 'He has seen what I can do. Let him give himself into my hands, and I will take him safely into Jhansi.'
'Make your own arrangements, Subdul; but remember that life or death may hang on the next few moments.'
'I will use every diligence,' said Subdul, and he mounted his horse and rode off, leaving Tom alone in the wood.
For more than an hour he waited patiently, and then, just as dusk was beginning to fall, Subdul came back. He had changed his dress and the accoutrements of his horse, so that at first his master failed to recognise him; but, just as he was grasping his weapon to defend himself, he heard his servant's voice.
'Does not my master know me?'
'Scarcely. What have you done to yourself?'
'I am in the dress of the Ranee's body-guard, Excellency. I met one of them. He was drunk with bhang, and red with the slaughter of your Excellency's countrymen. I drew him into a solitary place, slew him, and took his garments.'
Tom gave an involuntary shudder, for he was new to this kind of thing; but he made no remark. Mounting his horse, he followed Subdul out of the wood. They avoided the high road, and, the dimness of the light favouring them, crept along under the shadow of trees and walls until they reached the outskirts of the city. The open maidan lay now between them and the Star Fort.
'Stop,' whispered Subdul, as his master was about to gallop across it. 'Let his Excellency stay here for a few minutes! I will go forward and see what has happened, and come back to him. In this dress I can mix amongst them, and they will suppose me one of themselves.'
'Go,' said Tom; 'but come back quickly, or I shall not be able to bear it.'
They were close to a mass of ruined masonry, which rose between them and the town. Sheltering himself behind it, Tom looked and listened. From the city came a tumult of fierce cries and trampling feet; here and there clouds of smoke darkened the sky, and tongues of lurid flame darting from their midst would, for a few moments, light up the scene of ruin.
Tom's heart sank, and his breath came and went pantingly. He knew that Subdul was right, that for him to rush into the pandemonium before him would be ruin to himself and useless for others, and yet it was only with the greatest difficulty that he could preserve his patience.
Subdul, meantime, was pricking across the maidan. In the place where the cantonments had been, but which was now a shapeless mass of ruins, he met a body of sepoys. They had lanterns in their hands, and they were looking about for the gold and jewels which the Feringhees had left behind them. He pulled up, told them he had lost his way in the darkness, and asked where his comrades—the Ranee's bodyguard—were. 'Guarding the Feringhees' treasure,' said one of the men. 'The Ranee has taken it, but we mean to have our share.'
'Tell her so,' cried another, with a rude jest.
'What is that to me?' said Subdul. 'I obey orders. The Feringhees are slain?'
'Every man, woman, and child,' answered the soldier, savagely.
'How was it?' said Subdul. 'I have come in from the country, where I have been visiting my father, and I know nothing.'
The party of sepoys, most of whom were intoxicated, for they had ransacked the officers' wine-stores, broke into a loud laugh.
'By Allah!' cried one, 'I never thought to see such a sight. The infidels were in the Fort, pouring out blasphemies, and shooting down the sons of the Prophet like sheep. The evil one helped them, for they were few in number. It was hot work, brother: and who cares to die in the moment of victory? Our mother, the Ranee, who is a true daughter of the Prophet, saw how it was with us, and promised them their lives if they would give her up the Fort. They believed her word, and came out. Then we bound them and carried them to the yokan Bagh, where we fell upon them with the sword. There were fifty in all; men, women, and children. The women cried for mercy, and some of us delayed to smite, that we might hear them. But the orders were to be swift, so we finished them; and there they lie, unburied, for the vultures and jackals to feed upon. So may all enemies of the Prophet perish!'
He was answered by a shout that rang through the ruins. Subdul's fingers were playing with his sword; but he restrained himself, and said mildly, 'My brother is a man of war, and his deeds will win for him a place in Paradise! Will he tell me where this garden is? I have an enemy amongst the slain Feringhees, and I would fain see him with my own eyes.'
The sepoy, to whom this was a most natural request, pointed with his finger to the opposite side of the maidan. 'There is a ruined mosque close by,' he said. 'The fathers of the devils we have slain desecrated it, and it has never been rebuilt since.'
'I know the place,' answered Subdul. Sweeping round, he left them to their devices, and, after a few minutes of rapid riding, rejoined his master.
'What news?' said Tom.
'The worst!' answered Subdul; and he repeated what he had heard, adding that the garden where the dreadful deed had been done was close by the spot where they were standing.
For a few moments Tom was paralysed. This was worse—far worse—than he had dreamed.
'Women and children!' he groaned.
'Every one of them, Excellency.'
'The brutes! The devils! Subdul, if we had only a score of our Gumilcund men at our back——'
'We could do nothing, Excellency. There are hundreds in the city.'
'Cowards! every mother's son of them. I should have come with an army; but it is too late now. Let us look for the child.'
'Have I not told your Excellency that all were slain?'
'Aglaia is not dead! I am certain of it. Are you afraid to come into the garden where they lie, Subdul?'
'I will lead the way!' answered the man.
It was within a stone's-throw of the ruined mosque where they had been hiding—an enclosed space surrounded with walls, and set out with grim old trees, plots of yellow marigold, and shrubberies where roses, Cape jessamine, the champa, and the asoka grew. Once it had been a haunt and favourite pleasure-ground of the Ranee, who, in the days of her power, had built a pavilion in its centre. Now it was seldom used.
The two men found the gates open and the place deserted. Not a single soldier was left on guard. The murderers had done their foul work, and had gone away to their triumph and plunder, leaving the speechless witnesses of their treachery behind them. As, putting his horse to a foot-pace, Tom groped his way through the darkness, his heart contracted and his limbs trembled under him. Rather a thousand times would he have met a hundred foes in fair fight than this. Eagerly, meanwhile, he looked and listened, hoping against hope, that some might have escaped. Nothing was to be seen but the heavy foliage of the trees that blotted out the moonlight. Nothing was to be heard but the night-breeze as it played with their branches.
Suddenly a shriek, penetrating and prolonged, broke upon the silence. Another and another followed. They came up from the distance, and swept towards the riders, nearer and nearer, until, with a rush like a blast of wind in a narrow place, they passed them by. Sick with horror, Tom pulled up. Subdul struck a match, set fire to a torch of brushwood which he had been making as they went along, and swung it round his head, upon which there was another wild flight, and another prolonged shriek, which went on for a few moments and then died away in the distance.
'The wild creatures have scented the deed of blood,' said Subdul. 'These are jackals! And see, my master, see!'
As he spoke they came into an open space and Subdul waved his torch again. On the instant there was an awful, indescribable tumult, and in the next the heavens were darkened by the wings of gigantic birds. For a few moments they hovered overhead, casting their dread shadows on the moonlit earth, and then sailed slowly away to the grove which the riders had left.
'Does my master wish to see more?' said Subdul. 'They are there.' He pointed to a group of trees near the centre of the garden, under which they could faintly distinguish a mass of something dark.
'Subdul! Subdul!' cried the young fellow, piteously. 'I cannot bear it.'
'There is no need. I told my master that he could do nothing. Let us consider our own safety and go back,' said Subdul.
'But if any of them should be alive.'
'It is impossible. The fiends have done their work too well.'
'I must look for the child, Subdul. If she is there—but she cannot be; she cannot.'
'Listen,' said Subdul. 'What is that?'
They stopped. A low piping, sweet and clear, like the voice of an English song-bird in the fresh dawn of the summer morning, fell upon their ears. It came from a rose thicket, which lay to the right of the path. In a second Tom was on his feet and had thrown his reins to Subdul Khan. He stood for a moment listening, moving softly in the direction whence the sounds had come, and then stood again. He could now hear a little flutter, as of frightened breathing, and could dimly discern a white figure moving amongst the bushes.
With a beating heart he went nearer. A fugitive, probably a native servant, who would be able to tell him what he desired to know. He was almost afraid of moving, lest he should startle her, and was pondering how he could make known that he was a friend, when the piping bird-like voice, which he had first heard, began again:
There is a happy land, Far, far away,Where saints in glory stand, Bright, bright as day.
Sweetly the baby-voice lisped the sweet words. He could scarcely restrain himself. He made an involuntary movement, and the voice of the woman, faint with terror, came towards him: 'Hushee! Hushee! Missy Sahib. Some one is near.'
'God is near,' piped the sweet little voice. 'I saw His wings. They were so big, so big! I want Him to carry us away. I am so tired, and I don't like hiding all this time. Do you think He will?'
'Missy! Missy!' cried the poor creature. 'Get up; come away. They have seen us.'
'Tom said he'd come,' murmured the child.
The poor woman seized the child in her arms, but before she could run, a hand was laid on her garments, and a voice, which, paralysed as she was with terror, she recognised as the voice of a friend, called her by her name.
In the next moment, Aglaia had leapt from her arms, and was lying in the close embrace of her friend. He could not speak. Man as he was, his eyes were full of tears and his voice was choked with sobs. Holding the child to his breast, he guided the frightened ayah gently over the broken ground. Then, as he recovered, he began to murmur broken words of thanksgiving and endearment. 'My little darling! My treasure! You are safe! They may tear me limb from limb, but they shall not hurt you. Oh! thank God, thank God! that I have found you.'
As for the child, she said not a word. She clung to his neck. And so, coming back softly they found Subdul and the horses, and set off together—the child in Tom's arms, and the ayah riding behind Subdul—for the village where they had friends.
They went slowly, keeping close under the shelter of trees and houses. No one molested them. Fortunately for themselves they were in the outskirts of the city and cantonments, and throughout that dreadful night the revolted sepoys and the Ranee's body-guard were too busy setting fire to the Europeans' dwellings, and raking the ashes for treasure, to pay any heed to stragglers. In a short time they were out in the open country, and now they rode on more securely.
Aglaia was fast asleep in Tom's arms. The ayah had regained her powers of speech, and she poured out her history of all that had happened. The sahibs had gone into the Fort. She would not take the child in, for she knew what the soldiers were and she did not trust them. She flew by a secret way to the garden, and there they hid, she feeding the child on what she could find.
Did little Missy ask for her mother? Oh! yes, again and again; but she (ayah) told the child that the Feringhees' God had taken her away to stay in Paradise with Him, and she was satisfied. They were in the garden when the English were brought in, all of them bound with cords. It had been a long and sultry day, and the little one was asleep. Sumbaten heard, she dared not look. There were cries, but they were soon over, and then the soldiers went away, and everything was still. 'Missy was dreaming of you, Sahib,' she said to Tom, 'to-day and the day before. She began to sing when she awoke, and she said you were coming. Did your God tell her?'
He did not answer, but he pressed the child closer to his heart.
Of their further journey there is no space here to tell in any detail, nor do I know much concerning its incidents. In my friend's diary it is only briefly mentioned, and he suffers from a curious confusion of ideas whenever he thinks of it. It was due, doubtless, in a great measure to the admirable arrangements which Tom and his servants had made beforehand that they were able to carry it through successfully, for in every village on the route there were those who knew the Rajah of Gumilcund, and were ready to serve him. Once he was obliged to fall back on the pass given to him by Dost Ali Khan, who, as he presently found, was becoming a power in the land. What he most dreaded was an encounter with the White Ranee, but, being careful to travel by night and along the unfrequented routes, all of which were well-known to Subdul, he succeeded in avoiding her. He heard, however, that she continued to haunt the district, and that her armed train was constantly recruited by the soldiers whom Dost Ali Khan seduced.
After that first night, Aglaia and the ayah travelled in a litter, as ladies of high rank. The child's skin was stained, so that she might pass for an Indian, and Subdul, whose resources were boundless, managed to get a suitable dress for the ayah. As a general rule they camped out in the open, when Aglaia would amuse them with her quaint ways and sayings. Some days she would be as happy as if nothing had happened. At other times she cried piteously for her mother and father, and it was only when the ayah, who had a vivid imagination, assured her that she had seen God carrying them away to heaven that she would be pacified. 'Why didn't He take me too?' she would sometimes ask, a question which none of them found it easy to answer.
Happily for herself she had not, like other little ones, seen the horror that would ever after haunt them like a nightmare; and, day by day, as new scenes passed before her eyes, and fresh experiences greeted her, the memory of her nurse's frenzied flight, and of the two days in the garden, grew fainter. She still thought of her parents, but it was reproachfully, rather than sadly. They might have taken her with them when they went up to God. But this, after all, was ayah's fault, rather than theirs. Ayah had taken her away and hidden her. Tom said she had hidden her for him, which to Aglaia, who was now as deeply devoted to him as she had been on board the 'Patagonia,' was a sufficient explanation.
So, after several days and nights of travelling, they reached the borders of Gumilcund.
What an entry it was! Stranger even and more memorable than the young rajah's first arrival in the city that he was called upon to govern.
Runners had been sent out in every direction to seek for him, and when, late in the afternoon of a sultry June day, one of these came back with the joyful news that their rajah, bringing fugitives with him, was actually within the boundaries of the state, the enthusiasm of the people could no longer be suppressed. They poured out in their hundreds, armed men accompanying them, while in front of them rode Chunder Singh, the minister, and Vishnugupta, the priest, and when they saw the little group—the litter and its bearers, and the two horsemen riding beside it—joyous acclamations and shouts of welcome, and ejaculations of praise and thanksgiving, rent the air.
In Meerut those days had been days of trouble. On the 24th of May, the day following General Elton's arrival in the city, a strong detachment had marched out to join the troops that were fighting their way to Delhi. Many of the residents were of opinion that this decrease in their defensive force would seriously affect their safety; and night after night there were panics. But nothing happened. The rebels, who were daily and hourly being recruited by fresh regiments, had higher game to fly at, and it would not have suited their purpose to sit down before a strong and well-provisioned place like Meerut and wait for its surrender. This the principal men of the station began to realise at last, so that there was a greater sense of security.
In the tent where the Eltons lived there was deep distress and sorrow, for the General was dangerously ill. Fatigue, exposure, and mental anguish, aggravated by the pain of his wound, which proved more serious than they had at first imagined, had done their work. So long as the strain was upon him he kept up. When it was relaxed he fell. But for the perfection of his health and the iron strength of his will, he must have died that night. For himself, it may have been fortunate that his senses soon deserted him; but piteous it was to the poor women who loved and honoured him to hear the wild ravings of those awful days and nights. It was all about his soldiers. They were his children, his little ones. He believed in them, as he believed in himself. Springing up in bed, he would call the bystanders to witness how brave and true they were. He would challenge an imaginary adversary to question their faithfulness, asserting his own intimate knowledge of their character. Again and again he would recite the brilliant deeds of arms to which he had led them, and relate how they had delivered him from a cruel death. His gentle wife, waiting patiently by his bedside, wept bitterly as she listened. With all her dread of the future, and passionate sorrow and pity, she feared his returning to himself. If he was to be taken away, would it not be better for his sake that he should go now, before his heart was pierced by the dread knowledge of the truth? And as day after day went by, bringing little or no change in his condition, they began to fear that so it would be.
There was another anxiety pressing upon them. Through all these days no word had been heard of Grace. Whether the troops at Nowgong had been faithful, or whether they had risen, no one at Meerut knew. To poor Lady Elton, watching by her husband, and looking at the pale faces of her girls, as they came and went sorrowfully, doing what they could to help her, it would seem sometimes as if Grace was the dearest of all.
She was her first-born. It was her little plaintive voice, and the touch of her baby-hands, that had awakened in her heart the rapturous joys of motherhood. From beautiful girlhood she had blossomed under her eyes into a womanhood that was no less lovely. Always gentle, always good—too good, the mother said to herself now, with a contraction of heart that almost made her swoon. And it was not only the dread of losing her. If she had lain where her father lay, if they had known that in a short time she would breathe her sweet life away, bitter as the pang would have been, she might have borne it. It was this horror worse than death—this uncertainty—that slew her. It numbed her senses, till she wondered at her own indifference. It shattered her faith, so that, forgetting the others—the young creatures who depended upon her—she cried out piteously to a cruel God to slay her, and then wept and bemoaned herself over her own wickedness and hardness of heart.
Sometimes those about her saw a wild look in her eyes, as if she would do some desperate deed. Yaseen Khan, the faithful bearer, who could read her face as if it were an open book, saw it, and, late one night, when he and she were alone watching, he crept to Trixy's bedside and awoke her. 'Mem Sahib is ill,' he said, brokenly. 'Let Missy Sahib come and see.'
In a moment Trixy was on her feet. They all slept in those days so as to be ready for any alarm. 'What is it, Yaseen?' she said.
He led the way to the General's bedside, and Trixy saw her mother, whom she had left sitting beside him quietly in dressing-gown and slippers, putting on her boots and throwing a shawl about her shoulders. She looked up when the girl approached her. 'I am glad you have come, dear,' she said very quietly. 'Father is asleep; I think he will do now, so I am going to look for Grace. You will help Yaseen to take care of him while I am away.'
'But, darling,' said Trixy, flinging her strong young arms about her mother, and making her sit down, 'you can't now. It is the middle of the night.'
'That is why,' whispered poor Lady Elton; 'don't you see, you little goose, that they won't let me go in the daytime? Now, like a good child, loose me. There will be plenty of time for kisses when Grace comes back.'
'Mother darling, you are dreaming. Will you leave us all, father and the rest of us? And you couldn't find her alone. Mother, listen to me. God help us!' cried the poor child, 'she doesn't understand. Yaseen, help me! She will die if she goes out.'
'She will die! she will die!' echoed the poor fellow. 'Missy Sahib, it is of no use.'
'It is of use, and she shall not die. Yaseen, you are an idiot,' cried Trixy. 'Call Maud Sahib, and run as fast as you can for the doctor.'
The interruption, meanwhile, had confused the unhappy mother, and she was looking before her in bewilderment.
'He left the ninety-and-nine in the wilderness,' she murmured, 'and went after the one that was lost. Why did it come into my head? I can't remember. And lost! Who is lost? Not Grace, you silly child! She has been sitting beside me all night. I thought she was being hurt, but it was all imagination. No one could hurt Grace.'
'No, no one;' echoed Trixy, whose eyes were full of tears.
'There; I was sure of it. But your father has been going on so strangely.'
'Father is asleep,' said Trixy. 'He will see things more clearly when he awakes. You ought to sleep, too, mother, and then you will be ready to talk to him.'
'Sleep; yes, I should like to sleep, but I can't. There is something strange in my head and it keeps me awake. What is that? What is that?'
'Only the doctor,' said Trixy, springing to the curtain before the door of the tent. 'And—and—Bertie.'
Maud had joined them in the meantime.
She had more power over her mother than Trixy, and between her and the doctor Lady Elton was persuaded to take a composing draught and to lie down. Trixy in the meantime drew her friend Bertie aside. 'Something must be done,' she said, 'or my poor mother will go mad. Can't you help us?'
'God knows,' he answered earnestly, 'that I would if I could. I asked to be allowed to take out cavalry and scour the country. I feel certain that I should have brought back news at least. But I am forbidden. Lives, they say, are too precious to be wasted in profitless enterprises. If I had no command I would go out alone.'
'That would be much too dangerous,' said Trixy, shuddering. 'We must think of something else. How would it do for one of us to go out disguised?'
'One ofyou!' said Bertie with a sad smile.
'Well,me, if you will have it. I could dress up as a native woman, and I know their way of talking. Listen while I mimic ayah.'
'But, my dear girl, don't you know that the poor native servants are as much hated as ourselves? Numbers of them have been killed already. Besides, what would you do?'
'I might at least find out where Grace is, and then, perhaps, you would take out soldiers to rescue her.'
'An impossible plan,' said the young fellow. 'But——'
'Well, Bertie, go on for heaven's sake! Have you thought of anything?'
'I have made no plan, if that is what you mean. I was only thinking—have you heard, by the bye, where the young fellow is who visited you here two months ago? You called him Tom.'
'Curiously enough I was just thinking of him,' said Trixy. 'He has large estates somewhere in Central India, left him by a cousin or some one of that sort, who was an Indian rajah. Maud and I felt sure that he would become an Indian too. He was very much changed when we saw him. In England long ago he used to be fond of Grace. What made you think of him now?'
'I have just had rather a curious piece of news. I meant to find out all I could about it, and tell you later. They say that a new sort of character has sprung up in these parts—an English rajah. The story is so romantic that I can scarcely believe it. The state he has come over to govern is an ideal place, a kind of little Paradise, so at least they tell me, where for the last two or three generations the most admirable laws have been in force. The late rajah seems to have been half a philosopher and half a saint. He bequeathed his rule to a young man brought up in England, recommending him to his people by a curious fiction. He said, it appears, that in the person of this young man, who seems to be strikingly like him, he would himself return to the earth. If it was a stroke of policy, it was clever and bold, for his people believed him. The story goes that they received their new rajah with acclamations.'
'It is Tom! I am sure it is Tom,' interrupted Trixy, breathlessly. 'I heard the beginning of the story at Surbiton. Father knows it all; and they said then that he had seen visions. Oh, how strange! how strange everything is! Can't we send to him?'
'Wait a moment,' said Bertie. 'I have more to tell you. The young rajah, who, of course, is on our side in this struggle, has spies everywhere, and he has managed to send one of them into Meerut. I saw the man just now. He looks like a faquir. They took him at the outposts an hour or so ago, and he has been with the General ever since. I heard from Hitchin, who was in the General's quarters, that he was from Gumilcund. I thought of waylaying him presently, and trying to send a message to his master.'
'You think of everything! What should we do without you?' said Trixy, her eyes glistening.
She lifted the curtain of the tent and looked out.
'I should like to go too,' she said. 'It would be so delightful to bring good news to dearest mother. But I suppose——'
'No, no; it would never do. You must wait patiently a few minutes. I will come back as soon as ever I can,' said Bertie.
In the silence of the tent, with only sleepers about her, Trixy waited. She would tell no one of the great hope that had sprung up in her heart, for fear it might be delusive; but she did not think it would be, and rosy visions floated before her as she sat watching. The darkness waned, and the light came pouring in, and, remembering suddenly her dishevelled condition, she ran back to her own compartment of the tent, and made herself trim and neat. Then she looked in upon her father and mother, who were, both of them, asleep. The doctor had been with them since Yaseen Khan brought him back. He smiled at the bright little maiden, and told her that if she would have a cup of coffee made for him he would remain with her parents until they awoke.
'They are both better,' he said; 'but I rather dread their coming to themselves.'
'Oh!' said Trixy, with a radiant smile. 'I think I shall have good news for them.'
By this time the three other girls were stirring, and Trixy, who wished to be the first to hear the good news, went out into the compound.
It was scarcely day, for the sun had not leapt above the hard rim of the horizon; but there was a bright diffused light in the sky, and the night-breeze was sinking to rest. This was the hour when, in the dear old days of peace and freedom, they used to return from their morning ride, she and Bertie, as often as not, riding together, and Maud and Lucy, each with her own attendant, laughing and talking in front of them. They never talked seriously. That was not their way. Grace was the only serious one of the family. Banter, and chaff, and jokes, whose very feebleness made them laugh, formed the staple of their talk. Then would come the gay little breakfast in their lovely verandah, crimson and purple and azure-blue flowers peeping in at them between the pillars, and the foliage of their glorious fig-tree making a screen against the sun. As in a dream Trixy saw it all—her gentle mother and Mildred, who was too timid to ride, waiting for them, and the guests who would drop in—the gallant young colonel of General Elton's favourite regiment, who had paid with his life for his reckless confidence in his men, and the judge of the High Court, with his delightful inimitable stories of Hindu and Eurasian pleaders: he had gone too, dying at his post like a gallant gentleman: and his daughter, pretty Ellice Meredith, whom they all loved, although she could not do much more than quote 'papa'; Ellice, who had died of fright and anguish when she heard the awful news—these and many others, some with them, and some taken away; but all changed. 'I wonder,' said poor little Trixy to herself, 'if we shall ever, ever have the heart to laugh again.'
She did not feel much like laughing then; but, in the next moment, to her own great surprise, she found herself laughing heartily. The figure which provoked this explosion—it was that of a tall man wrapped in a white garment, having his forehead streaked with red and white clay, and carrying a staff in his hand—joined in her laugh, and then said, with some touch of disappointment, 'I didn't think you would know me at once.'
'Didn't you, Bertie?' cried the girl. 'Well, I'm sorry I disappointed you; but I'm ridiculously keen-sighted everyone says, and then I know you so well. Try some one else.'
'I have tried the General. He was quite at sea; thought I had come in with some wicked intention.'
'But what is it for?' asked Trixy.
'I am going out with the faquir.'
'Oh!' she gasped. 'Why?'
'Didn't we agree that some one ought to go?' he said.
'Yes; but——' She paused to check down her tears.
Bertie was looking at her strangely. He would think her a coward, a goose. And so she was, but she could not help herself.
'Go away!' she said, in a stifled voice.
'Go away, Trixy!'
'No; don't. I—I am a fool. Tell me——'
And here, to her own consternation and wrath, she broke down completely, and began to sob and cry like a child.
Bertie went closer to her. His heart, too, was curiously soft. To see this wild, glorious, high-spirited little creature, whose courage and audacity he had so often admired, sobbing with childish abandonment, was almost more than he could bear. 'You are generally so brave,' he said, in a choked voice. 'Why——'
'Oh; don't ask me!' she sobbed. 'Everything has been so strange; and I was thinking of the old days. What fun we used to have. And—and—Bertie, you will take care of yourself?'
'Darling, I will try.'
The endearing word had sprung from him unwittingly; but, having escaped, it could not stand alone. He paused for a few moments to collect himself, and then went on gravely, 'You will say that this is no time to speak of ourselves. I think so too; and yet, for one moment, just for one moment—Trixy, give me that little hand; let me hold it while I tell you what you are to me, you bright, beautiful, brave little creature!'
'Hush, Bertie! hush!' she interrupted brokenly. 'You mustn't; you don't know me in the least. It is you who—but I shall make you conceited if I say any more. And,' with a rainbow-like smile, 'we always tabooed tu-quoques in our nursery. Come back safely, and we shall see.'
'See what, Trixy?'
'That is for you to say, not me,' she said, dropping a little curtsey. 'But I am better now; and so, I hope, are you. Tell me about Tom. Does the faquir come from him?'
'I think so. The man brought a letter for your father or mother. It is only a scrap of paper. He carried it in a quill, which he says he could have swallowed if he had been searched. Will you take it in?'
'They were both asleep when I came out,' said Trixy, 'so I think I may venture to read it.'
She opened the little roll, read the words it contained, and gave a joyful exclamation. They were as follows:—
'I have just come back from Jhansi, with fugitives. Nowgong has risen, but there has been no violence; and my men are on the track of your daughter Grace. I hope she will be brought in to-morrow.'Thomas Gregory,'Rajah of Gumilcund.'
'I have just come back from Jhansi, with fugitives. Nowgong has risen, but there has been no violence; and my men are on the track of your daughter Grace. I hope she will be brought in to-morrow.
'Thomas Gregory,
'Rajah of Gumilcund.'
'There was another letter for our General,' said Bertie, when Trixy had read these words to him. 'It contained an urgent request that some trustworthy and intelligent person should be sent to him. He suggested this disguise, and I got myself up in it with the help of the faquir.'
'When will you start?' said Trixy, who was trying to speak firmly.
'The faquir thinks we had better wait until dusk. After we are outside it will be all right, for our supposed sacred character will ensure us respect. But no one must see us leaving the station.'
'Then come in and breakfast with us, and we shall see if the others recognise you.'
The experiment was perfectly successful; for when, preceding Trixy, the strange figure of the priest appeared suddenly in the compartment of the tent where the girls were at breakfast, they flew away with stifled cries, and Trixy had some little difficulty in persuading them that he was a friend in disguise.
When they were all certain of one another it was decided that neither of their invalids should hear of the dangerous experiment until it was over.
To Trixy fell the joyful task of taking in the precious letter to her parents. She found them better. Lady Elton had forgotten her painful dream of the night before, and the General was returning slowly to consciousness. In the midst of the deep depression that weighed him down, as the reality of what had for so many days seemed like a vision forced itself upon his heart, this news of Grace came like a single ray of sunshine.
'If I bring you all safe out of it,' he said to his wife, 'I shall perhaps be able to forgive myself.'
Through the melancholy days which followed Bertie's departure, this was the burden of his cry—could he forgive himself? His wife and the girls reasoned with him. He had not, they said, been more deceived than others. That these Indians were inscrutable beings the curious inconsistency of their actions showed. One and another came in from outside to sit with him, and they spoke in a similar strain; but his answer was always the same: 'If I didn't know, I should have known. I am not fit for my post. I will lay it down.' Still more pitiful were his outbursts of wrath against himself for what he called his light-hearted folly, in taking his wife and five daughters from their quiet home, and exposing them to the danger and horror of this terrible time. 'I am a fool, an idiot,' he said to one of his friends one day. 'Think of it! Those six innocent creatures—so innocent and helpless, that they don't know the full horror of their situation—suffering for me, because I was a blind, credulous fool. God in heaven! It is almost more than a man can bear!'
This from the stern, self-contained man who, only a few weeks before, had ridden boldly through a hostile country, commanding the respect of the fiercest enemies of his race, by his magnificent audacity, was infinitely pitiful.
And meanwhile Trixy's brave little heart fell, for there came no news from Bertie. During the latter days of June they heard little news of any kind at Meerut. The surrounding country had fallen back into the state of anarchy from which the strong hand of the British Government had redeemed it. In all the towns where there had been risings, the gates of the gaols had been thrown open, and convicts, released from their fetters, joined themselves to men of their caste—robber tribes, who had of late years been compelled to earn their bread by honest toil, but who had never lost their longing for the dear old days of rapine. These roamed through the country, committing deeds of violence everywhere. Turbulent spirits—dispossessed landowners in many cases and adopted sons of dead rajahs—went, with their followers, from village to village, raising forced contributions for the Holy War. With them came men of professed sanctity, Indian faquirs and Mohammedan moulvies, who carried firmans from the emperor, enthroned, as they asserted, in Delhi, and distributed, in his name, high-sounding titles and robes of honour. There were, indeed, moments of uneasiness amongst them. The battle of Ghazee-ood-deen-Nugger, between Delhi and Meerut, on the 31st of May, and the still more notable victory at Budlee-Ka-Serai, only five miles from the Imperial city, showed them that the race they were defying had life in it still. But what they lacked in audacity they gained in numbers. The English victories, moreover, decisive as they were for the moment, had little permanent effect. The army was like a swimmer in a stormy sea. As, with force and skill, they clove one wave of humanity, others surged up behind them innumerable, and not the wisest could say whereto this thing would reach. The people were encouraged to think that it would have no end; that from north to south, and from east to west, the whole of the land would rise in insurrection.
It is difficult, however, to make any adequate picture of what the state of India actually was in that disastrous year. We who were in the midst of it have forgotten, our impressions have grown dim. Those who were not lack the sense which would enable them to grasp it. For security is the watchword of our modern life. To be robbed of this—to live consciously, day and night, on the brink of an abyss—to see the earth open, and the subversive forces which are for ever underlying it, break upwards in ravage and desolating fury—to have all our softnesses and superiorities swept away, and, in their place, terror, nakedness and an aching sense of our own insignificance—who of us all can fitly image it? I cannot, I know, although I took part in it all long ago. Yet sometimes, even now, a nightmare vision will flash it all back again. I will hide, breathless, in the jungle; I will listen to the shouts of infuriated mobs that seem to be always at my heels; I will plunge into a river, and strike out for dear life; I will crawl on shore at dead of night to rest my aching limbs, and measure sadly the distance that divides me from my friends; I will listen to tales that make the hair of my flesh stand up with horror, and try feebly to understand that they were our very own—the dear women and fair children that made the rapture of our lives—who have been hacked and hewn, and torn limb from limb, by fiends in human form. I will feel the blood in my body like fire, and the strength of a hundred will rush into my limbs, and I will grasp my weapon and slay—slay—till my heart is sick and my head faint; and still there will be the same awful, insatiable thirst that nothing can slake. And then, trembling, I will awake, and fall down on my knees and thank the Father of Mercies that the terror is over, and that the greater number of those who took part in it—Indians as well as English—are at rest.
We return to Gumilcund, where Tom had been established several days. The warmth of the welcome he had received and the calmness and wisdom of Chunder Singh, his counsellor, had helped him to regain the balance of mind which he had nearly lost in the late expedition. It was perhaps fortunate for him that he had no time to brood over the terrors of the hour. There was much stir in the city, and so soon as it was known that the rajah had come back, nothing was done without consulting him. It gave him a sad sort of amusement to find that he was looked upon by many not as a sovereign alone but as a supernaturally gifted oracle. And, in fact, he was often surprised by his own insight. Stranger as he was, he seemed to see instinctively into the heart of difficulties that puzzled the wisest heads in the city, and to propose solutions which were only reached by other men after arduous and prolonged thought. No doubt this was due, in a great measure, to the study he had given to the politics of India, and especially to the constitution of his own state; but it would come to him sometimes, with curious force, that this was not all; but that another intelligence, higher and more original than his own, was working within him and producing ideas of which he, Tom Gregory, the English-bred youth, could never have dreamed in the days that had gone by.
His position was a critical one, for Gumilcund lay in the very centre of the seething mass of insurrection that was converting the fair region of Central India into a desert. Several of the smaller native states were looking anxiously towards her to see what she would do. Those who had already cast off their allegiance sent haughty messages, threatening untold horrors if she did not join in the Holy War. The English Resident, who had courageously forced his way back to his post on the first hint of danger, used his influence on the other side; but this, as we have seen, was not necessary. Gumilcund had already taken her part. In one particular Tom was more fortunate than his loyal neighbours, his army, owing to the wise provisions of former rulers, being recruited from the lower and not the higher castes. Although, therefore, as a body of men, they were less magnificent to look upon, they had in them a root of loyalty that was altogether lacking in the haughty Brahmins and proud Mohammedan warriors, who formed the bulk of the Company's native contingent.
It was now proposed by the Resident that a body of these faithful troops should be sent to Delhi to help in the siege. On consulting Chunder Singh and Vishnugupta, both of whom knew the minds of the people, Tom found that nothing would please them more than that the army should be employed in such service.