Being thus satisfied, he announced his wish, which was responded to joyfully. Throughout the city there ran a glad tumult of expectation. Hundreds of trained men offered themselves as volunteers; and, out of these, a picked body of horsemen and foot soldiers was chosen, the command being given to a young officer of the Kshatriya caste, who had been brought up in the household of the late rajah.
Tom was overwhelmed, in the meantime, with sorrows of his own. He thought of his friends—the stubborn old General, of whom he had heard as travelling through the disturbed districts with a weak escort—sweet Lady Elton and the girls—his companions of the tranquil voyage in the 'Patagonia,' which seemed so long ago; and all of them seemed to be crying out to him to help them.
One effort he had made, and this, as we have already heard, had been so far successful that his agent, the versatile Subdul Khan, who could be groom, snake-charmer, pedlar or holy man at pleasure, had forced his way into Meerut and delivered the two messages, for answers to which Tom was now impatiently waiting.
He had written hopefully; but he was far from feeling easy; and, in fact, as day after day went by, bringing no news of Hoosanee, an anxiety for which words have no name took possession of him.
During the day-time he managed to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness; but at night, when everyone was shut out, and that curious double consciousness which was at once a comfort and a bewilderment would retire into the background of his being, there would rise from his tortured spirit a great and bitter cry. Grace—his beautiful, tender darling—lovely as a vision, pure as a saint. Grace, whom he would willingly have shielded, if his own life were to be the forfeit—where was she? Then, with a groan, he would spring up and pace the marble floor of his chamber, and fling his arms about as if he were at war with demons, and cry out to the All Merciful to kill him, and to let his darling live out her sweet young life in peace.
It was one of these restless nights towards the middle of June. All day long he had been hard at work and almost unconscious of any special pain. It had been sultry exceedingly, the skies like molten-brass, save over the western horizon, where leaden-coloured clouds were gathering in battalions, and the touch of the earth like a thrice-heated furnace. Tom, who was so much exhausted that he thought he must sleep, visited the little Aglaia, as was his nightly custom, listened for a few moments to the prattle of her and her ayah, and then retired to his own apartment. It was in this room that the late rajah had breathed his last; on which account partly, and also for its space and coolness, and the beautiful view from its low latticed windows of the fantastic Indian garden, and the little azure blue lake, and the low green hills behind the city, Tom had chosen it for its own. When he went in that night he found it dimly lighted by heavy wax candles that stood in sconces against the wall; the water in the marble canal that intersected it and in the small fountain that sprang from a basin in a recess at its upper end murmured dreamily, and through one of the lattices there stole in the silver rays of a young moon. At first the space and silence had a soothing effect upon him. He flung off the sword which he had been carrying all day, drew his revolver out of his belt, and threw himself down, just as he was, on one of the thick padded mattresses that lay on the marble floor. But he could not sleep. The moment he laid his head down upon his pillow the torturing thoughts began again, and he was obliged at last to spring from his bed, and to court the physical weariness which might bring sleep by pacing his room rapidly. The heat was stifling, or was it the fever in his blood? He could not tell; but he thought that, with all his strange experiences, he had never felt so strange as now, and for a few moments he forgot everything, even to the horror that was continually haunting him, in watching his own sensations.
Flames! leaping flames! Every part of his body was enveloped in them. They rose above his head, filling his eyes with blood; they made the veins of his body their pathway; he saw them before him, lying in fiery pools on the marble pavement, so that his feet were rooted to the ground and he dared not stir. This for a few moments, during which he fought passionately to regain his self-possession. Then shutting his eyes, he made a dash for one of the marble lattices and laid his forehead against the hard, cold stone. It seemed to him presently that his senses were slipping away from him—that he was falling into a stupor or swoon; and he must actually have lost consciousness for a time; but how long it lasted he could not tell. A breath of cool air, soft and tremulous as the kiss of loving lips, aroused him; and, with a curious sense of refreshment at his heart, he looked out. At first he saw nothing. It was the hollow blackness of a moonless Indian night that smote upon his eyeballs. Then, gradually, he began to see dim ghostly shapes moving in slow procession across the face of the sky. He was aware too of a curious, subdued tumult, multitudinous whisperings, growing, now and then, into a low shriek or wail, and with them a rushing noise as if winged creatures innumerable were sweeping by. With a dreamy sense of relief, which was as incomprehensible to himself as everything else about him, he stood gazing and listening, and the tumult grew; shriller and more piercing were the voices of air and sky; the earth strained and groaned as if the invisible forces hidden within her bosom were struggling for freedom; a mighty wind, that swayed the pendent branches of the banyan-tree in the court below, and shook the withered pods of the acacias, till they rattled like dead men's bones, rushed through the garden.
Then, suddenly, everything went. The heavens vanished away in abysmal depths of blackness. The ghostly shapes in the middle air—the dim outline of the trees, the dusty whiteness of the earth—all these were gone. The monsoon had broken, and, in all the world, there was nothing else.
How they fall—those torrents, those sheets of water, rushing through the air, making the sun-baked earth hiss as they touch it—falling, with dull, delicious splash into the lake!
Tom has pressed his face close to the lattice, and put out his hands to catch the drops of water that are running from the eaves of his house.
'Now God grant there are no fugitives abroad to-night!' he says to himself.
The words have scarcely escaped his lips before a sound, more definite than those of the tempest, strikes upon his ear. Some one down below is knocking for admission. In the next instant, just as he is about to go out and see who it is, he hears a brief parley, followed by the opening and shutting of the door that leads to his private apartment. There follow a few moments of suspense, and then Ganesh, the chuprassie, who is one of the most trusted of his servants, stands before him. Ganesh carries a torch, by whose light Tom sees that there is a strange glitter in his eyes.
'What is it?' he says. 'Who came in just now?'
'Excellency,' answers Ganesh bowing low, 'Subdul Khan, his Honour's syce, has come back.'
'Subdul! Thank heaven! Show him in!' cries Tom, in great excitement.
'Excellency——'
'Do you hear me, Ganesh?'
'Yes, master, Ganesh hears.'
'Then why——'
'Let my master have patience! Ganesh would speak with him before he sees the Sahib?'
'A Sahib—an English Sahib?'
'Excellency, he is in the hands of Hoossein Buksh, who will give him all he needs. He was wet through with the rain, and stained with travel, and he asked for water and fresh clothes before presenting himself to your Highness.'
'Right! Quite right! You have done well, Ganesh. But where is Subdul?'
'He is close at hand, Excellency; but let him wait. Ganesh, too, has a message for your Highness.'
'From whom?' gasped Tom. 'Hoosanee?'
'No, Excellency; and yet it has to do with the errand on which Hoosanee was sent. Had his Highness been pleased to trust Ganesh with his confidence, he might—but'—dropping his voice to a still humbler tone—'I am delaying, and your Highness, I can see, is impatient. The message of which I have the honour to be the bearer is from the illustrious Dost Ali Khan.'
'A traitor and a rebel,' said Tom, sternly. 'Do you mean to tell me that one of my servants has been in communication with him?'
They were still close to the marble lattice. The storm had increased in violence, and so fearful was the tumult that they could scarcely hear one another's voices. Tom moved to the centre of the room, and, feeling almost too weak to stand, threw himself down on one of the mattresses.
'Explain yourself,' he said, as firmly as he could. 'I would not condemn you unheard.'
Ganesh had followed him; he stood at the foot of his couch, looking down upon him.
'Your Excellency,' he said, with that curious dignity which generally characterises an Indian who respects himself, 'I knew Dost Ali Khan in the days of his greatness. Was I to forsake him when he was poor and deserted?'
'Certainly not, Ganesh; but, if I am to believe what I hear, he is poor no longer.'
'If your Excellency means that Dost Ali Khan, the son of the late rajah's friend, has raised the standard of revolt, he is right. He has done it to recover his own. But to my master he means well. He has not forgotten Delhi, and his food and rest in my master's tent.'
'But the message,' said Tom impatiently.
Ganesh hesitated a few moments, then he opened his vest and drew out a small roll of paper, which he placed in his master's hand, adjusting the light so that he could read it.
'Is this from Dost Ali Khan?' said Tom.
'Let my master read what is written,' answered the chuprassie.
Tom read the message, and re-read it. Then he looked up with blazing eyes.
'Do you know what is in this, Ganesh?' he said.
'Would Ganesh read a letter that was written for the eyes of his master?' answered the man.
'That is an evasion; and I do not ask if you have read. I ask if you know.'
'Where could Ganesh have seen the illustrious Dost Ali Khan?'
'Another evasion. Will you—can you—answer me directly? Do you know, or have you any suspicion of, the contents of this letter?'
Thus directly appealed to, Ganesh hesitated. He was a good servant, but he shared the weakness of his countrymen, in that the answering of a question with straightforward directness was so difficult to him as almost to amount to a physical pain.
'If,' he murmured, 'Ganesh has his ideas, why should he speak of them? They may be wrong, and then——'
'Wrong or right, I should like to hear them. Come, Ganesh, if you love me, as I think you do, answer frankly. God knows that, for the dear sake of the woman I love, I would willingly encounter any danger; but if it were useless, if I were to thrust my feet into a cunningly laid trap without helping her, of what good would that be to any of us? Answer me, you who know the man who wrote this letter. Is it a trap?'
'Master,' cried Ganesh, forgetting his caution. 'I beseech you to take the word of your servant. It is no trap. If it had been, does his Excellency think that Ganesh would have brought the message hither? Dost Ali Khan has not forgotten my master's kindness to him in the hour of his need—how he saved his life, and fed him, and gave him shelter, and comfortable words. Of this I am certain. Further, I know not.'
'But if you know so much, you must know more.'
Still more deeply Ganesh bowed his head, but he did not speak.
'Do you mean to say more?' asked his master.
'Excellency——'
'The time is passing. I must see Subdul and the English Sahib before the morning. Do you, or do you not?'
'If my master will deign to tell his servant——'
'No, Ganesh, I will tell you nothing. You must be frank with me before I can be frank with you. This, besides, is sudden. I must think and take counsel. You cannot speak, then leave me. Call Subdul, and let Hoossein Buksh tell the Sahib that I am ready to speak with him.'
There was no disputing this command. With a lingering look of perplexity and disappointment Ganesh left the room. A few minutes later, while Tom was still puzzling over the strange script, and wondering if any dependence was to be placed upon it, Subdul Khan, dressed in his faquir's disguise, stood before him.
He sprang up. 'You have succeeded, then?' he said eagerly.
'Yes, Excellency,' said Subdul, whose dark face was glowing with pleasure. 'I gave up your Highness's letters; and the Sahib who has come back with me brings word from his lords. We carried no letters, for there were two of us, and the task was so much the greater. But the face of the Sahib will be known to his Excellency, and he will be able to trust his word.'
'I would trust no one more than you, Subdul,' said Tom affectionately. 'My own brother—the son of my mother—could not have stood by me more truly than you have done. What would you have to mark my gratitude—gold, jewels, a robe of honour?'
'I would have nothing, Excellency, until these troubles are over,' said Subdul. 'For my master to call me brother is more than sufficient reward. And here comes the Sahib. Shall Subdul leave?'
'No. Stay where you are. You have earned a right to our fullest confidence. Have you eaten?'
'Yes, Excellency. While my master was talking with Ganesh food was brought to me.'
'Then sit down and rest,' said Tom, pointing to a pile of cushions close by.
Subdul obeyed deprecatingly, though as a fact his limbs, which had been in strong exercise for many hours, were nearly giving way under him from fatigue. Then, once more, the purdah before the door was lifted, and Bertie Liston, shaved and washed, and dressed in the whitest of English linen, and the most artistically built of Tom's English suits, which fitted him almost to perfection, came in. The contrast between this trim English gentleman and his present surroundings was so fantastic a thing that, excited and unstrung as he was, Tom could scarcely help laughing. As for Bertie, he made no bones about it; he laughed outright. Poor fellow! he was to hear in a few moments what would make him feel, like Trixy, that he would never be able to laugh again. He apologised, in the meantime, in his airy and graceful fashion.
'Excuse me, Mr. Gregory; but really this is—well—like a chapter out of Haroun El Raschid, or the other fellow, don't you know. You are Mr. Gregory, I suppose. Couldn't that good fellow, Subdul, give us a little more light on the subject? Ah! thanks,' as a pair of heavy gold candlesticks were placed on the table at Tom's elbow. 'Now we can see one another, and I begin to recognise you. We met at Meerut, if you remember, in the spring. Capital dance you gave, by-the-bye. Different sort of meeting this.'
'But a good meeting all the same,' said Tom, wringing Bertie's hand. 'And you look just as you did then. Sit down. Have they given you supper?'
'Enough to go on upon,' answered Bertie, laughing. 'A magnificent meal of some kind is being prepared outside. You are a regular Monte Cristo, old fellow.'
'Then if you can wait, and are able to talk, tell me for heaven's sake how they all are—the dear old General and Lady Elton and the girls.'
'They are pretty well, thank you. It was hoped, when we left, that General Elton had taken a turn for the better.'
'Has he been ill, then?' asked Tom.
'Ill? He has been at death's door. Haven't you heard of what he did?'
'I heard that he was travelling through the country with a small escort.'
'Yes, actually, after the mutiny at Meerut, when the troops were going off, regiment after regiment, like so many fire-rockets. I should think such a feat was never done before—rode through the most disturbed districts with only about fifty men, and not a soul molested him until he was close to Meerut.'
Here Bertie gave a dramatic account of the ambush near Meerut, and of how, by his pluck and resource, the General had extricated himself from it.
'What a grand old fellow he is!' said Tom, who had been listening with the deepest interest. 'And he is better?'
'We hope so, physically at least; but his mind is, for the present, curiously astray. I am sometimes afraid that it is a case of heart-break. He can't get over the treachery of the troops, especially of his own pet regiment, and he can't forgive himself for bringing his people over. If he knew for certain that his eldest daughter was safe I think it would go far towards restoring him.'
'Ah!' groaned Tom, 'that is just it. If any of us knew!'
'I thought you wrote——'
'What I wrote was true then. I had reason to believe that I had a clue, but I lost it again. I should tell you that I have been in constant communication with Nowgong for some time. One of the most trusted of my servants went there several weeks ago. We were certain the detachment there would rise, and I offered an asylum to all the ladies. The officers refused, and we tried to persuade Miss Elton to come away with her cousin and another lady, but she declined. In all the station there was the most insane confidence in the native troops. Seeing I could do nothing personally, I sent my servant to watch, and stationed men of my own in the neighbouring villages. I started for Jhansi, hoping to gain the protection of the Ranee for our poor friends there. But I was taken by a troop of Dost Ali Khan's soldiers, and kept prisoner for three days. When I got away it was too late.'
'What?' gasped Bertie, who had not yet heard these awful news. 'You don't mean to say that they were——?' He could not finish.
'Massacred, every one of them, except a little child whom I saved and brought back with me,' said Tom very sadly.
Bertie groaned. 'I had friends there,' he faltered. 'Poor devils! Well——'
'It was a swift death,' said Tom. 'They gave themselves up, as they had no food, and they were brought out together. The horror was soon over. I saw them lying out under the stars.'
'For the vultures and jackals to feed upon! God! God! Do you think there is a God, for I don't. Could He—would He——?' The poor boy, for he was little more, sank down and covered his face with his hands. When he looked up his eyes were bloodshot, and his face was ghastly pale. 'I had a sister there,' he whispered, 'lately married. She was—but what's the use of talking? A baby, too, a few months old. I went to see them in the winter, and the little rascal held out his fist for my sword. We said he was to be a soldier. Here'—leaping up—'let me go out of this. I can't stand it. I must punish the brutes, or——'
'You will, all in good time,' said Tom; 'but you must wait. We must all wait. Sit down and try to be reasonable. Remember the living.'
'Have we any right to be living—we men? Great heavens! The tender, the helpless, the innocent! No one to defend them. If I had only been there!'
'You could have done nothing,' said Tom sadly.
'Couldn't I? Who knows? At least I could have killed some of them. Oh God! Oh God! It will kill me.'
There was a pause. Bertie was sobbing like a child. Tom sat where he was, gazing out before him—his eyes hot and dry. He, too, would have wept, but he could not. The anguish of suspense, which is even more terrible than the horror of certainty, was working within him, and the solace of tears would not come.
After a few moments Bertie lifted his head. 'You will think me a poor weak fool,' he said feebly, 'but, by heaven, who could help it? I heard of them only a few weeks ago. They were pitying us, and feeling confident about themselves. The good Ranee would take care of them. Had she a hand in it?'
'I dare not say,' answered Tom. 'All I know is that she had herself proclaimed as an independent ruler, so she has at least consented to it. But why talk about what is over? We have something to do in the present, you and I. Here in Gumilcund we are staunch, thank God! and our object is one. We are weaving a net about the feet of these murderers of women and children, and you must help us. That was my reason for sending to Meerut. Now at last I hope the English Government will find out who its true friends are. In the meantime, Captain Liston, we must forget our private vengeance. It will be swallowed up in the larger. Are you listening to me?'
'Yes, yes. Only tell me what to do and I will do it.'
There followed a conversation, into the details of which it is not necessary to enter here, for the daring plans which it initiated, and which were afterwards adopted by the English rulers in this region of India, form part of the general history of the war.
When morning broke over the storm-swept country they left Tom's sleeping-room and went out into the banqueting-hall, where a fine repast had been spread out by the rajah's servants.
In the course of the morning they parted. Bertie, accompanied as before by Subdul Khan, went back to Meerut to lay Tom's sagacious proposals before the General in command there, while the rajah rode in state to the principal gate of the city to bid farewell to the gallant little army that was setting out for Delhi.
We must now turn aside for a few moments to relate as nearly as we can the experiences of a little band of fugitives who, late that evening, crossed the boundaries of Gumilcund. It was pitifully small, consisting of three ladies and one little child. For ten long days and nights these had been upon the road. Through the day they had lived huddled together in filthy huts and cattle byres, doing nothing, trembling at every sound, and passionately wishing the long hours away. At night, when the sun had gone down, and the brief twilight of the Indian evening had faded, the mysterious native guide, who from the beginning had stood by them, nobly risking his own life more than once in their defence, would come and lead them out to where an ekka or native cart drawn by two small bullocks would be in waiting, and while darkness lasted they would toil on.
It was a dreary journey, full of hardships and sickening anxiety, but, for the most part, uneventful; and as day followed day and night night, bringing no change, some of the poor creatures began to feel as if there was to be no end, as if they were destined so to go on for ever. Had they known what others were going through at that very time they might have been more reconciled to their own hard lot. For their strange guide was curiously regardful of their comfort. Every day and every night he brought them as good food as he could procure, with fresh warm water to wash in, and such fruit as could be found in the markets, neither asking nor accepting payment, while in every possible way he consulted their convenience. What his motive could be it was difficult to imagine. One of the ladies may have had some idea, but she chose to be mysterious. Nevertheless her confidence, which was apparent from the first, gave confidence to the others, all of whom had followed her lead when they decided to trust this man. They were beginning, in fact, to live down their fears, and to believe that he did really mean well towards them, when their confidence was shaken by the awful occurrence which I must relate.
They had been travelling for nine days, and they were now only one day's journey from their place of rest. This their guide, whose face became more radiant as they advanced, assured them one morning. A day of confinement, a night's jolting over the rough country ways, and their trials would be over.
On the night that followed this announcement they set forth upon their journey with lighter hearts than usual. The guide pressed their pace. For two days past storms had been threatening, and he was anxious to get in before the breaking of the monsoon season. He was not, however, very uneasy, for there were now no formidable streams between them and their goal, and the stout covering of the cart would protect the ladies from the worst of the rain.
The awful blackness, which precedes a storm in India, fell upon the little party two or three hours after they had started. There were then in the ekka four ladies and two children. The guide, who was walking at the bullocks' heads, stopped them for a moment to draw down the curtains of the cart, when one of the ladies said she would faint if she were kept so close, and another begged to be allowed to get down and walk beside the bullocks. The guide demurred; but the darkness was so great, and the place seemed so solitary, that he was easily persuaded to give way to her wish. She alighted, and the elder of the two children, in spite of the earnest entreaties of his mother, not, however, reinforced by the other ladies, who were rather glad to be rid of him for a few moments, followed her.
This change gave a little comfort in the cart, which went on quietly for some time, the lady outside holding the guide's girdle to help herself along, and the little boy clinging to her skirts.
The road along which they were moving was bounded by woods that made walls of blackness on the right hand and on the left. The sky was entirely covered. There was not a ray of light anywhere; but the guide, who knew the road well, had not the least fear. He was, in fact, congratulating himself on the darkness, which made a refuge for them, when suddenly his heart was paralysed by a sound of terrible significance. Even the poor beasts shivered as it rang through the woods. 'Deen! Deen!' It came from the right hand and from the left, filling the black spaces with its echoes. 'Deen! Deen!' It was the Mussulman battle-cry, and it was coming nearer—nearer, enveloping them, floating towards them on the wind.
A stifled scream came from those within the ekka. 'Silence, in heaven's name!' hissed the guide. 'The darkness is our only hope.'
Then to the lady, who stood erect by his side: 'Missy Grace, it is all over with them. The sepoys have lights. They will see the cart. But for you and the child there is yet a chance. Stand where you are!'
She obeyed him without a sound. He felt about on hands and knees and then came back to her. 'There is a nullah close by,' he whispered; 'hide!'
Scarcely knowing what she did, but hoping against hope that she might save her darling Kit, Grace, following the directions of the guide, leapt into a shallow ditch, and drew the long grass over herself and the child. 'If they let me live, I will come back to you,' he whispered; 'if not, go on straight to the next village and say that Hoosanee, the servant of the Rajah of Gumilcund, has sent you to his father. He will guard you till you reach the city. Farewell, noble lady!' And he returned to the cart. In the next moment Grace saw the flashing of torches and heard the trampling of armed men in the woods. Kit began to whimper. She breathed in his ear that, if he wished to see his mother again, he must be brave and good, and pressed him close against her breast to stifle his sobs. Then, with a strange composure at her heart, a feeling that the worst—the awful thing to which they had been looking forward so long—had come, she lifted herself up on hands and knees and looked out over the edge of the nullah.
Armed to the teeth, some of them riding, and others on foot carrying torches, the sepoys came pouring out of the wood. The light fell on the cart, and, with cries like those of wild creatures scenting their prey, they gathered round it. A man taller and better dressed than the others imposed silence by an authoritative word, and with a sweep of his naked tulwar thrust them back, so that they made a wide circle, having the cart in the midst of them.
The curtains were down, not a sound proceeded from within them, and the gallant guide kept his place at the bullocks' heads.
Her heart throbbing with admiration and terror, Grace watched him from her hiding-place. She heard his voice, clear and strong, as he addressed the leader: 'We are peaceful travellers. What do you want with us?'
'Draw open the curtains of that cart,' was the brutal answer. 'You have Feringhees there.'
'Youmay sin, for you have the power,' said the guide boldly. 'Idare not.'
'Do you deny that they are Feringhees?'
'They are holy women, bound under a vow to travel by night to the sacred river. Touch them and you incur the guilt of sacrilege!'
The leader laughed out loudly. 'Tell a better tale next time, son of an ass,' he said scornfully. 'We will run the risk and see the colour of their faces for ourselves!'
Upon this the unhappy guide began to dance wildly round the cart. 'Let my lord have pity!' he cried out. 'Feringhees or not, they are women and children who have done no wrong——'
He was not allowed to finish. The leader pushed him aside, and, amid the jeers of his men, began to feel along the sides of the cart. At his touch the ladies screamed, sprang out, and fell on their knees.
How the poor girl in the nullah preserved her senses, how she kept back the scream that was clutching at her throat, she never knew. Grace, palpitating with horror, grasping with her one hand at the sides of the nullah, and with the other pressing Kit's face to her bosom, so that he could neither cry out nor see, she stood, yet never for one moment did she lose her presence of mind.
Her friends rose, ran a few paces, saw by the flare of the torches that they were surrounded, and then knelt again, and implored piteously for mercy. For a few moments no one stirred. Then the voice of the leader broke the silence. 'I want one of you. The rest may go on their way in peace.'
Here the guide interposed with a shrill cry: 'What my lord wishes is impossible. We go on together or not at all.'
'Be silent! Who spoke to you?' said the leader.
'Excellency, for the love of the Prophet—by your hopes of Paradise, listen to me!'
'Do you hear?' roared the leader, making a dash at the poor man with his sword. 'Silence! I have to put a question to these mem-sahibs. If they answer it truly they are free. The daughter of that son of Satan, who calls himself the General Elton, is here. I am sent to take her prisoner. Let her give herself up and the rest are free!'
In the little group of trembling women there was neither sound nor stir; but their guide sprang forward.
'She is not here,' he cried.
'You lie, infidel!'
'Nay, by the Prophet's beard. I speak the truth! To satisfy you, I will give you the names of those here. Let them go on in peace, and——'
The leader broke in with an awful imprecation.
'That is enough,' he cried. 'If she has escaped me, all these shall die.'
He advanced threateningly. Even as he did so there came from close at hand a voice, so clear and still that it seemed to be ringing down from the upper air. 'They shall not die,' it said, 'I am here.'
It was like a vision. Hoosanee told his master so, when, sobbing like a child, he gave him an account of his stewardship. Pale as death; but, moving proudly like a queen, her head thrown back, her eyes burning under their lids; she stood suddenly amongst them—the young English girl who knew how to die.
'I am here,' she said firmly. 'Let me speak a word to the kind friend who has helped me so far, and then, if you have really any pity, kill me.'
A moment of silence followed her bold words. No one cried out. No hand was raised to touch her. Her heroism, it would almost seem, had touched some chord of gentleness even in these wild hearts.
She moved forward quietly towards her terror-stricken countrywomen, and whispered in English that they should get into the cart again. 'Kit is close by,' she said. 'You will find him when these men have gone. I have persuaded him to keep quiet.' Then, in a lower tone, 'I will tell you for your comfort what I was afraid to tell you before. You are going to an Englishman—a dear friend of mine. Give him my love, and tell him that I thank him for what he has done, and that I thought of him even to the last. Get in, dears. Cover yourselves up. Now kiss me, and good-bye.'
'Oh, Grace! Grace! Why did you do it?' sobbed one. 'We can't go on without you, and we could all have died.'
'Yes,' said the girl, with strange solemnity, 'we can all die. Thank God for that! Lucy, you know what I have here—something swift and sudden. Tell them at home and give them my dear love.'
'But we can't leave you so,' sobbed Lucy.
'You must! Get in, Lucy. Yes, if you love me. Would you kill all of them?'
In the meantime the unhappy Hoosanee had prostrated himself at the feet of the leader, and was pouring out entreaties and denials. 'She lies, Excellency. Do not listen to her. It is to save the others that she has spoken. She is not the child of the General. She is the sister of my master, the Rajah of Gumilcund, whose servant I am. Let her go on with us, and we will bless you all the days of our life.'
So and with many more words he pleaded, but they took no more notice of his entreaties than of the blowing of the wind among the trees.
Then Grace, who had bade good-bye to her people, came forward again, and touched him on the arm.
'It is useless, my poor Hoosanee,' she said. 'They are stronger than we are. I must go with them, and you will, for my sake, take my poor friends on. Remember Kit.'
At this moment there was a wild shriek, which made Grace wring her hands and weep. 'Oh, God! have pity!' she moaned. 'Is it not enough? That is his voice; I left him insensible.'
Maddened with terror at finding himself alone, the poor child had sprung out of the nullah, and made blindly for where the torches were shining. A sepoy seized him. Grace cried out frantically and covered her face with her hands. The poor women in the cart, who thought that it was her death-cry, gave a piteous wail. Hoosanee dashed forward and seized the barbarian's arm. 'Shame! shame!' he cried, 'it is a girl-child; give it to me!'
The light of the torches flashed on poor little Kit's long golden curls and delicate face, and there was a murmur of pity. The child was released, and he dashed headlong into Grace's arms. 'Go to Hoosanee, darling!' she whispered. 'He will take you to your mother.'
'No, no, no. I'll go with you. Take me! take me!' sobbed poor little Kit, the strain of his arms tightening.
'No, Kit, no; I can't. Oh God! It will kill me! Hoosanee, take him. Take him by force if you must. There! there!'
'Enough! Take them both,' cried the leader. A litter had been brought out. It was put down, and Grace was ordered to get into it. She made one last effort to send away Kit; but he clung to her more convulsively than ever. They got in together; the curtains were lowered; four stout coolies lifted the pole to their shoulders; a body of torch-bearers ranged themselves on either side; the horsemen and foot soldiers made a compact mass round them; and, in a few moments, they were being swung along at a swift pace—going they knew not whither.
Then Grace burst into tears, and Kit loosened his frantic grasp of her neck. 'Why did you come, child?' she said. 'You would have been safe with them. To-morrow they will be in Gumilcund.'
'But I'd much rather be with you,' said Kit, 'and it would be beastly cowardly to let you go alone. Don't cry, Grace. I'll take care of you now.'
The rajah had returned from seeing off his troops, and he and Chunder Singh were shut up together in close conclave. For the first time since fate had so strangely thrown them together they had been having a serious difference of opinion. The subject that divided them was the written message which the rajah had received from Dost Ali Khan, and which ran as follows:
'To-morrow the Englishwoman you seek will be in my hands. Come to me for her. Ganesh will show you the way.'
'To-morrow the Englishwoman you seek will be in my hands. Come to me for her. Ganesh will show you the way.'
After serious thought, Tom had come to the conclusion that it would be wise at once to obey this summons—a conclusion justified no doubt by the knowledge that rest and peace of mind would be perfectly impossible to him until he had tested its truth. Chunder Singh, on the other hand, who suspected a trap—he knew that Dost Ali Khan was anxious to separate Gumilcund from the English alliance—wished him not to act precipitately, but to endeavour, before putting himself in the power of so desperate a rebel, to find out what had actually been done by Hoosanee for the Nowgong fugitives.
The discussion waxed warm, and both men grew irritated. Tom insisted on starting at once. Chunder Singh used the most cogent arguments to stop him. Tom tore the arguments to shreds and tatters. Chunder Singh produced others, of an even more telling character, which, in their turn, were demolished by the ardent youth. At last Chunder Singh showed mutinous symptoms. He couched his resistance, indeed, in the most decorous language, being as prodigal as usual of submissive words and high-sounding titles, but beneath the velvet glove the iron hand was hidden. The rajah was made to understand that, having accepted the raj, he belonged to the people over whom he ruled, and that they would protect him, even against himself, if such a step was necessary. His late expedition had caused much murmuring. Having received him back in safety from the very jaws of death, the people did not feel disposed to allow him to risk his life again. He, Chunder Singh, would, in such case, be called to account. He besought his master, for all these reasons, to be patient, hinting pretty broadly that impatience would serve no good purpose, since he would not be allowed to thrust his head into any robber's den, even for the sake of a charming young lady.
This was expressed with so much deference, and brought out in such a roundabout manner, that it was some time before its actual significance dawned upon Tom. When he did understand his wrath was extreme. Forgetting, for a moment, the Oriental manners, in which he had taken such pains to perfect himself, he stormed at his Indian counsellor in the good old English fashion. What did the fellow take him for—a fool, or an idiot? Did he really suppose that he would allow himself to be dictated to? He strongly advised him to keep for the future to his own department, and to understand that, as far as his personal action was concerned, he intended to keep a free hand. He would exercise his own judgment with regard to his movements, and come and go at his own pleasure, without deigning to consult any of them. To all this Chunder Singh listened with an unmoved countenance. His face was a mask, behind which his irritated young master tried in vain to look. If he was surprised, if he was angry, if he was determined, it was not possible to say. They had reached this point—an uncomfortable sort of deadlock—when Tom heard light, flying footsteps in the corridor, and, looking out, saw his little friend, Aglaia, running breathless towards his room.
'What is it, darling?' he said. 'Do you want me?'
She ran into his arms. 'Ganesh says they are coming,' she cried, 'and ayah wants me to go to bed. Mayn't I stay up to see them?'
'Who are coming, dear? What does Ganesh say?'
Ganesh was close behind her. 'Excellency,' he said, bowing low, 'a runner has come in with news from Hoosanee, his Honour's servant.'
'Well! well! go on, for heaven's sake!'
'He has already entered the city. He brings with him some of the English sahib-log from Nowgong.'
'From Nowgong! Thank God! Chunder Singh, do you hear? They have come in. Now we can lie down in peace and sleep. Ganesh—why do you look at me so? Hoosanee, you said, from Nowgong?'
'Hoosanee, Excellency. He has come back safely.'
'And where are they?'
'The mem-sahibs are in a cart which travels slowly. The runner left them within the gate of the Princes. He came at his full speed.'
'Have Snow-queen saddled at once, and I will ride out to meet them. No, my little Aglaia, I cannot take you. It is too late, and the air is heavy after yesterday's storm. They must have been out in it, Chunder. Help him to have everything ready, Aglaia. Supper and sleeping rooms, and fresh garments. Thank heaven that I took your advice, my good friend! You always advise me well. Is Snow-queen ready, Ganesh?'
'The syces are bringing her round, Excellency. But——'
'Then don't stop me. I will listen to what you have to say presently.'
With a light and swinging step, as of one from whose mind a heavy burden has been taken, the young rajah walked along the corridor, and ran down the marble steps that led to the inner court of the palace. The night was as dark as pitch; but torch-bearers were running by the side of the horse, which had been saddled and was now being brought at a quick trot across the paved court.
In a moment Tom was in his saddle.
Chunder Singh, who had been speaking to Ganesh, sprang forward. 'Excellency,' he said, in English. 'Listen to one word before you go.'
'Let it be short, then, Chunder. Snow-queen is as impatient as I am. See how she is trembling,' and, he added under his breath, 'sheshall ride you to-morrow, little beauty!'
Chunder Singh, meantime, was faltering out his dreary warning, begging him not to set his hopes too high, but to prepare for disappointment.
Disappointment! He laughed out merrily. He would not even answer the well-meant, but foolish, words. He shook his bridle-rein, and touched Snow-queen with his heel, and in a moment she was carrying him at a quick trot through the arched gateway and out into the beautiful market-place, which to-night was empty of people. The runners, carrying torches, ran before them. The night air, heavily scented with the breath of moist foliage and faded blossoms, swept by. He was madly, fiercely, happy. This dark night-world was as a Paradise, in which his trembling heart was uplifted till it moved in a heaven of bliss for which words have no name. All his fine schemes, all his lofty aspirations, with the curious mysticism which had become almost a part of his being—where were they? Gone, as the vapours of morning go when the full radiance of the day has come.
Disappointment! What fool's tongue spoke that word of ill-omen? Hoosanee had come back—Hoosanee, who knew, who had read, the secret of his heart—and Hoosanee had brought back fugitives. That she was not amongst them would be impossible.
So terrible, so overpowering, was his joy, that there were moments of that frantic ride when he felt as if he could not bear it—as if it would kill him. Once, to the great solace of his light-carriers, who, stalwart and swift as they were, could scarcely keep up with him, he drew rein for a moment, and pressed his hand to his heart, whose wild, passionate throbs seemed to be choking out his life. A few moments—a few moments—and then—ah! there they are—a little covered cart, stealing slowly down the road—men carrying lanterns beside it—the guide, his noble Hoosanee, walking at the bullocks' heads! Now, what an idiot he has been not to order out carriages! She—they—should not thus make their entry into his palace. But it is dark now, thank heaven! and storms are threatening, and no one is abroad. To-morrow, when they are rested and refreshed, and clothed in fine raiment—to-morrow they will drive in state through his city.
But surely Hoosanee has seen him—why does he not hasten forward? And he is hanging his head, like one ashamed—he who has done this great and noble deed. What does it mean?
He spurs on. The cart stops, and Hoosanee approaches him, bowing low.
'Is all well—is all well, Hoosanee?' cries the poor fellow.
'Excellency, your servant has done what he could.'
'I know it; but—my good fellow, don't torture me. She is safe?'
'Sahib, she is in the hands of the All-Merciful.'
'Dead?'
'Excellency, in a few moments I will tell you all. There are three English ladies and a little child in the cart. They are fainting with hunger and weariness. Will not your Honour speak to them?'
For a moment Tom's head sank upon his breast. He could not. Then, making a fierce effort to recover himself, he dismounted, threw his reins to one of the syces and went up to the cart.
A wild white face, set round with an aureole of yellow hair, looked out at him. It was Lucy's.
'Oh!' she wailed. 'Where are we, and why are we stopping? Is this the end?'
'It will be the end of your troubles, I hope, dearest lady,' said Tom very gently.
'An English voice,' cried another lady hysterically. 'Thank God!'
'An English voice, and an English heart,' said the young rajah. 'I am taking you to my house, dear ladies. Command me as if I were your brother.'
He tried to go on, but he could not. The words choked him, and his heart was like to burst. Motioning to Hoosanee to take the cart on, he fell back behind it. As he went he heard the ladies' voices. They were speaking joyfully one to the other, congratulating themselves on their escape. Hungrily he listened, hoping still against hope that he might have misinterpreted Hoosanee. He heard two voices—then a third, much weaker than the other two, and, now and again, piercing his heart to a pity that almost slew him, the feeble wailing of a little child; but that voice, for the least of whose vibrations he would have given his life, he heard not. And so, with a dull heart that had yet to realise the fullness of its woe, he plodded on.
The syce brought up Snow-queen, but he refused to mount her. The mechanical movement, the contact with the dull earth, seemed fittest for him; now and then it would be to him even as if he were walking in a funeral procession—as if his youth, and all the hope and gladness of his life, were being carried out to be buried under fathoms of earth.
In the palace Chunder Singh and Aglaia had been busy, and everything was ready for the reception of the ladies. Ah! how delightful it was to the tired wanderers—all the little luxuries to which they were accustomed, the deep baths filled with warm scented waters, and the daintily spread meal, and the soft couches on which presently they would rest their weary limbs, above all, the tender, the reverential welcome. There was a solemnity—a sadness—about it that touched them curiously. But none of them knew what it had cost their entertainer to step forward as he did, and to hand them out of the cart, and to speak those kind words of sympathy and welcome.
'I am thankful to God,' he said earnestly, 'that you have found your way to me. You are safe here, for we are prepared for any number of enemies. Do me the favour of treating my house as if it was your own.'
'Oh, thank you! thank you!' they cried in one breath. But poor little Lucy, when the hand of the rajah touched hers, broke into a torrent of tears. 'Can nothing be done for Grace?' she wailed.
'Is she alive?' said the rajah.
'Yes! Yes! Oh! she was carried away, and we let her go—she, who had done so much for us! I shall never forgive myself that I did not go with her. Couldn't I go now—couldn't some one?'
'I will see Hoosanee. I will try,' said Tom chokingly. 'I think—but forgive me, I can't talk now, and you must rest. My people——'
From the corridor above a child's laugh rang out. Kit's mother, who was one of the little company, so reduced in strength now that she could scarcely speak, gave a little stifled cry, staggered forward, and would have fallen had not Tom caught her in time. 'How foolish I am!' she murmured. 'I thought it was Kit.'
'Your child,' said Tom tenderly, as, thinking of his own mother, he took her up in his strong young arms.
'Yes, my little Kit,' she moaned. 'They took him away. They were going to kill him; but they saw his beautiful curls, and they thought he was a girl. I beg your pardon for being so foolish. I think I can walk.'
But he saw that she was weaker than she thought, and he would not put her down until she was in the hands of Aglaia and her ayah.
Then he left them all to rest, sent a message to the Resident to let him know that they had arrived safely, and, at last, when he was sure that everything which hospitality demanded had been done, he sent for Hoosanee.
'Tell me everything,' said the rajah.
'I will try,' replied the poor fellow; 'but my master must not blame me more than he can help. I acted for the best.'
'Yes, yes; but—oh! Hoosanee, my servant, my friend,' cried Tom, breaking down now at last, and for a few moments giving way to his passionate grief. 'It is too terrible,' he went on, when the strangled sobs and the shivering of his limbs would let him speak. 'God knows I am glad to have rescued them; but I never thought—I never imagined—that you, knowing my heart as you do, would bring back the others and not her. How could it have been?'
Then Hoosanee told rapidly the story that we know.
'It was herself, master,' he cried. 'As your Honour lives, she was safe. They would not have found her, for the night was as dark as the jaws of hell, and to save the others I could have made a story, and the ladies would have helped me. We would have said that she was dead. I would have taken them on to my father's village and returned, when all was still, for her and the child. We should all—all have come in; but she is a daughter of Allah—too fine—too noble even to be paralysed by fear. When she heard the Soubahdar use threatening words she came out and they carried her away. I ask my master what could I do?'
'Nothing. You have done your best, my poor Hoosanee. And now it rests with me.'
'Not so, master. You cannot go out as I have done. You know neither the people nor their ways. If you can think who has taken her, tell me, and I will at least find out if she is alive and what treatment she is receiving. Master'—piteously—'do not deny me! It is not for your Excellency's sake alone, although to serve you is dear to me. It is for her. Ah! master, if you had seen her through all those nights.Theywere impatient; they would blame me sometimes, and say that I had not done my best; and sometimes, master, knowing a little English as I do, I could hear that they were angry with one another and the child. Butshewas always the same—always a kind look and a gentle word. "My good Hoosanee, my kind Hoosanee"—master, I hear her voice in my sleep, and I spring up and say to myself that if I do not go to her, if I do not try to save her, I am black of heart and degraded. Let me go then, I beseech you!'
'Hoosanee, it is neither fair nor right. Twice—three times—you have been in peril for me. You will become known. They will call you a spy—a spy of the Feringhees—and then what treatment can you hope for?'
'I can die, master,' said Hoosanee, nobly. 'That has been the fate of better men than I am in these last few days. But I do not think I shall die. I have that within me which says that I shall live to see these cruel days at an end. And does my master think that I will show the same face as I have done to these men? He must know little of the resources of the Indian. I will change myself so that my own father would not know me. Did my master know Subdul Khan when he went into the midst of the enemy's camp?'
'So you have heard of our adventure?' said Tom. Full of anguish as he was, he smiled faintly at the memory of that strange evening. 'Subdul was certainly sublime,' he went on. 'But you have only just come in, and he has left. How did you hear?'
'My master's friends are everywhere,' replied Hoosanee tranquilly. 'In all this region there is scarcely a village where they are not to be found. Byrajee Pirtha Raj, our revered ruler, was well known and warmly loved. Is not my master his true son?'
'If this is so,' said Tom, his voice trembling, 'if I have many friends amongst this people, is not that the more reason that I should go forth? I must, Hoosanee, I will. I tell you that if I stay I shall go mad.'
For a few moments Hoosanee paused. Then he went nearer to his master and threw himself at his feet. 'Will my lord pardon me?' he said in a low and humble voice, 'if I speak the thing that is in my heart.'
'Say what you will, Hoosanee. After what you have done for me it would be strange if I could be angry with you. But get up and speak quickly,' said Tom. 'Before the night is over I must be gone.'
'Master, that is just it!' cried Hoosanee. 'Should my master go? Listen! My lord who has gone—the mighty and excellent Byrajee Pirtha Raj—was once in such a difficulty as this of my lord's. Duty to his State and the good of his people drew him one way. On the other side——'
'Hush, Hoosanee! I will not listen to you. I know what you would say. Chunder Singh has said it before you; but it is useless. Nay, if the voice——! Ah! Why did you recall it? I will be myself to-night. I will not be another.' He had been talking in Hindostanee. Suddenly he paused. The words of the language which in these last few weeks had become to him almost as familiar as his own fled from his lips. It was in English—the dear language that had been his from his infancy, the language in which he had learned, and dreamed, and loved, and suffered, in which he had fought his childish battles and won the praise of those who were dearer to him than his life—that the thoughts welling up hotly from his passionate heart found utterance.
'Is it not enough?' he cried—not to his servant, for he had forgotten his presence—'is it not enough? Am I to be tortured for ever? I have tried this double life, and I cannot live it; I must choose to be one, and I choose to be myself. I am Tom Gregory. I am Grace's lover.'
There was a pause, during which he seemed to be listening to voices in the air. Hoosanee threw himself on his face and lay like one dead. Darkness gathered about them, and the silence in the great room was as the silence of the grave. And then the rajah's voice, deep and passionate, broke forth again.
'What are all these to me, cruel voice? Stay! Stay! For God's sake do not answer me yet, for I must fight this thing out with myself! She is one—an English girl, forsaken and distressed, and in danger of her life, a life that has little value for anyone but me. And they are many—thousands upon thousands. And, through them, I may influence countless myriads more. Do I not know it well? On the one side all these holding out their hands to me. On the other the little soft trembling hand of my love.' His voice broke. There followed another few moments of silence, and then he cried out again: 'Great heavens! why do I stop? Grace in danger! Is this paralysis that is stealing over me? I will shake it off. I will show them all, visible and invisible, that I have a will, that I can choose and act. Hoosanee!'
The piercing voice acted like an electric shock. Hoosanee sprang to his feet.
'I thought you were asleep,' said Tom in Hindostanee; 'as you are awake I want you to answer me two or three questions. Answer directly, for my stock of patience is nearly at an end.'
'Let my master speak,' said Hoosanee.
'If I confide in you,' said Tom, 'will you obey me blindly? Come, yes or no? I have had enough of arguments.'
'I am, as I have always been, his Honour's servant,' said Hoosanee with dignity.
'I suppose I must be contented with that,' said Tom, smiling grimly. 'Will you be silent?'
'As silent as the grave, my master.'
'Come, that at least has the merit of directness. You know Ganesh? Do you consider that you know him well?'
'I have known him for many years, Excellency.'
'You have reason to believe that he is a faithful servant?'
'Why does my lord——?'
'We may come to that presently. Answer my question before you put questions of your own.'
'Master, I have no wish and no reason to blacken the face of my fellow-servant before your Highness, but if my lord looks for a companion in this adventure it is not Ganesh that he should choose.'
'Why, Hoosanee?'
'He is a proud man, and a man of high caste. He could not change his countenance or serve my lord with subtlety, as Hoosanee or Subdul Khan could do.'
'Is this your only reason for thinking that he is not the man to go with me?'
'What other reason——?'
'For Heaven's sake answer me directly. Have I not told you that my stock of patience is nearly at an end?'
'I have no other reason,' said Hoosanee with dignity.
'Then go, my good Hoosanee, go at once, without asking me a single question, and tell Ganesh that I want him.'
Casting a look of wonder, not unmixed with reproach, on his master, Hoosanee obeyed. He was away some two or three minutes, for Ganesh, who had been sleeping in one of the corridors, would not appear before his master without carefully adjusting his turban and girdle. These minutes were spent by Tom in pacing his room rapidly, trying by the strong physical exercise to stifle thoughts.
'What a time you have been!' he said, when Ganesh, who looked as dignified, watchful, and correct, as if sleep were an impossible weakness, stood before him.
'And yet I have made haste,' he said humbly. 'His Excellency is surely more impatient than usual?'
'You are right, Ganesh, I am impatient. But what is that to you? I sent for you because I wish you to guide me at once to Dost Ali Khan's camp.'
'Dost Ali Khan, your Highness!' Ganesh's eyes were fixed on Hoosanee.
'Are you afraid that Hoosanee should hear the name of your friend?' said Tom.
'Why should I fear?' answered Ganesh boldly. 'My heart is white. Does his Highness wish that Hoosanee shall accompany us?'
'If it is his desire.'
'My lord knows,' said Hoosanee, 'what my desire is.'
'You would go without me, but that is impossible. And now, without any more loss of time, to our arrangements. Ganesh, how far is the camp from this?'
'It is not to a camp; it is to a fort that I am desired to take your Highness.'
'Where is it situated?'
'My lord will forgive me. I am forbidden to say. This I may tell him, that it is only one day's journey from the boundaries of Gumilcund.'
'So near? If we press our pace we may go and return before they miss us here,' said Tom. 'But why not tell me where the fort is? If I go with you I must certainly find out.'
'Will my lord pardon me? I am taking my instructions from others, and it is only in this way that I can help him. When he leaves Gumilcund he must go in a closed litter as a high-caste woman. If Hoosanee will go with us, his eyes must be covered till he reaches the boundaries of the forest.'
'But it is impossible! You are dreaming, Ganesh!'
'I wish I were dreaming, my lord. I wish I could take you to the dwelling of Dost Ali Khan by a bolder and surer way. But I have sworn by my God to show to no one the road thither. If my lord cannot give himself blindly into my hands he must think of it no more.'
For a second or two Tom paused. His eyes, piercing as stars, were fixed upon the face of Ganesh, who stood before him erect and proud, not so much as an eyelid trembling. At last he held out his hand.
'I believe you,' he said; 'make your own arrangements. If you are false to me——'
'If I am false, my lord, let death come upon me swiftly, and let my soul go down into hell,' said Ganesh fervently. 'Will my lord pardon me if I leave him for an hour? When I return I shall hope to tell him that everything is ready for a start.'
There was a knock at the door of the room.
'One moment,' whispered Ganesh, as Hoosanee went towards it, 'I must not be seen here.'
'True; Chunder Singh wants to stop me from leaving,' said Tom. 'Hide!'
Ganesh withdrew into the shadows—seemed literally to vanish into them, for Tom, who thought that he had his eyes upon him, could not tell the exact moment or the manner of his disappearing. There had been three in the room. There were now only two. The knocking was repeated. 'Go and see who it is,' said Tom to Hoosanee; 'whoever it may be, I must not allow him to stay with me long.'
Hoosanee drew aside the purdah before the doors and threw them open, and in the next moment Chunder Singh, followed by the English Resident, entered the room.
The minister cast a rapid and searching glance round the apartment, saw no one but Hoosanee and the young rajah, and, having made his salutation, drew back.
The Resident came forward with outstretched hand. 'You will forgive my intrusion, I am sure,' he said; 'but, when I heard that the poor ladies from Nowgong had arrived safely, I felt that I must thank and congratulate you.'
'Their safety is as dear to me as it is to you, sir,' answered Tom with some reserve. He was meditating how, without giving offence, he could get rid of his visitor.
The visitor, meanwhile, did not seem to be in any hurry. He was an expansive person, and he had a fine flow of language at his command, and having come across an Indian rajah who seemed to be as familiar with English as he was himself, he rather enjoyed the prospect of letting out some of his imprisoned ideas, the more so that Chunder Singh, prime minister to this mysterious young prince, and evidently a person of some insight, had begged him to impress certain views upon him.
'It is very kind of you to feel so,' he said, in answer to Tom's last remark. We should observe, in passing, that he had, as yet, only seen the rajah in such a subdued light as the present, and that he knew nothing of him, excepting that he was the adopted son of Byrajee Pirtha Raj, and that Lord Dalhousie, in consideration of the long and close alliance between the rulers of Gumilcund and the English, had pledged himself to sanction his succession.
'May I stay with you for a short time?' he went on; 'you smoke, I smoke too. If that would help talk——'
'I have made a vow not to smoke until an object very near my heart is fulfilled,' said Tom gravely. 'But that need not debar you from smoking if you will.'
He had neither sat down himself nor asked his visitor to take a seat. This was so unusual a circumstance that Chunder Singh, who, in the belief that his young master would speak more confidentially to his countryman if he were absent, was retreating towards the door, could not help pausing for a moment, and looking at him inquiringly.
'Join us if you will, Chunder Singh,' said Tom. 'I have nothing secret to say to Mr. Montgomery. In fact,' passing his hand over his eyes, 'I am afraid I should not be able either to talk or to listen very well to-night. It has been an exciting season, sir,' to the Resident, 'anxiety, labour, early and late hours, and I, you see, am new to this sort of thing.'
'Ah! yes, yes. So I believe. The late rajah might have done more wisely, perhaps, if he had accustomed you a little to the position. I said so to him more than once. "Your heir," I said, "ought to be with you. An English education is all very well in its way, and, up to a certain point, nothing could be more advantageous. But there is a limit." Well, that is all over. No doubt he expected to live much longer. Ah! his death was a sad blow to us all. I look upon it now as the beginning of all this misery. What do you think?'
'I am afraid I am not capable of any serious thoughts to-night,' said Tom; 'my eyes are nearly closed.'
'Dear, dear! I am very sorry, and I had so much to say to you; however, it will keep, no doubt. I will come to-morrow, with your kind permission, and pay my respects to the ladies, who may be glad to see the face of a fellow countryman, and you will allow me, then, perhaps, to express my deep sense——'
'Thank you,' interrupted the rajah, 'there is no need. As I have before had the honour of telling you, I look upon these English ladies as my sisters and personal friends.'
It was a little, just a little, audacious, the Resident thought. His sisters, indeed! Englishwomen! But those were not days when one could afford to slight friends, and he made the ordinary polite acknowledgments.
'As for to-morrow,' went on the young rajah, 'I am afraid that I shall be engaged all day. I am under a vow, as I have told you. No business connected with the State will require my presence, and I very much doubt whether I shall leave these rooms. In a few days, however, I will do myself the pleasure of calling upon you.'
It was a dismissal. The Resident bowed and withdrew, wondering over the dignity and reasonableness of the young rajah. 'Only shows what English education can do,' he said to himself.
Chunder Singh, in the meantime, lingered for a few moments. 'Your Excellency will really try to rest?' he said anxiously.
'Of course I will, Chunder. Don't you see that my eyes are half shut already?' answered Tom. 'Now pray leave me.'
'Will you promise me——'
'How dare you speak to me so?' cried the young fellow, lashing himself into a rage which he was far from feeling. 'Promise you, indeed! I will promise you nothing. Do you suppose that because I have accepted you as my counsellor, and listened to your advice, I intend to give myself up to you entirely? If you do, let me tell you that you are extraordinarily mistaken. I will do what I think right.'
'Yes, yes; so long as my lord does not run into danger!' cried Chunder Singh piteously.
'My dear friend,' said Tom, in his most English fashion, 'let me entreat you not to be a fool. When I say that I decline to be dictated to, that does not mean that I intend to assert myself by deliberately thrusting my head into a lion's mouth, or doing anything else of the same ridiculous nature. And now, for heaven's sake, go away! I like you too well, and I respect you too much, to wish to quarrel with you; but I tell you plainly that I am not quite answerable to myself to-night. If you continue to stand there looking at me in that absurdly piteous way I shall say or do something foolish.' Sighing deeply and making a respectful salutation, Chunder Singh, to whom this new attitude of his young master was deeply bewildering, not to say alarming, took his leave.
In the corridor he paused. Hoosanee was still with the rajah. There was no one else. The rest of the servants were scattered. Several of them had been told off to attend upon the new inmates of the palace. The corridor was empty and very silent. Between the entrance to the rajah's apartment and the staircase lay the mattress which Hoosanee had been formerly in the habit of using at night, and which on his return had been spread for him again. Chunder Singh sat down upon it, determining to remain where he was until the exit of Hoosanee, when he would confer with him on the new danger that seemed to threaten the State. He sat where he was for a long time, and at last, vigilant as he had determined to be, his eyes grew dim. Again and again he tried to arouse himself, and again and again he dropped off into a doze. He felt persuaded, however, as he asserted later, that, if the door of the rajah's apartment had opened once, he must have heard it. So in ineffectual attempts to keep on the alert the hours of the night passed by.
Towards morning, being now fully persuaded that, contrary to his usual custom, the rajah had kept his servant in his room, he fell into a deep sleep from which he was aroused finally by sounds of movement in the palace. Then, a little ashamed of his want of dignity, sleeping at his master's door—he, an old minister of the State, like a personal servant—he crept off to his own house.
Chunder Singh had been about an hour in his house, which was situated only a few yards distant from the palace, whither, not feeling perfectly easy about his master, he was thinking of returning, when he heard a murmur as of many people running together in the market-square. He went out and saw a large crowd round his house. As soon as he appeared, its foremost members called out to him. 'Chunder Singh will tell us the truth,' they said. 'Yes, yes,' cried others; 'Chunder Singh has never deceived us.'
Wondering what this might mean, the minister closed the door of his house and set his back against it. He saw now that the throng of people were being reinforced every moment by streams from the avenues that converged towards the market-place, which was already one unbroken sea of turbaned heads and fluttering garments. 'Why is this?' he said. 'What has made you come together?'