There stepped out of the crowd one well known in the palace. He was the chief of the merchant-caste—a man of large wealth and larger patriotism, who had given with a free hand towards the defence of the city and the equipment of the force that had just started for Delhi.
'Give them a word of comfort and assurance, Chunder Singh,' he said. 'Some foolish person has spread about the rumour that our young rajah has left the city and joined Dost Ali Khan, who, they say, will win him to his side by giving up into his hands an English captive. I have told them that the rumour is false; but they will not believe me, and it is true that I have spent the night in my own house. You, as they have heard, were in the palace. You will know if anyone left it.'
'This is a strange story,' said Chunder Singh, gravely.
'Is it true?' asked the merchant.
'No; no. It is false. It is impossible.'
Chunder Singh drew back, and, mounting the little platform before his house, looked the crowd proudly in the face. 'I wonder,' he said, 'that the citizens of Gumilcund should allow themselves to be moved by so foolish a rumour. I spent the night in the rajah's palace. Being too weary to move, I rested on a bed outside the door of his room. If anyone had passed out, I should certainly have known it. Go to your homes in peace. I will ask the rajah to ride through his city to-day.'
With loyal shouts, the easily satisfied crowd dispersed, and in a few minutes the market-square resumed its ordinary aspect. Then Chunder Singh, whose face was curiously contracted, turned to the merchant. 'There is a grain of truth in this, Lutfullah,' he said, in a subdued voice. 'Dost Ali Khan has sent a tempting message to our rajah. He would not betray us—I am too sure of him to fear that. But my dread is that he will perversely run into danger, and that we shall lose the succession promised to us.'
'You are certain that he did not leave last night,' said Lutfullah, who looked serious.
'To that I would pledge my life,' answered the minister. 'And he cannot have gone this morning. There were too many people about him.'
'We must set a watch on the palace,' said Lutfullah.
'Yes; we must set a watch. You will help me. We must save him, even from himself if it must be,' said Chunder Singh.
They went to the palace together. Everything seemed as usual in the outer and inner courts. Passing through an arched passage, they went into the garden at the back of the palace. Since Aglaia had come, the rajah was often to be found there in the early morning, either pacing one of the shaded alleys, with the child beside him, or sharing a breakfast of fruit and milk with her in the darkened and artificially cooled summer-house. And, indeed, they had scarcely entered the rajah's favourite walk before they saw the little figure of Aglaia, quaint and lovely in a gauzy Indian dress. She was walking more sedately than usual, for a creature still smaller than herself—a wizened, white-faced baby, dressed in strange nondescript garments—was toddling by her side.
'Isn't he a darling?' she said to Chunder Singh, whom she always addressed in English. 'He's just had his breakfast, and I've brought him out to see Daddy Tom.'
'And have you seen him yet, Missy?' said Chunder Singh, gravely.
'Why,' said Aglaia, looking up at her Indian friend, 'what a funny face you have this morning, Mr. Chunder! Aren't you glad to see little Dick? That's his name. He mustn't walk far, for his mother says his legs have got cramped. Just think! He was ten days in a cart. Is 'oo tired, little pet?' she said lispingly to the baby. 'Shall Aglaia——'
'No, no, Missy-sahib,' cried the ayah, running up. 'Too small, you! Ayah, give poor baba.'
But the poor baba, who was a person, in an ordinary way, of irrepressible activity, refused to be taken up. He seated himself on the grass, struck out with his little fists, and looked up at them with a delicious smile of baby contentment. Then Aglaia assailed him with kisses, and Chunder Singh and Lutfullah, who, for all their grave looks, were men of most tender disposition, smiled at one another and passed on. It was quite evident that Aglaia had no thoughts even for Daddy Tom that morning. She was wholly absorbed in little Dick.
The rajah was not in his summer-house, and the attendant in that charming retreat, who was the daily purveyor of his Highness's little breakfast, had not as yet received any orders from him.
Retracing their steps to the palace, which the rajah did not seem to have quitted that morning, the two elderly men looked a little blue.
They made their way straight to Tom's sleeping apartment. Chunder Singh knocked, but he received no answer. He knocked again, and, after waiting for about a quarter of an hour, tried the handle cautiously. He found that it was bolted on the inside, and turned a relieved face to Lutfullah.
'He must be within,' he said. 'No one else would presume to draw the bolt. No doubt he was awake all night, and fell asleep towards the morning. We must have patience.'
They left Hussein Buksh, the second bearer, one of Chunder Singh's own nominees, at the door, desiring him to let them know the moment the rajah stirred, and went down themselves into the garden. There they found the three English ladies who had arrived the night before gathered together in a little group round the children. They wore, with a curious awkwardness, lovely Indian dresses, some of which, as being the best he could procure, Tom had laid in store to meet such an emergency as this. Their faces were very pale, and the haggard anxiety, the horror, remembered or expected, which gave so piteous an expression to our countrywomen in these dreadful days, had not left their faces; but the quiet night and the peaceful awakening had refreshed them, and they were already very different from the wretched, bedraggled-looking creatures who had driven through Gumilcund on the previous evening.
Chunder Singh and Lutfullah saluted the ladies reverently. Lucy, who was talking to Aglaia, a little apart from the others, eyed them with some curiosity. 'The major-domo of the palace,' she whispered, 'and one of the chief citizens. How funny it all is! Something like the middle ages.' The mother of the white-faced baby was, in the meantime, answering Chunder Singh's inquiries, and expressing her satisfaction in having reached so pleasant a haven of rest.
'Does the major-domo understand English?' asked Lucy.
Aglaia nodded. 'Oh! yes. He's a nice man. I like him,' said the child.
'Then I must speak to him,' said Lucy. With her white face and golden hair, and large, childish-looking eyes, Lucy looked quaint and very pretty that morning. She had been given her choice amongst a number of dresses, and she had picked out a tunic of cherry-coloured silk and a snow-white saree of the finest muslin, deeply trimmed with gold embroideries. To put on these pretty fresh garments after her copious bath of warm scented water had given poor Lucy a sense of satisfaction, which, when she came to think of it seriously, seemed curiously inappropriate, if not wicked. But she could not help herself; she was happier than she had been, and the pretty dress, which suited her to perfection, had something to say to her happiness. Pressing forward she addressed Chunder Singh:
'Oh!' she cried, 'where is the rajah, the person, I mean, who received us last night? He is the rajah, isn't he?'
'Yes, madam. It was our rajah—the ruler of Gumilcund—who had the honour of welcoming you to his palace last night,' said Chunder Singh, nearly paralysing the childish little creature with his dignity. She fixed her limpid eyes upon him doubtingly; then recovering herself with an effort:
'Oh, yes,' she said, 'I was told so. Could you tell him please—the rajah, I mean—his Excellency—is that the way to speak to the great people here, Aglaia—?'
Chunder Singh was waiting respectfully for the conclusion of her sentence.
'I want particularly to speak to him,' went on Lucy more fluently. 'Perhaps you wouldn't mind saying that I have a message for him—I suppose,' looking round at the other ladies with some bewilderment, 'that it is for him. You know he told us he was an Englishman; but this isn't much like an English house. And how does he come to be a rajah? Oh! dear, if Grace could only have come herself!'
'His Excellency was educated in England,' broke in the mellifluous voice of Chunder Singh.
'And some of us think him more English than Indian,' added Lutfullah pleasantly.
'You can speak English too, chief citizen!' cried Lucy. 'This is most extraordinary. Really I begin to think that we must have died last night, and that we are in a sort of half-English, half-Indian paradise. But,' with a deep sigh, 'that can't be, for Grace would certainly have been here before us. Oh, my poor Grace! my dear Grace! Can't anyone tell me where you are?'
'Hush! Lucy. Hush! We shall never know how they went. She and my lovely Kit,' cried Mrs. Durant, weeping bitterly. 'Little could I have thought to what his love for her would have brought him——'
'Do you give them up?' cried Lucy, flashing round upon her friend fiercely. 'Idon't, and just because they are together! Oh! Mr. Major-domo, if you have a heart—and you look as if you had—find this mysterious prince, who is an Englishman and not an Englishman, and ask him, for pity's sake, to speak to us.'
'No doubt his Highness will request the honour of speech with you later,' said Chunder Singh. 'At present he must not be disturbed.'
'Did he say so? Oh! where is he?' sobbed Lucy. 'He can't know how dreadful the danger is! I was ashamed of myself for being able to sleep last night. If Grace dies'—clutching at her muslin robe after a fashion that, to the grave Indian, was scarcely decorous. 'If Grace dies, I shall never forgive myself.'
'I will see if his Highness is awake,' said Chunder Singh retreating, while Lucy, now in a perfect paroxysm of grief, was led to the summer-house by her companions.
There they waited for a long time. The sun rose high in the heavens, and, outside the summer-house, the air was like that of a heated oven; but here there were punkahs swinging slowly, and darkened windows, and splashing water, so that they scarcely felt the heat. Meantime attendants came and went, bringing them books and music and food and drink, and toys and pictures for the children; but, ask as they would, there came no message from the rajah.
'I cannot stand it,' cried Lucy at last. 'I had rather not be so comfortable. I will go out and see what it all means.'
'Go out into that sun! Don't behave like a mad girl! Do you wish to bring more trouble upon us? You think only of yourself,' said Kit's mother reproachfully.
And so, being, as I have said, a childish little creature, and accustomed to rebuke, Lucy sat on with red eyes and trembling fingers, trying to amuse herself and feel comfortable; but possessed, all the time, with a sense of sorrow and remorse that nearly crushed her.
At last, when the heat of the day was over, and the sky behind the trees that sheltered their retreat was all ablaze with gold and crimson, she saw Chunder Singh coming slowly towards them. His face was covered, and his head had dropped upon his breast, and in the dark eyes that looked out from the folds of his chuddah there was a strange glitter. Lucy had been running out to meet him; but when she saw those blazing eyes she withdrew.
'Something has happened,' she whispered to Aglaia. 'You know him better than we do, child. Ask him what it is!'
Then Aglaia ran out, and Lucy, who was trembling from head to foot, heard her little baby voice.
'Do bring Daddy-Tom,' she said. 'He hasn't been to see us all the day.'
'Missy,' said Chunder Singh, in grave, sad tones, 'ask Miss Sahib and the Mem Sahibs where his Excellency is.'
He was at the door of the summer-house, and as he spoke these ominous words, he looked round upon them searchingly.
'Askus!' cried Lucy hysterically. 'What does the strange man mean?'
'Madam,' said Chunder Singh, bowing low, 'you must have the goodness to come with me.'
'I?' shrieked Lucy. 'Why? What do you want with me? Oh!' falling on her knees, 'have pity! If he has gone, I know nothing about it. I may have meant to ask him; but I hadn't the chance. Ask the others. We saw him for a few little moments last evening, and to-day we have been alone. Indeed! indeed! no one has come to us. Oh! don't you believe me?'
'Let me assure you, before those here, who will remember my words,' said Chunder Singh, 'that we mean you no harm. If you fear, let Missy Sahib and her ayah come with you. Our rajah has gone. How he has gone, or why, we cannot as yet find out; and as Hoosanee, the servant who brought you to Gumilcund, has gone also, we would ask you the questions which we would have asked him had he been here. Miss Sahib I ask to come because she is most interested in what has happened. But if one of the Mem Sahibs——'
'No, no, no. Take me! I will tell you all I can,' sobbed Lucy.
Terribly solemn and staggering beyond the power of language to express were Lucy's next experiences. There was first a brief journey in a litter, with Aglaia, to whom she had clung as her only hope and consolation, for a companion. The litter was put down, and, upon drawing its curtains aside, they found themselves in a small, dimly-lighted hall, in the presence of four men, all of them as grave and mysterious of aspect as Chunder Singh. They were seated on cushions at the upper end of the hall; but when Lucy drew the curtains of her litter aside, one of them rose to his feet and greeted her reverently. There followed a few moments of silence, during which the poor little creature, who could not imagine what all this solemnity meant, felt her heart beating as if it would burst.
Aglaia had made the acquaintance of all these grave persons, and she was not in the least awed. Yet they constituted the inner council of the Gumilcund State. One was Chunder Singh, the prime minister, and another—he who had risen—was Lutfullah, the representative of the merchant class, and the third was Vishnugupta the priest, and the fourth was the exalted citizen who headed the warrior caste and directed the organisation of the rajah's little army.
These good persons wore their dresses of state, and the dignity of their manners was fully equal to the grandeur of their appearance. When Aglaia, who, as I have said, had no fear, ran up to the magnificent Lutfullah, and began chattering to him in her baby Hindoostanee, nodding gravely meanwhile to her other friends, Lucy felt half afraid that the roof of the hall would drop down upon them.
But nothing happened, and she began presently to feel a little more composed. Then Lutfullah, who, having a bland manner and reassuring aspect, and being, moreover, well versed in the English tongue, had been commissioned to ask the questions which the council had decided to be necessary, said, in a soft voice, that he trusted she would not feel the least alarm. It was true that a calamity had fallen upon the State, and it was true also that they, into whose hands the direction of its fortunes had come, were for the moment embarrassed and disheartened; but that was no reason why the guests of the State should suffer. As far as she was concerned, all they wished was an account of the events that had intervened between the moment of their leaving the station of Nowgong and the present, with special reference to the unfortunate occurrence that, as he understood, had preceded their arrival.
It was a most stately preamble. Lucy, who was not without a sense of the fitness of things, tried to still her beating heart and to answer it with becoming dignity. And, in fact, she made a pretty fair start. But, as she went on, as she tried to draw a picture of what Grace was to her and to them all, as she entered upon a narration of the events that led to their separation, her dignity evaporated in gasping, spasmodic phrases; and tears, that not even the august presence of these stately citizens could repress, poured from her eyes.
They listened in perfect silence. Aglaia, who did not fully understand what was happening, crept up close to her, and whispered to her not to cry. The poor little ayah sat in the background sobbing—like a child. Lucy felt as if she could not go through with it. But at last it was over. Now they would let her go, and she could cry her heart out. Not yet, poor little Lucy! It is Chunder Singh who stands up, and he has thrown back the chuddah from his face, which looks curiously determined.
'We thank you, Miss Sahib,' he says in his grave and sonorous English. 'But there is yet one thing more that we would know. You spoke to me this morning of a message.'
'Oh! yes. I had a message; but it was not for any of you,' cries Lucy, starting up. 'It was for him.'
'If he is not here——'
'Then I must keep it for him until he comes back.'
'Will Miss Sahib pardon her servant——?'
'No, no, no. Oh! I cannot tell you. How can I? They were her last words. I should be a traitor.'
'We thought that if we heard the message sent to his Excellency it would help us to find him. That is all,' says Lutfullah gently. 'Chunder Singh, my good friend, it is enough,' he adds in a lower voice. 'Let her go!'
'Yes, yes; let her go!' say the others. And Lucy—oh! so thankful to be released—draws round her the silken curtains of the litter, and Aglaia gives her hand to the ayah, and, while they go back to the palace, the four ancients of Gumilcund hold a council as to what is to be done for the State.
That was Lucy's last piece of excitement for some considerable time. When, having been carried back to the palace, she fell weeping into the arms of her friends, there began for her and the others a life of the most bewildering monotony. A part of the palace, consisting of a small pillared hall, and two or three sleeping apartments, with the shaded alley in which Chunder Singh and Lutfullah had met them first, and the rajah's summer-house were allotted to them. Day after day, with clock-like regularity, a liberal provision of meats and drinks, water to their hearts' desire, fresh garments, sweetmeats, and books were brought to them. They had everything, in fact, but that for which they craved the most—news.
Chunder Singh and Lutfullah went to see them occasionally, and sent morning and night to inquire after their health. Mr. Montgomery, the Resident, paid them periodical visits, but there was no word of the rajah.
Mysterious to the ladies, to Aglaia, to whom her deliverer was everything, this sudden disappearance was a shock as cruel as it was inexplicable. Where had her Daddy-Tom gone? she would ask piteously. Why hadn't he said good-bye to her? Couldn't he send her a letter if he liked? Questions which no one, not even the wise Chunder Singh, could answer. Had it not been for baby Dick, who was one of the most restless of little persons, she would have suffered even more severely. In the new healthy atmosphere that surrounded him, Dick had recovered his vigour. The wizened little face was filling up. Roses and dimples were asserting their rights. The long pent-up limbs were expanding luxuriously in all sorts of joyous activities, which Aglaia, who had begun by being his slave, was bound to share. Never was a merrier or a more irrepressible little man than Dick.
Sometimes, worn out by games and laughter, he would fall asleep, and then Aglaia would steal quietly to the lattice, and, the tears dropping from her eyes, would watch and watch. 'Oh! if he would only come—if he would only come!'
'Everyone goes away,' she said to Lucy one day. 'I wonder why?'
'I don't know, dear,' said Lucy, who was becoming more and more melancholy. 'I suppose they must.'
'He needn't,' said Aglaia proudly. 'He is the master of everyone here.'
'Your Daddy-Tom, as you call him, is like the Good Shepherd in the parable,' said Lucy. 'Do you remember?'
'Yes,' said Aglaia, in a low voice, her little face becoming strangely set. 'He left all the others.'
'And he went after the one that was lost,' filled in Lucy with a sigh. 'I always thought it was uninteresting to be one of the ninety-and-nine. I am sure of it now.'
'I don't understand,' said Aglaia wearily.
'Of course you don't, and I am a goose—an ungrateful goose, too,' said Lucy, her eyes filling with tears. 'If he only brings back Grace——'
'Is that her name?' said Aglaia.
'Yes; isn't it pretty? And it's just like herself. Dearest Grace! We should never be dull or miserable if she were here.'
'Tell me what she is like,' said Aglaia.
'What Grace is like? Ah! that's not so easy,' said Lucy enthusiastically. 'She is perfectly lovely to begin with, tall and very slender—oh! my darling'—breaking into tears and sobs—'if you are alive, you must be more than slender now. All these days and nights! I can't bear to think of it. She was so gentle, too. I never heard her complain once. And her temper was that of an angel. Everyone—even the servants—adored her. It was through Tikaram's love for her that we got away at all. As for the man who brought us here, he simply worshipped her. Don't you hope she may come back safely, Aglaia?'
'Yes,' answered the child, briefly and sadly.
'But you don't seem a bit sorry for her, you funny little thing.'
Aglaia lifted her limpid eyes and fixed them on Lucy's face. 'I'm not,' she said.
'Now why, you little barbarian?'
'Because——' began Aglaia, and then she turned away. 'I don't like to talk of it,' she said, and went off to Dick, leaving Lucy to wonder over her curious precocity.
But although the ladies heard nothing of what went on in the city, there was considerable uneasiness and excitement abroad. When the elders in the State found out as a certain fact that their young rajah had given them the slip they tried to keep the uncomfortable knowledge to themselves. In his room they found a slip of paper, written in his hand, and addressed to Chunder Singh. It was his hope, he said, that his friends would not discover his absence until his return, when he would give them every explanation; but, in case of delay or obstruction, he begged that the elders of Gumilcund would carry on the business of the State as they had been accustomed to do. He did not himself anticipate any inconvenience from his own enforced absence. When he had accomplished the purpose upon which, as Chunder Singh knew, his heart was set, he would return, and then it would rest with them whether they would again accept him as their rajah, or choose rather to be governed by one of themselves. In the meantime he begged to assure them of his faithfulness to the principles which had been laid down by his predecessors for his guidance.
This, to the elders of Gumilcund, while reassuring from one point of view, was disappointing in another. Most, if not all, had given full credence to the assurance of their late rajah that, in the person of the successor he had chosen, he would himself return to them. To us of the West such a belief may appear childish. But we must remember the difference between our standpoint and that of the Asiatic. The doctrine of the transmigration of souls from body to body, which to us seems unreal and fantastic, has, from the earliest ages, formed a part of the Eastern creeds. And, this granted, there could not surely be anything extraordinarily unlikely in one of high spiritual rank being permitted, if not to choose, at least to foresee, his next incarnation. In any case this was their belief, a belief which the singular likeness between their late rajah and his successor, with rumours which had come to one and another of mysterious voices holding communion with him, had served to confirm. But his departure at this critical moment, an action at variance with what they knew would have been the will of their late ruler, and his apparent readiness to sacrifice his State so long as he could save a single English captive, somewhat shook them in this view. Nevertheless they tried their hardest to hide the rajah's flight from the people. Do what they would, however, it leaked out, and with it came other distressing and alarming news. The surrender of the Cawnpore entrenchments, and the awful massacres that followed: the general rebellion in Oude, followed swiftly by the siege of the Lucknow Residency, and the death of Sir Henry Lawrence: uneasy rumours from the Punjaub, where the disaffected Poorbeahs were being held at bay like savage animals, and the delay at Delhi—these and many other rumours came pouring in as the month of July ran its course. It says much for the loyalty and strength of Chunder Singh, who was now the ruling spirit in the councils of the Gumilcund elders, that the terror and despair which were beginning to be felt amongst the populace never once touched them.
And yet there was much cause for uneasiness. Chunder Singh, indeed, who had visited England twice, the first time with Byrajee Pirtha Raj, his late master, and the second in obedience to his dying wish to further the interests of his successor, believed profoundly in the power of England; but he knew also how apt she is to try the effect of small measures, little outbursts which, to the uninitiated, seem nothing more than ebullitions of temper, before, armed with her full strength, she stands out wrathfully to assert her will. Such delay practised now would mean, if not the total subversion of the English power in India, at least the temporary ruin of those who had accepted her as the Paramount Power. It did not need the threatening letters which, in spite of all their efforts, were continually poured into Gumilcund to advertise them of what their fate would be if the English forces—coming down from the Punjaub and up from Calcutta and Bombay—met with any serious defeat. Chunder Singh and his friends knew very well what assault and sack meant when a baffled Asiatic army were inside the gates of a wealthy city. But with all this no thought of compromise ever entered their minds. To the terror-stricken people, merchants and handicraftsmen, who came flocking to them for advice they had always the same answer: 'We have gone too far to retreat now. If the worst comes to the worst we must defend our city to the last.'
The inquiries about the rajah were more difficult to answer. His absence had considerably increased the alarm of the people. For the belief held by the men of education and culture in Gumilcund, as it filtered down to the lower strata of the populace, had lost its vagueness, and had gained in strength. The curiously dramatic entry of the young rajah into his city, and the effectiveness of his various appearances, gave colour to the general superstition. He seemed to many of them not a man at all, but a divine being whose presence was a guarantee of the city's continuance in safety and prosperity. That this God-given ruler should leave them at such a crisis as the present was inexplicable save in one way—that the spiritual beings, who were said to direct him, had warned him of the coming evil and helped him to escape—a theory confirmed by the circumstance that no one could tell them how their prince went. In spite of all Chunder Singh and Lutfullah and Vishnugupta could say, the hearts of the people were heavy within them, and their minds presaged evil.
The rajah, as it will have already been guessed, had discovered a secret way of leaving his palace. Starting from a well, or small chamber underneath his sleeping room, it led out through a long subterranean gallery to another well, most secretly contrived beyond the principal gate of the city. Ganesh, who had discovered it by accident, had made use of it to open communications with Dost Ah Khan. Believing that the rajah would accept the rebel chief's invitation to a conference, he had set everything in readiness for a departure this way. With regard to Tom's adventures on the perilous journey thus initiated I have been fortunate in securing narratives both by himself and his attendants. I have said that, in Gumilcund, he had given up recording the events of his daily life in his diary. No sooner had he left the State, regaining, as it seemed to him then, his old identity, than the necessity, which in some natures is so strong, of completing his life by throwing its incidents into a mental picture, reasserted itself. He wrote hurriedly day after day, on the tablets he carried with him, and as they, with the rest of his diary, have been confided to my keeping, I am able to give some extracts from them here.
'July1857.—The die is cast. For better or for worse, and I cannot now decide which it is. I have cast off the shackles which, for these many days, have bound me. I am thinking, acting, living, in my own person. And the strange part of it is that, with everything to make me uneasy and miserable, I am happier far and more tranquil than I have been for weeks. That is why I am writing now.
'It is deep night, and we are halting—Hoosanee and I—in the midst of a forest, while Ganesh, our guide, goes on to make arrangements for our admission into the fort, which is held, as I hear, by Dost Ali Khan. I have his safe-conduct, presented to me at Delhi, on my person. Ganesh tells me that it has already saved me from death once, that had I not had it about me, the soldier Abdul—my gaoler on the White Ranee's march—would certainly have killed me. Possibly it may save me again. In any case I can do no other than I have done. Whatever the issue may be, I must await it with fortitude. Grace, I believe, is in that fort. I will leave it with her, or I vow before God that I will not leave it at all. If she is dead, which I cannot and will not believe, then I will return to Gumilcund, and give myself up to my people, letting them do what they will with me.
'The night passes slowly. Ganesh is long away. I wonder if he really means well by us, or if this is merely a trap laid out for our destruction. It may be. Chunder Singh was sure of it. And he knows the native character much better than I do; but as I cannot draw back now, and would not if I could, I must not dream of failure. There are other things to think of. In these quiet moments, solitary except for Hoosanee, who crouches at my feet—the litter in which I have been travelling at rest, and my little reading-lamp making a tent of light in the dark forest—I have time and opportunity for thought. In Gumilcund I could not think. That sense, half oppressive, half exultant—ah! has it not been a great illusion? I feel so free, so natural now: my life has become so simple—one thought in my mind—one will animating me—one object at my heart—that I cannot but believe I have been tormenting myself in vain. And, indeed, can it not be easily explained? This idea of a double personality was the clever stroke of policy of a clever and subtle brain that sought to project itself into the future. And no doubt, having allowed myself to fall into it, I have been able to do more for the people of Gumilcund and for my own people also than would otherwise have been possible. So far it has been well. But it cannot surely last for ever. It began—stay—did it begin here? Did it even begin on board the "Patagonia"? Before ever I met Chunder Singh—the very night after I received news of my inheritance, I had my first vision. The next was when I opened the papers that were so mysteriously lost. If then the others resulted from my intercourse with Chunder Singh, what was the origin of them? Some solution of the mystery may come to me by-and-by; it seems to me now as if there was only one way in which that question could be answered.
'But I hear footsteps in the wood; I must put my pen down.'
The following entries are undated; but I know that they belong to this period.
'What a terrible—what a bewildering day this has been! I have been thinking—I have been talking—I have been pleading—I have been protesting—till I scarcely know where I am or what I am doing, and—I tremble as I write the words—I am no nearer the accomplishment of my object than I was when I arrived.
'One thing, however, seems certain. Dost Ali Khan, though he would give worlds to detach me and my State from the English alliance, has no wish or intention of injuring me personally. I confess, after all I have heard of the perfidy of Asiatics, I am a little astonished at the gratitude I have met with for very small favours.
'But I must try to put it all down in detail. It may be useful for future reference.
'Early this morning I was carried into the fort. Refreshments were placed before me; I was allowed to adjust my dress, and then I was led by Ganesh into the presence of the chief, in whom, although his appearance was much changed, I at once recognised the high-caste youth I had fed and sheltered in my tent at Delhi.
'He was alone, having dismissed his captains. The place in which he received me was a court, open to the sky and surrounded by galleries, in one of which I distinctly saw a veiled lady sitting. My heart leapt into my mouth, for I thought it might be Grace; but I came to the conclusion presently that it was not Grace but Vivien, who had, as I knew, completely thrown in her lot with the rebels.
'The chief greeted me with perfect courtesy, saying that this was an honour to which he had long been looking forward. I, feeling myself in his power, answered after the same courteous fashion, and after this little preliminary fencing he began to speak about the curious and critical state of affairs in the country. I would not interrupt him, being anxious to know precisely what his views were, and I confess it was a little strange to me to hear views, set forth ably, and urged with no little eloquence, diametrically opposed to those I have been accustomed to hear and to support since I came to India. For, according to him, the English overlordship has been a mistake from beginning to end. It has failed in strength, in sympathy, in suitability to the people of the land. That, sooner or later, it would be swept away, to be replaced by a more congenial rule, he did not for one single moment doubt; and he strongly advised me either to go back quietly to my own country, or if, being an Englishman, I desired still to rule Asiatics, to make up my mind frankly to throw in my lot with them. A countrywoman of mine, and he smiled in a very strange way, had come prudently to this latter determination; and he did not think she repented what she had done.
'To all this I listened as quietly as I could, not attempting a word of contradiction.
'He asked me straightly if I would join them. I answered that I could do nothing without the consent of the elders of my people. Did I wish them well? he went on to say. I said that I was not sufficiently acquainted with their principles and aims to be able to answer such a question. I was, as he very well knew, the faithful servant of the Government to which I owed my advancement. Dost Ali Khan smiled at this, and said my boldness pleased him. He said, further, contradicting some of his previous assertions, that if the English had behaved to him as they had behaved to me, he would never have taken part against them. He then asked me if I had heard that the British army, on their way to relieve Lucknow, had met with a serious defeat, and been forced to fall back upon Cawnpore. I said boldly that no such rumour had come to me, and that even if it had I should not have believed it. I knew indeed that General Havelock was retreating; but his reason was insufficiency of troops, and not defeat in battle.
'So, for a full hour, we fenced with one another, for I knew the Oriental character, and while burning to speak of my beloved Grace, I would not court defeat by rushing upon her name.
'Dost Ali Khan spoke of her first. As this is important, I am trying to put down in my own language a perfect transcript of his words, and of my own answers.
'"I am to understand, then," he said suddenly, "that my brother has come hither in obedience to my message?"
'I answered briefly in the affirmative.
'He looked at me searchingly. "I gave you to understand," he went on, "that the Englishwoman of whom you are in search was in my hands."
'I answered quietly, fighting down, as best I could, my fiery impatience, "I trusted in Dost Ali Khan's honour. Have I done wrongly?"
'"Let us wait a moment," said the wily fellow, laughing after a fashion that made my blood run cold. "I do not say that she is in my hands, and into such a war as ours honour does not enter. Have your friends and allies acted honourably with me?"
'"Ihave sought to do so," I said.
'"You? That is true, and, if you stood alone, I would do what I could to gratify your desires. But you belong to the cause for which you are fighting. I must therefore use you as I would this weapon if I had it in my hand and saw a deadly foe in front of me. Enough of preamble! Say this fair Englishwoman is in my hands, what price would you give me for her?"
'"My life," I cried passionately.
'He smiled grimly. "Well spoken!" he said; "but wide of the mark. My brother's life is of no value to me. I prefer his friendship."
'I paused for a moment. It was difficult to think—difficult to speak—with this terrible excitement at my heart. At last I said slowly:
'"My personal friendship is yours. Give her up—let us go away together safely, or, if you prefer it, send her to Gumilcund under, a fitting escort, and I give you my word that so long as I live I will be grateful to you."
'"Those are fine words," said Dost Ali Khan, and the eyes that he fixed upon my face seemed to glitter strangely. "But I care little for words. How will my brother show his gratitude? Will he be on my side?"
'"You know I cannot," I answered. "But this I will promise. When this mad attempt of yours ends, as end it must, in ruin to yourself, and the dispersion of those who now call themselves your friends, I will stand by you as a friend may, and plead your cause with our Government."
'Scarcely suffering me to finish, he sprang to his feet. "You are bold," he said with a harsh laugh. "Failure? Ruin? Who dares to speak of them here? Remember that you are not in your own encampment at Delhi, sheltered by the English power. You are in my dominions."
'I looked him full in the face. "That," I said, "gives me courage to speak what I believe to be the truth. Would my brother have me lie to him because he is strong and I am weak?"
'The dull red which had overspread Dost Ali Khan's dark face died down, and his fierce eyes fell. "My brother has spoken well," he said, "and I apologise to him for my heat. But it is dangerous, let me tell him, to browbeat a man in his own house."
'"I should prefer it," I answered, "to browbeating him in mine."
'"Come," he said, with a smile, "that is a good reproof. I have not forgotten Delhi. Give me your hand and say what you will."
'Thus encouraged, I thanked him for his goodwill and kindly remembrance, set forth my errand in a few simple words, and besought him not to delay me any longer. By obeying his summons, I said, I had risked everything with my friends at Gumilcund. Nothing but a swift return would save my credit. If he had really any regard for me, let him accept my assurances of personal friendship, bring me to where my countrywoman was, and permit us to go.
'But it was not to be so easily done, for though courteous, even to deference, in his manner, Dost Ali Khan had no intention of foregoing the purpose with which he has brought me to this place. Instead of answering my question, he begged my permission to relate a little incident. I agreed, of course, though my heart was like to burst with impatience, and he proceeded to tell me the following story.
'"A man came to me the other day, asking to join my force. He was dressed as a peasant, but I knew at once that he was a soldier. He was enrolled with two or three others whom he brought, all stalwart men. I found soon that he had been Soubahdar in one of the finest of the Company's regiments, and that he had a private vengeance to serve. His colonel—one Sahib Elton—had insulted and wounded him, and he wished to deal him a blow that he would feel. I do not encourage private spites; but I am obliged to make the most of the only material that comes to me, and before I heard this Soubahdar's story, I had judged that he was a clever soldier, and that I would do well to keep him. Let my brother listen well," said the rebel chieftain impressively, "for the strange part of my story comes in here. The Soubahdar knew that his enemy had a daughter in the European station of Nowgong. I had heard, no matter how"—I thought that here he glanced up towards the gallery, and my heart beat angrily—"that you had sent in search of her. So I allowed my Soubahdar to take out a few horsemen and waylay the Nowgong fugitives."
'He paused. It was with difficulty that I repressed a movement of indignation; but remembering that I was entirely in his hands, I was able to muster sufficient self-control to beg him to go on with his story. "Did the Soubahdar succeed in his base attempt?" I asked.
'He would not answer me directly. Here, indeed, our conversation became so swift and complicated that I cannot undertake to write it down accurately. I remember that he pressed his alliance upon me, and I know that I strenuously refused to pledge myself to anything more than the personal friendship and exercise of influence in case of disaster which I had already promised him.
'Again and again I tried to surprise him into making some admission as to the safety of Grace and Kit, and again and again he evaded me. At last, having travelled all night, and lived for some days previously in a state of nerve-tension, which made rest impossible, I became so much exhausted that I could scarcely raise my voice above a whisper.
'By this time the full day had come. It was a day of storms. As I was led across the court to the mud-paved room on the ground-storey, which I am to occupy, the rain beat upon us pitilessly and the wind howled and tore about the corners of the fort, till one might have thought it in danger of destruction.
'I felt that I must sleep if I was to preserve my senses: there seemed, moreover, to be no imminent danger to anyone, so I flung myself on the charpoy which was the only piece of furniture in the room and closed my eyes.
'The next thing I knew—and it seemed to me as if only a moment had gone by since I lay down—I was starting up, wide-awake and full of energy, and Hoosanee was standing beside me with a strong cup of coffee in one hand and a dish of chupatties in the other. I took the little meal gladly. He watched me, looking sad and reproachful; but when I begged him to give his opinion of the state of affairs, he put his finger on his lip and shook his head. It was then late in the afternoon. I sought and obtained another interview with Dost Ali Khan; but with no better result, and now, night having come, I have returned to my room, and, with Hoosanee watching beside me, am waiting for those in the fort to go to rest, as we intend then to look round us cautiously.
'Ganesh has kept away all day. This, I am afraid, augurs ill for his faithfulness.'
A few words must be added here. I have them from Hoosanee, who was faithful to his master throughout this adventure.
Everything was still that night, he said. He was dozing. His master was keeping himself awake by writing in his book. They had determined, towards the small hours of the morning, to go round the fort themselves. He had made friends with one of the watchmen, whose faithfulness had been corrupted by the present of a valuable trinket, and the promise of still richer gifts, if he helped them to their will. What they wished to do was to find out for certain if Grace and Kit were in the fort, and, if so, putting off their deliverance until some good plan could be devised, to encourage them by letting them know that friends were at hand.
He, as I have said, had been dozing. Feeling sure that they ought to be on the move, he aroused himself. His master put down his book, and asked him in a whisper to go out and see if his friend was ready. He crept to the door, which was ajar, and opened it. In the next moment he had fallen back upon his master, dazed and trembling.
The doorway was blocked up by a slender figure in shining raiment with the face covered, and naturally his first thought was that Dost Ali Khan, repenting of his treachery, had sent them his captive. But Tom knew better. The moment he saw the figure he sprang to his feet with a wrathful expression. Hoosanee, thinking from the emotion in his voice and manner that some new danger assailed them, looked to him for directions; but Tom motioned him away. 'This is an Englishwoman, but not the one we seek,' he said in Marathi. 'Remain in the room, but keep at a little distance from us.'
Of the interview that followed no record remains. Tom could not be prevailed upon to speak of it. It is not so much as mentioned in his diary. Hoosanee, whose confidence in his master was perfect, neither understood nor sought to understand what was going on. Fearing treachery, however, he held himself on the alert, and when, after having poured herself out in a torrent of impassioned words, Vivien, for the figure could have been none other, rushed out into the darkness, he was by his master's side in a moment. To his dismay he found him weak and trembling. Twice, it seemed to him, that he was trying to speak, but he said nothing.
Then Hoosanee told him that the night was passing, and urged him to lose no time in setting forth upon their task. The friendly Watchman was outside. He had won over all those who were watching with him. If they did not at once seize their opportunity, it would pass out of their hands for ever.
But if his master's manner had dismayed him, he was still more alarmed by the way in which his advice was taken. For an instant Tom made as if he would follow him, and then he sat down and burst into a passion of tears.
Hoosanee was in an agony. What had happened? 'Is Missy Grace dead?' he whispered, going quite close to his master.
'No, no; I hope to God she is alive still,' said Tom. 'And if I knew that the Jezebel who has just gone was speaking the truth, I should not be like this. I should know, at least, what to attempt. But how am I to tell? She may be lying to me as she lied to her husband, as she is lying every day to Dost Ali Khan.'
'What has she told my master?' asked Hoosanee.
'She says that they were here, and that they have gone. She heard I was coming and she put them out. She had made up her mind that we should not meet. Curses—a thousand curses—on her head!'
'Why did she tell my master this?' said Hoosanee.
'She did not tell me at first. It came out. That is why I think it may be true. She was enraged that I would not do what she wished, and then she threw it in my teeth. If I believed her, and escaped as I might do, and if I found out afterwards that she had lied to me—or if, on the other hand, I remained here while they were going through danger and hardship outside—oh! Hoosanee—my brother, advise me! What shall I do?'
'Listen, my master,' said the good fellow, who, while his master had been speaking, had taken his own measure of the situation. 'You will stay here for an hour. Yes. I beseech you, do as I say! It will be best. Alone no one will suspect me. I will join my friend, the chowkedar, and go with him on his rounds. I will hear the last news of the place. If the prisoners are still here, or if they have been put out, as the White Ranee says, will soon be known to me. When I know, I will return to my master, and he will decide what we had best do.'
It seemed the most feasible plan. In any case, so Hoosanee has told me, it was adopted. He left his master, hoping that he would compose himself in his absence, and went out into the court. The first person he met was Ganesh. Ganesh looked wild and unnatural. Hoosanee stopped for a moment to tax him with treachery. The Brahmin threw back the word in his teeth, and they parted. Ganesh went to the door of their master's room. Hoosanee joined the friendly chowkedar. They were smoking a pipe together, and the bearer was gradually drawing out the information he required, when in the courtyard there was a sudden clamour. One of the sentinels, posted outside, came rushing in breathless with the news that the Gora-log or European-folk were upon them. The chowkedar sprang up and ran headlong to the quarter of the fort where Dost Ali Khan and his captains were sleeping, and Hoosanee made at full speed for his master's room. Ganesh was there before him, so the young rajah had already heard of the panic. He was standing up fully dressed, with a revolver in one hand and a sword in the other, and Ganesh was beseeching him to remain where he was. 'We may escape,' he said, 'if we remain where we are. If we go out amongst them we are doomed.'
'But the prisoners!' cried Tom, who must have been nearly beside himself.
'If they are in the fort—' began Ganesh.
'They are not—they are not,' shrieked Hoosanee.
'The chief thinks so, but he is mistaken. The Soubahdar Sufder Jung was ordered yesterday by the White Ranee to take them away.'
'The Soubahdar Sufder Jung!' echoed Tom, and his arms dropped from his hands, and his limbs seemed to fail under him. 'The Soubahdar Sufder Jung!'
'Courage, Excellency!' said Ganesh. 'He has done it in the hope of reward.'
'Reward? Vengeance!' cried the unfortunate young fellow. 'Here! For God's sake let me out! I will kill that fiend with my own hands; I will force her to tell me the truth. Ganesh—Hoosanee, wretches! what do you mean? Have you turned against me too? Loose me, or I will slay you both!'
'Let my lord have patience!' murmured Hoosanee.
'Patience?' echoed Tom, with a hoarse laugh. 'There! This is my patience!'
With one mighty effort he had thrown them off. They lay on the ground—stunned by the force with which they had fallen. Tom picked up his weapons and bounded, like a wild creature escaped from captivity, across the room. For a few moments they lost him.
When Hoosanee came to himself, the room was empty. He had fallen with more force than Ganesh, who had already followed his master, and he had not the least idea how long he had been insensible. It would have been natural for the good fellow, who was conscious of nothing but devotion and rectitude, to be indignant at the treatment he had received; but it was not so. Sorrow and compassion for his master, with shame that he could not hold him back from what, enlightened by a few awful words from Ganesh, would, he believed, be his destruction, made up the whole of his feeling. His head had struck violently against a corner of the charpoy as he fell, and, with recovered consciousness, came violent pain. He raised himself with difficulty to a sitting posture, crept to the door and looked out.
The confusion had not ceased. From every hole and corner armed men were hurrying out to man the walls, and there came, from a little distance, the rattle of musketry. There was another sound—more awful in its significance—the dull boom of cannon, and the crash of falling masonry. But it was not for this that the unarmed, terror-stricken man was listening. It was not to hear this that he laid his ear upon the ground. Ha! what is that? He springs to his feet, gazes into the lurid, torch-lit enclosure, and then, putting his hands to his mouth, trumpet-wise, shrieks out, 'Fly! fly! The magazine is undermined.' The words act like magic. In less than a moment the court is full of flying figures. There is a subterranean exit. The Europeans will not discover it in the darkness. Hundreds fling themselves into it, casting away their weapons, and hundreds are crushed out of all similitude of men. But, amongst the flying figures, Hoosanee does not see those whom he seeks. There comes to his ear a low rumble, and he flings himself down with his face to the ground. In the next instant the earth seems to rock like a drunken man, and there is a sound mightier far than the roll of artillery or the thunder of a storm. Crash! crash! A wild shriek! a low, piteous wailing! Another crash as the masonry gives way, hurling down those who had been defending it into the trenches, men no longer now. A splinter strikes Hoosanee as he lies, and his lips part in a groan. If he is not in safety here, what musttheirfate be? And is this—is this—to be the end of all his hopes? Has he been deceived all along? Was the master he served as the true representative of him who had gone but a simulacrum and no true man? Surely, if what he had so fondly believed was true,theywould not have suffered him to perish thus! Such were the ideas that were thronging his troubled brain in those dreadful moments. How many they were he could never tell. He plucked up courage to look up presently. The court was deserted. Where the rebel chief's vast magazine and treasure-house of arms and gold had been, a column of flame and smoke was rising into the air. The buildings adjacent to it—one of which, as he knew, was Dost Ali Khan's house—were beginning to burn. The boom of artillery had ceased—there was no need for it now; but from outside he could hear the clatter of arms, and he knew that, in a short time, the fort would be taken by assault. In such case what would their fate be—his own—Ganesh's—his master's—if he was still alive? Might they not be killed by the angry English soldiers, before they could make themselves known?
Deeper and deeper grew the silence about him. Those who were not dead or wounded had crowded into the subterranean exit. It would be strange, thought Hoosanee, if the English soldiers were to come in presently and find only him.
The torches that had lit the courtyard had died down. There was nothing now to illuminate it but the fiery column. By its light he saw dimly three figures, that seemed to come out miraculously from the very heart of the burning mass. He ran forward with a cry. If this was his master, then everything was true, for not Rama himself could boast such an adventure! The Divine Ones had cared for their own.
'Hoosanee!' That was the rajah's voice.
'Master,' he cried piteously. 'Are you safe?'
'I am safe. Take this burden from me!'
It was the form, to all appearance lifeless, of a woman. Hoosanee received it into his arms and, followed by Tom and Ganesh, who were nearly exhausted, carried it into the hut and laid it down on the charpoy.
'Light my lamp!' said Tom. 'Now,' he went on, 'go out, both of you, and wait for me.'
They obeyed, and he was left alone with the lifeless form. The face was covered with a veil. He lifted it and gazed down. Yes, it was Vivien Doncaster. Vivien herself—the soft brow—the smiling lips—the merry dimples! The horror of death, which had been swift and sudden, had changed her no more than the horror of guilt in which she had steeped herself. Fair, sweet, innocent, like a sleeping child, she lay before him on the pillow.
With a shudder he dropped the veil. 'Farewell, beautiful witch,' he murmured: 'we meet for the last time. That it was not left to me to kill you, I thank God; but I would not, if I could, bring you back to the life which you have so miserably abused. Farewell! As you lived, so you die—a torment and a mystery.'
As he spoke, he took a letter from his pocket, twisted it into a match, and, having kindled it at the lamp, deliberately set fire to the charpoy in two or three places.
Looking up then, he saw Hoosanee beside him. 'What is it?' he said angrily. 'I thought I told you to remain outside.'
'Master,' answered Hoosanee, 'the English soldiers are coming in through the breach. If we do not wish to die, we must stand aside until you can see the General.'
'You are right, as usual, my good Hoosanee,' said Tom, with his usual mildness. 'Ganesh knows the place, he will hide us.'
As they left the hut the flames ran up, consuming the charpoy and the dead body, and no one knew till much later that a human body had been within the charred and ruined hut.
To the servants, who had been witnesses of the deed, it was a deed of charity. Whatever the dead woman had been, the flames that made her sepulchre were less cruel far than the hands of men would be.
Morning dawned upon the ruin of the fort. Where Dost Ali Khan's magazine, the storehouse from which he drew his supplies, had been, there was a wide breach. Outside, English and Sikh soldiers—a detachment from the main army, which was on its way to Cawnpore—were under arms, waiting to rush in with the first rays of daylight. They were exultant, for this stronghold of the rebel chieftain, which was so cleverly hidden away that they had only discovered it by accident, was a refuge and a tower of strength to the mutineers, and without it the cleverest and most influential of their opponents, if he had escaped, would be completely paralysed. It was more than probable, however, that he would himself share in the destruction of the fort, in which case a blow would have been struck whose effects were incalculable.
In the night, and before they were discovered, they had thrown a cordon round the building, to cut off the escape of the garrison, which they had reason to believe was numerous. Hundreds fell with the magazine, while the guns, plied as they had been in the dark, had doubtless done some execution; but they could not suppose that everyone within the walls had been slain, and the complete silence puzzled them.
Fearing an ambush, they set to work cautiously. The officers were to the front as usual, and Bertie Liston was one of the first to leap over the mounds of rubbish that blocked up the breach and to alight within the boundaries of the fort.
His presence at this critical moment must be explained.
When we saw him last he was leaving Gumilcund under the convoy of Subdul Khan, to make the best of his way to Meerut, which, however, he did not reach, having been met at a few leagues distance from the station by a runner in disguise, carrying despatches from the General at Meerut to the General of the army of relief, with a peremptory order to himself to use his utmost diligence to find the army, and to offer his services to the chiefs who, it was rumoured, had lost some of their officers by fever and other casualties.
Nothing, as we shall imagine, could have been more congenial to Bertie, who, ever since he heard the terrible news from Jhansi, had been longing ardently for a brush with the rebels. Helped by Subdul Khan, whose ability and devotion were beyond praise, he succeeded in finding the head quarters of the army. On his way, through a series of accidents, which there is not space to record here, he discovered the whereabouts of Dost Ali Khan's fort, and when a body of troops of all arms were detached to capture it, he was given the command of the cavalry. And so it came about strangely that the first face Tom saw that day was the face of a friend.
All need for disguise being, for the moment, over, he had thrown aside the turban which he habitually wore, and washed the dye from his face, which was fearfully haggard and as pale as death.
With his two servants behind him, he was standing in one of the covered enclosures that still remained intact, when Bertie, walking in advance of his soldiers, with his drawn sword in his right hand, and his left grasping his revolver, marched by. He saw him, recognised him in an instant, and, breaking into an exclamation of surprise, called upon his men to halt.
Tom joined him, smiling sadly. 'I am afraid you will find nothing but ruins here,' he said. 'The few who were left of the garrison escaped.' Then he pointed to his two men. 'They are my servants. They will be safe?'
'Perfectly. I will leave two or three men to guard them in case of mistakes. We are fearfully savage.'
'God knows I can understand that. Come on! I will lead you,' said Tom.
'But how do you come to be here?'
'I came to find Miss Elton. She was taken prisoner.'
'Good God!' cried Bertie. 'You don't mean to tell me—Heavens, man!—what a fright you gave me! A prisoner? Not here, surely?'
'I hope not. I hope not. And yet—good heavens! what am I saying? I know for certain that she came here. I was told, only just before the alarm, that she was sent away—sent away with a soubahdar, who had a grudge against her father. It may be false—God in heaven grant that it is.'
'His name?' said Bertie, his brow darkening.
'Sufder Jung. Do you know anything about him?'
'Only that he was one of General Elton's pets.'
'The General wounded him,' said Tom, 'and he came here, vowing vengeance. I have it from Dost Ali Khan, who allowed him to seize Miss Elton and bring her here. She was one of my Nowgong fugitives—my servant had rescued them. They were within a day's march of Gumilcund. The others came in——' His voice broke.
'Hold up, old man!' said Bertie huskily. 'Do you mean to tell me that Dost Ali Khan gave her up?'
'No; I believe he meant well. He had sent for me. He was making her a bait for my alliance. I could not have given in to that, of course; but I don't think for a moment that he would have hurt her. I can't tell you everything now. It was one of their fiendish intrigues.' As they talked they were going round the fort, where not a soul was to be found but these three men—the Rajah of Gumilcund and his two servants.
'Can the brutes have got away?' said Bertie.
Tom sent for Ganesh, who, he said, knew more of the events of the night than either he or Hoosanee, and, after a little delay, the Brahmin led them to a small inner courtyard, in the centre of which was a dry well. Several of the men who were following them leapt down. They found nothing but dead bodies. The entrance to the subterranean passage, which made a secret exit from the fort, was here, and hundreds had been smothered in their efforts to reach it. That some had escaped was most probable; but whether the chief was amongst them or not could not be determined. Search was made for his body, but it was not found. This was the only damper on an enterprise which had been perfectly successful, and accomplished without the loss of a single life.
The soldiers were now allowed to rest, cook their morning meal, and ransack the ruins for such treasures as might have escaped the destruction that had fallen upon the fort, and Tom, whose story had run through the camp, was invited to the officers' mess. Ganesh and Hoosanee, meanwhile, were taking what rest and refreshment they could, and making arrangements for another start. It was well that they had their wits about them, for Tom, for the moment, was like one dazed. The colonel of the detachment, when he had benevolently tried to enter into conversation with him, congratulating him on his escape, and asking what measures he meant to take to ensure his safe return to Gumilcund, and had received nothing but vague replies, took Bertie aside, and said that something ought to be done for the poor fellow. His mind was evidently a little astray. Bertie had the same fear; had his duty permitted—I have this part of the story from him—he would willingly have joined his unfortunate friend, giving him the benefit of what he considered his own clearer judgment. But this he knew was impossible.
He led him away from the mess table. 'My dear fellow,' he said as firmly as he could, 'you must really tell me what your plans are. Where do you mean to go when you leave this place? To Gumilcund?'
'To Gumilcund! When Grace is wandering Heaven alone knows where!'
'Do you love her?' asked Bertie, hoping to rouse him.
'Love!' burst out the poor fellow, 'that is too poor a word! I—oh, God! there is no word—no word I have ever heard that can tell what I feel. She is everything to me—life, love, hope. I would give myself—I would die in slow tortures in the presence of my enemies, to save her—my darling—one moment's uneasiness. And to think—but I can't think. Thinking kills. I must act, or I must die!'
'But have you any clue?' said Bertie. He was full of the most passionate sympathy, and he dared not give it vent. His unhappy friend must be brought to take a practical view of his position if he was to be saved. 'Couldn't you tell me how you mean to set about the search?' he went on.
'I don't know. Don't ask me. Light will come. My servants are looking for horses. Give me money, like a good fellow—all the money you have. I will return it to you when we meet in Gumilcund. We shall meet'—with a strange smile. 'Yes; don't look at me in that incredulous way. And she will be there, too; and, look here, Captain Liston: if you see the others—the General, and Lady Elton, and Trixy—tell them that I am going through the land—from east to west, from north to south—deserts, jungles, forests. I will leave no stone of it all untrodden, and, sooner or later, with God's good help, I will come upon her—or'—in a terrible whisper—'her murderers!'
'Yes, yes,' said Bertie chokingly. 'But, my dear boy, you mustn't be so vague—you mustn't, really. You won't find her by riding over the country, and most likely you will get killed yourself, which wouldn't suit the book of any of us just now. I have been putting your scheme before the General, you know, and he quite falls in with it—says you are a military genius. We shall want you to help us to work it. Take my advice, and——' He paused. 'The poor fellow doesn't so much as hear me,' he said to himself. 'I wonder——'
But at this moment Hoosanee interrupted them. 'May I have a word with my master?' he said.
At the sound of his voice Tom started up, all his lethargy gone. 'Yes, Hoosanee, I have done with the Sahib,' he said. 'Captain Liston, good-bye. I trust we may meet in Gumilcund.'
And before Bertie could speak another word he had gone.
Again we must let the Rajah's Heir tell his story in his own words. The exact date of the following extracts is not given; but, from internal evidence, I judge that they were written in the month of August.
It was a critical time for the country, for rebellion was still at large, and no decisive step had been taken to check it; but the gathering of enormous masses of rebels in and about the great centres of mutiny, such as Delhi, which was still in the hands of the disloyal troops, and Lucknow, where the gallant little band of Europeans were holding at bay untold hosts of enemies, and the marching down into Central India of a Goorkha army from Nepaul, kept the country districts, over most of which the wave of insurrection had swept, comparatively free from disorder. In many places English magistrates had actually resumed their ordinary jurisdiction, and, although the mails were subject to interruptions, and had to travel by a more circuitous route than formerly, while the robber tribes and vagrants were more troublesome and insolent to travellers, it was still possible, even for a European, with pluck and readiness of wit, to pass safely through the land. The villagers, moreover, and scattered peasantry, having seen what the rule of a disorderly army meant, showed less animosity against the English. In some few cases they were actually friendly, while there can be no doubt that in others they magnified the difficulties of the road to fugitives to magnify the reward which they hoped to earn by hiding them.
Tom travelled, as he had done before, in an Eastern disguise, and he did not, therefore, undergo the same perils as his compatriots. But that his journey was not without its perils this record will show.
'How many days and nights have gone by since I left the fort? I cannot tell, and, in fact, it seems to me sometimes that I have lost the power of recording time. One day is much the same as another. But this morning something happened, and we have decided, in the little council which we hold daily—Ganesh and Hoosanee and I—that it will be wise to halt in this village for a few hours. So, to still my impatience, and to regain, if I can, the balance of mind which deserted me so strangely after my awful experiences at the fort, I am trying to put down upon paper the things that have happened to us, and the things that we expect. I do not despair yet. That seems strange, even to my two devoted servants, who, I can see, though they do all they can to help me, have themselves given up hope of anything but disaster. Ganesh desires me to return to Gumilcund. The days at the fort have caused him to change his politics, and he is very sorry now that he carried Dost Ali Khan's message to me at all. If he only knew how fervently I thank him in my heart! for, sad and dispiriting as this life is, I know very well that at Gumilcund it would have been worse. Now I have hope, at least. Every night, as we start on our journeys, I say to myself, to-morrow morning we shall hear of them! And I feel that I am doing something.
'It has come to our ears, through one of Hoosanee's many spies, that a party of rebels, carrying with them English prisoners, will pass through this village to-day, and we have reasons for thinking that Grace and Kit may be amongst them. If they are—but I dare scarcely think of it. The thought unnerves me.
'It has gone round that I am a great man—not a rajah—I dare not give myself that title lest I should be detained—but an Ameer of great wealth. How Hoosanee manages Heaven only knows: his resource and readiness are marvellous: but he always keeps me provided with good mounts, fine trappings for the horses, and fresh garments. I second his efforts as well as I can by preserving, in my face and manner, the dignity of a king's envoy, and we meet with respect everywhere. In this large and populous village, I have been given the whole of the serai to myself, and the chief men amongst the villagers have brought beds and padded quilts, and water and food for my entertainment. We arrived between night and morning. It is full noon now—the awful, burning noon of this terrible season. I occupy a pavilion lifted high above the court of the serai. Ever since early morning the people of the village have been crowding in to see me; but, thank Heaven, the heat has driven them away at last. While my good Hoosanee prowls about, picking up what information he can, and Ganesh is making arrangements for our further supplies, I can draw down my blinds and rest.
'I have slept—actually slept. I dreamt that we were together again in England, Grace and I. Is this a good omen? God grant it. Hoosanee, who has just been in, tells me that he has gained over the villagers. They will not attempt to fight the rebel escort, but if the sepoys halt here for a few hours, as it is supposed they will do, it is proposed to take the prisoners from them by subtlety. He asked what I would promise them, and I left him free to make any conditions he pleased. I think he has been obliged to tell more than he intended, for I hear a great buzz as of many voices in the serai, and I can see through my blinds that the people are gathering together in their multitudes. If they will have me as a leader I am ready to put myself at their head. Ah! how my heart bounds as I think of it! Once—once to see myself face to face with these villains! But we must be prudent. We must remember Cawnpore. Subtlety first, till the captives are in our hands, and then force!'