COMING BACK TO LIFE
Of the days that followed immediately I have neither space nor inclination to write many words. It was a time of deep anxiety in Gumilcund, where it soon became evident that the young rajah, who had battled so stoutly with hardship, difficulty, danger, and disappointment, was seriously ill. His spirit was high, but his bodily powers were not equal to the task of sustaining it. Though he kept about and did, to the best of his ability, the tasks that fell in his way, those in the palace, and indeed many beyond it, saw that his strength was failing daily. At last, and, as some of them said later, providentially, the crisis came. A chill caught in a night ride through the city brought on fever. For several days he lay hovering between life and death. Lady Elton used to say that this illness of Tom's saved both her and him from madness. He was compelled to obey the voice of nature, and keep quiet for a time. She, having to put her own poignant grief aside and to assume a cheerfulness which she was far from feeling, found life, with its homely joys and sorrows, take hold of her once more. Grace had gone away into the invisible, but these others remained; Tom, who had to be wooed back with the tenderest care to the paths of the living; Trixy, who had to be persuaded—poor, impulsive child!—that it was not wicked to be happy; Kit and Aglaia, who watched her to and fro with the most pitiful, beseeching eyes; Lucy, 'a very Niobe for tears'; and her dear old General, who sent urgent messages that she would take care of herself, and not add to his sorrow and remorse by leaving them when they wanted her the most.
Her first really joyful moment after Grace's death was when, with finger on lip but eyes dancing with pleasure, she looked in, after a long absence, on the little melancholy party in the pillared hall of the zenana and whispered, 'The rajah is better; he is sleeping naturally; the doctor gives hope.'
It was delightful to see the sad faces relax, and to hear the fervent congratulations. Up to this Lady Elton had allowed no one to take her place. She and Hoosanee, whose devotion was unlimited, took the severer part of the nursing between them. But now, when all crowded round her, entreating to be allowed to take their share, she chose out Mrs. Lyster to join her. She knew, by the instincts of her own sad heart, that the service would be a comfort and relief to her who had suffered more than any of them, and, indeed, the clever, resourceful little Irishwoman, with her bright ways, her ready smiles, and her unconquerable and delicious sense of humour, proved a most valuable assistant.
Never was man or woman more tenderly nursed than our young rajah. Later he used to tell his friends that they forced him back to life. It would have been the basest ingratitude on his part not to try to get better when they were all so anxious and careful for him. The vigorous constitution which he had inherited, and which no excess had ever spoiled, stood him in even better stead than the nursing. Life in him was far too strong to be fatally worsted in this first serious encounter with its foes. But it was a changed life. This, when he came amongst them again, they all recognised. It was a graver man—one not so prone to the exhibition of feeling—who rose from that bed of sickness. The boy, with his raptures, his poetic transports, and his passionate enthusiasms, had gone. The man, quiet, reserved, courteous, but withal stern and decided, had taken his place. The people, to whom he presented himself as soon as his doctor would permit the exertion, said that his resemblance to his predecessor, Byrajee Pirtha Raj, was more striking than ever.
Grace died in December. Before January had run its course the little party of ladies in the zenana had begun to break up. Travelling being once more possible, their relatives felt that it was not fair to tax the hospitality of the Rajah of Gumilcund any further.
Little Dick and his mother were the first to go; a haven in the hills had been provided for them until the spring, when they were to return to England.
Then came the turn of Mrs. Durant and the gallant Kit. Colonel Durant had been able to provide an escort for his wife and son to Calcutta, whence he wished them to proceed directly to England. He wrote to Tom as to an Eastern prince, thanking him earnestly for his protection and help, and asking if he could be of any use to him with the Government. Tom wrote that the consciousness of having been of service to English people was a more than sufficient reward for all he had done. If, however, he might be allowed not to lose sight of Kit, who was a charming little fellow, and his particular friend, he would take it as a kindness.
Kit was exceedingly reluctant to go. He did not see, he said, why they could not stay with the rajah. Gumilcund, he was sure, was quite as good as London, and Bâl Narîn taught him all he wanted to know. But Kit had to leave, his protest notwithstanding.
The Nepaulese shikari, who had continued to be Kit's devoted attendant, left Gumilcund at the same time as his chota Sahib, with whom he meant to travel as far as Calcutta. Bâl Narîn, so far as means were concerned, was now a gentleman at large, Tom having settled upon him a sufficient income to enable him to live in comfort and without toil for the rest of his days. It was his intention now to see the world. Besides Lady Elton, whom the General was urging to return to Meerut, preparatorily to a start for England, which he meditated shortly, there were now in the palace only Lucy, Mrs. Lyster, and Aglaia.
Lucy's husband, who was on active service, could easily have made arrangements for her to go to the hills; but she begged to remain at Gumilcund, and, as there was no particular reason why she should move, Captain Robertson accepted with gratitude the rajah's proposal that she should make her home in his city until his own active service was over. Being Bertie Liston's comrade, he knew more about the Rajah of Gumilcund than Colonel Durant.
Mrs. Lyster, whose husband and baby were gone, had no ties in India. The dear ones at home were drawing her; but they were provided for, and there was no need for hurry. When plans were talked over, she agreed gladly to remain in Gumilcund, looking after the little Aglaia until they could both be sent home. Of Aglaia's present departure there was no question. Her mother and father had gone. Her friends in England believed doubtless that she had died with them. In time to come, Tom promised himself to look them up; but, for the moment, she belonged to her deliverer.
As for Lady Elton, she simply declined to leave Gumilcund until Tom could be said to be in his usual health. She owed this, she wrote to his mother, to himself, to Grace. The General might come to her and Trixy. They could not go to him.
The wild work in the neighbourhood of Meerut, which had earned the Khakee Ressalah their laurels, was by this time over. The courts were open; the country was comparatively quiet; the robber-tribes having taken warning by one or two notable executions, had taken what was left of them elsewhere, and the peasants were coming back slowly to rebuild their little villages of mud huts, and to cultivate their fields. The General, who had nothing to do in this work of organisation, finding for the second time his occupation gone, gathered a few volunteers round him and set off for Gumilcund, which he reached, without the least difficulty, one evening in February.
The young rajah was convalescent, but not off the invalid list. The visitor, recognised at once as an Englishman of distinction, was shown into the ante-room of Tom's sleeping apartment, where, having been left by his kind nurses for the night, he was reclining in a nest of cushions. He sprang up, and held out both his hands.
'General!' he cried. 'You!'
'Yes, my boy,' said the old man brokenly. 'I have come to look you up, you see, as I couldn't persuade you to come to Meerut. Sit down! Sit down! You have been ill?'
'Nothing to speak of; though my dear nurse, Lady Elton, insists on coddling me still. Shall I send for her?'
'Presently. I should like to have a little talk with you first, if it won't be too much for you.'
'My dear sir, I am well, perfectly well.'
Very strange and sad was the conversation that followed. When Tom, who knew the high soul, the resolute nature, and the grand audacity of his old friend, found him stammering and faltering, pouring out thanks and blessings, and stopping in the midst of broken words to reproach himself bitterly for the blind and credulous folly which had precipitated them all into danger, he was too much moved to answer.
But, meanwhile, the rumour of the arrival had spread in the palace, and Lady Elton, yearning to see her dear old General, and fearful of the exciting effects of his conversation upon her patient, wrapped herself in her veil, and went hastily through the corridors that separated their apartments from those of the rajah.
When the emotion of the two men was at its highest point, she stood between them, a hand on both. 'It is enough, Wilfrid,' she said. 'He is our son; you must not thank him too much.'
'Thank you,' murmured Tom.
As for the General, he took up his gentle wife in his arms and asked her, with a plaintiveness that came strangely from him, if she meant to desert him and the girls for ever. Tom smiled and left them together.
Of course the General was irresistible. When Lady Elton met Tom the following day, she told him that she must leave him. 'I really believe you have turned the corner, dear,' she said, 'and they are so devoted to you; besides, there is Mrs. Lyster. She promises faithfully not to go until you are quite well. My dear old General doesn't seem to be able to get on without me. It is very foolish——'
'Dearest Lady Elton, I would not keep you for the world. It has been too good and kind of you to stay so long,' said Tom.
'Hush! Hush!' said Lady Elton reproachfully. 'Is that the way sons speak to their mothers? But, seriously, the General says that if things go on as they are doing now, he will take us home in April or May. You ought to come with us.'
'And leave Gumilcund?'
'Oh! not for always of course. Spend the summer at home, and go back in the winter. The change will do you good, both in your body and mind.'
'I don't think I care much to go to England now,' said Tom. He was gazing out at the garden, the azure-blue lake, and the purple outline of the hills behind them, and thinking sorrowfully of his old dreams.
'But that is just it,' pleaded Lady Elton. 'You should make yourself care. I know how people slip into not-caring, dear. It is the worst of complaints. It takes all the hope and heart out of you. Think of us—of your mother—of England——'
'Yes: I will think,' he answered gently, and that was all she could persuade him to say then.
General Elton spoke to him more strongly. He had not seen him since his visit to Meerut, in the bright and joyous days that preceded the mutiny, and he was shocked by the change in his appearance. 'My dear boy,' he said, 'if you value your health—if you value your reason—if you wish to continue the useful career which you have begun so nobly, you must give yourself rest and change. Tell me frankly, is there anything to prevent your taking a holiday?'
'I don't think so,' answered Tom. 'The crisis is over, and things have been set going. They will work very well without me. It is not a question of being spared.'
'No; it is want of will. Now, my dear fellow, in your mother's name, as well as in that of others, I must scold you.'
'Poor mother!' he murmured.
'She has been eating her heart out with anxiety this dreadful year; you may be sure of it. You owe her a little comfort—a little consideration.'
'I owe her everything,' said Tom impulsively. 'Don't urge me too much, General. You would be the first to tell me to consider my duty.'
'Of course I should. But your duty, it seems to me, is as plain as a pikestaff. You have to look to the re-establishment of your health. If you think that is to come about in a summer in the plains—over a hundred in the shade and other things to follow suit—why, all I can say is that you are hugely mistaken.'
Having delivered himself thus, the old General stalked off, for he believed that his words would take more effect if he did not bolster them up with too many arguments. Tom consulted Chunder Singh. He said plainly that he belonged to Gumilcund. Since the recent events which had endeared to him unspeakably both the city and those who dwelt in it, he had felt that no other place in the world could ever be his home. It was not his intention, however, to give up his English citizenship altogether. Chunder Singh, who was a wise man, knew very well that the maintenance of those cordial relations—that sympathy—with the Paramount Power which had enabled them to steer, not only safely but triumphantly, through the late dangerous crisis, was a matter of importance to Gumilcund. These, he believed, would be strengthened by personal intercourse with England, which he had always proposed to visit from time to time. His friends wished him to go over that summer. The question was, would the people and the elders of the State consider the time suitable? Would there be any fear—any panic?
Taken by surprise, Chunder Singh asked for a few hours' delay to consider and consult his colleagues. The consideration proved favourable to General Elton's scheme. The people of Gumilcund thought that there could be no better time than the present for their rajah's visit to England. The country in the immediate neighbourhood of the city was quiet. The rebellion, though not completely quenched, had received its death-blow in the defeat of Tantia Topee outside Cawnpore. The mutineers still on foot had far too much to do battling with the strong forces set in array against them to think of attacking Gumilcund. The business of the State itself was moving with the regularity of clockwork. Moreover, it was well-known that in the council chambers of the English Parliament momentous questions regarding the future government of India were being mooted. Under such circumstances, it would be advisable that their rajah, whose influence these good people naturally overrated, should be at hand. Let him then depart; let him think for them and scheme for them in England as he had done here; and when the fiery summer had run its course, let him return to the city, as to a home!
So said Chunder Singh, as the mouthpiece of Gumilcund.
When the General and his wife, and brave little Trixy departed, they took with them a promise, that if nothing came about in the meantime to prevent him, Tom would start with them for England in the month of April.