HOW GUMILCUND RECEIVED HER PRINCE
The month of October was in, and the great heats of the plains were over. Events had been marching. At Agra, which was still in a state of siege, the large European population gathered together in the fort and palace of the magnificent Shah Jehan began to breathe more freely. In Lucknow, where Sir Colin Campbell and his veterans had not yet arrived, Havelock and the gallant Outram held their own, and the flagging spirits of the Europeans had been cheered by several brilliant successes. Cawnpore was in the hands of the English; but Tantia Topee, the last general of note amongst the mutineers, was gathering his forces together for a final effort; and Jhansi, the home and citadel of a woman scorned, bade proud defiance to the English conquerors. These were the news which met the Rajah of Gumilcund when, journeying warily, he drew near to the gates of his own city.
Things had been going well with him since he parted from Gambier Singh. The country was much quieter than he had expected; the villages received them well; they had no difficulty about supplies; their force was large enough to frighten away the hordes of robbers that haunted the highways; and Hoosanee, who was their guide, took very good care that there should be no chance encounters with mutineers.
The rest and good food, with the comparative coolness of the atmosphere, had completely restored little Kit. The colour came back into his cheeks, and the sparkle into his eyes. It was a delight to see him going about the camp speaking in his little lordly way to the coolies and servants, and picking up phrases of Nepaulese with which to make friends with the Ghoorka soldiers. There was not a soul in the camp who did not adore him.
In one of the villages they had bought a little hill pony for the child, and day after day he trotted gravely by Tom's side, looking as picturesque as a prince of fairyland, with his brightly-coloured Indian garments, his blue and white muslin turban, and his flowing golden curls.
Grace, too, was better; but she did not speak much, and Tom would not urge her. He believed in the power of healing nature. In the meantime he had despatched Subdul with the letter, of whose arrival we have heard.
So, as I have said, they came on to Gumilcund. The rajah had sent on swift runners to apprise the people of his coming, and all the city was in a ferment. It was afternoon when he crossed the boundaries of the State. Most of the peasantry had gone up to the town, so the country had a somewhat deserted appearance; but it gave him pleasure to see that the forts stationed here and there for their protection were occupied strongly, and that there had been no break in the agricultural operations. The people went about their usual work in the daytime, and took refuge in the city at night.
He halted, as he had done before, just as dusk began to fall, about a mile from the principal gate of the city. Chunder Singh and Lutfullah, with several other distinguished citizens, and a gorgeously-attired retinue of Indian cavalry, were drawn up here to do him honour, and escort him to the city in state.
Bidding his Ghoorkas halt, Tom rode in amongst them. He had scarcely done so before he caught sight of his beautiful little Arab mare Snow-queen. She had been ridden by no one since the night when he rode her out to meet the English fugitives, and, finding that two were missing, went to Dost Ali Khan's fort to find them. Now, hearing his voice, she whinnied, and pawed the ground impatiently. In a moment Tom had dismounted from the horse he was riding, and vaulted on to her back. He had much ado then to keep her quiet, but he succeeded at last, after which he turned to Chunder Singh. 'Thank you,' he said, holding out his hand. 'This is a pledge to me of your forgiveness.'
'There is no question of forgiveness, Rajah Sahib,' said the grave Indian. 'I could have wished for the sake of the people, who were clamorous for tidings when they heard the rajah had gone, that his Excellency had treated me with more confidence. But is not that amongst the things that have passed? We have escaped from the fiery trial. The people of Gumilcund and his Excellency, their rajah——'
'The people will receive me, then?'
'The loyalty of the people of Gumilcund to Byrajee Pirtha Raj, their ruler, has never wavered.'
'That is well,' said Tom gravely. 'But you must understand, Chunder Singh, and you, Lutfullah; on some points I have changed since last I dwelt amongst you. In the wilderness where, for many days, I have been wandering seeking for my kindred, I have come to this determination chiefly,' he spoke in their own language, which all of them could understand. 'I will not,' he went on, 'go amongst you any more upon false pretences. I am an Englishman. How and to what degree I am related to your former rulers, or whether the mysterious tie which seems to unite us is merely spiritual, I do not know myself. I have written for information, and as soon as I receive it I will pass it on to you. In the meantime, I have determined to go amongst you without disguise. Such as I am, you and your people must receive me, and if the idea of serving a foreign ruler is repugnant to you I will retire and allow you to choose your own ruler, on whose behalf I will promise to interest myself with the British Government. But, however this may be, I know'—he smiled, and Chunder Singh, who had been listening with a falling countenance, plucked up heart—'I know,' he repeated, laying his hand on the closed litter, which had been brought to the spot where he had reined up Snow-queen, 'that for the sake of those who have gone before me—ay, and because they love the English name, which has been a tower of strength to their city, the good and loyal citizens of Gumilcund will receive me with respect and affection and will shelter and nourish the fugitives whom I have brought with me until they can return in peace to their own people.'
He paused, and a buzz of applause, not loud, for these were grave citizens and Asiatics, but deep and heartfelt, followed his words. 'Our rajah has spoken well. Hah! Hah! He has spoken words of wisdom. He has proved himself the true son of Byrajee Pirtha Raj. Let him come amongst us freely. The people are waiting to receive him with honour.' So from mouth to mouth the joyful answers ran.
Up to this everything was quiet, decorous, and stately; Tom playing the part of an Oriental potentate to perfection; the citizens of Gumilcund reverential in manner and dignified in speech and bearing; the two guards—the Ghoorka escort on the one hand, and the gorgeously caparisoned cavalry from Gumilcund on the other—sitting their horses like bronze images on either side of the space of ground where the rajah and the chief men of the city had met. And so it might have continued but for that upsetting element, subversive of all dignity, an English boy.
Kit had been riding in the rear of the cavalcade with Bâl Narîn. He had seen one or two things that interested him—a score or so of flying foxes, hanging like black bags from the trees, which he insisted upon disturbing, so that he might see them fly—a huge cobra, which they followed and killed, and a herd of screaming jackals that he galloped after until Bâl Narîn caught his pony by the rein and made him come back. They were thus considerably in the rear when the cavalcade halted.
Now, as soon as Kit saw that something was going on, he set spurs to his pony, gained upon the Ghoorka guard, passed it like a flash of lightning at imminent risk of setting the whole of it in motion, and drew rein by Tom's side just as the citizens of Gumilcund were assuring him of the continued homage of their city.
For a moment the child paused, looking out at them. It was light enough to see him well—the slender, shapely figure, the proud little head, the shower of golden curls. Every one of the grave men smiled. He answered their kind looks with a ringing laugh. 'Are you the people from Gumilcund?' he cried out, his childish treble ringing shrill and clear through the still air of the evening. 'And have you come to meet us?'
'Hah! Hah!' answered the grave elders. 'Gumilcund people, little Sahib,'
'Oh! I say,' whispered Kit, in his own tongue to Tom. 'Don't they look jolly? Let's give them an English cheer. Where are Bâl Narîn and Hoosanee and the others? I've been teaching them. They can cheer pretty well. Come up, you men! Now then,' lifting his small turban from his head, and holding it in one hand, while he shook his reins with the other. 'Hip! Hip! Don't be frightened, you men! Sing out! Hip! Hip! Hooray! That's better! Again! Hip, Hip, Hooray! for Gumilcund. And for the rajah—a good one this time!'
The men had begun to cheer with might and main—the soldiers joined. It was a joyful tumult, the like of which had never been heard in Gumilcund before. The grave citizens were bewildered. The horses, unaccustomed to the noise, grew restive. It was all Tom could do to hold Snow-queen in. 'That's enough, Kit,' he cried. 'Bus! Bus, we shall be at the gates in another moment, if you go on like this!'
'All right!' said Kit, 'I'll be as mum as a mouse directly. Just one more, Hip! Hip! Hooray! for Grace Sahib. Three times three! and three times more for luck!' And thereupon, the mischievous little urchin threw up his turban, caught it in his right hand, and rattled his reins over the pony's neck. Off it started at a hand-gallop; Snow-queen, who had been chafing under her master's detaining hand, went off in pursuit; the grave men of Gumilcund mounted their carriages as speedily as they could, and the two escorts found their horses unmanageable. For the level mile that lay between them and Gumilcund, it was a stampede, rather than a trot. But Kit, on his fiery mountain pony, headed them the whole way.
At the bridge which spans the ravine between the walls of the city and the open country, he drew the pony up and looked round. Tom and Snow-queen were close behind him. 'Isn't it a lark?' he cried out. 'Teazer would go, you know; I couldn't help him.'
'How much did you try, you young monkey?' said Tom. 'But since you are still, keep still for a few moments! We must let these good gentlemen come up. And Grace——'
'I say—what wonderful chaps those bearers are!' cried the irrepressible child. 'They've been running with her. She'll be inside almost as soon as we shall. Good-bye, Tom. I must trot back and get her to open the palki. She looks lovely, I know, and they'd all like to see her.'
Back he went, shouting out greetings to his Ghoorka friends. The two escorts, in the meantime, had fallen into double lines on the bridge. The elders of Gumilcund descended from their carriages and formed themselves into a procession. Tom, on Snow-queen, stood in front of them. Their faces were turned away from Gumilcund and towards the road by which they had come in. The palki and its eight bearers came on at a rapid run. The curtains were open. Grace had given in to the request of Kit, which he had been artful enough to represent as coming from Tom. And truly she was glad to see the light of this wonderful evening; for her heart was beating with a host of new feelings, and she had much trouble to keep herself quiet. Nearer and nearer drew the open palki. The light of the heavens had departed; but, as if by magic, a host of fairy lamps had sprung into being. They ran along the parapets of the bridge, up and down, throwing a weird radiance on the dark faces and showy accoutrements of the Ghoorka and Gumilcund soldiers. From the causeway, which led from the bridge to the gates of the city, thrown hospitably open, they shone out in myriads. Held on long poles they came flashing along—a glittering line of light. At the bridge the line divides, and while some of the light-carriers group themselves round the procession of citizens and their rajah, others run on to meet the palki. They form round it, and the light of their flaming torches falls full on the pale face, the snowy raiment, the golden hair, and deep steadfast eyes of the English girl.
Wonderingly the people gaze upon her, for they think that they see a vision. As for the rajah, his heart gives a great bound. Even he, who knows her so well, has never seen her look so lovely. But what is the meaning of that strangeness in her face; the fixed gaze; the aloofness? To him she is like one who is moving in two worlds, whose body is present, and whose spirit is far away.
The palki stops. It is uplifted still on the shoulders of the bearers, so that all who are within the radius of the torchlight can see it plainly. Tom had meant himself to step forward and bid her welcome, but he cannot speak for the rush of tears that are blinding and choking him. He bends himself low over his saddle-bow in the graceful Oriental fashion, and makes a signal to Chunder Singh, who steps forward.
'Madam,' he says, in excellent English, 'his Excellency permits me the honour of being the first to welcome you to Gumilcund. My friends and I have heard your story, and know what your sufferings and your heroism have been. Accept our assurances that your troubles are over. In the rajah's city the gracious lady will be as safe as in her own country and amongst those who have served her from her childhood.'
'I am sure of it, Chunder Sahib,' says Grace, bowing and smiling, 'and I thank you from my heart.'
That is all she can say, for the irrepressible little Kit has drowned her voice in another wild cheer, and from the bridge, and the causeway leading up to the gates, and from within the gates whence the light of a myriad lamps and the tumult of a great multitude gathered together is pouring, the shout comes back in deep waves of sound that rise and fall on the still air like joyful music.
Then the rajah gives the word, and the palki with its bearers, and the merry company of light carriers advance, Snow-queen, who has been reduced to order, stepping proudly in front of them, while the elders of Gumilcund, some of whom are 'fat and scant of breath,' mount their carriages and bring up the rear.
Then what a joyful tumult of welcome! All through the great avenue, with its double rows of trees, it is one sea of turbaned heads and waving garments and banners carried proudly aloft. Here and there the procession has barely room to pass, but the good temper of everyone in the crowd is perfect, and whenever the rajah, who takes the lead, draws rein, the multitudes separate of their own accord, and leave them a living lane to pass through.
So, moving slowly, they come on to the market-place.
Vishnugupta, the priest, is waiting for them here. It is an encounter which Tom would fain have delayed until a quieter moment, for the Brahmin devotee, who had doubtless believed in his pure caste and high lineage, may not, he thinks, be so ready to receive him as the simple citizens. But he is mistaken. To Vishnugupta, in his sacerdotal capacity, Byrajee Pirtha Raj was no less of an alien than his successor. But, like many another priest both of the East and of the West, he was something more than a person of approved sanctity. He was a patriot and a citizen. He knew what the present regimen had done for Gumilcund, where he had lived before the days of Byrajee Pirtha Raj and his father, and he recognised the advantages the whole country derived from the overlordship of the British. It was in the speech that Tom had made to the people, when rumours of mutiny were first rife in the country, that he had conquered Vishnugupta, the Brahmin devotee and astute politician. That he was of a different country and religion went for nothing with the priest. Nor, strange as it may seem, and although he belonged professedly to one of the most mystical faiths the world has ever known, did the legend current amongst the people of their late so passionately loved ruler having returned to them in the form of this young and comely stranger, affect him in the least. It might be so and it might not. Vishnugupta would not express an opinion. What he did feel and say was that the rule of the stranger was good for the city.
And so, to the surprise of Tom and to the measureless delight of the people who thronged round him, Vishnugupta received him with honour such as he had not granted even to his predecessors. Standing head and shoulders above the crowd, his hands, in one of which he held a cage of living brands, uplifted, and his white hair streaming in the wind, he called upon the procession to halt while, in a flood of words, all the more impressive to those who stood by for its mystical strangeness, he called down blessings upon the chosen of the gods.
He ceased, and making a low obeisance, the rajah passed on silently. Behind him were the golden-haired child and the English girl in her open palki. Vishnugupta stood in front of it, and the bearers stopped. So piercing was his gaze that even Kit was silenced. But Grace looked back at him calmly.
For the space of an instant they looked at one another across the shadows, and then the girl's lips parted in a slow and sorrowful smile. 'We will speak together another time,' she said quietly in English. 'You are a good man. I could trust you.'
'So be it,' said Vishnugupta, bending his proud head. He stood aside, and the procession, which was on its way to the palace, swept by him.
He had meant to follow, but he stood like one abashed, and his hands dropped, and the cage of fire which he had been lifting over the heads of the people, swung idly by his side, and those who had flocked round him, fearing accident, fell away, so that in a few moments he stood alone. Plunged deeply in thought, he did not observe the absence of bystanders. One, however, fascinated by his strange appearance, lingered and heard him whisper: 'That look! And on the face of a woman! I would fain see it again. But I fear! I fear! Ram! Ram! My heart flows from me like rivers that seek the sea.'
For a few moments his head sank on his breast. Then he raised it, and the fascinated observer watched him move forward slowly, till he reached the palace gate, which had closed behind the rajah and his party, but which, as he knew, would have opened at a word from him. There, for an instant, he paused in indecision. His hand touched the bell, but he withdrew it. 'Though I am a Guru and twice-born,' he murmured, 'I am old, and my eyes have not the precision of youth. To-night I will not see her again.'