“Where does this come from?” asks the commissioner with a frown.
“From the Padre Sahib,” is the messenger’s reply.
“Oh! I had enough of these missionaries last evening,” mutters Mr. Thole; and he is inclined to fling the despatch aside, when the word “Urgent” on the envelope catches his eye. In no mild mood he tears it open to glance at the contents, which are written in a clear, even handwriting, as if to invite perusal. Mr. Thole glances at the signature at the end, “Robert Hartley,” and sits down on the stump against which the wheel of his buggy was smashed, to read whilst awaiting the coming of his riding-horse, for which a smith has at last been found.
Mr. Thole begins to read with that sour expression on his damaged face which denotes an inclination to dispute or deny whatever may be written in the paper before him. But, not gradually but almost suddenly, that expression changes to one of interest, mingled with surprise.
“This is a strange case, a very extraordinary case,” he mutters. “A locket found in a zenana—a locket the very counterpart of a family memorial possessed by young Mrs. Hartley, with a legible inscription too. And part of a child’s sock, marked with initials. This is strong, decidedly strong corroboration that these rascally natives have really abducted an English child, Miranda Macfinnis, cousin by the maternal side of a lady now in Talwandi!” The commissioner rose from his seat; his national pride was roused. “If this crime can be proved—this offence against the ruling power—these villanous Hindus shall rue it. The case must be investigated without delay. Ho! Mir Sahib!” (a servant answers the call), “send off at once after my servants and tents; call them back. I must be to-morrow at Talwandi.”
“Talwandi!” exclaims the astonished man.
“I am not accustomed to repeat my orders twice,” is the irritable reply.
It had shown knowledge of the character of the man with whom he had to deal when Mr. Hartley in his letter had put the case of Premi first; had he begun with a complaint regarding the violent carrying off of the Brahmin convert, Mr. Thole would have felt no sympathy, and have put the case aside for a while, muttering some abuse of missionaries as weak, meddling, mischievous men. But “What will they say in England?” rose to Mr. Thole’s mind, to quicken his interest in the romantic story of the long-lost Miranda. The commissioners indignation was also roused by the personal attack made on an English youth by the Hindus; he admired the young man’s courage, while undervaluing the missionary’s zeal.
Talwandi was in a state of great excitement on the following morning when the news that the Commissioner Sahib had arrived spread like wild-fire through the town. Thákar Dás naturally connected the great man’s coming with the attack on the mission bungalow, and the blow received by Robin Hartley from the hand of one of the chief’s attendants. Thákar Dás determined utterly to disclaim having had anything to do with such a breach of the law; he would declare that he had never approved of violence, that the attack had been made without his sanction, and even without his knowledge. The Hindu was wily as a fox; but whilst avoiding the trap, he found himself in an unsuspected pit.
Numbers of the inhabitants of Talwandi crowded the court, which was held in a tent. Mr. Hartley and his sons were present, and Kripá Dé in their midst, the object of fierce, angry invectives from the people, who were restrained from more violent persecution only by the august presence of Mr. Thole.