Then it was a pity to see that ancient, stricken man wakening, as it seemed, out of his trance, and gradually making sure who it was that embraced him.
“My child! My child! Why have you come here?” he said presently. And then shed some tears himself, and clasped her to him, and kissed her.
“Where is my mother?” asked Marian, as soon as she had raised her head.
“Poor child! Your mother has been dead these eighteen months,” he answered sadly. “I should have written to tell you of it, but I was preparing for my passage home—indeed, I don’t know why I have not started before this.”
He gazed round him as he spoke, so as to convince me that indeed he did not know, and had lost the power—poor man!—to understand his circumstances or to take any resolution whatsoever.
I came away from that strange scene terrified, not so much by what I saw, as by an instinct I had that this man’s dreadful wreck was only a sign of that great and abiding horror which lay like a shadow all over the land; just as in the fable the glimpse of one monstrous foot was sufficient to warn the spectator that a giant came along. Which feeling in my mind was rather confirmed than dispelled when I came to learn, as I soon did, that Mr. Rising’s sad condition was brought about by the drug called opium, a staple of this country, the magical properties of which herb seemed to me then of a piece with the frightful sorceries and dark secret practices of the people, as I afterwards came to know them, and which, with their abominable idolatrous superstitions, used often to make me wonder that the Almighty did not destroy them with His plagues of fire and brimstone, like those wicked Cities of the Plain. Yet one good result of my observance of these people’s horrid customs was to inspire me with a becoming and devout gratitude that I had been born a citizen of Christian England, a blessing which we should the more prize since Providence has seen fit to deny it to so many millions of His creatures, and to bestow it upon a few. Sad it is that even among those few there should be found multitudes unmindful of their opportunities, who give themselves up to dissolute lives, or who turn away from the blessed truths of Scripture to hanker after liturgies and Romish inventions.
And now, having arrived safe in Calcutta, I looked forward to a period of rest and security not only for Marian, but myself, after the rough taste we had both had of fortune in her cantankerous mood. As soon as I had seen Marian lodged in her father’s house, I sought out Mr. Holwell, one of the principal Company’s servants in Calcutta, and commissioner over the police of the town. To this gentleman I brought a letter from Mr. Scrafton, to recommend me to his good offices, and having read it he at once received me very civilly and promised me his friendship.
He asked me many questions about the taking of Gheriah, and also about Mr Robert Clive, whose character stood high in the estimation of every one in Bengal, even the Moors having bestowed on him the name of Sabat Jung, signifying the daring in war.
“We had heard of this affair before you came,” Mr. Holwell told me. “The man Angria was famous in these parts, and supposed to be invincible, so that his sudden destruction by our armament has given the natives here an altogether new idea of the English power. It will be well if this doesn’t do us more harm than good, for the Moors are a jealous, suspicious race. Our agent in the neighbourhood of Moorshedabad, the Nabob’s capital, has warned us that the English have many enemies at the Court, who seek to poison the Nabob’s mind against us. I believe there are some spies come down here to examine our defences and the strength of our garrison.”