[CHAPTER XXVII]
THE BREAKING OF THE MONSOON
We return to Gumilcund, where Tom had been established several days. The warmth of the welcome he had received and the calmness and wisdom of Chunder Singh, his counsellor, had helped him to regain the balance of mind which he had nearly lost in the late expedition. It was perhaps fortunate for him that he had no time to brood over the terrors of the hour. There was much stir in the city, and so soon as it was known that the rajah had come back, nothing was done without consulting him. It gave him a sad sort of amusement to find that he was looked upon by many not as a sovereign alone but as a supernaturally gifted oracle. And, in fact, he was often surprised by his own insight. Stranger as he was, he seemed to see instinctively into the heart of difficulties that puzzled the wisest heads in the city, and to propose solutions which were only reached by other men after arduous and prolonged thought. No doubt this was due, in a great measure, to the study he had given to the politics of India, and especially to the constitution of his own state; but it would come to him sometimes, with curious force, that this was not all; but that another intelligence, higher and more original than his own, was working within him and producing ideas of which he, Tom Gregory, the English-bred youth, could never have dreamed in the days that had gone by.
His position was a critical one, for Gumilcund lay in the very centre of the seething mass of insurrection that was converting the fair region of Central India into a desert. Several of the smaller native states were looking anxiously towards her to see what she would do. Those who had already cast off their allegiance sent haughty messages, threatening untold horrors if she did not join in the Holy War. The English Resident, who had courageously forced his way back to his post on the first hint of danger, used his influence on the other side; but this, as we have seen, was not necessary. Gumilcund had already taken her part. In one particular Tom was more fortunate than his loyal neighbours, his army, owing to the wise provisions of former rulers, being recruited from the lower and not the higher castes. Although, therefore, as a body of men, they were less magnificent to look upon, they had in them a root of loyalty that was altogether lacking in the haughty Brahmins and proud Mohammedan warriors, who formed the bulk of the Company's native contingent.
It was now proposed by the Resident that a body of these faithful troops should be sent to Delhi to help in the siege. On consulting Chunder Singh and Vishnugupta, both of whom knew the minds of the people, Tom found that nothing would please them more than that the army should be employed in such service.
Being thus satisfied, he announced his wish, which was responded to joyfully. Throughout the city there ran a glad tumult of expectation. Hundreds of trained men offered themselves as volunteers; and, out of these, a picked body of horsemen and foot soldiers was chosen, the command being given to a young officer of the Kshatriya caste, who had been brought up in the household of the late rajah.
Tom was overwhelmed, in the meantime, with sorrows of his own. He thought of his friends—the stubborn old General, of whom he had heard as travelling through the disturbed districts with a weak escort—sweet Lady Elton and the girls—his companions of the tranquil voyage in the 'Patagonia,' which seemed so long ago; and all of them seemed to be crying out to him to help them.
One effort he had made, and this, as we have already heard, had been so far successful that his agent, the versatile Subdul Khan, who could be groom, snake-charmer, pedlar or holy man at pleasure, had forced his way into Meerut and delivered the two messages, for answers to which Tom was now impatiently waiting.
He had written hopefully; but he was far from feeling easy; and, in fact, as day after day went by, bringing no news of Hoosanee, an anxiety for which words have no name took possession of him.
During the day-time he managed to keep up an appearance of cheerfulness; but at night, when everyone was shut out, and that curious double consciousness which was at once a comfort and a bewilderment would retire into the background of his being, there would rise from his tortured spirit a great and bitter cry. Grace—his beautiful, tender darling—lovely as a vision, pure as a saint. Grace, whom he would willingly have shielded, if his own life were to be the forfeit—where was she? Then, with a groan, he would spring up and pace the marble floor of his chamber, and fling his arms about as if he were at war with demons, and cry out to the All Merciful to kill him, and to let his darling live out her sweet young life in peace.