Tom, then, had traced them into the jungle. Tom had sent the shikari to slay the birds. Tom had taken them into his keeping and was transporting them to a place of safety. There had been war between him and the White Ranee and he had conquered.
Weary and spent with this strange flight of memory, she sank back and closed her eyes. But she could not rest any longer. An impulse, dead for all these terrible days, but so much a part of herself that even now she could not imagine how it had ever slept, was rising up within her.
Once more she opened her eyes, and this time they fell on a mirror which an officious servant had placed near her. She propped it up in front of her, and gazed at herself, and a blush of maidenly shame tinged her pale face. Was she Grace—Grace who had been so proud and dainty? Ah! but she had forgotten Grace. Grace must have lived long ago in some other world. Grace was a memory—a dream—it was this haggard woman, with the ragged robe and tangled hair, who was the reality. But could not Grace come back again?
With a swelling heart she looked round her. Some one had thought of this too. Everything she could want, clear water and English soap, and fresh and lovely garments were in the tent. If only she had the strength, she could, in a few minutes, make herself fit to be seen. Slowly and painfully she rose from her couch. How weak she was! Could it be she, her very self, who only yesterday had withstood the wild beasts and birds of the jungle? When she was on her feet she staggered and nearly fell; but she would not give up till she had washed the stains of travel away and put on the robe of pale blue and snowy white, which was lying ready for her. Then, once more, she looked into the mirror. Very white and haggard was the face that gazed upon her, and the eyes—oh! what was it? What was it? She dared not look into them. There was some awful tale; some picture of horror that would not fade, behind their half-dropped lids; something that was not Grace—that never would be. And yet she was happier, more tranquil, than she had been. The fresh water and the fair garments had helped her to dream that she was herself once more. She was ready to meet her deliverer.
[CHAPTER XLII]
'DOES PEACE RETURN?'
She saw Kit's face first. He had been sleeping too—close to Bâl Narîn, whose large, kind presence had, from the first, inspired him with confidence, and now he had awoke, and his new friend, who was one of the most versatile of men, being as well able to nurse a child as to snare an elephant or to kill a tiger, had taken pleasure in washing from his face and hands the stains of travel, and combing out his long golden curls, and dressing him in smart new garments. So when Kit stole in softly to see if his dearest Grace was awake, he almost startled her by his beauty. It was the little fine gentleman of Nowgong, before the revolt, the adored of English burra sahib-log and native servants—who had come back. Kit was surprised too. He stopped short just inside the tent and broke into a little laugh. 'Who made you so pretty, dearest Grace?' he said. 'Was it Tom? Billy dressed me.'
'And who is Billy?' asked Grace.
'Oh! don't you know Billy. He's the shikari that killed the birds. He's told me all about it, and how he found us. But I must go and find Tom.'