THE RAJAH WELCOMES A GUEST AND HEARS A STRANGE STORY
The next day was full of business, and Tom gave himself to it with stern self-repression.
He had offered a body of guides and pioneers, picked men, as skilful with the shovel and the scaling-ladder as with the sword, to the British army, which was marching northwards to the relief of Lucknow. His offer had been accepted, and to-day they were to set off for Allahabad, where the troops were congregating. In the early morning he inspected them, and then, having given orders that they should be feasted royally at his expense in the market-place, he harangued them in the presence of a great concourse of people, and, mounted on Snow-queen, marched with them as far as the boundaries of the State.
Following as it did on an exciting evening and a heavy sleepless night, the day exhausted him, and on his return he would not press his pace. He rode back slowly, his mind, to his own comfort and relief, almost a blank, so that it was late in the evening before he reached the palace.
He had left word that he would probably be late, begging the ladies to dine without him, and as he passed into his own quarters he felt glad that he had done so, for he was able for little else but rest. Here, however, an exciting piece of news awaited him. Lady Elton had arrived. He asked how long she had been in the palace, and found that she must have entered the city by one gate as he and his men had left by another. Hoosanee, who was his informant, told him that she had arrived in a well-equipped travelling-carriage, and attended by an escort of European soldiers. These, however, had left her at the gate.
A young lady—the sister, as Hoosanee had been told, of Grace Sahib—came in with her in the carriage, and an English officer whom Ganesh had recognised as the Captain Sahib Liston, had ridden into the city in their company. At the gate of the palace they had inquired for his Excellency the rajah. When Hoosanee informed them of the business on which he was bound, adding that he might not return till late, the ladies had left their names with him and gone on to the zenana, and the Captain Sahib had proceeded to the Residency, where he would probably spend the night.
While Hoosanee was giving his master this news a servant came in with a letter for the rajah. It was from Lady Elton—a rapturous, affectionate, incoherent little note, saying she had seen Grace, and thanking and blessing him for all he had done for them. 'My good Trixy is with me,' she wrote. 'The General would not let me come without one of the girls, and I think she will be a comfort to her sister. I will not see you to-night. When I feel my child's hand in mine my love and gratitude overcome me. I could only weep. I could not speak. But to-morrow morning, as early as you like, we must meet.' And she added, after a few more fervent, incoherent words. 'Both the General and I feel that you belong to us.' Pressing the letter to his lips, Tom wrote an answer hastily.
'My dearest Lady Elton,—I thank God from a full heart that you have come in safely. Command me as if I were your son. It will be my happiness to serve you. To-morrow, since it may not be to-night, I will bid you welcome in person. I am always in the garden early. You are an early riser, I know. If the journey has not tired you too much, perhaps you will meet me there. I must see you alone, if possible. Brotherly greetings and a warm welcome to Trixy. Yours always,
'Thomas Gregory.'
A long night, haunted by the strangest dreams, passed over the young rajah's head. Now he would be chasing Lady Elton about the garden, trying to speak to her, and seeing her elude him, and waking up with a start just as his hand was on her arm. Then he would come suddenly face to face with her, and she would begin an incoherent story, which he could not understand. Again and again he leapt up thinking it was day, and again and again he composed himself to sleep; but, do what he would, he could not rest for the fever of his heart and brain, and before the sun was up he dressed and went out into the garden.
Ever afterwards he remembered vividly the impressions of that morning. He went out into a still and wonderful world. The green things of the earth, the flowering shrubs, the palms, the dark cypresses that lifted their column-like heads above the lower and lovelier foliage, the water that flowed in deep channels by the grass—all these seemed to be asleep. But a soft wind was stirring; far away there was a low confused murmur as of dawning consciousness, and over all stretched a cloudless heaven, pale and mysterious, in the zenith, where the little stars that had shone all night were passing, one by one, tremulously behind the radiant veil of the morning, and, on the eastern horizon, tinged with a dull red, quickening gradually, as if a hand were fanning it, into flame-colour and saffron. The beauty and tranquillity seemed for a few moments to soothe the fever of his heart. He felt a Presence in the garden. The strange words of the night before came back to him. We are stretching out our hands in the darkness—looking for God—and He is here within us. For an instant—a wonderful instant, which he remembered years afterwards with a passionate thrill of gratitude—a wild throb of expectation, the Divine was as near to him as his own quivering flesh and blood.