I was in this state of perplexity—on the point indeed of giving up the task of tracing the fortunes of the rajah's heir, when, by the mediation of a friend, who was anxious that the curious story should not be lost, a diary, kept spasmodically by Tom himself for some years, was placed in my hands, with liberty, under certain restrictions, to use it according to my own judgment.
It has been of inestimable service to me, not only in filling up blanks that would otherwise have remained vacant, but also as giving such a mental image of the man himself as no one but himself could draw. It is partly with a view of presenting the first outlines as it were of this picture—partly because they form a good introduction to the stirring events of his Indian life, that I have decided to give, almost as they stand, the daily jottings in Tom's diary during his first voyage to India.
S.S. 'Patagonia,' September, 1856.—I will do as I have been advised. I will write down my experiences, and some of the strange thoughts and contradictory impulses that are constantly with me. It is possible that in this way my purposes and aims may become more distinct to myself. I don't think there could be a better moment than this for beginning my record. In the little state-room which for the next few weeks is to be my home there is a perfect quietness. I can hear the movement of feet up above, and the throbbing of the engines as they beat the water, but there is nothing else. After the excitement of the last few days it seems like a blessed lull—a pause in my life.
It is three months now since I heard of the change that had come into my life. I look back upon those months as I might on a tumultuous stream that had borne me on its surface. Hurried from one mental and physical sensation to another, I have not had time so much as to think. I have felt like a foam-bubble on a wave, a toy ship in a storm. Before the tumult begins again, as it will, I suppose, when my feet touch the opposite shore, I must try to realise and define my position.
I am heir of my cousin, the rajah of Gumilcund, and I am going out to take possession of my inheritance. Besides land and money he left me the succession of his ideas, which succession I have lost through my own cowardly delay, and liability to be guided by the ignis fatuus of passionate impulse. It is this succession which I am seeking to recover. From the lips of the men who knew him I may learn something of what my papers would have taught me. Meantime, and with a view to taking the best advantages of my opportunities, I am studying the Oriental languages, and trying my hardest to grapple with the difficulties of the Indian philosophies and religions. Until I know what my task will be I have made up my mind not to take up any strong personal interest into my life. I will live for this, and for nothing else.
Sometimes—I will confess it here—there have been moments when my nature has rebelled wildly against its self-imposed restrictions—moments when I have forgotten that the inheritance came to me with conditions which I must understand and fulfil before I can so much as know that it belongs to me—when I have craved passionately for the enjoyments of the senses.
Such a moment was that of my river-fête—Yes—and even now, although I know how illusive are the brief, sickly-sweet pleasures of the senses—my pulses will throb as I look back upon it. A night that seems like a century! Beautiful Vivien Leigh, the designer of the festival, as she was its queen, sat beside me. I remember a moment when she and I and some others were floating down the river on a painted barge. She was dressed in a robe whose colour was like that of ruddy flame; the white glitter of diamonds lighted up her dark hair; her wonderful, witch-like eyes, resting on mine, were drawing my soul away. I was close to her—I was going to speak—when—Oh! Grace! Grace! this once let me write your name. It was your boat, all lighted and dressed with streamers, that passed us by. You, my dearest, were there, with the rudder-strings in your hands, and your sisters—stately Maud and gay little Trixy, and gentle Lucy and Mildred—held the oars. How lovely you all looked in your white dresses! One of you called to me—it was Trixy I think—and I left my flame-coloured lady, and stepped down amongst you, and you gave me a pair of oars, and as I grasped them, carrying the boat forward by a vigorous stroke, I knew that the witchery had lost its power; that I was once more free.
I saw Mr. Cherry the day before I started. He is an admirable person, perfectly sincere in his creed and in his life; but how singularly illogical! I believe he thanks heaven for the loss of my papers, feeling convinced that it came about in answer to prayers of his own, for my salvation and guidance. He warns me, too, on scriptural authority, against spirits that peep and mutter. And yet, because I think that the curtain which hides the invisible from our senses has been once lifted for me, he calls me a mystic. 'My dear sir,' I could not help saying to him one day, 'I do believe that at this present moment you are far more a mystic than I am.' Mr. Cherry's keen head and clear judgment, when matters of business are in question, have, however, been exceedingly valuable to me. He has advised me concerning my correspondence with the Lieutenant-Governor, mapped out my route in India, and given me the names and addresses of those known to him in the East as the chief friends and associates of my cousin, the rajah.
—I have just been up on deck seeing the last of the English coast. We are off the Isle of Wight, where we stopped, for a few moments, to put off the Channel pilot. It is late in the afternoon, the atmosphere misty and irradiated with the hues of sunset, so that we seem to be floating in a rosy haze, through which the pale green shores of the land we are leaving gleam faintly. There is scarcely any wind, and the sea is as smooth as a lake in midsummer.