'Why did my cousin die?' cried Tom, bitterly, 'or why was I brought up in ignorance of the people amongst whom my lot was to be cast? If I had known a little more; if I had been sure of myself, I might have spoken to them, and they might have heard me, and the destruction which is coming upon my people might, perhaps, have been averted.'
'Let his Excellency have patience,' said Hoosanee, soothingly. 'He is learning every day.'
That night Tom wrote to his mother. He had written in the same strain before, but never so earnestly. 'I beseech you,' he wrote, 'not for my sake alone, but for the sake of others, to lift, if you can, the veil of secrecy which covers our past. I am certain—how I dare not tell you—that I belong to this people, and I believe it is by birth; and, if so, I am passionately anxious to know the nature of the tie. Pardon me, dearest mother! I know how strongly you feel on this subject, and, but for dire necessity, I would not vex you by alluding to it. Say to me, once for all, that there is no kinship, by birth, between us and the East, and I will trouble you no more. I will be content to believe that there exists between me and this people a mysterious spiritual affinity. If, on the other hand, there is such a tie—if, through you or through my father, I draw my origin as I inherit my wealth from the East, it is time that I should know it.'
The letter written, he thought he would go out again and see the city by night. Wrapped in a long white chuddah, and attended by Hoosanee, he left his tent, which was pitched near the Martinière palace, on the banks of the Goomtee, and, after going through several narrow lanes, entered a broad road lined with palaces and gardens and English bungalows. The gates leading up to one of the palaces lay open, and its courtyard, with the windows and balconies above, were streaming with light from innumerable candles and oil lamps. Having sent Hoosanee to inquire what was going on, Tom heard that it was a tomasha, or entertainment, given by the English to one another. Hoosanee intimated further that there would presently be a crowd of native men, and entreated his young master not to run the risk of detection by lingering amongst them. This, however, was precisely what the wilful young fellow meant to do; so Hoosanee, seeing that resistance was useless, stood back, while his master placed himself in the front rank of the crowd that were gathering together to see the show.
Presently carriages began to roll up. The night being clear and beautiful, most of them set down their loads at the gates. Tom could in many cases not only see his compatriots, but hear their voices. All of them seemed to be gay and light of heart. The scraps of talk which fell upon his ear were of the dance that evening, and of a concert and amateur theatricals that were coming off soon. Once he heard a high shrill voice exclaim, 'Provision the Residency? What nonsense! But Sir Henry can't be in earnest;' and another, a man's voice, answered, 'I can only say that I heard it. Preposterous, of course. If we want a revolt, the surest way to have it is to show that we distrust the people.'
That pair swept past him—a young English officer in uniform and a dashing, handsome young woman. Then came a sensation in the crowd. Many heads were bowed reverently, and a mingled cry—of adoration from some, and of contempt and defiance from others—broke forth. The excitement was caused by the arrival of the Chief Commissioner, Sir Henry Lawrence, whose carriage, drawn by four handsome little horses, preceded by outriders and followed by a native guard, was coming slowly along the street.
There was abundance of light from lanterns swung on poles above the road and flaming torches carried by footmen. Tom looked out and saw a picture which he will never forget. The chief—his lean, soldierly figure wasted with anxiety for the people whom, as he fervently believed, God Himself had committed to his charge; his face, that face which to see was to love, strong, yet curiously tender, deeply seared with lines that told of such spiritual conflicts as shake the soul to its depths; with mobile lips, round which a smile, half humorous and half melancholy, was hovering; and deep-set eyes that looked out steadily from under massive brows—was before him, and instinctively he bowed his head; he knew that he was in the presence of a hero. So far he had seen no one else in the carriage, he had eyes only for the chief; but as it swung round to enter the gates of the courtyard he became suddenly aware of another presence—'Grace Elton!' Wildly his heart throbbed as, in the disguise which it would have been the height of imprudence to throw off, he saw close in front of him the woman he loved. She was sitting back in the carriage, her eyes, pensive as ever, fixed meditatively on Sir Henry. She seemed to have been speaking, for her lips were half parted, and it appeared to him as if a shadow rested on the face which, with its divine expression of seraphic purity, was so infinitely dear to him.
A moment, and the vision was gone, and he saw Hoosanee at his elbow, looking grave and disconcerted. He told him that he was being noticed, and implored him by all that was sacred to come on.
'Have I a European dress with me?' said Tom, as they moved away.
'Not one,' answered Hoosanee. 'My lord will remember that the baggage-waggons were left behind us.'