CHAPTER I

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THE RAJAH'S HEIR

_A NOVEL_

[by Charlotte Despard]

IN THREE VOLUMES

LONDON

SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE

1890

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PROLOGUE

I. THE HEIR

II. GENERAL SIR WILFRID ELTON

III. 'IN VISIONS OF THE NIGHT'

IV. A MYSTERIOUS LEGACY

V. WHAT THE MOON AND RIVER SAID

VI. AN IRREPARABLE LOSS

VII. THE RAJAH'S HEIR SPEAKS FOR HIMSELF

VIII. THE MASQUERADE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

IX. DELHI--VIVIEN--A MALCONTENT

X. MEERUT AND THE ELTONS

XI. ON THE BORDERS OF NEPAUL--A JOURNEY THROUGH THE JUNGLE

XII. A VISIT TO JUNG BAHADOOR

XIII. LUCKNOW AND SIR HENRY LAWRENCE

XIV. A MODEL STATE

XV. THE RANEE OF JHANSI

XVI. THE RAJAH'S RECEPTION

XVII. HOW THE NEWS FROM MEERUT WAS RECEIVED AT GUMILCUND

XVIII. HOOSANEE'S MISSION

XIX. GENERAL ELTON'S MARCH

XX. THE SOUBAHDAR SUFDER JUNG

XXI. WITHIN THE WALLS OF MEERUT

XXII. THE RAJAH SURPRISED

XXIII. THE SNAKE-CHARMER AND THE VEILED LADY

XXIV. SUBDUL

XXV. AN AWFUL RIDE AND A RESCUE

XXVI. CAPTAIN BERTIE'S FAQUIR

XXVII. THE BREAKING OF THE MONSOON

XXVIII. A LITTLE BAND OF FUGITIVES

XXIX. THE WELCOME OF A SORROWFUL SPIRIT

XXX. CHUNDER SINGH'S PRECAUTIONS

XXXI. THE ENGLISH LADIES IN THE RAJAH'S PALACE

XXXII. NO NEWS

XXXIII. CONTAINING EXTRACTS FROM THE RAJAH'S DIARY, WITH HOOSANEE'S

RECOLLECTIONS

XXXIV. GOING THROUGH THE LAND--FROM NORTH TO SOUTH, FROM EAST

TO WEST

XXXV. A BRUSH WITH MUTINEERS AND A CLUE TO THE FUGITIVES

XXXVI. IN THE DEADLY TERAI

XXXVII. THE ADVICE OF BÂL NARÎN

XXXVIII. THE SHIKARI'S DISCOVERIES

XXXIX. WHAT BÂL NARÎN HAD BEEN DOING

XL. THE ELEPHANTS' CHACE

XLI. WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT

XLII. 'DOES PEACE RETURN?'

XLIII. A STRANGE JOURNEY

XLIV. MORE FUGITIVES IN GUMILCUND

XLV. NEWS OF MEERUT--GENERAL ELTON FINDS A NEW SPHERE

XLVI. HOW GUMILCUND RECEIVED HER PRINCE

XLVII. IN THE PALACE

XLVIII. A LETTER FROM ENGLAND

XLIX. SEEN IN THE LIGHT OF MORNING

L. VISHNUGUPTA, THE PRIEST

LI. THE RAJAH WELCOMES A GUEST AND HEARS A STRANGE STORY

LII. GIFTS AND CONGRATULATIONS

LIII. NEWS FROM LUCKNOW--TRIXY'S DETERMINATION

LIV. COMING BACK TO LIFE

LV. IN ENGLAND AGAIN--CONCLUSION

THE RAJAH'S HEIR

PROLOGUE

'A dream and a forgetting. Is our life that? The sages who have

searched into the past and future say that it is even so. A

dream--another dream; a beginning--an ending; a beginning again--an

ending again; in all the world no halt for the trembling spirit until

the dizzy height be reached. And that--when will it be? I accept not

the priceless boon alone. Ye Holy Ones, who have been my companions

from my boyhood, whose wills have wrought upon my will, whose bodiless

voices have counselled me, ye know what is in my heart. If I had

separated myself from my kind, from the children who depend upon me

for their daily bread, I might now have attained to the goal of my

spiritual desire; instead of going forth upon this weary flight I might

have been basking in the light of knowledge, as the Divine--nay, the

very Divine myself. But it cannot be. For their sakes I must begin

again.'

Slowly and brokenly the words fell upon the silence. He who spoke

them--a man but a few hours ago in the full pride and glory of

life--was dying. Early that morning he had gone out as was his wont

from his palace, he had ridden over fields which he had redeemed from

the wilderness, he had visited the fair markets that his munificence

had opened; he had gone on foot, as he had often done before, through

the crowded streets of the city he governed, when the hand of an

assassin struck him down. The blow was dealt before the eyes of the

loyal throngs that pressed round their rajah; yet the miscreant who did

the foul deed made no effort to escape.

'He is a Feringhee,' he muttered as (the wounded prince having

forbidden violence) the people led the assassin to prison. 'He is a

Feringhee. He will take away from us our religion and customs, and give

us foreigners to rule over us.'

Weeping and moaning, the attendants of the rajah had dressed his wound

with such cool unguents as they could procure on the instant, and,

while some carried him to his palace, others went in hot haste for

the European doctor at the Residency. He let them do what they would,

knowing that the doing would ease their pain; but, for himself, he was

well aware that the end of his life, as master of these good people and

lord of loyal Gumilcund, had come.

When everything that skill and care could devise had been done he

begged his attendants to leave him. He wished to be alone.

He had been brought back to his palace at mid-day, and now the evening

was drawing on. The golden light of the westering sun stole in through

perforated marble lattices, and lay in patches on the white pavement,

and made the water that flowed tinkling through, a trough in the centre

of the apartment shine like rubies and sapphires. The Arabian carpet

on which, propped up with cushions, the rajah lay, had been drawn by

his request close to this trough, and his long brown fingers played

aimlessly with the water. As he lay, his lower limbs covered with

shawls of the richest Oriental workmanship, and the upper part of his

body wrapped in a padded cloak of silk embroideries, exhausted as he

was with suffering, the peculiar dignity and beauty of his appearance

must have struck anyone who saw him for the first time. It was a grand

face, finely wrought, noble in form and expression. Those who looked

upon it loved it.

The jewelled turban, which he was never more to wear, lay beside the

rajah on his pillow, and close at hand was a lacquered tray, containing

a gold cup, an alabaster casket, and a silver bell.

The words given above, only a few out of many, were spoken aloud. The

effort of thinking was too great for the strength so swiftly ebbing

away. Smiling sadly, the rajah put out his hand for the gold cup. He

reached it, but he could not raise it to his lips, whereupon he touched

the silver bell. While the sound was still vibrating through the air,

one of the many dusky forms that were thronging the doorway stood

before him.

'Hoosanee,' he said, 'call Chunder Singh.'

Swift and silent as the shadow that sweeps across a ripe corn-field

were the feet of the servant. But he had not far to go. In less than

a minute a man, slender, but of commanding stature, dressed in snowy

white, and wearing a red turban, stood, with head humbly bowed and eyes

so dim with tears that he could scarcely see, before the rajah.

'My master wants me at last,' he said, an accent of reproach in his

voice.

'I am tired. Give me to drink,' said the rajah.

Chunder Singh raised his head and put the golden cup to his lips. He

drank, and the death-like languor left his eyes. 'That is enough. I am

stronger,' he said.

'I would it were the elixir of life,' murmured Chunder Singh, who was

weeping bitterly.

'Your words bring back the past,' said the rajah, his lips parting in a

sad smile. 'The Elixir of Life! Long ago, when we were boys together,

how diligently we sought for it, Chunder, poring over the ancient

Arabic manuscripts! We were to drink of it and live, age after age, age

after age. We were to bring our grey experience to the use and service

of the nations. We were to mould a new world, where righteousness would

be the law and happiness--happiness, instead of misery--the common lot.'

He paused. 'Dreams!' said Chunder Singh. 'Yet I wish now that they

might return.'

'Dreams!' echoed the rajah. 'We know--you and I--that we are deathless.

What need of elixirs for us? Though I seem to die--though to-morrow you

will take out this body and burn it--the chain of existence has not run

out to its limit. _I_ remain.'

'But not with us--not with us!' cried Chunder Singh, flinging himself

down with his face to the marble pavement.

He was aroused from his paroxysm of grief by the voice of the rajah.

'You are mistaken. Rise and sit beside me, and I will tell you what

will make your heart leap with joy.'

Then Chunder Singh rose and dried his eyes, and the rajah spoke. 'There

was a moment when I thought that this death would be my last; that

when I left the prison of this mortal body I should go forth into the

liberty of unconditioned existence; for I have lived as a sage. By day

and by night, at the ordered hours, I have meditated upon the sacred

books. I have conquered appetite and passion, and have worked for the

sake of others, looking not for reward. Is this true, Chunder Singh?'

'It is true, my lord.'

'I know that it is true, and I know that the door into the highest

heaven stands open. But,' in a low and broken voice, 'I may not enter

in.'

'Why will my lord say so?'

'I say what I know, what the Invisible Ones have revealed to me. It

is two years now since they spoke to me of this. "Brother," they

said, "the door stands open. Enter in." I bowed down with my face to

the ground. "And my people," I said, "they will enter in with me?"

"Nay," said the Holy Ones; "have they lived as you have done?" And I

said, "They will." And the Holy Ones answered, "Who will teach them

when you have gone? There is no communion between gods and men." Then

I trembled, and my knees smote together. "There will rise up others,"

I said, "like-minded with us; and these will teach them." And they

said, "So it may be; yet who knoweth aught of that which is to come?"

"Promise me," I said, "that they shall be led into the path that I

have trodden." But to my prayer no answer was vouchsafed. After that,

Brother Chunder, many days went by. Morning, noon, and night I thought

of my people, humbly beseeching the Invisible Ones to grant me the

assurance of their final emancipation; but the heavens were as brass

over my head, and my words as empty air. But one night, when I was

musing, I heard a voice that I had never heard before. "Sacrifice,"

it said, "is the salt of devotion." As I pondered what this might

mean there fell upon me suddenly great awe, and a horror of darkness

enveloped me. More days and nights passed over me, and then I spoke

again. "It is enough," I said, "I will return again to the dark forest

of conditioned existence, and my people shall live." Then at last

the Invisible Ones spoke clearly. "So be it," they said. "For your

brothers' sakes you shall go through another incarnation, and a body is

ready."'

Here Chunder Singh trembled.

'Be still,' said the rajah, laying a long brown hand upon his arm.

'Hear me to the end; for I have still stranger things to tell. Across

the sea, in the land from which my father's father came, there lives a

youth, to whom I desire to send you. He thinks himself wholly of the

West; but our blood runs in his veins. Into him it is decreed that I

shall enter, that, through him, I may return to my people and city.

Listen, Brother Chunder, and consider carefully what I shall say to

you. When these eyes are closed, and you have carried out this body to

the burning, you must go to the land where my father's father lived;

you must find that youth of our race; you must be faithful to him as

you have been faithful to me.'

'But how shall I know him when I see him?' said Chunder Singh.

'You will know him by this, that he is my heir. My last will and

testament is in England, in the hands of our agent, with whom you

have often communicated by letter. He, if you present the credentials

that I leave with you, will give you all the information you require.

Understand, Chunder, while the youth is in England, amongst the

friends of his boyhood, I do not desire that you shall press yourself

upon him. When he has--as I know he will--made up his mind to become

one of us, then you will wait upon and help him. Will you?'

'My lord, thou knowest,' cried the poor fellow, weeping. 'Of what value

is Chunder's life to him now, save as he can carry out the wishes of

his master?'

The rajah smiled. 'That is well,' he said, 'I am satisfied. This,'

laying his hand on the alabaster casket, 'I give to you. It contains

gold and English notes, and my secret instructions. Strike the bell

three times!'

Chunder Singh obeyed. On the instant the marble pavement round the

rajah's couch was thronged with the figures of men in white and

coloured garments, whose weeping and lamentation filled the air of the

apartment.

But when the rajah lifted his hand there was silence. Then every one of

them fell down with their faces to the ground. In a voice that faltered

with weakness he bade them rise and listen to his last words. They

obeyed him trembling. 'Listen, my children!' he said. 'It is the will

of the Supreme, who doeth as He listeth in the heavens above and in

the earth beneath, that I should leave you for a season; but when the

times are fulfilled I will return. Until I come the elders of the city,

Chunder Singh and Lutfullah and the others'--he looked smilingly from

one to another--'will rule you under the English Resident, whom I have

seen to-day, and to whom you will refer in case of difficulty. I call

you all to witness that to my faithful minister, Chunder Singh, I give

this casket with everything it contains. Hoosanee, my bearer, will take

the gold cup out of which I drink, and the diamond star in my turban.

To him and all of you there are legacies of which you will hear in the

proper time and place. It is my desire that the palace be kept as it is

till your lord's return. The treasury is in the hands of the Resident,

and he will give you your pay. My faithful servants, farewell! Thank

you for your service. I can say no more. As you love me, I beseech you

to withdraw quietly.'

Stifled sobs followed the rajah's words, but not a single word was

spoken. One by one, with lingering looks of love, they left the

apartment. At last there were none left but Chunder Singh, his

foster-brother, and Hoosanee, his bearer. He looked with yearning

affection from one to the other, said feebly, 'Chunder will tell my

Hoosanee,' and fell back dead.

CHAPTER I

THE HEIR

In a little green box by the banks of the silver Thames, far from

the busy haunts of men and commerce, yet near enough to a busy

little county town not to be altogether cut off from the society of

their fellows, there lived at the time of the death of the Rajah of

Gumilcund, known amongst his Indian contemporaries as Byrajee Pirtha

Raj, a widow and her son. They were English. The widow was of middle

age. She had been handsome, and she was still comely and pleasant to

look upon. The son had just turned his twenty-first year.

The two were somewhat of an enigma to their neighbours, one of

whom--the well-known Lady Winter--used to say that the good folks of

Surbiton and Kingston ought to be thankful to the Gregorys, without

whose eccentricities they would not have had anything to talk about.

Now, it was very well that Mrs. Gregory did not hear this kind speech,

for, however she may have affected her neighbours, it is very certain

that she had not the least desire to be eccentric. And indeed the

peculiarity which set all these busy tongues wagging had more to do

with her son than with herself. His appearance, to begin with--how did

he come to be so curiously, so abnormally, different from his mother?

No one seeing them together could have imagined that they were closely

related. She was one of those large, fair women--placid in temper and

gentle in manner--who develop naturally out of the lily-white blonde

of poetry and romance when she is foolish enough to step across the

boundary that divides youth from middle age. He had the lithe figure,

the olive skin, and the dark melting eyes that are supposed to belong

to the great southern races.

The observant said there was something more. They said that the

boy's expression of face divided him more completely from his mother

than its colour and form. I am speaking now of his childish years.

They say--I did not myself know him in these days--that there was a

wonderful stillness, a curious, unchildlike spirituality about him;

that he looked now and then as if his little soul were in the presence

of visions which made the things of earth strange to him. This was

noticed once to his mother by a garrulous neighbour, and the anger

with which she received the remark was remembered long after in the

neighbourhood. As a fact, the poor woman, placid as she seemed, had

her own strongly-marked ideals. When her infant was born, and she

called him Tom--a name which the neighbours said did not suit him in

the least--she had visions of him in the future as a fair-haired,

white-skinned Anglo-Saxon athlete, a cricketing and footballing hero,

winning the plaudits of the crowd and provoking the envy of meaner

mortals by his magnificent feats. Nature, however, had other views

for the lad. But of this we shall see more hereafter. In the meantime

it must be mentioned that the curious difference between the mother

and son was not their only peculiarity. It was whispered that there

was something strange--and we all know how much may lurk behind those

two little words--in their past history. That Mrs. Gregory had spent

several of her early years in India, where her grandfather, Sir Anthony

Bracebridge, had been one of those fine old Anglo-Indian officers

who by their military dash and political genius laid the foundation

of the vast English empire that was then slowly growing up in the

East; that her father had in his turn entered the service of the East

India Company and won distinction; and that her husband, Captain

Gregory, had belonged to the same order, and had been killed in one

of the little wars about which no one in England knew anything;--so

much everyone had heard, and this, it might have been thought, was

sufficient for the most exacting of neighbourhoods. And no one,

doubtless, would have asked for any more but for Mrs. Gregory's curious

reticence with regard to the past.

She was naturally an expansive and garrulous woman. Everyone knew that.

She was not in the least like Lady Winter, for instance, who measured

her words carefully. She loved talking and kissing, and the genial

company of intimate friends. Dearest Tom, and his little smart sayings,

the house, the servants, the tradespeople, her own and other people's

ailments; she was ready at any time to discuss these with effusion. But

let one of her acquaintances touch upon India or her early years, and

her lips were sealed immediately. So marked was this, that, curious as

some of her neighbours were--and those were the days when India was, to

the generality of people, a land of romance and mystery--it was tacitly

agreed that it should not be mentioned before her, and so by degrees

the gossip died down. Mrs. Gregory was an excellent neighbour and a

genial companion. She had a pretty cottage, a good-looking, dutiful

son, and she gave charming tea-parties. The neighbourhood accepted her

and let her past alone. The coming of General Sir Wilfrid Elton and

his family to Surbiton set tongues wagging again. Some one found out

that the Eltons and Bracebridges were friends of old standing. Some

one else suspected that Mrs. Gregory had not been particularly pleased

when she heard they meant to settle near her, and two or three of the

sensationally disposed looked forward to what they were pleased to call

'revelations.' None, however, came. The General was far too busy a

person to gossip. Lady Elton, a pretty, timid, domestic woman, took to

no one in the neighbourhood but Mrs. Gregory; and the girls either knew

nothing, or had no inclination to tell what they knew. Our story dates

from the summer of the Eltons' visit to Surbiton.

Tom Gregory, who was then just of age, had, in one respect, fulfilled

the promise of his childhood. He was a handsome man for all that his

beauty was not of that Anglo-Saxon type which was so dear to his

mother's heart. An artist who met him one autumn day wandering by the

riverside just as dusk had fallen, described himself as startled by his

beauty. He attended one of Lady Winter's receptions later, and asked

her in the presence of Miss Vivien Leigh, her pretty and eccentric

niece, who the young Greek god of the river was. Her ladyship lifted

up her eyebrows and wondered what upon earth he could mean. But Vivien

smiled. 'He's met Tom Gregory in his boating flannels, aunt,' she said,

in her light airy voice, which seemed always to have a ring of mockery

in it. 'And do you know I think I shall keep the illustration; it's a

remarkably good one. Which god, Mr. Walters--Apollo or Mars?'

'Scarcely Mars--not fierce enough; but the warlike element might

develop. Educate him, Miss Vivien.'

'Mr. Walters,' said Lady Winter, holding up her finger reprovingly, 'my

niece is quite naughty enough. She doesn't want any stimulating.'

I give this little scrap of gossip to show the effect which

Tom produced in those days on some of the most stylish of his

contemporaries. But although, not altogether, it must be confessed, to

his mother's approbation, Tom had kept his remarkable appearance, he

had changed in many ways from the beautiful boy who had woven golden

visions in the garden by the river. He had been educated, and educated

well. Acting on the advice of her friends, and chiefly of old Mr.

Cherry, legal adviser of the Bracebridges for three generations, Mrs.

Gregory had sent him first to a good preparatory school, then to Eton,

and lastly to the University of Oxford, where he had just finished

his term with credit. It was the general opinion that this elaborate

and costly training, which was supposed to have eaten largely into

Mrs. Gregory's slender resources, had been thrown away upon Tom, who

declined to belong either to the church, the bar, or the army--the

only professions which were in those days considered admissible for a

gentleman. But Mrs. Gregory was satisfied. 'It has made an Englishman

of him,' she said.

This was a little puzzling to the friend to whom the remark had been

made. 'Why Englishman?' she said; 'he was English before.'

'I ought to have said "gentleman,"' she answered; 'but, to my mind,

the one includes the other.' She was certainly no fool, this fair,

placid-faced widow.

Unfortunately, to be an Englishman, or even an English gentleman,

is not remunerative as a profession, and it having been constantly

impressed upon Tom that, if he were ever to live in that atmosphere of

refinement which is supposed to belong to a gentleman's condition, he

must make money, it became necessary for him to cast about for some

means of doing so.

He pondered for several weeks, visiting London two or three times in

the interval. All this time he said nothing to his mother, and she,

knowing his temperament, would not urge him to speak.

Then one evening he asked formally if he might have a little

conversation with her, and she knew, by the light in his face, that he

had come to a decision.

'Well,' she said, smiling, 'what is it to be? Will you take Mr.

Cherry's advice and be a lawyer? He will help you, I know, for the sake

of "Auld Lang Syne."'

'So he was kind enough to say,' answered Tom. 'But I thanked him and

said "No." I should make a poor lawyer. I want something practical to

do. If I were a rich man I should enter the diplomatic service. As I am

poor, I wish to make myself an architect.'

'An architect!' cried his mother, wondering within herself what

possible connection there could be between the two professions. 'A

builder of houses, do you mean?'

'Houses, churches, cathedrals, playhouses, anything I may be put to,'

said Tom, smiling at his mother's look of dismay. 'You see there is

something permanently useful about building--always supposing that you

build well--and it leaves the other half of the mind free.'

'The other half! What in the world do you mean, Tom?'

'I don't know that I am very clear about it myself, mother. But I think

it will be good for me to have my fingers and the constructive side of

my intelligence occupied.'

Of course Mrs. Gregory argued the point. She had never heard of a

Bracebridge being an architect. Even the Gregorys, so far as she could

learn, had always belonged either to the army or to one of the clerical

professions. Were architects gentlemen? Did they take a place in

society? Could they make money?

Her son quoted one or two great names out of ancient and modern

history; but these did not satisfy her in the least. When he continued

to urge his views she begged for time to consult their friends; but Tom

would not hear of it.

'No, mother,' he said, 'this is a question for you and me, no one

else. Can you put down the money'--he mentioned a comparatively small

sum--'which will be necessary to bind me as an apprentice, and will you

undertake to keep me for the next two years?'

'As to keeping you,' said the poor woman, tears filling her eyes, 'I

should do that under any circumstances. What have I to live for but

you? But----'

'Then, dearest mother, let us settle it so. In any case I shall not

be losing my time. Every art acquired is an additional power and

resource. If I find I am mistaken, if I wish to take up what you think

a loftier walk of life, I can always do it; and, in the meantime, we

are together.'

Yes, they were together, that was the great sweetener of everything;

and she was not one to do battle for ideal excellence, or to stand firm

against well-sustained importunity. 'After all it is you, not I, who

are choosing a profession,' she said feebly. 'And--and--you are not

quite like others. If things come to the worst----' And here she broke

off and set her lips together, as if she had a secret to guard.

'If things come to the worst,' said Tom, who was accustomed to these

little breaks, and did not mind them, 'we should manage to battle it

out somehow, little mother. I am not in the least afraid.'

They arrived at this decision early in the spring. It was then that

General Sir Wilfrid Elton, who was at home on a year's furlough from

India, paid a visit to his old friend Mrs. Gregory, and fell in

love with the cottage adjoining hers that had been empty since the

previous summer. She was very frank in pointing out its deficiencies:

the tumbledown condition of the fences and outhouses, the close

neighbourhood of the river, the likelihood of damp. 'It would be

pleasant to have neighbours,' she said wistfully, 'but I should be

sorry for such old friends as Lady Elton and you to do anything so

important with your eyes shut.'

'We shall certainly not do that,' said the General, with his hearty

laugh.

'But consider the girls!' said Mrs. Gregory, a pink flush mounting to

her face--the General was such a curiously quizzical man. 'This is a

dull place for young people.'

'Dull!' echoed the General, clapping his hand to his knee. 'You have

spoken the word. The good people in London have tired us out with

festivities. Since we came home it has been one rush. Lady Elton is

beginning to be sick of it, so am I. As for the girls, they must make

the best of it. Two or three months of eclipse in holland frocks and

brown straw hats will do the little monkeys all the good in the world.'

Of course there was nothing more to be said. Mrs. Gregory smiled

sweetly, and with a tremor at her heart, and an unuttered hope that

if Lady Elton and the General knew more about her former life than

her neighbours--a circumstance concerning which she could not be

perfectly sure--they would be discreet, entered, with the enthusiasm

of a friend, and the practical ability of an experienced housekeeper,

into the arrangements necessary to make the new _ménage_ comfortable.

As a fact the Eltons proved most delightful neighbours. Lady Elton

and Mrs. Gregory struck up a friendship which, while it had the charm

of novelty, drew much of its sweetness from the past. The girls,

who were not little schoolmisses, as might have been imagined from

their father's reference to holland frocks and straw hats, but young

women ranging from twenty-two to seventeen, flashed in and out of the

widow's rooms, dragged her off with them for picnics on the river,

and filled up her somewhat barren days with the overflowings of their

exuberant life. As for the General, who had become a great gardener in

his retirement, he looked in upon his neighbour, as a general rule,

once a day, to inquire after her health, and discuss the condition of

their respective crops of roses and strawberries. Tom meanwhile came

and went, going to town early in the morning and returning home in

the evening. To the surprise of everybody he seemed to like the life.

He showed a curious enthusiasm about his work, which he would call

neither a business nor a profession, but an art. The evenings and the

whole of Saturday and Sunday were his own property; and then he would

doff his city clothes and put on the flannels that became him so well,

and either spin himself up and down the river in his outrigger, to the

admiration of the Elton girls, or dream on his mothers lawn, or take

tea, a little primly, but withal satisfactorily, in their neighbour's

charming rose-garden, whither his mother and Lady Winter, and Sir

Reginald her son, and that pretty enigma, Vivien Leigh, would come; and

sometimes after these tea-parties he would find himself strolling along

the river with one of the girls--occasionally Grace Elton, oftener

Vivien Leigh--while the ringing voices of the rest of their little

party sounded behind them; until the sunlight faded, and the little

stars twinkled out in the pale zenith.

And so we come to that memorable day in June, from which, as Tom was

accustomed to say later, everything dated.

It was that loveliest moment of all the English year, when summer,

which has been coquetting for weeks with the enamoured earth, breaking

out one day into sunny smiles, and on the next hiding her sweet face

in mists and clouds, has issued forth at last in her full beauty. In

the irresistible magic of her presence the meadows had become gemmed

with flowers; the beeches and elms, and even the tardy old oaks, which

are of too ancient a lineage to be beguiled by mere promises, lifted

up golden-green canopies to the heavens; the birds--nightingales and

larks, and linnets and thrushes--made the copses and hedgerows resonant

with joyful music. For three whole days the sky and the river had been

penetrated with sunlight.

In weather such as this Tom Gregory spent as little time as possible

in town. On the particular day which I am trying to recall he found,

to his contentment, that there was not much doing, and he gained

permission easily from the head clerk of his department to leave

earlier than usual.

His mother was out when he reached the cottage--at Lady Elton's, the

servant said. Proposing to himself to join her there a little later, he

ran up to his room, threw off his city dress, put on his flannels and

went out into the garden.

There was a certain tree at its further end, a weeping-ash with long

pendent branches, under whose shadow it was often his pleasure to hide

and dream. He would take out a volume of poetry--Shelley and Coleridge

were his favourites--and lying on his stomach, with his head propped

on his elbows, would read a few stanzas, just, as he would express

it, to set himself going. After that, if he had nothing particular to

think out, he would give a free rein to his fancy, which would range

over heaven and earth with the unbridled, glorious luxuriance of youth.

Meantime he would watch the waters as they flowed past his retreat,

taking absent note of the procession of boats and the laughing music of

young voices, which blended sweetly with the sighing of the wind and

the chanting of the birds.

This evening, as he remembered later, he had taken out Coleridge. The

volume opened of its own accord at that magnificent fragment, 'Kubla

Khan.' He read it over twice, with that curious rapture of satisfaction

which nothing but the greatest poetry can call out; and then the mystic

imagery in its stately setting of miraculously beautiful words set his

mind wandering on a wild vision quest of its own.

What the vision was, or whether he was bold enough to imagine that _he_

could build

That dome in air--

That sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice--

I must not venture to say, lest I should suddenly find myself, 'like

little wanton boys that swim on bladders,' floundering in depths

whither few will care to follow me.

The dream lasted for an hour, and the boy came to himself with a

start, for an image, which he did not in the least wish to detain, was

haunting him. He sprang up, gave himself a shake like a dog after a

swim, and went slowly towards the boat-house, murmuring, as he walked,

the words which had called up the unwelcome image--

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon lover!

'I wonder why that always makes me think of Vivien Leigh,' he said to

himself with a perplexed smile. 'I couldn't imagine her wailing for

any one, least of all a lover, demon or human. Perhaps it's because

she's a little inhuman herself. I'm sure she would have been put down

as a witch in the middle ages.' He began to whistle a lively air to put

Vivien out of his head. Then her image was expelled by another.

Her face resigned to bliss or bale--

Her face, oh call it fair not pale,

And both blue eyes more bright than clear,

Each about to have a tear.

'What a contrast!' he said to himself, as he stooped over his boat to

loosen the painter. '_She_ is human--exquisitely, beautifully human.'

At this moment he heard his mother calling him, and, tying up his boat

again, he went out of the boat-house and on to the lawn.

'Tom, Tom! where are you?' She looked flushed and excited and out of

breath.

'Here I am, mother!' he said. 'I thought you were at the Eltons. I was

just going to take my boat round and see if any one was in. You look

tired, dear. Come and sit down by the river.'

'Oh, dear! I have had such a hunt for you,' she said. 'I went in to the

Eltons after lunch to get them to show me a new stitch, and the girls

and their father were out; he has gone to town, for a wonder. So Lady

Elton and I sat chatting about old days, forgetting altogether how the

time went, and then I came in to see about your supper, and Sarah told

me you had been in an hour.'

'An hour or thereabouts, and I was just going out for a stretch. Can it

be time for supper already?'

'No, not quite; but----'

And here she pulled up, for she perceived to her annoyance that Tom was

not listening to her.

'Do you hear me, Tom?' she said. 'The post has just come in, and there

is a letter----'

The boy held up his hand beseechingly. 'One moment, mother!' he

pleaded. 'The letter will keep and that will not.'

Now Mrs. Gregory did not agree with him in the least; as a fact, she

had come out to find him, being moved with an irresistible feeling

of curiosity concerning the contents of his letter, which was of an

unusual character, and addressed in an unusual hand. Tom had very few

correspondents, and his mother generally knew from whom his letters

came by merely glancing at them. But she knew from experience that Tom

was not to be forced. Pliant as he seemed, there was a certain backbone

of stubbornness about him. So, keeping herself in check as well as

she could, she looked out at the sight 'which would not keep.' It was

certainly a pretty picture. Anybody would have been bound to confess

that. A pleasure-boat full of young girls, gliding softly along a broad

tranquil stream; their light garments and brown and golden hair steeped

in the rosy evening light. Of course it was pretty. Mrs. Gregory, who

liked and admired the 'dear girls,' from beautiful Grace, the eldest,

down to mischievous, tiresome, delightful Trixy, the privileged baby of

the two establishments, thought it not only pretty but interesting.

There was nothing new, however, nothing to provoke that irritatingly

intense look on her son's face and delay the gratification of her

curiosity.

But Tom! Ah! 'alchemy of youth and passion; how it transforms

everything it touches!' To him not Cleopatra in her barge of state,

floating proudly down her river to the strains of spirit quelling

music, was so beautiful.

There were no less than five girls in the boat. Two of them had been

rowing, and, as the impetus given by their last vigorous strokes

carried it along, they leaned forward on their oars, gazing dreamily

into the shadows; the third, a little golden-haired creature, lay

in the bows with her face towards the water, and two sat in the

stern--one, a royal-looking girl, whose tense expression, direct gaze,

and upright attitude showed that she liked the post of directress

steering; the other, a much softer, and, at the same time, a lovelier

woman, sitting back with hands folded, and singing in a rich low voice

a beautiful old English ballad.

As long as the voice could be heard and the boat seen the boy on the

river bank looked out and listened. Presently the air carried the

sounds away, and the outlines of the boat were lost in the shadows

of the willows that fringed the opposite bank. Then he turned to his

mother.

'Only the Eltons,' she said. 'I thought, from the way you called out,

I was going to see something wonderful. My dear boy, for pity's sake,

don't look so intense!'

'I am afraid I can't help my looks,' said Tom a little stiffly. 'Shall

we go back to the house? It is getting damp here. You will be having

your rheumatism again.'

'Yes, discretion is the better part of valour,' said Mrs. Gregory.

'Give me your arm, Tom. I am not so young as I was once. You know,

dear'--apologetically--'you mustn't mind what I say about your looks.

To me it is just the same, though, of course, I don't _like_ to see you

dreamy and romantic, for I know to what these things tend. I was so

once myself.'

'And it hasn't brought you to any great harm, little mother.'

'I don't know that, Tom. However, I am a woman, and I had friends to

look after me--not that they always--but that is neither here nor

there. You, my poor dear, _know_ what is before you. A man in your

position, with his way to make in the world, must keep all his wits

about him, or he will soon find himself nowhere.'

'A country about which I have always been rather curious,' said Tom,

to whom these admonitions were not new. 'How if I tried a little

wool-gathering, just to have a look in?'

'Oh, well, you may laugh; but you will remember my words some day,

and I only hope it may not be too late for your own comfort. And now,

perhaps, you will take your letter.'

'A letter for me!' said Tom. 'Why'--scrutinising it--'this looks

important--blue paper, black seal!'

'I thought it rather funny myself,' said Mrs. Gregory. 'But don't stare

at it, child! Open and read it!'

'Come inside first,' said Tom.

They went through a pretty little verandah, well furnished with plants,

into Mrs. Gregory's drawing-room, which, though very far indeed from

the daintily-æsthetic apartment that ladies haunt now, was pleasant and

comfortable--well supplied with books in handsome bindings and fine

engravings, and furnished with a low couch, an ottoman, and several

lounging-chairs. Into one of these Tom plunged, and, having thrown down

his boating-cap on the table, broke the seal of his letter. His mother,

who was watching him curiously, saw his face flush red. Then she knew

that there was something in his letter which surprised him. It seemed

to her at that moment as if all the blood in her body were rushing to

her heart, which bounded as if it would burst. The next thing she knew

Tom was looking at her, with the strangest expression in his face.

'Did you know of this, mother?' he said.

'Know of what?' she cried. 'Oh, Tom! Tom! what is it? Something has

happened!'

'Yes,' he said; and she fancied now that there was a curious, unusual

glitter in his eyes. 'Something has happened.'

She caught at his arm. 'It is something dreadful. I am sure of it from

your face.'

'Dreadful!' echoed the boy, breaking into a laugh which rang

unnaturally in his mother's ears. 'I think few people would call it so.'

'But what is it? Oh, Tom!' besought the poor woman, as her son turned

his soft meditative eyes upon her. 'Speak at once, and don't look at

me in that way. Child! child! It is like a dream come to life again. I

can't bear it. Tom, I say! Speak to me. God help me! He hasn't looked

so since he was a baby.'

It was Tom's turn to look surprised. 'My dear mother,' he said

soothingly, 'what is the matter? I am afraid I have been frightening

you. It is very stupid of me; but the news in this letter is so

extraordinary--so unexpected. I have read over the principal part of it

twice, and I feel still as if I must be dreaming. But Mr. Cherry is a

man of business; he would not be likely to make a mistake.'

'Mr. Cherry! Is the letter from him?'

'Yes; he tells me he is the agent and solicitor----Mother, what is it?'

'Nothing, dear, nothing--only you are telling the story rather slowly.

Mr. Cherry, you say----'

'Perhaps you had better read the letter yourself, mother. I can't say I

understand it quite.'

'Yes, give it to me! Quick! I hear the General coming up the garden. My

dear boy, don't look like that before him--don't, for pity's sake!'

As she spoke she seized the letter, glanced over its contents, put her

hands before her eyes as if the lamplight dazzled her, read it again,

and then, with a cry of mingled joy and sorrow, flung herself into her

son's arms.