LUCKNOW AND SIR HENRY LAWRENCE
It is early in the morning. The golden dawn is breaking over the
eastern hills, and the awful snow-peaks of Himâla shine like the gates
of Heaven, when, in the pathetic dream of earth's children, they rise
before the eyes that have looked upon the river of death. Here and
there some lower point, leaping up from the confused mountain-world,
has caught the glory of the morning, and stands forth, a pale herald
of the full glad day; but the valleys, with all their wealth of
corn-fields, forests, and clustering villages, are in the deepest
shadow.
They are the valleys we have just left, for we are on Sisagarhi again.
A single tent is pitched here, but coolies are already busy loosening
its cords, while the four small horses tethered close by are sniffing
the morning air and neighing loudly. This, with the grunting of the
camels as they kneel to be laden, and the harsh guttural cries of
their drivers, breaks discordantly on the stillness of the morning.
The two young men who have been occupying the tent, and who are
standing outside, watching with full hearts the preparations for
departure, walk away together to a quieter spot. For a few moments they
stand silent, gazing out upon the world of mountains. Then the taller
of the two holds out his hand, which the other grasps.
'I have much to thank you for, Gambier Singh,' he says, in the Oordoo
dialect. 'You have been a brother to me. I wonder when we shall meet
again.'
'I think we shall meet before long,' says the young soldier, whose dark
eyes gleam triumphantly in the morning light. 'My masters think that
our help may be called for down below there. If it is so, I shall be
given a command. We Ghoorkas will stand face to face with the proud
Brahmin warriors who despise us and defeat them. Then my brother will
seek me out, and we will tell over again the dreams we have dreamed in
our valley.'
'They may not always be dreams,' says the young Indian, and, after a
pause, 'You are sure my disguise is good?'
'It is no disguise. This is your true dress. This is your true
character. If my brother had heard his own words when the fever was in
his blood he would hesitate no longer. But the morning is advancing.
Let us eat together before we part.'
'You will eat with me!' says the other in surprise.
'I am not a Brahmin,' answers the soldier. 'Have I not told you,
besides, that you are one of us?'
They retrace their steps in silence, and, while the laden camels move
off, partake together of the rice and kecheri, and chupatties which
Hoosanee has been preparing for them, pledging one another, after the
English fashion, in a glass of Persian sherbet. Then Gambier Singh
rises.
'I would I could go with you,' he says, 'but I know it cannot be.
Before we part tell me plainly what you will do.'
'Yes; I will tell you,' says Tom. 'I have been thinking all night, and
it is only this morning that I have made up my mind. I intended to
spend this summer in travelling. I wished to be more fully informed
about the country before I presented myself to the people in Gumilcund
as the successor of Byrajee Pirtha Raj. Then, again, I thought I would
go to Meerut, warn my people there, and pass on the advice which
Jung Bahadoor has given to me. But it has come to me that my words
will be, in their ears, as empty tales. Beside, there are many of our
soldiers there, so that they could surely hold their own in any rising.
It would be well also, in case of the crisis you fear, that I should
be in Gumilcund and should have made the acquaintance of her people
beforehand. In this way, I shall be better able to guide her safely,
and it is just possible that her loyalty may be of service to the
State. Therefore I have decided to go to Gumilcund at once, trying by
the way to pick up what intelligence I can. Hoosanee, who knows the
road, will guide me. The people, I believe, will accept me for the sake
of him who has gone from them. If it is so, I will stay in their city
watching the course of events.'
'Should it be as we fear,' said Gambier Singh, 'what will you do?'
'I cannot tell yet. I must be guided by circumstances.'
'Promise me not to expose yourself unnecessarily.'
'Unnecessarily? No!'
'But----'
'My friend,' says Tom, holding out his hand, with a winning smile; 'it
is impossible for me to say more. Before both of us the future is
invisible. God has willed it so. Farewell! I dare not stay. Here or
there we shall meet again.'
'May the Gods grant it!' says Gambier Singh.
And then he throws himself into his friend's arms, embraces him with
tears, mounts his horse, and turns to ride down the hill.
Tom meanwhile, with many a backward look at the retreating figure, goes
off slowly in the opposite direction.
And so the Rajah's Heir entered upon his next important journey.
I find, by referring to his diary, which is my chief source of
information, that although wearisome and full of perils, it was not
without interest, and even enjoyment. He was much calmer, for he had
laid out his plans for the near future, and the conflict between the
old life and the new, that had helped to aggravate his illness, was
over. Whether the fantastic belief of his Eastern friends was true, or
whether having, as he now believed, blood of the East in his veins, the
life and doctrines of the Indian sages did really, in some strange way,
appeal to him, he did not ask himself. The result was the same. He was
actually, for the time, an Oriental amongst Orientals.
The season was advancing. When he left the hill region and entered
upon the plains he found the heat almost insupportable; but the deadly
Terai was healthier than it had been a month before, when it was still
reeking with the vaporous distilments left behind by the midwinter
rains, and they did not experience much discomfort in crossing it.
The chief object of his journey being to find out as much as possible
of the state of the country, he determined when they touched upon the
borders of Oude to turn aside from the direct route and visit Lucknow,
the capital of the province.
Oude was at that moment in a critical condition, and Lucknow was
a perfect hotbed of agitation. The lately installed Commissioner,
Sir Henry Lawrence, was indeed struggling manfully with the task
of reconcilement and reorganisation, and if a crisis could have
been averted, his was the only hand that could have done it. But
it was not to be. He had come into his duties too late. Fanatics,
suffered to flourish unchecked, had poisoned the minds of the people.
Misunderstandings that might have been explained, little grievances
that might have been removed, had given weight to their words and fuel
to the smouldering fire of disloyalty, and now not even Sir Henry
Lawrence, keen and far-seeing as he was, had any idea of the depth and
extent of the disaffection. As for Tom, when he crossed the Goomtee,
and saw the beautiful city, with its splendid palaces and mosques,
lying spread out before him, still and beautiful as a dream, in the
evening's golden glow, he could scarcely bring himself to believe that
its peace was dangerously threatened.
Mounted on one of the elephants which Hoosanee had bought for him
in Oude, and clothed in the richest Oriental dress, he rode through
the city and its environs. Through the English quarter he passed
hastily. He had been warned not to betray himself; but the sight of his
countrymen and countrywomen taking their walks and drives was almost
too much for his resolution. He had an insane longing to hasten back
to his tent, throw off his Oriental garb, and mix amongst them as an
English gentleman. In the native town he was received, much to his
surprise, with every demonstration of respect. As, mounted on his royal
beast, with two syces, dressed in gay clothes, running before him to
clear the way, he passed through the narrow crowded streets, many left
their work and bowed themselves reverently to the ground.
Gradually the crowd increased. Strange rumours flew from mouth to
mouth. The agitators had promised the people a leader--a deliverer. Was
this comely youth the leader they were to look for? It was whispered
that he was; and, before he had reached the centre of the town, it
was choked, as far as he could see, with swaying figures and eager,
expectant faces. Never in his life had Tom beheld such a scene. It was
a sea of humanity, in which he felt himself swallowed up. In terror
lest some of the crowd should be trampled by the feet of the monster he
rode, he stood up and cried out frantically to the driver to stop, and
to the syces to clear his way.
As he stood, raised high above their heads, the confused cries of the
multitude seemed to gather themselves into one cry, which echoed like
thunder through the streets of the city. 'Speak to us!' From a thousand
throats it rang out simultaneously--passionate--imploring--a herd of
helpless creatures asking to be led. 'Speak to us! Speak to us!'
Then a single voice, winged with menace as well as entreaty, rose above
the others. 'Will not my lord speak to us?' Again it rolled forth like
the growl of a wild beast whose prey is escaping him, 'Speak! speak!'
Tom's uneasiness was increasing every moment. What should he do? To
speak might have been to betray himself and to provoke a disturbance
that he would give his life to avert. Yet every moment's delay made the
danger of an accident more imminent. Hoosanee, who was riding close
behind, came forward. 'For shame,' he cried out to the people. 'Will
you presume to dictate to my lord? And what think you, that he will
break the vow which does him honour, and tell his designs to such as
you? Wait patiently, each one in his place, and you shall see what
shall be!'
There was a moment's pause, for the people of an Asiatic crowd are
easily put down; but all could not hear the words of the speaker, who,
after all, was only the prince's servant, and presently the tumult
began again.
Tom was in despair. He looked back to Hoosanee. Should he try to quiet
them with quiet words; but what could he say--he who was a stranger
amongst them? Hoosanee's agonised face gave him no help; but help came.
All in an instant, and mysteriously, the crowd thinned away. It had
flashed, like an electric current, through the city, that one known to
the people--a prophet, who, under pretence of stirring up a religious
revival, had been detected preaching sedition in the towns and cities
of Oude, and shut up, had escaped from his prison and was now making
his way in disguise to the place where the city malcontents had been
accustomed to meet him. This was a vast underground tank and gallery,
which, being approached through one of the most sacred of the Hindoo
temples, was safe from the prying eyes of Europeans. Thither flocked
the greater number of the people who had been blocking Tom's way; but
many a backward look was cast at the royal youth, as, his eyes fixed
and his brow sombre with thought, he was carried slowly through the
throng which remained.
'Your Excellency has found favour in their sight. They would make
him a leader,' said Hoosanee, when, an hour later, they were resting
thankfully in camp.
'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.'
'But you might have kept out one. I would give all I possess to be able
to go into that ballroom to-night.'
Hoosanee hesitated. 'My master might go in native dress,' he said, 'if
he would not betray himself.'
'Would it be possible?'
'It would be easy, my lord. Other Indians of rank have gone in. If
my lord gives in his name as the Rajah of Gumilcund, and presents a
largesse to the door-keeper, he will certainly be admitted.'
The result was as Hoosanee had predicted. When, an hour later, Tom
was borne in a palanquin to the gates of the palace, his embroidered
robe and gorgeous turban, with the magnificent fee he presented
to the door-keeper, gained him immediate respect. No little to
his embarrassment, he was taken straight to the daïs on which sat
the Commissioner, surrounded by English officers and grandees of
Oude. After the first shock, however, he played his part correctly.
Sir Henry, supposing him to be an accredited guest, received him
graciously, and conversed with him for a few moments. Then, feeling
glad the ordeal was over, he stepped down and set himself to watch the
dancers.
With a face like a mask--for he had learned the trick of Oriental
passivity--Tom moved about the hall. He was in search of Grace, whom he
saw presently dancing in a waltz with an elderly civilian. After they
had danced two rounds her partner led her to a seat. Tom passed them,
making a low salute, and then stood back, as near as he dared, with
his face averted lest Grace should recognise him. Her light whisper
penetrated to where he stood.
'Who is that Indian?' she asked.
'I really can't tell you,' answered her companion, 'which is a little
curious, for I know all the natives of distinction hereabouts. He was
certainly not at the last durbar. I must ask Sir Henry about him.'
'I should like to know,' said Grace. 'He has a fine face----'
'For a native,' broke in her partner.
'For a native, if you will; and do you know, it strikes me that I have
seen it before.'
Here it occurred to Tom that he was doing a mean thing, and he moved
away.
The next time he saw Grace she was taking her place in a quadrille, in
the company of a young and very handsome cavalry officer. Tom did not
feel quite so comfortable as he had done, but he held his peace. While
they waited for the other couples to come her partner was protesting
with her earnestly.
'You will break all our hearts,' he said.
'Then somebody else must mend them,' answered Grace.
'But, seriously, why are you going? Do you think it will be safer at
Meerut?'
'I am not going to Meerut.'
'Not? I thought your home was there.'
'So it is; but I have promised to pay a visit to Nowgong.'
'Really! Such an out-of-the-way station. Excuse me; but are you wise?'
'Wise or not,' said Grace, her every word falling clearly on the ears
of the tall Indian in the background who did not think it wrong to
listen now, 'I am bound to go. My poor little cousin--you will remember
her, by the bye; she married Captain Richardson----'
'Yes; I remember--a muff! I beg your pardon, Miss Elton. I mean the
gentleman, not the lady. She was an angel. I hope nothing is wrong with
her.'
'I hope not, too; but we have been receiving rather miserable letters
lately, and Uncle is going to see her, and I have promised to go with
him, and stay with poor little Lucy for a week or two.'
The quadrille had at last been got together, and Grace and her partner
were called to attention; but the Indian had heard enough. When the
dance was over he left the hall.