THE ENGLISH LADIES IN THE RAJAH'S PALACE
Chunder Singh had been about an hour in his house, which was situated
only a few yards distant from the palace, whither, not feeling
perfectly easy about his master, he was thinking of returning, when he
heard a murmur as of many people running together in the market-square.
He went out and saw a large crowd round his house. As soon as he
appeared, its foremost members called out to him. 'Chunder Singh will
tell us the truth,' they said. 'Yes, yes,' cried others; 'Chunder Singh
has never deceived us.'
Wondering what this might mean, the minister closed the door of his
house and set his back against it. He saw now that the throng of people
were being reinforced every moment by streams from the avenues that
converged towards the market-place, which was already one unbroken sea
of turbaned heads and fluttering garments. 'Why is this?' he said.
'What has made you come together?'
There stepped out of the crowd one well known in the palace. He was
the chief of the merchant-caste--a man of large wealth and larger
patriotism, who had given with a free hand towards the defence of the
city and the equipment of the force that had just started for Delhi.
'Give them a word of comfort and assurance, Chunder Singh,' he said.
'Some foolish person has spread about the rumour that our young rajah
has left the city and joined Dost Ali Khan, who, they say, will win him
to his side by giving up into his hands an English captive. I have told
them that the rumour is false; but they will not believe me, and it is
true that I have spent the night in my own house. You, as they have
heard, were in the palace. You will know if anyone left it.'
'This is a strange story,' said Chunder Singh, gravely.
'Is it true?' asked the merchant.
'No; no. It is false. It is impossible.'
Chunder Singh drew back, and, mounting the little platform before his
house, looked the crowd proudly in the face. 'I wonder,' he said,
'that the citizens of Gumilcund should allow themselves to be moved
by so foolish a rumour. I spent the night in the rajah's palace. Being
too weary to move, I rested on a bed outside the door of his room. If
anyone had passed out, I should certainly have known it. Go to your
homes in peace. I will ask the rajah to ride through his city to-day.'
With loyal shouts, the easily satisfied crowd dispersed, and in a few
minutes the market-square resumed its ordinary aspect. Then Chunder
Singh, whose face was curiously contracted, turned to the merchant.
'There is a grain of truth in this, Lutfullah,' he said, in a subdued
voice. 'Dost Ali Khan has sent a tempting message to our rajah. He
would not betray us--I am too sure of him to fear that. But my dread
is that he will perversely run into danger, and that we shall lose the
succession promised to us.'
'You are certain that he did not leave last night,' said Lutfullah, who
looked serious.
'To that I would pledge my life,' answered the minister. 'And he cannot
have gone this morning. There were too many people about him.'
'We must set a watch on the palace,' said Lutfullah.
'Yes; we must set a watch. You will help me. We must save him, even
from himself if it must be,' said Chunder Singh.
They went to the palace together. Everything seemed as usual in the
outer and inner courts. Passing through an arched passage, they went
into the garden at the back of the palace. Since Aglaia had come, the
rajah was often to be found there in the early morning, either pacing
one of the shaded alleys, with the child beside him, or sharing a
breakfast of fruit and milk with her in the darkened and artificially
cooled summer-house. And, indeed, they had scarcely entered the rajah's
favourite walk before they saw the little figure of Aglaia, quaint
and lovely in a gauzy Indian dress. She was walking more sedately
than usual, for a creature still smaller than herself--a wizened,
white-faced baby, dressed in strange nondescript garments--was toddling
by her side.
'Isn't he a darling?' she said to Chunder Singh, whom she always
addressed in English. 'He's just had his breakfast, and I've brought
him out to see Daddy Tom.'
'And have you seen him yet, Missy?' said Chunder Singh, gravely.
'Why,' said Aglaia, looking up at her Indian friend, 'what a funny face
you have this morning, Mr. Chunder! Aren't you glad to see little
Dick? That's his name. He mustn't walk far, for his mother says his
legs have got cramped. Just think! He was ten days in a cart. Is 'oo
tired, little pet?' she said lispingly to the baby. 'Shall Aglaia----'
'No, no, Missy-sahib,' cried the ayah, running up. 'Too small, you!
Ayah, give poor baba.'
But the poor baba, who was a person, in an ordinary way, of
irrepressible activity, refused to be taken up. He seated himself on
the grass, struck out with his little fists, and looked up at them
with a delicious smile of baby contentment. Then Aglaia assailed him
with kisses, and Chunder Singh and Lutfullah, who, for all their grave
looks, were men of most tender disposition, smiled at one another and
passed on. It was quite evident that Aglaia had no thoughts even for
Daddy Tom that morning. She was wholly absorbed in little Dick.
The rajah was not in his summer-house, and the attendant in that
charming retreat, who was the daily purveyor of his Highness's little
breakfast, had not as yet received any orders from him.
Retracing their steps to the palace, which the rajah did not seem to
have quitted that morning, the two elderly men looked a little blue.
They made their way straight to Tom's sleeping apartment. Chunder
Singh knocked, but he received no answer. He knocked again, and, after
waiting for about a quarter of an hour, tried the handle cautiously. He
found that it was bolted on the inside, and turned a relieved face to
Lutfullah.
'He must be within,' he said. 'No one else would presume to draw the
bolt. No doubt he was awake all night, and fell asleep towards the
morning. We must have patience.'
They left Hussein Buksh, the second bearer, one of Chunder Singh's
own nominees, at the door, desiring him to let them know the moment
the rajah stirred, and went down themselves into the garden. There
they found the three English ladies who had arrived the night before
gathered together in a little group round the children. They wore,
with a curious awkwardness, lovely Indian dresses, some of which, as
being the best he could procure, Tom had laid in store to meet such an
emergency as this. Their faces were very pale, and the haggard anxiety,
the horror, remembered or expected, which gave so piteous an expression
to our countrywomen in these dreadful days, had not left their faces;
but the quiet night and the peaceful awakening had refreshed them, and
they were already very different from the wretched, bedraggled-looking
creatures who had driven through Gumilcund on the previous evening.
Chunder Singh and Lutfullah saluted the ladies reverently. Lucy, who
was talking to Aglaia, a little apart from the others, eyed them with
some curiosity. 'The major-domo of the palace,' she whispered, 'and
one of the chief citizens. How funny it all is! Something like the
middle ages.' The mother of the white-faced baby was, in the meantime,
answering Chunder Singh's inquiries, and expressing her satisfaction in
having reached so pleasant a haven of rest.
'Does the major-domo understand English?' asked Lucy.
Aglaia nodded. 'Oh! yes. He's a nice man. I like him,' said the child.
'Then I must speak to him,' said Lucy. With her white face and golden
hair, and large, childish-looking eyes, Lucy looked quaint and very
pretty that morning. She had been given her choice amongst a number
of dresses, and she had picked out a tunic of cherry-coloured silk
and a snow-white saree of the finest muslin, deeply trimmed with
gold embroideries. To put on these pretty fresh garments after her
copious bath of warm scented water had given poor Lucy a sense of
satisfaction, which, when she came to think of it seriously, seemed
curiously inappropriate, if not wicked. But she could not help herself;
she was happier than she had been, and the pretty dress, which suited
her to perfection, had something to say to her happiness. Pressing
forward she addressed Chunder Singh:
'Oh!' she cried, 'where is the rajah, the person, I mean, who received
us last night? He is the rajah, isn't he?'
'Yes, madam. It was our rajah--the ruler of Gumilcund--who had the
honour of welcoming you to his palace last night,' said Chunder Singh,
nearly paralysing the childish little creature with his dignity. She
fixed her limpid eyes upon him doubtingly; then recovering herself with
an effort:
'Oh, yes,' she said, 'I was told so. Could you tell him please--the
rajah, I mean--his Excellency--is that the way to speak to the great
people here, Aglaia--?'
Chunder Singh was waiting respectfully for the conclusion of her
sentence.
'I want particularly to speak to him,' went on Lucy more fluently.
'Perhaps you wouldn't mind saying that I have a message for him--I
suppose,' looking round at the other ladies with some bewilderment,
'that it is for him. You know he told us he was an Englishman; but
this isn't much like an English house. And how does he come to be a
rajah? Oh! dear, if Grace could only have come herself!'
'His Excellency was educated in England,' broke in the mellifluous
voice of Chunder Singh.
'And some of us think him more English than Indian,' added Lutfullah
pleasantly.
'You can speak English too, chief citizen!' cried Lucy. 'This is most
extraordinary. Really I begin to think that we must have died last
night, and that we are in a sort of half-English, half-Indian paradise.
But,' with a deep sigh, 'that can't be, for Grace would certainly have
been here before us. Oh, my poor Grace! my dear Grace! Can't anyone
tell me where you are?'
'Hush! Lucy. Hush! We shall never know how they went. She and my lovely
Kit,' cried Mrs. Durant, weeping bitterly. 'Little could I have thought
to what his love for her would have brought him----'
'Do you give them up?' cried Lucy, flashing round upon her friend
fiercely. '_I_ don't, and just because they are together! Oh! Mr.
Major-domo, if you have a heart--and you look as if you had--find this
mysterious prince, who is an Englishman and not an Englishman, and ask
him, for pity's sake, to speak to us.'
'No doubt his Highness will request the honour of speech with you
later,' said Chunder Singh. 'At present he must not be disturbed.'
'Did he say so? Oh! where is he?' sobbed Lucy. 'He can't know how
dreadful the danger is! I was ashamed of myself for being able to
sleep last night. If Grace dies'--clutching at her muslin robe after
a fashion that, to the grave Indian, was scarcely decorous. 'If Grace
dies, I shall never forgive myself.'
'I will see if his Highness is awake,' said Chunder Singh retreating,
while Lucy, now in a perfect paroxysm of grief, was led to the
summer-house by her companions.
There they waited for a long time. The sun rose high in the heavens,
and, outside the summer-house, the air was like that of a heated oven;
but here there were punkahs swinging slowly, and darkened windows,
and splashing water, so that they scarcely felt the heat. Meantime
attendants came and went, bringing them books and music and food and
drink, and toys and pictures for the children; but, ask as they would,
there came no message from the rajah.
'I cannot stand it,' cried Lucy at last. 'I had rather not be so
comfortable. I will go out and see what it all means.'
'Go out into that sun! Don't behave like a mad girl! Do you wish to
bring more trouble upon us? You think only of yourself,' said Kit's
mother reproachfully.
And so, being, as I have said, a childish little creature, and
accustomed to rebuke, Lucy sat on with red eyes and trembling fingers,
trying to amuse herself and feel comfortable; but possessed, all the
time, with a sense of sorrow and remorse that nearly crushed her.
At last, when the heat of the day was over, and the sky behind the
trees that sheltered their retreat was all ablaze with gold and
crimson, she saw Chunder Singh coming slowly towards them. His face
was covered, and his head had dropped upon his breast, and in the dark
eyes that looked out from the folds of his chuddah there was a strange
glitter. Lucy had been running out to meet him; but when she saw those
blazing eyes she withdrew.
'Something has happened,' she whispered to Aglaia. 'You know him better
than we do, child. Ask him what it is!'
Then Aglaia ran out, and Lucy, who was trembling from head to foot,
heard her little baby voice.
'Do bring Daddy-Tom,' she said. 'He hasn't been to see us all the day.'
'Missy,' said Chunder Singh, in grave, sad tones, 'ask Miss Sahib and
the Mem Sahibs where his Excellency is.'
He was at the door of the summer-house, and as he spoke these ominous
words, he looked round upon them searchingly.
'Ask _us_!' cried Lucy hysterically. 'What does the strange man mean?'
'Madam,' said Chunder Singh, bowing low, 'you must have the goodness to
come with me.'
'I?' shrieked Lucy. 'Why? What do you want with me? Oh!' falling on her
knees, 'have pity! If he has gone, I know nothing about it. I may have
meant to ask him; but I hadn't the chance. Ask the others. We saw him
for a few little moments last evening, and to-day we have been alone.
Indeed! indeed! no one has come to us. Oh! don't you believe me?'
'Let me assure you, before those here, who will remember my words,'
said Chunder Singh, 'that we mean you no harm. If you fear, let Missy
Sahib and her ayah come with you. Our rajah has gone. How he has gone,
or why, we cannot as yet find out; and as Hoosanee, the servant who
brought you to Gumilcund, has gone also, we would ask you the questions
which we would have asked him had he been here. Miss Sahib I ask to
come because she is most interested in what has happened. But if one
of the Mem Sahibs----'
'No, no, no. Take me! I will tell you all I can,' sobbed Lucy.
* * * * *
Terribly solemn and staggering beyond the power of language to
express were Lucy's next experiences. There was first a brief journey
in a litter, with Aglaia, to whom she had clung as her only hope
and consolation, for a companion. The litter was put down, and,
upon drawing its curtains aside, they found themselves in a small,
dimly-lighted hall, in the presence of four men, all of them as grave
and mysterious of aspect as Chunder Singh. They were seated on cushions
at the upper end of the hall; but when Lucy drew the curtains of her
litter aside, one of them rose to his feet and greeted her reverently.
There followed a few moments of silence, during which the poor little
creature, who could not imagine what all this solemnity meant, felt her
heart beating as if it would burst.
Aglaia had made the acquaintance of all these grave persons, and she
was not in the least awed. Yet they constituted the inner council
of the Gumilcund State. One was Chunder Singh, the prime minister,
and another--he who had risen--was Lutfullah, the representative
of the merchant class, and the third was Vishnugupta the priest, and
the fourth was the exalted citizen who headed the warrior caste and
directed the organisation of the rajah's little army.
These good persons wore their dresses of state, and the dignity of
their manners was fully equal to the grandeur of their appearance. When
Aglaia, who, as I have said, had no fear, ran up to the magnificent
Lutfullah, and began chattering to him in her baby Hindoostanee,
nodding gravely meanwhile to her other friends, Lucy felt half afraid
that the roof of the hall would drop down upon them.
But nothing happened, and she began presently to feel a little more
composed. Then Lutfullah, who, having a bland manner and reassuring
aspect, and being, moreover, well versed in the English tongue, had
been commissioned to ask the questions which the council had decided to
be necessary, said, in a soft voice, that he trusted she would not feel
the least alarm. It was true that a calamity had fallen upon the State,
and it was true also that they, into whose hands the direction of its
fortunes had come, were for the moment embarrassed and disheartened;
but that was no reason why the guests of the State should suffer. As
far as she was concerned, all they wished was an account of the events
that had intervened between the moment of their leaving the station
of Nowgong and the present, with special reference to the unfortunate
occurrence that, as he understood, had preceded their arrival.
It was a most stately preamble. Lucy, who was not without a sense of
the fitness of things, tried to still her beating heart and to answer
it with becoming dignity. And, in fact, she made a pretty fair start.
But, as she went on, as she tried to draw a picture of what Grace was
to her and to them all, as she entered upon a narration of the events
that led to their separation, her dignity evaporated in gasping,
spasmodic phrases; and tears, that not even the august presence of
these stately citizens could repress, poured from her eyes.
They listened in perfect silence. Aglaia, who did not fully understand
what was happening, crept up close to her, and whispered to her not
to cry. The poor little ayah sat in the background sobbing--like a
child. Lucy felt as if she could not go through with it. But at last
it was over. Now they would let her go, and she could cry her heart
out. Not yet, poor little Lucy! It is Chunder Singh who stands up, and
he has thrown back the chuddah from his face, which looks curiously
determined.
'We thank you, Miss Sahib,' he says in his grave and sonorous English.
'But there is yet one thing more that we would know. You spoke to me
this morning of a message.'
'Oh! yes. I had a message; but it was not for any of you,' cries Lucy,
starting up. 'It was for him.'
'If he is not here----'
'Then I must keep it for him until he comes back.'
'Will Miss Sahib pardon her servant----?'
'No, no, no. Oh! I cannot tell you. How can I? They were her last
words. I should be a traitor.'
'We thought that if we heard the message sent to his Excellency it
would help us to find him. That is all,' says Lutfullah gently.
'Chunder Singh, my good friend, it is enough,' he adds in a lower
voice. 'Let her go!'
'Yes, yes; let her go!' say the others. And Lucy--oh! so thankful to be
released--draws round her the silken curtains of the litter, and Aglaia
gives her hand to the ayah, and, while they go back to the palace, the
four ancients of Gumilcund hold a council as to what is to be done for
the State.