WHAT THE MORNING BROUGHT
How Tom lived through the next few moments he never knew. The next
thing of which he was distinctly conscious was standing in front of
the hut and looking within and seeing nothing but blackness. As he
groped forward with arms extended blindly, Bâl Narîn, who had been busy
kindling another torch, came up behind him, and the flashing light
flamed suddenly upon a spectacle that made Tom's heart stand still, and
brought a wild cry to his lips.
There were three figures in the small enclosure. On one side, rigid
in death, lay the fearfully emaciated body of an old man. A couch of
dried grass was his bier, and his limbs were covered with the long robe
that he had worn in his lifetime. On the other side, the little heap
of grass on which he lay pressed close against the opposite side of
the hut, and as far as possible from that sight of fear, was a child
with golden hair, whose tiny face, thin and pinched with suffering,
bore upon its lips the tranquil smile of sleep, or her twin-sister
death. This in the flashing of an instant Tom saw. But it was not this,
for all its pitifulness, that brought the sick chill to his heart,
and that wrung from his lips that tortured cry. For he saw something
else. _She_ was lying there--his love--his darling! On the damp floor,
but close beside the couch, and with arms outspread, as if her last
conscious effort had been spent in defending the child, she lay before
him motionless. She did not stir when Bâl Narîn's light fell upon her.
The cry of irrepressible anguish that had broken from Tom brought
from her pale lips no answering note of recognition. It was as he had
so often dreamed it would be. He had found her, indeed; but she was
dead--dead--dead!
For the space of an instant he paused. Love and a reverence that almost
slew him were waging war in his heart. He was sick with the longing to
raise her in his arms, and press her against his breast, and breathe
into her lips of his own life and energy, and he dared not.
In that instant Bâl Narîn looked over his shoulder. 'Quick, master,
quick!' he cried. 'They are not dead. This is the shock of a great
joy. A few moments ago the gracious lady was speaking to me. Bring her
out under the moonlight. And here are my chuddah and girdle to make her
a bed. You have the cordial?'
'Yes, Billy; I have the cordial. Thank God that I remembered it. So!'
as he lifted up the light form in his arms; 'gently! gently! Take
away the torch, Billy. Let there be nothing to frighten her when she
awakes! And the child, poor little Kit! bring him out--let him be near
her! God! how light she is! My sweet one! my love! how you must have
suffered! But it is all over now!' He laid her down reverently on the
couch that Bâl Narîn had prepared, and wet her lips with the cordial.
Then her eyelids fluttered, and a tremor ran through her limbs, and
her lips parted in a long, shuddering sigh that went straight to Tom's
heart. He was chafing one of her hands softly. 'My poor love!' he
whispered. 'Is it cruel to bring you back? Have you suffered enough?
But you shall never suffer again--never, so long as I have life and
strength to protect you. Will you not open your eyes and look at me?'
Her lips parted, though her eyes were still sealed. He stooped over her
and caught one word--'Kit.'
'Kit is safe, darling. My good friend Billy is with him. Ah! I hear his
voice.'
Not his voice only. It was a little feeble laugh that came at that
moment from the door of the hut, for Kit, who was a proficient in
children's and bearers' Hindoostani, and Bâl Narîn were already on the
best of terms.
'Do you hear?' said Tom. 'Do you hear him, Grace?'
'Thank you,' she whispered.
Then her eyelids lifted, and her sweet eyes, deep with the passion of
pain and horror that, so long as she lived, would haunt her, rested
upon his. 'You are our Tom,' she said.
'I am Tom. Your Tom----'
'I have something to tell you. It is very strange--very horrible. I
don't quite understand it myself. Sometimes I think it is a dream; but,
if it were----'
'Dearest, you must tell me nothing now. See! You are exhausted. You
have suffered so much. And we are here now, Billy and I, to look after
your little Kit and you. Let me give you some of this cordial--it is
better than food--and then go to sleep and I will watch over you, and
in the morning, which is very near, dearest Grace, Billy and I will
carry you through the jungle to our camp.'
She did as he begged her. She was as weak as a little child, and the
feeling of security, absent from her for so many long days and nights,
was of itself enough to make her drowsy. But before she settled herself
to sleep, she opened her eyes once more.
'Rungya is in there,' she whispered. 'He died for Kit and me. You won't
let the wild birds have him?'
'No; Bâl Narîn shall watch.'
'He killed two of the birds,' said Grace. 'They were watching for us. I
could not keep them away.'
And then her eyelids fell, and she slept peacefully until the morning.
* * * * *
Kit slept, too. He was in Bâl Narîn's arms, just as he had thrown
himself when he had eaten biscuit and tinned meat and drunk a glass of
cordial. The guide had, in the meantime, lighted a large fire, which
blazed and crackled, keeping effectually all the wild things away. As
he held the little one, and fed the fire with dried grass and sticks,
he and Tom were holding a council of war. Which would be the best
plan--to carry Grace and Kit between them to the spot where they had
left the men and waggons, or for Bâl Narîn to rush thither at once and
bring assistance?
Billy was for the latter alternative. He would take an hour to go, and
an hour to come back. By the time the sun was well up they could start
together.
But Tom, who, since the adventure of the previous evening, which might
have had so terrible a termination for himself, clung to his Ghoorka
guide as to a sheet-anchor of strength and hope, was of a contrary
opinion. 'Let us keep together, Billy,' he said. 'To-night we have both
escaped from almost certain death, and how can we expect to escape a
third time?'
'But, Sahib, consider----'
'I have considered. If there were ten bearers I should carry her
myself. And you, if you will, shall help me. How if we contrived a
litter----?'
'Out of our garments and those of the holy man,' said Bâl Narîn.
'He will not want them any more----'
'We must burn him, Sahib. That is the burial for the Hindu-Saint.
Before we leave this place we will fire the hut.'
'Could we do it now, while they are sleeping?'
'I am afraid of the flame spreading, Sahib. With the first break of
day, I will set my torch to it, and we shall be far on our road before
it blazes high.'
Giving Kit over into Tom's arms. Bâl Narîn proceeded to make his
arrangements. Out of the hermit's robe and the rajah's upper garment,
and a long straight branch from the cotton-tree, he devised such a
litter as could be carried on the shoulders of two men: then he took
a parcel of dried twigs and grass into the hut, scattered them over
the old hermit's body, and anointed them with oil. This done, he went
outside again, cleared from the neighbourhood of the hut everything
of an inflammable nature, cut two or three stout stakes from the
cotton-tree, and hammered them into the ground at a sufficient distance
from the hut to allow of their escaping from the fire that was
presently to consume it.
'Rungya was a holy man,' he said, in explanation, 'and the time may
come when his friends and disciples will wish to do honour to his
ashes. We leave these stakes as a signal.' By the time all this was
done the light of the morning was beginning to peep in the east, and
the wild world of the jungle was sinking to rest.
'It is time for us to move,' said Bâl Narîn.
Tom looked down regretfully at Grace's sleeping face. 'Couldn't we wait
a little?' he said. 'It seems such a pity to disturb her.'
'We will not awake her,' said Bâl Narîn. 'Will his Excellency allow me?'
Tom moved aside while, with a dexterous gentleness which he envied but
could not emulate, the clever Ghoorka, who in his youth had served an
enforced apprenticeship to a robber tribe in the plains, transferred
the sleeping girl from her bed on the ground to her bed on the litter.
Kit, in the meantime, had awoke. He was much stronger, he said, though
to Tom his poor little legs looked piteously weak and slender. It was
possible for him, however, to walk, and when he was tired Bâl Narîn
said he would carry him on his shoulder. Then a match was applied to
the touchwood under the hut; Grace, who had only stirred once, was
lifted slowly and carefully to the shoulders of her bearers, and, with
light hearts, they set out to rejoin the rest of their party on the
robbers' road.
* * * * *
The sleep which had fallen upon Grace when she knew that her task was
done, lasted for many hours. Passing through the air, resting for
brief spells when the shoulder of the rajah, which was unaccustomed to
weight-carrying, threatened to give way, taken up again with reverent
care, and lifted skilfully over the various obstructions of the way,
she neither moved nor spoke. Tom would, now and then, look at her with
alarm; but Bâl Narîn smiled.
'The gracious lady is a child of the Supreme Spirit,' he said, 'and
this is His sleep which has fallen upon her. When she awakes, Sahib,
her trouble will be gone.'
'Grace never slept,' said Kit, who was perched now on Bâl Narîn's
unoccupied shoulder, and holding on by his head, 'after Rungya died.'
'How long was that, my little Sahib?' said Bâl Narîn.
'I don't remember,' said Kit wearily. 'A long time, I think. The big
birds came and frightened us. Grace had some candles and she lighted
them. I tried to keep awake; but I couldn't. She kept awake always.'
'She is making up for it now,' said Tom from the other side of the
litter.
'Yes, she is sleeping beautifully,' said Kit. 'She'll be all right
when she awakes, won't she?'
'All right? What do you mean, Kit?'
'She used to look so funny--just as if she were somewhere else.
She didn't look so at first, when that dreadful man was with
us--but'--pulling himself up, 'I mustn't say anything about that. I
promised.'
'No,' said Tom. 'Grace will tell us everything herself when she awakes.'
What the sleep was to her--how delicious it had been to close her eyes,
and to let herself drift away on the sea of unconsciousness that, for
these many days, had been wooing her; to half open her eyelids just
to be sure that she had not dreamed this strange and sudden bliss,
and then to close them again; to hear, without understanding, Kit's
bird-like voice throbbing through the air, and Tom's grave, kind
answers; to know that there was no need for her to rouse herself, that
she might sleep--sleep till the death-like languor had gone from her
limbs and the pain about her heart was stilled--of the rapture of all
this what tongue can tell? Only those who have passed suddenly, as I
did once, from peril and anguish, and the mad terror of the hunted, to
perfect rest and security, can have the faintest idea of what it means.
It was impossible, meanwhile, that their progress could be swift, for
they could not tear straight through the jungle as they had done the
night before; and Bâl Narîn had to make many a detour to avoid the wild
beasts' haunts.
When the sun rose, he rigged up a leafy umbrella, which he fixed at the
head of the litter, and under it Grace lay like a sylvan queen being
borne in a trance to her woodland home. At last, after three hours'
steady tramp, they came out into the robbers' road, and sighted their
waggons and horses in the distance.
There had been much excitement in the camp. When they arose in the
morning, and Abiman, one of the Ghoorka soldiers, reported that the
rajah had left them shortly after moon-rise in search of Bâl Narîn, and
that neither of them had returned, it was felt that some calamity must
have happened.
'This is what comes of killing a serpent,' said Abiman to Purtab; and,
indeed, Purtab's conscience had already been reproaching him.
But when a swift-footed coolie, who had run back to see if anyone
was coming, rushed into camp with the joyful news that the rajah and
Bâl Narîn were on the road, and that they carried a litter between
them--then Purtab and Abiman changed places.
'The gods have won the day,' said Purtab seriously, 'and the demons of
the jungle may mourn.'
Everyone knew what to do, for the rajah had often prepared his
followers for this moment. In a trice the coolies dragged out and
rigged up the tent which was held in readiness, and the water-carriers
brought water from a neighbouring stream and heated it in jars over
the camp-fires, and the bearers unpacked the soft cushions and fresh
garments with which Gambier Singh had supplied Tom, and laid them out
temptingly, and toilet-appliances were hunted out from their cases and
set in order, so that before Grace, who had been brought in and set
down amongst them, had found strength to open her eyes, her tent in the
jungle was as well-served with all that was needful for her refreshment
and comfort as the room from which she had fled when insurrection broke
out in Nowgong. So wonderful are Indian servants.
As for Tom, when he came in and looked round, he was so glad and
thankful that he would fain have scattered, then and there, rich
largesse amongst his people; and it was fortunate, perhaps, both for
himself and his guests, that he had nothing at that moment to dispense
but promises.
It was Kit who took Grace by the hand and led her into the tent, and
it was Kit who served her with the tea and biscuits which had been
prepared for her. They were together for a few minutes, and then he
came out, and dropped the curtain, and they saw that there was an awed
look on his little face.
'She is somewhere else still,' he said to Tom; 'but I think if we don't
make any noise she will come back to us.'
'You are sure, Kit?' said Tom, in a broken voice.
'She always came back when she could sleep a little,' said Kit. 'Poor
old Rungya used to watch sometimes. Then he died. I will look, in and
see how she is presently,' he added, with an encouraging nod, and then
he went on to play the hero, and to be petted and tenderly cared for by
the Indian servants.
They happened to be in a comparatively wholesome region when they
halted, and it was decided, in the brief consultation which Tom held
with his followers, that they should remain where they were for that
day and part of the next night, starting for the Maharajah's Road with
the rising of the moon. Grace and Kit would have a cart to travel in,
so, although their progress would be slow, the fatigue would not be
great, and as there would be no need now for any of those tentative
flights into the open spots amongst the jungle that made their former
journey tedious, they would get over the ground more quickly. Bâl Narîn
calculated that in two or three days, at the outside, they would
reach the Maharajah's Road, at the point where they left it. Here Tom
hoped to pick up Hoosanee. It had been arranged that if he found no
trace of the fugitives on the lower slopes of Sisagarhi, he should
return to the point where the cavalcade had divided, and wait there
a certain specified time for his master, after which time, should no
news come, he would hasten back to Gambier Singh, acquaint him with
what had happened, and ask his advice. It was almost certain now that
the rajah and his party would reach the meeting-point before the time
agreed upon, and Tom's only fear was that Hoosanee, who was so much
of his friend that he longed to let him know speedily his success and
happiness, would not be there so soon. But, in such case, a plan for
communicating with him could soon be devised.
After all this, having heard through Kit that Grace wanted nothing, the
rajah and Bâl Narîn gave themselves up to the rest which they needed
so sorely. The hours of the day rolled on. The sun rose high in the
heavens, and a deep noontide silence, unbroken by the noises that at
dead of night and early morning make the jungle terrible, brooded over
the camp. Everyone slept but the two or three who remained on watch to
keep the camp-fires burning.
It was in the midst of this silence that the English girl came slowly
to herself. Up to this she had been in a dream. All she had distinctly
realised was that she might rest--that the strain, which had tried
her to the utmost limit of endurance, was over. Now, as she opened
her eyes and, by the light that stole in through the canvas walls and
closed chicks, saw the curtains of rose and amber, and the pretty
camp-furniture, and the fresh garments, and the bowls of clear water,
she began dimly to understand that this was not a dream, such as those
that had visited her in her wanderings, but a reality. The gates of
the dear old life--the life of safety, and love, and reverence--were
opening to her once more. It was the horror she and Kit had lived
through that was the dream. This was true.
For the first few moments her mind was too weak to be able to take
in anything more than this: she was with her own people: she was
travelling back into the past: some day, if God was gracious to her,
she might see her mother and her sisters again: she might give up her
darling Kit to his friends. Then, gradually, as her mind grew stronger,
the events of the night, and of the days that had preceded it, shaped
themselves before her.
They had been on their way to Nepaul. The good Rungya, who had rescued
them one night from a horde of brutal villagers, had promised to take
them thither, and place them under the protection of the minister, Jung
Bahadoor. They had crossed the plains and entered one of the great
sâal-forests of the Terai together. Then their cart broke down, and
the animals sickened, and word came to them that a party of fugitive
sepoys, who had taken up robbery as a profession, were haunting the
great highway. So they turned aside, walking painfully on foot through
the jungle, till they reached the Aswalia village. They had scarcely
left it before Kit sickened with the fever. They carried him on between
them, hoping to reach opener ground, where they might rest, when Rungya
bethought him of the clearing into which they turned. A holy man, a
Brahmin, who had passed through his life's different stages, and who
was preparing himself in solitude and meditation for his eternal rest,
lived there once. Rungya had visited him when his own life was lusty
within him, and had kissed his feet reverently as a spiritual teacher.
It could not be that the holy man was alive still; but his hut, which
even the savage tribes of the jungle would respect, might be standing,
and it, for a few days, would afford them shelter. Before they reached
it Kit began to mend; but Rungya was stricken down. For two days Grace
tended him as if she had been his daughter. On the third day he died;
and then began that awful struggle between the heroic girl and the wild
things of the wilderness, which had nearly reached its limit when Bâl
Narîn found her. How long it lasted she could not tell--neither could
Kit. When it began they had water and rice, and faggots for firing;
when it ended their little stock was exhausted. She dared not leave the
hut so much as to cut a stick of wood or fill her brass lota with water
at the pool. It was like a horrible siege. The wild things without; she
and her dead and dying within.
Slowly and painfully her mind travelled on. She remembered the
determined attitude of the three great birds, and her own wild tempest
of passion. She remembered vividly the ping of the shikari's bullet,
and the fall of her enemies, and his friendly address. After that came
a terror which she only dimly recalled, and which was followed by a
blank--a peaceful falling away into forgetfulness.
That she had been taken from her dangerous position, and that she had
heard Kit laughing and talking beside her was all she knew for certain.
The effort of thinking was great, and she fell into another brief
sleep. When she awoke the day had begun to decline, and the camp was
astir. Grace was stronger. Her mind worked fitfully. She was like one
who is in search of something, and who has a clue which makes him
believe that he will not be long in ignorance.
Suddenly, like a flash of light in midwinter darkness, there rose
before her a scene out of the past--a little room, with bare mud walls
and costly furniture: in its midst an Englishwoman, dressed in Oriental
robes, and lovely as a vision, with soft eyes and dimpled cheeks, and
a little voice like rippling waves on a pebbly shore. She--Grace--is
standing before her. Her hands are bound; her face is stained; her
garments are dirty and ragged. How vividly she feels the contrast
between them! The lady in Oriental robes feels it too. She laughs--not
brutally, as one who exults over a fallen enemy; but with gushing
gladness like a child. 'Dearest Grace!' she says, 'this is shocking!
What has come to you; and where, in the name of Heaven, is your rajah?'
There is no answer. Grace cannot speak. The little rippling voice
goes on: 'I think he is here, dear; but we cannot let him see you.
You are so beautiful. You would turn his brain.' Silence again, and
then: '_Won't_ you speak to me, you serious young person? Am I too
frivolous for your taste? Well! but never mind. I mean to give you your
liberty, now at once! Such fun! While Tom is in the fort expecting to
see you! A friend of your father's, one of his favourite Soubahdars,
will take care of you, and no doubt you will reach the English lines in
safety'--and then there rises before her suddenly the wicked face with
its sinister smile----
In a moment--in less than a moment--it sprang before her. She had
no force to go further. There was something to be remembered still;
something horrible; something that she would have to think out and tell
before she had peace. But this for the moment was enough. It was the
cry of her heart, the strong rapture of conviction, which, through all
the shame and agony of those awful moments, had been present with her,
that she remembered now.
'Tom is looking for us! Tom will find us!'
Tom, then, had traced them into the jungle. Tom had sent the shikari
to slay the birds. Tom had taken them into his keeping and was
transporting them to a place of safety. There had been war between him
and the White Ranee and he had conquered.
Weary and spent with this strange flight of memory, she sank back and
closed her eyes. But she could not rest any longer. An impulse, dead
for all these terrible days, but so much a part of herself that even
now she could not imagine how it had ever slept, was rising up within
her.
Once more she opened her eyes, and this time they fell on a mirror
which an officious servant had placed near her. She propped it up in
front of her, and gazed at herself, and a blush of maidenly shame
tinged her pale face. Was she Grace--Grace who had been so proud and
dainty? Ah! but she had forgotten Grace. Grace must have lived long ago
in some other world. Grace was a memory--a dream--it was this haggard
woman, with the ragged robe and tangled hair, who was the reality. But
could not Grace come back again?
With a swelling heart she looked round her. Some one had thought of
this too. Everything she could want, clear water and English soap,
and fresh and lovely garments were in the tent. If only she had the
strength, she could, in a few minutes, make herself fit to be seen.
Slowly and painfully she rose from her couch. How weak she was! Could
it be she, her very self, who only yesterday had withstood the wild
beasts and birds of the jungle? When she was on her feet she staggered
and nearly fell; but she would not give up till she had washed the
stains of travel away and put on the robe of pale blue and snowy white,
which was lying ready for her. Then, once more, she looked into the
mirror. Very white and haggard was the face that gazed upon her, and
the eyes--oh! what was it? What was it? She dared not look into them.
There was some awful tale; some picture of horror that would not fade,
behind their half-dropped lids; something that was not Grace--that
never would be. And yet she was happier, more tranquil, than she had
been. The fresh water and the fair garments had helped her to dream
that she was herself once more. She was ready to meet her deliverer.