'DOES PEACE RETURN?'
She saw Kit's face first. He had been sleeping too--close to Bâl Narîn,
whose large, kind presence had, from the first, inspired him with
confidence, and now he had awoke, and his new friend, who was one of
the most versatile of men, being as well able to nurse a child as to
snare an elephant or to kill a tiger, had taken pleasure in washing
from his face and hands the stains of travel, and combing out his long
golden curls, and dressing him in smart new garments. So when Kit stole
in softly to see if his dearest Grace was awake, he almost startled
her by his beauty. It was the little fine gentleman of Nowgong,
before the revolt, the adored of English _burra sahib-log_ and native
servants--who had come back. Kit was surprised too. He stopped short
just inside the tent and broke into a little laugh. 'Who made you so
pretty, dearest Grace?' he said. 'Was it Tom? Billy dressed me.'
'And who is Billy?' asked Grace.
'Oh! don't you know Billy. He's the shikari that killed the birds. He's
told me all about it, and how he found us. But I must go and find Tom.'
'No, no--come here first!' said Grace softly. 'Is it
quite--quite--true, Kit? Isn't it a dream?'
'You can pinch me if you like,' said the little fellow. 'I don't mind.
Do you think I look nice?'
'You look lovely, darling. I never saw anything so strange. Somebody we
know has thought of everything, Kit. To think that we should find new
dresses in the jungle!'
'It's Tom, I know,' said Kit with conviction. 'He's a big man here,
like Dost Ali Khan, only bigger. The fellows call him the rajah. But, I
say, you mustn't keep me, dearest Grace. I promised to let him know the
very minute you were awake. I looked in twice and you were asleep.'
He gave her a hug, and ran out; but looked back to say, with a little
nod, 'They're getting dinner ready, _such_ a jolly one! Can't you smell
the cooking? Tom knows how to do it, I can tell you.'
Yes: Tom certainly knew how to do it; this Grace said to herself with
a smile. But there was a tremor at her heart all the same. What was
she to say to him? How could she make him understand her passionate
gratitude? While she was thinking he stood at the door, for Kit had
found him close by. 'May I come in?' he said, raising the chick.
'Oh yes--yes; come in,' said Grace, half rising from her couch. 'I
wanted to see you; I wanted to thank you.'
'And that is just what I can't let you do,' said Tom, as quietly as he
could for the furious beating of his heart. 'Are you comfortable?' he
went on, looking round. 'Have my people done all they can for you? If
you will deign to come with me to Gumilcund, we can do much better; but
here----'
'Oh,' cried Grace, with a little agitated laugh; 'but it is just this
that is the wonder. It is like a miracle. How _did_ you--how _could_
you have done it?'
'It is my best--I think it is my best,' stammered Tom. 'I wish I could
have brought some one who knew you better--your mother, or one of your
sisters; but the way was so rough. I was afraid of their breaking down.
Is there anything else? Am I tiring you? Had you rather not see me
until you are stronger? I would--would _die_ to give you comfort or
relief.'
'I know you would,' said Grace simply.
'Oh! thank you,' said the poor fellow in a broken voice. 'It is
infinitely good of you to say so; and indeed--indeed it is the simple
truth. But'--trying to smile--'dying isn't of much use, is it? If you
had died, you couldn't have saved Kit, and, if I had died, I should
never have found you. You are sure you have everything you want?'
he added, looking round with a sort of piteousness in his face. 'I
know very little, you know, about what ladies want; but if there is
anything--these Indians are wonderful people----'
'No, no; there is nothing,' said Grace. 'Wonderful! They are
_marvellous_; they can almost create. I shall never forget what
Hoosanee was to us--' she was speaking rapidly and in little broken
sentences--she wanted to put him at his ease; but she felt so strange
herself. 'Where is he?' she went on. 'In Gumilcund, I suppose?'
'Ah! poor Hoosanee!' said Tom, smiling freely now. 'He wouldn't be
left, Grace. He fell in love with you, like everyone else; wanted to
start off at once and find you alone; but of course, I couldn't allow
that, so he came with me. I owe it to his love and devotion that I am
here now.'
'Then he is in the camp. Poor brave Hoosanee! I should like to see him.'
'But I am sorry to say he is not in the camp. I sent him off to the
mountains three days ago, to search for you there. I hope he will join
us presently.'
'And have you been looking for me ever since I was taken away?' said
Grace.
'I should have looked for you till my hair was grey and my limbs were
withered, Grace. I have found you much sooner than I thought.'
'It may not be so long as I think,' she murmured. 'To-day it seems to
me that ages--eternities--have gone over my head since the night I was
carried away. This morning I was trying to think back and--I could
not--'
There came a pitiful agonised consciousness into her face that
frightened Tom. 'Don't,' he said beseechingly. 'There is no need. Put
all those dreadful memories away! Let us go back, both of us, to the
dear old days. Do you remember, Grace, our gardens that nearly touched,
and the little wicket-gate, and the river? What a plague I must have
been to you sometimes!'
'I think you were pretty tiresome,' said Grace, smiling.
'Ah! but the girls were tiresome too. Trixy and Maud--how they used to
tease me! And the General was just as bad. I can feel the grip of his
hand on my shoulder now--that night he found me, what he would have
called philandering in his compound.'
'Father was very downright,' said Grace. 'But he liked you, Tom.
I don't think there was anyone he liked better. Dearest father! I
am afraid he must have been dreadfully miserable about me. Ah! how
often--how often--I have wished for him--his stern look and his strong
voice--I believe he could have frightened away any number of them.'
'He fought fifty--single handed,' said Tom. 'Bertie Liston came to
Gumilcund and told me about it. They had laid an ambush for him--his
own regiment--they nearly had him; but his audacity and resource
carried the day. Some came over to his side----
'He came out of it safely?' cried Grace.
'With only a slight wound, and he is better. When Bertie came to me he
was nearly well. I sent word that I hoped to find you. They are all
safe at Meerut. Our little Trixy is quite a heroine, at least Bertie
thinks so. She got hold of a revolver and fired at one of the wretches
who were trying to get in----'
'And mother?' broke in Grace. 'Is she well? Ah! what would I not give
just to see her for a moment! Mother's dear, kind face! It is the
sweetest face in all the world.' She broke down and covered her face
with her hands, and tears, that seemed to heal her pain, came stealing
down her pale cheeks.
Then Tom stole away, for he felt that she would prefer to be alone.
In a few moments he sent in Kit and Bâl Narîn. Billy was radiant in
fresh white linen, and Kit had so happy a face that Grace could not
help smiling at him.
'Billy won't let anyone wait upon you but himself, dearest Grace,' he
said, 'and Tom says dinner is ready, and the sun's gone down, and it's
very nice by the camp fire. Will you come out, or shall they bring
yours here?'
'I will come out, Kit,' said Grace.
And then came the joyful buzz of the camp, and the glowing evening
light on the jungle, and the spread table, to which the rajah led
her, his servants and camp followers bending down humbly, with their
faces to the ground, and again she felt as if she were moving in a
dream. Though she was only able to take a very little of what had been
provided for her, Grace felt stronger when she had eaten. Leaning on
Tom's arm, and with Kit clinging to her hand, she was able to move
about the camp. She made the acquaintance of Purtab, who had slain
the serpent, and, using Bâl Narîn as an interpreter, he and Abiman
congratulated her upon her escape, and expressed their conviction that
she was favoured of the gods. So long as she was talking and moving
she was at peace. But when she was alone the horror came again. They
were not to start until moon-rise. Tom left her in her tent to rest.
Kit went to sleep on a cushion by her side. Silence fell upon the
camp, and in the darkness and solitude her nameless dread took form.
There she lay, with hands cramped together and staring eyeballs, while
vision after vision, full of horror, swept by. Was it she, her very
self--this Grace who was not of heroic mould, to whom all these things
had happened? Was she dreaming hideously, or were they true? Oh! God,
were they true? She had suffered, but it was not that alone. She had
heard what curdled her blood in her veins, and made her feel that
the gentle, innocent gaiety of the past was a sin. Women and little
children tortured to death, men blown away from guns, inhuman crimes,
inhuman vengeance, hell gaping its mouth to devour, and heaven, the
dear heaven, of which, in the days of her childhood, she had dreamed,
passing away as visions pass in the lurid light of a world in flames.
She shuddered as she lay. This was terrible. She ought to be so
thankful. Ah! and she was thankful; but it was to man, not God. Once
she opened her lips, and the cry, old as humanity, the 'Our Father,'
that will instinctively break from the heart of Earth's children when
they realise their weakness and the strength of the forces set in
array against them, rose on a wave of anguish from her soul. But in
the next instant the cry was withdrawn. Father! There was no Father,
only a blind power that hurled the world-atoms, which for once in the
measureless ages have shaped themselves into sentient lives, from steep
to steep of a dead eternity. Awful, unutterable, sorrow piercing her
heart, like barbed arrows, each of which leaves its sting in the wound,
looking out pitifully from a myriad of eyes, making life impossible and
death the only refuge to be hoped for!
In the darkness Kit awoke and heard her laboured breathing. He groped
for her hand, and, finding it cold, was frightened and stole out to
awake Tom.
He came in, lighted the lamps, and knelt down beside her. 'You are with
friends,' he whispered, when he had made her drink a few drops of Bâl
Narîn's cordial. 'You must have courage for a little while.'
'I will try,' she said plaintively. 'I should like to see them once
more.'
'You will see them once more, and many times. When all this tangle is
over, we must go back to England.'
'England!' murmured Grace. 'Ah! they are good there. One can believe,
but,' shuddering, 'one cannot forget. I suppose we have to go out of
life for that.'
'Grace, if you love us, if you love them, do not, for heaven's sake,
speak so!'
She raised her heavy eyes and looked at him.
'Poor boy!' she said softly. 'I am troubling him. And when he has done
so much for me--all that way through the thicket! But the others, ah!
Tom, the others!--there was no God to save them.'
'My dearest, in heaven's name, I beseech you, put these thoughts
away! There was a God. There _is_ a God. Death opens the way into His
kingdom.'
'I used to think so,' said Grace dreamily. 'That was long ago, before I
knew, when I thought the world was good.'
'And so it is, Grace; so it is! Give yourself time, dearest, and you
will come back to the old thoughts. You will know that the horror which
it has pleased God to let you look upon is the exception, not the rule.
It is like the tempest which comes and goes, and does its awful work.
Peace returns afterwards.'
'Does peace return?' cried the girl, fixing her agonised eyes upon
her companion's face; 'and if it does, is it a true peace? This is no
dead storm, like a storm of winds and waves. It is a storm of human
souls. The passion, the cruelty, the restlessness, the awful, awful,
unquenchable thirst, are alive. Oh! I have seen them again and again.
It is like the look in the eyes of the wild creatures, _misery and
pain--misery and pain_.' Her voice dropped. Into her face came a look
of horror as if some vision long driven back were forcing itself upon
her. 'How did it come?' she whispered. 'Where does it go? It must be
somewhere, even when there is peace. Is it below us, ready, like the
wild beasts, to spring at our throats, or does it go away? When we open
our eyes _there_, shall we see it, _misery and pain--misery and pain_?'
'Grace, for pity's sake, for _my_ sake,' said Tom hoarsely, 'try to
forget. For you the horror is over.'
'For me, but for the others, for the world! Did He make it? Did He give
it gentle and good things to triumph over? And what will He do with it
by-and-by? Is it to go on for ever and ever and ever?'
'Don't think of it; don't think of it, Grace.'
'I can't help myself,' she sobbed. 'It _is_--now, at this very
moment while we are speaking--the misery, and the cruelty, and the
restlessness, and the despair. Hark!' starting up. 'Do you hear?'
'I hear the wild beasts howling, nothing else. Abiman and Purtab are
keeping the camp-fires alight. Everything is safe. Oh! my dear! don't
look so! you frighten me!'
She tried to smile! 'I am so sorry,' she said gently. 'I _will_
try--yes--I _will_ try to put it all away. But I think you must let
me go, Tom. You are looking for the Grace you once knew. You will
not find her; she has gone. The horror has touched her, and she can
never--never--be the same again.'
'Grace, you will break my heart. As you are, love, as you are, with the
sorrow in your eyes and the anguish in your soul, you are more, ten
thousand times more, to me than even then in all your dainty pride and
sweetness. I loved you, God knows I loved you--now--' he threw himself
down on his knees by her side, 'now--I adore you.'
'My poor boy! My poor boy!' she murmured, touching his face tenderly,
with her long white fingers.
'Grace,' he whispered. 'Do you care for me a little?'
'I care for you more than a little, Tom. I love you. I have loved you
from the first day we met.'
'Loved me! Oh! Grace; oh! my darling! is it true?'
'Hush, dear!' she said softly. 'You must keep quiet. If we speak too
loud we shall awake Kit. Poor little Kit! He has suffered so much. And
this sleep is restoring him.' Her voice was so quiet that it sent a
chill to his heart. There was no passion in it, no trouble, not even
the agitation, the sweet tremulous consciousness of a woman happy in
loving.
There surged up in his throat a sob of uncontrollable anguish. 'I
can't even think of Kit,' he said. 'I can only think of you--you. Say
it again, Grace--it is the dearest, sweetest sound in all the world.
Whisper it as low as you like and I shall hear it. If I were on earth
and you were in heaven, above the stars, myriads and myriads of miles
away, still I should hear it. Are you smiling, darling? I can smile too
now. But even you don't know everything. I will tell you some day. Say,
I love you.'
'I love you, Tom; I love you.' She was still touching his face and
hair, still gazing into his face with a tenderness that almost slew
him, it was so strangely quiet. 'I did not mean to tell you,' she went
on, 'but the time is so short. To-morrow perhaps I shall be somewhere
else.'
'Grace,' he cried passionately. 'Do you wish to kill me?'
'No dear, I wish to live, and I think I shall live a little while
longer. I have seen you, I must see mother and father and the girls,
and poor little Lucy, and Kit's mother, and the others. I didn't mean
that I should die, but I may not be here. Didn't Kit tell you? I wander
away sometimes. He used to tell me about it when I came back. "You have
been somewhere else, dearest Grace." I can hear his little voice now.
That was before Rungya left us. Afterwards, I remembered everything
till I fell asleep and you found me.'
'Ah! but it was natural then. You were in such trouble. It is a wonder
to me that you lived through it at all. But that is over!'
'Yes,' said Grace, closing her eyes, 'all over! all over!'
He watched her, his heart beating painfully. She lay quite still, and,
hoping she was asleep, he stole to the door and lifted the chick, for
in another hour they would have to start. He looked out, with a dazed
feeling in his mind, at the sleeping camp and the fires that were
burning brightly. He listened to the monotonous jabber of the watchmen,
and saw how the solemn, silvery light, that would presently change the
dark jungle world into an enchanted region, was beginning to dawn in
the sky. Then he returned to Grace, whom he found with wide-open eyes
and smiling lips. 'Is that you, Dad?' she said.
'Yes, dear,' he answered.
'Call the girls,' she cried. 'They said they would start early. The
river is so lovely in the morning. Is the boat ready, Dad?'
'Yes, dear. It is moored under the willows. I will come for you
directly.'
He took up Kit in his arms, and carried him out to Bâl Narîn. Tears
were in his eyes, and the beating of his heart nearly choked him. Grace
did not know him. She was 'somewhere else.'