HOW GUMILCUND RECEIVED HER PRINCE
The month of October was in, and the great heats of the plains were
over. Events had been marching. At Agra, which was still in a state
of siege, the large European population gathered together in the
fort and palace of the magnificent Shah Jehan began to breathe more
freely. In Lucknow, where Sir Colin Campbell and his veterans had not
yet arrived, Havelock and the gallant Outram held their own, and the
flagging spirits of the Europeans had been cheered by several brilliant
successes. Cawnpore was in the hands of the English; but Tantia Topee,
the last general of note amongst the mutineers, was gathering his
forces together for a final effort; and Jhansi, the home and citadel
of a woman scorned, bade proud defiance to the English conquerors.
These were the news which met the Rajah of Gumilcund when, journeying
warily, he drew near to the gates of his own city.
Things had been going well with him since he parted from Gambier
Singh. The country was much quieter than he had expected; the villages
received them well; they had no difficulty about supplies; their force
was large enough to frighten away the hordes of robbers that haunted
the highways; and Hoosanee, who was their guide, took very good care
that there should be no chance encounters with mutineers.
The rest and good food, with the comparative coolness of the
atmosphere, had completely restored little Kit. The colour came back
into his cheeks, and the sparkle into his eyes. It was a delight to
see him going about the camp speaking in his little lordly way to the
coolies and servants, and picking up phrases of Nepaulese with which
to make friends with the Ghoorka soldiers. There was not a soul in the
camp who did not adore him.
In one of the villages they had bought a little hill pony for the
child, and day after day he trotted gravely by Tom's side, looking as
picturesque as a prince of fairyland, with his brightly-coloured Indian
garments, his blue and white muslin turban, and his flowing golden
curls.
Grace, too, was better; but she did not speak much, and Tom would not
urge her. He believed in the power of healing nature. In the meantime
he had despatched Subdul with the letter, of whose arrival we have
heard.
So, as I have said, they came on to Gumilcund. The rajah had sent on
swift runners to apprise the people of his coming, and all the city was
in a ferment. It was afternoon when he crossed the boundaries of the
State. Most of the peasantry had gone up to the town, so the country
had a somewhat deserted appearance; but it gave him pleasure to see
that the forts stationed here and there for their protection were
occupied strongly, and that there had been no break in the agricultural
operations. The people went about their usual work in the day-time, and
took refuge in the city at night.
He halted, as he had done before, just as dusk began to fall, about a
mile from the principal gate of the city. Chunder Singh and Lutfullah,
with several other distinguished citizens, and a gorgeously-attired
retinue of Indian cavalry, were drawn up here to do him honour, and
escort him to the city in state.
Bidding his Ghoorkas halt, Tom rode in amongst them. He had scarcely
done so before he caught sight of his beautiful little Arab mare
Snow-queen. She had been ridden by no one since the night when he rode
her out to meet the English fugitives, and, finding that two were
missing, went to Dost Ali Khan's fort to find them. Now, hearing his
voice, she whinnied, and pawed the ground impatiently. In a moment Tom
had dismounted from the horse he was riding, and vaulted on to her
back. He had much ado then to keep her quiet, but he succeeded at last,
after which he turned to Chunder Singh. 'Thank you,' he said, holding
out his hand. 'This is a pledge to me of your forgiveness.'
'There is no question of forgiveness, Rajah Sahib,' said the grave
Indian. 'I could have wished for the sake of the people, who were
clamorous for tidings when they heard the rajah had gone, that his
Excellency had treated me with more confidence. But is not that amongst
the things that have passed? We have escaped from the fiery trial. The
people of Gumilcund and his Excellency, their rajah----'
'The people will receive me, then?'
'The loyalty of the people of Gumilcund to Byrajee Pirtha Raj, their
ruler, has never wavered.'
'That is well,' said Tom gravely. 'But you must understand, Chunder
Singh, and you, Lutfullah; on some points I have changed since last I
dwelt amongst you. In the wilderness where, for many days, I have been
wandering seeking for my kindred, I have come to this determination
chiefly,' he spoke in their own language, which all of them could
understand. 'I will not,' he went on, 'go amongst you any more upon
false pretences. I am an Englishman. How and to what degree I am
related to your former rulers, or whether the mysterious tie which
seems to unite us is merely spiritual, I do not know myself. I have
written for information, and as soon as I receive it I will pass it on
to you. In the meantime, I have determined to go amongst you without
disguise. Such as I am, you and your people must receive me, and if the
idea of serving a foreign ruler is repugnant to you I will retire and
allow you to choose your own ruler, on whose behalf I will promise to
interest myself with the British Government. But, however this may be,
I know'--he smiled, and Chunder Singh, who had been listening with a
falling countenance, plucked up heart--'I know,' he repeated, laying
his hand on the closed litter, which had been brought to the spot where
he had reined up Snow-queen, 'that for the sake of those who have gone
before me--ay, and because they love the English name, which has been
a tower of strength to their city, the good and loyal citizens of
Gumilcund will receive me with respect and affection and will shelter
and nourish the fugitives whom I have brought with me until they can
return in peace to their own people.'
He paused, and a buzz of applause, not loud, for these were grave
citizens and Asiatics, but deep and heartfelt, followed his words. 'Our
rajah has spoken well. Hah! Hah! He has spoken words of wisdom. He has
proved himself the true son of Byrajee Pirtha Raj. Let him come amongst
us freely. The people are waiting to receive him with honour.' So from
mouth to mouth the joyful answers ran.
Up to this everything was quiet, decorous, and stately; Tom playing
the part of an Oriental potentate to perfection; the citizens of
Gumilcund reverential in manner and dignified in speech and bearing;
the two guards--the Ghoorka escort on the one hand, and the gorgeously
caparisoned cavalry from Gumilcund on the other--sitting their horses
like bronze images on either side of the space of ground where the
rajah and the chief men of the city had met. And so it might have
continued but for that upsetting element, subversive of all dignity, an
English boy.
Kit had been riding in the rear of the cavalcade with Bâl Narîn. He had
seen one or two things that interested him--a score or so of flying
foxes, hanging like black bags from the trees, which he insisted upon
disturbing, so that he might see them fly--a huge cobra, which they
followed and killed, and a herd of screaming jackals that he galloped
after until Bâl Narîn caught his pony by the rein and made him come
back. They were thus considerably in the rear when the cavalcade halted.
Now, as soon as Kit saw that something was going on, he set spurs to
his pony, gained upon the Ghoorka guard, passed it like a flash of
lightning at imminent risk of setting the whole of it in motion, and
drew rein by Tom's side just as the citizens of Gumilcund were assuring
him of the continued homage of their city.
For a moment the child paused, looking out at them. It was light enough
to see him well--the slender, shapely figure, the proud little head,
the shower of golden curls. Every one of the grave men smiled. He
answered their kind looks with a ringing laugh. 'Are you the people
from Gumilcund?' he cried out, his childish treble ringing shrill and
clear through the still air of the evening. 'And have you come to meet
us?'
'Hah! Hah!' answered the grave elders. 'Gumilcund people, little Sahib,'
'Oh! I say,' whispered Kit, in his own tongue to Tom. '_Don't_ they
look jolly? Let's give them an English cheer. Where are Bâl Narîn and
Hoosanee and the others? I've been teaching them. They can cheer pretty
well. Come up, you men! Now then,' lifting his small turban from his
head, and holding it in one hand, while he shook his reins with the
other. 'Hip! Hip! Don't be frightened, you men! Sing out! Hip! Hip!
Hooray! That's better! Again! Hip, Hip, Hooray! for Gumilcund. And for
the rajah--a good one this time!'
The men had begun to cheer with might and main--the soldiers joined.
It was a joyful tumult, the like of which had never been heard in
Gumilcund before. The grave citizens were bewildered. The horses,
unaccustomed to the noise, grew restive. It was all Tom could do to
hold Snow-queen in. 'That's enough, Kit,' he cried. '_Bus! Bus,_ we
shall be at the gates in another moment, if you go on like this!'
'All right!' said Kit, 'I'll be as mum as a mouse directly. Just
one more, Hip! Hip! Hooray! for Grace Sahib. Three times three! and
three times more for luck!' And thereupon, the mischievous little
urchin threw up his turban, caught it in his right hand, and rattled
his reins over the pony's neck. Off it started at a hand-gallop;
Snow-queen, who had been chafing under her master's detaining hand,
went off in pursuit; the grave men of Gumilcund mounted their carriages
as speedily as they could, and the two escorts found their horses
unmanageable. For the level mile that lay between them and Gumilcund,
it was a stampede, rather than a trot. But Kit, on his fiery mountain
pony, headed them the whole way.
At the bridge which spans the ravine between the walls of the city
and the open country, he drew the pony up and looked round. Tom and
Snow-queen were close behind him. 'Isn't it a lark?' he cried out.
'Teazer would go, you know; I couldn't help him.'
'How much did you try, you young monkey?' said Tom. 'But since you are
still, keep still for a few moments! We must let these good gentlemen
come up. And Grace----'
'I say--what wonderful chaps those bearers are!' cried the
irrepressible child. 'They've been running with her. She'll be inside
almost as soon as we shall. Good-bye, Tom. I must trot back and get her
to open the palki. She looks lovely, I know, and they'd all like to
see her.'
Back he went, shouting out greetings to his Ghoorka friends. The two
escorts, in the meantime, had fallen into double lines on the bridge.
The elders of Gumilcund descended from their carriages and formed
themselves into a procession. Tom, on Snow-queen, stood in front of
them. Their faces were turned away from Gumilcund and towards the road
by which they had come in. The palki and its eight bearers came on at a
rapid run. The curtains were open. Grace had given in to the request of
Kit, which he had been artful enough to represent as coming from Tom.
And truly she was glad to see the light of this wonderful evening; for
her heart was beating with a host of new feelings, and she had much
trouble to keep herself quiet. Nearer and nearer drew the open palki.
The light of the heavens had departed; but, as if by magic, a host of
fairy lamps had sprung into being. They ran along the parapets of the
bridge, up and down, throwing a weird radiance on the dark faces and
showy accoutrements of the Ghoorka and Gumilcund soldiers. From the
causeway, which led from the bridge to the gates of the city, thrown
hospitably open, they shone out in myriads. Held on long poles they
came flashing along--a glittering line of light. At the bridge the line
divides, and while some of the light-carriers group themselves round
the procession of citizens and their rajah, others run on to meet the
palki. They form round it, and the light of their flaming torches falls
full on the pale face, the snowy raiment, the golden hair, and deep
steadfast eyes of the English girl.
Wonderingly the people gaze upon her, for they think that they see a
vision. As for the rajah, his heart gives a great bound. Even he, who
knows her so well, has never seen her look so lovely. But what is the
meaning of that strangeness in her face; the fixed gaze; the aloofness?
To him she is like one who is moving in two worlds, whose body is
present, and whose spirit is far away.
The palki stops. It is uplifted still on the shoulders of the bearers,
so that all who are within the radius of the torchlight can see it
plainly. Tom had meant himself to step forward and bid her welcome, but
he cannot speak for the rush of tears that are blinding and choking
him. He bends himself low over his saddle-bow in the graceful Oriental
fashion, and makes a signal to Chunder Singh, who steps forward.
'Madam,' he says, in excellent English, 'his Excellency permits me the
honour of being the first to welcome you to Gumilcund. My friends and I
have heard your story, and know what your sufferings and your heroism
have been. Accept our assurances that your troubles are over. In the
rajah's city the gracious lady will be as safe as in her own country
and amongst those who have served her from her childhood.'
'I am sure of it, Chunder Sahib,' says Grace, bowing and smiling, 'and
I thank you from my heart.'
That is all she can say, for the irrepressible little Kit has drowned
her voice in another wild cheer, and from the bridge, and the causeway
leading up to the gates, and from within the gates whence the light of
a myriad lamps and the tumult of a great multitude gathered together is
pouring, the shout comes back in deep waves of sound that rise and fall
on the still air like joyful music.
Then the rajah gives the word, and the palki with its bearers, and
the merry company of light carriers advance, Snow-queen, who has been
reduced to order, stepping proudly in front of them, while the elders
of Gumilcund, some of whom are 'fat and scant of breath,' mount their
carriages and bring up the rear.
Then what a joyful tumult of welcome! All through the great avenue,
with its double rows of trees, it is one sea of turbaned heads and
waving garments and banners carried proudly aloft. Here and there the
procession has barely room to pass, but the good temper of everyone in
the crowd is perfect, and whenever the rajah, who takes the lead, draws
rein, the multitudes separate of their own accord, and leave them a
living lane to pass through.
So, moving slowly, they come on to the market-place.
Vishnugupta, the priest, is waiting for them here. It is an encounter
which Tom would fain have delayed until a quieter moment, for the
Brahmin devotee, who had doubtless believed in his pure caste and
high lineage, may not, he thinks, be so ready to receive him as the
simple citizens. But he is mistaken. To Vishnugupta, in his sacerdotal
capacity, Byrajee Pirtha Raj was no less of an alien than his
successor. But, like many another priest both of the East and of the
West, he was something more than a person of approved sanctity. He was
a patriot and a citizen. He knew what the present regimen had done for
Gumilcund, where he had lived before the days of Byrajee Pirtha Raj and
his father, and he recognised the advantages the whole country derived
from the overlordship of the British. It was in the speech that Tom
had made to the people, when rumours of mutiny were first rife in the
country, that he had conquered Vishnugupta, the Brahmin devotee and
astute politician. That he was of a different country and religion went
for nothing with the priest. Nor, strange as it may seem, and although
he belonged professedly to one of the most mystical faiths the world
has ever known, did the legend current amongst the people of their late
so passionately loved ruler having returned to them in the form of this
young and comely stranger, affect him in the least. It might be so and
it might not. Vishnugupta would not express an opinion. What he did
feel and say was that the rule of the stranger was good for the city.
And so, to the surprise of Tom and to the measureless delight of the
people who thronged round him, Vishnugupta received him with honour
such as he had not granted even to his predecessors. Standing head and
shoulders above the crowd, his hands, in one of which he held a cage of
living brands, uplifted, and his white hair streaming in the wind, he
called upon the procession to halt while, in a flood of words, all the
more impressive to those who stood by for its mystical strangeness, he
called down blessings upon the chosen of the gods.
He ceased, and making a low obeisance, the rajah passed on silently.
Behind him were the golden-haired child and the English girl in her
open palki. Vishnugupta stood in front of it, and the bearers stopped.
So piercing was his gaze that even Kit was silenced. But Grace looked
back at him calmly.
For the space of an instant they looked at one another across the
shadows, and then the girl's lips parted in a slow and sorrowful smile.
'We will speak together another time,' she said quietly in English.
'You are a good man. I could trust you.'
'So be it,' said Vishnugupta, bending his proud head. He stood aside,
and the procession, which was on its way to the palace, swept by him.
He had meant to follow, but he stood like one abashed, and his hands
dropped, and the cage of fire which he had been lifting over the heads
of the people, swung idly by his side, and those who had flocked round
him, fearing accident, fell away, so that in a few moments he stood
alone. Plunged deeply in thought, he did not observe the absence of
bystanders. One, however, fascinated by his strange appearance,
lingered and heard him whisper: 'That look! And on the face of a woman!
I would fain see it again. But I fear! I fear! Ram! Ram! My heart flows
from me like rivers that seek the sea.'
For a few moments his head sank on his breast. Then he raised it,
and the fascinated observer watched him move forward slowly, till he
reached the palace gate, which had closed behind the rajah and his
party, but which, as he knew, would have opened at a word from him.
There, for an instant, he paused in indecision. His hand touched the
bell, but he withdrew it. 'Though I am a Guru and twice-born,' he
murmured, 'I am old, and my eyes have not the precision of youth.
To-night I will not see her again.'