THE RAJAH WELCOMES A GUEST AND HEARS A STRANGE STORY
The next day was full of business, and Tom gave himself to it with
stern self-repression.
He had offered a body of guides and pioneers, picked men, as skilful
with the shovel and the scaling-ladder as with the sword, to the
British army, which was marching northwards to the relief of Lucknow.
His offer had been accepted, and to-day they were to set off for
Allahabad, where the troops were congregating. In the early morning
he inspected them, and then, having given orders that they should
be feasted royally at his expense in the market-place, he harangued
them in the presence of a great concourse of people, and, mounted on
Snow-queen, marched with them as far as the boundaries of the State.
Following as it did on an exciting evening and a heavy sleepless night,
the day exhausted him, and on his return he would not press his pace.
He rode back slowly, his mind, to his own comfort and relief, almost a
blank, so that it was late in the evening before he reached the palace.
He had left word that he would probably be late, begging the ladies to
dine without him, and as he passed into his own quarters he felt glad
that he had done so, for he was able for little else but rest. Here,
however, an exciting piece of news awaited him. Lady Elton had arrived.
He asked how long she had been in the palace, and found that she
must have entered the city by one gate as he and his men had left by
another. Hoosanee, who was his informant, told him that she had arrived
in a well-equipped travelling-carriage, and attended by an escort of
European soldiers. These, however, had left her at the gate.
A young lady--the sister, as Hoosanee had been told, of Grace
Sahib--came in with her in the carriage, and an English officer whom
Ganesh had recognised as the Captain Sahib Liston, had ridden into the
city in their company. At the gate of the palace they had inquired for
his Excellency the rajah. When Hoosanee informed them of the business
on which he was bound, adding that he might not return till late, the
ladies had left their names with him and gone on to the zenana, and the
Captain Sahib had proceeded to the Residency, where he would probably
spend the night.
While Hoosanee was giving his master this news a servant came in
with a letter for the rajah. It was from Lady Elton--a rapturous,
affectionate, incoherent little note, saying she had seen Grace, and
thanking and blessing him for all he had done for them. 'My good Trixy
is with me,' she wrote. 'The General would not let me come without
one of the girls, and I think she will be a comfort to her sister. I
will not see you to-night. When I feel my child's hand in mine my love
and gratitude overcome me. I could only weep. I could not speak. But
to-morrow morning, as early as you like, we must meet.' And she added,
after a few more fervent, incoherent words. 'Both the General and I
feel that you belong to us.' Pressing the letter to his lips, Tom wrote
an answer hastily.
'My dearest Lady Elton,--I thank God from a full heart that you have
come in safely. Command me as if I were your son. It will be my
happiness to serve you. To-morrow, since it may not be to-night, I
will bid you welcome in person. I am always in the garden early. You
are an early riser, I know. If the journey has not tired you too much,
perhaps you will meet me there. I must see you _alone_, if possible.
Brotherly greetings and a warm welcome to Trixy. Yours always,
'THOMAS GREGORY.'
A long night, haunted by the strangest dreams, passed over the young
rajah's head. Now he would be chasing Lady Elton about the garden,
trying to speak to her, and seeing her elude him, and waking up with
a start just as his hand was on her arm. Then he would come suddenly
face to face with her, and she would begin an incoherent story, which
he could not understand. Again and again he leapt up thinking it was
day, and again and again he composed himself to sleep; but, do what
he would, he could not rest for the fever of his heart and brain, and
before the sun was up he dressed and went out into the garden.
Ever afterwards he remembered vividly the impressions of that morning.
He went out into a still and wonderful world. The green things of
the earth, the flowering shrubs, the palms, the dark cypresses that
lifted their column-like heads above the lower and lovelier foliage,
the water that flowed in deep channels by the grass--all these seemed
to be asleep. But a soft wind was stirring; far away there was a low
confused murmur as of dawning consciousness, and over all stretched a
cloudless heaven, pale and mysterious, in the zenith, where the little
stars that had shone all night were passing, one by one, tremulously
behind the radiant veil of the morning, and, on the eastern horizon,
tinged with a dull red, quickening gradually, as if a hand were fanning
it, into flame-colour and saffron. The beauty and tranquillity seemed
for a few moments to soothe the fever of his heart. He felt a Presence
in the garden. The strange words of the night before came back to him.
_We are stretching out our hands in the darkness--looking for God--and
He is here within us._ For an instant--a wonderful instant, which he
remembered years afterwards with a passionate thrill of gratitude--a
wild throb of expectation, the Divine was as near to him as his own
quivering flesh and blood.
It was far too early yet for him to expect to see anyone out; but
instinctively his feet turned in the direction they had so often taken
lately, and, in a few moments, he found himself in the avenue that led
from the English ladies' apartments to the pavilion where they were
accustomed to meet in the morning.
He had scarcely entered it before he saw at its farther end, walking
away from him into the open, the figure of a woman in a long grey
cloak. He hastened to overtake it, then stopped, then went on again.
Lady Elton? But could it be? The slow pace, the uncertain steps, the
bent head, were strangely unlike her. The doubt was soon laid to rest.
In the stillness she had heard his footsteps behind her, and she
turned and came to meet him. That, too, was a moment which Tom will
remember all his life. It was not only the pallor of the once comely
face and the attenuation of the form that, when last he saw it, had
been so pleasant to look upon in its full matronly beauty; it was
the expression of the face, the looking out upon him suddenly like a
spectre in the noontide, of that despair which, slowly, slowly, but, as
he now knew, surely, had been stealing into his own heart and killing
its joy. He sprang forward impulsively and threw his strong young arms
about her. 'This is dreadful,' he said; 'I had no idea you were so
weak. Why didn't you tell me in your letter?'
'I didn't feel quite so weak then,' she said, drawing herself away with
a little smile that seemed to bring the Lady Elton of Surbiton and
Meerut back again. 'No, no, you impulsive boy; I am not so feeble as
all that. Give me your arm to steady me. There! I am better now.'
'Have they taken care of you? Did they bring you a cup of tea before
you came out? Shall I have one made for you now?'
'No, thank you, dear. The little girl's ayah, Sumbaten, took every care
of me. I don't think the poor little thing slept at all for fear Grace
and I might want anything. Then, you know, I have Trixy to look after
me. She is a very good child,' said Lady Elton. She was trying to speak
lightly; but he knew very well that the effort was almost too great for
her.
He followed her lead, saying he was so glad Trixy had come. They had a
little English society in Gumilcund now, and he did not think she would
find it dull; and was it true that Captain Liston had come in with them?
'Yes, by the bye,' said Lady Elton. 'It happened rather conveniently.
He had been sent to Meerut from Delhi; did you hear how he
distinguished himself there? No? Well, I must leave it to Trixy. The
foolish children are engaged, you know. The General was obliged to give
his consent, though we don't quite see how they are to live. In the
meantime they are very proud of one another; and of course Bertie took
an additional interest. So he came with us. I believe he is to join the
army for Lucknow somewhere near this. But he was to see you and the
Resident first.'
'I shall be glad of the opportunity of congratulating him,' said Tom;
'he is a first-rate young fellow, and Trixy was always a great friend
of mine.'
As they talked they were walking on quickly, Lady Elton leaning on his
arm. There was a secluded spot--a little ferny hollow--at no great
distance from the pavilion. The blue waters of the miniature lake
lay in front of it, and a little semi-circle of rocks and boulders,
down which mimic cascades rushed continually, filling the basins of
water in the hollow and keeping moist and cool the delicate mosses and
rare grasses and ferns that had made it their home, formed a complete
barrier between it and the rest of the garden.
Hither Tom, who could not speak freely until he was sure of perfect
seclusion, guided Lady Elton's steps. She broke into an exclamation
of surprise and pleasure when he led her in. 'I've brought you here
because it is quiet,' he said. 'We can talk.'
He placed her in a low chair, under a fairy-leaved mimosa, drew up a
cushion to her feet, and flung himself down beside her. 'Now, dearest
Lady Elton,' he said, 'have pity upon me! Tell me about her.'
She was silent for a few moments, looking down upon him, her pale lips
parted in a quivering smile, and her eyes dim with tears. 'I was just
thinking,' she said, 'that I have not thanked you yet.'
'Would you thank a man for saving himself?' he said reproachfully.
She stretched out her hands with a little plaintive cry. 'Oh, Tom!' she
whispered, 'Tom, my son!'
The words were like a spell. All in a moment his simulated calmness
fled. He sprang to his feet, and, throwing himself on his knees, seized
the pale, worn hands held out to him, and pressed them to his lips.
'God bless you!' he murmured; 'God bless you!'
'But, my dear, you must be quiet,' said the poor lady. 'There, get up,
and let me have my hands again. Poor boy! poor boy! Do you care so
much?'
'I care more than I can express--more than even you can understand. I
thought I loved her then, but now----' and then he pulled up and looked
at her strangely. 'Do you know everything?' he said. 'Does the General
know? I must explain'--hurriedly. 'I did not know myself until the
other day. But circumstances have come to light----'
'Dear child,' she said softly, 'we have always known----'
'My parentage?'
'We know more about you, I expect, than you know about yourself.'
'And still----'
'Sit down here beside me, Tom.' She pushed back the hair from his
forehead and looked tenderly into his dark eyes. She was thinking
of the past. For the moment the last few dreadful weeks--that chasm
between the old life and the new--were blotted out. He was the boy he
had been then, and she was his mother, understanding him as no one else
did, and thinking of his friendship with a little motherly glow of
satisfaction and pride.
'I will tell you the whole truth,' she went on. 'We were on your
side--Grace and I. We believed we understood you better than the
others; and--it seems a strange thing to say, but it is really true--if
you had spoken a little earlier, you might have won our dear girl
then. The news of your wealth made the General afraid. You see it was
a wonderful change, and these changes of condition will sometimes show
the character in such different lights. That is what the General said,
at least. Then our dear girl, who, you know, is sensitive, heard some
unkind and stupid gossip. It was rather about us than her; but it
annoyed her all the more. It is an old story now,' said Lady Elton,
the pink colour mantling her face, 'and I only tell you because Grace
wished you to know everything. The silly people said we had known all
about it long ago--that you would be rich, I mean--and that was why
we had taken the cottage, and brought the dear girls next door to you
and your mother. It was absurd, of course; but Grace took fire, and
the General, who, you know, was against it then, went with her. I
argued that he should find out what our dear girl's own feeling was
before he gave her his advice, for I had my suspicions, and God knows
I would have braved the backbiting of malicious tongues, if it would
have secured her happiness and yours; but--well! you know the General.
He would not be the man he is--one of the finest soldiers that ever
lived--if he was not pretty firm in his own opinion. But what he has
seen and heard of you in this dreadful year, what he knows of you, Tom,
has changed all that. If our dear child----'
'Why do you hesitate?' said Tom hoarsely.
She paused for a few seconds, as if a wave of feeling too strong to
be controlled had swept over her, and then she laid her hand gently
on his. 'Will you tell me how it all happened--exactly?' she said
pleadingly.
'How we found them, do you mean?'
'Yes.'
He gave the story clearly and rapidly, from the moment when he left
Gumilcund for Dost Ali Khan's fort, to that when he saw Grace and Kit
in the hermit's hut, and was assured by Bâl Narîn that they were alive.
He said as little about himself as he could, and nothing whatever
about his feelings. It was a plain record of facts. The story over, he
stopped. 'Mother,' he said earnestly, 'I have told you all I can. It
is your turn now. You have seen my darling'--his voice broke--'you who
know her so much better than any of us--tell me what you think.'
She turned a little away, and looked up into the quivering branches
of mimosa. A little striped squirrel was leaping gaily from branch
to branch. Above, in the blue sunlit air, black and white mynas were
darting. Tiny feathered creatures, bright as living gems, were flashing
hither and thither through the light foliage. Ah! how peaceful: how
happy, they all were! For a moment she could not speak. Nature, with
her thousand joyous voices, seemed to be mocking at her pain. In the
next moment she became conscious of those strained-looking, agonised
eyes, and said faintly, 'I hope.'
'Is that _all_ you can say?' asked Tom.
'No!' she cried; 'I have more to tell you, but give me time!'
He got up, walked to the margin of the lake, looked down into its
waters with eyes that saw nothing, and then came back and stood beside
her. 'Perhaps,' he said, 'you had rather say no more just now.'
'No,' she said, 'I must. I promised her. Sit down again, dear, close
beside me, and give me your hand to hold. I am so foolish, do you know,
that it seems to me sometimes as if all these dreadful things that have
been happening were a dream, and then I must hold something not to
drift away into confusion. But you are impatient. I will begin.
'She was not so much surprised to see me as they thought she would have
been. They prepared her; then we went in together, Trixy and I, and
there was such a beautiful colour in her face, such a lovely light in
her eyes, that I could scarcely believe what they had told me about her
weakness. All the evening they were busy looking after us and showing
us the palace, and talking about Gumilcund and you. I thought my dear
child was quieter than the others; but you know, she had never the
same vivacity as her sisters, so this did not trouble me much. We all
went to rest early. She had begged as a boon that she and I should be
alone together. I thought she looked at me wistfully before she laid
herself down to rest, but I would not let her talk, for I was afraid
of exciting her. I was so tired myself and so happy that I fell into a
deep sleep at once. What awoke me I can't tell. It was as if a spirit
had taken me by the hand and told me to arise. There was a strange pain
at my heart, just as if something was suffering near me, and I wondered
what it meant. But I opened my eyes and looked round me, and saw the
room flooded with moonlight, and smiled at myself for my foolish idea.
Then I looked across to where my dear child was lying. She was awake,
her eyes wide open, and--and--but I can't tell you. Oh, God! oh, God!
I see it still--I shall see it to the end of my days--that look in my
darling's innocent eyes!'
There was a pause. Tom, who was nearly beside himself with suspense,
pressed her hand convulsively, tried to speak but could not, and sat
staring out before him into vacancy.
Presently she went on:
'I was at her side in a moment, but at first she did not know me. I
called her by her name, softly, for fear I should be heard, and began
humming one of the little Indian songs that I used to lull her with
when she was a baby. How I did it I can't tell, for my heart was like
to break. Little Sumbaten heard us stirring and crept into the room,
and I sent her away to make tea for us. Gradually the stony look left
my darling's eyes; she recognised me, and we cried together, and I gave
her the tea. Then, when we were alone again, she crept in beside me,
and hiding her head in my arms, just as she used to do when she was an
infant, told me what I have promised to tell you.'
She stopped again. It was as if the task she had undertaken was too
hard for her.
Tom looked up at her pitifully. 'You are torturing yourself without
cause,' he said. 'Why should you tell me? All I wished was that the
burden should be taken from _her_. She has spoken to you. It is enough.'
'But I promised; she will ask me,' said poor Lady Elton. 'Don't look
at me so, dear. I must find a little more strength, and then--then--we
shall rest, my dear child and I.
'You know how she left the fort; but you may not know that the wicked
Soubahdar who took her away had a grudge against her father. I must try
to tell you about him. He was a man I had always disliked, he was so
smooth in his manners--not a common man at all. He had been educated
well, and he had lived for many years with Englishmen, so that he knew
what our ideas and feelings are. The General had treated him not only
as a comrade but as a friend. They had shared the same tent; he knew
that honour was dearer to him than life; and he meant--I can see it all
now--to humiliate and punish him through her, our darling. When I think
of it, Tom, when I think of it, I feel the blood curdling about my
heart. But I must not----They left the fort together, this man, Grace,
and the child. Grace soon found out that he was her enemy. But for Kit
I think she would have killed herself, for she carried poison about
with her; but she dared not take him with her and she could not leave
him behind. Day after day they went on, travelling by unfrequented
ways. In the villages through which they passed they were often subject
to insult. He would bring crowds to stare at them, and they would tell
her, exulting like fiends, about the massacres and outrages in the
English stations. But here and there her gentleness won for them kind
looks and words of pity. So they went on till a certain day when poor
little Kit, who was nearly worn out, stumbled in the way and said he
could go no further. The brute struck him with a whip; Grace caught him
in her arms with indignant words. Then the Soubahdar looked at her; it
was only a look, but she knew very well what it meant--for Kit murder,
for herself worse. What power held his hand it is impossible to say.
There was nothing to keep him from striking, but he did not. They went
on until late, Grace half-leading, half-carrying Kit. She says that
with that look a new spirit and strength seemed to have entered into
her. They came to a little village by a river. She and Kit were given
a mud hut to spend the night in. She put the child to sleep, but she
would not sleep herself. Towards nightfall the Soubahdar came in; he
had been drinking heavily. She feigned to be asleep, and he leant over
her, muttering awful words of what he would do the next day. She kept
her presence of mind; she says she never felt in the least danger of
losing it. Then he threw off his weapons, the long knife and revolver
he always wore, fell down like a log, and was fast asleep in two
instants. I tell you all as she told it to me,' said poor Lady Elton,
'and indeed, indeed, I seem to see it now. It is passing before me like
a nightmare.'
'God help you to forget,' said Tom fervently.
'Yes; but I must tell it first--all--all!
'My dear child made sure that he was asleep. Can't you see her--I
can--listening, staring out into that dark place. If he had stirred
she was lost. But he did not. She was not afraid, she says. All her
womanly timidity had gone. Whatever was to be done--and I don't think
even then she knew--she was ready. She got up and took careful note of
everything. The hut had two doors: one looked towards the river, which
was very deep and dark, and flowed close by. It was open, and partly
blocked up by the Soubahdar, who had fallen half in and half out of
the hut, with his feet towards the river. The other door looked out
on the village. She opened it, and saw that the hut they occupied was
at a little distance from the others, which were all perfectly still
and dark. Then she closed it, fastening the latch with a piece of wire
which she found on the floor. Kit was in his first sweet sleep. She
crouched down beside him for a few moments to think. They might run
away, but he would be sure to find them, and then their death--Kit's
death--would be certain. There was only one way to be rid of him.
As she was thinking, his wicked words came back to her, and she saw
the awful look again. At the same moment Kit gave a little sobbing
cry, and called out to her through his sleep. It was that, I verily
believe, that gave my darling strength. Softly, as I can well imagine,
she soothed him off to sleep again. Then she rose from her knees and
went to where the Soubahdar lay, stupid and senseless in his drunken
sleep. His long knife was beside him. She drew it out of its sheath,
and--and----'
'She killed him!' hissed Tom from between his closed teeth. 'My brave
little girl! My heroine!'
'She killed him!' echoed Lady Elton. 'Think of it, with those little
slender hands! She did more; she dragged him across the little space
of ground that divided them from the river. How she found strength for
it God only knows. But before she knew, before she had recovered from
the state of frenzy into which his threats had thrown her, she heard a
heavy plunge, saw the dark waters part, and knew that her terror slept.
All this time Kit was asleep. When it was over she awoke him, whispered
that they had a chance of escape, tore him out of the hut so that he
should see no traces of what had happened, and before the dawn of the
next day had broken they two were far away from the village. You know
the rest,' said Lady Elton wearily.
'Yes,' said Tom, 'I know the rest. My poor darling! My poor darling! Is
it this that has been troubling her?'
'I am afraid it will never cease to trouble her,' said Lady Elton very
sadly. 'If it had happened to anyone else! But Grace! Oh, can't you
see--I can--how the gentleness, the tender womanhood, that are her very
self, have been wounded--how everything in her, her whole nature, has
suffered outrage?'
'Yes, yes! I see--I see too well! But, dearest Lady Elton, those are
the wounds that time heals,' cried Tom. 'She has spoken: that is the
great point. Don't ask me to despond; I can't. You will comfort her.
Troubled! why she should rejoice--exult! The man she destroyed was a
scourge to humanity. He was no man: he was a monster. Who knows how
many murders he had committed, how many more were being planned by his
evil mind? She was an instrument in the hands of God for dealing out
to him the punishment he so richly deserved. My only sorrow is that
no man was near to save her little hand--' For a moment his voice was
choked with sobs; then he looked up, and there was a light, soft and
wonderful, in his dark eyes. 'But you will tell her all this,' he said.
'You will tell her that there is no true man living who would not weep
as I do that she should have had to deal the blow herself--who would
not honour her from his inmost soul for her courage and devotion.
Yes'--smiling--'I have no fear now. You will heal her; you will bring
her back to us!'
'I will at least try,' said Lady Elton sadly. 'Our darling is in the
hands of God.'
There was a depression, a weariness, in her voice which could not be
mistaken, and, in fact, the telling of the story had been almost more
than she could bear. In a moment Tom was on his feet.
'What a selfish idiot I am!' he cried, 'allowing you to exhaust
yourself after this fashion. Come; I can't let you speak another word.
Trixy will be looking for you, too. She will think we have spirited you
away.'
'Ah, poor Trixy!' said Lady Elton, smiling through her tears. 'She is a
little bit of a heroine, too. But she is differently constituted from
Grace. She exults over her share in our little skirmish.'
And so, speaking lightly to hide the deep feeling that had almost
overpowered them, they left the ferny hollow where the strange story
had been told, and made their way slowly through the beautiful garden,
radiant now with morning sunlight, to the ladies' pavilion.
* * * * *
Touching and tender beyond expression was the first meeting between
Grace and Tom after he had seen her mother and heard the wild tale she
had to tell.
It did not come about until the evening of that day. 'We must let her
rest,' Lady Elton had said, and he agreed. But, when the daylight had
fallen, he found his way to the door of the pretty little room that had
been allotted to them. Aglaia saw him, ran in to tell Lady Elton, and
then ran away again.
Grace was lying on the sofa, her pale gold hair spread about her like a
cloud, white and weak, but with a look of dawning hope on her face that
made her poor mother's heart tremble with joy.
'Tom is here,' she whispered, bending over her. 'May he come in?'
Her eyes gave the consent that her voice had scarcely strength to
frame. Lady Elton went out and told Tom that he might go in, warning
him, at the same time, that she was weak and that he must not stay too
long.
In the next instant these two were looking one at the other silently, a
strange, new consciousness between them. It was only an instant; but in
that instant he took in all the details of the scene: the long, slender
figure, in its white draperies, brought out into almost startling
relief by the gorgeously embroidered cushions and shawls that lay about
it: the pale, beautiful face, pure as an angel's, looking out wistfully
from its shadowy cloud of hair: the sweet eyes, into which, for all
these days, he had scarcely dared to look, for fear of seeing in them
the horror, the spiritual fear, that, when he met it, almost maddened
him--eyes, so gentle, now, with half dropped lids that veiled their
childlike joy and wonder.
While he paused, spellbound, she smiled and tried to rise, a movement
that at once awoke him from his trance.
'Don't! don't!' he cried. 'You mustn't.'
He rushed forward, flung himself on his knees beside the couch, and,
with a look of infinite yearning, held out his arms. For a moment she
drew back; in the next his love had conquered. He held her in his arms,
her head upon his breast, her heart beating against his. It is a moment
that will live with him as long as his pulses beat, and his eyes behold
the sun. He was so happy that he scarcely knew what he did. All his
young love and pity and devotion, all the pent-up torrent of agonised
tenderness that, for these many days, had been surging about his
heart, seemed suddenly to leap to the surface. Murmuring passionate,
indistinguishable words, he rained kisses on her cheeks and lips and
brow. She was his--his; and he vowed, by all that was sacred, that
neither men nor demons should part them again. He would hold her--he
would hold her--against the world! So, for a few moments, he raved.
Suddenly he stopped. She had drawn herself gently away from him, and
he saw that her face was pale, and that her lips were quivering like a
tired child's. Then, with a swift remorse, he entreated her pardon for
his impulsiveness, and laid her head back tenderly against the pillows.
'Forgive me, dearest,' he said. 'It was the first delight. I have been
so patient all these days; and you know'--bending over her with a
radiant smile--'our feelings will not always keep within bounds. But I
promise to be very quiet now, if I may stay a few moments. May I?'
'Yes; but you must sit down and be reasonable,' said Grace.
'Darling, I have never been anything but reasonable. And to-day above
all days! Till I had seen your mother, till I knew what she and your
father wished, I had made up my mind to say nothing. And you know,
dearest, how well I have kept my resolution. Oh! don't you think it
has been torture to see you, day by day, as I have done, to know what
I know, and not to throw myself before you, and tell you plainly of my
love and reverence?'
'Hush, Tom, hush!' said Grace, tears filling her eyes. 'You make too
much of me. I am only a poor weak girl.'
'You are my queen, Grace, my angel, my wife!'
She opened her lips as if to answer; but he would not listen. 'No,'
he said, 'not a word. A little "Yes," if you like. If you try to say
anything else, Grace, I will seal your lips with kisses.'
He drew a chair beside her, and sat down.
'See how reasonable I am,' he said. 'Give me your hand to hold, so that
I may know it is no dream, and we will talk about the future.'
'My beloved,' she said softly, looking at him with wistful tenderness,
'let the future care for itself! We have the present--the moment that
is passing now. God in His mercy has given us that.'
'Yes,' said Tom, 'the loveliest moment that earth will ever give us,
Grace----'
At this moment Lady Elton, who had been feeling a little uneasy, looked
in.
'Haven't you talked long enough, children?' she said.
'I don't know about Grace; but I don't think I could talk long enough,'
said Tom. And then he jumped up, like the boy he was, and threw his
arms round Lady Elton's neck.
'Wish us joy, little mother!' he whispered. 'I have proposed, and she
hasn't said "No."'
'Oh! Tom,' she cried, divided between tears and laughter, 'what a baby
you are!'
'Am I? Then I am afraid I shall be a baby to the end of the chapter. I
have never been so happy in my life.'
'God send you happiness always, dear,' she whispered. 'But your mother,
have you thought of her?'
'Mother! it was the dearest desire of her heart that Grace and I should
come together,' cried Tom. 'This will be the most delightful news to
her. We must all go home together when the troubles here are over, and
I can leave my post. Then, perhaps, you and I will persuade mother to
come out with us for a cold season.'
'Ah! you are running far ahead,' said Lady Elton, sighing. 'However----'
'There is no reason why I shouldn't--isn't that what you meant to say?'
interrupted Tom.
'What I meant to say and what I must say is, that they are waiting for
you in the hall.'
'Very polite of them; but quite useless,' said Tom with a little laugh.
'I'm not cowardly as a general rule; but I really couldn't face them
to-night. I shall have something to eat in my own quarters. Goodnight,
little mother.' Then to Grace: 'Darling, you will _promise_ me to sleep
well.'
'I will do my very best,' she answered, smiling.
He left the room by a door that opened on to one of the passages, for
he did not wish to pass through the hall. Grace listened silently,
until the echo of his footsteps had died away, and then, to her
mother's distress, she turned her face to the wall and wept.