HAIDEE AND HER WRONGS.
It is necessary here to go back to the moment when, to the astonished
gaze of Harper, the beautiful Haidee appeared in the cell in which the
lieutenant had been incarcerated.
It seemed to him as if his senses were playing him false, and instead
of a living, breathing woman, he was looking at a vision--at an angel
of goodness--who had come to give him hope. But suddenly his thoughts
changed, as he beheld, by the light of her lamp, that in her girdle she
carried a long gleaming dagger, and her white fingers firmly grasped
the handle. Assassination, then, was her object? So he thought, but
dismissed the idea as soon as formed; for the face was too beautiful,
too soft, too womanly for a nature that could do murder.
She stood for some moments in the doorway, in an attitude of listening,
as if she feared that she had been followed; and Harper noticed that a
small flight of stone steps led upward until they were lost in darkness.
Presently she stepped into the cell, and gently closed the door. Then,
holding the light above her head, she surveyed the young officer.
“I will not ask if you come here as a friend,” said Harper; “your
movements proclaim that, but I may, at least, ask why you come, and why
I, a stranger, should have aroused an interest in you?”
“I come to save you,” she answered, in a voice that was clear and soft,
but bore traces of inward emotion. “In the Hall of Audience I tried
to warn you that you were in danger. I would have told you that they
intended to kill you if I had had the chance. They would have slain
you then, but they had been waiting for the appearance of the soldiers
from Meerut, for, until they came, it was not known whether the rising
there had succeeded or not. You were to fall with the rest of your
countrymen; but, at the risk of my own life, I come to save you.”
“And why?” he asked, drawing nearer to her.
“I am a woman,” she answered, while a deep flush spread over her face,
and her bosom heaved as if with some suppressed passion.
He waited for her to continue, but she remained silent.
“You are a woman, fair and beautiful,” he said; “and I am sure your
heart is kind and good.”
“Heart!” she cried. “Ah! would that it had turned to stone. But it
throbs with passionate delight, and your words reach it until its
pulsations quicken, and I know, alas, that I am a woman!”
She drooped her head, and Harper fancied that the long lashes of her
eyes were moist with tears.
“You speak in sorrow as you speak in riddles,” he said. “If I can
soothe away the one, how gladly will I do so; but I must also ask you
to explain the other. You are an utter stranger to me, and I do not
even know your name.”
“I have but one name; it is Haidee. Sorrow I have known; it has crushed
me. Why should my words be riddles to you? You are a man; I am a woman.
I have looked into your eyes, and I become your slave.”
As she spoke she knelt at his feet, and bowed her head upon his hand.
He raised her gently. Her hair had fallen over her face; he brushed it
back. He took her hand--soft and warm--in his own, and said, gently--
“Haidee, you speak strangely, and I do not understand you.”
“You do not understand!” she repeated. “Ah, your race is cold-blooded,
and stand on ceremony. In my country we are quick, impulsive, warm.
It is customary there for a maiden to go forth, when she has seen the
man she would love, and, laying her hand in his, say--‘Thou hast taken
captive my heart; at thy feet I lay it. Like the timid dove to its
mate, I come to thee. On thy breast I lay my head; thou shalt shield
me from the storm--thou shalt guard me from danger. Thy life shall be
my life--thy death my death; and for all time I will be thy faithful
and willing slave.’ Then will the man reply--‘If thou art true, I will
love thee; if thou art honest, I will keep thee; if thou hast wrongs,
I will redress them.’ And if she has wrongs, she will make answer and
say--‘I am true as thou art true; I am honest as thou art honest; and
thy slave’s wrongs need redressing.’”
Harper was astonished, though he knew that she spoke in the innocence
of her heart and in all sincerity; and, however strange her confession
might seem to English ears, she was an Oriental, and but following a
custom of her country.
As she stood before him with flashing eyes and heaving breast, he could
not help feeling impressed with her beauty and grace.
“Grieved indeed should I be if I have inspired you with aught but
friendship,” he answered. “I dare not give you love; though I would, if
it were possible, redress your wrongs; but, alas, I am a prisoner!”
“Dare not!” she echoed, turning her flashing eyes full upon him. “What
do I give you in return? Life. If I save you from death, have I not a
right to claim you? If you are a prisoner, I shall make you free; so
that you can avenge my wrongs.”
“Haidee,” he cried, “you know not what you ask. Your beauty thrills me,
but I dare not own its sway. I burn to be your champion, but that must
not be at the expense of my honour.”
“It is you who speak in riddles now,” she retorted, her voice quivering
with emotion. “If you remain here, in a very short time they will kill
you, for your enemies are thirsting for your blood. I save you and you
become mine, and have I not a right to claim your love?”
“If the only conditions upon which you will set me free are that I
should give you my love, it were better that you left me here to die.”
“No; it is not so. If you die, I will die with you. But why do you
spurn me? It is said that I am beautiful. Poets have sung of my beauty,
and kings have acknowledged it.”
“I do not spurn you, Haidee. I feel the power of your beauty; the light
of your eyes thrills me, but my love is already given. I have a wife;
by all that is honourable and true I am bound to her, and therefore
could not love another.”
Haidee uttered a cry of pain, and pressed her hand to her heart.
“Alas! how my dreams fade,” she murmured, “and how wretched is my life.”
“Say not so,” he answered, as he once more took her hand, and looked
into the beautiful eyes that were now flooded with tears. “Say not so.
You have youth, and happiness may yet come. Let me be your friend--you
shall be my sister. I will shield your life with mine, protect and
respect your honour, and endeavour to right you if you have been
wronged.”
Again she fell at his feet, and, seizing his hand, smothered it with
kisses.
“Light of my soul,” she murmured; “even as you say, so shall it be; and
though I may not own your love, I will be your willing and faithful
slave.”
He raised her up, and said--
“Not slave, Haidee. In my country we have no slaves. But you shall be
my sister.”
“Sister, then,” she answered sorrowfully. “I will lead you forth
from this prison that would have been your tomb. The stairs by which
I descended lead to a secret passage in connection with the upper
apartments of the Palace. I will guide you to a place of safety in an
outer building near the magazine, where you can remain for a time.
And I will inveigle one there whom you shall slay in the name of your
sister Haidee. Then we will escape from the city together, and I will
follow you until you are safe from all harm, and that being so, I will
die. I would slay this man myself, but if the hand of a Cashmere woman
spills blood, all her hopes of Paradise have gone, and the Houris would
curse her.”
“But who is this man, and what wrong has he done you, Haidee?”
“He is a creature of the King. His name is Moghul Singh, the man who
brought you here, who was to have accomplished your death; and the
wrong he has done me is irreparable. Four years ago I was the happiest
maiden in all Cashmere. In my father’s home peace reigned. He was but
a peasant, but was happy and contented. A brother and two daughters,
myself included, were his family. Proud and brave was my brother; and,
though but a peasant’s son, he was noble and free, scorning all that
was base, and loving honour better than his life. My sister had nothing
to recommend her beyond gentleness of manners. She had no beauty--I
had; that was my misfortune. But I knew it not then. I had given my
love to a youth whose race was noble. Others had sought me, princes had
knelt at my feet, but I rejected them all. Then this Moghul Singh came
to our valley. He was an agent of the King of Delhi, and his mission
was to take back the most beautiful maidens, that they might become
the King’s mistresses. He heard of me. The fame of my face had reached
him. Alas, that it should have been so! He sought me out; he tried to
dazzle me with tempting offers of gold and jewels. But these things
possessed no charms for me. He said that I should rank as a princess in
the King’s harem. But I turned a deaf ear. Then he tried to win me for
himself. I spurned him, spat at him, and called him dog. He swore by
his faith he would carry me away. I told my brother and my lover, and
they vowed to defend me. But Moghul Singh had powerful retainers. They
came in the dead of night, armed to the teeth, to my father’s house.
With the courage of lions did my brother and my lover fight. But,
overpowered by numbers, I saw them both go down, weltering in their
blood. At the feet of this Moghul Singh my sister then threw herself.
She prayed for pity. She implored him not to take me, the light of the
house, away. But the demon was pitiless. He drove a dagger into her
heart because she clung to him and impeded his way, and, with a laugh
of triumph, he bore me off, while my wretched father, overcome by the
terrible misfortune, sank down in raving madness. Into my heart there
came but one wish, one hope, one prayer. It was for vengeance. My own
hand could not strike the blow, for if it did, my hopes of Paradise
would for ever have gone. But I schooled myself to patience; to wait
until chance raised up a deliverer. I hate Moghul Singh with a hatred
that has no words. I loathe the King as a foul and loathsome thing. But
I showed nothing of this outwardly. I knew that there was more to be
gained by patience. I have been a witness to the plans that have been
in preparation for months for this mutiny. The Nana Sahib of Cawnpore
and the King of Delhi have frequently met in secret, and their agents
have been sent to every town and village in India. And on the Koran
they have sworn that the blood of the Feringhees should flow like
water. I have waited patiently through all this plotting, for I said
to myself, ‘Out of this a deliverer and avenger will come for me.’ My
prayer was heard at last, and you came. Just before your arrival the
King had been holding a counsel, in which the ‘rising’ was the chief
topic. It was my good fortune to be present. When I looked upon you I
said, in my heart, this shall be the righter of my wrongs. I knew that
the moment you entered your fate was sealed, unless you were saved by
a miracle. But I determined that I would save you. I heard the King
give an order to Moghul Singh to consign you to the ‘stone room.’ It
is the private prison of the Palace, and only those are brought here
who are cast for immediate death. But I knew the secret passage leading
to it. By the gift of a large amount of jewels to one of Moghul’s men,
I procured a key of the door, and I am here to open it to you and set
you free. In the garb of a peasant I am safe from molestation. I know
the Palace and the city well, and I will save you. But in return, I
must exact a promise that you will avenge me. And though you may not
love poor Haidee, she will command your respect and friendship by her
patience and fidelity.”
She ceased speaking, and waited in breathless anxiety for his answer.
More than once during her recital had her eyes been suffused with
tears, her lip had quivered with emotion; and he had caught the spirit
which had moved her, until he felt her wrongs to be his wrongs, and
that it was his duty to avenge them. He laid both his hands upon her
shoulders and looked full into her beautiful face--his own aglow, his
eyes flashing, his nerves thrilling.
“Haidee, you have made me your slave. I will avenge you.”
Boom!
The report of a heavy gun seemed to shake the building.
“Come,” she said, taking his hand, “we have no time to lose. The gun
announces that the mutineers are in sight. When the hoofs of the
foremost trooper’s horse ring upon the bridge across the Jumna, the
death-knell of the British in Delhi will be sounded.” She drew the
dagger from her girdle and handed it to him. “Take this weapon. It
will do until you get a better. The blade is poisoned, and if you but
scratch the skin with it, death will speedily ensue. Come, quick; a key
grates in the other door.”
He seized the dagger and thrust it into his belt, for the sounds of
a key being inserted in the lock told that the enemy was at hand.
Haidee blew out the light and seized his hand, leading him through the
doorway. Scarcely had they got on to the steps, and closed and locked
the door, than the other one was opened. Then they heard the voice of
Moghul Singh cry, “Death to the Feringhee, in the name of the Prophet!”
In a moment his voice changed, and he uttered an imprecation as he
discovered that the man he had come to slay was no longer there, but
had escaped.