Mussoorie and Landour, situated in the lower range of the Himalaya
mountains, form the favourite sanitarium of the upper part of India.
The scenery is more beautiful than that of Simlah; for Mussoorie and
Landour command a view of Dehra Dhoon, which resembles (except that
the Dhoon is grander and more extensive) the plains of Italy as seen
from the ascent of the Simplon. The mall of Mussoorie is crowded every
evening with visitors; some on horseback, some on hill ponies, some
on foot, and some in the janpan (something like a sedan-chair carried
by four hill men). A gayer scene it would be impossible to conceive.
Every one knows his neighbour; and, in passing along the narrow road,
stoppages are frequent. Compliments must be exchanged, and the news or
scandal of the day gossiped about. Every now and then you hear a cry of
"What a shame!" from a terrified lady in a janpan, while a couple of
lovers gallop past on spirited Arabs at full speed. Sometimes a shriek
from a nervous mamma reverberates through the valleys, when she beholds
her children in the way of the heedless pair.
Accidents sometimes occur. A few years ago, a lady and a gentleman
were riding round a place called the Camel's Back; the road gave way,
and they fell down a precipice several hundred feet. The horses were
killed, but the riders miraculously escaped with only a few severe
bruises. On another occasion, a gentleman of the civil service was
taking his evening walk, when one of his dogs ran between his legs, and
precipitated him. He was killed on the spot.
On the mall every evening was to be seen a native woman standing by the
side of the road, near a large rock, watching those who passed by. She
was well dressed, and her face was concealed, according to the custom
of persons of her apparent station in life. There she stood, attracting
general attention. She was a woman of slight, but graceful figure, and
rather tall. Many persons were curious to know who she was, and to
see her face; but she took care that in this respect none should be
gratified. Sometimes she would go away early; at other times she would
remain until it was quite dark. Some suspected--and I was amongst the
number--that she was the native wife of some European officer who had
divorced himself, and visited the "Hills," whither the woman, to annoy,
had followed him; and there was no small amount of speculation as to
whose wife she could be. Some of the guesses, if they were seriously
made, were extremely ungenerous, for they included several elderly
officials, who could not by any possibility have been married to this
mysterious lady. I was determined to know who she was; and one night,
when most people were thronged around the band, I approached her, and
inquired if I could be of any service to her. She replied (her face
closely covered), "Yes; by going away." She had a very sweet voice, and
its sorrowful tones inspired me with pity, when she added, "I am a poor
woman; my heart is crushed; do not add to my misery by remaining near
me." I obeyed her, after apologizing for having intruded. Several other
persons had attempted to extract some particulars from the lady, and
had received the same sort of reply as that she had given to me.
The rains were about to commence, and storms were not unfrequent. The
mall was less frequented; only a few--those who cared little about
hearing "heaven's artillery thunder in the skies," or being pelted by
hailstones as large as marbles--ventured out; but amongst that few was
the native lady, who, punctual as the light of day, visited that huge,
dismal-looking rock, and gazed upon the road.
I have seen a storm on the heights of Jura--such a storm as Lord Byron
describes. I have seen lightning and heard thunder in Australia; I
have, off Terra del Fuego, the Cape of Good Hope, and the coast of
Java, kept watch in thunderstorms which have drowned in their roaring
the human voice, and made every one deaf and stupified; but these
storms are not to be compared with a thunderstorm at Mussoorie or
Landour.
In one of these storms of thunder, lightning, wind, and hail, at about
five o'clock in the afternoon, I laid a wager with a friend that the
native lady would be found as usual standing near the rock. Something
secretly assured me that she was there at that moment, looking on
unmoved, except by the passions which had prompted her pilgrimage. How
were we to decide it? "By going to the spot," I suggested. My friend
declined; but declared that, as far as the bet was concerned, he would
be perfectly satisfied with my word, either one way or the other;
namely, whether I had won or lost.
I set off upon my journey. The rock was at least three-quarters of a
mile distant from my abode. My curiosity was so much aroused--albeit
I felt certain the woman was there--that I walked through the storm
without heeding it. Every now and then I saw the electric fluid descend
into a valley; then heard that strange noise which huge pieces of
rock make when they bound from one precipice to another, tearing up
trees, and carrying large stones and the earth along with them in their
headlong career; but still my mind was intent on the woman, and nothing
else.
Was she there?
Yes; there she sat, drenched to the skin; but I could not pity her wet
and cold condition, for I could see that she cared no more about it
than I cared about my own. She drew her garment so closely over her
face, that the outline of her features was plainly discernible. It was
decidedly handsome; but still I longed to see her eyes, to confirm my
impression. I sat beside her. The storm still raged, and presently the
lady said, "The heaven is speaking, Sahib." I answered, "Truly; but the
lightning, the parent of that sound which I now hear, I cannot see."
She understood me, and gave me a glimpse of her eyes. They were not
like the eyes of a native; they were of a bluish hue, almost grey. I
said to her, in Hindoostanee, "You are not a native; what do you do
here in a native dress?"
"I would I were an European," she answered me. "My feelings, perhaps,
would be less acute, and I should be sitting over a bright fire. Oh,
how loudly the heaven is speaking! Go home, Sahib, you will catch cold!"
"Why do _you_ not go home?" I asked. "You will see no one to-day.
No--not even your beloved. I am the only being who will venture out in
a storm like this; and I do so only for your sake."
"My heart is as hard as this rock," she said, flipping her finger
against the granite, "to all except one being--a child. Oh, how the
heaven is speaking, Sahib!"
"Do you not fear the lightning and the hail?" I asked her.
"I did once," she replied. "I trembled whenever it came near; but
now, what does it signify? _Bidglee_ (lightning), come to me," she
cried, beckoning to a streak of fluid which entered the ground within a
hundred yards of us. "_Bidglee_, come here, and make a turquoise of my
heart."
What pretty feet! She had kicked off her shoes, which were saturated
and spoiled.
"Go home, Sahib" (such was the refrain of her conversation); "you will
catch cold!"
By degrees I had an opportunity of seeing all her features. She was
most beautiful, but had evidently passed the meridian of her charms.
She could not have been less than twenty-four years of age. On the
forefinger of her left hand she wore a ring of English manufacture, in
which was set a red cornelian, whereon was engraved a crest--a stag's
head.
I took her hand in mine, and said, "Where did you get this?" pointing
to the ring.
She smiled and sighed, and then answered, "Jee (sir), it belonged to an
Ameer (a great man)."
"Where is he?"
"Never mind."
"Do you expect to see him soon?"
"No; never."
"Is he old?"
"No; not older than yourself. How the heaven is speaking!"
"Let me see you to your home."
"No. I will go alone."
"When do you intend to go?"
"When you have left me."
"You are very unkind thus to repulse my civility."
"It may be so; but my heart's blood is curdled."
I bade her farewell; and through the storm, which still raged, I went
home and won my wager.
I could not rest that night. The beautiful face of the native woman
haunted me. In vain I tried to sleep, and at last I arose from my bed,
and joined a card-party, in the hope that the excitement of gambling
would banish her from my brain. But to no purpose. I knew not what I
was playing, and ere long I left off in disgust.
Almost every one who visits the Hills keeps a servant called a
_tindal_. His duty is to look after the men who carry your janpan, to
go errands, to keep up the fire, and to accompany you with a lantern
when you go out after dark. These tindals, like the couriers on the
Continent, are a peculiar race; and, generally speaking, are a very
sharp, active, and courageous people. I summoned my tindal, and
interrogated him about the native lady who had caused so much sensation
in Mussoorie. The only information he could afford me was, that she had
come from a village near Hurdwar; that she was rich, possessed of the
most costly jewels, kept a number of servants, moved about in great
state on the plains, and, for all he knew, she might be the wife or
slave of some Rajah.
Could she, I wondered, be the famous Ranee Chunda, the mother of
Dulleep Singh, and the wife of Runjeet?--the woman who, disguised
as a soldier, had escaped from the fort of Chunar, where she had
been imprisoned for disturbing, by her plots, the imagination of Sir
Frederick Currie, when he was Resident at Lahore? The woman I had seen
and spoken to "answered to the description" of the Ranee in every
respect, excepting the eyes. Dulleep Singh was living at Mussoorie, and
he not unfrequently rode upon the mall. Ranee Chunda had a satirical
tongue, and a peculiarly sweet-toned, but shrill voice, and she had
remarkably beautiful feet, and so had this woman. Ranee Chunda had
courage which was superhuman; so had this woman. Ranee Chunda had a
child--an only child; so had this woman.
I asked the tindal where the lady lived. He replied, that she occupied
a small house near the bazaar, not very far from my own abode. "She is
in great grief," the tindal yawned, "about something or other."
"Endeavour to find out the cause of her misfortunes," said I, "and you
shall be rewarded according to your success."
Next day the tindal reported to me that I was not the only Sahib who
was deeply interested in the native lady's affairs; that many wished
to make her acquaintance, and had sent their tindals to talk to her;
but that she had firmly and laconically dismissed them all, just as she
had dismissed him--"Tell your master that the sufferings of an object
of pity, such as I am, ought not to be aggravated by the insulting
persecution of gay and light-hearted men."
The day after the storm brought forth the loveliest afternoon that
can be imagined. The sun shone out brightly, the clouds were lifted
from the Dhoon, and the vast panorama resembled what we read of in
some fairy tale. All Mussoorie and Landour turned out. The mall was so
crowded, that it was difficult to thread one's way through the throng.
Was the lady at the rock? Yes; there she stood, as usual, watching
those who passed. The Maharajah with his suite appeared. I was
convinced that the woman was the Maharajah's mother; but I did not
breathe my suspicions, lest I might cause her to be arrested. When it
became dusk, and the visitors were taking their departure, I again
approached the lady, and made my "salaam," in that respectful phrase
which is always adopted when addressing a native woman of rank. She at
once recognised me as the person who had spoken to her during the storm
on the previous afternoon, for she alluded to its fury, and said she
had taken a wrong road, had lost her way after I had left her, and did
not reach home till nearly midnight. She concluded her little speech
with a hope that I had been more fortunate.
"You should have allowed me to escort you," said I. "I would have
helped to carry your load of sorrow."
She looked at me, and suddenly and abruptly said, "Your name is
Longford."
"You are right," said I.
"About three or four years ago you stayed for several days with a
friend in a tent near Deobund? You were on your way to these mountains?"
"I did."
"You had a little dog with you, and you lost it at Deobund?"
"I did lose my dog, and made a great noise about it. But how do you
know all this?"
She smiled and sighed.
I was bewildered. My belief that she was the Ranee Chunda was almost
confirmed. It was close to the encampment of the Ranee, when she was
on her way to Chunar, that my dog was lost, and my servants and the
officers of police declared that it must have been some of the Ranee's
people who had stolen the favourite.
"The dog is still alive," said the lady; "and if you will come
to-morrow, at twelve o'clock, to my house, you shall see him; but you
will promise not to take him from me?"
"Of course I will not take him from you. But let me see him to-night,
and tell me how he came into your possession. I will see you to your
home."
"No, Sahib; be patient. I will tell you all to-morrow; and, when you
have heard my story, you will perhaps do me a kindness. It is in your
power to assist me. Tell me where you live, and I will send my brother
to you at eleven o'clock. He will conduct you to my house. Salaam,
Sahib."