Amos stood looking down at the letter and remained silent. She laid
a hand upon his arm and said, “What does it mean, Amos, about not
letting you know who you are? Who are you?”
He looked up with a smile. “I don’t know; I can only guess.”
“Well, what do you guess?”
“I guess that I am the rajah of that province.”
“Really? Why, you don’t mean it! And have you always known it?”
“I don’t know it now, but I have always suspected it.”
“You funny old thing! Why, this is awfully exciting! And you never told
me!”
“Why should I? Your father would only have hastened my departure if
I had tried to pass myself off as a fairy prince; and you would have
laughed in my face.”
“No. I am not so sure. But that was long ago, and to-day I should
believe anything you told me.”
“Well, I believe you would,” and there, at the open window, he put his
arm about her waist and did that unnecessary thing true lovers seem
unable to resist. She jumped away to turn with an anxious face and look
cautiously through the window. But the distant haymakers gave no signs
of having received a shock.
“Could they have seen?” she demanded.
He looked over upon the sunlit field. “No, poor things, they missed it!”
But Molly moved away and seated herself upon a venerable little
horse-hair trunk whose bald spots were numerous and of considerable
extent. Brass-headed nails, now black with age, studded all its edges
and formed at each end the initials of Josiah Judd.
“Tell me, little Amos, what happened to you as a child, that you should
consider yourself a fairy prince.”
The trunk was short for two, but Amos, by a little pushing and
crowding, managed to sit beside her.
“Well, in the first place, I was always too wise and too amiable for an
ordinary mor--”
“No, no! Be serious.”
“Well, almost everything I remember seems to point in that direction.
For instance, there was a separate seat for me on swell occasions; a
sort of throne, I should say, and all the other people stood up. In the
big hall I told you about where the fight took place, I used to sit in
an ivory chair with gold ornaments on it, cocked up on a platform apart
from other people. And that afternoon I was walking across the hall
toward it when the fierce-looking chap with the beard caught me up and
passed me along.”
“Gracious! This is very exciting! Go on.”
“I could give you this sort of stuff by the yard if the conditions were
favorable. The conditions now are unfavorable.”
Their eyes met, but experience had taught her caution. “Go on. There
are no rajahs in America, and you will do as I tell you.”
“That is very true, but we are too far apart.”
“And all the while you are crowding me off this trunk!”
“Yes, but at the same time I am holding you on. Do you see that old
rocking-chair over there with one arm that is beckoning to us?”
There followed a brief, illogical discussion, then finally a gentle
force was used by the stronger party, and a moment later the old chair
groaned beneath a heavier burden than it had borne for thirty years.
After persistent urging the reminiscences were continued. “They always
helped me first at table, no matter how old the other guests were, or
how many or how swell. The bowing and saluting was much more elaborate
toward me than toward anyone else, and in processions they always
stuck me in front. Shortly after my father died there was a grand
ceremony in a sort of courtyard with awnings over us, and I remember
what an everlasting affair it was, and how my uncle and an old general
stood behind my chair, while all the swells and panjandrums came up
and saluted me, then passed along. I should say there might have been
a million. I know I went to sleep and my uncle kept tapping me on the
shoulder to keep me awake.”
“You poor little thing! But you must really have been something
tremendously important, mustn’t you?”
“It seems so.”
“Well, go on.”
“After that there were some big reviews, and I sat on a white pony with
officers in a semicircle behind me, while the troops marched by, and
the generals and colonels all saluted. That was great fun. And I shall
never forget my saddle of crimson leather with the gold trimmings.”
“How romantic! Why, it seems impossible!”
“Do you remember the head-dress in my mother’s miniature?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I find that sort of thing is only worn by royalty.”
There was a pause, during which the old chair rocked gently to and fro,
but noisily, as if in protest against its double burden, while the
voices from the neighboring field came drifting in the window and with
them the occasional tinkling of a cow-bell.
“And to think of your being here in Connecticut, a farmer!”
“Thank heaven I am!” and there followed one of those foolish but
apparently enjoyable scenes which no dignified historian is expected
to describe. Stepping away from the rocking-chair Molly turned with a
frown upon its remaining occupant as she pressed an escaping lock into
position. Through the open window the setting sun sent a bar of light
across the attic that illumined her hair with a golden touch.
“We must find that book,” she exclaimed, with an impatient gesture. “It
will tell us the very things we wish to know. Come, get up, and hunt!”
Slowly rocking, with his head resting against the chair, he regarded
her with admiring eyes, but showed no signs of haste. “There is but one
book I care to study, and that is a poem in pink, about five feet six
in length, with gilt edges at the top.”
She smiled sadly. “No, not a poem, but very ordinary prose, and you
will get precious little wisdom from studying it.”
“On the contrary, every page is a revelation. Why, the binding alone
is a poem! Merely to hold it in one’s lap and look at the cover is a
gentle intoxication.”
Wavering between a smile and a frown, she answered:
“I wonder if all rajahs are such transparent flatterers. But come! Find
the book! It must be downstairs in the library.”
“No, it is not down there. I know every book among them.”
“Where can it be, then? tucked away in some trunk or drawer?”
“Probably.”
“Could it be in that?” and she pointed to an old cherry-wood desk just
behind him. He turned and regarded it.
“As likely there as anywhere. It is the desk he used until he died.”
Molly opened the slanting top and found an array of pigeonholes filled
with old papers. There were some very small drawers, all of which she
opened, but they contained no book, so she closed the top and opened
the long upper drawer. It was almost empty, the only contents being a
few envelopes of seeds, some tools, scattered cards, and a couple of
marbles that ran about as the drawer was opened.
“I rather think you know this place,” and she lifted up a bladeless
jackknife. “Only a boy could treat a knife in such a way.”
“Yes, I remember all those things. That wooden pistol has killed lots
of Indians.”
The second drawer held among other things a camel’s-hair shawl, a
bed-cover, a pair of woman’s slippers, a huge shell-comb elaborately
carved, some black mits, and a package of letters; almost everything
except a book. The third drawer and the fourth were equally
disappointing. The lowest drawer was deeper and heavier, and it stuck.
Amos sprang to help her, and together they pulled it open, then sat
down upon the floor in front of it. The character of its contents was
much like the others, but Molly delved thoroughly among its treasures
and she received her reward. As her hand was exploring a farther corner
she looked up into his face with a look of excitement.
“Here is a book! It must be the one!” and a little volume was drawn
forth.
“‘The Heroes of India!’ aren’t we in luck!”
It was a handsome little book, with a blue morocco cover and gilt
edges, published in Calcutta. Turning over the leaves with eager
fingers she came to a bookmark opposite a portrait, a steel engraving,
showing the head and shoulders of a bejewelled prince.
“Why, it might be you! It is exactly like you! Look!” and she held it
before him.
“So it is, but perhaps they all are. Let’s hear about him if you are
sure he is our man.”
“Oh, I am sure of it! He is the image of you and the others are not;”
and she began to read.
[Illustration: “He is the image of you”]
“Of all the royal families in India, none claim an existence more
remote than that of the Maharaja Sirdar Oumra Sing. According to
accepted history and tradition, this princely house not only dates
back to the earliest centuries of Eastern history, but owes its origin
to the immortal Vishn’u himself. It is a romantic story, in fact the
survival of an ancient fable, poetic and supernatural, but, curiously
enough, seems to be substantiated by the extraordinary attributes of a
recent ruler. The Rajah Sirdar Sing, whose portrait heads this
article, was perhaps the most popular hero of Northern India, and
unless we eject the evidence of all his contemporaries, was possessed
of powers that brought him the most startling victories both in peace
and war, and over adversaries that were considered invincible. His
kingdom, during his reign of thirty years, was nearly doubled in
territory and enormously increased in wealth. In his own country
to-day there are none who question his prophetic powers: men of
science and of letters, historians, high priests, lawyers, soldiers,
all firmly believe in his immortal gifts. To us Europeans, however,
these tales are more difficult of acceptance.
“In the very centre of Sirdar Sing’s forehead the reader may have
observed a faint spot scarcely half an inch in diameter, and this
appeared, we are told, like a scar or a burn, of a lighter color than
the skin and, except under certain conditions, was barely noticeable.
But the tradition runs that when exercising his prophetic faculty this
little spot increased in brilliancy and almost glowed, as if of
flame.”
“And so does yours!” and she regarded him with a look of awe.
“Go ahead,” he said, looking down at the book. “Let us hear the rest.”
“The legend is this:
“When Vishn’u in his Kr’ishn’a-Avatâra, or eighth incarnation, was
hard-pressed in his war against the Kurus, he received great
assistance from Arjuna, a Pân’d’u prince who, after a four days’
battle, and at great risk to himself, delivered to his immortal ally
the sacred city of Dwârakâ. For this service and in token of his
undying gratitude, Vishn’u laid his finger upon the forehead of Arjuna
and endowed him with a knowledge of future events, also promising that
once in a hundred years a descendant should possess this priceless
gift. Although we may not accept this romantic tale, there is no doubt
whatever that Sirdar Sing, the original of our portrait, was guided by
a knowledge of the future, either earthly or divine, which neither
scientists nor historians have yet explained. The next in order to
inherit this extraordinary faculty, if there is truth in the legend,
will be the son of the present rajah, whose nuptials have just been
celebrated with such lavish and magnificent festivities.”
She paused for a moment, then with trembling fingers turned back to
the title-page. The book was printed twenty-eight years ago, the year
before Amos was born.
For a long time they sat on the floor talking; she asking many
questions and he answering, until the listening objects in the
attic began to lose their outline and become a part of the gloom.
The sunlight along the rafters dwindled to a narrow strip, then
disappeared; and the voices of the haymakers were long since gone when
Amos and Molly finally climbed to their feet and descended the stairs.