AS ARMOUR IMPENETRABLE.
At the end of a block of buildings attached to the Rajah of Bhitoor’s Palace was a lofty, square tower, rising to the height of sixty feet, and crowned with a gilded cupola. It was a massive stone structure, and contained many apartments, used as the lodgings of the Nana’s retainers. From the basement to the roof there straggled, in wild profusion, a tough rope-like Indian parasite, a species of ivy, with reddish leaves. The beauty of the whole building was materially enhanced by this plat, that insinuated itself into every crevice, and twined gracefully round every angle. It was a conspicuous mark in the landscape, was this ivy-covered tower. It asserted its presence over all other erections; it rose up with a sort of braggadocio air, like unto a tall bully, and as if it said, “I am here. Who is as great as I?”
It had been witness to many a strange scene. If its time-stained stones could have spoken, many and curious would have been the tales they would have had to tell.
Quarrels deadly and bloody had taken place beneath its roof. There, too, had the Indian maid listened to the voice of the charmer. English officers had made it their quarters in the balmy days of the H.E.I.C., and its walls had given back the echo of the shouts of many a Bacchanalian revel. Life and death, laughter and tears, storm and calm, had it seen. But it was doomed to witness one scene yet such as it had never witnessed before.
In the topmost room of all, up next to the stars, and from the windows of which one looked from a dizzy height on to the roofs of many buildings that rose on all sides, and away over the city to the plains and the broken jungles, and followed the course of the “sacred Gunga,” that, like a silver thread, ran tortuously through the landscape, sat a maid, an English lady. It was Flora Meredith. It was the night of the day upon which Sir Hugh Wheeler had had an interview with Nana Sahib, and she was watching the fireworks that were being let off in the Palace grounds. That is, if one might be said to be watching who looked but saw not; whose eyes, while fixed there, were looking beyond, from the past—the happy, bright, and sunny past—to the future, the unknown, the dark, the awful future.
Her face was pale, and it seemed as if years had passed over her head since we last saw her, instead of brief, but terrible, days.
The rush of events, the sudden changes, the magical transformations, as it were, of those days, had literally bewildered her, and what she did see she saw through a kind of mental haze. Her mother dead, her lover gone, her home destroyed, and she herself forcibly kept away from kith and kin! Surely these things were enough to make sick the boldest heart, and to daze the strongest brain. The journey from Delhi had been a hurried one. The drug administered to her by Jewan Bukht had been merciful in its effects, since it had deprived her of the power of thought for a long time; and since Jewan had conveyed her to this place she had only seen him once. Her wants had been attended to by an old woman—a hag in appearance, a thing of evil in disposition. Her name was Wanna Ranu. She was little, and ancient, and bent; her skin was shrivelled, like unto old parchment; her nose was hooked, her chin beaked. She had long, bony arms, that were encircled with many brass rings; brass bands were fastened round her ankles, and large brass rings were pendant from her ears. She was one of the strange characters to be found in almost every Indian city. Her hatred for the Feringhee was undying. She had drawn it in with her mother’s milk. A hanger-on at the Palace, an unrecognised waif, a casteless outcast, living literally, it might be said, on the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table, if grains of rice could be so designated.
When Jewan Bukht had arrived at the Bhitoor Palace, he was at first at a loss where to convey Flora to, and into whose charge to give her. He could not let it be known that he had brought an Englishwoman with him, and he dare not neglect the business of his master, the Nana Sahib, by whom he was employed as the bearer of secret messages, and to stir up the smouldering fires of insubordination in the native regiments. When, in his mad infatuation for the white girl, he had decided to carry her away, he had not counted upon the costs of so doing, nor the difficulties that would beset him. But, being so far advanced, he could not turn back; he must make the best of circumstances. It was night when he reached the Palace. Flora was ill and semi-unconscious, and as he stood deliberating what course to pursue with reference to her, Wanna Ranu crossed his path. He knew the woman from previous visits to Cawnpore, and he immediately secured her as a custodian for his captive. For although she hated the white people she loved pice more; and pice would enable her to obtain ghee, a luxury to such as she that was worth doing much for.
She knew the Palace well, particularly the tower. She was aware that the upper part of this Palace was untenanted; that the doors were strong, the locks good. And when Jewan had queried the possibility of Flora escaping, the hag had grinned maliciously, and exclaimed—
“Escape? No, no, my son; unless she has wings and can fly.”
And so to this room Flora was taken, and the witch-like janitor was bound in promises such as the most depraved Indian will respect, to guard her well and secretly.
Flora sat alone, gazing, as has been said, vacantly out into the night. Wanna had left her for a little while to cook her evening meal.
The poor girl’s heart was heavy. It was as if a hand, cold and hard, was gripping it and squeezing out its life. She had been plunged with cruel suddenness into moral gloom; but the last thing in life to leave a person is hope; and although the brightness of this star had diminished to a feeble ray, it yet shone in her darkness and gave her courage. She trusted in the Giver of Life for a way out of her tribulation. She prayed, silently, fervently, to Him to shield her with His mighty arm; to beat down her enemies, to raise up a deliverer, to break the bonds that ensnared her. And yet withal it was weary waiting, and what wonder that her soul was heavily charged.
She remembered the promise of Zeemit Mehal, and she knew that if Walter Gordon lived, he would follow her. If they went to Delhi, she thought, Zeemit would soon learn of Jewan’s departure, and Walter would still follow, if that was possible, even as the faithful Evangeline followed Gabriel.
There was comfort in that thought, at least. It might be but a sorry reed to lean upon, but will not a man in his extremest need clutch even at a straw? And so this poor, suffering woman took hope of heart even at this, remote though the probabilities were of its fulfilment.
The only light in her apartment was a small, swinging cocoa-nut lamp. It was like her hope, faint, and barely did it make the darkness more than visible. But its melancholy and flickering rays served, at least, to reveal to her the cheerlessness of her apartment. The only furniture was a native wooden bedstead, covered with matting; a bench fixed to the wall to serve as a table, and two massive, wooden chairs. The walls themselves were plasterless, for the plaster had fallen away with damp and age; and the only decoration, if worthy of the name, was a large native drawing of a hideous idol. It had a dozen arms on each side, and in each hand it held a sort of club. Flora’s eyes had wandered to this picture: she had gazed at it, until somehow it took shape in her thoughts as the “Retributive God” that would arise with its piercing eyes to discover, and its many hands to smite down the cruel and relentless enemy of her country, and the slayer of her kindred. She felt sure that the horrid mutiny could not go on for long. The Great White Hand was mighty in its strength. There were British soldiers who had never yet been conquered; would they not speedily come and destroy the foe, whose triumph could be but short-lived?
Her meditations were suddenly interrupted by the opening of the door, and turning her eyes in that direction, she uttered an involuntary cry of alarm, as they fell upon the dusky form of Jewan Bukht.
“Why do you cry as if a cobra had stung you?” he asked, angrily.
“A cobra would be more welcome than you!” she answered with a shudder; “for it kills only through an instinct of self-preservation, and does not wilfully torture its victims.”
“Umph, you are complimentary,” as he locked the door, and moved near to the shrinking girl. “I have not tortured you.”
“Your very presence is torture to me.”
“Indeed! If your heart and mine were taken from our bodies, and laid side by side, would there be any perceptible difference in their construction? Why, then, should my presence torture you, since my heart is similar to your own? It is because my skin is dark. Were it of the same sickly hue as your own, you would have no scruples.”
“Your words are false,” she answered, quivering with indignation. “An honourable woman, when once she has given her love, is true to death.”
The man sneered scornfully, as he seated himself in one of the chairs.
“Why should I not gain your love? I made an honourable proposal to you. I offered to marry you. You rejected that offer. Why?”
“How can you ask such a question? You are well aware that I was the affianced wife of Mr. Gordon.”
Jewan’s brows contracted, and he ground his teeth, and clutched at the air with his hands, by reason of the passion which moved him.
“If I had a cobra’s poison,” he answered, after a pause, “I would spit it at you every time you mention that name. Between you and him lies a gulf that can never be bridged. You looked your last upon him the evening he left you in Meerut. Even supposing that he still lives, which is doubtful, seeing that a hundred bullets waited for him alone by my orders, he could never rescue you, because I have everywhere spies and tools who would hack him to pieces on a look from me.”
Flora staggered a little, and her face grew pallid; she grasped at the chair with her right hand, and the left she pressed hard against her breast, as if trying to still the throbbing of her wildly beating heart.
The man jumped up and caught her in his arms, for she seemed as if about to fall. His face came close to hers, his hot breath was on her cheek, his glittering eyes looked into hers, and seemed to chill her. She struggled and writhed, but was powerless to free herself from his strong grasp.
“You are mine!” he almost hissed. “You are mine,” he repeated with ferocious glee. “You are mine!” he reiterated for the third time, as he tightened his arm around her waist. “There are moments in our lives when we feel that we have attained something that were worth whatever years in the future may be reserved for us. Such a moment do I experience now; and, for the sake of a victory like this, I could almost die.”
It was an unequal strife. It was muscle, as opposed to virtue and womanly indignation. He might still further tighten his arm until he had squeezed the breath from her body. He might torture her with his words until her heart cracked, and she became a stiffened corpse in his arms; but where would be the triumph? He might as well have tried to grasp a soap bubble and retain its prismatic glory, as to penetrate the invulnerable armour of virtue and honesty in which this woman was shielded.
She drew herself back from him as far as she could. She kept him off with her outstretched arms, and, with an energy that positively startled him for the time, she exclaimed—
“Jewan Bukht, life is a precious thing; we cling to it while there is the faintest glimmer of hope. But sooner than be yours—sooner than be false to the vows made to Walter Gordon—my finger nails shall tear open the veins and let my life flow away. If I had twenty lives, I would yield every one, sooner than be yours even in thought.”
Her determined air made him wince—her words stung him; and coward and craven that he was, he felt strongly tempted to put forth his man’s strength and dash her to the earth. He felt that he was beaten, and though he might kill the body he could not bend her will. He still retained his hold of her. Her hands were still on his shoulders, and she was keeping him off; but by a sudden twist he freed himself, and suddenly pressed her close to his breast.
“You see how thoroughly you are mine,” he said, exultantly.
Her answer was a piercing scream, again and again renewed, as she struggled to free herself.
He had not counted upon this. It was a woman’s weapon, and served her in this case. He was fearful that her cries might be heard, and draw attention to his prisoner. He was puzzled for a moment how to act. She still screamed, and he dragged her towards the bed with the intention of trying to smother her cries. He was frustrated, however, by a knocking at the door. A pause. Flora heard the knock, and uttered a piercing shriek. The rapping was repeated. He literally threw her from him, so that she reeled and fell to the floor.
“You infernal fool!” he hissed, “I will take your life inch by inch sooner than you shall escape me.”
He inserted the key in the lock, and threw open the door.
Wanna Ranu entered. She grinned unpleasantly and twisted her scraggy hands one about the other.
“The white-faced cat yells,” she said; “why do you not gag her?”
Wanna was not alone; there entered with her another woman—a native. It was Zeemit Mehal.
With a cry of joy, Flora sprang to her feet, and, darting forward, threw her arms round Zeemit’s neck, exclaiming—
“Oh, Zeemit, save me! save me!”
But Zeemit shook her off, as it seemed, savagely; and with an Indian grunt of contempt, said—
“As well might you appeal to the stones. Zeemit knows no pity for the Feringhee woman.”
With a wail of pain, wrung from a heart filled almost to bursting, Flora sank to the floor; and Jewan’s joy found vent in loud laughter.