FOR LIFE AND LOVE.
The cry that came up out of the darkness, and stayed Flora Meredith in the very act of self murder, was uttered by one who had been miraculously saved from an awful death.
For some minutes Flora continued to strain her eyes before she could make anything out. Then she became conscious that the figure of a woman was lying on a verandah about fifteen feet below, and which projected considerably beyond the lines of the upper one on which Flora stood. That it was one of the women who had rolled over, Miss Meredith had no doubt; but which one was a question difficult to answer. But presently the cry was repeated. Flora fancied she detected Mehal’s voice, but could not be certain. Everything was quiet below in the grounds, for the hour was late, and nobody was about. She bent over the verandah as far as possible, and, in a low tone, called—
“Mehal—Zeemit—Zeemit.”
She waited with palpitating heart for any reply, for on that reply it might truly be said her life hung. But the reply did not come—only a half-stifled moan telling of acute suffering.
Again she called—a little louder, this time; again she waited in expectancy, to be disappointed once more. She rose to her feet, and considered what was best to be done. There was little time to lose, little time for thought.
Hope rose again. If she could manage to reach the lower balcony, she might be saved. But how was that to be accomplished? Even if she had been in possession of a rope, she doubted her ability either to make it fast, or, having succeeded in that, to lower herself down; for easy as such a thing seems to the uninitiated, it is practically a task fraught with the utmost danger, and requiring an exertion of physical strength severe for a man, and ten times more so for a woman. But though she had possessed the acrobatic skill to have performed the feat, the rope was not there, nor was there anything in the room that would have answered as a substitute. What, then, was to be done?
She stood irresolute, almost distracted by the painful tensity to which her mental powers were stretched. But as she stood, hovering, as it were, between life and death, the rustling creepers whispered to her—
“Here is a way down.”
As the idea flashed upon her, she could have cried out with joy.
She moved to the end of the verandah. The great rope-like stems were twined and twisted together, and spread out in all directions. She looked at her hands, delicate and soft, and mentally asked herself if she had strength of arm and wrist sufficient for the task.
Fear lends strength, as it gives wings, and even a woman, situated as Flora was, will perform deeds that, under ordinary circumstances, would seem impossible.
It was the sole chance, and she must avail herself of it. She hesitated no longer; but mounting the railing of the verandah, grasped firmly a thick stem of the ivy, and swung herself over.
It was an awful moment. The failure of the power of the arms, the slightest giddiness, and a fall of fifty feet would close the book of life for ever. But after the first nervous dread had passed, she found that the descent was far easier than she had imagined.
The rough angles of the walls, and the thick ivy, gave her tolerable foothold. But now and again her weight dragged the stems from their hold of the wall, and she would slip down a little way with a jerk that sent the blood back upon her heart with a rush.
It was hard work; it was a struggle for life—a life that, a few minutes ago, she would have sacrificed, for then all hope seemed to have gone. But since then the star had risen a little once more, by reason of the pain-wrung cry of a human sufferer.
She struggled with desperate energy to save that life. Lower and lower she went. It seemed as if she would never reach the goal.
The ivy ripped and gave way, painfully straining and jerking her arms, and the rough stones lacerated and tore her hands. But there was no giving up until she reached the wished-for point.
She clung desperately—she struggled bravely, and the reward came at last—she was abreast of the lower verandah! She got a foothold, then clutched the railing, and, in a few moments, stood on the floor, breathless and exhausted, but safe so far.
The figure of the prostrate woman was a few feet off. She moved to her, bent down, turned her over, and then uttered a silent prayer of thankfulness, as she recognised the well-known features of her faithful ayah.
But it was evident that Zeemit was wounded grievously. She was unconscious, and lay in a pool of blood, which flowed from a deep wound in the forehead. In her descent she had struck her head on the railing of the verandah; but this probably saved her life, as it caused her to roll inward, instead of outward.
Flora endeavoured to staunch the blood. She chafed the hands, and raised the body to a sitting posture. Her efforts were at length rewarded, for consciousness slowly returned to the old woman. It was some time before she could realise her exact position. But, as the truth dawned upon her, she grasped the hand of Flora, and cried—
“Allah be praised, missy, you are still safe!”
“We both live,” answered Flora; “but we both stand in deadly peril. How are we to save ourselves?”
“You must not think of me. You must endeavour to get free of this place, and save your own life.”
“And leave you here!” cried Flora; “never!”
“You are a brave girl, and Zeemit thanks you; but you must go. Wanna is, no doubt, dead. If she fell to the ground, which seems probable, it would have been impossible to have survived such a fall. Dead people tell no tales; therefore we have nothing to fear from her. I feel that I cannot rise. For me to go with you would but impede your flight. Leave me. I shall be discovered. I shall tell Jewan that Wanna intended to set you free, tempted by a heavy bribe you offered. I endeavoured to prevent her—we struggled, and fell over the verandah—and then all is blank to me. This will give me an opportunity of rendering you still further assistance, because, however angry Jewan may be, he would scarcely dare to offer me violence.”
“It is much against my will to have to leave you here, Zeemit, and I can scarcely reconcile myself to such a course.”
“But it is the only chance there is for me to render you aid. Besides, there is one below who waits anxiously for you.”
“Ah! tell me, tell me, where he is?” cried Flora, the opportunity occurring for the first time to speak of him since Zeemit’s appearance.
“He was safe when I left him,” answered the old woman. “Soon after leaving Meerut we were attacked in a bungalow, where we had sought shelter; but we managed to escape, and continue our journey to Delhi. We gained entrance to the city, and I soon learned from some of the Palace servants that Jewan had gone to Cawnpore. We lost no time in following him, and we arrived here last night. In yonder clump of trees,”—as the old woman spoke, she slightly raised her head, and pointed with her finger across the compound—“is a disused bullock-shed. There, on a heap of straw, you will find Mr. Gordon. He was to remain secreted until I had learned tidings of you. He was weary and footsore, and sleeping soundly when I came away.”
“But how am I to reach there unobserved?” asked Flora, scarcely able to restrain her impatience.
“I think that will be comparatively easy. Go through the room here till you gain the landing, then down the stairs until you come to the entrance-hall. The night is dark, and you may easily make your way to the bullock-shed. Once there, you and Mr. Gordon must lose no time in hurrying to the protection of the English quarters; but, if possible, fly from Cawnpore without delay, for there is an awful time coming for the place. The native troops are pledged to rise, and the Nana Sahib is thirsting for revenge.”
“God help us all out of our tribulation,” murmured Flora. “I will endeavour to carry out your directions, Zeemit, but be sure that you join us. It is against my will to leave you here, but we must bow to the circumstances that we cannot alter.”
“Go—go,” murmured Mehal; “I am old, and you are young. Join your lover, and seek safety in flight. I have no doubt we shall meet again; but be discreet. Jewan is wary, and the moment he discovers your escape, he will use every endeavour to recapture you.”
“Farewell, Zeemit,” said Flora, as she stooped and kissed the old woman, “we part in sorrow, but I trust when next we meet, it will be under happier circumstances. You have been miraculously preserved from death, and no doubt it is for some wise purpose. When we reach our English friends, I shall lose no time in sending for you.”
A hurried shake of the hands, a few final whispered words of parting, and Zeemit Mehal was left wounded and sick, lying alone under the stars; and Flora Meredith, like a timid hare, was descending the stairs.
On the various landings the natives were lying about asleep, a custom common to the servants in India, who coil themselves up anywhere. With noiseless tread, and rapidly beating heart, the fugitive picked her way amongst the sleepers, turning pale with alarm, as one moved here, and another groaned there, almost entirely holding her breath, lest even the act of breathing should awaken those whom she had such cause to dread. But after nearly half-an-hour of the most painful and intense anxiety, she stood at the main entrance of the building.
Day was commencing to break; there was sufficient light in the sky to enable her to see across the compound. Not a soul was in sight. Without a moment’s delay, she sped towards the clump of trees. The bullock-shed indicated by Zeemit was soon reached. It was a very dilapidated structure, built of bamboo and mud. She entered through the doorway, and advanced cautiously for some paces; then listened, for there was scarcely sufficient light in the hut to distinguish anything plainly. The sound of heavy breathing fell upon her ears. It came from the extreme end, where she could make out a heap of straw. She went a little farther, and stood again.
“Walter!” she called softly; “Walter!” she repeated, a little louder.
But there was no reply. The sleeper slept, and the heavy breathing was her only answer. She went nearer. The rustling of her own dress alarmed her, for her nerves were unstrung.
“Walter!” she whispered again, as she reached the straw. Still no reply. “He is worn and weary, and he sleeps heavily,” she murmured to herself.
The light had considerably increased, for the day breaks in India as suddenly as the night closes in. She was close to the sleeping form. She stooped down until she knelt on the straw. She stretched forward to waken the sleeper, but instinctively drew back as she noticed the muslin garments of a native. She rose to her feet again, advanced a little, bent down and peered into the face, the dusky face of, as she thought, a Hindoo. She had come expecting to find her lover—in his place was a native. She uttered an involuntary cry of alarm, and, turning round, sped quickly away.
The cry penetrated to the sleeper’s brain. He turned uneasily, then assumed a sitting posture, and, as Walter Gordon rubbed his eyes, he muttered—
“Bless my life, how soundly I have been sleeping. I could have sworn, though, I heard a woman’s cry. It must have been fancy.”
He stretched himself out once more on the straw; for many weary miles had he travelled, without being able to obtain a moment’s rest, and nature was thoroughly exhausted.
“Poor Flo,” he thought, as sleep commenced to steal over him again, “I hope she will come soon. Zeemit is a faithful creature, and I have no doubt will succeed. God grant it.”
Walter Gordon slept once more, and she for whom he sighed was speeding from him on the wings of terror, into the very jaws of death.