A SURPRISE.
For a few days Flora was kept in comparative solitude. She did not see the old King, and Moghul Singh only visited her once a day. She recognised that all chance of escape was hopeless, unless something little short of a miracle occurred to favour her. She could not lower herself over that perpendicular wall. She could not pass the vigilant sentries on the terrace, and the door of her chamber was kept constantly locked, so that she could not go out that way. But if either, or all of these impediments had not existed it would still have been next to impossible to have escaped from the city. As she thought of this she suffered agony of mind that cannot be described. To concentrate her thoughts upon any of the luxuries which surrounded her was out of the question. There was a rare and costly library of books in her room. There were a grand-piano, a harp, and other musical instruments. There were gorgeous birds, and beautiful flowers, but all these things palled upon her senses. How could she enjoy them? Shut off as she was from everything she held dear in the world, she pined until her cheeks grew pale and her eyes lost their brightness. This did not escape the notice of Singh, and he began to think that this Englishwoman, who had put him to so much trouble, was going to die.
“Why do you sit moping all day?” he said one morning, on taking her a basket of mangoes.
“Why, indeed!” she answered. “Could you expect me to be cheerful and gay when you have brought so much misery upon me? Besides, this captivity is unendurable.”
“I don’t know why it should be. But you belong to a dissatisfied race. Your people always want to be masters, and if they can’t get their wishes they commence to whine. The fact is, if you sit brooding in this way all day you will die.”
“I hope so,” she cried suddenly, and with an animation that slightly startled him. “I hope so,” she repeated. “I have prayed fervently to Heaven that I may die. If it will only quicken the coming of that event, I will bless you if you will curtail even the limits of the limited space I have. Confine me to the floor of my room. Shut out the light and air. Do what you like, so that you will but end my sufferings. I can assure you I am not afraid to meet death.”
But though Miss Meredith spoke the sentiments of her mind, those sentiments were not to be gratified. The King did not intend that she should be sacrificed yet. He had another object in view. So Moghul Singh answered—
“These views are morbid ones. You are melancholy. I will try and obtain you a little more freedom.”
“You need not; that would be but mockery,” she cried.
But Moghul only laughed as he withdrew. He at once sought the King his master, and represented that he was likely to lose his captive if he kept her in too close confinement.
“Then let her out a bit—let her out a bit,” mumbled the puppet monarch. “Let her have the freedom of our private garden. Her walk there will be circumscribed, and escape will be impossible, as the grounds are well guarded by our sentries. And stay, Moghul”—as the man was about to depart—“let it be distinctly understood, however, that should this Feringhee woman escape by any means from the grounds, every sentry then on duty shall suffer instant death.”
“Your Majesty’s orders shall be obeyed,” Moghul answered, as he bowed and withdrew.
When this concession on the part of the King was made known to Flora, she refused to avail herself of it, saying it would be but the torture of Tantalus. And she preferred to die quickly, to lingering long in hopeless agony. Moghul Singh, however, managed to overrule her objections after some difficulty, and Flora consented to walk in the garden.
Though this garden was comparatively small, being only about two acres in extent, the first hour spent there revived the drooping spirits of the poor girl. The ground had been planned, and laid out under the superintendence of an English landscape gardener. And with the aid of the tropical trees and plants which he found ready to his hand, he had turned the place into a perfect paradise. Palms and cocoas threw a grateful shade over almost every part. Gorgeous flower-beds, arranged in a novel style, and beautiful sweeps of emerald green sward, presented a magnificent picture, while the other senses were lulled by the delicious fragrance of the orange and citron trees, and the gem-like birds that flitted about in thousands and filled the air with melody. Flora very soon felt grateful for this increased freedom, and a desire for life came back. Day after day as she strolled about she endeavoured to find out if any means of escape presented themselves. But, alas! She was hemmed in on all sides. Steep banks, crowned with hedges, formed the boundary of the grounds, and at various points, on the summit of the banks, Sepoy sentries were stationed. These fellows often eyed the young Englishwoman with jealous and revengeful feelings, and they wondered amongst themselves why the King wished to keep such a “white-faced doll.” Not a few of them would have liked to turn their muskets on her and shoot her down.
But Flora knew nothing of the demoniacal feelings which stirred the breasts of these men. Her walks were always companionless, excepting when occasionally Moghul Singh forced his hateful presence upon her. This man grew more and more familiar in his conversation. And it was evident that it was not solely on the King’s account that he paid her so much attention, and guarded her so jealously. On the contrary, he looked with contemptuous pity on the imbecile representative of the House of Timour. But to him he owed his position, and to oppose his wishes was to court his own downfall. Yet, notwithstanding the risk, he daily allowed himself to be tempted from his allegiance by the pale, but beautiful, face of the Englishwoman. His passion got the better of his judgment, and he ventured at last to make advances to her on his own behalf.
“You look better since I obtained permission from his Majesty for you to use the garden,” he said one day as he conveyed some flowers to her room.
“I am better,” she answered. “Increased freedom has made my existence slightly less painful; but still life seems little better than a mockery.”
“That is because you are morbid. Life has plenty of enjoyment if you like to extract it.”
“How,” she cried, “how am I—a wretched prisoner in the hands of my country’s enemies, and separated from friends and relations—to extract enjoyment from such a miserable existence as mine?”
“Pshaw,” he answered. “You would sacrifice yourself to no purpose. Why not adapt yourself to circumstances? Your people are fond of talking about the ‘philosophy of resignation.’ Why don’t you act up to it now? You are a captive. You cannot alter that condition. You are reserved for the King’s plaything. That may not afford you much pleasure to contemplate. Moreover, I may tell you this—his Majesty intends in a few days to hand you over to one of his sons, and you will be conveyed away from here.”
Flora started with alarm as she heard this, and her face blanched.
“Never,” she cried; “I will throw myself over that parapet before I will suffer such an indignity.”
Moghul smiled.
“That would be madness indeed,” he said. “If the idea of becoming the property of the King’s son is so distasteful to your feelings, you may avoid it in a more pleasant way than by mangling that beautiful figure of yours by such a nasty fall.”
“How?” she queried eagerly.
“By escaping.”
“Escaping!” she echoed as she stared at the man in astonishment.
“Yes.”
“Are you mocking me? Or has your heart been softened by some pity for my miserable condition?”
“I am not mocking you.”
“Then do you offer me escape?”
“Yes.”
“On what conditions?” she asked, agitated with hopes and fears.
He smiled again, and drew closer to her.
“You are eager,” he replied. “The conditions are simple.”
“Name them then, if they are not dishonourable.”
“Bah! such a term is inadmissible to one in your position.”
“I think I gather something of your meaning,” she exclaimed, in alarm.
“My meaning should not be hard to understand. I offer you freedom if you will consent to go with me to my house, which is on the other side of the city.”
She recoiled from him with horror—with loathing. The blush of indignation dyed her face to the very roots of her hair.
“You are a villain,” she cried when she could speak, for the base proposal literally deprived her of breath. “A double-dyed, treacherous villain. I am an Englishwoman, and would suffer a thousand deaths sooner than yield to such an unmanly coward. Go away and leave me. Do not torture me with your loathsome presence any more. And I warn you that I will inform the King of your treachery.”
It was the man’s turn to be alarmed now. If she carried out her threat he knew what the consequences would be, for the King was merciless.
“You are a fool!” he said, with an attempt to seem indifferent; “I did but play with you. Were you to inform the King, your position would not improve. For if he believed you, which is doubtful, he would take you away instantly, and your next keeper might not be as lenient as I am.”
Flora saw the force of this argument, and thought it was better to endure what she was enduring than to take a leap in the dark and in all probability increase her woes.
“Although you deserve it, I have no desire to bring harm upon you,” she replied; “but relieve me of your presence. Go away, I beseech you.”
“I do as you request,” was his answer; “but the next time we meet you may be in a better frame of mind. Think over it. You would find me a better master than the King’s son.”
When Flora was alone she wept very bitterly. The trials she was going through almost threatened to affect her reason. Every channel of hope seemed shut against her. Day after day she heard with a sickening sensation at the heart the roar of the guns, as besieged and besiegers were struggling for the mastery. She knew that outside the English troops were making desperate efforts to reduce the city. But with such a full force it almost seemed like a waste of time. Her rooms and the terrace before them were situated in a part of the building not exposed to the besiegers’ fire, but she was often startled by the bursting of a shell in close proximity to her quarters, or the scream of a round shot as it hurtled through the air. She grew despondent when she saw how fruitless were the efforts of the troops outside, and how those inside laughed them to scorn.
When she had relieved her overburdened soul with a passionate outburst of grief she grew calmer. It was drawing towards the close of day, when, availing herself of her privilege, she sought the garden. She was faint and weak, and was glad of the fragrance and the cool air.
At the further end of the garden, away from the Palace, was a small summer-house, a sort of bower embosomed amongst some mango and orange trees, and covered all over with roses. It was quite sheltered from the heat of the sun, and formed a cool and quiet retreat. And here Flora had spent many hours, grateful for the undisturbed solitude. It was furnished with a couch, a few chairs and a table, some pictures and books.
Feeling unequal to walking about, she entered this place, and taking up a book, reclined on the couch and tried to read. But her mind was too confused to allow her to concentrate her thoughts. A mass of things rushed through her brain, until she became bewildered with the conflicting emotions which agitated her.
In a little while she realised that something was moving under the couch. Her first thought was that it was a snake, and she held her breath in alarm, but in a few moments she uttered a half-suppressed cry, as a voice close to her whispered—
“Hush! Silence, for your life.”