HAIDEE Ō STAR.
We must for the time being leave the fortunes of Flora Meredith and Zeemit to follow those of some of the other characters who have figured prominently in this story.
When Haidee and Walter Gordon left the traveller’s rest, where the duel had taken place, they pursued their journey without further adventure, until they reached the neighbourhood of Delhi. Here the greatest caution had to be exercised, for thousands of natives, flushed with success and maddened with drink, were prowling about, committing the most diabolical outrages on every one they met.
Three or four attempts were made by Haidee and her companion to gain entrance to the city, but each attempt failed. On the last occasion success was nearly achieved, when a Sepoy, who had been in the King’s service for some years, recognised Haidee. An alarm was instantly raised, and Gordon had to defend himself and companion against fearful odds. He was fortunate enough to secure a sword from the body of a man whom he had shot, and with this weapon—in the use of which he was well skilled—he was enabled to cut his way out.
After this encounter it was evident that any further attempt to enter the city would only result in disaster; and so the travellers determined to make their way over to the British lines. Here they were well received, and the history of their adventures listened to with intense interest.
Gordon’s failure to get into the city caused him much sorrow. He remembered the promise he had made to Mrs. Harper that he would either rescue her sister or perish in the attempt.
Although he had repeatedly been near doing the latter, the former seemed very far from being accomplished.
He made the most desperate efforts to obtain some information of her—he sought, but always without success; and at length he began to despair of ever meeting her again.
He grew desperate. He joined his countrymen in night attacks; he went down with little bands of men to examine the gates and walls of the city; and, although he saw hundreds of his comrades fall around him, he lived. He appeared almost to bear a charmed life—neither sword nor bullet reached him; and his splendid constitution enabled him to withstand the deadly heat—and the still more deadly malaria, which committed fearful havoc amongst the British.
The siege promised to be a protracted one. The English were few in number; their guns were small, their ammunition limited; and yet, with these drawbacks to contend against, there were some most brilliant passages of arms and deeds of daring performed before Delhi, deeds that, although they have never been chronicled, entitle the actors in them to be placed on England’s grand list of heroes.
Weeks wore on. The force of the besiegers was getting weaker, and their ammunition was all but expended. Reinforcements and a powerful siege-train were daily expected, but still they came not. There was much sickness in the camp, and the whole energies of the healthy were taxed to the utmost to minister to the wants of and amuse the sick.
In this duty there was one who stood out with individual distinctness. This was Haidee, whose exertions on behalf of those who were not able to help themselves were extraordinary. She flitted through the hospital at all hours. She comforted the sick; she soothed the dying; she helped the strong. No wonder that she won the love and good wishes of everyone. The heart of many a man in the camp fluttered when in her presence; and officers and men vied with each other in paying her the greatest attention. Her beauty—her romantic history—her devotion, won upon all. More than one officer, whose heart and hand were free, ventured to woo her; but she turned a deaf ear to everybody.
There was one for whom she pined—where was he? Night and day she thought of him. He was, indeed, her star—her only light. She was silent and patient; she uttered no complaint. She was content to wait for what the future might bring. That future seemed at present dark and uncertain, but she did not mourn. She wasted no time in useless repining; she was hopeful. Her reward came at last.
One morning the camp heard with unspeakable joy notes of music. They were the welcome strains of a soul-inspiriting march played by an English band. The reinforcements had arrived. Coming up from the Grand Trunk Road the long lines could be seen. The white helmets and flashing bayonets of British troops marching to the assistance of their comrades, and pledged to reduce the stronghold of the saucy enemy.
As the fresh troops marched in, the reception accorded them was enthusiastic in the extreme. The excitement was immense. Such cheering, such shaking of hands, such greetings.
As the newly-arrived officers were moving towards the quarters assigned to them, a man suddenly rushed out of a tent, and seizing the hands of one of the officers, exclaimed, in an excited tone—
“God bless you, old fellow! This is an unexpected pleasure.”
The man was Walter Gordon, the officer was Lieutenant Harper. The friends had met once again—met upon the battlefield.
Their last meeting had been sad, their last parting still more sad. But, as they greeted each other now, each had an instinctive feeling that, after having escaped so many dangers, they met now only to part again when happier times had dawned.
When Gordon could drag his friend away, he commenced to ply him with questions; but Harper interrupted him with an impatient gesture, and unable longer to restrain his feeling, exclaimed—
“Before I answer a single question, tell me if Haidee lives?”
Walter smiled at his friend’s eagerness as he answered—
“Haidee lives.”
“And is she well?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Here.”
“This is joyful news.”
“I am glad to hear you say so, Harper.”
“Why?”
“Because she is one of the most faithful and best of women. She has a small tent to herself, for she is the idol of the camp. Come, follow me.”
Gordon pointed out Haidee’s dwelling to his friend, and then he left him; for he did not consider that he had any right to intrude himself upon their meeting.
Harper advanced cautiously to the door of the tent. Haidee was reclining on an Indian mat; her eyes were closed, but she was not sleeping. She was dreaming a day-dream, in which Harper figured.
“Haidee,” he called softly. “Haidee,” he repeated.
She started to her feet like a startled fawn. She recognised the voice. With a cry of joy she sprang forward—her arms closed around his neck; and, as her head was pillowed on his breast, she murmured—
“Your slave is thankful and happy.”
“Not slave, Haidee,” he answered, as he pushed back the beautiful hair and kissed her forehead, “but wife.”
“Ah! what do you mean? Is this a dream—or am I awake?”
“You are awake, Haidee; and I repeat the words—you shall be my wife.”
“But where is she of whom you spoke before—your—your other wife?”
“She is dead, Haidee,” Harper answered sorrowfully.
“Poor thing,” Haidee murmured, in a tone of such genuine sympathy that Harper felt that she was one of the best and most perfect of women.
“Yes, she is dead,” Harper continued. “When I left Cawnpore, I managed to get clear of the place without any adventure. I made my way direct to Meerut. I found my poor wife at the very point of death. She was only just able to recognise me before she died. I was bowed down with sorrow then. I heard of the massacre of Cawnpore, and concluded that you would share the fate of the other unhappy ladies. When my regiment was ordered to join the reinforcements for Delhi I was delighted; for active service, with the risk of ending a life that had been darkened with sorrow, was what I craved for. Little did I dream of meeting you. Fate has been kind to us. To you I owe my life; and, if I am still preserved till the end of this war, I may honourably ask you to be my wife—for I am yours.”
“Ah, what happiness,” she sighed, as she clung closer to him.
* * * * * * *
The siege was now prosecuted with increased vigour. The British became exasperated at the stubborn defence of the enemy, and the most desperate efforts were made to reduce the city. Day and night a ceaseless stream of shot and shell was poured in, until breaches in the walls gaped, and many of the gates were battered. But as fast as these breaches were made, they were repaired again by the defenders, and it became evident that the place could only be reduced by storming. Every one was anxious for this; the patience of the troops had been sorely tried, and men burned to wreak vengeance on the recreant cowards who had sought shelter behind the walls, and now held out with desperate energy, knowing it was the last frail chance they had to preserve their miserable lives. But though the order to storm was so ardently desired, it seemed to be unnecessarily delayed, and the patience of both men and officers was taxed to the utmost.
But the order came at last. It was issued at night. It was a bright starlight night, but moonless. The firing was kept up incessantly. The roar of the batteries, the clear abrupt reports of the shells, the flashes of the rockets and fireballs, made up a striking and impressive scene. But as ten o’clock was announced, every battery ceased by preconcerted signal, and the order flew through the camp that the assault was to take place at three in the morning. Then a solemn and ominous silence fell upon the camp. Worn and weary men threw themselves down to snatch a brief rest; but many were the anxious eyes that were turned to the doomed city with its white mosques and prominent buildings sharply defined against the purple night-sky. For months it had defied the power of the Great White Hand; but the hour had come, unless the Hand had lost its power and cunning, when the rebellious city was at last to be humbled and crushed into the dust.