Wanderings in India, and Other Sketches of Life in Hindostan. Lang John
tearing up trees, and carrying large stones and the earth along with them in their headlong career; but still my mind was intent on the woman, and nothing else.
Was she there?
Yes; there she sat, drenched to the skin; but I could not pity her wet and cold condition, for I could see that she cared no more about it than I cared about my own. She drew her garment so closely over her face, that the outline of her features was plainly discernible. It was decidedly handsome; but still I longed to see her eyes, to confirm my impression. I sat beside her. The storm still raged, and presently the lady said, "The heaven is speaking, Sahib." I answered, "Truly; but the lightning, the parent of that sound which I now hear, I cannot see." She understood me, and gave me a glimpse of her eyes. They were not like the eyes of a native; they were of a bluish hue, almost grey. I said to her, in Hindoostanee, "You are not a native; what do you do here in a native dress?"
"I would I were an European," she answered me. "My feelings, perhaps, would be less acute, and I should be sitting over a bright fire. Oh, how loudly the heaven is speaking! Go home, Sahib, you will catch cold!"
"Why do you not go home?" I asked. "You will see no one to-day. No – not even your beloved. I am the only being who will venture out in a storm like this; and I do so only for your sake."
"My heart is as hard as this rock," she said, flipping her finger against the granite, "to all except one being – a child. Oh, how the heaven is speaking, Sahib!"
"Do you not fear the lightning and the hail?" I asked her.
"I did once," she replied. "I trembled whenever it came near; but now, what does it signify? Bidglee (lightning), come to me," she cried, beckoning to a streak of fluid which entered the ground within a hundred yards of us. "Bidglee, come here, and make a turquoise of my heart."
What pretty feet! She had kicked off her shoes, which were saturated and spoiled.
"Go home, Sahib" (such was the refrain of her conversation); "you will catch cold!"
By degrees I had an opportunity of seeing all her features. She was most beautiful, but had evidently passed the meridian of her charms. She could not have been less than twenty-four years of age. On the forefinger of her left hand she wore a ring of English manufacture, in which was set a red cornelian, whereon was engraved a crest – a stag's head.
I took her hand in mine, and said, "Where did you get this?" pointing to the ring.
She smiled and sighed, and then answered, "Jee (sir), it belonged to an Ameer (a great man)."
"Where is he?"
"Never mind."
"Do you expect to see him soon?"
"No; never."
"Is he old?"
"No; not older than yourself. How the heaven is speaking!"
"Let me see you to your home."
"No. I will go alone."
"When do you intend to go?"
"When you have left me."
"You are very unkind thus to repulse my civility."
"It may be so; but my heart's blood is curdled."
I bade her farewell; and through the storm, which still raged, I went home and won my wager.
I could not rest that night. The beautiful face of the native woman haunted me. In vain I tried to sleep, and at last I arose from my bed, and joined a card-party, in the hope that the excitement of gambling would banish her from my brain. But to no purpose. I knew not what I was playing, and ere long I left off in disgust.
Almost every one who visits the Hills keeps a servant called a tindal. His duty is to look after the men who carry your janpan, to go errands, to keep up the fire, and to accompany you with a lantern when you go out after dark. These tindals, like the couriers on the Continent, are a peculiar race; and, generally speaking, are a very sharp, active, and courageous people. I summoned my tindal, and interrogated him about the native lady who had caused so much sensation in Mussoorie. The only information he could afford me was, that she had come from a village near Hurdwar; that she was rich, possessed of the most costly jewels, kept a number of servants, moved about in great state on the plains, and, for all he knew, she might be the wife or slave of some Rajah.
Could she, I wondered, be the famous Ranee Chunda, the mother of Dulleep Singh, and the wife of Runjeet? – the woman who, disguised as a soldier, had escaped from the fort of Chunar, where she had been imprisoned for disturbing, by her plots, the imagination of Sir Frederick Currie, when he was Resident at Lahore? The woman I had seen and spoken to "answered to the description" of the Ranee in every respect, excepting the eyes. Dulleep Singh was living at Mussoorie, and he not unfrequently rode upon the mall. Ranee Chunda had a satirical tongue, and a peculiarly sweet-toned, but shrill voice, and she had remarkably beautiful feet, and so had this woman. Ranee Chunda had courage which was superhuman; so had this woman. Ranee Chunda had a child – an only child; so had this woman.
I asked the tindal where the lady lived. He replied, that she occupied a small house near the bazaar, not very far from my own abode. "She is in great grief," the tindal yawned, "about something or other."
"Endeavour to find out the cause of her misfortunes," said I, "and you shall be rewarded according to your success."
Next day the tindal reported to me that I was not the only Sahib who was deeply interested in the native lady's affairs; that many wished to make her acquaintance, and had sent their tindals to talk to her; but that she had firmly and laconically dismissed them all, just as she had dismissed him – "Tell your master that the sufferings of an object of pity, such as I am, ought not to be aggravated by the insulting persecution of gay and light-hearted men."
The day after the storm brought forth the loveliest afternoon that can be imagined. The sun shone out brightly, the clouds were lifted from the Dhoon, and the vast panorama resembled what we read of in some fairy tale. All Mussoorie and Landour turned out. The mall was so crowded, that it was difficult to thread one's way through the throng.
Was the lady at the rock? Yes; there she stood, as usual, watching those who passed. The Maharajah with his suite appeared. I was convinced that the woman was the Maharajah's mother; but I did not breathe my suspicions, lest I might cause her to be arrested. When it became dusk, and the visitors were taking their departure, I again approached the lady, and made my "salaam," in that respectful phrase which is always adopted when addressing a native woman of rank. She at once recognised me as the person who had spoken to her during the storm on the previous afternoon, for she alluded to its fury, and said she had taken a wrong road, had lost her way after I had left her, and did not reach home till nearly midnight. She concluded her little speech with a hope that I had been more fortunate.
"You should have allowed me to escort you," said I. "I would have helped to carry your load of sorrow."
She looked at me, and suddenly and abruptly said, "Your name is Longford."
"You are right," said I.
"About three or four years ago you stayed for several days with a friend in a tent near Deobund? You were on your way to these mountains?"
"I did."
"You had a little dog with you, and you lost it at Deobund?"
"I did lose my dog, and made a great noise about it. But how do you know all this?"
She smiled and sighed.
I was bewildered. My belief that she was the Ranee Chunda was almost confirmed. It was close to the encampment of the Ranee, when she was on her way to Chunar, that my dog was lost, and my servants and the officers of police declared that it must have been some of the Ranee's people who had stolen the favourite.
"The dog is still alive," said the lady; "and if you will come to-morrow, at twelve o'clock, to my house, you shall see him; but you will promise not to take him from me?"
"Of course I will not take him from you. But let me see him to-night, and tell me how he came into your possession. I will see you to your home."
"No, Sahib; be patient. I will tell