Wanderings in India, and Other Sketches of Life in Hindostan. Lang John

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      The rains were about to commence, and storms were not unfrequent. The mall was less frequented; only a few – those who cared little about hearing "heaven's artillery thunder in the skies," or being pelted by hailstones as large as marbles – ventured out; but amongst that few was the native lady, who, punctual as the light of day, visited that huge, dismal-looking rock, and gazed upon the road.

      I have seen a storm on the heights of Jura – such a storm as Lord Byron describes. I have seen lightning and heard thunder in Australia; I have, off Terra del Fuego, the Cape of Good Hope, and the coast of Java, kept watch in thunderstorms which have drowned in their roaring the human voice, and made every one deaf and stupified; but these storms are not to be compared with a thunderstorm at Mussoorie or Landour.

      In one of these storms of thunder, lightning, wind, and hail, at about five o'clock in the afternoon, I laid a wager with a friend that the native lady would be found as usual standing near the rock. Something secretly assured me that she was there at that moment, looking on unmoved, except by the passions which had prompted her pilgrimage. How were we to decide it? "By going to the spot," I suggested. My friend declined; but declared that, as far as the bet was concerned, he would be perfectly satisfied with my word, either one way or the other; namely, whether I had won or lost.

      I set off upon my journey. The rock was at least three-quarters of a mile distant from my abode. My curiosity was so much aroused – albeit I felt certain the woman was there – that I walked through the storm without heeding it. Every now and then I saw the electric fluid descend into a valley; then heard that strange noise which huge pieces of rock make when they bound from one precipice to another, 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 СКАЧАТЬ