Read Ebook: The Star of India by Ellis Edward Sylvester

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Ebook has 1694 lines and 64604 words, and 34 pages

In obedience to a feeling that this converted Hindoo was to play an important part in near events, Dr. Avery tried hard to gain his confidence. He was a master of the English tongue, and the surgeon offered him a liberal sum to instruct him in Hindustani. The proud fellow refused the proposition with something like scorn, and was so sparing of his words that the Englishman learned more from the other natives than from him.

It would have been better for the surgeon's peace of mind had he been entirely ignorant of the Hindustani language, for now and then he caught an expression among the palanquin bearers which bore some relation to the coming trouble in India, but it was impossible to hear or rather to understand enough to discover what was meant. Had he known more he would have learned something definite; had he known less, he would not have been alarmed; as it was, he was exasperated because of his helplessness.

The sun still flamed with unbearable splendor, when early in the morning the palanquin was set down at the side of the highway leading to Delhi, it being the purpose of Dr. Avery to follow his usual custom of resuming his journey in the evening. Not unnaturally, the nearer he approached the home of his betrothed the greater became his haste. He made his way into the bungalow or rest house furnished by the government for travelers, and enjoyed a refreshing bath. Breakfast was furnished by the khansaman, who, on observing the palanquin in the distance, had hurriedly seized two of the fowls that were dozing contentedly in the shade of the veranda, wrung their necks, plunged them into a pot of boiling water, and by the time the sahib was ready, placed them before him in a most savory dish.

Avery now reclined lazily in a long wicker chair, on the veranda, from which the scorching wind was shut out by heavy grass tatties, completely inclosing the three sides and softening the glare in a way that was conducive to a siesta. He was sinking in that state of delicious languor in which he cared little for what was going on around him, and yet all his senses were at an unusual tension. In the dim twilight by which he was infolded, he became aware that another person was on the veranda, and standing within a few paces of him. He had not heard him approach, though he was sure he would have detected the gliding of a serpent over the parched grass outside.

In the same second that the figure of a man took shape in the faint light before him, Avery became as wide awake as when hunting tigers in the jungle. He saw that the intruder was Luchman, who was standing motionless and looking intently at him. Without opening his eyes any wider and without any start or sign of fright, the surgeon moved his hand in a lazy accidental way to his side, until it rested on the handle of his revolver at his hip. Then he felt safe.

The native might leap upon him with the quickness of a serpent, but Avery would meet him half way with a bullet from his pistol. No untamed cowboy from the plains of Texas could "get the drop" on an antagonist more promptly than could the surgeon.

"Well, Luchman, what is it?" asked Avery, slowly opening his eyes and yawning as if annoyed that he should be disturbed.

"Sahib, is the daughter of the missionary in Delhi to be your wife?"

This question was the amazing answer to the query of Dr. Avery, who however showed no surprise, as he said:

"Since you seem interested, I am proud to declare that with the approval of Heaven she shall be my wife: have you any objections to offer?"

The Sepoy was as impervious to a sense of humor as was Osceola, the Seminole, when he drove his hunting knife with such force into the paper containing the hated treaty that the implement went through the table also. Luchman was never seen to smile. He continued to look sharply into the face of the surgeon, who had come to distrust him so thoroughly that the latter straightened up in his seat and still kept his hand on his pistol.

"He is a scoundrel;" was his thought; "he was standing there and considering the best way of killing me, when he discovered that I was not asleep. I don't see why he should hesitate. He carries a knife as sharp as the sword of Saladin, and one sweep with that would have been enough. He needn't have any fear of the khansaman and the others are in with him."

Dr. Avery with his senses still strung to the keenest point, became aware of a peculiarity in the action of Luchman that was significant. While staring so fixedly at the surgeon, he occasionally darted a quick glance to the left, as though he was looking and listening for the approach of some one.

"He is waiting for the rest," was the conclusion of Avery, "because he hasn't enough courage to attack me alone. Well, both my revolvers are loaded, and if they want to make things lively, I think I can give them a little help."

Luchman stepped into the door of one of the rooms opening on the veranda, and still looking at Dr. Avery, silently beckoned with his finger for him to follow. The surgeon did so without hesitation, half suspecting that the palanquin bearers were crouching within and awaiting the chance to spring upon him, but the certainty of his two loaded revolvers being within instant call was a great solace. He was an expert pistol shot, and he did not mean to be taken unprepared.

"Where are the palanquin bearers?" asked Avery, as he reached the open door and saw Luchman in the faint light standing in the middle of the room, a sweeping glance having satisfied him that no one else was in the apartment.

"They have gone, sahib," was the answer of Luchman. "If they come back it will be to kill you. They hate you. They hate all the Inglese. They would try to kill me if they knew I was your friend. But I have something else to tell you."

"I am listening."

"Sahib, the daughter of the missionary will never be your wife."

"Why not?"

"You, sahib, will never see her again."

Dr. Avery flushed. All disposition to jest was gone, and he was indignant that this native dare utter an expression that sounded very like a threat.

"How dare you show such insolence to me? Do you imagine that you and all your brother scoundrels are strong enough to turn me back? Naught but the will of Heaven itself shall keep me from entering Delhi tomorrow, and seeing my intended wife face to face."

But the young surgeon was in error. Luchman did not mean to threaten, but to warn him of a danger which as yet was only dimly suspected.

"This is the month of May, sahib," said the native, looking him quietly in the face and paying no heed to his angry words, "and on the last day there will be a rising of the Mussulmans and Hindoos of India. All the regiments will turn on their English officers and kill them, their wives and children. The Mogul Empire will be proclaimed, and the Raj of the English will be rooted out of Hindostan."

These were fearful words, and the native was sincere, though why he should have taken this means of making known, or why he should have made known the impending revolt at all, was more than Dr. Avery could understand.

"Why did you not tell me this before?" he asked.

"I did not know the date fixed for the rising until last night, when by chance I overheard some words between the palanquin wallahs. It is their wish to kill you tonight."

"I don't doubt it. How do you feel on that question?"

"Sahib, I am the friend of the missionary and his family; you are their friend."

This was Luchman's way of expressing his good will toward the Englishman, who, it cannot be said, was strongly impressed by his words.

"What are your intentions?" asked the latter.

"Sahib, I shall go to Delhi and give up my life in the hope that I may save the missionary and his family."

"And what do you expect me to do?"

The brown face of the native was eclipsed by what seemed a passing cloud of regret, as he answered:

"You must turn back, sahib. At the cantonment of Lucknow, or Cawnpore, or Allahabad you will find friends; you can die with them."

It was clear that Luchman looked upon the other as doomed beyond all hope, and he was in earnest in urging him to withdraw to one of the points named, where he could perish in the company of his countrymen.

"Why, then, shall I not go to Delhi, now so near at hand, and share the lot of my friends there?"

"Because your going there will make their danger greater; they may be saved if you keep away, but if you go they cannot."

This struck Dr. Avery as a heartless view of the situation, but he saw its meaning. Luchman so loved the missionary and his family that he was willing to give up his life for them. While he may have wished the young surgeon well, he was not concerned to an extent that would lead him to neglect those in Delhi; and looking upon him as the sailor whose additional weight is sure to sink the overladen craft, he wished to throw him overboard so as to save the rest.

But what true lover can be persuaded that his absence from his sweetheart is better than his presence with her? Avery did not believe the native was honest in what he had said.

"God speed you in your effort to befriend them! I am sure they need all that you can do; make haste, therefore, and never leave them till they are safe beyond the reach of those who clamor for their lives."

"What will you, sahib, do?"

"I will do the best to take care of myself. If I am doomed to die, it may be some consolation to have company. Will you take a letter for me to the daughter of the missionary?"

"It shall be done."

Tearing several leaves from his note book, Dr. Avery wrote the particulars of the interview between himself and the native, and added:

Despite his prohibition, I shall do my best to reach your city and hope to be on the heels of him who delivers this to you. I cannot believe it is better to be away from you. I credit Luchman's words when he says the whole sepoy force intends to rise, which renders it the more necessary that friends should unite for protection. If I fail to reach you it will be because my utmost efforts were useless; and whether failure or success awaits me, be assured, my dearest Marian, that my last thoughts were of you. Though separated here, God will unite us in the great hereafter. BAIRD.

While writing this note, the surgeon had stepped back on the veranda, because he needed more light than was in the dim room. He now advanced to where Luchman had awaited him, as immovable as a stone image, and asked:

"Why did you bring me in here, Luchman?"

"The palanquin wallahs, sahib, might have crept up and heard what we said, or the khansaman might have passed near."

"Well, here is my letter; will you hand it to the daughter of the missionary?"

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