The Coming Conquest of England

by August Niemann

  Edith hesitated a little; but she was not one of those women who allow any petty emotion to master them.

  “I think, my friend, that she loves you,” she said, with a slight, enchanting smile. “Some unguarded expressions and the fire that kindled in her eyes as soon as we mentioned your name, made me feel almost certain of it. The fact that, notwithstanding, she helped to set me free, is certainly, in the circumstances, only a stronger proof of her magnanimity. But I understand it perfectly. A woman in love, if of noble character, is capable of any act of self-denial.”

  Heideck shook his head.

  “I think your shrewdness has played you false on this occasion. I am firmly convinced that she is Prince Tchajawadse’s mistress, and, from all I have seen of their relations, it seems to me inconceivable that she would be unfaithful to him for the sake of a stranger, with whom she has only interchanged a few casual words.”

  “Well, perhaps we may have an opportunity of settling whether I am wrong or not. But now, my friend, I should first of all like to know what you have decided about me.”

  Heideck was in some embarrassment how to answer, and spoke hesitatingly of his intention to send her to Ambala with Morar Gopal. But Edith would not allow him to finish. She interrupted him with a decided gesture of dissent.

  “Ask of me what you like—except to leave you again. What shall I do in Ambala without you? I have suffered so unutterably since you were carried off before my eyes at Anar Kali, that I will die a thousand times rather than again expose myself to the torture of such uncertainty.”

  A noise behind him made Heideck turn his head. He saw the curtain before the door of the tent slightly lifted, and that it was Morar Gopal who had attempted to draw his attention by coughing discreetly.

  He called to the loyal fellow to come in, and thanked him, not condescendingly, as a master recognises the cleverness of his servant, but as one friend thanks another.

  The Hindu’s features showed how delighted he was by the kindness of his idolised master, although there was no alteration in his humble and modest demeanour even for a moment. As respectful as ever, he said: “I bring good news, sahib. One of the Maharajah’s retinue, whose tongue I loosened with some of your rupees, has told me that the Maharajah of Sabathu is going to give the Russians forty horsemen to show them the best roads to Simla. The country here is under his rule, and his people know every inch of ground to the top of the mountains. If the lady joins these horsemen to-morrow in the dress of a rajah, she will be sure to get away from here unmolested.”

  The excellence and practicability of this plan was obvious, and Heideck again recognised what a treasure a lucky accident had bestowed upon him in the shape of this Indian boy. Edith also agreed, since she saw how joyfully Heideck welcomed the proposal, although the prospect of being obliged to show herself in broad daylight before everybody in man’s dress was painful to her feelings as a woman.

  She asked Morar Gopal whether he had heard anything of Georgi in the meantime. He nodded assent.

  “I was talking to her half an hour ago. She had escaped from the women’s tent and was on the point of leaving the camp.”

  “What?” cried Heideck. “Where in the world did she intend to go?”

  “I don’t know, sahib. She was very sad, but when I asked her to accompany me to the sahib, she said she did not want to see him and the lady again; she sent her respects to the sahib, and begged him to remember his promise that he would say nothing to Prince Tchajawadse of her having been here.”

  Heideck and Edith exchanged a significant look. This singular girl’s behaviour set them riddles which for the moment they were unable to solve. But it was only natural and human that in their own affairs they very soon forgot the Circassian.

  Edith had to consent to Heideck leaving his tent at her disposal for the rest of the night, while he himself spent the few hours before daybreak at one of the bivouac fires. But Morar Gopal was to take up his quarters before the entrance to the tent, and Heideck felt confident that he could not entrust his valuable treasure to a more loyal keeper.

  . . . . . . .

  Fortune, which had reunited the lovers in so wonderful a manner, still continued favourable to them. Very early on the following day, Heideck had purchased a neat little bay horse, already saddled and bridled, for Edith’s use. When the troop of Indian horsemen, who were to serve as guides and spies for the Russians, started on their way, the boyish young rajah joined them, and no one made his strange appearance the subject of obtrusive questions. The Indians probably at first thought he was a very youthful Russian officer, who wore the native dress for special reasons, and on that account preserved a most respectful demeanour. Tchajawadse, who accidentally found himself close to Edith before starting, said nothing, although he certainly looked keenly at her for a moment.

  The bad reports of the health of the Maharajah of Chanidigot, which spread through the camp, were sufficient explanation why he made no attempt to regain possession of the beautiful fugitive. He was said to be suffering from such violent pain and fever, caused by his wounds, that he had practically lost all interest in the outside world.

  Having taken a hearty leave of their Indian hosts, the Russian detachment advanced further into the hilly country, and at noon spies reported to Prince Tchajawadse that the English had completely evacuated Ambala and had set out on the march to Delhi. Probably the strength of the Russian division, whose advance had been reported, had been greatly exaggerated at Ambala, and the English had preferred to avoid a probably hopeless engagement.

  With a woman’s cleverness, Edith managed, without attracting observation, to keep near Heideck, so that they often had the opportunity of conversing. Her tender, fair skin must have appeared striking amongst all the brown faces, but the will and caprice of Russian officers demanded respect, and so no one appeared to know that there was an English lady in the troop wearing the costume of a rajah. Besides, the march was not a long one. The hunting-camp was only about 150 miles from Simla, situated below Kalka. On the next morning the column arrived before Simla and found that Jutogh, the high-lying British cantonment to the west of the far-extended hill city, had been evacuated.

  Prince Tchajawadse quartered his infantry and artillery in the English barracks, and marched with the horsemen into the crescent-shaped bazaar, the town proper, surrounded by numerous villas, scattered over the hills and in the midst of pleasure-gardens. He at once sent off patrols of officers to the town hall, the offices of the Government and Commander-in-Chief, while he himself made his way to Government House, a beautiful palace on Observatory Hill.

  Although it was spring, Simla still lay in its winter sleep. It had been deserted by the lively, brilliant society which, when the intolerable, moist heat of summer drove the Viceroy from Calcutta, enlivened the magnificent valleys and heights with its horses and carriages, its games, parties, and elegant dresses. Only the resident population, and the servants who had been left to look after the buildings and keep them in good order, remained, English Society being kept away by the war.

  The hills were about a mile and three-quarters above the level of the Indian Ocean, and frequent showers of rain made the climate so raw that Heideck rode with his cloak on, and Edith flung a dragoon’s long cloak over her shoulders to protect herself against the cold.

  The officers were commissioned to search the Government buildings for important legal documents and papers, which the English Government might have left behind in Simla, and which were of importance to the Russian Government.

  Heideck had to examine the seven handsome blocks of Government offices, especially the buildings set apart for the Commander-in-Chief, the Quartermaster-General, the general railway management, and the post and telegraph offices.

  He found none but subordinate officials anywhere until he came to the office of the Judge Advocate General. Here he found a dignified old gentleman, sitting so quietly in his armchair that Heideck was involuntarily reminded of Archimedes when the Roman soldi
ers surprised him at his calculations.

  As the officer entered, accompanied by the soldiers, the old gentleman looked at them keenly out of his large, yellowish eyes. But he neither asked what they wanted, nor even attempted to prevent their entrance. Heideck bowed politely, and apologised for the intrusion necessitated by his duty. This courteous behaviour appeared to surprise the old gentleman, who returned his greeting, and said that there was nothing left for him but to submit to the orders of the conqueror.

  “As there seems nothing to be found in these rooms but legal books and documents,” said Heideck, “I need not make any investigation, for we are simply concerned with military matters. I should be glad if I could meet any personal wishes of yours, for I do not think I am mistaken in assuming that I have the honour of speaking to a higher official, whom special reasons have obliged to remain in Simla.”

  “As a matter of fact, my physicians were of opinion that it would be beneficial to my health to spend the winter in the mountains. You can imagine how greatly I regret that I took their advice—I am Judge-Advocate-General Kennedy.”

  “Is your family also in Simla?” asked Heideck.

  “My wife and daughter are here.”

  “Sir, there is an English lady with our column, the widow of an officer who was killed at Lahore. Would you be disposed to let her join your family?”

  “An English lady?”

  “She is the victim of a series of adventurous experiences, as to which she can best inform you herself. Her name is Mrs. Irwin. Would you be disposed to grant her your protection? If so, I should certainly be the bearer of welcome news to her.”

  “My protection?” repeated the old gentleman in surprise. “My family and I need protection ourselves, and how can we, in the present circumstances, undertake such a responsibility?”

  “You and your family have nothing to fear from us, sir. On the contrary, we intend to maintain quietness and order.”

  “Well, sir, your behaviour is that of a gentleman, and if the lady wishes to come to us we will offer no objection. Can I speak to her, that we may come to an understanding?”

  “I will make haste and fetch her.”

  In fact, he did not hesitate for a moment. As he expected, Edith was very grateful to him for his friendly proposition.

  Mr. Kennedy was extremely astonished to see a young rajah enter the room, and did not seem quite agreeably impressed by the masquerade.

  “Is this the lady of whom you spoke?” he asked in surprise. But his serious face visibly cleared when Edith said, in her sweet, gentle voice—

  “A countrywoman, who owes her life to this gentleman here, and who has only escaped death and dishonour by the aid of this disguise.”

  “Mrs. Irwin, if you decide to join Mrs. Kennedy,” said Heideck, “I will send your belongings to Mr. Kennedy’s house. I must now leave you for the present. I have other official duties to perform, but I will return later.”

  “In any case I am glad to welcome my countrywoman,” protested the old gentleman. “You can see my house from the window here, and I beg you will call upon me when your duties are over.”

  It was not till after sunset that Heideck called at Mr. Kennedy’s house. He stood for a moment at the garden-gate and saw the snow-clad heights glowing in the fire of the evening light. Long chains of blue hills rose higher and higher towards the north, till at last the highest range on the distant horizon, bristling with eternal glaciers, mounted towards the sky in wondrous brilliancy.

  Mr. Kennedy lived in a very imposing villa. Heideck was received with such friendliness by the master of the house and the ladies that he recognised only too clearly that Edith must have spoken warmly in his favour. She must also certainly have told them that he was a German. She was dressed as a woman again, and had already won the hearts of all by her frankness. Mrs. Kennedy was a matron with fine, pleasant features, and evidently of high social standing. Her daughter, about the same age as Edith, appeared to have taken a great fancy to the visitor.

  Heideck sat with the family by the fire, and all tried to forget that he wore the uniform of the enemy.

  “I wish we could manage to leave India and get back to England,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “My husband wants to remain in Calcutta to perform his duties, but he cannot stand the climate. Besides, how could we get to Calcutta? Our only chance would be to obtain a Russian passport, enabling us to travel without interference.”

  “My dearest Beatrice,” objected her husband. “I know that you, like myself, no longer care what happens to us, at a time when such misfortune has overtaken our country. Amidst the general misfortune, what matters our own fate?”

  “I should think,” interposed Heideck politely, “that the individual, however deeply he feels the general misfortune, ought not to give way to despair, but should always be thinking of his family as in time of peace.”

  “No!” cried Mr. Kennedy. “An Englishmen cannot understand this international wisdom. A German’s character is different; he can easily change his country, the Englishman cannot. But you must excuse me,” he continued, recollecting himself. “You wounded my national honour, and I forgot the situation in which we are. Of course, I had no intention of insulting you.”

  “There is some truth in what you say,” replied Heideck, seriously, “but allow me to explain. Our German fatherland, in past centuries, was always the theatre of the battles of all the peoples of Europe. At that time few of the German princes were conscious of any German national feeling; they were the representatives of narrow-minded dynastic interests. Thus our German people grew up without the consciousness of a great and common fatherland. Our German self-consciousness is no older than Bismarck. But we have become large-hearted, generous-minded, by having had to submit to foreign peoples and customs. Our religious feeling and our patriotism are of wider scope than those of others. Hence, I believe that, now that we have been for a generation occupied with our material strength and are politically united, our universal culture summons us to undertake the further development of civilisation, which hitherto has been chiefly indebted to the French and English.”

  The old gentleman did not answer at once. He sat immersed in thought, and a considerable time elapsed before he spoke.

  “Anyone can keep raising the standpoint of his view of things. It is like ascending the mountains there. From each higher range the view becomes more comprehensive, while the details of the panorama gradually disappear. Naturally, to one looking down from so lofty a standpoint, all political interests shrivel up to insignificant nothings, and then patriotism no longer exists. But I think that we are first of all bound to work in the sphere in which we have once been placed. A man who neglects his wife and children in the desire to benefit the world by his ideas, neglects the narrowest sphere of his duties. But in that case the welfare of his own people, of his own state, must be for every man the highest objects of his efforts; then only, starting from his own nation, may his wishes have a higher aim. I cannot respect anyone who abandons the soil of patriotism in order to waste his time on visionary schemes in the domain of politics, to wax enthusiastic over universal peace and to call all men brothers.”

  “And yet,” said Edith, “this is the doctrine of Christianity.”

  “Of theoretical, not practical Christianity,” eagerly rejoined the Englishman. “I esteem the old Roman Cato, who took his life when he saw his country’s freedom disappearing, and England would never have grown great had not many of her sons been Catos.”

  “Mr. Kennedy, you are proclaiming the old Greek idea of the state,” said Heideck. “But I do not believe that the old Greeks had such a conception of the state as modern professors assert, and as ancient Rome practically carried out. Professors are in the habit of quoting Plato, but Plato was too highly gifted not to understand that the state after all consists merely of men. Plato regarded the state not as an idol on whose altar the citizen was obliged to sacrifice himself, but as an educational institution. He says that really virtuous citize
ns could only be reared by an intelligently organised state, and for this reason he attached such importance to the state. A state is in its origin only the outer form, which the inner life of the nation has naturally created for itself, and this conception should not be upset. The state should educate the masses, in order that not only justice, but also external and internal prosperity may be realised. The Romans certainly do not appear to have made the rearing of capable citizens, in accordance with Plato’s idea, the aim of the state; they were modern, like the great Powers of to-day, whose aim it is to grow as rich and powerful as possible. We Germans also desire this, and that is why we are waging this war; but at the same time I assert that something higher dwells in the German national character—the idea of humanity. With us also our ideals are being destroyed, and therefore we are fighting for our ‘place under the sun,’ in order to protect and secure our ideals together with our national greatness.”

  At this point a servant entered and announced dinner.

  At table the conversation shifted from philosophy and politics to art. The ladies tried to cheer the old gentleman and banish his despair. Elizabeth talked of the concerts in Simla and Calcutta, mentioning the great technical difficulties which beset music in India, owing to the instruments being so soon injured by the climate. The moist air of the towns on the coast made the wood swell; the dry air of Central India, on the other hand, made it shrink, which was very injurious to pianos, but especially to violins and cellos. Pianos, with metal instead of wood inside, were made for the tropics; but they had a shrill tone and were equally affected by abrupt changes of temperature.

  After dinner Elizabeth seated herself at the piano, and it did Heideck good to find that Edith had a pleasant and well-trained alto voice. She sang some melancholy English and Scotch songs.

  “I have never sung since I left England,” she said, greatly moved.

  Heideck had listened to the music with rapture. After the fearful scenes of recent times the melodies affected him so deeply that his eyes filled with tears. It was not only the music that affected him, but Edith’s soul, which spoke through it.