cut himself off by this secret expedition, in which he was playing, necessarily alone, for the high stake common to them both. He would have given all the rupees in his pocket at any moment for a sight of the Topaz Telegram, or even for a look at a Denver daily. What was happening to his mines--to the 'Mollie K.' which was being worked on a lease; to the 'Mascot,' which was the subject of a legal dispute; to the 'Lingering Lode,' where they had been on the point of striking it very rich when he left; and to his 'Garfield' claim, which Fibby Winks had jumped? What had become of the mines of all his friends, of their cattle-ranches, of their deals? What, in fine, had become of Colorado and of the United States of America? They might have legislated silver out of existence at Washington, for all he knew, and turned the republic into a monarchy at the old stand.
His single resource from these pangs was his visits to the house of the missionary, where they talked Bangor, Maine, in the United States. To that house he knew that every day was bringing nearer the little girl he had come half way round the world to keep in sight.
In the splendour of a yellow and violet morning, ten days after his arrival, he was roused from his sleep by a small, shrill voice in the verandah demanding the immediate attendance of the new Englishman. The Maharaj Kunwar, heir-apparent to the throne of Gokral Seetarun, a wheat-coloured child, aged nine, had ordered his miniature court, which was held quite distinct from his father's, to equip his C-spring barouche, and to take him to the rest-house.
Like his jaded father, the child required amusement. All the women of the palace had told him that the new Englishman made the King laugh. The Maharaj Kunwar could speak English much better than his father--French, too, for the matter of that--and he was anxious to show off his accomplishments to a court whose applause he had not yet commanded.
Tarvin obeyed the voice because it was a child's, and came out to find an apparently empty barouche, and an escort of ten gigantic troopers.
'How do you do? Comment vous portez-vous? I am the prince of this State. I am the Maharaj Kunwar. Some day I shall be king. Come for a drive with me.'
A tiny mittened hand was extended in greeting. The mittens were of the crudest magenta wool, with green stripes at the wrist; but the child was robed in stiff gold brocade from head to foot, and in his turban was set an aigrette of diamonds six inches high, while emeralds in a thick cluster fell over his eyebrow. Under all this glitter the dark onyx eyes looked out, and they were full of pride and of the loneliness of childhood.
Tarvin obediently took his seat in the barouche. He was beginning to wonder whether he should ever wonder at anything again.
'We will drive beyond the race-course on the railway road;' said the child. 'Who are you?' he asked, softly laying his hand on Tarvin's wrist.
'Just a man, sonny.'
The face looked very old under the turban, for those born to absolute power, or those who have never known a thwarted desire, and reared under the fiercest sun in the world, age even more swiftly than the other children of the East, who are self-possessed men when they should be bashful babes.
'They say you come here to see things.'
'That's true,' said Tarvin.
'When I'm king I shall allow nobody to come here--not even the viceroy.'
'That leaves me out,' remarked Tarvin, laughing.
'You shall come,' returned the child, measuredly, if you make me laugh. Make me laugh now.'
'Shall I, little fellow? Well--there was once--I wonder what would make a child laugh in this country. I've never seen one do it yet. W-h-e-w!' Tarvin gave a low, long-drawn whistle. 'What's that over there, my boy?'
A little puff of dust rose very far down the road. It was made by swiftly moving wheels, consequently it had nothing to do with the regular traffic of the State.
'That is what I came out to see,' said the Maharaj Kunwar. 'She will make me well. My father, the Maharajah, said so. I am not well now.' He turned imperiously to a favourite groom at the back of the carriage. 'Soor Singh'--he spoke in the vernacular--'what is it when I become without sense? I have forgotten the English.' The groom leaned forward.
'Heaven-born, I do not remember,' he said.
'Now I remember,' said the child suddenly. 'Mrs. Estes says it is fits. What are fits?'
Tarvin put his hand tenderly on the child's shoulder, but his eyes were following the dustcloud. 'Let us hope she'll cure them, anyway, young 'un, whatever they are. But who is she?'
'I do not know the name, but she will make me well. See! My father has sent a carriage to meet her.'
An empty barouche was drawn up by the side of the road as the rickety, straining mail-cart drew nearer, with frantic blasts upon a battered key-bugle.
'It's better than a bullock-cart anyway,' said Tarvin to himself, standing up in the carriage, for he was beginning to choke.
'Young man, don't you know who she is?' he asked huskily again.
'She was sent,' said the Maharaj Kunwar.
'Her name's Kate,' said Tarvin in his throat, 'and don't you forget it.' Then to himself in a contented whisper, 'Kate!'
The child waved his hand to his escort, who, dividing, lined either side of the road, with all the ragged bravery of irregular cavalry. The mail-carriage halted, and Kate, crumpled, dusty, dishevelled from her long journey, and red-eyed from lack of sleep, drew back the shutters of the palanquin-like carriage, and stepped dazed into the road. Her numbed limbs would have doubled under her, but Tarvin, leaping from the barouche, caught her to him, regardless of the escort and of the calm-eyed child in the golden drapery, who was shouting, 'Kate! Kate!'
'Run along home, bub,' said Tarvin. 'Well, Kate?'
But Kate had only her tears for him and a gasping 'You! You! You!'
IX
We meet in an evil land,
That is near to the gates of Hell--
I wait for thy command,
To serve, to speed, or withstand;
And thou sayest I do not well!
Oh, love, the flowers so red
Be only blossoms of flame,
The earth is full of the dead,
The new-killed, restless dead,
There is danger beneath and o'erhead;
And I guard at thy gates in fear
Of peril and jeopardy,
Of words thou canst not hear,
Of signs thou canst not see--
And thou sayest 't is ill that I came?
—In Shadowland.
Tears
