Tippoo Sultaun: A tale of the Mysore war. Taylor Meadows

excited.

      ‘I have not deceived thee, Ameena; but I have not told thee all my history—I have not told thee as yet what sooner or later thou must know. I have not told thee how that for years I pined for the love of woman, such pure child-like love as thine, and found nought after a short intercourse but bitter words and a constant seeking after wealth which I had not to bestow—how I have had to bear constant upbraiding from those out of whose families I chose them, because I would not spend my substance upon wasteful parents—upon sons whose very existence was a disgrace to them. Hadst thou known this, Ameena, thou wouldst not marvel that I sought one like thee in a distant land—one who, removed from every tie, and with no one to sow dissension between us, should learn to love and trust Rhyman Khan as, Inshalla! he ought to be loved and trusted.’

      She knew not how to reply; on the one hand the concealment of other ties which the Khan had kept secret so long and now revealed so unexpectedly, and the undefined dread of the hate of rivals, smote her to the very heart; on the other, her attention was powerfully arrested by the bold truthfulness of his disclosure; she was affected by the picture of desolation he had drawn of his own state, and his disappointments, and she was soothed to think that all he had sought for years was centred in her. She was silent—she could not speak under such conflicting thoughts.

      ‘Thou hast not told me all,’ she said at length; ‘thou hast not said how many—’ she could not finish the sentence.

      ‘There are two, dearest Ameena—two, on each of whom I fixed hopes which have been broken in many ways. I have never had a child to bless me; and where love should have been, and mildness like thine to compensate for such a disappointment, rancour has come and ill-temper, and with them despair to me—hopelessness of that quiet peace which my mind seeks when war and its perils and excitements are past. When disappointment came with the first, I thought a second might perchance be more to me than she had been: alas! I soon was undeceived, and bitterly too, Ameena. But, after all, who can say there are no flowers to be pulled in the rugged pathways of their lives? Had this not happened, I should never have known thee, my rose—never have seen that look of pity which thy beauteous eyes wear now! It is from these I fear thou wilt have to bear some jealousies, some enmity; and canst thou brave somewhat for the love of Rhyman Khan? Continue to be to me as thou art now, and my wealth, my power, nay my life-blood itself, are thine, as freely as thou carest to use them. Now thou knowest all, and a heavy weight is gone from my heart, which had long abode there. Speak—art thou content?’

      ‘I would I had known this earlier,’ she said sadly, after a while; ‘but as it is, I am thankful to hear it even now. My lord knows well that I am but a child, and no match for the intrigues of those who are more versed in the world’s wisdom. I feel that it has saddened and sobered me; and where I had hoped in my bright fancy to roam as I listed in the garden of thy love, unchecked and unheeded by any one but thyself, I must cover myself with the veil of discretion and deliberation, and take heed to my steps lest I fall into the snares which jealousy will not fail to place for me.’

      ‘Alla forbid!’ cried the Khan fervently; ‘thou hast no cause to fear them.’

      ‘I know not,’ she replied; ‘but I can scarcely hope that there may be friendship between me and those whom you describe; there may be a show for a while, but the end will be bitterness.’

      And the poor girl wept; for she had suddenly been disturbed upon her height of security, or at all events of unmolested occupation, and even in a few minutes she could not help expecting some rude collision which would perhaps cast her down headlong. And her own peaceful home—its freedom from care, its loving affection, its harmless pleasures—rose so vividly to her mind, that she could not help for the time regretting bitterly that she had left it, to endure such a prospect as appeared to open before her. Nor did the Khan disturb, except by a caress or a well-timed word of cheerful hope, the thoughts which he knew must be passing in her heart, but to which he could not respond in a manner to make her forget them on the instant; they must have their vent, he thought, and thought wisely. She lay down and wept, till sleep gradually asserted its mastery over her wearied form and rudely-excited thoughts.

      ‘She shall never come to harm, so help me Alla and his holy prophet!’ said the Khan mentally, as he bent over her and gently drew some covering upon her without disturbing her; ‘she shall never know harm or evil, as long as the arm or power of Rhyman Khan can shield her! She still sobs,’ he said, as every now and then a sob broke softly from her, like to that from a child who has cried itself to sleep, and her bosom heaved under the oppression. ‘I would to Alla I had not caused her this pain! and yet it was inevitable. Their jealousy and malice will be great I know, and their power is great, but, Inshalla! there will be no fear of their machinations, and I will soon teach her to despise them; they too will cease to use them when they see them of no avail and unheeded.’