And riches and ruin
meet the eye in a strange medley. Dead greatness and the prosaic
present.
Modern bungalows, where the faltering conqueror watches the
tax-ridden ryots dot the landscape, and an overweighted official
system brings its haughty military, its self-sufficient civilians,
its proud womanhood, to drain the exhausted heart of India. And
the ryot groans under many taskmasters.
Lingering with a restless heart, in Allahabad, Alan Hawke roused
himself as at a bugle call, when he received a telegram announcing
the safe arrival of the Empress of India at Calcutta.
"La danse va commencer," he muttered, as he read the brief words
of his employer: "Go on to Delhi, await me there. Telegrams to you
there at private address. Leave letters." The signature "Lausanne"
was a new spur to his well-considered prudence. And, so, the next
day, Major Hawke sedately descended at Delhi.
There was nothing to distinguish Hawke from any other well-to-do
European, as he stood gazing around the station, in his cool
linens, his pith helmet and floating puggaree. The prudent air of
judicious mystery lately adopted sat easily upon him as his eye roved
over the familiar scenes of old with a silent gleam of recognition,
he followed a confidential attendant who salaamed, murmuring "My
master awaits the sahib whom he delights to love and honor."
"There is one card I must play at once," murmured Hawke, as the
carriage sped along.
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