Chapter 7 THE RANA'S SONS.

The first thing which attracted Kathleen's attention, when her father lifted her out of her swinging carriage, was the sight of a Thibetan woman milking the cows. She was dressed in dirty rags, with a torn blanket thrown over her head. But round her neck she wore three strings of beads, so quaint and curious Kathleen could do nothing but look at them. The beads were as big as hazel-nuts. One row was of coral and turkois; in another the beads were of a greenish hue, spotted all over like thrushes' eggs; the third was coral, with silver tags between.

So the ayah took her to beg a cup of milk, whilst the breakfast was preparing. They made her a cup with a leaf and a thorn; and as the queer-looking milkmaid twisted it into proper shape round her slender fingers, she noticed the child's red eyes and colourless cheeks and heard the story of the lost brother. "O children of pigs!" she exclaimed. "To think a wolf in May would eat him up! No, no. There has been many a child brought up by the wolves, as I've heard tell. Perhaps it was its grandfather; who knows? It would not hurt it if it were."

She caught up Kathleen in her arms, and carried her to the edge of the cliff, pointing downwards to the tops of the mighty trees growing in the dark ravines between the hills they had been crossing-hills below hills, stretching away beneath their feet, so grand and vast and wild. The gray mud walls of the little Hindu village looked like an ant-hill in their midst. Kathleen felt dimly how the timid, gentle, imaginative Hindu men and women, who have lived all their lives within reach of the formidable beasts that range at will through those forest-glades, grow so afraid that their fear almost changes to reverence. They say they are all God's creatures, mightier and stronger than themselves. They dare not hurt them for the world; and they think when they die they shall be changed into them. They mix their fancies with all they see and hear, as her father had told her; but yet she could not help listening when the weird-looking milkmaid entreated her not to cry any more, but to see the glorious places where the wild wolves slept in the sunlight, and to think her little brother was there among them. Oh no; she did not believe he would want to come back. He would grow into a wolf, and be happy.

Kathleen felt frightened, for she saw that the ayah believed her. Then the Thibetan unloosed the wonderful beads from her neck and let Kathleen examine them. They were heirlooms which had been handed down for many generations. The coral and turkois had been worn by her great-grandmother; the coral with the silver tags came from her father's people. She always wore them; they were safer round her neck than anywhere. The ayah agreed with her.

Kathleen carried her leafy cup indoors, to show to her mother. A hasty breakfast was preparing-fowl and eggs, but no bread anywhere, only chupatties, the thin round cakes which the woman outside was making when they arrived. They very much resembled a dry crisp pancake. The fresh hill air gave the children an appetite, and they ate heartily.

"Papa," whispered Kathleen, "may I talk about the wolves to you?"

"Better not, darling," was the quick reply; "father is too busy to talk now."

Away went Mr. Desborough, ordering and arranging everything to insure the comfort of his wife and children; for he knew that he must soon leave them to enjoy their three months' gipsying among the hills. He trusted that picking flowers and chasing butterflies would soon occupy all his little fairy's thoughts, if he could but keep her from dwelling on the terrible remembrance.

Horace was soon fast asleep on his mother's lap, and Kathleen's eyes were blinking.

There were chairs and tables and charpoys in the bungalow, kept ready for the use of visitors. So as soon as breakfast was over, the ayah put Kathleen and Horace to bed.

The rooms were all on one floor, and as every door stood wide open, they were not out of Mrs. Desborough's sight a single moment.

The charpoy, or Indian bedstead, is only a wooden frame with cross-bars of webbing, and on this a mat or a resais is laid. The ayah fetched the pillows Bene Madho was unpacking, and all was ready. Going to bed is such a simple affair in India, for nobody undresses as we do in England. Dressing and undressing belong to the bath. The ayah covered the children with a large mosquito-net, and then flung herself on the matting beside them.

A few hours' refreshing sleep made them feel like different beings. But they were still very tired, and were quite content to sit together on the steps of the veranda, watching the mowers cutting the grass. It was happiness to Kathleen to have her little brother once again, and she devoted herself to the delightful task of making Racy laugh. There was a bird a little bigger than an English starling, with shining wings of copper colour, violet and blue, which hopped about their feet, and then flew off to perch on the cow's back, and good-naturedly catch the insects which were teasing it.

Presently they saw a curious procession coming up the hill-two Hindu boys riding on donkeys, with syces running beside them carrying scarlet umbrellas over their heads, ornamented with deep gold-fringes. Behind them rode their tutor, and after him four native Hindus, carrying trays on their heads, tastefully piled with fruit and vegetables and flowers.

"Early visitors," exclaimed Mr. Desborough, who was walking about directing the mowers.

The boys proved to be the two young sons of the Rana of Nataban, or "the brook of the forest," whose castle they had passed by the way.

"Look! look!" cried Racy, clapping his little hands, and making such a noise that all the strangers turned their heads and regarded him. The two young chieftains alighted, and advanced to Mr. Desborough, who held out his hand to the eldest, English fashion. The boy took it between both his own and dropped into it something which felt very like a little ball of cobwebs, but was in reality a tiny bag of musk. He then directed his servants to place their trays on the ground at Mr. Desborough's feet. They were a present from his father, the Rana. They were bright-eyed, intelligent boys, but as delicate and graceful as girls. Their tutor was a clever young Brahmin, who had been educated in the government schools, and longed, above all things, to visit London. He could speak English, and was teaching it to his pupils.

This was quite a relief; and when the formal greetings were well through, and the boys were seated one on each side of Mr. Desborough, he sent Kathleen to fetch the jar of English sweets which Bene Madho had bought for her consolation. It was just unpacked, and stood on the table near the window by which they were seated, and he perceived the large, dreamy eyes of his youngest visitor rested upon it very curiously.

Whilst she was gone for it, Horace came and stood between his father's knees. He certainly mistook the two young ranas for big dolls, as they sat as stately and grave as they could in their saffron-coloured dresses, embroidered belts, and heavy silver bracelets. Horace, with his curly flaxen hair and blue eyes, was equally interesting to them, and the drum with which he was playing still more so.

The old trouble had returned to Kathleen's eyes as she ran in for her jar of peppermint lozenges. She was thinking of the Thibetan woman and all she had said. "Oh, if Carl were alive in the jungle, could not they find him and bring him home?" Her little heart was full. She longed to pour it out to her mother, but her father's words restrained her. Mrs. Desborough looked so ill, so sadly worn, and kissed her so fondly, Kathleen could only venture to entreat her to come and look at the strange milkmaid, with her wonderful necklaces. She was hoping the Thibetan would repeat to her the strange things she had said about Carl.

Mrs. Desborough promised at once; she had not the heart to refuse her darlings anything, for fear they, too, should be stolen from her. She followed her little daughter into the veranda, putting on her gloves. They were black. The youngest boy, Aglar, had never seen a lady's glove before. He watched her intently, as if he thought her hands had suddenly changed colour. He spoke to his tutor in his soft, musical Indi; who gravely informed her the young Rana had such a longing to feel the lady's hand, might he be permitted to touch it?

Mrs. Desborough smiled, and held hers out to him.

Aglar rose, made his salaam, and softly felt her fingers all over. It seemed to afford him infinite delight. So, to amuse him, Mrs. Desborough took off her gloves and put them on again. The long row of buttons pleased him exceedingly.

"Give them to him," suggested Mr. Desborough, who was wondering how he could return the Rana's present, having nothing with him but just the necessary things his family required.

The transfer was made; the mystery of the buttons made easy, too, by the addition of a tiny button-hook. The little fellow was in ecstasies. Not so Horace, who set up a clamour to have his mother's gloves back, which amused them all.

Mr. Desborough was talking to the elder, whose name was Rattam, about his lessons. He was fond of reading, had made some way in English and Persian, and was much gratified with the gift of an English book on botany, which Mr. Desborough had brought with him, hoping to interest his wife in the lovely plants and flowers she was sure to find among the hills. It was very doubtful whether the new owner could possibly understand it, but he liked to examine the plates.

Mr. Desborough thought they were getting on, when Horace renewed his clamour, pointing at Aglar, and declaring, "He is nobody but a native. He shan't have my mamma's gloves. He shan't!"

Mrs. Desborough grew pink with annoyance, for she knew their young visitors would be highly offended, if they really understood English well enough to know what the child was saying. In vain his father frowned. He would not be quieted. Kathleen slipped round and filled his mouth with her peppermint, to stop his tongue.

"We are all spoiling him as fast as we can," muttered her father, with a bitter sigh, as he sent her across to Rattam, who regarded Horace with pure amazement. No Hindu child is ever permitted to be rough or rude. Kathleen shyly offered Rattam her jar, trying to make up for Racy's naughtiness by behaving as prettily as she could. Rattam examined her peppermints curiously, and then drew back, afraid to touch one, for it might be degrading to himself.

He dare not taste one, he said, for fear of losing caste by eating anything which might be improper for a Brahmin.

This horror of losing caste-that is, of forfeiting his position as a Brahmin, one of the highest class of Hindus, to whom all the others look up with reverence-is the bugbear of a Hindu gentleman's life, and Rattam was fully impressed with its importance.

Yet he was gratified; and although no persuasion could induce him to touch the peppermint, he expressed his thanks with the air of a prince, adding, "You must permit me to send you a bird of my own training, to be my vakeel" ("Ambassador," interpreted the tutor), "and remind you of me," Rattam went on; "and, I assure you, he is a very amusing fellow."

He spoke so carefully and so correctly, it made Kathleen think he had learned his English sentences ready before he came. She wished she could ask her ayah how she ought to answer him in Indi; but that was out of the question. If he understood not her reply, he knew by her shy little smile she was pleased.

"It is a hill-mina from Nepaul, with a remarkably good, rich voice-" He looked to his tutor, perplexed for the next word. It was not forthcoming.

"Does the little beebee understand Persian?" he asked.

Mr. Desborough shook his head, relieved to find his guest's English was not yet perfect.

"Persian is our French," said the tutor, making a sign to Aglar, who had not yet finished his examination of Mrs. Desborough's hands; but when he caught his tutor's eye, he dropped down on the ground by her side, sitting cross-legged, as still and stately as a little statue. He never raised his eyes or uttered a single word until a second sign gave him permission.

When the ayah appeared with the children's box of playthings, the two young visitors forgot themselves and their grand manners in the wonders of Kathleen's magic top, and behaved with an easy grace which was natural to them, and much more prepossessing.

"Let Aglar take it away with him, Kathy," whispered Mr. Desborough; "I will buy you another."

Mamma had slipped out during the exhibition of the playthings to consult with Bene Madho about the tiffen. She thought he might know better than she did what such fastidious young princes would condescend to eat.

He told her they never touched anything but butter, sweetmeats, and vegetables or fruit. Butter Mrs. Desborough could procure in plenty, but the sweetmeats ran wofully short. Salad and syllabub, with some of their own beautiful fruit, had to suffice.

The amount of butter the little princes consumed was something astonishing. No wonder Rattam was so fat. Aglar's hoarse cough distressed Mrs. Desborough. She always carried a well-filled medicine-chest about with her, for the sake of her own delicate children. So she found him some cough-drops, and a porous plaster for the chest, to lay on the empty trays her husband was trying to refill.

Kathleen relinquished a great many of her toys to please their dusky visitors. Rattam liked everything in pairs. He was highly delighted with her doll's tea-cups, as he said "there were three pairs." But he returned her the teapot. One of a sort looked mean in his eyes.

When tiffen was over, their interesting neighbours rose to depart, with the demure gravity of old men.