1."Fast her tears fell—faster, faster,As the days pass slowly by,And her heart is sorely ladenWith the dreary, hopeless sigh.O that cruel, ceaseless sighing!Weary tears which sadly fell,All unheeded as she wept themDaily by the garden well.2."Mother! Mother! oft she pleaded,Toolja Máta! hear my vow!Hear thy daughter's cry of sorrow—Why shouldst thou forsake me now?Not less thine, O Mother holy!If my lover come to me;If he come, a golden necklaceWe, thy children, vow to thee!3."As she went for water daily,Raised alone the pitcher still,She repeats the prayer and promise,As with tears her soft eyes fill!The goddess watched the weary maiden,And her daily burthen borne;'Faithful,' she cries, 'in earthly sorrow,Daughter true, no longer mourn!'4."Then next morn, with anklets tinkling,The maiden tripped, and ceased to sigh;As she stooped to raise the pitcher—Light she felt it lifted high.And sweet words he whispers to her—'Tara, all thy sorrow past!Faith and hope have won thy lover.'And the vow?—'Twas paid at last."
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It was one of those plaintive Mahratta airs, at once so musical and tender, and whose character is so original, as to deserve the rank of national music. How often Tara had heard it! Her father had written the words, and composed the air, to amuse her when she used to be sad; but she had no lover—no one then to take the burden, to help to lift the pitcher, which was so heavy! Ah yes! she remembered it well, and that her father had said afterwards, it should not be sung in the house because it made her sadder, for there could be no lover.
So she listened, and the melody seemed to strike some new and tender chords in her memory, which as yet had been untouched; and they looked at her wonderingly, and in silence, as the features softened into a smile, and the eyes gradually filled with tears, which flowed as from a fountain within, and rolled silently down her cheeks. As the vow was named, they saw her hand rise to her neck and unclasp the heavy gold necklace she wore, and when the last words were sung she put it into Fazil's hands.
"Let the Mother have it," she said, "as our vow—she is not angry with me. You will not deny this, my lord, to Tara?"
Before they could answer her, a strange brightness seemed to come over her face and eyes, as she looked upward as if following a vision. "It is enough," she said gently, after a silence which they did not break; "the Mother is not angry with me—it is accepted, and I am free; for when the trial came, she says, and Gunga called me, I did not leave her."
They did not understand then, to what she alluded; but it was evident that the excited spirit had again wandered into the past, and had returned, more at peace than before.
"Yes," said Fazil, "as thou wilt, beloved—thy vow shall be truly paid, at last."
On the second morning Fazil's messengers reached Wye, without interruption, tethered their ponies in the courtyard of a temple, where they obtained shelter, and set about the work they had to do without loss of time. Taking their instruments, they wandered into the bazar, and sang their ballads to willing listeners; for the hunchback was a master of his art, and had a willing and skilful pupil in the boy.
"Wast thou not in the camp at Jowly?" said a man coming up to Lukshmun, "and this lad too, before we attacked the Toorks,—and we let thee go? Ah yes, and you promised to sing the hymn of the goddess at Tooljapoor, and did not return when we were victorious! Ill for you, for you would have had a share of the gold. By the Mother! you shall sing it now. Come with me!"
"Not so," said Lukshmun; "we are engaged to sing at Vishnu Pundit's house—where is it?—and shall be free in the evening only and if thou canst direct me to one Moro Trimmul, a Brahmun, and let me go now, we will sing an hour at night for as many as you choose to bring to the temple of Ballajee, where we have put up, and take what you have to give us."
"Moro Trimmul!" cried the man laughing, "thou wouldst have to go deep into hell for him. Where hast thou been, friend, that his fate did not come to thine ears?"
"I was afraid," replied the hunchback; "I fear fighting, sir; and if a drawn weapon is flashed in my face, I faint. So we ran away from Jowly—did we not, my son? and have been travelling about the country ever since, getting what we can. But what of the Brahmun, sir? was he killed in the fight at Jowly?"
"No, no—not there," replied the man; "but he is dead, nevertheless. Some one cut him down the day the Sutee was carried off."
"Ah yes, I have heard of that, sir; the people have strange stories about it; but who carried her off? and who killed the Brahmun? A Brahmun slain! O the impiety!" continued Lukshmun devoutly; "think of that, my son! A holy Brahmun!"
"I don't know; I was not there," replied the man; "we were still out at Jowly, or it would not have happened: but they said some of Afzool Khan's men, who were starving, made a Duróra on the Sutee, and carried her off; as to Moro Trimmul, he was no loss—a bad man, my friend, though a Brahmun. They might have spared the girl, however, for all the use she was to the Brahmuns afterwards. I wonder no one kept her, for she was very lovely, they say."
"O sir," cried the hunchback innocently; "and did she not live? Who killed her?"
"They say not," he replied; "and that the cruel men killed her for the ornaments she wore. There was a woman's corpse found some days afterwards on their track, and the remains were brought here, and her father was told of it. They say he went mad after that, for he believed they were his child's. He married Moro Trimmul's sister, you know. Ah, it is a curious story altogether."
"Indeed," returned Lukshmun simply; "I should like to hear it all. If I sing for you to-night will you tell it to me?"
"A bargain!" cried the man joyfully; "come to us without fail; we are a jovial lot, and there may be good liquor, and some of the dancers too. I will come for thee. 'Faith, the story of the Moorlee's murder by Moro Trimmul is as good as a scene in a play."
"What Moorlee?"
"O, the Tooljapoor girl, Gunga, who was with him. They found her body under the window of his room at Pertâbgurh, hanging in the trees below the precipice, and so the whole came out; but he was dead before then. One of those dare-devil Mussulmans had killed him, and they took some of the Sutee wood, and burnt him there, by the river."
"Ai Bhugwân! O Lord, forgive me for having slain the Brahmun," ejaculated the hunchback to himself; "and I did it too. Well, I can't help hitting hard when I do hit; and truly he hadmurdered some one, it appears, so it was only justice after all. Yes, sir," he continued, "I understand. And the Sutee's father?—her name was T—T—T——"
"Tara," said the man; "and her father is Vyas Shastree of Tooljapoor. He is better now, and I saw him a while ago sitting by the porch of Vishnu Pundit's door, weak, but better; people pity him very much. Now I must go. You will not forget?"
"No," said the hunchback; "you will find me at the temple after the lamps are lighted; till then we must sing about the streets. Come, my son. Let us hurry on, boy," continued Lukshmun. "I know the house. Do not pretend to notice any one; we will sing the ballad of the Vow, after the first invocation."
They passed on rapidly: up a few cross streets and alleys, till they reached that in which was the house that they sought. In the covered alcove, beside the outer door, sat several Brahmuns, apparently talking together; one elderly man, covered with a sheet, was reading.
Lukshmun and Ashruf began to sing their ballads at the doors of every house as they advanced, and women from within, came out and gave them handfuls of flour or rice, which were dropped into the bag which Lukshmun carried. Gradually, as they came nearer, the hunchback changed the songs to those of his own country, Canarese and Mahratta in turn, and he was sure there must be some, with which the Shastree was familiar.
Yes, it was he, reading, while the others sat near him, and conversed among themselves; thinner than when the hunchback had last seen him, and looking weak, yet still remarkable and unmistakable. Once or twice the Shastree had looked up at the singers, not so as to seem to care about their performance, but as if a familiar sound had reached him. Now, however, it came to the turn of the Pundit's house, and the hunchback and Ashruf stopped before it.
"Go on," said one of the Brahmuns impatiently; "you have been bawling all down the street, disturbing our meditations, and the Shastree there is weak. Go on, and make no noise."
"Maharaj," said Lukshmun, humbly putting up his hands, "we are under a vow, made before the Holy Mother at Tooljapoor" ("May she forgive me for telling the lie!" he thought parenthetically), "to sing before every house in Wye, and bring her what we get; 'tis a good work, learned sirs, and we are poor people,—do not hinder us; 'tis a long way to go, and we are weary. Let us sing you a ballad for our vow, or only a verse, else we cannot go on."
"Make haste then," said the first spokesman impatiently.
Lukshmun returned the lute; and as he played the prelude which Tara had heard, he saw Vyas Shastree, who had not noticed him, look up. His large eyes were opened to the full, and he leaned forwardwith an expression of intense curiosity. Then the singers broke at once into the ballad:—
"Fast her tears fell—faster, faster,As the days pass slowly by."
"Hold!" he exclaimed, waving his hand; "who are ye? and whence come ye?"
"From Tooljapoor, O Pundit," said the hunchback humbly.
"Who taught you that ballad?"
"No one taught it me. I heard it, and have remembered it. They say one Vyas Shastree composed it. Maybe you have heard of him, sir. He had a daughter named Tara. She was a Moorlee. I have heard they are all dead now."
"Ye belong to Tooljapoor?"
"No, Maharaj; I am from near Allund—a long way from this; but the vow I made is for" ("The gods forgive me if I tell another lie!" he said inwardly)—"for a—child—O kind sir; if the Mother will send me one. Your worship speaks Canarese?"
"Yes," said the Shastree, replying in that language; "who art thou?"
"Do they understand it?" asked the hunchback.
"No," he replied, "none but my wife, and she only a little. Why dost thou ask?"
"Can I go into the court? I know all the ballad, and can sing it sweetly for the women; they always like it," returned Lukshmun. "Will you listen, Maharaj? 'tis not very long;" and as they went in, they sang on more loudly and confidently than before. Some women of the house came and looked at them, and listened, and among them were Anunda and Radha. The hunchback looked from the Shastree to his elder wife, and saw the tears falling from both their eyes; at last the Shastree rose and went in to her, and when Anunda saw him, she burst into bitter weeping.
"Grieve not for one at rest," Lukshmun heard him say; "at rest in the peace which was denied her here. Yet the old ballad moves me strongly, wife. Come hither," he cried to the singers; "take this for the sake of.... No matter now; I am Vyas Shastree, and what strange chance hath sent you I know not, but take this," and he offered money.
"The gods be thanked! No; not from you," exclaimed Lukshmun, in Canarese. "Come aside," he continued in the same tongue, "for I have that to tell you and her, which will give you new life and strength. Listen," and he whispered in the Shastree's ear; "Tara lives, well and in honour. I bear a token and a letter which she hath sent you. Come, and I will give it; 'tis for her mother, and this letter for thee," and he took it from a fold in his turban.
"Anunda! O wife!" cried the Shastree, trembling and gaspingfor breath, as he leaned on her, opening the letter. "She lives—our Tara. Come—he knows of her; see her own writing, the holiest and most secret Muntra I taught her; she hath written it."
"Away with ye!" cried Radha to the other women about, "this is not for your ears;" and the group were left alone; for Radha, advancing, shut the door of the court, and stood there with them.
"Do ye know this?" asked Lukshmun, when he had disengaged the ring from his inner garment. "Lady, it was to be given to thee, if thou art her mother! She is well who gave it to me, three days ago."
Her mother! Who could doubt it who saw Anunda then? The piece of gold spoke a thousand loving greetings to her. She laughed and cried by turns. She could speak nothing intelligibly. She kissed it rapturously, and hugged it close to her bosom, then looked at it till the tears rained from her eyes, and again did the same. A new life! a new daughter! born again, as it were. Anunda could not believe it.
"Thou art mocking us," she said at last, as a revulsion of feeling appeared to possess her. "This was among the jewels given to Jánoo Näik, when ... she never got it."
"True," replied Lukshmun, "and she has the rest," and he enumerated them; "and here is a letter about her from my master, with whom she is. Listen to me, I can tell you better than that writing."
Listen? ah yes, to the sweetest tale they had ever heard, did they listen for hours. The Brahmuns at the door wondered, and the people from within came and looked and wondered too, why the Jogies sat here talking to the Shastree—but still they sat. Once, for a moment, the Shastree's cruel belief rose up against him, and forbade him to see an outcast; but nature asserted its own. "They dare not meddle with me," he thought, "and we cannot be as she is. But no matter, we will go to her, wife; yes, we will go to-morrow. Get the things ready. Thou wilt guide us, friend?"
"And guard ye, too, with our lives," said Lukshmun. "Yes, to-morrow early, we will set out."
And so next day Vishnu Pundit and his friends marvelled that the Shastree and his family left them so suddenly, and knew not why they went, or whither.
We need not relate how the hunchback was washed clean from his sins, how he and his companion entertained those who came to themthat night, nor how he resisted their temptations to stay and sing to others, who, they told him, would load him with gold. Those he was taking to his master were more precious than gold; and the same anxiety to present them to him in safety, was shared equally by Fazil and by Tara while awaiting their arrival.
Five days,—two to go and three to return—perhaps more; never had time appeared so interminable to those who remained at Kurrar: never had journey appeared so wearisome to the Shastree. The spirit within him was strong and earnest, but he had suffered much; and, till roused by the hunchback's tidings, Anunda and Radha feared that he had sunk into that lethargic apathy which often precedes death. He could not be awakened from it. Had Tara died a Sutee, it might have been endured. Excitement and religious enthusiasm, even the glory of the voluntary sacrifice, would have deadened nature for a while, at least, in both her parents; but the attack upon the sacred procession, though but one had died in it, by, as they supposed, lawless robbers—and the subsequent murder, as they believed, of their child—had produced a revulsion which, to the Shastree, had wellnigh proved fatal, and for many days those about him gave up hope of life. The remains, as they supposed, of Tara had, as we know, been brought in, and burned by the river-side with all due ceremony; and after the period of mourning and impurity had passed, the Shastree and his wives were to have set out on their return home. Still, however, they lingered; for the climate had not agreed with Anunda, who had, in her turn, fallen ill with fever, and they could not travel.
During this period, they had heard from friends much of what had befallen Tara: and yet not all of Moro Trimmul's share in her misfortunes. The only person who could have told them truly was Gunga, and she was dead. Radha had her own suspicions of her brother; but beyond his wild attempt on the day of the Sutee, to induce her to put Tara into his power, she had not seen him; and his violent death, while it affected her mournfully, ended her anxieties ere the murder of Gunga was discovered.
It was with difficulty that the impatience of the Shastree and Anunda could be restrained. They reached and passed Sattara the first day, and would fain have travelled by relays of men without resting, but the hunchback and Bulwunt Rao, when they joined him, would not hear of increased exertion. "I will write by a speedy messenger that you are safe," he said; "but if I do not bring you in well to them, my lord will be angry, therefore submit yourselves to necessity,"—as, indeed, they were obliged to do.
Of his master's intentions, the hunchback had said nothing. Who was he, to know anything about them? The lady Tara was in honour as a guest; that was all he knew. Yes, his master hadcarried her off. Could he know that one who had been his guest, and had truly eaten of his salt, was to be burned alive, and not make an effort to save her? and she was still a Brahmun, and had Brahmun women attending upon her.
But Bulwunt Rao, who waited their coming at a village on the road with an escort of the Paigah, had no such discretion, and told what he believed—that Fazil and Tara had been privately betrothed. The lady Lurlee, he said, had one day distributed sugar-candy and pân to all the household, and to the mosque and other holy places in the town: and some had been sent to him on a silver salver covered with a cloth of brocade. What did that mean? And when the Shastree remonstrated, with a natural horror, at the idea of a Brahmun girl marrying a Mussulman, Bulwunt Rao replied curtly—
"What could you do with her, Shastree, if you had her? You see she is no longer a Brahmun, but an outcast. You could not even give her water; and the two old Brahmun women who attended her in her illness, and the one who now waits on her, will have to be purified with plenty of ceremonies—and plenty to pay for them, too, will be needed; but do not care for that, Shastree, my lord is very wealthy. So, you see, we must give her up as a Hindu, and even let her go into the other faith."
The Shastree would groan at these home truths, but could reply nothing. As to his wife, she rejoiced heartily, and had no misgiving. The expression of a mother's nature would not be denied to Anunda; for there is no mother with the experience of a life's love grown into her heart, who does not rejoice in the thought of a wife's useful happiness to her daughter, and in the expectation of its fruits! All that had been done to soothe Tara, to distract her mind, to fill up the vacant place there with other interests—learning, religious exercise, and devotion to the service of the goddess—had been tried in turn, and were, as Anunda felt, but a mockery.
Possibly, most probably, indeed, under other circumstances, Tara's pure mind would eventually have taken refuge in asceticism, and those severe penances, in which the woman who had persecuted her at Pertâbgurh, had grown to take delight; but, knowing the too frequent condition of the indulgence of lawless love by women situated like her daughter, and exposed to the same temptations, Anunda had often trembled for her safety; and yet owned to herself that, to doubt her, was profanation.
No, she could not object. Had she been simply asked the question previously, as a proud Brahmun woman, she must have refused. Now, circumstances had put that far beyond her reach. To object, would not retard the final issue, or influence it in any way; but to consent joyfully, would add so much, and so supremely to Tara's happiness, that opposition quickly grew to be an impossibility in thegood lady's mind: and before she came to the end of the first day's journey, Fazil himself could not have desired a warmer advocate.
A good deal of this fell out from being left to herself. Palankeens had been hired; and as the three travellers were carried on singly for hours together, each had fallen into the train of thought most congenial. Radha had certainly no voice in the matter, but was delighted. Anunda, between joy for her recovered child, and her new prospects of an honourable life, had been wellnigh beside herself at first, and the quiet soothing motion of the litter was of all things the best, perhaps, to calm her, and bring her practical mind into perception of the true realities of the position. "We have mourned her as dead," she said to herself, "we have performed all the ceremonies, and distributed all the charities necessary for the occasion; now she is alive after all, and born again into a new faith; so the death which we believed in, was a type of what was to be fulfilled. I see it all now," she said to herself, "and so it has been ordered for her without the pain of burning. Strange, my husband does not see this, but I will tell it to him when we arrive."
And so she did. Radha, too, caught up this tone of argument as best suited to her husband's mind, and the two women agreeing, left him little to say. It did not appear he had anything to urge or to object. "This is some punishment for her sins in an earlier life," he said to Anunda; "and 'tis well it is no worse."
Anunda and Radha could not see the punishment, except that Tara would have to eat unclean things; otherwise, what was left to be desired?
If this was their deliberate opinion at the close of the first day's march,—the second day, and the quiet jogging motion of the litters, the change of air and scene, and the peace which had settled gradually into their hearts, had much more than confirmed it. Whatever there was of objection, was dealt with on the first evening; and on the second, as they rested for the night, impatience to see their child once more, an irrepressible yearning to place her happiness beyond doubt, or chance of mishap, had driven out all other feeling. So, on the third morning, as they entered their litters for the day's journey, and knew they would reach Kurrar before sunset, Anunda, who laughed and cried by turns in a strange manner, as she dressed their morning meal herself before they set out, saw, with a thankful heart, that the heavy care which had sat on her husband's spirit for so long had passed away, and his old placid, benign expression, had taken its place.
That afternoon, as the sun's rays lengthened, and were filled with that golden radiance which clothed the meanest objects with glory, and lighted up the town and fort, and the camp beyond,—the little procession of the three palankeens, and the small body of horsemen,approached the town gate. Bulwunt Rao had timed their arrival to suit the lady Lurlee's desire, for the astrological tables had been once more consulted, and the Moollas of several mosques had been obliged to declare the most fortunate hour for the entry of the party into the town. Messengers, too, had met them, enjoining care in this respect; and Bulwunt Rao and the hunchback were both relieved by the appearance of a last emissary at the gate to express approval of their arrangements and to urge them on.
No need of hastening now. The bearers themselves were in hurry enough; for Bulwunt Rao's promise had been liberal, and they had kept the horsemen at a brisk canter for the last few miles of the journey. Now, therefore, shouting and hallooing to each other, the men who carried the litters, rushed through the gate of the town, and up the main street at their utmost speed; and there was a race between the three sets, in which Anunda's were victorious, and clamoured for largesse as they set down her palankeen before the door of the kind merchant's house where Tara still was. Much the good lady had deliberated in her mind whether she could ever be touched by Tara without pollution, and whether it could be avoided; and we believe we are correct in saying that she had determined, if it were to cost her half, or all the money she had left in the banker's hands at Tooljapoor, she did not care, but she must hold her child once more to her heart.
Could she have repressed it? Ah no! a very outcast in shame, in misery, in misfortune—no matter had it been so—the loving mother's heart would still have been open, as her arms, to receive her child; but in Tara's renewed life, as it were, in joy and in honour, what signified the temporary impurity of contact with one only impure by the hard rules of their sect? Anunda trembled very much, and scarcely knew how she got out of the litter; but as she emerged, a figure she could hardly see for the tears which blurred her sight, and which seemed to swim before her, bowed down and kissed her feet, was raised up, and, failing on her neck, wept aloud. Then it was strained to her heart with a face buried in her bosom which dare not look up, till her father and Radha entered, and Tara, prostrating herself before him, clung to his knees sobbing. With him, too, some scruple about touching her had remained; but his emotion on sight of her could not be resisted, and he raised her up and blessed her as of old. I do not think any of them could speak, and if they did say anything, it was not intelligible enough to be recorded, and is better imagined.
Then Anunda sat down, for she was very dizzy: and Tara saw the loving arms stretched out, and went and lay down in them on the soft bosom in her old place, and hid her face there, and felt her mother's tears fall hot and fast upon it, while her own were wipedaway by the dear bands that had often wiped them before. By-and-by she looked up, and her mother saw in the clear soft eye, in the ineffable expression of her countenance, that all trouble and anxiety was past. No more excitement now, false and mocking, even though sustained by religious fervour; and the peaceful calm which had grown upon the face since her recovery, was a new expression to her mother, which she felt could not change again.
Then Lurlee came with Zyna presently, when the Shastree had been sent away, and, putting Tara aside, Anunda arose and bowed before her, kissing her feet, and embracing her knees. "She is thy child now, lady," she said; "take a mother's thanks and gratitude for her honour and her life. In our simple Hindu fashion, we know no other salutation, else it would be given."
"Nay, not to me, but to Alla, who hath preserved her—not we," replied Lurlee. "Noble ye are, though of another faith. Let us embrace as sisters, to whom our mutual God hath given one daughter."
"It must be done, sooner or later," said Anunda to herself, as she withdrew from Lurlee's arms, "and better at once. Come hither, Tara: see how soon I give thee away, my child, after I have recovered thee. Wilt thou forgive me? Take her, lady," she continued, putting Tara into Lurlee's arms; "thou art more her mother now, than I. She hath been born to thee in a new life; be it as thou wilt unto her."
"I take her," replied Lurlee, "as she is given, freely and truly. I had no child, lady, and often had prayed for one, and Alla and the Prophet gave her to me long ago, before all this misery, and when my lord lived, who would have rejoiced with us to see this day had he been spared. Yes, believing you dead, we took her to be our child, he and I. Now you have given her to me, and the gift is precious and is accepted: but I will not take it yet; we are proceeding home, and you will come with us,—we will travel together. When we arrive, I will receive her; till then, let her remain with you; as yet she is pure from us——"
"Yes, mother, I am pure, I have transgressed nothing," said Tara gently. "I know," she continued, interrupting Anunda, "I am not as before; but you can give me what I need till—till ... and there is no help for it now." Anunda and the Shastree did not object, and so it was settled among them.
How much they had to learn of each other's acts! Nor was it till Tara told all, and they understood what the infamy of Moro Trimmul's conduct had been, that they felt the true honour of Fazil's character, or the deep loving kindness of the lady Lurlee and his sister. A grateful subject was this, now that she could speak unreservedly with Radha and her mother, and Tara had to repeat her tale again and again to willing ears. Sometimes her father, too, listened wonderingly; and there was no part of it upon which he dwelt with morepride, even to rapture, than Tara's simple relation of the ordeal, and her devotion of herself to a cruel death rather than to dishonour.
"A true Brahmun thou," he would say, passing his hand over her head as she read him the old lessons, "and thou wilt not forget these, nor the Mother. If thou hadst failed, even to death, she had not released thee from thy vow. As it is, see, she would not be denied a life! He used to scoff at her, and she drank his blood—not thine, my faithful child, not thine—and gave thee a new life, which will be happy. Yes, the Khánum's skill in astrology is good, for my own calculations confirm her results, and, comparing his scheme of nativity with thine, Tara, there is no discordance." But, nevertheless, the fact of Fazil's being born a Moslem and Tara a Hindu, often puzzled Vyas Shastree more than his science could explain, or than he cared to acknowledge.
There were many cogent reasons, public as well as private, why Fazil Khan's presence in Beejapoor was urgently required. Soon after his arrival at Kurrar, he had received the King's letter of condolence on his father's loss, with confirmation of all his estates and privileges, and with them a private letter in the King's own writing, urging him to come on without delay. The full effect of the destruction of the army had as yet, perhaps, hardly been felt, and the means of retrieving the disaster, or repelling the invasion which was likely to follow, were difficult to devise. As usual, the royal counsels were much distracted; but, young as he was, the character which Fazil Khan had acquired among the soldiery during the few short months of this campaign had raised him already to a rank far beyond that of his contemporaries, and even many of his elders. Only for Tara's long illness he would have proceeded to Beejapoor immediately after his arrival at Kurrar, and left the duty of collecting the fugitives to others; but that had rendered delay unavoidable, and all those who had escaped slaughter had joined him. On the other hand, Kowas Khan wrote that his preparations for the fulfilment of his marriage-contract were complete, and protested against further delay: and when the days of mourning for his father should expire, Fazil had no valid excuse for procrastination. In this the lady Lurlee agreed perfectly, and her idea of a double marriage in the family was by no means unacceptable.
In truth that long-desired event much occupied the good lady's thoughts, almost, indeed, engrossing them. What preparations would not have to be made! and all by her. There were Zyna'sclothes and Tara's to be put in hand immediately; there were stores of flour, and butter, and spices, and sugar to be laid in, flocks of sheep to come from Afzoolpoor, all the dancing women in Beejapoor to be engaged, fireworks to be made, and sweetmeats without end. All the new bridal ornaments had to be designed and executed, and this was no easy matter. Inshalla! however, she was determined it should all be done; and when Lurlee Khánum took anything into her head, there was less difficulty, perhaps, in doing it, than with others who talked more.
They did not tarry now. An express was sent to the capital that they had determined to leave Kurrar on the ensuing Monday, and Lurlee was more than ever particular that on this, their last voluntary journey, all that could be done to insure its being propitious, should be observed. They were to travel south-eastward, and Monday was the sixth day of the month, so that the mysterious "Murdan-ool-Ghyb" (the invisible being) was behind them, as he ought to be. The old tablets showed, too, that Venus ruled the hour before noon, which was a very convenient time for starting, because everyone would have bathed and eaten, and they could travel on till evening without difficulty. Now, too, the weather was cool, nay, the air was positively cold in the early mornings, when exposure to it was not wholesome, and all their preparations were made accordingly. As they were about to enter their litters, the good lady made both the girls and Fazil look at themselves in a glass, which was the crowning ceremony of all; and we believe that there never were merrier faces, or a journey begun in truer hope, and with more thankful hearts.
True, Lurlee missed the familiar countenance which, though sometimes it used to look kindly on her, and sometimes was impatient, was in the main a loving one—sadly,—very sadly; and as the city grew nigh, she had a dread, shared by Zyna and her brother, that the first days in the old house would be inexpressibly painful. So, also, when remembrances of the dear old Khan came over her, the good lady would weep plentifully and be the better of it; and Goolab and the cook Kurreema, who, having escaped the Mahrattas, rejoined her mistress at Kurrar, and had shared all her trials, were ever ready with pithy consolations, and practical expectations of the blessings in store for her which, indeed, she was well inclined to believe.
We may say, too, as perhaps hardly unnatural, that Zyna's approaching marriage was by no means terrible in contemplation: and the eagerness of her betrothed to have it concluded, gave earnest of the happiness which she hoped for, indeed felt assured of. We feel that we do not know much of this young man, and that, if it had fallen to his lot to accompany the Khan's army, he might have become a prominent character in this history, and displayed that devotion for Zyna and his friend Fazil, which we believe he reallypossessed. But after all, perhaps, it was better as it was. Who can say, for instance, whether he would have escaped the bloody field at Jowly, or the massacre in the ambush at Pertâbgurh,—or the deadly fever of the forests and jungles, which had destroyed so many who had escaped the sword?
We have no doubt, too, had the lady Lurlee set herself to work to find out astrological reasons why he did not accompany the Khan, that they would have been discoverable: but as she had agreed with her husband that, for the present, he was better away, so she had left these mysteries unsolved, and the issue to the young man had been favourable. Not only had his house been put in order in all respects, and the ceremonies after his father's death completed, but those preparations begun in which Zyna was so deeply interested, and of which our friend the Lalla, who, as we know, had been attached to the young nobleman by Afzool Khan as secretary, wrote minute and eloquent accounts.
According to him, never had such preparations been made: while the accomplished scribe exhausted the Gulistan, the Mejnoon-i-Leila, and other love-stories, for the choicest couplets to adorn his letters, he not unfrequently composed other verses himself. Most frequently, too, in the bold rough hand which Kowas Khan wrote, there would be a postscript to say Fazil (which meant Zyna) was only to believe him as devoted as ever in all respects; and whenever Fazil gave these epistles to his sister to read, and directed especial notice to the postscripts, we are strongly inclined to consider that she found them by far their most acceptable portions. Under the constitution of Mussulman society, even had her lover been in camp, he could have seen nothing of Zyna, and she would have been in stricter seclusion from him, perhaps, than others. As she was content to take him upon hearsay, and to trust, like all her people, to after-life with him, to know him as a lover and husband too, we do not see what business we have to discuss the matter at all in this narrative.
So the journey was soon over, and little more than a hundred miles, with a light equipage, was quickly traversed. Lurlee had written to her old friend, the Moolla of the ward in which they lived, to send a special messenger to inform her at what hour it would be lucky to enter the house with two expectant brides in company; and that worthy, in conjunction with other friends, had duly solved this knotty question: and sent a return express to meet them at the last halting-place, wherein all the particulars were duly disclosed, and, we need not say, most scrupulously observed.
Fazil had wished to ride on several stages in advance and get to court, where the King looked anxiously for his coming; but Lurlee would not hear of it. "Who could tell," she said, "what might not result from so incautious a proceeding? They had met with greatmisfortune, which was happily past; were they to risk more? No; she was positive;" and we believe fully, that they were all much too happy together, to wrangle with her.
Fazil saw Tara daily; and she and Zyna were little troubled by Lurlee, who was now busied in consultations with her domestic advisers, which appeared to be delightfully interminable. Every now and then, however, she would come into the tent where they sat—for Zyna was teaching Tara the pretty embroidery-work she practised herself—and, looking at Tara and saying nothing, would pass her hands over her, and press them against her temples, to remove evil, and then go away smiling.
Ah yes, she was very precious now. If Zyna or Tara laughingly asked how much evil could have accumulated in those short intervals, the good lady would shake her head, and once shocked Zyna by saying, that she should not think even, of Tara's beauty, lest it should altogether depart. We believe, however, that Zyna did not fear such a catastrophe. It was growing much too palpable and real to be doubted, or to be in danger of fading away: and became only the greater when, as Zyna looked at it, and whispered something which was probably a secret between the girls, though Anunda guessed it as she sat with them, Tara covered her face, or hid it in Zyna's neck, or in her mother's bosom.
But the first few days after they arrived—in spite of congratulations of friends—of kind messages from the palace—of piles of Nuzzurs, or offerings of various kinds—were melancholy ones to all, yet tempered with grateful acknowledgements of providential care. Immediately on arrival, the requisite offerings were despatched to all the holy places of the neighbourhood and the city itself, as they had before arranged. The old Moolla, as almoner, collected a strange tribe of vagrant Fakeers, who were fed to repletion in the large courtyards; and the Shastree and Anunda made their offerings after their own fashion, at Hindu temples.
The journey, and the constant association with Lurlee and Zyna, had done much to reconcile Anunda to Mussulman ways; and, perhaps, in such matters women are more facile than men, for she was prepared for the evidences of wealth and rank which she saw on her arrival; but her husband and Fazil did not make much progress. The simple Hindu priest could not bring himself to be on an equality with the young Moslem noble; but he admitted the respect of Fazil for him gratefully, and a sincere affection sprang up between them out of it, which, if undemonstrative, was not the less permanent.
All Vyas Shastree now wished for, was the unavoidable termination. Till it took place he was not in his proper position. Few, if any, Brahmuns knew the history of Tara in the capital; but he did not feel justified, being impure, in visiting members of his own sect,till he had performed expiatory ceremonies, and so, with his wives, kept himself secluded in a court of the house specially allotted to him, and the garden we know of, the shade and quiet of which suited him. Radha, too, required rest and care; and so a month passed, for Lurlee would not be hurried. She had much on hand, she said, and must do it after her own fashion; and no one interfered with her and her assistants.
Perhaps we need not follow the good lady to the end of it; but as all matters of this kind, when loving care directs them, have an inevitably happy conclusion, so we are bound to relate that nothing was wanting here. Tara said that Zyna's marriage might be as splendid as it could be made, and suited to the rank and condition of two noble houses; but with her it should be different, and so it was. If there was a shade of disappointment upon the old lady's brow, because the son of Afzool Khan was not married with the same splendour as the son of the late Wuzeer, who had no family to boast of, it passed away when Fazil himself declared it could not be otherwise, and the wistful pleading face of Tara confirmed it.
So, as part of the magnificent ceremony which united Zyna to her betrothed—the like of which had not been seen in Beejapoor for years—Tara was admitted to the Moslem faith, and the blessing of God and the peace of the Prophet said over her as she repeated the new creed, received her new name of Ayésha, and was received into her new home. Then the chief Kazee, who had conducted the prayers, blessed all, and cried with a loud voice, solemnly—
"O Lord God! grant that such love may live between these couples, thy servants, as was between Adam and Eve, Abraham and Sara, Moses and Sufoora, his highness Mahomed—on whom be peace—and Ayésha. Ameen and ameen!" and all the assembly repeated solemnly, "Ameen and ameen!"
Some of the old Khan's friends wondered, some sneered, some blamed the young man's choice, but more congratulated him; for, as they said, "though she was once an infidel, she is now a true believer; and, after all, was he not free to choose what would best insure his own honour and happiness?" We are bound to record, however, that those matrons who, being privileged friends and guests, were indulged with a sight of the bride's beautiful face—as Tara's veil was raised from amidst the cloud of gauze and silver tissue in which it was enveloped—did not wonder at all that it had been irresistible; and there might have been some envious also, regretting that daughters of their own had lost their chance in the choice which Fazil had made. So, to prevent any evil consequences, Lurlee, with her own hands, waved over Tara's head in succession, tray after tray of lighted lamps and certain condiments which would infallibly avert evil glances, and ended by passing her hands over the bride and blessing her. "Maystthou be fruitful," she said, embracing her, "and remain, with beauty undiminished, the joy of thy lord; and may his love for thee increase till it is fulfilled and perfected in Paradise. So be thou blessed, O my daughter, altogether!"
Even more fervently did her mother bless Tara. Although Anunda had cheerfully taken part in those portions of the ceremonies that were possible without clashing with the observances of her own faith, yet for the most part they were strange, and she had felt out of place. But she and her husband were thankful they had witnessed all to the close—thankful that Tara had been with them to the last. Henceforth their lives must be divided, but there was an assurance of honour and protection to their child which soothed the inevitable separation, and filled their hearts with hope and trust.
Long she sat alone with them, and they spoke of the future calmly and joyfully. There had been no misgiving from the first; and while they could not, if they would, have recalled Tara to their own faith, they saw in her future life as much of true happiness as they could have wished for. So they blessed her; and after their own simple fashion put her hands into Fazil's: and he took her from them, and, touching their necks, vowed to be faithful, and they believed him.
"They have given thee to me, O beloved," Fazil said to Tara, as her parents departed on their journey homewards. "Now fear not. As sacred to me as my vow before the priest, was the last vow to them. Fear not now, Ayésha!"
"I would rather be Tara to thee, my lord, for ever," she said shyly. "The little maiden who, once rescued by thee from dishonour, has lived in thy heart since then, cannot change to thee, even in name."
"Be it so," he replied. "To thy new people be Ayésha; to me, Tara—so be witness, my God and thy God—evermore!"