CHAPTER IXASRA FIGHTS AGAIN
The departure of the Rajah and his army wrought, at first, little visible change in the life of the palace at Mandu. The zenana was a little duller, the ceremonies less formal, the work of the royal court less arduous;—for Manava, though a just man, had not his over-lord’s popularity as a judge. To Fidá, however, the absence of Rai-Khizar-Pál made a marked difference; and his life was almost entirely changed. He had a new sense of freedom; and he saw Ahalya oftener than ever. Since she was no longer subject to her husband’s will, both she and Fidá had a much greater feeling of confidence, but also a greater sense of dishonor than when he was at hand. The duties of the Asra, meantime, were light, and less uncertain than they had been. All the morning, and, indeed, nearly to mid-afternoon, he was with Bhavani. But when their various tasks and pursuits were over, the young prince generally elected to spend the rest of his time in the zenana, where he was the spoiled pet of twenty or thirty women. In this way many hours were unquestioningly open for the slave and Ahalya; but Fidá was shortly made aware that most of them must be hours of sadness. One weekfrom the evening on which he had had his last talk with Churi, he reappeared in the room of the eunuch, who, as usual at that hour, was within. The Asra walked up to him, and silently tendered him the golden box. Churi looked quickly into his face—and his eyes remained fixed there.
“The charm—hath not worked?” he asked.
“No,” answered Fidá, shortly.
“Thou’rt not better?—Thou’rt worse?”
“Yes.”
“But the reason of it?” Churi looked down at the treasure now lying in his own hand, and a faint smile stole across his lips. “The charm—is gone?”
“I sold it. I sold the birthright of the Asra. I have doubly cursed my race. It is fitting, indeed, that I should expiate the sin by death!”
“Nay, despairing one. We shall cure thee yet. ’Tis but a lingering fever. I shall try to help thee. There is a certain draught of herbs—”
Fidá interrupted him with a sort of laugh. “Nay, Churi, spare thy skill. Fever-draughts will not avail against the curse of the Saint. There. I thank thy generosity. I thank thee, also, Churi, for all the rest thou hast done for me. I tell thee now in the face of death, that, were all to do over, I would face a thousand ends for half the glory I have known in her. And all this, I owe to thee. Had I mine uncle’s riches in addition to the ruby, they should be thine. And yet—Allah comfort her when I am gone! That—that, Churi, makes me suffer. Oh, I talk folly in myweakness. Heed me not. A peaceful rest to thee!” And, turning on his heel, Fidá was gone.
Time crept slowly along, and the Asra, absorbed in his duties and in his increasing weakness, took little note of the many things that passed about him. Ragunáth, busied with his share of government, was now doubly occupied with certain plans and desires of a private nature. It was a strange thing that Rai-Khizar-Pál had never seemed to suspect what all the rest of the palace knew: that Ragunáth was, and for a long time had been, deeply enamoured of Ahalya, who, six months before, had been almost at the stage of returning his affection. But for the past four months, indeed since the sharp repulse he had met with from the lady herself, Ragunáth had had the wisdom to make no attempt to see her. Now, at last, however, the time seemed favorable for a renewal of his efforts; and the mere possibility of success roused the man’s long-stifled passion with unconquerable fierceness. Rai-Khizar being well out of reach, Ragunáth was now a great power in the government. Manava he considered almost unimportant, but pliable. And so did he turn over matters in his mind, that he finally arrived at a casual, well-arranged talk with his fellow-minister, begun about servants in general, and continuing to Kasya in particular, who was getting old, who would be well replaced by some younger, more vigorous man:—Kripa, perhaps? He, Ragunáth, felt that the whole matter might be adjusted very simply, and would himself undertake it and its responsibility. Manavalistened to him, seemed struck with the idea, considered it for a little, in his grave, inscrutable way, and then said some pleasant things to his coadjutor. Nevertheless, Ragunáth, on retiring, found that his point had not been gained; found that he had an impression that Manava considered the whole affair absurd; but was able to lay his memory on not one single unpleasant word that the other had spoken. He began then to perceive that he had underestimated his companion in office.
The failure of his scheme was a serious disappointment, and proved for a time a check upon his plans. Review the situation as he would, he could see no point in Ahalya’s guardianship that had not already been tried and found invincible. Considerably involved in other matters, he was forced to leave this, that was nearest his heart, alone for a little; though her image was scarcely out of his mind by day or night. And with all his brain’s ferment, Ragunáth found no hope of action until, for her own reasons, Chance, the great goddess, stepped scornfully in, and gave him what no scheming could have brought about.
Spring was now far along, and March at an end. It was the time of year when all young things were at the fulness of their vitality; for in India the late spring, before the coming of intolerable heat, is the real summer of the growing world. All nature was filled with vivid life. Each lightest thread of zephyr carried with it a shower of golden pollen, blown for floral marriage-beds. Birds and beasts had long since mated. And by night the bulbul in the champak bushes sang to hismate throbbing songs of the children that were coming to them from the eggs over which she brooded. Lutes in the hands of poets attuned themselves to the triumph of love; and, under the universal spell, only Fidá could not rise to it. On the afternoon of the third of April, the Arab had been with Ahalya for a moment only, showing himself too miserable to linger at her side; and she had sent him sadly away to rest alone, and perhaps sleep back into a semblance of life. Left to herself, Ahalya found it impossible to be still. She was young, and there was no curse on her to keep the summer from flowing in her veins. Neila was asleep somewhere in the zenana. She must have some one to speak to; and, even as she pondered, the young Bhavani bounded in to her with a fascinating and unwise proposal. Some slave, he said, had told him that this year, in the water-palace pool, there was a blossom of blue lotos, the flower said to be found only in paradise. Would she not go out with him to see if it were really there? Ahalya seized on the idea with alacrity. She longed to get into the living world; and Bhavani was delighted with her enthusiasm. The Ranee veiled herself, and then, calling no one to attend them, they hurried into the little courtyard, out of it into the north wing, and so across a corner of the great court and into the road to the water palace. And, as Fate had decreed, Ragunáth, sitting at council in the great audience chamber, caught, through its open doorway, one fleeting glimpse of Ahalya’s veiled figure, recognized it instantly with the divining eyes of desire, and began to calculate how soon he should be able to follow her.
Unconscious of the ill-omened gaze, careless of the recklessness and the indecorum of walking abroad unattended, Ahalya went on, hand in hand with the worshipful boy, joyously drinking in the exquisite air of the late afternoon. The sun almost touched the river in the west, and the air was suffused with rosy gold. From the south came a fragrant breeze, laden with the spicy breath of far Ceylon. There was a twittering chorus of birds. The trees and shrubs on every side were clad in foliage in the highest stage of fresh beauty. The tamarind and the willow vied with each other in grace. The bamboo was tufted with palest silver-green. The almond trees had finished blossoming, and the grass beneath their branches was strewn with pinkish petals. Here and there was a lilac shrub, heavy with clusters of pale purple flowers—emblems of Persia. And in sunny places the grass was strewn with white and golden gillyflowers, with occasional starry narcissi and daffodils. The whole world was abloom, and the air heavy with perfume.
As she proceeded, Ahalya’s languid delight increased to a species of intoxication. She was bewildered by the beauty of the world, enchanted by the high, pure notes of the birds, by the whisper of winds in the trees, by the heavy hum of drunken bees, by the murmur of distant, rushing water. Bhavani, a little overcome by her manner, presently broke away from her to run after a new-come butterfly; and Ahalya walked on alone to the water palace. Arrived there, and seeing Bhavani happily racing away at a little distance, the Raneeseated herself beside the pool, almost in the very spot where, months before, Fidá had stood and listened to the curse that welled from out the mountains, whose sides were now swathed in a bluish haze, that grew gradually golden in the light of the setting sun. Here, in the shade of the willows and bamboos that overhung the basin, Ahalya’s mood changed, and her thoughts were no longer of the joy of the young summer.
She thought on darker things: of the plight in which she was, of the worse one that was shortly to come to her. In her love of Fidá Ahalya was now, and, after the first day, had been, remorseless and surprisingly careless of discovery. This was all in accordance with the training of the child-woman, who, though she did not know it, had loved the Rajah as a daughter only, and had turned from him to the young Arab with all the truth and all the womanhood in her. There could never be for her another like Fidá. And she knew now that the end of love was very near. She had been denied its expression for a long time; but while its object lived she did not care. Now, however, in the midst of this brilliant scene, she suddenly perceived how weak, how worn he was. And it was borne in upon her that the pallor of his face was the pallor of death. How soon would the end come? How would it come? Could she show her love for him in performing the suttee? Would there be opportunity? or would he be burned, like a dog, on a handful of sticks, in the city of the dead at the other end of the plateau, far from her reach? The thoughtwas too hideous to be maintained; but the shadow of it darkened over her heart. How was it possible that such dreadful things could be? How—
She was interrupted in her morbid revery by Bhavani, who, tired of butterflies, came to drag her round the pools in search of the blue lily. Ahalya was not now in the humor for this amusement; and Bhavani became slightly peremptory in his demands. So, finally, she released herself from him, and, while he ran on, to the other side of the building, she, desirous of returning to her meditation, melancholy though it was, began slowly to pace up and down the flowery turf. Bhavani was quite out of sight; and Ahalya herself, her back toward the road, stood gazing out over the sunset plain below, when there was a sudden step behind her, and a voice exclaimed in her ear:
“Can it be that I have found the embodied spirit of the summer?”
She turned sharply, and found herself face to face with Ragunáth. Her first impression was one of disgust at the expression on his face; her first instinct to escape as quickly as possible from his presence.
“I am not a spirit at all. I have lingered here too long and must go at once. Your favor, sir. Let me pass!” She motioned him imperiously out of her way; but, to her amazement, he only moved as she did, so as to be always in her path.
He smiled, regarding her half-admiringly, half-respectfully, but kept his position till, stamping onesmall foot upon the ground, she cried, angrily: “Out of my path, my Lord Ragunáth!”
“Nay, be not so hurried, Ranee,” he returned, mildly.
Annoyed by the presumption which his tone belied, she lifted her eyes and looked him fairly in the face. A shudder ran through her frame. At last she realized that he did not intend to let her go: that her wishes were now of no consequence. Instantly she was alive to her situation. She looked around her, terrified, desperate, and perceived, at a little distance along the wall of the palace young Bhavani, standing quite still, staring at the figure of the newcomer. Immediately Ahalya began waving her hand to him:
“Bhavani! Bhavani! Run quickly! Seek thy master!”
Ragunáth grasped her roughly by the arm. “Silence!” he cried. And indeed she was silent, for, even as her tormentor spoke, she saw Bhavani turn and start like a deer in the direction of the palace. And Ahalya knew well to whom he would go first of all.
In a measure relieved, understanding that now she had only to gain time, her wits rose to the situation, and she turned her face to Ragunáth’s frown, and laughed. “Art thou so angry that I have sent the boy away? Wouldst thou have had him stand there gazing at us? Even Radha despatched her maidens ere she let Krishna look upon her face unveiled. Hast thou not heard that tale, my lord?” She smiled on him incomparably.
Ragunáth’s reply was a laugh. He, who trusted no living man, was in an instant thrown off his guard by a woman’s trembling coquetry. “I have heard the tale.—What lover hath not? Yet it hath never been sung to me in the young summer, and by one resembling Radha as thou dost. Sing to me, then, beautiful one, of the loves of Radha and Krishna.”
“But I have neither lute nor harp.”
“It matters not. There is no instrument that would dare accompany thy voice.”
So Ahalya, her heart throbbing with fright, her whole body quivering with loathing of the man who walked so closely at her side, began to sing. And as she sang, the daylight sank from the sky; for the sun had set, and darkness, most terrible to her plight, was upon the land. She sang the eleventh Sarga of the great epic: that of the union of Krishna and Radha, which she had so often poured into the ears of him she delighted to call her god. And even now, at the joyous triumph in the words, her heart was sighing at the emptiness of her love. This, to the music Vasanta and the mode Yati, is what she sang:
“‘Follow, happy Radha, follow,In the quiet falling twilight,The steps of him who followed theeSo steadfastly and far—’”
“‘Follow, happy Radha, follow,In the quiet falling twilight,The steps of him who followed theeSo steadfastly and far—’”
“‘Follow, happy Radha, follow,In the quiet falling twilight,The steps of him who followed theeSo steadfastly and far—’”
“‘Follow, happy Radha, follow,
In the quiet falling twilight,
The steps of him who followed thee
So steadfastly and far—’”
“That is true, most beautiful Radha. Let thy fair feet henceforth follow me through the land of delight,” murmured Ragunáth, in her ear.
Her voice shook as, without replying, she went on:
“‘Let us bring thee where the banjulasHave spread a roof of crimsonLit up by many a marriage lampOf planet, sun, and star.’“‘For the hours of doubt are overAnd thy glad and faithful loverHath found the road by tears and prayersTo thy divinest side—’”“‘And thou wilt not deny him,’”
“‘Let us bring thee where the banjulasHave spread a roof of crimsonLit up by many a marriage lampOf planet, sun, and star.’“‘For the hours of doubt are overAnd thy glad and faithful loverHath found the road by tears and prayersTo thy divinest side—’”“‘And thou wilt not deny him,’”
“‘Let us bring thee where the banjulasHave spread a roof of crimsonLit up by many a marriage lampOf planet, sun, and star.’
“‘Let us bring thee where the banjulas
Have spread a roof of crimson
Lit up by many a marriage lamp
Of planet, sun, and star.’
“‘For the hours of doubt are overAnd thy glad and faithful loverHath found the road by tears and prayersTo thy divinest side—’”
“‘For the hours of doubt are over
And thy glad and faithful lover
Hath found the road by tears and prayers
To thy divinest side—’”
“‘And thou wilt not deny him,’”
“‘And thou wilt not deny him,’”
broke in Ragunáth, whispering,
“‘One delight of all thy beauty;But yield up open-heartedHis pearl, his prize, his bride!’”
“‘One delight of all thy beauty;But yield up open-heartedHis pearl, his prize, his bride!’”
“‘One delight of all thy beauty;But yield up open-heartedHis pearl, his prize, his bride!’”
“‘One delight of all thy beauty;
But yield up open-hearted
His pearl, his prize, his bride!’”
Ahalya shuddered again and was silent, wondering what evil genius had made her begin that song. She began to fear, desperately, that Bhavani had not understood: that she was really left alone, at the mercy of this man whom she feared as much as she hated. Therefore, filled with terror at what she had made herself do, she suddenly determined to attempt escape; and, on the instant darting from Ragunáth’s side, she started, at the top of her speed, across the grass, in the direction of the road. Ragunáth, taken wholly by surprise, stood for a second staring after her, and then hurried in pursuit. Unhampered by his garments, and far more used to swift exercise than she, he overtook her halfway to the road, and caught her round the waist in an iron clasp.
She gave a faint cry, and, at his touch, strove wildly to escape it. But Ragunáth was not now in a mood to let her go. Grasping her yet more firmly, he lifted her, and, in the starry darkness, carried her across the open space and into a little copse of champaks and wild cotton trees at one side of the empty lawn. Here began a fierce struggle. Ahalya fought like one possessed of a demon; and Ragunáth was a little aghast at the strength of her fury. Fearing to hurt her, and realizing that at this rate her strength could not last, he devoted himself only to defence and the prevention of her escape, reserving his force for the time of her exhaustion. And indeed Ahalya presently found herself in a sad plight. Her strength would not last above a minute more. Only one hope was left now; and that was desperate enough. Lifting her head, she uttered two piercing screams. And—to Ragunáth’s consternation—she was answered by a fierce cry, as a man’s figure dashed through the trees to where they stood.
Ahalya had only an instant in which to recognize the gaunt form of Fidá. She caught one view of his face in the gloom, alight with such fury as she had never dreamed he possessed. Then the two men were locked together in mortal struggle.
Broken and weak with the strain and terror of the last half-hour, horror-stricken at what was happening now, Ahalya stood like one entranced, watching without sound or movement the combat going on before her. She could not, in the darkness, distinguish between thetwo forms rolling together on the ground. The men fought without a sound:—Ragunáth with the strength of passion, Fidá with a final fury of jealousy and despair. It lasted only three or four minutes. Then the woman, who, in her terror, stood rocking her body back and forward, holding both hands to the sides of her head as if that helped her to suppress the wild screams on her lips, saw one figure suddenly rise above the other, draw a weapon from his girdle and plunge it once, twice, thrice, into the breast of the other who was struggling to lift himself from the ground. Instantly, with a low, gurgling cry, the body fell back. And Ahalya, peering like a mad-woman into the dusk at the living man, whispered hoarsely:
“Fidá—Fidá—is it thou?”
And he, who was standing straight and still, his arms hanging at his sides, answered quietly: “Yes, Ahalya. I am here. I have killed him.”