CHAPTER VIIITHE CURSE
The night moved quietly on, the moon dropped westward, and still Fidá, lying there on the dead kusa grass, did not stir. From his swoon he had fallen into a heavy sleep which was unmoved by the slow passing of the night. The far mountains, oblivious of the havoc they had wrought upon a human mind, reared themselves grimly toward the stars, and out of their fringing forests came now and then the roar of some king animal, or the melting cry of a night-bird. Little by little the moon paled and the stars grew dim, and a white mist rose over the far-flowing river. The cold breath of dawn was upon the world, and in its inimitable stillness the slave, wakened perhaps by the throbbing of his own pulses, opened his eyes dully, and shivered and then rose and stood staring down into the pool, struggling to free himself from the bonds of oblivion and of sleep. When the memory of the past night opened before him, it was as if he contemplated the undoing of another man. He made no attempt, he had no wish, to think or to reflect upon himself. The dawn was upon him—the sacred hour. Already, in the east, a pale, clear light had lifted itself upon the horizon. One or two silent birds—kites—floatedover the walls of the water palace and began to sink slowly into the depth of the plain. In the village a dog howled, an ass brayed. Instinctively the spectator inclined his ear for the muezzin’s call to prayer. But there was audible only the flutelike note of the newly wakened koïl. The east brightened. The clouds over the Vindhyas grew rosy, and the river mist was tinged with gold. In the fresh morning air Fidá could perceive how his brain burned, how his head throbbed. His body was racked with misery, but there was a great clearness in his mind:—no searching, no thinking, only a sudden upliftment and a simple sense of gratitude to nature for this, her hour. Prayer was not upon his lips; but at last it lay in his heart:—the great natural prayer that the first Hindoo, waking on his world two thousand years before, had felt and could not utter.
The hour was advancing. The line of clouds above the northeast hills changed from pale pink to a fiery rose-color that shed a glow over the whole plateau, and haloed the man who stood, with his white-clothed arms upraised, drinking in the purity around him. When at last the sun pushed its edge over the horizon, it was invisible to Fidá; but he knew, from the gradual disappearance of the delicate vapors, from the sudden quieting of the birds, thesenseof day, that the mystic dawn was over. Then, at last, Fidá realized suddenly that he was faint with weariness and parched with thirst. Slowly he took his way back to the palace, thinking not at all, only passively longing for rest. His walk over, he stopped for a moment at thewell, then went at once to his own room, and, thankfully remembering that every one would rise late to-day, threw himself on his bed and sank into another stupor-like sleep. How long it was before he regained a vague consciousness, he did not know; but he found two men standing over him, and one he recognized as the Rajah. The sight of his face caused Fidá a dull surprise; but he returned into the stupor without having uttered a word. After that his rest seemed to be broken by various dire sensations and many monstrous dreams. When his eyes opened, he always found Ahmed, and sometimes Churi, near at hand; and, comforted by their presence, realizing that, with them, delirium would be safe, he resigned himself. He knew that he was very ill. Every one else knew it. Churi was exerting his utmost skill; though he never once thought of the ruby. It did not remotely occur to him to try that as a remedy. Three or four weeks passed away, and then the fever abated a little, and gradually it came to be understood that the Rajah’s favorite slave would live. By degrees his strength, wofully depleted by the reckless strain he had put upon it for so long, came back; and by the end of January he made a feeble appearance again. He soon discovered that his sickness had not been thought unusual by any one, since in his ravings he had betrayed the fact that he had spent a night on the ground near the water palace. Indeed, it would have been strange if the fever that lurks in all damp night mists in western India had not made him a victim of his own imprudence.
This view of the matter brought a great relief to Fidá. Perhaps, after all, the incident of the curse had been just the wild dream of a sick man. Perhaps those sinister words had been spoken by his own heart. Perhaps.—Perhaps.—Perhaps. But, unnaturally, after Fidá was up and about again, he did not get well. There were days when it seemed as if his old-time vitality were returning to him; but there were many more when he felt as if, by no possibility, could he bear the weight of his limbs: when, racked with an inward fever that penetrated to the very bone, he dragged himself about only by a superhuman effort. Yet, unspeakably dreading that time when he must face the end, the slave made every effort to conceal his illness, forcing himself to much that seemed impossible for a man in his condition. One thing only he could not do. He could not see Ahalya. Now, in the light of their past vital relationship, he realized that he could no longer attempt his former rôle. Day and night, it is true, he longed for her sympathy, her tenderness, the touch of her gentle hands. But in return for her ministrations he could give her nothing—nothing but the weary plaints of a sick man. And so, steeling his heart to loneliness, he went his way, blindly and dumbly, yet still, after the pathetic human custom, hoping that life held yet a few empty years for him.
When, with mid-February, the spring appeared, Ahalya could no longer bear her unhappiness, and one evening sent Churi to Fidá, bidding him come to her. It was a summons that could not be refused; and,in the early darkness, he stole to her rooms by the little courtyard. Alas! How many, many times had he come to her thus in highest joy! How differently to-night he came! In each heart there was dread, and fear:—in hers that he long since tired of her, in his that she could no longer care for him. When he appeared she was alone, standing at the end of the room by her narrow bed, her face turned to the window through which he entered. Seeing him, she did not move, but her eyes grew big with inquiry, and her mouth drooped a little. Fidá, who could not look upon her without deep emotion, also stood silent till he could command his voice. Then he said, gently, but without much expression:
“Thou hast sent for me. I have come.”
Ahalya’s lip quivered, pitiably; and she lowered her head, without replying.
Fidá, watching her, moved forward a step or two. “Ranee—what is thy grief?” he asked, putting her, by his appellation, infinitely far away.
Ahalya gave a sob that was like a scream, and, flinging herself face down upon the divan, laughed and wept hysterically, but still without speaking. Fidá, bewildered, miserable, yet hoping something that he dared not voice, knelt at her side and longed to give her comfort; restraining himself only by a great effort. She wept as long as she would, and then suddenly ceased, lifted herself, and turned a burning gaze on him.
“Faithless one,” she said, in a low, monotonous tone: “thou faithless, infinitely despised! Did I not givemyself to thee, for thee committing the greatest sin? I loved thee, and my heart was true, and in thy long sickness by day and night I prayed to the gods for thee, vowing that, shouldst thou die, I would follow thee as becomes a widow; for in all ways I have considered myself thy true wife. And after thine illness, when I yearned unspeakably to comfort thee, didst thou come hither? didst send one word to me, that still live only in the thought of thee? Oh, tell me,” and her voice rose passionately, “who is thy new love? What is the name of her on whom thy traitor kisses fall? O thou wretched one—” her tone became a long, ungovernable wail, “O captive—O Fidá—hast thou forgotten me?”
“For the soul of Allah, Ahalya, do not torture me! Ahalya, Ahalya—I am true to thee! Look at me!”
Dropping his concealing cloak upon the floor, he stepped into the glow of light under the hanging-lamp, the pitiless rays of which fell directly across his emaciated and deathly face, out of which shone his eyes, glittering with fever. Ahalya gave a low exclamation, which he answered. “Yea, look upon my face. It is that of one that hath not much longer here. I have not told thee, thou beloved of my soul, of the curse that lies upon my race. That curse was given me by the Vindhyas on the last night that we loved. In my heart I know well that I am doomed. My strength is gone, and the weakness grows daily greater. Shall I bring this misery upon thee? Shall I—”
But here he was stopped. Comprehending him atlast, Ahalya, her eyes shining with new-found peace, went to him and put her arms about his wasted frame; and he, feeling no desire to resist, let himself be drawn down upon the divan, his head pillowed on her breast, her strong, young arms around him. “Beloved,” she murmured over him, and Fidá gave himself up to her. As he lay, passive, motionless, one of his hands wound in her curling hair, they talked together, scatteringly, of many things. Both of them understood that their burning days were forever at an end; that indeed of the quiet ones there were left not many. But, for the moment, Fidá could look upon the future without dread; and Ahalya was under the spell of too great a relief to face new calamity at once. Both knew, indeed, that the situation might have been infinitely worse. There might have come sudden parting:—death for one, for the other the torture of long waiting. Instead, the future was to be to them but a golden repetition of the golden past. And even now their companionship could be resumed, their love only growing the stronger as Fidá’s body became weak, since they were now bound by ties of truth and unselfishness that no misrepresentation or sorrow or suffering could break.
Thereafter ensued a quiet period of nearly four weeks. The spring was advanced. The planting was over, and Mandu abloom. The sun’s rays grew daily hotter, though as yet there was little discomfort from heat. It was the time of year when all growing and living things love and mate; but for Ahalya and Fidá it was the autumn of love. Their days were filled withmisgiving; for, as the inevitable end drew near, both came to suffer a great anxiety about the manner of that end.
Nor did the late spring bring joy and peace to Mandu. With the advent of gay birds from Ceylon, came also messengers from Dhár, in the north, bringing word that Omar the Asra, with a Mohammedan army, had come out of Delhi and was sweeping victoriously southward on his way to Mandu. To this warning and covert appeal for aid, Rai-Khizar-Pál could not but reply by gathering together his fighting men, and preparing to march. Mandu was in a state of excitement; but there was no rejoicing that their well-loved King must prepare to set out on a new campaign. The ministers that were to be left to rule were unpopular; for this time Ragunáth was not to accompany the army, but left co-regent with Manava over the people. For many days these matters kept all the plateau in a state of ferment; and there was perhaps only one person among them all that viewed the proceedings with apathy. He, indeed, was one to whom events might have been considered to be most important. Fidá might not unreasonably have entertained some idea of being taken upon the expedition in his position as King’s cup-bearer. But this hope, or fear, was quickly killed; for Rai-Khizar-Pál valued his slave too highly to run the risk of losing him by allowing him to come into actual contact with his own people. Nor could Oriental flesh and blood have been expected to withstand such temptation to escape.
It was on the twelfth of March that the Rajah, with his army, was to set out upon his second campaign against the Mohammedans. On the afternoon of the eleventh, Fidá was with young Bhavani when the Rajah summoned him. It had been one of the slave’s most miserable days. During his morning service he had taken care to keep himself as much as possible behind his master; and now he dreaded the interview extremely. There was, however, nothing for it but to obey the call; and, resigning Bhavani to his attendants, he hurried away to the King’s private room, where he found Manava and Kasya standing one on either side of the royal divan. At the door Fidá performed his usual deep salaam, and was motioned to come forward.
“Enter, Asra. I sent for thee. By the flocks of heaven, thou’rt sick to-day! Hast no care for thyself, good slave?”
Fidá smiled, slightly and bitterly. “I have no need for care. I am in health, O King,” said he.
“Tell me not that any man with visage so deathly is in health. Thine appearance troubles me, for I repose great trust in thee, and I dare not depart in fear of thy death. Speak, Manava,—what thinkest thou of him?”
“He hath the appearance of a man very ill,” answered the minister, thoughtfully regarding the slave.
“Fidá, for the space of a week keep to thy room, and let Churi and the priests attend thee and bring thee back to strength again. Thou must accept so much of aid, for thy look troubles me sorely.”
The Asra threw himself on the floor at the King’s feet, and once more protested that his looks belied him, that he was perfectly able to perform his usual tasks. And the Rajah, whose projects were upset by the prospect of this slave’s illness, allowed himself to be persuaded against his own judgment, and proceeded to the object of the audience.
“Fidá el-Asra, thou hast been in Mandu, in my service, scarce half a year as yet; but because thou art of high birth and noble training, I repose confidence in thee. I cannot take thee with me upon my campaign, because I should fear to lose thee in the north. But, in leaving thee behind, I am about to place thee in a position of great trust. Manava, whom thou seest standing upon my right hand, is, in my absence, to be part ruler of Mandu. To Kasya here, my faithful eunuch, I intrust the guardianship of my women. To thee I give the last of my treasures, the hope of Mandu: my son, Bhavani, the flower of my heart; to be taught and guarded till my return. Thou shalt have full direction over him, save only in those times when the Lady Malati, his mother, desires his presence. Already Bhavani loves thee, Asra; and thy training makes thee fitted to be his companion and his master in my absence. For this trust that I repose in thee, give me thy fealty.”
Deeply touched by a mark of favor so little deserved, Fidá fell upon his knees and pressed the Rajah’s foot with his brow. In that moment of abasement he was very near to confession; and, had it not been for thepresence of the other two, Fidá might, at that moment, have opened up his heart and told his lord all the story of his treachery and crime. A moment’s swift reflection, however, brought with it the remembrance of Ahalya; and in dread for her the impulse passed away, and he found himself protesting incoherently his gratitude, his fidelity, and his sorrow at the departure of the Rajah. Once more, before he was dismissed, Rai-Khizar-Pál, noting anew his gaunt and pallid face, expressed some concern for his health; and then, giving his hand to his slave’s lips, sent him away. Fidá, his nature suddenly revolting against himself, sought his room, flung himself face down upon his bed, and there, in guilty misery, poured out some sort of inchoate prayer of remorse.
After an hour or two of meditation and quiet, the Asra took resolution on a certain matter which he had been pondering for a long while. Ever since he had become certain that the curse was actually on him, he had wondered whether or not Churi had yet disposed of the ruby. It was Churi’s place to have thought of the stone for him; and he hated himself for the desire he had to touch it again. But it had apparently never occurred to the eunuch to use the blessed jewel as a remedy; and, as often as the thought came to Fidá, he put it resolutely from him in shame. By this time, however, his hunger to gaze upon the charm had grown great and fierce. He felt an intense desire to live; and, believing the means of health to be within easiest reach, what wonder that his temptation came againand again? This evening, in view of the new trust, which he had the strongest desire honorably to keep, the temptation suddenly overcame him, and, putting away his pride, perhaps even his self-respect, he went to seek out the doctor.
Churi was in his own room, eating. Looking up from his food, he gave Fidá his usual easy salute:
“Vishnu favor thee! I am told that thou’rt to be given sole charge of the young prince. Truly, Asra, the King loves thee as well as his wife. Wilt deign to eat with me?”
Fidá did not respond to the ill-timed raillery. He stood leaning against the wall, gazing at the eunuch with so strange an expression that Churi changed his mood.
“Thou’rt ill to-night,” said he, more gently.
“Yes, I am ill,” answered the Asra, in a low, harsh tone. “I am dying, Churi.”
“Dying! Why shouldst thou die, lover?”
“Allah! Thou knowest why.”
“Ah! The old legend. Dost really believe—that—”
“Canst thou doubt that I am cursed?”
They remained facing each other, silent, staring. No further words were necessary. Churi knew very well now why he had come; but he sat struggling with himself, for he was disturbed. Nevertheless Fidá’s ghastly face pled strongly. After a few moments, during which the slave suffered under his degradation, Churi rose, walked to the shadowy corner of the room,bent over for a moment or two, working in the earth of the floor, and then came back to Fidá with the gold box in his hand. Fidá, looking into the unmatched eyes, saw animosity in one and scorn in the other.
“There. Take back thy gift.” Churi held the box out to him.
To the eunuch’s astonishment, Fidá deliberately accepted it, rolled the ruby out into his hand, and for a moment feasted his eyes on it. Then he pressed it to his breast, shut his eyes, and moved his lips in prayer. When the prayer ended, he replaced the jewel in its case, and once more held it out to Churi, who had stood in silence, watching him.
“I thank thee,” said Fidá, simply.
Churi looked surprised anew. “Wilt thou not keep it?” he asked.
“Ah! Thou thinkest me such a dog?”
“Will that help thee—just the moment of it?”
“I do not know; yet it seems to me that the very sight of it hath helped me.”
A second time Churi held out the box, this time voluntarily. “Take it and keep it on thy person for a week.”
Fidá drew back.
“Nay, I wish it. I trust thee.”
“But it is thine. How hast thou not already sold it?”
“That is not easy. I dare not show it in Mandu. But in the month of April will come a man from the north, a travelling merchant of Rajputana, that comeseach year, bringing with him silks, rugs, gold work, and gems of the costliest kind. I know him well, and he will take the ruby and give me my freedom. Therefore thou seest there is time for thee to recover. Take the stone at least for the space of a week; and then if thou art better, thou shalt keep it till the merchant comes.”
There was only friendliness in Churi’s tone. Fidá’s simplicity had disarmed him. Seeing that the favor was done willingly, Fidá accepted it; and, when he walked away from the eunuch’s house, the little golden box lay in its old place in his girdle.
Next day, at noon, all Mandu thronged about the palace and along the old road to witness the departure of the Rajah and his army. It was indeed a brilliant pageant that set forth upon the long and dangerous journey to the north. Fidá, in a throng of slaves, stood against the south wall of the great courtyard, and watched the companies form. At high noon Rai-Khizar-Pál, attended by his two ministers, who walked one on either side of him, came out of the palace, and was greeted with tumultuous acclamations by the throng of soldiers and people. And the Lord of Mandu was unquestionably worthy of admiration. Never had Fidá seen him more magnificent. His large, well-proportioned body was clad in half-armor, of a purely ornamental type, under which he wore a fine, white garment heavy with red and silver embroidery. On his head was a white turban from which rose a black aigrette fastened with a pin glittering with rubies.His horse, a magnificent animal, in trappings of black, red, and silver, with the small double-drum rimmed in silver placed before his saddle to mark his rank, was held in waiting. After a few inaudible words with the regents, and an effective parting from each, he walked swiftly to his steed, sprang upon it without aid, caught up his bridle, swept an arm toward his body-guard which immediately galloped up and surrounded him, and then, amid the renewed shouts of his people, rode rapidly out of the courtyard, and began the march. He was followed by Purán, in more serviceable costume, surrounded by a group of what might be called aides; and then by the army itself:—first, two hundred horse, and then five hundred foot, the whole of the forces of Mandu. Slowly, line by line, they formed in the limited space, and wound away after their leaders, spear-heads and head-pieces flashing in the sunshine, men and animals alike fresh and vigorous—eager for what lay before them.
To Fidá, still leaning against the courtyard wall, this sight of armed and armored men passing out to honorable combat, was bitter indeed. All the warrior in him rose and struggled for place in his enfeebled frame. He was sick with the servility of his life. He loathed the despicable part he had played. Every soldier that passed him seemed to him to walk over his heart, bringing back vivid pictures of what had been, when the smell of battle was sweet to his nostrils, and the battle-cry the fairest music his ears could know. Once he had been a man! Now—now—he would notanswer the question of his conscience. When the hour was over, when the last foot-soldier had passed out of the courtyard and was lost in the winding road, he drew a long, heavy sigh, and moved his eyes. The first thing they encountered was the figure of Ragunáth, standing near him, gazing fixedly in the direction of the departed host; and Fidá saw with wonder the expression on his face: an expression of deep-seated relief, joy,—nay, rather, triumph. The Asra stared yet more earnestly, a sudden apprehension striking home. Was it possible that, at last, Rai-Khizar-Pál being gone, Ragunáth meant to taste the well-guarded fruit? Fidá’s lips shut tight. Was there finally to be an open struggle between them? Was it to be his happiness once to perform a real service for the King? Wondering, hoping, hating, he stood there, nor heeded how he was grinding the golden box deep into the flesh of his left side.