CHAPTER VPOPPIES
ON the night after the reconciliation with her husband, the night also after her search for a slave in the palace, the Lady Ahalya went to bed in a temper, without having roused Neila, her maid. During the night, while she slept, some subtle change surely worked upon the brain and heart of the Ranee; for she herself, and Neila too, knew afterward that this night was, with her, the beginning and the end of all things. For the next three or four days Neila’s life was made miserable; but Ahalya did not attempt to account even to herself for the freaks, moods, and whims which changed with such rapidity that, before human power could gratify one, the next had made the work all to do over again. Not for an entire week did the long-suffering attendant get an inkling of what was really the trouble; and then she went into a state of consternation that Ahalya made no attempt to lessen. For the Ranee’s secret mind was running continually now, perhaps without her own volition, on the most dangerous of topics:—how she might see the Asra again. This was not a matter so absolutely impossible as Fidá deemed it. Life in the Indian zenanas was notquite that of the harems of Arabia; though, as Ragunáth knew, this one was certainly well guarded. By degrees, however, Ahalya approached her end. How it came about, who could say? But Neila found herself presently acting in the character of a spy. This eunuch and that she questioned; now and then she ventured into the great courtyard or, more warily, into the palace itself: observing, listening, asking a question of one slave or another, till Fidá’s daily habits had become familiar to her. Then, after so much patience, opportunity arrived. One afternoon at the very end of the month, after the Rajah had partaken of his afternoon meal and gone to rest, Neila herself saw the slave Fidá set out alone into the fields, along the old temple road. This incident being duly reported to her mistress, Ahalya’s face lighted like a child’s.
“I, too, am going to walk on the temple road! Yes, yes, Neila, I am going! Seek not to detain me. I am going to gather the late poppies in the temple field to make a rouge for my face. Come, prepare me!”
The unhappy Neila protested violently, all her courage failing. Gradually she had been drawn into Ahalya’s madness; but now, brought face to face with possible consequences, she rebelled. There was a scene between her and her mistress such as had never been known before. But while Neila wept on the border of hysterics, Ahalya, the power of her great malady holding her above such things, remained dry-eyed, firm, commanding. What wonder that Neila in the end submitted? Nevertheless, one thing the maid insisted on. She andKasya must follow their lady, as indeed many times before they had followed her unconventional rambles; or Ahalya should leave the zenana only over her, Neila’s, body.
Twenty minutes later the three set out along the temple road, Neila bearing with her certain fiercely given instructions that had caused her heart to grow leaden in her breast. Kasya, as they proceeded, wondered more and more about the relations between his mistress and her maiden; for Ahalya was walking with a rapidity that sent the blood into her cheeks and her heart pounding; while the traces of tears on the other’s face were fresh enough to denote some unusual incident before the expedition. A little more and his suspicions, ever ready because ever needed, would have been aroused. But, at this juncture, Fate, more powerful even than Love, stepped in and took command of the day. The three had not proceeded half a mile from the palace when there came running to them a little slave-boy, who, halting beside Kasya, spoke a few rapid words in his ear that turned the eunuch’s mind from all thought of the Lady Ahalya and her walk. The Ranee Malati, it seemed, had called for her son to be brought to her; and the young Bhavani, the most important person in Mandu after the Rajah, was not to be found. For a moment or two Kasya hesitated. He had no choice but to go.
“I beseech the pardon of the Lady Ahalya. I must return to the zenana.”
Ahalya’s face brightened. “Go then,” said she.
“I will send after thee another of the eunuchs.”
“It is not necessary.”
“Lady—thy lord would be angry. I dare not—”
“Then send Churi after us; but let him not intrude on me.” And Ahalya, now a little angry, started on again, Neila perforce following her. Kasya, troubled in his mind, turned away, and set off at a run for the palace, nor did he neglect to despatch Churi, “the doctor,” Ahalya’s favorite slave, after the errant Ranee. But Churi, who was more an individual than a slave, had ideas of his own about Ahalya, and did not hurry to follow her. He arrived, indeed, at the temple ruin, to find Neila stationed at its entrance as if on guard. And he had the immense self-restraint to join her without asking any questions.
Fidá, in the meantime, unconscious of the little sensation he was stirring up, was occupied in making an exploration of one corner of the plateau. As soon as the Rajah dismissed him he had started off by himself, having a great desire for solitude in which to meditate on a situation that was becoming every day more galling to him. Two weeks had passed since the departure of the embassy to his uncle’s camp; and he found himself gradually beginning to hope against hope that he would, after all, be rescued from his slavery. For this captivity which, for a few days, had been tinged with the glamour of adventure and romance, had now become the most irksome, the most unendurable of degradations. He walked for a long time, thinking deeply, paying little heed to his way till thescene became too remarkable to go unnoticed. He was two miles away from the palace when the road, which, some distance back, had turned sharply to the left, ran out of the flat, cultivated fields, and entered a wood which shortly became a little jungle, the road being cut through the heaviest undergrowth of bushes, trees, and sinuous vines. Around him, monkeys and paroquets chattered and screamed. The foliage was brilliant as with a second summer; for with autumn and the first suggestion of the second rains, summer leaps up again over all the northwest country; and Fidá was gazing about him delighted with the color and the life, the trouble of his heart banished by the beauty of nature, when suddenly his road turned again, and—ended.
Before him, to the precipitous edge of the plateau, stretched a naturally clear space, in the centre of which stood a giant building, gone all to ruin. Its huge sandstone blocks were black with age and green with moss and growing plants. Its veranda and great doors were open to the daylight; and within, through openings in the roof, bright sunlight shone. The architecture was crude and heavy; but Fidá recognized, without difficulty, the style of the oldest Buddhism. And he divined correctly the history of this building, which he had started out to find: that it had once been a Vihara, later converted to the uses of Surya, one of the Brahman gods.
The place was, like the religion it still symbolized, a magnificent ruin. And its setting was worthy of it;for the fields on either side were overrun with flaming poppies, blooming for the second time in the year, and filling the whole air with the somnolence of their burden of opium. Beyond the fields, a fitting frame for the picture, the jungle commenced again: a high wall of subdued color, green and brown, splashed with the scarlet of the wild-cotton flowers. Fidá, halting in wonder, felt his heart suddenly grow light. Here were poppies—her flowers. It was a propitious omen. In his trouble, he had come upon a place devoted to her symbols. Was it a sign to him to remain in Mandu, hoping, however vainly, sometime to find a way to her? Smiling a little at the Indian superstition of his thoughts, he moved on, rambled for a time round the rock-strewn rooms within the temple, and finally out into the fields, where the flowers took effect on him again and set his mind running hotly upon Ahalya, the one woman of his world.
An hour had passed since he left the palace, and he knew that in a little time he must turn his steps again toward slavery. This thought intensified the delight of lingering here, held by the fascination of the wild flowers. And it was now, at the most beautiful hour, in this enchanted spot, that she herself, Ahalya, came to him. Fidá saw two figures appear from the trees by the temple. Both were women. He got to his feet, trembling a little. Only one was advancing:—dressed all in white, the head-veil thrown back from her face, under one arm a broad, flat basket. Yes; it was Ahalya. Fidá perceived that he was neither blindnor mad. She, the Ranee, was here, with him. Hesitatingly he advanced toward her, two or three steps, and their eyes met.
Ahalya crimsoned violently; and seeing this, Fidá grew bold. Not thinking of the enormity of his daring, with only the memory of two empty weeks upon him, he went straight toward her, and when he was at her side began, passionately: “Most beautiful of women! Lotus-lidded! Lily-faced! I behold thee, and thou art not a dream!” And then abruptly he paused, overcome by the situation.
Ahalya turned to look behind her, and Fidá’s eyes followed hers. Churi had arrived at the ruin, but he and Neila stood leaning against a fallen stone, their backs to the poppy-field, evidently talking together. The Ranee, seeing herself safe enough, became confused; and, still half turned away from the slave, murmured, with an embarrassed manner:
“I came—to gather poppies. Did my lord send you hither?”
“Thy lord—sleeps,” muttered Fidá.
Ahalya gave a nervous start. Now that she had attained her end, the Ranee began to wish herself a thousand miles away, so confused was she by the presence of this man. Fidá saw how her hands trembled; and, emboldened by the flush of her half-averted cheek, his heart beating furiously with a sudden hope, he took her by the hand and gently, persuasively, led her to the stone from which he had just risen. Here, though she would have protested, hecaused her to sit down. “I must have the poppies,” she found courage to say, lifting up her basket, and suddenly smiling. “Neila and Churi may come at any moment.” And she turned again to look at the ruin. This time the two figures had disappeared entirely.
“I will get poppies for you. Wait.” And, taking the basket, Fidá darted forward and began plucking the tough-stemmed flowers. In five minutes the basket was heaping full, though the assortment was anything but select. But while he worked, his back turned to Ahalya, all his new-born audacity suddenly ran out at his finger-tips, and when he returned to her with the narcotic burden, his eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was more confused than she. He laid the basket at her feet, and then stood, like a culprit, before her.
“Let the Ranee pardon me!” he whispered.
“Pardon thee?” she asked, wondering.
“Ah, I have dared to lift my eyes to thee, and now—and now—” his voice, unpent, rang clear.
“And now,” she breathed, most softly.
“Now,” his heart throbbed, “I cannot lower them again!”
Her eyes lifted themselves to his, and she smiled at him, half shyly, half with a beautiful pride. Seeing that smile, Fidá’s senses deserted him. He fell upon his knees before her, and lifted up his hands, crying:
“Ahalya! I love you! I love you! I love you!”
The princess shivered, half in terror, half in—something else. But she could not speak. Slowly, therefore, the fire died out of Fidá’s face. His dark head, bound with its slave’s circlet, drooped lower and lower, till at length it rested on a stone at the edge of her silken garment, and his face was buried in his arms. So they remained for a long time, taking no account of the moments as they passed, neither of them happy, both afraid of what they had done, of the astonishing betrayal. Fidá was sick and shaken with his inward tumult. Ahalya sat in a rigid calm, thinking, after a desultory fashion, of many ordinary things that now seemed infinitely far removed from her. The bitter weariness of her life had suddenly disappeared; but that which replaced it, she could not just now consider. The revolution was too absolute. How should she readjust herself so soon? Yet, since they were here together, free and alone, she wished to speak; and so, in a sweet, monotonous tone, she gave voice to many fragments that were in both their minds.
“I love you. Is it not right, and holy? I love young things, and youth, and beauty. Krishna and Radha loved thus. Who knows how it comes? I loved you by the well. Your eyes shone into mine, and you smiled at me, and you were not afraid. I loved to think of you, a captive, and a prince. Most of all I love you here, because, Fidá—because—ah, look!”
At the change in her voice the slave roused himself,as one wakes, with an effort, from some wondrous dream. Ahalya also had risen, and was staring fearfully at a figure that approached them out of the shadow of the trees.
“Ragunáth!” muttered Fidá. “Name of the prophet! how comes he here?”
“Where I am, there he is also,” murmured the Ranee. “Ah, Fidá, run, run, and bring Neila and Churi! I fear this man. He must not see you.”
“He has already seen me. I cannot go.”
This much they had time to say, as the Rajah’s counsellor came slowly toward them, his arms folded across his breast, his eyes aflame with angry suspicion. Ahalya, trembling though she was, still straightened up to receive him, and Fidá fell slightly behind her, to one side, as became a slave. But there was, in his attitude, small suggestion of respect for him who approached. At a little distance Ragunáth halted and looked at them:—looked as only he could look, from one to the other and back again. To-day, however, his lips did not smile, but wore the hard line of jealousy. Under this gaze Ahalya quivered anew; and Fidá heard her catch her breath. Instinctively he stepped forward. But, just at that moment, Ragunáth raised his upper lip a little off his teeth, and spoke:
“The Lady Ahalya has found a new slave.”
Ahalya turned white, but remained silent. Fidá gazed steadily and scornfully at the eavesdropper, who, after waiting a moment, said again:
“Is there a new law of the Lord Rajah’s, that his slaves shall walk with his women—picking poppies, in the fields?”
Ahalya, angered beyond her dread, opened her lips to speak; but Fidá was before her.
“The Lady Ahalya, attended by Churi, and Neila, her woman, came to this field to gather poppies. I, unknowing, was here before her. When the Lady Ahalya perceived me, she allowed me to pluck the flowers for her and to lay them at her feet.”
“Churi and the woman, then,—am I blinded? I do not see them here,” and he peered about the field like a man looking for a lost gem.
Fidá’s hands itched for his throat; but now, suddenly, Ahalya assumed the height of her position, and, actually stamping her foot with outraged dignity, cried: “Does Lord Ragunáth presume—dare—to doubt my word? I say that Neila and Churi brought me hither; and, coming here, we found this trusted slave of my lord, whom I commanded to pluck the poppies for me. But my Lord Ragunáth—came he hither also to get flowers to make a rouge for his face?” The last words she all but spat at him.
Ragunáth was silenced, but very far from being suppressed. Indeed, the slight lifting of his eyebrows and the shrugging of his shoulders spoke as words could not speak; and Fidá was perilously near an outbreak. At this juncture, however, by intervention of a dilatory providence, Neila, and with her Churi, made their appearance from the temple. At sight of three figures inthe field where they had thought to find one, or, at worst, but two, they came hurriedly forward to their lady, who stood awaiting them in silence. Ragunáth’s eyes were now fixed upon the face of Churi, who endured the look very well; for in his own way he was much interested in the situation. No words passed till Ahalya, indicating her slaves with a gesture, said icily: “Attend me.” And then, without looking again at the minister, but with the barest, fleeting glance at Fidá, she moved away toward the road, and was presently lost to sight among the trees near the ruin.
The Arab and the Hindoo were left alone, face to face. Fidá’s eyes were fixed unwinkingly on Ragunáth’s. On the counsellor’s lips a half-smile hovered, and his expression had in it more of mockery than anger. When Ahalya was quite out of sight, he spoke, slowly:
“So—slave. Art thou prepared to greet thy god in death?”
Now Fidá’s lip curled. “May Allah receive me at the appointed time,” said he.
“That time is near.”
“Nay, Lord Ragunáth.”
“‘Nay’? ‘Nay’? Knowest thou not that Rai-Khizar-Pál, hearing of this adventure of thine, will not leave thee an hour alive?”
“Even that I do not know, Ragunáth. But, were it true, still, who shall tell the Rajah of the incident of the day?”
“I, dog, shall tell him.”
“Am I indeed a dog? Be it so, I am a dog that speaks. And I am not a thief.—Does thy master know thy taste in rubies, lord?”
Ragunáth flushed scarlet. “Thou speakest like a madman!”
“Nay, it is rather thou that art mad. Thou hast walked on dangerous ground before, thou traitor to honor; but never so near destruction as now. Hast thou told thy master of thy visit to the zenana courtyard on the day of the great sacrifice? Did he despatch thee to-day to the poppy field? Hath he ever trusted the honor of his lady inthyhand? Oh, though thou couldst hush the mouths of all the eunuchs in the zenana, the story of thy bribes and treachery would be shouted aloud by every slave in Mandu.—Thus, the Lord Ragunáth is the madman.—A slave picks poppies in the field. A slave is near a lady when Ragunáth would speak with her. The slave has eyes, ears, and a tongue. Moreover, this slave understands honor, for he was born a prince. Speak, then, to the Rajah concerning this day’s incident. It were fitting he should know—”
“Be silent, man!”
“It seems I am become a man!”
“Be silent,—or thou diest.”
Fidá shrugged, but let the threat go. “IfI am silent, then?” he asked.
“If thou art silent, fool,” Ragunáth made an effort, “if thou art silent, I will let time and thine own folly betray thee; for it is not fitting that I should soil myself with the affairs of infidels and slaves.”
And this last insult also, though he was obviously in the position to command, Fidá passed over. Was it because he knew that, for all his bravado, he was not himself innocent of treachery to his conqueror?