Eastern Tales by Many Story Tellers Part 68

Nouri did all she could to comfort the wretched Houadir, and, having persuaded her to rest awhile on the bed, returned to the labours of the day.

When her work was finished, Nouri, with the wages of the day, purchased some provisions, and brought them home to feed herself and the little Urad, whose portion of food, as well as her own, had been distributed to the unhappy wanderers.

As Nouri was giving a small morsel to Urad, Houadir awaked, and begged that Nouri would be so kind as to spare her a bit of her provisions.

Immediately, before Nouri could rise, the little Urad ran nimbly to the bed and offered her supper to the afflicted Houadir, who received it with great pleasure from her hands, being a.s.sured her mother would not let Urad be a loser by her benevolence.

Houadir continued several days with the widow Nouri, expecting the return of her son; till, giving over all hopes of seeing him, and observing that she was burdensome to the charitable widow, she one evening, after the labours of the day, thus addressed her hospitable friend:

"I perceive, benevolent Nouri, that my son has forsaken me, and that I do but rob you and your poor infant of the scanty provision which you, by your hourly toil, are earning: wherefore, listen to my proposal, and judge whether I offer you a suitable return. There are many parts of your business that, old as I am, I can help you in, as the winding your silk and feeding your worms. Employ me, therefore, in such business in the day as you think me capable of performing; and at night, while your necessary cares busy you about the house, give me leave (as I see your labour allows you no spare time) to instruct the innocent Urad how to behave herself, when your death shall leave her unsheltered from the storms and deceits of a troublesome world."

Nouri listened with pleasure to the words of Houadir.

"Yes," said she, "benevolent stranger, you well advise me how to portion my poor infant, Urad, whom I could neither provide for by my industry nor instruct without losing the daily bread I earn for her. I perceive a little is sufficient for your support; nay, I know not how, I seem to have greater plenty since you have been with me than before; whether it be owing to the blessing of Heaven on you I know not."

"Far be it from me," said Houadir, "to see my generous benefactress deceived; but the thinness of inhabitants, occasioned by the tyranny of Almurah, is the cause that your provisions are more plentiful; but yet I insist upon bearing my part in the burden of the day, and Urad shall share my evening's labour."

From this time Houadir became a useful member of the family of Nouri, and Urad was daily instructed by the good old stranger in the pleasures and benefits of a virtuous, and the horrors and curses of an evil, life.

Little Urad was greatly rejoiced at the lessons of Houadir, and was never better pleased than when she was listening to the mild and pleasing instructions of her affable mistress.

It was the custom of Houadir, whenever she taught Urad any new rule or caution, to give her a peppercorn; requiring of her, as often as she looked at them, to remember the lessons which she learnt at the time she received them.

In this manner Urad continued to be instructed; greatly improving, as well in virtue and religion, as in comeliness and beauty, till she was near woman's estate; so that Nouri could scarcely believe she was the mother of a daughter so amiable and graceful in person and manners.

Neither was Urad unskilled in the labours of the family, or the silk-worm; for, Nouri growing old and sickly, she almost constantly, by her industry, supported the whole cottage.

One evening, as Houadir was lecturing her attentive pupil, Nouri, who lay sick on the straw bed, called Urad to her.

"My dear daughter," said Nouri, "I feel, alas! more for you than myself: while Houadir lives, you will have indeed a better instructor than your poor mother was capable of being unto you; but what will my innocent lamb, my lovely Urad do, when she is left alone, the helpless prey of craft or power? Consider, my dear child, that Allah would not send you into the world to be necessarily and unavoidably wicked; therefore always depend upon the a.s.sistance of our holy Prophet when you do right, and let no circ.u.mstance of life, nor any persuasion, ever bias you to live otherwise than according to the chaste and virtuous precepts of the religious Houadir. May Allah and the Prophet of the Faithful ever bless and preserve the innocence and chast.i.ty of my dutiful and affectionate Urad!"

The widow Nouri spoke not again; her breath for ever fled from its confinement, and her body was delivered to the waters of the Tigris.

The inconsolable Urad had now her most difficult lesson to learn from the patient Houadir; and scarcely did she think it dutiful to moderate the violence of her grief.

"Sorrows," said Houadir, "O duteous Urad, which arise from sin or evil actions, cannot be a.s.suaged without contrition or amendment of life; there the soul is deservedly afflicted, and must feel before it can be cured: such sorrows may my amiable pupil never experience! But the afflictions of mortality are alike the portions of piety or iniquity: it is necessary that we should be taught to part with the desirable things of this life by degrees, and that by the frequency of such losses our affections should be loosened from their earthly attachments. While you continue good be not dejected, my obedient Urad; and remember, it is one part of virtue to bear with patience and resignation the unalterable decrees of Heaven; not but that I esteem your sorrow, which arises from grat.i.tude, duty, and affection. I do not teach my pupil to part with her dearest friends without reluctance, or wish her to be unconcerned at the loss of those who, by a marvellous love, have sheltered her from all those storms which must have overwhelmed helpless innocence. Only remember that your tears be the tears of resignation, and that your sighs confess a heart humbly yielding to His will who ordereth all things according to His infinite knowledge and goodness."

"O pious Houadir," replied Urad, "just are thy precepts: it was Allah that created my best of parents, and Allah is pleased to take her from me; far be it from me, though an infinite sufferer, to dispute His will; the loss indeed wounds me sorely, yet will I endeavour to bear the blow with patience and resignation."

Houadir still continued her kind lessons and instructions, and Urad, with a decent solemnity, attended both her labours and her teacher, who was so pleased with the fruits which she saw spring forth from the seeds of virtue that she had sown in the breast of her pupil, that she now began to leave her more to herself, and exhorted her to set apart some portion of each day to pray to her Prophet, and frequent meditation and recollection of the rules she had given her, that so her mind might never be suffered to grow forgetful of the truths she had treasured up. "For," said the provident Houadir, "when it shall please the Prophet to s.n.a.t.c.h me also from you, my dear Urad will then have only the peppercorns to a.s.sist her."

"And how, my kind governess," said Urad, "will those corns a.s.sist me?"

"They will," answered Houadir, "each of them (if you remember the precepts I gave you with them, but not otherwise), be serviceable in the times of your necessities."

Urad, with great reluctance, from that time was obliged to go without her evening lectures; which loss affected her much, for she knew no greater pleasure in life than hanging over Houadir's persuasive tongue, and hearing, with fixed attention, the sweet doctrines of prudence, chast.i.ty, and virtue.

As Urad, according to her usual custom (after having spent some few early hours at her employment), advanced toward the bed to call her kind instructress, whose infirmities would not admit her to rise betimes, she perceived that Houadir was risen from her bed.

The young virgin was amazed at the novelty of her instructress's behaviour, especially as she seldom moved without a.s.sistance, and hastened into a little inclosure to look after her; but not finding Houadir there, she went to the neighbouring cottages, none of the inhabitants of which could give any account of the good old matron; nevertheless the anxious Urad continued her search, looking all around the woods and forest, and often peeping over the rocks of the Tigris, as fearful that some accident might have befallen her. In this fruitless labour the poor virgin fatigued herself, till the sun, as tired of her toils, refused any longer to a.s.sist her search; when, returning to her lonely cot, she spent the night in tears and lamentations.

The helpless Urad now gave herself up entirely to grief; and the remembrance of her affectionate mother added a double portion of sorrows to her heart: she neglected to open her lonely cottage, and went not forth to the labours of the silk-worm; but, day after day, with little or no nourishment, she continued weeping the loss of Houadir, her mild instructress, and Nouri, her affectionate mother.

The neighbouring cottagers, observing that Urad came no longer to the silk-worms, and that her dwelling was daily shut up, after some time knocked at her cottage, and demanded if Urad the daughter of Nouri was living. Urad, seeing the concourse of people, came weeping and trembling toward the door, and asked them the cause of their coming.

"O Urad," said her neighbours, "we saw you, not long ago, seeking your friend Houadir, and we feared you also were missing, as you have neither appeared among us, nor attended your daily labours among the worms, who feed and provide for us by their subtle spinning."

"O my friends," answered Urad, "suffer a wretched maid to deplore the loss of her dearest friends. Nouri, from whose b.r.e.a.s.t.s I sucked my natural life, is now a prey to the vulture on the banks of the Tigris; and Houadir, from whom I derive my better life, is pa.s.sed away from me like a vision in the night."

Her rustic acquaintance laughed at these sorrows of the virgin Urad.

"Alas!" said one, "Urad grieves that now she has to work for one, instead of three." "Nay," cried another, "I wish my old folks were as well bestowed." "And I," said a third, "were our house rid of the old-fas.h.i.+oned lumber that fills it at present (my superannuated father and mother), would soon bring a healthy young swain to supply their places with love and affection." "Ay, true," answered two or three more, "we must look out a clever young fellow for Urad; whom shall she have?" "Oh, if that be all," said a crooked old maid, who was famous for match-making, "I will send Darandu to comfort her, before night; and, if I mistake not, he very well knows his business." "Well, pretty Urad," cried they all, "Darandu will soon be here: he is fis.h.i.+ng on the Tigris; and it is but just that the river which has robbed you of one comfort, should give you a better." At this speech, the rest laughed very heartily, and they all ran away, crying out, "Oh, she will do very well when Darandu approaches."

Urad, though she could despise the trifling of her country neighbours, yet felt an oppression on her heart at the name of Darandu, who was a youth of incomparable beauty, and added to the charms of his person an engaging air, which was far above the reach of the rest of the country swains, who lived on those remote banks of the Tigris. "But, O Houadir, O Nouri!" said the afflicted virgin to herself, "never shall Urad seek, in the arms of a lover, to forget the bounties and precepts of so kind a mistress and so indulgent a parent."

These reflections hurried the wretched Urad into her usual sorrowful train of thoughts, and she spent the rest of the day in tears and weeping, calling for ever on Nouri and Houadir, and wis.h.i.+ng that the Prophet would permit her to follow them out of a world where she foresaw neither comfort nor peace.

In the midst of these melancholy meditations, she was disturbed by a knocking at the door. Urad arose with trembling, and asked who was there.

"It is one," answered a voice in the softest tone, "who seeketh comfort and cannot find it; who desires peace, and it is far from him."

"Alas!" answered Urad, "few are the comforts of this cottage, and peace is a stranger to this mournful roof: depart, O traveller, whosoever thou art, and suffer the disconsolate Urad to indulge in sorrows greater than those from which you wish to be relieved."

"Alas!" answered the voice without, "the griefs of the beautiful Urad are my griefs; and the sorrows which afflict her, rend the soul of the wretched Darandu!"

"Whatever may be the motive for this charitable visit, Darandu,"

answered Urad, "let me beseech you to depart; for ill does it become a forlorn virgin to admit the conversation of the youths that surround her: leave me, therefore, O swain, ere want of decency make you appear odious in the sight of the virgins who inhabit the rocky banks of the rapid Tigris."

"To convince the lovely Urad," answered Darandu, "that I came to soothe her cares and condole with her in her losses (which I heard but this evening), I now will quit this dear spot, which contains the treasure of my heart, as, however terrible the parting is to me, I rest satisfied that it pleases the fair conqueror of my heart, whose peace to Darandu is more precious than the pomegranate in the sultry noon, or the silver scales of ten thousand fishes enclosed in the nets of my skilful comrades."

Darandu then left the door of the cottage, and Urad reclined on the bed, till sleep finished her toils, and for a time released her from the severe afflictions of her unguarded situation.

Early in the morning the fair Urad arose, and directed her steps to the rocks of the Tigris, either invited thither by the melancholy reflections which her departed mother occasioned, or willing to take a nearer and more un.o.bserved view of the gentle Darandu.

Darandu, who was just about to launch his vessel into the river, perceived the beauteous mourner on the rocks; but he was too well versed in love affairs to take any notice of her: he rather turned from Urad, and endeavoured by his behaviour to persuade her that he had not observed her, for it was enough for him to know that he was not indifferent to her.

Urad, though she hardly knew the cause of her morning walk, yet continued on the rocks till Darandu had taken in his nets, and, with his companions, was steering up the stream in quest of the fishes of the Tigris. She then returned to her cottage, more irresolute in her thoughts, but less than ever inclined to the labours of her profession.

At the return of the evening she was anxious lest Darandu should renew his visit--an anxiety which, though it arose from fear, was yet near allied to hope; nor was she less solicitous about provisions, as all her little stock was entirely exhausted, and she had no other prospect before her than to return to her labours, which her sorrows had rendered irksome and disagreeable to her.

While she was meditating on these things, she heard a knocking at the door, which fluttered her little less than the fears of hunger or the sorrows of her lonely life.

For some time she had not courage to answer, till, the knocking being repeated, she faintly asked who was at the door.

"It is Lahnar," answered a female: "Lahnar, your neighbour, seeks to give Urad comfort, and to condole with the distressed mourner of a mother and a friend."

"Lahnar," answered Urad, "is then a friend to the afflicted, and kindly seeks to alleviate the sorrows of the wretched Urad."

She then opened the door, and Lahnar entered with a basket on her head.