The Adventures of Kathlyn Part 51

CHAPTER XXIII

REMORSE

There is an old saying in Rajput that woman and the four winds were born at the same time, of the same mother: blew hot, blew cold, balmily, or tempestuously, from all points at once. Perhaps.

In the zenana of the royal palace there was a woman, tall, lithe, with a skin of ivory and roses and eyes as brown as the husk of a water chestnut. On her bare ankles were gem-incrusted anklets, on her arms bracelets of hammered gold, round her neck a rope of pearls and emeralds and rubies and sapphires. And still she was not happy.

From time to time her fingers strained at the roots of her glossy black hair and the whites of her great eyes glistened. She bit her lips to keep back the sobs crowding in her throat. She pressed her hands together so tightly that the little knuckles cracked.

"Ai, ai!" she wailed softly.

She paced the confines of her chamber with slow step, with fast step; or leaned against the wall, her face hidden in her arms; or pressed her hot cheeks against the cool marble of the lattice.

Human nature is made up of contraries. Why, when we have had the courage coolly to plan murder, or to aid or suggest it, why must we be troubled with remorse? More than this, why must we battle against the silly impulse to tell the first we meet what we have done? Remorse: what is it?

Now, this woman of the zenana believed not in the G.o.d of your fathers and mine. She was a pagan; her Heaven and h.e.l.l were ruled by a thousand G.o.ds, and her temples were filled with their images. Yet this thing, remorse, was stabbing her with its hot needles, till no torture devised by man could equal it.

She was the poor foolish woman who loved Durga Ram; loved him as these wild Asiatic women love, from murder to the poisoned cup. Loved him, and knew that he loved her not, but used her for his own selfish ends.

There you have it. Had he loved her, remorse never would have lifted its head or raised its voice. And again, had not Umballa sought the white woman, this b.u.t.terfly of the harem might have died of old age without unburdening her soul. Remorse is the result of a crime committed uselessly. Humanity is unchangeable, for all its variety of skins.

And here was this woman, wanting to tell some one!

Umballa had done a peculiar thing: he had not laid hand upon either Ramabai or Pundita. When asked the reason for this generosity toward a man who but recently put a price on his head, Umballa smiled and explained that Ramabai was not only broken politically, but was a religious outcast. It was happiness for such a person to die, so he preferred that Ramabai should live.

Secretly, however, Ramabai's revolutionary friends were still back of him, though they pretended to bow to the yoke of the priests.

So upon this day matters stood thus: the colonel, Kathlyn, Bruce and Winnie were prisoners again; Ahmed was in hiding, and Ramabai and his wife mocked by those who once had cheered them. The ingrat.i.tude of kings is as nothing when compared to the ingrat.i.tude of a people.

A most ridiculous country: to crown Kathlyn again (for the third time!) and then to lock her up! Next to superst.i.tion as a barrier to progress there stands custom. Everything one did must be done as some one else had done it; the initiative was still chained up in the temples, it belonged to the bald priests only.

But Umballa had made two mistakes: he should have permitted the white people to leave the country and given a silken cord to the chief eunuch, to apply as directed. There are no written laws among the dark peoples that forbid the disposal of that chattel known as a woman of the harem, or zenana. There are certain customs that even the all powerful British Raj must ignore.

The catafalque of the dead king rested upon the royal platform. Two troopers stood below; otherwise the platform was deserted. When Ramabai and Pundita arrived and mounted the platform to pay their last respects to a kindly man, the soldiers saluted gravely, even sorrowfully. Ramabai, for his courage, his honesty and justice, was their man; but they no longer dared serve him, since it would be at the expense of their own lives.

"My Lord!" whispered Pundita, pressing Ramabai's hand. "Courage!" For Pundita understood the man at her side. Had he been honorless, she would this day be wearing a crown.

"Pundita, they hissed us as we pa.s.sed."

"Not the soldiers, my Lord."

"And this poor man! Pundita, he was murdered, and I am powerless to avenge him. It was Umballa; but what proof have I? None, none! Well, for me there is left but one thing; to leave Allaha for good. We two shall go to some country where honor and kindness are not crimes but virtues."

"My Lord, it is our new religion."

"And shall we hold to it and go, or repudiate it and stay?"

"I am my Lord's chattel; but I would despise him if he took the base course."

"And so should I, flower of my heart!" Ramabai folded his arms and stared down moodily at the man who, had he lived, could have made Pundita his successor. "Pundita, I have not yet dared tell you all; but here, in the presence of death, truth will out. We can not leave.

Confiscation of property and death face us at every gate. No! Umballa proposes to crush me gradually and make my life a h.e.l.l. No man who was my friend now dares receive me in his house. Wors.h.i.+p is denied us, unless we wors.h.i.+p in secret. There is one pathway open." He paused.

"And what is that, my Lord?"

"To kneel in the temple and renounce our religion. Do we that, and we are free to leave Allaha."

Pundita smiled. "My Lord is not capable of so vile an act."

"No."

And hand in hand they stood before the catafalque forgetting everything but the perfect understanding between them.

"Ai, ai!"

It was but a murmur; and the two turned to witness the approach of the woman of the zenana. She flung herself down before the catafalque, pa.s.sionately kissing the shroud. She leaned back and beat her breast and wailed. Ramabai was vastly puzzled over this demonstration. That a handsome young woman should wail over the corpse of an old man who had never been anything to her might have an interpretation far removed from sorrow. Always in sympathy, however, with those bowed with grief, Ramabai stooped and attempted to raise her.

She shrank from his touch, looked up and for the first time seemed to be aware of his presence. Like a bubble under water, that which had been striving for utterance came to the surface. She s.n.a.t.c.hed one of Ramabai's hands.

"Ai, ai! I am wretched. Lord, wretched! There is hot lead in my heart and poison in my brain! I will confess, confess!"

Ramabai and Pundita gazed at each other, astonished.

"What is it? What do you wish to confess?" cried Ramabai quickly.

"Perhaps . . ."

She clung to his hand. "They will order my death by the silken cord.

I am afraid. Krishna fend for me!"

"What do you know?"

"His majesty was murdered!" she whispered.

"I know that," replied Ramabai. "But who murdered him? Who built that cage in the palanquin? Who put the tiger there? Who beat and overpowered the real bearers and confiscated their turbans? Speak, girl; and if you can prove these things, there will be no silken cord."

"But who will believe a poor woman of the zenana?"

"I will."

"But you can not save men from the cord. They have taken away your power."

"And you shall give it back to me!"

"I?"

"Even so. Come with me now, to the temple."