Rajah Lal Singh arrived at Jummoo a few weeks later in much pomp and
state. No hidden or hazardous mission was his. His gorgeous train of
armed attendants mounted on richly caparisoned horses traversed the
public roads, winding like a brilliant serpent through the vales of
Kashmir. He brought tidings of the daily increasing quiet and peace now
resting on the torn and war-spent Punjaub. Festivities were heightened
after his arrival, and revelry held sway day and night.
Atmâ and Bertram in unconscious kinship drew to one another, forsaking
frequently the mirth and glare of the court to converse of things that
are hard to understand. They were one evening in a shady retreat at the
foot of the Rajah's terraced gardens.
"I confess," said Atmâ, "that the fixedness of fate engages my thought
frequently, though hitherto unprofitably. No doubt the teachers of your
land have spoken and written much on a subject so perplexing."
"They have," replied Bertram; "it has ever been a favourite whetstone
for the human reason. It has been frequently solved to the satisfaction
of the performer, but no solution has yet won the universal acceptance
that is the badge of truth."
"It may be," said Atmâ, "that the answer lies not anywhere beneath our
sky."
A rustle in the foliage behind them drew the attention of both. A gleam
of vivid colour was visible when they quickly turned, and Atmâ was in
the act of parting the myrtle boughs, when, anticipating him, Lal Singh
stepped forth from retreat. Silken attire and splendour of jewelled
turban were insufficient to dignify his crestfallen demeanour, which,
however, changed rapidly when he darted a glance of rage and hate at
Bertram, who had greeted his sudden appearance with a scornful laugh.
"No doubt," he said, "the English Sahib and Atmâ Singh have grave
secrets whose discussion calls for deep retirement."
"No doubt of it," laughed Bertram, "but, Rajah Lal, the yellow vestments
of a noble Sikh," for the Rajah wore his state dress, "are so ill
fitted for ambuscade that I promptly refuse to admit you to our
councils."
What answer the Rajah, whose stealthy face grew livid at this sally,
might have made, was stopped by Atmâ, who, well aware of the danger to
his companion from such an enemy, and all unknowing of his own place in
the Rajah's esteem, interposed with courteous speech.
"We are on our way," said he, "to the Moslem burial-place near by, the
tombs of which have become interesting through the tales of Nawab Khan.
Bertram Sahib jests, we will be gratified by Rajah Lal Singh joining
us."
The Rajah had regained self-possession and declined the proffered
courtesy in his usual cold and sneering manner, adding with a crafty
smile and with covert meaning, which perplexed and startled Bertram:
"It is a wise man who familiarizes himself with the grave. For me; I
must deny myself, for I go tomorrow to take part in festivities the
reverse of funereal. I commend the propriety and aptness of your
researches, Atmâ Singh."
So saying he withdrew with a salaam that failed to cover the swift
scowl he bestowed on Bertram.
"There goes an enemy, Atmâ Singh," said Bertram, watching the retreating
figure arrayed in barbaric splendour, the profusion of the enormous
emeralds that adorned his yellow robe so subduing its hue that Bertram's
thrust was unmerited, as far as his attire was concerned at least. "He
is a foe to fear, unless I greatly mistake, an enemy of the serpent
kind," he continued.
But they speedily forgot the craft of the serpent, and pursued their
walk, conversing as they went.
Some tenets, they found, were familiar to the minds of both, and these,
they observed, might be called historical. Such were the vague
whisperings of things that occurred in the dawn of young Time before the
earliest twilight of story--traditions that linger as shades among the
nations, vague hints of former greatness and of a calamity, a crime
whose enormity is guessed by the magnitude of its shadow hovering over
the earth, shrouding men's cradles and darkening with a menace their
tombs. Such too were the joyful surmisings of a restoration, such the
imaginings of
"That bright eternal day
Of which we priests and poets say
Such truths as we expect for happy men."
"Your story of the world's creation is strangely in accord with ours,"
said Bertram. "Our narrative is more precise, but the things stated so
clearly typify we know not what; and we and you are, I doubt not, wisest
when we own ourselves ignorant. Who can tell what is implied in the tale
of the birth of Time out of Eternity, ascending through seven gradations
to we know not what consummation when this seventh epoch of rest shall
be run?"
"The words of the wise," said Atmâ, "assign to all things perpetuity,
which involves a repetition of the cycle of Seven. Does the week of
seven days repeating itself endlessly in time, image the seven epochs
which, returning again and again, may constitute eternity?"
Bertram paused before he replied--
"Your words move me, Atmâ Singh, for I have heard that on the first day
of a new week a Representative Man rose from the dead."
They reached the Burying Ground. It was a lovely spot. Fallen into
disuse, the bewitching grace of carelessness was added to the
architectural beauty of the tombs. The verdure was rank, and luxuriant
trees and marble tombs alike were festooned with clematis and jasmine.
Here they were pleased to find Nawab Khan and the servant, whom he
dismissed on their arrival, and himself guided them to an old tomb
simpler in form than the rest, but more tenderly and beautifully clothed
in moss and wild flowers than any. They sat down while the Nawab related
the story of the maiden whose goodness it commemorated.
"Sangita," said he, "was a princess of incomparable beauty and
surpassing gentleness. Her spirit was humble; and as the heavenly
streams of wisdom and virtue seek lowly places, her nature shone every
day with a purer lustre. She loved tenderly a gazelle which she had
reared, and which was the companion of her happy hours. It was not of
the King's flocks but had been found in Sangita's own garden, and none
knew who had brought it there. The talkative people, noting the sagacity
of the pretty creature and the tender solicitude of its mistress, who
crowned it anew with garlands every morning and fed it with sweetest
milk and the loveliest flower buds, whispered to one another of its
mysterious appearance, and alleged for it miraculous origin. One day as
it fed among lilies, the princess near by, overcome by the heat,
slumbered. She slept long and heavily, and when she awoke her favourite
was nowhere to be seen. Calling and weeping, she wandered through vale
and glade, searching the hare's covert, but starting back, for she
descried a viper there; peering into the den of a wild beast and
shuddering, for it was strewn with bones; hastening to a gorgeous clump
of bloom where she thought it might have rested, but the splendid
blossoms were poisonous and she turned away. All the dark, damp,
dangerous night she sought, and it was morning when she found the gentle
creature stretched on the moss, its piteous eyes glazed over with death,
for it had been pursued and had sunk from exhaustion.
In delirious ravings Sangita told her people that when she knelt on the
moss, and, wringing her hands, bewailed that it had not sought the
shelter of a Secure Resting Place, the gazelle reproached her.
'I know not of that country,' it said, 'it is not here.'
And this, although the wild speech of a fevered brain, gained credit
with the populace, and the Wild Gazelle cherished by the good princess
became a memory fraught with awe and superstition. For me, I believe
that the devout and good heart utters wisdom unawares, and that the
tongue habituated to golden speech may drop riches even when the light
of reason is withdrawn. The sickness of Sangita was mortal, but her mind
cleared before she expired, and she then obtained from the King her
father a promise that over her ashes should be erected a lodge whose
door, never fastened, might afford a Haven of Retreat such as her
fevered dream desired!"
They looked on the tomb, its walls gleamed white through the foliage
that draped it. It was old and neglected. The door was nearly concealed
from view by the luxuriant growth of many years, and when they examined
it closely they found that it hung on one rusty hinge.
"May we believe," asked Bertram, "that the tender fancy of the dying
princess was ever verified by the actual shelter here of a fugitive?"
"The story is ancient," replied Nawab Khan, "and I cannot say. The
lesson she taught would forbid the finding anywhere a Place of Rest."
But it neared the hour of the devout man's prayers and he left them.
"Nawab Khan," said Atmâ, "speaks not as he believes, for many are the
Havens of the Mohammedan."
"Ay," said Bertram, "and does not every creed too soon become a secure
retreat to the spirit of man to which God has denied the repose of
certainty. We crave knowledge which is withheld more earnestly than we
desire faith or hope, and we eagerly make even its semblance a foothold.
It appears to me, my friend, with whom I am grown bold, that you and I
may find in our less material beliefs as false a haven as the pilgrim
finds in his Mecca."
"You say well," said Atmâ thoughtfully, "it is not new to me. Thoughts
for which I cannot account have been borne in upon my soul, waking and
sleeping, by riverside or on mountain height, and I know and believe
that he who would find God must close his eyes and his ears."
"And the soul," said Bertram, "that knows an infallible guide, be it
voice of other man, or of his own reason, or volume of mystery, or
whatever it be, that soul walks not by faith. But why speak of a soul
finding God? The soul of man must be first found of Him, and it seems to
me that until thus adopted no soul would prefer faith to knowledge--thus
much might we learn of Nawab Khan."
And as they returned to the Palace, they continued this grave discourse,
lamenting the sadness and sin of the world, and Atmâ, greatly moved,
told that his life's purpose, of which he might not fully speak,
involved the conquest of evil and the redemption of the world by means
whose greatness was worthy of the end. And Bertram, sometimes assenting,
often silent, hoped that at last, by each and all means employed by man,
the whole world might be redeemed. He was a Christian and devout, but
he, too, desired to redeem the world. His dream was one with Atmâ's. But
the highest dreams are soonest dissolved, for the dispelling of
illusions and breaking of idols is God's benison, and is given soonest
to those whom He approves.