The shrine of the Well of Purity was on a dainty islet which lay in the
centre of a small lake. The grotto was almost concealed from view, but
moving forms of worshippers were visible among the trees when Atmâ and
Bertram drew near to the water's edge. A band of laughing girls carrying
laden baskets of corn, and rice, and flowers were leaving the shore in a
light skiff. It was a lovely scene, the shining lake reflecting again
the gem-like mound of foliage which rested on its breast. Bertram gazed
on the picture, whilst Atmâ, whose quick and expectant eyes had
discerned the form of Nama near at hand, followed her unnoticed by his
companion. The Maharanee, Nama related, had sent to Atmâ Singh the gold
which she carried, in token of her approval of her loyal servitor, and
also a box of onyx which she prayed him to open and read words contained
therein, retaining meanwhile possession of the casket and its contents
until further tidings. With many reverences Nama further informed him
that the Fairest of all the Lilies pined for him, was grieving at his
absence, but was now to be gladdened by the prospect of his speedy
return, which tidings the Maharanee had deputed her to convey forthwith
to the household of Lehna Singh. Notwithstanding the joy of knowing
himself an object of tender solicitude, a vague foreboding once again
filled the soul of Atmâ. When the woman left him he considered
thoughtfully the messages he had just received, slowly meanwhile undoing
the claspings of the onyx box and raised the lid. Immediately a powerful
odour issued from it and almost overcame him. He reeled and gasped for
breath, nearly losing consciousness. However, having seated himself, he
presently recovered, and somewhat more cautiously opening the casket, he
drew from it a paper which contained a strangely worded commendation of
himself, "The staunch and courageous friend of the Ranee, the Restorer
of the Sapphire of Fate, the foe of whatever was inimical or false to
the Sikh interest." Thought Atmâ, "This praise is no doubt won by the
good report conveyed to her by Lal Singh, who, notwithstanding faults,
can be generous as well as just to a Sikh brother."
He remained seated for some time, his head supported on his hand, for he
still felt giddy, thinking painfully and earnestly. The numbing effects
of the odour he had inhaled testified to its poisonous nature, but no
precautions, he reflected, had been taken to ensure its effect; on the
contrary, its immediate result was to alarm and warn the rash meddler
ere mischief could be wrought. Nama also had hastened away, as not
expecting any such terrible issue, of which certain tidings would be
desired if murder such as he dreamed of had been contemplated. It could
not be, he thought, and Rajah Lal would explain on his return what now
appeared so mysterious.
Returning the paper to its case he secured it about his attire and
sought Bertram, who had wandered along the woody banks of the lake, and
whom he found at some distance away, listening to the rare song of a
swan, distant and strange and sweet. Soon it glided into death at the
opposite shore. It brought back to Atmâ's mind the morning when a noble
bird had by his aid escaped its captors. He recalled its subsequent
restoration to its kind, and the sympathy and undefined aspirations
awakened in his breast.
They entered a boat and crossed the water, landing speedily on the soft,
damp islet sward. The grotto was still clad in morning freshness, for
the strong beams of the sun had not yet penetrated to the heart of the
sacred grove. The entrance was hung with garlands, votive offerings from
the poorer pilgrims. More costly gifts lay near and all around knelt
worshippers.
A new party arrived, bringing a snowy fleeced lamb to be offered in
sacrifice. It was decked with wreaths, and bleated piteously. Presently
it was killed, and its blood was caught in vessels to be taken home and
smeared on doors and walls to drive away blight and pestilence from the
dwellings of men. While this was being done, the crowd looked on
carelessly or curiously. But Bertram and Atmâ noticed that the man who
had made this offering looked upwards with famished eyes and despairing,
and a groan escaped his lips, and to Bertram it seemed as if he said:
"Behold I go forward, but he is not there; and backward, but I cannot
perceive him."
They stood apart, watching the scene. Then Atmâ presented his gift for
the enriching of the shrine, and withdrawing aside he knelt on the grass
and prayed,
"Bright God and Only God!
Not to be understood!
Illume the darkened twilight of thine earth;
The dewdrop of so little worth
Is garnished from the riches of the sun;
Lead me from shadowy things to things that be,
Lest, all undone,
I lose in dreams my dream's reality;
Thy Home is in the Fatherland of Light,
Strong God and Bright!
In still beatitude and boundless might!
I veil mine eyes,
Thy holy Quietness I seek with sighs."
Said Bertram, "The earth has not a spectacle more fraught with meaning
than this; the acknowledged monarch of terrestrial things bowing in
dread--a dread of what? of that voice in his breast which, being silent,
is yet the loudest thing he knows? Why is the innocence of that
sacrificial lamb so pathetic to my sight? Why should religious rites in
which I do not participate move me strangely and deeply?"
"These things are a shadow," said Atmâ, "and a shadow is created by a
fact."
"I join in your prayer," said Bertram. "'Lead me from shadowy things to
things that be.' Types are not for him who believes that the horizon of
his sight bounds the possible."
"No," replied Atmâ, "better reject the image than accept it as the end
of our desire. The faith of my fathers, which grasped after Truth,
teaches me that if the outward semblance of divine verities lead captive
not only my senses, to which its appeal is made, but my heart's
allegiance, I am guilty of idolatry."
"How fair," said Bertram, "must be the thing imaged by earth's loveliest
pageantry! What must be the song of whose melody broken snatches and
stray notes reach us in the golden speech of those endowed with hearing
to catch its echoes! What harmony of beatitude is taught by the mystery
of heavenly colour! How dull must be our faculties, or how distant the
bliss for which our souls yearn as from behind a lattice, seeing only as
in a mirror of burnished silver, which, though it be never so bright,
reflects but dimly! How unutterable are our transitory glimpses of
eternal possibilities!"
"Therein," said Atmâ, "may lie the reason why evanescent beauty stirs
us most. It may be more heavenly in meaning or affinity than things that
remain. This has sometimes perplexed me.
"For, ever most our love is given
To glories whose decadence fleet
Has more of changeful earth than heaven;
The heart's astir,
And sympathies leap forth to greet
The mingling fair
Of heavenly hues limned in empyreal bow
Aloft in dewy air, but ere we know
Their place and method true they fade away,
And fancy follows still, though things as beauteous stay.
What joyous note,
Warbled in bliss of upper air,
May with the one death-song compare
That floats among the reeds, and blends
With wild wind's plaint, till silence ends
In haunt remote
Sweet life and song;
They float away the reeds among.
"I beware me of types," he continued, "though I know nothing real. I am
surrounded by images, my present state of being is a shadow, but I
crave reality. The symbol is fair, but Truth is fairer. To that verity
all types must yield, how beautiful soever they be, or meet to express
their burden."
* * * * *
And yet how dear the transient joys of time,
Their purport not the Pearl of our desire.
Loved are these confines as immortal clime,
And dear the hearth-flame as the altar fire;
When fate accomplished wins her utmost bourne,
And fulness ousts for aye fair images,
Will doting mem'ry from their funeral pyre
Rise phoenix-wise and earth-sick spirits yearn
For fragrant flower, and sward, and changeful trees,
For storied rose, and sweet poetic morn,
For sound of bird, and brook, and murmuring bees,
For luckless fancies of illusion born,
What time in dark we dwelt and framed our lore?
Woe, woe, if then regretful we should mourn
"What wisdom left we on that human shore!"
For brooding kindness can a charm beget,
Not duly won, and from Heaven's parapet
These terrene colours shine with starry gleam--
But this is all a fable and a dream;
A fable, for this axiom it brings,
Immortal loves must love immortal things;
Dream is it, for uncurbed it took its flight,
And roamed afar, a fancy of the Night.