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 God of your fathers
and mine. She was a pagan; her Heaven and hell were ruled by a
thousand gods, 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 butterfly 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 ingratitude of
kings is as nothing when compared to the ingratitude of a people.
A most ridiculous country: to crown Kathlyn again (for the third time!)
and then to lock her up! Next to superstition 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 passed."
"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 hell. No man who was
my friend now dares receive me in his house. Worship is denied us,
unless we worship 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,
passionately 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 snatched 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."
"The temple?"
"Aye; where all the soldiers are, the priests . . . and Durga Ram!"
"Ai, ai! Durga Ram; it was he! And I helped him, thus: I secured
permission to go into the bazaars. There an assault took place under
the command of Durga Ram, and my bearers were made prisoners. Durga
Ram, disguised as a bearer, himself freed the tiger which killed the
king. Yes! To the temple! She who confesses in the temple, her
person is sacred. It is the law, the law! I had forgot! To the
temple, my Lord!"
Before the high tribunal of priests, before the unhappy Kathlyn, before
the astonished Umballa, appeared Ramabai and Pundita, between them the
young woman of the zenana, now almost dead with terror.
"Hold!" cried Ramabai when the soldiers started toward him to eject him
from the temple.
"What!" said Umballa; "will you recant?"
"No, Durga Ram. I stand here before you all, an accuser! I know the
law. Will you, wise and venerable priests, you men of Allaha, you
soldiers, serve a murderer? Will you," with a wave of his hand toward
the priests, "stand sponsor to the man who deliberately planned and
executed the miserable death of our king? Shall it fly to Benares,
this news that Allaha permits itself to be ruled and bullied by a
common murderer; a man without family, a liar and a cheat? Durga Ram,
who slew the king; you turned upon the hand that had fed and clothed
you and raised you to power. . . . Wait! Let this woman speak!"
A dramatic moment followed; a silence so tense that the fluttering
wings of the doves in the high arches could be heard distinctly.
Ramabai was a great politician. He had struck not only wisely but
swiftly before his public. Had he come before the priests and Umballa
alone, he would have died on the spot. But there was no way of
covering up this accusation, so bold, direct; it would have to be
investigated.
Upon her knees, her arms outstretched toward the scowling priests, the
woman of the zenana tremblingly told her tale: how she had saved
Umballa during the revolt; how she had secured him shelter with her
sister, who was a dancer; how she had visited Umballa in his secret
chamber; how he had confided to her his plans; how she had seen him
with her own eyes become one of the fake bearers of the palanquin.
"The woman lies because I spurned her!" roared Umballa.
"Away with her!" cried the chief priest, inwardly cursing Umballa for
having permitted this woman to live when she knew so much. "Away with
her!"
"The law!" the woman wailed. "The sanctity of the temple is mine!"
"Hold!" said Kathlyn, standing up. In her halting Hindustani she
spoke: "I have something to say to you all. This woman tells the
truth. Let her go unafraid. You, grave priests, have thrown your lot
with Umballa. Listen. Have you not learned by this time that I am not
a weak woman, but a strong one? You have harried me and injured me and
wronged me and set tortures for me, but here I stand, unharmed. This
day I will have my revenge. My servant Ahmed has departed for the
walled city of Bala Khan. He will return with Bala Khan and an army
such as will flatten the city of Allaha to the ground, and crows and
vultures and tigers and jackals shall make these temples their
abiding-places, and men will forget Allaha as they now forget the
mighty Chitor." She swung round toward the priests. "You have
yourselves to thank. At a word from me, Bala Khan enters or stops at
the outer walls. I have tried to escape you by what means I had at my
command. Now it shall be war! War, famine, plague!"
Her young voice rang out sharp and clear, sending terror to all
cowardly hearts, not least among these being those beating in the
breasts of the priests.
"Now," speaking to the soldiers, "go liberate my father, my sister and
my husband-to-be; and woe to any who disobey me! For while I stand
here I shall be a queen indeed! Peace; or war, famine and the plague.
Summon the executioner. Arrest Durga Ram. Strip him before my eyes of
his every insignia of rank. He is a murderer. He shall go to the
tread-mill, there to slave till death. I have said it!"
Far in the rear of the cowed assemblage, near the doors, stood Ahmed,
in his old guise of bheestee, or water carrier. When he heard that
beloved voice he felt the blood rush into his throat. Aye, they were
right. Who but a goddess would have had at such a time an inspiration
so great? But it gave him an idea, and he slipped away to complete it.
Bala Khan should come in fact.
So he did not see Umballa upon his knees, whining for mercy, making
futile promises, begging for liberty. The soldiers spat contemptuously
as they seized him and dragged him off.
The priests conferred hastily. Bala Khan was a fierce Mohammedan, a
ruthless soldier; his followers were without fear. The men of Allaha
might put up a good defense, but in the end they would be whelmed; and
the gods of Hind would be cast out to make way for the prophet of
Allah. This young woman with the white skin had for the nonce beaten
them. Durga Ram had played the fool: between the two women, he had
fallen. They had given him power, and he had let it slip through his
fingers for the sake of reprisal where it was not needed. Let him go,
then, to the treadmill; they were through with him. He had played his
game like a tyro. They must placate this young woman whom the people
believed was their queen, but who they knew was the plaything of
politics and expediencies.
The chief or high priest salaamed, and Kathlyn eyed him calmly, though
her knees threatened to refuse support.
"Majesty, we bow to your will. Allaha can not hope to cope with Bala
Khan's fierce hillmen. All we ask is that you abide with us till you
have legally selected your successor."
"Who shall be Pundita," said Kathlyn resolutely.
The chief priest salaamed again. The movement cost him nothing. Once
Bala Khan was back in his city and this white woman out of the country,
he would undertake to deal with Ramabai and Pundita. He doubted Bala
Khan would stir from his impregnable city on behalf of Ramabai.
The frail woman who loved Umballa raised her hands in supplication.
Kathlyn understood. She shook her head. Umballa should end his days
in the treadmill; he should grind the people's corn. Nothing should
stir her from this determination.
"Majesty, and what of me?" cried the unhappy woman, now filled with
another kind of remorse.
"You shall return to the zenana for the present."
"Then I am not to die, Majesty?"
"No."
"And Bala Khan?" inquired the priest.
"He shall stand prepared; that is all."
The people, crowding in the temple and in the square before it,
salaamed deeply as Kathlyn left and returned to the palace. She was
rather dizzy over the success of her inspiration. A few days might
pass without harm; but sooner or later they would discover that she had
tricked them; and then, the end. But before that hour arrived they
would doubtless find some way of leaving the city secretly.
That it would be many days ere Pundita wore the crown--trust the
priests to spread the meshes of red tape!--Kathlyn was reasonably
certain.
"My girl," said the colonel, "you are a queen, if ever there was one.
And that you should think of such a simple thing when we had all given
up! They would not have touched Umballa. Kit, Kit, whatever will you
do when you return to the humdrum life at home?"
"Thank God on my knees, dad!" she said fervently. "But we are not safe
yet, by any means. We must form our plans quickly. We have perhaps
three days' grace. After that, woe to all of us who are found here.
Ah, I am tired, tired!"
"Kit," whispered Bruce, "I intend this night to seek Bala Khan!"
"John!"
"Yes. What the deuce is Allaha to me? Ramabai must fight it out
alone. But don't worry about me; I can take care of myself."
"But I don't want you to go. I need you."
"It is your life, Kit, I am certain. Everything depends upon their
finding out that Bala Khan will strike if you call upon him. At most,
all he'll do will be to levy a tribute which Ramabai, once Pundita is
on the throne, can very well pay. Those priests are devils incarnate.
They will leave no stone unturned to do you injury, after to-day's
work. You have humiliated and outplayed them."
"It is best he should go, Kit," her father declared. "We'll not tell
Ramabai. He has been a man all the way through; but we mustn't
sacrifice our chances for the sake of a bit of sentiment. John must
seek Bala Khan's aid."
Kathlyn became resigned to the inevitable.
Umballa. He tried to bribe the soldiers. They laughed and taunted
him. He took his rings from his fingers and offered them. The
soldiers snatched them out of his palm and thrust him along the path
which led to the mill. In Allaha political malefactors and murderers
were made to serve the state; not a bad law if it had always been a
just one. But many a poor devil had died at the wrist bar for no other
reason than that he had offended some high official, disturbed the
serenity of some priest.
When the prisoners saw Umballa a shout went up. There were some there
who had Umballa to thank for their miseries. They hailed him and
jeered him and mocked him.
"Here is the gutter rat!"
"May his feet be tender!"
"Robber of the poor, where is my home, my wife and children?"
"May he rot in the grave with a pig!"
"Hast ever been thirsty, Highness?"
"Drink thy sweat, then!"
"Give the 'heaven born' irons that are rusted!"
The keepers enjoyed this raillery. Umballa was going to afford them
much amusement. They forced him to the wrist bar, snapped the irons on
his wrist, and shouted to the men to tread. Ah, well they knew the
game! They trotted with gusto, forcing Umballa to keep pace with them,
a frightful ordeal for a beginner. Presently he slipped and fell, and
hung by his wrists while his legs and thighs bumped cruelly. The lash
fell upon his shoulders, and he shrieked and grew limp. He had fainted.
* * * * * *
Among the late king's papers they found an envelope addressed to
Kathlyn. It was in grandiloquent English. Brevity of speech is
unknown to the East Indian. Kathlyn read it with frowning eyes. She
gave it to her father to read; and it hurt her to note the way his eyes
took fire at the contents of that letter. The filigree basket of gold
and gems; the trinkets for which he had risked his own life, Kathlyn's,
then Winnie's. In turn Bruce and Ramabai perused the letter; and to
Ramabai came the inspiration.
They would seek this treasure, but only he, Ramabai, and Pundita would
return. Here lay their way to freedom without calling upon Bala Khan
for aid. The matter, however, had to be submitted to the priests, and
those wily men in yellow robes agreed. They could very well promise
Durga Ram his freedom again, pursue these treasure seekers and destroy
them; that would be Durga Ram's ransom.
The return to the palace was joyous this time; but in her heart of
hearts Kathlyn was skeptical. Till she trod the deck of a ship
homeward bound she would always be doubting.
Bruce did not have to seek Bala Khan. The night of Kathlyn's defiance
Ahmed had acquainted them with his errand. He was now on his way to
Bala Khan. They need trouble themselves no longer regarding the future.
"All goes well," said Ramabai; "for, to reach the hiding-place, we must
pass the city of Balakhan. I know where this cape is. It is not
large. It juts off into the sea, the Persian Gulf, perhaps half a
dozen miles. At high tide it becomes an island. None lives about
except the simple fishermen. Still, the journey is hazardous. The
truth is, it is a spot where there is much gun running; in fact, where
we found our guns and ammunition. I understand that there are great
secret stores of explosives hidden there."
"Any seaport near?" asked the colonel.
"Perhaps seventy miles north is the very town we stopped at a few weeks
ago."
The colonel seized Kathlyn in his arms. She played at gaiety for his
sake, but her heart was heavy with foreboding.
"And the filigree basket shall be divided between you and Pundita, Kit."
"Give it all to her, father. I have begun to hate what men call
precious stones."
"It shall be as you say; but we may all take a handful as a keepsake."
Two days later the expedition was ready to start. They intended to
pick up Ahmed on the way. There was nothing but the bungalow itself at
the camp.
Umballa was thereupon secretly taken from the treadmill. He was given
a camel and told what to do. He flung a curse at the minarets and
towers and domes looming mistily in the moonlight. Ransom? He would
destroy them; aye, and take the treasure himself, since he knew where
it now lay, this information having been obtained for him. He would
seek the world, choosing his habitation where he would.
Day after day he followed, tireless, indomitable, as steadfast upon the
trail as a jackal after a wounded antelope, never coming within range,
skulking about the camp at night, dropping behind in the morning, not
above picking up bits of food left by the treasure seekers. Money and
revenge; these would have kept him to the chase had he been dying.
As for Bala Khan, he was at once glad and sorry to see his friends.
Nothing would have pleased him more than to fall upon Allaha like the
thunderbolt he was. But he made Ramabai promise that if ever he had
need of him to send. And Ramabai promised, hoping that he could adjust
and regulate his affairs without foreign assistance. They went on,
this time with Ahmed.
Toward the end of the journey they would be compelled to cross a chasm
on a rope and vine bridge. Umballa, knowing this, circled and reached
this bridge before they did. He set about weakening the support, so
that the weight of passengers could cause the structure to break and
fall into the torrent below. He could not otherwise reach the spot
where the treasure lay waiting.
The elephants would be forced to ford the rapids below the bridge.
Kathlyn, who had by this time regained much of her old confidence and
buoyancy, declared that she must be first to cross the bridge. She
gained the middle, when she felt a sickening sag. She turned and
shouted to the others to go back. She made a desperate effort to reach
the far end, but the bridge gave way, and she was hurled into the
swirling rapids. She was stunned for a moment; but the instinct to
live was strong. As she swung to and fro, whirled here, flung there,
she managed to catch hold of a rock which projected above the flying
foam.
A mahout, seeing her danger, urged his elephant toward her and reached
her just as she was about to let go.