For Zenaide, sinking slowly to her knees, bent her head upon her hands, and Oman saw two or three bright tears run through her fingers and fall to the floor. Her frame was shaken and convulsed with ill-restrained sobs. After gazing at her for a moment, Oman, unable to judge of the sincerity of her pose, went on more quietly:
“Thou hast confessed to love the ruler of his people, a man standing in the eyes of men for all that is upright—more than upright. And now thou callest upon me, his servant, a lover of truth, to condone thy sin. How couldst thou think thus of me?”
“No—no! Listen! Not to condone—” she lifted her head, and he perceived that her face was stained and distorted with real grief. “Not to condone. I sent for thee because, despairing—” she gave a little convulsive sob—“despairing of bringing his love to me, I long to cure myself of the malady. Thou art wise. I wish to learn wisdom of thee. Thou art good. So I also would be. Bha—Bhavani has sought to teach me wisdom, to teach me strength. But I—could never learn but love from him. O stern—O wise one—cast me not away! Help me, and I will honor thee all my days!”
Her pleading was eloquent because it was sincere. Her voice was not smooth. The words were forced out like sobs; and in them Oman read the struggle she had endured before she sent for him. Her abandon showed this, indeed; for, had he not been her final hope, she would never have laid her soul bare before him in her stress. And seeing all these things, his anger was softened, and he was moved to some sort of feeling, less pity than sympathy. Kneeling beside her as she still crouched upon the floor, he soothed her a little, and raised her up, and led her, unresisting, to the divan, where he caused her to sit down. Then, himself taking her former place upon the cushions, he began to talk. His voice was low and smooth, and flowed along monotonously. At first he cared not so much what he said, as that his manner should quiet her. In this he succeeded. And when he saw her, forgetful of her tears, sit up and lean forward, listening to him, he took up a text on which he had never spoken before—on which he had scarcely permitted himself to meditate, yet concerning which all knowledge seemed to be stored away in his heart and brain. It was the ceaseless, rebellious yearning of woman for man, of man for woman: that insistent, unreasoning desire that has caused chaos in the world. Of himself and his own abnormal struggles, he did not speak. But it was from them that he drew his words:—the words that Zenaide knew to be expressive of universal truth. For some time Oman talked broadly on this theme; and then, waiving generalities, he continued:
“And it is thus that you have suffered in your soul, desiring for a companion the noblest of men. But, because you would match your heart with such as him, so you must become his equal, worthy of him. Let his own nobility illumine you. It is unlawful, in the light of the higher law, that you two should love. Show yourself his peer, then, in quenching this desire, and, dwelling near his brain, seek not to unlock the chamber of his heart. Let it not be said that, through you, his high nature has been weakened and defiled.
“Nay—speak not yet. I see it in your eyes—how cold my words are to you; how hard. It is true that I feel within me no fire burning. I know little of that restless pain. But, hearing many speak of it, I believe in it; and yet, above, see plainly the great Dharma shining. Receive, then, the truth. Be not defeated in your struggle. Go your way knowing that the blessing of Brahma is upon you for your keeping of the law.”
“But, in the end, what reward shall there be for this, my sacrifice? What in the wide world could repay me for the delight of one hour—of one moment, in the strength of his arms?”
“The reward is great:—greater, indeed, than any that receive it not can fathom. It comes in the earthly Nirvâna, the high, conscious strength, the calm, the tranquillity, that permeates the soul as water permeates and renews a parched and dying plant. With this peace comes the death of yearning and desire. The pursuits of man and the objects of his struggles—love, power, wealth, fame—these are little to those that feel their futility. And I assert this not as the Dharma, nor as what has been told me; but I speak of what I know. For, Zenaide, that same reward is mine. Many years I labored for it, fighting such battles as you could scarcely understand. But in the end it came;—the great Relief; and, knowing that at last I should be safe to dwell among men, I returned to them, and shall remain among them till my death. The reward is always with me. It cannot leave me now.”
“But—” Zenaide sat studying him, his seamed face, his deep-set eyes, his black hair, shaded here and there with a thread of white; and when she spoke, there was a pathetic childishness in her tone: “But thou art old. Thou hast seen life. Desire dies out of the hearts of the aged.”
Oman shook his head. “I am not an old man. I was not twenty years old when I went up into the mountains. I dwelt there for many years; but still I am not more than five and thirty. I am younger than Bhavani,” he added, thoughtfully.