The flame-gatherers

by Margaret Horton Potter

“Thou’rt not better?—Thou’rt worse?”

“Yes.”

“But the reason of it?” Churi looked down at the treasure now lying in his own hand, and a faint smile stole across his lips. “The charm—is gone?”

“I sold it. I sold the birthright of the Asra. I have doubly cursed my race. It is fitting, indeed, that I should expiate the sin by death!”

“Nay, despairing one. We shall cure thee yet. ’Tis but a lingering fever. I shall try to help thee. There is a certain draught of herbs—”

Fidá interrupted him with a sort of laugh. “Nay, Churi, spare thy skill. Fever-draughts will not avail against the curse of the Saint. There. I thank thy generosity. I thank thee, also, Churi, for all the rest thou hast done for me. I tell thee now in the face of death, that, were all to do over, I would face a thousand ends for half the glory I have known in her. And all this, I owe to thee. Had I mine uncle’s riches in addition to the ruby, they should be thine. And yet—Allah comfort her when I am gone! That—that, Churi, makes me suffer. Oh, I talk folly in my weakness. Heed me not. A peaceful rest to thee!” And, turning on his heel, Fidá was gone.

Time crept slowly along, and the Asra, absorbed in his duties and in his increasing weakness, took little note of the many things that passed about him. Ragunáth, busied with his share of government, was now doubly occupied with certain plans and desires of a private nature. It was a strange thing that Rai-Khizar-Pál had never seemed to suspect what all the rest of the palace knew: that Ragunáth was, and for a long time had been, deeply enamoured of Ahalya, who, six months before, had been almost at the stage of returning his affection. But for the past four months, indeed since the sharp repulse he had met with from the lady herself, Ragunáth had had the wisdom to make no attempt to see her. Now, at last, however, the time seemed favorable for a renewal of his efforts; and the mere possibility of success roused the man’s long-stifled passion with unconquerable fierceness. Rai-Khizar being well out of reach, Ragunáth was now a great power in the government. Manava he considered almost unimportant, but pliable. And so did he turn over matters in his mind, that he finally arrived at a casual, well-arranged talk with his fellow-minister, begun about servants in general, and continuing to Kasya in particular, who was getting old, who would be well replaced by some younger, more vigorous man:—Kripa, perhaps? He, Ragunáth, felt that the whole matter might be adjusted very simply, and would himself undertake it and its responsibility. Manava listened to him, seemed struck with the idea, considered it for a little, in his grave, inscrutable way, and then said some pleasant things to his coadjutor. Nevertheless, Ragunáth, on retiring, found that his point had not been gained; found that he had an impression that Manava considered the whole affair absurd; but was able to lay his memory on not one single unpleasant word that the other had spoken. He began then to perceive that he had underestimated his companion in office.

The failure of his scheme was a serious disappointment, and proved for a time a check upon his plans. Review the situation as he would, he could see no point in Ahalya’s guardianship that had not already been tried and found invincible. Considerably involved in other matters, he was forced to leave this, that was nearest his heart, alone for a little; though her image was scarcely out of his mind by day or night. And with all his brain’s ferment, Ragunáth found no hope of action until, for her own reasons, Chance, the great goddess, stepped scornfully in, and gave him what no scheming could have brought about.

Spring was now far along, and March at an end. It was the time of year when all young things were at the fulness of their vitality; for in India the late spring, before the coming of intolerable heat, is the real summer of the growing world. All nature was filled with vivid life. Each lightest thread of zephyr carried with it a shower of golden pollen, blown for floral marriage-beds. Birds and beasts had long since mated. And by night the bulbul in the champak bushes sang to his mate throbbing songs of the children that were coming to them from the eggs over which she brooded. Lutes in the hands of poets attuned themselves to the triumph of love; and, under the universal spell, only Fidá could not rise to it. On the afternoon of the third of April, the Arab had been with Ahalya for a moment only, showing himself too miserable to linger at her side; and she had sent him sadly away to rest alone, and perhaps sleep back into a semblance of life. Left to herself, Ahalya found it impossible to be still. She was young, and there was no curse on her to keep the summer from flowing in her veins. Neila was asleep somewhere in the zenana. She must have some one to speak to; and, even as she pondered, the young Bhavani bounded in to her with a fascinating and unwise proposal. Some slave, he said, had told him that this year, in the water-palace pool, there was a blossom of blue lotos, the flower said to be found only in paradise. Would she not go out with him to see if it were really there? Ahalya seized on the idea with alacrity. She longed to get into the living world; and Bhavani was delighted with her enthusiasm. The Ranee veiled herself, and then, calling no one to attend them, they hurried into the little courtyard, out of it into the north wing, and so across a corner of the great court and into the road to the water palace. And, as Fate had decreed, Ragunáth, sitting at council in the great audience chamber, caught, through its open doorway, one fleeting glimpse of Ahalya’s veiled figure, recognized it instantly with the divining eyes of desire, and began to calculate how soon he should be able to follow her.

Unconscious of the ill-omened gaze, careless of the recklessness and the indecorum of walking abroad unattended, Ahalya went on, hand in hand with the worshipful boy, joyously drinking in the exquisite air of the late afternoon. The sun almost touched the river in the west, and the air was suffused with rosy gold. From the south came a fragrant breeze, laden with the spicy breath of far Ceylon. There was a twittering chorus of birds. The trees and shrubs on every side were clad in foliage in the highest stage of fresh beauty. The tamarind and the willow vied with each other in grace. The bamboo was tufted with palest silver-green. The almond trees had finished blossoming, and the grass beneath their branches was strewn with pinkish petals. Here and there was a lilac shrub, heavy with clusters of pale purple flowers—emblems of Persia. And in sunny places the grass was strewn with white and golden gillyflowers, with occasional starry narcissi and daffodils. The whole world was abloom, and the air heavy with perfume.