And yet Iravati found no reason to despise the Prince when she met him, as often was the case, in company with her father. His manner, when he conversed with her, was that of a polished nobleman; and far from allowing himself the slightest freedom, the respect and reverence with which he treated her was such that the greatest princess could have found no fault with it. There was no trace of flattery or empty politeness in the words he addressed to her, but all was simple, unconstrained and natural; while his conversation was amusing, and bore witness to an unusual cultivation and extended knowledge. “Oh, if,” she often thought to herself, “he would but make a better use of his many gifts, and would consider that to follow the great example set him by his noble father is his holiest duty and task!”
One evening, as, lost in thought, Iravati seated herself on one of the benches in the park, she became aware, to her astonishment, that the silence that reigned around her was unbroken by any joyous sound of revelry from the castle, and that no lights showed themselves from the windows and galleries. Only a warm wind murmured through the leaves, gently moving the branches of the trees, and every now and then a sound of flutes or bells from distant villages told of some peasant fête. Suddenly a sound of footsteps broke on the silence, and through the evening twilight a man’s figure became visible, approaching the spot where the daughter of Salhana was seated. With a feeling of terror, she rose to her feet, but, to her great astonishment, recognised in the intruder the Prince himself, who, drawing nearer, greeted her with his usual respect.
“Forgive me, noble lady,” he said, “if, unaware of your presence here, I unwillingly have disturbed you; receive my evening greeting, and I will not trouble you longer.”
“The disturbance,” said Iravati, courteously, “cannot be otherwise than agreeable to me; still I must confess that I was a little surprised. I believed your Highness was wont to pass your evenings in another and more mirthful manner than by quiet, solitary walks.”
“It was so,” answered Salim; “and you have a right to reproach me. I should have treated with more respect the roof that sheltered you. But let bygones be bygones. In future no unfitting noise of carousal shall disturb you in your palace, and break the silence of the night.”
Iravati listened to him with astonishment. Why should he make this declaration? and what was the cause of so sudden a change?
“A change has come over me,” continued Salim, “and I believe no slight one, although the time has been short. Until to-day I was—listen to me and do not draw back, I will confess all to you—I cared only for pleasure; I was dissipated and even a drunkard; I conceal nothing. But I have ceased to be all that; I have broken with my former life, and the Salim of to-day is a very different man from him of yesterday. From this hour I will live for duty and honour alone, and for the weal of the people that may some day be confided to my care. I will say farewell to all ambitious and unlawful projects, and above all to those debasing, worthless diversions, in which, until to-day, I sought distraction but never true enjoyment. I will do all this if one wish may be granted, a wish on which my happiness and my future depend, and also to a great extent that of my kingdom; and the granting of this wish depends on you.”
“I do not understand you, my lord,” said Iravati, who, alarmed as she was, would have been no woman had she not guessed to what the words of the Prince tended.
“You will soon understand me,” he replied, “when I tell you what has caused this sudden change in my whole being. But should I not rather leave it to you to guess, if you have not already learned from my words that it can be no one but yourself? And so it is,” he continued, with ever-increasing enthusiasm, though never out-stepping the bounds of reverence. “From the first moment I saw you, I knew, or rather felt, that you had an influence, a serious one, over my fate; I who never before had cast my eyes down before any one, did so at once before you, and in your presence felt myself small and nothing; and so whenever I saw you and spoke to you, and came to know you better, I felt still more clearly that my future lay in your hands. I began to feel a horror of myself, my manner of life, and so-called friends who aided me in passing evenings, and often nights, in so unworthy a manner; yet I would not at once resolve to break with it all; and I confess that when our feasts were in progress your image often faded away from my mind, as wine obscured my senses; but then when morning broke, with what shame and anger I regarded myself! To-day my resolve is taken, and, as you see, is carried out. All is quiet, there is no sound of revelry, my dancers are dismissed, and most of my guests have already taken their departure from Allahabad, or will do so to-morrow. All that is your work, and may it be carried out still further! For that one thing is indispensable, we must no longer remain acquaintances, meeting occasionally; a closer bond must unite us. Iravati, is it possible to say more clearly what I feel for you? Well, then, I——”
“Ah! no, no, my lord!” cried Iravati, clasping her hands supplicatingly; “do not say the words that are hardly on your lips, for I may not hear them.”