The Daughter of Brahma - I. A. R. Wylie (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

to him in a passionate gratitude, his eyes fell on the grinning idol and in the distance he heard the sound of voices raised in loud melodious chant, and knew that the end was at hand.

"Sarasvati," he whispered, "thy people come for thee. Canst thou not hear them?"

"They sing unto Dyaus, the goddess of the dawn," she answered dreamily. "What are they to me? Take me to thy people, who are mine. Let me follow thee."

Very gently he loosened her hands from about his neck. The full measure of his madness had become clear to him. He had called her from her peace, perhaps to death at least to the bitterness of grim reality and loss. Yet in the realisation he felt a calm and strength that were new to him. He led her back to her place before the altar and forced her to her knees. She made no resistance, but looked at him with a dawning fear, her hands outstretched, and he took them and kissed them.

"Sarasvati, death is very near to both of us. Is thy love strong enough to trust me?"

"Have I not trusted thee already?" she answered simply.

"Return to thy peace for a little longer. Then I will come for thee. Canst thou not?" "I can but seem," she said. "My peace has gone. But since it is for thy life, I will try. Look, my lord."

Like a child she folded her hands before her and lifted her face to the full sunshine. But the face was no more the same. The breathless longing had gone. The lips were closed in a proud line of determination, and in the dead eyes there burned love and that high courage which is given to women in the hour of need. Again he kissed her.

"Be patient. I will come again!" he whispered. She made no answer. Yet, as he reached the door, he thought he heard a smothered cry, and looked at her. She had not moved. Her eyes were lifted steadily to the light, but he saw that they were dim with tears, and that the first deep line of pain had drawn itself about the rigid mouth.

"Sarasvati," he whispered.

And suddenly her lips smiled at him with their first radiance.

"I know that thou wilt come again!" she said.

He turned, but already, as he saw the farther bank of the sacred pool, he knew that it was too late. The doors of the sanctuary stood open, and a procession of priests, whose chants had broken the silence, came slowly to the water's edge. As yet they had not seen him, and he stumbled to the boat and thrust it off, so that it drifted shore wards with the soft morning wind. Then, without hesitation, he slipped noiselessly into the water and struck out for the stone steps beneath the shadow of the Gopura. He swam low, so that only his head was visible, and for some distance at least the shrine hid him from view. But as he reached the shore the chanting ceased suddenly, 10 and he knew that the drifting boat had been discovered. Cautiously he drew himself on the lowest step, and, half hidden by the overhanging embankment, saw that the procession had drawn together in puzzled consultation. An angry hand was raised in command, and presently a young man separated himself from the rest, and, wading out into the shallows, drew the boat ashore. Five priests entered and were rowed out swiftly to the shrine, whilst those remaining took up the interrupted chant whose monotonous melody came with the breeze across the waters.

"Fair shines the light of morning. Behold Dyaus awakens us to toil; along the path of eternal order goeth the goddess, arrayed in glory, and extendeth in the east gleaming till she filleth earth and sky. Praise be to thee, daughter of Heaven!"

Hurst listened, tense and motionless. He saw the white-robed priests enter the shrine, and ground his teeth in the violence of his suspense. To him who loved her it seemed inevitable that they should see that a change had come upon her, that the miracle of her awakening had been accomplished. But no sign was given. Again the priests came out into the light, and he saw her hi the midst of them, walking with the mechanical precision of a dreamer, her hands folded on her breast, her face lifted to the cloudless sky. For a moment, whilst her escort reentered the boat, she stood alone, a slight, pathetic figure, yet regal in unconscious dignity, and the chants upon the shore grew louder as though in greeting. But a new note had crept into the motonony of the priestly song, and in the pure calm of the morning there stirred something that was evil a sultry, ugly breath of Oriental passion.

The man crouching in the shadow heard it, as he heard the words, and he half started upright, his hands clenched, his face black with impotent rage that forgot caution. But though his shadow fell clean-cut upon the water, he passed unnoticed. The procession, bearing Sarasvati upon a golden palanquin, reformed and returned slowly to the sanctuary. Hurst followed it with his eyes; his sight, sharpened by knowledge, saw what she saw the vile and hideous reliefs upon the temple-pillars, the cunning, sensual faces of her priests; his ears heard with her ears of unsullied innocence. And in that moment of loathing and despair he remembered his own question, "Will she awake?" and the Professor's answer, "Not if the dear God is merciful," and for the first time understood the full magnitude and significance of the words. He had ignored the warning. In his boundless egoism he had awakened her to this, and to this had left her, in his cowardice and weakness.

Boused by a storm of unreasoning self-contempt and love, he sprang up the remaining steps, with no plan, save the one not to leave her in the hands of these priestly satyrs; but, as he reached the level of the temple courts, the doors of the sanctuary clanged to, and the chanting passed into sudden mysterious silence. The change brought him to his senses; he knew that he was alone and helpless, and that against him were ranged the hatred and religious fanaticism of a whole people. Already he had trespassed against the sacred law of non-interference which alone safeguarded his race. He dared go no farther, and as he stood there, torn between passion and judgment, the quiet about him was unexpectedly broken.

"The Sahib bathes early in the sacred pool," a voice said behind him. He turned, recovering his calm instantly as he saw the man standing by the water's edge. A quick, instinctive recognition of danger warned him, and he drew himself up with the natural hauteur of the white man.

"Rama Pal, the Christian, visits the temple of his fathers," he said, with the ironic indifference born of his emergency.

The convert bowed his head. He wore the ordinary native costume, and against the background of ruined Oriental splendour his handsome, inscrutable face and graceful figure stood out in harmonious completeness. In the mission house he had been a disturbing, discordant element; here he became the living personification of the temple and of all that for which it stood the spirit of a race and a great religion.

"The Temple to the Unknown is beautiful at dawn," he said, ignoring the Englishman's veiled taunt, "and it is well for the Sahib that his faithful servant, and no other, has seen him, else might it have fared ill with the Sahib and with his people."

"A faithful servant?" Hurst queried significantly.

"Even so, Sahib," was the smooth answer.

"Whither, then, have they borne her?" Hurst demanded.

"Of whom speaketh the Sahib?"

"Of her whom we have seen carried amidst the priests into the sanctuary."

Rama Pal's eyes became blank and lightless.

"Sahib, I have seen no priests. The sanctuary stands surely empty," he answered.

For a long minute European directness confronted the matchless cunning of the native and yielded. Rama Pal had not flinched. His face retained its stony intentness, and David Hurst's raised hand fell to his side.

"You have lied," he said. "You have seen what I have seen."

"Surely the Sahib has dreamed old dreams," was the answer.

Hurst shrugged his shoulders and passed on. Rama Pal lifted his hands gravely to his forehead in profound reverence, and remained thus until Hurst had disappeared through the high gates of the Gopura.

BOOK II_CHAPTER VII (MRS. CHICHESTER'S BALL SUFFERS AN INTER- RUPTION)

WHATEVER Mrs. Chichester undertook was a success; she had not the slightest idea of organisation, and her restless energy was peculiarly ineffectual as far as direct results were concerned; but by some miracle or other her enterprises always arose triumphant out of chaos. Perhaps her luck, touched by her childish confidence, came to her rescue; or, as was more likely, her guests, roused by the hopeless confusion, grew accustomed to smoothing out situations and exerted themselves more than was their wont. As the judge expressed it, "Mrs. Chichester kicked up the dust, and other people had to sweep it away," which metaphor was admirably descriptive.

On the occasion of the "Combined Bazaar and Dance given on behalf of the Famine Fund," the dust had been raised to some effect. A huge marquee had been put up in the colonel's garden, and the elaborate arrangements were such that the most sanguine questioned the possibility of covering so much as the expenses. Everybody had been invited officers and officials from neighbouring stations, whom Mrs. Chichester was "putting up" at the extreme inconvenience of her family; civilians whom nobody knew, and even rich Eurasians whom nobody wanted to know. And in the midst of this heterogeneous, somewhat hostile crowd, Mrs. Chichester moved like an innocent, beneficent spirit, introducing life-long enemies, husbands to their wives, and engaged couples to each other, with a cheerful vagueness which left the victims breathless either with indignation or laughter. Finally, as was always the case, a general good-tempered acceptation of the situation supervened and Mrs. Chichester surveyed the scene with the consciousness of having added another triumph to her list.

The dancing had already begun when Judge Hamilton arrived in his ramshackle buggy. Having thrust the charge of the vehicle and the weary-looking quadruped upon the first available syce, he made his way straight to the drawing-room of the bungalow, where the remnants of the bazaar were still being displayed for the benefit of the unwary. Diana Chichester, who had been left in charge, immediately seized upon him.

"You've got to buy something," she said firmly, "otherwise the family is ruined. What will you have? a poker-work cigar-box, or a hand-worked table-cloth? both equally fabulous; you can take your choice."

"Thanks." The judge looked dismally at the two forlorn articles offered for sale. "I don't think I care much for them," he said. "I wanted something handsome expensive."

"They're all expensive," Diana retorted grimly. "What about this?" She produced a fine gold necklace and dangled it in the light. "Mother wheedled it out of some native prince of her acquaintance, and if it isn't sold he will be offended, so that poor father is faced with the prospect of buying it himself. As he has already to pay a ransom on his own cigar-box, you might