"By her side now lies her husband, at rest and in peace, for only death brings true rest and peace. And even now, after many years, I am on my way to pay a pilgrimage to the tombs of that truly n.o.ble man and his good--aye, his worthy--spouse, for, as I have said, let no man take upon himself to judge her. Allah alone can search the hearts of men."

IV. THE SPIRIT WAIL

TOLD BY THE MERCHANT

"Allah alone can search the hearts of men," said the hakeem, slowly and reflectively repeating the words with which the astrologer had closed his tale. He was a man of venerable appearance, with flowing, white beard that descended to his waist. And yet, although his face was furrowed with the lines of old age, his eyes were wonderfully youthful in their contemplative calm.

"No truer words have been spoken to-night," he continued. "Yet must we further reflect that, while a man cannot sit in judgment upon his fellows, he can a.s.suredly judge himself, which goes to show that within the breast of every man there dwells the very spirit of G.o.d, the power to search his own heart, whether in condemnation or for approval. Life is a problem, and it requires a full lifetime to solve it. Only as we grow older do we come to know our own souls--our strength and our weakness, the measure of our true n.o.bility of character and likewise the measure of our inherent meanness, the temptations not merely from without but from within that a.s.sail us, our power to conquer these or our miserable yielding at times, with no one, perhaps, even guessing at our degradation except the divine spark of conscience that inexorably turns a searching ray on every thought and on every motive for action."

"So you would argue that man is G.o.d?" queried the Rajput.

"Not so, but that the soul of man is of the essence of G.o.d, the proof of which is this very power of searching out our own hearts and sitting in judgment on our own failings: for the judgment seat belongs to Allah alone."

"A subtle philosophy which I do not presume fully to understand,"

interposed the merchant from Bombay.

During the night's entertainment he had shown himself to be a man of few words, yet an attentive listener. He was of middle age, of a mild dignity of mien, and of robust physique, as befitted one accustomed to long journeys through regions infested with robbers or with beasts of prey.

"But in my practical experience of life," he proceeded, "I have come to realize that, while I may know myself, no other man can I know.

Therefore, if it be right to be sparing of condemnation for another, it is also wise to be chary of undue commendation. The world too often acclaims a deed as n.o.ble when the real motive prompting it is utterly ign.o.ble."

"A true philosopher, despite your bales of merchandise," murmured the hakeem, with a smiling nod of approval for the sentiments expressed.

"Well, I suppose that every one who travels becomes a philosopher, more or less," a.s.sented the trader. "Change of scene and of companionship stimulates new ideas. Now will I relate an actual experience which aptly ill.u.s.trates that, in our dealings with those around us, we never really penetrate their minds. Man knows himself; he knows no one else--friend or intimate, the child of his heart or the very wife of his bosom."

"It is more easy to discover a white crow," muttered the fakir, "than know what a woman has in her heart."

The merchant paid no heed to the interruption. He went on:

"Each of us is an inscrutable mystery to the other. Each soul is veiled to every other soul, and is naked to itself alone."

"O prince of philosophers in pedlar's disguise!" murmured the hakeem.

"If our souls sat naked for the common gaze," commented the Rajput, "if we could all read each other's hearts, then indeed would life be an abomination--an utter misery, with the twin devils of shame and disgust seated at our elbows all the time."

"Most true," concurred the trader. "For too much knowledge of another's inmost thoughts brings only disillusionment and regret, as my tale will show. The story takes us among humble people, but human nature is the same everywhere--the same in the hut of the rayat as in the palace of the rajah.

"Once in every two years it is my custom to travel from Bombay to Benares, and invariably I break the journey at a certain village some six or seven days from my final destination. Here dwells an old friend and caste brother, formerly, like myself, a merchant in the Bombay bazaar where silken stuffs are sold, but retired now to his own country with modest savings sufficient for the rest of his days. Baji Lal, as he is named, is all the closer to me because his wife Devaka is a sister of my own wife, and the two are always eager to have news of each other's welfare.

"At the house of this friend I rest for a day or two, enjoying his companionship, the reminiscences of old times, and the gossip of the hour. So, on my long and fatiguing journeyings, I have always looked forward to these meetings with pleasurable antic.i.p.ation and remembered them with tranquil satisfaction.

"But on the occasion of one of my periodical visits judge of my surprise when I was received in silence and with apathy that made no pretence at disguise. Devaka did not rise from her cushions on the floor to bid me welcome, and her husband, similarly irresponsive, returned my customary cordial greeting with nothing better than a look of wearied dejection.

"Disturbed, I made inquiry:

"'Baji Lal, my friend, what is the matter? Are you ailing?'

"But he only shook his head, and turned away.

"To Devaka I then appealed.

"'What is the meaning of this?' I asked. 'Sadness and silence where everything used to be joy.'

"She drew aside the sari that had concealed her face, and I was shocked at its grief-stricken aspect. Her trembling lips parted to answer me, but her husband checked her with a sharp word, such as I had never heard him use to her before. Her eyes filled with tears, and I could see the big drops rolling down her cheeks as she silently replaced the sari over her head, and, bending low, rocked herself to and fro.

"For the moment I imagined that I had intruded on some scene of domestic unhappiness which would be dissipated in an hour. So, hiding my embarra.s.sment, I turned to the door, intimating that I would seek some other lodging for the night, and return on the morrow, when I hoped my friends would be in fitter mood to receive me.

"At last Baji Lal spoke, raising his face but still remaining seated on the divan we were wont in former times to share.

"'Go thy way, Chunda Das,' he said. 'The sword of fate has descended upon this house. Come not again to a place accursed.'

"Then did I realize that the trouble was serious.

"'But, my friend and brother,' I protested, 'I cannot depart and leave you thus. Let me at least understand what calamity has befallen you, so that I may help toward its repair.'

"'Nothing can be done, so nothing need be said,' he answered, in a tone and with a look of dignified resignation to the will of G.o.d. 'If you must have the story of our misfortune, you have only to ask the first of our neighbours you encounter.'

"And he, too, covered his face with his garment, leaving me no choice but to withdraw without further attempt at this manifestly inopportune time to probe the mystery.

"If I was to be of service to my friends, however, knowledge of what had befallen was the first essential. So I took the road that would lead me to the great pipul tree in the village square, close to the tank and to the temple, where all day long there was coming and going, and where therefore I would be most likely to glean the information I desired. By a happy chance I found reclining under the pipul tree the village barber, a loquacious fellow, who counted it as part of his business to know the last detail about other people's affairs.

"After greetings, and a few remarks about the weather and the crops and the season's epidemics, I carefully broached the real purpose of my interview, for a prudent man will never divulge his thoughts to another until he knows that other's thoughts.

"'I have just come from the house of Baji Lal,' I said, in a seemingly casual way.

"The barber's face instantly lost the smile it had worn.

"'How did you find him?' he asked.

"'Strangely altered,' I replied.

"'And so does every one,' he concurred.

"'Why so?' I ventured.

"The barber looked at me squarely, and then said:

"'You and he were very good friends, Chunda Das.'

"'Yes, and are still, so far as I am concerned,' I answered.

"'I thought so. Well, I am his friend likewise. Many years I have known him and his wife, Devaka. Both are good, kind people, always willing to help their neighbours, and ready to give their last bowl of rice to a vagrant beggar. Perhaps you can a.s.sist me to clear away the shadows that have fallen around them and obscured the sunshine of their home. Let me tell you the story. A few months ago a stranger came to this village. He was on his way to Fathpur-Sikri, to witness the glories of the court of the mighty Akbar. But on the road he had fallen ill, and, arriving here, was too sick to proceed. I am ashamed to say that none of us were willing to take him in, for sickness goes from one person to another. So we have to be careful, especially in my calling, where I come into such close contact with so many.