The Adventures of Kathlyn

There is an old saying in Rajput that woman and the four winds were

born at the same time, of the same mother: blew hot, blew cold,

balmily, or tempestuously, from all points at once. Perhaps.

In the zenana of the royal palace there was a woman, tall, lithe, with

a skin of ivory and roses and eyes as brown as the husk of a water

chestnut. On her bare ankles were gem-incrusted anklets, on her arms

bracelets of hammered gold, round her neck a rope of pearls and

emeralds and rubies and sapphires. And still she was not happy.

From time to time her fingers strained at the roots of her glossy black

hair and the whites of her great eyes glistened. She bit her lips to

keep back the sobs crowding in her throat. She pressed her hands

together so tightly that the little knuckles cracked.

"Ai, ai!" she wailed softly.

She paced the confines of her chamber with slow step, with fast step;

or leaned against the wall, her face hidden in her arms; or pressed her

hot cheeks against the cool marble of the lattice.

Human nature is made up of contraries. Why, when we have had the

courage coolly to plan murder, or to aid or suggest it, why must we be

troubled with remorse? More than this, why must we battle against the

silly impulse to tell the first we meet what we have done? Remorse:

what is it?

Now, this woman of the zenana believed not in the God of your fathers

and mine. She was a pagan; her Heaven and hell were ruled by a

thousand gods, and her temples were filled with their images. Yet this

thing, remorse, was stabbing her with its hot needles, till no torture

devised by man could equal it.

She was the poor foolish woman who loved Durga Ram; loved him as these

wild Asiatic women love, from murder to the poisoned cup. Loved him,

and knew that he loved her not, but used her for his own selfish ends.

There you have it. Had he loved her, remorse never would have lifted

its head or raised its voice. And again, had not Umballa sought the

white woman, this butterfly of the harem might have died of old age

without unburdening her soul. Remorse is the result of a crime

committed uselessly. Humanity is unchangeable, for all its variety of

skins.

And here was this woman, wanting to tell some one!

Umballa had done a peculiar thing: he had not laid hand upon either

Ramabai or Pundita. When asked the reason for this generosity toward a

man who but recently put a price on his head, Umballa smiled and

explained that Ramabai was not only broken politically, but was a

religious outcast. It was happiness for such a person to die, so he

preferred that Ramabai should live.