We drove together, after dinner, to the Taj.The moonlight lay in an empty splendour over the broad sandy road, with the acacias pricking up on each side of it and the gardens of the station bungalows stretching back into clusters of crisp shadows.It was an exquisite February night, very still.Nothing seemed abroad but two or three pariah dogs, upon vague and errant business, and the Executive Engineer going swiftly home from the club on his bicycle.
Even the little shops of the bazaar were dark and empty; only here and there a light showed barred behind the carved balconies of the upper rooms, and there was hardly any tom-tomming.The last long slope of the road showed us the river curving to the left, through a silent white waste that stretched indefinitely into the moonlight on one side, and was crowned by Akbar's fort on the other.His long high line of turrets and battlements still guarded a hint of their evening rose, and dim and exquisite above them hovered the three dome-bubbles of the Pearl Mosque.It was a night of perfect illusion, and the illusion was mysterious, delicate, and faint.Isat silent as we rolled along, twenty years nearer to the original joy of things when John and I drove through the same old dream.
Dacres, too, seemed preoccupied; only Cecily was, as they say, herself.Cecily was really more than herself, she exhibited an unusual flow of spirits.She talked continually, she pointed out this and that, she asked who lived here and who lived there.At regular intervals of about four minutes she demanded if it wasn't simply too lovely.She sat straight up with her vigorous profile and her smart hat; and the silhouette of her personality sharply refused to mingle with the dust of any dynasty.She was a contrast, a protest; positively she was an indignity.'Do lean back, dear child,' I exclaimed at last.'You interfere with the landscape.'
She leaned back, but she went on interfering with it in terms of sincerest enthusiasm.
When we stopped at the great archway of entrance I begged to be left in the carriage.What else could one do, when the golden moment had come, but sit in the carriage and measure it? They climbed the broad stone steps together and passed under the lofty gravures into the garden, and I waited.I waited and remembered.I am not, as perhaps by this time is evident, a person of overwhelming sentiment, but I think the smile upon my lips was gentle.So plainly I could see, beyond the massive archway and across a score of years, all that they saw at that moment--Arjamand's garden, and the long straight tank of marble cleaving it full of sleeping water and the shadows of the marshaling cypresses; her wide dark garden of roses and of pomegranates, and at the end the Vision, marvellous, aerial, the soul of something--is it beauty? is it sorrow?--that great white pride of love in mourning such as only here in all the round of our little world lifts itself to the stars, the unpaintable, indescribable Taj Mahal.A gentle breath stole out with a scent of jessamine and such a memory! I closed my eyes and felt the warm luxury of a tear.
Thinking of the two in the garden, my mood was very kind, very conniving.How foolish after all were my cherry-stone theories of taste and temperament before that uncalculating thing which sways a world and builds a Taj Mahal! Was it probable that Arjamand and her Emperor had loved fastidiously, and yet how they had loved! Iwandered away into consideration of the blind forces which move the world, in which comely young persons like my daughter Cecily had such a place; I speculated vaguely upon the value of the subtler gifts of sympathy and insight which seemed indeed, at that enveloping moment, to be mere flowers strewn upon the tide of deeper emotions.The garden sent me a fragrance of roses; the moon sailed higher and picked out the little kiosks set along the wall.It was a charming, charming thing to wait, there at the portal of the silvered, scented garden, for an idyll to come forth.
When they reappeared, Dacres and my daughter, they came with casual steps and cheerful voices.They might have been a couple of tourists.The moonlight fell full upon them on the platform under the arch.It showed Dacres measuring with his stick the length of the Sanskrit letters which declared the stately texts, and Cecily's expression of polite, perfunctory interest.They looked up at the height above them; they looked back at the vision behind.Then they sauntered towards the carriage, he offering a formal hand to help her down the uncertain steps, she gracefully accepting it.
'You--you have not been long,' said I.'I hope you didn't hurry on my account.'
'Miss Farnham found the marble a little cold under foot,' replied Dacres, putting Miss Farnham in.
'You see,' explained Cecily, 'I stupidly forgot to change into thicker soles.I have only my slippers.But, mamma, how lovely it is! Do let us come again in the daytime.I am dying to make a sketch of it.'
Mr.Tottenham was to leave us on the following day.In the morning, after 'little breakfast,' as we say in India, he sought me in the room I had set aside to be particularly my own.
Again I was writing to John, but this time I waited for precisely his interruption.I had got no further than 'My dearest husband,'
and my pen-handle was a fringe.
'Another fine day,' I said, as if the old, old Indian joke could give him ease, poor man!
'Yes,' said he, 'we are having lovely weather.'
He had forgotten that it was a joke.Then he lapsed into silence while I renewed my attentions to my pen.
'I say,' he said at last, with so strained a look about his mouth that it was almost a contortion, 'I haven't done it, you know.'
'No,' I responded, cheerfully, 'and you're not going to.Is that it? Well!'
'Frankly--' said he.
'Dear me, yes! Anything else between you and me would be grotesque,' I interrupted, 'after all these years.'
