The Ninth Vibration | Page 5

being
slowly smothered by the jungle. The weirdest thing you ever saw. I
climbed some fallen columns to get a better look, and as I did I saw a
face flash by at the arch of a broken window. I sang out in Hindustani,
but no answer: only the echo from the woods. Somehow that dampened
my ardour, and I didn't go in to what seemed like a great ruined hall for
the place was so eerie and lonely, and looked mighty snaky into the
bargain. So I came ingloriously away and told Rup Singh. And his
whole face changed. 'That is The House of Beauty,' he said. 'All my life
have I sought it and in vain. For, friend of my soul, a man must lose
himself that he may find himself and what lies beyond, and the trodden
path has ever been my doom. And you who have not sought have seen.
Most strange are the way of the Gods'. Later on I knew this was why he
had always gone up yearly, thinking and dreaming God knows what.
He and I tried for the place together, but in vain and the whole thing is
like a dream. Twice he has let friends of mine stay at The House in the
Woods, and I think he won't refuse now."

"Did he ever tell you the story?"
"Never. I only know what I've picked up here. Some horrible mistake
about the Rani that drove the man almost mad with remorse. I've heard
bits here and there. There's nothing so vital as tradition in India."
"I wonder'. what really happened."
"That we shall never know. I got a little old picture of the Maharao -
said to be painted by a Pahari artist. It's not likely to be authentic, but
you never can tell. A Brahman sold it to me that he might complete his
daughter's dowry, and hated doing it."
"May I see it?"
"Why certainly. Not a very good light, but - can do, as the Chinks say.
He brought it out rolled in silk stuff and I carried it under the hanging
lamp. A beautiful young man indeed, with the air of race these people
have beyond all others;- a cold haughty face, immovably dignified. He
sat with his hands resting lightly on the arms of his chair of State. A
crescent of rubies clasped the folds of the turban and from this sprang
an aigrette scattering splendours. The magnificent hilt of a sword was
ready beside him. The face was not only beautiful but arresting.
"A strange picture," I said. "The artist has captured the man himself. I
can see him trampling on any one who opposed him, and suffering in
the same cold secret way. It ought to he authentic if it isn't. Don't you
know any more?"
"Nothing. Well - to bed, and tomorrow I'll see Rup Singh."
I was glad when he returned with the permission. I was to be very
careful, he said, to make no allusion to the lost palace, for two women
were staying at the House in the Woods - a mother and daughter to
whom Rup Singh had granted hospitality because of an obligation he
must honor. But with true Oriental distrust of women he had thought fit
to make no confidence to them. I promised and asked Olesen if he

knew them.
"Slightly. Canadians of Danish blood like my own. Their name is
Ingmar. Some people think the daughter good-looking. The mother is
supposed to be clever; keen on occult subjects which she came back to
India to study. The husband was a great naturalist and the kindest of
men. He almost lived in the jungle and the natives had all sorts of
rumours about his powers. You know what they are. They said the
birds and beasts followed him about. Any old thing starts a legend."
"What was the connection with Rup Singh?"
"He was in difficulties and undeservedly, and Ingmar generously lent
him money at a critical time, trusting to his honour for repayment. Like
most Orientals he never forgets a good turn and would do anything for
any of the family - except trust the women with any secret he valued.
The father is long dead. By the way Rup Singh gave me a queer
message for you. He said; 'Tell the Sahib these words - "Let him who
finds water in the desert share his cup with him who dies of thirst." He
is certainly getting very old. I don't suppose he knew himself what he
meant."
I certainly did not. However my way was thus smoothed for me and I
took the upward road, leaving Olesen to the long ungrateful toil of the
man who devotes his life to India without sufficient time or