WHEN Ramesh entered Annada Babu’s room he found the master of the house dozing in a chair with a newspaper over his face. At Ramesh’s cough he awoke with a start and holding out the paper called his visitor’s attention to the heavy death-roll caused by a cholera epidemic in the city.
Ramesh, however, went directly to the point.
“I want you to put the wedding off for a few days,” he said, “I have some very important business.”
This surprising announcement drove the Calcutta death-rate out of Annada Babu’s head. He stared at Ramesh.
“What do you mean, Ramesh? The invitations are all out.”
“You could write to-day and say it has been put off til Sunday after next.”
“You take my breath away, Ramesh! It isn’t like a case in Court, you know; you can’t apply for adjournments and get them just when it happens to suit your convenience. What is this important business of yours?”
Ramesh. “It’s very urgent. I can’t put it off.”
Annada Babu collapsed into his chair like a tree felled by a hurricane.
Annada. “We can’t put it off. That’s a fine idea of yours, a most excellent notion! Well, do what you like. I leave it to you to explain matters to the people whom we’ve invited. If any one asks me I’ll say, ‘I know nothing about it. The bridegroom knows his own business and he’ll be able to tell you when it’ll suit him to be married!’”
Ramesh kept his eyes fixed on the ground. “Have you told Hemnalini about it?” Annada Babu went on.
Ramesh. “No, she knows nothing about it yet.”
Annada. “She must know at once. It’s her marriage as well as yours.”
Ramesh. “I thought I had better tell you first.”
“Hem! Hem!” called Annada Babu. Hemnalini came in. “Yes, dad?”
Annada. “Ramesh says he has some pressing business; he hasn’t time to be married at present.”
Hemnalini turned pale and her eyes sought Ramesh’s face. A criminal caught red-handed could not have looked guiltier.
He had not anticipated that the news would be communicated to Hemnalini in this blunt fashion and his own feelings told him what a rude shock the unceremonious announcement must be to her; but an arrow once discharged never returns and Ramesh knew that his arrow had pierced Hemnalini to the heart There was no way now of softening down the brutal truth for the facts were unalterable — the marriage must be postponed, Ramesh had some urgent business, and he would not divulge what that business was. What gloss could he add?
“Well, it’s your own lookout,” said Annada Babu, turning to Hemnalini. “You two must decide what is to be done.”
“I know nothing about it, dad.” Hemnalini raised her eyes with a glance that was like a wan shaft from the dying sun falling on a storm-cloud and left the room.
Annada Babu took up his paper and pretended to read but actually he was thinking hard. Ramesh sat still for a minute or two then rose suddenly and went out.
Entering the large sitting-room he found Hemnalini standing at the window silently gazing at the street outside. Along every thoroughfare and alley poured a stream of humanity like a river in flood, every face bright with anticipation of the coming holidays.
Ramesh hesitated to take his stand beside her and he paused on the threshold with his eyes on her motionless figure. Framed in the mellow autumn sunshine of the open window it made a picture that was to remain indelibly fixed in his memory. Every detail — the soft curve of her cheek, the elaborate braiding of her hair, the delicate wisps about her neck and the glint of the golden necklace beneath them, the graceful sweep of her garment off the left shoulder — made its lasting impression on his sick brain.
Slowly he approached her. She took no notice of her lover but gazed the more intently at the panorama of the streets. His voice trembled as he broke the silence. “I must beg something of you.”
Hemnalini felt the pain that throbbed in his utterance and she turned towards him.
“Do not lose faith in me!” he cried; “tell me that you will never, distrust me. I call Heaven to witness that I will never cease to deserve your trust.” It was the first time that he had used the “thou” of close intimacy in addressing Hemnalini.
Not another word could he utter, and a film of tears gathered over his eyes.
Hemnalini looked up pityingly, and gazed steadfastly into his face; then suddenly she melted, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. And so, as the lovers stood side by side in the seclusion of that window-bay, their eyes met. Though not a word was spoken, a blissful peace descended on them both, and in the rapture that it brought in its train they tasted heaven.
With a deep sigh of relief Ramesh broke the stillness. “Do you know why I suggested postponing our marriage for a week?” he asked. Hemnalini shook her head. She did not want to know.
“I’ll tell you the whole story after we’re married,” said Ramesh. The allusion to their marriage brought a faint blush to the girl’s cheek.
Early in the afternoon, when Hemnalini had been making her preparations for Ramesh’s visit, she had light-heartedly looked forward to much animated talk, confidential discussion of future plans, and lightly-sketched miniatures of the happiness that was to be theirs. She could never have imagined that in the space of a few minutes they would exchange vows of constancy, that tears would be shed, that instead of conversing they would merely stand side by side, and she could not have conceived what full and complete peace of mind and implicit trust would be the sequel.
“You must go to my father at once,” said Hemnalini; “he’s quite vexed.”
Ramesh went off cheerfully, ready to bare his breast to any stab that the world might choose to inflict on him.