ONE afternoon Annada Babu went upstairs in search of Hemnalini, looking forward to taking tea alone with her. He looked for her in the sitting-room upstairs and in her bedroom but she was in neither room, and he learned from the bearer that she had not left the house.
Vaguely uneasy about her he ascended to the roof. As far as the eye could see stretched an unbroken succession of housetops, faintly illuminated by the pale winter sunshine. The evening breeze veered fitfully from one quarter to another. Hemnalini sat buried in thought in the shadow of the stair-turret.
Annada Babu emerged on to the roof and stood behind her but she was oblivious of his presence. When at last he went softly up to her and laid his hand on her shoulder she started in surprise, and then blushed with confusion; he had seated himself beside her before she could rise to her feet. He waited a moment or two then sighed deeply. “Oh, Hem, if only your mother were alive now! I’m no use to you at all!”
This piteous outcry from the old man roused Hemnalini from the semblance of stupor into which she had fallen and her eyes sought her father’s face. Oh, the love, the sympathy, and the pain that she saw there! A sad change had come over his expression in the last few days. It was her old father who had borne the brunt of the storm that had burst over Hemnalini; he had never, relaxed his endeavours to alleviate his daughter’s distress; and when he had found all his efforts to comfort her unavailing his thoughts had turned to her mother and he had brought out this cry of helplessness from the depths of his loving heart — Hemnalini saw it all in a flash. Conscience dealt her a buffet and swept her instantly out of her absorption in her own misery. The world that had seemed to her like a dream suddenly sprang into reality and in a moment shame overwhelmed her. By an effort of will she rent asunder and cast aside the entangling net of memories in which she had wrapped herself.
“How do you feel to-day, dad?” she asked.
She was inquiring about his health! In the last few days Annada Babu had entirely forgotten that one’s health could be a subject of conversation.
“How am I? There’s nothing wrong with me physically, dear! I’m only worried to see how ill you’re looking these days. A tough old person like me can stand a lot, but I’m afraid the shock may be too severe for a young thing like you,” and he patted her gently on the shoulder.
“I say, dad,” said Hemnalini, “how old was I when mother died?”
“You were only three then and had just begun to talk. I remember quite well your asking me, ‘Where mother?’ and my saying, ‘She has gone to her daddy’ — your mother’s father died before you were born and you never knew him. You didn’t understand what I meant and you said nothing but just stood and looked solemnly at me. Then you took me by the hand and pulled me into your mother’s room. You thought that though the room was empty I should find some clue there to tell me where she was. You knew that your father could do a lot but you didn’t realise that when it came to matters of life and death your big daddy was as ignorant and helpless as a baby. You can realise now how helpless I am! God has given your father the capacity to love you but not to help you,” and he laid his hand on his daughter’s head.
Hemnalini took her father’s trembling old hand in her own and stroked it. “I can hardly recall mother at all,” she said. “I remember that she used to lie down at midday, and read a book; I didn’t approve of that and I used to try to snatch the book from her,” and they fell to conversing once more on the past Hem plied her father with questions about her mother’s appearance and habits and the family life of those days and he answered them to the best of his ability. The sun went down while they talked and the sky turned to the hue of dull copper. That hour of quiet communion on the housetop amid the bustle and tumult of the great city set the seal on the mutual affection of the father and daughter, the old man and the young woman. They lingered till the daylight faded and the soft dews descended on them like tears.
Suddenly Jogendra’s step sounded on the stair. The murmured talk came to a sudden end and both sprang to their feet.
“Hem seems to hold her receptions on the roof nowadays,” Jogendra remarked with a searching glance at the two faces.
Jogendra was gravely dissatisfied with the turn affairs had taken. Day and night a pall of depression lay over the house and he found life at home almost unendurable; and yet he was disinclined to seek others’ society, for whenever he visited the houses of friends or acquaintances he had to furnish explanations of the rupture of Hemnalini’s engagement.
“Hemnalini is really carrying things too far,” he would say on these occasions. “It comes of letting girls read English novels. Hem’s idea is that as Ramesh has deserted her she must be broken-hearted; so she has settled down to make a great parade of breaking her heart. It’s a unique opportunity for a novelreading young lady to show how she can endure being crossed in love!”
“I chose this place for a quiet talk with Hem,” Annada Babu hastened to explain. His intention was to protect his daughter from Jogendra’s unfeeling taunts but his words were capable of the interpretation that he had dragged Hem up to the roof to engage her in conversation.
“Can’t one talk just as well at the tea-table?” cried Jogendra. “You’re just encouraging Hem in her foolishness, dad. You’ll drive me out of the house altogether at this rate.”
“Haven’t you had your tea yet, dad?” asked Hemnalini, conscience-stricken.
Jogendra. “Tea isn’t like poetic fancy; it won’t’ rain down on one of its own volition from the sunset glow in the evening sky. The cups won’t fill themselves and come up to you while you sit in a corner of the roof! I need hardly tell you that!”
To cover Hemnalini’s confusion Annada Babu interposed hastily. “I’ve decided not to have any tea to-day.”
Jogendra. “Why, dad, are you going to turn an out-and-out ascetic? What’s to happen to me, then? I can’t live on air.”
Annada. “Oh, no, it’s not a question of asceticism. I didn’t sleep well last night so I thought of trying the effect of a little abstinence.”
Truth to tell, in the course of former conversations with Hemnalini the apparition of a brimming cup of tea had often floated before Annada Babu’s mental vision but this had not been so to-day. Since Hemnalini had at last regained her normal tone, her father and she had been having a really intimate talk in the privacy of the housetop and had sounded depths not hitherto reached. The effort of moving might have had a disastrous effect and have scared away like frightened deer the thoughts that were about to find utterance; so to-day Annada Babu had resisted the call of the teapot Hemnalini did not believe that her father seriously meant to cure himself of sleeplessness by abstaining from his usual indulgence. “Come along, dad, you must have your tea,” she cried, and, forgetting his dread of insomnia, Annada Babu hurried off with her.
When he entered the room he found to his dismay Akshay already installed there; for the time being Hem was her old self again but the sight of Akshay would be a set-back; however, it was too late to remedy the situation for Hemnalini had already followed him into the room. Akshay rose at once.
“Well, Jogen, I had better be off now,” he said, but to the astonishment of all present Hemnalini only remarked: “What’s the matter, Akshay Babu? Are you in such a hurry? Have a cup of tea first.”
Akshay resumed his seat “I had two cups before you came in. I might be able to manage another brace if you pressed me.”
Hemnalini smiled. “It’ll be the first time we’ve had to do any pressing.”
“True,” said Akshay, “I have enough sense never to refuse a good thing when I’m offered it.”
“By the same token, may a good thing never refuse you when you offer yourself! Could a priest give you a better blessing than that?” said Jogendra.
After a long intermission conversation was again in full swing round Annada Babu’s tea-table. Hemnalini’s laughter had never been boisterous but to-day it rose from time to time above the talk. She had a dig at her father. “Akshay Babu has forgotten himself, dad. He’s perfectly well though he hasn’t taken any of your pills for days. If they’re any use at all he would have a headache at least.”
Jogendra. “Talk about betraying one’s salt. He’s a traitor to his pill!”
Annada Babu laughed happily. That his family should again poke fun at him about his pill-box he took as a sign of renewed harmony and a load was lifted from his mind.
“I see what you’re after,” he said, “you’re trying to undermine his faith. He’s the sole survivor of my band of pill-takers and you’re out to break his allegiance.” —
“No fear of that, Annada Babu,” said Akshay, “they’ll never change Akshay’s allegiance.”
Jogendra. “Why is Akshay like a bad rupee? Try to change him and you’ll get into trouble!” and an outburst of merriment dispelled the cloud that had loomed over Annada Babu’s tea-table.
The symposium might have been a protracted one had Hemnalini not excused herself on the grounds that her hair required attention. Then Akshay remembered an engagement and he too departed.
“Dad, we mustn’t wait any longer,” said Jogendra, when he and his father were left to themselves; “we must get Hem married.”
Annada Babu stared at him in consternation.
“There’s a lot of gossip going on,” Jogendra proceeded, “about her engagement to Ramesh being broken off. I can’t go on fighting single-handed like this. If I were in a position to tell the whole truth I shouldn’t mind the scrapping, but for Hem’s sake I can’t speak out freely, so I have to fight with my mouth shut. Just the other day, you know, I had to trounce Akhil. I heard he had been speaking too freely. If we can get her married soon the talk will subside, and I shan’t have to go round playing the part of sole champion, turning up my sleeves and challenging the world. I strongly advise you not to put it off any longer.”
Annada. “But whom is she to marry, Jogen?”
Jogendra. “There’s only one man. It would be difficult to find any one else after what has happened and all the talk that’s going on. There’s only poor old Akshay; he’s not easily choked off. Tell him to take a pill and he’ll take it. Bid him marry and he’ll marry.”
Annada. “Are you mad, Jogen? Do you think Hem would ever marry Akshay?”
Jogendra. “I’ll manage to get her consent if only you don’t interfere.”
“No, Jogen, no,” exclaimed his father, “I can’t have you trying your persuasion on Hem; you’ll only frighten her and worry her out of her wits. Leave her alone for a little. Poor girl, she has had a trying experience and she needn’t marry all at once.”
“I’m not going to put any pressure on her; I’ll make every endeavour to be considerate and gentle with her. Do you think I can’t speak to her without quarrelling?”
Jogendra was not in the habit of letting the grass grow under his feet. He accosted Hemnalini as soon as she had completed her coiffure and emerged from her room. “Hem, I want to have a talk with you.”
Hem’s pulse quickened at his words. She followed slowly to the sitting-room and waited for him to begin.
“Have you noticed how ill dad is looking?” he asked her.
Hemnalini said nothing but her expression betrayed the anxiety that she felt.
Jogendra. “Mark my words, he’ll have a serious illness unless we do something.”
His tone indicated that he held her responsible for the state of their father’s health. Hemnalini looked down and began to pluck the fringe of her dress.
“What’s over is over,” Jogendra proceeded; “the more regrets you entertain for the past the more disgrace for us. If you want to set dad’s mind entirely at rest you must eradicate every vestige of this unfortunate affair,” and he waited expectantly for an answer with his eyes on his sister’s face.
“You needn’t be afraid that I shall ever trouble dad by talking about it,” returned Hemnalini in confusion.
Jogendra.— “I know you won’t, but that’s not enough to shut people’s mouths.”
“Well, how can I do that?” asked Hemnalini. Jogendra, “There’s only one way of stopping all this talk.”
Hemnalini knew what means Jogendra had in his mind and she hastened to reply. “Wouldn’t it be a good idea to take dad up-country now for a change? We could stay away three or four months and by the time we came back the gossip would have died down.”
“That wouldn’t be a complete cure. You must convince dad that your mind is at rest. Until then his wound will rankle and he’ll never be his old self.” Hemnalini’s eyes incontinently filled with tears, which she wiped away hastily.
“What do you want me to do then?” she asked.
“I know it sounds unpleasant, but if you want to make every one happy you must get married at once.” Hemnalini was stunned into silence.
Jogendra went on impatiently:— “You girls love to make mountains out of molehills. The same thing has happened to lots of others before. There has been some muddle over their marriage, then they quietly marry some one else and there’s no more fuss. Otherwise the sort of thing that one reads of in novels would be constantly happening in the family circle, and existence would be unbearable. You may not be ashamed to talk melodrama in public — this sort of thing: ‘I shall renounce the world for ever and shall abide on the housetop gazing at the heavens; I shall set up the memory of that worthless deceiver in my heart and worship it as in a shrine,’ but the disgrace will be the death of us. Marry some decent fellow and be quit of all this wretched melodrama as soon as you can.”
Hemnalini was perfectly aware of the absurdity of being melodramatic in public, so Jogendra’s gibes stabbed her like a knife.
“Have I ever said that I renounce the world and shall never marry?”
“If that isn’t your intention then get married. Of course if you say that you could never love a man unless he is a sort of demi-god, then you’ll have to stick to your vow of celibacy. We seldom find things just to our taste in this world. We have to accommodate ourselves to what we can get, and put up with that as human beings.”
“Why do you taunt me like this?” exclaimed Hemnalini, stung to the quick. “Did I say anything to you about love?”
Jogendra. “You haven’t said anything, I admit, but I’ve noticed things. When for frivolous or unfair reasons you have conceived a dislike for well-meaning friends, you haven’t hesitated to betray your feelings. But you must admit that among all your friends there is one in particular who has been true to you in prosperity and adversity, through good and bad repute, and whom I respect greatly in consequence. If you want a husband who would give his life to see you happy you know where to look for him. But if you want melodrama—”
Hemnalini rose to her feet. “Please don’t speak to me like that. If dad orders me to marry any one I shall do as he tells me. Wait till I disobey him before you talk about melodrama.”
Jogendra’s tone softened at once. “Hem, dear, you mustn’t be angry with me. You know that when anything annoys me I’m apt to talk wildly and say the first thing that comes into my head. We’ve known one another since we were children, and I’m quite aware how sensitive you are and how fond you are of dad.” And he departed in quest of his father.
Annada was sitting in his room. His conscience had been troubling him as he pictured Jogendra bullying his sister, and he had been on the point of rising to interrupt their conversation when Jogendra entered. He waited for his son to begin.
“Dad, Hem has agreed to marry,” Jogendra began. “Perhaps you think that I put a good deal of pressure on her to obtain her consent, but I didn’t as a matter of fact. She won’t object now to marry Akshay if only you tell her distinctly that she must do it.”
“Am I to tell her?”
“Yes; you can hardly expect her to come of her own accord and say, ‘Am I to marry Akshay?’ If you hesitate to speak to her yourself you can authorise me to communicate your orders to her.”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Annada Babu at once. “I’ll say to her myself what there is to be said; but why are you in such a hurry? I think we should wait for a few days.”
“No, dad; if we wait, something is sure to come in the way. We can’t go on like this any longer.”
None of the family could cope with Jogendra when he was in earnest; he would never take his hand from the plough and even Annada went in inward fear of him.
“All right, I’ll speak to her,” he said, with the idea of shelving the question.
“No time like the present, dad,” said Jogendra; “she’s sitting there waiting for you. Try to get it settled to-day.”
“Well, you wait here, Jogen, and I’ll see her alone.”
“All right, you’ll find me here when you come back.”
Annada Babu found the sitting-room in darkness. Some one rose hurriedly from a chair, and a moment or two later a tearful voice said, “The lamp went out, dad. Shall I tell the bearer to light it?” but Annada knew full well that the lamp had not been extinguished accidentally.
“Never mind, dear,” he said, “we don’t need a light;” and he groped his way to a chair beside his daughter’s.
“You’re not taking enough care of yourself, dad,” said Hemnalini.
“And with good reason, dear. My health is all right, so it needs no care. It’s you that ought to take care of yourself.”
“You all say the same, dad,” exclaimed Hemnalini petulantly. “It isn’t fair at all. Surely I’m a perfectly amenable person! What makes you say that I’m indifferent to my health? If you prescribe any particular treatment for me you have only to say so. I’ve never said ‘No’ to you yet, dad, have I?” and the sobs came back with redoubled force.
“Never, dear, never,” exclaimed Annada, anxious above all to console her. “I’ve never even had to tell you to do a thing. You know what is in my thoughts just as though you were my own mother; and you’ve always done what I wanted without being told. If a father’s whole-hearted blessing is of any avail you will be happy all your days.”
“Won’t you keep me with you, dad?”
Annada. “Of course I will.”
Hem. “May I stay with you as long as Jogen remains unmarried anyway? Who is going to look after you if I’m not there?”
“Look after me? Never mind that, dear. I’m not worth it.”
“The room’s very dark, dad; I must fetch a light,” and she brought a hand-lamp from the adjoining room. “We’ve been so upset the last few days that you haven’t had the newspaper read to you in the evenings. Shall I read it now?”
Annada got up. “All right, dear; just wait a minute; you’ll read to me when I come back,” and he returned to Jogendra. What he intended to say was: “I couldn’t mention it to-day; we had better wait till to-morrow;” but when Jogendra burst out:
“Well, dad, what happened? Did you speak to her about getting married?” he hastened to reply: “Yes, I’ve spoken to her;” he was afraid that otherwise Jogendra would renew the attack on Hemnalini.
“She consented of course?”
“Yes, in a way.”
“Well, I’ll go and tell Akshay,” cried Jogendra. “No, no, don’t say anything to Akshay yet!” said his father hurriedly. “You know you’ll spoil everything, Jogen, if you’re so precipitate. You needn’t tell any one yet; it’ll be better to postpone the final arrangements till we return from up-country.”
Jogendra went off without any reply. He threw a shawl round his shoulders and made straight for Akshay’s house, where he found his friend immersed in an English work on book-keeping. Jogendra flung the book aside. “Never mind that just now; we have to fix a day for your wedding.”
“Good Lord!” exclaimed Akshay.