KSHEMANKARI had in the meantime sent for Nalinaksha and informed him that she had made a proposal on his behalf and that it had been accepted.
Nalinaksha smiled. “Have you arranged it definitely already?” he asked; “you’ve been very quick about it!”
Kshemankari. “Of course I have. I shan’t live for ever, you know. You see, I’ve taken a great fancy to Hemnalini. She’s quite an exceptional girl. Of course, as far as looks go — her complexion is not very good, but—”
Nalinaksha. “Spare me, mother! I wasn’t thinking of her complexion but of the impossibility of my marrying Hemnalini. I really can’t do it.”
Kshemankari. “Don’t talk nonsense! I see no reason against it.”
It was not easy for Nalinaksha to formulate his objections but his unspoken thought was this: Here was Hemnalini, a girl towards whom he had definitely assumed the rôle of father-confessor; to turn round suddenly and propose marriage to her seemed almost an outrage.
Taking Nalinaksha’s silence for acquiescence, his mother resumed: “I won’t listen to any objections this time. You seem determined to renounce the world and become a regular Benares hermit for my sake. It’s absurd at your age and I decline to put up with it any longer. Now mind and don’t let this opportunity slip. The first auspicious day that comes along you must bring it off.”
It was some time before Nalinaksha could command his voice.
“There’s one thing that I must tell you, mother.” he began at last, “but let me first beseech you not to distress yourself about it. The incident that I am about to relate to you happened nine or ten months ago and it is useless to grieve over it now. Still I know that it is a characteristic of yours, mother, to shudder at the horror of a calamity even when all is over and irremediable. It is for that reason that I have never told you this story though I have been constantly on the point of doing so. Take what measures you like to propitiate my evil destiny but do not distress yourself with vain regrets.” Kshemankari was profoundly disturbed.
“I don’t know what you’re going to tell me, lad,” she said, “but your preface only makes me dread the worst. Never, so long as I live, shall I be able to repress my emotions. It is useless trying to keep aloof from worldly affairs. You do not have to go in search of misfortune; it swoops down on you uninvited. Tell me your story at once and never mind whether the news is good or bad.”
“Last February,” began Nalinaksha accordingly, “I sold up all my property in Rangpur, found a tenant for my garden-house, and started for Calcutta. When I reached the river-crossing at Sara I took a whim to abandon the railway and to proceed the rest of the way by water, so I hired a large country-boat at Sara and set off. When we had been on the water for two days we tied up at a sand-bank and I had gone ashore to bathe when I suddenly encountered our old friend Bhupen carrying a gun. He gave a jump when he saw me and called out, ‘Here’s a fine bird for the bag!’ It appeared that he was a Deputy Magistrate in these parts and had come out into his district on a tour of inspection. It was many years since we had met and he refused to let me go, insisting on my accompanying him on his rounds. We camped one day at a village called Dhobapukur and in the evening we went for a stroll round the place; it is quite a small village. In the course of our walk Bhupen suddenly led me into the walled courtyard of a thatched house standing on the edge of a stretch of plough-land. The owner of the house brought out cane stools and made us sit down. The verandah was being used as a schoolroom at the time. The village dominie sat on a wooden-bottomed chair with his feet propped against one of the pillars while the children squatted on the ground before him, slate in hand, chanting their lessons in chorus. The owner of the house was one Tarini Chaturjye. He cross-questioned Bhupen till he had my history by heart. As we were returning to camp Bhupen remarked, ‘You’re in luck to-day; you’re about to receive a proposal of marriage.’ I asked what he meant and he went on to say: ‘That fellow Tarini Chaturjye is a money-lender and a bigger miser doesn’t exist. When a new magistrate comes along he makes a great parade of his public spirit in allowing school to be held in his house. Actually he does nothing for the schoolmaster except to provide his meals, and in return the poor wretch has to work till ten o’clock at night writing up Tarini’s accounts; his salary is paid out of the school fees and the Government grant. Tarini had a sister who was left penniless at her husband’s death and to whom he had to give shelter in consequence. She was pregnant at the time and died in giving birth to a daughter. Her death was entirely due to want of proper medical attendance. He had another widowed sister who did all the housework and so saved him a servant’s wages. This poor creature took charge of the orphan but she too died a few years later. The girl has been leading a dog’s life ever since, slaving for her uncle and aunt and getting nothing but scolding in return. She has nearly passed the marrying age but it’s no easy task to find a husband for a friendless orphan like her, especially as no one in the village knew her parents. She was a posthumous child too, and the village gossips whisper scandal about her origin. Tarini Chaturjye is notoriously rolling in wealth so they depreciate the girl in the hope of squeezing a big dowry out of him before he can get her married. For the last four years he has been describing her as ten years old, so by that calculation she must be at least fourteen now. And yet, you know, she’s the loveliest girl that ever I saw. She’s called Kamala, after the goddess Lakshmi, and she’s the perfect image of her namesake in every respect. Whenever a young Brahman stranger comes here Tarini goes down on his knees and implores him to marry his niece, but even when the lad is willing the villagers scare him away and the engagement is broken off. It’s your turn now, you may be certain.’ Do you know, mother, I was in such a dare-devil mood that I said at once without a moment’s reflection, ‘All right, I’ll marry the girl.’ I had always intended to give you a surprise by bringing you home an orthodox little Hindu daughter-in-law — I knew quite well that if I married a grown-up Brahmo lady none of us would be happy. Bhupen was flabbergasted. ‘You don’t mean it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Indeed I do,’ said I; ‘my mind is made up.’
‘Are you serious?’ asked Bhupen. I assured him that I was. Tarini Chaturjye called at our camp that very evening and made his supplication, clasping his hands over his Brahmanical thread. ‘I implore you to come to my rescue,’ he said. ‘See the girl for yourself — then of course if you don’t fancy her that’s an end to the matter, but on no account listen to the misrepresentations of my enemies.’ ‘I don’t require to see her,’ I replied, ‘you can fix a day for the wedding.’
‘The day after to-morrow will do,’ said Tarini; ‘let us have it then.’ Of course one could see the motive underlying his piteous appeal and his indecent haste; he wanted to avoid a heavy outlay on the wedding festivities. However; the marriage duly took place.”
“The marriage took place!” exclaimed Kshemankari in consternation; “are you serious, Nalin?”
Nalinaksha. “Perfectly serious, mother. I re-embarked on the boat with my bride. We set off in the afternoon — it was only March, mind you, when one has every reason to expect fine weather — and that same evening, only a couple of hours later, an intensely hot blast of wind descended on us and in some inexplicable way overturned the boat and left no trace of it.”
“Gracious heavens!” ejaculated Kshemankari with a thrill of horror.
Nalinaksha. “When I regained consciousness a little later I found myself struggling in deep water and there was no sign of the boat or of any of its occupants. I informed the police and a thorough search was made, but without result.”
Kshemankari’s face had turned grey.
“Amen,” she said; “we cannot help the past, but never mention this to me again. I shudder to think of it.”
Nalinaksha. “I should never have told you, mother, had you not been so insistent about my marriage.”
Kshemankari. “Why, is this calamity to prevent you marrying at all?”
Nalinaksha. “The girl may have survived after all; that is why I have scruples about marrying.”
Kshemankari. “Are you mad? You would certainly have heard of her had she been alive.”
Nalinaksha. “She knows nothing about me. I was as complete a stranger to her as any one could be. I don’t suppose she has ever seen my face. When I arrived in Benares I wrote to Tarini Chaturjye giving him my address, but apparently my letter never reached him for it came back to me through the dead-letter office.”
Kshemankari. “Well?”
Nalinaksha. “I have decided to let a whole year elapse before I take her death for granted.”
Kshemankari. “You always were over-scrupulous! Why make it a whole year?”
Nalinaksha. “It’ll soon be over, mother. This is December; next month’s unlucky for weddings. That only leaves February and the year is up in March.”
Kshemankari. “Very well. Still you must consider yourself definitely engaged. I made a formal proposal to Hemnalini’s father.”
Nalinaksha. “Man may propose; but there is Another who disposes, and I leave the matter in His hands.”
Kshemmkari. “So be it; but, dear, what an awful thing it was that you told me! I’m still trembling at the thought of it.”
Nalinaksha. “I was afraid of that, mother, and I fear it will be a long time before you are your normal self again. Once anything disturbs your composure you do not regain it easily. You understand now my reluctance to tell you this story.”
Kshemankari. “You did well, my son. I don’t know what has come over me nowadays but when I hear any evil tidings the horror of it grips me. I shrink from opening a letter for fear it may contain bad news. As you know, I have even requested you to keep news back from me. I fear that I have lived too long, else why these repeated shocks?”