WHEN she fled from Ramesh’s presence Hemnalini, closing the door of her own room, sat down to compose herself. After the first excitement had subsided shame obtruded. “Why was I unable to meet Ramesh Babu without losing my self-possession?” she pondered. “Why, when the unexpected happened, did I make such a sorry exhibition of myself? It takes away all confidence in my power to control emotion. I must never make such a display of instability again;” and pulling herself together she rose, opened the door, and set out for another encounter with Ramesh Babu, saying to herself, “I will not run away this time; I will control my feelings.”
Then suddenly recollecting something, she returned to her room. She took from her box the pair of bangles that Kshemankari had given her and slipped them on; thus armed, she nerved herself for the fray, and marched out into the garden with her head erect.
The first person whom she met was her father. “Where are you off to, Hem?” he asked.
“What, isn’t Ramesh Babu here? Isn’t Jogen here?” she inquired.
“No, they’ve both gone.”
Hemnalini was relieved to find that her powers of self-control were not to be put to the test.
“Well now—” Annada Babu went on.
“Yes, dad; I’ll come with you,” said Hemnalini. “I shan’t be long over my bath. You can send for a carriage now.”
Hemnalini’s sudden change of front and her unnatural eagerness to hurry off to Kshemankari’s were not lost on Annada Babu, and they served to increase his uneasiness.
Hemnalini hurriedly bathed and dressed, then came and inquired if the carriage had arrived.
“Not yet,” her father informed her, so she walked about in the garden while Annada Babu sat on the verandah rubbing his head.
It was only half-past ten when they reached Nalinaksha’s house and the doctor had not returned from his rounds, so it fell to Kshemankari to entertain the guests. She altered upon a long conversation with Annada Babu about his health and his family, throwing an occasional side-glance in Hemnalini’s direction. She was surprised not to see the girl looking more cheerful. With so happy an event in prospect her face should have been lit up like the rosy glow that heralds the sunrise; actually it seemed darkened by clouds of care.
Kshemankari had a sensitive nature and Hemnalini’s cheerless expression damped her spirits. “Most girls,” she thought, “would consider themselves very lucky to get Nalin, but apparently over-education has turned this one’s head and she thinks herself too good for him; I can’t explain her anxious abstracted air in any other way. The fault was mine; I am an old woman and impatient; I couldn’t bear waiting to see my wishes fulfilled I arranged for Nalin to marry a girl who is no longer a child and I made no attempt to discover her real character. The pity of it is that I had so little time to make her acquaintance; but alas! the call has already sounded for me to wind up my worldly affairs.” These reflections distracted Kshemankari as she talked to Annada Babu, and she found increasing difficulty in carrying on the conversation. At last what was in her mind found utterance. “After all,” she said, “there is no need to hurry on the wedding. They’re both of age and can exercise their own judgement; it wouldn’t do for us to press them. Of course I don’t know how Hem feels about it, but I can speak for Nalin, and he hasn’t quite accustomed himself to the idea yet.” Her words were directed chiefly at Hemnalini; the girl appeared to be in two minds, and Kshemankari did not desire her guests to carry away the impression that her son was overjoyed at the prospect of the match.
Hemnalini had set out that morning in a mood of forced gaiety and the result was the opposite of what she had intended. Her short-lived hilarity turned to complete lassitude. Suddenly, as she entered Kshemankari’s house, a feeling of terror had assailed her and the new path on which she was to tread in life stretched out before her mental vision, rocky, steep, and unending. As the elders continued to exchange courtesies Hemnalini became a prey to doubts of her own constancy; and the result was that two different emotions contended within her when Kshemankari showed signs of cooling from the marriage project. On the one hand, a speedy consummation of the marriage would give her the early release that she desired from her present state of distraction and vacillation, and for that reason she longed to see a definite compact made about her engagement; and yet the hint of an abandonment of the scheme was a momentary relief to her.
After making her momentous pronouncement Kshemankari had glanced at Hemnalini’s face and noted the effect of her words. It seemed to her that at last the girl’s expression was calmer, and in that instant her heart hardened against Hemnalini. “I was prepared to sell my Nalin very cheaply,” she thought, and she rejoiced that he was late in putting in an appearance.
“This is so like Nalinaksha!” she went on, talking at Hemnalini. “He knew quite well that you two people were coining to-day and yet there’s no sign of him. He might have cut his work short to-day at any rate. Whenever I’m at all out of sorts he neglects his practice and stays at home — in spite of what he loses by it!”
She then excused herself on the score of ascertaining how far advanced the preparations for the meal were. Her intention was to hand over Hemnalini to Kamala so that she herself might have a private talk with the old gentleman.
She found the food ready cooked and simmering on a slow fire, while Kamala sat in a corner of the kitchen so deep in meditation that Kshemankari’s sudden entrance startled her and she sprang to her feet with an embarrassed smile.
“Well, dear, you seem very intent on your cooking,” said the old lady.
“Everything is ready, mother,” replied Kamala.
“Well, why are you sitting here so quietly, dear? Annada Babu is an old man and you needn’t be shy of him. Hem is here and I think you might take her off to your room for a chat. I don’t like to bore her by making her talk to an old person like me.”
Hemnalini’s apparent coldness had only served to intensify Kshemankari’s affection for Kamala.
“But I shan’t be able to talk to her,” pleaded Kamala; “she had learnt such a lot and I know nothing at all.”
“What do you mean?” said Kshemankari, “you’re as good as any one. However much people may pride themselves on their learning there are very few as attractive as you. Any one can learn things from books but it isn’t given to many to be such a sweet little woman as you are. Come along now, dear. You’ll have to dress first, though. I’ll give you something nice to wear to-day.”
Kshemankari was resolved to contrast Hemnalini’s faded beauty with the fresh charm of this unlettered girl; she wanted to lower the former’s pride in every respect.
Kamala was given no chance to object. Kshemankari decked her out with a cunning hand. She made her don a cream-coloured silk robe and she dressed her hair in the latest mode. She kept turning Kamala’s face this way and that to study the effect. Finally she kissed her on the cheek and exclaimed in delight, “You’re beautiful enough for a king’s palace.” Kamala interjected from time to time:— “Mother, they’re sitting all by themselves; it’s getting late.”
“Never mind if it’s late,” was Kshemankari’s rejoinder. “I shan’t go till I’ve finished with you.” When Kamala’s toilet was complete Kshemankari said, “Come with me now, dear; you mustn’t be shy. When that college-trained beauty sees you she’ll be put to shame. You can hold up your head with any of them,” and she dragged Kamala with her to the room in which she had left her guests; Nalinaksha had arrived by this time and was chatting with them.
Seeing him, Kamala swung round and attempted to fly, but Kshemankari held her fast.
“There’s nothing to be shy of, dear,” she said, “we’re all friends here.”
Kshemankari prided herself on the girl’s beauty and on the distinction with which she wore her borrowed feathers and she wished to give the others a surprise. The mother in her had been aroused by Hemnalini’s supposed indifference to her Nalinaksha, and she plumed herself on the idea that he would draw comparisons unfavourable to his betrothed.
Kamala’s appearance was indeed a surprise to the rest of the party. When Hemnalini met her at Kshemankari’s bedside Kamala was wearing no finery; she had crouched in the background looking shy and insignificant and had vanished before Hemnalini could take note of her appearance. Now after a moment of bewilderment she took the shrinking Kamala by the hand and seated her beside herself.
Kshemankari felt that victory was with her; no one could see her charge without admitting in his heart of hearts that such beauty was a rare gift of the gods. She said to Kamala, “Take Hem to your room now, dear, and you can have a talk there. I’ll attend to the breakfast-room.”
Kamala wondered what Hemnalini would think of her, and it was a trying moment. At no distant date Hemnalini would enter this house as Nalinaksha’s bride and she would rise to the position of its mistress, so Kamala could not be indifferent to her good opinion. She refused to entertain the thought that she herself was lady of the house by right. She would never allow herself to harbour the slightest suspicion of jealousy and she would claim no rights whatever.
Her limbs trembled as she left the room.
“I have heard all about you from mother,” said Hemnalini gently. “You must look on me as a sister, dear. Have you any sisters of your own?”
“None of my own, only a cousin — daughter of my father’s brother,” answered Kamala, taking courage from the friendliness of Hemnalini’s tone.
“I have no sister either, dear,” said the other, “and my mother died when I was a child. Many a time I’ve thought, I’ve no mother; if only I had a sister to confide in!’ I have that longing both when I’m very happy and when I’m very sad. Ever since I was quite small I’ve had to keep all my thoughts bottled up, and now it has become so habitual with me that I can’t unburden myself to any one. People consider me very conceited but I hope you won’t think that, dear. It’s just that I can’t speak from the heart.” Kamala’s reserve was now entirely broken down.
“Is it possible that you could like me, didi?” she asked. “I’m so stupid,”
Hemnalini smiled. “When you come to know me well you’ll find that I’m very stupid too. I don’t know anything except a few things I’ve learned from books; and so if I come to live in this house I want you always to stay with me. I’m terrified at the idea of managing a household by myself.”
“Leave it all to me,” said Kamala, simply as a child. “I’ve been doing that sort of work ever since I was quite small. I’m not afraid of anything like that. You and I will do the housekeeping together like two sisters. You’ll make him happy and I’ll look after you both.”
“Tell me, dear,” said Hemnalini next, “you can never have seen your husband properly; can you recall what he was like?”
Kamala did not give a direct answer to this question. “I didn’t know I should have to remember him, didi. When I came to live in my uncle’s house my cousin Saila didi and I became close friends. I saw myself how she devoted herself to her husband and it opened my eyes. I never saw my husband at all, so to speak, but somehow or other I came to worship him with all my heart. God gave me a reward for my devotion for I have now a clear picture of my husband in my mind. He never really found a wife in me but it seems to me now that I have found my husband.”
This tale of Kamala’s devotion found a response in Hemnalini’s heart. “I understand exactly what you mean,” she said, after a short silence. “To get a thing in that way is real getting. Any other kind is merely physical and does not last.”
Whether Kamala fully understood this or not it is impossible to say. She gazed at Hemnalini for a minute or two, then she said, “It must be true when you say it, didi. I don’t let myself grieve over it; I’m perfectly happy. What I have got is my reward.”
Hemnalini took Kamala’s hand in her own. “My master says that when loss and gain are alike to one that is real gain. Really and truly, dear, if I get as much out of absolute self-devotion as you do I’ll be lucky indeed.”
Kamala opened her eyes at this. “What do you mean, didi? You’ll have everything; surely you won’t want for anything?”
“I can be quite content,” said Hemnalini, “with getting what I ought to get. To get more than that spells weariness and sorrow. You must be surprised to hear me say this sort of thing but I feel that God is inspiring me. Do you know, dear, I had a load on my heart to-day but since I met you it has gone and I feel that I have gained strength. That’s why I’m talking such a lot. I’ve never been able to talk before. How did you manage to draw me out so, dear?”