WHEN Kamala reached home she found Annada Babu and Hemnalini sitting with Kshemankari.
“Here’s Haridasi!” said Kshemankari, as soon as she saw her. “Will you take your friend to your own room, dear? I’m giving Annada Babu tea here.” No sooner had Hemnalini entered Kamala’s room than she clasped her round the neck and cried, “Kamala!”
“How did you know that was my name?” asked Kamala, without showing much surprise.
“Some one told me the whole of your history. I can’t explain how it was but as soon as I heard it I was sure that you were Kamala.”
“I don’t want any one to know my name,” said Kamala; “my real name has become a reproach to me.”
“Yes, but it will enable you to establish your rights.” Kamala shook her head.
“I don’t look at it that way. I’ve no rights to establish and I don’t want to establish any.”
“But what reason have you for keeping your husband in the dark? Why not submit yourself entirely to him for better or worse? You oughtn’t to hide anything from him.”
All at once the colour left Kamala’s face. She gazed helplessly at Hemnalini, searching for an answer and finding none; then she subsided on to the bed.
“Heaven only knows why I feel so ashamed when I have done nothing wrong! Why should I be punished when I am quite innocent? How can I tell him my whole story?”
Hemnalini took her by the hand.
“It’s not a question of punishment but of absolution. You’re in bondage now to deceit and will never be free while you keep anything concealed from your husband. Trust in Providence and burst your bonds.”
“It’s the fear of losing all that takes the strength out of me, but I understand what you mean. I must not fear what the future may hold for me but must tell him all. He must not be kept in the dark any longer,” and she clasped her hands firmly together.
“What do you wish, then?” asked Hemnalini soothingly. “Would you have some one else tell him?” Kamala shook her head emphatically. “No, no, he must not hear it from any one else. I’ll tell him about it myself; you mustn’t suppose that I’m unable.”
“That will be best,” said Hemnalini. “I don’t know whether we shall meet again; I came here to tell you that we are going away.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Calcutta. Now I mustn’t keep you any longer; you have your morning’s work before you. I had better be off, dear. Don’t forget your sister.”
“You’ll write to me, won’t you?” said Kamala, seizing her hand.
Hemnalini promised to do so.
“You must write and advise me what to do; I know your letters will give me courage.”
Hemnalini smiled.
“Oh, that’s all right. You’ll have a better counsellor than I could be.”
Though she did not show it, Kamala’s mind was by no means at ease about Hemnalini. Outwardly tranquil, the other’s expression betrayed a degree of inward sorrow that excited Kamala’s compassion; and yet there was something unapproachable about Hemnalini which made one reluctant to speak to her and debarred one from asking questions.
Though Kamala had unbosomed herself to her without restraint that morning, Hemnalini went off wrapped in her own close reserve. She wore an air of supreme melancholy and resignation that was like a permanent twilight on her features.
All day long, whenever she had any respite from her household duties, Hemnalini’s words and her sweet placid eyes haunted Kamala. She knew nothing of Hemnalini’s history except the one fact that her engagement to Nalinaksha had been broken off.
Hemnalini had brought a basket of flowers from her garden that morning and in the afternoon, after bathing, Kamala sat down to weave garlands. Kshemankari kept her company while she was engaged on this task.
“Oh, my dear,” she said to Kamala, “I can’t describe how I felt to-day when Hemnalini bade me good-bye. Whatever any one says she’s a really sweet girl; I keep thinking how happy I should be to have her as a daughter-in-law. It very nearly came off, but I really can’t fathom my son. No one but himself knows what induced him to change his mind.”
Kshemankari would not admit to herself that latterly she had opposed the match.
Hearing a step outside, she called out, “That you, Nalin?”
Kamala hurriedly wrapped the flowers and the garlands in the slack of her dress and veiled herself.
Nalinaksha entered the room and his mother remarked to him, “Hem and her father have just left; did you see them?”
“Yes, I gave them a lift home.”
“Say what you like, lad,” his mother continued, “there are not many girls like Hem.” She spoke as though Nalinaksha were in the habit of contradicting this proposition; but he merely smiled and said nothing.
“Smiling, are you?” his mother went on. “I had you engaged to Hem and went the length of giving her my blessing; then you got some bee in your bonnet and upset the whole arrangement. Aren’t you at all sorry about it?”
Nalinaksha seemed to start, and he threw a glance at Kamala and perceived that she was gazing earnestly at him. As their eyes met Kamala desired to be reduced to nothingness and her eyes sought the floor.
“Why, mother,” said Nalinaksha, “should you think your son such an eligible match that it must be quite a simple matter to arrange? People don’t fall in love easily with a solemn stick like me!”
At this remark Kamala raised her eyes again; as she did so, Nalinaksha threw her another glance full of merriment and she felt that instant flight was the only course open to her.
“Run away and stop talking,” said Kshemankari to her son. “You make me angry.”
Left to herself Kamala wove all Hemnalini’s flowers into one large wreath; this she laid on the basket, then she sprinkled water on it and placed it in Nalinaksha’s sitting-room. Her eyes moistened at the thought that this huge garland was Hemnalini’s farewell offering.
Returning to her own room, Kamala indulged in a long spell of meditation; she wondered what Nalinaksha’s glances at her had conveyed and what his opinion of her was. His eyes had seemed to lay bare all her secret thoughts. There was something to be said for the old days when she remained in seclusion when he was about. Now she was constantly finding herself in embarrassing situations; it was a sort of punishment for concealing her identity.
She said to herself, “Nalinaksha must be thinking, ‘Where can mother have brought this girl Haridasi from? I never saw any one so immodest.’ I can’t bear to think that he could conceive such an opinion of me for one moment.”
She went to bed that night determined that she would seize the first opportunity to disclose her secret next day and that she would accept the consequences.
She rose early in the morning and bathed; she brought back with her a small jar of Ganges water, intending as usual to wash and sweep out Nalinaksha’s sitting-room before taking up any other work; but this morning she found him already occupying the room, contrary to his invariable custom.
Full of regret at her inability to discharge her usual task, Kamala turned and started slowly to retrace her steps; then a thought struck her and she halted and stood fast.
Slowly she returned and stopped once more outside the door of his room. What it was that possessed her she could not tell; the whole world swam before her in a mist and she had no consciousness of the passage of time.
Suddenly she became aware that Nalinaksha had emerged from the room and was standing before her. In an instant Kamala sprang up, knelt before him, and bowed her head till it touched his feet; her loose hair, wet from the bath, fell all about and covered them to the instep. Then she rose again and stood before him like a statue; she forgot altogether that her veil had fallen nor did she perceive that Nalinaksha was gazing steadfastly and intently at her face. She was quite unconscious of external things when suddenly a flash of inspiration darted through her brain, and without a tremor in her voice she said, “I am Kamala.”
No sooner had she spoken than the sound of her own voice seemed to break the spell and her concentrated purpose dissolved. She trembled in every limb and her head fell forward; she could not stir a step and yet flight seemed her only salvation. She had expended her whole strength and staked her all on the utterance of those three words, “I am Kamala,” and on her prostration before Nalinaksha. Nothing was left with which she could cover her shame. She had thrown herself on Nalinaksha’s mercy.
Slowly he raised her hands to his lips and murmured, “I know it! You are my Kamala! Come with me.
He drew her into the room and threw about her neck the garland that she had woven.
“Come, let us bow before Him;” and as the twain side by side touched their foreheads to the snowy whiteness of the marble floor the morning sun pouring through the window fell on their bowed heads.
Rising to her feet, Kamala once more prostrated herself before Nalinaksha in profound reverence. When she rose again her painful shyness no longer troubled her. There was no exuberance in her joy but the settled calm of a great release flooded her whole being as with clear morning light; a sense of absolute devotion filled every corner of her soul and all creation seemed to smoke in the incense of her worship.
Incontinently water from some hidden source welled up in her eyes and great drops rolled down her cheeks unhindered — they were tears of joy that washed away the clouds of sorrow that had brooded over her widowed life.
Nalinaksha did not address her again. With one gesture he swept the damp hair back from her brow, then passed out of the room.
Kamala had not yet expended all her devotion; it still swelled up in her heart and she longed to pour it forth once and for all. She proceeded to Nalinaksha’s bedroom and garlanded the old sandals with the wreath from her own neck, pressed them against her forehead, and reverently replaced them.
Then she went about her daily round as though she were ministering to a god; each task as she accomplished it was like a prayer ascending to Heaven on wings of joy.
“What are you doing, dear?” exclaimed Kshemankari. “From the way you’re washing and sweeping and cleaning one would think you wanted to renovate the whole house in one day.”
When the housework was finished, Kamala left her sewing untouched, and shut herself into her own room; Nalinaksha found her there when he came in with a basketful of arum lilies.
“Kamala,” he said, “just put these in water and keep them fresh. In the evening we’ll both go and ask for mother’s blessing.”
“But you haven’t heard my whole story yet,” said Kamala, with downcast eyes.
“There’s nothing for you to tell me; I know all,” said Nalinaksha.
Kamala drew her veil across her face.
“But mother—” she began, and could not finish the sentence.
Nalinaksha pulled her veil aside. “In the course of her life mother has forgiven many sins. Surely she can forgive you for what was not a sin at all!”