A few days had elapsed, and it was a quiet afternoon in the Shastree's
dwelling. The household work had long been done; the visit to the
temple and the noonday worship were over. Vyas Shastree had remained
there in discussion with other Brahmuns; Radha, complaining of a
headache, had fallen asleep; Tara had read all that her father had
appointed her to study during the day, and was waiting his return to
have certain passages explained to her before she proceeded with her
task.
The house was perfectly still, and from the town no sound reached
them, for the heat without was great, and until evening there would be
comparatively few persons astir. It was calm, and large white clouds
were sailing slowly over an intensely blue sky, gathering into masses
pile upon pile, of dazzling brightness, as the sun's rays fell upon
them. The heat and peculiar state of the atmosphere caused the outlines
of buildings and of the mountains to waver; and wherever the eye rested
on any object, the air between seemed to quiver with a tremulous motion.
Hot as it was, Tara had not been deterred from her self-imposed duty.
Throwing a heavy folded sheet over her shoulders and head, she had
accompanied her father to the noonday service; nor, since the occasion
when she took upon herself the office of the priesthood, and devoted
herself to the duties of the shrine, had she on any pretence missed or
evaded the necessary attendance.
At first, perhaps, it was a severe trial. The licence, accorded by
general custom to the attendant priestesses, was to her abhorrent; and,
on the other hand, Tara's unapproachable purity had given offence to
them. While Gunga, therefore, and two or three others, proposed the
prohibition of Tara's service, the rest, fearing the consequences, and
having a real respect and love for the girl whom they had watched from
her childhood, refused to interfere with her. Tara did them no harm,
they said, and her father could punish all, were any annoyance given to
his daughter.
It is probable that matters might have continued in this state for
some time longer, but for the scene we have already recorded, and the
increasing jealousy of Gunga, expression of which could hardly be
repressed by her; and on the day we now write of, the girl's behaviour
had been studiously offensive to Tara until rebuked by the attendant
Brahmuns, when she retired sulkily.
More insulting than that, however, was Moro Trimmul's manner
to herself; and for the first time Tara had felt what she long
dreaded,--the shame, as it were, of her vocation--the unavoidable
exposure to any libertine glance which might fall on her; but she had
rallied herself at the shrine, and, secure in the protection of the
"Mother" she adored, had persevered in her duty without interruption.
There was, as we have said, perfect stillness in the house, only
broken by the dull monotonous whirr of the spinning-wheels, as her
own and her mother's flew swiftly round, with which the buzz of flies
in the verandah and court seemed to harmonize. Her mother appeared
particularly intent upon spinning some remarkably fine yarn; and as the
thread had broken on several occasions, when Tara had spoken to her,
and she had complained of it, both had fallen into a silence, which had
not been interrupted. Gradually, then, the small troubles which had
gathered about Tara returned to her recollection; and, as is generally
the case on such occasions, began, in spite of herself, to increase in
proportions.
Tara's was not, however, a suspicious nature, and she had soon struck
out a course for herself in regard to the sisterhood. "It is the money
they want, not me: if I save it all, and give it to the Putwari to
divide amongst them daily, it will surely be enough," she thought; and
this she determined to do. In regard, however, to Moro Trimmul, it was
very different. "Why did he look at her as he had done that day?"
Then her thoughts reverted to the time when she had first remarked
him in the temple, a solitary stranger worshipper, to whom her
father had spoken kindly. Her memory followed clearly his gradual
steps to intimacy; but there was nothing she could charge him with,
as an approach to familiarity in their intercourse. Through all the
licence of the marriage time--through all her visits to his aunt and
sister--there had been no violation of propriety; on the contrary, an
habitual and respectful avoidance of her--or, at most, a distant and
courteous salutation. Why should it have altered?
But since the night on which Gunga had spoken to her, and Moro Trimmul
had made his famous declamation of the scene in the Ramayun, there had
been a change. He either avoided her altogether, or his eyes dropped
furtively as she passed, or met hers, as they had done that day, in a
glance new to her, and inexpressibly offensive. Tara shuddered as she
remembered it, and the action broke the thread she was spinning. She
did not resume her work, and her hands fell listlessly on her lap as
her foot ceased its motion. For a time her eyes wandered vacantly among
her flowers, about which some gay butterflies were flitting and chasing
each other in the bright sunlight; but suddenly a large dragonfly,
which had been hovering over them, darted at one and carried it off;
and as she started forward, gazing intently after it, a bird chased the
insect, caught it, and flew away.
Perhaps the sudden cessation of the whirr of Tara's wheel had attracted
her mother's attention; for after a while, as it was not resumed, she
looked up. "What dost thou see?" she asked, anxiously; for ever since
the day on which Tara said the goddess appeared to her, Anunda had been
anxious, she hardly knew why: but she dreaded a return of that strange
and violent excitement. "What dost thou see, beloved?"
Tara did not apparently hear the question, or did not notice it.
Her hands, which had been involuntarily extended, fell upon her lap
listlessly as before; but she turned towards her mother. "How long does
he remain, mother?" she asked abruptly.
"He! who, daughter?" returned Anunda.
"Radha's brother," replied the girl, as a shiver seemed to pass through
her; "Radha said he would go after the marriage, yet he delays. Why,
mother--why does he not go?"
"Nay, and how should I know?" replied Anunda. "What is he to me? All
I wanted was Radha, and we have got her; and he may go or come as he
pleases. Thy father told me he had business here with the Nimbalkur and
others till the Now Râtree was over, and he assists in the recitations.
More I know not. Why dost thou ask? What is he to thee, Tara?"
"Nothing, mother; but so long?--will he stay so long?"
"Radha told me yesterday he must soon rejoin his people in the west,
and leave her; and she was crying about it. Does that content thee,
Tara?"
"I would he were gone, mother," said Tara, rising from her low stool,
kneeling, and throwing her arms about Anunda as she sat on a similar
one, while she hid her face in her dress. "Cannot he go sooner?--cannot
Radha send him away?"
"Why, daughter? why?--Ah! he hath not spoken to thee, child; he dare
not! Tell me," she continued, in a more agitated tone, as her daughter
clung almost convulsively to her, "what is this? Why dost thou fear
him? Thou--thou dost not? ... thou canst not----"
"No, no, mother," cried the girl quickly, guessing her mother's
thoughts, and looking up innocently; "fear not. I am not a Moorlee to
love; ... fear not! But ah, mother, I dread him! I will not go to the
temple while he is there. I ... I dare not--I dare not go. May the Holy
Mother forgive me for neglect; but when he departs, I will serve her
night and day."
"Thou art very beautiful, my child," said her mother, smoothing back
the glossy hair and stroking the soft cheek which lay passively in her
lap. "Ah, thou art very beautiful; and I fear such as he! Yes, if it be
as thou sayest, it were better, indeed, to live secluded for a while. I
will tell thy father, and he will understand it."
"Yes, he will surely understand," said Tara absently; "but ah, mother,
was not that an omen? I thought it was, and I came to thee."
"What omen, Tara? I saw nothing, child."
"A thought came into my mind, mother," she said sadly, "that I was the
butterfly sporting among the flowers, and he the fierce glistening
insect that darted upon it and bore it away. But then, mother, the bird
came and took both. Why was that?"
"Thou art not well, Tara," replied her mother, not understanding her,
for she had not noticed the occurrence, and, seeing her shiver, thought
her feverish. "Thou art not well; lie in my arms for a while, and the
cold will pass away. O Holy Mother!" she cried aloud, as Tara, sobbing
convulsively, hid her face in her bosom, "let not evil come to this
child--thine and mine. O, be good to her, as thou hast taken her!"
"Would that it were so," said the girl, after a while, and still
sobbing. "I would go, mother, if she would take me. What use am I in
life? It would be bitter to leave the house and all of ye, but I should
be with her. Did she not promise this when she touched my hair? Ah,
yes; and she will not forget it."
"Hush, child; let this fancy pass from thee. Sleep, now, here. I will
sing thee the old song. Nay, thou shalt not leave me! There is room
at thy mother's heart, and strength still in her arms, to hold thee
safely."
As Tara laid herself softly down in the old place, and her
mother, rocking herself to and fro, sang the low sweet lullaby of
childhood,--the girl's sobbing gradually stopped, and a gentle sleep
fell upon her. Anunda watched the change anxiously. At first her brow
was contracted, as if with pain, and a broken sob came now and again
with her breathing; but gradually the head fell back on her arm, the
sweet mouth opened slightly, and tears, which had had no vent before,
welled gently from under the closed eyelids as the features relaxed
into a smile.
"Yes," thought Anunda, as she bent over her child, while her own tears
fell hot and fast, "the Mother is with her now, and she is again happy."
"What hath happened?" asked Radha soon afterwards, as, refreshed by
her sleep, she rose, and came gently towards the low spinning-chair on
which Anunda still sat. "Is she ill?"
"Hush!" returned Anunda, in a whisper. "If we can lay her down I will
tell thee, but we must not wake her. I think.... I think the Mother
hath been with her again; but I will tell thee."
Radha hastily spread out a soft mattress and pillow close to the stool,
and, raising Tara together, they laid her down upon it, as they would a
child. Her mother patted her gently as she lay, and gradually the same
sweet smile as at first again stole over her face.
"Look, she sees the Mother!" said Anunda reverently. "It is always so,
and nothing can wake her till the time is past. Ah, thou art happy now,
my child, be it ever so with thee!"
"What did she say, sister?" asked Radha, as, having thrown a light
sheet over the sleeping girl, they sat down to watch her apart, lest
the noise of the wheels--for Radha had taken Tara's and joined the
broken thread--should awaken her. "What did the goddess say?"
Anunda hesitated. As yet no difference had arisen between them, and
Radha still looked up to her, more with the respect of a child for
its mother than as a sister-wife would comport herself to her equal.
Should she tell Radha all? It had occurred to her that he had imposed
upon her some task which she hesitated to perform--that Radha had
some impatience of her brother's presence. It might be a demand for
money--it might be in relation to the political objects of his mission,
of which Anunda had a deep dread, lest her husband should become an
active party, and so be embroiled with the Mahomedan officers of the
country. She considered for a moment: but Anunda's was no timid nature.
She was not afraid of Radha; and with Tara's happiness at stake, she
could risk no ceremony with the sister of him who had evidently caused
more than a passing cloud.
"Radha," she said gently, "thou art more than a sister-wife to me. Nay,
as a daughter I have trusted to thee the happiness which lay nearest my
heart and hers; and I believe thee faithful to it, and that this home
and all in it is growing precious to thee."
"To me? Ah, yes, O sister and mother, too! Radha is new to you all,"
she replied, "but will be true now, very true, and will not fail! O
mother, if you could know what it is to me to have a loving home!"
"Then Tara must not be injured--no evil must come to her," said Anunda,
interrupting her.
"To Tara, mother? We are sisters, who will do her evil?"
"I fear thy brother, Radha--not thee. Hath he said aught to thee?"
returned Anunda.
"My brother! O, heed him not, he will soon go," returned Radha, her
features expressing distress and agitation, and she already feared the
worst.
"Ah, then, it is as I expected--as she dreaded. Radha, this must not
be. Hast thou any power over him?"
"None," said the girl, bursting into tears, for what she had most
apprehended appeared to have reached her at last--"none. He has been
wilful always--to me, to our father when he lived, and to all. Where
he goes--who are his companions--what he does--no one knows except
our Prince whom he serves, and Tannajee--who came so suddenly that
night--whom I showed to you. No, mother, I have no power and no
influence. What does he care about me?"
"He must care," said the matron stoutly, "or he must care for me;
and yet, for thy sake, I would not provoke him. But, O Radha! when
thou hast had a child lying at thy heart--drinking its life from thy
breast--climbing about thee--thou wilt understand what a woman can dare
for it--what I could dare for Tara! Wilt thou speak to him, or shall I?"
Radha feared her brother. She did not know the extent to which
his unscrupulous and profligate mind might carry him, but she had
not forgotten his threats. Though she felt assured that, with the
protection her husband could afford her, she was now beyond all
ordinary harm at his hands, she feared the consequences both to herself
and Tara with which he had before threatened her, and she dreaded his
violence. Could he have been mad enough to speak to Tara? Could he have
sent any insulting message to her? Something must have occurred, and
she felt too sick at heart to ask.
"Thou art silent, Radha," continued Anunda; "why?"
"I love Tara; I love him too," she said earnestly, the tears starting
to her eyes. "Yes, I will speak to him, even though he should strike
me. Mother, I can bear it from him. Can you send me to him?--now,
now!--or send for him? If I am to go, let it be at once, for this is
a matter in which I cannot hesitate. O dear mother!" she continued,
rising and advancing, "I am a child yet to thee. Let me put my head on
thy breast for once, and bless me there as thou wouldst Tara: bless me
ere I go to him. No, not so, not so; but as Tara lay on thy breast, so
would I too, for once."
"Come, Radha!" cried Anunda. "O child! O sister-wife! come; henceforth
between thee and me there is no veil. I had longed to draw it away,
but thou hast done it now, and I am happy. Yes, henceforth ye are to
me as one," she continued, smoothing the soft cheek as it lay at her
heart--"new and old, but alike."
"Enough; now I am content," cried the girl, rising and clapping her
hands, "and there shall be no fear for Tara. Send some one with me and
let me go; he should not come here."
"No, Radha," said Anunda, calling a trusty woman-servant to accompany
her, "not here. Go to him, and return soon."