II.

The dark nights had yielded to light ones, and drawn back into darkness

again more than once, before the second act of the drama began. Such a

still night! The moon over-riding the high walls shone straight down

upon a man and a woman standing beside the row of fireplaces where the

dead ashes of the past day's flame showed white. Through the stillness

and the moonshine a man's voice petulant, almost peevish.

"Lo! I told thee from the beginning it must be so. There is time yet.

Have patience awhile, Durga; when there is no escape Parbutti will

yield--that is woman's way. Thou knowest that I love thee; were it not

so why should I have sought thee?" Durga's clasped hands fell from

their hold upon his arm listlessly.

"Yea! thou didst love me; that is true. And I? Knowest thou, Gopal, why

my heart sinks now as it never did when first I yielded to thy plan for

peace? Then it seemed naught to keep it secret awhile--no harm--no

blame; but now--Gopal! knowest thou it comes upon me even as if I were

a shameless one--since--since I have learnt to care--"

Her voice died away to a whisper, her dark eyes sought his with a

passionate gloom in them before which his shifted uneasily.

"A wife should love her husband, surely? so say the Scriptures--and

thou lovest old sayings, O Durga! Yea! and she should obey him also. So

let the question be awhile. When due time comes Parbutti shall be told

that the old custom hath prevailed, and that the child is of the

hearth. She is quick-witted, and will see that after all 'tis better

for _her_ than a stranger wife."

A certain aggressiveness of accent provoked a sharp, half-questioning

protest.

"And for thee also, Gopal; surely 'tis best for thee--if as thou sayest

I am dear unto thee?"

"For me also, if thou desirest it so, though we men ask first that our

women live in peace. But see, the moon climbs high; Parbutti will be

returning, and she must not suspect yet awhile. Look not so troubled,

Durga! Sure I love thee, else wherefore should I have sought thee?"

The repetition of this argument seemed as much for his own conviction

as for hers, and there was something of the same motive in the

half-hearted kiss he stooped to bestow upon her. To his surprise she

shrank from it, and the unexpected rebuff bringing sudden stimulus to

his passion, he slid his arm under the widow's shroud and drew her

towards him with a patronising laugh. "Lo! thou art a fool, Durga!

Afraid because thou hast found a weak spot in thy heart for lazy Gopal,

when thou shouldest be thanking thy namesake,[23] _Mai_ Bhavani, for

sending pleasure in the path of duty. Afraid lest folk should blame

thee, when, woman-like, thou shouldest be praying the gods Parbutti

might return even now to see thee preferred before her."

The words were spoken lightly, and the speaker's eyes smiled into the

earnest ones raised to his. So neither saw a muffled form at the

entrance behind them--a form which showed itself for a second, then

shrank back behind the strip of wall, built like a screen, across the

outer door.

"If she came, Gopal, wouldst thou tell her the truth?"

The night was so still that every word of the passionate whisper was

audible to that unseen listener.

"Sure would I, sweetheart, if only to prevent her claws from

scratching. For look you, once 'tis known that you and I have settled

it, she can do naught--save quarrel. That is why I say wait till the

last. There will be no time then for words--or wiles. Now, Durga, I

must go--I would not she had the knowledge secretly--that were an evil

chance."

The night was so still that a keen listener might have heard a light

footfall behind the screen, as if some one were stealing away from it.

But those two only heard their own soft breathing as their lips met.

"Durga! Durga! asleep as usual, and I bade thee keep the fire aglow

lest I should need aught."

The familiar fault-finding rang through the courtyard, and not even a

tremble in Parbutti's voice betrayed knowledge of that unseen listener,

who, five minutes before, had hid behind the screen. Gopal was right;

her wits were quick to seize on what was to her own advantage. Anger

and reproach were desirable, doubtless, but what if they left her

helpless? Besides, there was time to spare for such things when she had

accepted the inevitable. So through the still summer night she lay

awake piecing together a plan of revenge against the woman who, on the

other side of the mud wall, lay awake piecing together her plan for

peace. Revenge! That was the first consideration; if it could be

combined with comparative comfort. Peace! Yes! peace; if it could be

had without that gnawing sense of shame which had come so unexpectedly

to complicate the situation. So much for the women's thoughts; as for

the man's, as he sat in the dawning light eating his morning meal, they

might have been inferred from a certain irritation towards both the

women who, in one way or another, were engaged in ministering to his

comfort. For polygamy is not altogether tragic; it is often comic--at

times almost farcical.

The clangour of metal upon metal rose with the sun, and all through the

long hot day the beat and the burr filled the courtyards where those

two women went about their daily tasks. When evening came it brought

Gopal an unusual display of platters at supper time--an unusual

sweetness both in the viands and in Parbutti's voice.

"Lo! 'tis like a wedding feast, wife," he said, well pleased.

She gave an odd little hysterical laugh. "Perhaps 'tis time there was a

wedding, O Gopal!" Then she grew grave. "Thy people say so, and mine

also. Even last night _Mai_ Radha spoke to me of her daughter. And

perhaps 'twere better so. Thou wouldst not cease to love me, O Gopal!

because I brought thee fair sons; ay! and a fair wife too."

Her face was turned away; she spoke softly, regretfully, dutifully, as

a good Hindu wife should under the circumstances, and her husband could

hardly believe his ears. Parbutti--jealous Parbutti--suggesting a wife

of her own choice! Here indeed would have been a chance of peace, were

it not for Durga. What a fool he had been to be so precipitate! A

sudden regard for the wife who was prepared to sacrifice so much to him

mingled not unnaturally with a corresponding resentment against the

woman whose love was certain to stand in the way of his pleasure. Yet

he was too much taken aback for real assent or denial, and murmured

something incoherently about there being no need for hurry, no need to

bring a strange woman to the house--as yet. Parbutti's conventional

decorum gave way before even this faint allusion to realities, and she

turned upon him sharply.

"Wherefore no stranger, Gopal? Sure it must be so, seeing thou wouldst

not mock me by thinking of a widow--a childless widow. 'Tis not as if

thou didst set store by foolish old ways. 'Tis not as though thou wast

old and foolish thyself. Thou canst choose a virgin bride, and thou

shalt choose one, else will I not yield thee. For thine own sake,

husband, I will not. _Mai_ Radha's daughter is worthy of thee. Lo! I

have seen her, but if thou heedest me not inquire of her secretly.

Durga is old and a widow. We want no more childless ones in this

house--nor her sons, even if fate were kind; for look you, I hate

her--I hate her."

Gopal's faint protest died down before Parbutti's vehemence; if she

hated, she hated, and there was an end of it. No use in words, or for

the matter of that in deeds. He went moodily out into the bazaars for

comfort, telling himself he had been a fool to let his fancy for a

woman as old as he was fetter his future. He might have known it would

not last. That was the worst of it! Had he braved Parbutti's shrill

wrath at first when the passion was there, it might have seemed worth

while to suffer discomfort; now it was hard to hark back dutywards.

What a fool he had been! halting as it were between the new and the

old. He had glozed over the secrecy by appealing to the customs of his

forefathers, and now he hated the tie they imposed upon him. Durga was

his dead brother's widow, but what right had she to more consideration

than any other woman who had yielded to a man's promise? She was no

better than those others, would be no worse off than those others if

he-- Even Gopal could not put the thought plainly before himself; so he

took refuge in a general sense of injury.

"Let be! Let be," he said angrily, the next time that Durga, with a

growing passion in her voice, demanded that he should admit the truth.

"And if thou sayest a word--I swear I will deny it. Nay! look not so,

Durga! I meant only if thou wilt not obey."

She stood as if turned to stone.

"Thou wouldst deny it? deny thy brother's child? Thou durst not, lest

the gods should slay thee for the infamy."

He gave an embarrassed laugh.

"Thou believest in the gods more than I, Durga; but I mean no harm to

thee. None shall say aught against thee if thou wilt have patience."