Chapter Twenty Three

Nearly a year had passed in Lutfunnisa's going to Agra and returning thence to Saptagram. Kapalkundala had now for more than a year been the mistress of Nabakumar's house. On that day, when at twilight Lutfunnisa was in the forest, Kapalkundala sat absent-minded in the sleeping-chamber. The Kapalkundala whom the kind reader hath seen upon the seashore, with hair unbound and unadorned, is not this Kapalkundala. The prophecy of Shyamasundari hath come true; touched by the touchstone, the yogini hath become a housewife. Now those innumerable dark gleaming tresses, like the arms of black serpents and descending to her ankles, have been gathered behind into a thick braid. In the fashioning of that braid an artistry may be observed, and in the arrangement of the hair, much subtle workmanship that betrays the skill of Shyamasundari's plaiting. Nor have garlands of flowers been forsaken; they encircle the braid round about as a coronet. The portion of her hair that hath not been gathered into the braid is not, however, smoothed everywhere into a like level upon the head; coiled into tiny crests, it lieth in little waves of black ripples. Her countenance is no longer half-hidden under the weight of her hair; it shineth forth lustrous and beautiful, and only here and there have little stray clusters of curls, escaped from their bonds, clung damp with perspiration to the brow. Her complexion is still that of the rays of the half-full moon. Now in either ear a pendant of gold sways; about her neck swayeth a golden necklace. Beside the radiance of her colouring those ornaments are not dimmed; they shine like a night-flower upon the lap of the earth clothed in the moonlight of the half-moon. Her raiment is white; that white raiment shineth like a thin white cloud upon the firmament lit by the half-moon.

Her colouring is, indeed, still of that hue of the half-moon's light, yet it seemeth a shade more dusky than before, as though somewhere upon the horizon of the heavens a dark cloud had appeared. Kapalkundala sat not alone; her friend Shyamasundari sat beside her. Between them a conversation was going forward, some part whereof the kind reader must hear.

Kapalkundala said, "How many days more will my brother-in-law be staying here?"

Shyama said, "He goes to-morrow evening. Alas! Had I but to-night gathered up the herb, I might yet have won him to my will and made my woman's birth fruitful. Last night, because I went forth, I got kicks and broom-blows; how shall I venture forth again to-night?"

Ka: Why may it not be plucked by daylight?

Shya: How shall it work, if plucked by daylight? Just at the second watch of the night, with hair unbound, it must be plucked. So, dear, the wish of my heart shall remain within my heart only.

Ka: Well, I have to-day found out the tree, and I have seen the wood wherein it grows. Thou needst not go again to-night; I will go alone and bring the herb.

Shya: What is done is done. Thou go not forth again at night.

Ka: Wherefore shouldst thou fret on that score? Thou hast heard, hast thou not, that wandering by night hath been my habit since childhood. Bethink thee — had I not that habit, never had I and thou set eyes upon one another.

Shya: I speak not from fear of that. But is it seemly for the bride of a household to wander alone by night in the woods? Even going together, we have been so much reproached; what safety shall there be for thee if thou go alone?

Ka: And what harm if I do? Dost thou too think that I shall become a woman of evil character merely by stepping out of doors at night?

Shya: I think it not. But evil tongues will speak ill.

Ka: Let them speak; I shall not become evil thereby.

Shya: Nay, that thou wilt not — but if any speak ill of thee, our hearts will be grieved.

Ka: Suffer not such unjust grief.

Shya: That, too, perhaps I might. But why shouldst thou make our brother unhappy?

Kapalkundala cast upon Shyamasundari her own soft luminous side-glance. She said, "If he is made unhappy thereby, what shall I do? Had I known that a woman's marriage is bondage, never would I have wedded."

After this, Shyamasundari understood her no further. She rose and went away to her own occupations.

Kapalkundala busied herself with the needful household duties. Having ended those duties, she went forth from the house in search of the herb. By then more than the first watch of the night had passed. The night was bright with moonlight. Nabakumar was sitting in the outer apartment; through the lattice he saw Kapalkundala going forth. He too left the house, came after her, and took Mrinmayi by the hand. Kapalkundala said, "What is it?"

"Whither goest thou?" Not the faintest hint of rebuke was there in the voice of Nabakumar.

Kapalkundala said, "Shyamasundari desires an herb wherewith to win her husband; I go in search of that herb."

Nabakumar said, in the same gentle voice as before, "Well, didst thou not go once yesterday? Wherefore again to-day?"

Ka: Yesterday I found it not by searching; to-day I shall search again.

Nabakumar said most softly, "Well, may it not be sought by daylight?" His voice was full of tenderness.

Kapalkundala said, "Plucked by day, the herb hath no virtue."

Naba: What need is there for thee to go in quest of an herb? Tell me but the name of the tree. I will pluck the herb and bring it to thee.

Ka: I can know the tree when I see it, but I know not its name. And if thou pluck it, it will avail nothing. A woman, with hair unbound, must pluck it. Hinder thou not the doing of a good turn for another.

Kapalkundala said this somewhat ungraciously. Nabakumar made no further objection. He said, "Come, I will go with thee."

Kapalkundala said proudly, "Come then, and see with thine own eyes whether or no I am a faithless wife."

Nabakumar could say no more. With a sigh he let fall the hand of Kapalkundala and turned back to the house. Kapalkundala alone entered the wood.