Chapter Twenty Six

Until the evening of that day Kapalkundala, of no other thought, did but turn over and over this one thing—whether or no it were meet that she should meet with him of the Brahmin's guise. That for the chaste young wife to meet at the dead of night, in solitude, with an unknown man was unbecoming—this thought bred in her no scruple; concerning that matter her settled opinion was that, where the purpose of meeting were not foul, in such meeting there was no fault—even as man with man, or woman with woman, hath the right of meeting, so likewise should man and woman have the same right of meeting, such was her thought; and besides, whether he of the Brahmin's guise were man indeed was matter of doubt. Therefore that scruple was needless; but inasmuch as it was uncertain whether of this meeting weal or woe should come, on this account Kapalkundala hesitated thus far. First the discourse of him of the Brahmin's guise, then the appearance of the Kapalik, thereafter the dream—by all these causes the suspicion that her own ill was at hand had grown strong upon Kapalkundala. That this evil was bound up with the coming of the Kapalik seemed also no groundless suspicion. The Brahmin-clad one she took to be the Kapalik's comrade—therefore by meeting with him she might fall into the very evil she so dreaded. He had plainly said that the counsel had been about Kapalkundala. Yet it might be that out of this same matter the means of her deliverance should arise. The young Brahmin had been in secret converse with another, and that other she took to be this Kapalik. In that converse some purpose of death was being made manifest; at the least, perpetual banishment. The death of whom? Of perpetual banishment for whom? He of the Brahmin's guise had plainly said it was concerning Kapalkundala that the evil counsel was being held. Therefore it was her death, or her perpetual banishment, that was being planned. Be it so! And then the dream—what was the meaning of that dream? In the dream he of the Brahmin's guise had come, in the moment of her greatest peril, and had sought to save her; in fact also so it was falling out. The Brahmin-clad one was seeking to lay all the matter open; she had said in her dream, "Drown me." Would he in fact say the like? Nay—nay—the gracious Bhavani, lover of her votaries, had of her favour given counsel in the dream for her deliverance, and he of the Brahmin's guise was come to deliver her. Should she forsake his help, drowned indeed she would be. Wherefore Kapalkundala determined to keep the meeting with him. Whether a wise person would so determine is doubtful; but with the determinings of the wise we have no concern. Kapalkundala was not particularly wise—therefore she determined not as the wise determine. As a woman ruled by curiosity she determined, as a maiden eager to look upon a form at once terrible and fair she determined, as one bred up by ascetics and given to nightly wanderings in the wood she determined, as one bewildered by devotion to Bhavani she determined, as the moth determines that flings itself headlong into the burning flame.

After dusk, having in some measure dispatched the work of the house, Kapalkundala set forth, as before, toward the forest. As she was going she made the lamp in the bedchamber to burn bright. Yet the very moment she stepped out of the chamber, the lamp within the house went out.

At the moment of setting forth Kapalkundala forgot one thing. In what place had he of the Brahmin's guise written that they should meet? For this cause it was needful to read the letter once again. Returning home, she sought the place where in the morning she had laid the letter; in that place she found it not. She remembered that, at the time of binding up her hair, she had set the letter within the braid that she might keep it with her. Therefore she sought with her fingers within the braid. Her finger meeting not with the letter, she loosened the braid; yet even so she found it not. Then in other places of the house she searched. Finding it nowhere, at the last, judging that the meeting must surely be at the place of the first meeting, she set forth again. For lack of leisure she could not bind up afresh that great mass of hair, and therefore that night Kapalkundala went forth, like a maiden yet unwed, with her tresses falling all about her.