It was Gobindalal. He wondered why she was weeping. His conjecture, however, was that she might have quarrelled with somebody. How was he to know what actually the cause of her sorrow was? However, he felt pity for her. He thought he would go and inquire.
The sun was down. The cattle were being driven home from the field, the lowing herd moving on at a quick pace, kicking up the dust with their feet. By and by the shades of evening closed in. The waters of the tank looked black, and the birds took shelter among the trees. Then the moon rose, shedding its silvery beams upon the earth. But Rohini—she was still there and weeping, her head leaning on her right hand. "Why, I think I will ask why she is weeping," said Gobindalal to himself. He rose to go to her.
"Rohini," said he, going down very quietly to her, "why are you weeping? What is the matter with you?"
Rohini started and looked up. Knowing at a glance who the speaker was, she quickly rose to her feet and stood, holding her head down, and without saying a word.
"What's your trouble, Rohini?" he continued. "Let me know it. I may be of service to you."
She was still silent.
Gobindalal was somewhat grave and reserved. He was not given to flirting, nor was he ever known to talk lightly to any woman. Among the young people of the village he was more respected and held in greater esteem than his cousins. Besides he was a very handsome young man. Rohini respected him. This day, however, when he spoke to her she loved him she knew not why, and thought she could die for him.
"Well," said Gobindalal again after a pause, "if it is anything you cannot say yourself, let me know it through my wife or any other woman belonging to our house. I give you the assurance that if in anything you require my help you shall have it."
Rohini spoke now and said, "I will tell you, but not to-day. I will tell you all, and it is my earnest request that you will be pleased to listen to me."
Gobindalal readily complied, and left her.
Rohini filled her pot, and went home with a lighter heart.
CHAPTER VIII.
On getting home Rohini engaged herself in preparing the evening meal. This day she managed to get it ready earlier than usual. Brahmananda had his meal, but Rohini touched no food, for she had no inclination for it. She shut herself up in her room, not to go to bed but to consider what should be done regarding the will.
We have two counsellors, one, our conscience, which always tells us to do what is right, and the other, the devil in us, that delights in leading us astray.
Rohini's conscience said, "It was very wicked of you to steal the will."
"How?" said she or rather the devil in her. "I haven't given it to Haralal."
"You must return it to Krishnakanta," said her conscience.
"Bah!" said she, "when he demands how I got the will or how came the false will in his drawer, what shall I say? Would you have me be handed over to the police?"
"Then why don't you," said her conscience, "go to Gobindalal and own everything to him? He is a kind man. If you fall on your knees before him and ask his protection he will not refuse it you."
"But Gobindalal," said she, "will have to tell all to Krishnakanta. And if Krishnakanta hand me over to the police, how can Gobindalal protect me? I think it is better to keep quiet now. When the old man is dead I will give the will to Gobindalal. And I will throw myself at his feet and ask his pardon."
"Of what avail would it then be?" said her conscience. "The will that will be found in Krishnakanta's house will of course be taken as genuine. If Gobindalal produce his uncle's will, it won't stand, and he will be accused of forgery."
"Well, I know better what to do," she said. "I will keep quiet about it; and that is, I think, the best and safest course to adopt under the circumstances."
So she set light by the dictates of her conscience, and resolved in her mind to keep quiet about the will. Then her thoughts glided spontaneously to Gobindalal. How very gentle and obliging and handsome he was! How she loved and admired him! What would she not give to win his love? Her imagination painted him as beautiful as a rainbow. She thought of him and wept and thought and wept
