The Slave Girl of Agra/Book 3/Chapter 2
II. SHE STROVE AGAINST HER WEAKNESS
Hemlata, a girl, had ever loved her gentle playmate, Sirish. Hemlata, a wife, soon came to appreciate his solid worth and virtues. She saw with a woman's insight the depth of purpose which lay hid beneath his calm and placid face, and she admired with the pride of a wife the manly truth and unshaken probity which elevated his character. She adored the strong upright man whom her parents had chosen for her husband, and whom the gods had destined to be her stay and support through life.
Heiress to one of the richest estates in Bengal, she had married a youth, well born and well connected, but of humble circumstances. Yet so great was the natural humility and gentleness of her nature that the thought of her proud position never came to her; she felt herself supremely fortunate in being united to one so gifted, so great, so adorable.
Years passed in unbroken peace. The thoughtful youth looked into the affairs of the estate as the health of Nobo Kumar declined, and rose to the responsibilities of his high station. And the innocent, gentle girl bloomed into lovely womanhood, and managed her vast household with all the sweetness and solicitude of a kind and careful housewife. When the day's work was over she would often come and sit beside her lord, and would wile away his many cares and anxieties by her gentle smile and sweet, duteous prattle.
Nevertheless there was one thought which often came to Hemlata, and which she seldom cared to disclose. Her memory travelled again and again to the wayward and impulsive youth who had been a companion of her childhood, and had parted from her on the threshold of her womanhood. The burning face, the glowing eyes, the abrupt talk of Noren came back to her, and the woman read in them a meaning which the girl had scarcely understood. She recalled, too, with a sigh, the misfortunes which had befallen that high-born youth, the calm courage with which he had faced them, the determination with which he had conquered them. And the memory of his last parting with her near the garden temple of Birnagar, the tears which glistened in his eyes, and the words which fell from his lips, recurred to her oftener perhaps than she would have dared to own to her confiding husband.
Hemlata was not an unfaithful wife even in her thoughts. If Noren had lived happily at Birnagar she would have welcomed him often to Debipur, seated him by her husband, and loved to listen to them as in days of yore. But the misfortunes of a disinherited youth and the uncertainties of a soldier's fate threw a romance over his life which stirred to its depths her soft and sympathetic soul. The unknown dangers of the exile in distant wars had a strange and dangerous fascination for her, and with the thoughts of his present dangers came softer recollections of past days and past scenes.
"Tell me, my sweet sister Saibalini, hast heard anything more from Rajmahal?"
"News was brought to my brother, sister Hemlata, that the Badshah's troops have gone to the south to fight the Afghans again. Our dear Noren has gone with the army. But be not anxious, sister, the Badshah's troops will be victorious as ever, and Noren will return in triumph."
But Hemlata's face was pale, and a tear which she could not restrain glistened in her eye.
"Ay, sister," said Saibalini, "it makes us all sad to think of that brave young man disinherited and wandering as an exile."
The tear was no longer restrained; it slowly rolled down Hemlata's pallid cheek. She wiped it away and was silent.
"Weep not, sister Hemlata, for the day of rejoicing is nigh. The wars, my brother says, will soon be over, and Noren will soon be restored to Birnagar. You know Sirish loves Noren like a brother, and he has resolved in his own heart that Noren shall be seated again in his grandfather's estate."
"No nobler man lives on earth than thy brother, dear Saibalini; Bhagavan has made me happy in his great love."
"He will rejoice, Hemlata, when Noren returns home after so many years. We shall all welcome him, and thou, Hemlata, must choose a suitable bride for the dear companion of thy childhood."
"I will do all I can, Saibalini, to make him happy in life," calmly replied Hemlata.
"Dost thou remember, Hemlata, how he used to take us to the garden at Birnagar and tell us of his family? Dost thou remember how his eyes sometimes filled with tears and his face glowed with all the ardour of his race?"
Hemlata made no reply. She remembered those tearful eyes, those glowing words, too well.
"And then came the unfortunate accident on the river, and his trial and his banishment, and we saw him no more. It was cruel of him, was it not, sister, to leave us without seeing us once more."
"He came to see us, Saibalini, before he went to Rajmahal."
"But I never saw him—didst thou?"
"I saw him just as he was leaving. But it is late, Saibalini, and my husband must be waiting for us. Let us go."
Saibalini was a typical Hindu widow, who had lost her husband when she was a child and had never known married life. A widow's life is often aimless and cheerless in India, like that of many an old maid in the West. But Nature has compensations for everyone, and the childless widow in India is the gentle nurse, the careful housewife, the trusted counsellor in every well-regulated home. Her heart is drawn towards children who are not her own, her hands are busy in willing service for father or brother, and there are few more touching instances of unselfish love than that of the Hindu widow for all who come under her influence. Religion, too, has stronger claims on her, and her penances and prayers and fasts are a part of her life and a source of her joy and pride. Thus she treads, timidly but content, the path that is traced out for her, and often she lives a longer and a more peaceful life than her married sisters, devoted to the faith of her fathers and honoured by kinsmen and friends.
Saibalini had her full share of a gentle and unselfish nature, and she had a quiet thoughtfulness which was her own. Orphaned at an early age, she had nursed and taken care of her little brother from his childhood. And Sirish, now risen to high rank and strong manhood, still revered his elder sister, and consulted her wishes and opinions. With many servants and attendants, Sirish loved the dishes prepared by his sister with her own hand; and with many counsellors around him, Sirish came to consult his sister on the affairs of the estate. Hemlata would then come and sit half veiled near the brother and the sister, and would listen to them for hours. Late in the night, after Sirish and Hemlata had retired, Saibalini would see to the feeding of the relations and kinsmen who filled the Zemindar's house, and would then take a widow's scanty meal before she sought her rest.
Few women in India could read or write in those days, but there were few who were not educated in the duties of a house-wife and in the lessons and traditions of their religion. As a child she had listened to the tales of the Puranas and the Indian Epics; as a young girl she had performed religious rites and offered flowers and worship in her village temple; as a woman she was fond of repeating sacred legends to those who gathered round her in the quiet evenings. To her, as to most Hindu women, these legends were more real than the deeds of the Chiefs and Rulers of her day; gods and goddesses were realities who lived and moved round her unseen, and claimed worship and righteous conduct. The elderly women of the house often sat by Saibalini and listened to her endless store of legends, and voices would then come to her from the starry skies which would fill her soul with joy.
With the children of the house Saibalini was a great favourite. Children see into the soul with that quick flash of instinct which is often seen in dumb creatures, and they know from the glance of the eye or the tremor of the voice if a stranger is loving and lovable. Little prattlers crowded round Saibalini whenever she had a few moments to spare at midday or evening, and would pluck her cloth or pull her hair to make her repeat those tales they had heard a hundred times before.
But Saibalini had no more assiduous listener in the vast household than young Hemlata; and no legends fascinated the young wife more than those, with which the Scriptures of India are replete, on the love and faith and duties of women. Was it the unblemished and noble character of her own husband that made Hemlata, so eager to listen to the tales of devoted wives? Or was it a silent and unconscious effort to make herself worthy of her lord and yield him a whole-hearted devotion? Saibalini would yield to her sister's wishes joyfully, and tell her tales of Sita and Savitree and Damayantee, the noblest conceptions of womanhood that the literature of the world has produced.
With her heart panting with a thought which those nearest to her never knew, Hemlatta went to her husband's room when such tales were ended, and approached the bed where he was asleep. She knelt by the unconscious sleeper, and a silent prayer often went up from her heart. "Heaven help me to be a true woman on earth! May I be a true wife in thought and in deed—in life and in death!"