Tara: A Mahratta Tale

by Meadows Taylor

  CHAPTER XLIX.

  A few days had elapsed, and it was a quiet afternoon in the Shastree'sdwelling. The household work had long been done; the visit to thetemple and the noonday worship were over. Vyas Shastree had remainedthere in discussion with other Brahmuns; Radha, complaining of aheadache, had fallen asleep; Tara had read all that her father hadappointed her to study during the day, and was waiting his return tohave certain passages explained to her before she proceeded with hertask.

  The house was perfectly still, and from the town no sound reachedthem, for the heat without was great, and until evening there would becomparatively few persons astir. It was calm, and large white cloudswere sailing slowly over an intensely blue sky, gathering into massespile upon pile, of dazzling brightness, as the sun's rays fell uponthem. The heat and peculiar state of the atmosphere caused the outlinesof buildings and of the mountains to waver; and wherever the eye restedon any object, the air between seemed to quiver with a tremulous motion.

  Hot as it was, Tara had not been deterred from her self-imposed duty.Throwing a heavy folded sheet over her shoulders and head, she hadaccompanied her father to the noonday service; nor, since the occasionwhen she took upon herself the office of the priesthood, and devotedherself to the duties of the shrine, had she on any pretence missed orevaded the necessary attendance.

  At first, perhaps, it was a severe trial. The licence, accorded bygeneral custom to the attendant priestesses, was to her abhorrent; and,on the other hand, Tara's unapproachable purity had given offence tothem. While Gunga, therefore, and two or three others, proposed theprohibition of Tara's service, the rest, fearing the consequences, andhaving a real respect and love for the girl whom they had watched fromher childhood, refused to interfere with her. Tara did them no harm,they said, and her father could punish all, were any annoyance given tohis daughter.

  It is probable that matters might have continued in this state forsome time longer, but for the scene we have already recorded, and theincreasing jealousy of Gunga, expression of which could hardly berepressed by her; and on the day we now write of, the girl's behaviourhad been studiously offensive to Tara until rebuked by the attendantBrahmuns, when she retired sulkily.

  More insulting than that, however, was Moro Trimmul's mannerto herself; and for the first time Tara had felt what she longdreaded,--the shame, as it were, of her vocation--the unavoidableexposure to any libertine glance which might fall on her; but she hadrallied herself at the shrine, and, secure in the protection of the"Mother" she adored, had persevered in her duty without interruption.

  There was, as we have said, perfect stillness in the house, onlybroken by the dull monotonous whirr of the spinning-wheels, as herown and her mother's flew swiftly round, with which the buzz of fliesin the verandah and court seemed to harmonize. Her mother appearedparticularly intent upon spinning some remarkably fine yarn; and as thethread had broken on several occasions, when Tara had spoken to her,and she had complained of it, both had fallen into a silence, which hadnot been interrupted. Gradually, then, the small troubles which hadgathered about Tara returned to her recollection; and, as is generallythe case on such occasions, began, in spite of herself, to increase inproportions.

  Tara's was not, however, a suspicious nature, and she had soon struckout a course for herself in regard to the sisterhood. "It is the moneythey want, not me: if I save it all, and give it to the Putwari todivide amongst them daily, it will surely be enough," she thought; andthis she determined to do. In regard, however, to Moro Trimmul, it wasvery different. "Why did he look at her as he had done that day?"

  Then her thoughts reverted to the time when she had first remarkedhim in the temple, a solitary stranger worshipper, to whom herfather had spoken kindly. Her memory followed clearly his gradualsteps to intimacy; but there was nothing she could charge him with,as an approach to familiarity in their intercourse. Through all thelicence of the marriage time--through all her visits to his aunt andsister--there had been no violation of propriety; on the contrary, anhabitual and respectful avoidance of her--or, at most, a distant andcourteous salutation. Why should it have altered?

  But since the night on which Gunga had spoken to her, and Moro Trimmulhad made his famous declamation of the scene in the Ramayun, there hadbeen a change. He either avoided her altogether, or his eyes droppedfurtively as she passed, or met hers, as they had done that day, in aglance new to her, and inexpressibly offensive. Tara shuddered as sheremembered it, and the action broke the thread she was spinning. Shedid not resume her work, and her hands fell listlessly on her lap asher foot ceased its motion. For a time her eyes wandered vacantly amongher flowers, about which some gay butterflies were flitting and chasingeach other in the bright sunlight; but suddenly a large dragonfly,which had been hovering over them, darted at one and carried it off;and as she started forward, gazing intently after it, a bird chased theinsect, caught it, and flew away.

  Perhaps the sudden cessation of the whirr of Tara's wheel had attractedher mother's attention; for after a while, as it was not resumed, shelooked up. "What dost thou see?" she asked, anxiously; for ever sincethe day on which Tara said the goddess appeared to her, Anunda had beenanxious, she hardly knew why: but she dreaded a return of that strangeand violent excitement. "What dost thou see, beloved?"

  Tara did not apparently hear the question, or did not notice it.Her hands, which had been involuntarily extended, fell upon her laplistlessly as before; but she turned towards her mother. "How long doeshe remain, mother?" she asked abruptly.

  "He! who, daughter?" returned Anunda.

  "Radha's brother," replied the girl, as a shiver seemed to pass throughher; "Radha said he would go after the marriage, yet he delays. Why,mother--why does he not go?"

  "Nay, and how should I know?" replied Anunda. "What is he to me? AllI wanted was Radha, and we have got her; and he may go or come as hepleases. Thy father told me he had business here with the Nimbalkur andothers till the Now Ratree was over, and he assists in the recitations.More I know not. Why dost thou ask? What is he to thee, Tara?"

  "Nothing, mother; but so long?--will he stay so long?"

  "Radha told me yesterday he must soon rejoin his people in the west,and leave her; and she was crying about it. Does that content thee,Tara?"

  "I would he were gone, mother," said Tara, rising from her low stool,kneeling, and throwing her arms about Anunda as she sat on a similarone, while she hid her face in her dress. "Cannot he go sooner?--cannotRadha send him away?"

  "Why, daughter? why?--Ah! he hath not spoken to thee, child; he darenot! Tell me," she continued, in a more agitated tone, as her daughterclung almost convulsively to her, "what is this? Why dost thou fearhim? Thou--thou dost not? ... thou canst not----"

  "No, no, mother," cried the girl quickly, guessing her mother'sthoughts, and looking up innocently; "fear not. I am not a Moorlee tolove; ... fear not! But ah, mother, I dread him! I will not go to thetemple while he is there. I ... I dare not--I dare not go. May the HolyMother forgive me for neglect; but when he departs, I will serve hernight and day."

  "Thou art very beautiful, my child," said her mother, smoothing backthe glossy hair and stroking the soft cheek which lay passively in herlap. "Ah, thou art very beautiful; and I fear such as he! Yes, if it beas thou sayest, it were better, indeed, to live secluded for a while. Iwill tell thy father, and he will understand it."

  "Yes, he will surely understand," said Tara absently; "but ah, mother,was not that an omen? I thought it was, and I came to thee."

  "What omen, Tara? I saw nothing, child."

  "A thought came into my mind, mother," she said sadly, "that I was thebutterfly sporting among the flowers, and he the fierce glisteninginsect that darted upon it and bore it away. But then, mother, the birdcame and took both. Why was that?"

  "Thou art not well, Tara," replied her mother, not understanding her,for she had not noticed the occurrence, and, seeing her shiver, thoughther feverish. "Thou art not well; lie in my arms for a while, and thecold will pass awa
y. O Holy Mother!" she cried aloud, as Tara, sobbingconvulsively, hid her face in her bosom, "let not evil come to thischild--thine and mine. O, be good to her, as thou hast taken her!"

  "Would that it were so," said the girl, after a while, and stillsobbing. "I would go, mother, if she would take me. What use am I inlife? It would be bitter to leave the house and all of ye, but I shouldbe with her. Did she not promise this when she touched my hair? Ah,yes; and she will not forget it."

  "Hush, child; let this fancy pass from thee. Sleep, now, here. I willsing thee the old song. Nay, thou shalt not leave me! There is roomat thy mother's heart, and strength still in her arms, to hold theesafely."

  As Tara laid herself softly down in the old place, and hermother, rocking herself to and fro, sang the low sweet lullaby ofchildhood,--the girl's sobbing gradually stopped, and a gentle sleepfell upon her. Anunda watched the change anxiously. At first her browwas contracted, as if with pain, and a broken sob came now and againwith her breathing; but gradually the head fell back on her arm, thesweet mouth opened slightly, and tears, which had had no vent before,welled gently from under the closed eyelids as the features relaxedinto a smile.

  "Yes," thought Anunda, as she bent over her child, while her own tearsfell hot and fast, "the Mother is with her now, and she is again happy."

  "What hath happened?" asked Radha soon afterwards, as, refreshed byher sleep, she rose, and came gently towards the low spinning-chair onwhich Anunda still sat. "Is she ill?"

  "Hush!" returned Anunda, in a whisper. "If we can lay her down I willtell thee, but we must not wake her. I think.... I think the Motherhath been with her again; but I will tell thee."

  Radha hastily spread out a soft mattress and pillow close to the stool,and, raising Tara together, they laid her down upon it, as they would achild. Her mother patted her gently as she lay, and gradually the samesweet smile as at first again stole over her face.

  "Look, she sees the Mother!" said Anunda reverently. "It is always so,and nothing can wake her till the time is past. Ah, thou art happy now,my child, be it ever so with thee!"

  "What did she say, sister?" asked Radha, as, having thrown a lightsheet over the sleeping girl, they sat down to watch her apart, lestthe noise of the wheels--for Radha had taken Tara's and joined thebroken thread--should awaken her. "What did the goddess say?"

  Anunda hesitated. As yet no difference had arisen between them, andRadha still looked up to her, more with the respect of a child forits mother than as a sister-wife would comport herself to her equal.Should she tell Radha all? It had occurred to her that he had imposedupon her some task which she hesitated to perform--that Radha hadsome impatience of her brother's presence. It might be a demand formoney--it might be in relation to the political objects of his mission,of which Anunda had a deep dread, lest her husband should become anactive party, and so be embroiled with the Mahomedan officers of thecountry. She considered for a moment: but Anunda's was no timid nature.She was not afraid of Radha; and with Tara's happiness at stake, shecould risk no ceremony with the sister of him who had evidently causedmore than a passing cloud.

  "Radha," she said gently, "thou art more than a sister-wife to me. Nay,as a daughter I have trusted to thee the happiness which lay nearest myheart and hers; and I believe thee faithful to it, and that this homeand all in it is growing precious to thee."

  "To me? Ah, yes, O sister and mother, too! Radha is new to you all,"she replied, "but will be true now, very true, and will not fail! Omother, if you could know what it is to me to have a loving home!"

  "Then Tara must not be injured--no evil must come to her," said Anunda,interrupting her.

  "To Tara, mother? We are sisters, who will do her evil?"

  "I fear thy brother, Radha--not thee. Hath he said aught to thee?"returned Anunda.

  "My brother! O, heed him not, he will soon go," returned Radha, herfeatures expressing distress and agitation, and she already feared theworst.

  "Ah, then, it is as I expected--as she dreaded. Radha, this must notbe. Hast thou any power over him?"

  "None," said the girl, bursting into tears, for what she had mostapprehended appeared to have reached her at last--"none. He has beenwilful always--to me, to our father when he lived, and to all. Wherehe goes--who are his companions--what he does--no one knows exceptour Prince whom he serves, and Tannajee--who came so suddenly thatnight--whom I showed to you. No, mother, I have no power and noinfluence. What does he care about me?"

  "He must care," said the matron stoutly, "or he must care for me;and yet, for thy sake, I would not provoke him. But, O Radha! whenthou hast had a child lying at thy heart--drinking its life from thybreast--climbing about thee--thou wilt understand what a woman can darefor it--what I could dare for Tara! Wilt thou speak to him, or shall I?"

  Radha feared her brother. She did not know the extent to whichhis unscrupulous and profligate mind might carry him, but she hadnot forgotten his threats. Though she felt assured that, with theprotection her husband could afford her, she was now beyond allordinary harm at his hands, she feared the consequences both to herselfand Tara with which he had before threatened her, and she dreaded hisviolence. Could he have been mad enough to speak to Tara? Could he havesent any insulting message to her? Something must have occurred, andshe felt too sick at heart to ask.

  "Thou art silent, Radha," continued Anunda; "why?"

  "I love Tara; I love him too," she said earnestly, the tears startingto her eyes. "Yes, I will speak to him, even though he should strikeme. Mother, I can bear it from him. Can you send me to him?--now,now!--or send for him? If I am to go, let it be at once, for this isa matter in which I cannot hesitate. O dear mother!" she continued,rising and advancing, "I am a child yet to thee. Let me put my head onthy breast for once, and bless me there as thou wouldst Tara: bless meere I go to him. No, not so, not so; but as Tara lay on thy breast, sowould I too, for once."

  "Come, Radha!" cried Anunda. "O child! O sister-wife! come; henceforthbetween thee and me there is no veil. I had longed to draw it away,but thou hast done it now, and I am happy. Yes, henceforth ye are tome as one," she continued, smoothing the soft cheek as it lay at herheart--"new and old, but alike."

  "Enough; now I am content," cried the girl, rising and clapping herhands, "and there shall be no fear for Tara. Send some one with me andlet me go; he should not come here."

  "No, Radha," said Anunda, calling a trusty woman-servant to accompanyher, "not here. Go to him, and return soon."