On which Ram Chunder drew aside the heavy drapery and bade me enter, saying, "I will return for you in a quarter of an hour or so."
Left alone, I stepped into a dimly-lighted but spacious room, at the farther end of which I saw seated a Hindoo lady surrounded by several female attendants.
As far as I could observe in the dim light, she was dark, but handsome and dressed like the generality of Hindoo women, only that her veil, instead of being drawn over her head, was thrown back, and trailed on the floor beside her. She did not rise to greet me, but salââmed to me from her place, and patted a cushion close by her as an invitation for me to be seated. This was, as I soon found, owing to the fact that her little daughter, lying half asleep in a little Hindoo cradle close by, was holding her hand, and she feared to disturb her. I sat down and looked over into the cradle; there lay a soft plump, brown child, a little girl of about two years of age, perfectly nude, with a string of gold coins around her neck and each of her arms. In the presence of such perfect innocence and trust the narrow distinctions of races and creeds seemed to fade away: I only felt here was another woman like myself, and she a mother; and, in truth, I could not have long felt otherwise, in spite of any prejudices I may have had; Kesinèh was too natural and simple a creature for one to feel anything but at home with her.
The first words that she said to me, after satisfying herself that little "Brownee" (as I always called her) was asleep, were, "How long have you been married?" Then, "What does your husband look like? How old are you? Where do you live?" etc., etc. My answers seemed to please her very much, for she patted my knee and laughed softly, and said, "Oh, heart! oh, heart! how happy you must be!"
We then talked about her own life. She told me that she had been married four years, that she had hoped "Brownee" was going to be a son, "but she turned out a daughter after all," said poor Kesinèh with a sigh. "Do you love her less for that?" I inquired. "Oh no, indeed," said Kesinèh quickly; "I think I love her more, but my lord would have been better pleased with me if she had been a son instead of a daughter." "But," said I, trying to comfort her for her disappointment, "it was not your fault that your child happened to be a daughter." "Oh yes," said the lady with great energy, "it was my own fault. I committed the sin of marrying my own brother in a former state of existence; thus I am now doomed to have a daughter for my first-born child in this." I did not know what to say to this odd explanation, and there was a pause, but at length I ventured to suggest that whether it was so or not she must admit that little "Brownee" was a treasure. "Oh yes," said Kesinèh with joyful emphasis—"a lovely, bewildering little thing;" and she leaned lovingly over the little sleeper.
I noticed that in everything this Hindoo lady said or did there was no affectation of voice or manner, no effort to please or entertain me, but a simple and natural expression of herself.
When it was time for me to go I put her one question which I longed most to have answered: "Who is that very beautiful Nautchnee who danced the cup-dance and performed the part of Damayanti this evening?"
"I do not know," said the lady Kesinèh with great interest in her manner. "Is she not beautiful? The Nautchnees were hired for this evening. I would like to know who she is too."
Then, turning to one of her attendants, who was listening to every word we said with a smile on her face, she inquired, "Ummah, do you know the owner of the Nautchnees who were here to-night?"