And far away in another quarter of the town Tara, crouched up before a mere block of stone, half hidden in flowers, was telling her beads feverishly. "Râm-Râm-Sita-Râm!" That was the form she used for a whole tragedy of appeal and aspiration, remorse, despair, and hope. And as she muttered on, looking dully at the little row of platters she had presented to the shrine that morning--going far beyond necessity in her determination to be heard--the groups of women coming in to lay a fresh chaplet among the withered ones and give a "jow" to the deep-toned bell hung in the archway in order to attract the god's attention to their offering, paused to whisper among themselves of her piety. While more than once a widow crept close to kiss the edge of her veil humbly.
It was balm indeed! It was peace. The mem might starve, she told herself fiercely, but she would be suttee. After all the strain, and the pain, and the wondering ache at her heart, she had come back to her own life. This she understood. Let the Huzoors keep to their own. This was hers.
The sun danced in motes through the branches of the peepul tree above the little shrine, the squirrels chirruped among them, the parrots chattered, sending a rain of soft little figs to fall with a faint sound on the hard stones, and still Tara counted her beads feverishly.
"Râm-Râm-Sita-Râm! Râm-Râm-Sita-Râm!"
"Ari! sisters! she is a saint indeed. She was here at dawn and she prays still," said the women, coming in the lengthening shadows with odd little bits of feastings. A handful of cocoa-nut chips, a platter of flour, a dish of curds, or a dab of butter.
"Râm-Râm-Sita-Râm!"
And all the while poor Tara was thinking of the Huzoor's face, if he ever found out that she had left the mem to starve. It was almost dark when she stood up, abandoning the useless struggle, so she waited to see the sacred Circling of the Lights and get her little sip of holy water before she went back to her perch among the pigeons, to put on the crimson scarf and the gold circlets again. Since it was hopeless trying to be a saint till she had done what she had promised the Huzoor she would do. She must go back to the mem first.
But Kate, opening the door to her with eyes a-glitter and a whole cut-and-dried plan for the future, almost took her breath away, and reduced her into looking at the Englishwoman with a sort of fear.
"The mem will he suttee too," she said stupidly, after listening a while. "The mem will shave her head and put away her jewels! The mem will wear a widow's shroud and sweep the floor, saying she comes from Bengal to serve the saint?"
"I do not care, Tara, how it is done. Perhaps you may have a better plan. But we must prevent the master from finding me again. He has done too much for me as it is; you know he has," replied Kate, her eyes shining like stars with determination. "I only want you to save him; that is all. You may take me away and kill me if you like; and if you won't help me to hide, I'll go out into the streets and let them kill me there. I will not have him risk his life for me again."