Her voice died away to a whisper, her dark eyes sought his with a passionate gloom in them before which his shifted uneasily.
"A wife should love her husband, surely? so say the Scriptures--and thou lovest old sayings, O Durga! Yea! and she should obey him also. So let the question be awhile. When due time comes Parbutti shall be told that the old custom hath prevailed, and that the child is of the hearth. She is quick-witted, and will see that after all 'tis better for her than a stranger wife."
A certain aggressiveness of accent provoked a sharp, half-questioning protest.
"And for thee also, Gopâl; surely 'tis best for thee--if as thou sayest I am dear unto thee?"
"For me also, if thou desirest it so, though we men ask first that our women live in peace. But see, the moon climbs high; Parbutti will be returning, and she must not suspect yet awhile. Look not so troubled, Durga! Sure I love thee, else wherefore should I have sought thee?"
The repetition of this argument seemed as much for his own conviction as for hers, and there was something of the same motive in the half-hearted kiss he stooped to bestow upon her. To his surprise she shrank from it, and the unexpected rebuff bringing sudden stimulus to his passion, he slid his arm under the widow's shroud and drew her towards him with a patronising laugh. "Lo! thou art a fool, Durga! Afraid because thou hast found a weak spot in thy heart for lazy Gopâl, when thou shouldest be thanking thy namesake,[[23] ] Mai Bhavani, for sending pleasure in the path of duty. Afraid lest folk should blame thee, when, woman-like, thou shouldest be praying the gods Parbutti might return even now to see thee preferred before her."
The words were spoken lightly, and the speaker's eyes smiled into the earnest ones raised to his. So neither saw a muffled form at the entrance behind them--a form which showed itself for a second, then shrank back behind the strip of wall, built like a screen, across the outer door.
"If she came, Gopâl, wouldst thou tell her the truth?"
The night was so still that every word of the passionate whisper was audible to that unseen listener.
"Sure would I, sweetheart, if only to prevent her claws from scratching. For look you, once 'tis known that you and I have settled it, she can do naught--save quarrel. That is why I say wait till the last. There will be no time then for words--or wiles. Now, Durga, I must go--I would not she had the knowledge secretly--that were an evil chance."