Ahalya laughed, but not with her eyes. “Well, I am tired now. I am going to sleep, Bhavani. Therefore run away. See what a mess we have made of the room! Run away.”
“But—I may come again soon, to play Arjuna?”
“Oh, yes.”
“To-morrow?” wistfully.
“Yes. But go now, Bhavani.”
Obediently and reluctantly, Bhavani went.
When he was gone, Neila and Ahalya found themselves looking at each other intently. “He will surely come this evening,” said the slave. “He cannot stay away longer.”
Ahalya flushed and frowned. “I do not want him to come,” she said. “I am tired. I am going to sleep now. Do not wake me till the evening meal is ready.” And the Ranee forthwith disappeared into her bedroom, pulling the purple hangings across the doorway behind her so that Neila could not see, as she lay on her bed, whether she slept or not.
Rai-Khizar-Pál did not come that evening, nor the next day, nor the next. And by the third afternoon Ahalya was secretly very anxious. Nothing ever went unknown for twenty-four hours in the zenana: that place whose inmates had nothing to do all day long but discuss each other; and for two days now nothing had been talked of in the common day-room but the favorite’s fall from favor. The Lord Rajah had been at home from his campaign nearly four days and had seen Ahalya in that time only once! Glory to Krishna! Who would get her place? On the afternoon of the fourth day Ahalya, braving the worst, appeared in the day-room. The chill of humiliation that met her was expected, but none the less hard to endure. Malati, when profoundly saluted, set the example for the room by barely noticing the Ranee. The very slave-girls laughed at her as she passed them; and only Chundoor, the Sudra woman, offered to make room for her. Ahalya, however, had not yet come to passing a whole morning with a person of low caste; nor yet was she to be driven from the day-room because Rai-Khizar-Pál was offended with her for the poppy dance. After her one bow to Malati, who, as oldest wife, was entitled to it, she walked once round the room, leisurely chose out a pile of cushions apart from the general groups, settled herself with inimitable, lazy grace, despatched one eunuch for sweetened rose-water, commanded another to fan her, gave orders to three or four more, and, when she had made herself important enough, caused Neila to bring in a tray of toilet articles and begin to shape and polish her nails. While Neila worked, she lay perfectly still, surveying the company near by in a supercilious manner, and giving her rivals ample opportunity to realize that, try as they would, not one of them could ever approach her in beauty, in grace, or in charm.
By this time the whole room was in a ferment of disdain and concealed envy. Suddenly, as if the excitement had not been already great enough for one morning, Rai-Khizar-Pál appeared on the threshold, and looked eagerly down the room. Every head was turned to him: Ahalya’s too, but leisurely, and with an indifference that was noticeable. Scarcely did she take the trouble to lift her eyelids, as the Rajah came slowly forward. Her husband’s eyes were busy, however, during his ceremonious progress; and he read a deal of history in that walk. It would have been impossible for him not to have made the comparison between Ahalya and those from whom she had so studiously withdrawn herself. Beside their dark, heavy, sensual faces, hers, in its clear-cut, Persian fairness, stood out as a rose among thistles, as gold beside brass. This morning, after three days without her, the Rajah appreciated her more keenly than usual; and, before her indifference, his displeasure melted like mist in the sun. Stopping to speak with no one else, he went to her, amid a sensible but scarcely audible murmur of disappointment. Ahalya looked up only when he bent over her; but she smiled at him for greeting, and he asked nothing better.