When, with mid-February, the spring appeared, Ahalya could no longer bear her unhappiness, and one evening sent Churi to Fidá, bidding him come to her. It was a summons that could not be refused; and, in the early darkness, he stole to her rooms by the little courtyard. Alas! How many, many times had he come to her thus in highest joy! How differently to-night he came! In each heart there was dread, and fear:—in hers that he long since tired of her, in his that she could no longer care for him. When he appeared she was alone, standing at the end of the room by her narrow bed, her face turned to the window through which he entered. Seeing him, she did not move, but her eyes grew big with inquiry, and her mouth drooped a little. Fidá, who could not look upon her without deep emotion, also stood silent till he could command his voice. Then he said, gently, but without much expression:
“Thou hast sent for me. I have come.”
Ahalya’s lip quivered, pitiably; and she lowered her head, without replying.
Fidá, watching her, moved forward a step or two. “Ranee—what is thy grief?” he asked, putting her, by his appellation, infinitely far away.
Ahalya gave a sob that was like a scream, and, flinging herself face down upon the divan, laughed and wept hysterically, but still without speaking. Fidá, bewildered, miserable, yet hoping something that he dared not voice, knelt at her side and longed to give her comfort; restraining himself only by a great effort. She wept as long as she would, and then suddenly ceased, lifted herself, and turned a burning gaze on him.
“Faithless one,” she said, in a low, monotonous tone: “thou faithless, infinitely despised! Did I not give myself to thee, for thee committing the greatest sin? I loved thee, and my heart was true, and in thy long sickness by day and night I prayed to the gods for thee, vowing that, shouldst thou die, I would follow thee as becomes a widow; for in all ways I have considered myself thy true wife. And after thine illness, when I yearned unspeakably to comfort thee, didst thou come hither? didst send one word to me, that still live only in the thought of thee? Oh, tell me,” and her voice rose passionately, “who is thy new love? What is the name of her on whom thy traitor kisses fall? O thou wretched one—” her tone became a long, ungovernable wail, “O captive—O Fidá—hast thou forgotten me?”
“For the soul of Allah, Ahalya, do not torture me! Ahalya, Ahalya—I am true to thee! Look at me!”
Dropping his concealing cloak upon the floor, he stepped into the glow of light under the hanging-lamp, the pitiless rays of which fell directly across his emaciated and deathly face, out of which shone his eyes, glittering with fever. Ahalya gave a low exclamation, which he answered. “Yea, look upon my face. It is that of one that hath not much longer here. I have not told thee, thou beloved of my soul, of the curse that lies upon my race. That curse was given me by the Vindhyas on the last night that we loved. In my heart I know well that I am doomed. My strength is gone, and the weakness grows daily greater. Shall I bring this misery upon thee? Shall I—”
But here he was stopped. Comprehending him at last, Ahalya, her eyes shining with new-found peace, went to him and put her arms about his wasted frame; and he, feeling no desire to resist, let himself be drawn down upon the divan, his head pillowed on her breast, her strong, young arms around him. “Beloved,” she murmured over him, and Fidá gave himself up to her. As he lay, passive, motionless, one of his hands wound in her curling hair, they talked together, scatteringly, of many things. Both of them understood that their burning days were forever at an end; that indeed of the quiet ones there were left not many. But, for the moment, Fidá could look upon the future without dread; and Ahalya was under the spell of too great a relief to face new calamity at once. Both knew, indeed, that the situation might have been infinitely worse. There might have come sudden parting:—death for one, for the other the torture of long waiting. Instead, the future was to be to them but a golden repetition of the golden past. And even now their companionship could be resumed, their love only growing the stronger as Fidá’s body became weak, since they were now bound by ties of truth and unselfishness that no misrepresentation or sorrow or suffering could break.
Thereafter ensued a quiet period of nearly four weeks. The spring was advanced. The planting was over, and Mandu abloom. The sun’s rays grew daily hotter, though as yet there was little discomfort from heat. It was the time of year when all growing and living things love and mate; but for Ahalya and Fidá it was the autumn of love. Their days were filled with misgiving; for, as the inevitable end drew near, both came to suffer a great anxiety about the manner of that end.