The Pundit said nothing. He again passed his arm round his friend to support him, and, leading him to a door in the further end of the room, opened it. A small court intervened between the place where they stood and a larger one beyond, the door of which was open, and showed a crowd of people, mostly women, struggling to approach some object beyond. All had garlands of flowers in their hands, and vessels wherewith to pour libations. Suddenly there was a shrill piercing scream; and the crowd swayed to and fro, retreating backwards before some priests who were putting the people out.
"What can have happened?" cried the Pundit, hastening on. "Come quickly."
Vyas Shastree felt instinctively that Anunda had seen Tara, and he rapidly followed his friend. As he entered the next court, he saw at a glance all he yearned for—all that he most dreaded to see.
A bower, as it were, of trelliswork, had been fitted up in the large apartment of the Pundit's house which was raised slightly from the ground, and it was covered with heavy garlands of green leaves and flowers, as though for a bridal. In the narrow doorway of this bower stood a slight female figure, richly dressed in a bright crimson silk dress, striving to put away the arm of a Brahmun priest,—who was preventing her from stepping forth,—and struggling with him. The face was full of horror and misery, and the eyes flashing with excitement and despair. Before her, without, lay an elderly woman senseless on the ground, supported by a girl and several other women who were weeping bitterly. Tara, Anunda, Radha!—how had they met? Alone, he could have met Tara firmly, but with them? Not now, however, did the Shastree's heart fail: no matter what followed, honour or dishonour, he would not leave his child. Darting forward past the Pundit, pushing aside some women, who, screaming senselessly, would not be put out,—Vyas Shastree leaped upon the basement of the room, and, dragging away the Brahmun priest, stood by his child. "Tara, O my life! O my child!" he cried passionately, "come forth, come to us!"
It was the effort of an instant only, for the attendant priests had seized him and drawn him back forcibly, while they held him up. "Thou canst not touch her now without defilement," one said, who knew him. "She is sutee, O Vyas Shastree, and pure from thy touch, even; she is bathed and dressed for the sacrifice."
"Tara, Tara!" gasped the unhappy man, not heeding the words. "Tara, come forth—come; I, thy father, call thee! O my child, do not delay; come, we will go away—far away, to the Mother——"
To the Mother! Perhaps if he had not said this, Tara would have been unable to repress those last fearful yearnings to life which now tore her heart; but the echo fell on her own spirit heavily and irrepressively. To the Mother! Yes, in her great misery, all she could see in her mental agony—what she saw in the temple at Pertâbgurh,—all that she had dwelt upon since,—were the glowing ruby eyes of the Mother far away at Tooljapoor, glittering, as she thought, in glad anticipation of her coming. The same Brahmun priest who was preventing her egress when her mother appeared, had again crossed his arms before the door. As she saw her father advance, Tara staggered back affrighted; it was as though he had risen from the dead; and at his despairing cry the girl could not have restrained herself, had not the echo of his last words fallen on a heart which, though wellnigh dead to life, had rallied for a while to its purest affections;—but only for a while.
"Thou canst not move hence," said the Brahmun priest. "Cry 'Jey Toolja! Jey Kalee!' O Tara! thou wilt not now deny the Mother!—all else is dead to thee."
No, she could not deny her now—she would not. With that strange light in her eyes—that seemingly supernatural force in her actions, which the people thought the emanation of divinity, Tara's spirit was rallied by the priest's words. "Jey Toolja Máta!" she cried, stretching her arms into the air; "I am true, O Mother! I am true; and even these shall not keep me from thee now!"
Strange enthusiasm! stranger fortitude, which, having no terror of a horrible death, has carried on its votaries even to the flames with a constancy and devotion worthy of a nobler fate! In other cases earthly love—the desire to free a beloved object from the pains of suffering for life's errors, and insure final and perfect rest to its immortal spirit—or a gratification of the all-absorbing grief which looks on present death as the only remedy for despairing sorrow—might exist; but here was no such incentive. The spiritual portion of the girl's nature was alone concerned in the question; and that, once excited by position and circumstance, had insured a more perfect observance of her vow than earthly passion.