"The husband bent his head, and said to himself: "Well, if this is your judgment, let it be
so. I will simply do my own duty." Bhusan, who ought to have been born five or six
centuries hence, when the world will be moved by psychic forces, was unfortunate
enough not only to be born in the nineteenth century, but also to marry a woman who
belonged to that primitive age which persists through all time. He did not write a word on
the subject to his wife, and determined in his mind that he would never mention it to her
again. What an awful penalty!
"Ten or twelve days later, having secured the necessary loan, Bhusan returned to his
home. He imagined that Mani, after completing her mission, had by this time come back
from her father's house. And so he approached the door of the inner apartments,
wondering whether his wife would show any signs of shame or penitence for the
undeserved suspicion with which she had treated him.
"He found that the door was shut. Breaking the lock, he entered the room, and saw that
it was empty.
"It seemed to him that the world was a huge cage from which the bird of love had flown
away, leaving behind it all the decorations of the blood-red rubies of our hearts, and the
pearl pendants of our tear-drops.
"At first Bhusan did not trouble about his wife's absence. He thought that if she wanted
to come back she would do so. His old Brahman steward, however, came to him, and
said: "What good will come of taking no notice of it? You ought to get some news of the
mistress." Acting on this suggestion, messengers were sent to Mani's father's house.
The news was brought that up to that time neither Mani nor Modhu had turned up there.
"Then a search began in every direction. Men went along both banks of the river making
inquiries. The police were given a description of Modhu, but all in vain. They were
unable to find out what boat they had taken, what boatman they had hired, or by what
way they had gone.
"One evening, when all hope had been abandoned of ever finding his wife, Bhusan
entered his deserted bedroom. It was the festival of Krishna's birth, and it had been
raining incessantly from early morning. In celebration of the festival there was a fair
going on in the village, and in a temporary building a theatrical performance was being
given. The sound of distant singing could be heard mingling with the sound of pouring
rain. Bhusan was sitting alone in the darkness at the window there which hangs loose
upon its hinges. He took no notice of the damp wind, the spray of the rain, and the
sound of the singing. On the wall of the room were hanging a couple of pictures of the
goddesses Lakshmi and Saraswati, painted at the Art Studio; on the clothes-rack a
towel, and a bodice, and a pair of saris were laid out ready for use. On a table in one
corner of the room there was a box containing betel leaves prepared by Mani's own
hand, but now quite dry and uneatable. In a cupboard with a glass door all sorts of
things were arranged with evident care—her china dolls of childhood's days, scent
bottles, decanters of coloured glass, a sumptuous pack of cards, large brightly polished
shells, and even empty soapboxes. In a niche there was a favourite little lamp with its
round globe. Mani had been in the habit of lighting it with her own hands every evening.