CHAPTER II.
THUS affection came into being. Call it love or not, just as you fancy. A lover of sixteen, a sweetheart of eight; but in any case no one knows to love like children.
I believe there is a curse on the love of childhood. How few of those whom you have loved in childhood you come across in youth, how few of them live so long, and how few remain worthy of your love! In old age, the memory only of the love of childhood is left; the rest all vanish, but how sweet is that memory!
Every boy must have been impressed some time or other with the face of some girl as particularly sweet—there is some transcendent charm in her eyes. How often did he pause in his play and look up at her face, how frequently did he stand perdu in her path to have a peep at her. Then that sweet face, that frank gaze—all, all have been swept away in the onrush of time, no one knows whither. We search the whole world to find it again—only the memory of it is left. There is a curse on the love of childhood.
Shaibalini was under the impression that she would be married to Protap. Protap knew it was not to be so. She was the daughter of an agnate; the relationship was distant, but yet an agnate. This was the first error in Shaibalini’s reckoning.
Then Shaibalini was the daughter of poor parents. She had no relation alive excepting her mother. They had nothing to call their own save a hut and Shaibalini’s wealth of beauty. Protap also was poor.
Shaibalini grew apace. Her beauty went on completing itself like the horned moon, but there was no marriage. There was expense in the matter, and who was to bear it? Who would care to search out that hoard of beauty in that wilderness and welcome it as an invaluable treasure?
Shaibalini increased in understanding. She knew that she had no other happiness in this world except in Protap, and she also knew that she had no chance of getting Protap in this life.
They took counsel of each other, they deliberated for days in private, and no one knew. When they had made up their minds, both went for a bath to the Ganges. Several people were swimming there. “Shaibalini, come let us swim,” proposed Protap. Both began to swim, both were expert in the natatory art, no other children in the village could swim like them. It was the rainy season, the water of the Ganges ran up to the brim—it glided along, swimming, dancing and racing. They clove the waters, churned and scattered them, and swam along. Their handsome youthful figures shone in the foaming eddies like twin gems set in a silver orb.
When the—bathing-folk in the ghât saw them swim off to a considerable distance, they called them back, but they paid no heed—they went on. Again the bathers called them back, rated them, abused them, but neither of the two would listen—they went on. When they had gone a long way, Protap said, “Shaibalini, now is the time for our tying the nuptial knot.”
“What is the use of going any further? Let it be even here,” answered Shaibalini.
Protap sank.
Shaibalini could not; she was afraid. “Why should I die?" thought she. “Who is Protap to me? I feel afraid, I cannot die.” Shaibalini could not sink; she turned and swam back to the shore.