The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Outcaste, by F. E. Penny

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Title: The Outcaste

Author: F. E. Penny

Release Date: December 10, 2011 [EBook #38195]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OUTCASTE ***




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[Illustration: Cover art]





THE OUTCASTE


BY

F. E. PENNY


AUTHOR OF

"THE SANYASI," "THE RAJAH," "THE MALABAR MAGICIAN," ETC.



SPECIAL EDITION

For sale only in India and the British Colonies




LONDON

CHATTO & WINDUS

1912




[_The Portrait on the Cover is reproduced from a Miniature by G. I.
Penny_]




_All rights reserved_




DEDICATED

TO THE

STUDENTS OF HINDU THEOLOGY AND ETHICS

WHOSE WRITINGS

HAVE ASSISTED ME TO TELL

THIS STORY




_The scene is laid in the Native State of Chirakul._


CHIRAPORE  . . . Chief Town of Chirakul.

ANANDA . . . . . A Convert to Christianity.

BOPAUL . . . . . Friend of Ananda, and of the same Caste.

COOMARA  . . . . Married to Bopaul's Sister.

DR. WENASTON . . Principal of the Maharajah's College at Chirapore.

EOLA WENASTON  . His Sister.

PROFESSOR TWYFORD

MRS. HULVER  . . Housekeeper to Dr. Wenaston.

DORAMA . . . . . Ananda's Wife.

PANTULU  . . . . His Father.

GUNGA  . . . . . His Mother.

SOOBA  . . . . . His Uncle.

MAYITA . . . . . Coomara's Widow.




THE OUTCASTE




CHAPTER I

The aviation ground was thronged with spectators.  Eyes were turned
skywards and men held their breath.  Women uttered ejaculations, drawn
unconsciously from them in their intense excitement.  The wind blew
gustily with an upward sweep that sent dead leaves and fragments of
paper into the air.  A furious blast heralding the coming storm seized
one of the aviators as he was in the act of turning.  It seemed to
shake him with a living enmity.  Under the violent motion the tips of
the delicate wings of his machine snapped.  He recognised the
seriousness of the accident; and the breathless multitude watched his
efforts to avoid impending catastrophe.  As well might the dying bird,
winged by the October sportsman, try to sustain its arrested flight.
The machine ceased its horizontal movement, folded its broken planes
about its struggling guide, and dropped almost vertically to the ground.

Some, fascinated by the horror of it all, stared at the falling wreck.
Others withdrew their gaze, but could not shut their ears to the thud
and crash in which the earthly life of a human being came to an abrupt
end.

The hush was followed by a murmur as emotion found expression in speech
and exclamation.  Many of the women shed tears; some screamed; a few
fainted.  Ten minutes later there was a general stir as the sightseers,
sick at heart, began to depart.

Eola Wenaston beckoned to her brother, who stood at a little distance
talking to a couple of men.  He approached the motor car into which she
had just stepped.  Before she could speak he hastened to reassure her,
anticipating the question that was on the lips of all.

"It's all right; the man is not dead.  Of course he has had a shock,
falling from such a height, and the machine is smashed to atoms.  You
need not be nervous----"

"I'm not nervous.  It was a horrid sight, but I'm not troubled with
nerves.  The man must be dead after such a fall."

"Well, no one can say how----"

She interrupted him with a touch of impatience born of anxiety.

"Would you mind going home by train?  Mrs. Greenford is thoroughly
unhinged.  She is in that tent over there crying her heart out, and she
ought to be taken away at once."

"She doesn't know him, does she?"

"Yes, slightly.  It appears that he dined with her and her husband last
night."

"What do you wish to do?"

"Drive her home at once; but it leaves you to go by rail.  You won't
mind giving her your seat in the motor?"

She did not doubt for a moment that he would object.  The car was a new
purchase made by Wenaston on his arrival in England on furlough.  He
intended to take it back to India on his return to his work.

"Not a bit," he replied readily.

"I can't ask Miss Stuart to give up her place in the car."

"Of course not; I'll join Ananda and his friends.  They are travelling
up by the special leaving in about an hour's time."

"You need not journey in their company.  Now-a-days, when our blood is
curdled by assassinations----"

He interrupted her.

"They are all right--three of the nicest fellows I know."

She made a little grimace, not noticing that a Hindu, faultlessly
frock-coated and top-hatted, had approached on the other side of the
motor, and was waiting for an opportunity to speak, waiting with the
courtesy of good breeding that happily is not the monopoly of the
European.

"Still, one cannot forget----" she mentioned the name of a well-known
public man who had been done to death by an Oriental fanatic.

The blood rushed to the temples of the Hindu.  He raised his hat as he
said quietly--

"You must not suppose that we are all assassins, Miss Wenaston, any
more than I may suppose you English to be all murderers like----" and
he in his turn named a notorious criminal who had recently been
convicted of a murder perpetrated under circumstances of peculiar
cruelty.

"Of course not!  I beg your pardon, Mr. Ananda.  I ought not to have
said it."

In her contrition she turned and held out her hand.  She felt the
nervous close grip, momentary as it was, and the friendliness of the
Englishwoman warmed towards the exile.

"My brother proposes to travel home with you by rail and give his seat
in the motor to Mrs. Greenford, who is upset by the accident.  Have you
heard how the aviator is?"

"I am afraid from all accounts he is in a bad way.  The committee has
decided to stop the competitions for to-day.  Visitors ought to have no
objection."

"It is sad to have an ending like this!"  She turned to Wenaston.
"Please go and find Mrs. Greenford; Miss Stuart is with her.  Bring
them both here.  Tell them I am in a hurry to start.  I should like to
get Mrs. Greenford away before she hears worse news.  Oh!  I wish he
hadn't attempted that last flight!  It was quite unnecessary, and not
on the programme--a mere show to please the people."

Ananda stood by the motor whilst Wenaston went to do his sister's
bidding.

"You take these things too seriously, Miss Wenaston.  If you were a
fatalist you would believe that it was preordained by the gods; and you
would be resigned.  It is of no use to fight against fate.  He had to
meet it whether he flew upon an aeroplane or whether he remained in his
own house.  We are taught that we cannot escape the fulfilment of our
destiny."

She looked at him, her attention suddenly rivetted.

"You are taught, you say; but do you believe your teacher in these days
of greater enlightenment?"

A reply was not immediately forthcoming.  Perhaps he would have left
the question unanswered if she had not uttered an interrogatory,
"Well?" in a tone that held something more than mere curiosity.

"I am trying to retain my belief in all that my guru instilled into my
mind before I left India."

"You find it hard to keep the old faith unshaken?"

"Not exactly.  The difficulty is to graft the new teaching on the old.
We of the advanced school cannot stand still; we must progress."

"And then comes the difficulty of putting new wine into old bottles."

She glanced in the direction of the tent, and he knew that he had lost
half her attention.  Wenaston was visible in the distance with Mrs.
Greenford and Miss Stuart.  The sympathy that was so marked a
characteristic in Eola had tempted the Hindu to say more than was his
wont.  It was deflected from himself and turned towards the unnerved
woman, whom she was charitably befriending.

Mrs. Greenford was allowed no time to plunge into fresh tears and
regrets.  She was prevailed upon to enter the car without delay.
Wenaston gave his orders to the chauffeur and the motor glided from the
field.

"It is too early in the day to make gala shows of this aviation
business.  An accident such as has just happened upsets the women with
their highly strung nerves.  Even men feel it to be a bit of a shock,"
remarked Wenaston, as he glanced round at the white faces of the
spectators.

"Anyway, women should not be present where there is a likelihood of
accidents," replied Ananda.  "It seems to me that you Englishmen go to
the opposite extreme from us.  We shut up women and overdo the purdah
business.  You give them too much liberty."

"My dear fellow!  They take it without asking our permission!"

They were slowly moving towards the exit.  There was no need of haste
as their train was not due to start for another half-hour, and the
station was but ten minutes' walk.  Before Ananda could reply they were
joined by two more Hindus.  In appearance these men were like Ananda,
although there was no blood relationship between them.  Their
complexions were of the wheaten tint that frequently goes with high
caste and good birth.  They were equally well dressed in the latest
English fashion, without extravagance or display.  To Wenaston they
were well known, and he greeted them as old acquaintances.

"The show is at an end, Dr. Wenaston.  It is reported that the poor
fellow is dead.  It only remains for us to go back to town," said one
who was called Bopaul by his friends.

"I am sorry it has ended fatally.  I suppose every new scientific
venture must have its victims.  The claims of aviation will be every
whit as heavy as were the claims of steam and electricity," responded
Wenaston.

"The death dues of the gods!" murmured the other, known as Coomara.

Bopaul laughed lightly but Ananda turned a pair of serious eyes upon
Wenaston.

"You don't believe that the higher power ruling our destinies requires
to be propitiated by a holocaust of victims, do you?" he asked.

"Certainly not.  Accidents occur through the imperfection of machines;
and with each accident it is only natural that an important step is
made towards a more perfect knowledge."

"Exactly so," rejoined Coomara, eagerly.  "In return for a life, the
Fountain of all knowledge in his justice and rectitude gives knowledge."

"Life is not demanded in exchange or in payment for knowledge,"
objected Wenaston.  "Knowledge might be acquired without loss of life
if men were more careful and less rash.  The death of the experimenter
is due to his own ignorance, to his rashness, or to the imperfection of
the machine in its inception."

"You do not believe that it is the direct act of God?"

Wenaston did not reply.  They were threading their way through the
crowd that had gathered near the exit of the field, and conversation
was not easy.  On all sides they heard comments upon the accident.
Regrets were expressed freely that the new cult had lost one of its
cleverest pioneers.  His death--by this time it was known that the
fallen aviator had breathed his last even as they carried him from the
field--his death was sad from every point of view.  He was a good, a
thoroughly good fellow; clever beyond most men.  Married? no; but there
was a girl--he was living at home with his people, and he was going to
be married shortly.  Money?  Oh yes, plenty, or he could not have
experimented as he did.  And the cause of the accident?  Ignorance of
air currents and the power of the wind.  His wings were broken, and
there was no hope from the very first of salvation.  Although he
struggled with the machine he must have been aware that he had no
chance of escape.  The next thing to invent must be some life-saving
apparatus.

Among their acquaintances the three Hindus were spoken of as A, B, and
C; or as Ananda, Bopaul, and Coomara.  In addition to these names they
possessed others unfamiliar to the English ear and difficult of
pronunciation.  The men were of good birth and high caste; they
belonged to a native State south of Poona, called Chirakul, the chief
town being Chirapore.  Under pressure of modern times the
parents--people of substance and wealth--had sent their sons to Poona
and Bombay to be educated.  Later on, arrangements were made for a
visit to England.  It was due to the friendly offices of Wenaston that
they entered the house of Dr. Twyford, professor of oriental languages.
Their future was assured without the necessity of taking up any of the
professions.  It was the intention of their parents to make homes for
them under the ancestral roof, where they would lead the life of the
leisured Hindu landowner.  If any occupation were adopted it would be
of a political nature--some appointment of importance and trust under
the Maharajah's Government.

Although the three men were alike in dress, complexion and features,
and belonged to the same caste, they were very dissimilar in character
and temperament.

Ananda was gentle and speculative.  His nerves were finely strung, and
he shrank like a woman from physical pain and discomfort, and from
anything that was of a rough and discordant nature.  The timidity of
the Hindu peeped out on various occasions, a timidity that was not so
much cowardice as an inbred loathing of coarseness and brutality.  The
strong religious instinct, which seems to bring the Asiatic close to
his strangely conceived deities in worship and propitiation, underlaid
all his actions.

In early youth he had been married to the sister of his friend Coomara.
The marriage had been consummated, and there was a child, a son four
years of age; and during his absence mother and son found a happy home
with his parents.

Bopaul was a fair specimen of the product of modern education.
Untainted with disloyalty towards the ruling power, he was never likely
to become a disciple of disaffection, and join with ambitious men of
lower caste.  Aristocratic to his finger-tips, he believed in his
Prince, and hoped to find a place on his council at some time in the
future.

By nature he was sunny and buoyant, taking life as he found it.  Eager
to listen to the latest theories and ready to argue, he nevertheless
proved elusive and disappointing to the serious propagandist.
Tolerant, without being weak, courteous and even-tempered, he seemed to
be flexible; but when it came to uprooting inherited beliefs, he proved
immovable.  The casual observer accused him of flippancy and
infidelity.  His host and guardian, Professor Twyford, knew better.

"Bopaul is an extraordinary fellow," he used to say.  "I introduce him
to all the latest theories, to all the facts most recently revealed by
science; he receives them with intelligence and avidity, not to
exchange new lamps for old, but to graft them on to the old Hindu
stock.  I can understand when I look at Bopaul the wonderful
receptivity of the Hindu nature.  It has preserved the caste system for
the last three thousand years, a unique survival that has no equal in
the history of the world.  The Hindus absorb and orientalise theories
that ought to deal their social and religious system a death blow.  I
can see Bopaul fitting the latest and most revolutionary ideas into
niches in his mind without permitting any conflict with the tenets of
his ancient faith.  He is a very interesting character."

Coomara was unlike either of his companions.  He held to the letter of
his faith; listened courteously but without interest to modern
teaching; wherever it clashed with the teaching of the Vedas, he
rejected it as being incompatible, and therefore useless to himself.
He refused to discuss the subject of religious differences.  It was
waste of time if nothing else.  When he first fell under the influence
of the professor he showed a disinclination to speak on religion at
all.  Gradually he gained confidence as he discovered that Twyford had
no design of converting him to the Christian faith, and became more
communicative.  Somewhat to his astonishment he learned that the
Englishman possessed a greater and more intimate knowledge of the
sacred books of his nation than himself.  As his confidence
strengthened, he became more communicative and less afraid of listening
to other doctrines.

Coomara had been married to Bopaul's sister when he was ten years old;
hence the link that bound the three men together.  The period of exile
appointed by their respective parents was within a few months of its
termination, and they were looking forward to their return to Chirakul,
when the ceremonies necessary to restore their caste would be performed
and Coomara's wedding be completed; for his marriage had been
practically only a betrothal from the European point of view.  The
honeymoon had yet to be spent.




CHAPTER II

The run to London by the express was to occupy an hour.  As Wenaston
and his companions entered the station the train stood ready by the
platform.  There was a rush for the carriages, and before they could
make their way to a first-class smoker, every seat was occupied.  A
number of people were in the same case as themselves, being unable to
find places.  He stopped an official and asked when the next train
would start.

"A duplicate will be put on as soon as this has been sent off.  There
will be plenty of room in that, sir."

A quarter of an hour later they were comfortably seated in a
compartment which they had to themselves.  The train ran smoothly and
conversation was possible.  The Englishman alone smoked.  To the
high-caste Hindu the replacing of the cigar in the mouth after it has
touched the tongue and lips is an offence against caste.  The men had
no objection, however, to the smoke made by another.

"I suppose there was no doubt about the man being dead?" said Ananda,
as they again discussed the event of the day.

"None whatever," replied Bopaul.  "I heard it announced by a member of
the committee, who gave it out as a reason for stopping all further
aviation.  The competitions were over, and the programme completed.
The man was only marking time, so to speak, just to keep the people
amused."

"He offered to do it, I heard," remarked Ananda.

"With the wind increasing he ought not to have been allowed to take
such a risk," said Wenaston.  "It is waste of life to hurl a man into
eternity for such a trivial reason."

"Hurl a man into eternity," repeated Ananda slowly, his dreamy eyes
fixed upon the speaker.

"Oh, well; that's just a way of talking.  I meant the life after
death," replied Wenaston, slightly taken aback.

"The life?  You don't mean re-incarnation; trans-migration is not one
of your doctrines of belief.  You mean life elsewhere?"

"Yes, in the future--in another world."

"Do you really believe that you will have a personality--that you can
retain the _ego_ that is in you now--when you enter any other world but
this?"

"I hope so.  We are taught by our religion that something of the sort
is to take place.  What is your belief?" asked Wenaston, turning the
conversation on to Hinduism.  Before Ananda could reply, Coomara,
assertive in the stronghold of his steadfast faith, spoke.

"We believe that after a long succession of rebirths on this earth we
shall be absorbed in the Deity."

Wenaston did not reply, and Coomara explained thinking that the
Englishman had not understood.

"--the great impersonal Brahma, the origin of all things, the Spirit
that your Bible says brooded on the face of the waters when the world
was without form."

"You can't expect any positive happiness in such a state," objected
Wenaston.

"Why not?"

"How can you hope for positive happiness if you are impersonal yourself
and forming part of an impersonal Deity?"

"There is no reason why we should not enjoy a state or condition of
happiness if the Deity so willed it."

Wenaston avoided the exceedingly difficult question of impersonality
and exercise of the Divine will; and turned the conversation to a
subject that was directly and humanly personal.

"Then if you were killed suddenly like that aviator, you would die in
the comfortable assurance that you would join your God and become part
of Him."

Somewhat to his surprise there was no reply.  He glanced round at his
companions under the impression that they had tired of the topic, and
were no longer interested.  The expression of their faces did not
confirm this idea.  Coomara's eyes were averted, but Ananda's were
fixed upon the speaker; and in their depths lurked a shadow of fear
that Wenaston could not fathom.  He turned to the half-closed window.
The wind had increased and the threatened storm of rain had begun.  It
was coming down in driving sheets that beat against the glass and
obliterated the landscape.

"We are going to have a stormy night; this is not a shower," he
remarked, as he drew up the window and closed it completely.

It was Bopaul who broke the silence.  The seriousness of the subject
had no effect on him.  On the contrary, Wenaston thought he detected an
undercurrent of amusement in his tone.

"Our future life depends on the circumstances surrounding death.  The
attainment of everlasting happiness would by no means fall to our lot,
I am afraid.  It is more likely that we individually would be overtaken
by punishment."

"You have no hell to fear," replied Wenaston.

"We need not fear the hell described by the teachers of your religion;
but we have an equivalent.  It lies in our transmigration doctrine.
Rebirth on earth as some inferior creature is our hell; existence as a
horse, a dhoby-donkey, a rat, a loathsome pariah, a dog or a reptile
according to the heinousness of our sins."

Bopaul smiled grimly as he caught the expression on the faces of
Coomara and Ananda.  The latter could not conceal his horror at the
contemplation of an existence in a lower birth, where pain and
servitude, he believed, would crush out every joy of life.  His
sensitive nature revolted against the thought of the indignities and
sufferings such a birth must involve.  Coomara's fatalism saved him in
some degree from the dread that overwhelmed Ananda.  If he were
destined to a succession of inferior births it would be impossible to
avoid them.  The inevitable must be faced.  As well might a man try to
draw the sun down from its place in the heavens and stop its course as
to endeavour to upset the law of destiny.

"It certainly sounds appalling," commented Wenaston.

"Such a fate is as much dreaded by the orthodox Hindu as the fate
believed by Christians to be the portion of malefactors after death,"
said Bopaul, without hesitation.

"Then you must take care never to offend your Deity," remarked Wenaston.

"Our code of offence is different from yours.  We have no decalogue.  I
may commit murder, for instance, without offence, if I kill a pariah or
an out-caste; but if the victim of my enmity happened to be a Brahman,
the aspect of the deed would be utterly changed.  The sin would be
enormous.  Nothing short of a cycle of inferior births could reinstate
me and restore me to the position I occupy at the present time."

"None of you are likely to kill a Brahman, I imagine," said Wenaston
lightly, and with the design of dissipating a little of the solemnity
that seemed to have settled upon Coomara and Ananda.

His well-meant efforts were unavailing.  It was evident that so serious
a subject was not to be dismissed in a moment.

"There are other ways of transgressing, which, if persisted in, bring
down upon us the curse of inferior rebirth," said Bopaul.
"Carelessness and neglect in the performance of our religious duties.
Manu, the law-giver, himself defines sin in clear, unmistakeable terms.
We can transgress by neglecting to read the Vedas; by falling away from
prescribed customs; by remissness in the performance of holy rites.  In
addition, offences may come through using a wrong diet and omitting
ceremonial ablutions and prayers.  In short, our sins chiefly consist
of the breaking of our caste rules by omission or commission."

"Your code is simple enough if you have it all laid down by your
law-giver.  All you have to do is to take care not to break your
rules," observed Wenaston, ignoring a fact that he was well aware of.

The conversation had gone beyond the limits of light inconsequent talk;
and he was watching for an opportunity to express his views courteously
and without giving offence on caste and the absurdity of clinging to a
belief in rigid ceremonial.  By profession he was an educationalist.
Without any intention of proselytising it came naturally to him to
combat beliefs that he considered to be obsolete and obstructive to
progress of thought.  He had started the conversation simply to pass
the time as they travelled.  He continued it that he might tilt without
offence at that which he took to be the greatest obstacle to the
advancement of education among the Hindus.  His words were not without
effect.  It was Bopaul who ventured to speak out and declare what was
in the mind of all three.

"In our case we have broken the rules of caste, and broken them badly.
The journey to England alone involves a rupture of a serious nature."

Ananda wore an expression of anxiety that he did not attempt to hide.
It was true.  From the Hindu point of view he was living in sin.  He
had not only offended against the order of his caste in crossing the
sea; but every day that was passed in the foreign country was a
continuance of sin.  The sense of sin lay heavy on his conscience and
at times weighed him down to the verge of nervous melancholy.  Under
its influence he had, soon after his arrival in England, written an
urgent letter to his father praying that he might be permitted to
return and perform those purificatory rites which would remove the
burden of offence.

There was no possibility of escape as long as he remained in a foreign
land.  The daily ablutions were but half performed; the daily worship
of the household gods was omitted altogether for want of the necessary
accessories--the metal image, the rice, camphor, sugar and ghee.  In
the matter of diet there was dire offence in the preparation of his
food; also in the method of partaking it.  Contamination was in the
very shadow of the crowd that jostled him in his going and coming.  His
appeal to his father met with no response.

Resigning himself to his fate he did his best to become reconciled to
his environment.  Occasionally he regarded the English men and women
who surrounded him with something like envy.  They did not appear to be
overshadowed by any gloomy apprehensions of the future.  Did they cover
their fears and forebodings with a contentment that was assumed?  A few
questions put to the Professor disabused his mind of that suspicion.
They were as happy as they appeared to be, he was told.  Their creed
reassured them and banished fear.  Christ, their great teacher, had
given them definite promises in the Gospels that left them in no
uncertainty.  The way was easy for any one who chose to follow it, and
no man could complain that he was driven against his will into a state
of sin and offence equivalent to that which troubled the exiled Hindu.
Ananda, as he listened to the Professor, went so far as to envy the
Christians their faith.  He had no intention of becoming a Christian,
but there was undoubtedly relief for them in their immunity from the
horrible dread of re-entering this world as a disgusting insect or a
miserable beast of burden.  With eyes fixed eagerly upon Wenaston he
listened for his comment on the situation.

"You are the victims of circumstances over which you have no control.
Your parents sent you to England without consulting your wishes.  Do
you really believe that their action has caused you to sin and deprived
you of your hope of heaven?"

"Not our hope of the future," corrected Bopaul.  "When the offence is
wiped out by propitiatory ceremonies we shall be restored to the favour
of the gods."

"What if you die before your return to India?"

"Ah! then we die in sin, and the dreaded rebirth cannot be avoided; but
we hope to escape such a catastrophe and to return safely to our
country to perform the necessary expiatory ceremonies."

"It is a monstrous belief!" cried Wenaston, moved in spite of himself
as he glanced at Ananda overshadowed by fear, and at Coomara on whose
countenance was written the hopeless resignation of the fatalist.  "It
is incredible that a beneficent Deity can order a weary round of
innumerable re-births in a lower instead of a higher existence, and
condemn men to undergo this penance for deeds in which there is no evil
intention; deeds for which they themselves are not responsible.  Even
if you are fortunate enough at the end of unthinkable cycles of earthly
existence to reach the limit, you can hope for nothing better than
absorption in an impersonal Spirit.  To my mind such a fate is little
short of annihilation."

He looked at Coomara, who, with eyes averted and lips firmly closed,
listened to these heretical suggestions unmoved.  As Wenaston spoke,
the Hindu moved his seat, slipping into the opposite corner near the
other window.  It was his method of showing that he did not wish to
take any further part in the conversation.  Bopaul was eager to
continue it, and Ananda could not resist the fascination that heresy
had for his inquiring nature.  None of them ventured to comment on the
opinions just enunciated; and Wenaston continued.

"The thought of the extinction of the ego in man is nothing less than
appalling.  I know that there are certain men among our Western
students who have entertained the idea; they honestly try to persuade
themselves that they believe in the cessation of every kind of life
after death; but I cannot credit them with faith in such a theory.  To
begin with, extinction is not possible to the human understanding.  The
scientist pronounces extinction to be unknown with matter.  There is
mutation, disintegration, but never extinction.  We have every reason
to believe that the spiritual law follows on the same lines as the law
of material life, although the theory is not supported by any known
law.  There is undoubtedly implanted in every soul the belief in a
hereafter.  Your faith leads you to expect rebirth in this world.  Mine
is immeasurably superior.  It transcends all earthly----"

His words were suddenly cut short.  The carriage rocked on its wheels
and lurched on one side, throwing its occupants forward with great
violence.  A moment later a steel monster crashed through the
panelling, rending the cushions and splintering the wood.

On it came with horrible celerity, catching Coomara in the corner where
he had just settled himself.  Before he could struggle out of its
reach, it pinned him down with its full weight.

A cry that was stifled into a groan escaped his lips as the horrible
buffer crushed the life out of his fragile body; Coomara the orthodox
went to meet his fate, whatever it might be; the relentless cycle of
inferior rebirths or the peace that passeth all understanding promised
by a loving and merciful God.




CHAPTER III

Coomara, the orthodox, the punctilious observer of caste rule and
ceremony, was dead.  He had died in sin before the cleansing rites
could be performed which alone could restore the purity of his birth
and reinstate him in his caste.

Bopaul, when he had recovered from the stunned condition into which the
accident threw him, fell back upon the deadening doctrine of fatalism.
It was destiny, and there was no escape.  All-powerful fate had
ordained it; first, that they should miss the earlier train which
reached its journey's end in safety; secondly, that Coomara should make
a move to the opposite side of the carriage and seat himself on the
very spot to which the buffer penetrated.  The rest of the occupants
escaped with bruises and a few cuts from broken glass.  What else could
have brought about the occurrence but the direct will of the gods?

To Ananda the affair was a great shock.  His nervous system was
completely upset.  The memory of the scene recurred again and again
during the day and the night, depriving him of sleep and rest.  It was
not only the loss of his friend and companion in exile that grieved
him, but the appalling thought that the dead man had been thrust into a
cycle of rebirths and existences wherein pain, sordidness and
unspeakable degradation would be his lot; where beauty, joy and comfort
would find no part.  At that very moment the troubled spirit might be
entering upon its new life with groans and sighs in squalid
environment.  He recalled Coomara's careful observance of everything
that related to his religion; his dislike of all that was not strictly
orthodox; his unwillingness even to listen to heretical teaching.  No
man could be more innocent of intention in transgressing caste rule
than Coomara.  With his sensitive temperament, his pride of birth and
caste, none could feel his punishment in a greater degree.  Day and
night Ananda brooded and sorrowed, uncomforted by the oft-repeated
assurance of Bopaul that it was the inevitable decree of fate; and that
what was written on a man's forehead by the gods could not be averted.

The Professor observed his distress and was troubled.  It affected the
health of his guest, causing his appetite to fail.  Sleep came
fitfully; and rest during the day seemed well-nigh impossible, as
Ananda paced the room or wandered up and down the garden without
purpose.  Everything in the shape of study ended.  The books were
opened and the Professor began to lecture; but he soon discovered that
he failed to interest Bopaul, and that Ananda's thoughts had wandered
far from the subject in hand.  Under the impression that the mind might
be relieved by speech, he encouraged both to talk of the trouble that
had overtaken them.  He listened seriously and with patience as Ananda
propounded the doctrine of transmigration.  At the conclusion the
Professor combatted it, repeating all the arguments against the theory.

"It is monstrous to ascribe such cruelty to the Deity," he said.  "You
admit that God is all-powerful.  Why cannot you give Him credit for
beneficence?  You call Him the All-Father.  If He is a father, at least
allow Him the attributes of a father."

"How can He break His own rules?" cried Bopaul.  "It is laid down by
Divine authority in the Vedas that certain consequences must follow
certain deeds.  It is a common law of life all over the world.  You
hang your murderer, regardless of his repentance.  Can you cleanse the
hand of the murderer from the blood in which he has dipped it?  You
yourself admit that as the tree falls so must it lie; the tree falls
not by its will nor by its merit, but by fate."

"Christ came into the world to give us a new law," said the Professor.
"It is true that by the old Mosaic teaching we punish the murderer.  If
he dies repentant, we have the promise of Christ made on the Cross that
his sins will assuredly be forgiven.  To the crucified thief He said,
'This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.'  He gave the promise
almost with his last breath, and the man to whom it was made had sinned
wilfully and with design.  Is it likely that they who have transgressed
unintentionally will have to suffer with those whose hearts are
hardened?"

"The thief on the Cross was a Christian already, probably, and a
follower of your Prophet," said Bopaul.

"There is nothing to show that he had followed Christ, or been
influenced by His teaching.  All that he knew was that his strange
companion was branded with no crime.  If Christ could promise
forgiveness--which meant immunity from punishment--to a wilful criminal
who was neither baptized nor a follower, is it not believable that He
could forgive and secure immunity from punishment to one like Coomara,
whose life was humanly blameless?  Our God is all-powerful,
all-embracing, just and loving.  Through His Son He shows mercy to all,
regardless of race and religion."

"Is He--is He--stronger than Brahma?" asked Ananda, in a low voice.

"He is stronger and mightier than all the gods in the Universe,"
declared the Professor, in ringing tones that almost carried
conviction.  Even Bopaul, the trifler, was impressed.  He rose from his
seat and strolled to the window.

"Our guru would warn us that it was sinful to listen to the claims of
any other God but our own."

As he spoke he turned and looked at Ananda with warning in his eye.

"He who refuses to listen is a coward," said Twyford.  "In these days
of tolerance and freedom of thought, the student asks for liberty to
probe and sound every doctrine that is presented.  He demands a wide
field that he may view from all sides, weigh and measure the new with
the old.  Above all, he requires to be told all that there is to be
learned; for, without hearing the arguments for and against, no man is
able to form a just opinion."

"In that case the guru ought to be here to represent and defend his
side of the argument," said Bopaul.

"You have already learned all that he could teach you.  Your people
sent you to England that you might hear more; that you might be made
acquainted with every question that is agitating the western world of
science, of politics and of religion."

"Ah, well!" replied Bopaul, in a lighter and more careless tone.  "We
are acquiring knowledge under you, sir; we can sift and compare without
apostacy, I hope.  Come for a walk, Ananda.  The fresh air will clear
away the cobwebs from our brains and make us more profitable pupils."

The Professor's grey eyes, full of sympathy and friendliness, rested on
Ananda in silence.  He did not say, "Go; the walk will do you good."
Nor did he reach out his hand for pen or book, a sign that he was ready
to return to his own studies.  He waited, leaning back in the revolving
chair in front of his writing-table.

"No, thanks; I would rather stay in-doors.  The noise and traffic of
the streets----"

"You will never conquer your nerves by keeping away from the outside
world.  It will have to be faced sooner or later; the sooner the
better," said Bopaul, as his hand touched the door.

Ananda turned from the speaker to the silent Professor, and gathered
strength from his steady gaze.

"Don't wait, Bopaul; I am not going out this morning."

With a lifting of the shoulders the other left the room, shifting
responsibility on to the Englishman.  Silence was maintained for some
seconds after his departure.  Ananda broke it.

"If only I could believe that this endless cycle of rebirths need not
be, I should be happier," he said.

The pathetic appeal for some ray of hope went straight to Twyford's
heart.  Pity and an intense desire to help in spiritual trouble roused
the man, and he poured forth the doctrines of comfort that console the
dying Christian.  It was not done with the intention of converting, but
in the merciful desire of bringing some small consolation to the
despairing man to whom the fear of the future made life in the present
intolerable.  The fate that had overtaken Coomara might at any moment,
whether at home or abroad, be Ananda's.

For more than an hour they talked, and the gloom on Ananda's face
lightened.

"It is most comforting as you put it, but--it is not my creed," he
said.  There was a pause, and he added, "I cannot change my faith."

"I do not ask you to change it.  Is it not possible, however, in these
days of advanced thought that you may be able to modify some of the
fossilised tenets of your religion?  The spirit of reform is abroad,
and a Hindu may become a member of the Brahmo-Somaj or the Ayra-Somaj
without losing caste, without cutting himself adrift from his
community, his family.  There is no hurry.  The fathers may rest
content to think of these things.  Their sons will act."

There was a sound of a footstep outside.  The door opened, and Bopaul
appeared.

"Lunch is ready, sir.  I am sure you must be tired talking so long.
You should have driven that foolish Ananda out into the air and
sunshine, instead of letting him waste your time."

"I don't think that the time has been wasted," replied the Professor,
kindly.

Bopaul shot a swift glance at Ananda, but learned nothing except the
fact that the latter was ill at ease under his scrutiny.  The lunch
bell rang, and Ananda hurried to his room.  As he disappeared Bopaul
said in a tone that was unusually earnest for him.

"Sir, remember your promise to his parents.  Forgive me for reminding
you of it.  I know his people, and what a terrible thing it will be for
them if his faith is shaken.  He is their only son."

"Believe me, I have not broken faith with them.  I have been preaching
reform rather than conversion, although I admit that it would please me
better if it had been the other way about.  Ananda must have led a very
sheltered life in his youth, and this I fancy is his first great
trouble.  He needs help, and it is difficult to give it under the
peculiar circumstances in which I find myself."

      *      *      *      *      *

The Professor was not far wrong when he said that Ananda's childhood
had been sheltered.

Born of wealthy parents and the only son, surrounded with every luxury
that love could devise, he had been guarded from trouble of all kind.
He, on his part, had been amenable to his parents' wishes, obedient and
gentle, always ready to be guided.  Content to be ruled, his will power
lay dormant, and there seemed little likelihood of it being roused into
activity; for the desires of those whose authority he recognised never
clashed with his own.  The life of his father, Pantulu Iyer, had been
smooth, as is the case with many men of high caste families.  The life
of the son promised to be the same.

At the age of twelve he was married to Coomara's sister, three years
his junior.  When he was seventeen the marriage was consummated, and
the girl took up her residence with his parents.  It was a happy home,
free from strife, and the daughter-in-law found no difficulty in
fitting herself into her place.  She shared the love that the parents
in the fullness of their affection showered upon their son.

When Ananda was nineteen and Dorama, his wife, sixteen, she presented
him with a son.  If anything could have been added to the cup of joy
that was already full, it was this.

"Now we are assured of the completion of our happiness and the
fulfilment of our desire," said his father.  "We may allow ourselves to
consider your future.  One day we hope to see you take a prominent part
in the government of the country.  Possibly you may rise to occupy a
place on the Maharajah's council.  These honours cannot be attained
without a journey to England."

"Is it necessary, my father?" asked Ananda, watching his young wife as
she sat on the fine grass matting with the baby on her lap.  He would
have been more than content to continue in the pleasant backwater of
domestic life without seeking new scenes.

"It is necessary in these days of progress.  His Highness himself takes
occasional voyages across the ocean to see the western world with his
own eyes."

"His caste is not our caste," objected Ananda, with the unconscious
superiority of a man of better birth.

"Still, his example is to be imitated."

"Not without loss of caste."

"Caste can be restored on your return.  The penances and penalties are
lighter than they used to be."

"But the breaking of caste is none the less serious for the lightening
of the penalties."

"That may be," assented Pantulu.  "All the same, it is imperative in
these days that men should see something of the world outside their own
State; and there is no doubt that those who have travelled in Europe,
and lived for a time in England, are preferred in the council to those
who have had no experience.  Having thought the matter well over, my
son, your mother and I have decided on this step.  You will sail from
Bombay in April next; and it is proposed by their families to send
Coomara and Bopaul with you."

Ananda's father consulted with Wenaston, who had recently been
appointed as Principal of the large college at Chirapore, as to the
best place of residence in London; with the result that the three
Hindus found themselves committed to the care of Professor Twyford.

Bopaul had no qualms over his broken caste.  He accepted the decree of
exile with pleasure, and determined to make the most of his
opportunities.  He intended to amuse himself as well as read with the
Professor; and he carried out his programme, the only shadow to cross
his path later being the death of Coomara.

Shortly before they left for England, the guru paid them a visit.  The
Vedas were quoted and the laws of Manu repeated with many warnings
against falling away from the faith.

"You are going to a foreign land, the home of revolutionary teaching.
Be careful how you listen, and let no one undermine the instructions
that I with divine authority have given you.  Attempts will be made;
you must resist them.  Here in this State of Chirakul we still enjoy
the great boon of an hereditary ruler.  Under his government we have
successfully repelled the innovations that have been introduced into
British India.  If fate should decree that any of you enter the service
of our Maharajah, it will rest with you to help to preserve our ancient
faith."

Coomara looked up at the tall figure that stood before him, and his
glance fell beneath the fiery eyes.  He dropped at the feet of the
teacher and pressed his forehead to the ground with words of worship
and adoration such as might have been addressed to the Deity.  In his
eyes the guru was God Himself, neither His messenger nor prophet; and
as such he bowed himself in deep humility and worshipped.  As he lay
there a voice like the voice of a god reached him.

"My son, I do not forbid your ears to listen nor your eyes to see.
What you hear and see will be of use in the work you will have to do on
your return.  A knowledge of the enemy is necessary to success."

"What work, oh swami?  May thy servant know?"

"The preservation of our great religion, the emancipation of our
country, the elevation of our nation; the casting out of a race of
demons who would have us believe that they are spirits of light.  May
they be accursed with their Christ!"

He broke into imprecations against the supreme power that claimed
sovereignty over the Maharajah of Chirakul and against the Founder of
the Christian faith.

"Swami, is it your decree that I should take this voyage across the
black water--that I should break my caste?"

"Only by going to England can you ever hope to rise to a position
wherein you may help the cause that we have at heart."

"And if I die in that foreign land, swami?"

"You will be born again to suffering and degradation," said the
inexorable voice.

"Swami, swami!  Let me stay in my father's house."

"It cannot be.  It is the will of the gods!" replied the guru.  "My
son," he added, in softer accents, "be not afraid.  You will return in
safety to help the cause we have at heart and be blessed by the holy
Brahmans."

Ananda and Bopaul heard the words and remembered them afterwards.  "You
will be born again to toil and suffering and degradation."

And they believed them; for had they not been spoken by the guru, in
whom dwelt the divine afflatus?

      *      *      *      *      *

Dr. Wenaston shortened his stay in town after the accident, and
cancelled his social engagements.  The death of Coomara affected him,
though in a lesser degree.  He developed an aversion to public
gatherings and to the assemblage of a crowd in street or train or on
the field of sport.  A vague feeling of apprehension destroyed his
pleasure, and he recognised with dismay that he, too, was suffering
from nerves.

There was only one remedy, and that was to seek comparative solitude
for a while until the nervous system should recover its equilibrium.

His sister suggested a leisurely motor trip into the depths of the
country.  They could choose their road and regulate their pace to
please themselves.

They wandered through the south and west of England, fortunate in their
weather and choice of route.  When it suited them they remained at a
quiet little seaside place for a week or two; or in a still more sleepy
country town, with the happy result that Wenaston entirely recovered
his health mentally and bodily.

The summer passed and he sent his sister home to make her preparation
for the voyage to India, while he went to his club for the same object.
He had not seen the Professor since he led Ananda and Bopaul back to
his house in dazed and prostrate condition on that memorable afternoon,
and had told the story of the accident.

On his arrival in town he wrote to Mrs. Twyford, saying that he would
come to lunch on the following Sunday.

It was one of those bright autumn days, when the sun touched every
object with a golden light.  Even the city of smoke and fog was
rendered beautiful in its dress of grey and gold.  The streets,
thronged on week-day with traffic, were empty except during the
half-hour before service.  Church-bells rang out their call in all
directions, summoning their eclectic congregations to the morning
services.  The sound of the great cathedral chimes dominated them all.

Wenaston stood for a minute or two on the steps of St. Paul's
listening, that he might retain the echo in his ears and carry it away
into exile.  Temple-bells might clang around him, and the
ding-ding-ding of the Christian Church bell call him on Sunday; but
nowhere throughout the East would a melody like that sent forth from
the dome of St. Paul's ever ring in his ear.

He entered the cathedral and moved swiftly up the centre aisle.  The
space under the dome was filling fast.  He turned to the right and
found a seat near the pulpit.

The chimes ceased, and the big bell monotoned the final invitation to
the increasing crowd.  Before it stopped the organ pealed forth the
first chords of the voluntary.

If the truth is to be recorded, Wenaston had not gone to church with
any conscious desire to humble himself in prayer, nor to lift his soul
to God in praise.  The melody of the choir succeeded the song of the
bells.  He listened passively, revelling in the perfect harmony and
abandoning himself to the soothing, almost sensuous feeling of peace
and contentment brought by the music and environment.  He knelt and
stood, following mechanically the example of his neighbours; and when
the organ ceased and the preacher entered the pulpit, he rested
motionless in his chair, yielding himself to the luxury of the
sensations that had been roused by the music.

At the conclusion of the sermon, eager for more of that which so soon
would be unattainable, he determined to remain to the end of the
service.  A large number of people left the cathedral, and he moved up
nearer to the choir, with the object of securing a better seat, but
with no intention of communicating.

When the departing congregation had cleared away, his eyes were drawn
towards a kneeling figure in front.  Something in its outline was
familiar.  The head, with short abundant black hair, was bowed in
silent prayer.  The worshipper was no idle visitor; nor had he come to
have his ears tickled or his senses steeped in superb harmonies.  The
music that echoed through arch and aisle was unheeded in the effort to
raise the spirit to God.  The man was there to pray, and his prayerful
attitude was unchanged until the first chords of the _Gloria_ were
struck.  As prayer passed into a glorious song of praise, the
worshipper lifted his head and Wenaston caught a glimpse of the
features.  Astounded beyond measure--he could not have explained
why--he recognised Ananda.

When the service ended he rose, and allowing the Hindu to pass out
before him, caught him up at the west door.  Ananda's eyes were not
upon the crowd that jostled him, and he did not observe Wenaston's
presence.  In their dark depths shone the light of a great happiness
mingled with that exaltation which may be seen in the eyes of the
convert.  Wenaston's surprise was not lessened as he noted it.

"You!  Ananda!"

The Hindu turned at once and held out his hand.

"Dr. Wenaston!  We thought that you were still in the south of England!"

"I have been there; but my leave is getting short, and I have come to
town to prepare for my journey back to India.  Mrs. Twyford did not
tell you that I am to lunch with you all to-day?"

"She said nothing about it."

Wenaston gazed at him with searching eyes.

"How is it that I find you in St. Paul's?" he asked, adding as an
after-thought.  "And not as a spectator."

"Because I have taken a momentous step.  I have become a Christian."

"Is this the Professor's doing?" asked Wenaston, after a slight pause.

"No," replied Ananda, readily.  "The Professor had nothing to do with
my act."

"Tell me about it."

They walked along the deserted city streets where a few well-dressed
folk were strolling and an occasional omnibus rolled noisily by.

"After Coomara's death I was very much troubled.  I could not bear to
think of his fate.  Sometimes I was overwhelmed with grief on his
account; sometimes I was beside myself with terror on my own, lest a
like fate should overtake me.  It became more than I could bear.  The
Professor was very kind.  He tried to console me with some of his own
doctrines, and suggested that I should draw comfort from them without
necessarily adopting Christianity.  As you know, it was one of the
conditions imposed by my father on the Professor that there should be
no attempt on his part at proselytising.  Being an honourable man, he
kept faith with my father."

"How did it come about, then?"

"A curious thing happened.  One of the English students living in the
house introduced me to the mother and sister of the aviator who was
killed that day.  In my grief and trouble over Coomara's fate I had
almost forgotten the accident.  I spoke to them about it, and told them
of my own sorrow.  They were goodness itself.  To my astonishment I saw
that they were bearing their grief with a resignation that put me to
shame.  It was their belief--their unshaken faith in the future that
gave them strength.  They were so sure, so certain that their beloved
one was safe with God and happier than he could ever be on earth.  I
marvelled at their peace of mind, and asked myself why I should not
share it.  Sorrow had made them very tender towards the trouble of
others.  In short, it was through them that I changed my religion.
They introduced me to their vicar.  Unknown to the Professor, I put
myself under instruction, and three weeks ago I was baptized."

"Without consulting your guardian?"

"Without his knowledge.  He knows now.  I did not wish to compromise
him, and I begged my friends to keep my secret until I was baptized.  I
am of age, and can please myself."

He looked up at Wenaston, as if to hear what he had to say, and whether
he approved.

"You ought to have told Twyford."

Ananda's hands were lifted in a little gesture of deprecation.

"I was afraid, afraid of losing my new-found happiness.  I was afraid
of opposition from Bopaul if he knew.  I was afraid lest the Professor
should want me to write first to my father and obtain his consent.  I
was afraid----"

He paused, and Wenaston remarked with a gravity in which there was
concern and doubt--

"You may in truth say that you have taken a momentous step.  God give
you strength to be no longer afraid."




CHAPTER IV

Chirapore, the capital of the large native state of Chirakul was
situated on plateau land.  In the months of March and April the
thermometer rose above ninety degrees; but the rest of the year the
climate was subtropical in character, and accounted cool as compared
with the plains.

The plateau was bounded on one side by hills--spurs of the Western
Ghats--where the virgin forest nestled in the ravines and valleys, and
big game wandered free and unmolested by the war of extermination that
progressive man too often wages in his encroachment upon nature.

Between the hills and Chirapore lay fields of grain and topes of fruit
trees, the latter always green in the subtropical climate; there was a
continual passing from seed-time to harvest, from flower to fruit
without the paralysing inactivity induced by the hard winters of the
temperate zone, or the fiery tropical summers of the torrid regions.

The city itself was built upon undulating ground, its centre being the
old fort.  Before British rule was established the inhabitants of
Chirapore lived as near to the fort as was possible, seeking protection
from the guns; but in later days, when there was no longer any fear of
Mahratta horsemen, they ventured further afield, and the town was
extended upon the smiling plateau in nobler lines.  Handsome roads
lined with private houses or shops intersected the suburbs.  Many of
the larger dwellings were older than the roads, and stood within their
own grounds, a wall dividing them from the public way and ensuring the
privacy essential to the happiness of caste families.

It was in one of these substantial mansions that Ananda's father, known
as Pantulu Iyer, lived.  It had belonged to the family for several
generations.  In course of time Ananda would inherit it with the silk
farms and looms by which Pantulu and his immediate ancestors had
accumulated a considerable fortune.  As is usual with families of good
caste and wealth, the members were numerous, including relatives of
near and distant degree.  There was no lack of room for them in the
large house; and many of them gave their services in the domestic work
of cooking and housekeeping.

Pantulu's wife, a woman of character, full of pride and caste
prejudice, ruled the household with a firm but not unkind hand.  Her
position was strengthened by the fact that she was her husband's first
and only wife.  She had given him a son, and he was satisfied.  Ananda
had fulfilled all their dearest expectations; and as has already been
stated, the parents had sent him to England to complete an education
that should eventually fit him for a post in the Maharajah's
Government, an assistant-commissionership; and later, perhaps, a place
on the Council.  To a father's ambition for his son there is no limit.
Pantulu saw no reason why his son should not one day step into the
Dewan's shoes should an opportunity occur.

The time approached for the return of the son of the house.  News had
been received of Coomara's death, but not a word had been said of the
effect it had produced upon Ananda, nor of the grave consequences that
had ensued.

Bopaul, travelling with his friend, was careful to drop no hint.  He
knew intuitively that the step Ananda had taken could not fail to rouse
a disastrous storm.  Bopaul had a fastidious dislike to storms; and the
longer the announcement of the change of religion could be deferred the
better pleased he would be.  He was in no way responsible for the
actions of the other; but it was possible that he might be drawn into
the trouble that it must inevitably raise.

During the voyage out the subject of Ananda's change of religion was
not mentioned between the two friends.  Bopaul felt strongly that there
was nothing to be said one way or the other.  The deed was done and
could not be undone.  If the step had only been under contemplation and
not irrevocably taken, he might have urged delay, consultation with the
head of the family, consideration for the feelings of others besides
himself.  It was too late for all that; therefore it was useless to
discuss it, and he kept a discreet silence.

Ananda attended the services held on Sunday for the benefit of the
passengers and ship's officers.  No one spoke to him on the subject of
religion or attempted to win his confidence.  His history was not known
nor were his companions aware, with the exception of Bopaul, that he
had accepted Christianity.  He followed the service reverently; and if
any one troubled himself with conjectures, he probably came to the
conclusion that the young man had received baptism.  For all that was
known he might have been born a Christian.

Bopaul glanced at the peaceful face of his friend when he rejoined him
on deck after the service, and wondered if Ananda realised what was
before him.  Of a nature inclined to shrink from any violent display of
emotion, how would he meet the turbulent passions that would be roused
in every member of his family as soon as the news was told.  Did he
realise all that was involved?  He had been well instructed in the
doctrines of Hinduism by his guru; and he had duly performed the
various ceremonies prescribed at different periods of childhood and
youth by the laws of his religion.  What thought was it that stirred in
his mind as he leaned on the taffrail and looked pensively down at the
seething white froth churned by the passage of the big ship through the
waters of the Indian Ocean?

Bopaul would have lifted his eyebrows in amused surprise could he have
seen the figure that filled the mental vision of his friend.  It was
none other than Dorama, the young wife to whom after a long absence he
was returning.

When the marriage took place bride and bridegroom were but children.
The depths of their emotions were unruffled by the honeymoon which was
spent, according to custom, three years later under the paternal roof.
Two or three years of placid married life followed, during which Ananda
was still absorbed in his studies, and Dorama was engaged in
housewifely duties under the supervision of an autocratic
mother-in-law, who was not unkind, but rigidly exacting, with no
leaning whatever towards modern innovations.

Then came the birth of the son.  Ananda found it a little difficult to
believe that he had really attained the much-desired estate of
paternity.  He let his eyes rest on the girl-mother and his child with
wondrous delight.  The sight of them stirred him strangely, and awoke
new longings that he did not understand.  Those longings were the
instinctive desires of the animal man to claim his mate for himself;
and to carry her and her baby to some remote fastness, where he could
hide her from the swarms of relatives who in their joy seemed to think
that she belonged to them rather than to him.  He wanted to gloat over
her beauty, her wifehood and her motherhood, and to exult in sole
possession.  What did it mean?  It almost awed him in its strength and
insistence.  Surely he was not rebelling against the time-honoured
custom of the family life!  He was not seeking to leave the home of his
fathers!

Then came the journey to England and the separation.  The underlying,
scarcely recognised discontent vanished with the excitement of travel;
but the memory of Dorama in her new character did not fade.  On the
contrary, it grew clearer and more beautiful the longer he cherished
it, gathering romance and raising the wife far above all other women.

He determined that he would ask his father to give him a house of his
own on his return with a suitable establishment over which his wife
could rule.  The plan commended itself for more reasons than one.
Since he had changed his religion and adopted many western habits as
well, his parents, who were people of discernment, could not fail to
understand the necessity for some such arrangement.  They might not
like it; they might not be pleased that those western habits were
adopted; they would assuredly disapprove of the change of religion; but
when they comprehended that the changes had been effected to increase
the comfort and happiness, spiritually as well as bodily, of their son,
they would become reconciled.  In sending him to England they must have
been aware of the risks he ran of assimilating the ideas of the people
among whom he had to live in such close intimacy.  The doubts that
troubled the keener-witted Bopaul did not therefore ruffle his
serenity.  He had no forebodings of the thunder-clouds that were
gathering.

Pantulu, in company with Bopaul's father, went to Bombay to meet the
mail boat.  They decided not to go on board, but to await the coming of
the travellers on the landing-stage.  As Ananda and his companion
stepped ashore with the throng of passengers the two men pressed
forward.  The sons folded their hands in reverence, and then extended
the right in the clasp that is general in these days all over the
world.  The greeting attracted no attention, so quiet was it in its
nature; but underneath the simple formalities lay a feeling too deep
for words.  Later, when the luggage had been disposed of and they were
in the privacy of their own sitting-room in the hotel, Ananda, who had
been unusually silent, spoke.

"I have something to say, my beloved and honourable father."

At the words Bopaul sprang to his feet.

"Come, sir," he said to his father, "we will leave his Excellency
Pantulu Iyer with my friend Ananda to talk over their private
affairs----"

Before the older man could rise, Ananda said hastily--

"Stop, Bopaul!  I wish you to remain and hear what I have to say.
Possibly I may have to ask you to confirm my statement.  My father may
otherwise find it difficult of belief."

Bopaul reseated himself, looking ill at ease.  His father, influenced
by a suddenly roused curiosity, which he had no scruples in satisfying,
showed a disinclination to move.  The eyes of both parents were fixed
in surprise upon the sons, and they waited breathless to hear what
communication Ananda had to make to his father.

Pantulu had removed his turban and replaced it by a velvet cap that
covered his shaven head and the knot of hair on the crown.  He had
drawn his feet up beneath him, and his thoughts, if they were occupied
at all, were busy building up a gilded future, in which his son was the
chief figure.  It took some seconds to detach his mind from his
ambitious visions and concentrate it upon the fact that Ananda had
something to say.  In his old-fashioned opinion, children listened; it
was for the parents to speak.

With mild astonishment he fixed his eyes upon his son.  No suspicion of
the blow that was impending crossed his mind.  Doubtless Ananda was
going to suggest an extension of the visit to Bombay that they might
see a little of the Presidency town before going south.

"My father, I hope that it will not trouble you to learn that during my
residence in England I have adopted many of the ways of that country."

"They will soon pass off, my son, when you return home and find
yourself in the family once more.  It is well to have a knowledge
now-a-days of western customs, many of which the Maharajah himself has
adopted.  The time may come when you will often find yourself in his
presence.  Your English experience will serve you well on those
occasions."

Ananda listened in silence without interrupting the speaker.  Bopaul
showed more uneasiness, rising from his chair and moving restlessly
about the room as though longing to escape.

"I have learned to like the ways I have adopted--and the dress."

Ananda glanced down at the neat frock coat and trousers that became his
figure and set it off to advantage.

"Our Maharajah wears the same kind of garments.  There is no reason why
you should not retain the dress in public."

"I intend to retain the dress and habits of English life," he replied
with decision.  Then, after a slight pause that seemed to the listeners
to be shadowed by some strange unknown danger, he continued: "But this
is not all.  After much thought and deliberation I have also adopted
the religion of England."

A dead silence greeted this announcement.  Its full meaning did not
immediately strike the listeners.  Bopaul glanced from one to the
other.  The expression on the face of his own father held his
attention.  It was a curious mixture of astonishment, dismay, and
incredulity.  The jaw dropped; the eyes opened to their widest extent,
and the brows were like two rainbows, so arched had they become.
Bopaul had that insane desire to laugh which seizes men and women at a
crisis fraught with possible disaster; he turned his back on the
company to hide his trembling lips.  An inarticulate sound made him
look round.  It came from his own parent, who struggled in vain to
frame a question.

Bopaul divined its import.  Was he, too, a renegade, a 'vert?  He
controlled his lips and strangled his ill-timed mirth.  A sign in the
negative set his father's mind at rest on that point, and enabled the
older man to give his undivided attention to what was passing between
Pantulu and his son.

Pantulu, like his friend, had been struck dumb by the shock of Ananda's
statement.  He moistened his lips, and after a few ineffectual attempts
accomplished articulation.  His voice sounded strange and unlike his
usual tone.

"You have--adopted--the religion of--England, my son!  I fail to grasp
your meaning!"

"I have become a Christian."

Ananda spoke clearly, but with a doggedness that seemed a little
forced.  Under his calmness lurked timidity.  Bopaul detected it and
again his lips quivered, this time with the ghost of a scornful smile.
It required a magnificent courage and enormous endurance for a caste
man to make such a change.  If he knew Ananda aright his friend had no
great store of either courage or endurance.  His Christianity would
soon be knocked out of him when the family had him back again in the
old home away from foreign influences, unless he, Bopaul, was very much
mistaken.

Pantulu dropped his feet to the ground, raised himself by the arms of
the lounge on which he was seated, and rose without haste to his full
height.  The folds of his soft white muslin cloth fell over his lower
limbs, the flowing drapery giving him an oriental dignity that was
patriarchal.  He wore a dark-blue serge coat, a white shirt and linen
collar, with tie to match the coat.  Everything was of the best quality
and fitted his aristocratic well-made figure without fault.  On the
little finger of his right hand shone a diamond of rare beauty, his
only ornament.  The sparkle of the gem caught Ananda's eye as the hand
was slightly raised in growing horror.

"A Christian! a Christian!" he repeated.  Then lowering his hand he
seemed to shake off the horror by an effort of will.  "I have not
understood you, my son.  There is some mistake.  Whatever strange
customs you may have thought fit to adopt during your stay in England,
you must drop them now.  They have served their purpose, and they must
be thrown aside like the strange weeds that as a child you gathered in
the jungle, and cast upon the dust heap on your return before entering
the house.  You have returned to the home of your fathers a Hindu, an
orthodox Hindu, a Vishnuvite.  Even now at this moment the Swami, our
guru, waits at our house in Chirapore to see the ceremonies performed
that will restore your caste and purify you from the pollution of these
western habits."

The voice grew firmer until it rang out like a sharply-struck bell.
Yet for all its firmness there was a strain of desperate entreaty
running through it, as though the speaker waited in passionate hope for
confirmation of his assertions.  That confirmation did not come.
Ananda, as he stood before his father, shifted uneasily from one foot
to the other; and as the elder ceased speaking he said falteringly--

"No caste ceremonies will be required.  I have given up Hinduism.  I
have been baptised and received into the English Church.  It is not
necessary to look so serious over it, honoured father.  All that will
be needed can be done without difficulty.  It will be advisable to give
me a separate house and establishment for myself and my wife and son,
since our presence will naturally create trouble for my mother in the
preparation of food.  I am also prepared to find that many members of
your household may demand my exclusion from the family circle."

Ananda's even voice appeared to have a paralysing effect upon both the
older men; for they were silent.  Bopaul's father was the first to find
his tongue.

"My friend, I am sorry for this.  It is an unspeakable misfortune."

Pity, unsolicited and unexpected, and equally unwelcome, broke the
spell and opened the floodgates of wrath.  Again the diamond flashed as
the paternal hand was raised.

"A Christian!  My son a cursed Christian! an outcaste! an alien! lower
than the pariah, more loathed than the punchama sweeper!  Oh! what have
I done that the gods should curse me thus?  What sin have I committed
that I should be thus afflicted and punished?  My son! my only son!"
Once more a desperate effort was made to reject, to disbelieve the
terrible news.  "My little son!" he used the pet name by which Ananda
had been known as a child, and it came from his lips with infinite
tenderness.  "My little son! tell me you have but joked, and that you
have been playing upon your poor old father's fears.  Be satisfied that
you have startled and frightened him.  Now reassure him! restore him to
happiness, my little son!  Be kind and tender in your strong young
manhood to one who is growing old and whose life is bound up in yours."

He placed his hands together, palm to palm, and bowed his proud head in
humble entreaty.  Bopaul once more turned his back upon the company and
strode towards one of the windows.  The sight of Pantulu's grief and
distress pained him more than he cared to admit.  Ananda did not hear
the appeal unmoved.  Tears sprang into his eyes, and he too averted his
gaze from a sight that sent a sharp knife through his heart; but, like
all weak natures, he possessed a strain of obstinacy that came now to
his assistance.  Bopaul, who had more force of character, could not
have listened to such an appeal from his father without wavering in his
determination, no matter how great might have been his courage.  With
Ananda it had a contrary effect.  It distressed and pained him beyond
expression; but it strengthened rather than weakened his resolve, and
created a desire to justify his action.  He answered firmly and
decisively, and in that answer his father recognised the obstinacy of
the perverse boy who so often succeeded in getting his own way in spite
of his timid nature.

"It is true.  I am a Christian, and I intend to remain a Christian.  I
am sorry if it hurts you, my father; but I have arrived at man's estate
and must judge for myself.  I have taken the step deliberately and with
due thought and consideration."

"This is the Professor's doing, him to whom I entrusted you!" cried
Pantulu, his wrath rising hotly.

"No, it is not!  The Professor had nothing to do with it!" replied
Ananda, in a sharp, clear voice.  He turned to Bopaul, who was still
standing with his back to them.  "Reassure my father on this point,
please.  Had Professor Twyford or his family anything to do with the
step I have taken?"

"To the best of my belief, none.  He showed as much astonishment when
you announced the change as I felt myself.  What was more, he was
terribly disturbed by the news."

Pantulu made no comment on this confirmation of his son's story, and
Ananda began again.

"It happened in this way----"

"Silence!" thundered his father, in a voice that made them all start.
"When the dhoby's donkey falls into the tank, does it bring him to life
again to explain what caused his foot to slip?  Thou art cursed!
cursed! cursed!  No longer shalt thou be a son of mine!  I am
childless!  Go from my sight, and never let my eyes fall upon thee
again!"

He used the language usually addressed to inferiors, and it stung.

"Let me explain, most excellent father----"

"Call me not father, son of a dog!"

"If you would only let me speak, I can----"

"Sooner would I listen to the 'untouchable' who cleans the gutters and
carries away the contents of the dustbin!  Go!"

He moved towards him threateningly.  Ananda stepped back a pace or two,
but did not show any sign of leaving the room.

"It is not fair to judge any one unheard," he began again; but he was
not allowed to finish the sentence.  Pantulu, beside himself with rage,
advanced with uplifted hand and brought his fist down upon his son's
face.  The diamond caught his lip and tore it open.  Blood flowed and
dropped upon the white shirt-front, leaving a large red stain.

Bopaul rushed forward, interposing himself between the two, and pushed
his friend through the doorway leading to his bedroom.

The outraged father glared after his son and panted out in gasps--

"Never in the whole course of the boy's life have I laid a hand upon
him.  What have I done!  What have I done!"

He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands.  Joy,
ambition, paternal pride, all had been extinguished, leaving him a
broken and miserable man.




CHAPTER V

For the past twelve months the family of Pantulu Iyer had been
preparing for the return of the son and heir.  In the first place
Gunga, Ananda's mother, had undertaken a pilgrimage to the large
Vishnuvite temple at Srirungam, near Trichinopoly.  She was a proud
woman, full of energy, just but strict in the performance of duties,
religious as well as social.  She demanded of others the same rigid
adherence to rule, and she countenanced no indulgence nor slackness in
young or old among her dependents.  By her decree Dorama and her little
son were to accompany her.

The journey would have been easy by rail; but Pantulu's wife was not a
woman to look for ease and comfort where ceremonial was concerned.  She
chose the way of her ancestors and elected to travel by road as they
had travelled in the old days before the fire-carriage revolutionised
the Indian methods of journeying.

It took many days, even though she used her own powerful bullocks.
Besides the coach there was a country cart which carried the
cooking-pots, bedding, and her own caste servants.  The people of the
villages through which she passed inquired the name of the gracious
lady who honoured their poor hamlet by her presence.  The reply was
given by the drivers; she was the wife of a rich silk merchant of
Chirapore, carrying offerings to the big temple at Srirungam.  Why did
she make offerings?  Was her husband sick?  No; it was because her son
who had been to England was returning, and she was anxious to enlist
the favour of the gods so that he might be restored to her in safety.
The country folk received the information with much salaaming, and
expressed a hope that she would be favoured.  They supplied her with
eggs and milk; and admired the fine handsome white cattle that drew her
coach, praising the drooping ears and swinging dew-laps in loud tones
that were intended to penetrate the curtains that hung before the
windows of the carriage.

At the big temple she was honourably received.  The gifts she brought
were presented by her tiny grandson in the absence of any other male
member of the family.

The little Royan, named after his great-grandfather, was decked in
purple velvet and crimson satin; and his small person was laden with
jewels of gold and precious stones.  The soft baby hand, timidly
extended to the awe-inspiring mahunt--who graciously deigned to receive
the offerings in person--was weighed down by the solid gold lime
resting on his palm.  The great man smiled as he stooped and received
the substantial gift.  By the side of the child stood his grandmother,
erect in her hale middle-age.  Her limbs had not yet lost the lines of
a comely youth, nor the features their haughty beauty.

Half hidden behind her was the smaller figure of Dorama, her eyes cast
down, her rich silk cloth, plain in colour and pattern, veiling her
lately-developed form.  The eyes of the mahunt dwelt upon her as he
asked a few questions.  He learned that her husband was in England, and
would be returning some time during the year.

"She will rejoin him and give you another grandson to rejoice your
heart," said the mahunt.

"It may be so if the gods will," replied Gunga in a tone that seemed to
dismiss the subject.

"Should your hopes not be fulfilled you must make another pilgrimage to
the temple, and she must keep vigil before the god.  It cannot fail to
bring about the desired result."

To this proposition the elder lady made no reply, and the mahunt
retired, casting another glance of approval upon Dorama.

After a few days' rest, Gunga returned as she went, making the journey
by easy stages.  The nights were spent at the various rest-houses on
the road, where her attendants cooked the food and saw to her comfort.
She chose a time when the weather promised to be fine, and it did not
disappoint her.  The expedition was a pleasant jaunt, which Dorama
enjoyed more than a little.

On her return home Gunga superintended other preparations considered
necessary for the occasion.  The whole household--with all its
dependents and caste servants numbering over fifty--had to be fitted
out with new clothes.  The little close-fitting jackets of bright
colours affected by the women were fashioned by careful tailors.  Men's
coats of brilliant cloth, lined with silk and richly embroidered with
gold, were put in hand.  New lengths of muslin of the finest quality
were purchased after careful and deliberate bargaining; and many of the
family jewels were reset.

It was in these heirlooms that Dorama was most interested.  According
to time-honoured custom among modest Hindu women, she had laid aside
her jewels on her husband's departure; nor was she permitted to use the
golden saffron powder that is supposed to enhance the beauty of the
Indian skin.  With his return all restriction of self-adornment would
end; and the finest and best of the jewels would be hung about her own
neck and arms; and her smooth skin would gleam with powder that would
match the newly-burnished gold.

The tailors needed supervision; the working goldsmiths required
individual watching.  A member of the family, usually one of the elder
women, was told off to sit by his crucible and work-table whilst he
plied his bellows and his delicate styles; and the half-finished
ornament was carried home in the evening to be restored to the jeweller
in the morning when the person in charge was able to resume her guard.

Then there were the preparations that belonged to the kitchen, the
chutneys, pickles, and preserves that would be required when the time
arrived for feasting and feeding the poor Brahmans.

Dorama assisted under her mother-in-law's directions, lending a hand
here and there where special care was needed.  She was very silent; but
beneath that silence was hidden a fire of emotions varied and deep that
the others little dreamed of.  She thought of her wedding, long ago
when she was but a child.  At the time the ceremonies had excited her
wonder, and she had experienced a fearful pleasure in the thought that
she was the centre of attention.  She remembered Ananda's smooth boyish
face and his gentle acquiescence to all his parents' wishes.  He had
glanced at his newly-made wife with childish curiosity, in which
passion and desire found no place.

Later the parents arranged a honeymoon for the young couple, to be
spent under the paternal roof.  On her side, at least, there was
nothing but distaste and fear, with not a little grief at having to
leave her own home.  Then ensued a dull period when light household
tasks instead of dolls and toys filled her life.  It ended in the birth
of a son.  With the advent of the baby she was released from domestic
work in the kitchen; and though she found that the wonderful living
doll was not her exclusive property, but seemed to belong to the whole
house as much as to her, existence had a new interest.

Before she was sufficiently recovered to take her new place as the
favoured young mother of a son in the family circle, Ananda departed.
She remembered how he had knelt by her side and looked at the tiny
baby, their joint property, with a kind of delighted surprise, as
though he found it difficult to realise that the little crumpled olive
ball of humanity was his own, his very own.  From his child his eyes
went to his child's mother with a light in them that she had never seen
there before.  She was no longer one of the mere goods and chattels of
the house to help to minister to his appetite, feed him, keep his
clothes in order and perform other duties that contributed to his
comfort and well-being.  In giving him this son, who would one day call
him by the name most highly prized throughout the land, she had done
something purely personal, something exclusively for him; and in so
doing she had endowed him with a delight and joy unknown before.

It was impossible for him to express his gratitude in words.  The
presence of his mother standing near with her dark, watchful eyes kept
him silent.  He could only gaze from wife to child and then back again
at his wife.  In his shining eyes, full of unspoken happiness, the girl
might read what she pleased.  Even as he knelt by the mat on which she
lay the new longing arose to possess, to enjoy, to claim his own, and
carry his precious treasures away.

The watching mother detected the emotion, and a twinge of jealousy
caused her to stir uneasily.  She advanced and laid a hand upon his
shoulder, her gold bracelets ringing as they fell together upon her
wrist with the movement.

"Come away, my son; she is still weak, and unable to bear a long
farewell.  Be assured that we will keep her safe and sound till you
return, her and her little son."

Ananda bent lower over the recumbent figure, and his mother's brow
contracted as she saw the motion.

"Beloved! keep your heart warm for your absent husband," he whispered,
as he kissed the beautiful mouth.

Dorama, as a well-behaved married woman, should have shown no emotion
beyond grief.  She should have received the kiss and the words in
silence, allowing the eyelids to droop under his ardent gaze; but in
these latter days of progress the orthodox Hindu feels the insensible
breath of the new spirit, and yields to it without actually breaking
away from the old rules.  That same spirit moved her to put her arms
round his neck and to draw him down again till their lips touched a
second time.

"Do not be long, beloved.  The slave waits impatiently for her lord."

"Come! come!  The carriage is ready, and his honour, your father, is
impatient to be off," said the voice of his mother, as once more her
hand rested on his shoulder.

He rose to his feet and accompanied her without another word, turning
once only to look back and smile at the eyes that followed him so
wistfully.  Neither husband nor wife forgot the incident.  Every
detail, every look and word were engraved upon their memories, and with
this their aching hungry hearts had to be contented until they should
meet again.

As the time drew near for Ananda's return Dorama moved like one in a
dream.  During the day she was abstracted and thoughtful, except when
she was with her little son.  If by any chance she could carry him out
of hearing of the other members of the family on pretence of giving him
the air, she spoke of his father, pouring out the pent-up feeling in
words, the meaning of which was beyond the child's comprehension.  It
brought relief, although it did not allay the terrible longing.

When the pink satin coat that Royan was to wear on his father's
home-coming was finished, Dorama stole away to the little room she had
shared with her husband, and slipped it on.  The boy's eyes sparkled
with delight at the colour and sheen.

"Your father is coming, blessed one!  Say 'Father, excellent father!
Your son and slave throws himself before your honourable footsteps!'
Say it!  Ah, good child!  It was well done!  Now again; and carry the
hand to the forehead, thus!  Good, little one!  Mother's joy!"

Suddenly the sound of Gunga's voice fell on her ear as some order was
given in the distance to one of the dependents.

"Ah! there is the grandmother!  Quick! take it off!  The coat is only
to be worn in the presence of your father."

She pulled it off, the child entering into the fun and excitement of
doing something that must be hidden from the rigid mistress of the
house.  When the coast was clear Dorama crept back, the coat hidden
under her saree and her finger on her lips.  The purloined garment was
replaced in the clothes chest without discovery, and the two, laughing
like a couple of mischievous children, ran away in happy glee over
their secret.

At night she lay on her mat in the large room appropriated to the women
of the household, wakeful with busy thought and anticipation.  The deep
breathing and occasional snore of her companions told her that they
slept soundly.  Then she ventured to move, to stretch her young limbs
and sit up.  Her brain seemed on fire.  Would her mother give them
again the little room; or would the son of the house be honoured by
being assigned a larger and more important chamber?  Would he be
altered in any way?  Possibly he had grown older in appearance,
stronger in limb, more manly.  How the women of England must have
admired him!  Hateful creatures!  She detested English women!  What was
there to admire in them?  They were blocks of ice with hard, cold,
white skins and unkind eyes.  She had never seen them except in the
streets as they drove past in carriages or motors; but she was quite
convinced that she read their characters aright, and that her opinion
of them was correct.

She heard the cocks crowing as they marked the progress of the night.
In the midst of her musings she fell asleep, and dreamed that he had
come, that he leaned over her in greeting as he had leaned in parting,
and that their lips met once more.

Among other preparations was the painting and decoration of the house.
As the time approached Venetian masts were erected and wreaths
suspended the length of the road in which they lived.  Bunches of
leaves and flowers were tied to the beams of the house, and whole
plantain trees bearing their large clusters of golden fruit were
fastened to every pillar.

Then the guru with his disciple arrived, and the purohit from the
temple, to superintend the ceremonies that were necessary for the
restoration of caste.  Gunga, in the absence of her husband in Bombay,
gave the holy men a welcome, and saw that nothing was omitted that was
conducive to their comfort.

As the time drew near the whole household felt the thrill of
expectation that never fails to move a family when one of its members
is expected home after a long sojourn in foreign lands.  What news
there would be to hear, and to tell!  The traveller would bring gifts
for all.  No one would be forgotten.

One morning a post peon appeared carrying a telegram.  It was addressed
to Pantulu's brother, Sooba, the little master, as he was called; and
it announced that the ship had come in safely and that the passengers
would land that afternoon.

"Is there anything in the telegram about the time they will leave
Bombay?" asked the guru's attendant, as he waited to carry news to the
great man.  Gunga handed him the message in its brown envelope.  Ten
minutes later he returned.

"The master says that they will start to-morrow probably, either by the
morning or evening mail, according to the time it takes to clear the
luggage through the custom house."

The guru was well versed in matters temporal as well as spiritual.

"When may we expect them?" asked Gunga.

"It takes two nights and a day to travel from Bombay to Chirapore,"
replied the disciple.  "If they leave to-morrow night they will be here
on Wednesday morning."

"The day before the new moon!  Not a lucky day to be travelling south,"
remarked Gunga, with a troubled expression upon her face.  "If my
husband remembers to go out of the house in which he is staying by a
north door, the bad luck may be averted."

"He will surely think of it," observed the disciple, whose life was
occupied in the consideration of omens.

"In the joy of meeting his son it is quite possible that it may be
forgotten.  I know that my lord will be nearly beside himself with
delight at seeing his boy again, his only child!" she added softly,
with a tenderness that she rarely exhibited.

That same afternoon a second telegram was received.  It said "Disperse
guests.  Discontinue preparations for feasting and rejoicing."

Gunga listened speechless as her brother-in-law read it aloud.

"Again," she commanded.

He read it a second and a third time.

"Is there nothing about illness?  Is no reason given for these strange
orders?"

"None, most honourable mother of my brother's family."

"Call his excellency, the swami."

The guru, full of curiosity, came at the summons without delay.  He
read the message more than once, but was unable to throw any more light
upon its meaning.

"A letter will come with full explanations," he said at last.  "Until
its arrival the directions of the master of the house must be carried
out.  My disciple shall tell the company of beggars who are already
assembling that there will be no feasting.  He had better give them an
anna apiece, which you will provide, and say that they will be called
together again on the arrival of the master."

"What can be the cause of this change?" asked Gunga, her dark eyes
fixed with a questioning gaze upon the guru.

"Illness, perhaps, or an accident."

"My son is not dead!" she cried in sudden terror.

"No, that cannot be; nor can there be any dangerous illness.  It is
possible that your son may have missed his ship, in which case he will
arrive by the next mail boat a week later.  We shall learn in time.
Meanwhile, I will go on my way to another house, where my presence is
needed, and will hold myself in readiness to return a fortnight hence."

Pantulu's wife felt slightly relieved by the suggestion that her son
might be coming a week later.  It was better than entertaining the fear
that he was ill or even dead.  She accepted the situation, and set
about carrying out her husband's directions at once.  The new clothes
were packed away in camphor-wood boxes; the pickles and preserves were
tied down and put in the storeroom.  The women were ordered to cease
grinding curry-stuffs and pounding rice.  The busy household dropped
into sudden inaction, and an unnatural silence reigned everywhere.  The
women spoke in whispers, and the men betook themselves to the bazaar,
or to the houses of their fellow-caste people, where they discussed the
ominous message from Bombay without fear of being overheard by the
stern woman who ruled the family.

Dorama with the rest had listened as the telegram was read out.  Every
word of it was engraven upon her brain.  She went over it again and
again, puzzling herself to find a reason for the strange mandate.  If
Ananda had missed his ship surely his father would have said so.  On
the other hand, if there was illness or an accident to cause delay, it
might easily have been told in a few words.  Some mystery lay beneath
it.  What could it be?  Had Ananda lost his senses and become mad with
the joy of his home-coming?  She had known cases of temporary loss of
the senses through excessive joy or grief.

The child plucked at her saree, jealous of her abstraction.  She caught
him up and crushed his soft little body to her heart.

"Thus and thus will thy father hug thee and me, my son, when he comes!"

The boy, irritated at being roughly handled, beat at her with his small
fists.

"Thus and thus will I beat my father if he hurts me like that.  Let me
go, or I will ask him to find me another mother."

The senseless words fell upon her ear with strange force.  What was it
the child said?  Another mother!  Could it be possible that her husband
had forgotten her in that foreign country, where he had lived so long?
Was he bringing home another wife? a white woman, a hated European?
No, no!  It was impossible!

With a stifled cry she set the child down on his feet, and he seized
the opportunity of escaping to the kitchen, the spot he loved best.
She was left alone, and no one heeded her; they were all too busy
discussing the mystery of the message and attempting to discover its
solution.  Suddenly she dropped to the ground, crouching as though some
unseen hand were about to strike a deadly blow, her hands lifted to
guard her head.

"No! no! no!  If there were another I could not bear it.  I should
die!" she wailed.  Then passion took hold of her.  She stuffed the
corner of her saree into her mouth and bit it savagely.  "No, I will
not die!  It is the strange woman who shall die!  Hear me, swami of the
big temple!  Hear my vow.  I will live and have my own! my own!"




CHAPTER VI

The house in which Bopaul's father lived was situated in the same road,
about a hundred yards distant, and on the opposite side.  It was nearer
the town, and though a substantial building, was not as large as the
silk merchant's; nor was the compound as extensive.  A similar
preparation had been made by the family, but not on so large or
expensive a scale; nor had the mistress thought it necessary to go on a
pilgrimage.  New clothes had been bought, and store-rooms were
replenished.  The house had been repainted and decorated.

There was no young wife with her little son to await the coming of
Bopaul; but his bride was already chosen, and the marriage ceremony
would be performed as soon as the restoration of caste was
accomplished.  She would not be present at his home-coming.  The girl
was a stranger to him, and he had yet to make her acquaintance.  As in
Pantulu's family, there were many relatives and dependents who
performed the duties of servants; but claimed a right to share in the
rejoicings as relations.

One forlorn little figure in that busy happy company was not a
participator in the joy of Bopaul's return.  This was his own sister
Mayita, married in her infancy to Coomara.  By Coomara's death she had
become a widow, although she had been only a wife in name.  Her
degradation was aggravated by the fact that her husband had died
abroad, with the funeral ceremonies, in which she should have taken a
certain part, unperformed.

In dying out of his country the dead man was laid, as we have seen,
under the ban of broken caste.  It was irrevocably broken, no ritual
having ever been devised by which it could be restored.

Dressed once more as a bride--this time in bitter mockery--the jewels
had been stripped from her neck and arms; her head was shaven; the
glass bangles of her childhood were broken upon her wrists.  Never
would she forget, young as she was, the crash of glass as the delicate
circles were splintered under a sharp, irritable blow that in itself
indicated how deeply her fate was resented by the family.  The soft
brown-and-gold saree that harmonised with her complexion was ruthlessly
unwound with unnecessary force as she stood weeping and unresisting in
the hands of the wailing women.  It was thrown aside as though defiled
by contact with her half-developed form.  In place of it she was
obliged to wear a coarse cotton cloth, with rough edges, that chafed
her tender skin and brought her unfortunate condition constantly to
mind.

No pity was felt for the shrinking, miserable girl as she flitted like
a ghost about the house, avoiding with painful care young and old
alike, lest her shadow should fall upon them and bring bad luck.  In
the preparations for her brother's return she had no part.  When his
eye should first fall upon her, he ought by all precedent to curse her,
and command her to get out of his sight.  It was this thought that hurt
her most, and caused a sharper grief than she had felt for the loss of
her husband.  She was but thirteen years old.  A vivid memory remained
of the brother who in old days had been invariably kind.  The longing
to see him again was great; and many a secret tear was shed at the
thought that she might no more bask in the sunshine of his fraternal
love.

In the caste family that is poor the widow becomes the drudge of the
house.  It is often a blessing in disguise, if the work is not made too
heavy, as it gives occupation for the mind.  In Bopaul's family it was
not necessary for Mayita to occupy that position.  There were plenty of
people to do the work, and she was not called upon to take any part in
the household duties.  She would have been happier for a little
employment; but she was denied both work and play.  The other children
refused to allow her to join their games; and when she approached the
women who ground the curry-stuffs, pounded and cleaned the rice, tended
the kitchen fires or polished the numerous brass pots, they one and all
motioned her away.  If she begged to be given occupation of some sort,
they set her a task that had perforce to be executed in solitude.

She sought her mother, but here again she was repulsed; not by rough
words, but by her parent's sighs and tears.  Bopaul's mother was a
stout, lethargic person, who loved above all things her own comfort.
Until her daughter was widowed she was rarely seen without a placid
smile of content.  She still wore it at times when the misfortune was
forgotten.  As soon as Mayita appeared the smile faded; the large,
slumbrous eyes filled with tears, and she began her lamentations.

"What sin can my daughter have committed in a former birth that such
heavy punishment should be meted out?"

Then she would send her with a message to another part of the house,
and the child knew that she was not expected to return.  If Mayita
remained, the wailing was continued.

"The sight of your widowhood is a shame to the whole house.  Such a
misfortune can only come to those who have in some way grievously
offended the gods."

The accusation of sin in a former birth was repeated so often that at
last the girl became possessed with a vague sense of wrong-doing.  Its
responsibility added to the weight already resting upon the young
shoulders, and increased her misery.

Shortly after the receipt of the second telegram, one of the women
belonging to Pantulu's family slipped away to carry the news to her
neighbours.  She was received eagerly with a chorus of questions.

"What news?  When do they come?  We have heard nothing."

"It is not known when they arrive."

"Why do you look so gloomy?  Is the news otherwise than good?"

"Yemmah! how can I tell?  Aiyoh! to think of such a thing!"

After this enigmatic speech she began to weep with the ready ease of
the oriental.  The sensation created was gratifying to her vanity.
There was a perfect clamour for an explanation.

"What is it?  Speak! we are all on fire to learn!"

"The master has sent an order by the wire that there are to be no
rejoicings.  Aiyoh! to think that the young excellency should return to
his father's house without rejoicings, without feastings and
garlandings, and without fireworks and feeding of the poor!"

"What says the mistress?"

"That there has been an accident or an illness, and that their honours,
the master and his son are not coming.  If there is bad luck it will be
the waning moon that will have caused it.  Next week all would have
gone well.  What news has been received in this house?  Has the ticking
devil sent any message?"

"Only one.  It was written on a thin slip of paper, and it came in a
brown envelope."

"What did it say?"

"That the young master had landed in safety, and that they would leave
Bombay by the night mail to-morrow."

"And the rejoicings?"

"There is no order to forbid them."

"Is the swami here?"

"He and his disciple arrived last night."

"Happy house!  Happy mistress of an honourable family.  She is to be
envied."

"Our excellent lady has only one trouble; it is the presence of
Coomara's widow."

"What will she do about it?  It will bring misfortune on the young
master if he meets his sister immediately on arrival."

"She will be locked in the room that opens into the cowyard; and she
will be kept there till the middle of the next day.  In the afternoon,
when there is less fear of the frown of the gods, she may perhaps be
permitted to see him; but only if he asks for her."

Other members of Pantulu's household slipped away to carry the news to
the neighbours.  The story was told and retold with variations till the
whole town was agog with curiosity.  Many were the surmises, but not a
single one came near the true solution of the mystery.

On the morning of the day when Bopaul and his father were expected a
large crowd gathered at the railway station to learn what had happened.
No one knew whether Pantulu would be in the same train.  It was Bopaul
to whom they looked for news.  Friends and fellow-caste men were
permitted on the platform, which was crowded.  A larger number, moved
only by curiosity, assembled outside the station.

Chirapore was a terminus.  The train arrived and poured forth its load
of travellers.  Some astonishment was caused by the sight of the large
assembly gathered in and round the building; but the attention of
Bopaul and his father was diverted to the recovery of personal baggage
from the vans, and their curiosity as to the reason of so big a crowd
was lost in anxiety to assure themselves of the safety of their
property.

Through the crowd Pantulu and his son pushed their way hastily.  So
hemmed in were they that they escaped observation except by a few.  In
the hurry and bustle no attempt was made to detain them for a greeting
which could be made with more dignity later.  Pantulu led the way,
passing straight through the station and out into the public road,
where stood a row of carriages for hire.  Ananda followed close upon
his heels with his suit-case.  His two portmanteaux were carried by a
couple of coolies and placed without delay upon the roof of a hired
gharry.

Father and son stepped into the carriage and were driven off.  Not a
word passed between them.  Ananda was conducted back to the home of his
childhood in an ominous silence that chilled him and destroyed all his
happiness.  He wondered vaguely what his father intended to do with
him.  He was aware that he could not join the family circle, eat with
them, take part in the daily religious worship conducted by his father
as head of the house before the chief meal of the day.  His exclusion
would have been insisted upon even if he had not taken the momentous
step.  Until the restoration of caste it was imperative that he should
lead a life apart from the rest of the family.  It would mean the
occupation of an isolated room well away from the kitchen, the taking
of his food in solitude, the reservation of earthen drinking vessels
exclusively for his own use, to be destroyed afterwards.  But with all
this there would be nothing to prevent him from meeting the male
members of the family in that general place of assembly in all Indian
houses, the pial or verandah.  There they could talk and he could
relate his experiences, and the others might listen without fear of
contamination.  This condition of affairs might last without personal
discomfort to any one for a week or ten days, or even longer, according
to the decree of those who conducted the ceremonies for the restoration
of caste.

Under the altered circumstances Ananda concluded that the arrangements
for his accommodation would be of a permanent nature, and more
comfortable than if they were temporary.  He would be able to furnish
his room to his liking, introducing a few western luxuries, such as an
armchair or two, a writing-table, bookcase, a table at which he could
sit to take his meals.  He could join the family in the pial, but
otherwise lead his own life as he had learned to lead it in England.
No difficulty presented itself to his mind in the arrangement; in
truth, there was none.  Provided he did not force himself upon his
family in a manner that would endanger their caste rules, no objection
could be made to his staying for a time under his father's roof.  Later
he would propose the separate house--it might be small and
unassuming--where he could live as he pleased with his wife and child.

In the midst of his speculations the noisy ramshackle vehicle drew up
before the house.  The plantain palms and festoons of green leaves
remained where joyful fingers had placed them.  The Venetian masts that
were to have supported ropes of Chinese lanterns had also been left
standing, some of them bare of decoration, others gaudy with red and
white twists of calico.  Not a living creature was visible.  The big
iron-studded door was closely shut.  A few small windows looking
towards the road were screened with Venetian shutters; the pial was
empty.  There was not even the joyous bark of a dog to welcome home the
wanderer.

Pantulu stepped out of the carriage and directed the driver to place
the two leather portmanteaux on the steps.  He kept his back to his son
whenever he was able, and studiously averted his gaze.  The sight of
the wound on his son's face hurt him more than a little.  Ananda
followed his father, and the coachman was paid and ordered to leave
without delay.  They waited till he had retreated in a cloud of dust;
and then Ananda, who was impatient of delay, put his foot on the first
step of the flight that led up to the pial.

"Stop!" said his father, sternly.  "Follow me!"

He gave no explanation, and confined himself to as few words as
possible.  Leading the way round to the side of the house, he entered
the compound and conducted his son to a little outer yard into which
opened the door of a room that had no communication with the rest of
the building.  The room was empty, except for a thick layer of dust and
dried leaves blown in by the wind through the open door.  A tiny,
unglazed, unshuttered window high up under the eaves of the roof,
admitted a little light; but at best the room was but a den, and not
fit for the accommodation of a human being, let alone a son of the
house.

"Go in and wait there," said his father, shortly, as though the
necessity of addressing his son was repugnant.

"I should like a chair--and a mat; and surely the room might be swept
out with advantage," said Ananda, looking round with undisguised
disgust.

Pantulu avoided meeting his eyes, and walked away without replying.
Meanwhile the advent of the gharry had not been unnoticed by the
wondering household.  The mistress herself, overcome by her curiosity,
pressed her forehead against the Venetians to peer through a chink and
take a look at the arrivals.  She could tell by the expression on her
husband's face that something had happened to disturb him greatly.
Nothing less than some serious misfortune could bring those deep lines
upon his brow and cause the corners of his mouth to droop so ominously.
Of one thing she assured herself with some satisfaction.  Her son was
sound in limb and well in health; and she caught her breath in a little
sigh of relief.

Dorama, hugging her child close to her breast, stood behind her
mother-in-law, listening eagerly for news.

"Has the excellent father arrived?" she ventured to ask at last, unable
to repress her curiosity.

A bare affirmative was all she could elicit.

"Is he alone?" she asked presently.

Pantulu's wife shook her head without speaking, and presently moved
away from the window.  There was a little struggle among the women to
secure her place.  They were disappointed.  The road and the short
carriage-drive up to the house were empty except for a distant
bullock-cart plodding its way to the market with a sleepy driver, who
had eyes for nothing but his cattle.

Gunga went to the back of the house.  She had not long to wait.
Pantulu, dejected and gloomy, strode in by a door in the wall, passed
quickly through the garden, mounted the verandah steps and, without a
word, went straight to the front room, into which the big iron-studded
door opened.  He greeted no one.  The men and women who had been
waiting in the courtyard and inner rooms salaamed, but he took no
notice of their salutations.  His wife followed him, and he asked
gruffly for his brother.  A man some ten years younger than himself
came forward and salaamed.

"All is well with my honoured elder brother!  May the gods continue to
smile on him and all his family!"

Pantulu suddenly flung his arms up and cried passionately--

"I am cursed!  The gods have cursed me--me and my family!'

"In what manner, most excellent master of the house?"

"My son has become a Christian!--my only son!  My only child!"

The words rang out sharply and reached the ears of the group that had
circled round the master of the house.  They were repeated from mouth
to mouth with gathering consternation as the catastrophe was gradually
realised.  Gunga heard them, and at first seemed stunned, so still and
silent did she remain.  A groan escaped her lips, and the strong,
shapely hands gripped the edge of her saree.

"A Christian!  What do you say?  My ears have played me false.  I have
not heard aright.  My son a Christian?  You jest, my husband!"

"It is true!" he replied, in a dull, despairing voice that in itself
should have been convincing if she could have brought herself to
believe in such a thing; but she fought against it, and refused to
entertain the idea.

"Who dares to say that our son has become a Christian?" she asked
fiercely.

"His own tongue.  He calls himself by the accursed name, and he shows
no shame."

"A Christian! a Christian!" echoed voices round him.  "A Christian! a
Christian!" was caught up by the women and repeated with increasing
excitement.

"Oh!  Aiyoh!  Aiyoh!  Aiyoh!"

The cry came from Gunga herself.  It dominated the chorus of
lamentation and silenced every other tongue.  Suddenly the sound of a
thud upon the floor startled the company.  A childish scream followed.

"Water! bring water!" said one of the women.  "The lady Dorama has
fainted and let the child fall!"




CHAPTER VII

Ananda stood at the open door of the little room looking out at the
view.  The earth was smiling under the tropical sun.  Birds and flowers
responded to its tempered heat; and song and sweet odours were lavishly
spent upon the soft air.  An oleander bush with its willow foliage
tossed trusses of almond-scented, pink blossom, at the entrance of the
yard.  The luxuriant vine of a gourd spread its thick leafage over a
part of the ground enclosed.  Just outside a rose bush, laden with
clusters of blossoms and buds, threw its thorny branches over the warm,
sunbaked, mud wall.  A pair of tawny fritillary butterflies fluttered
over the petals of the rose, and a blue roller bird flew across the
sky, a living streak of brilliant azure upon the ethereal blue haze.
Crested hoopoes ran along the base of the wall seeking ants and cooing
softly in their contentment.

Above foliage, flower and building rose the noble mountain mass in the
distance, with its sholahs of virgin forest, its glades and slopes of
green grass and peaks of bare grey rock.  Ananda's spirit stirred
within him as his eye followed the familiar outline of the beautiful
spur of the Western Ghats.  How often he had watched it under its
different aspects and learned to love it, whether it was shrouding
itself in a grey mantle of rain-laden vapour, or shining through a
transparent haze of blue.

He recalled the expeditions of his youth when his father had taken him
to the hill for the day and he had returned with the spoil of the
forest; ferns and orchids and long supple bamboos, strange leaves and
flowers that could not be made to grow in his own garden.  He
remembered a tiger, caught and speared by the natives, which was
brought in by exulting herdsmen to be shown to his father.  A hyæna was
also carried in in like manner slung upon a green bamboo cut from the
forest.  He remembered how tightly he had clung to his father's hand in
his fear of the big beasts with their strong jaws hanging open and the
formidable teeth visible; and how his father reassured him each time,
bidding him be brave and behave like a man.  Ananda sighed; ah, he
would show his own son the same sights, and teach him to be a man!

The thought of the child changed the current of his musings.  Where was
the boy at the present moment?  Where was the boy's mother?  Only a
wall or two separated them.  Why did they not come and greet him?  It
was perfectly feasible.  There was no fear of contamination in the open
air.  An interview might take place in the little yard or in the
compound beyond without detriment to caste.

He listened for the sound of voices.  The house was very silent.  The
room apportioned to his use was remote from the kitchen and women's
quarters; but with that large family there were usually people moving
in all parts of the building.

Nearly an hour passed and he began to grow impatient.  He went to the
entrance of the yard and stood at the open gateway.  A man ran hastily
round the corner of the house, his body bent under the load he was
carrying.  It was one of Ananda's portmanteaux.  He approached the
gateway and stopped in front of it.  Ananda looked him up and down and
recognised him as a pariah employed as a sweeper outside the house.

"What are you doing with my luggage?" he demanded angrily.

The man put down his load and prostrated himself, touching the ground
with his forehead.

"The master ordered me to bring the two leather boxes belonging to your
honour."

"It is not for men such as you are to touch anything belonging to a son
of the house."

The pariah put his hands together palm to palm in abject apology and
deprecation.

"This lump of mud, this poor worm had no choice but to do the master's
bidding.  He held his stick over my unprotected body, and threatened to
beat me if I did not bring the boxes."

He scrambled to his feet and ran off thankful to escape punishment from
the owner of the trunks, and reappeared with the second.  Ananda
directed him to leave them at the gateway.  When the man had gone he
carried them into the room himself.  The dust flew in clouds as he set
them down one after the other against the wall.  The neat dark suit he
wore was stained and his fingers soiled.  Involuntarily he glanced
round for the English washstand for means to rid himself of the
offending dust.  He smiled at his own ridiculous expectations and
turned to the fresh air outside, sweet and pure and refreshing, and
cleansed his hands as well as he could on the coarse grass.

A figure approached and he recognised his uncle, Sooba Iyer.  His face
cleared and he advanced with outstretched hand.

"It is good to see you again, my little father.  You are the first to
greet me.  Where are the rest?"

His uncle drew himself up with a gathering together of his muslin
garments and lifted his hand with a warning gesture to arrest further
advance.  Ananda knew the gesture well.  He had seen it often; aye, and
practised it himself in days gone by, when accident had brought him
near a pariah.  No reply was vouchsafed to his question, and he soon
discovered the reason for the visit.  In abject humility the sweeper
appeared, broom in hand.

"Sweep out the room, contemptible one!" said Sooba.

The pariah set to work at once to perform his task to the best of his
ability, and wielded his broom till the air was thick, and a large heap
of rubbish was accumulated.  The elder man stood silently in the
enclosure, holding himself ready to avoid contamination by touch or
shadow.  If there was relaxation at all it was towards the sweeper
rather than his nephew.

"I don't know why I should be treated in this way," protested Ananda.
"Broken caste is broken caste.  I am in no worse case as a Christian
than I was as a Hindu with my broken caste.  The only difference is
that one state is temporary; the other is permanent.  Surely my mother
has some better accommodation to give me than this."

The last words were said with a touch of indignation; but they had no
more effect in producing a reply than what had gone before.  The
sweeper finished his work with the broom and was directed to fetch the
things set apart for Ananda's use.  A couple of chairs, an old camp
table, a cot laced with rope and furnished with coarse bedding.  These
and a few other trifles were placed in the room by willing but awkward
hands.  The pariah had had no experience in dealing with bedroom
furniture.

Two or three times Ananda addressed himself to his uncle but his
remarks were received in stolid silence.  His relative might have been
deaf.  Neither by look nor speech was there any sign of reply.  By this
time the noon was passed, and although Ananda was too much disturbed in
his mind to feel hungry he was conscious of thirst.  As his uncle was
about to leave after having completed the arrangement of the room, he
said--

"It is some time since I had anything to drink.  I am thirsty.  Let the
waterman bring me a pot of water and a cup."

A few minutes later the sweeper returned bearing an earthen pot of
water and a tin mug.  He approached the door with manifest reluctance,
well aware of the gross insult he was offering.  His touch was
pollution, unspeakable pollution.  Sooner would a caste man allow his
drinking vessel to come into contact with a plague-stricken corpse than
have it touched by a pariah.

"My lord! this is not my doing.  With heavy blows has this slave been
driven here----"

He was not permitted to finish the apology.  Furiously angry, Ananda
yielded to the instinct implanted by generations of caste ancestors.
He rushed at him, knocked the earthen vessel out of his hands and with
a blow sent him backwards into the foliage of the gourd.  The pot broke
and the mug rolled aside.

"How dare a loathsome pariah like this son of a jackal offer me such an
insult!  Go! get out of my sight!  Don't let me see your face again."

The unfortunate sweeper fled; and the outraged man sank upon a chair.
He leaned his arms upon the ricketty table and bowed his head.  His
lips trembled and the fingers of both hands slowly clenched over his
palms in his effort to control himself; for the last act had unnerved
and shaken him.  What had he done to merit such unnecessary and
gratuitous insult?  The caste waterman of the establishment might have
brought the water pot and mug.  He could have entered the room without
detriment to his own caste.  In fact, all the duties recently performed
by the sweeper could have been done without any difficulty by the
servants of the house, and would have been performed by them if the
intentional degradation had not been designed expressly for his
humiliation.

Ananda suffered keenly, as much from the unkindness and cruelty shown
as from the insult.  It could not have happened without the consent of
his parents.  A feeling of resentment at its injustice roused his
indignation, and he lifted his head in angry pride.  He would not
submit without protest.  His anger served as a tonic to his wounded
spirit and pricked his courage.  The shining eyes hardened and the
mouth grew firm.

The day wore on without incident.  As no one appeared he determined to
seek an interview with his father or mother or some other member of the
family, and remonstrate against the outrageous treatment he was
receiving.

Memory served him well; he had forgotten nothing of the geography of
the place and he found nothing altered.  Walking slowly round to the
front of the house he arrived at the stone steps that led up to the
verandah.  Three or four men were seated on the masonry bench; they
were talking together; but as soon as they caught sight of him they
became silent.

Ananda recognised two of them as relatives and he greeted them by name
as he mounted the steps.

"I wish to see my father," he said with a new dignity and authority.
"Will one of you go and say that his son awaits him in the verandah."

The request called forth no reply.  They stared at him and rose one by
one, retiring through the big door which stood open.  He was alone,
standing on the top step, not daring to enter the house.  Too well he
knew all that would be involved by such an action.  The inner courtyard
was exposed to view.  His eager eyes searched every corner for a sight
of the figure he longed to see.  A child toddled out from the women's
quarters.  The boy's curiosity was roused.  With the delightful absence
of shyness and self-consciousness peculiar to Indian children the
little fellow began to run towards him fearlessly, limping slightly.

It needed no words to tell the eager father who it was.  Ananda's heart
leaped within him, flooded with a warm wave of paternal love.  That
beautiful boy with his rounded limbs, his smooth olive skin, his
regular features could be none other than his son.  Pride, tenderness,
joy rose at the thought, and he opened his arms.  Swiftly the child
approached with growing confidence.  Swifter still followed a form that
caused Ananda's heart to beat quicker and the blood to race through his
veins.

It was his wife.  If the boy was beautiful what was she in the first
flush of her womanhood?  From his lips fell the one word that no other
man had a right to call her.  "Wife!"

Did she hear him?  He felt that she must have caught the word.  A pair
of startled eyes met his as she snatched away the child.  The great
door slammed in his face, and the vision was gone.  Was it her hand
that struck the cruel blow?  Or had some member of the family crept up
unseen and swung the door into its socket.

Again the first sensation was a sense of injury and unmerited wrong;
but the weakness passed more quickly this time, and it was followed by
a just wrath.  The family had no right to treat him in this insulting
manner, he said to himself indignantly.  He was being condemned
unheard.  They were inhuman as well as unjust.  He felt sure that this
treatment was not meted out with his parents' consent.  It was the work
of his uncle, who was too fond of playing the master of the house.  He
must see his father and have some explanation.  When his parents had
heard the reason for the step he had taken, they would understand; they
would become interested; and when they learned the beautiful doctrines
of Christianity regarding the future life, they might possibly incline
towards the new faith themselves and find comfort in the hope it
taught.  In their ignorance of the fundamental teaching of Christianity
his parents believed that there was an immeasurable gulf between the
two creeds.  If they would only listen they would realise that in
Christ was to be found the ideal and perfect manifestation of God.  His
teaching brought hope and comfort and a sure promise of progressive
happiness; whereas the creed of the Hindu presented nothing but a
stagnant circle of painful rebirths.  At best it could only end in loss
of personality, which was nothing more nor less than a hideous
spiritual and intellectual death, more horrible to contemplate than the
physical death.

Ananda had not been received into the English Church without due
instruction.  The duties of his adopted faith had been carefully
inculcated.  He had been warned that if he met with any persecution he
would have to bear it in a Christ-like spirit, meekly and with patience.

As he stood before the closed door meekness and patience were
conspicuous by their absence.  The old Adam boiled within him in the
full strength of oriental passion.  In furious wrath he beat at the
closed door with his walking-stick.  He called his father by name, and
other male relatives.  He tried to wrench open the wooden shutters of
the windows; but door and windows alike resisted his efforts and left
him exhausted.  No one answered his angry calls and impatient knocks.
He listened but could not hear a sound.  He was opposed by a colossal
silence that did more to crush and subdue the chafing spirit than
torrents of abuse.

Tired out, and his wrath partly spent, he gave up the attempt to summon
a member of the household and went dejectedly down the steps, turning
his back upon the inhospitable door of his old home.  He glanced up and
down the road.  What should he do with himself during the remaining
hours of daylight?  To the south-east the town clustered round the old
fort.  He knew it well with its thronged streets and busy bazaars.  To
the north-west stood the mountains purpling into rich shades as the sun
approached the horizon.  A refreshing breeze blew in from the north.
It cooled his heated face and drew him in the direction of the open
country with a kindly welcome.

He walked towards the silent hills until the sun and its afterglow had
disappeared.  Then he retraced his steps, his peace of mind somewhat
restored.  He became conscious of a healthy appetite and of an
insistent thirst for a cup of tea or coffee or a glass of milk.

He regained his room.  It was in darkness except for a small oil lamp,
too dim to be of any use for reading purposes, that stood upon the camp
table.  In a corner near the door was another waterpot with a tin mug.
He did not know if the mug was the same that the pariah had defiled by
his touch; he preferred to think that the waterman had brought both the
pot and the mug, and under this persuasion he took a long drink.

Apparently his return was observed by the household.  Ten minutes later
the same man, who had swept his room, appeared carrying a tray on which
were dishes of curry with chutney and rice.  All were of the best and
most tempting quality.  The mere smell whetted Ananda's appetite till
he was well nigh ravenous; but he turned resolutely away whilst the
pariah, not daring to enter the room, set the tray down on the
threshold and vanished before Ananda could throw him thanks or abuse.
If the truth must be told it was the latter that was on the tip of his
tongue; but something arrested the torrent of curses and made him pause.

He did not attempt to analyse the feeling.  The just anger of an
injured man was still dominant; but something from outside, something
altogether new was working underneath his caste instincts.  He stood at
the open door looking out at the starlit night, the much needed food at
his feet.  A strange sense of detachment, of calm isolation, came over
him, bringing an unexpected stilling of the emotional storm; it was
almost peace.  The quiet beauty of the night stirred the memory of St.
Paul's cathedral.  He seemed to hear the wonderful cadences of the
organ echoing round him, pouring balm upon the senses and endowing the
wounded spirit with strength to rise to better things above the
passions of the soul.  By the aid of that memory he climbed out of the
slough of despair into which he had been plunged; and a half articulate
prayer went up to the living God for pity and help.

The crescent moon following the sun to its setting shone in the
luminous grey-green sky.  That same moon faintly silvered the big grey
dome of St. Paul's where the organ pealed and the choir sang the daily
evensong.  He calculated the time.  It was about the hour for the
service to begin.  In spirit he was back again kneeling among the quiet
worshippers, unnoticed but not despised, repeating the wonderful prayer
to "Our Father" that all lips can utter no matter what the creed of the
worshipper may be.

How long he remained standing at the door he did not know.  The smell
of the savoury curry reached his nostrils, and appealed to a part of
his nature that could not be ignored.  There was no doubt but that he
was desperately hungry; and the curry was food he had not tasted for
some time past.  It was one of the pleasures to which he was looking
forward on his return home, as the Englishman thinks of the beefsteak.
His mother prided herself on the excellence of her chutneys.  In the
dim light he could see that they had been dealt out with a liberal hand.

Suddenly he remembered who had brought the food.  It was the despised
pariah.  With a shudder he turned away as a European might have turned
from carrion.  He understood why the food had been prepared so
carefully.  It was not love but a refined cruelty that had prompted the
serving up of such a curry.

He flung himself into a chair and passed his hand over his eyes.  The
mud walls, unrelieved by whitewash looked black and murky.  The tiled
roof was open and without a ceiling.  A fusty uncleanly scent of bats
and squirrels offended him; and the rough wooden cot with its coarse
black blankets was uninviting even to a weary man who longed for repose.

His portmanteaux and suit case remained untouched where he had thrown
them; he had not the heart to unpack and pull out the various little
luxuries which from long use in England were a necessity in his daily
routine.  There was no dressing-table where brushes, combs, collar and
stud boxes could lie; no washstand with spotless towel and pretty
crockery to hold his sponge and soap.  If he took off his coat, no
wardrobe nor chest of drawers was provided for its reception.  It must
hang over the back of a chair until it was required again.

The food, hot and steaming when it was brought, grew cold and less
inviting.  He could not leave it there all night; it must be moved if
only to allow of the door being closed when he slept.  Once more he
went to the doorway, and this time called softly.  Immediately the same
man appeared.

"Excellency! this slave is here."

"Take away the food.  It has been defiled by the hand of a sweeper and
I cannot eat it."

The man obeyed without a word.  He returned and fell to the ground
before Ananda.

"The great one knows that this is not the doing of this worm.  The big
mistress commanded it, and this slave could not do otherwise.  The
master's brother himself held the stick over my shoulders, and when I
protested he let it fall.  See, even by the dim light of the lamp how
my skin is striped."

Ananda strode out past him into the night.

"Follow me; I have something to say."

He walked away from the building, keeping, however, within the
compound, which was walled in and private.  When they were at a
sufficient distance to be secure from eavesdropping and observation
Ananda spoke.

"Tell me! who is it that gives orders?  Is it my father?"

"The honourable master gives no orders.  He sits silent in the front
room without speaking."

"It is my mother, then?"

The pariah wagged his head in assent.

"It is the big mistress aided by the excellency's brother.  He tells
her what to say and she repeats his words to one of the kitchen women
who delivers the orders to me.  I said to the kitchen woman that this
was not my work.  I am paid to sweep round the house and carry away the
refuse.  His honour's brother heard me and came towards me with his
stick raised.  I was frightened and obeyed."

"Did you tell them that I broke the waterpot?"

The pariah again made a sign in the affirmative.

"What did they say?"

"The kitchen woman told me that the small master laughed, and the big
mistress said 'It is well.'"

"And his excellency?  How did he receive the news?"

"He bowed his head and hid his face in his hands.  'It is hard on the
boy,' she heard him say, 'and there is no necessity.'  My lord, I have
orders to go to-morrow morning early for the coffee and rice cakes
apportioned to your honour.  What can I do?  My lord must eat or he
will be sick.  I am but a slave with no choice but to obey."

He put his hands together as though he prayed forgiveness.  Ananda
paused before replying.

"Do as you are told," he said at last; and he spoke more gently to the
unfortunate outcaste than he had done before.  "I can give the food to
the crows.  They are not troubled with caste scruples," he added
bitterly.

"But the young master must not starve," said the pariah, with real
concern.  "My lord must forgive his worthless servant for speaking.
This worm has a plan by which the master shall not starve.  To-morrow
before it is light I will bring a herdsman with his cow and he shall
draw the milk and deliver it into your honour's hand.  There are shops
in the town where food may be bought in tins.  It is well known that
people of all castes eat European biscuits in peace without defilement
if they open the tins themselves.  The master shall buy and open for
himself.  I will bring charcoal so that the milk may be warmed by your
excellency and all will be well."

"Good; let it be so," replied Ananda.

He gave the man no thanks, but there was a softness in his voice that
satisfied him.  Ananda turned back towards the little room that was to
serve as bedroom and sitting-room for the present, a den in which even
a dog would have moped and pined.  A sound reached his ears causing him
to stop.  It was a wail of grief such as the women raised on the death
of a member of the family.  He called to the pariah.

"Who weeps in the house?"

"The big mistress and her women."

"Is any one of the family dead?"

"They weep because your excellency is not with them."

"It is enough; go."

It was indeed enough!  At intervals during the night he heard the wail
as he lay on his uncomfortable bed.  It spoke volumes.  He was dead to
them from henceforth and worse than dead.  He was an outcaste sunk to
the lowest depths of degradation, ranked with the "untouchables," and
regarded with loathing as unclean and abominable.




CHAPTER VIII

Pantulu rose the following day as usual and performed his ceremonial
ablutions.  Later in the morning when the family had dispersed he laid
himself down in the shade of the verandah of the inner court.  His wife
had been watching him with some anxiety.  He was too quiet, too
wordless to satisfy her.  She would have been better pleased if he had
broken out into loud cursings and lamentations; if he had exhibited
irritation and temper to the rest of the household.  It would have been
excusable if he had stormed at herself for some trifle; or dealt out
correction to some of the younger members of the family.

She and her women had obtained relief in the wailing and tears of the
previous night.  By the small hours of the morning every one was tired
out and ready for sleep.  They all awoke satisfied that the atmosphere
was clearer and their balance of mind restored.  Each went her way to
perform her duty feeling that there was no need to waste more time in
regret.

Ananda's father had taken the misfortune differently.  So far he had
found no outlet for his grief.  Throughout the long absence of his son
he had daily and hourly looked forward to the boy's return.  Sometimes
he had been assailed by a haunting fear lest something should happen,
lest Ananda should die in that distant land as Coomara had done and
never come back; lest he himself should die.  Then hope would revive
and he would spend his idle hours picturing the home-coming and all its
delights.  Never in any of his visions did the evil enter that had
actually overtaken the family; and now that it had come he could not
face it.  It hung about him like a dark shadow the depths of which he
dared not fathom.

His wife leaned over him where he lay on a mat against the wall.  This
feeble surrender to grief was not at all to her mind, and she had no
intention of allowing him to take his trouble meekly.

"Husband, you are not well.  The kitchen woman shall make you a hot
drink that will warm your heart."

"My heart is already too hot!  I have swallowed the red-hot balls that
Yama prepares for the cursed after death.  I want for nothing but
relief from my pain; and who can give that?"

"Lying here with a broken spirit will not bring relief.  It is a
mistake to grieve while there is hope, unless it be for an hour or two
as I and my women lamented last night.  This morning I rise refreshed
and ready to do battle with the evil.  The struggle has begun and it
has begun well.  The boy broke the waterpot, struck the sweeper and
commanded him to get out of his sight.  He also refused his food last
night.  It must have tempted him sorely for I superintended the
preparation of it myself; and I have not forgotten his tastes."

She sat down by the recumbent figure and passed her long soft hands
over his limbs with a soothing touch.

"My boy went starving to bed?"

"As an ill-behaved son should!"

"He ate very little in the train, saying that he would the better enjoy
his mother's curry.  Eiheu!" he drew in his breath and breathed it out
in a sigh.  "He must have suffered in his hunger!"

Gunga's eyes flashed angrily, the lids closing quickly with an ominous
snapping movement.

"Let him suffer!  His troubles and his hunger have only just begun.
They are nothing to what will follow if he remains obstinate," she said
vindictively.  "With your brother's help we shall bring down his pride
in time."

Pantulu moved his hand as if in protestation.  "Is it necessary?  Can
we not try other means first?"

The thought of cruelties practised upon his son was unbearable.

"Get up and speak to him yourself.  Perhaps he will listen and then
there will be no need for punishment.  Point out how he has sinned, not
only against us, his parents, but against your dead father, your
grandfather and his father.  The shraddah ceremonies have been
faithfully performed by you.  Through your good offices the spirits of
your ancestors rest in peace; but when you die, who is to perform the
rites by which your spirit will find happiness?  Your
great-great-grandfather will not suffer; your ceremonies have released
him; but if your son cannot and will not perform the necessary rites,
you and three generations behind you will remain in the power of Yama
to be plagued as the god of death wills.  What does that mean but
rebirths innumerable to a life of suffering and degradation?  Is the
peace of four departed members of the family to be imperilled because a
wilful son refuses to do his duty?  He must be forced to abandon his
strange opinions.  He must be obliged by some means or other to perform
the rites for the restitution of his caste; and he must and shall be
the chief mourner at the death of his father whenever that may be."

The last words rang out clearly so that they could be heard by the
whole household.  They carried conviction to every listener.  No one
doubted that the mother would prevail in the end.  Even Pantulu himself
with all his weakness born of his intense love for his son admitted
that she was right; that at all costs Ananda must be made to renounce
his new faith.

If no son were at hand to perform the funeral rites at his cremation
and afterwards on the anniversary of his death, he must assuredly be
born again as an unhappy beast of burden; or as some loathsome creature
whose very existence was misery and against whom every man's hand was
turned.  As Pantulu continued silent Gunga took up her parable again.

"When the horse is wilful it is beaten; when the bullock is obstinate
it is goaded.  When a son is disobedient his parents use the means
provided by the gods to bring him into subjection.  What I have done
thus far is nothing! nothing! but before proceeding further I will
leave my husband to exercise his authority.  Rise! be a man! be a
father worthy of the name!  Rise and speak to him.  Show him clearly
all that is involved in his foolish action.  Argue with him.  Aye! if
it pleases you beg of him to consider, to have pity on his father, to
have mercy on his mother.  If he remains obstinate have him beaten and
starved and brought low with pain and hunger----"

"Woman! he is my son! my beloved child!  I hurt him once when I struck
him in my surprise and anger.  I cannot hurt him again!"

The tears welled in the haggard eyes and ran unchecked down the old
cheeks.  She uttered an exclamation of contemptuous impatience.

"You are weak, too weak to lead a headstrong boy.  However, no good can
come of lying here.  Get up and try what the tongue can do."

Pantulu raised himself from the mat, shook out the crumpled folds of
his muslin garments.  His heart ached for his son, and he was conscious
of only one desire--to put his arms about his neck and thank the gods
that his boy was safe home again.  His anger had evaporated in the
ebullition with which the announcement was greeted.  Already he was
secretly repenting that he had cursed him; and he would have recalled
his maledictions if he could have done so without raising the ire of
his wife.

"Where is he?" he asked dispiritedly.

"He walks at the further end of the compound."

Pantulu moved away towards the back of the house and passed through the
garden.  He entered the grassy compound by the doorway in the mud wall
that enclosed the garden.  At the further end from the road he caught
sight of a figure.  With his hands behind his back Ananda stood looking
at the mountain.  His thoughts were in the past when he and his father
started out for the forest.  By some instinct he turned at the approach
of the older man and fixed on him a startled gaze.  For the first time
he noticed how Pantulu had aged.  He stooped as he walked, and dragged
his legs listlessly.  Ananda strode forward and fell at Pantulu's feet
as the pariah had prostrated himself the day before.

"Excellent and honourable father! at last my prayer is granted, and I
am permitted to see and speak with you."

"Rise, my son; I am sorry you have had to wait.  Since my return I have
not felt well."

The watching woman looking through the Venetians saw the meeting and
the son's obeisance.  "Now, if he will press the boy whilst his heart
melts within him, he may bring him to reason," she said to herself.
She called to her brother-in-law.  "See! my husband brings his son to
the house.  They will come into the verandah.  Quick! hide beneath the
window that is behind the bench where he usually sits.  Listen to all
that is said and bear it in mind.  I must know every word that passes
between them."

As Pantulu and Ananda moved towards the house the former asked if the
other had breakfasted.

"I had some biscuits," replied Ananda.  He thought it wiser not to
mention the milk lest he should get the pariah into trouble and stop
the supply.  "I cannot eat food sent by the hand of the sweeper."

"It is impossible!" murmured Pantulu with a shudder.  "Ah!  I am glad
that my boy has not been obliged to defile himself in that way.  For
drink, what have you done?  Have you found means to satisfy your thirst
without defilement?"

"That also I have accomplished."

"Your mother must not know."

"It is by my mother's orders that I am thus treated?"

"It is done by the consent of the whole family, not by the mother
alone," said Pantulu, unwilling to hurt Ananda's feelings.

"You are ruler in your own house, excellency.  Order one of the women
servants to attend upon me.  It hurts the caste of no one to carry food
to the outcaste."

"Inside the house your mother rules, as is the custom among families
like ours.  I cannot interfere; but I can speak to her and ask her to
give the order.  If I can take good news she may listen."

"Good news; what does that mean?" asked Ananda.

"That you will give up your strange madness and allow the caste
restoration ceremonies to take place."

Ananda did not reply.  His father's eyes searched his face with
undisguised anxiety for sign of a favourable response.  He only saw a
tightening of the lower lip and slight protruding of the jaw with an
unconscious toss of the head.  He remembered the trick of old and all
that it implied.  The deep underlying obstinacy that had ever been the
one fault of the boy was still there ready to uphold new beliefs,
prematurely formed in his father's opinion and without sufficient
consideration.  His heart sank within him and he was silent during the
rest of the way.

They arrived at the house and mounted the steps that led up to the
front door.  The door was closed and the verandah was empty.  Pantulu
took his seat upon a broad bench and drew his feet up beneath him.  It
was as Gunga had said, just under a window.  He signed to his son to
sit on the same bench by his side.

"No harm will have been done by your having called yourself a Christian
in a foreign land," continued Pantulu, resolutely looking away from his
companion's face, that he might not be discouraged by what was so
manifest there.  "The ceremonies will be of a character to restore you
even if you have sinned greatly.  I have money enough to satisfy the
purohits.  There are worse offences than the one you have committed.
You have not killed a Brahman, for instance."

"I told you, oh excellent father, that having taken this step there is
no going back," said Ananda, at last, in a low voice.

"I say there is; there must be a going back.  Your deeds can be undone,
expiated.  Listen!"  Pantulu controlled his excitement and continued
more quietly.  "Listen, my son.  Let me put before you all that it
means if you refuse to come back to us.  Who is to perform the funeral
rites at my death if you cannot be chief mourner?  Are they to be left
unperformed?  Is my spirit to wander as a wretched ghost and be born
again as an unhappy contemptible pariah or beast because my son refuses
to fulfil his duties?"

"You will never be born again on this earth, my father; you will never
become a man or a beast again," cried Ananda, his eyes aglow with
enthusiasm.  "The man-God of the Christians came to open men's eyes to
better things, to assure the world of immediate pardon for sin, and to
promise a happiness after death far exceeding any earthly happiness.
Think what a glorious future He offers to us in place of the hopeless
cycles of rebirths."

Pantulu shook his head in perplexity, not without fear at the blasphemy
against Hinduism that fell upon his startled ears.

"Our faith was ancient before ever the man-God of the Christians was
born.  Were the millions, who lived and died before His time, living
and dying in error?"

"They lived and died according to the light given to them by God.  When
Christ was born, a new light came into the world.  It is by following
the new light that I have found my hope in a glorious future, an
existence of joy and happiness surpassing even the Nirvana itself; for
we shall retain our personality and consciousness which is denied to
those who look for absorption in the Hindu Deity.  Try and realise the
joy that you and I, my beloved father, will feel when we meet in that
golden future.  At Coomara's death I was in despair.  Every time I
heard a dog shriek or saw a horse overloaded and beaten, I thought of
my friend suffering similar pains; and all for no fault of his!  It was
intolerable in its injustice; I could not bear it.  Then I met the
family of an Englishman who was killed suddenly; and I wondered at
their peace, their resignation, their perfect faith in his happiness
and their belief in a future meeting.  When I found that the secret lay
in their religion what could I conclude but that their religion must be
better and more advanced than mine?"

Pantulu had listened unwillingly at first and with prejudice; gradually
his curiosity was aroused; he wanted to learn what it was that had
attracted Ananda and taken so strong a hold upon him.  Moreover the
charm of hearing his son's voice once more exercised a kind of hypnotic
influence, causing him almost to forget the vital issues of their
conversation and their variance of opinion.  There was comfort also in
proximity.  The poor old man found delight in the mere touch of his
boy's hand.  Nothing could kill the paternal love that had filled
Pantulu's life.

In the distance he heard his wife speaking sharply to one of her women
in the kitchen.  The sound made him start guiltily.  What had he been
doing?  Listening to rank heresy instead of preaching orthodoxy.  He
pulled himself together with an effort.

"My son, the Christian faith may be all very well for Christians.  We
are Hindus, born, by a fate over which we have no control, in the Hindu
faith.  The faith is bound up with our social and political laws and
cannot be separated.  Let me point out to you how important it is that
you should make no change.  If by remaining an outcaste you cannot
fulfil the part of chief mourner at my death, the law of caste--and it
is upheld by our country's law--disinherits you, You cannot inherit any
of my wealth, my lands, my houses, my looms, my silk farms, my jewels
and hoard of silver.  Not a single rupee will be yours if another hand
drops the rice and butter into the fire before my dead body immediately
after death; if another bears the pot of fire in my funeral procession;
if another lights the funeral pile.  Would you wish to lose your
birthright, the riches that should be yours, the honour as head of one
of the oldest and most respected families of Chirakul?  Would you
deliberately make yourself a pauper, an outcaste, despised even by the
pariahs?  Consider well all that you propose to sacrifice."

Once more Pantulu gazed anxiously into his boy's face for a sign that
he relented, that his pleading had prevailed; and his heart sank within
him as he noted the tightening of the lower lip and the obstinate tilt
of the chin.  Again he spoke, repeating the old arguments, enumerating
the property that should one day belong to his son; but without avail.
At length Ananda made a kind of response in putting a question.

"If I do not take upon myself the duties of chief mourner, on whom do
they fall?" he asked.

"On your son."

"And the child will inherit your fortune?"

"Everything; and as soon as he comes of age he will take my place in
the family councils and you will be as one that has died in a foreign
land."

Ananda rose to his feet intimating that as far as he was concerned the
interview was at an end.

"Your answer, my son! your answer! what news am I to carry to your
mother?" cried Pantulu, in sudden dismay, as he realised two facts--his
son was leaving him, and he had failed miserably in his attempt to win
him back.

"I have nothing to say that has not been already said."  Ananda spoke
with evident pain.  It grieved him to wound his father by refusing to
comply with his wishes.  He knew of what vital importance it was to a
Hindu to have the assurance that the funeral rites would be duly
performed by a fitting and proper member of the family; and he found
the greatest difficulty in maintaining his honesty of speech.  The
temptation to temporise was strong.  "It is impossible, even if I
desired it, to re-establish my faith in the Hindu teaching concerning
the future life.  It is a miserable groping in the dark, a wilful
blinding of the eyes; the whole thing is a relic of the ancestor
worship of a barbarous people not worthy of our nation with its present
civilisation.  I must have something better----"

"My son! my son!" interrupted his father in an agony of disappointment
and grief.  "It is killing me!  Have mercy on me!  My life is bound up
in yours!  I cannot live without you!  Keep your beliefs secretly if
you will, but I beg, I pray you conform outwardly to the faith of your
ancestors.  In their names I command you to come back and do your
duty----"

The door of the house opened and Gunga came out confronting her son for
the first time since his return.  Ananda put the palms of his hands
together and repeated his greeting mechanically.

"May the gods protect you, most excellent and beloved mother!"

She received the salutations with an exclamation of contempt.

"Call me not mother!  Unhappy woman that I am to have given birth to
such a breaker of our most sacred laws.  Go! get out of the house which
you have dishonoured!  See!" she pointed to Pantulu, who had drooped
where he sat till he seemed to crouch in abject misery.  "See how he is
stricken!  It is the hand of a wicked son who has dealt the blow.  May
that hand be accursed!  May its owner be condemned to cycles of
wretched rebirths!"

She poured out a string of curses upon him and he fled.  Obstinate yet
strangely craven, he clung desperately to the new faith which alone
held out a promise of salvation from the awful fate invoked by his
mother.  Her very maledictions drove him to his new leader Christ.  His
father's entreaties only placed before him anew the tenets that had
filled him with such horror.  Already he had had experience of the
persecution he was likely to meet with if he persisted in his adherence
to Christianity.  He shrank from physical pain with the timidity of a
child; but for all that he preferred to face the ills of this life to
the terrors of the Hindu life to come.

With his heart thumping like a hammer he regained his room and sat down
to collect the thoughts scattered by the sudden and unexpected
onslaught made by his mother.  His spirit rose in a wordless prayer; it
seemed to steep itself in the new light, and again he was sensible of a
blessed peace that soothed and calmed his disordered mind.  His courage
returned, and he deliberately set himself to recall his father's words.
What was it that he had said about disinheritance?  He must have made a
mistake.  The solution of the difficulty would be found in the making
of a will.  His father must have a proper will drawn up by which his
son was named as his heir.  He must have another interview.  On second
thoughts perhaps it would be better to write his request.

Taking out his writing case he set to work at once.  The time slipped
by without his knowledge.  He looked at his watch; it was three
o'clock.  The sweeper did not appear and no food was sent.  The
omission did not trouble him.  Again he satisfied his hunger with
biscuits and tried to forget his thirst.

The sun set and the tropical night approached.  He listened for the
step of the despised pariah, but the man did not come to perform any of
his duties.  The excitement of the journey and return home had worn
off, and Ananda was conscious of an oppressive dullness.  He lighted
the dim oil lamp and a little later lay down on his cot.

He was in a sound sleep when he was awakened by the falling of some
little stones near the cot.  A whisper reached his ears.

"Excellency! the cow is here.  Come for your milk."

Ananda rose at once and crept out of his room in silence.  He followed
the pariah to the wall that divided the compound from the road.  A
herdsman of his own caste handed him a bottle of milk over the wall,
just drawn from the cow for which he paid him the current price with a
small sum in addition for his trouble in bringing the cow at such an
hour.  The man went away immediately.

"Excellency, no food was sent to-day by my hand," said the sweeper.
"It did not matter since your honour could not eat it; but the meaning
of such treatment must be understood.  The big mistress hopes to starve
your excellency into obedience.  This she can only do when there is no
more money left in your honour's moneybag.  Be careful of your rupees.
I can bring the cow but I cannot bring rupees and the cow will not come
without the rupees."

The man mounted the wall with the intention of returning to his home.

"Why did you not come to-day to sweep the yard?" asked Ananda.

"I was forbidden by the big mistress.  The order has been given that no
one is to speak with your honour or approach your room.  To-morrow
night I will come and bring the herdsman with his cow."

The following morning Ananda wrote another letter which he posted
himself in the town.  It was addressed to Dr. Wenaston, Principal of
the College of Chirapore; and the long epistle he had prepared for his
father remained in his writing case undelivered.




CHAPTER IX

A soft, balmy air brushed the blossoms of the eucharis lilies, and
swept over the delicate green maidenhair fern growing under the shade
of the verandah of the Principal's house.  Out in the broad sunshine
the blue ipomea, the morning glory of the Indian garden, opened its
mass of azure blooms and spread a gorgeous mantle over the bamboo
trellis that supported it.

The plump rounded figure of Mrs. Hulver, Dr. Wenaston's housekeeper,
appeared on the raised verandah, followed by the butler.  She was a
widow and had been married three times, a fact that no one of her
acquaintance was permitted to forget.

Her father was a British soldier of Scotch birth; and her mother a
Eurasian.  In her youth Maria had some pretensions to good looks.  It
was the prettiness of youth so often seen where the blood of the east
and the west is mixed.  Her small regular features and olive complexion
could make no claim to beauty in her mature middle age, when her figure
had lost its delicate proportions and gained in amplitude.  The eyes
alone were unaltered.  She had her Scotch father's grey eyes with his
keen glance.  Nothing escaped them, as the servants knew by experience;
and when they failed to elucidate a domestic mystery her inherited
shrewdness came to her assistance.

At the age of sixteen a marriage was made for her by her mother, who
chose a prosperous and not over-scrupulous overseer in the Public Works
Department named William Delaine.  He was more than double the age of
his bride; and had lived long enough to put together a nice little
property in houses and land.  There were no children, and when he died
ten years later he left everything to his widow.

Her second marriage was to an Englishman, whose regiment was stationed
at Bangalore.  Corporal William Smith was a reserved man of a
thoroughly British temperament, endowed with a rugged honesty that
despised any sort of evasion of the truth in speech or action.
Uncompromisingly straightforward he did much to carry on the early
training of Maria's mind begun by her father.  She was very happy with
William Smith in a placid way, and bore him a son who was educated in
the barrack-school and in due time drafted into the drummer-boy corps
attached to the regiment.  Later the boy enlisted and followed in the
footsteps of his father.  William Smith was about to take his pension
and return to England when he was struck down with malarial fever; and
for the second time in her life Maria became a widow.

Her third husband was an Irish soldier who had been pensioned and
elected to remain in the country.  He also bore the name of William.
Being of a good-natured domesticated disposition, Hulver cast his eyes
round the large domiciled European and Eurasian community in Bangalore
for a suitable wife.  Mrs. William Smith seemed in every way the woman
to fill the position.  She was of the right age, unencumbered by
children except for the one son who was provided for.  In addition she
owned a nice little property which, with his pension, would make life
easy and comfortable.

A little hitch at one time seemed likely to upset his plans.  It was a
matter of religion.  Hulver was a Roman Catholic.  Maria belonged to
the English Church.  He made an effort to bring her over to his side,
but she stood firm; and sooner than lose so desirable a partner he
joined her Church.  They were very happy, but unfortunately he did not
live long, and for the third time she was widowed.  After his death she
found life very dull.  She determined to take a situation as
housekeeper and advertised in one of the big Indian daily newspapers.

Eola Wenaston, who came out with her brother on his appointment as
Principal of the College of Chirapore, saw the advertisement and
engaged her.  The arrangement proved highly satisfactory to both.
During Dr. and Miss Wenaston's six months' holiday in England Mrs.
Hulver occupied one of her own houses at Bangalore.  The enforced
idleness was not at all to her mind, and she welcomed their return with
unmixed joy.

In her holiday she replenished her wardrobe by the aid of a tailor.
The new muslins and white drill frocks were cut exactly on the old
pattern--a skirt that gave plenty of room and spread like a bell over
her feet; a bodice that showed no fashionable bulge in sleeve or
shoulder but confined her figure decently and comfortably.  White linen
collar and cuffs and neatly fastened waistband completed her daily
costume.  On Sunday Mrs. Hulver was another person.  Her silks "stood
alone," as she herself expressed it; and the flowers of her bonnet
would have covered half a market stall had they been real.

Mrs. Hulver stood on the top step under the large portico, her clean
white skirt extended with starch, her hands folded and a severe
expression on her face.  Ramachetty, the butler, a middle-aged
under-sized native with an apologetic manner, fidgeted behind her in
evident discomfort.  She addressed him in English over her shoulder.
The native tongue was perfectly familiar; it had been her own in her
mother's house; but she chose English as being more in keeping with her
dignity as a housekeeper and it assisted to maintain her character as
an Englishwoman, which she was not.

"Call the gardener," she said, with a clear enunciation and very little
Eurasian accent.  From her father and two of her husbands she had
picked up a curious mixture of expressions.

Probably the summons was expected; for the gardener appeared from
behind the bungalow with the abruptness of a jack-in-the-box.

"Tell him to bring the pots of roses here."

Out came a fat forefinger that pointed to the spot and remained
pointing.  Ignoring the fact that the gardener understood English the
butler translated the order into the language of the country.  The man
hurried away, and by the aid of an assistant brought twelve large pots
of roses.  They were solemnly placed in a row under the portico on the
spot to which the finger pointed.  Seven of the plants bore double pink
blossoms.  The remaining five had crimson flowers of the kind known as
the China rose, a stock upon which the Indian gardener buds the better
class of plant.  There was an ominous silence during which Mrs. Hulver
looked from the roses to the gardener and back again at the roses.
Then she spoke.

"Two years ago our missie bought twelve pink _France_ roses with a
sweet smell.  How is it that five of them have turned red and lost
their smell."

The gardener chattered fast in his own tongue.  He explained that
during the absence in England of the master and the missie there had
been strange kind of weather.  The weather had poisoned the flowers and
made them turn colour and lose their scent.  This preposterous
statement was too much for Mrs. Hulver's dignified patience.  She
abandoned her high-class English and let herself go in the native
tongue.

How dared he tell her such a tale!  Whoever heard of the weather
changing the colour of flowers?  Was it the rain or the sun?  It was
neither; the mischief was done in the night, stoutly maintained the
gardener.  Then, as she kept an incredulous silence, he asked
querulously, if it was any stranger than that carriages should run
along the road without horses, and messages be sent without messengers.
Were the English to be the only wonder-workers?  Could not the gods of
India----?  She cut him short.  While he chattered she had framed her
line of conduct.

"There is no wonder about the business except that the master keeps
such a budmash on the premises.  If the plants had been properly
watered and tended in the master's absence, the weather would not have
affected them.  It is only neglected plants that are affected by bad
weather."  She paused to allow her grey eye to rest upon him; and he
shifted uneasily from one foot to the other under her scrutiny.  "Do
you hear, gardener?  They must be nursed back to their proper
condition.  There will be a fine of one rupee for each pot.  As soon as
they recover, the fine will be returned; but until the twelve roses
bear proper double pink flowers with full, good smell the money will be
stopped out of your pay.  Each pay-day before giving the wages I shall
come and look at the roses."

The fat finger was withdrawn.  Mrs. Hulver turned slowly round and
sailed back into the bungalow.

"What were you scolding the gardener for?" asked Eola, after she left
the breakfast-room and sought the house-keeper to consult with her on
the day's menu.

"I had to talk to him, miss.  He has been misbehaving himself while I
have been away.  Five of those _France_ roses that you are so fond of
are missing, and China plants put in their places."

"My beautiful _La France_ roses gone!" cried Eola, with regret.  "I
suppose he let them die by neglecting to water and has put others in
the pots thinking we should not discover the loss."

"Not he! the spalpeen!  He has changed them--sold the good ones and
stolen some common plants to fill up with."

"What did he say for himself when you accused him of it?"

"That's just what I didn't do miss; I took care not to make any
accusation.  As William--that was my second--used to say, 'Think all
you like but keep your thoughts to yourself if you want to get even
with a bad man.'  I kept my thoughts to myself; and when the gardener
had the impudence to tell me that the weather had turned the roses from
pink to red, I said that if he didn't nurse them back to their right
colour you would fine him.  They will all return," she continued
confidently; "You will have your dozen favourites in a few weeks' time."

Eola was accustomed to Mrs. Hulver's methods of ruling the
establishment, and knew better than to interfere, although she did not
approve of mulcting her servants of their pay.

"Supposing he has sold them; what will you do then?"

"He'll steal them back or buy them back for a small sum.  Trust him for
finding out a way to save himself from a big fine such as we shall
insist on!  As William--that was my first--used to say (he was
country-born and knew the native): 'Give them a chance of straightening
things, and they'll do it as soon as they know that you've found them
out; and they will respect you all the more for obliging them to be
honest.'"

"If the gardener is dishonest perhaps it would be better to dismiss him
and get another."

"Gardeners in these parts go with the houses; and like husbands you've
got to put up with them.  Besides, it is my experience that you may
change and change, whether it's a servant or a husband, and find
yourself no better off and no worse off in the end, provided you don't
have extraordinary bad luck.  They're as like in their separate ways,
both servants and husbands, as the cocoanut trees.  The only difference
you can see in the cocoanut trees is the way they stand.  One will lean
to one side and another to the other side, and no two will lean just
alike.  As William--that was my third--(he was born in Ireland) used to
say: 'Maria, me dear!  God made us men as we are; and if it weren't for
the trials that we bring ye, ye'd just grow yer wings and fly away; and
then, bedad! where should we poor men be widout ye?'  He had a nice
pleasant way with him, but it was balanced by his fondness for drink;
for _that_ was the way he leaned."

Eola brought the conversation back to the business of the morning and
began to discuss the lunch and dinner.  Ramachetty and the cook were
called, and the orders for the day given.  She sat down at her writing
table and entered the daily marketing account in the book kept for that
purpose.  The butler stood at her elbow on the right and Mrs. Hulver
took up her position on the left.  There was never any deviation from
this little domestic ritual.

The butler proceeded with his list of purchases; firewood, ghee,
soup-meat, mutton, potatoes, fish, eggs, naming the price of each.
Once Mrs. Hulver coughed, and he corrected himself, taking off half an
anna.  At another item she moved from one foot to the other, but
remained silent.  He paused, and as the warning note of the cough was
not sounded, he passed on to the next entry, letting the overcharge,
which was very small, stand.

"Carrots, two annas," he continued.

"Carrots!" ejaculated Mrs. Hulver sharply.

"Carrots, two annas," repeated the butler, sticking manfully to his
story.

"Fetch them!"

The cook who was waiting behind the butler ran off to the kitchen and
returned with four limp dry roots which he exhibited with many
misgivings.

"Six-day-old carrots," commented Mrs. Hulver, with fine scorn.  "They
were entered in the account last Friday.  Cross off 'carrots, two
annas,' please, miss."

The butler accepted the correction without another word, and proceeded
to the end of his list.  Eola would willingly have dispensed with some
of the details, but Mrs. Hulver was inexorable.

"It must be done, miss," she had said in reply.  "As long as you can
hold a pen you must take down the daily account.  If by any chance you
were ill then I should be obliged to do it; but Ramachetty and I shall
remain better friends if I have nothing to do with the bookkeeping."

"You have something to do with it, Mrs. Hulver.  You check his attempts
at cheating."

"I keep them down to reasonable proportions.  As William--that was my
second (he was a very straight-minded man)--used to say: 'Keep others
honest and they'll keep you up to the mark.'"

When the accounts were finished and the butler and cook dismissed, Eola
turned to her housekeeper.

"Mrs. Hulver!" she said.

"Yes, miss."

There was a slight pause, during which Eola turned back again to the
writing-table.  The pen was still in her hand and wet with ink.  In
absence of mind she dotted the margin of the account book, her thoughts
far away.

"Yes, miss," repeated Mrs. Hulver, whose grey eyes searched Eola's face.

"Ah! yes!  What was I going to say?  Oh!  I know.  I wanted to tell you
that we have a visitor coming."

Mrs. Hulver was not so easily deceived.  Miss Wenaston had not
forgotten the subject of her communication, and the news she was about
to impart was no news to her housekeeper.

"Who is it?" asked Mrs. Hulver, innocently.

"Dr. Wenaston has invited Mr. Alderbury to come and stay here a few
days.  He has business in Chirapore.  Will you see to the spare room.
I brought out new curtains and chintz to re-cover the sofa and chairs.
Set the dirzee to work at once."

"It shall be begun this very day.  I was only thinking about it
yesterday afternoon when I came in from the town.  It's more than a
month since you came back, miss; and those curtains have been lying by
ever since you unpacked them.  As William--that was my first--used to
say (he was a great man for show, being a Eurasian and a good deal
darker than me): 'When you've got fine feathers, don't hide them.'
What brought the spare room to my mind was Mr. Alderbury's name.  I
heard that it would be likely that he would be coming to Chirapore
before long."

"Did you?" asked Eola, looking round at her housekeeper in surprise.
"I suppose you heard it in the bazaar.  I don't know how these things
get about, but in this country nothing is sacred from bazaar gossip.
What do they say?"

"The business of the Reverend Mr. Alderbury is connected with Ananda,
the son of Pantulu Iyer, a rich native of this town.  Perhaps you know
the story.  If so, I'd better be going as there is lots to be done this
morning, and the dirzee is never in the way when he is wanted."

Mrs. Hulver spoke with an injured tone and a misjudged expression on
her smooth round olive face.  She was an inveterate gossip, and her
visits to the shops and market were prompted as much by curiosity to
hear the news as to verify the butler's charges.  Nothing hurt her more
than to imply a knowledge of this weakness.

She had a little sitting-room that opened into the back verandah.  The
door was seldom shut in the daytime.  From a point of vantage in the
doorway she superintended the tailor, and kept an eye on all that went
on in the back verandah.  She made as though she would seek her room
with as little delay as possible.  Eola, repentant that she had hurt
her feelings by remarks about the bazaar gossip, softened in her manner
and begged to hear the news.

"Do tell me, Mrs. Hulver, what they say.  I have not heard anything
except that Mr. Alderbury is coming by the Doctor's invitation.  My
brother only spoke of his visit this morning when he received Mr.
Alderbury's reply to the invitation.  The Principal was late in getting
home from his ride, and had to hurry over breakfast to be in College in
time."

The housekeeper was mollified and the dirzee forgotten in her eagerness
to relate the news that was already thrilling the town.

"The story goes in the bazaar that Pantulu's son has turned Christian,
and the whole family is in a great taking about it.  They don't know
what to do."

"Is that all?  There is nothing much in that.  Of course it is a good
thing when a native becomes a Christian; but in these days it is not a
matter to make a fuss about."

Mrs. Hulver regarded her seriously.  She had expected to create
something of a sensation by the announcement, but Eola took it as a
trifle hardly worth mention.

"Begging your pardon, miss, there is a great deal in it to create a
fuss; and what is more the whole town is working itself up into a
ferment over it.  They say that they have never had a caste man go
Christian before.  The Christians have always been pariahs and they
have no caste to matter.  As William--that was my third--used to say:
'Change your clothes; change your food; change your house if you like;
but to change your religion is the very divil;' and he knew; for he'd
been a Roman Catholic and he turned Protestant to marry me."

"How did you manage to persuade him?" asked Eola, her mind once more
adrift.

Mrs. Hulver was always ready to talk incidentally of her late spouses.
At the same time she never lost sight of the subject that caused the
digression.

"He wanted me to change my religion; but I was firm.  I told him that
if he couldn't take me as I was he might go without me.  I could get on
without him.  Besides it was only right that he should be the one to
change, being the gentleman; it is the gentleman that ought to give way
to the lady all the world over."

"And he fell in with your suggestion?"

"It was the bit of property that did it, though he didn't admit it,"
replied Mrs. Hulver confidently, the shrewdness of her Scotch ancestry
peeping out.  "He was drawn to me by two strings, myself for one, and
my little fortune for the other.  As William--that was my first, him
that left me the property--used to say: 'It's money that gives you the
pull when the balance is even.'  But as I was telling you; this son of
Pantulu Iyer has gone and changed his religion and stirred up a bees'
nest of buzzing in the town."

"Was it Mr. Alderbury's doing?"

"No; he had nothing to say in the matter; it was all done without his
knowledge.  Pantulu sent his son to England to finish his education;
and while he was there, so the tale goes, he saw a very bad accident.
One of these elevators, these flying men," she explained, as she noted
a puzzled expression on Eola's face, "fell at his very feet and struck
down his friend, a native gentleman who was walking with him."  Already
the story had gathered fiction in its passage from mouth to mouth.
"The elevator was killed on the spot; but the friend had time to make a
last request, and it was that Ananda should become a Christian.  He
never said a word to his people, but got it done on the quiet and
registered and everything.  It gave his father a terrible shock; it
nearly killed the poor old gentleman when his son came back and told
him what had happened.  He is a very rich man and would give a crore of
rupees to have the mischief undone.  But as William--that was my
second--used to say: 'Mind your doing, because as a rule there's no
undoing.'  In this case there can't be any undoing.  Once a Christian
always a Christian, unless you want to burn."

"I remember Ananda and his friends in London," said Eola, "I was at
that very meeting and saw the man fall.  Coomara was not killed by the
aviator, but in a railway accident as he was returning to town."

"Anyway he was killed," replied Mrs. Hulver.  "His death affected his
friend and made him feel so bad that he turned Christian.  The poor
young man is having a very rough time with his people.  They are
determined to knock the Christianity out of him; and it will be a
pretty stiff fight if he has any spirit.  It is said in the bazaar that
Mr. Alderbury is coming in from the district to see if he can smooth
matters down a bit.  As William--that was my third--used to say: 'Let's
have peace if it's possible; but if it must be war, let's fight to the
finish! and make it a good one!'"

"He didn't practice what he preached; he gave in," remarked Eola,
unable to resist poking fun at her devoted housekeeper.

Mrs. Hulver smiled broadly, and was quite ready with her answer.

"You see, miss, there was the lady in the case, meaning me, I can't
deny but what William, my third, found the change of religion
troublesome.  It meant new habits and a new grip of the thing.  He was
never satisfied, and always had the feeling that he had played the
turncoat.  The trouble was at Christmas time when his weakness overtook
him.  His leaning was towards whisky, being an Irishman.  It was
expensive whilst it lasted.  As William--that was my second--used to
say (he was a teetotaller): 'One vice will cost more than twenty
virtues.'  In his old religion my third used to go to his priest when
the fit was over, and get square with himself by a proper penance; but
when he changed he didn't quite know where he was with himself."

"You should have made him give it up altogether," suggested Eola.

"It was born and bred in him, and he couldn't have given it up to save
his life.  As William--that was my first--used to say when I complained
of his Eurasian ways: 'You mustn't expect a wild goose to lay a tame
egg.'  William my third could no more help being weak at Christmas than
a child can help over-eating itself."

"Didn't it worry you to have him break out?"

"No, I don't know that it did," replied Mrs. Hulver, placidly.  "It had
its advantage.  As William--that was my first--used to say when he and
his contractor settled their accounts: 'Everything has its advantage if
you know where to look for it.'"

"What advantage could your husband's bout of drinking have for you?"
asked Eola, glancing at her in mild wonder.

"It gave me my chance of speaking.  When he recovered and could listen
to reason, even though his poor head ached badly, I had the opportunity
of letting him have a bit of my mind, and of telling him some home
truths I never could have put before him at any other time.  Now with
William, my second, it was different.  He was always ready to come up
to attention at a moment's notice.  Stiff and straight, he lived by
rule; and the whole time I was with him I never once got the chance of
emptying my mind."  Her voice had a distinct ring of regret in it as
she made the confession.  "I tried it two or three times; but the
moment I began he rose from his chair and drew himself up haughty and
proud, just like his colonel when the men came to the orderly room with
their complaints.  He heard what I had to say in a dead silence, that
sort of cooled you down, and all he replied was: 'I'll look into the
matter, Maria, and see what can be done;' and there it ended.  With
William, my third, it was a real pleasure to rate him.  He was such a
gentleman in his repentance and his apologies.  But as I was telling
you, miss, about this poor young man, Pantulu Iyer's son.  I can
sympathise with him in his change of religion as I sympathised with
William, my third.  It will take some time before he will get even with
himself in his new faith."

"The cases are not on all fours, Mrs. Hulver."

"No; they are at sixes and sevens if all I hear is true.  As
William--that was my second--used to say: 'Keep things straight and
you'll be master; but let them get at sixes and sevens and they will
master you.'  He made a great study of his fellowmen and was full of
wise sayings.  I felt very lonely when he died."

"What did he die of?"

"Microscopes; the doctor said he swallowed some when he was out route"
(she called it rowte) "marching.  They were in the water that he drank
by the roadside.  They gave him fever which carried him off in three
weeks, and left me a widow for the second time."




CHAPTER X

There was one subject alone on which Miss Wenaston and her housekeeper
disagreed.  It had nothing to do with the management of the house.  It
was marriage.

Mrs. Hulver having entered the bonds of matrimony three times
considered that she was entitled to speak with authority on the
condition of wifehood and widowhood.

Eola Wenaston was twenty-seven years of age and unmarried.  When Mrs.
Hulver had reached that number of years she had been a wife for a
decade, and had entered upon her first period of widowhood.  Although a
British father had done much to form her character, her Eurasian mother
had instilled certain opinions to which she firmly adhered.  One fixed
belief, as strong as any article of her faith, was that every woman
ought to be married.  It was the duty of relatives and guardians to
forward that end; it was even still more the duty of the woman herself
to attract and secure the best husband available without immodesty.

Miss Wenaston she found sadly wanting in self-help.  Dr. Wenaston, her
brother, was a very busy and sometimes overworked man.  He did his best
in Mrs. Hulver's opinion when he invited men to his house.  His
efforts, conscious or unconscious--Mrs. Hulver was not sure which--were
not supported as they should have been by his sister.  She made no
attempt to attract in dress or manner.  She was content to wear the
same dinner-dress that served when she and her brother were alone; and
she did not hesitate to allow Dr. Wenaston to absorb all the
conversation if he chose, remaining silent through the dinner and
perhaps through the whole evening as well.  This was altogether a
mistake, as Mrs. Hulver tried in vain to point out more than once.
Eola listened in perfect good nature, but her replies were not
encouraging, and the housekeeper was vaguely conscious that she was
being kept in her place.  She persevered however, and never lost an
opportunity of putting in a word as far as she dared; but she always
felt that there was a barrier that she might not pass.

A certain Major Ellingham appeared at Chirapore on his way to a
shooting expedition in the Western Ghats.  He was entertained by Dr.
Wenaston for a week while the camping preparations were made.  Mrs.
Hulver devoted her attention to the catering; and with the assistance
of Ramachetty and the cook sent in such meals as elicited the guest's
warm approval.  In the evening as she sat in her wicker-chair by the
open door of her sitting-room, she smiled as she heard the strains of
the piano, and Ellingham's fine baritone in "Love's old sweet song," or
some such melody.

Nothing came of it, however; and the guest departed as heart-whole as
he left Eola herself.  Mrs. Hulver's even temperament was ruffled by a
wave of annoyance as she thought of the enhanced bazaar account and all
the trouble she had been put to in devising dainty cooking.  One
morning she ventured to suggest to Miss Wenaston that Major Ellingham
would make a good husband.  Eola agreed readily enough.

"Probably he will pick up some nice girl by and by, when his head is
less full of shooting big game," she said indifferently.

"He is not the man to care for a young girl, miss.  I take it from his
appearance and general bearing that when he makes his choice, it will
fall on a lady with some experience of the world, like yourself and
about your own age."

Eola laughed outright and Mrs. Hulver was hurt.  A joke she could
understand, but ridicule was like a red hot iron, and she shrank into
herself.  Eola saw that her mirth gave offence, and she hastened to
soothe and make amends.

"You need have no fear, Mrs. Hulver.  He doesn't take my fancy, nor do
I take his; so there is no likelihood of your losing me."

"It's not that, miss, which troubles me," the housekeeper explained.
"Gladly would I see you go as I went myself to the arms of a husband.
It's the proper place for every right-minded woman.  As William----"

Eola interrupted her with another laugh that she found impossible to
repress.

"You and I don't agree on the subject of marriage and never shall.  I
am single and you were very much married----"

Mrs. Hulver bridled and broke in upon her speech with some indignation.

"Indeed, miss!  I was no more married than I ought to have been.  To
have been less married with my three husbands wouldn't have been
respectable.  And I am sure it has helped me along; I should have been
a poor thing without it.  As William--that was my second--used to say:
'Humble wedlock is better than proud singleness.  Marriage is like a
good pair of boots to a woman.  It will carry her through fair weather
and foul.  If the boots wear out before their time the best thing to do
is to get another pair.'  He talked like that when I was hesitating
about taking him.  It was not the man himself that made me doubt but
the way he leaned.  It was all towards truth and honesty."

"You are truthful and honest, Mrs. Hulver," protested Eola.  "Don't say
you are not or you won't be doing yourself justice."

"I have always shrunk from lies and thieving," admitted Mrs. Hulver.
"I never could stoop to low conduct of any kind.  But there is truth
and truth.  As William--that was my third--used to say when I gave him
a talking to: 'Lay it on mild, me dear.  Truth is like a mustard
plaster.  It may be very good for the patient but you've got to be
careful how you apply it or you may hurt your best friend more than a
little.'  What troubled me was whether I could live up to the standard
of my second."

"You might have been happier if you had not married him," said Eola,
with a twinkle in her eye, as she controlled her lips.

"I couldn't have been happy alone with nothing to live up to and no one
to tend.  I chanced it and found it quite easy.  All I had to be
careful about was to prevent anything from coming to his knowledge that
was not up to his mark.  I soon got used to keeping things smooth; and
there was never a married man happier than my second."

The thought of her success as William the second's wife restored her
tranquillity of mind, and she left Eola to go about her duties in her
usual contented frame of mind.

An Assistant Resident was the next person who all unconsciously
fluttered Mrs. Hulver's hopes, raising them with regard to Eola only to
dash them to the ground again.  It so happened that a man came to act
for six months whilst the permanent Assistant Resident was away on
leave.  He was unmarried, musical, and a great reader.  Inclination and
compatability of tastes often brought him to the college either to
discuss new writers with Dr. Wenaston, or to try over new music with
Eola.

Once more Mrs. Hulver concentrated her attention and energy on culinary
matters.  She had not been the chosen partner of three husbands without
discovering how great a factor the food question is in the life of a
man.  She was able to quote from the sayings of all three on the
subject.  The Assistant Resident ate such dinners at the college house
as he never forgot; but the way to his heart in his case was not
through the stomach.  Over the music and books he made a certain amount
of progress; and had he seen any response to encourage him, he might
have fallen into the belief that Eola was the one desirable woman in
the world for him; but there was no such encouragement.  At the end of
six months he went away; and it was Mrs. Hulver's heart, not Eola's,
that sank in despair.

"Mr. Fressenden will miss you and the Doctor, miss," remarked Mrs.
Hulver, austerely, the morning after his departure.  "You have been
very hospitable to him."

"I daresay he will," was the indifferent reply.

"He should get married.  An Assistant Resident has to receive a lot of
company; and a house without a woman at the head makes a poor show."

"Our present Assistant has a very nice wife."

"It's a wonder that Mr. Fressenden doesn't follow his example."

"He will find a wife in time," replied Eola, as she added up the column
of figures given her by the butler that morning.  "I make it half an
anna less than Ramachetty.  I must go over it again."

"He had better not be too long about finding a wife," continued Mrs.
Hulver, determined not to let the subject drop till she had had her
say.  "If a man waits too long he ages in looks and manners, and he is
not taken for himself.  He may think that he is, for God deals out
vanity with a liberal hand when a boy is born.  But with a middle-aged
man there are other considerations at the back of a woman's mind
besides love; like houses, for instance."  She broke off shortly with a
little laugh.  "It tells on both sides for that matter.  If
William--that was my first--hadn't had a little property behind him, my
mother would never have chosen him for her daughter with his dark
complexion."

"Was he very much darker?  After all I think Ramachetty is right, and
that it is my mistake not his."

"He was quite four shades darker than me; some people might have said
it was five; but that was his age.  Being older than me he showed it
more."

"Yes, the butler has added it up correctly," said Eola, laying down her
pen.  "You were telling me about your first husband.  It must have been
a drawback to have had him darker than yourself."

"I am not so sure, miss, that it wasn't an advantage.  William knew
that he was blacker than me by several shades, and that I was his
superior in European descent.  Both his parents were Eurasians.  With
me it was only on one side, my mother's.  That being so he never dared
to cheek me or speak disrespectfully as country-born people are apt to
do when they lose their tempers.  It's a very powerful thing in our
sex, is the tongue.  I'm sure I don't know what we poor women would do
without it.  As William--that was my third--used to say: 'The tongue is
a wonderful thing, Maria, me dear!  It may be as sweet as sugar; or
sharp as a lime; or as stinging as red pepper.'  He used to add that
the devil himself loosened Eve's tongue for her when she took the
apple, knowing that she would have no chance with ould Adam unless she
had that advantage."

Yet a third prospective husband, in Mrs. Hulver's opinion, appeared in
the person of an executive engineer in the service of Government.  He
was highly favoured by the housekeeper since Delaine, her first
husband, had been a subordinate in that same service.  With renewed
hope she flung herself into the campaign, and left nothing undone in
the commissariat department that might propitiate and lead on a
faltering suitor.

It was all to no purpose.  He departed like the other two without
speaking; and Mrs. Hulver in her vexation could not refrain from
unburdening herself on the subject at the first opportunity.

"When a man in the Public Works Department gets to be an executive
engineer he ought to have a wife.  Mr. Fearing is just throwing away
his opportunities by keeping single.  He seems such a nice gentleman,
too.  There ought to be no difficulty."

"Except that perhaps marriage has no attraction for him," suggested
Eola.

Mrs. Hulver stared at her in sheer unbelief.  The man or woman sound in
mind and body who did not desire marriage in the abstract was
unthinkable.  Choice was another matter; many an individual deferred
making his choice for reasons that might be good or indifferent, but
were sufficient all the same.  It was impossible in her opinion that
any one could look upon the estate of matrimony as undesirable.

"Begging your pardon, miss, if I may be so bold as to say so, I don't
think either you or your brother know much about marriage.  Your minds
have not been brought to bear upon it.  As William--that was my
second--used to say: 'Thoughts are like guns; they are no use until
they are trained on an object.'  You haven't had an occasion to train
yours yet on to marriage.  Now in my case they've been trained all my
life on matrimony, and I can speak with knowledge and experience.  If a
man tells you that he doesn't want to get married, you may take it that
either he can't get the woman he wants, or he hasn't made his choice.
If a girl tells you that she doesn't want to get married--"  Mrs.
Hulver actually panted with indignation at the mere thought of
it--"She's--she's--well! she's a liar--at least she is in this country."

Eola's light laugh was the only reply to such an assertion, and Mrs.
Hulver took herself off to her sanctum at the back of the house with
the nearest approach to wrath in her placid good nature she was capable
of feeling.

Then Bernard Alderbury appeared on the scene, causing Mrs. Hulver doubt
and perturbation of mind.  He was a vigorous worker in the ranks of one
of the large Church of England missionary societies, a strenuous parson
who held a charmed life against the many evils prowling in his field of
labour.  He seemed immune to the effects of bad water, coarse food,
poisonous mosquitoes and a tropical sun.  His exemption was not
obtained by disregard of the conditions of Indian life up-country.  On
the contrary he observed the greatest care in safe-guarding himself by
the use of such appliances as science provided.  He took the minimum
risk and the maximum care and forethought.  Aided by a magnificent
constitution and an endless store of confidence and hope that killed
depression, he preserved the health and good spirits so essential to
his particular work.

Wenaston and Alderbury were old college friends.  When the missionary
spirit threw its mantle over the latter, Wenaston, by no means an
irreligious man, did his best to persuade the other from--as he put
it--throwing himself away on the colonies and hiding his light under a
bushel.  A man of his abilities and private means should have different
aspirations.

Alderbury received the advice in his light-hearted manner, and assured
his friend that going to India as a missionary would prove his own
salvation and keep him out of the morasses of modern thought and
controversy.

"I must fight some one," said Alderbury.  "I don't want civil war; I
want an enemy outside the pale of Mother Church.  Hinduism seems to me
the very thing, a noble and worthy foe; an ancient faith, a marvellous
system of philosophy with a crafty degenerate priesthood.  Doesn't the
mere thought of it stir your blood and make you tingle to be up and
fighting?  Grafting upon the obsolete creed something infinitely
better, a glorious oriental Christ, soul-satisfying and sufficient, Who
will lift India's millions into a fresher and purer atmosphere of life
and thought."

Wenaston glanced at the shining eyes turned upon him in enthusiasm as
he would have looked at the symptoms of an obscure disease.  It was a
thing he could neither understand nor account for; but some instinct
made him hold his peace.  If the man was right, well and good; if he
proved wrong, he would find it out for himself.  He forbore to comment
or to combat the new resolve.  Alderbury pursued the course he had
mapped out for himself, and in due time went to India.

Wenaston continued the student and developed into the school-master.
When a vacancy occurred in the college of Chirapore he was asked if he
would accept it.  Until that moment he had not thought of going to the
East.  His sister, who had a great desire to see India, added her
weight to inclination, and he decided to take the appointment.

Once more the two friends met, and Alderbury rejoiced in the renewal of
their intimacy; for among other facts he learned that none pressed more
heavily upon him than the loneliness of the missionary's life, its
isolation and the complete absence of congenial companionship.  Under
the circumstances it was not to be wondered at that he never lost an
opportunity in his missionary itineration of spending a few days with
the Doctor and his sister.  It was a little out of his way, but that
did not matter.  The holiday was the more complete since there was no
duty within reach.  The missions he superintended were in British
territory, beyond the borders of the native state.  He would have
established work of some sort in Chirapore, but he was not encouraged
to do so by his society nor by the Government of the State.  The
society already had more than enough irons in the fire with an open
field in British India clamouring for yet more workers.  But Alderbury
could never visit his friend without casting envious glances at the big
classes of boys assembled in the college hall.  He would dearly have
liked a free hand on the platforms of the classrooms; however this was
not permissible.  One of the conditions attached to the appointment of
Principal was that there should be no attempt at proselytising; a
condition to which Wenaston easily subscribed, since he had not even a
spark of missionary enthusiasm.

Eola was of her brother's way of thinking.  She too looked at
Alderbury's work with something like detached curiosity.  His energy,
his whole-hearted desire to see India Christianised, his indefatigable
and unceasing sacrifice of self, appealed to the instinctive
hero-worship that is implanted in every woman's breast; but though she
could wonder and admire and was insensibly drawn by his personality,
she could not understand the fascination that held him to his chosen
profession.

As for Mrs. Hulver she had her own reasons for disapproving of his
visits, and it had nothing to do with his missionary zeal.
Nevertheless she did not fail to provide a table worthy of her master's
position.  The food was substantial rather than recherché, nourishing
rather than dainty.  She had formed some fixed opinions upon the
subject of missionaries generally; they were deeply rooted and
unalterable.  As a class missionaries required feeding up; their
wardrobes needed the services of the dirzee to mend and patch and darn.
She was puzzled more than a little when she found that Alderbury paid
no particular attention to the food, and ate sparingly, with a distinct
inclination towards daintiness.  As for his wardrobe it was in better
condition in some respects and needed less attention than the Doctor's.
Not a sock required darning; not a coat needed stitching; and what was
more, his clothes were not only new and none the worse for wear, but
they were of the best and finest description.  The pay of a missionary
was known to be of narrow proportions, leaving no margin for luxury.
It did not seem fit and proper in her eyes that he should be better
dressed than his host.  That he possessed anything besides his salary
did not enter Mrs. Hulver's head; because if he had private means he
never would have come to India as a missionary; he would have adopted
the military service and been an officer in the army.

Alderbury came and went at his own convenience, never announcing his
proposed visit by more than a day or two, and never prolonging it
beyond the two or three nights, which gave him at least one complete
day's rest, so essential sometimes to the worker for whom Sunday is the
busiest day of the week.  How intensely the man enjoyed that day his
hosts had little suspicion.  Whether he discussed the latest theory in
science or religion with Wenaston, or the latest novel with Eola, it
was all pure happiness unclouded by a single anxiety.

Mrs. Hulver was the only person who was disturbed.  The laughter of the
happy trio awoke no sympathetic joy in her.  She was relieved when she
heard only the low tone of the masculine voices, indicating that Miss
Wenaston was taking no part in the conversation.  It was fortunate for
her peace of mind that she could not see Eola's eyes dwelling on the
long figure extended in the cane lounge placed between her own easy
chair and her brother's; nor how she watched him when, carried away by
excitement, he pulled himself forward and even sprang to his feet the
better to emphasise what he had to say.  As he stood before them,
speaking to the Doctor, but often turning his deepset eyes upon Eola,
the girl thought of St. Paul.  By what mysterious force was he driven?
What fire was it that kindled in his eyes as he talked and made him
look different from any other man she had known?  The Indian world as
she knew it was very peaceful; the people of the native State of
Chirakul were notorious for their content and for the absence of all
sedition and unrest.  Yet to hear him talk one might be brought to the
belief that it was not a peaceful model native state, but an enemy's
land, a field for a deadly battle with a worthy foe.

Alderbury passed out of their little world as suddenly as he came in,
leaving them slumberous and quiescent.  Eola missed him, but Mrs.
Hulver indulged in a sigh of relief.  Much as she desired to see Eola
married she drew a rigid line at missionaries.  Not that missionaries
should be debarred from marriage.  On the contrary, a wife was more
needful in the mission house than anywhere else.  But the missionary's
wife belonged, in her opinion, to quite another class.  She did not
know where the wives were bred.  They were endowed with many admirable
virtues, and were eminently suited to be helpers to their worthy
husbands in proselytising among the heathen; but of one thing she was
sure; there was a wide difference between them and Miss Wenaston.
Their rambling bungalows had a certain amount of plain solid comfort
about them; and they made the best of the country fare that their
limited salaries obliged them to buy, but there was nothing dainty in
either dress or food or furniture.

The large compounds in which their dwellings were placed contained
outbuildings where the natives gathered for instruction; both bungalow
and compound were haunted with mild-looking converts in white muslin;
their happy faces an indication that Christianity and the pastoral
supervision of the missionary agreed with them.

On the other hand who ever heard of a missionary's wife being invited
to the Presidency town to take a share in social festivities?  Who ever
saw, asked Mrs. Hulver, with raised eyebrows, "a missionary's lady" at
a race meet or at a Government House ball?  Miss Wenaston belonged to
the class that welcomed Viceroys and figured at races and balls.  Thus
it happened that after some of these flying visits Mrs. Hulver had
remarks to make.

"Missionaries are very good sort of people in their way.  I often
wonder how they can keep it up."

"Keep what up?" asked Eola, mystified.

"Their spirits and their belief that they are doing these natives good."

"Of course they are doing good, Mrs. Hulver," said Eola, as if she were
slightly shocked.  The half-formed doubt occasionally slipped unbidden
into her own mind but she had never put it into words.

"I didn't say that they were not doing good.  I left it open.  As
William--that was my first--used to say when the native overseers had
too big a grasp on the profits: 'You can't wash a crow white nor expect
anything of him but a croak.'  It's the thought of the millions and
millions of heathen in India that is apt to stagger one.  It's like
trying to empty a tank with a teaspoon.  However, as William--that was
my second--used to say when I was down-hearted about the way anything
was going: 'You lay your brick and lay it sound and leave the rest to
others.  No man ever built a church steeple all by himself and yet old
England is full of churches and steeples.'  Anyway, I shouldn't like to
be a missionary's wife.  I could dress up to it; I could feed up to it;
but I couldn't stand the converts trapesing through the compound and
hanging about the verandahs.  I shouldn't feel as if the house belonged
to me."

"Perhaps it wouldn't be necessary to have them there," suggested Eola,
who read between the lines with secret amusement.

"Oh! yes, it would; it's their reward; their right," replied Mrs.
Hulver with conviction.  "Any lady that's suitable to be a missionary's
wife makes no objection; but she must be, so to speak, born to it.
It's not a job that would suit you, miss.  As William--that was my
third--said when he heard that the Chaplain was going to marry the
Colonel's daughter: 'If the church mouse takes the field mouse to wife
there'll be a difference of opinion about the mode of living.'  You
could never put up with mission ways."

"You never did any mission work, I suppose," said Eola, turning the
conversation from a subject she was not prepared to discuss with her
housekeeper.

"No miss; but my husband William--that was my second--he tried his hand
at it once, only once.  He saw some of the canteen servants doing pujah
to a stone image that stood under a tree behind the canteen.  He went
up to them in the middle of the pujah and said: 'Boys, you're all going
to hell that way.'  One of them that served the Presbyterian minister
spoke up and said: 'No sar!  It's the Roman Catholics that are going to
hell, not us!'  William walked away without another word; and when I
asked him about it, he said that missionary work wasn't his job, and
that he would leave it to those who knew more about it than he did."

"It was very good of him to make the attempt."

Mrs. Hulver looked pleased at the praise and approbation of the
departed William the second.

"He was a right-minded man about everything, loyal to his God and his
King; and he was the father of my only child."




CHAPTER XI

Eola sat at the tea-table in the verandah.  Her brother, punctual to
the stroke of four, came in without haste, crossing the compound from
the college buildings to the private house.  Punctuality, he declared,
was his salvation.  He could not have stood the rush of work had he not
rigidly adhered to the hours of his meals.  Afternoon tea was the one
he liked best.  He gave himself exactly thirty minutes for it.  It was
thirty minutes of solid rest.

"Where's Alderbury," he asked, as he seated himself in a comfortable
cane chair.

"He has gone to see Ananda."

"You don't mind if I read, do you, Eola?  The new magazines came two
days ago and I haven't had time even to open them."

He tore off the cover of an illustrated monthly and handed it to her.
A second magazine was opened for himself, and he was soon deep in an
article professing to give the last word on the chemistry of biology.
Whilst he read he drank his tea.  A bell rang and he jumped up,
instantly detaching himself from the magazine and breaking off in the
middle of a paragraph.  He hurried away in the direction of the college
without another thought for his visitor.  At his departure Mrs. Hulver
appeared.

"When you go out, Miss, will you kindly get some carpet thread for the
tailor.  The motor is ready."

"I can't leave the house till Mr. Alderbury has come in.  He promised
to be back to tea at four o'clock.  He must have been detained."

"Oh, yes, miss, I daresay he has been detained," assented Mrs. Hulver.
"Our master might be kept if he chose to allow it.  As William--that
was my third--used to say: 'There are some men who will be in time for
every meal, hungry or not; and there are others who will be in time for
nothing but their own funerals.'"

Eola ignored the implied depreciation of her guest and proceeded to
give orders that would ensure his comfort.

"We shall want another pot of tea, please.  Tell the matey to keep the
kettle boiling, and he is not to make the tea until Mr. Alderbury comes
in."

"If you like to go out now, miss, I can see to Mr. Alderbury and give
him his tea.  I am sure he won't mind.  His head is that full of his
missioning that he won't notice whether it is poured out by you or by
me.  As William--that was my first--used to say: 'When a man is
bothered by business he has no room in his head for a woman and can't
tell one from another.'  Mr. Alderbury is bothered with this business
of Pantulu Iyer's son coming Christian.  It has all been done in a
hurry, as I was telling you.  As William--that was my third--used to
say----"

What William the third said was lost in the sudden appearance of the
guest.

"So sorry I'm late, Miss Wenaston.  Yes, please, I should like some
tea.  What with the dust and the amount of talking I've done, I'm as
thirsty as a fish."

He hurried away to his room to get rid of the powdery ochre blown up
from the laterite roads.  Mrs. Hulver glanced after him with as much
disapproval as she dared to show.

"Next to schoolmasters, missionaries should be particular in being
punctual.  As William--that was my second--used to say: 'Men should be
valued like watches for the time they keep.'"

"And he was quite right from a military point of view.  Will you see
about the tea, please, Mrs. Hulver!"

"It's being made, miss.  I've got my eye on the matey.  It will be
ready as soon as Mr. Alderbury is ready for it.  Like as not he will
read those letters that have come while he has been away and forget all
about his tea."  Mrs. Hulver looked at Eola as much as to say, "And you
too."  She continued: "A man with a lot of business needs a good head.
As William--that was my second--used to say: 'Drive your business with
a firm hand and a clear head or your business will drive you."

Alderbury's appearance checked the flow of Mrs. Hulver's wisdom, and
she departed to her room.  As he received his cup from Eola's hand he
said:

"You would like to hear how I fared, I am sure."

"Yes, please; tell me all about it."

The words did not ring quite true; they were wanting in sympathy, and
seemed to the quick sensitive ear of the missionary to be spoken more
out of polite curiosity than real interest.  He glanced at her and
tried to swallow some of the scalding liquid with the aid of the
teaspoon.  The innate love of fighting in a good cause rose within him,
and he determined to try conclusions with her.  She should become
interested, and more.  He would conquer her indifference and rouse her
sympathy.

"I had no end of a difficulty in seeing the parents.  It was the father
I wanted to get at and he was very inaccessible."

"You had an interview with Ananda, of course.  I knew him in England,
and should like to hear how he is getting on.  I don't care a bit about
his stupid old father.  Why can't the father let the son alone, and
allow him to take his own line?"

"The step involves so much."

"If that is so, then Ananda shouldn't have taken it."

Alderbury put down his cup suddenly, his mind entirely diverted from
the business of tea-drinking by her words.

"You don't mean that you really think he ought not to have become a
Christian?" he inquired, in a grave voice that had lost the lightness
with which he had greeted her on arrival home from his visit.

The seriousness of his manner awoke a spirit of perverseness.

"I am of the opinion that he might have had more consideration for his
father's feelings," she said, with a levity that jarred.  "Why should
existing relations that seemed so satisfactory be disturbed?"  Then, as
Alderbury remained silent, she continued: "There is a time for all
things.  It is too soon to ask educated India to accept Christianity;
the way is studded with such colossal difficulties.  Don't you often
feel that you are fighting against almost insuperable obstacles?"

"In short you think it would be more expedient for the missionary to
run away or temporise, instead of buckling on his armour and standing
up to the enemy.  What about our responsibilities and lending a helping
hand to our fellow-men?  The marsh is a good enough place for the horse
to wallow in, and the man enjoying the firm ground of the meadow has no
duty towards the poor beast!  Miss Wenaston, that is a poor creed."

"Are you so sure that the Hindu is in the mud?" she asked, more in a
spirit of provocation than honest inquiry.

There was a fearful fascination in rousing him, and she took the risk
of his anger for the pure pleasure of seeing him come up to the
fighting line.  The eyes that met hers shone with the light of battle,
and she inwardly trembled at the spirit she had wantonly raised.

"Am I sure, you ask?" he cried derisively.  "If you knew what Hinduism
meant you would never put such a question to a man of my profession.
You cannot realise how encrusted it is with insidious error appealing
mischievously to the sensual part of humanity.  You know nothing of the
practices at the worship of Kali--of the life led by the dasis in the
temples of Southern India----" he stopped abruptly, conscious of having
been led in his excitement and enthusiasm a little too far.  It was
impossible to pursue such an unsavoury subject with an English woman.

"I don't know much about the worship of Kali; and I am sure that I
never heard the word dasi before.  What is a dasi?"

"Oh! never mind," he exclaimed, the fire subdued.  "Please give me
another cup of tea, and I will tell you about Ananda.  Perhaps when you
hear what has driven him out of the faith of his ancestors, you will be
able to sympathise."

He explained the theory of transmigration, and how Ananda had revolted
against it on the loss of his friend; how he put himself under
instruction in England and took the step voluntarily and without
pressure.  From the story of his conversion he passed on to the
description of all that had followed since Ananda arrived in India.

"The man is being persecuted in all kinds of ways.  They have supplied
him with food, but they have employed an out-caste sweeper to carry it
to him.  The prejudice of fifty generations is not to be conquered all
at once, and Ananda cannot bring himself to receive his food at the
hands of a man whom he holds more unclean than we should consider an
unwashed workman who had just emptied a sewer."

"How has he been existing?"

"On biscuits and milk, a poor diet for a healthy hungry man.  It has
kept him from starvation however.  Your brother did wisely in sending
for me after receiving Ananda's letter.  He needs advice and support,
and he will require help of another kind when the small amount of cash
in his pocket is finished."

"I suppose you talked to him--and prayed with him?" said Eola,
conscious of the banality of her words even as she spoke them.

"Dear lady! does a man stop to fall on his knees when he sees a comrade
drowning?  You will think me a poor sort of missionary, perhaps, when I
confess that I forgot to pray with him.  I was too busy chucking
life-belts to the poor chap.  Already he was assailed with doubts as to
the wisdom of the step he had taken.  'I have been too hasty,' he said.
'I did not consider how seriously it would affect my father's peace of
mind and his health.'  Then he drew a picture of the old man's feeble
appearance as he came to him two or three mornings ago in the compound.
'He was so bowed and bent he might have been seventy instead of fifty.'
It gave him a shock, and he seems to have entertained a suggestion made
by his father which was nothing less than the contemplation of partial
apostacy.  I fought against the weakness.  I preached free-will and
choice.  I appealed to his honesty and combated the cowardice that
prompted retrogression.  He admitted that he could never again accept
the Hindu doctrine of transmigration.  Then I pointed out the
responsibility that falls on a man's shoulders when his eyes are opened
and the choice of road lies with him.  I dug away and rooted about to
find a little courage.  He has more obstinacy than courage at present.
I hope that the one will breed the other."

While he talked he drank tea and devoured bread and butter with the
wholesome hunger of a schoolboy.  Mrs. Hulver appeared once more.

"The motor is waiting, miss.  I'm afraid I can't do without the carpet
thread."

"I will go at once," replied Eola, rising from the tea-table to put on
her hat.  "Will you come for a run in the car, Mr. Alderbury?"

"I should like it immensely," he replied with a promptness that did not
escape the ears of the housekeeper.

She was not satisfied with the result of her interruption to the
conversation.  By despatching Miss Wenaston on a shopping errand she
had aimed at putting an end to the _tête-à-tête_.  The guest, she
supposed, would be driven to his room or into the garden until Dr.
Wenaston was released from his duties and could join him.  As Eola
disappeared in the direction of her room Alderbury turned in his
impulsive way to Mrs. Hulver.

"I haven't had a moment to ask you after yourself.  How have you been
since we last met?"

"I've been keeping pretty well, thank you, sir.  All that troubles me
is the haricot veins in my legs.  If I stand about too much, they swell
and become very painful."

"How is your son?"

Mrs. Hulver beamed suddenly, and the severe expression that she had
worn since he appeared in the verandah vanished.  Next to talking about
her late husbands she loved to expand on the subject of her boy.

"He is very well and grown quite the man.  He tells me that he has just
been made a corporal.  He's in his father's old regiment, and it has
been ordered out at once.  He ought to be landing in less than a week's
time.  He has promised to come off and see his old mother the first
minute he can get leave.  They say that the regiment is going to
Bangalore.  If so I shall see him often."

"I hope he will prove a good son."

"No fear but what he will," said Mrs. Hulver, with the unshaken
confidence of a proud mother.  "He is happy in his work and likes
soldiering.  As William--that was my second and the boy's own
father--used to say when I talked of the child following any other
trade: 'Bring up the foal to the shafts and don't try to teach him to
drive a wheelbarrow.'"

"He was perfectly right; each man should follow the line for which he
is best suited."

"But they don't do so always.  There are many men--and women, too--who,
being square, find themselves in round holes.  Now you, sir, I take it,
are in the right-shaped hole.  So am I; and so is Miss Wenaston.  She
would do badly in my hole, for instance; for she would be cheated every
hour of her life by these budmashes of servants; and she would be still
worse off in your hole.  There's nothing of the missionary about her,
as any one can see with half an eye.  As William--that was my
third--used to say: 'It doesn't need a uniform to show you who's a born
soldier.'  He was a fine figure and had a handsome----"

Miss Wenaston appeared and the car drew up under the portico, cutting
Mrs. Hulver short.  She watched the pair drive away with renewed
misgivings.  "I don't like that look in her face.  She's feeling just
as I used to feel when William, my second and the father of my boy,
took me out walking in the bazaar, he looking so fine in his corporal's
uniform."  She called to the butler.  "Ramachetty!  Come here; I want
you.  To-morrow is pay-day.  I'm going out into the garden to count the
roses.  Where's the gardener?"

She descended the steps of the front verandah and walked slowly,
displaying an imposing dignity, to the spot where the roses stood.  She
counted the pots.

"--six--seven--"  As she arrived at the seventh the gardener pointed
with feverish anxiety to the eighth.  It bore a beautiful double pink
blossom full of fragrance, proclaiming itself a true and genuine _La
France_, "Eight; good!  Wasn't it just as I said?" she asked the butler
triumphantly.  "With care the roses would turn back to their proper
sort.  Why haven't the others turned, too?" she inquired, looking
severely at the gardener.

"They are turning now; all coming nicely if missus will please wait."

"Mind they do come," she replied, lifting a warning finger that
indicated a determination to exact the fulfilment of her demand.

"Missus will let off the fine!" said the gardener in an insinuating
voice.

"Certainly not!  There will be four rupees fine to-morrow; four rupees
kept back until the missie has twelve good, sweet-smelling double pink
roses."

"I am a very poor man!" whined the gardener.  "I have a large family
and two wives, both big hungry women.  What can I do if missus stops my
pay?"

"You should have thought of that before you spoilt the roses," said
Mrs. Hulver, showing no sign of relenting.

"I am not a bad man," pleaded the gardener.  "Missus must please
forgive.  I am same religion as missus--a Christian----"

"What!" cried Mrs. Hulver, with such startling emphasis that they all
jumped, butler, gardener and gardener's assistants.

"A Christian, a poor worm of a Christian, same religion as missus and
master and missie!"

"How dare you call yourself a Christie?" cried Mrs. Hulver, in deep
indignation.  "How dare you say that you belong to the same religion as
me and the master and our missie?  You! a spoiler of roses! you! a lazy
idle budmash of a gardener!  You! with two big hungry wives!"

The unfortunate bigamist trembled visibly before this outpouring of
wrath.  He felt that he had made a false step.

"Ramachetty! is that man a Christian?" she asked, turning to the butler
with an abruptness that upset his self-possession.

"I never heard that he was, ma'am.  He doesn't belong to my Church, the
Roman Church."

"Is it true that he has got two wives?"

"Yes, ma'am; one to cook and keep the house, and the other to mind the
field and the buffalo and make the butter.  My Church doesn't allow two
wives."

"No; nor any other Christian Church.  He calls himself a Christian
because he thinks I shall be sorry for him and let him off his fine.
Tell him that only heathen people marry two wives and turn pink roses
into red.  He is the sort of budmash who brings Christianity into
disgrace.  I'll double his fine if he dares to say again that he
belongs to my religion.  When he has learned to keep pink double roses
pink and double, then we will talk about his being a Christian and
belonging to our religion; but mind!  I don't give him much hope.  I
never knew any missionary that allowed two wives."

The butler was not indifferent to the pronoun used by Mrs. Hulver when
she spoke of "our religion."  He dismissed the gardener to his duties
and followed the housekeeper to the back verandah.  She retired to her
room to make out the pay-list for the establishment.  Against the
gardener's name she ventured to write the full sum of his wages and
made no note of any fine.

"Those four missing plants will all be back by to-morrow unless I am
very much mistaken.  Christian or heathen, I'll keep him and the rest
of them up to the Christian standard or my name is not Maria Hulver.
As William my third used to say, he having been in the Artillery:
'Drive your team straight whether they're horses or mules, and you and
your guns will get over the ground without a spill.'"




CHAPTER XII

After dinner that same evening Alderbury sat in the verandah with Eola
and her brother.  The end of the verandah was enclosed with a trellis
over which creepers were trained.  From the roof hung a lantern that
shed a subdued light.  If Eola desired to work or her brother to read,
a lamp was brought and placed upon a table.  This evening the lamp was
not required.

While the servants waited at table, Alderbury could not speak of the
subject uppermost in his mind.  No sooner had the coffee been handed
round and the cigars lighted, than Ananda's name was brought up, and he
described his visit to the convert.

The chief thing accomplished was the moral support he had been able to
give to the convert.  He devoutly hoped that it would sustain Ananda
until something could be effected to improve his condition.  All that
had happened since his return home was quite sufficient in itself to
induce depression; and there was always a danger lest depression should
be followed by apostacy.

"I want your help, Wenaston," said Alderbury suddenly.

"You shall have it," the other responded without hesitation.

"You promise without knowing what it is."

"You want to borrow the motor-car.  It shall be ready at sunrise
to-morrow.  I can't drive you myself, much as I should like it.  I
haven't time.  The chauffeur will take you where you want to go."

"I shall be very grateful.  The car transforms travelling from
purgatory to pure delight.  It was not the car, however, that was in my
mind.  I want something else--help for Ananda.  His money won't hold
out a week longer, and then it will be in the power of his people to
starve him."

"He will have to take food from his pariah servant--a practical
beginning of his education in the brotherhood of man," remarked
Wenaston.

"Lately no food of any description has been sent to his room.  Unless I
am very much mistaken the supply will stop altogether."

"And his father will give him no money?"

"I am sure of that."

"What are Ananda's rights as a son?  Can't he claim assistance and
support from his nearest relatives by his caste laws?"

"If he were still a member of the Hindu religion he could claim
house-room, food and clothing from his father.  These benefits are
conceded by the unwritten law of caste custom.  Having abandoned his
faith and become an outcaste, he loses all his rights legal and social."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite certain.  I called on the chief lawyer in the town on my way
back to find out what his position really was--the reason I was late
for tea, Miss Wenaston--and from him I learned the law regarding
converts to Christianity as it stands in the native State."

"Is it different from the law in British India?"

"Entirely; the 'vert has no legal standing at all, no civil rights
whatever.  He is an outcaste in every sense; in other words an outlaw.
Neither by inheritance, nor by deed of gift, nor by a duly executed
will can he inherit his father's property.  He has no power to compel
his wife to live with him.  She may contract any other alliance she
chooses as if he had never existed; and he has absolutely no control
over his children.  What is more they are empowered to divide his
patrimony among themselves exactly as if he were dead."

"How unjust!" exclaimed Eola in indignation.

"It is nothing less than iniquitous," responded Alderbury, with some
warmth.  "But there it stands.  We cannot alter it and Ananda must face
it."

"He should get away from his home and his people; he is at too great a
disadvantage where he is," remarked Dr. Wenaston.

"Exactly so; and we must help him," said Alderbury.

"If it means a sum of money, of course I am ready----"

"I don't want your money, Wenaston," protested Alderbury, speaking
rapidly as was his wont when excited.  "I want your help in another
way.  Ananda is very unwilling to leave his home to which he has only
just returned.  He is devoted to his parents and cannot at present
bring himself to believe that they are lending themselves to this
system of persecution.  He attributes it to his uncle.  Until he has
proof that his father's hand is actually turned against him, he wishes
to continue living under his roof.  He would like to obtain work of
some sort in Chirapore that would enable him to keep house with his
wife and child separately.  Can you find anything for him to do in your
school?  He is quite capable of teaching English, mathematics, history,
geography or anything of that sort to boys."

Wenaston was silent and unresponsive to the appeal.

"I suppose you haven't a vacancy and don't see your way to making one
on the staff," said Alderbury in a disappointed tone.

"As it happens there is a vacancy, but----"

"Why this hesitation, then?  It would be a clear way out of our
immediate difficulty if you would give him a trial.  I feel sure he can
teach.  You know him personally and need no testimonial as to his
character."

"I wasn't hesitating over his character or his qualifications as a
teacher.  I was wondering how much sympathy was extended in the town to
the family, and whether feeling runs strong on the subject of his
conversion."

"It will not affect his status in the college.  Of course he
understands that religious discussion is prohibited.  You may depend
upon him for not proselytising; he will not even introduce the subject;
and I am sure that he will be ready to fall in with your wishes in
every way.  Poor fellow!  I know he will be very grateful."

The pleading on the part of Alderbury roused Eola's sympathy, and she
added her entreaty to his.

"You must lend him a helping hand!"

"It is against my better judgment," replied her brother, giving in
reluctantly.

"If it doesn't answer you can put an end to the arrangement at once; a
day's notice, if you like, will be sufficient.  Take him on for a week,
and let me hear at the end of it whether the plan is working
successfully or not.  It will be a great relief to my mind to know that
he has employment of some kind, not only as a means of living but also
as occupation.  Later on I will try to persuade him to leave Chirapore
and get work elsewhere.  With a testimonial from you he should have no
difficulty in finding a situation as schoolmaster in one of our
missions.  If he will only sever his connection with his family and
place himself beyond their influence I see a grand future before him in
the mission field.  We so rarely win over a man of good caste.  At
present he clings with all the force of a great love to his family and
to his wife and child.  Patience! patience!  I am a most impatient man,
Miss Wenaston," he concluded, turning to her with a boyish laugh that
echoed through the verandah.

Having discussed the details of Ananda's immediate employment,
Alderbury dropped into a thoughtful silence.  From a few words spoken
casually by the Doctor he was not satisfied that Wenaston appreciated
and valued Ananda's conversion as much as he should.  Eola's remark
earlier in the day also hung in his mind; yet he did not want to preach
or to talk shop, as he sometimes called it.  His difficulty of finding
an opening was solved by a question put by Eola herself in the pause
that ensued.

"You said this afternoon that I knew nothing about Hinduism.  Don't you
think you might enlighten me a little?  I am open to conviction, and
quite ready to believe that the Hindus will be the better for the
Christianity you are giving them.  Of course idolatry is only fit for
savages, and the people of India ought to adopt something better as
they are not savages."

"You mustn't think that the Hindus are a nation of idolaters.  The
ignorant masses worship idols and probably believe that the images
themselves have some mysterious power of divinity in them; but the
educated Hindu will tell you that the idol is symbolical; that they
look beyond and through the image to the Deity.  Their conception of
the Deity is different from ours.  He is impersonal and He is the
creator of good and evil."

"A bold theory of the infinitude of the Deity on one hand and the
existence of evil on the other," said Wenaston, who was listening,
although Alderbury addressed his remarks to Eola.

"The Hindu believes that the world exists for a retributive purpose so
that spirits may find embodiment, and suffer pain and joy according to
their deserts.  Through their sufferings in cycles of rebirths they
progress towards their final state of impersonal beatitude.  The
retributive world with its process is eternal and lasts through all
ages.  If the world dies, it dies to be born again.

"A wonderful conception but deadening in its effects, whether one
contemplates rebirth in this world or absorption into Brahma,"
commented Wenaston.  "The marvel to me is that Hinduism has held its
own so long."

"Its preservation is due to its wonderful system, its width and
breadth.  It preaches on one hand an asceticism which is acceptable to
the most exacting fanatic.  On the other it gives a licence, in the
name of religion and the worship of Kali, that appeals irresistibly to
the lowest and most sensual side of man.  Hitherto its isolation and
its marvellous power of absorbing other religious systems have been a
tower of strength; but it cannot be saved much longer from the inrush
of the modern spirit and stands in danger of being broken down."

"By what?" asked Eola.

"By the response to modern thought and by the awakening of Hindus like
Ananda to a yearning after something better.  Under the influence of
the new spirit of inquiry they are demanding more freedom, more
spirituality in their doctrines.  They revolt as Ananda has revolted
against the hopeless theory of transmigration, and they require
something more satisfying in its place."

"The Hindus are a religious people, with strong cravings that must be
satisfied.  This is shown clearly by the absence of any desire on the
part of my boys to shirk their religious duties," said Wenaston.

"By and bye those boys won't be content with the performance of
superstitious pujah with a pantheistic leaning.  They will require one
God for India, not a million gods; they will demand an uplifting of
suffering humanity, and they will rebel against a horrible creed of
fatalism and predestination."

"What have you to offer to a man like Ananda?"

"Our own faith."

"Can he comprehend it with its spiritual teaching?"

"Ask him some day and he will tell you that in the teaching of Christ
and in the following of Christ's example he has found a soul-satisfying
substitute for his worn-out creed and childish rituals."

"Alderbury, you are an incorrigible iconoclast.  With one blow you
would annihilate the longest-lived religion of the world!"

He was on his feet in a moment, as was his way when excited, and his
voice rang out into the night.

"You obsolete old professor! you bag of dry bones!" he cried, as he
strode up and down the verandah.  "The ancient Greeks and Romans killed
their conquered enemies, I know; but modern conquerors pursue a
different plan.  They preserve; at the same time they subdue and bend
the conquered to their will, making use of the good and pruning away
the bad.  We shall treat Hinduism in the modern manner; remodelling its
rites and its institutions.  Even that bugbear to all mission work,
caste, shall be reformed.  Hinduism will be transfigured in God's good
time by the spirituality of Christ.  It will merge into a fuller,
richer Christianity than we of the less imaginative West have ever
contemplated."

Eola felt the blood coursing through her veins with an emotion that was
startling.  Alderbury's enthusiasm, his magnificent faith, his absolute
optimism and trust in the future roused her admiration, almost her
envy.  She felt the infection of his hope and belief; but because she
was a woman, there was something behind it that detached her mind from
the cause for which he battled, and centred her thoughts upon the man
himself.  While she listened, carried away by his words, she was
conscious of his splendid personality, his strength, his confidence,
his purity of heart.  He was a born leader of men with a strong
personal influence that was not to be denied; and the messenger
occupied her mind more than the message he carried.  Alderbury was
unlike any one else of her acquaintance; and each time they met she
became conscious of a growing attraction that she was unwilling to
acknowledge even to herself.

When the hour for retirement came, Wenaston said good-night to his
guest and departed to his sitting-room to read.  Eola stood for a few
minutes after she had shaken hands.  Alderbury waited, his quickened
perception where human beings were concerned telling him that she had
something to say which was for his ear only.

"I am sorry I spoke as I did about Ananda and his religion.  I am
afraid I gave you the impression that I thought one religion as good as
another."

"It certainly crossed my mind that such was your attitude," he replied
gravely.

"I ought not to have said that it was a pity that he had changed.  I am
sorry."

She was sweet in her penitence, and Alderbury was constrained to take a
firm grip of himself.

"People have a habit of making loose statements of that kind, and of
expressing a vague regret that we interfere with the Hindu creed.  They
don't realise what they are practically admitting.".

"It is so!  I have often heard English men and women say that they
would rather have a good heathen servant for instance, than an
indifferent Christian."

"The standard of one is entirely different from the standard of the
other.  A 'good heathen's' religion makes the practice of certain sins
a religious act.  Among the 'indifferent Christians' there are a great
many who have no religion at all; but they claim to be of the faith of
those they serve, thinking that they will be more favoured."

"I mustn't get into the habit of making loose statements."

"Nor of believing everything a native tells you.  I am sure Mrs. Hulver
is careful how she receives what they say of themselves.  I should like
to hear her on the subject, and also on their habits, good and bad.
She would be sure to quote one of the Williams."

"I know what they would have said!" cried Eola, the cloud dispersed,
and on good terms with herself again.  "William the first would have
held that habits had their advantages and might be acquired with
discretion.  William the second's views would have been more rigid.
Habits were good and bad; the good were to be adopted at all costs and
the bad avoided.  William the third would have been of the opinion that
habits, good and bad, were unavoidable in poor weak human natures and
must be accepted with the man."

Alderbury's laugh rang out; and Mrs. Hulver, dropping off to sleep on
her cot under the mosquito curtains, heard it.  She stirred in sleepy
protest.  Missionaries had no right to joke and laugh like that with
"society ladies."  How could they expect to convert the heathen if they
indulged in such levity?  As William used to say----; but here she fell
asleep and happily forgot Miss Wenaston and the missionary, together
with the words of wisdom that fell from the lips of her trinity of
Williams.




CHAPTER XIII

At sunrise Alderbury started off in the motor to drive back to that
particular mission centre of which he was the superintendent.  It was
situated in British India, about forty miles from the town of Chirapore.

On his way he stopped at the house of Pantulu.  He walked quickly round
to the side where the room assigned to Ananda was situated.  He found
him sitting on his deck chair in the open doorway.  He was trying to
concentrate his attention on a book, but his eyes often wandered to the
hills.  He heard the tread of footsteps and looked up expectantly.  As
soon as he caught sight of Alderbury he rose, pleasure plainly written
on his face.

"I did not think that you would have time to call and see me again," he
said, as he shook hands warmly.

"Dr. Wenaston's offer of the car has made it possible.  I come with
good news.  He has consented to my suggestion that you should take up a
post as junior master in the school.  The salary you will draw will
enable you to support yourself and make you independent of your father."

Ananda's eyes grew bright at the prospect and he questioned his visitor
eagerly as to his duties.  They were explained, together with the
subjects that were forbidden.

"I shall like it beyond all things," said Ananda.  "For the present I
will go on living here.  I am getting used to the room.  It is not as
bad as it looks."

"Have your people sent you any food this morning; any coffee and rice
cakes?"

"No; they have never yet sent me anything in the early morning.  The
pariah has returned, I am glad to say, with permission to sweep and
perform his usual duties."

Alderbury began to dive into the deep pockets of his travelling
overcoat.  He produced bread, butter, a bottle of strong coffee, cake,
sugar, salt and various other eatables.

"You don't mind accepting these things from Miss Wenaston.  Her
housekeeper gave them to me with her own hands.  When you go to the
college to-morrow morning, call at the house and say you are grateful."

"Of course I will.  I'll see the housekeeper as well as Miss Wenaston."

"And let me give you another piece of advice, Ananda.  You must fill up
the whole day with regular employment, whether you are at the college
or at home.  You must not allow yourself to drift into the habit of
idleness.  It is bad for any man, European or Indian.  You must read
and make notes of what you read.  You must write to me and tell me what
you are teaching your class.  I will send you some books addressed to
the care of Miss Wenaston as soon as I get back; and if you want
lighter literature you can borrow of her."

They talked of various matters for some time, and then Alderbury looked
at his watch.

"Half-past eight! how the time flies!  Is that your man outside?  Hi!
come here!  I want you!" he called in the man's language.

The sweeper ran forward, and Alderbury gave him directions.

"Go to the car and bring me a small basket you will find on the seat."

The pariah returned and was directed to lift the lid, which he did.  As
he held it open Alderbury took out a packet of sandwiches.

"I may as well save time by eating my breakfast whilst I talk."

The food disappeared without any hindrance to the conversation, and the
fact that it had been received from the pariah did not affect the
missionary's appetite.

"Put down the basket and give me that bottle and cup," said Alderbury
to the man.  "Hold the cup while I pour."

The thermos flask was full of steaming coffee, and Alderbury took the
brimming cup from the hand of the despised pariah, giving him back the
flask to replace in the tiffin basket.

"This is Mrs. Hulver's own make; I never tasted better coffee.  You
have got the same brew in that bottle, but without milk.  It should
last you three or four days.  Boil your milk and add it to the cold
coffee.  Don't heat the coffee or you will spoil the flavour.  I was to
be sure and tell you this from Mrs. Hulver.  Good-bye and good luck go
with your new venture.  Come along my man; bring that basket and put it
in the motor."

The lesson was not without its effect although nothing was actually
said.  Somehow when the Englishman accepted food from the hand of the
pariah the action had a different complexion, and it set Ananda
thinking.  Alderbury hoped it would bear good fruit, and help to make
matters easier if the time should come when no food was obtainable
except through the pariah.  He was anxious to be off, and he bade
Ananda good-bye, parting with him at the entrance of the little yard
where the gourd spread its vivid green foliage.

As he approached the gateway of the compound leading into the road a
messenger met him with a request that he would come into the verandah
in front of the house.  Pantulu Iyer desired a word with him.  Quite
ready for an interview whatever might be its nature, hostile or
friendly, he mounted the stone steps.

A few minutes elapsed before Pantulu, accompanied by his wife,
appeared.  They approached silently, their hands placed together palm
to palm, and stood before him with bowed heads.

"Sir!" began Pantulu, then he paused, unable to command his voice.

"Speak, Pantulu Iyer; what do you wish to say?  I am ready to listen."

Alderbury's gentle manner broke down the nervous constraint and opened
the flood-gates of speech.  In a voice that was so charged with emotion
as to be near breaking point, the old man prayed for the missionary's
assistance in the restoration of his son, his only child.  There were
numbers of others, he pleaded, who were ready and willing to join the
Christian religion.  Their apostacy would not be felt by their
families.  With him it was different.  In taking away his son the
missionary deprived him and his father and grandfather of happiness in
a future life.  Who was to perform the shraddah ceremonies when he,
Pantulu, was dead, if his son Ananda refused to perform them?  The
thought of his fate and the fate of his ancestors was intolerable,
unbearable, appalling!

As he poured forth his entreaty Gunga's tears flowed down her haggard
cheeks and fell upon the folds of her tawny silk saree.  Her grey hair
was dishevelled, and its silvery strands were sprinkled with the dust
she had thrown upon her head according to custom in overwhelming grief
or misfortune.

Keenly sympathetic to human trouble at all times, Alderbury could not
listen unmoved.  The appearance of both father and mother told its own
tale, and he fully realised the havoc that had been wrought in one of
the happiest homes of India.  It was ever the same, even from the very
beginning of the story of Christianity, he thought with a sigh.  All
pioneer work must run on similar lines; and although he knew that it
was inevitable, his heart ached at the sight of their distress.

"If you feel thus about the future why not take the same path your son
has taken?  He is right.  Go with him and you will find such joy and
peace in your old age as you have never experienced before."

"Can the bullock learn a new method of drawing the cart after spending
all its life under the yoke?  We cannot change at our age.  We must
follow in the footsteps of our fathers.  Oh! sir! if you would only say
the word, and bid my son remember his poor old father, all might yet be
made right.  Let him conform outwardly, whatever he may believe
inwardly, for our sake."

Yielding to a sudden impulse, Pantulu and his wife fell at Alderbury's
feet, touching their foreheads to the ground.  By this time the tears
were falling from the old man's eyes.

"Our son! our dearly loved son!  Give us back our child, our little
one! the only child that was ever sent by the gods to bless us!"

Not a word of reproach was mingled with the prayer which made it all
the harder for the missionary to bear.

"He cannot return to you.  You must go to him," repeated Alderbury.

"Sir! if you will bring him back to us--and he will come!  I know he
will! if you so much as hold up your finger--I will give you a lac of
rupees to build a temple for your God.  Your God is merciful and kind.
He will take the church in exchange for the only son of two
heart-broken parents.  He will be satisfied if you build it large and
put much gold and jewels in the sacred place.  You shall have money and
jewels and gold and silk and rich carpets and hangings--all these and
more than you ask you shall have, if you will only give him back to us."

"Give him back to me, his mother!  Let me have my little one again! my
little one whose tiny hands upon my neck awoke the mother-love within
me," prayed the proud Gunga at his feet in abject humility.

It was getting beyond Alderbury's endurance.  His human pity brought
the tears to his eyes.  He bent over the prostrate figures.

"I cannot grant your request even if I would.  There can be no return
for your son.  You must go to him; he cannot come back to you.  May my
God, the God of love and mercy, help you!"

He turned and left the verandah.  In another ten seconds the car was
speeding down the road hidden in a column of golden dust in the bright
morning sunshine.

      *      *      *      *      *

The following morning, punctual to the minute, Ananda, accompanied by
the Principal, entered the class room where he was to instruct
twenty-seven boys whose ages ranged between twelve and fourteen.  He
had already received his instructions, and was relieved to find that
nothing was required of him in the teaching line otherwise than what he
was easily able to perform.

The class had assembled and most of the boys were studying the lesson
that was to be repeated.  There was a buzz of voices as each individual
conned aloud the portion he had prepared.  A few talked together in low
tones with a solemnity that would be strange in English schoolboys.
Whether studying or chatting they all behaved quietly, with a total
absence of trickery or exuberance of spirits.  This self-contained
orderliness, peculiar to native children in India, renders it possible
for a teacher to manage a class of fifty pupils.  Not only are the boys
attentive, but many of them show an eagerness to learn which is
surprising to the English master.

There was a sudden breathless hush as Wenaston entered; and
twenty-seven pairs of eyes were fixed in rounded wonder upon the new
teacher.  He was recognised by most of the boys.  Many of them belonged
to families known to his own people.

He took his seat at the desk and began the lesson.  Wenaston, after
listening a few minutes, nodded his head in approval and left the room.
His own class of young men preparing for one of the higher examinations
was waiting for him.

At twelve o'clock the classes broke up and the boys went home to the
midday meal.  It was customary to reassemble at half-past one for games
in the playing-field and begin work again an hour later.

After lunch Wenaston put on his sun-topee and strolled into the
cricket-field.  A few boys stood about in couples idly talking, but no
game was in progress.  He called to one of the big boys and asked why
there was no practice at the nets.  The reply was to the effect that
most of the boys were leaving at once for home where their presence was
required by their families, without waiting for afternoon school.

Wenaston was accustomed to the absence of his pupils on the occasion of
domestic ceremonial; but it was usual to let him know beforehand.  The
reason was sometimes stated but not always.  He passed on to his
private sitting-room in the college where he had papers to look over.
At three he went to the hall.  His class was small; so also were the
classes of the other masters.  At half-past five the bell rang and the
boys dispersed.  He met Ananda outside the building.

"Come in and see Miss Wenaston," he said.  "How did you get on this
afternoon?"

"Very well, indeed, sir, as far as my subject was concerned.  It is a
great pleasure to go over the old ground again and renew my
acquaintance with it.  I had very few boys this afternoon; only ten out
of the twenty-seven turned up."

"There must be some public festival going on; for the other classes
were also small.  Do you know what it is?"

"Not a regular feast day, I am sure.  If there is anything of the kind
it will be of a private nature: a wedding or a funeral.  I am in
Coventry as you know, sir; and so I hear no news whatever."

"I hope you will not have to remain long in that uncomfortable
position.  You must establish yourself in a house of your own."

"I intend to do so as soon as I can consult with my wife.  Up to the
present I have not been allowed to see either her or the child."

"You will not leave without them?"

"No; they must come with me.  As long as I remain in the house I have a
better chance of obtaining an interview."

They found Eola in the garden looking at the roses.  Her favourites
were all back in their places, a dozen beautiful _La France_ plants.
Whether they were the originals she could not say.  The pruning was
always a severe process that deprived the bushes of individual features
and made them all of one pattern.  Mrs. Hulver was not far off; and the
gardener, beaming with satisfaction at the thought that his full wages
were assured, was half concealed behind a bank of ferns where he was
pretending to be very busy picking off dead leaves.  Eola greeted
Ananda with a friendly welcome that set him at ease; talked of her
roses and other matters of no importance.

"I want to thank you, Miss Wenaston, for all that you sent yesterday by
Mr. Alderbury," he said.

"You must thank my housekeeper.  It was her thought.  Mrs. Hulver!  Mr.
Ananda is very grateful to you for thinking of him in his need."

Mrs. Hulver, thus encouraged, approached and cast her shrewd grey eyes
over the visitor.  His neat European dress and manner met with her
approval.

"I am glad the food was acceptable.  I saw to the cooking of it myself.
Mr. Alderbury told me that you had been obliged to live on
biscuits--poor stuff for young stomachs.  What a man wants is a hot
meal once a day.  There should be meat as well as bread or rice.  I
wasn't able to send you any meat, Mr. Ananda."

"I don't eat meat, so it was all right."

"Do you like fish?"

"Yes; and vegetables curried; but I have not tasted a curry since I
landed."

"Then you've gone to bed hungry more often than not in spite of your
biscuits.  As William--that was my second husband--used to say: 'Sharp
stomachs make short tempers.'  The best temper will sour under
starvation."

A little later Ananda said good-bye and walked back to his father's
house.  On the way he met Bopaul.  Mayita was his companion.
Regardless of ill omens the brother had renewed his friendship with his
sister; he took her for daily walks, avoiding the places where men and
women congregated.

"Not afraid of being contaminated by the company of an outcaste?" said
Ananda with some bitterness, as Bopaul turned to stroll part of the way
with his friend.

"No; nor of being overshadowed by the widow," replied Bopaul with a
light laugh.  "How are things going with you?"

Ananda related the experience of the last week and his employment at
the college, together with his plans for the future.

"You will certainly have to clear out of your father's house as soon as
you can if you want any comfort."

"I shall not go without my wife and child," said Ananda, with the old
obstinacy.

"How is the child?" inquired Bopaul.

"The child!  Is it ill that you ask?" said Ananda, startled.

"It had a fall the day you returned.  No effect was seen at first but a
few days ago it complained of pain; and my mother, who went to see it,
thought that it was ill, though not very bad.  Haven't they told you?"

"I hear nothing and I see nobody but the sweeper.  Bring me news if
there is anything important to tell," said Ananda, trying in vain to
hide the sudden anxiety that sprang up as he heard that the child was
not well.

"I will," answered Bopaul, with a note of sympathy in his voice.

He stopped to turn back towards his own house, and Ananda passed on
with downcast troubled eyes that failed to see how his friend stood
watching him.

"Poor fellow!" thought Bopaul.  "They are making it very hard for him;
but it is only what he might have expected.  There is more grit and
endurance in him than I expected.  I thought he would have given in by
this time.  Pantulu Iyer's brother has met his match, and he won't step
into Ananda's shoes quite as easily as he thought."

The following morning Ananda arrived at the college, and was in his
place punctually to the strike of the clock.  The bell rang but without
response.  A strange silence prevailed in the college close, in the
hall and in the class rooms.  Not a boy was visible.  The masters were
in their places and the Principal in cap and gown on the platform ready
to begin his lecture.  He waited a short time and then went to the
Vice-principal's room, a native who had taken a good degree at
Cambridge.

"Where are all the boys?" asked Wenaston, in some bewilderment.  "Is it
a public festival?"

The Vice-principal paused before replying.

"I am afraid, sir, that they are purposely absenting themselves," he
said, reluctantly.  He had a great regard for his chief, and it went
against the grain to say anything that might give him pain.

"Can you tell me the reason?"

"Because you have appointed the son of Pantulu Iyer as a master in the
school."

"Does the feeling run so strongly against him that they can carry it to
this pitch?" replied Wenaston in some indignation.  "It is no concern
of theirs what religion he professes.  His opinions are a personal
matter as long as he keeps them to himself.  Did he mention the subject
to his class yesterday?"

"No, sir," the Vice-principal answered promptly.

"Then it is outrageous that he should be ostracised in this manner."

Wenaston had been haunted by the dread of something of the kind ever
since he had acceded to Alderbury's request; but he had not anticipated
that it would come so soon, nor in such a practical form as a strike.
The utmost he had expected was an inquiry on the part of the Government
authorities, followed by a recommendation that the appointment should
be cancelled.

"The sympathy in the town is all on the side of Ananda's parents.  You
hardly realise, sir, what an appalling disaster it is for a high caste
Hindu to lose a son in this way," remarked Wenaston's colleague.

"You talk of him as if he were dead!"

"It would have been less of a disaster if he had died in the Hindu
faith before he became a Christian."

There was a pause.  The Principal was troubled and perplexed.  If the
animosity towards Ananda was roused to such an extent as to produce
these results something must be done and done promptly.

"If the feeling runs so high, I am afraid I shall be compelled to
dispense with his services.  I shall be sorry to part with him for his
own sake; I could see that he would have suited admirably as a master;
his teaching is clear and lucid.  But I can't have the school emptied
in this way.  You must help me to get out notices at once which will
make it plain to the parents of the boys that the matter will be set
right and another man will take the class."

Dr. Wenaston had the unpleasant task before him of breaking the news to
Ananda and of warning him that he must not be seen on the school
premises again.  There was no objection to an occasional visit to the
house.  Miss Wenaston would be pleased to see him at any time; but he
must be careful to keep away from the class rooms and playing-fields.

Ananda received the news in silence.  The sight of the empty rooms was
enlightening and needed no comment.  He was not surprised when Dr.
Wenaston intimated in polite and gentle speech that he could no longer
permit him to appear in the college.

"I had better leave at once, sir; as soon as the boys know that I am
not here they will return," was Ananda's reply.

"You understand the situation?"

"Quite; the absence of the boys is convincing."

His dejection touched the Englishman.  "I am sorry, very sorry for you.
We must see what can be done in some other way.  I will write to Mr.
Alderbury at once."

Ananda turned his back on the silent rooms and walked towards the road.
The residence of the Principal stood on his left fronting the other
way.  Mrs. Hulver was in the back verandah, her eye scanning the
landscape.  She called sharply to the butler.

"Ramachetty, go and tell that native gentleman over there that I want
to speak to him."

Ananda, surprised at the summons, responded to her call.

"Come in, Mr. Ananda; I want a few words with you," was her greeting.

Mrs. Hulver bustled into her sitting-room, followed by her visitor.

"Sit down," she said, in her expansive maternal manner.  "I have
something to tell you.  Do you know that those imps of boys who ought
to be in class are waiting outside about a hundred yards up the road?"

"Are they, Mrs. Hulver?  What do they want?"

Although he asked the question he was able to give a shrewd guess as to
the reason of their presence.

"They want you; and they mean mischief.  You must just sit here for a
while, and when the coast is clear you can get away safely.  I was in
the town this morning.  I tell you it is in a ferment over your coming
to the college, and it isn't safe for you to be seen about in broad
daylight.  Those young limbs of mischief mean to do you some hurt."

This was the work of his uncle, he was convinced; but he did not
express his thoughts aloud.  He thanked Mrs. Hulver for her kindly
offices and sat down to wait.  She gave him a book to read, and did her
best to make him feel at ease.

"You stay and dine with me.  A good hot square meal will do you no
harm.  It will be cooked by myself in the verandah and it will be ready
soon after twelve--hot soup, fried fish, vegetable curry and stewed
guavas; and we will eat it here in this room.  As William--that was my
first husband--used to say: 'Better be in at the end of a feast than
the beginning of a fight'--and a losing fight it will be for you, Mr.
Ananda, if you get among those boys in their present temper."




CHAPTER XIV

A surprise was in store for Mrs. Hulver the next morning in the shape
of a telegram from her son.  He had arrived at Bangalore, and he
proposed taking three days' leave to pay his mother a visit at once.
Her head was fairly turned with delight, and she hurried off to tell
the good news to her young mistress.  She thrust the telegram into
Eola's hand.

"Read it, miss.  You will have to go through it two or three times
before you can take it all in; at least, I had to do so; but then I'm
flurried; and as William--that was my second--used to say: 'Flurry
never fires straight!'"

"Can we manage to put him up?" asked Eola, wondering whether she ought
to offer her pretty spare room to the young corporal.

"Quite easily, miss.  A camp bed in my sitting-room will do nicely."

"Are you sure that you would not like the spare room for him----"

Mrs. Hulver interrupted her with a gesture of horror.

"A common soldier in the spare room, miss! and the room just done up,
too!  No, indeed!  A missionary may use it if he is a friend of the
house; but Dr. Wenaston should not stoop any lower.  With the new
curtains and carpet the room is fit for the Governor himself.  As
William--that was my third--used to say: 'The finest trappings in the
world don't alter the breed of a horse.'  My son may look very smart in
his corporal's uniform, but for all that he's only the son of a man in
the ranks."

Eola's delicate sense of hospitality was not satisfied.  With the spare
room empty she felt that the door should not be shut against an
Englishman, whose character was perfectly respectable, but whose rank
differed from her own.

"If it is inconvenient to you to have him in the sitting-room, I should
be very pleased to let him use the spare room," she said.

Mrs. Hulver drew herself up with pride.  "I know my place, miss," she
replied, severely, as much as to say: "and you ought to know yours."
She continued: "Even if I could bring myself to let him use the spare
room, I should know all the time that it would not be good for him.  As
William--that was my first--used to say: 'Pride is a plant that needs
neither water nor manure; it will grow fast enough by itself.'  My son
William will make himself comfortable you may be sure; and his pride
will not be fostered by the camp bed, for it's a little ricketty, to
say nothing of being a bit hard.  My sitting-room will be like a palace
to the boy after the barracks.  I'm not sure that I ought to let him
sleep there."

"Where else could you put him?" asked Eola in wonder, for she knew the
limitations of the house.

"In a corner of the back verandah," replied Mrs. Hulver promptly.  "It
would be very convenient to have him there."

"The night wind might give him fever."

"That's true, miss.  As William--that was my third--used to say, when I
rated him for leaning a little too far towards his failing:
'Conveniences have their inconveniences and comforts their crosses.'
Well, you mustn't keep me here gossiping or I shan't be ready for young
William when he arrives.  He's due at three o'clock this very
afternoon."

She bustled away, too full of William the second, junior, to note the
smile with which Eola received the intimation that it was she who was
detaining Mrs. Hulver.

At twelve o'clock Wenaston came in.  He was earlier than usual.  As a
rule he did not appear till the lunch bell rang at one.  Eola seated in
the verandah looked up as she heard his step.

"Well?  What's the news?  How are things going?" she asked.

"Badly! very badly!  Only a quarter of the boys returned this morning.
It will take a week or ten days to regain their confidence, and the
loss of time will have an effect on my results.  I would not have
believed that so much feeling could have existed over the matter had I
not seen its consequences."

"Did you hear how he got home yesterday?"

"Not without accident.  You know, perhaps, that he came here after
leaving college at Mrs. Hulver's invitation."

"She told me that he had lunched with her," Eola replied.  "I was glad
to think that the poor fellow had had a good midday dinner.  She said
that it was the first hot meal he had eaten since he left the boat at
Bombay."

"It wasn't to give him food that she asked him in.  She heard through
the servants that a party of the boys were lying in wait to
rough-handle him on his way home; and this was her way of preventing
mischief."

"I wonder they dared to think of such a thing!" said Eola, with some
indignation.

"They not only thought of it but they nearly succeeded in carrying out
their design.  Ananda left Mrs. Hulver's room in the afternoon, she
having made sure that the boys were tired of waiting and had dispersed.
At her advice he did not take the direct road home, but went round by a
path not often used.  Near his house he was obliged to walk along the
road and as bad luck would have it, he met two of my boys--men they
might more properly be called.  They rushed at him with their sticks.
He sprinted for home and escaped with a cut or two over the head."

"Of course he will prosecute the boys for assault," said Eola.

"He would do so if this were British territory; but being a native
state, he, as a Christian, has no civil rights, no standing in a court
of law.  He can gain no redress; he hasn't even the power to bind them
over to keep the peace."

"Have you written to Mr. Alderbury?"

"I wrote yesterday morning, and I have just had his reply by wire.  He
wants me to send Ananda to him at once.  He has an opening for him and
can find him employment before long.  Meanwhile he will be glad to have
him as his guest at the mission bungalow."

"You must see Ananda and tell him so; it will be a little consolation
for the poor fellow, perhaps."

"There's just my difficulty," replied Wenaston in perplexity.  "It
isn't safe for him to show his face outside his father's premises."

"They are not ill-treating him inside the house, I hope," said Eola,
with sudden anxiety.

"Nothing beyond humiliating him as much as possible by giving him the
services of a sweeper, and cutting off the supplies of food.  If it
goes no further I don't think any bodily harm can happen to him as long
as he stays at home."

"Mr. Alderbury must come and advise him."

"He says in his wire that he can't pay us another visit just yet.  We
must do our best without him.  I ought to go to Ananda's house, I
suppose, since he can't come to me."

"It won't take you long; not more than five minutes to get to the house
if you go in the car."

"It isn't the time I am thinking of but the welfare of the college and
my covenant with the Maharajah.  I undertook not to meddle in any
religious matters."

Eola laid her hand on her brother's arm.  "Leave it to me," she said,
"I will undertake to let Ananda know.  Keep clear of the affair and get
your pupils back as quickly as you can."

"You ought not to go to Pantulu's house," he rejoined quickly, as his
eyes rested on her in doubt.  "I don't know what sort of a reception
you will get.  You must not run any risk of rousing unpleasantness that
I could not overlook."

"I promise you I will not run any risk nor get myself into trouble.  I
can manage, I think, to have your message delivered without going
myself to Ananda's house.  Will you tell me exactly what it is?"

"I have no other instructions than what are contained in the telegram.
I shall have a letter to-morrow giving me more particulars.  Meanwhile
Ananda should be privately warned that he must be ready to leave not
later than to-morrow evening by the night mail."

"Shall we lend him the car?"

"There again the difficulty occurs of assistance being rendered by me
to an out-caste member of an important caste family, a member who is
under the ban of the family's displeasure.  No; he had better go by
rail.  The native chauffeur would sell the secret for a couple of
rupees.  I can't drive him myself; I haven't the time, and it would be
risky."

"Mr. Alderbury will have to come and take Ananda away himself," said
Eola, unconsciously ready to believe that a visit was necessary.

"If so he must not do it from this house," said Wenaston decisively.
"But before anything can be settled as to ways and means, we must
communicate with Ananda and find out what his wishes are."

"The simplest way is to write a letter."

"But it would be difficult to deliver it.  It would never reach his
hand."

Wenaston lunched and returned to the college.  The boys were assembled
in the playing-field, and his spirits revived somewhat when he noted
that at the summons of the bell they entered the class rooms in greater
numbers than in the morning.  He had an interview with the
Vice-principal before afternoon school began.  At four o'clock he came
into the verandah for tea.

"Have you done anything about communicating with Ananda?" he asked of
Eola.

"Nothing beyond writing him a letter."

"Impossible to get it conveyed to him!" he exclaimed.  "You mustn't go
any further with the business.  I have been talking to Rama Krishna, my
Vice, and he implores me to remain strictly neutral for the sake of the
school if for nothing else.  He says that if I intend to help Ananda I
may be able to do so later; but that at present I must be rigidly
neutral."

"It seems rather hard not to lend a helping hand," said Eola, whose
pity was roused.  "I can't quite reconcile my conscience to a course of
total inaction.  Whatever the Vice may say--and he is a heathen--we
ought not to withhold any assistance that may be in our power to give
him."

"Rama Krishna assures me again and again that I can best help Ananda by
remaining neutral.  I shall only provoke the town as well as the family
to open hostilities."

"Does he show any animosity towards Ananda?"

"None whatever.  His life at the English University taught him
tolerance.  He recommends me to get the boys back at all costs as soon
as possible.  A mission agent like Alderbury is the right person to
give the help required, and it is unfortunate that he cannot come just
now.  He argues that the missionary is paid to make converts and to
help them; and the natives recognise the fact.  Because he is paid to
proselytise, they are ready to tolerate more from him than from an
unpaid agent.  It is equally well known that I am paid to teach and not
to proselytise.  This is a country that expects nothing more from a man
than what he is paid for.  Anything done in excess of the purchased
duty must have, in public opinion, some hidden motive."

"Can't people understand that your motive in helping Ananda is a
religious one?"

"No; and it seems impossible to convince them otherwise.  Even the
Vice, though he knows me so well, had a suspicion that there was a
mercenary motive underlying my desire to assist Ananda.  He suspected
that I was working for a reward from Alderbury or for a bribe from the
family.  I think he inclined to the latter theory; but he was careful
to hide his suspicions as they were not complimentary to me."

"I hope you undeceived him."

"I pretended not to see which way his thoughts leaned.  What have you
done with your letter?"

"I gave it to Mrs. Hulver.  I explained the case to her, thinking she
might contrive to have it conveyed somehow to Ananda without discovery."

Wenaston rose at once.  "It won't do," he said.  "There must be no
communication between this house and Ananda's.  I'll see Mrs. Hulver
myself and tell her my wishes.  She must understand definitely what
they are."

He passed through the house towards the back verandah into which Mrs.
Hulver's room opened.

"Poor Ananda!" thought Eola.  "Will he have the courage to hold out?  I
am afraid my courage would melt away before such a fire of persecution
as he seems to be meeting."

Wenaston presented himself at the door of Mrs. Hulver's sitting room.
She met him with a broad smile of pleasure.  Just behind her stood a
man in uniform, the mother's smile reflected on his face.

"This is William, my son, sir.  He has just arrived from Bangalore.
He's the very image of his father.  Stand forward and let Dr. Wenaston
look at you."

She pushed the shy awkward young soldier forward.  He stood at
attention as if confronting his colonel and lifted his hand in a
military salute.

"Very glad to see you, Smith.  So he is like his father is he?" he said.

"They are as like as two peas, sir, in every respect but one.  My son
takes after his grandmother on my side in his complexion.  He is darker
than his father, who was very fair.  But as William--that was my
first--used to say if any one remarked on his being dark: 'Human blood
is all of one colour no matter what sort of a skin may cover it.'"

"I hope you had a good voyage out," said the Principal.  "Sit down,
Smith, I have come to speak to your mother.  Mrs. Hulver, Miss Wenaston
entrusted you with a letter to deliver to Mr. Ananda.  Will you kindly
give it back to me."

Mrs. Hulver produced the letter and handed it to Wenaston, glancing at
him with a natural curiosity which brought forth an explanation.

"You learned from Miss Wenaston what this letter contained?"

"Yes, sir; it was to show Mr. Ananda a way out of his troubles.  He has
got himself into rather a tight corner.  As William--that was my
second--used to say: 'Think twice before you tie a knot that you can't
undo.'"

"I want you to understand my position fully, Mrs. Hulver.  I am not
able, I am sorry to say, to give Mr. Ananda any protection from the
towns-people nor from his family.  Assistance on my part would be
looked upon as a breaking of my covenant with the Maharajah when he
sanctioned my appointment to the college.  I hope that you will be
careful not to do anything which will compromise me in this matter."

"You may rely on me, sir, for not burning my own fingers nor setting
your house on fire by meddling with other people's candles.  I am sorry
for the poor young man, but after all he has brought it on himself.  As
William--that was my third--used to say (he was the one who changed his
religion to marry me): 'If you sow brambles you must expect to tread on
thorns.'  Mr. Ananda told me all about himself as he sat here waiting
till those young imps of budmashes had gone home.  I heard in the
bazaar this morning that he had been set upon near his own house; but
he managed to get in without being much hurt."

"Yes; that was so.  You pick up all the news in the market."

"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Hulver complacently.  She prided herself on
possessing an accurate knowledge of the daily events of the town and
Ramachetty was well aware that one of the roads to her favour was by
way of the gossip that was reliable.  Woe betide the unfortunate
servant, however, who carried false news!

"What do they say in the town about the school?" asked Wenaston.

"That the boys will all be back by the end of the week.  Don't you
worry, sir, over those little budmashes.  The school is known to be the
best in the State under your superintendence.  You have no need to run
after pupils.  They will run after you if you bide your time.  As
William--that was my third--used to say when I went into the garden to
call him in to dinner: 'No occasion for the cook to hunt up the hungry;
they won't fail to be where the food is when they're empty.'"

"Anyway I must be careful to see that nothing is done to give offence
to the parents of the boys," said Wenaston, anxious to press home his
orders.

"I understand, sir.  We are to let Mr. Ananda alone.  It shall be as
you wish, of course.  I pity him, I'm sure; but all the same, I would
rather not be mixed up with his change of religion.  It's turning out a
bigger job than he thought.  As William--that was my second--used to
say: 'When a man bites off a bigger bit than he can chew, he can't look
for any assistance from other men's teeth.'"

The school bell rang and Wenaston, punctuality itself, turned away to
obey its call.  Mrs. Hulver hastened to add her last word which, as
usual, was the reflected wisdom of one of the departed.

"As William--that was my third--used to say after I had scolded him for
leaning a little too far over towards his weakness: 'A stormy morning
brings a clear evening, Maria, me dear, so perhaps your breath has not
been wasted.'  Everything will come right in the end if you give it
time."  Then, as Wenaston hurried away, she turned to her son.
"William, you sit in the back verandah whilst I change my dress.  We'll
take a walk in the town and look at the boutiques in the bazaar."

Twenty minutes later Mrs. Hulver issued from her bedroom a very
different figure from the white clothed housekeeper, who with cook and
butler behind her, went marketing in the morning.  Even William,
junior, who had just come from London, was impressed by the glossy
purple silk that "stood by itself," the white lace scarf and floral
bonnet; to say nothing of the odds and ends of glittering jewellery
that adorned her ample bust.

Mother and son, in purple silk and scarlet uniform, presented a patch
of colour on the green landscape that was arresting to the most
careless eye.  The sensation created in the town was considerable.  It
was a kind of triumphal progress.  Being fluent in the native language
she explained who the stranger was, introducing him to the merchants
sitting behind their stalls and to the few Eurasians who lived in
Chirapore.

Bopaul, sauntering along the street, was attracted by the sight of a
British soldier, and stopped to inquire his name.  Mrs. Hulver hastened
to explain with maternal pride and returned the compliment by asking
about the identity of the questioner.  The sun touched the horizon
before she thought of home.

"Time to be going back, William.  As your father used to say: 'Keep
time as if it was your best friend, and take care you don't kill it or
waste it or lose it."




CHAPTER XV

Eola sat with her brother after dinner as usual at the end of the
verandah where there was shelter from the night air.  Wenaston read,
and Eola finding his society dull, retired early to her room.  The
servants had gone to their go-downs at the back of the compound to eat
their evening meal.  The cicalas whirred in the foliage of the
oleanders, and a brown owl screamed in its shikarring flight over the
roof of the house.  Above the noises of the night was heard a step on
the carriage drive.

Wenaston rose and went to the top of the verandah steps.  Two men stood
under the portico keeping in the shadow of the ornamental shrubs.

"Who is there?" he asked in a low voice.

One of the visitors came forward into the light and Wenaston recognised
Bopaul.

"Oh, it's you, is it?"

"Yes, sir; I have brought Ananda.  He wants to see you about Mr.
Alderbury's offer."

Wenaston descended the steps and they retreated together out of reach
of the lamp light.

"How did you hear of it?" he asked in some surprise.

There was a slight pause and then Bopaul explained that he had heard of
it and had told Ananda.

"From the telegraph clerk, I suppose," said Wenaston.  "If he knows it
the whole town knows it."

"Perhaps; but Ananda's people have not been told."

"So much the better; it will make it easier for you to get away," said
Wenaston addressing Ananda.

"I have come to see you to-night, sir, to say that I have decided not
to accept Mr. Alderbury's invitation.  I shall be glad if you will
write and tell him so.  I have sent a letter which Bopaul posted for
me; but it will be as well if you will add your word to mine."

Wenaston listened in surprise.  He had concluded that the visit was
made for the purpose of raising money for the journey.  It had not
crossed his mind that the invitation would be refused.  He gazed at his
visitors in the darkness as though he had not heard correctly.

"Are you wise to remain here after the hostile demonstration we have
experienced in the college?  I am afraid it won't end there."

"It would be cowardly to run away," said Ananda in a firm voice that
betokened determination backed by courage.  "I have reasons for
remaining under my father's roof.  I am attached to my parents and----"
he hesitated for a moment and then added quickly, "and to my wife and
child.  If these two would come with me I would go to-morrow, or even
to-night; but I won't leave Chirapore without them."

"I am not sure that you are acting wisely; though I can't deny that it
is courageous.  You need not stay away for ever.  You might return at
any time.  Popular antagonism will die down if you are not here to keep
it alive; and your family might become more reconciled to the step you
have taken."

"They might; on the other hand they might consider me as dead; and then
think of the fate of my wife."

"They would regard her as a widow, you mean."

"The case is exceptional and without precedent in Chirapore.  They are
more likely to consider the marriage annulled by my departure, and to
give my wife to another man.  That shall not be as long as I have an
arm to protect her.  She is mine; mine by right of past possession and
she shall be mine in the future."

Even Bopaul was impressed by the new attitude of his friend.  The
weakness had disappeared in a marvellous manner, and every trace of
timidity had vanished.

"You might gain immediate possession of your wife if you would give up
your new faith, and place yourself unreservedly in the hands of the
guru and purohit," remarked Bopaul probing the new found courage with
curiosity.

Ananda turned on him.

"That I will never do.  I may have to suffer for it.  Others have
suffered for their religious opinions before now.  I will keep my faith
and I will have my wife and child.  My father may disinherit me but he
cannot deprive me of my son; and where the son is the mother will
follow."

"You have no power as a Christian over your child," said Wenaston,
feeling that it would be wrong to leave him in ignorance of his true
position.  "The law of the State will not give you the custody of him."

"Who says so?"

He named the native lawyer whom Alderbury had consulted.

"As long as you remain in the State of Chirakul you are in the position
of an outlaw, deprived of your citizenship, your legal standing, your
civil rights.  As soon as you set foot in British India you resume your
rights and can claim protection and justice in the courts of law
belonging to the territory; although of course you can't obtain redress
against this State.  Hadn't you better go where your rights will be
respected and where you will have religious freedom?"

"If things grow hopeless I might do so; but at present I wish to remain
here and show my parents that I have no intention of running away.  On
the contrary I am going to fight for my rights."

Again Bopaul's eyebrows were uplifted.

"Were you hurt, by the by, yesterday?" asked Wenaston.

"Nothing to speak of.  I had a nasty blow on my head; but beyond a head
ache I am none the worse, thank you, sir.  We won't keep you any
longer.  I shall be glad if you will let Mr. Alderbury know that I am
grateful.  At the same time make him understand that I have made up my
mind to adopt this course, and that I am not likely to change.  I think
he will approve of my facing the situation instead of running away from
it.  And tell him also that I mean to fight for my wife and child."

Wenaston turned back into the verandah and took up his book; but his
attention wandered, and a little later he gave up attempting to read.
As he extinguished the lamp he said to himself; "I wonder how much
endurance the man has; and how much he will require to carry him
through his troubles.  Where would the Christianity of some of us be if
we were outlawed; and bashed on the head; and deprived of our wives and
children?"

After bidding Dr. Wenaston good night Bopaul and his companion walked
home by unfrequented paths to avoid chance pedestrians.  There was not
much danger of molestation unless Ananda deliberately put himself in
the way of it.  No concerted action was likely to be taken at present;
and his prompt disappearance from the college went far to allay the
irritation that had sprung up so suddenly among the students.

The two friends parted in silence except for a few whispered words from
Bopaul to the effect that he would look him up on the morrow.

Bopaul's attitude towards his friend was curious.  He had no sympathy
with his conversion to Christianity.  He regarded the action as
inexpedient and bordering on foolishness.  His opinion was that it had
been carried out in haste, and without due consideration of all the
different issues involved.

His friendship with Ananda was of long standing, dating from early
childhood, and the two men were attached to each other by ties of
affection that could not be easily broken.  It grieved Bopaul to see
his friend living in discomfort, and he was ready as far as he was able
to render any little service that might be within his power.  The
English training had fostered an independence of thought with tolerance
for the opinions of others; and it showed its effects in Bopaul's
character.  He took an independent line of action with regard to his
friend as well as his sister.  According to the unwritten law of caste
the widow and the outlaw should have been ruthlessly thrust from his
life.  Instead of abandoning them to their fate he maintained a
brotherly love for one and a friendly affection for the other.

Of the two Ananda interested him the more.  He found himself studying
the development of his friend's character under the fire of adversity.
Obstinacy had already given birth to courage, and courage was breeding
patience.  Ananda's refusal to take flight roused his admiration.  The
firmly expressed determination to gain possession of his wife and child
appealed to the romance that is inherent in all human beings, and of
which Bopaul had a full share.  In addition curiosity as to how the
affair would end helped to retain his attention and interest.

Bopaul continued his habit of taking Mayita for a walk every day.  This
daily outing, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening, was
the breath of life to the girl.  She lived for it; it was the one ray
of veritable sunshine that entered her darkened life.  Perhaps it was
the knowledge of this fact that made the brother sacrifice everything
else to the little daily act of charity.

They were a strange couple, the brother and sister; and more than one
pair of inquisitive eyes looked after them as they strolled towards the
forest.  At first his mother shook her head over the arrangement.  She
even went so far as to try and stop it by setting Mayita tasks that
would keep her occupied when her brother called for her to come.
Bopaul with his casual manner, that was none the less insistent for all
its apparent indifference, over-ruled his mother by seeking out Mayita
and carrying her away from her unfinished work regardless of her
protests.

"Let be, wife; and trouble not yourself.  You need have no fear that
our son will offend against the laws of caste," said his father.

"It is not that which I fear; it is the bad luck the widow may bring
upon him," returned the anxious mother.

"Many men who have travelled have learned to disregard our omens.  As
long as the boy doesn't follow in Ananda's steps I am content."

"He is not likely to do that if we may believe the guru.  The swami was
satisfied that his faith in our gods was not shaken."

"If it had been shaken he would not have performed all the ceremonies
that were necessary on his return.  Be content and let the boy go which
way he pleases.  A little liberty in the field will keep the bullock
from straying into the forest where the tiger lies."

Bopaul's mother was of too indolent a disposition to seek unnecessary
trouble.  Having spoken to her husband she rested in the comfortable
assurance that responsibility was shifted on to his shoulders.  She put
no more obstacles in the way of the walks, and they were continued to
Bopaul's satisfaction and the girl's intense delight.

She was in her fourteenth year, but she looked older.  During the last
few months she had lost all trace of childishness and had matured like
most Hindu girls of that age.

As they walked, Mayita's hand in his, he told her of that wonderful
country in the west where he had lived for more than three years among
white people; where there was no caste; where widows after two years of
mourning dressed themselves like other women with gold and jewels, and
married again if they chose.  She interrupted him to express her horror
of such depravity on the part of widows in any country civilised or
savage.  She herself would sink into the earth with shame if she were
asked to pursue such an outrageous course.  He described the life on
board the big ship; the wide blue water with no land visible; the storm
and tumbling waves with their white crests.  Then he took her in
imagination to Bombay where the pictures he drew were easier to
realise; and he told her of the crowded streets, the tall houses and
the magnificent carriages of the Governor and native princes.

Now and then they stopped.  Bopaul seated himself upon a boulder or a
fallen tree and read a book.  Mayita gathered flowers, and had it not
been for her sad condition the sweet blossoms would have been pushed
into the strands of her hair; but the luxuriant black locks were gone
and the bare shaven pate in its widowed condition offered no temptation
for floral adornment.

Sometimes she played a little game by herself with sticks and stones
and leaves to represent the feast at which she would never again be
present.  She bade the imaginary guests welcome and served them with
make-believe dainties.  She paid them compliments and dismissed them
with gifts of attar of rose and pan-supari, as she had seen her mother
treat her real guests in the old days before Coomara died.

Then Bopaul would close his book and call to her to come home.  On
their way they sometimes stopped at Pantulu's house; and Bopaul leaving
her under the trees by the compound wall sought Ananda in his little
room.  The solitary man responded eagerly, and joined his friend with
an alacrity that showed how the little act of kindness was appreciated.
They paced to and fro at the end of the compound furthest from the
house, till it was time for Mayita to return once more to the women's
quarters of her father's house.

No one interfered to stop the intercourse.  If Bopaul liked to seek out
his friend, he was welcome to do so; and if he brought his widowed
sister with him there was no one to say him nay.  He was at liberty to
please himself; but to those who happened to observe the trio it seemed
a strange way of amusing himself, to choose a widow as his companion
and to visit an out-caste.

Unknown to Ananda one of the most interested watchers of his movements
was Dorama his wife.  Hidden from all eyes she gazed through the chink
of a shutter at the familiar figure in the distance.  The boyishness
was gone; it was the form of a man, a strong well-set-up man who would
find favour with any woman.  In spite of all that had happened he was
still her husband.  The thought thrilled her with a strange
restlessness and longing.  It was very hard--it was almost unbearable
to be separated thus.  Did he yearn for her as she yearned for him?  He
could not or he would break down every barrier and come to her.  He
would submit to the ceremonies for the restoration of his caste.  He
would obey every order given by guru or purohit.  He would allow
nothing, nothing!--nothing!--to stand between them and keep them apart.

The tears coursed down her cheeks in anger and disappointment.  At one
moment she could have scratched and bitten him for the contumacy that
was costing her so much misery; at another she could have devoured him
with passionate kisses.

Meanwhile all unconscious of the secret watcher Bopaul and Ananda
talked.  They spoke in English mindful of listening ears.  A little
cross-examining of Mayita would elicit all she knew of what passed in
conversation.  It was best for those concerned that there should be no
tale-bearing.

"You don't realise the greatness of your old faith," Bopaul was saying
as they strolled under the shade of the trees that bordered the
compound.

"How can it be great when it fails to satisfy?" objected Ananda.

"First let me show you that Hinduism is great by the light of its past
history," said Bopaul eagerly.

He plunged into much the same story as Alderbury had told Eola.  He
described the antiquity of Hinduism; its marvellous organisation; its
power of absorbing the conquered races; and he extolled the system of
caste.

Ananda listened and at the conclusion he remarked, "Caste and the power
of the Brahman are being already undermined."

"In what way?"

"We have apologists for their existence.  If either were divine in
origin there would be no necessity for an apology."

"I deny that the system of caste is being undermined.  It may have
overgrown itself and need pruning.  Some of the senseless subdivisions
should be broken up; and we want reform in our marriage laws----"

His eyes sought the figure of his sister as she gathered some starry
blue flowers growing among the rank grass.

"Even if the caste system were reformed," objected Ananda, "and the
greatness of Hinduism established in the world, there are certain
tenets of its faith that seem to me impossible for an educated and
enlightened man to accept."

"Such as----?"

"Transmigration."

"Ah, yes; I remember.  That was the rock you split on."

"I cannot accept the weary round of those cycles of rebirths."

"You accept a cycle of existence of some sort?"

"Existence; life; immortality of the soul; yes."

"Which implies existence prenatal and after physical death?"

"Certainly; Mr. Alderbury says that the germ of that idea lies hidden
in most religions."

"If you admit so much, why can't you accept the transmigration theory?
It accounts for all the suffering that exists.  It is a retributive
system of perfect justice.  The pains you suffer now are due solely to
your own actions in a previous embodiment; and your conduct now will
predetermine your pleasure and pain in your next incarnation.  To me it
is an acceptable theory relieving one of an enormous responsibility."

"If you really believe such a theory in its entirety, why do you
attempt to give that child pleasure?"

Bopaul laughed but made no reply, and Ananda continued:

"The hopeless retributive character of the theory of transmigration
seems to militate against our faith in the transcendence of God.  The
system imposes limits not consistent with His Infinitude.
Transmigration may seem just and right from a human point of view; but
it is too full of tragedy to be seriously regarded as the deliberate
work of an unlimited Deity."

"It does away with injustice," persisted Bopaul.

"And grinds existence down to a mechanism," added Ananda.
"Christianity gives something infinitely superior--a good and perfect
God.  The knowledge of this Deity has come to us through Jesus Christ.
He has shown us not a retributive mechanical Deity, but a great and
wonderful Father who deals with us better than we deserve.  Though men
may by their freedom of choice choose what ought to bring them to ruin,
the desire of God expressed through Christ, the great teacher, is to
save them from the consequences of their actions."

"What good can pain and suffering do if it is not a mill of
retribution?"

"It is an education and a discipline in the government of self.  I
speak personally for I have felt my position in my father's house more
than a little.  You may not see any change in my character, but I know
that my views on the brotherhood of man and the Fatherhood of God have
altered.  I don't mind confessing that my attitude towards the pariah
who acted as my servant by my parents' orders has modified.  They
thought to humiliate me, but they have taught me a lesson.  I recognise
his humanity and his good qualities."

"Yet you can't take the food he brings you?"

"No, I can't; to my shame be it said; for it distresses him to see me
starve.  There's a wide gulf between theory and practice in his case,
and for the present I prefer to starve."

"Poor, weak, human nature!" said Bopaul with a laugh in which Ananda
joined, although the subject was no laughing matter.

"And if pain comes into the life of a child who is not old enough to
have sinned; how do you account for it?" asked Bopaul returning to the
charge.

"To reply in detail to this and similar objections would require a
greater knowledge of the spiritual world than even the apostles
themselves possessed.  'Now we see through a glass darkly,' said St.
Paul.  Later illumination will assuredly come.  The curtain was partly
lifted when Christ was born.  At His second coming it will be entirely
raised, and by that time our eyes will be strong enough to bear the
light."

There was silence which Bopaul broke with another question.

"Does the missionary teach you that after death comes sleep?"

"No; there is no stagnation in the spiritual world any more than there
is in the material world.  The souls of the departed are possessed of
conscious memory, and they have a sense of pain and pleasure.  I
believe," he spoke solemnly and with shining eyes that seemed to look
beyond the limit of the Hindu's mental vision, "that Coomara instead of
being reborn as a dog or a reptile in this world has entered into new
powers of vitality and energy in a spiritual world that far exceeds the
limitations of this world.  He lived a blameless life according to his
lights, and he has entered into another life in which there will be
progression and development.  With his entry into that new life he will
acquire new powers of comprehension.  There will be a great movement
forward in spirituality between his state here on earth and the new
estate in the world he has entered.  The step will be as great or
greater than if a dog entered the human life and were endowed with
human privileges."

"Excepting that he died under the ban of broken caste, Coomara was
without faults," acquiesced Bopaul.  "But I cannot disregard the
teaching of the guru who says that because of that broken caste he must
suffer."

"And I say in all honest hope," cried Ananda in ringing tones that
caused the widow to glance at him in surprise.  "I say that through the
power of the Christian's Man-God, Jesus Christ, the Great All-Father in
His mercy and love will receive Coomara to Himself, and preserve him
from the fate you anticipate.  I think upon his prospects almost with
envy.  There was a time when I could only shudder in terror at what was
promised by our faith; but now I am satisfied that he is happy."

"The Hindu faith does not deny a progression towards a better state
after death," said Bopaul.

"May be; but it limits improvement to merit; and the merit is made to
depend not only upon the past deeds of the dead, but also upon the
voluntary deeds of the living descendants of the dead.  A neglect of
the shraddah ceremonies by the grandchildren to the fourth generation
condemns the soul to inferior rebirth.  Those rites for the repose of
the dead are monstrous in their assumption and ridiculous in their
childish nature."

"All rites seem ridiculous and meaningless if you judge them by their
action alone," said Bopaul.

"Yet you perform them slavishly," said Ananda turning on him.

Bopaul laughed as though he shook off all responsibility for the reason
of his actions.

"I am what that Englishman called his friend, do you remember? 'a
blatant ritualist.'  I love ceremonies.  They give me a comfortable
sense of having done my duty to the gods and to men.  I feel as if I
had got out of debt and was starting afresh with a clean page."

"Do you really believe in them?" asked Ananda searching the face of the
other in a vain endeavour to penetrate the superficial lightness with
which Bopaul touched these matters.

"The purohit and the guru believe in them.  My father pins his faith to
them, and I am content to take their word for it."

"And I am not!  To my mind the three great props of Hinduism are
crumbling away in spite of your blind faith--transmigration, the
immaculate authority of the Brahmans and their Vedas; and the caste
system."

"Rank treason!" cried Bopaul roused at last into something approaching
excitement.  "It is as well that the guru doesn't hear you!  Caste will
never die; it will change its constitution and become more social than
religious.  The Vedas will have new exponents and the germs that lie
hidden in them will be brought to light and understood.  Transmigration
will be modified with a new theory of progression in a life in other
spheres under different conditions of corporality from the earthly
life; and Hinduism reformed will be greater than ever."

"It can only be done through Christ," responded Ananda with the
enthusiasm of the convert.  "Christianity will develop all the germs
that lie fallow in Hinduism and will throw light in the dark places.
Why is the west to monopolise a revelation that was originally given to
the east?  Why is the west to appropriate to itself the emancipation
and promises made by that revelation?  We have a right to claim Christ
for ourselves," he concluded.  "I for one make that claim and no one
shall deny me!"

Again there was silence.  Then Bopaul, without any outward sign of
excitement, remarked:

"Haste is an evil counsellor.  You are asking for trouble and you will
get it.  Tell me, have you had a decent lodging or meal since you have
been under your father's roof?"

Ananda calmed down under the material inquiry after his bodily welfare,
and he replied in a subdued voice:

"No, and I am not likely to get one as far as I can see unless, as I
said, I accept it at the hands of the sweeper."

"How do you exist?"

"I have some biscuits and I buy a draught of water from the caste
waterman in the town.  Mr. Alderbury very kindly brought me some food
when he came to see me."

"I can't bring you any food I am sorry to say.  My mother would
consider it an unfriendly act towards your parents.  How is your money
lasting?"

"It is nearly finished."

"And then?"

"I haven't thought about it," replied Ananda, a troubled expression
overshadowing his face.

"I can lend you a little.  I brought it to-day, a ten rupee note.  It
is all I have that I need not account for.  I can get plenty from my
father, but he takes good care to inform himself of how and where it
goes.  The note is in this envelope.  Don't let my sister see it; she
might tell my mother.  Just slip it into your pocket as quickly as you
can."

He held out his hand to Mayita.  "Come, little one, it is time we went
home."

At the entrance to the compound Bopaul stopped.

"Take my advice and go to Mr. Alderbury," he said suddenly.

"Not without my wife."

"She will never join you."

"That remains to be proved," replied Ananda unconvinced.

"And remember that as a 'vert you have no conjugal rights," to which
remark the other did not reply.

Dorama still furtively watching saw Ananda return slowly and enter the
mean little yard into which his still meaner room opened.  The smell of
the curry prepared for the midday meal of the household met her
nostrils.

"How does he continue to live and look so strong and handsome?  He
refuses to eat the food sent by the sweeper.  Ah! it should be given by
my hand, the hand of his wife.  It is my right.  Husband! come to me!
In your need, your hunger, cannot you hear the voice of your wife
calling!"




CHAPTER XVI

The house of Pantulu Iyer was neither cheerful nor happy.  The master
himself had aged visibly since the arrival of his son.  The signs were
to be seen in the stooping figure and listless gait.  He had grown
thinner, and his appetite was failing.  No matter how carefully the
food was prepared he refused to eat, complaining sometimes that it was
not palatable; at other times he asked with a querulousness that was
not habitual, how they could expect him to eat when he knew that his
dearly loved son was starving.

All day long he sat and moped either in the verandah of the inner
courtyard, or in the front room that opened by the big door on the
carriage drive.  The door was kept shut and he seldom passed beyond it.
If a friend came to call he refused to see him; and if any member of
the family with the best intentions of amusing him attempted to talk to
him, he dismissed him curtly.

His gloom had a depressing effect on his wife; and for the sake of the
household as well as her own she begged him to rouse himself.  She
suggested visits to his looms in the town and to his silk farms in the
suburbs.  The office books were brought, and at her direction his
younger brother read aloud the carefully-kept accounts, showing how the
business had increased and how the prosperity of his ventures was
assured; but these and all other devices failed to rouse his interest.
With the aptitude for fostering misery, a peculiarity of fatalism, he
resigned himself to his circumstances and refused to make any struggle
against what he believed to be the inevitable.

In addition to the anxiety caused by her husband's melancholia, Gunga
was further disturbed by the state of her grandson's health.  At the
time when Dorama let him fall from her unconscious arms he had not
shown any sign of having sustained any injury.  Beyond a few bruises no
serious harm was apparent.  At the end of a week the child complained
of pains in his back and hip.  He lost his activity and his good
spirits; was disinclined to move and was always craving to be nursed by
his mother or one of the women of the house.

A prompt examination of the hip and spine by a skilled surgeon might
have discovered the mischief and given relief; but skilled surgery was
not obtainable from the native apothecary nor from the native doctor.
A vaityan--as the Hindu medical man is called, a person without any
scientific knowledge--was summoned, and he prescribed for fever.  As
the medicine failed to have any beneficial effect, he declared that the
child was suffering from the effects of the glance of an evil eye.  He
must have come under its influence in some way unknown to his mother.
Where had she carried him or led him?

There was a searching back into memory for occasions when an evil eye
might have rested upon him.  Some one recalled the events of the day
following Ananda's arrival home, how he appeared on the verandah in
front of the open door and how the child ran towards him.  It was also
noted how the father of the boy had fixed his eye upon him with a great
eagerness of possession.

The vaityan was more than satisfied that in the incident they had found
a solution of the mystery.  The unconscious longing awakened in the
father at the sight of his child had given birth to a natural curse of
the disappointment of his desire.  If he could not have the child
himself no one should have him.  The baneful influence of the thought
in the man's mind was working for evil in the boy's body.

This pronouncement did not tend to allay the irritation felt throughout
the family against the son who had brought the shadow of sorrow upon
his father's house.

The vaityan prescribed different medicine, and in addition recommended
the performance of certain rites that were supposed to have the power
of warding off spells.  He solemnly tied an amulet specially prepared
on the child's arm.  The floor of the room where the boy slept was to
be strewn with margosa leaves gathered fresh every day; and he was to
drink the milk of a black goat that had not a single white hair.

The execution of these numerous orders served to occupy the time and
attention of the women; at the same time they kept alive the irritation
against Ananda for being the cause of the trouble.

In the midst of it all the guru appeared accompanied by his disciple.
He had come unexpectedly and without invitation to learn why the
restitution rites were not performed.  Reasonable delay he was prepared
to permit; but if there was a wilful deferring of the ceremonies it was
his duty to exhort and persuade into speedy amendment.

The grave countenance of the swami struck terror into the hearts of the
little company that hastily assembled to do him honour.  Pantulu fell
at his feet in a humble prostration; and Gunga followed his example.
As neither offered any explanation Pantulu's brother took upon himself
the office of spokesman.  He described all that had happened; Ananda's
conversion to Christianity in England; the punishments that had been
inflicted when it was found that he not only refused to recant, but
also declined to take any part in the restitution ceremonies.  The guru
was told how he was lodged and served; of the attempts that had been
made to degrade him and starve him; and how he had not been permitted
to see either wife or child.

The great man listened in silence; and when the story was ended the
more timid ones of the little company trembled in apprehension of an
outburst of anathema and general condemnation.  It did not come.  The
expression on his face was severe but the words that fell from his lips
sounded strangely mild and gentle.

"We must look into this matter and see what can be done.  Let the child
be brought; I am told that he is not well."

Every one from Pantulu downwards was sensible of relief.  The anxiety
that weighed so heavily was lifted and placed temporarily upon stronger
shoulders.  Where they had failed in their methods the swami might
succeed, and the heir of the house be restored to them.  What a
rejoicing and feasting there would be! was the thought that ran through
the minds of many of the women.  The only person who differed in this
attitude was Pantulu's brother.  Slowly and insidiously he was stepping
into the position rendered vacant by Ananda's apostacy to the faith of
his fathers.  The little Royan would inherit his grandfather's wealth,
and during the long minority his great uncle would be practically
master of the house and guardian of the person of the minor; but in the
event of the child's death Sooba would be the heir.

The drooping child with pathetic signs of pain in his pinched features
was brought to the guru who examined him closely and confirmed the
opinion of the vaityan.  The boy, he said, was placed under the
displeasure of the gods and was suffering for his father's sins.  If he
died--he shook his head solemnly, not thinking of the inheritance but
of the future state.  The company did not require to be told the fate
of a child dying under such circumstances.

Then Pantulu in a trembling voice described his own bodily failings,
loss of appetite and sleep, weakness of limbs and an ebbing away of
vitality that could only mean the approach of death.

Again the oracle assumed a severe expression.  What could be expected
but the withering and drooping of the parent when the son was so
inhumanly wicked as to break away from his ancestral faith?  He would
consider what was best to be done, and consult with the brother of the
sick man.  Then the family offered up thanks and adoration, each member
prostrating him or herself before the guru as he withdrew to the room
assigned for his use.  Sooba followed and the door was closed on the
two men.

The interview lasted some time and advice was given that was virtually
a command.  Sooba would not divulge what it was until the moment
arrived for action.  Only to Gunga did he give a hint of what the great
man intended to do; and she expressed her full approval.

"And if this should fail?" she asked with a sinking heart for she knew
the strength of her son's obstinacy.

Her brother-in-law lowered his voice and replied in a whisper.  Her
head was bent and she made no reply; but her lips closed firmly.

"You will not speak to my husband on this matter.  He is too weak, too
feeble to deal with it," she said later.

"It will be best to keep him in ignorance--until the orders of the
swami have been carried out," answered Sooba.  "I have your consent to
act?"

"There is no other way of bringing him to reason; and who am I to
contradict and oppose one who speaks with the authority of the gods?"
replied Gunga, sadly.

On the following morning, after Ananda had risen from his hard,
uncomfortable bed and breakfasted on some hot milk and biscuits, he was
surprised at receiving a visit from his uncle.  The cup that had
contained the milk had been replaced in the tiffin basket with the tin
of biscuits, and no trace was discernible to the sharp eyes of the
visitor of the simple morning meal.

In a more courteous tone than had been adopted by any member of the
family hitherto, he asked Ananda to accompany him into the house.  At
first there was a very natural hesitation to obey such an unexpected
summons; but on second thoughts Ananda deemed it wiser to go than to
refuse.  For all he could tell it might be the first sign of relenting.

He closed the book he was reading, placed it upon the table, and
without a word followed his uncle through the compound to the front of
the house.  Side by side they mounted the steps that led into the
verandah.  The big door stood open, and they passed through it into the
entrance-room.  Bidding him stay there his uncle left him for a few
minutes.

The door leading into the centre courtyard was wide open, and through
it he caught sight of some of the women of the household, as they moved
in and out of the kitchen and its offices in the execution of their
domestic duties.  His eye sought eagerly for the familiar figure of his
wife or child, but no trace of them or of his parents was visible.

As he gazed into the sunlit yard memories crowded back upon him
thickly.  The place was full of associations connected with his
childish games, the idle chatter of his boyhood, the visit of the guru
and the purohit when they came to perform ceremonies that once were so
full of awe and mystery; and that now by the light of the new teaching
seemed so futile and childish.

In the midst of his reverie his uncle reappeared, and leading him to a
room signed to him to enter.  He heard the door close behind him and
knew that his companion had not followed.

Ananda scarcely dared to believe his eyes.  In front of him stood
Dorama, not a sad tearful repellent Dorama; but a loving, expectant
wife, happy and confident.

She was dressed as a bride in a rich silk saree.  Her neck, arms and
hair gleamed with gold and precious stones.  Jasmine blossom peeped
from the strands of her glossy hair.  Her complexion was heightened by
the subtle use of saffron, and there was an alluring scent of sandal
wood in the air.

He strode towards her impetuously; gathered her into his arms pressing
passionate kisses upon her unresisting mouth.  The thirst of his heart
was not easily assuaged.  He lost count of time; his eyes were blind to
everything but the beautiful woman who nestled against his breast with
inarticulate murmurs of contentment.  His pulses leaped as he realised
that his kisses were returned.  She loved him!  She was his!  How the
clouds parted and rolled aside at the assurance!

A hand was laid upon his shoulder with no light touch, and they were
forced apart.  Ananda turned angrily upon the intruder who dared to
interpose and found himself face to face with the guru.  Yielding in
his surprise to the old instinctive habit of his youth he placed his
hands together palm to palm.

"Pardon, swami; I did not know that you were present," he said.  "I
thought I was alone with my wife."

For all his humility and deference there was a note of pride in his
tone that jarred on the ear of the man who arrogated to himself the
attributes of a god.  The words seemed to imply that the third person
present at such a meeting, whoever he might be, was an intruder; and
that the sooner he departed the better pleased the husband would be.

As for Dorama her head sank upon her breast in what appeared to be an
overwhelming fit of outraged modesty.  Inwardly she was glowing under
that ardent embrace, tingling to her finger tips, every nerve thrilled
by his possessive touch.  She had been well tutored beforehand as to
her conduct, how she was to do all in her power to attract her errant
husband and draw him back to her; how she was to appeal to him by words
and tears and pray him to return.  The programme thus mapped out for
her did not include the unexpected greeting, and she felt confused.
Ananda had begun at the wrong end and cut the ground on which she was
to base her pleading from beneath her feet.  She drew aside leaving the
swami to speak.

"I have arranged for you to see your wife and speak with her.  She is
also to hear what I have to say to you.  I understand that you have
refused the rites that should restore your caste----"

"I have become a Christian and I have received the Christian rite of
baptism.  Under those circumstances the Hindu rites are unnecessary,"
interrupted Ananda, careful to preserve the courtesy rendered
instinctively by a man of good caste to an equal.

"It matters not what you call yourself," replied his former spiritual
teacher with a lowering glance; "nor does it signify in the least what
strange ceremonies you may have seen fit to go through in England.
They can all be cast aside like the blanket clothing you were obliged
to adopt when the frost and snow came.  The delayed rites must be
performed, and I am here to see that they are properly carried out."

The guru restrained himself with difficulty.  Ananda's independent
attitude and simple courage roused his anger.  The great man could not
fail to observe that he had very little hold on the attention of his
hearers.  Already Ananda was turning impatiently to the woman as though
he had disposed of the intruder and swept him off his horizon by the
announcement of his change of faith.

"Wife, where is the child, our child?  My eyes ache for a sight of him!"

"He is not well."

"Not well?  How is that?" he asked with parental concern that sounded
sweet to her unaccustomed ears.

"He pines for his father," she replied falteringly.

"Tell him how he has laid a curse not only on the child but also on his
parents," broke in the swami unable to keep silence.  "The curse will
extend to his wife as well, if she fails to draw him back from his evil
ways."

She looked from one to the other, trembling under the stern eye of the
swami.

"Husband will you not return to us?  The big father pines for a sight
of his son.  The old eyes are blind through tears.  The child----!" she
stopped unable to command her voice.  "Husband!" she continued.  "Your
wife more than all pines also.  The day is long and weary without you.
The night is unbearable in its misery.  Will you not come to us, our
lord and master?"

She held out her arms, and again he would have clasped her to himself;
but in accordance with instructions given by no less a person than the
swami himself she drew back; and the guru by a slight movement glided
in between them.

"The reward is ready and waits with impatience," said the swami, his
lips parting for a moment and showing the white teeth in a smile that
was not born of kindness or pity.  "But you are not ready for the
reward."

Ananda ignored the speech and continued to address Dorama with
increasing emotion.

"Come?  Will I not come?  Beloved, I will come!  I am ready; I have
been waiting till my heart was sick with longing.  Wife!" he cried
passionately, "I claim you as my own unconditionally.  I command you to
join me.  Come willingly if you can; but willing or unwilling I shall
not cease trying to regain my rights."

"You have no rights!" cried the guru, a definite challenge in his voice.

"That remains to be seen," replied Ananda shortly, as though he grudged
the precious moments wasted in speech with any one but his wife.  He
turned to her again.  "Beloved!  There is no reason why you should not
come to me now."

Hot words of desperate pleading fell from his lips.  He had no more
regard for the presence of the swami than for a yellow lizard on the
wall.  Dorama listened with charmed ears, her lips apart in a smile
that set her husband's pulses throbbing.  She too under the magical
influence of long deferred love was unconscious of the presence that
overshadowed them.

She had promised faithfully to plead the cause of Hinduism, but
religion was forgotten.  Love and love alone was paramount.  Nothing
else mattered.  Her eyes shone with a light that spoke volumes to both
men, bringing joy and hope to Ananda but misgiving to the guru.  He had
not calculated on the turn events had taken.  The warm impulsive
greeting between husband and wife had been out of his reckoning.  The
magical effect of touch had been undreamed of.

Another factor that had not been considered was Ananda's matured
manhood.  The timid boy whom the guru had instructed in the old days
with fatherly authority was gone, and in his place stood an individual
of strong character developed in the hard school of persecution.  It
was not easy for the guru to obtain a hearing.  He seized upon a pause
when the husband having made his appeal waited for his wife's reply.

"Woman!" he cried, in a rough overbearing voice.  "Tell your husband
under what conditions you will consent to join him."

Dorama gave the swami a frightened glance, and began in a faltering
voice as though she were repeating a half-learned lesson.

"If my lord will consent to the rites being performed----"

"Beloved wife! light of my eyes! joy of my heart! the ceremonies that
made me your husband were long ago performed.  They need not be
repeated!"

"She means----" began the guru in a still louder voice than he had
addressed Dorama.

Ananda took a step forward and in tones that echoed round the room,
said--

"Silence, swami, silence!  Let the husband plead with his wife.  All
the world over the rule holds good that the wife shall listen to her
husband; aye, and obey him!"

"Outcaste, and cursed of the gods!  She is no wife of yours!"

"Christian or Hindu, we are one, she and I whatever you may say!"
Again he turned to Dorama.  "My lotus bud, my pearl!  Do not listen to
his words.  Believe me you are mine for ever.  Do you remember our
marriage, not the mere ceremonies that made you mine; but the after
rites when they gave you into my arms?  We were so young then!  We were
like children half grown and only half awake.  Now, now, loved one! my
own little wife! we are awake, yes, awake and waiting and longing!
Come, beloved!  We have waited too long!"

The words poured from his lips in an irresistible torrent, and the guru
was powerless to stop them.  At their conclusion Ananda moved towards
his wife who stood with hands clasped, her face turned to his.

"Back, back!" cried the guru in threatening accents.

"Come, come, beloved!"

With a swift decisive movement Ananda thrust aside the intervening body
of the guru; and Dorama half sobbing, half laughing, and wholly sweet
and yielding, was once again in his strong embrace; once, again in
spite of the terrible presence of the swami, she felt his lips upon
hers and dared--yes, dared to give back kiss for kiss.  Then she felt
herself put away with the same purposeful force.

"Go, little one, go before the swami curse you," he said in her ear.
Dropping his voice to a whisper he continued rapidly.  "You know where
to find me.  If your heart is brave enough to seek your husband, come
by day or in the dead of night, beloved, and you will find your place
in these arms.  Now go, light of my eyes, my priceless jewel!"

As he spoke he gently pushed her to the door and, opening it, thrust
her out, closing it after her.  He returned to the middle of the room
and looked the guru squarely in the face.

"Now, swami," he said temperately; "speak out!  Say what you have to
say as man to man.  I am ready to listen.  Curse me if you like by all
your gods.  Your curses cannot hurt."

The unflinching gaze that accompanied this speech told the guru more
plainly than words that as far as Ananda was concerned his authority
was called in question, his influence was gone and his godhead denied.
"As man to man," Ananda had said.  There was no recognition of
twice-born infallibility in that sentence.  The guru ground his teeth
in his rage.  He knew what it meant; it was the attitude of the cursed
Christian towards the Brahman.  The Brahman and Christian met as man to
man on a common human platform; and the man without caste, the follower
of a strange faith that denied the Hindu deities claimed to be equal
with the divinely born exponent of the Vedas, the being of exalted
caste who was immune from sin.  He, the guru, the swami, in whose body
resided the mantric essence, the soul of the deity, he who was sinless,
was thrust from his pedestal by one whom he had instructed in his youth!

Words failed him and he was speechless; he had lost command of his
tongue and he could neither curse nor upbraid.  Not only had Ananda
spoken to him as an equal, but when he would have interposed between
husband and wife, the apostate had laid a vigorous hand on him full of
strength and determination and had put him aside.  Never before had he
been addressed in that manner, and never had such a thing been heard of
as to touch the sacred person of a swami with a sacrilegious hand.

The warm shades of his skin yellowed and he gasped as he made for the
door.  With a strange courtesy learned in England Ananda passed before
him, lifted the latch and held the door open.  The guru strode from the
room transported with a rage that knew no bounds; and Ananda even as he
rejoiced in his triumph wondered vaguely in what form the man's
vengeance would fall.  God grant that it might be directed against
himself, and not against the beautiful woman who had so lately nestled
in his arms.




CHAPTER XVII

Ananda's interview with his wife and the guru produced a curious
result.  It not only roused him out of meek resignation, but it
stimulated his nerves, strengthened his will, and focussed his mental
vision on the situation created by his conversion to Christianity.  It
was as though a certain visible growth had begun; the fruit of that
growth promised to be action.

Hitherto his policy had been one of waiting and of patience amounting
to little less than apathy.  He had been drifting and existing rather
than acting and living.  It is true that the passive period was not
without its advantage.

The plant that shows no shoot above ground is not necessarily dormant
and idle.  There may be great activity underneath the soil.  It was so
with Ananda.  Strong roots capable of standing the stress of mental
disturbance developed.  From them were to spring actions that would be
marked by endurance and fortitude, where formerly there had been
weakness and timidity.

As he held the soft yielding figure of his wife in his arms he was
conscious of a concentration of purpose he had never experienced
before.  The waiting policy insensibly died.  Definite determination
took the place of vague desire.  He resolved to strike out a line for
himself.  The object of it should be to gain possession of his wife and
child and to find a means of providing a home for them both.  With this
determination came the conviction that his wishes could not be
fulfilled by remaining any longer under his father's roof.  He must
leave home as soon as possible.  The opportunity for so doing had been
offered, but he had refused it.  He must reconsider it.  There was no
necessity to write, it would be better not to do so lest by any chance
the letter was tampered with.  He was aware that he would be watched
and spied upon more than ever after what had passed between himself and
the guru; he must be cautious if he wished to escape.  Alderbury, he
was sure, would give him a warm welcome, and again proffer the helping
hand.

He counted the change left out of Bopaul's ten rupee note.  There was
more than enough left to pay for his journey to the headquarters of the
mission, whether he went by road or by rail.

The next question to be considered was the best means of getting away
from the house with his luggage without raising opposition or provoking
assault.  The only servant at his disposal was the pariah, and his good
offices were restricted by the fact that he had again been forbidden to
wait on the young master any longer.  His visits had to be paid
secretly and at night.  The man need not have come at all; but with
that fidelity so often found among the lower people of India who serve
their superiors, he remained faithful to the son of the house whom he
had known and worshipped from a distance as a child and boy.

When the lights were extinguished and voices ceased murmuring in the
women's rooms, the untouchable, as the caste people termed the pariah,
crept softly into the little yard and entered the room where Ananda
slept.  By the dim light of the tumbler lamp he performed the duties he
had been forbidden to do.  With quick, silent fingers he tidied the
room, cleaned the shoes and filled the earthen chafing-dish with fresh
charcoal.  So quiet was he in all his movements that his master's deep
sleep was undisturbed till the moment when a gentle rattle of the
milkcan against the compound wall outside told of the arrival of the
milkman with his cow.  Even then the faithful servitor, remembering his
uncleanness, forbore to lay a hand upon the recumbent figure.  Kneeling
by his side he uttered the loud chirrup of the wall-lizard until the
sound pierced the brain of the sleeper.  Then Ananda rose, and, taking
up the milk-bottle that belonged to his tiffin-basket, went to fetch
the milk.  The pariah watched, and when his master returned he blew up
the charcoal on which the coffee was to be made.  No conversation
passed between the two.  The one received and the other gave his
services without thanks or apology.  Yet Ananda was not ungrateful.

Although nothing of any consequence was said, this curious intimacy had
a beneficial effect upon the 'vert.  Unconsciously he was learning that
wonderful lesson of Christianity--the brotherhood of man.  His
repugnance to the pariah was decreasing, and he no longer shrank with
disgust as his eye fell upon his figure.  The books given by Alderbury
contained much that bore on the subject, and Ananda had had plenty of
leisure to absorb their contents, with the result that in his desperate
need he was able to turn without repulsion to the only human being who
could render help.

In the small hours of the morning after Ananda's interview with Dorama,
the usual routine had been observed, while scarcely a word passed
between the two.  The man was turning away to leave, having blown up
the chafing-dish of live coal, when Ananda called softly to him.  He
stopped at once, and salaamed, wondering what his master could have to
say if it was not complaint at some unconscious shortcoming in his
service.

"I must leave my father's house, and I require your help."

Again the pariah touched his forehead with both hands; then, placing
them together, palm to palm, he listened deferentially to Ananda's
explanation and instructions.  He was to bring a cart to take the
luggage to the station in time to catch the night mail of that day.

The pariah prostrated himself and lifted his folded hands in entreaty.

"Sir! this unworthy slave prays your honour to be careful.  There are
men in the town who openly declare that if they meet your excellency
they will beat you and drive away the Christian devil which they say
has entered the noble body of the presence.  During the day they wait
outside hoping to catch your honour walking.  There is danger also in
the house."

"Danger!" repeated Ananda quickly.  "How is that?  Stand up and tell me
about it."

The man rose apologetically to his feet and continued his story.

"My wife sweeps out the back yard where the refuse is thrown.  She
heard one of the kitchen women telling the girl from the market that
the swami departed in anger, and that his wrath must be appeased,
otherwise worse misfortune will befall the family.  He left orders with
the small master, the brother of our most noble big master, that your
excellency was not to be allowed to leave the grounds."

"How can he stop me?" asked Ananda, with some heat.

"By the aid of the men who watch outside."

"Are they there all night?"

"No, sir; they do not think that you will try to leave secretly and at
night.  Where could your honour go to hide, they say?  Every
hiding-place is known to them, and no one in the town would dare to
give shelter against the wishes of Pantulu Iyer's family.  Great care
will be needed in leaving your honourable father's house without
permission."

Ananda was silent.  The fact that he was living in a state of siege
that might very soon become close imprisonment was being forced upon
him.  It was an unpleasant truth, but one to which he could not remain
blind.  His conviction that he must get away as speedily as possible
grew; and the sweeper was right in urging upon him the necessity of
caution if he wished to ensure success in carrying out his intentions.

The coffee seethed on the live coals.  As he removed the pot he
motioned to the pariah instinctively to stand away.  The action was an
involuntary response to the inherited prejudice.  He was obeyed
instantly and without resentment.  The man retired to the doorway, and
would have passed out into the darkness had it not been for another
command.

"Come back, I have not finished what I have to say.  Tell me, what do
you think ought to be done?"

The other glanced at him in surprise, although he did not venture to
express it.  Had ever one of the twice-born been heard to ask the
advice of a sweeper?  If he should dare to say in the hearing of men of
caste that he had been thus consulted, he would be beaten for his
presumption until his back streamed with blood.

With ever-recurring apology for daring to advise so great an
excellency, he unfolded a plan of escape which seemed to Ananda, the
more he considered it, the only possible means of getting away.  The
excellency was to pack his property into parcels and bundles which the
sweeper would convey away in the night with the assistance of his wife
and son to some safe hiding-place in the jungle.  The portmanteaux must
be left behind, empty, or suspicion would be roused if by chance one of
the family paid a visit to the master.  On the second night after the
household had retired Ananda was to steal quietly away and walk to a
station some distance from the town, where he would not be recognised.
The sweeper and his relatives would act as carriers for his luggage.
His sister who served the College excellency would obtain a day's
holiday from the housekeeper and help.  All might be relied upon for
keeping the secret, and his honour need have no fear.

Ananda made only one suggestion, that he should start with them and
take the train twenty-four hours earlier.  To this the man objected on
the score of requiring more time to make the arrangements for the night
march.  When Ananda spoke of a reward the pariah protested vehemently
that none was required.  Some day in the future, when his honour had
grown rich, perhaps he would allow his son and daughter to serve him--a
promise easy to give and easy to perform when the time should come.
The crowing of cocks fell on their ears, and the men started.

"I must be going, sir.  The women will soon awake and be moving to the
cattle shed.  Your excellency must forgive this worthless servant for
touching your honour's sacred property; but there is no other way," he
said deprecatingly.

"It is forgiven," replied Ananda, remembering how roughly he had bidden
that same man on his arrival to leave his trunks alone.  Rather than
have them contaminated by his touch he had himself hauled them into his
room.  "Did you not carry the Englishman's food basket for him?  Then
surely you may carry my clothing without offence."

All day Ananda was busy in the privacy of his little den, putting his
personal belongings together in handy portable parcels, tying some in
bundles when his limited supply of brown paper and string came to an
end.  Quiet reigned over the house; and if he chanced to look out of
the door no one crossed his line of vision in the compound.  By the
afternoon he had finished.  He put on his cap to take a little walk.
Beyond the wall that bounded the grounds he caught sight of two or
three figures.  They would have attracted no attention had it not been
for the warning of the pariah.  The man was correct.  Undoubtedly he
was being watched as far as the outside of the house was concerned, and
with no friendly intention either; but as long as he remained indoors
he was left severely alone.  This was satisfactory, as the sight of his
preparations would rouse suspicion and endanger the success of his
scheme.

His eyes frequently sought that part of the house in which he knew were
the women's quarters.  The small jealously-shuttered windows gave no
hint of what was passing behind the Venetians.  Was Dorama there?  Did
she seek for a glimpse of her husband as eagerly as he craved for a
sight of his wife?

He paced up and down, book in hand, his thoughts busy elsewhere.  The
luggage was ready in its new form, and it was to be carried off that
very night.  In the small hours of the following night he would quietly
slip away, and thus cut himself adrift for ever from the home of his
birth.

Again he searched the landscape.  A strong desire to see and speak once
more with his wife lay at the back of his mind.  He wanted to tell her
of his plans; to ask her to wait and to beg of her to join him as soon
as he had a shelter to offer her.

He cudgelled his brains for some device by which a message might be
conveyed in safety, and could only think of the sweeper.  The pariah
servant had no opportunity, however, of approaching the lady Dorama
within speaking distance.  Even if chance favoured the messenger he
would be unable to carry out his mission.  At the mere sight of him she
would shrink away with all the prejudice of her caste, and resent the
smallest breach of the caste law.  The pariah, by the unwritten law,
could not do otherwise than maintain the prescribed distance between
her and himself.  If he dropped a letter in her path or placed it where
she might find it, his contaminating touch would be sufficient for her
avoidance of the missive.  Moreover, a written letter was of no use.
She could neither read nor write.  His only hope was in a chance
interview, and as the hours slipped by the hope grew fainter.

The following day passed heavily.  The luggage was safely removed
without accident.  His books and writing materials were gone with the
rest of his property, and he would not see them again till he arrived
at the distant station.  He had biscuits with him and some
pomegranates.  The sharp sweetness of the juice served to assuage his
thirst.

He went out into the compound as often as he dared.  It did not do to
spend too much time in the open, since it had not been his habit.  It
might be remarked upon.  He noted the figures beyond the wall, and knew
that he was being watched with the same vigilance as was shown
yesterday and the day before.  Frequently his eye turned towards the
blue-green mountain mass with its dark-grey rocks and heavy forest.
Then he looked back at the familiar building, the home of his
ancestors, and once the hot unshed tears made his eyes smart at the
thought of leaving it.  The blood rushed to his head and back again to
his heart with a violence that almost threw him off his mental balance.
Could he muster up strength enough to abandon all that the home meant?
Would he have the courage when the moment came to sever the ties that
bound him to father, mother, wife--no, not wife!  She and the child
would follow by and by.  He refused to entertain any doubt on the
subject.

All the same, he was conscious of a shudder, the kind of inward quake
experienced by the soldier at the sound of the first bullet whizzing
over his head on the battlefield.  He checked it at once and took a
fresh grip of himself, sternly and resolutely shutting down sentiment
and its companion emotion.

"I can't go back!  I can't go back!  There is nothing but hideous
darkness behind me.  I must go forward.  The light is in front!  Ah!
dear Christ, the Son of God! lead me forward in safety!  Lead me on!"

The mental disturbance passed as suddenly as it had overwhelmed him.
Once more he was conscious of a great peace.  It was as though he had
entered that wonderful temple of God standing in the heart of London,
where the strains of the organ rise above the roar of the streets, and
where a man may feel that he is in the presence of the living God of
Love, the Father of the Universe.

The sun dropped behind a shoulder of the mountain, and the sky broke
into a glory of many colours.  He watched it until it faded.  Suddenly
he was startled by a sound.  As the last ray left the top of the hill
and the forest mantled into a sombre green, a wail arose in the women's
rooms.  It was followed by the beat of a tomtom.

He stood at the entrance of the yard and listened.  As the light faded
the wailing increased.  He could distinguish by the sound of the voices
a movement.  They were leaving the house for the garden.

Yes!  He knew the ritual of old!  Some one was dying, and death was
close at hand.  The man or woman--he started as the thought struck him
that it might be his father--had been carried out of the house and laid
upon mother earth to breathe his last.

How well he remembered the ceremonies with which death was greeted; the
lifting with tender care of the dying from the cot or mat and the
gentle placing of the gasping patient upon the smooth ground.  Close by
grew the sacred tulsi, without which no spirit could take its flight in
peace.  He could picture his mother bending over the plant to gather a
sprig.  He fancied he could smell the aromatic scent of the broken
stalk of sweet basil as she placed the sprig above the head of the
sufferer--perhaps touching the dry lips with it, leading as she did so
the wail of mourning.

The chorus of women's voices swelled on the evening air; the whole
household must be joining in.  Who could it be?  The pariah had said
nothing of any illness in the family.  If it had been his father the
man would have mentioned it.  He concluded that it must be one of the
many relatives who lived in the house.  Some of them had joined the
family during his absence in England; others had grown out of
knowledge; it was useless for him to conjecture.

The presence of death is always a solemn moment, even though the person
may not be known.  Ananda remained standing by the entrance of the
yard, his eyes turned towards the west, but his ears bent to catch
every sound that came from the house.  Each change in the note of grief
spoke eloquently of the ebbing life, and he listened for the final
cries that would betoken the drawing of the last breath.

The colour died out of the sky except upon the horizon, which glowed
with a vivid luminous green.  The steady yellow light of the evening
star shone in the wake of the sun's path.  Bats fluttered in the air,
following the strong-winged moth that sought the almond-scented
blossoms of the oleander.  In the distance the faint hum of the town
rose occasionally and died away again.  A cart went slowly by, its
axles groaning as the bullocks plodded along, urged by the guttural
shouts of the sleepy driver.

The wailing in the house stopped and silence reigned.  The stars grew
brighter and the living green of the west was lost in darkening greys.
An owl in the distant forest sent forth a discordant shriek.  As if in
reply the familiar note of grief was renewed in slightly different
tones mingled with a violent tomtoming.

Death had come; and the patient, whoever he or she might be, had drawn
the last breath.

Memory was busy with the past once more.  Sad though the sound of
mourning might be, it belonged to his life.  Death without those
accompanying sounds would not seem to be death, any more than marriage
would seem to be marriage without the dancing girls and their
love-songs.

He had renounced all such things and set them aside for ever.  Again,
with a determined effort, he thrust sentiment aside and shut his ears
to the mourning.  All night long the mourners would be up and busy over
the preparations for the disposal of the body the next day.  There was
no reason why he should not sleep however.  He had a long walk before
him.  The sweeper was to meet him at the station in the morning at
eight o'clock, and he was to take the train that was due soon after
that hour.  He intended starting between three and four.  The road was
familiar.  India is not troubled with too many by-paths.  Even if the
route had been unknown to him, he could not easily have missed it.

He retired to his room and threw himself upon his charpoy bed.  He
could still hear the monotonous wailing, but it was not disturbing.
Having reassured himself that it could not possibly be his father, he
troubled no more about the unknown dead.  On the whole it was fortunate
that the household was occupied with its own affairs.  There was less
likelihood of attention being directed towards himself.  His escape
ought to be easy, and, thus thinking, he fell asleep.




CHAPTER XVIII

Ananda lay in a deep, dreamless sleep, the restful slumber of a healthy
man whose mind was as wholesome as his body.  One hand was tucked under
his cheek, the other was thrown forward and hung slightly over the edge
of the cot.  All his troubles, his doubts and fears, his deprivations
and hardships, lately inflicted, were forgotten.  It was the best
preparation he could have for entrance on the new life, when he would
have to live "by the sweat of his brow," like a multitude of good men
who had gone before him, and others who would come after him.

He had had four hours of solid sleep without stirring, when he became
aware of a touch upon the hand that rested on the border of the bed.
It was a soft, coaxing touch that sent an electric message to his
brain.  In the old days before he went to England that same touch had
often roused him at dawn.  He lifted his head and breathed one word:

"Wife!"

"I am here!" came the ready response.

She was in his arms the next moment, clinging to him whilst convulsive
sobs--stifled, but none the less strong--shook her from head to foot.

At first words failed them both, he in his astonishment and she in the
violence of her grief; but as tears relieved the overburdened brain of
the woman she regained sufficient command of herself to speak.

"Our little son!--my baby!  He is dead!"

Then, as an exclamation escaped Ananda's lips, she placed her hand over
his mouth.

"Ah! hush!" she whispered.  "They do not know that I have come to you.
If they find me here they will beat me again!"

"Beat you!  My pearl!  Who has dared to lay a finger upon my wife?" he
whispered fiercely, drawing her still closer.

"Our uncle's wife.  Of late she has taken much upon herself.  She has
tried continually to push me from my place, saying that her husband
would be the big master of the house when your father died.  Then she
will be mistress, and as such it was only fitting that she should come
next to your mother instead of me."

"But why should she strike you?"

"Ah! husband!--the child!  They say that it was through my neglect and
carelessness that the boy came under the influence of the evil eye; it
was but right therefore that I should be punished."

The bereaved mother poured the story of little Royan's illness and
death into her husband's ears.  Together the parents wept, stifling
their grief lest the sound of a sob or a sigh should betray them.
Little, indeed, had Ananda suspected that as he listened indifferently
to the wailing his beloved child was passing away from them for ever.

"What will life be without my child or my husband?" cried Dorama at
last.  "I cannot bear it; I shall die!"

"No, you will not.  Beloved, I am leaving my home to-night to find more
liberty than I am given here in this cruel town.  Come with me.  Let us
go together.  Once across the border of the State our rights will be
respected.  We are of age, free to act as we choose, and no one can
separate you from me or do either of us any hurt."

"Husband!  I am your obedient wife!"

      *      *      *      *      *

Ananda looked at his watch.  It was half-past two.

"It is time we started, beloved.  Can you walk as far?" he asked
anxiously as he made his final preparations.

"I can walk the distance easily if my lord will give me time."

"Then let us begin the journey at once.  We will go to the further
corner of the compound and get over the wall.  Before the sun is up we
shall be far enough from the town not to fear recognition."

Together they crept across the enclosure, Ananda beating the grass
softly with his stick at each step, to drive away the chance snake.
Dorama followed closely.

The wall presented no difficulty; but as Ananda dropped lightly into
the road he startled a half-starved pariah dog returning to the town
after its nightly prowl for food.  The dog, more in fear than anger,
barked wildly at him.  Dorama, alarmed, hesitated to follow.  He threw
a stone at the animal with the intention of frightening it.  As bad
luck would have it the stone struck the dog, and though it was not much
hurt, it shrieked after the manner of the village cur, as if it had
been nearly killed.

"Wait!" said Ananda to his wife, who had not yet joined him in the
road.  "Sit down under the wall.  The long grass will hide you."

He watched the house for a few minutes to see if a light moved or if
there was any indication of an alarm being raised and a search.  If
Dorama's absence were discovered an immediate hunt would be made, and
the noise of the dog would give a hint of the direction she had taken.

No sign of any movement was apparent, and Dorama, recovering her nerve,
climbed the wall and joined him.  They set off at a steady pace.  There
was no moon; but the stars gave sufficient light to help the travellers
along the broad, well-kept road.  Dorama's little feet were bare.  They
fell noiselessly except for the chink of her silver toe-rings.  Ananda
wore English boots, strong and serviceable; but the warm, sub-tropical
climate had affected the leather and made them creak.  Possibly it was
the noise of his tread that drowned the sound of approaching footsteps.

Dorama was the first to hear it.  She stopped and laid her hand on her
husband's arm.

"What is that?" she asked sharply.

Before he could reply four men running barefooted came up with them
from behind.  Three of them hurled themselves upon Ananda.  The fourth
seized Dorama roughly by the arm.

"What madness is this?" cried the voice of their uncle.  "Who gave you
permission to take away the daughter of the house?" he demanded of
Ananda.

The only reply of the latter was to struggle violently.  He was soon
overpowered, and between his three captors he was marched back towards
his father's house.  Ten minutes later he found himself once more in
the little outhouse with his empty trunks.  The door was closed upon
him and its primitive hasp secured with a padlock.  He was without food
and without his personal property; but his concern was not for himself,
it was for the weeping and trembling woman who was wrested from him to
be driven back in unmerited disgrace and perhaps imprisoned like
himself.  There was nothing to be done but to submit, at least, for the
present.  He was calm and self-controlled once more now that he was
alone.  He would wait patiently for developments, relying on the love
that he knew his parents bore him.  It was impossible to believe that
they had any intention of doing him personal violence, though they
might subject him to further humiliation and discomfort.

It was the dog that did the mischief and put Sooba on the track of the
fugitives.  Dorama's absence was discovered as soon as she was required
for a ceremony in the death chamber as mother of the dead boy.  A
search was made through the house, and some one suggested that possibly
she had gone to the well to put an end to her sorrow for lost husband
and child.  Another mentioned Ananda.  Could she have sought him in her
trouble?  After their interview in the presence of the guru it was not
unlikely.  When his room was found to be empty the belief was confirmed
that the two were together somewhere, perhaps on the premises, perhaps
in the forest.

The shriek of the dog betrayed the fact that it had encountered a human
being and received some hurt.  Its cry was a howl of pain and not of
anger, as would have been the case had it met one of its own kind.  The
sharp ears of the man who of all that numerous family did not mourn the
dead nor the disgraced, caught the sound, and he jumped to a correct
conclusion.  Further thought pointed to the obvious fact that the
missing couple would not be likely to take the road leading to the
town.  In a short time he gathered a band of willing helpers, and, as
we have seen, the capture was made.

Having disposed of the couple, Sooba called a family council.  Pantulu
declined to be present, but Gunga attended it.  A decision was arrived
at that she and her husband should leave the house that afternoon
immediately after the funeral.  They were to travel by bullock coach to
one of his silk farms some ten miles distant from Chirapore.  A small
bungalow occupied by a relative who superintended the silk-worm culture
would house them for a few days or until--Gunga looked at her
brother-in-law sadly--until her husband had recovered his health.
Other matters were discussed with general unanimity as to the course
that should be taken as soon as Pantulu was removed.  When it was over
Gunga sought Dorama.  The stern, unyielding woman stood in the centre
of the room, her daughter-in-law prostrate at her feet.  The younger
woman trembled as she listened, and when the tale was ended she was
shaken with sobs.

"Mother! mother!" she wailed.  "Is it necessary?  Must it be?"

The tears stood in Gunga's eyes as she pronounced again the sentence
passed by the guru on her son and confirmed by the common consent of
the family.

"Spare him, mother! spare him!" pleaded Dorama.

"He did not spare us his parents, nor his son, whose death he has
caused.  In a short time we shall carry his father to the arms of
mother earth, as yesterday we carried the child.  Why should we spare
him?"

Dorama bowed her head in silence.  She dared not question the
accusation.  Being a Hindu she was inclined to the belief that
unconsciously his regard falling on the child as it did might have had
an evil influence.  Nor could she be blind to the probability that
Pantulu would die of grief before many weeks were over.

"There must be punishment for you too, daughter," continued Gunga.

Dorama's hands were raised over her bowed head as if to protect herself
from a shower of blows.  The fear of immediate violence was without
foundation.  Gunga took no pleasure in inflicting pain.  The task would
be left to the man whose power in the house was growing more dominant
each day that passed.

The last rites for the disposal of little Royan's body were performed,
and the party had returned to the house to watch the departure of the
master and mistress.  The coach was ready, and the bullock bells
jangled as the large white beasts shook the flies from their heads and
stamped a cloven hoof, breathing out heavily through their glistening
nostrils.

Pantulu, bowed like a man of seventy, left the house by himself and
climbed into the bullock coach without waiting for his wife.  She
stayed behind to give the final directions to her women.  As she
crossed the threshold to the big iron-studded door, Dorama ran forward
and caught her arm.

"Mother! mother! is it not possible to pass over the offence?  Oh!
mother!  I cannot bear it!  I cannot bear it!"

Gunga released herself with no light touch from the clinging hand and
spoke with a roughness that hid her own emotion.

"Go back to your room.  You forget yourself, daughter!  Look at the big
master!  Is not the sight of his deep sorrow and affliction enough to
win the consent of every member of his house?"

Dorama's face sought shelter behind her trembling hands, and she began
to cry piteously like a child.  Her mother-in-law strode on towards the
bullock coach, her grey head covered with the saree drawn like a hood
over her forehead till her features were almost hidden.  She did not
keep strict purdahnasheen, but she was careful not to expose herself to
the public gaze more than was necessary.  Sooba himself closed the door
of the coach.

"Farewell, sister," he said in a smooth voice.  "The change will do my
brother good if anything will; but his spirit is too much broken by his
many sorrows to give us any hope of his recovery.  It is a matter of
time only."

"We shall see," replied Gunga sharply, and not best pleased at the
assurance with which her husband's death was mentioned.

"By the time you return," continued Sooba, unruffled, "we shall have
better news to tell you of the breaking of an obstinate will."

Gunga turned from him without response.  The motherly instinct in her
struggled to make its voice heard.  She stifled it ruthlessly.  Yet she
looked back as the bullocks moved forward with an uneven jerk and said--

"Do nothing but what the swami commanded," she said.  "It will be
sufficient."

The noise of the wheels prevented further conversation.  Sooba,
watching the cart as it swayed in its exit through the gateway of the
compound wall smiled unpleasantly.

"It was just as well that I did not tell her all, or she might have
refused to leave the house.  Mothers are in the way when troublesome
sons and daughters require chastisement."

He passed through the centre courtyard towards the back of the
building.  Dorama, dejected and miserable, her eyelids swollen with
weeping, stood listlessly near the kitchen door.  His eyes dwelt on her
jewellery, the gold bangles on her arms, her nose and ear ornaments,
and a pearl necklace that covered the cord on which was suspended the
marriage token.

Inside the kitchen the sharp voice of his wife was raised as she issued
orders to the gang of women employed in cooking the evening meal.  She
came to the door and caught sight of her husband.  There was an
exchange of glances between the new self-constituted master and
mistress.  It was sufficient without speech.  She called to Dorama.

"Come, little sister; enough of grieving!  Go into the kitchen and see
to the making of the green chutneys.  The girl who is pounding them is
too stupid to flavour it to your uncle's liking.  Now that the big
mistress is away I must take her place.  It is a favour to allow you to
take mine."

Dorama glanced at her through misty eyes.  She did not answer, but
entered the kitchen and seated herself by the side of the girl who was
compounding the delicacies known as green chutneys.  The work she had
been asked to do was light, and she was glad to be employed.  Hitherto
it had not been thought necessary that she should help with the
preparation of meals.  The care of the child was considered sufficient
occupation; but now she was without any charge it was only right that
she should take her share in the household duties.  She had no
objection to the labour involved; but she could not help feeling the
humiliation of the position assigned her.  As wife of the son and heir
she ranked next to the mistress.  It was she who should be at the head
of the household giving orders.  It was she who should light the lamp
at evening and call together the family at daybreak for the morning
hymn and pujah.  Before Ananda returned, and while the child lived, she
had looked forward confidently to the time when she should succeed to
these recognised duties of the mistress of the zenana.  Now the bitter
truth was thrust upon her; with her husband outcasted and her son dead
they could never be hers.  Silently she took up the work assigned to
her, tears dropping occasionally from her sad eyes.

The women in the kitchen glanced at her with a sympathy they dared not
express.  There was not one among them who would not have preferred to
see Dorama in her aunt's place.  In view of what the near future
probably held they deemed it wiser to keep their thoughts to themselves
and to obey orders without a murmur.

At the evening meal Dorama was made to feel again her subordinate
position both in serving the men and in being served herself.  But it
came to an end at last.  When it was finished the green leaf platters
were thrown out on the refuse heap; the brass pots and dishes were
rinsed and turned upside down to drain, and the kitchen fires were
allowed to sink into grey ash.  Many of the women, tired out with a
night of preparation for the funeral, lay down on their mats, and
drawing a sheet over their heads, were soon fast asleep.  Two or three
continued to move about the house, not having completed their duties.
One by one they too retired, and only Dorama remained awake.  As soon
as she was assured that her companions were safely asleep she rose and
opened the door.  Placing it ajar, she seated herself close to it, so
that she had a view of the central court through the narrow opening.
Her heart beat like a sledge-hammer.  It seemed to her that it must be
heard throughout the house.  An hour passed, and still she continued to
watch and wait with wakeful eye and alert ear.

Between ten and eleven she caught sight of the dark forms of men
passing silently through the courtyard towards the back verandah.  They
entered the garden, and turning through the gate in the garden wall,
went towards the room occupied by Ananda.

Before daring to follow she waited for sign of further movement in the
men's quarters.  There might be others who out of curiosity, if nothing
else, would join their superiors uninvited.  All was silent, and she
concluded that they who intended to visit her husband that night had
gone to his room.

Gathering her saree closely round her she crept out into the courtyard,
taking care to close the door of the sleeping-room after her.
Listening and moving with the utmost caution, she went through the
garden door and out into the compound.  The stars were bright, and by
their light she could distinguish the footpath leading direct to the
little yard where the green gourd flourished.

She hesitated to venture along the track by which the men might return
at any minute.  Her courage failing her she followed the wall till she
reached the first corner.  Here she stopped and listened.  Feeling her
way, she went on till she arrived at a spot outside the yard which she
calculated was close to the open door of Ananda's room.  The fear of
snakes was conquered in her intense anxiety to learn what was
happening, and she crouched low down in the long grass till she was
hidden from sight.

The position she had chosen was the best for the purpose of overhearing
all that passed in Ananda's room.  Only twenty-four hours before, she
had entered it with confidence, and sought for consolation in her
distress at the loss of her child.  His love and his pity were poured
out upon her.  His kisses were still warm upon her lips.  She seemed to
hear the words of joy and love that he breathed in her ear as he held
her to him.  She thrilled again when she recalled all that he had
promised of the future that should be theirs, if she would take her
courage in her hands and come away with him--future love, future
happiness, future maternity, all might be secured if only she would be
brave.  In British territory his rights would be recognised--how
hopefully he spoke!--he could earn enough to keep them both.  She would
be a happy wife, her own mistress, with no aunt to bully and tyrannise;
and if the good God willed it, she would also be a happy mother again.
As he pleaded she forgot his broken caste, his disgrace, his
excommunication.  A new and great love blossomed out of the old,
bestowing upon her both courage and faith.  She would go with him--oh,
so gladly! she whispered.  What had she to live for now but her lord,
her husband!  The grip of his arms told her how he appreciated her
devotion.

Then came the sudden ending to their dreams.  That golden future which
was to begin then and there was shattered; and punishment, dread bodily
punishment, was to be meted out to the one human being left for her to
love.

Her train of thought was disturbed by voices.  Her uncle's dominated
the rest.  It was loud and overbearing, and it seemed to increase in
acrimony as he talked.  Ananda's replies were given temperately yet
firmly.  Apparently angry tones and open insults had no power to raise
fear or wrath.  He presented a firm front, growing, if anything, calmer
as the other became more excited.  The older man would have found his
task easier if his nephew had lost his temper, and become abusive and
violent.

Again and again Sooba demanded recantation.  Each demand was met with a
firm refusal, given patiently and without faltering.  Threats and
blustering commands produced no effect, and so far the victory lay with
the younger man.  That his uncle was fast losing control of himself was
evident by his lapse now and then into a veritable scream of rage.

After an outburst of this kind more virulent than any that had gone
before, came a call to his confederates.  Four or five men who were
waiting outside the door, entered, and Dorama could distinguish that
some action was taking place.  She divined what it was, though she
heard no words.  Violence was being done to her husband's person, and
he had not met it with the calmness that had characterised his speech.
He had fought for his liberty, and in his struggles he had knocked over
two of his assailants and his chair.  Five strong men were too many for
him however; and as the noise and the scuffle subsided, Dorama knew
that he was secured and bound.

Once more there was silence; it was presently broken by the hectoring
tones of Sooba.  This time they met with no reply.  The men who had
helped added their voices and raised an angry chorus of upbraiding and
reproach.  It died down when their vocabulary of abuse was exhausted.
This time the silence was so complete that Dorama could hear the
melancholy cry of a night-bird as it passed overhead on its way to the
forest-clad slopes of the mountain.  In the distance a jackal howled
and led the yelping of the prowling pack of night-scavengers.

Suddenly she started and shivered as a sound fell on her ear that she
had heard before at rare intervals in her life.  It was repeated, and
she trembled from head to foot, burying her face in her hands.

The Hindus, rich and poor, much as they love litigation over
boundaries, irrigation rights and the division of property, rarely
bring family quarrels and offences into court.  In cases of murder the
law interferes; but where it is only assault in the privacy of the
family, it is kept strictly private.  The victim and the aggressor
equally shrink from the public inquiry necessitating the intrusion of
the police.

Dorama understood perfectly what was happening.  It would have been
wise if she had returned then and there to her room.  She could do no
good by stopping, and she ran a risk of being discovered.  But although
she was aware of what would be discreet and wise, she was unable to
tear herself away.  It seemed heartless to the beloved one to leave him
in his dark hour.  She could not bring him consolation, but she could
suffer with him.

And suffer she assuredly did.  At every recurrence of the dull thud she
shivered as though she herself had been struck.  Once a low cry escaped
the lips of the victim, and her nails dug into her breast clawing
unconsciously her own soft smooth flesh in her agony.

Fifteen minutes passed which seemed fifteen hours.  Surely it was
enough and more than enough to expiate his sin against the guru and
against his family.  Now they would stop! they must stop! that horrible
sound must cease!  But the sentence of the swami was not completed yet,
and again her ears were assailed by that ominous thud.  He bore it very
silently.  Had they gagged him? or was he faint, she wondered?

At last a groan came from the sufferer, as though his endurance were
failing.  It was too much for Dorama.  She felt that she must shriek
aloud if she remained a moment longer.  She rose to her feet and,
impelled by a mad desire to help him, she ran to the entrance of the
yard.  How she was to accomplish her purpose she was not composed
enough to think.

The door of the room was open.  She hesitated.  Dare she enter and bid
them stop in their cruel work?  No! no! it would only increase their
fury, and they would visit her offence upon him.  Perhaps they would
kill him.  In the light of the yellow oil lamp she caught sight of the
bamboo as it was once more lifted with slow, deliberate precision.

Putting her fingers in her ears she fled, never stopping until she
reached the room in which she slept.  Prostrate upon her mat, her saree
over her mouth to stifle her sobbing, she lay convulsed with grief.
The women in the room slept heavily.  One of them stirred.  She lifted
her head, drew aside the sheet that covered her, and listened.

"Is that you, sister?  Poor little mother!  The child is gone, and all
through that evil husband of yours!  May he be cursed in a thousand
miserable births!  Lie down, child!  Think no more about him!"

Dorama did not reply.  She subdued her sobs, and listened once more
with painful alertness for the sound of returning steps through the
inner courtyard.  They came, and as the men walked slowly back they
talked in low voices.  It was well for Dorama's peace of mind that she
could not hear what they said.

"Will he die under it?" asked one.

"Not he!" replied Sooba.  "I took care to use the stick so that it
neither killed nor broke bones.  Although a Christian has no standing
in a court of law in the State of Chirakul, there might be trouble with
the English if he were done to death."

"Where was he going when we caught him?"

"To the missionary," replied Sooba, shortly.

"No fear of his attempting to run away again just yet.  He will not be
able to stand for a couple of days," remarked one.

"Therefore I did not trouble to lock the door," said another.

"He has starved since last night, and now he has been beaten.  All this
will surely drive the devil out of him," said a third.

"If not he can have plenty more of the same medicine," rejoined Sooba,
at which they all laughed in the best of humours.




CHAPTER XIX

Mrs. Hulver was in what she termed "a fine taking," as Eola could see
with half an eye.  When they met as usual after breakfast to consult
together on household matters the young mistress inquired what was the
matter.

"Never mind me, miss," said the housekeeper with resolution.  "I'll
tell you all about it when we've done the cook and butler business.
Ramachetty!"

He glided forward instantly, followed by his satellite, the cook; and
the daily routine followed.  The supplies bought that morning were
displayed.  How Eola hated the sight of the raw meat and live fowls
exhibited for her inspection!  The butler's accounts were rendered, and
what was a more difficult matter, brought into accordance with her own.
The patient servants received their dismissal; the butler happy in the
thought that he had succeeded in over-charging his mistress exactly ten
annas in spite of the eagle eye of the housekeeper; the cook equally
content in having cheated the butler out of four annas; the cook boy
pleased with himself in the purloining of an onion, a potato,
half-a-dozen leaves of the cabbage and as much ghee as an expert finger
could scoop out of the pot.  Even the kitchen-woman was
self-congratulatory.  She had substituted a rotten egg for a sound one
brought from market; adulterated the coffee during the pounding process
with burnt rice and charred crusts of bread.

"Now tell me what has happened to upset you, Mrs. Hulver," said Eola,
with a sympathetic kindliness that was one of her charms.

"It's my son, miss.  Last evening the post brought me a letter to say
that he was ill and was coming by the early mail this morning."

"And he hasn't arrived?" suggested Eola.

"On the contrary, Miss, he has come right enough; but you never saw
such an object as he is in your life.  Of course I'm his mother, and as
William--that was my second--used to say: 'Mother's love is the same
all over the world, whether her child is as beautiful as an angel or as
ugly as a graven image.'"

"What has happened!"

"It was this way, miss.  Some of the men in the regiment who ought to
have known better--but as William--that was my third--used to say: 'Age
won't mend a born fool'--took advantage of my boy's youth and
innocence.  They enticed him into the canteen and made him drink more
than was good for him.  He doesn't lean that way, I am glad to be able
to say with truth; and this will be a lesson to him."

"You haven't told me yet what is the matter," remarked Eola.

"I'm coming to it all in good time.  It appears he was quarrelsome in
his cups.  That's the odd part about drink, miss; you never know how
it's going to act on your temperament.  As William--that was my
third--used to say: 'Liquor is like love, Maria, me dear; some it will
make joyful, others sad; some will want to be friends with everybody;
others will fight on the smallest pretence.'  So it was with young
William; he must needs fight another man in the canteen who was just as
far gone as himself; and properly punished he was for his pains.  The
sergeant treated him leniently as it was his first offence; and gave
him a few days' leave to recover.  The boy is full of sorrow and
repentance.  He doesn't trouble about his black eye one little bit.
What he feels is the shame of it.  As William--that was my second--used
to say: 'Shame cuts deeper than any whip, and the pain we bring on
ourselves is the hardest of all to bear.'  My boy is feeling the truth
of his father's saying nicely," concluded Mrs. Hulver, with grim
satisfaction.

"What was it that provoked the quarrel?"

"William was too far gone in drink to remember much; but he thinks that
they were all talking about these sufferagette women--I'd make them
suffer if I was the King!--and the man he fought said something very
nasty about the sex.  I shouldn't have troubled if I'd been William.
Just look at the harm the hussies do!  Here's William that knocked
about and blackened over the eyes that his own father wouldn't know
him, all through talking about them!  As if God hadn't made my boy dark
enough in his complexion without their interference!  But as long as
there are women to love there will be men to fight over them.  As
William--that was my third--used to say: 'When the Almighty gave ould
Adam his wife, he handed him the shillelagh and told him to take care
and use it like a gentleman.  It was only after the devil interfered
that Adam thought of turning it against the lady herself.'  It was the
woman that started men to fight and she will keep it up to the finish,"
concluded Mrs. Hulver, with some heat.

"I am sorry you are so troubled," said Eola.

"And I'm vexed that any of my trouble should be passed on to you.  I
felt that I must tell you all about it; it wasn't right to keep it from
you and the master.  I should have come to you last night only I didn't
see the good of worrying you before the morning.  This morning, of
course, it's my duty to tell you the truth and to hide nothing.  As
William, the boy's own father, used to say: 'It's easier in the end to
face the truth than to back a lie.'"

"You have him in your room, I suppose?"

"Yes, miss; on the camp bed.  He has fever as well, through the cold
water they soused his head in when he got violent.  He will be all
right in a few days.  I have put a piece of raw beef on his eye and a
poultice on his jaw.  He won't be able to talk for a day or two, but
that won't matter.  As William, his father, used to say: 'Many suffer
through too much talking, but very few through too much silence.'  I
want you to come and look at him, miss."

"Me!  Oh!  Mrs. Hulver!  I don't think I need come.  I am sure that you
know what is best for him, and will see that it is done," said Eola,
not at all in sympathy with the suggestion.

"All the same, miss, I should feel more satisfied if you would glance
your eye over him," said Mrs. Hulver, in her most determined manner,
which, as Eola knew by experience, took no denial.  "It will be good
for him to see how seriously you take it.  As William--that was my
second--used to say: 'Get your shot in when and how you can; don't wait
for the enemy to come and ask for it.'  It's just the same with advice
to the young."

"I am afraid I can't do any good."

"Oh yes, you can, miss; and it isn't you to take a back seat where duty
calls and you're really wanted.  Of course I know that young soldiers
are hot-headed, and we can't give them or any one else our experience
any more than we can give them our digestions.  Experience unbought
teaches naught.  They've all got to have it like the measles, and it
seasons them and makes men of them.  As William--that was my
first--used to say: 'Man is like a curry; he needs a lot of seasoning,
and it can't be done all in a minute.'"

Eola rose very reluctantly.  Visiting sick soldiers who were suffering
from their own indiscretions was not at all to her mind.  Mrs. Hulver's
tongue continued to run on.  She bemoaned her boy's behaviour in one
breath, and made excuses for him in another, with many quotations from
the sayings of the defunct Williams.

"The boy had no business to go into the canteen at all; but he's young
and easily misled.  As William--that was my first--used to say: 'You
can't roll a good cigar with green leaf.'"

Then as Eola lagged behind, showing increasing disinclination for her
task, she urged her more strongly.  "Come along, miss, please!  Come
for my sake and show yourself.  It's for his good.  You need not stay
long.  Just stand a minute near the bed and say as solemn as you can
make it: 'William, I'm sorry to see you like this.  Let it be a
lesson!'  Then you turn and go away quite slowly, and you say to me as
you leave the room: 'This is very sad, Mrs. Hulver, very sad in one so
young!' he won't forget it in a hurry you may be sure.  Dear! dear! who
would have thought it!  As William--that was my third--used to say:
'Reckless youth makes rueful age.'"

As she talked she led the way to her little sitting-room.  The door was
open.  At the further end was a camp cot and on it lay huddled the
unhappy hero of the canteen row.  He still wore his scarlet uniform to
Eola's relief.  She was dreading lest she should find him tucked up
like a baby in bed.  The poor fellow had undoubtedly suffered from his
indiscretion.  His head was tied up with raw beef and poultices, and
the fever produced a shivering that necessitated the shawl muffled
round his shoulders.

"A miserable-looking creature for a mother to call son! isn't he, miss?
As William, his father, used to say: 'Quarrels are like fire, more
easily started than stopped; and those who get into them usually come
out burnt.'"

"Poor fellow, I hope he isn't much hurt," murmured Eola, quite
forgetting her instructions.  She stood about three feet away from the
bed with as much ease as if she had been inspecting a sleeping cobra.

"Miss Wenaston says she is sorry to see you like this, William," said
Mrs. Hulver promptly, and in disapproval of Eola's weakness.  "She says
let it be a lesson to you to keep out of the way of them that want to
hurt you.  As your father used to say: 'Don't go into action if you can
help it; but if you have to fight, take the measure of your enemy's
strength.'"

"You mustn't worry the poor fellow, Mrs. Hulver.  Get him well first
before you scold him," said Eola, turning away with more haste than she
had come.

"That's all very well, miss; but as William--that was my third--used to
say: 'What's the good of trying to beat the dog after you've let him
loose?'  Young William over there," she turned and looked towards the
prostrate figure, raising her voice so that nothing should be lost to
the sick man, "has got to learn his lesson; who it is that he can
fight, and who he had best leave alone.  As William--that was my
second--used to say: 'Men are like dogs; and until they have taken the
measure of their own strength against the strength of others there can
be no peace for anybody.'  It was good of the sergeant to send him off
at once to me.  If the commanding officer had seen him in that
condition there would have been trouble.  William told me last time he
was here that the colonel was very stiff with all offenders, especially
in the matter of drink.  Likely as not he has never been drunk himself
and he doesn't know how easily a man may be overtook when once he gets
among others in the canteen.  Commanding officers, like artillery
drivers, differ; one is easy with his team; another will take up every
fault; but as William--that was my third--used to say: 'A regiment is
like a team; it doesn't have the choosing of its own C.O. any more than
a bullock chooses its driver or its road.'"

Eola made her escape at last, and when her brother came in to lunch she
told him the story of Mrs. Hulver's trouble.  He was not much
interested, nor had he much sympathy with the foolish young man.  He
expressed a hope that the worthy woman would not see too much of her
son.  His second visit had followed very closely on his first.

"After all we mustn't forget that Mrs. Hulver, for all her excellent
ways, is a Eurasian.  She possesses the family loyalty that marks the
race, and will never turn her back on any relative while she has a
shelter to offer, no matter what the character of the individual may
be."

"I am quite sure," responded Eola warmly, "that she will not allow us
to be worried or out of pocket, however worried she may be herself."

"All the same there is a strain of the 'soft-hearted old fool' about
her that must not be disregarded; and she must be protected against
herself if necessary.  If this boy turns up too often I shall have
something to say to him.  Did you see the precious young idiot himself?"

"She insisted on it."

"Was he quiet?"

"As quiet as a bad go of fever and a black eye could make him."

"I think I'll have a look at him myself, and if he is fit for it I
shall give him a bit of a lecture."

"She hasn't spared him herself," remarked Eola.  "He is poulticed with
beef and bread and admonished with the wise sayings of the three
Williams continuously.  I wonder how he can take it all so quietly."

"Perhaps I had better defer my lecture if that is so.  Any way I will
go and see him.  He may as well be aware of the fact that his presence
here is known to us both."

He went to the door of Mrs. Hulver's sitting-room.  It was open and
revealed much the same sight as had met Eola's eyes, except that Mrs.
Hulver was in the midst of dressing the damaged eye.  She held a large
slice of raw meat in her hand which she was carefully adjusting over
his temple and cheek, covering his eye altogether.  She turned her head
at the sound of the master's footstep.

"Is that you, sir?  I'll come directly.  This is nearly finished.  I'm
changing the beef on young William's eye.  Miss Wenaston told you the
trouble I am in over this budmash of a boy?"

As she talked she adjusted the wrappings and tucked the shawl round the
patient's shoulders.  He was lying on his side.  At the sound of the
Principal's voice he stirred uneasily.

"Now, you keep quiet, William, or you'll fidget the plasters out of
place.  You have got to be patient.  There's a time for fighting for
soldiers, and there's a time for keeping quiet, and that time is now."

She came towards Dr. Wenaston, who had stopped on the threshold and
continued, addressing herself to him instead of her son.

"As William--that was my first--used to say: 'There's a season for
everything.  Even the bamboo must be cut when the moon is waxing or it
will be good for nothing.'"

"I am sorry this has occurred, Mrs. Hulver," said the Principal, with a
seriousness that would have set the pulses of his pupils going, but
which had no such effect on his housekeeper.  "The hospital would have
been the best place for him.  He mustn't think that he can run to his
mother at every bruise and scratch."

"It would have been a case of guardroom not hospital, sir, if it hadn't
been for the kindness of the sergeant.  As it is his first offence it
would have been the first step towards destroying his clean sheets; and
where would have been his chance of promotion if he didn't keep them
clean?  The licking he has had will do him no harm.  It will teach him
to keep off drink.  As William--that was my third--used to say: 'When
beer goes in wisdom goes out.'  You'd like to look at him, sir.  Come
up to the bed.  He's too ashamed to make a salute, and his head is too
bad to allow of his sitting up."

Wenaston walked into the room, and like Eola stood for a short time by
the side of the cot.  He felt that it would be like hitting a man when
he was down to reproach the sufferer in his present condition.

"I will see him again when he is better and have a talk with him," he
said.  "You must let me know how he gets on."

"Yes, sir; a serious talking-to will do him no end of good."  She bent
over the patient and laid her hand on his head.  "You need not shiver,
William.  The Doctor will treat you kinder than those budmashes treated
you in the canteen."  She turned to Wenaston again and continued: "Lor!
sir, how easy fighting comes to men in the army.  It seems like a
second nature to them."

"It is their profession, Mrs. Hulver," said Wenaston, as he moved
towards the door.

"That's exactly what William, my third, used to say.  He was an
Irishman and his blood was soon up.  When I complained one day about
his being quarrelsome with a neighbour his reply was: 'Maria, me dear,'
he always began like that--he was such a gentleman--'Maria, me dear;
it's second nature for soldiers to fight, the same as it is for dogs to
bark and bite.  That's what the Government keeps us for; and a soldier
who is worthy of the name doesn't think he is earning his pay without
it.'  I often used to look at the men loafing round barracks with
nothing to do, and to think that in times of peace they were like
chimneys that had no fire in them."

"Quite so! quite so!" said Wenaston, making his way to the door.

Mrs. Hulver followed closely with a continuous stream of remarks, from
which he strove in vain to escape.

"As soon as ever young William is fit for it I'll send him to you, sir,
for a good dressing-down.  You must check him for his quick temper.  As
his own father used to say: 'A hasty man never wants for woe.'  And I
should be glad if you would point out the danger of drink and how it
upsets the judgment.  Also you might say a word or two on the folly of
fighting when the odds are against you.  Don't let him talk.  Fill him
up with as much good advice as you can get in in the time that you can
spare for him.  As William--that was my second--used to say: 'If
counsel is good no matter who gives it.'"

"All right, Mrs. Hulver; I'll do my best," said Wenaston, as he beat a
hasty retreat towards the college buildings.  The housekeeper's tongue
had won the day though she might not have known it, and his warning to
her on softheartedness and the lecture to her son were still
undelivered.  However, he promised himself that he would interview the
man later on alone when he was less of an "object," as his mother
expressed it, and would talk to him seriously.

Mrs. Hulver stood at her door watching the Principal as he hurried
away.  When he had disappeared she turned back into the room and went
to the patient.  Leaning tenderly over him she placed her cool soft
hand on his forehead, slipping it underneath the bandages.

"Cheer up, William; cheer up, sonnie!" she murmured.  "God is where He
was and He will help you through.  It's no good fretting when grieving
is no comfort.  As William--that was my third--used to say: 'Things you
can't avoid are best taken cheerfully.'  No, don't try to speak.
You've got to be silent till you're well, and I'll see that you're let
off the master's lecture."

She called to the butler, who appeared immediately followed by the cook
carrying a saucepan.

"It's all ready, ma'am."

He poured the chicken broth through a strainer into a cup and handed it
to her.

"That's all right, Ramachetty," she said with approval, as she leaned
over it.  "That's the kind of stuff that will make my boy well.  You
can go.  Shut the door after you.  I don't wish my son to catch cold.
Tell the sweeper woman to sit outside the bathroom.  I shall want her
later on to boil the kettle for fresh poultices."




CHAPTER XX

On the afternoon of the same day Wenaston and his sister were at tea in
the verandah when a carriage drove up and stopped just beyond the
portico.  Out of it stepped Sooba, Pantulu's brother.  He was unknown
to the Principal, who took him for the parent of one of his pupils.
Wenaston rose at once, always courteous, although at times a little
stiff until he was certain that no favours were going to be asked.  Too
often the visiting parent, after beating about the bush, would beg the
Principal to promote his son in the school without due justification.
Sometimes a bribe was offered.  It required a great deal of patience
and self-control to deal with such people; and it was still more
difficult to persuade them that promotion by favour did not advance the
education of a boy but rather hindered it.

"You want to see me on business?" asked Wenaston, advancing to meet his
visitor.  "Come in; I am disengaged for ten minutes, which is all I can
give you.  At the end of that time I have an appointment in the
college."

"I have called to ask you a favour, sir," said Sooba, in his best
manner.

"You are the parent of one of my pupils?"

"I am sorry to have to admit the fact that I have no son.  It is about
my nephew, Pantulu Iyer's son, Ananda, that I have come.  You engaged
him as a master a short time ago.  He stayed only one day."

"Ah! now I understand.  I can't take him on the staff again, if that is
what you have come to ask."

"You are right, sir; it would be a mistake.  He is unpopular in the
town."

"We have no time to lose," said Dr. Wenaston, looking at his watch.
"Will you explain what you want me to do?"

They were standing in the verandah facing each other.  Sooba shuffled
his feet slightly.  The action said much to the Englishman and put him
on his guard.

"Last night Ananda left his father's house and we don't know where he
is."

"Is there any reason why he should not leave Chirapore if he wishes to
do so?"

"It would be without his father's consent," said Sooba, boldly making
use of his brother's name.

Wenaston was slightly puzzled.  Ananda's movements were not his affair.

"What do you want me to do?" he again asked, with a touch of impatience
this time.

"I thought that perhaps you might give us some assistance in our
search."

The Englishman regarded him with surprise as he answered in quick
decisive tones.

"I am afraid I cannot do anything of the kind.  I am too busy to spare
the time.  Besides, Ananda's movements really do not concern me or the
college."

"It was not my intention to ask you to leave your duties, sir."

"Then how can I help in the search for the lost man?  He has probably
left the town, where as you yourself say he is unpopular.  Under the
circumstances it is the best thing that he can do.  Have you inquired
at the station if he were among the passengers who were travelling by
the mails last night?"

"He can't have taken either of the trains, north or south, as he was
seen in his room after their departure."

"Have you any suspicion where he can have gone?" asked Wenaston, trying
to get at what was at the back of his visitor's mind.

There was a definite pause before the reply was given.

"We have reason to think, sir, that Ananda is here."

"Here!" repeated Wenaston, astounded and not altogether pleased. "I
don't understand what you mean; what grounds you have for saying so.
Have you thoroughly searched his father's house?"

"We have hunted everywhere."

"And why do you think he is here?"

Sooba was unable to explain fully; there were too many facts that had
to be suppressed.  One was the physical inability of the unfortunate
man to go far afield in his crippled condition.  The college was the
only place within possible reach where the fugitive might have found a
refuge.  Sooba had no reliable information to go upon; he was acting on
a suspicion arrived at by an exhaustive line of argument.  It was
unlikely that Bopaul's people would offer an asylum; they would
hesitate to do anything that might cause a breach between the two
families.  Bopaul himself might befriend him--if he could see his way
to do it without giving offence.  As for the rest of the town not a
soul throughout would lift a finger to help an apostate to Hinduism, a
man of broken caste who refused the restitution rites, an outlaw and
outcaste deprived of all civil rights.

"You were so kind as to allow him to come here before, sir," said Sooba
smoothly.  "We thought that he would be sure to come to you again."

"Then you are wrong," replied Wenaston brusquely.

He did not like the manner of his visitor in spite of the careful
deference put on with a little too much show, and he resented his too
ready assumption that the college would, after all that had passed
during the temporary mastership, offer a shelter and again receive the
'vert.  It is due to Wenaston to say that he had no suspicion that
Ananda had been badly treated.  Had it entered his head that there was
any possibility of his being injured by assault, he would have appealed
to the higher authorities of the State who would undoubtedly have
interfered to protect him.  The verdict of outlawry was another matter.

"How can I assure Pantulu Iyer that his son is not here, sir?" asked
Sooba in humble anxiety.

"You have my word for it."

"As far as your knowledge goes, sir, I would not for a moment doubt it.
I venture to suggest that he may be in hiding on the premises without
your knowledge."

The school-bell rang and Dr. Wenaston made a movement.

"I must go; and as for you, search the place if you like, college
buildings, house and compound.  I am positive that you will not find
him.  Look everywhere while you are about it, for you don't come here a
second time.  You can go."

Wenaston'a manner jarred; it was not what Sooba had anticipated.  He
had assured himself that the accusation of harbouring Ananda would have
troubled the Principal; and that he would have exhibited anxiety to
clear himself of the charge and show that it was not true.  Sooba's
experience of the ways of Englishmen was extremely limited, and he
found that he was mistaken.  To be treated in this contemptuous way was
galling, and roused his spite.  If the fugitive should happen to be
discovered on Wenaston's premises, he promised himself that he would
make it hot for the Englishman, and create a rupture between him and
the governing body of the college.  At the command to go there was
nothing for it but to beat a retreat.  He directed his steps towards
the class rooms where he intended to begin his search.

"Do you really mean to allow him to go through the house?" asked Eola,
who had listened in silence to the conversation.

"Certainly; Ramachetty!"  The butler came at once at his master's call,
so quickly that Eola smiled, in spite of her annoyance.  The gist of
what Sooba had said had been overheard by others besides herself.  "One
of Pantulu Iyer's people----" he checked himself to ask a question--"Do
you know who he is?"

"His brother, sir."

"His brother, is he?  He believes that his nephew Ananda is hidden
somewhere on the premises.  I have given him permission to search every
corner of the class rooms and the house.  You are to accompany him all
through and show him the servants' go-downs and the stables and garage."

"Is he to go through your rooms as well, sir?"

"Yes; and Miss Wenaston's and Mrs. Hulver's."  He returned to Eola,
upon whose face was a most unusual frown.  "I shall have something to
say to the Dewan about this visit."

"It is outrageous; and you would be quite justified in refusing to
allow him to enter a single room."

"I don't like it any more than you do; but I think it politic to
consent.  What he believes, he can make the boys believe.  I wish to
avoid a recurrence of the boycotting."

"I shall go out for a drive," said Eola.

"The best thing you can do," replied the harassed man heartily.

Wenaston returned to his class room in the nearest approach to a rage
that was possible for a man with so even a temperament.  Sooba took
care to avoid further encounter; and before the Principal reached his
own lecture-room the search through that apartment had been completed.
It offered no cover whatever with its bare table and desks.  A runaway
rat could not have hidden itself.  As for a man or even a boy, the
first glance round would have revealed him.

The hunt through the college buildings lasted nearly an hour.  A little
after five Sooba presented himself, at the house.  The butler was
waiting for him; but being a pariah he was not at all to the taste of
the searcher.  Sooba waived him aside with all the loathing and
contempt shown to a man of no caste.  Ramachetty had received his
directions, however, and did not budge.  He begged to inform his
excellency, the visitor, that he dared not disobey his master's orders;
whether his honourable excellency liked it or not he must accompany
him.  After this there was nothing more to be said, and the searcher
began his work, leaving the butler to follow at a respectful distance.

It was with much curiosity that Sooba entered each room of the
Englishman's private dwelling.  Never before had he been inside a
European's house.  He peered under tables and chairs and looked behind
curtains.  The piano puzzled him, and he was not satisfied till
Ramachetty had removed the front and exposed the strange wired interior
that gave shelter to nothing larger than a mouse or a scorpion.  Eola's
rooms were also examined and drawn blank.  There remained only Mrs.
Hulver's.

"The housekeeper's rooms only are left for your honour's eye.  Is it
your excellency's wish to see them also?" asked Ramachetty.

"Decidedly; the master gave permission for me to search every corner."

"The housekeeper will not like it."

"Who cares what she likes or dislikes?  She is his servant and must
obey his orders."

The butler knew his position better than to smile.  He cast down his
eyes demurely in case a twinkle of amusement should betray him.

"Her son is with her.  He is a soldier inclined to violence.  Your
honour must not be angry with this slave if the soldier fights."

The inquisitive visitor hesitated.  The British soldier in the present
day in India inherits a character that has been deeply impressed upon
the native mind by his predecessors.  It is not a character for
gentleness.  But the hesitation did not last long; the spirit of prying
gained the day.

"I am not afraid of a soldier.  If he is violent his colonel will have
him punished," said Sooba, as he swaggered boldly up to the door of
Mrs. Hulver's room.

It stood open; apparently she had had notice of what she might expect,
for he found himself confronted by the ample figure of the wrathful
woman, who understood even better than her employers the great liberty
that was being taken.  She glared at him with as much fire as her grey
eyes were capable of showing, and pretended not to know who he was nor
what he wanted.

"Who are you, and what business have you got in my back verandah?" she
asked unceremoniously, making use of the vernacular in such terms as
she would have addressed one of the gardeners.  "I've got nothing for
you."

Sooba returned an angry glance.  He understood the insult, but had no
means of making her smart for it.

"I have come by permission of the master of the house, the honourable
Principal of the College, to look for a relative who is lost," he
replied, with as much dignity as he could muster to his aid.

"Do you suppose I have him in my pocket?"

"No, woman; but I have reason to believe that he is hiding somewhere on
these premises, and I will not leave until I have thoroughly searched
them."

"Search away, then, and be quick about it.  See for yourself who is
here.  I am not going to help you if you can't take my word for it."

She turned her back on him and moved into the middle of the room.  As
he did not follow immediately she called impatiently over her shoulder.

"Come along!  Don't stand there all the evening.  What are you waiting
for?"

His eyes were fixed with some anxiety on the figure extended upon the
bed and a woman close by who was preparing to make a fresh poultice.
She held a kettle of hot water in her hand.

"That's my son, William, a soldier on leave from Bangalore," remarked
Mrs. Hulver, half turning to him again.  "His father was a soldier and
he takes after him--short in the temper and strong in the arm.  You
need not be afraid of him.  He's just recovering from a canteen fight
in which he made a man bigger than himself--a regular giant--swallow
all his front teeth; and they were his own, too."

There was a ring of unconscious pride in the mother's voice as she
exaggerated her son's exploits.

"I am not afraid of the soldier, woman," replied Sooba.  "The law
protects me from violence.  What I object to is the presence of that
sweeper by his cot.  She is a pariah and her presence is defiling to
one of my caste."

"Oh! is it?  All the same she is my servant and she is there by my
orders and there she will stay."

The woman glanced at him with fear, and showed a disposition to abandon
her work and retire in spite of "orders."  Mrs. Hulver detected the
weakness.  She picked up the sweeper's broom that was lying near and
pointed with it to the basin containing the bread.

"You stay where you are till I give you leave to go.  Pour the hot
water on to the bread.  Wring out those cloths and get them ready for
the poultice.  As soon as I've seen this man through my rooms I'll take
the beef off my son's eye and bandage it with wet rags."

The visitor stepped gingerly into the room, sidling away from the
untouchable, and began to look round.  Mrs. Hulver took no notice of
him.  Her attention was devoted to her son.  She leaned over him,
patting his pillow and touching the shawl in her solicitude for his
comfort.

"You lie quiet, William," she said in English, "and don't you mind the
visitor.  You've got to get well in time to join your regiment at the
end of your leave or there'll be more trouble.  You must be patient.
As William, your father, used to say: 'Time and patience will carry a
man through the roughest day.'"

She loosened the bandages slightly and removed a large slice of raw
beef which she contemplated with broad satisfaction as it lay on the
palm of her hand.

"That's done its work and taken down the swelling.  I wish it had taken
out the colour as well.  We'll see what cold water will do for you
next, with a little vinegar added."  She turned to the intruder and
addressed him in his own tongue, although he knew English better than
Ramachetty the butler.  "Well! why don't you get on with your hunt for
your lost cousin?"

She drifted towards the door by which he had entered, carrying the
broom in one hand and the beef in the other.  Disgust and horror were
written on the face of the Hindu as he eyed the two loathsome objects,
and he slipped further away moving up the room.  Whether unconsciously
or with deep design she had cut off his retreat completely, and there
was no chance of retiring if he wished to keep his distance from the
two caste-contaminating objects.

"I can't have you here all day," she cried, irritably.  "Come! begin
your search.  Go and look under that table."

She flourished the broom in the direction of a table covered with a
cloth of gaudy colours where she sat to write the menus for the
master's dinner.  He hesitated, his zeal had evaporated; and the object
of his domiciliary visit was almost lost sight of in the contemplation
of the sweeper's broom and the flesh of the sacred cow.

"Come! get on!" continued Mrs. Hulver, moving towards him.  "I want to
clear the room of strangers.  It's not good for the sick man.  My son
is not so bad but what he can get up if he chooses and turn you out.
Go and look under his bed.  That's your next place.  Dearie me!" she
said, lapsing into English again.  "It seems as if this coolie expected
me to do his work!  He began with impudence, but if he doesn't take
care he'll end with something else.  As William--that was my
third--used to say: 'Dine on sauciness and you'll sup on sorrow.'"

She took a step or two forward in the direction of her visitor.  He
retreated, carefully gauging the distance between his own precious
person and the various untouchable objects he had unwittingly
approached.  The information that the hero of the canteen fight was
able to rise from his bed if he chose and act the part of chucker-out
was not reassuring.  He was allowed no time for reflection.

"Go and look under the bed next.  Lift the blanket that hangs down,"
she said to the sweeper.  "Let the gentleman see that we haven't got
his grandmother hidden under my son's bed."

Again she flourished the broom, this time at the woman, and she waived
the raw beef at the seeker.

"Go on!  Don't be afraid.  William won't hurt you!"

She advanced, and Sooba, more perturbed than he had been for many a
day, avoided the bed and its attendant sweeper, and backed towards the
open door of the bedroom, the only available retreat afforded from this
awful person.  She followed and the hunter became the hunted.  Armed
with her terrible weapons she drove him from pillar to post, obliging
him to carry out his inquisition to its last detail, and look into
holes and corners with eyes that could see nothing but that
caste-destroying broom and beef.  After chasing him round the bedroom
she forced him to enter the bathroom, where, in his confusion, he
knocked over the sweeper's basket; and she kept him there whilst she
explained that the place contained cover for nothing larger than a frog.

At last she let him go, and he beat an ignominious retreat, grazing his
shins in his haste against the furniture.  He left the sitting-room at
a run, closely followed by Mrs. Hulver; and as he passed out of the
door the slab of raw meat that had relieved the warrior's wounds--flung
by the hand of the outraged woman--caught him in the small of his back.
The sweeper's broom, hurled after the beef, rattled on his naked
calves, inadvertently exposed as, in a hurry, he gathered up his
flowing muslin cloth.

William's shoulders shook.  The sweeper woman hid her face in her cloth
and grinned, in fearful doubt lest she was committing blasphemy in
daring to smile at one of the twice-born.  As for Mrs. Hulver she
dropped into her capacious cane chair and let herself go.  She rocked
in helpless laughter, and the lounge creaked in sympathy with her
movements.

"That was a sight to make you feel better, sonnie!" she said, as soon
as she could speak.  "The man ran like a bandicoot with its tail cut
off!  I wish you could have sat up and looked at him, the impudent
budmash!  He won't forget his visit to the college in a hurry, or my
name is not Maria Hulver!  I'm glad I wasn't born to run away from a
bit of beef like that!  He came in so proud and insolent, but he went
away with a flea in his ear.  As William, your father, used to say:
'There are many who go out for wool but come back shorn.'  Now we'll
attend to this eye."

She pulled herself together and rose from her chair.  The poultice made
by the sweeper was thrown away, though it was still hot.

"That was only to pass the time and keep her there, the finest bogie to
frighten my lord with that I could have found!  I was glad to see that
you could laugh with me, Bonnie.  It shows you're mending."

She busied herself over his wounds with soft tender touch.

"Poor boy!  Whichever side the victory lay you didn't get off without
some hard treatment; but we'll soon get you well."

"How good you are to me--mother!" replied the invalid gratefully.

"That's right.  Don't you forget that I'm your mother.  I would like to
get your enemy on his bended knees and make him pray for forgiveness
for knocking you about like this--a man twice your age, too!  Shame on
him!  But, there! as William--that was my third--said when the sergeant
locked him up, thinking he was the worse for liquor when he wasn't:
'Apologies make poor plaster.'  The sergeant was a bit hasty and he
knew William's ways and leanings.  But he was wrong that time.  William
wasn't drunk; he was dazed with the sun; and the sergeant apologised
handsomely."

That evening Wenaston once more interviewed his housekeeper.

"You showed the man who called this afternoon over your rooms, I hope,
Mrs. Hulver?"

"Yes, sir; I took him all round and let him see everything; he was
quite satisfied that the person he wanted wasn't here.  He didn't
mention any names."

"He was looking for his nephew, Ananda, the young man who has become a
Christian.  He has disappeared, and it was thought that he might have
taken refuge with us."

"I don't know why he should do that when he has Mr. Alderbury to go
to," remarked Mrs. Hulver indifferently.

"If by any chance he should appear you must let me know at once."

"Would you refuse to give him shelter?" asked Mrs. Hulver, looking at
the Doctor with some curiosity.  As he did not reply at once she
continued: "I should if I were you, sir, if you will excuse my speaking
out.  There's no telling how these natives might take it if you
befriended him in any way."

"I shouldn't drive him away if he needed protection, Mrs. Hulver," said
Wenaston.  "You must understand that as a Christian he has my warmest
sympathy; and that as far as I am able I will do what I can for him;
but as I pointed out to you before, I am not a free agent in this
matter.  If he asks for assistance I will give it by sending him off at
once to Mr. Alderbury, who is willing to help.  What I must not do is
to give him shelter in the college buildings or in the house, much as I
might wish.  We have tried that experiment once and it was a complete
failure.  Therefore I ask you to come to me immediately if Mr. Ananda
should present himself."

"Very good, sir.  I don't think he is likely to turn up after the way
those boys treated him.  I'm sure I have my hands full enough with
young William without bothering about Mr. Ananda's troubles.  As
William--that was my third--used to say: 'Keep your eyes on your own
road and don't worry about the pitfalls of other people.'  You may
depend upon me for doing the right thing and not decomposing either you
or Miss Eola."




CHAPTER XXI

Pantulu's brother returned from his domiciliary visit to the College
filled with a deep and implacable wrath.  He buried it under a
cheerfulness he was far from feeling.  Since the discovery in the early
hours of the morning that Ananda had disappeared, the house had been in
a ferment of unrest.  Again and again had the premises been searched.
Visits were paid by various members of the family to the town and to
the houses of acquaintances.  More than once had a call been made at
Bopaul's and guarded questions put.  The market people who had arrived
that morning from the country were interrogated; clerks and porters at
the railway station examined but with no better result.  Help of some
sort he must have had if he covered any length of distance.  A few
hundred yards might have been possible but progress would of necessity
have been slow and painful.

Sooba was greeted on his return with a volley of questions from the men
of the family.  To all of them he was obliged to confess that he had
failed signally.

"He is not there; of that I am positive," he repeated over and over
again.

"If he is not there, where can he be?" asked one in puzzled curiosity.

"He has joined the English missionary," said another.

"How could that be when he was unable to walk or even to stand?"
inquired a third.

"Some one has befriended him and he has escaped in a passing country
cart."

"Is it possible that he could have crawled to the jungle unassisted?"
asked another.

"A search in the forest with village dogs will soon settle that point."

"Why not send some one to the mission house.  It will be easy to
discover if he has arrived.  Once on British territory he need not hide
any longer as we cannot touch him there.  He will be lost to us for
ever, and we must give up all hope of catching him.  It will save
trouble to know for certain if he is out of our reach."

"Good!" responded Sooba, who felt that he must take refuge in action of
some kind if only to find relief for his injured feelings.  "I will
send a runner at once to bring news."

"There is a post office peon who has a bicycle," said one of the
listeners.  "For a consideration----"

"Let him be called at once," said Sooba.  "He shall ask leave of
absence on account of his wife's illness----"

"He is not married."

"His brother's, his mother's, any one will do!" replied Sooba,
impatiently.  "I will give him twenty-five rupees if he can bring us
the news by this time to-morrow."

The post peon was sent for, and in less than an hour he departed on his
errand.

The temporary master of the house was in an unhappy frame of mind.  Yet
he had begun well.  He rose in the morning feeling particularly
virtuous.  Success, he felt certain, must attend his efforts at
recalling his nephew to his senses.  All along he had urged a more
severe treatment.  The parents had been too lenient in drawing the line
at the infliction of bodily pain.  Even now if it had not been for the
insult to the swami the mother would not have consented.  Since it was
the express order of the holy man she could not do otherwise than allow
things to take their course; but it had been considered advisable to
keep Pantulu himself in ignorance.

When Sooba had performed his domestic pujah, as became the head of the
family, he went to Ananda's room.  The disappearance of the late
occupant was a shock from which he had not recovered; and his visit to
the Principal's house and the College only served to increase the
disturbance of his mind.  It was not so much the failure of his search
as the memory of the indignities to which he had been subjected by the
woman who ruled the household.  Had the incidents that occurred in the
housekeeper's room been witnessed by any member of his family or by a
fellow caste man, they would have been magnified into serious breaches
necessitating ceremonial purification.  This would have entailed
expenses which, not being a rich man himself, he would fain avoid.  He
did his best to school himself into the belief that he was mistaken;
that in his confusion at finding himself in the presence of an angry
woman and a sick soldier of admittedly bad temper, he imagined that he
saw signs of the untouchable.

After some hours of brooding he succeeded in persuading himself that he
had not been within the prescribed distance of the loathsome objects.
A little more concentration and he arrived at the comfortable
conviction that he was altogether deceived by a too vivid imagination
which had played him false.  His caste had never been in jeopardy for a
single moment.

The disappearance of Ananda was not so easily dealt with.  The fact
could not be ignored.  The more he thought over it, the more he came to
look upon the escape as an insult directed against himself.  He was the
master of the house in his brother's absence.  It was a piece of gross
impertinence for any member of the family to leave without permission.
It was setting at naught his authority and treating him with contempt.
The more he contemplated the incidents of the last twenty-four hours,
the greater grew the conviction that there must be a reckoning with
some one.  Properly speaking it should be Ananda himself, for he was
the origin of all that had occurred, including the disrespect
experienced in Dr. Wenaston's house; but his nephew's absence precluded
any possibility of settling with him in person.

Sooba thereupon turned his attention to Mrs. Hulver.  Was there any
means of making her feel the weight of his displeasure?  He took the
trouble to inform himself of her habits and mode of life.  She seldom
left the house except to go to market in the morning.  As the town
possessed no English church, Dr. Wenaston held a service for himself
and a few English people in Chirapore, in a room fitted up as a chapel
in the Residency.  Thither Mrs. Hulver went on Sundays in the motor.
To attack her and offer violence in the market would simply mean police
and imprisonment.  She was never without the faithful Ramachetty, the
cook, and the kitchen coolie who carried the purchases.  In the motor,
seated with Miss Wenaston, she was safe from every kind of assault.

Brooding over the mystery of how Ananda escaped, who befriended him,
and how he, Sooba, was to taste revenge, the evening meal was eaten and
he retired to his pillow.

The next morning the search was renewed, the seekers going further
afield into the glades and woods of the mountain.  Woodcutters,
herdsmen and cultivators were questioned; but not a sign had been found
of the missing man.  Later in the day the cyclist returned with the
news that the fugitive was not at the mission station.  Moreover, Mr.
Alderbury was away on tour out of reach of the railway.  It was
impossible that Ananda could have joined him on the road.  Even the
peons carrying letters and supplies were no longer following him up.
He was trusting to the villages through which he was itinerating to
sell him milk, butter, eggs and fowls; and it was not known exactly
where he was.

If Ananda was not in hiding at the College, nor at the mission house,
nor with the missionary himself where could he be?

This was the question faced by the whole family as they drank their
morning coffee and ate the freshly-made, unleavened rice cakes.

An elderly woman, experienced in the inner workings of the caste
families of Chirapore, breathed the word "well."  It was an
inspiration, and the suggestion was caught up at once.  Undoubtedly it
was the well.  The premises contained no less than three wells; one for
the use of the house, deep and containing a never-failing supply of
pure water; a second near the cattle shed, and a third--more of the
nature of a pond--used only for the garden.

An examination of the wells followed immediately.  Two hours later the
household was electrified by the news that Ananda's tweed cap had been
found in the well near the cattleshed.  The well was deep; means for
probing its depths were not available.  One of the herdsmen was lowered
in the leather bucket, and he discovered the cap hanging from a
protruding root in the masonry of the wall.  He was about to enter the
water to dive for the body when he caught sight of a snake.  In terror
he signalled to those above to draw him up at once; and after hearing
his tale no one could be persuaded to continue the exploration.

Sooba regarded the cap with a grim satisfaction which he took care to
conceal under an expression of consternation and regret.  If Ananda
chose to drown himself who could help it?  It was a fitting end to a
perverse and wicked line of conduct.  He had caused the death of his
child; the exile of his parents with the probable death of his father;
and now he would be the cause of further disgrace to the family in the
introduction of a widow.

He presented himself at the kitchen door where his wife, full of
importance, was hustling the women through their appointed tasks.  She
answered his summons at once, and inquired deferentially what it was
that troubled the master of the house.  The busy hands ceased to pound
and grind and stir as each person listened open-eyed to the story of
the search and the discovery of the cap in the well by the cattle-shed.

"He is undoubtedly drowned and in three or four days we shall find his
body.  This is a terrible calamity for his widow."

His glance passed beyond his wife and rested on the figure of Dorama,
who stood transfixed with horror at the story just told.  As she met
his eye, in which, in spite of all his self-restraint, a malicious
triumph was revealed, she dropped to the ground covering her face with
her hands and moaned in the bitterness of her heart.

"It will be advisable for us to carry out the ceremonies as soon as
possible.  They should be completed before my brother returns so that
he may be saved the additional grief of seeing what can only bring
before him more vividly all that has gone before."

No need for Dorama to ask what those ceremonies were.  They did not
concern the body of the dead man but her own person.  She shuddered as
she crouched before the curry stone on which she was working in the
preparation of green chutney, the task assigned to her regularly by her
aunt.

"When shall we perform them?" asked Sooba's wife, her eyes resting upon
the beautiful gold boss that adorned Dorama's glossy hair.  "It is
usual to wait ten days from the date of the death."

"This is not a common case.  To us and to his parents Ananda has been
as good as dead ever since he landed.  There can be no funeral rites
even when his body is found.  He has died an outcaste, defiled and
unpurified, and as such he must be buried--not burned--at night with
shame and dishonour and with no ceremonies.  My brother must not return
till we have disposed of the dead man and completed the ceremonies of
widowhood.  They shall take place three days hence which will give us
time to call together the friends of the family.  You will also have
time to prepare for their entertainment.  My brother will wish it done
well and no expense spared."

"And if the body is not found by that time, what then?" asked his wife.

"The rites must be performed all the same.  I, the master of the house
in my brother's absence, give the order."

He raised his voice although it was not necessary.  It penetrated to
the very end of the kitchen and not a word was lost to the many pairs
of listening ears.  If ears were directed towards the acting master of
the house, eyes found another centre of attraction in the crushed
figure by the curry-stone.  Pity struggled in their fatalistic minds,
but in none was it strong enough to cause a stretching out of the hand
in sympathy, nor to sound the note of consolation or comfort.  There
was silence as Sooba walked away.  Although his head was bent and his
features wore a sufficiently solemn expression, he was inwardly
triumphant and full of satisfaction.  At last he had found an object on
whom he might be revenged; on whose devoted head he might with safety
retaliate.  As he had suffered indignity and disrespect, so now she
should have the same measured out tenfold.  In the absence of the man
himself it was meet that his wife should feel the weight of his
displeasure.  The probability of Ananda being still alive was set
aside.  As he desired so he chose to believe, and on that belief he
intended to take action with as little delay as was possible.

That afternoon Bopaul with Mayita in attendance, strolled into the
compound with the intention of looking up Ananda.  Leaving the girl
under the trees near the wall, where she was partially hidden from
view--lest the sight of her should prove an offence to the family--he
turned towards Ananda's room.  The green gourd outside in the little
yard had produced some shapeless succulent fruit.  It continued to send
up an abundance of loose yellow cups of flowers to the sun, and though
there had been very little rain of late the foliage maintained its
emerald tint.

The door of the room was ajar.  Bopaul called Ananda by name as was his
wont; but receiving no reply he entered.  The place was deserted.
Except for the two portmanteaux it was devoid of all sign of the owner.
Hitherto on the occasion of his visits he had seen books and writing
material lying about; a coat thrown over a chair; cap and walking-stick
on the table.  Nothing of the kind was visible, and he wondered what
had happened.  Had his friend decided to go, and managed to slip away
after all?  Yet he could not have gone far nor for long; the presence
of his luggage testified to the fact that he intended to return.

In the midst of his speculations a member of the family arrived
sauntering in with unconcern.

"You are looking for Ananda.  We saw you come in and guessed that you
would be here."

"Where is he?" asked Bopaul, in surprise.

"He is dead; drowned in the well near the stable."

Bopaul expressed his consternation and regret, and asked how the
accident had occurred.  The man laughed unsympathetically, in a manner
that grated on the feelings of the visitor.

"The wonder is that it has not happened before.  It was not an
accident.  He threw himself into the well at night when we were all
asleep.  It was the best way out of the difficulty that he himself had
created by turning Christian.  It will prevent further trouble and
vexation, even though it saddles the family with a widow."

"Have the funeral rites been performed?"

"How can an outcaste receive the funeral rites of an orthodox Hindu?"
the other asked contemptuously.

"He has been burned, then, without them?" said Bopaul, regarding the
man with increasing displeasure.  He did not like the tone adopted.
"It is strange we have heard nothing of the affair."

"There has been no burning and no burial for the excellent reason that
we have not yet recovered the body from the well."

"It has been seen, of course?"

"His cap has been found."

"Have you only his cap as evidence?"

"Isn't that sufficient?  The master considers it ample, and he and his
wife are already beginning to make preparations for the ceremony of
breaking the bangles and shaving the widow's head."

"Is that so?  Surely it is full early for the widow rites when the body
of her husband is still missing?"

"If he were a respectable Hindu, religious and obedient to the law of
caste, it might be a trifle early; but in this case the man has been
dead to the family ever since his return from England.  It was a cursed
day on which his father consented to his crossing the black water.
Alive or dead the sooner his position is recognised, and his wife
treated accordingly, the better pleased shall we all be."

"I don't believe Ananda is dead," remarked Bopaul, after a few seconds'
consideration.  "He is not the man to commit suicide.  It is far more
likely that he has gone away in the night and has made his escape from
those who waited for him with no kindly intentions."

"Run away or dead, it is all the same," persisted the other.  "And as
for his wife she would have become as truculent as himself.  Did you
hear how she tried to escape with him?  We discovered her absence on
the night the child died and followed her.  They were brought back
together; and as a reward for his pains Ananda was beaten by order of
his uncle."

"Beaten!  Surely his father did not give his consent to such an extreme
course?"

"The big master was not asked and he knew nothing about it.  He became
sick after the child's funeral, and he has gone to one of his
silk-farms ten miles away.  He knows nothing and he cares nothing.  His
spirit is broken by the wickedness of his son, who deserves all that we
gave him."

"Possibly Ananda has joined his father," suggested Bopaul, who refused
absolutely to believe in the theory of suicide.

"Not he!  The stick fell too long and too heavily--for we all took
turns--to leave him with strength or spirit to run away again.  After
we had finished with him he could not stand."

Bopaul turned away; he was disgusted with the openly expressed
brutality of the speaker; and he was profoundly sorry for his friend.
All along he had feared that something of this kind would occur.  The
ways of caste families were familiar to him.  His own people would have
pursued the same course had he become an apostate from Hinduism.  He
stopped to ask another question.

"You are sure that he was unable to leave the compound after----" he
paused, unable to frame the expression.  The other understood.

"Quite certain; the man was too sore to put one foot before the other,"
he replied with a hard laugh.

"How do you suppose he got to the well?"

"On his hands and knees, of course."

"And the widow ceremonies will take place three days hence?"

"Without fail, knowing how set upon the business Sooba is."

Bopaul walked back to his sister deep in thought.  The news troubled
him.  He was helpless in the matter, and could do nothing.  He wished
that he had brought more pressure to bear upon his friend when the
offer came from Alderbury.  That was a golden opportunity missed that
was not likely to occur again--always supposing that Ananda was still
alive.  That he was dead, and by his own hand, was impossible of belief
the longer he considered it.

Mayita was still playing happily enough.  She was in the middle of an
imaginary wedding.  A datura blossom was the bride and a wood-apple the
bridegroom; she was playing the part of the go-between, and was
negociating the dower.  When she saw her brother she hid the happy
couple in the folds of her rough cloth, whispering to the bridegroom
that his joy should not be long delayed.

"Come, little one," said Bopaul.  "We must go home to our mother.  You
will soon have a companion to play with."

"I! who will have the courage to play with a widow in the face of the
gods?" she asked sadly.

"One who will be in the same sad case as yourself, child."

"Another widow!  I will not play with her!  Is it not enough to have me
in the house?  We do not want a second widow to double our ill-luck.
Only this morning the eldest son of our cousin met me by the cowhouse,
not knowing that my mother had sent me for some milk.  He cursed me;
but all the same two hours later as he was running through the garden a
thorn entered his foot and made him lame.  I thought his mother would
have beaten me; she was so angry; she said it was all my fault.  I hid
till you called me; I was so frightened, too frightened to eat any
breakfast; so I am very hungry now.  No! no! brother! we want no more
widows in our house."

"She will not live with us."

"Who is she?" asked Mayita, her curiosity aroused.

"Ananda's widow."

"Aiyoh!  Is it possible that Ananda is dead!"

"Anyway his wife is a widow and the ceremonies take place three days
hence."

"Poor Dorama!  Aiyoh! poor Dorama!"




CHAPTER XXII

Little news was received from Pantulu Iyer and his wife.  It was
conjectured that there was none to impart.  If he became decidedly
worse the family at Chirapore would be duly informed; but if he only
continued to drift gradually down the hill nothing would be said.
Sooba and his wife, ever ready to believe as they hoped, made up their
minds that the head of the house could not last much longer, and that
the younger brother would soon be called upon to perform those
ceremonies which should belong to the son, the performance of which
established the right of the performer to be recognised as head of the
house.  Could they have glanced at the presumably dying man they would
have sustained a shock.

Contrary to all expectation Pantulu was improving in health every day.
He recovered his appetite as well as his strength and spirits with a
readiness that astonished his wife.  Away from his home and surrounded
by new interests he shook off the terrible depression caused by his
son's conversion to Christianity.  A reaction was setting in, enabling
him to detach his thoughts from the trouble and centre them elsewhere.

The silk farm was one of his early ventures, when, as a young man, he
had tried with considerable success to improve the culture of
silk-worms.  The system he introduced answered so well that it was
generally adopted throughout the silk-growing districts, with the
result that a finer and stronger silk was produced.  Perfection,
however, was not attained, and of late years there had been a forward
movement in the Far East which again placed the silk of Chirakul in the
background.  The relative in charge of the farm was an enthusiast in
his way, and he was delighted to find that in Pantulu he had a ready
and sympathetic listener.  He was quite sure that further improvement
might be effected in the boiling of the cocoons and the bleaching of
the silk.  He had made a few experiments himself and he exhibited the
results with some pride.  Together they pored over the evil-smelling
stuff that was one day to robe a woman's dainty form, and exhale
nothing but the atta of rose and sandal-wood with which it should be
scented.  It was a good strand of silk, but the tint, a dull stain,
would only take crude strong dyes, that lost their brilliancy and
purity through the stain.

The manager of the farm had recently been to Bombay where he had met
some silk growers from China.  Though these men were reticent and
jealous of imparting their knowledge to foreigners, he managed to
extract some information and to gather that more might be learned by a
visit to China and Japan.  Since his return he had made the attempt to
improve the silk; and though the result left much to be desired, it was
sufficiently encouraging to show the old expert that the experiment
should be pursued.

The second day after his arrival Pantulu spent the morning over the
caldrons; and when summoned to the midday meal he entered the little
bungalow with a firm, brisk step that bespoke an unusual readiness for
dinner, and a line of thought that was free from anxiety.  Gunga looked
up from the steaming pot of rice which she was manipulating and glanced
at her husband with surprise.  If this was the result of a return to
work it should not be her fault if the cure was not completed.

Always prompt and unusually practical for a woman of her nation, she
made a startling proposition that very afternoon.  It was nothing less
than the despatch of the manager to China and Japan on a tour of
inspection, that he might examine thoroughly into the methods of
silk-growing and preparation for the dyers' vat.  She suggested that
Pantulu himself should manage the farm during his absence.  The
cousin's wife and family were to remain on the estate and keep house as
usual.  Every now and then Gunga would go over to Chirapore and see
that all was going well.  Meanwhile Sooba and his wife would represent
the head of the family and look after the business in the town.

The proposal was received by the two men with approval.  Pantulu's eyes
grew bright as he considered the plan; and at her question as to
whether he felt strong enough for the work that it would involve, he
drew himself up to his full height and assured her that it would make a
new creature of him.  The change of air had already wrought wonders and
she must not look upon him as an old man past all business.

"My brother will be surprised when he hears the news," remarked Pantulu
with a new pride in his rejuvenation.

"This is not to be spoken of at present," said Gunga with authority.
"I have other plans connected with it, and until they are more forward
I wish for secrecy; for I will have no interference; none!"

Her lips closed firmly, and Pantulu knew of old that when his wife was
determined on any course of action nothing moved her from her course.

"What are they, wife?" he asked, with a smile of amusement.  "May we of
this house be told?"

"If you can keep your tongues quiet.  Our cousin's wife, here, is a
Mahratta woman who knows Bombay.  She has suggested that we should send
our son there to act as agent for the sale of our produce.  She says
that though he is lost to our religion, he need not be lost to the
family business.  Many people of caste in Bombay have joined the Brahmo
Somaj and the Arya Somaj and a few have become Christians.  With all
these changes before their eyes the people of Bombay feel less
bitterness towards the men who take up a new faith than those of a
state like Chirapore; and there is no persecution.  The English
Government protects them all."

Pantulu did not reply immediately, and Gunga continued to unfold plans
that were to include the obstinate son and a compromise.  She paused to
take breath and he spoke.

"The difficulty over the shraddah ceremonies will still remain, the
rites by which my ancestors and I may escape the lower rebirths."

Gunga looked at him and pursed up her lips as though she had by no
means exhausted her resources.

"Our cousin's wife has proposed a remedy for that."

He glanced at her with questioning eyes that showed how near to his
heart the subject and consequent anxiety lay.  Before he could frame
the query as to ways and means she continued.

"The time has not arrived yet to talk about it.  First and foremost,
husband, you are the chief consideration.  You must get well and
strong.  For that purpose there is nothing like work and food and
change of air, as I have told you more than once.  Here you will have
all that is necessary."

"What shall we tell my brother?"

"Leave that to me.  I will dictate a letter saying that it will be
advisable for you to remain here, and praying him to look well after
your interests at Chirapore.  When I go back, which I shall do before
long, I will explain more."

Pantulu was well content to leave everything in his wife's hands.  The
new venture had taken hold of his mind, and it dominated every other
consideration.  At the bottom of it lay money; and though his wealth
was great already, "Gold" had a reviving effect upon the man, as the
word "rats" had upon the sick terrier.

On the day appointed for the ceremonies to take place, which were to
brand Ananda's wife with the curse of Hindu widowhood, a large party
assembled at Pantulu's family mansion in Chirapore.  Relatives
accompanied by relatives arrived from all parts of the State.  Gossip
circulated freely.  News was given and demanded; and many were the
questions asked concerning the absent master and mistress.  Sooba was
ready with his tale, adorned and coloured according to his imagination
without much regard to the truth.  Gunga's letter had been received;
and as she made no allusion to her husband's health it seemed safe to
assume that there was no improvement.

"My sister-in-law asks me to consider myself the head of the house as
long as my brother is absent.  She says that it is best for him to
remain where he is; it will give him a better chance of recovery," he
said.

"Then there is hope that he may get well?" asked one of the guests.

"She may have hope herself; we do not entertain much.  It is more than
likely that he is too sick to move."

"How long do you think he will last?" enquired another.

"A few weeks at the outside," replied Sooba.  "The news of the
disappearance of his son will probably hasten his end."

"Has it been sent yet?"

"Not yet; we are waiting till this ceremony is finished.  It would be
very bad for him if he insisted on returning for it; so we have thought
it best to get it all over before mentioning anything."

It was very gratifying to be treated as the master of the house.  Sooba
revelled in the situation, and swaggered about among his guests as if
he already owned his brother's wealth.  It all helped to sooth the
wounded self-esteem; and to soften the memory of the insults he had
received at the hands of Mrs. Hulver.

The afternoon had been chosen for the ceremony; but ever since daybreak
active preparations had been in progress.  The victim had undergone
ceremonial ablutions; her hair had been combed and oiled and her whole
person scented.  The long glossy strands of hair were plaited and in
the plaits were woven white jasmine blossoms.  Gold ornaments freshly
burnished were fastened on her head and in her ears and nostrils.

A close-fitting jacket of crimson satin and a rich tawny silk saree the
colour of wall-flowers enfolded her figure.  Round her neck hung four
beautiful necklaces of pearl and gold and precious stones, all of which
had adorned Gunga on her wedding day many years ago.  Ankles and wrists
were laden, and Dorama's slender fingers were filled to the first joint
with rings that were heirlooms.  Her forehead was rubbed with sweet
sandalwood paste, her lips touched with rouge, and the beautiful brown
eyes intensified in size by dark touches beneath them.  They needed no
pungent juices to make them bright.  The unshed tears were sufficient
to keep them moist.

The assembled guests had had time to dine and afterwards to talk over
all the news.  Many had paid a visit to the well down which they
glanced morbidly at the root where the cap was found hanging.  By half
past three the waiting began to grow irksome, and enquiries were made
for the widow.  She was coming! they were told.  It had taken long to
fasten all the jewels.  There were so many! not one worn on the wedding
day was missing; and in addition she wore others that were purchased
for her when her son was born.

The mention of little Royan was the signal for sighs and lamentations.
They were interrupted by the appearance of Dorama led by her aunt.
Dressed as when she was given to her husband she stood before them, her
eyes downcast and brimming with tears, her delicate fingers plucking
nervously at the folds of her saree.

At the sight of her the women burst into open wailing.  Some of them
pressed forward and cracked the joints of their knuckles over her head
as though they would still try to avert her hideous fate.  Others
kissed her cheek and hair, her soft arms, even the gold embroidered
edge of her saree.  Tears flowed freely; the sight of the grief of
others opened the fountain of her own sorrow, and Dorama wept with them.

It was a pathetic sight; the girl dressed in bridal array for the last
time in her young life, and the sympathetic company bewailing her fate.

A golden ray of the afternoon sun shot slanting downwards into the
courtyard and caught the gleaming jewellery, reddening the rich tint of
her silk garment, and warming the lights in the precious metal.  Here a
crimson ruby sent out a shaft of fire; there a green emerald and blue
sapphire set in gold completed the rainbow colours.

The company revelled in the luxury of grief and prolonged the
leave-taking, repeating over and over again their sorrow and regret
that the gods had dealt thus hardly with her.  Then as the sun drew
down towards the west, she was led by her uncle and aunt through the
little yard and into Ananda's room.  The company followed, and the
space was quickly filled with the throng of sightseers still wailing
and weeping without restraint.  The green foliage of the gourd was
trodden down; its fruit and yellow blossoms were crushed under careless
feet as the crowd pressed forward to see the degrading rites that were
to be carried out by the two relatives who had constituted themselves
master and mistress of the ceremonies.

First the jewels were removed.  One by one they were unclasped and
handed to members of the family to be held in safe keeping till they
could be restored to the jewel chest.  Every woman rich or poor wears a
few dark bangles of glass.  Among the golden circlets on her arms
Dorama had three or four such rings on each wrist.  With every movement
the bangles clinked musically as they fell against the gold bracelets.
Armed with a stone her aunt seized her by the hand and struck the
brittle glass sharply.  At the sound of the blows the wail of grief was
again raised.  This was the first act in the tragedy.

Denuded of all her adornments she was next disrobed.  The coloured
jacket was removed; the silk saree unwound from her limbs.  A coarse
rough cloth of unbleached cotton was produced and twisted round her
figure.  Widowhood permitted but one garment; nevermore would she be
allowed to wear jacket or petticoat or any soft material that might
protect her sensitive skin from the rough web of the cotton saree.
This was the second act.

The third, by far the worst part of the ordeal, was still to come.  Her
abundant hair was unplaited slowly and the sweet jasmine blossoms that
had been woven into it dropped upon the ground at her feet, where they
lay all unheeded, contaminated and cursed by the touch of the widow.
Again the women crowded closely, some of them lifting the tresses to
their lips, with lamentations that one so young and beautiful should
meet with such misfortune.

In the light of the sunset glow the scissors shone as the hand of the
barber woman was raised to perform her share of the ceremony.  The hair
that reached far below Dorama's waist was gathered in none too gentle a
grip and severed close against the head.  Not content with this, custom
demanded the use of the razor.  As the sunlight faded behind the purple
mountain, Dorama's head was disfigured beyond recognition.  A fresh cry
of grief rose from the assembled crowd, as they stared with growing
repulsion at the sight.  The only dry eyes were those of the temporary
master of the house and his wife.

One more ceremony remained to be performed.  This was the severing of
the marriage cord on which the badge corresponding with the European
woman's wedding ring hung, Dorama felt the cord press against the back
of her neck as her aunt drew it tight the better to divide it.  As it
parted the tension relaxed and the gold badge dropped into the hand
extended by her uncle to receive it.

With a despairing cry Dorama fell upon her knees, and leaning forward
touched the ground with her forehead as if in resignation to the will
of the gods.  Round her lay the scattered jasmine blossoms that had
dropped from her hair.  In their death they exhaled their sweetness on
the evening air.  They were no longer the adornment of the bride but
the offering to one who was to suffer a living death.  Nevermore would
the sight of the wax-white flowers remind her of a happy expectant
bridegroom.  Thenceforth they would speak only of death and misery.

It is strange how the Hindu who is extravagant in his grief, piles up
pain and sorrow for poor suffering humanity.  As if the gods had not
brought sufficient wretchedness on the unhappy wife by the loss of her
husband, he devises in his inhuman ingenuity this barbarous method of
enhancing the sorrow that is already almost too great for endurance.
When the girl is dressed up for the last time and appears before the
assembly she is greeted with profound pity.  As the ceremonies proceed
that pity gradually emerges into loathing and contempt.  The woman
herself with all her sweetness and gentleness is forgotten, and her
widowhood only is remembered.  She enters upon an existence that is
absolutely without a relieving ray of hope.  She is often the drudge of
the house; she has no rights moral or otherwise; and she is at the
mercy of the most tyrannical woman of the household and the most
licentious man.  Her only chance of escape is in death; but even death
has no promise of greater happiness.  Her rebirth on earth will,
according to her faith, only plunge her in deeper misery and
degradation.

How such an appalling custom can have arisen out of the past ages it is
difficult to say; and it is still more puzzling to understand why it is
maintained among a people who are neither savage nor uncivilized.  No
other nation has anything to offer that is its equivalent in refined
and far-reaching cruelty.  Never a day passes but the rites are
performed somewhere throughout the length and breadth of India.  Never
a night goes by that does not see some stricken girl or woman
grovelling on the floor of her chamber in abject misery alone and
uncomforted.  Too often the misery is ended by a catastrophe, a rush
towards the well; a plunge and then stillness.

And what then?  Does any one care?  Not in the least.  Even the mother
of the girl sheds no tear and makes no lamentation.  The house is
relieved of the presence of the ill-starred widow, a certain source of
misfortune, and her removal is a blessing for which the gods are
thanked.

One by one the company drifted away, some to depart at once for their
homes, others to indulge in fragments of gossip in the back verandah.
The place was empty at last of all save the prostrate figure lying
among the jasmine blossoms in the room where, only a few nights ago,
she had crept into the arms of a loving husband.  The gourd was crushed
and trampled to death in the yard; the glory of its green leaves and
yellow cups was as ruthlessly destroyed as her own crown of womanhood.

A cicala in the grass outside began his evening note of challenge.  It
was answered by the metallic defiance of a rival.  A pair of little
flycatchers slipped into their roosting place in the oleander bush at
the entrance, with complaining chirrups at having been kept up so late
by the invasion of the yard.  A pale, yellow moth fluttered like a
ghost over the jasmine flowers, puzzled at its inability to draw honey
from what had been done to death.  The hum of the town, busy with its
evening trading, came faintly through the stillness of the air and died
down again; and the peace of approaching night dropped softly on the
earth.

Not one of that numerous family gave a second thought to the stricken
woman whom they had left.  Not a soul returned to offer consolation.
Their actions faithfully indicated their minds.  No one cared what
became of the widow; no one heeded her steps.  Under her ban she was
free to come and go as she chose.  From thenceforth she need have no
fear of lock and key; unless it might be for the purpose of keeping her
out of sight of her more fortunate fellows.

In earlier days Dorama had wondered how Mayita had been able to bear
the fate that had overtaken her.  She recalled the fact that she had
herself shrunk from the baldheaded child, and avoided a meeting without
any attempt at disguising her action.  And now she was in exactly the
same case herself! ah! she could not bear it.  It was intolerable; a
moan broke from her lips as the reality of the present separated itself
from the shadows of the past.  She writhed in rebellion against her
fate, and as she did so she felt the iron of the inevitable enter her
soul.

It was unbearable.  She could not face it!  Cost what it might she must
escape!

There was but one way.  She knew it, as she had heard it spoken of when
other women suffered the same fate.  Yes: they were right.  Death was
preferable to life under such conditions.  Her beloved husband had
sought for death in the well.  If she ran quickly, and hurled herself
over the low wall before she had time to look into the black cold
depths, she could find courage enough to carry out the design without
faltering.  It would be best too for the house, and relieve it of the
disastrous presence of a widow.  Royan was gone; Ananda was gone; it
was only fitting that she should go too.

She rose to her feet determined to act at once before her courage
failed her.  She turned and staggered blindly to the entrance that
admitted the faint starlight of the night.  As her foot crossed the
threshold she felt a pair of small arms thrown around her.

"Dorama! sister, it is I!  Coomara's widow!  I have come to join my
tears with yours!"

And promptly Mayita buried her face in the coarse new saree of her
sister-widow and gave full rein to her grief.

Dorama felt like a drowning waif who had abandoned hope, and to whom
was suddenly held out a friendly hand.  She clung passionately to
Mayita, trembling and catching her breath in dry sobs.

"Sit down, sister," said Mayita presently.  "Let us talk.  No one cares
where the widow is, nor what she does.  Listen; I have news for you.
This morning they put ladders down the well by the cattle shed where
your husband's cap was found.  They searched for his body with hooks
and nets, but they found nothing.  If he is there he lies like a stone
at the bottom.  Some say that as he turned Christian he cannot come up.
The devil living in the well has eaten him.  My brother laughs and says
they are all mistaken.  He is not there."

"Not there!" cried Dorama startled.  Then as the flicker of hope
momentarily kindled died down she added: "But if not there, where can
he be?"

"He has gone to the missionary, the good Englishman, who will be a
father to him."

"Impossible!  He could not stand, far less walk, after the beating that
they gave him; and he had no friends."

"My brother assures me that he is alive and he means to make sure of it
by secret inquiry.  Oh, Dorama! dear sister!  I am so sorry for you.
But listen!  Beloved!--I may call you so now.  Beloved! it is so sweet
to have a sister!  I have been so lonely since my evil fate overtook
me.  Oh! so lonely!  With only the good Bopaul to say a kind word to
me.  Even my mother hates the sight of me, and curses me because I
bring bad luck to the house."

There was a pause during which the two girls clung together.

"Sister!" whispered Mayita striving to catch sight of the other's face
in the dim light.  "Sister, where were you going when you fell into my
arms?"

Dorama did not reply, but suddenly she began to moan.  Mayita strove to
comfort her, and when the agitation lessened she began again.

"Sister! you were going to the well.  It must not be.  You must live
lest by any chance your husband comes to life again.  It will be hard,
oh, very hard sometimes, almost more than one can bear.  But for his
sake it must be borne; for, if he ever does come back, it will
assuredly send him to the well if he finds that you are dead.  Promise
me, sister; promise me that you will not go to the well."

"I promise, little one!" replied Dorama brokenly.

"That's right!  Now it is time for me to go back."

"Alone, little sister?"

"My brother waits for me by the gateway.  He is so good! oh, so good to
the poor widow.  May the blessing of all the gods I have offended rest
for ever on his dear head."

Dorama watched her white figure till it was lost in the darkness of the
night.  Then she turned her face towards the garden entrance and passed
unnoticed into the house.  They who happened to be near the path she
took in crossing the courtyard, stepped aside so as to place themselves
well out of reach of possible contact with her shadow.  Others seeing
her coming turned back into the room they were leaving, and closed the
door till she should have passed.

When the evening meal was served out, knowing too well what was
expected of her, she remained outside the family circle until all had
finished, including the youngest and most insignificant child of the
establishment.  Then and then only did she--who among the women had
been formerly helped immediately after the big mistress and before her
aunt--received her portion.  It was ample and sufficing; but it was
eaten in bitter humiliation and anguish of heart, as she realised the
dreadful fact that this was only the beginning of a lifelong existence
from which there could be no escape.




CHAPTER XXIII

A week passed during which Pantulu's family settled back into the
ordinary routine.  Sooba was gratified by the performance of the
widowing ceremonies; he felt to a certain degree revenged upon his
unfortunate nephew.  The adulation received from the visitors did
something to restore his wounded vanity; but the disrespect shown by
Dr. Wenaston's housekeeper was not yet atoned for; and his
vindictiveness in that direction continued to smoulder.

A second letter arrived from Gunga asking for news of Ananda.  It
contained a message that amounted to a parental order.  Gunga desired
her son to come to her at once.  She suggested that by this time the
popular feeling against him in the town would have subsided; and it
would be quite safe for him to travel in the bullock coach which had
taken her and her husband to their new home.  She went into further
detail about the proposed journey, and asked that some personal
property should be forwarded by the conveyance that brought her son.
Sooba read the letter aloud to his wife in his perplexity.

"It means that my brother is worse and he wants to make one more appeal
to his son," he commented.

"You will have to tell him that Ananda is dead."

"I shall do nothing of the kind--at present.  It is strange that the
well refuses to give up the body."

"Not at all, husband.  The gods have permitted the demon of the well to
do its worst.  Perhaps one day his bones may be brought to light; but
we shall never see his body again."

"As far as we are all concerned it would be a good thing if he were
never seen again.  It would solve the difficulty of funeral
ceremonies," remarked Sooba complacently.

"Does our sister say nothing about Dorama?"

"Nothing at all."

"If she knew she would ask for the jewels.  You have them all safe?"

"Perfectly safe."

"Why not replace them in the family chest?" she asked, a touch of
anxiety in her voice.

"Because I choose to keep them myself."

She was silent in spite of her uneasiness.  She was aware that Sooba
had not only taken possession of the jewels, but had also appropriated
some of the money recently paid in by the middle-men who purchased the
produce of Pantulu's estate.  They brought rupee notes and took Sooba's
receipt without a suspicion of anything wrong.  Sooba himself saw no
harm in his action.  He was a little premature; but as it would all be
his at no distant time there was nothing dishonest about it.

"What answer shall you send?"

"I shall say that we gave Ananda the punishment commanded by the swami,
taking care not to be too severe."

"It was very severe all the same.  Sometimes I think that he may have
crawled away into the jungle and died there."

"Chah! woman! you babble like a fool!" retorted Sooba with irritation.
"We are speaking now of what is to be said to our sister.  In return
for our leniency--for not having given him the full measure prescribed
by the holy one----"

"The men said that it was more than----"

"Peace, idiot!  Let me finish what I intend to say to my sister-in-law.
In return for our kindness he has gone off, we can't say where.  He
tried to entice away the foolish deluded Dorama and persuade her to go
with him; but we discovered the plan just in time to stop her."

His wife was not satisfied.  She had no objection to the distortion of
the tale.  What she feared was the discovery of the truth by Gunga.
The story of the widow ceremony must come to her ears before many more
days were passed; and nothing would be gained by rousing her wrath
unnecessarily.  As long as there was a breath of life in Pantulu, Gunga
ruled absolutely; and it was in her power to turn out Sooba and his
wife if serious offence were given.

"Leave it to me," said Sooba confidently and untroubled by any qualms
of conscience.  "Our sister is occupied in looking after her husband.
Her own approaching widowhood will take up the rest of her thoughts.
We need not fear that she will make inquiry or trouble about anything
until the end comes.  Then I in the absence of Ananda will be chief
mourner and master of the house.  It will be your voice and not our
sister's that will hold the attention of the zenana.  The jewels may be
worn by you; they will become you well, wife."

She was not satisfied even with this rosy dream of wealth and
authority, and she asked uneasily:

"When will you tell Gunga of her son?"

"In another week perhaps I may begin to break the news."

The days that followed the widowing rites passed strangely for Dorama.
She hated her new position and inwardly revolted against it.  She
loathed her rough garment and bare head.  The cool evening wind caught
her behind the ears and at the back of her neck--where formerly the
heavy strands of hair formed a covering--and gave her twinges of
neuralgia.  She shivered and drew up the saree shawl-wise over her
head, but it slipped down having nothing to cling to.  She missed the
daily details of her toilet.  There was no hair to comb, and scent, and
plait with fresh blossoms; no jewels to fasten on arm and neck.  She
was not permitted to use any of the various cosmetics treasured in the
brass box with its many divisions that was her own special property;
the rouge, sandal-wood paste, saffron powder, lip-salve, henna and the
sweet atta of rose.  The only thing allowed was the use of pure water.
The food was good, but the mode of serving deprived her of appetite.
By the time her turn came she was so full of misery and impatience at
her altered circumstances, that she found no pleasure in eating the
excellent curry prepared in the kitchen.  Alone and like a guilty thing
she bolted her meals, sometimes shedding bitter tears as she did so.
Even the luxury of grief was denied.  If tears were seen or a sob
heard, she was reproved.  Did she want to bring bad luck upon the
house? she was asked.  If a basin was broken or a pot upset, angry
glances were directed towards her.  If the woman slicing vegetables cut
her finger, she showed it to the widow with an injured expression, as
much as to say: Look at the effect of having a person like you in the
house!

Her services were not urgently needed in the kitchen where many hands
made light work; and it frequently happened to her to be ordered out of
the room.  She wandered away in listless fashion, aware that wherever
she went her presence would be unwelcome.  Only one spot seemed free to
her, and this was because it was deserted by all others.  The small
room formerly occupied by her husband was always empty, and thither she
was drawn by memory and association.

At first she merely sat upon the mat and brooded, looking out of the
open door at the forest-clad mountain with eyes that saw nothing of its
beauty in line or colour.  On the third day she noticed that the dust
had accumulated, and that the dead jasmin blossoms remained just where
they had fallen.  She went out into the compound and gathered a bunch
of twigs with which she swept out the room.  In so doing she discovered
a glove that had belonged to her husband.  She recognised it as his
and, picking it up, she kissed it passionately.  Once, not so very long
ago, it had been a covering to his dear hand.  He had worn it in that
far-off smoky city of the west, and the strange scent still clung to it.

When she had finished her self-appointed task, she seated herself on
the mat to indulge in the pleasure of gloating over her treasure; and
to devise a secure hiding place for it in the fold of her saree.  A
dozen times it was hidden and brought out again to be fondled and gazed
at, to be tenderly nursed like a baby on her arm.  She was startled by
the sound of a footfall.  Hastily thrusting her treasure into her saree
she looked up and saw Mayita.

"Ah, dear sister.  How good it is to meet again!  My brother caught
sight of you as he walked through the compound, and he sent me to talk
to you while he goes to the house to ask for news of your husband."

"There is no news," replied Dorama sadly.

"Not yet; but there will be soon," replied Mayita confidently.  The
child entered the room and glanced round with approval.  "You have
swept it and made it tidy.  Does any one come here?"

"Not that I know of," replied Dorama, her hand slipping under the folds
of her cloth to close secretly over the glove.

"Then it is ours for the present, ours! sister!  Think how delightful!
Widows are not allowed to possess anything, so they say!  But listen, I
will tell you a secret now that you are my sister.  They think I have
nothing, nothing in this big world; but I have lots of treasures.  I am
rich.  I have silver pots and golden cups and china dishes.  Sometimes
they are filled with oranges and mangoes, pomegranates and mangosteens.
I have jewels and silk sarees----"

"What are you talking about, child!" cried Dorama staring at her in
astonishment.

"Hush, speak low, and I will show you some diamonds.  They are the
dower of a bride in a marriage I am making."

She untied a corner of her cloth and produced some small white stones
that she had picked up in the compound.  She chose one and lifted it
daintily.

"This magnificent stone of the first water was found at Golcondah a
thousand years ago.  It was once in the crown of a rich Maharajah.  It
is worth twenty lacs of rupees; and if this wedding can be
arranged----" her brow puckered suddenly, "but things are not going
well.  The astrologer has pronounced unfavourably on the horoscopes.
The bride's element is water, and the bridegroom's partly air and
partly fire.  Air and water will agree; but fire and water!--what can
it mean unless it be misfortune?"

"What will you do?" asked Dorama entering into the fanciful world of
the other with the kindly indulgence of the older woman towards the
younger.

"I have paid a large sum to the astrologer.  He is a very clever
man--oh, so wise--and he has gone to a big temple in the south to ask
for the assistance of the gods.  I would do anything rather than
disappoint the bridegroom.  He is so handsome, so fair, so big and
strong!  The bride will die of grief if she is not permitted to marry
him.  Already she is drooping and languishing because of the delay.
Beloved sister, you must come to the wedding.  You shall be the
bridegroom's mother."

A generous offer that Dorama accepted with a sad smile.  There was a
vast gulf between the two widows.  One had never tasted the reality.
She had only been a bride in name, and she was still able to live in
the rosy dreams of maiden fancy.  The other had drunk the cup and
realised every thing.  To her this make-believe was but a mockery, the
dust and ashes of a tantalising memory.

"Where is the bridegroom?" asked Dorama.

Mayita untied another knot in her saree and produced a wood-apple which
she exhibited proudly.

"See, isn't he well made?" she said.  "Look at his limbs.  Feel his
smooth skin!  How tall!  how proud he is and how strong.  He will be
the father of many sons."

"Have you the bride as well?"

"She has to live with her people at present.  Her home is in the datura
bush.  She wears a saree of pure white satin and she hangs her head
with beautiful modesty.  Sister!"  Mayita's eyes surveyed the room with
approval.  "We will have the wedding here.  The astrologer will soon be
back from the south, and I am sure that his visit to the temple will
have made matters smooth.  We shall be able to decorate the place and
lay out the feast.  I will bring my silver pots and china dishes
to-morrow and we will hide them behind your husband's boxes.  Oh, how
delightful it will be!  What a wedding we will have!"

Mayita's eyes sparkled, and the beautiful brown tones of her skin were
enriched as the warm blood coursed through her veins.  In spite of her
shaven head and coarse garment, her youth and comeliness asserted
themselves.  She babbled on about the wedding, the difficulties that
had occurred over the dower as well as the horoscope, the number of
guests to be invited, and other details to which Dorama listened, her
hand over the hidden glove, her thoughts wandering back into the past
when there was another wedding less nebulous than that of Mayita's
devising, and she herself was the bride.  A call outside checked the
flow of description, and Mayita rose quickly to her feet.

"It is my brother.  Come to the entrance of the yard while I ask him
for news; and listen."

Bopaul in the customary manner of a caste man, stood a little way off
waiting for his sister to join him.

"What news of Ananda?" asked the child, stopping in the entrance and
calling to him.

"They have none."

"Where is he?"

"They still speak of the well; but I do not believe that he is dead.
Come, little one, it is time we returned."

Mayita kissed Dorama.

"My brother is right.  Your husband lives; but for the present you are
his widow.  To-morrow Coomara's widow will come again.  There will be
news by that time from the astrologer, and we shall be able to begin
the preparations for the wedding.  Sister, those big boxes must be
pushed aside; they will be in the way.  Do you think that we could move
them?  We will try to-morrow."

Another call from Bopaul, and Mayita beat a hasty retreat.  Dorama was
left standing at the entrance.  The sun had disappeared in a heavy bank
of cloud that later would be streaked with electricity.  Rain was
wanted; there had been none for the last few days.  Her eye rested on
the gourd that had been trampled by the inquisitive crowd.  She went to
it.

"Poor plant!  They killed you I am afraid; but no, you are not dead!
Here are some buds coming and fresh leaves!"

She stooped over the vine and plucked away the bruised foliage leaving
the stalks almost as bare as her own poor head.  Unlovely though the
rough stems were they were full of virility; and the rain and sun would
mend what was marred and reclothe the plant with verdure.  She
straightened out a few twisted stems and lifted some leaves that had
been trodden down but escaped total destruction.  It was a curious
sight; the crushed tending the crushed.

Then she entered the room again and thought of the child.  Why should
she not have the small pleasure of playing her little game on the
morrow.  She looked at the two portmanteaux and considered how they
could be moved out of the way.  They were her husband's and must be
cared for, as they contained his clothes and books.  Of course they
were heavy and beyond her power to move.

She gripped the handle of one and putting all her strength into the
effort attempted to lift it.  To her astonishment it yielded with such
ease that she nearly fell over backwards.  A cry escaped her lips as
she dropped it.  It was empty.  She tested the weight of the other with
the same result.  That too was empty, if she might judge by its
lightness.

The knowledge came as a shock; it was a revelation, and threw a fresh
and unexpected light on her husband's disappearance.  If he had thrown
himself down the well it was hardly likely that he would have taken all
his clothes and books with him.  They would still be here.  Where they
had gone he must have followed.  But stay! had some thief stolen the
contents?  If so the locks would betray him.  She examined them
closely.  They were sound and unbroken.  No sign of the hand of a thief
was to be seen.  The boxes were properly locked and their contents had
been removed with the owner's consent.

A great joy swept over her, lifting a dull dead weight from her heart.
Bopaul had asserted his belief more than once that his friend still
lived, and she had heard the assertion with very little faith.  This
discovery altered the complexion of affairs completely and brought
conviction.  Her husband was surely alive!  In spite of the dreadful
bangle-breaking ceremony; in spite of the coarse clothing and shaven
head she was not a widow.  One day he would come back to her and claim
her for his own.  She would feel his dear arms round her again, his
lips upon hers, his words of love would be breathed in her ears once
more!

The joy of it all deprived her of muscular strength for the time, and
she sank down by those rough battered trunks, leaning her arms upon
them and laying her cheek against the stained leather.  She could have
hugged and kissed them in her gratitude for what they had revealed.

Gradually her mind cleared; it seemed to have matured during the last
few weeks and to have aged with experience.  She thought of all she had
gone through.  First there was the bewilderment caused by his change of
faith, which raised a barrier between him and herself, and she realised
how intensely disappointed she was.  Then came the loss of the child
and her sorrow.  Lastly, she had had to endure the degradation of
widowhood which, coming as it did on the top of her loss of husband and
child, brought her to the verge of hopeless despair.  Had it not been
for the opportune visit of Mayita she would now be lying in the well
where, up to the present, she had believed her husband to be.

The conviction that he was alive grew upon her as she sat there in the
darkening room.  She drew out the glove and pressed it to her lips.  To
all intents and purposes she was still a widow, and as such she must
remain for the present.  As she cherished the glove and hid it, so she
must keep her discovery a secret.  She must also guard against showing
the new hope that had sprung up; the hope that he would return, that
sooner or later he would seek her out and bid her come.  Could he do it
openly?  She doubted the wisdom of such a course.  She remembered how
they had failed in their first attempt to escape.  There must be no
failure the second time.  She must be careful and cautious and trust to
no one.

The more she contemplated the step she might be called upon to take at
any moment, the more clearly she understood its seriousness.  The
effect would be far-reaching and irretrievable.  To throw in her lot
with her husband would mean that she would cut herself adrift from the
family for ever.  She must be one with him, of his faith, and dead to
all her relatives.

Was she prepared to make the sacrifice?  Yes, a thousand times, yes!
The old spirit that had led her remote ancestresses to the funeral pile
to die in the flames that devoured their dead husbands' bodies, rose
strongly within her and bound her to her living husband.  For his sake
she would endure and bear as he had endured and borne.  She would be
ready when his summons came; and she would go gladly, even though he
beckoned to her from the fire of adversity, that burned as fiercely as
the flames of the old suttee funeral pile; she would join him and cling
to him for ever!

She lifted her head with eyes that shone, not with tears but with a new
light.  The last vestige of the child died within her; and the woman
who walked thoughtfully back to the zenana, as the shadow of night
settled over the landscape, was a woman of determination and strength
of purpose.  The baptism of sorrow had lifted her on to a higher plane,
and had fitted her for better things than a colourless life of inert
misery.




CHAPTER XXIV

Alderbury had been travelling over his district.  As superintending
missionary his presence was urgently needed in half a dozen places at
once as a rule, not to teach his converts hymns, but to govern their
temporal business and to guide their spiritual affairs, to encourage
the faint-hearted and to shake the pastoral staff, metaphorically
speaking, in the faces of those who showed signs of the old Adam.  They
received his ministrations with admirable meekness and adored him all
the more for his reproof or praise.  He loved his people in return, but
that fact did not blind him to their weaknesses.

He journeyed in a country cart; not a luxuriously fitted bullock coach
such as conveyed Pantulu and his wife to their destination, but a
veritable springless vehicle of the country with a hood of matting of
the roughest description.  At the bottom was laid a mattress.  Between
the driver, who sat on the same plane with his feet on the pole, and
the mattress were piled the boxes and baskets containing the
necessaries of life required on the itinerating picnic.  They formed a
kind of screen between the driver and the occupant of the cart.  The
back of the hood was curtained with a piece of calico thick enough to
keep out the sun.  The most comfortable position for the traveller
whether journeying by night or day was to lie down at full length with
his head towards the driver.

Alderbury usually travelled by night for various reasons.  It was
cooler; it saved time; it was far more comfortable than sleeping at a
village school-house, where nothing but a mat was provided.  In this
way he arrived at his destination soon after sunrise ready to begin the
day's work of inspection, services, surplice duties, pastoral visits
and interviews with the native agents.

It was just nine days since Ananda had disappeared.  Wenaston wrote to
the missionary after Sooba's visit of inquiry and told him of the
intrusion; he asked him to come on his way back and stay for a couple
of nights or more if he could spare the time.  He thought something
should be done in the way of inquiry after the welfare of the convert,
even though he had definitely refused help on a former occasion.  The
letter followed Alderbury out into the district, and found him just in
time to allow of his carrying out Wenaston's suggestion.

From long practice in constant travelling Alderbury had learned to
sleep fairly well in the cart, in spite of its jolts and jerks and the
strange utterances of the driver when he occasionally woke up and spoke
to his cattle.  On the morning when he intended to arrive at Chirapore
he roused himself before dawn; and sitting up as well as he could he
dressed himself with more care than usual.  He knew who would be
waiting for him in the trellised verandah with its mantle of blue
ipomea.  In fancy he could see the tea-table laid out and the early tea
ready, a rack of crisp toast and the boiled eggs.

There had been a shower in the night, and the air was fresh and cool.
He jumped out at the back of the cart, without stopping the slowly
moving cattle, and strode forward with a superabundance of that
vitality which never seemed to fail him.  The earth smelt sweet of
growing vegetation, and the rain had laid the dust and washed the
foliage.  Here and there the scent from clusters of newly-opened
blossom on the roadside trees permeated the air.  On either side of the
way spread cultivated fields and patches of garden, for the town was
not far off, unconfined by any visible boundary.  Pomegranate bushes
showed vivid spots of manderin scarlet where the flower promised fruit.
All kinds of birds twittered and whistled and chirrupped in bush and
tree.  Noisiest of all were the barbets that never ceased their
monotonous call.

Alderbury's eye lingered over every detail with an inborn joyousness
that put him in sympathy with all living creatures.  The last mail from
England had brought him news that might change the current of his life
and bring him into new and wider fields.  It would mean harder work
than ever; heavier responsibilities; greater liabilities that would
leave him if anything poorer rather than richer; but he was ready for
all and everything if----  Ah, that little if! there was so much behind
it.  Prudence tried to reason and urged objections that were half true
and unproven.  Was she sufficiently in sympathy with his work, with his
aims?  Would she be a help?  It would be fatal if she drew away and
separated her interests from his.  The more he doubted the more blindly
he loved and desired; the more eager he was to know his fate.

The pale rays of the sun shot up above the horizon on the east, and the
white sheets of mist lying on the fields seemed to shiver and shrink as
the merciless sun-god sent forth his heralds to give warning of his
approach.  Long-legged natives wrapped in rough black blankets strode
towards their tasks on the land, their brains still slumberous and
their bodies still inert with sleep.  The cows and buffaloes followed
the herdsman to the town, stopping before the doors where the milk was
awaited for the early morning coffee.  Leisurely and without haste
India awoke to its daily round free from the fever and fuss that marks
the day in the west.

Alderbury had the road to himself except for a municipal cart that
passed now and then with the load gathered from the streets in the
night.  Behind him rumbled his own conveyance which he was out-walking
rapidly.  The cattle had done the journey well, and he was earlier than
he dared to hope; yet for all that his walk, was quick and impetuous as
though he were drawn towards his goal in spite of himself.

He arrived at the first house on the outskirts of the town.  It was the
one in which Pantulu's family lived.  The household was astir and a
group of men stood in the verandah preparing to go out on their various
errands and duties.  From the midst burst Sooba who recognised the
missionary although the latter was not acquainted with Pantulu's
brother.

"May I have a word with you, sir," asked Sooba.

"With pleasure," replied Alderbury in some surprise.  He had no
adherents in Chirapore nor in the State, and for the moment he had
forgotten Ananda's existence.  "What can I do for you?"

"I wish to ask you a few questions about my nephew," said Sooba.

"Yes; but tell me first who is your nephew?"

As he spoke Alderbury looked up at the house and suddenly remembered
the visit he had paid.

"Of course, I recollect now.  This is where Ananda lives.  How is he?
I hope he is well."

Sooba glanced at the Englishman suspiciously, trying to hide his
distrust under a forced smile.

"My nephew sought your assistance some days ago, sir."

"I think you are mistaken.  I offered help but he refused it.  Since
that time I have neither seen nor heard of him, except the fact
mentioned by Dr. Wenaston in a letter, that he had left his home and
that you were under the impression that he had gone to the college.  It
was extremely kind of the Principal to allow you to go through his
private rooms.  I am not sure that I should have been so obliging."

Alderbury's voice had unconsciously assumed a tone of reproof, and
Sooba writhed inwardly under it.

"Dr. Wenaston could not refuse, since a refusal would have been a tacit
acknowledgment that he was harbouring a Christian and breaking his
covenant with the Maharajah."

"Not at all," replied Alderbury sharply.  He did not like the manner of
the man.  "You took a great liberty.  It was sufficient for all
purposes that he assured you Ananda was not there.  What made you think
that your nephew had gone to him for help?"

"The gardener gave me a hint that some one had arrived the night
before," said Sooba sullenly.

"The gardener!  Ah, the man owes his mistress a grudge.  The
housekeeper caught him stealing her roses.  So that was how he took his
revenge, and you were foolish enough to be made the instrument."

"The gardener was right in saying that a visitor had arrived in the
night.  The woman's son, a sick soldier, came in by the mail.  I saw
him lying in her room drunk."

"Where do you suppose your nephew has gone?" asked Alderbury not
choosing to discuss Mrs. Hulver with the man.

"That is what I expect you to tell me, since he has been so foolish as
to break his caste and join a religion that is acceptable to the
pariahs and panchamas only."

"Sorry I can't oblige you; good morning," said Alderbury, checking his
rising anger with difficulty.

Sooba was left standing in the road.  His eyes followed the athletic
form of the Englishman with no good will.  He believed Alderbury when
he declared his ignorance of Ananda's movements, because the drowning
theory commended itself for various reasons, and because he had already
ascertained that his nephew was not at the mission station.  Ananda
ought to be at the bottom of the well; every circumstance pointed to
it.  At the same time seeing the missionary on the road he thought it
was a good opportunity of speaking to him.  At the back of his subtle
mind was the hope that, in a chance conversation of the kind, he might
be able to offer him some slight about which he could brag afterwards
to his friends.  It was not necessary that Alderbury should notice and
resent any discourtesy; it was sufficient that it should be shown; and
it would go towards compensating the ill-conditioned man for the
treatment he had received from Mrs. Hulver.

Alderbury knowing the Oriental suspected something of the kind, and his
suspicion was confirmed as soon as Christianity was mentioned.  He put
an end to the interview abruptly leaving Sooba with a sense of failure
that did not tend to smooth matters for him.

The bullocks, recognising that they were not far off their halting
place, put on a spurt and caught up the pedestrian, who dived into the
cart from the back and sat cross-legged on his mattress until, with
much jangling of bells, sighing and snorting of cattle, and creaking of
cart-wheels, he arrived under the portico of the college house.  The
welcome he so confidently anticipated struck no note of disappointment.

Three hours later breakfast was over and Wenaston had departed to take
up his duties in the college.  Eola was interviewing Mrs. Hulver and
settling the housekeeping programme for the day.  She was inclined to
be absent-minded, her thoughts wandering to such an extent that she was
guilty of ordering two joints instead of one.  Mrs. Hulver regarded
this lapse of memory with suspicion and recalled her young mistress to
the subject somewhat sharply.

"Mr. Alderbury has a dainty appetite more suitable to a bishop than a
missionary.  He doesn't want two joints," she remarked.

"Dear me! did I order two?" asked Eola in some confusion.

"Yes, miss; you asked for a boiled hump of beef and a roast saddle of
mutton.  The saddle you shall have to-morrow.  The hump is for to-night
as it has been quite long enough in pickle.  That with the fish and
entrées will more than satisfy Mr. Alderbury.  I don't hold with a
daintiness above your station.  As William--that was my second--used to
say: 'A private can't expect captain's grub, and a captain mustn't look
for general's fare, else there'll be proud stomachs.'"

"Have you ever seen a bishop?" asked Eola, feeling vaguely that she
must throw off suspicion and show an interest in Mrs. Hulver's
conversation.

"Yes, miss, of course I have!  Wasn't I confirmed by one?  He was tall
and solemn and had a thin grey beard.  He reminded me somehow--it
wasn't his legs--of a picture in my father's big family bible of the
goat that was sent out by the Children of Israel into the wilderness."

"The scape-goat that had to bear the sins of the people," said Eola,
her eyes wandering through the house to the front verandah where she
could see her guest in the distance absorbed in his letters.

"Yes, miss.  The bishop was just like the picture.  Hadn't he got to
bear the sins of his people? and a very serious business it was too.
When he confirmed me he gave me clean sheets and started me afresh; he
took my sins on him.  I shouldn't like to be a bishop considering all
he has to bear and wear.  The gaiters and the tights would be enough to
put one off the job, even though the apron does lend a little decency
to the style.  As William--that was my third--used to say: 'All are not
saints who go to church, or bishops and padres would have an easy time
of it.'"

During this speech Eola's attention again wandered.  Mr. Alderbury was
still busy with his letters.  As soon as he had finished reading his
correspondence she intended joining him.

"Then that's all for this morning," she said, as Mrs. Hulver came to an
end of her dissertation on church dignitaries.

"You haven't ordered the pudding, miss."

She made the announcement in the same manner in which she might have
said, "You haven't said your prayers, miss."

"I'm so sorry.  What has cook brought?  Green mangoes?  Yes; they will
do nicely stewed; and a custard pudding."

"Custard pudding!" repeated Mrs. Hulver with disdain.  "It's the
pudding Mr. Alderbury gets every other day of his life! and him with
the tastes of a bishop!"

"Then I leave it to you, Mrs. Hulver.  Now let me finish with the
accounts."

Mrs. Hulver was more vigilant than ever this morning over Ramachetty's
charges.  Miss Wenaston was clearly not fit for the matutinal crossing
of swords with the sharp-witted butler, and it was the housekeeper's
duty to intervene and protect.

"As William--that was my third--used to say: 'It's fatal to go into
action unless you've got your wits about you and your guns are in good
order,'" remarked Mrs. Hulver when she had checked the butler for the
third time.

Eola did not see the point of her remark and Mrs. Hulver made no
attempt to explain.  The bazaar account book was closed with relief,
and the butler and cook dismissed.

"How is young William getting on?" asked Eola, preparatory to
dismissing her housekeeper as well.

"He is nearly well, though I can't get the colour of his eye down
altogether.  What his colonel will say to him to-morrow I don't know.
He will have to be told the truth if he asks about the black eye."

"He may not make any inquiries if he finds young William"--by common
consent the adjective had been given to distinguish the son from the
three Williams of the former generation--"doing his work properly."

"There are colonels and colonels, miss.  Some can put on the blinkers
when they think fit.  Others shy and jib at everything that comes
within sight.  Fortunately young William's complexion helps a bit, and
the black eye doesn't show as it would if he were as fair as his
father."

"Then you think of sending him back to-morrow."

"His leave will be up by that time."

"I must tell my brother.  He said he would speak to him about the
canteen and fighting."

"It would do him good, miss; but to tell the truth I've said pretty
nearly all there is to be said and I haven't sounded cease firing yet."

"I hope the scolding has not been overdone," said Eola, a wave of pity
for young William passing through her as she thought of the lectures
the anxious mother had already given to her erring son.

"No fear, miss.  It's my chance and I haven't spared him.  I shan't see
young William for some time to come.  I've let him have it broadside,
in the front and in the rear.  As William--that was my third, and he
was a gunner--used to say, 'Don't spare powder and shot if you want to
produce a lasting impression on the enemy.'  There's one thing I want
to ask you, miss.  Is Mr. Alderbury going on from here by his carts or
by train?"

"By motor; the carts are to leave early to-morrow morning or to-night.
The motor will be wanted after lunch to-morrow.  The chauffeur must
spend the night at the mission bungalow and return the next day."

"Then nothing will be needed for Mr. Alderbury's tiffin basket,"
remarked Mrs. Hulver as though dismissing the subject since it did not
concern her any further.

Eola caught sight of her guest pacing to and fro in the verandah and
she turned away to join him.  Mrs. Hulver followed her.

"I should be glad if you could spare me to-morrow for half a day.  I
should like to go to the station with young William and see him off.
He will leave by an early train so as to get in in time to report
himself before six."

"By all means take as much time as you like."

"Would you like to come and speak a word to young William, miss?"

"No, please not; I really have nothing to say."

"It would do him good if you just said as before; 'Let it be----'"

Eola interrupted her hastily.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Hulver; I am sure that more than enough has been said.
Young William will be glad to get away."

"Then the Doctor will come and talk to him."

"Is it necessary?  Don't you think he might be let off any further
scolding?"

"Well, miss; he has yet to face the sergeant and perhaps the colonel.
So it isn't done with yet; and he won't be out of the firing line till
he has reported himself and had his dressing-down."

"Then I am sure that he must be spared anything further from us."

Mrs. Hulver's reply was to the effect that it should be as Miss
Wenaston pleased.  Ten minutes later the housekeeper might have been
seen, in a huge mushroom topee and with a large white umbrella,
crossing the compound in the direction of the camping-ground chosen by
Alderbury's driver and servant.  In the afternoon business took her to
the town to make some purchases for young William, she explained to
Ramachetty.




CHAPTER XXV

"How have you been getting on lately?" asked Eola as she sank into a
cane lounge in the verandah.

Alderbury stopped in his perambulation, gathered up a number of letters
lying on the table where the tea was usually spread and made them into
a neat packet.  None of them required an immediate answer; they could
all wait until he reached home.  He intended to make the most of his
one day's holiday.  He had the whole morning before him; Wenaston was
engaged till lunch, and Eola presumably had nothing to do but entertain
her guest.  It was a pleasant prospect, and he was conscious of a sense
of luxury that did not often enter his life.  He revelled in the
unwonted leisure of the hour and took his time to reply.  He seated
himself in a chair by her side, and half turned so that he might have a
full view of her face against the green creeper-covered trellis that
shut in the end of the verandah.

"I have a fair share of trouble balanced by some satisfaction."

"Converts been doing anything very naughty lately?"

He laughed in kindly fashion.  In his large sympathetic soul he held
his people dear, from the blackest little ball of a baby brought to him
for baptism to the white-haired old woman; who persisted in calling him
father though she was twice his age.

"It is rather like having a very large nursery or school of children,"
he said.  "Some of them are so good and others----"

"Are up to tricks," Eola concluded for him.

"Only between us confidentially."

They both laughed in a way that showed a mutual understanding and not a
little sympathy on the part of the woman, not so much for his work as
for himself personally.

"Do tell me their latest," she said softly.

"It is not for publication.  On your honour you won't give me and my
people away to a missionary magazine?"

"I promise."

"Let me whisper my troubles in your ear, then.  I have had a bother
over a bell tower.  Four months ago I sent five hundred rupees that I
had collected for the purpose to the native pastor in charge of the
little church at Ramapet; and I solemnly enjoined on him by letter the
necessity of beginning the building of the tower at once.  I have been
to see it."

"You have found that they have put up a glorified steeple, I suppose,
costing twice as much as the sum you sent."

"Wrong, dear lady, entirely wrong!  The bell tower surrounds the
property on which the church stands in the form of a wall; and in the
corner of the compound is a new well."

"What has become of the bell?"

"It is there safe enough; oh, yes, and it rings all right.  The church
council composed of the most important of the native parishioners met
me and pointed out how wise they had been, as wise as serpents to use
their own expression.  The church compound is already under cultivation
and the water will not only produce a crop, I should say rather, two
crops in the year, but will also be a source of income as it is
purchased by the villagers at so much a bucket.  They are all delighted
with themselves for their cleverness.  The bell-tower, they say, will
come all in good time.  Meanwhile they have erected a little shelter of
mats and bamboos in a peepul tree and have hung the bell there."

"What did you say?"

"I had to disapprove and point out that it was a breach of faith and a
misappropriation of funds."

"Was the wall needed?"

"Badly!  Nothing could be done with the land to make it productive
until we had an effective barrier to keep out the buffaloes and goats."

"Then really it is a most excellent move."

"Not at all!  Don't you see that there are principles involved?"

"They should have asked your consent, you mean, to the temporary
deflection of the money?"

"I should never have given it!  They knew it and took good care not to
let me into the secret.  What am I to do, pray?  Where is my bell-tower
to come from?  It will take two or three years before they can refund
the money.  Some of it was given by an enthusiastic lover of bells, who
was charmed with the idea of assisting to build the tower.  Bells, he
declared, were missionaries themselves and exercised a Christianising
influence.  What am I to say to him?  He won't see any Christianising
influence in the well and the wall."

He sat up in his long armed chair and gazed at Eola with comic concern.
It made her laugh.

"My sympathies are all with the builders of the wall.  I know how I
felt towards the buffaloes and goats before the wall round this
compound was completed.  After all the bell does very well for the
present in the peepul tree."

"Your morals are hopelessly inferior--I won't say bad--and you would
make a very weak mission agent," he said, shaking his head over her
shortcomings.

"Should I?  Then I mustn't marry a missionary.  Think how awful it
would be if while he was away preaching to the heathen, I remained at
home encouraging his converts to misappropriate the mission funds."

"He would have to take you with him; it wouldn't be safe to leave you
behind."

They both laughed; then he became serious again.

"But I say, really, joking apart; you know they have put me into no end
of a difficulty by their cleverness, and I am at my wits' end to think
how I am to rectify it."

"I know!" cried Eola, with a sudden inspiration.  "Haven't you any
other funds in hand from which you could borrow and get the tower built
at once?"

He jumped to his feet as was his way when excited and strode up and
down the verandah.

"You are every bit as bad as my people!  That's the very thing they
have done and which I am deprecating; and you suggest that I should
follow their example.  I can see that I have a duty to perform.  I must
take you in hand and convert you."

He stopped in front of her and let his eyes rest upon her abundant hair.

"Try," she said, looking up at him with shining eyes in which amusement
mingled with something else.  "Do try; I should like to see what your
method would be."

"Would you?" he replied.  "You might not like it."

"Is it the same as you apply to the heathen?"

"Not exactly."

Her eyes lowered before his, and she was seized with a sudden anxiety
to direct the conversation into a fresh channel.

"Sit down, Mr. Alderbury, and tell me more about your converts," she
said hastily.

"Very well, I will defer the conversion till a more suitable time and
talk--of marriage."

Again she was startled.  She glanced at him as he dropped into the seat
he had vacated so abruptly.  His self-possession was in no way
disturbed.

"Marriage!" she repeated as the colour mounted.

He revelled in her sweet confusion; but had mercy.

"Yes; the marriage of one of my converts.  A young man in the
agricultural settlement wants to marry the daughter of a distant
relative.  The girl is still a heathen.  Of course I had to say no, and
counsel patience.  We don't allow mixed marriages.  I left him rather
sad, as he knows the girl and is attached to her.  Being pariahs they
have been allowed to see something of each other."

"Oh, poor fellow!  Is she fond of him?"

"Yes; I think so; as far as a modest Hindu maid may permit herself to
be."

"Then they ought to be married; and I think it is very horrid of you to
forbid the wedding."

"The girl must become a Christian first; then the wedding bells shall
be rung and the feast prepared; but not till then."

"But supposing she won't become a Christian, what then?"

"The marriage can't take place."

"Poor lovers!  What a shame!  You are hard on them!  Why shouldn't the
girl marry first and be converted afterwards?"

"That would never do.  I always begin with conversion;" he looked at
her and paused with half a smile; then he added: "Marriage must follow
conversion."

"Oh, must it!" she replied with a challenge in her voice.  "You take a
good deal for granted."

"A common fault with men of my profession, I fear," he replied with a
decision that had its attraction.

"Are you never disappointed?"

There was a slight pause.  His reply was spoken in a different tone.

"In the matter of bell towers, yes."

Alderbury sat down again, and Eola with half averted face looked out
into the sunlit compound where the brilliant colours of the geraniums
and bignonia creeper contrasted strongly with the pure snow white of
the eucharis lilies; where butterflies that rivalled the flowers in
tint fluttered like wind-driven petals across her vision, and the sweet
scent of the _La France_ roses came in on the warm morning air.

"Now tell me about Ananda," said Alderbury recalling her thoughts.

"I know very little about him.  My information has come from Mrs.
Hulver who picks up gossip in the bazaar.  You had better hear the
story from her first hand.  I will send for her."

A message was taken by the butler who met the housekeeper as she
returned from her walk in the compound.  She went into her room to
remove the mushroom hat and dispose of her umbrella; and she took the
opportunity of telling young William that she had made arrangements for
him to leave at daybreak the following morning.  She entered the front
verandah, keen inquiry in her eye as to the reason of her call.

"Were you wishing to have a few words with my son, sir?  If so, I
should be pleased if you could come in half an hour.  He is just going
to have his bath.  A dressing-down from your point of view will be very
good for him.  As William--that was my third--used to say: 'Don't
confine yourself to big guns in dealing with an enemy.  Bullets speak
quite as plainly as cannon balls though they are neither so big nor so
noisy.'"

"I don't think your son wants any lecturing from me.  No doubt he is
fully repentant after all that has happened.  Dr. Wenaston told me the
story of his fight, and I am sure young William will keep away from the
canteen in future," said Alderbury kindly.

"He will try, sir; I know that; but canteens draw very strongly at
times.  There's the smell to contend with as well as the open door.  As
William--that was my third--used to say: 'An open door will tempt a
saint.'"

"I want you to tell me all you know and have heard about Ananda.  Sit
down, Mrs. Hulver," he said, giving her a chair.  "I don't see why you
should stand.  Let us have a comfortable chat whilst we are about it."

He noted the cloud of anxiety that seemed to overshadow her usually
placid face and put it down to trouble over her son.  Her words
confirmed his suspicion.

"To tell you the truth, sir, I have had no time to consider Mr. Ananda.
I have been so worried by young William's conduct."

"You mustn't think too much about it.  You can't expect everybody to be
a saint."

"I don't, sir, and least of all young William from the way he has
begun----"

"What did you hear of Ananda in the bazaar?" asked Alderbury
interrupting her.

"As far as I can recollect the family ill-treated him, knocked him
about with a stick and he ran away.  They didn't like his turning
Christian.  As William--that was my third--used to say: 'What women
haven't got to answer for, you may safely put down to religion.'"

"It was supposed that he was in hiding somewhere on the college
premises.  It seems the gardener heard of the arrival of your son and
thought it was Ananda."

"The gardener?" said Mrs. Hulver puckering her brow.  "So we may thank
him for that budmash's visit.  I shall have to remember that."

She thought of the roses and felt that the man had got even with her
after all; but she kept her thoughts to herself.

"In coming here he was taking a great liberty, I admit; but it was as
well that he should satisfy himself that Ananda was not on the
premises."

"I should never have allowed him to go through my rooms if the master
hadn't given him permission.  As it was I had to submit; but I didn't
like it with young William lying there and the fever still on him.  As
William--that was my first--used to say: 'Orders is orders when spoken
by a superior.'"

"Have you heard any spot mentioned as likely to be a hiding-place?"

"There have been all sort of rumours, sir.  They said at first that he
had gone to you; but a messenger was sent to your house to inquire; and
as nothing had been seen of him there they changed their minds.  I
don't wonder at his running away if they really did illtreat him.  As
William--that was my second--used to say: 'Distance is the best remedy
against the spite of evil men.'  You never saw such an evil-looking
beast as that uncle was who came poking his nose into everything here.
If young William had been himself and not so ashamed of his black eye
he would have upped and at him and soon had him out.  I think the man
himself was afraid that something of the sort might happen.  As
William--that was my first--used to say when his relations came to stay
without an invitation: 'Uninvited guests sit on thorns.'"

"When they discovered that Ananda was not at my house what was the next
suspicion of the family?"

"That he had drowned himself in the well."

"What gave rise to that notion?"

"They found his cap in the well."

"But not his body?"

"No, sir; all the same his people believe that he is drowned and they
have widowed his wife I am told.  I can't answer for the truth of what
I hear in the bazaar.  As William--that was my first--used to say: 'An
Indian bazaar is a nest in which many rotten eggs are laid.'"

"You were very kind to Mr. Ananda, Mrs. Hulver," remarked Eola.

"My kindness was of the fair weather sort.  I gave him food and plenty
of good advice, before master put it in orders that no help of any sort
was to be found in this house.  Mr. Ananda ate heartily and listened
politely; but he didn't take my advice soon enough.  As William--that
was my second--used to say: 'The man who stops in the valley will never
get over the hill.'  I keep telling young William these sort of things.
I hope some of them, specially about drink and fighting, will stay by
him.  As William, his father used to say: 'The way to promotion doesn't
lie through the canteen door.'"

"If you should by chance find means of communicating with Ananda----"

"And him down the well, sir!  Why, it's more than a week----"

"Do you believe that he drowned himself, Mrs. Hulver?" asked Alderbury,
his eyes fixed upon her round smooth face that held very little
expression but general good-nature towards the whole world.

"Well, sir!  There's his widow!  A widow is usually the sure sign of a
man's death; though I have heard of the widow's weeds being put on too
soon.  That was the case of a woman in our regiment whose husband was
seconded for service in Africa.  He was reported killed; and just as
she was getting over her trouble and was cheering up a bit, owing to
one of the unmarried sergeants paying her a little attention, he came
back.  She had to go into colours again before the black was half wore
out, an expense all for nothing that she could ill afford, poor thing!
But as William--that was my second--used to say: 'There's no plumbing
the depths of a man's folly when he's a fool.'  He should have written
and told her that he wasn't dead; but that meant sending her money.
Perhaps Mr. Ananda may come back one day like Sergeant Thompson."

"His uncle stopped me on my way here to ask if I knew anything of him.
I could give him no information, and I take it that you can't help any
more than I can."

"That's so right enough, and if you see the budmash again you may tell
him that his precious nephew's whereabouts has nothing to do with me."

"Possibly; but as Mr. Ananda belongs to our faith, I certainly think
that his welfare has a great deal to do with me," said Alderbury with a
touch of severity.

"Of course, sir; it's only right; it's your profession to look after
the converts.  My business is housekeeping; and if the Christmas turkey
was missing from the larder I should be in even more of a taking than
you are over Mr. Ananda.  As William--that was my first--used to say:
'Mind your own business and leave others to mind theirs.'  You are
leaving us to-morrow, sir, I understand.  I've seen your men; they want
to start off to-night with the cart if you have no objection.  The
portmanteau you are using will go on the motor.  This will give them
time to get to the mission-station before you arrive.  I told your
servant that I thought he could be spared."

"By all means let them go if they wish.  We shall all be glad to get
home as we have been on a longer round than usual this time."

"Yes, sir; as William--that was my third--used to say, when he got
safely back after leaning a little too far in the canteen direction:
'There's no place like home, even though it's only a pigsty, Maria, me
dear,' that was his way of speaking, he was such a gentleman in his
manners."

"My house is not a pigsty, Mrs. Hulver," protested Alderbury, while
Eola's eyes twinkled.

"I'm not saying that it is, though there's no woman in it.  As
William--that was my third--used to say: 'A house without a woman is
only a house; it can never be called a home, however clever the man may
be.'"

"It is a fault that may be easily remedied," responded Alderbury.

Mrs. Hulver glanced at him suspiciously, and then let her eyes rest
upon Eola.

"If you were a bishop you might say so, sir; but you're not a bishop,
and begging your pardon for saying so, you're not likely to be if I may
judge by your legs.  Gaiters would be impossible for you, even though
you let your apron down a good four inches.  As William--that was my
second and as soldierly-looking man as ever stepped--used to say: 'It
isn't every figure that will fit every profession.'  I may tell you,
sir, that by reason of my fullness of figure I was never chosen when I
was young for the leading fairy in the regimental pantomime at
Christmas.  I was given to fullness early; but excepting in the matter
at the pantomime I never felt any inconvenience from being stout.  My
husbands all admired stout women, and they said one after the other
that fat in a woman may make her short in the breath, but it keeps her
smiling.  Now you're given the other way and you've got just the figure
for a missionary."

"And so missionary I am to remain, eh, Mrs. Hulver?"

"There's great virtue in knowing your place and your station, sir,"
responded Mrs. Hulver, feeling that she was having the opportunity of
her life to give the ineligible a bit of her mind.  "One day you will
meet a lady, suitable for a missionary's wife; and though she may dress
plain, she will soon turn your house into a home with curtains and
carpets and decent house-linen.  She must be a good housekeeper."  Mrs.
Hulver again let her eyes rest on Eola as though she were taking the
measure of her shortcomings in that respect.  "And she must be sharp as
a needle with the butler over the house accounts."

"If I am ever a bishop, Mrs. Hulver, I suppose I need not be so rigid
over the housekeeping qualities of my wife.  A bishop usually has a
housekeeper."

"Lor, sir, how you talk!  As if that would ever come to pass!  But as
William--that was my third--used to say: 'Many people talk like
generals but have to live like privates.'  There's no harm in your
talking of being a bishop as long as you're content to live like a
missionary.  I must be going; I have a lot to do."

She bustled away, and with her went the smile that had rested on
Alderbury's face.  Eola watching him noted the change.

"What is it?" she asked.  "You are troubled.  Are you thinking of
Ananda?"

"Yes; and I am blaming myself," he replied quickly.  "There is so much
I might have done to prevent this catastrophe if I had come when your
brother called me.  Instead of coming I wrote.  It was not enough."

"I don't believe in a catastrophe.  I don't believe that he is dead; I
am sure Mrs. Hulver doesn't believe it or she would not be so
indifferent.  What do you fear?"

"That they have killed him between them."

"They would not dare!  That would be murder and they would fear the
penalty."

"Unfortunately there is no penalty in the case of an outcaste, a
convert to Christianity.  There might be some sort of a trial, but no
judge in the State of Chirapore would do more than impose a slight
punishment."

"Come into the fernery and look at my palms and lilies," she said,
rising to get her hat.

She succeeded in dispersing the anxiety that had settled down upon him
as he considered Ananda's case; and once more the convert was
forgotten.  Her hands were buried in the fronds of a maidenhair when he
said suddenly:

"Don't do that; it isn't safe; there might be a snake hidden in the
fern."

She laughed, but did not move her hands.  Then he took them in his and
drew her away from the pot where he feared danger might lurk.

"Eola, will you come and make my house a home for me?  I want you; I
can't live without you," he concluded with a strong man's passion.

She looked up at him suddenly serious.

"Think how far I fall short of the ideal!  I----  Oh, really you are
the most masterful man I ever met.  Mr. Alderbury----!"  And then her
head dropped and she surrendered.

"Are you converted to my way of thinking," he said at last.  "Or, shall
I continue my arguments?"

"I am quite converted; quite!" she replied, and her eyes shone.

"Then I may tell you a secret.  Whatever my figure may be in Mrs.
Hulver's opinion, the gaiters and apron are looming in the distance.  I
heard from England by the last mail that I have been nominated for a
colonial bishopric;" and he named the diocese.

"What fun it will be to see the dear old woman's face when she hears of
it!"

He drew her down to a seat among the ferns.

"Never mind the old woman.  I want the whole of your attention.  There
is so much to talk about and we have only till to-morrow," he said,
already grudging the moments.

"Anyway my conversion is complete."

"Oh, is it?  I am not so sure of that.  At any rate I will see that
nothing is left undone to make it so!"




CHAPTER XXVI

Lunch was over; the car stood under the portico breathing gently like a
tamed and willing monster held in a metal leash.  Alderbury, ready to
start, was inclined to yield to a new temptation and linger in his
leave-taking.  Wenaston politely stayed to see his guest off under the
mistaken impression that it was a necessary courtesy.  At the same time
his ear was open for the sound of the school bell.

"I am sorry that you have not succeeded in the object of your visit,"
he remarked, his conscience still troubling him in the matter of the
'vert.

Alderbury and Eola exchanged glances with an amused twinkle of the eye.
If there had been failure on one point, on another the missionary had
achieved a marked success.

"We must leave it alone for the present," he said with a seriousness
that was not assumed.  "When you are confronted with caste, you stand
before invincible plates of steel.  To beat against them violently does
more harm than good.  We must wait for the doors to open of themselves.
There can be no forcing them open."

"I hope the poor fellow is safe."

"And I hope and pray that he is standing firm in the new faith,"
responded Alderbury quickly.

"I used to think that Ananda was weak in character."

"Possibly he was; but after all that he has gone through his character
must have strengthened marvellously.  I have known similar cases,
although not among the higher castes.  The fervent religious instinct
of the Hindu sustains him in circumstances where a less religious
temperament would give way."

"You believe that he is under his father's roof?"

"From what I gathered yesterday afternoon in my inquiry of the town's
people, I feel sure that he has not been allowed to leave the place."

"Is he safe?"

The question was asked with an anxiety the Principal could not hide.

"Ah! that I cannot undertake to say.  All the same I have a strong hope
that beyond petty persecution he is, comparatively speaking, safe.  My
hope originates with Bopaul.  His manner gave me confidence.  I met him
in the town; he spoke openly of his friend's disappearance, and seemed
in no way concerned about it.  He laughed at the theory of suicide.  If
he had any suspicion of a tragedy he would not show such indifference.
I know for a fact that he is very much attached to Ananda."

"They were together in England and they both felt Coomara's death.  I
was with them at the time, if you remember.  The accident was a great
shock to us all, and my nerves are not what they used to be.  The
person least affected was Bopaul apparently," said Wenaston.

"We don't know how it affected him; he has a peculiar nature, and hides
his real sentiments under a careless flippancy which his actions
frequently belie."

"He certainly is a strange mixture of incorruptible orthodoxy and
modern tolerance," assented Wenaston.

Alderbury commented tersely and incisively on the new Hinduism of the
Presidency towns, and compared it with the old-fashioned bigotry to be
found up-country, where there was less European influence than in the
great educational centres.  Native states with their native officials
were even still further behind than British India, opposing religious
reform with strong prejudiced conservatism.

"I suppose you welcome this new tolerance as a step in the right
direction."

"Not at all," exclaimed Alderbury, his fighting instinct roused.  "It
is more difficult to attack than the old intolerance; it is elusive,
shifty, the outcome of the Brahmanical facility of adaptation which is
the invariable resource of the Hindu philosopher in every religious
innovation.  I would rather come to blows with the fanatical old
Brahman than with one of these modern men whose policy is to agree with
reservation."

"So you turn to the untouchables."

"Who form a sixth of India's population.  They offer us a wide field
for our energies," replied Alderbury.

"You are wise to give the caste people the go-by."

The missionary was up in arms at once at the implication that he turned
his back on any one.

"Excuse me!  We don't give them the go-by.  We are ready watching for
the moment when the thin edge of the wedge may be inserted without
bringing disaster upon them and ourselves.  By the by, an odd thing
happened yesterday.  Bopaul to my astonishment asked me if I would
befriend his sister, the widow of the man who was killed in the railway
accident."

"Coomara!  I had forgotten that he married Bopaul's sister."

"It was no more than a betrothal.  Bopaul explained that his sister was
not happy at home; and that it would be a relief to the whole family,
in his opinion, if she were removed.  Then he laughed as though the
attitude of his relations amused him.  He proposed that she should be
placed in our mission school."

"Does the family consent?" asked Wenaston in some surprise; for no one
understood the prejudices of the high caste families of Chirapore
better than himself.

"Apparently his parents are too indifferent to the widow's fate to care
whether she throws herself down the well or disappears off the scenes
in any other way.  I told him to speak to his people about it; and if
they consented I would willingly take her."

The school bell rang and Wenaston rose from his chair.

"I must be off.  Good-bye, Alderbury," exclaimed Wenaston.  "Come again
as soon as you can; a warm welcome will be ready for you."

The hand-clasp expressed even more than the tongue, as the two friends
parted with the knowledge that before long a closer and more intimate
tie would be forged to bind them together.

Five minutes later Alderbury stood on the steps of the verandah ready
to enter the car.  He turned to Eola once more.

"I haven't said good-bye to Mrs. Hulver.  Have you told her our news?"

"Not yet; she has been too much occupied with her son to think of
anything else.  She was to go off early this morning with young
William; and she asked me not to expect her back till this evening.  I
might have let her into the secret last night; but I heard after dinner
that she had gone to bed."

"I don't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.  I am sure that
she will forbid the banns," he replied in comical concern that did not
deceive Eola.

"She will quote the wisdom of the three departed Williams in support of
her action," she added, and her laugh had a new ring of happiness in it.

The car slid noiselessly down the drive and turned into the great
southern road.  Alderbury leaned back on its cushions luxuriously, his
thoughts busy with the woman he had just left.  He had been lifted
along on the wings of destiny.  He had come to Chirapore to hold out a
helping hand to a fellow creature in distress, and had found his own
happiness as a reward.

Having taken the step he was of too strong a character to entertain any
doubt as to its wisdom.  However short she might fall of the ideal
missionary's wife, she was his desire and he was hers.  This new
knowledge and certainty lifted him into a sphere of joy he had never
before touched.

After a few minutes indulgence in purely selfish dreams, Eola with all
she meant for him was put resolutely aside.  He took out the bundle of
letters that awaited him at the college house and proceeded to read
them afresh, making notes of the replies on the envelopes.

The car moved along the smooth road at a moderate pace.  Now and then
the eyes of the occupant ranged over the undulating landscape, resting
with appreciation on the patches of green forest covering the crests of
the hills, and the stretches of rice fields interspersed with
plantations of areca-nut palms in the valleys.

Few travellers were on the road.  A string of country carts crept
slowly towards the town, bearing the produce of the rich smiling land
to market.  The car shot by with a deep hum that set the wild-eyed
bullocks snorting and backing under their yokes; and transformed the
drivers into kicking fiends.  In vain they sought to inspire the
terrified cattle with courage and confidence by a liberal application
of the toe.  It was not until the car disappeared in the distance, and
its weird hum was lost to the ear that the bullocks were recalled to
order and a sense of duty, and the drivers were able to drop back into
idle clucking at their beasts.

Six miles of quiet travelling came to an abrupt end.  The native
chauffeur pulled up at a signal from a traveller on the road, walking
in the same direction as the car was moving.  Alderbury, who was
absorbed in the composition of a letter to the head office of his
society, looked up, and to his amazement recognised Bopaul.

"I am going to ask you a great favour, sir," said the latter after the
exchange of greetings.  "I have my sister here.  Will you be so good as
to give her a seat in the car; and to take her to your mission-station?"

Alderbury glanced beyond the speaker and caught sight of the shrinking
figure of the widow.  Her saree was drawn over her bald head to hide
the mark of shame and disgrace.  Her eyes were cast down, and the hand
that grasped the coarse cloth to keep it in position trembled.

"Of course you take the responsibility upon yourself, Bopaul," said
Alderbury looking at the girl with pity born of an intimate knowledge
of what widowhood meant for one so young.

"Certainly, sir," responded Bopaul quickly.

"She will be at perfect liberty to return if the family desire it.  It
does our work no good to have even the semblance of abduction."

"You need have no fear of trouble, sir.  My people will make no
objection whatever.  If her husband were alive it would be quite
another matter; but with a widow!" he smiled with gentle cynicism,
"whoever heard of any regret being felt at the absence or even the
death of a Hindu widow?"

"Very well; I will take your word for it that all is well, and that I
am only carrying out the general wish of the family.  Let her get in
the car at once, as I must be going on my way, or I shall be benighted."

"She will sit by the chauffeur."

"There is plenty of room inside," said Alderbury, pushing cushions and
rug into some order.

Bopaul went to the side of the road where his sister stood and said a
few words in a low tone.  She did not reply, but made a movement of the
head showing that she understood his directions.  Then he took her by
the hand and led her to the car.

"Get in, little sister.  You will be quite safe with the missionary;
and if you are not happy with him, ask him to write and tell me so.  I
will come myself and fetch you back, but I know you will not want to
come back; you will find your happiness there; not here."

"It is understood by your family that she will probably become a
Christian if she remains with us," said Alderbury who was a little
puzzled by Bopaul's manner.

"She is at liberty to do as she pleases.  Of one thing I can assure
you; I can answer for her willingness to work at anything that will
help to earn her keep."

"And her name?"

"I call her Mayita; but she will probably prefer to be called by some
other name when she enters the mission," replied Bopaul with another
smile.

"She has no luggage of any kind, no bundle of clothes?"

"Widows own nothing.  They are deprived of every possession in the
world.  Even their hair is taken from them," her brother answered.

During this conversation Mayita sat silent with her head bent and the
saree veiling her face.  Suddenly the cloth was pushed backwards and
she leaned towards Bopaul both hands extended.

"Brother, may the gods reward you for your goodness to the poor widow!"

"Good-bye little sister.  Take heart and be brave.  Now go, sir, and
believe me that all will be well."

The car glided forward and left Bopaul standing there.  He watched it
until nothing was visible but the cloud of soft dust that hung like
smoke in the warm air of the afternoon.

Then he turned round and set off at a steady pace homewards.  Again the
characteristic smile appeared and he murmured to himself:

"In the name of friendship; not in the name of religion!"




CHAPTER XXVII

Alderbury addressed a few words to his companion in the language of the
country and received monosyllabic replies which gave him no
encouragement to persevere in his efforts at making conversation or to
extract information.  He concluded that she was a shy and frightened
member of a zenana where very little liberty was allowed.  It would all
come right in time; she would lose the shy self-consciousness with
education.

From his companion his thoughts went to her brother.  He distrusted
Bopaul's cynicism, mild and harmless though it might be; but he could
not help admiring the force of character in the man who had struck
whilst the iron was hot.  If Bopaul had not handed her over personally
and assured him that all was well, Alderbury would never have ventured
to take the girl away.  The parents had probably been urged to give a
consent, and before they could withdraw it their son had taken action
to carry out the intention.  It was evident that he revolted against
the Hindu system of widowhood, and with his modern enlightenment
desired reform.  This was his method of protest and it was to be
commended.  It was also in its way a mark of the philanthropy that is
entering the Hinduism of the present day, one of the attributes of
Christianity which Brahmanism is ready to adopt into its system and
claim as its own.

More than two hours passed during which Mayita, shrouded in her saree,
nestled in the corner of the big motor car.  Alderbury returned to the
perusal of his letters and forgot her very existence.  So still and
silent was she that she might have been one of the leather cushions
instead of a human waif.  They passed the boundary of the native State
and sped through British territory.  In another half hour they entered
the little town that had been Christianised.  Alderbury put away his
letters and kept his eyes on the road, that he might not miss the
smiles and nods of the villagers as they welcomed him back.

The mission house was a large rambling bungalow with thatched roof and
wide verandahs.  In the same compound stood the school and orphanage.
At a little distance was the church shining with marble whiteness in
the afternoon sun.

As the car drew up under a porch made of rough square stone pillars and
palm-leaf roof, Alderbury thought of the handsome portico of the
college house, a very different building.  He jumped out of the car
with his habitual impetuosity forgetting his companion.  Mrs. Hulver's
words were in his mind.  A house without a woman was only a house.  It
was quite true although his careful servant had not forgotten to
prepare a late afternoon tea.  He noted the table set in the verandah
with the earthen tea-pot and the thick cups that bore the mark of many
camping expeditions through his district.  Very different, was the
table from the dainty arrangement in another verandah, where the figure
of the tea-maker was set in a background of ipomea and bignonia.

"Bring tea quickly, boy," he said as he passed on towards his
sitting-room in search of the letters that should have come by the
morning post.

The servant glanced after him and then held up his hand to arrest the
figure that followed.

"Wait, lady, until the master calls," he said respectfully; and Mayita
stood listening and trembling in the verandah.

As Alderbury entered his sitting-room a man rose from a chair and
advanced to meet him.  He was dressed in European clothes although he
was a Hindu.  Over his eye was a recently healed wound.

"Ananda!" cried Alderbury, astonished beyond measure.

"The same, sir," was the reply.

"How did you get here?  We made so sure of your being still under your
father's roof that I can scarcely believe my eyes."

"By the help of friends.  It is a long story----"

His words were checked by the sound of a cry.  The widow refusing to be
detained any longer by the servant, rushed forward past Alderbury,
never stopping till she had fallen at Ananda's feet.  In a moment he
was on his knees by her side forgetful of the missionary and all else.

"My wife! my pearl! my beloved!  How did you manage to escape? how did
you get here?  But what have they done to you my beautiful lotus?  They
have cut off your hair! and this cloth! what does it mean?"

The words poured from his lips with a string of eager questions which
Dorama could only answer with sobs.

"Who do you say this woman is?" demanded Alderbury in some bewilderment.

"She is Dorama, my wife, sir!  And see what they have done to her, poor
child!  Not content with nearly beating the life out of me they have
widowed her! the brutes!  This is my uncle's doing.  I will be even
with him.  He shall answer for it with his life!  I will kill him as he
would have killed me; and I will widow his----"

"Gently, Ananda!  The Hindu in you dies hard.  You do well to be angry,
but don't mistake anger for revenge."

The hand that was laid upon his shoulder held in check the tempestuous
wrath.

"Forgive me, sir.  Wrong done against myself I can forgive--but this!"
He looked down at his wife.

"They believed that you had drowned yourself, so successfully have you
been hidden," said Alderbury.  "And they considered themselves
justified in their action."

Ananda lifted his drooping, but happy, wife to her feet and kept his
arm about her.  His anger melted and he forgot his wrath in the
consciousness of her presence.

"How did she come here," he asked in calmer tones.

"I brought her," replied Alderbury.

"You, sir," repeated Ananda in surprise.

"Yes; your friend Bopaul must have interested himself in your affairs;
for it was he who met me on the road this afternoon and begged me to
take his widowed sister to the mission house and keep her there.  He
deceived me and took me in completely."

A smile dispersed the frown of anger that had rested on Ananda's face.

"Ah, the clever Bopaul!  It was well planned.  He is a friend worth
having!" he said warmly.

"I'm afraid he is--a--a perverter of the truth!" blurted out the
missionary.

"A splendid liar!" agreed Ananda enthusiastically.  "I know of no one
better.  It is a great accomplishment in a Hindu to lie usefully and
successfully."

"But it is altogether wrong in a Christian."

"I know it is!" replied the 'vert with a sigh of contrition.  "I am
afraid I have not been altogether straightforward myself of late."

"Tell me all about yourself and how you managed to escape," said
Alderbury kindly, knowing that it would be best for him to talk it out
instead of brooding over his wrongs, and perhaps being incited by his
wife to further ill-will in considering the persecution she had endured
for his sake.  "When did you arrive?"

They seated themselves, Ananda retaining his hold on his wife as though
he still feared lest she should be snatched away from him again.  She
sank upon the floor at his feet, resting an arm upon his knee with a
comfortable sense of security which went towards compensating her for
some of the unhappiness that had lately fallen to her lot.  Alderbury
called for the tea to be brought into his sitting-room.

"I arrived this morning."

"By train?"

"No, sir; I came by bullock cart.  Let me tell you the story from the
beginning.  After your call at my father's house I was allowed to see
my wife in the presence of the guru, who paid us a visit to inquire why
the restitution ceremonies had not been performed.  He tried to come
between myself and my wife; but I was determined not to permit anything
of the kind.  Our interview was not pleasant.  After it was over, and I
had returned to my room I resolved to put an end to the uncomfortable
state of affairs and leave my father's house."

"You were right in your intention."

"I made a mistake in not accepting your offer of help, sir.  It was an
error of judgment.  My intention was to right my own battle without
assistance."

"I understand; but how did you ultimately get away?"

"I was to all intents and purposes a prisoner in the house, and escape
was no easy matter.  I found a friend in the pariah I despised so much.
By his advice I made the contents of my boxes into bundles and he
undertook to take them to Biddapet, a station about ten miles out of
Chirapore in this direction.  I was coming here, of course.  The
luggage was gone and I was spending what I hoped was my last night in
that miserable little room when I was awakened by a touch on my hand.
It was my wife.  She came to me in great distress to tell me that our
son was dead."

There was a pause which Alderbury did not break.  Ananda went on with
his story.

"I persuaded her to throw in her lot with mine.  It was a long walk to
Biddapet, but she thought she could manage it if I gave her time.  We
started off before it was light and reached the wall of the compound.
Unfortunately we disturbed a pariah dog.  It barked and I threw a stone
at it.  It shrieked and the noise must have been heard in the house;
for we were followed by our uncle and four other members of the family.
They caught us up and we were powerless in their hands.  There was
nothing to be done but to go back, which we did; and when we reached
the house my wife and I were again separated.  That night I was
severely beaten; and during the frightful ordeal my uncle never ceased
to call upon me to recant.  How I lived through it I don't know.  God
in his goodness gave me strength to bear the pain and to hold fast to
Christ.  I did not take my punishment with the meekness of the Great
Master.  I fought for my liberty.  They were too many and too strong
for me, however.  I was held down, and it seemed at the time as if they
must break every bone in my body."

Up to that point Ananda had used the English tongue.  He laid his hand
on his wife's and asked in native speech whether she knew that he had
been beaten.

"Aiyoh! husband!  I suffered and died with thee, beloved lord!"

Her eyes filled with tears and she kissed the hand passionately.  He
continued in the vernacular which Alderbury understood.

"After they left me I fainted.  I don't know how long I lay there, but
the next thing I remember was water being dashed into my face.  I tried
to protect my eyes, but the movement gave me great pain, and I cried
out; I was so terribly bruised.  Someone spoke to me in a whisper and
told me to be quiet.  Once more my friend in need was the sweeper; the
man you saw, Mr. Alderbury, when you paid me a visit."

"You were too sick to think of caste any longer, I imagine."

"Indeed, I was!  I let him do with me as he would; and I was grateful,
more grateful than I can express.  He rubbed my wounds with some
soothing ointment and staunched the blood; for I was bleeding a good
deal.  Then he gave me a draught with opium in it.  It deadened the
pain and made me drowsy and indifferent to all that was happening to
me."

"Good man! worthy of the name of Christian though he is only a
heathen," commented Alderbury with warm approval.

Dorama did not take the same view.

"Husband, did you really accept the services of the sweeper?" she
asked, her wondering eyes lifted to his with concern for his welfare.

"Yes, my lotus flower, I did; and I owe him my life.  I should have
died of exhaustion and starvation if I had been left untended all that
night and the following day."

"What happened next?" asked Alderbury as Ananda showed a disposition to
end his tale there.

"Before I continue my story I must ask you to keep my secret.  I have
given a promise that it is to be told to no one but yourself; and I
pray you to respect our confidence."

"'Our confidence'?"

"Mine and Mrs. Hulver's."

There was a pause; and then, as enlightenment came, Alderbury said in a
low voice:

"So then, you were young William?"

"The sweeper carried me wrapped in a sheet; for I could neither walk
nor stand.  It was between two and three o'clock in the morning when I
was hoisted on to his back in a half unconscious state, my senses too
stupefied to feel much pain, and I was taken to the college house.
Mrs. Hulver was roused from her sleep by the sweeper woman--who works
there, and is a relative of the man--and I was handed over to the
housekeeper.  I have since called her mother, so good and kind has she
been to me.  Under her care I recovered."

"And through her good offices you have come to me.  How did you get
here?  By train?"

"No, sir; I came in your own cart and brought my luggage with me,"
replied Ananda.  He continued his story.  "When the sweeper found that
I did not turn up as I promised at the little station, he carried the
bundles back to his own house and came hot-foot to learn the reason of
my failure to keep the appointment.  There he found me in that sorry
plight."

"I am still puzzled," said Alderbury after a little thought.  "Mrs.
Hulver's son was seen by Miss Wenaston lying on the cot in her
sitting-room; and he was wearing uniform, the uniform of the regiment."

"When I regained consciousness in her room, I found myself dressed in
the uniform that belonged to her son's father.  She had kept it, and
though it was very old and a loose fit, it served as an excellent
disguise."

"She is a wonderful woman!"

"The kindest! the best!"

Ananda stopped with sudden emotion, his heart too full for words.

"I suppose this means that all communication between yourself and your
family comes to an end," remarked Alderbury.

"I think not, sir," replied Ananda in a decisive voice.  "Why should I
be banished from my home like a criminal because I have changed my
religion?  I shall not allow my wife to go back.  There is no reason
why she should run any risk of insult; but I shall go back later on,
when the irritation against me has died down, and see my father and
mother."

"Don't put yourself in any unnecessary danger.  Past experience should
make you careful," said Alderbury.

"It has been dearly bought and is not likely to be forgotten," replied
Ananda, with a touch of bitterness.

"And remember also that in Chirapore you, as an outcaste and Christian,
have no civil rights."

"I am not likely to forget what is the only stain upon its government
as a model native State.  I should not think of returning to live
there; but I mean to go some time or other to see my mother."

The old obstinacy was still to the fore.  Behind it stood no longer the
weakness and vacillation of youth, but the noble courage of a man who
had been tried in the fire of affliction and not found wanting.

"And now I want to know how your wife managed to get away and meet me
on the road."

"Tell your story, beloved.  I, too, want to hear how you escaped and
who befriended you," said Ananda.

"The friend was the same Englishwoman who helped you," answered Dorama
timidly; but gaining courage she continued: "She arranged it all with
Bopaul.  There was no difficulty; for since I have been thus"--she
touched her coarse cloth--"no one has cared how I spent my time nor
where I wandered.  Mayita came every day to see me and we passed hours
in your little room, my lord, where I found this!"  She pulled out his
glove and showed it to him.  "At sunset yesterday Mayita brought me a
message from Bopaul to say that my husband was alive and safe on
British ground, out of reach of our uncle's spite.  Oh, how I rejoiced
at the good news! but I was obliged to hide my feelings.  Mayita told
me that if I wished to see him again, I was to keep my secret and
follow every direction sent by her, without asking any questions.  This
morning as soon as I could leave the house I went to the little room
and there I found Mayita waiting for me.  She said that I was to go at
once to Bopaul whom I should find in the compound.  He was there.
Without a word he took my hand as he takes his sister's and together we
walked away.  Any one seeing us from the house would have thought that
he was leading his sister home, for my saree was drawn over my head;
and Mayita has grown nearly as tall as I am."

"Did no one notice you, my pearl?"

"Who would let his eye rest on the unlucky widow any longer than he
could help?  Those who might have seen turned their heads away."

"Your wife may thank your enemies for what they did," remarked
Alderbury.  "Without her widow's dress she could never have escaped."

"Bopaul brought some food with him, for we had a long way to go.  We
walked steadily for an hour.  Then he made me sit down and rest.
Afterwards we walked again, and my heart beat fast when I heard the
call of the big fire carriage; but I grew quiet again when I sat by Mr.
Alderbury's side, and we flew along the road like the wind.  I felt
that no one, not even our uncle, could catch me and take me back.  Ah,
husband, how I suffered when they did this to me!"

She passed her hand over her bald head.  Ananda stooped and kissed the
shaven crown.

"Beloved, it will soon grow again and be more beautiful than ever."

Alderbury slipped away unnoticed.  He was full of sympathy for the two
poor souls who had passed through so much pain whilst for himself all
had been as he desired.




CHAPTER XXVIII

Mayita had a long day in the little room by herself, but the time
passed quickly.  Bopaul provided her with a packet of cakes and sweets
to serve instead of the midday meal which she would be obliged to miss.
He explained to his mother that they were going some distance and would
not be home till sunset.  No surprise, therefore, was caused by
Mayita's absence.

She had brought the bridegroom and bride with her, and she spent a very
busy day marrying the happy wood-apple to the satin-white datura
blossom plucked fresh from the tree on the way there.  The oleander
bush and gourd supplied the flowers required for the guests; and as for
the feast, no pretence was needed.  The cakes were real; the sweets
were of the best; and as she ate them Mayita's enjoyment was abundant
enough for herself and the numerous guests represented by a goodly
array of sticks and stones.

She lived in a little kingdom of her own; and for the time she was dead
to that cold outer world which treated her so unkindly.  In the
beautiful domain of her imagination her widowhood passed away and she
was the mother of the bride or bridegroom according to her fancy.
Various sounds in the distance met her ear, but she paid no heed to
them.  The jangle of bullock bells only stirred her sufficiently to
bring to her remembrance the fact that the bridegroom should have a
gilded bullock coach in his procession.  It sent her on a careful
search through the yard for something that would represent the coach.

The sound of the bullock bells caused a greater sensation in the house
than in Ananda's little room.  They broke suddenly upon the household
an hour before the midday meal, as the cattle plunged up the
carriage-drive and were stopped with much sighing and snorting before
the front verandah.

The door of the coach was opened by a firm unhesitating hand, and out
stepped no less a person than Gunga herself.  She bore no sign of
widowhood in her appearance.  Her upright figure was swathed in a new
silk saree that, like Mrs. Hulver's Sunday dress, "stood by itself."
She wore a purple satin jacket and a crimson silk petticoat.  The rich
gold embroidered border of the saree held the wealth of colour
together, and saved the whole from tawdriness.

With the dignity of a ranee of the olden days she moved up the steps of
the family mansion and entered her house.  A cry of surprise greeted
her as the various members came hurriedly forward to make their
salaams.  Sooba's wife when she had recovered from her astonishment was
not behindhand with her welcome.  Her husband was out, she informed her
sister-in-law, but he would return to dinner.

Gunga's eyes were everywhere; she led the way to the kitchen, where she
looked into the seething pots and bubbling curries.  She found nothing
wrong and expressed general approval of her sister-in-law's management.
Having satisfied herself she left the kitchen.  Sooba's wife followed
closely at her heels deputing another woman to take up her duties.
Mats and cushions were brought, and the two sisters seated themselves
in the courtyard to have a chat before the food was served.

"How does our excellent elder brother spend his time?" asked Sooba's
wife, burning with curiosity to know if the invalid were much worse.

"He has taken over charge of the farm."

"It must be hard work for one in such poor health."

"Not at all!" snapped Gunga, who did not like these personal inquiries;
they were a breach of etiquette, and likely to bring bad luck upon the
subject.  "The health of all the family at the farm is excellent.
Strongest of all is the big master; he is like a man of thirty instead
of fifty, and he is busy all day long with the rest."

"This is good news, sister.  My husband will be rejoiced to learn it.
We feared that you were having much anxiety."

The halting speech betrayed her real feeling, and Gunga was not
deceived.  With keen enjoyment of the discomfiture of the other she
gave more details of her husband's restoration to health.

"I felt sure that you and our little brother would be pleased to hear
of the improvement," she concluded.

"How is the silk farm doing?" asked the other, hoping to defer the
cross examination that she knew was pending.  She felt unequal to the
task of explaining satisfactorily all that had occurred of late.  Sooba
himself must account for his various unwarranted assumptions in his
stewardship.  Gunga was quite ready to talk of the silk business with
its new developments.  She retailed at length the history of its
culture on the farm--all they had done and all they hoped to do.  She
described their plans for further improvements by which their profits
might have increased and the industry expanded.

"The manager leaves us in a week's time, and my husband will continue
to superintend until he returns six months hence."

The spirits of the listener rose at this information; it was highly
satisfactory as far as Sooba was concerned.  Considering that there was
no longer any fear apparently of Pantulu's death, the next best thing
for his younger brother's interests would be a prolonged absence with
the creation of new interests outside Chirapore city.  In the midst of
their conversation Sooba himself appeared.  He had seen the bullocks
tethered in the compound, but had not heard who the visitor was.  He
thought it might be a merchant come from a distance to buy silk or
cotton or rice; and with the intention of creating an impression of his
own importance he swaggered in, speaking with a loud strident voice
that could be heard all over the house.

"Wife!" he called.  "Where are the men of the family!  Why isn't the
food ready?  What are your lazy women about in the kitchen?  We shall
have to send some of them out into the fields if they can't do their
work in the house.  Don't they know that the master is hungry and would
eat?"

His wife scrambled to her feet and went to meet him.  Before she could
say a word he recommenced his scolding.  "A new bamboo is wanted for
this lazy family; and if the mistress will not use it, the master will
take it in his own hand.  I warn these idlers that the stick will not
fall lightly or sparingly."

A figure appeared suddenly behind his shrinking wife, tall, stern and
commanding, with no fear in her eye.

"Neither the master nor the mistress of this house requires a new
bamboo unless it be for the back of a presumptuous younger brother,"
she cried in a tone that startled Sooba more than a little.  He fell
back a pace or two as he was confronted by the angry Gunga.

"Sister!  I did not know you were here!  When did you arrive?"  Then as
he received no reply he continued turning to his trembling wife.
"Woman, have you seen to the comfort of the big mistress?  Have you
provided the curry she likes with plenty of green chutney?"

She was not to be taken in by this solicitation for her personal
welfare, and she replied sharply:

"I have everything I want.  As the house is mine I have only to give my
orders.  Sister, go to the kitchen and see that the rice is properly
strained before it is served out."

Sooba's wife gladly made her escape, and left her husband to bear the
brunt of the storm that she guessed was not far off.

"You have taken too much upon you, brother.  We did not make you master
of the house, but steward in our absence.  It seems that you have
misunderstood your position."

"I have done my best," replied Sooba sullenly.  "From all we have heard
it is probably that the time is not far distant when I shall be the
real master, since the son you bore your husband has become an
outcaste."

The taunt only added fuel to the fire that was already burning within
the breast of the mother.

"The mention of my son reminds me to ask where he is.  News was brought
to the silk farm which I could scarcely believe.  It was said that you
had driven him away, and that he has left his home without saying where
he has gone."

"My fool of a wife has been telling you tales," he replied, scowling in
a manner that promised ill for her.

"I have learned nothing from your wife.  I asked no questions but kept
them for you.  The news was brought to me by the men who returned from
carrying the last bales of silk to the go-downs in Chirapore.  They
heard it in the bazaar; and I have come to inquire into its truth and
to learn first and foremost where my son is."

She let her eyes rest upon him with a keen inquiry there was no
evading.  Much as he disliked the close catechising he was obliged to
reply.

"We have every reason to believe that he has thrown himself down the
well."

"Why should he be tempted to do such a thing?"

"He was angry and offended because we gave him the punishment ordered
by the swami.  It was light and less than he deserved----"

"I have heard another story.  Where is his wife?"

"She is here in the house."

"I don't see her in the kitchen, where, as my daughter-in-law, she
should be superintending the women."

"Since she has become a widow she leads a retired life as is only
fitting," explained Sooba, with increasing uneasiness.

"A widow! then the body of my son has been found!"

Sooba shifted from one foot to the other as he answered.

"His body is still in the well."

"Has any one seen it?"

"His cap was seen and recovered from the place where it hung about a
foot above the surface of the water."

"And on the strength of that you have performed the widow rites.  It
appears to me that you have acted with unwarrantable harshness towards
my son and his wife.  There would have been time for the ceremonies
when my son's body was found."

"He is dead!  I assure you he is dead!" protested Sooba.  "It is the
firm conviction of other members of the family whom I have consulted
that he is dead."

"And if it be true, is it for the wife of the younger brother to strike
the bangles off the arm of the heir's widow?  But I tell you she is no
widow!  My boy is alive; he had too much spirit to stay where he was
ill-treated; and too much courage to drown himself.  You were wrong to
beat him as you did."

"It was with your consent."

"That a small punishment should be given to satisfy the swami lest he
should curse us.  You have done more; you have gone beyond your orders.
Where are the jewels?"

"I have them in safe keeping, sister," he replied, beginning to tremble
for the consequences.  She had it in her power to turn him and his wife
out of the house.

"After we have eaten you shall hand them over to me together with the
moneys that have been paid in by the silk and cotton merchants."

She dismissed him as the household was waiting for dinner.  The
men--who were served first--could not begin to eat until the
representative of the family had offered the daily oblation to the
deity and said grace.

When the meal was over Gunga summoned Sooba giving him no time for the
after-dinner nap claimed by the more important members of the family.

"Let him bring the jewels," she said to his wife.  "Come yourself and
listen to what I have to say.  It concerns you both."

Sooba had an unhappy half-hour with his sister-in-law.  He found
himself called upon to account not only for the jewels and every rupee
paid in but also for every anna paid out, the amount of rice taken from
the granaries, the curry stuffs that had been used, the produce of the
dairy and garden.

The wardrobes and clothes' chests were emptied, the contents displayed
and missing sarees accounted for.  The contents of the strong box
containing the family jewels was examined, even to the numbering of the
loose gems and pearls that formed part of the wealth belonging to
Pantulu.

It was hard to be made to disgorge when he had looked upon the coveted
treasure as his already; but Sooba and his wife had no alternative.
Dorama's jewels were handed over down to the smallest silver toe-ring.
Gunga examined them critically, separating several of the choicest and
most valuable from the rest.  They were not put back in the strong box,
but were placed in another and more portable jewel case.  This she
locked, and slipped the key on her own bunch which was tied to her
betel-bag.

"Are you taking the jewels away with you?" asked Sooba.

"They are required at the silk farm," she replied shortly.

"For yourself or for the manager's wife?"

"Neither; they are to be worn at a wedding I am arranging.  They will
adorn the bride."

"Is she a relative that you honour her thus?"

"She will be when the ceremonies are completed.  I am making a second
marriage for my husband, since our son is lost to us, and I am not
likely to give him another.  The girl is young and strong and will bear
us many sons."

Sooba's jaw dropped in astonished consternation and speech failed him.
His wife was more ready with her tongue.

"It is an excellent plan, sister; one that I had thought of adopting
myself since the gods have not blessed me with children.  Is your
husband strong and well enough to play his part?"

"You should see him!  He is like a young man! you would think the years
had gone backwards instead of forwards, he is so full of strength and
energy."  Gunga handled the remaining jewels tenderly as she put them
back in the strong box.  "Although the girl's people are not poor, her
jewels are nothing compared with these that belonged to my son's wife.
This gold ornament"--she picked up the richly embossed disc that
Sooba's wife had envied and already appropriated--"will sit well on her
hair.  It used to look so well on Dorama's head."

"When is the wedding to be?" asked Sooba, his heart sinking within him
as he contemplated the future.

"In three days' time.  After the wedding I shall return here to live,
and my little sister will remain on the silk farm under the care of the
manager's wife.  I shall go over frequently to see them, and when the
manager comes back six months hence, my husband and his wife will join
us here.  Now I wish to see Dorama, and to know why she did not come to
the kitchen for her food when the rest of the family had dinner."

Some of the women were sent in search, but the widow could nowhere be
found.  The basin of curry and rice put aside for her was untouched.
One of them recalled the fact that she went frequently to the room
formerly occupied by her husband.  Gunga rose to her feet.

"I will go there myself; you need not follow; I wish to see her alone."

Her word was law and they dared not disobey.  She passed through the
garden and out into the compound taking the path by which the men had
gone on that dreadful night with their evil intent.  To her surprise
she heard a voice murmuring in the room.  Unseen by the busy
match-maker she watched the child at her play.  Then she entered and
the girl started violently as though she had been discovered in some
act of flagrant wickedness, as, indeed, from a Hindu point of view was
the case; for was she not enjoying a few hours of perfect happiness,
and upsetting the Hindu notion that widows have no right to be happy.

"Most excellent lady, I was brought here by my brother and told to stop
till he returns," she said, fearing blame and perhaps punishment for
trespassing where widows were unwelcome.

"You are doing no harm, child.  Your brother is Bopaul, is he not?"

"No one ever had such a good brother!  To-day he is being good to the
poor unhappy Dorama; but I am forbidden to say anything about it; so if
your excellency would know what he is doing you must wait till he
returns."

"How soon will that be?"

"Perhaps in another hour.  They had to walk until they found the
carriage that was to take Dorama away."

"Where was she going?"

"Ah, that I must not tell; but think how pleased her husband will be
when he sees her!"

"Is he waiting on the road?"

"I think not, most honourable lady, because he is safe somewhere with
the missionary; but where I may not say."

"Do you know the place?"

"No, excellent mother, not yet.  My brother will tell me this evening
when he comes back."

"He is coming here?"

"To take me home.  I hope he will be in before it is dark.  I should
not like to stay in this ugly little room at night.  This was the place
where they beat Ananda.  The market women say that he was nearly
killed; and that his new God must have come Himself and carried him
away; he was hurt so that he could not stand.  Ah, bah, that Sooba Iyer
is a bad man, the market women say!  I love listening to the market
news.  When I am strong and big I shall ask them to let me go as a
coolie to carry one of the baskets.  Then I shall hear of all the
deaths and weddings and births and beatings and accidents and scoldings
and widowings."

"Go on with your play, child.  I will see your brother when he comes
for you," said Gunga.

Mayita had another hour to wait before she heard his call.  As she came
out of the yard she caught sight of the tall stern woman going across
the compound to meet him.  She stopped at the entrance till the
interview was over, the timidity of the widow and her fear of giving
offence holding her back.

"I want to ask you if you know anything of my son," said Gunga going
straight to the point.

"He is staying with Mr. Alderbury, the English missionary."

"And his wife?"

"She has joined him with my assistance.  After all that has happened I
felt that I must lend her the help of a friend, whether I gave offence
to your honourable husband or not."

"It will not be regarded as an offence.  Why did they leave home in
this secret manner?"

"Can you ask, most excellent lady?  The treatment they both received
from their uncle was sufficient to drive them to the other end of the
earth.  I wonder they lived through it."

Gunga's lips closed tightly, and her eye burned with the fire of the
tiger who sees her cubs ill-treated.  There was a pause and she asked:

"Is he well?"

"He has nearly recovered from his injuries."

"I want to see him!"

The unpremeditated words burst from her lips with passionate longing.
It was the cry of the mother whose maternal love could not be stifled
nor killed by anger.  Her instinct thrust down every barrier, and she
cried aloud for her offspring.  The lonely woman was giving up her
marital rights to another for the sake of her husband's religious
prejudices that she respected and believed in thoroughly.  She devoutly
hoped that a son would be born to him who might bring comfort and
reassurance concerning the future.  Her act of renunciation made a
heavy demand upon her.  She had already seen how the man's eyes had
turned with desire towards the younger woman in whom lay so much
promise; and although she was still mistress of his house, their unity
was ruptured for ever.  The Hindu woman understands polygamy and, as in
Gunga's case, sees the urgent necessity for it; but she is not
indifferent.  She tolerates it as unavoidable; at the bottom of her
heart she hates and loathes it.  This introduction of a second mate is
at the bottom of all sorts of evil in the zenana, of jealousy and
hatred on the part of the superseded; of arrogance and tyranny on the
part of the interloper.

Gunga was battling with jealousy even though she herself had arranged
what was to take place; and she turned to her son with a longing that
would take no denial, renegade and apostate though he was to his family
and religion.

"Tell me where he is so that I may go to him!  After all, he is still
my son, my only child, my dearly loved boy!" she pleaded.

Bopaul recognised the maternal cry and he answered sympathetically.

"A letter addressed to the mission station will always find him.  Let
me remind you, honourable lady, that it is not Ananda who has created
this breach between his parents and himself.  It was always his hope
that his father would continue to treat him as a son; that some way
might be found by which the ties of blood might be maintained without
complete banishment from home.  You have so acted that any compromise
was impossible.  He has done well in removing himself out of reach of
injury and insult; and in forsaking a country that gives him no
protection as a citizen."

Gunga's proud head drooped.

"Perhaps we were too hard on the boy.  If we had had more time for
thought it might have been different," she said, in a broken voice.

"Shall I give him a message when I write?" asked Bopaul whose curious,
modern philanthropy made him ready and almost anxious to heal the
breach.

"Ah, do, my son!" replied Gunga, with sudden hope.  "Tell him that I
will come soon and talk to him at the mission house.  I have so much to
say.  There is work for him at Bombay.  Tell him that though he is lost
to his father, to his religion, to the State--though he is an outcaste
and an exile, his mother remains his mother still.  Nothing, nothing
that gods or men may devise, can ever deprive a woman of the rights of
motherhood when once a child is born to her!"




CHAPTER XXIX

Mrs. Hulver was busy cleaning and folding an old uniform.  The door of
her room was closed and locked whilst she was thus occupied.  With many
sighs she passed the brush over the well-worn cloth and smoothed out
the creases.

"An iron would do it good; but it must go for the present as it is.  It
won't do for the uniform to be seen just now.  To think what the master
would say if he knew that the poor young man was in the house all the
time!  He would give me a month's notice as sure as my name is Maria
Hulver!  But there, as William used to say"--the William in her mind
was the wearer of the uniform in the old days--"'What the eye doesn't
see, the heart doesn't grieve for.'  God forgive me for loading up
young William's shoulders with that canteen racket, and him as innocent
as a new-born babe!  But as William--that was my third--used to say:
'If the dhoby donkey were shown half the load that was meant for its
back, it would die of terror.'  Young William shall never know if I can
help it that he was the hero of a canteen fight."

She wrapped the uniform in an old linen towel, tucking in bits of
camphor on every side, and laid the relic of by-gone days in the bottom
drawer of her wardrobe.  A knock at the door startled her.  She closed
the drawer hastily, put away the brush and went to see who called her.

"Miss Eola!  Come in, miss.  Were you wanting to speak to me?"

It was the day after Alderbury's departure.  The car had come back
bringing a letter for Eola, the first she had received since his love
had been declared.  She read it in the privacy of her room, lingering
over the closely-written sheets as Mrs. Hulver had lingered over the
folding and putting away of the uniform that had belonged to the father
of her boy.

The housekeeper was still in ignorance of what had passed between Eola
and the guest.  Her mind had been too full of anxiety over Ananda's
welfare to admit of any curiosity concerning the behaviour of other
people.  She knew that she ran a risk in extending the helping hand to
the persecuted 'vert; but she had carried it through without faltering.

Without any explanations she had ordered his luggage to be placed in
the missionary's cart and told the driver that he was to start that
evening, a command that was gladly obeyed.

While the dinner was still proceeding Mrs. Hulver and her
scarlet-coated companion left the house presumably for a walk.  A jutka
was picked up outside, and directed to take the same road as that
followed by the cart.  The pony went much faster than the slowly moving
cattle, and soon overtook and passed them.

Half an hour later the missionary's servant was roused, and to his
intense astonishment confronted by the Principal's housekeeper.  By her
side stood a native gentleman dressed in European clothes and wearing a
neat turban.  As Alderbury's servant had never seen Ananda he did not
recognise Mrs. Hulver's companion.

"You will carry on this friend of mine to the mission station," she
said, "and you will tell the master when you see him that I gave you
the order."

The servants all understood the varied modulations of her voice.  In
this case it was comprehended, though not expressed, that a breach of
her confidence would be resented, and bring the individual into her
black books.  At the same time there was a chink of silver that
purchased silence and secured obedience.  Ananda took Alderbury's place
on the mattress.  The servant seated himself near the driver and the
cart started on its homeward journey.  By daylight it should have
crossed the border and be safe in British territory; and by nine
o'clock it should be home.  As no warning had been given to Ananda's
family it was not likely that he would be pursued or discovered; and
Mrs. Hulver saw the car swallowed up in the darkness of the night with
a sigh of relief.

She walked back to the place where she had directed the jutka to wait
for her, carrying the uniform, which had been exchanged under cover of
the darkness for the tweed suit, hidden under her cloak.  She was back
at the college house before eleven.

The following day, on which she was supposed to be seeing young William
off by the morning mail was spent at the house of a Eurasian friend in
the town.  Eola, suspecting nothing and occupied with her own affairs,
asked no questions; and it was not till the morning after Alderbury's
departure that she and Mrs. Hulver met.

The housekeeper accompanied by Ramachetty and the cook presented
herself for the usual ritual of ordering dinner.  During the
housekeeping business Mrs. Hulver confined herself rigidly to the
subject of the menu.  She dared not trust herself to speak of anything
else lest her tongue should slip and betray her.  The secret must be
kept at all costs from Dr. Wenaston and from the people in the town.
The sweeper might be trusted.  He had been a faithful friend all along,
and one day his fidelity would be rewarded by Ananda.  Of that she was
sure, although the man did not look for any recompense.  All that he
had done had been the result of his love for the young master he had
known and served in time past.  The change of faith on the part of
Ananda did not affect him.  He knew nothing of the intricate
ceremonialism of the caste Hindus.  His religion was simple animism,
the propitiation of the power of evil.  If he had had any opinion to
offer, it would have been that his master had come under the influence
of an evil spirit, and would do well to make an offering of blood.
Mrs. Hulver considered that the rest of the servants might also be
trusted.  The real identity of young William had never been known to
them, and he remained Mrs. Hulver's sick son to the end.

Eola intended making her confession after the servants were dismissed;
but Mrs. Hulver departed quickly in their wake and defeated her
purpose.  She determined not to put it off and went to the
housekeeper's room to inform her of the engagement without further
delay.

With the packing away of the uniform Mrs. Hulver drew a breath of
relief.  Anxiety was at an end, a load off her mind.

"Take a chair, miss.  The room is still untidy from having young
William here; but the sweeper and I will soon get it straight when she
comes back from her dinner."

"It looks quite neat," said Eola inconsequently; she was wondering how
she was to open the subject uppermost in her mind.  "Your son got away
all safe yesterday morning, I suppose."

"Yes, miss!"  Mrs. Hulver would not trust herself to more than the
simple affirmative.

"I am afraid you are rather tired after all the nursing you have had."

"I took a good rest yesterday.  After young William left I went to see
my first husband's cousin, Mrs. de Silva.  She was in a fine way about
her girl who has refused to marry the man chosen for her.  The silly
child--she's only sixteen--has set her heart on a young Englishman who
is out of employment.  I did my best to cheer her up and to argue with
the girl."

"You are always doing something for others.  You must think of yourself
now and rest."

"I'm happier when I am doing for somebody else, miss.  As William--that
was my second--used to say: 'You'll find happiness for yourself when
you're hunting it for others.'"

"That's quite true."

There was a pause.  Mrs. Hulver received a sudden shock.  Her eyes had
fallen on her husband's helmet which was lying on the camp cot.  She
had forgotten to put it away.  Eola saw it and observed:

"Your son has forgotten his helmet, surely."

"That isn't my son's, miss!  It belonged to his father.  I got it out
to show him the difference the authorities have made in the pattern.
They are always changing, and it must cost the government something
first and last.  I have kept that old helmet as a momentum of my boy's
father."

"I suppose out of all the three you liked him best."

"Well, miss, he was my choice.  My first was my mother's choice, and my
third chose me.  You see, William, my second, left me with something
else besides his helmet and that was young William."

Eola's attention was wandering and Mrs. Hulver was pleased to see that
the helmet had not excited her curiosity.

"I want to tell you something; it is about Mr. Ananda," said Eola.

Mrs. Hulver started, but was not to be caught off her guard.

"To tell you the truth, miss; I am getting rather tired of Mr. Ananda's
name.  I dare say he has got safely away from Chirapore by this time if
he isn't down the well.  As William--that was my third--said when the
barrack sweeper led him home from the canteen: 'Misfortune will find
you queer friends in queer places.'  If Mr. Ananda is still alive he
has probably found some friend, queer or otherwise, to help him."

"You are right.  When Mr. Alderbury reached home Mr. Ananda met him at
the door."

"Lor, miss! you take my breath away!" exclaimed Mrs. Hulver expressing
discreet astonishment.

"Like your husband in his difficulty, it was the sweeper who proved his
friend.  He took him to some hiding place, and threw his cap down the
well to deceive his people and put them off the scent.  When the
excitement of his mysterious disappearance was over, the man contrived
to smuggle him out of the State of Chirakul into British territory,
where he is quite safe.  At the mission house another surprise awaited
Mr. Ananda.  His wife managed to escape and find her way to Mr.
Alderbury's station.  I thought you would be pleased to hear the news,"
concluded Eola with reproach in her voice.

"So I am, miss," was the warm response.  "I am very glad to know that
he is safe.  He wasn't safe from the spite of wicked men as long as he
remained in Chirapore.  His only hiding place was the sweeper's house
where no man of caste would venture.  As William--that was my
first--used to say: 'A rat that has but one hole is soon caught.'  Mr.
Ananda will need no hiding place as long as he stays with Mr.
Alderbury."

"I have some more news for you, Mrs. Hulver.  Mr. Alderbury was so much
impressed by what you said about a house being no home without a woman
in it, that he has asked me to make a home for him of his house--and I
have consented."

"There, now, if I haven't gone and made a mess of it after all!"
exclaimed Mrs. Hulver, more than a little disturbed.  "As William--that
was my second--used to say: 'An ounce of sense is worth a pound of wit;
better slip with the foot than the tongue.'  To think that my foolish
tongue which must need sharpen itself at his expense should have put it
into his head to ask you to do that!  I should never be reconciled to
your marrying a missionary, miss; not if I lived to be a hundred!"

"Don't worry about it; it's all right; I am not going to marry a
missionary," said Eola.

"Not marry him! miss! whatever do you mean?" cried Mrs. Hulver in
horror.  "You can't keep house for a man except as his housekeeper or
his wife--that is to say, if you have right-minded principles.  As
William--that was my second--used to say: 'Bad as the best may be; it
is better to be poisoned in your blood than in your principles.'"

Eola reassured her.  "It is quite all right, I am going to marry him,
and you are going to take care of the doctor for me."

"Then I don't understand what you mean, miss, about not marrying a
missionary," said Mrs. Hulver, completely puzzled.

"Mr. Alderbury is giving up missionary work.  He has been offered a
bishopric."

"And him with those legs!"

"The legs don't matter if they belong to the right sort of man, as is
the case here," said Eola, prepared to do battle for her lover.

"Mr. Alderbury, my Lord Bishop!  I can't get over it; it is so
surprising!"

"You haven't congratulated me and wished me good luck," Eola remarked
in an aggrieved voice, which she knew would win over her faithful
housekeeper.

"I'm sure I beg your pardon.  I congratulate you with all my heart.
Fancy you marrying a bishop!  Who would have thought it!  It's no more
than you deserve all the same.  Dear me!  How strangely things turn
out! you taking a missionary and finding yourself marrying a bishop!
and Mr. Ananda coming to life again and finding his wife a widow! and
she escaping all through losing her husband and being widowed!  As
William--that was my third--said when he fell into a prickly pear bush
and just escaped being seen the worse for liquor by the colonel:
'Maria, me dear,'--he was such a gentleman in his speech, he
was!--'Maria, me dear!  You never know your luck.'"




THE END.




PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.





  BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR


  HISTORY OF FORT ST. GEORGE, MADRAS
  ON THE COROMANDEL COAST
  THE NAUTCH GIRL
  THE FOREST OFFICER
  A MIXED MARRIAGE
  THE SANYASI
  DILYS
  CASTE AND CREED
  THE TEA-PLANTER
  THE INEVITABLE LAW
  DARK CORNERS
  THE UNLUCKY MARK
  SACRIFICE
  THE RAJAH
  THE MALABAR MAGICIAN











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