Front matter (continued 2)

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."