Front matter (continued 4)

"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?"