Front matter (continued 5)

Dorama's face sought shelter behind her trembling hands, and she began to cry piteously like a child. Her mother-in-law strode on towards the bullock coach, her grey head covered with the saree drawn like a hood over her forehead till her features were almost hidden. She did not keep strict purdahnasheen, but she was careful not to expose herself to the public gaze more than was necessary. Sooba himself closed the door of the coach.

"Farewell, sister," he said in a smooth voice. "The change will do my brother good if anything will; but his spirit is too much broken by his many sorrows to give us any hope of his recovery. It is a matter of time only."

"We shall see," replied Gunga sharply, and not best pleased at the assurance with which her husband's death was mentioned.

"By the time you return," continued Sooba, unruffled, "we shall have better news to tell you of the breaking of an obstinate will."

Gunga turned from him without response. The motherly instinct in her struggled to make its voice heard. She stifled it ruthlessly. Yet she looked back as the bullocks moved forward with an uneven jerk and said—

"Do nothing but what the swami commanded," she said. "It will be sufficient."

The noise of the wheels prevented further conversation. Sooba, watching the cart as it swayed in its exit through the gateway of the compound wall smiled unpleasantly.

"It was just as well that I did not tell her all, or she might have refused to leave the house. Mothers are in the way when troublesome sons and daughters require chastisement."

He passed through the centre courtyard towards the back of the building. Dorama, dejected and miserable, her eyelids swollen with weeping, stood listlessly near the kitchen door. His eyes dwelt on her jewellery, the gold bangles on her arms, her nose and ear ornaments, and a pearl necklace that covered the cord on which was suspended the marriage token.

Inside the kitchen the sharp voice of his wife was raised as she issued orders to the gang of women employed in cooking the evening meal. She came to the door and caught sight of her husband. There was an exchange of glances between the new self-constituted master and mistress. It was sufficient without speech. She called to Dorama.

"Come, little sister; enough of grieving! Go into the kitchen and see to the making of the green chutneys. The girl who is pounding them is too stupid to flavour it to your uncle's liking. Now that the big mistress is away I must take her place. It is a favour to allow you to take mine."

Dorama glanced at her through misty eyes. She did not answer, but entered the kitchen and seated herself by the side of the girl who was compounding the delicacies known as green chutneys. The work she had been asked to do was light, and she was glad to be employed. Hitherto it had not been thought necessary that she should help with the preparation of meals. The care of the child was considered sufficient occupation; but now she was without any charge it was only right that she should take her share in the household duties. She had no objection to the labour involved; but she could not help feeling the humiliation of the position assigned her. As wife of the son and heir she ranked next to the mistress. It was she who should be at the head of the household giving orders. It was she who should light the lamp at evening and call together the family at daybreak for the morning hymn and pujah. Before Ananda returned, and while the child lived, she had looked forward confidently to the time when she should succeed to these recognised duties of the mistress of the zenana. Now the bitter truth was thrust upon her; with her husband outcasted and her son dead they could never be hers. Silently she took up the work assigned to her, tears dropping occasionally from her sad eyes.

The women in the kitchen glanced at her with a sympathy they dared not express. There was not one among them who would not have preferred to see Dorama in her aunt's place. In view of what the near future probably held they deemed it wiser to keep their thoughts to themselves and to obey orders without a murmur.

At the evening meal Dorama was made to feel again her subordinate position both in serving the men and in being served herself. But it came to an end at last. When it was finished the green leaf platters were thrown out on the refuse heap; the brass pots and dishes were rinsed and turned upside down to drain, and the kitchen fires were allowed to sink into grey ash. Many of the women, tired out with a night of preparation for the funeral, lay down on their mats, and drawing a sheet over their heads, were soon fast asleep. Two or three continued to move about the house, not having completed their duties. One by one they too retired, and only Dorama remained awake. As soon as she was assured that her companions were safely asleep she rose and opened the door. Placing it ajar, she seated herself close to it, so that she had a view of the central court through the narrow opening. Her heart beat like a sledge-hammer. It seemed to her that it must be heard throughout the house. An hour passed, and still she continued to watch and wait with wakeful eye and alert ear.

Between ten and eleven she caught sight of the dark forms of men passing silently through the courtyard towards the back verandah. They entered the garden, and turning through the gate in the garden wall, went towards the room occupied by Ananda.

Before daring to follow she waited for sign of further movement in the men's quarters. There might be others who out of curiosity, if nothing else, would join their superiors uninvited. All was silent, and she concluded that they who intended to visit her husband that night had gone to his room.

Gathering her saree closely round her she crept out into the courtyard, taking care to close the door of the sleeping-room after her. Listening and moving with the utmost caution, she went through the garden door and out into the compound. The stars were bright, and by their light she could distinguish the footpath leading direct to the little yard where the green gourd flourished.

She hesitated to venture along the track by which the men might return at any minute. Her courage failing her she followed the wall till she reached the first corner. Here she stopped and listened. Feeling her way, she went on till she arrived at a spot outside the yard which she calculated was close to the open door of Ananda's room. The fear of snakes was conquered in her intense anxiety to learn what was happening, and she crouched low down in the long grass till she was hidden from sight.

The position she had chosen was the best for the purpose of overhearing all that passed in Ananda's room. Only twenty-four hours before, she had entered it with confidence, and sought for consolation in her distress at the loss of her child. His love and his pity were poured out upon her. His kisses were still warm upon her lips. She seemed to hear the words of joy and love that he breathed in her ear as he held her to him. She thrilled again when she recalled all that he had promised of the future that should be theirs, if she would take her courage in her hands and come away with him—future love, future happiness, future maternity, all might be secured if only she would be brave. In British territory his rights would be recognised—how hopefully he spoke!—he could earn enough to keep them both. She would be a happy wife, her own mistress, with no aunt to bully and tyrannise; and if the good God willed it, she would also be a happy mother again. As he pleaded she forgot his broken caste, his disgrace, his excommunication. A new and great love blossomed out of the old, bestowing upon her both courage and faith. She would go with him—oh, so gladly! she whispered. What had she to live for now but her lord, her husband! The grip of his arms told her how he appreciated her devotion.

Then came the sudden ending to their dreams. That golden future which was to begin then and there was shattered; and punishment, dread bodily punishment, was to be meted out to the one human being left for her to love.

Her train of thought was disturbed by voices. Her uncle's dominated the rest. It was loud and overbearing, and it seemed to increase in acrimony as he talked. Ananda's replies were given temperately yet firmly. Apparently angry tones and open insults had no power to raise fear or wrath. He presented a firm front, growing, if anything, calmer as the other became more excited. The older man would have found his task easier if his nephew had lost his temper, and become abusive and violent.

Again and again Sooba demanded recantation. Each demand was met with a firm refusal, given patiently and without faltering. Threats and blustering commands produced no effect, and so far the victory lay with the younger man. That his uncle was fast losing control of himself was evident by his lapse now and then into a veritable scream of rage.

After an outburst of this kind more virulent than any that had gone before, came a call to his confederates. Four or five men who were waiting outside the door, entered, and Dorama could distinguish that some action was taking place. She divined what it was, though she heard no words. Violence was being done to her husband's person, and he had not met it with the calmness that had characterised his speech. He had fought for his liberty, and in his struggles he had knocked over two of his assailants and his chair. Five strong men were too many for him however; and as the noise and the scuffle subsided, Dorama knew that he was secured and bound.

Once more there was silence; it was presently broken by the hectoring tones of Sooba. This time they met with no reply. The men who had helped added their voices and raised an angry chorus of upbraiding and reproach. It died down when their vocabulary of abuse was exhausted. This time the silence was so complete that Dorama could hear the melancholy cry of a night-bird as it passed overhead on its way to the forest-clad slopes of the mountain. In the distance a jackal howled and led the yelping of the prowling pack of night-scavengers.

Suddenly she started and shivered as a sound fell on her ear that she had heard before at rare intervals in her life. It was repeated, and she trembled from head to foot, burying her face in her hands.

The Hindus, rich and poor, much as they love litigation over boundaries, irrigation rights and the division of property, rarely bring family quarrels and offences into court. In cases of murder the law interferes; but where it is only assault in the privacy of the family, it is kept strictly private. The victim and the aggressor equally shrink from the public inquiry necessitating the intrusion of the police.

Dorama understood perfectly what was happening. It would have been wise if she had returned then and there to her room. She could do no good by stopping, and she ran a risk of being discovered. But although she was aware of what would be discreet and wise, she was unable to tear herself away. It seemed heartless to the beloved one to leave him in his dark hour. She could not bring him consolation, but she could suffer with him.

And suffer she assuredly did. At every recurrence of the dull thud she shivered as though she herself had been struck. Once a low cry escaped the lips of the victim, and her nails dug into her breast clawing unconsciously her own soft smooth flesh in her agony.

Fifteen minutes passed which seemed fifteen hours. Surely it was enough and more than enough to expiate his sin against the guru and against his family. Now they would stop! they must stop! that horrible sound must cease! But the sentence of the swami was not completed yet, and again her ears were assailed by that ominous thud. He bore it very silently. Had they gagged him? or was he faint, she wondered?

At last a groan came from the sufferer, as though his endurance were failing. It was too much for Dorama. She felt that she must shriek aloud if she remained a moment longer. She rose to her feet and, impelled by a mad desire to help him, she ran to the entrance of the yard. How she was to accomplish her purpose she was not composed enough to think.

The door of the room was open. She hesitated. Dare she enter and bid them stop in their cruel work? No! no! it would only increase their fury, and they would visit her offence upon him. Perhaps they would kill him. In the light of the yellow oil lamp she caught sight of the bamboo as it was once more lifted with slow, deliberate precision.

Putting her fingers in her ears she fled, never stopping until she reached the room in which she slept. Prostrate upon her mat, her saree over her mouth to stifle her sobbing, she lay convulsed with grief. The women in the room slept heavily. One of them stirred. She lifted her head, drew aside the sheet that covered her, and listened.

"Is that you, sister? Poor little mother! The child is gone, and all through that evil husband of yours! May he be cursed in a thousand miserable births! Lie down, child! Think no more about him!"

Dorama did not reply. She subdued her sobs, and listened once more with painful alertness for the sound of returning steps through the inner courtyard. They came, and as the men walked slowly back they talked in low voices. It was well for Dorama's peace of mind that she could not hear what they said.

"Will he die under it?" asked one.

"Not he!" replied Sooba. "I took care to use the stick so that it neither killed nor broke bones. Although a Christian has no standing in a court of law in the State of Chirakul, there might be trouble with the English if he were done to death."

"Where was he going when we caught him?"

"To the missionary," replied Sooba, shortly.

"No fear of his attempting to run away again just yet. He will not be able to stand for a couple of days," remarked one.

"Therefore I did not trouble to lock the door," said another.

"He has starved since last night, and now he has been beaten. All this will surely drive the devil out of him," said a third.

"If not he can have plenty more of the same medicine," rejoined Sooba, at which they all laughed in the best of humours.

CHAPTER XIX

Mrs. Hulver was in what she termed "a fine taking," as Eola could see with half an eye. When they met as usual after breakfast to consult together on household matters the young mistress inquired what was the matter.

"Never mind me, miss," said the housekeeper with resolution. "I'll tell you all about it when we've done the cook and butler business. Ramachetty!"

He glided forward instantly, followed by his satellite, the cook; and the daily routine followed. The supplies bought that morning were displayed. How Eola hated the sight of the raw meat and live fowls exhibited for her inspection! The butler's accounts were rendered, and what was a more difficult matter, brought into accordance with her own. The patient servants received their dismissal; the butler happy in the thought that he had succeeded in over-charging his mistress exactly ten annas in spite of the eagle eye of the housekeeper; the cook equally content in having cheated the butler out of four annas; the cook boy pleased with himself in the purloining of an onion, a potato, half-a-dozen leaves of the cabbage and as much ghee as an expert finger could scoop out of the pot. Even the kitchen-woman was self-congratulatory. She had substituted a rotten egg for a sound one brought from market; adulterated the coffee during the pounding process with burnt rice and charred crusts of bread.

"Now tell me what has happened to upset you, Mrs. Hulver," said Eola, with a sympathetic kindliness that was one of her charms.

"It's my son, miss. Last evening the post brought me a letter to say that he was ill and was coming by the early mail this morning."

"And he hasn't arrived?" suggested Eola.

"On the contrary, Miss, he has come right enough; but you never saw such an object as he is in your life. Of course I'm his mother, and as William—that was my second—used to say: 'Mother's love is the same all over the world, whether her child is as beautiful as an angel or as ugly as a graven image.'"

"What has happened!"

"It was this way, miss. Some of the men in the regiment who ought to have known better—but as William—that was my third—used to say: 'Age won't mend a born fool'—took advantage of my boy's youth and innocence. They enticed him into the canteen and made him drink more than was good for him. He doesn't lean that way, I am glad to be able to say with truth; and this will be a lesson to him."

"You haven't told me yet what is the matter," remarked Eola.

"I'm coming to it all in good time. It appears he was quarrelsome in his cups. That's the odd part about drink, miss; you never know how it's going to act on your temperament. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'Liquor is like love, Maria, me dear; some it will make joyful, others sad; some will want to be friends with everybody; others will fight on the smallest pretence.' So it was with young William; he must needs fight another man in the canteen who was just as far gone as himself; and properly punished he was for his pains. The sergeant treated him leniently as it was his first offence; and gave him a few days' leave to recover. The boy is full of sorrow and repentance. He doesn't trouble about his black eye one little bit. What he feels is the shame of it. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'Shame cuts deeper than any whip, and the pain we bring on ourselves is the hardest of all to bear.' My boy is feeling the truth of his father's saying nicely," concluded Mrs. Hulver, with grim satisfaction.

"What was it that provoked the quarrel?"

"William was too far gone in drink to remember much; but he thinks that they were all talking about these sufferagette women—I'd make them suffer if I was the King!—and the man he fought said something very nasty about the sex. I shouldn't have troubled if I'd been William. Just look at the harm the hussies do! Here's William that knocked about and blackened over the eyes that his own father wouldn't know him, all through talking about them! As if God hadn't made my boy dark enough in his complexion without their interference! But as long as there are women to love there will be men to fight over them. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'When the Almighty gave ould Adam his wife, he handed him the shillelagh and told him to take care and use it like a gentleman. It was only after the devil interfered that Adam thought of turning it against the lady herself.' It was the woman that started men to fight and she will keep it up to the finish," concluded Mrs. Hulver, with some heat.

"I am sorry you are so troubled," said Eola.

"And I'm vexed that any of my trouble should be passed on to you. I felt that I must tell you all about it; it wasn't right to keep it from you and the master. I should have come to you last night only I didn't see the good of worrying you before the morning. This morning, of course, it's my duty to tell you the truth and to hide nothing. As William, the boy's own father, used to say: 'It's easier in the end to face the truth than to back a lie.'"

"You have him in your room, I suppose?"

"Yes, miss; on the camp bed. He has fever as well, through the cold water they soused his head in when he got violent. He will be all right in a few days. I have put a piece of raw beef on his eye and a poultice on his jaw. He won't be able to talk for a day or two, but that won't matter. As William, his father, used to say: 'Many suffer through too much talking, but very few through too much silence.' I want you to come and look at him, miss."

"Me! Oh! Mrs. Hulver! I don't think I need come. I am sure that you know what is best for him, and will see that it is done," said Eola, not at all in sympathy with the suggestion.

"All the same, miss, I should feel more satisfied if you would glance your eye over him," said Mrs. Hulver, in her most determined manner, which, as Eola knew by experience, took no denial. "It will be good for him to see how seriously you take it. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'Get your shot in when and how you can; don't wait for the enemy to come and ask for it.' It's just the same with advice to the young."

"I am afraid I can't do any good."

"Oh yes, you can, miss; and it isn't you to take a back seat where duty calls and you're really wanted. Of course I know that young soldiers are hot-headed, and we can't give them or any one else our experience any more than we can give them our digestions. Experience unbought teaches naught. They've all got to have it like the measles, and it seasons them and makes men of them. As William—that was my first—used to say: 'Man is like a curry; he needs a lot of seasoning, and it can't be done all in a minute.'"

Eola rose very reluctantly. Visiting sick soldiers who were suffering from their own indiscretions was not at all to her mind. Mrs. Hulver's tongue continued to run on. She bemoaned her boy's behaviour in one breath, and made excuses for him in another, with many quotations from the sayings of the defunct Williams.

"The boy had no business to go into the canteen at all; but he's young and easily misled. As William—that was my first—used to say: 'You can't roll a good cigar with green leaf.'"

Then as Eola lagged behind, showing increasing disinclination for her task, she urged her more strongly. "Come along, miss, please! Come for my sake and show yourself. It's for his good. You need not stay long. Just stand a minute near the bed and say as solemn as you can make it: 'William, I'm sorry to see you like this. Let it be a lesson!' Then you turn and go away quite slowly, and you say to me as you leave the room: 'This is very sad, Mrs. Hulver, very sad in one so young!' he won't forget it in a hurry you may be sure. Dear! dear! who would have thought it! As William—that was my third—used to say: 'Reckless youth makes rueful age.'"

As she talked she led the way to her little sitting-room. The door was open. At the further end was a camp cot and on it lay huddled the unhappy hero of the canteen row. He still wore his scarlet uniform to Eola's relief. She was dreading lest she should find him tucked up like a baby in bed. The poor fellow had undoubtedly suffered from his indiscretion. His head was tied up with raw beef and poultices, and the fever produced a shivering that necessitated the shawl muffled round his shoulders.

"A miserable-looking creature for a mother to call son! isn't he, miss? As William, his father, used to say: 'Quarrels are like fire, more easily started than stopped; and those who get into them usually come out burnt.'"

"Poor fellow, I hope he isn't much hurt," murmured Eola, quite forgetting her instructions. She stood about three feet away from the bed with as much ease as if she had been inspecting a sleeping cobra.

"Miss Wenaston says she is sorry to see you like this, William," said Mrs. Hulver promptly, and in disapproval of Eola's weakness. "She says let it be a lesson to you to keep out of the way of them that want to hurt you. As your father used to say: 'Don't go into action if you can help it; but if you have to fight, take the measure of your enemy's strength.'"

"You mustn't worry the poor fellow, Mrs. Hulver. Get him well first before you scold him," said Eola, turning away with more haste than she had come.

"That's all very well, miss; but as William—that was my third—used to say: 'What's the good of trying to beat the dog after you've let him loose?' Young William over there," she turned and looked towards the prostrate figure, raising her voice so that nothing should be lost to the sick man, "has got to learn his lesson; who it is that he can fight, and who he had best leave alone. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'Men are like dogs; and until they have taken the measure of their own strength against the strength of others there can be no peace for anybody.' It was good of the sergeant to send him off at once to me. If the commanding officer had seen him in that condition there would have been trouble. William told me last time he was here that the colonel was very stiff with all offenders, especially in the matter of drink. Likely as not he has never been drunk himself and he doesn't know how easily a man may be overtook when once he gets among others in the canteen. Commanding officers, like artillery drivers, differ; one is easy with his team; another will take up every fault; but as William—that was my third—used to say: 'A regiment is like a team; it doesn't have the choosing of its own C.O. any more than a bullock chooses its driver or its road.'"

Eola made her escape at last, and when her brother came in to lunch she told him the story of Mrs. Hulver's trouble. He was not much interested, nor had he much sympathy with the foolish young man. He expressed a hope that the worthy woman would not see too much of her son. His second visit had followed very closely on his first.

"After all we mustn't forget that Mrs. Hulver, for all her excellent ways, is a Eurasian. She possesses the family loyalty that marks the race, and will never turn her back on any relative while she has a shelter to offer, no matter what the character of the individual may be."

"I am quite sure," responded Eola warmly, "that she will not allow us to be worried or out of pocket, however worried she may be herself."

"All the same there is a strain of the 'soft-hearted old fool' about her that must not be disregarded; and she must be protected against herself if necessary. If this boy turns up too often I shall have something to say to him. Did you see the precious young idiot himself?"

"She insisted on it."

"Was he quiet?"

"As quiet as a bad go of fever and a black eye could make him."

"I think I'll have a look at him myself, and if he is fit for it I shall give him a bit of a lecture."

"She hasn't spared him herself," remarked Eola. "He is poulticed with beef and bread and admonished with the wise sayings of the three Williams continuously. I wonder how he can take it all so quietly."

"Perhaps I had better defer my lecture if that is so. Any way I will go and see him. He may as well be aware of the fact that his presence here is known to us both."

He went to the door of Mrs. Hulver's sitting-room. It was open and revealed much the same sight as had met Eola's eyes, except that Mrs. Hulver was in the midst of dressing the damaged eye. She held a large slice of raw meat in her hand which she was carefully adjusting over his temple and cheek, covering his eye altogether. She turned her head at the sound of the master's footstep.

"Is that you, sir? I'll come directly. This is nearly finished. I'm changing the beef on young William's eye. Miss Wenaston told you the trouble I am in over this budmash of a boy?"

As she talked she adjusted the wrappings and tucked the shawl round the patient's shoulders. He was lying on his side. At the sound of the Principal's voice he stirred uneasily.

"Now, you keep quiet, William, or you'll fidget the plasters out of place. You have got to be patient. There's a time for fighting for soldiers, and there's a time for keeping quiet, and that time is now."

She came towards Dr. Wenaston, who had stopped on the threshold and continued, addressing herself to him instead of her son.

"As William—that was my first—used to say: 'There's a season for everything. Even the bamboo must be cut when the moon is waxing or it will be good for nothing.'"

"I am sorry this has occurred, Mrs. Hulver," said the Principal, with a seriousness that would have set the pulses of his pupils going, but which had no such effect on his housekeeper. "The hospital would have been the best place for him. He mustn't think that he can run to his mother at every bruise and scratch."

"It would have been a case of guardroom not hospital, sir, if it hadn't been for the kindness of the sergeant. As it is his first offence it would have been the first step towards destroying his clean sheets; and where would have been his chance of promotion if he didn't keep them clean? The licking he has had will do him no harm. It will teach him to keep off drink. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'When beer goes in wisdom goes out.' You'd like to look at him, sir. Come up to the bed. He's too ashamed to make a salute, and his head is too bad to allow of his sitting up."

Wenaston walked into the room, and like Eola stood for a short time by the side of the cot. He felt that it would be like hitting a man when he was down to reproach the sufferer in his present condition.

"I will see him again when he is better and have a talk with him," he said. "You must let me know how he gets on."

"Yes, sir; a serious talking-to will do him no end of good." She bent over the patient and laid her hand on his head. "You need not shiver, William. The Doctor will treat you kinder than those budmashes treated you in the canteen." She turned to Wenaston again and continued: "Lor! sir, how easy fighting comes to men in the army. It seems like a second nature to them."

"It is their profession, Mrs. Hulver," said Wenaston, as he moved towards the door.

"That's exactly what William, my third, used to say. He was an Irishman and his blood was soon up. When I complained one day about his being quarrelsome with a neighbour his reply was: 'Maria, me dear,' he always began like that—he was such a gentleman—'Maria, me dear; it's second nature for soldiers to fight, the same as it is for dogs to bark and bite. That's what the Government keeps us for; and a soldier who is worthy of the name doesn't think he is earning his pay without it.' I often used to look at the men loafing round barracks with nothing to do, and to think that in times of peace they were like chimneys that had no fire in them."

"Quite so! quite so!" said Wenaston, making his way to the door.

Mrs. Hulver followed closely with a continuous stream of remarks, from which he strove in vain to escape.

"As soon as ever young William is fit for it I'll send him to you, sir, for a good dressing-down. You must check him for his quick temper. As his own father used to say: 'A hasty man never wants for woe.' And I should be glad if you would point out the danger of drink and how it upsets the judgment. Also you might say a word or two on the folly of fighting when the odds are against you. Don't let him talk. Fill him up with as much good advice as you can get in in the time that you can spare for him. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'If counsel is good no matter who gives it.'"

"All right, Mrs. Hulver; I'll do my best," said Wenaston, as he beat a hasty retreat towards the college buildings. The housekeeper's tongue had won the day though she might not have known it, and his warning to her on softheartedness and the lecture to her son were still undelivered. However, he promised himself that he would interview the man later on alone when he was less of an "object," as his mother expressed it, and would talk to him seriously.

Mrs. Hulver stood at her door watching the Principal as he hurried away. When he had disappeared she turned back into the room and went to the patient. Leaning tenderly over him she placed her cool soft hand on his forehead, slipping it underneath the bandages.

"Cheer up, William; cheer up, sonnie!" she murmured. "God is where He was and He will help you through. It's no good fretting when grieving is no comfort. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'Things you can't avoid are best taken cheerfully.' No, don't try to speak. You've got to be silent till you're well, and I'll see that you're let off the master's lecture."

She called to the butler, who appeared immediately followed by the cook carrying a saucepan.

"It's all ready, ma'am."

He poured the chicken broth through a strainer into a cup and handed it to her.

"That's all right, Ramachetty," she said with approval, as she leaned over it. "That's the kind of stuff that will make my boy well. You can go. Shut the door after you. I don't wish my son to catch cold. Tell the sweeper woman to sit outside the bathroom. I shall want her later on to boil the kettle for fresh poultices."

CHAPTER XX

On the afternoon of the same day Wenaston and his sister were at tea in the verandah when a carriage drove up and stopped just beyond the portico. Out of it stepped Sooba, Pantulu's brother. He was unknown to the Principal, who took him for the parent of one of his pupils. Wenaston rose at once, always courteous, although at times a little stiff until he was certain that no favours were going to be asked. Too often the visiting parent, after beating about the bush, would beg the Principal to promote his son in the school without due justification. Sometimes a bribe was offered. It required a great deal of patience and self-control to deal with such people; and it was still more difficult to persuade them that promotion by favour did not advance the education of a boy but rather hindered it.

"You want to see me on business?" asked Wenaston, advancing to meet his visitor. "Come in; I am disengaged for ten minutes, which is all I can give you. At the end of that time I have an appointment in the college."

"I have called to ask you a favour, sir," said Sooba, in his best manner.

"You are the parent of one of my pupils?"

"I am sorry to have to admit the fact that I have no son. It is about my nephew, Pantulu Iyer's son, Ananda, that I have come. You engaged him as a master a short time ago. He stayed only one day."

"Ah! now I understand. I can't take him on the staff again, if that is what you have come to ask."

"You are right, sir; it would be a mistake. He is unpopular in the town."

"We have no time to lose," said Dr. Wenaston, looking at his watch. "Will you explain what you want me to do?"

They were standing in the verandah facing each other. Sooba shuffled his feet slightly. The action said much to the Englishman and put him on his guard.

"Last night Ananda left his father's house and we don't know where he is."

"Is there any reason why he should not leave Chirapore if he wishes to do so?"

"It would be without his father's consent," said Sooba, boldly making use of his brother's name.

Wenaston was slightly puzzled. Ananda's movements were not his affair.

"What do you want me to do?" he again asked, with a touch of impatience this time.

"I thought that perhaps you might give us some assistance in our search."

The Englishman regarded him with surprise as he answered in quick decisive tones.

"I am afraid I cannot do anything of the kind. I am too busy to spare the time. Besides, Ananda's movements really do not concern me or the college."

"It was not my intention to ask you to leave your duties, sir."

"Then how can I help in the search for the lost man? He has probably left the town, where as you yourself say he is unpopular. Under the circumstances it is the best thing that he can do. Have you inquired at the station if he were among the passengers who were travelling by the mails last night?"

"He can't have taken either of the trains, north or south, as he was seen in his room after their departure."

"Have you any suspicion where he can have gone?" asked Wenaston, trying to get at what was at the back of his visitor's mind.

There was a definite pause before the reply was given.

"We have reason to think, sir, that Ananda is here."

"Here!" repeated Wenaston, astounded and not altogether pleased. "I don't understand what you mean; what grounds you have for saying so. Have you thoroughly searched his father's house?"

"We have hunted everywhere."

"And why do you think he is here?"

Sooba was unable to explain fully; there were too many facts that had to be suppressed. One was the physical inability of the unfortunate man to go far afield in his crippled condition. The college was the only place within possible reach where the fugitive might have found a refuge. Sooba had no reliable information to go upon; he was acting on a suspicion arrived at by an exhaustive line of argument. It was unlikely that Bopaul's people would offer an asylum; they would hesitate to do anything that might cause a breach between the two families. Bopaul himself might befriend him—if he could see his way to do it without giving offence. As for the rest of the town not a soul throughout would lift a finger to help an apostate to Hinduism, a man of broken caste who refused the restitution rites, an outlaw and outcaste deprived of all civil rights.

"You were so kind as to allow him to come here before, sir," said Sooba smoothly. "We thought that he would be sure to come to you again."

"Then you are wrong," replied Wenaston brusquely.

He did not like the manner of his visitor in spite of the careful deference put on with a little too much show, and he resented his too ready assumption that the college would, after all that had passed during the temporary mastership, offer a shelter and again receive the 'vert. It is due to Wenaston to say that he had no suspicion that Ananda had been badly treated. Had it entered his head that there was any possibility of his being injured by assault, he would have appealed to the higher authorities of the State who would undoubtedly have interfered to protect him. The verdict of outlawry was another matter.

"How can I assure Pantulu Iyer that his son is not here, sir?" asked Sooba in humble anxiety.

"You have my word for it."

"As far as your knowledge goes, sir, I would not for a moment doubt it. I venture to suggest that he may be in hiding on the premises without your knowledge."

The school-bell rang and Dr. Wenaston made a movement.

"I must go; and as for you, search the place if you like, college buildings, house and compound. I am positive that you will not find him. Look everywhere while you are about it, for you don't come here a second time. You can go."

Wenaston'a manner jarred; it was not what Sooba had anticipated. He had assured himself that the accusation of harbouring Ananda would have troubled the Principal; and that he would have exhibited anxiety to clear himself of the charge and show that it was not true. Sooba's experience of the ways of Englishmen was extremely limited, and he found that he was mistaken. To be treated in this contemptuous way was galling, and roused his spite. If the fugitive should happen to be discovered on Wenaston's premises, he promised himself that he would make it hot for the Englishman, and create a rupture between him and the governing body of the college. At the command to go there was nothing for it but to beat a retreat. He directed his steps towards the class rooms where he intended to begin his search.

"Do you really mean to allow him to go through the house?" asked Eola, who had listened in silence to the conversation.

"Certainly; Ramachetty!" The butler came at once at his master's call, so quickly that Eola smiled, in spite of her annoyance. The gist of what Sooba had said had been overheard by others besides herself. "One of Pantulu Iyer's people——" he checked himself to ask a question—"Do you know who he is?"

"His brother, sir."

"His brother, is he? He believes that his nephew Ananda is hidden somewhere on the premises. I have given him permission to search every corner of the class rooms and the house. You are to accompany him all through and show him the servants' go-downs and the stables and garage."

"Is he to go through your rooms as well, sir?"

"Yes; and Miss Wenaston's and Mrs. Hulver's." He returned to Eola, upon whose face was a most unusual frown. "I shall have something to say to the Dewan about this visit."

"It is outrageous; and you would be quite justified in refusing to allow him to enter a single room."

"I don't like it any more than you do; but I think it politic to consent. What he believes, he can make the boys believe. I wish to avoid a recurrence of the boycotting."

"I shall go out for a drive," said Eola.

"The best thing you can do," replied the harassed man heartily.

Wenaston returned to his class room in the nearest approach to a rage that was possible for a man with so even a temperament. Sooba took care to avoid further encounter; and before the Principal reached his own lecture-room the search through that apartment had been completed. It offered no cover whatever with its bare table and desks. A runaway rat could not have hidden itself. As for a man or even a boy, the first glance round would have revealed him.

The hunt through the college buildings lasted nearly an hour. A little after five Sooba presented himself, at the house. The butler was waiting for him; but being a pariah he was not at all to the taste of the searcher. Sooba waived him aside with all the loathing and contempt shown to a man of no caste. Ramachetty had received his directions, however, and did not budge. He begged to inform his excellency, the visitor, that he dared not disobey his master's orders; whether his honourable excellency liked it or not he must accompany him. After this there was nothing more to be said, and the searcher began his work, leaving the butler to follow at a respectful distance.

It was with much curiosity that Sooba entered each room of the Englishman's private dwelling. Never before had he been inside a European's house. He peered under tables and chairs and looked behind curtains. The piano puzzled him, and he was not satisfied till Ramachetty had removed the front and exposed the strange wired interior that gave shelter to nothing larger than a mouse or a scorpion. Eola's rooms were also examined and drawn blank. There remained only Mrs. Hulver's.

"The housekeeper's rooms only are left for your honour's eye. Is it your excellency's wish to see them also?" asked Ramachetty.

"Decidedly; the master gave permission for me to search every corner."

"The housekeeper will not like it."

"Who cares what she likes or dislikes? She is his servant and must obey his orders."

The butler knew his position better than to smile. He cast down his eyes demurely in case a twinkle of amusement should betray him.

"Her son is with her. He is a soldier inclined to violence. Your honour must not be angry with this slave if the soldier fights."

The inquisitive visitor hesitated. The British soldier in the present day in India inherits a character that has been deeply impressed upon the native mind by his predecessors. It is not a character for gentleness. But the hesitation did not last long; the spirit of prying gained the day.

"I am not afraid of a soldier. If he is violent his colonel will have him punished," said Sooba, as he swaggered boldly up to the door of Mrs. Hulver's room.

It stood open; apparently she had had notice of what she might expect, for he found himself confronted by the ample figure of the wrathful woman, who understood even better than her employers the great liberty that was being taken. She glared at him with as much fire as her grey eyes were capable of showing, and pretended not to know who he was nor what he wanted.

"Who are you, and what business have you got in my back verandah?" she asked unceremoniously, making use of the vernacular in such terms as she would have addressed one of the gardeners. "I've got nothing for you."

Sooba returned an angry glance. He understood the insult, but had no means of making her smart for it.

"I have come by permission of the master of the house, the honourable Principal of the College, to look for a relative who is lost," he replied, with as much dignity as he could muster to his aid.

"Do you suppose I have him in my pocket?"

"No, woman; but I have reason to believe that he is hiding somewhere on these premises, and I will not leave until I have thoroughly searched them."

"Search away, then, and be quick about it. See for yourself who is here. I am not going to help you if you can't take my word for it."

She turned her back on him and moved into the middle of the room. As he did not follow immediately she called impatiently over her shoulder.

"Come along! Don't stand there all the evening. What are you waiting for?"

His eyes were fixed with some anxiety on the figure extended upon the bed and a woman close by who was preparing to make a fresh poultice. She held a kettle of hot water in her hand.

"That's my son, William, a soldier on leave from Bangalore," remarked Mrs. Hulver, half turning to him again. "His father was a soldier and he takes after him—short in the temper and strong in the arm. You need not be afraid of him. He's just recovering from a canteen fight in which he made a man bigger than himself—a regular giant—swallow all his front teeth; and they were his own, too."

There was a ring of unconscious pride in the mother's voice as she exaggerated her son's exploits.

"I am not afraid of the soldier, woman," replied Sooba. "The law protects me from violence. What I object to is the presence of that sweeper by his cot. She is a pariah and her presence is defiling to one of my caste."

"Oh! is it? All the same she is my servant and she is there by my orders and there she will stay."

The woman glanced at him with fear, and showed a disposition to abandon her work and retire in spite of "orders." Mrs. Hulver detected the weakness. She picked up the sweeper's broom that was lying near and pointed with it to the basin containing the bread.

"You stay where you are till I give you leave to go. Pour the hot water on to the bread. Wring out those cloths and get them ready for the poultice. As soon as I've seen this man through my rooms I'll take the beef off my son's eye and bandage it with wet rags."

The visitor stepped gingerly into the room, sidling away from the untouchable, and began to look round. Mrs. Hulver took no notice of him. Her attention was devoted to her son. She leaned over him, patting his pillow and touching the shawl in her solicitude for his comfort.

"You lie quiet, William," she said in English, "and don't you mind the visitor. You've got to get well in time to join your regiment at the end of your leave or there'll be more trouble. You must be patient. As William, your father, used to say: 'Time and patience will carry a man through the roughest day.'"

She loosened the bandages slightly and removed a large slice of raw beef which she contemplated with broad satisfaction as it lay on the palm of her hand.

"That's done its work and taken down the swelling. I wish it had taken out the colour as well. We'll see what cold water will do for you next, with a little vinegar added." She turned to the intruder and addressed him in his own tongue, although he knew English better than Ramachetty the butler. "Well! why don't you get on with your hunt for your lost cousin?"

She drifted towards the door by which he had entered, carrying the broom in one hand and the beef in the other. Disgust and horror were written on the face of the Hindu as he eyed the two loathsome objects, and he slipped further away moving up the room. Whether unconsciously or with deep design she had cut off his retreat completely, and there was no chance of retiring if he wished to keep his distance from the two caste-contaminating objects.

"I can't have you here all day," she cried, irritably. "Come! begin your search. Go and look under that table."

She flourished the broom in the direction of a table covered with a cloth of gaudy colours where she sat to write the menus for the master's dinner. He hesitated, his zeal had evaporated; and the object of his domiciliary visit was almost lost sight of in the contemplation of the sweeper's broom and the flesh of the sacred cow.

"Come! get on!" continued Mrs. Hulver, moving towards him. "I want to clear the room of strangers. It's not good for the sick man. My son is not so bad but what he can get up if he chooses and turn you out. Go and look under his bed. That's your next place. Dearie me!" she said, lapsing into English again. "It seems as if this coolie expected me to do his work! He began with impudence, but if he doesn't take care he'll end with something else. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'Dine on sauciness and you'll sup on sorrow.'"

She took a step or two forward in the direction of her visitor. He retreated, carefully gauging the distance between his own precious person and the various untouchable objects he had unwittingly approached. The information that the hero of the canteen fight was able to rise from his bed if he chose and act the part of chucker-out was not reassuring. He was allowed no time for reflection.

"Go and look under the bed next. Lift the blanket that hangs down," she said to the sweeper. "Let the gentleman see that we haven't got his grandmother hidden under my son's bed."

Again she flourished the broom, this time at the woman, and she waived the raw beef at the seeker.

"Go on! Don't be afraid. William won't hurt you!"

She advanced, and Sooba, more perturbed than he had been for many a day, avoided the bed and its attendant sweeper, and backed towards the open door of the bedroom, the only available retreat afforded from this awful person. She followed and the hunter became the hunted. Armed with her terrible weapons she drove him from pillar to post, obliging him to carry out his inquisition to its last detail, and look into holes and corners with eyes that could see nothing but that caste-destroying broom and beef. After chasing him round the bedroom she forced him to enter the bathroom, where, in his confusion, he knocked over the sweeper's basket; and she kept him there whilst she explained that the place contained cover for nothing larger than a frog.

At last she let him go, and he beat an ignominious retreat, grazing his shins in his haste against the furniture. He left the sitting-room at a run, closely followed by Mrs. Hulver; and as he passed out of the door the slab of raw meat that had relieved the warrior's wounds—flung by the hand of the outraged woman—caught him in the small of his back. The sweeper's broom, hurled after the beef, rattled on his naked calves, inadvertently exposed as, in a hurry, he gathered up his flowing muslin cloth.

William's shoulders shook. The sweeper woman hid her face in her cloth and grinned, in fearful doubt lest she was committing blasphemy in daring to smile at one of the twice-born. As for Mrs. Hulver she dropped into her capacious cane chair and let herself go. She rocked in helpless laughter, and the lounge creaked in sympathy with her movements.

"That was a sight to make you feel better, sonnie!" she said, as soon as she could speak. "The man ran like a bandicoot with its tail cut off! I wish you could have sat up and looked at him, the impudent budmash! He won't forget his visit to the college in a hurry, or my name is not Maria Hulver! I'm glad I wasn't born to run away from a bit of beef like that! He came in so proud and insolent, but he went away with a flea in his ear. As William, your father, used to say: 'There are many who go out for wool but come back shorn.' Now we'll attend to this eye."

She pulled herself together and rose from her chair. The poultice made by the sweeper was thrown away, though it was still hot.

"That was only to pass the time and keep her there, the finest bogie to frighten my lord with that I could have found! I was glad to see that you could laugh with me, Bonnie. It shows you're mending."

She busied herself over his wounds with soft tender touch.

"Poor boy! Whichever side the victory lay you didn't get off without some hard treatment; but we'll soon get you well."

"How good you are to me—mother!" replied the invalid gratefully.

"That's right. Don't you forget that I'm your mother. I would like to get your enemy on his bended knees and make him pray for forgiveness for knocking you about like this—a man twice your age, too! Shame on him! But, there! as William—that was my third—said when the sergeant locked him up, thinking he was the worse for liquor when he wasn't: 'Apologies make poor plaster.' The sergeant was a bit hasty and he knew William's ways and leanings. But he was wrong that time. William wasn't drunk; he was dazed with the sun; and the sergeant apologised handsomely."

That evening Wenaston once more interviewed his housekeeper.

"You showed the man who called this afternoon over your rooms, I hope, Mrs. Hulver?"

"Yes, sir; I took him all round and let him see everything; he was quite satisfied that the person he wanted wasn't here. He didn't mention any names."

"He was looking for his nephew, Ananda, the young man who has become a Christian. He has disappeared, and it was thought that he might have taken refuge with us."

"I don't know why he should do that when he has Mr. Alderbury to go to," remarked Mrs. Hulver indifferently.

"If by any chance he should appear you must let me know at once."

"Would you refuse to give him shelter?" asked Mrs. Hulver, looking at the Doctor with some curiosity. As he did not reply at once she continued: "I should if I were you, sir, if you will excuse my speaking out. There's no telling how these natives might take it if you befriended him in any way."

"I shouldn't drive him away if he needed protection, Mrs. Hulver," said Wenaston. "You must understand that as a Christian he has my warmest sympathy; and that as far as I am able I will do what I can for him; but as I pointed out to you before, I am not a free agent in this matter. If he asks for assistance I will give it by sending him off at once to Mr. Alderbury, who is willing to help. What I must not do is to give him shelter in the college buildings or in the house, much as I might wish. We have tried that experiment once and it was a complete failure. Therefore I ask you to come to me immediately if Mr. Ananda should present himself."

"Very good, sir. I don't think he is likely to turn up after the way those boys treated him. I'm sure I have my hands full enough with young William without bothering about Mr. Ananda's troubles. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'Keep your eyes on your own road and don't worry about the pitfalls of other people.' You may depend upon me for doing the right thing and not decomposing either you or Miss Eola."

CHAPTER XXI

Pantulu's brother returned from his domiciliary visit to the College filled with a deep and implacable wrath. He buried it under a cheerfulness he was far from feeling. Since the discovery in the early hours of the morning that Ananda had disappeared, the house had been in a ferment of unrest. Again and again had the premises been searched. Visits were paid by various members of the family to the town and to the houses of acquaintances. More than once had a call been made at Bopaul's and guarded questions put. The market people who had arrived that morning from the country were interrogated; clerks and porters at the railway station examined but with no better result. Help of some sort he must have had if he covered any length of distance. A few hundred yards might have been possible but progress would of necessity have been slow and painful.

Sooba was greeted on his return with a volley of questions from the men of the family. To all of them he was obliged to confess that he had failed signally.

"He is not there; of that I am positive," he repeated over and over again.

"If he is not there, where can he be?" asked one in puzzled curiosity.

"He has joined the English missionary," said another.

"How could that be when he was unable to walk or even to stand?" inquired a third.

"Some one has befriended him and he has escaped in a passing country cart."

"Is it possible that he could have crawled to the jungle unassisted?" asked another.

"A search in the forest with village dogs will soon settle that point."

"Why not send some one to the mission house. It will be easy to discover if he has arrived. Once on British territory he need not hide any longer as we cannot touch him there. He will be lost to us for ever, and we must give up all hope of catching him. It will save trouble to know for certain if he is out of our reach."

"Good!" responded Sooba, who felt that he must take refuge in action of some kind if only to find relief for his injured feelings. "I will send a runner at once to bring news."

"There is a post office peon who has a bicycle," said one of the listeners. "For a consideration——"

"Let him be called at once," said Sooba. "He shall ask leave of absence on account of his wife's illness——"

"He is not married."

"His brother's, his mother's, any one will do!" replied Sooba, impatiently. "I will give him twenty-five rupees if he can bring us the news by this time to-morrow."

The post peon was sent for, and in less than an hour he departed on his errand.

The temporary master of the house was in an unhappy frame of mind. Yet he had begun well. He rose in the morning feeling particularly virtuous. Success, he felt certain, must attend his efforts at recalling his nephew to his senses. All along he had urged a more severe treatment. The parents had been too lenient in drawing the line at the infliction of bodily pain. Even now if it had not been for the insult to the swami the mother would not have consented. Since it was the express order of the holy man she could not do otherwise than allow things to take their course; but it had been considered advisable to keep Pantulu himself in ignorance.

When Sooba had performed his domestic pujah, as became the head of the family, he went to Ananda's room. The disappearance of the late occupant was a shock from which he had not recovered; and his visit to the Principal's house and the College only served to increase the disturbance of his mind. It was not so much the failure of his search as the memory of the indignities to which he had been subjected by the woman who ruled the household. Had the incidents that occurred in the housekeeper's room been witnessed by any member of his family or by a fellow caste man, they would have been magnified into serious breaches necessitating ceremonial purification. This would have entailed expenses which, not being a rich man himself, he would fain avoid. He did his best to school himself into the belief that he was mistaken; that in his confusion at finding himself in the presence of an angry woman and a sick soldier of admittedly bad temper, he imagined that he saw signs of the untouchable.

After some hours of brooding he succeeded in persuading himself that he had not been within the prescribed distance of the loathsome objects. A little more concentration and he arrived at the comfortable conviction that he was altogether deceived by a too vivid imagination which had played him false. His caste had never been in jeopardy for a single moment.

The disappearance of Ananda was not so easily dealt with. The fact could not be ignored. The more he thought over it, the more he came to look upon the escape as an insult directed against himself. He was the master of the house in his brother's absence. It was a piece of gross impertinence for any member of the family to leave without permission. It was setting at naught his authority and treating him with contempt. The more he contemplated the incidents of the last twenty-four hours, the greater grew the conviction that there must be a reckoning with some one. Properly speaking it should be Ananda himself, for he was the origin of all that had occurred, including the disrespect experienced in Dr. Wenaston's house; but his nephew's absence precluded any possibility of settling with him in person.

Sooba thereupon turned his attention to Mrs. Hulver. Was there any means of making her feel the weight of his displeasure? He took the trouble to inform himself of her habits and mode of life. She seldom left the house except to go to market in the morning. As the town possessed no English church, Dr. Wenaston held a service for himself and a few English people in Chirapore, in a room fitted up as a chapel in the Residency. Thither Mrs. Hulver went on Sundays in the motor. To attack her and offer violence in the market would simply mean police and imprisonment. She was never without the faithful Ramachetty, the cook, and the kitchen coolie who carried the purchases. In the motor, seated with Miss Wenaston, she was safe from every kind of assault.

Brooding over the mystery of how Ananda escaped, who befriended him, and how he, Sooba, was to taste revenge, the evening meal was eaten and he retired to his pillow.

The next morning the search was renewed, the seekers going further afield into the glades and woods of the mountain. Woodcutters, herdsmen and cultivators were questioned; but not a sign had been found of the missing man. Later in the day the cyclist returned with the news that the fugitive was not at the mission station. Moreover, Mr. Alderbury was away on tour out of reach of the railway. It was impossible that Ananda could have joined him on the road. Even the peons carrying letters and supplies were no longer following him up. He was trusting to the villages through which he was itinerating to sell him milk, butter, eggs and fowls; and it was not known exactly where he was.

If Ananda was not in hiding at the College, nor at the mission house, nor with the missionary himself where could he be?

This was the question faced by the whole family as they drank their morning coffee and ate the freshly-made, unleavened rice cakes.

An elderly woman, experienced in the inner workings of the caste families of Chirapore, breathed the word "well." It was an inspiration, and the suggestion was caught up at once. Undoubtedly it was the well. The premises contained no less than three wells; one for the use of the house, deep and containing a never-failing supply of pure water; a second near the cattle shed, and a third—more of the nature of a pond—used only for the garden.

An examination of the wells followed immediately. Two hours later the household was electrified by the news that Ananda's tweed cap had been found in the well near the cattleshed. The well was deep; means for probing its depths were not available. One of the herdsmen was lowered in the leather bucket, and he discovered the cap hanging from a protruding root in the masonry of the wall. He was about to enter the water to dive for the body when he caught sight of a snake. In terror he signalled to those above to draw him up at once; and after hearing his tale no one could be persuaded to continue the exploration.

Sooba regarded the cap with a grim satisfaction which he took care to conceal under an expression of consternation and regret. If Ananda chose to drown himself who could help it? It was a fitting end to a perverse and wicked line of conduct. He had caused the death of his child; the exile of his parents with the probable death of his father; and now he would be the cause of further disgrace to the family in the introduction of a widow.

He presented himself at the kitchen door where his wife, full of importance, was hustling the women through their appointed tasks. She answered his summons at once, and inquired deferentially what it was that troubled the master of the house. The busy hands ceased to pound and grind and stir as each person listened open-eyed to the story of the search and the discovery of the cap in the well by the cattle-shed.

"He is undoubtedly drowned and in three or four days we shall find his body. This is a terrible calamity for his widow."

His glance passed beyond his wife and rested on the figure of Dorama, who stood transfixed with horror at the story just told. As she met his eye, in which, in spite of all his self-restraint, a malicious triumph was revealed, she dropped to the ground covering her face with her hands and moaned in the bitterness of her heart.

"It will be advisable for us to carry out the ceremonies as soon as possible. They should be completed before my brother returns so that he may be saved the additional grief of seeing what can only bring before him more vividly all that has gone before."

No need for Dorama to ask what those ceremonies were. They did not concern the body of the dead man but her own person. She shuddered as she crouched before the curry stone on which she was working in the preparation of green chutney, the task assigned to her regularly by her aunt.

"When shall we perform them?" asked Sooba's wife, her eyes resting upon the beautiful gold boss that adorned Dorama's glossy hair. "It is usual to wait ten days from the date of the death."

"This is not a common case. To us and to his parents Ananda has been as good as dead ever since he landed. There can be no funeral rites even when his body is found. He has died an outcaste, defiled and unpurified, and as such he must be buried—not burned—at night with shame and dishonour and with no ceremonies. My brother must not return till we have disposed of the dead man and completed the ceremonies of widowhood. They shall take place three days hence which will give us time to call together the friends of the family. You will also have time to prepare for their entertainment. My brother will wish it done well and no expense spared."

"And if the body is not found by that time, what then?" asked his wife.

"The rites must be performed all the same. I, the master of the house in my brother's absence, give the order."

He raised his voice although it was not necessary. It penetrated to the very end of the kitchen and not a word was lost to the many pairs of listening ears. If ears were directed towards the acting master of the house, eyes found another centre of attraction in the crushed figure by the curry-stone. Pity struggled in their fatalistic minds, but in none was it strong enough to cause a stretching out of the hand in sympathy, nor to sound the note of consolation or comfort. There was silence as Sooba walked away. Although his head was bent and his features wore a sufficiently solemn expression, he was inwardly triumphant and full of satisfaction. At last he had found an object on whom he might be revenged; on whose devoted head he might with safety retaliate. As he had suffered indignity and disrespect, so now she should have the same measured out tenfold. In the absence of the man himself it was meet that his wife should feel the weight of his displeasure. The probability of Ananda being still alive was set aside. As he desired so he chose to believe, and on that belief he intended to take action with as little delay as was possible.

That afternoon Bopaul with Mayita in attendance, strolled into the compound with the intention of looking up Ananda. Leaving the girl under the trees near the wall, where she was partially hidden from view—lest the sight of her should prove an offence to the family—he turned towards Ananda's room. The green gourd outside in the little yard had produced some shapeless succulent fruit. It continued to send up an abundance of loose yellow cups of flowers to the sun, and though there had been very little rain of late the foliage maintained its emerald tint.

The door of the room was ajar. Bopaul called Ananda by name as was his wont; but receiving no reply he entered. The place was deserted. Except for the two portmanteaux it was devoid of all sign of the owner. Hitherto on the occasion of his visits he had seen books and writing material lying about; a coat thrown over a chair; cap and walking-stick on the table. Nothing of the kind was visible, and he wondered what had happened. Had his friend decided to go, and managed to slip away after all? Yet he could not have gone far nor for long; the presence of his luggage testified to the fact that he intended to return.

In the midst of his speculations a member of the family arrived sauntering in with unconcern.

"You are looking for Ananda. We saw you come in and guessed that you would be here."

"Where is he?" asked Bopaul, in surprise.

"He is dead; drowned in the well near the stable."

Bopaul expressed his consternation and regret, and asked how the accident had occurred. The man laughed unsympathetically, in a manner that grated on the feelings of the visitor.

"The wonder is that it has not happened before. It was not an accident. He threw himself into the well at night when we were all asleep. It was the best way out of the difficulty that he himself had created by turning Christian. It will prevent further trouble and vexation, even though it saddles the family with a widow."

"Have the funeral rites been performed?"

"How can an outcaste receive the funeral rites of an orthodox Hindu?" the other asked contemptuously.

"He has been burned, then, without them?" said Bopaul, regarding the man with increasing displeasure. He did not like the tone adopted. "It is strange we have heard nothing of the affair."

"There has been no burning and no burial for the excellent reason that we have not yet recovered the body from the well."

"It has been seen, of course?"

"His cap has been found."

"Have you only his cap as evidence?"

"Isn't that sufficient? The master considers it ample, and he and his wife are already beginning to make preparations for the ceremony of breaking the bangles and shaving the widow's head."

"Is that so? Surely it is full early for the widow rites when the body of her husband is still missing?"

"If he were a respectable Hindu, religious and obedient to the law of caste, it might be a trifle early; but in this case the man has been dead to the family ever since his return from England. It was a cursed day on which his father consented to his crossing the black water. Alive or dead the sooner his position is recognised, and his wife treated accordingly, the better pleased shall we all be."

"I don't believe Ananda is dead," remarked Bopaul, after a few seconds' consideration. "He is not the man to commit suicide. It is far more likely that he has gone away in the night and has made his escape from those who waited for him with no kindly intentions."

"Run away or dead, it is all the same," persisted the other. "And as for his wife she would have become as truculent as himself. Did you hear how she tried to escape with him? We discovered her absence on the night the child died and followed her. They were brought back together; and as a reward for his pains Ananda was beaten by order of his uncle."

"Beaten! Surely his father did not give his consent to such an extreme course?"

"The big master was not asked and he knew nothing about it. He became sick after the child's funeral, and he has gone to one of his silk-farms ten miles away. He knows nothing and he cares nothing. His spirit is broken by the wickedness of his son, who deserves all that we gave him."

"Possibly Ananda has joined his father," suggested Bopaul, who refused absolutely to believe in the theory of suicide.

"Not he! The stick fell too long and too heavily—for we all took turns—to leave him with strength or spirit to run away again. After we had finished with him he could not stand."

Bopaul turned away; he was disgusted with the openly expressed brutality of the speaker; and he was profoundly sorry for his friend. All along he had feared that something of this kind would occur. The ways of caste families were familiar to him. His own people would have pursued the same course had he become an apostate from Hinduism. He stopped to ask another question.

"You are sure that he was unable to leave the compound after——" he paused, unable to frame the expression. The other understood.

"Quite certain; the man was too sore to put one foot before the other," he replied with a hard laugh.

"How do you suppose he got to the well?"

"On his hands and knees, of course."

"And the widow ceremonies will take place three days hence?"

"Without fail, knowing how set upon the business Sooba is."

Bopaul walked back to his sister deep in thought. The news troubled him. He was helpless in the matter, and could do nothing. He wished that he had brought more pressure to bear upon his friend when the offer came from Alderbury. That was a golden opportunity missed that was not likely to occur again—always supposing that Ananda was still alive. That he was dead, and by his own hand, was impossible of belief the longer he considered it.

Mayita was still playing happily enough. She was in the middle of an imaginary wedding. A datura blossom was the bride and a wood-apple the bridegroom; she was playing the part of the go-between, and was negociating the dower. When she saw her brother she hid the happy couple in the folds of her rough cloth, whispering to the bridegroom that his joy should not be long delayed.

"Come, little one," said Bopaul. "We must go home to our mother. You will soon have a companion to play with."

"I! who will have the courage to play with a widow in the face of the gods?" she asked sadly.

"One who will be in the same sad case as yourself, child."

"Another widow! I will not play with her! Is it not enough to have me in the house? We do not want a second widow to double our ill-luck. Only this morning the eldest son of our cousin met me by the cowhouse, not knowing that my mother had sent me for some milk. He cursed me; but all the same two hours later as he was running through the garden a thorn entered his foot and made him lame. I thought his mother would have beaten me; she was so angry; she said it was all my fault. I hid till you called me; I was so frightened, too frightened to eat any breakfast; so I am very hungry now. No! no! brother! we want no more widows in our house."

"She will not live with us."

"Who is she?" asked Mayita, her curiosity aroused.

"Ananda's widow."

"Aiyoh! Is it possible that Ananda is dead!"

"Anyway his wife is a widow and the ceremonies take place three days hence."

"Poor Dorama! Aiyoh! poor Dorama!"

CHAPTER XXII

Little news was received from Pantulu Iyer and his wife. It was conjectured that there was none to impart. If he became decidedly worse the family at Chirapore would be duly informed; but if he only continued to drift gradually down the hill nothing would be said. Sooba and his wife, ever ready to believe as they hoped, made up their minds that the head of the house could not last much longer, and that the younger brother would soon be called upon to perform those ceremonies which should belong to the son, the performance of which established the right of the performer to be recognised as head of the house. Could they have glanced at the presumably dying man they would have sustained a shock.

Contrary to all expectation Pantulu was improving in health every day. He recovered his appetite as well as his strength and spirits with a readiness that astonished his wife. Away from his home and surrounded by new interests he shook off the terrible depression caused by his son's conversion to Christianity. A reaction was setting in, enabling him to detach his thoughts from the trouble and centre them elsewhere.

The silk farm was one of his early ventures, when, as a young man, he had tried with considerable success to improve the culture of silk-worms. The system he introduced answered so well that it was generally adopted throughout the silk-growing districts, with the result that a finer and stronger silk was produced. Perfection, however, was not attained, and of late years there had been a forward movement in the Far East which again placed the silk of Chirakul in the background. The relative in charge of the farm was an enthusiast in his way, and he was delighted to find that in Pantulu he had a ready and sympathetic listener. He was quite sure that further improvement might be effected in the boiling of the cocoons and the bleaching of the silk. He had made a few experiments himself and he exhibited the results with some pride. Together they pored over the evil-smelling stuff that was one day to robe a woman's dainty form, and exhale nothing but the atta of rose and sandal-wood with which it should be scented. It was a good strand of silk, but the tint, a dull stain, would only take crude strong dyes, that lost their brilliancy and purity through the stain.

The manager of the farm had recently been to Bombay where he had met some silk growers from China. Though these men were reticent and jealous of imparting their knowledge to foreigners, he managed to extract some information and to gather that more might be learned by a visit to China and Japan. Since his return he had made the attempt to improve the silk; and though the result left much to be desired, it was sufficiently encouraging to show the old expert that the experiment should be pursued.

The second day after his arrival Pantulu spent the morning over the caldrons; and when summoned to the midday meal he entered the little bungalow with a firm, brisk step that bespoke an unusual readiness for dinner, and a line of thought that was free from anxiety. Gunga looked up from the steaming pot of rice which she was manipulating and glanced at her husband with surprise. If this was the result of a return to work it should not be her fault if the cure was not completed.

Always prompt and unusually practical for a woman of her nation, she made a startling proposition that very afternoon. It was nothing less than the despatch of the manager to China and Japan on a tour of inspection, that he might examine thoroughly into the methods of silk-growing and preparation for the dyers' vat. She suggested that Pantulu himself should manage the farm during his absence. The cousin's wife and family were to remain on the estate and keep house as usual. Every now and then Gunga would go over to Chirapore and see that all was going well. Meanwhile Sooba and his wife would represent the head of the family and look after the business in the town.

The proposal was received by the two men with approval. Pantulu's eyes grew bright as he considered the plan; and at her question as to whether he felt strong enough for the work that it would involve, he drew himself up to his full height and assured her that it would make a new creature of him. The change of air had already wrought wonders and she must not look upon him as an old man past all business.

"My brother will be surprised when he hears the news," remarked Pantulu with a new pride in his rejuvenation.

"This is not to be spoken of at present," said Gunga with authority. "I have other plans connected with it, and until they are more forward I wish for secrecy; for I will have no interference; none!"

Her lips closed firmly, and Pantulu knew of old that when his wife was determined on any course of action nothing moved her from her course.

"What are they, wife?" he asked, with a smile of amusement. "May we of this house be told?"

"If you can keep your tongues quiet. Our cousin's wife, here, is a Mahratta woman who knows Bombay. She has suggested that we should send our son there to act as agent for the sale of our produce. She says that though he is lost to our religion, he need not be lost to the family business. Many people of caste in Bombay have joined the Brahmo Somaj and the Arya Somaj and a few have become Christians. With all these changes before their eyes the people of Bombay feel less bitterness towards the men who take up a new faith than those of a state like Chirapore; and there is no persecution. The English Government protects them all."

Pantulu did not reply immediately, and Gunga continued to unfold plans that were to include the obstinate son and a compromise. She paused to take breath and he spoke.

"The difficulty over the shraddah ceremonies will still remain, the rites by which my ancestors and I may escape the lower rebirths."

Gunga looked at him and pursed up her lips as though she had by no means exhausted her resources.

"Our cousin's wife has proposed a remedy for that."

He glanced at her with questioning eyes that showed how near to his heart the subject and consequent anxiety lay. Before he could frame the query as to ways and means she continued.

"The time has not arrived yet to talk about it. First and foremost, husband, you are the chief consideration. You must get well and strong. For that purpose there is nothing like work and food and change of air, as I have told you more than once. Here you will have all that is necessary."

"What shall we tell my brother?"

"Leave that to me. I will dictate a letter saying that it will be advisable for you to remain here, and praying him to look well after your interests at Chirapore. When I go back, which I shall do before long, I will explain more."

Pantulu was well content to leave everything in his wife's hands. The new venture had taken hold of his mind, and it dominated every other consideration. At the bottom of it lay money; and though his wealth was great already, "Gold" had a reviving effect upon the man, as the word "rats" had upon the sick terrier.

On the day appointed for the ceremonies to take place, which were to brand Ananda's wife with the curse of Hindu widowhood, a large party assembled at Pantulu's family mansion in Chirapore. Relatives accompanied by relatives arrived from all parts of the State. Gossip circulated freely. News was given and demanded; and many were the questions asked concerning the absent master and mistress. Sooba was ready with his tale, adorned and coloured according to his imagination without much regard to the truth. Gunga's letter had been received; and as she made no allusion to her husband's health it seemed safe to assume that there was no improvement.

"My sister-in-law asks me to consider myself the head of the house as long as my brother is absent. She says that it is best for him to remain where he is; it will give him a better chance of recovery," he said.

"Then there is hope that he may get well?" asked one of the guests.

"She may have hope herself; we do not entertain much. It is more than likely that he is too sick to move."

"How long do you think he will last?" enquired another.

"A few weeks at the outside," replied Sooba. "The news of the disappearance of his son will probably hasten his end."

"Has it been sent yet?"

"Not yet; we are waiting till this ceremony is finished. It would be very bad for him if he insisted on returning for it; so we have thought it best to get it all over before mentioning anything."

It was very gratifying to be treated as the master of the house. Sooba revelled in the situation, and swaggered about among his guests as if he already owned his brother's wealth. It all helped to sooth the wounded self-esteem; and to soften the memory of the insults he had received at the hands of Mrs. Hulver.

The afternoon had been chosen for the ceremony; but ever since daybreak active preparations had been in progress. The victim had undergone ceremonial ablutions; her hair had been combed and oiled and her whole person scented. The long glossy strands of hair were plaited and in the plaits were woven white jasmine blossoms. Gold ornaments freshly burnished were fastened on her head and in her ears and nostrils.

A close-fitting jacket of crimson satin and a rich tawny silk saree the colour of wall-flowers enfolded her figure. Round her neck hung four beautiful necklaces of pearl and gold and precious stones, all of which had adorned Gunga on her wedding day many years ago. Ankles and wrists were laden, and Dorama's slender fingers were filled to the first joint with rings that were heirlooms. Her forehead was rubbed with sweet sandalwood paste, her lips touched with rouge, and the beautiful brown eyes intensified in size by dark touches beneath them. They needed no pungent juices to make them bright. The unshed tears were sufficient to keep them moist.

The assembled guests had had time to dine and afterwards to talk over all the news. Many had paid a visit to the well down which they glanced morbidly at the root where the cap was found hanging. By half past three the waiting began to grow irksome, and enquiries were made for the widow. She was coming! they were told. It had taken long to fasten all the jewels. There were so many! not one worn on the wedding day was missing; and in addition she wore others that were purchased for her when her son was born.

The mention of little Royan was the signal for sighs and lamentations. They were interrupted by the appearance of Dorama led by her aunt. Dressed as when she was given to her husband she stood before them, her eyes downcast and brimming with tears, her delicate fingers plucking nervously at the folds of her saree.

At the sight of her the women burst into open wailing. Some of them pressed forward and cracked the joints of their knuckles over her head as though they would still try to avert her hideous fate. Others kissed her cheek and hair, her soft arms, even the gold embroidered edge of her saree. Tears flowed freely; the sight of the grief of others opened the fountain of her own sorrow, and Dorama wept with them.

It was a pathetic sight; the girl dressed in bridal array for the last time in her young life, and the sympathetic company bewailing her fate.

A golden ray of the afternoon sun shot slanting downwards into the courtyard and caught the gleaming jewellery, reddening the rich tint of her silk garment, and warming the lights in the precious metal. Here a crimson ruby sent out a shaft of fire; there a green emerald and blue sapphire set in gold completed the rainbow colours.

The company revelled in the luxury of grief and prolonged the leave-taking, repeating over and over again their sorrow and regret that the gods had dealt thus hardly with her. Then as the sun drew down towards the west, she was led by her uncle and aunt through the little yard and into Ananda's room. The company followed, and the space was quickly filled with the throng of sightseers still wailing and weeping without restraint. The green foliage of the gourd was trodden down; its fruit and yellow blossoms were crushed under careless feet as the crowd pressed forward to see the degrading rites that were to be carried out by the two relatives who had constituted themselves master and mistress of the ceremonies.

First the jewels were removed. One by one they were unclasped and handed to members of the family to be held in safe keeping till they could be restored to the jewel chest. Every woman rich or poor wears a few dark bangles of glass. Among the golden circlets on her arms Dorama had three or four such rings on each wrist. With every movement the bangles clinked musically as they fell against the gold bracelets. Armed with a stone her aunt seized her by the hand and struck the brittle glass sharply. At the sound of the blows the wail of grief was again raised. This was the first act in the tragedy.

Denuded of all her adornments she was next disrobed. The coloured jacket was removed; the silk saree unwound from her limbs. A coarse rough cloth of unbleached cotton was produced and twisted round her figure. Widowhood permitted but one garment; nevermore would she be allowed to wear jacket or petticoat or any soft material that might protect her sensitive skin from the rough web of the cotton saree. This was the second act.

The third, by far the worst part of the ordeal, was still to come. Her abundant hair was unplaited slowly and the sweet jasmine blossoms that had been woven into it dropped upon the ground at her feet, where they lay all unheeded, contaminated and cursed by the touch of the widow. Again the women crowded closely, some of them lifting the tresses to their lips, with lamentations that one so young and beautiful should meet with such misfortune.