Front matter (continued 6)

In the light of the sunset glow the scissors shone as the hand of the barber woman was raised to perform her share of the ceremony. The hair that reached far below Dorama's waist was gathered in none too gentle a grip and severed close against the head. Not content with this, custom demanded the use of the razor. As the sunlight faded behind the purple mountain, Dorama's head was disfigured beyond recognition. A fresh cry of grief rose from the assembled crowd, as they stared with growing repulsion at the sight. The only dry eyes were those of the temporary master of the house and his wife.

One more ceremony remained to be performed. This was the severing of the marriage cord on which the badge corresponding with the European woman's wedding ring hung, Dorama felt the cord press against the back of her neck as her aunt drew it tight the better to divide it. As it parted the tension relaxed and the gold badge dropped into the hand extended by her uncle to receive it.

With a despairing cry Dorama fell upon her knees, and leaning forward touched the ground with her forehead as if in resignation to the will of the gods. Round her lay the scattered jasmine blossoms that had dropped from her hair. In their death they exhaled their sweetness on the evening air. They were no longer the adornment of the bride but the offering to one who was to suffer a living death. Nevermore would the sight of the wax-white flowers remind her of a happy expectant bridegroom. Thenceforth they would speak only of death and misery.

It is strange how the Hindu who is extravagant in his grief, piles up pain and sorrow for poor suffering humanity. As if the gods had not brought sufficient wretchedness on the unhappy wife by the loss of her husband, he devises in his inhuman ingenuity this barbarous method of enhancing the sorrow that is already almost too great for endurance. When the girl is dressed up for the last time and appears before the assembly she is greeted with profound pity. As the ceremonies proceed that pity gradually emerges into loathing and contempt. The woman herself with all her sweetness and gentleness is forgotten, and her widowhood only is remembered. She enters upon an existence that is absolutely without a relieving ray of hope. She is often the drudge of the house; she has no rights moral or otherwise; and she is at the mercy of the most tyrannical woman of the household and the most licentious man. Her only chance of escape is in death; but even death has no promise of greater happiness. Her rebirth on earth will, according to her faith, only plunge her in deeper misery and degradation.

How such an appalling custom can have arisen out of the past ages it is difficult to say; and it is still more puzzling to understand why it is maintained among a people who are neither savage nor uncivilized. No other nation has anything to offer that is its equivalent in refined and far-reaching cruelty. Never a day passes but the rites are performed somewhere throughout the length and breadth of India. Never a night goes by that does not see some stricken girl or woman grovelling on the floor of her chamber in abject misery alone and uncomforted. Too often the misery is ended by a catastrophe, a rush towards the well; a plunge and then stillness.

And what then? Does any one care? Not in the least. Even the mother of the girl sheds no tear and makes no lamentation. The house is relieved of the presence of the ill-starred widow, a certain source of misfortune, and her removal is a blessing for which the gods are thanked.

One by one the company drifted away, some to depart at once for their homes, others to indulge in fragments of gossip in the back verandah. The place was empty at last of all save the prostrate figure lying among the jasmine blossoms in the room where, only a few nights ago, she had crept into the arms of a loving husband. The gourd was crushed and trampled to death in the yard; the glory of its green leaves and yellow cups was as ruthlessly destroyed as her own crown of womanhood.

A cicala in the grass outside began his evening note of challenge. It was answered by the metallic defiance of a rival. A pair of little flycatchers slipped into their roosting place in the oleander bush at the entrance, with complaining chirrups at having been kept up so late by the invasion of the yard. A pale, yellow moth fluttered like a ghost over the jasmine flowers, puzzled at its inability to draw honey from what had been done to death. The hum of the town, busy with its evening trading, came faintly through the stillness of the air and died down again; and the peace of approaching night dropped softly on the earth.

Not one of that numerous family gave a second thought to the stricken woman whom they had left. Not a soul returned to offer consolation. Their actions faithfully indicated their minds. No one cared what became of the widow; no one heeded her steps. Under her ban she was free to come and go as she chose. From thenceforth she need have no fear of lock and key; unless it might be for the purpose of keeping her out of sight of her more fortunate fellows.

In earlier days Dorama had wondered how Mayita had been able to bear the fate that had overtaken her. She recalled the fact that she had herself shrunk from the baldheaded child, and avoided a meeting without any attempt at disguising her action. And now she was in exactly the same case herself! ah! she could not bear it. It was intolerable; a moan broke from her lips as the reality of the present separated itself from the shadows of the past. She writhed in rebellion against her fate, and as she did so she felt the iron of the inevitable enter her soul.

It was unbearable. She could not face it! Cost what it might she must escape!

There was but one way. She knew it, as she had heard it spoken of when other women suffered the same fate. Yes: they were right. Death was preferable to life under such conditions. Her beloved husband had sought for death in the well. If she ran quickly, and hurled herself over the low wall before she had time to look into the black cold depths, she could find courage enough to carry out the design without faltering. It would be best too for the house, and relieve it of the disastrous presence of a widow. Royan was gone; Ananda was gone; it was only fitting that she should go too.

She rose to her feet determined to act at once before her courage failed her. She turned and staggered blindly to the entrance that admitted the faint starlight of the night. As her foot crossed the threshold she felt a pair of small arms thrown around her.

"Dorama! sister, it is I! Coomara's widow! I have come to join my tears with yours!"

And promptly Mayita buried her face in the coarse new saree of her sister-widow and gave full rein to her grief.

Dorama felt like a drowning waif who had abandoned hope, and to whom was suddenly held out a friendly hand. She clung passionately to Mayita, trembling and catching her breath in dry sobs.

"Sit down, sister," said Mayita presently. "Let us talk. No one cares where the widow is, nor what she does. Listen; I have news for you. This morning they put ladders down the well by the cattle shed where your husband's cap was found. They searched for his body with hooks and nets, but they found nothing. If he is there he lies like a stone at the bottom. Some say that as he turned Christian he cannot come up. The devil living in the well has eaten him. My brother laughs and says they are all mistaken. He is not there."

"Not there!" cried Dorama startled. Then as the flicker of hope momentarily kindled died down she added: "But if not there, where can he be?"

"He has gone to the missionary, the good Englishman, who will be a father to him."

"Impossible! He could not stand, far less walk, after the beating that they gave him; and he had no friends."

"My brother assures me that he is alive and he means to make sure of it by secret inquiry. Oh, Dorama! dear sister! I am so sorry for you. But listen! Beloved!—I may call you so now. Beloved! it is so sweet to have a sister! I have been so lonely since my evil fate overtook me. Oh! so lonely! With only the good Bopaul to say a kind word to me. Even my mother hates the sight of me, and curses me because I bring bad luck to the house."

There was a pause during which the two girls clung together.

"Sister!" whispered Mayita striving to catch sight of the other's face in the dim light. "Sister, where were you going when you fell into my arms?"

Dorama did not reply, but suddenly she began to moan. Mayita strove to comfort her, and when the agitation lessened she began again.

"Sister! you were going to the well. It must not be. You must live lest by any chance your husband comes to life again. It will be hard, oh, very hard sometimes, almost more than one can bear. But for his sake it must be borne; for, if he ever does come back, it will assuredly send him to the well if he finds that you are dead. Promise me, sister; promise me that you will not go to the well."

"I promise, little one!" replied Dorama brokenly.

"That's right! Now it is time for me to go back."

"Alone, little sister?"

"My brother waits for me by the gateway. He is so good! oh, so good to the poor widow. May the blessing of all the gods I have offended rest for ever on his dear head."

Dorama watched her white figure till it was lost in the darkness of the night. Then she turned her face towards the garden entrance and passed unnoticed into the house. They who happened to be near the path she took in crossing the courtyard, stepped aside so as to place themselves well out of reach of possible contact with her shadow. Others seeing her coming turned back into the room they were leaving, and closed the door till she should have passed.

When the evening meal was served out, knowing too well what was expected of her, she remained outside the family circle until all had finished, including the youngest and most insignificant child of the establishment. Then and then only did she—who among the women had been formerly helped immediately after the big mistress and before her aunt—received her portion. It was ample and sufficing; but it was eaten in bitter humiliation and anguish of heart, as she realised the dreadful fact that this was only the beginning of a lifelong existence from which there could be no escape.

CHAPTER XXIII

A week passed during which Pantulu's family settled back into the ordinary routine. Sooba was gratified by the performance of the widowing ceremonies; he felt to a certain degree revenged upon his unfortunate nephew. The adulation received from the visitors did something to restore his wounded vanity; but the disrespect shown by Dr. Wenaston's housekeeper was not yet atoned for; and his vindictiveness in that direction continued to smoulder.

A second letter arrived from Gunga asking for news of Ananda. It contained a message that amounted to a parental order. Gunga desired her son to come to her at once. She suggested that by this time the popular feeling against him in the town would have subsided; and it would be quite safe for him to travel in the bullock coach which had taken her and her husband to their new home. She went into further detail about the proposed journey, and asked that some personal property should be forwarded by the conveyance that brought her son. Sooba read the letter aloud to his wife in his perplexity.

"It means that my brother is worse and he wants to make one more appeal to his son," he commented.

"You will have to tell him that Ananda is dead."

"I shall do nothing of the kind—at present. It is strange that the well refuses to give up the body."

"Not at all, husband. The gods have permitted the demon of the well to do its worst. Perhaps one day his bones may be brought to light; but we shall never see his body again."

"As far as we are all concerned it would be a good thing if he were never seen again. It would solve the difficulty of funeral ceremonies," remarked Sooba complacently.

"Does our sister say nothing about Dorama?"

"Nothing at all."

"If she knew she would ask for the jewels. You have them all safe?"

"Perfectly safe."

"Why not replace them in the family chest?" she asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice.

"Because I choose to keep them myself."

She was silent in spite of her uneasiness. She was aware that Sooba had not only taken possession of the jewels, but had also appropriated some of the money recently paid in by the middle-men who purchased the produce of Pantulu's estate. They brought rupee notes and took Sooba's receipt without a suspicion of anything wrong. Sooba himself saw no harm in his action. He was a little premature; but as it would all be his at no distant time there was nothing dishonest about it.

"What answer shall you send?"

"I shall say that we gave Ananda the punishment commanded by the swami, taking care not to be too severe."

"It was very severe all the same. Sometimes I think that he may have crawled away into the jungle and died there."

"Chah! woman! you babble like a fool!" retorted Sooba with irritation. "We are speaking now of what is to be said to our sister. In return for our leniency—for not having given him the full measure prescribed by the holy one——"

"The men said that it was more than——"

"Peace, idiot! Let me finish what I intend to say to my sister-in-law. In return for our kindness he has gone off, we can't say where. He tried to entice away the foolish deluded Dorama and persuade her to go with him; but we discovered the plan just in time to stop her."

His wife was not satisfied. She had no objection to the distortion of the tale. What she feared was the discovery of the truth by Gunga. The story of the widow ceremony must come to her ears before many more days were passed; and nothing would be gained by rousing her wrath unnecessarily. As long as there was a breath of life in Pantulu, Gunga ruled absolutely; and it was in her power to turn out Sooba and his wife if serious offence were given.

"Leave it to me," said Sooba confidently and untroubled by any qualms of conscience. "Our sister is occupied in looking after her husband. Her own approaching widowhood will take up the rest of her thoughts. We need not fear that she will make inquiry or trouble about anything until the end comes. Then I in the absence of Ananda will be chief mourner and master of the house. It will be your voice and not our sister's that will hold the attention of the zenana. The jewels may be worn by you; they will become you well, wife."

She was not satisfied even with this rosy dream of wealth and authority, and she asked uneasily:

"When will you tell Gunga of her son?"

"In another week perhaps I may begin to break the news."

The days that followed the widowing rites passed strangely for Dorama. She hated her new position and inwardly revolted against it. She loathed her rough garment and bare head. The cool evening wind caught her behind the ears and at the back of her neck—where formerly the heavy strands of hair formed a covering—and gave her twinges of neuralgia. She shivered and drew up the saree shawl-wise over her head, but it slipped down having nothing to cling to. She missed the daily details of her toilet. There was no hair to comb, and scent, and plait with fresh blossoms; no jewels to fasten on arm and neck. She was not permitted to use any of the various cosmetics treasured in the brass box with its many divisions that was her own special property; the rouge, sandal-wood paste, saffron powder, lip-salve, henna and the sweet atta of rose. The only thing allowed was the use of pure water. The food was good, but the mode of serving deprived her of appetite. By the time her turn came she was so full of misery and impatience at her altered circumstances, that she found no pleasure in eating the excellent curry prepared in the kitchen. Alone and like a guilty thing she bolted her meals, sometimes shedding bitter tears as she did so. Even the luxury of grief was denied. If tears were seen or a sob heard, she was reproved. Did she want to bring bad luck upon the house? she was asked. If a basin was broken or a pot upset, angry glances were directed towards her. If the woman slicing vegetables cut her finger, she showed it to the widow with an injured expression, as much as to say: Look at the effect of having a person like you in the house!

Her services were not urgently needed in the kitchen where many hands made light work; and it frequently happened to her to be ordered out of the room. She wandered away in listless fashion, aware that wherever she went her presence would be unwelcome. Only one spot seemed free to her, and this was because it was deserted by all others. The small room formerly occupied by her husband was always empty, and thither she was drawn by memory and association.

At first she merely sat upon the mat and brooded, looking out of the open door at the forest-clad mountain with eyes that saw nothing of its beauty in line or colour. On the third day she noticed that the dust had accumulated, and that the dead jasmin blossoms remained just where they had fallen. She went out into the compound and gathered a bunch of twigs with which she swept out the room. In so doing she discovered a glove that had belonged to her husband. She recognised it as his and, picking it up, she kissed it passionately. Once, not so very long ago, it had been a covering to his dear hand. He had worn it in that far-off smoky city of the west, and the strange scent still clung to it.

When she had finished her self-appointed task, she seated herself on the mat to indulge in the pleasure of gloating over her treasure; and to devise a secure hiding place for it in the fold of her saree. A dozen times it was hidden and brought out again to be fondled and gazed at, to be tenderly nursed like a baby on her arm. She was startled by the sound of a footfall. Hastily thrusting her treasure into her saree she looked up and saw Mayita.

"Ah, dear sister. How good it is to meet again! My brother caught sight of you as he walked through the compound, and he sent me to talk to you while he goes to the house to ask for news of your husband."

"There is no news," replied Dorama sadly.

"Not yet; but there will be soon," replied Mayita confidently. The child entered the room and glanced round with approval. "You have swept it and made it tidy. Does any one come here?"

"Not that I know of," replied Dorama, her hand slipping under the folds of her cloth to close secretly over the glove.

"Then it is ours for the present, ours! sister! Think how delightful! Widows are not allowed to possess anything, so they say! But listen, I will tell you a secret now that you are my sister. They think I have nothing, nothing in this big world; but I have lots of treasures. I am rich. I have silver pots and golden cups and china dishes. Sometimes they are filled with oranges and mangoes, pomegranates and mangosteens. I have jewels and silk sarees——"

"What are you talking about, child!" cried Dorama staring at her in astonishment.

"Hush, speak low, and I will show you some diamonds. They are the dower of a bride in a marriage I am making."

She untied a corner of her cloth and produced some small white stones that she had picked up in the compound. She chose one and lifted it daintily.

"This magnificent stone of the first water was found at Golcondah a thousand years ago. It was once in the crown of a rich Maharajah. It is worth twenty lacs of rupees; and if this wedding can be arranged——" her brow puckered suddenly, "but things are not going well. The astrologer has pronounced unfavourably on the horoscopes. The bride's element is water, and the bridegroom's partly air and partly fire. Air and water will agree; but fire and water!—what can it mean unless it be misfortune?"

"What will you do?" asked Dorama entering into the fanciful world of the other with the kindly indulgence of the older woman towards the younger.

"I have paid a large sum to the astrologer. He is a very clever man—oh, so wise—and he has gone to a big temple in the south to ask for the assistance of the gods. I would do anything rather than disappoint the bridegroom. He is so handsome, so fair, so big and strong! The bride will die of grief if she is not permitted to marry him. Already she is drooping and languishing because of the delay. Beloved sister, you must come to the wedding. You shall be the bridegroom's mother."

A generous offer that Dorama accepted with a sad smile. There was a vast gulf between the two widows. One had never tasted the reality. She had only been a bride in name, and she was still able to live in the rosy dreams of maiden fancy. The other had drunk the cup and realised every thing. To her this make-believe was but a mockery, the dust and ashes of a tantalising memory.

"Where is the bridegroom?" asked Dorama.

Mayita untied another knot in her saree and produced a wood-apple which she exhibited proudly.

"See, isn't he well made?" she said. "Look at his limbs. Feel his smooth skin! How tall! how proud he is and how strong. He will be the father of many sons."

"Have you the bride as well?"

"She has to live with her people at present. Her home is in the datura bush. She wears a saree of pure white satin and she hangs her head with beautiful modesty. Sister!" Mayita's eyes surveyed the room with approval. "We will have the wedding here. The astrologer will soon be back from the south, and I am sure that his visit to the temple will have made matters smooth. We shall be able to decorate the place and lay out the feast. I will bring my silver pots and china dishes to-morrow and we will hide them behind your husband's boxes. Oh, how delightful it will be! What a wedding we will have!"

Mayita's eyes sparkled, and the beautiful brown tones of her skin were enriched as the warm blood coursed through her veins. In spite of her shaven head and coarse garment, her youth and comeliness asserted themselves. She babbled on about the wedding, the difficulties that had occurred over the dower as well as the horoscope, the number of guests to be invited, and other details to which Dorama listened, her hand over the hidden glove, her thoughts wandering back into the past when there was another wedding less nebulous than that of Mayita's devising, and she herself was the bride. A call outside checked the flow of description, and Mayita rose quickly to her feet.

"It is my brother. Come to the entrance of the yard while I ask him for news; and listen."

Bopaul in the customary manner of a caste man, stood a little way off waiting for his sister to join him.

"What news of Ananda?" asked the child, stopping in the entrance and calling to him.

"They have none."

"Where is he?"

"They still speak of the well; but I do not believe that he is dead. Come, little one, it is time we returned."

Mayita kissed Dorama.

"My brother is right. Your husband lives; but for the present you are his widow. To-morrow Coomara's widow will come again. There will be news by that time from the astrologer, and we shall be able to begin the preparations for the wedding. Sister, those big boxes must be pushed aside; they will be in the way. Do you think that we could move them? We will try to-morrow."

Another call from Bopaul, and Mayita beat a hasty retreat. Dorama was left standing at the entrance. The sun had disappeared in a heavy bank of cloud that later would be streaked with electricity. Rain was wanted; there had been none for the last few days. Her eye rested on the gourd that had been trampled by the inquisitive crowd. She went to it.

"Poor plant! They killed you I am afraid; but no, you are not dead! Here are some buds coming and fresh leaves!"

She stooped over the vine and plucked away the bruised foliage leaving the stalks almost as bare as her own poor head. Unlovely though the rough stems were they were full of virility; and the rain and sun would mend what was marred and reclothe the plant with verdure. She straightened out a few twisted stems and lifted some leaves that had been trodden down but escaped total destruction. It was a curious sight; the crushed tending the crushed.

Then she entered the room again and thought of the child. Why should she not have the small pleasure of playing her little game on the morrow. She looked at the two portmanteaux and considered how they could be moved out of the way. They were her husband's and must be cared for, as they contained his clothes and books. Of course they were heavy and beyond her power to move.

She gripped the handle of one and putting all her strength into the effort attempted to lift it. To her astonishment it yielded with such ease that she nearly fell over backwards. A cry escaped her lips as she dropped it. It was empty. She tested the weight of the other with the same result. That too was empty, if she might judge by its lightness.

The knowledge came as a shock; it was a revelation, and threw a fresh and unexpected light on her husband's disappearance. If he had thrown himself down the well it was hardly likely that he would have taken all his clothes and books with him. They would still be here. Where they had gone he must have followed. But stay! had some thief stolen the contents? If so the locks would betray him. She examined them closely. They were sound and unbroken. No sign of the hand of a thief was to be seen. The boxes were properly locked and their contents had been removed with the owner's consent.

A great joy swept over her, lifting a dull dead weight from her heart. Bopaul had asserted his belief more than once that his friend still lived, and she had heard the assertion with very little faith. This discovery altered the complexion of affairs completely and brought conviction. Her husband was surely alive! In spite of the dreadful bangle-breaking ceremony; in spite of the coarse clothing and shaven head she was not a widow. One day he would come back to her and claim her for his own. She would feel his dear arms round her again, his lips upon hers, his words of love would be breathed in her ears once more!

The joy of it all deprived her of muscular strength for the time, and she sank down by those rough battered trunks, leaning her arms upon them and laying her cheek against the stained leather. She could have hugged and kissed them in her gratitude for what they had revealed.

Gradually her mind cleared; it seemed to have matured during the last few weeks and to have aged with experience. She thought of all she had gone through. First there was the bewilderment caused by his change of faith, which raised a barrier between him and herself, and she realised how intensely disappointed she was. Then came the loss of the child and her sorrow. Lastly, she had had to endure the degradation of widowhood which, coming as it did on the top of her loss of husband and child, brought her to the verge of hopeless despair. Had it not been for the opportune visit of Mayita she would now be lying in the well where, up to the present, she had believed her husband to be.

The conviction that he was alive grew upon her as she sat there in the darkening room. She drew out the glove and pressed it to her lips. To all intents and purposes she was still a widow, and as such she must remain for the present. As she cherished the glove and hid it, so she must keep her discovery a secret. She must also guard against showing the new hope that had sprung up; the hope that he would return, that sooner or later he would seek her out and bid her come. Could he do it openly? She doubted the wisdom of such a course. She remembered how they had failed in their first attempt to escape. There must be no failure the second time. She must be careful and cautious and trust to no one.

The more she contemplated the step she might be called upon to take at any moment, the more clearly she understood its seriousness. The effect would be far-reaching and irretrievable. To throw in her lot with her husband would mean that she would cut herself adrift from the family for ever. She must be one with him, of his faith, and dead to all her relatives.

Was she prepared to make the sacrifice? Yes, a thousand times, yes! The old spirit that had led her remote ancestresses to the funeral pile to die in the flames that devoured their dead husbands' bodies, rose strongly within her and bound her to her living husband. For his sake she would endure and bear as he had endured and borne. She would be ready when his summons came; and she would go gladly, even though he beckoned to her from the fire of adversity, that burned as fiercely as the flames of the old suttee funeral pile; she would join him and cling to him for ever!

She lifted her head with eyes that shone, not with tears but with a new light. The last vestige of the child died within her; and the woman who walked thoughtfully back to the zenana, as the shadow of night settled over the landscape, was a woman of determination and strength of purpose. The baptism of sorrow had lifted her on to a higher plane, and had fitted her for better things than a colourless life of inert misery.

CHAPTER XXIV

Alderbury had been travelling over his district. As superintending missionary his presence was urgently needed in half a dozen places at once as a rule, not to teach his converts hymns, but to govern their temporal business and to guide their spiritual affairs, to encourage the faint-hearted and to shake the pastoral staff, metaphorically speaking, in the faces of those who showed signs of the old Adam. They received his ministrations with admirable meekness and adored him all the more for his reproof or praise. He loved his people in return, but that fact did not blind him to their weaknesses.

He journeyed in a country cart; not a luxuriously fitted bullock coach such as conveyed Pantulu and his wife to their destination, but a veritable springless vehicle of the country with a hood of matting of the roughest description. At the bottom was laid a mattress. Between the driver, who sat on the same plane with his feet on the pole, and the mattress were piled the boxes and baskets containing the necessaries of life required on the itinerating picnic. They formed a kind of screen between the driver and the occupant of the cart. The back of the hood was curtained with a piece of calico thick enough to keep out the sun. The most comfortable position for the traveller whether journeying by night or day was to lie down at full length with his head towards the driver.

Alderbury usually travelled by night for various reasons. It was cooler; it saved time; it was far more comfortable than sleeping at a village school-house, where nothing but a mat was provided. In this way he arrived at his destination soon after sunrise ready to begin the day's work of inspection, services, surplice duties, pastoral visits and interviews with the native agents.

It was just nine days since Ananda had disappeared. Wenaston wrote to the missionary after Sooba's visit of inquiry and told him of the intrusion; he asked him to come on his way back and stay for a couple of nights or more if he could spare the time. He thought something should be done in the way of inquiry after the welfare of the convert, even though he had definitely refused help on a former occasion. The letter followed Alderbury out into the district, and found him just in time to allow of his carrying out Wenaston's suggestion.

From long practice in constant travelling Alderbury had learned to sleep fairly well in the cart, in spite of its jolts and jerks and the strange utterances of the driver when he occasionally woke up and spoke to his cattle. On the morning when he intended to arrive at Chirapore he roused himself before dawn; and sitting up as well as he could he dressed himself with more care than usual. He knew who would be waiting for him in the trellised verandah with its mantle of blue ipomea. In fancy he could see the tea-table laid out and the early tea ready, a rack of crisp toast and the boiled eggs.

There had been a shower in the night, and the air was fresh and cool. He jumped out at the back of the cart, without stopping the slowly moving cattle, and strode forward with a superabundance of that vitality which never seemed to fail him. The earth smelt sweet of growing vegetation, and the rain had laid the dust and washed the foliage. Here and there the scent from clusters of newly-opened blossom on the roadside trees permeated the air. On either side of the way spread cultivated fields and patches of garden, for the town was not far off, unconfined by any visible boundary. Pomegranate bushes showed vivid spots of manderin scarlet where the flower promised fruit. All kinds of birds twittered and whistled and chirrupped in bush and tree. Noisiest of all were the barbets that never ceased their monotonous call.

Alderbury's eye lingered over every detail with an inborn joyousness that put him in sympathy with all living creatures. The last mail from England had brought him news that might change the current of his life and bring him into new and wider fields. It would mean harder work than ever; heavier responsibilities; greater liabilities that would leave him if anything poorer rather than richer; but he was ready for all and everything if—— Ah, that little if! there was so much behind it. Prudence tried to reason and urged objections that were half true and unproven. Was she sufficiently in sympathy with his work, with his aims? Would she be a help? It would be fatal if she drew away and separated her interests from his. The more he doubted the more blindly he loved and desired; the more eager he was to know his fate.

The pale rays of the sun shot up above the horizon on the east, and the white sheets of mist lying on the fields seemed to shiver and shrink as the merciless sun-god sent forth his heralds to give warning of his approach. Long-legged natives wrapped in rough black blankets strode towards their tasks on the land, their brains still slumberous and their bodies still inert with sleep. The cows and buffaloes followed the herdsman to the town, stopping before the doors where the milk was awaited for the early morning coffee. Leisurely and without haste India awoke to its daily round free from the fever and fuss that marks the day in the west.

Alderbury had the road to himself except for a municipal cart that passed now and then with the load gathered from the streets in the night. Behind him rumbled his own conveyance which he was out-walking rapidly. The cattle had done the journey well, and he was earlier than he dared to hope; yet for all that his walk, was quick and impetuous as though he were drawn towards his goal in spite of himself.

He arrived at the first house on the outskirts of the town. It was the one in which Pantulu's family lived. The household was astir and a group of men stood in the verandah preparing to go out on their various errands and duties. From the midst burst Sooba who recognised the missionary although the latter was not acquainted with Pantulu's brother.

"May I have a word with you, sir," asked Sooba.

"With pleasure," replied Alderbury in some surprise. He had no adherents in Chirapore nor in the State, and for the moment he had forgotten Ananda's existence. "What can I do for you?"

"I wish to ask you a few questions about my nephew," said Sooba.

"Yes; but tell me first who is your nephew?"

As he spoke Alderbury looked up at the house and suddenly remembered the visit he had paid.

"Of course, I recollect now. This is where Ananda lives. How is he? I hope he is well."

Sooba glanced at the Englishman suspiciously, trying to hide his distrust under a forced smile.

"My nephew sought your assistance some days ago, sir."

"I think you are mistaken. I offered help but he refused it. Since that time I have neither seen nor heard of him, except the fact mentioned by Dr. Wenaston in a letter, that he had left his home and that you were under the impression that he had gone to the college. It was extremely kind of the Principal to allow you to go through his private rooms. I am not sure that I should have been so obliging."

Alderbury's voice had unconsciously assumed a tone of reproof, and Sooba writhed inwardly under it.

"Dr. Wenaston could not refuse, since a refusal would have been a tacit acknowledgment that he was harbouring a Christian and breaking his covenant with the Maharajah."

"Not at all," replied Alderbury sharply. He did not like the manner of the man. "You took a great liberty. It was sufficient for all purposes that he assured you Ananda was not there. What made you think that your nephew had gone to him for help?"

"The gardener gave me a hint that some one had arrived the night before," said Sooba sullenly.

"The gardener! Ah, the man owes his mistress a grudge. The housekeeper caught him stealing her roses. So that was how he took his revenge, and you were foolish enough to be made the instrument."

"The gardener was right in saying that a visitor had arrived in the night. The woman's son, a sick soldier, came in by the mail. I saw him lying in her room drunk."

"Where do you suppose your nephew has gone?" asked Alderbury not choosing to discuss Mrs. Hulver with the man.

"That is what I expect you to tell me, since he has been so foolish as to break his caste and join a religion that is acceptable to the pariahs and panchamas only."

"Sorry I can't oblige you; good morning," said Alderbury, checking his rising anger with difficulty.

Sooba was left standing in the road. His eyes followed the athletic form of the Englishman with no good will. He believed Alderbury when he declared his ignorance of Ananda's movements, because the drowning theory commended itself for various reasons, and because he had already ascertained that his nephew was not at the mission station. Ananda ought to be at the bottom of the well; every circumstance pointed to it. At the same time seeing the missionary on the road he thought it was a good opportunity of speaking to him. At the back of his subtle mind was the hope that, in a chance conversation of the kind, he might be able to offer him some slight about which he could brag afterwards to his friends. It was not necessary that Alderbury should notice and resent any discourtesy; it was sufficient that it should be shown; and it would go towards compensating the ill-conditioned man for the treatment he had received from Mrs. Hulver.

Alderbury knowing the Oriental suspected something of the kind, and his suspicion was confirmed as soon as Christianity was mentioned. He put an end to the interview abruptly leaving Sooba with a sense of failure that did not tend to smooth matters for him.

The bullocks, recognising that they were not far off their halting place, put on a spurt and caught up the pedestrian, who dived into the cart from the back and sat cross-legged on his mattress until, with much jangling of bells, sighing and snorting of cattle, and creaking of cart-wheels, he arrived under the portico of the college house. The welcome he so confidently anticipated struck no note of disappointment.

Three hours later breakfast was over and Wenaston had departed to take up his duties in the college. Eola was interviewing Mrs. Hulver and settling the housekeeping programme for the day. She was inclined to be absent-minded, her thoughts wandering to such an extent that she was guilty of ordering two joints instead of one. Mrs. Hulver regarded this lapse of memory with suspicion and recalled her young mistress to the subject somewhat sharply.

"Mr. Alderbury has a dainty appetite more suitable to a bishop than a missionary. He doesn't want two joints," she remarked.

"Dear me! did I order two?" asked Eola in some confusion.

"Yes, miss; you asked for a boiled hump of beef and a roast saddle of mutton. The saddle you shall have to-morrow. The hump is for to-night as it has been quite long enough in pickle. That with the fish and entrées will more than satisfy Mr. Alderbury. I don't hold with a daintiness above your station. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'A private can't expect captain's grub, and a captain mustn't look for general's fare, else there'll be proud stomachs.'"

"Have you ever seen a bishop?" asked Eola, feeling vaguely that she must throw off suspicion and show an interest in Mrs. Hulver's conversation.

"Yes, miss, of course I have! Wasn't I confirmed by one? He was tall and solemn and had a thin grey beard. He reminded me somehow—it wasn't his legs—of a picture in my father's big family bible of the goat that was sent out by the Children of Israel into the wilderness."

"The scape-goat that had to bear the sins of the people," said Eola, her eyes wandering through the house to the front verandah where she could see her guest in the distance absorbed in his letters.

"Yes, miss. The bishop was just like the picture. Hadn't he got to bear the sins of his people? and a very serious business it was too. When he confirmed me he gave me clean sheets and started me afresh; he took my sins on him. I shouldn't like to be a bishop considering all he has to bear and wear. The gaiters and the tights would be enough to put one off the job, even though the apron does lend a little decency to the style. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'All are not saints who go to church, or bishops and padres would have an easy time of it.'"

During this speech Eola's attention again wandered. Mr. Alderbury was still busy with his letters. As soon as he had finished reading his correspondence she intended joining him.

"Then that's all for this morning," she said, as Mrs. Hulver came to an end of her dissertation on church dignitaries.

"You haven't ordered the pudding, miss."

She made the announcement in the same manner in which she might have said, "You haven't said your prayers, miss."

"I'm so sorry. What has cook brought? Green mangoes? Yes; they will do nicely stewed; and a custard pudding."

"Custard pudding!" repeated Mrs. Hulver with disdain. "It's the pudding Mr. Alderbury gets every other day of his life! and him with the tastes of a bishop!"

"Then I leave it to you, Mrs. Hulver. Now let me finish with the accounts."

Mrs. Hulver was more vigilant than ever this morning over Ramachetty's charges. Miss Wenaston was clearly not fit for the matutinal crossing of swords with the sharp-witted butler, and it was the housekeeper's duty to intervene and protect.

"As William—that was my third—used to say: 'It's fatal to go into action unless you've got your wits about you and your guns are in good order,'" remarked Mrs. Hulver when she had checked the butler for the third time.

Eola did not see the point of her remark and Mrs. Hulver made no attempt to explain. The bazaar account book was closed with relief, and the butler and cook dismissed.

"How is young William getting on?" asked Eola, preparatory to dismissing her housekeeper as well.

"He is nearly well, though I can't get the colour of his eye down altogether. What his colonel will say to him to-morrow I don't know. He will have to be told the truth if he asks about the black eye."

"He may not make any inquiries if he finds young William"—by common consent the adjective had been given to distinguish the son from the three Williams of the former generation—"doing his work properly."

"There are colonels and colonels, miss. Some can put on the blinkers when they think fit. Others shy and jib at everything that comes within sight. Fortunately young William's complexion helps a bit, and the black eye doesn't show as it would if he were as fair as his father."

"Then you think of sending him back to-morrow."

"His leave will be up by that time."

"I must tell my brother. He said he would speak to him about the canteen and fighting."

"It would do him good, miss; but to tell the truth I've said pretty nearly all there is to be said and I haven't sounded cease firing yet."

"I hope the scolding has not been overdone," said Eola, a wave of pity for young William passing through her as she thought of the lectures the anxious mother had already given to her erring son.

"No fear, miss. It's my chance and I haven't spared him. I shan't see young William for some time to come. I've let him have it broadside, in the front and in the rear. As William—that was my third, and he was a gunner—used to say, 'Don't spare powder and shot if you want to produce a lasting impression on the enemy.' There's one thing I want to ask you, miss. Is Mr. Alderbury going on from here by his carts or by train?"

"By motor; the carts are to leave early to-morrow morning or to-night. The motor will be wanted after lunch to-morrow. The chauffeur must spend the night at the mission bungalow and return the next day."

"Then nothing will be needed for Mr. Alderbury's tiffin basket," remarked Mrs. Hulver as though dismissing the subject since it did not concern her any further.

Eola caught sight of her guest pacing to and fro in the verandah and she turned away to join him. Mrs. Hulver followed her.

"I should be glad if you could spare me to-morrow for half a day. I should like to go to the station with young William and see him off. He will leave by an early train so as to get in in time to report himself before six."

"By all means take as much time as you like."

"Would you like to come and speak a word to young William, miss?"

"No, please not; I really have nothing to say."

"It would do him good if you just said as before; 'Let it be——'"

Eola interrupted her hastily.

"Oh, no, Mrs. Hulver; I am sure that more than enough has been said. Young William will be glad to get away."

"Then the Doctor will come and talk to him."

"Is it necessary? Don't you think he might be let off any further scolding?"

"Well, miss; he has yet to face the sergeant and perhaps the colonel. So it isn't done with yet; and he won't be out of the firing line till he has reported himself and had his dressing-down."

"Then I am sure that he must be spared anything further from us."

Mrs. Hulver's reply was to the effect that it should be as Miss Wenaston pleased. Ten minutes later the housekeeper might have been seen, in a huge mushroom topee and with a large white umbrella, crossing the compound in the direction of the camping-ground chosen by Alderbury's driver and servant. In the afternoon business took her to the town to make some purchases for young William, she explained to Ramachetty.

CHAPTER XXV

"How have you been getting on lately?" asked Eola as she sank into a cane lounge in the verandah.

Alderbury stopped in his perambulation, gathered up a number of letters lying on the table where the tea was usually spread and made them into a neat packet. None of them required an immediate answer; they could all wait until he reached home. He intended to make the most of his one day's holiday. He had the whole morning before him; Wenaston was engaged till lunch, and Eola presumably had nothing to do but entertain her guest. It was a pleasant prospect, and he was conscious of a sense of luxury that did not often enter his life. He revelled in the unwonted leisure of the hour and took his time to reply. He seated himself in a chair by her side, and half turned so that he might have a full view of her face against the green creeper-covered trellis that shut in the end of the verandah.

"I have a fair share of trouble balanced by some satisfaction."

"Converts been doing anything very naughty lately?"

He laughed in kindly fashion. In his large sympathetic soul he held his people dear, from the blackest little ball of a baby brought to him for baptism to the white-haired old woman; who persisted in calling him father though she was twice his age.

"It is rather like having a very large nursery or school of children," he said. "Some of them are so good and others——"

"Are up to tricks," Eola concluded for him.

"Only between us confidentially."

They both laughed in a way that showed a mutual understanding and not a little sympathy on the part of the woman, not so much for his work as for himself personally.

"Do tell me their latest," she said softly.

"It is not for publication. On your honour you won't give me and my people away to a missionary magazine?"

"I promise."

"Let me whisper my troubles in your ear, then. I have had a bother over a bell tower. Four months ago I sent five hundred rupees that I had collected for the purpose to the native pastor in charge of the little church at Ramapet; and I solemnly enjoined on him by letter the necessity of beginning the building of the tower at once. I have been to see it."

"You have found that they have put up a glorified steeple, I suppose, costing twice as much as the sum you sent."

"Wrong, dear lady, entirely wrong! The bell tower surrounds the property on which the church stands in the form of a wall; and in the corner of the compound is a new well."

"What has become of the bell?"

"It is there safe enough; oh, yes, and it rings all right. The church council composed of the most important of the native parishioners met me and pointed out how wise they had been, as wise as serpents to use their own expression. The church compound is already under cultivation and the water will not only produce a crop, I should say rather, two crops in the year, but will also be a source of income as it is purchased by the villagers at so much a bucket. They are all delighted with themselves for their cleverness. The bell-tower, they say, will come all in good time. Meanwhile they have erected a little shelter of mats and bamboos in a peepul tree and have hung the bell there."

"What did you say?"

"I had to disapprove and point out that it was a breach of faith and a misappropriation of funds."

"Was the wall needed?"

"Badly! Nothing could be done with the land to make it productive until we had an effective barrier to keep out the buffaloes and goats."

"Then really it is a most excellent move."

"Not at all! Don't you see that there are principles involved?"

"They should have asked your consent, you mean, to the temporary deflection of the money?"

"I should never have given it! They knew it and took good care not to let me into the secret. What am I to do, pray? Where is my bell-tower to come from? It will take two or three years before they can refund the money. Some of it was given by an enthusiastic lover of bells, who was charmed with the idea of assisting to build the tower. Bells, he declared, were missionaries themselves and exercised a Christianising influence. What am I to say to him? He won't see any Christianising influence in the well and the wall."

He sat up in his long armed chair and gazed at Eola with comic concern. It made her laugh.

"My sympathies are all with the builders of the wall. I know how I felt towards the buffaloes and goats before the wall round this compound was completed. After all the bell does very well for the present in the peepul tree."

"Your morals are hopelessly inferior—I won't say bad—and you would make a very weak mission agent," he said, shaking his head over her shortcomings.

"Should I? Then I mustn't marry a missionary. Think how awful it would be if while he was away preaching to the heathen, I remained at home encouraging his converts to misappropriate the mission funds."

"He would have to take you with him; it wouldn't be safe to leave you behind."

They both laughed; then he became serious again.

"But I say, really, joking apart; you know they have put me into no end of a difficulty by their cleverness, and I am at my wits' end to think how I am to rectify it."

"I know!" cried Eola, with a sudden inspiration. "Haven't you any other funds in hand from which you could borrow and get the tower built at once?"

He jumped to his feet as was his way when excited and strode up and down the verandah.

"You are every bit as bad as my people! That's the very thing they have done and which I am deprecating; and you suggest that I should follow their example. I can see that I have a duty to perform. I must take you in hand and convert you."

He stopped in front of her and let his eyes rest upon her abundant hair.

"Try," she said, looking up at him with shining eyes in which amusement mingled with something else. "Do try; I should like to see what your method would be."

"Would you?" he replied. "You might not like it."

"Is it the same as you apply to the heathen?"

"Not exactly."

Her eyes lowered before his, and she was seized with a sudden anxiety to direct the conversation into a fresh channel.

"Sit down, Mr. Alderbury, and tell me more about your converts," she said hastily.

"Very well, I will defer the conversion till a more suitable time and talk—of marriage."

Again she was startled. She glanced at him as he dropped into the seat he had vacated so abruptly. His self-possession was in no way disturbed.

"Marriage!" she repeated as the colour mounted.

He revelled in her sweet confusion; but had mercy.

"Yes; the marriage of one of my converts. A young man in the agricultural settlement wants to marry the daughter of a distant relative. The girl is still a heathen. Of course I had to say no, and counsel patience. We don't allow mixed marriages. I left him rather sad, as he knows the girl and is attached to her. Being pariahs they have been allowed to see something of each other."

"Oh, poor fellow! Is she fond of him?"

"Yes; I think so; as far as a modest Hindu maid may permit herself to be."

"Then they ought to be married; and I think it is very horrid of you to forbid the wedding."

"The girl must become a Christian first; then the wedding bells shall be rung and the feast prepared; but not till then."

"But supposing she won't become a Christian, what then?"

"The marriage can't take place."

"Poor lovers! What a shame! You are hard on them! Why shouldn't the girl marry first and be converted afterwards?"

"That would never do. I always begin with conversion;" he looked at her and paused with half a smile; then he added: "Marriage must follow conversion."

"Oh, must it!" she replied with a challenge in her voice. "You take a good deal for granted."

"A common fault with men of my profession, I fear," he replied with a decision that had its attraction.

"Are you never disappointed?"

There was a slight pause. His reply was spoken in a different tone.

"In the matter of bell towers, yes."

Alderbury sat down again, and Eola with half averted face looked out into the sunlit compound where the brilliant colours of the geraniums and bignonia creeper contrasted strongly with the pure snow white of the eucharis lilies; where butterflies that rivalled the flowers in tint fluttered like wind-driven petals across her vision, and the sweet scent of the La France roses came in on the warm morning air.

"Now tell me about Ananda," said Alderbury recalling her thoughts.

"I know very little about him. My information has come from Mrs. Hulver who picks up gossip in the bazaar. You had better hear the story from her first hand. I will send for her."

A message was taken by the butler who met the housekeeper as she returned from her walk in the compound. She went into her room to remove the mushroom hat and dispose of her umbrella; and she took the opportunity of telling young William that she had made arrangements for him to leave at daybreak the following morning. She entered the front verandah, keen inquiry in her eye as to the reason of her call.

"Were you wishing to have a few words with my son, sir? If so, I should be pleased if you could come in half an hour. He is just going to have his bath. A dressing-down from your point of view will be very good for him. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'Don't confine yourself to big guns in dealing with an enemy. Bullets speak quite as plainly as cannon balls though they are neither so big nor so noisy.'"

"I don't think your son wants any lecturing from me. No doubt he is fully repentant after all that has happened. Dr. Wenaston told me the story of his fight, and I am sure young William will keep away from the canteen in future," said Alderbury kindly.

"He will try, sir; I know that; but canteens draw very strongly at times. There's the smell to contend with as well as the open door. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'An open door will tempt a saint.'"

"I want you to tell me all you know and have heard about Ananda. Sit down, Mrs. Hulver," he said, giving her a chair. "I don't see why you should stand. Let us have a comfortable chat whilst we are about it."

He noted the cloud of anxiety that seemed to overshadow her usually placid face and put it down to trouble over her son. Her words confirmed his suspicion.

"To tell you the truth, sir, I have had no time to consider Mr. Ananda. I have been so worried by young William's conduct."

"You mustn't think too much about it. You can't expect everybody to be a saint."

"I don't, sir, and least of all young William from the way he has begun——"

"What did you hear of Ananda in the bazaar?" asked Alderbury interrupting her.

"As far as I can recollect the family ill-treated him, knocked him about with a stick and he ran away. They didn't like his turning Christian. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'What women haven't got to answer for, you may safely put down to religion.'"

"It was supposed that he was in hiding somewhere on the college premises. It seems the gardener heard of the arrival of your son and thought it was Ananda."

"The gardener?" said Mrs. Hulver puckering her brow. "So we may thank him for that budmash's visit. I shall have to remember that."

She thought of the roses and felt that the man had got even with her after all; but she kept her thoughts to herself.

"In coming here he was taking a great liberty, I admit; but it was as well that he should satisfy himself that Ananda was not on the premises."

"I should never have allowed him to go through my rooms if the master hadn't given him permission. As it was I had to submit; but I didn't like it with young William lying there and the fever still on him. As William—that was my first—used to say: 'Orders is orders when spoken by a superior.'"

"Have you heard any spot mentioned as likely to be a hiding-place?"

"There have been all sort of rumours, sir. They said at first that he had gone to you; but a messenger was sent to your house to inquire; and as nothing had been seen of him there they changed their minds. I don't wonder at his running away if they really did illtreat him. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'Distance is the best remedy against the spite of evil men.' You never saw such an evil-looking beast as that uncle was who came poking his nose into everything here. If young William had been himself and not so ashamed of his black eye he would have upped and at him and soon had him out. I think the man himself was afraid that something of the sort might happen. As William—that was my first—used to say when his relations came to stay without an invitation: 'Uninvited guests sit on thorns.'"

"When they discovered that Ananda was not at my house what was the next suspicion of the family?"

"That he had drowned himself in the well."

"What gave rise to that notion?"

"They found his cap in the well."

"But not his body?"

"No, sir; all the same his people believe that he is drowned and they have widowed his wife I am told. I can't answer for the truth of what I hear in the bazaar. As William—that was my first—used to say: 'An Indian bazaar is a nest in which many rotten eggs are laid.'"

"You were very kind to Mr. Ananda, Mrs. Hulver," remarked Eola.

"My kindness was of the fair weather sort. I gave him food and plenty of good advice, before master put it in orders that no help of any sort was to be found in this house. Mr. Ananda ate heartily and listened politely; but he didn't take my advice soon enough. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'The man who stops in the valley will never get over the hill.' I keep telling young William these sort of things. I hope some of them, specially about drink and fighting, will stay by him. As William, his father used to say: 'The way to promotion doesn't lie through the canteen door.'"

"If you should by chance find means of communicating with Ananda——"

"And him down the well, sir! Why, it's more than a week——"

"Do you believe that he drowned himself, Mrs. Hulver?" asked Alderbury, his eyes fixed upon her round smooth face that held very little expression but general good-nature towards the whole world.

"Well, sir! There's his widow! A widow is usually the sure sign of a man's death; though I have heard of the widow's weeds being put on too soon. That was the case of a woman in our regiment whose husband was seconded for service in Africa. He was reported killed; and just as she was getting over her trouble and was cheering up a bit, owing to one of the unmarried sergeants paying her a little attention, he came back. She had to go into colours again before the black was half wore out, an expense all for nothing that she could ill afford, poor thing! But as William—that was my second—used to say: 'There's no plumbing the depths of a man's folly when he's a fool.' He should have written and told her that he wasn't dead; but that meant sending her money. Perhaps Mr. Ananda may come back one day like Sergeant Thompson."

"His uncle stopped me on my way here to ask if I knew anything of him. I could give him no information, and I take it that you can't help any more than I can."

"That's so right enough, and if you see the budmash again you may tell him that his precious nephew's whereabouts has nothing to do with me."

"Possibly; but as Mr. Ananda belongs to our faith, I certainly think that his welfare has a great deal to do with me," said Alderbury with a touch of severity.

"Of course, sir; it's only right; it's your profession to look after the converts. My business is housekeeping; and if the Christmas turkey was missing from the larder I should be in even more of a taking than you are over Mr. Ananda. As William—that was my first—used to say: 'Mind your own business and leave others to mind theirs.' You are leaving us to-morrow, sir, I understand. I've seen your men; they want to start off to-night with the cart if you have no objection. The portmanteau you are using will go on the motor. This will give them time to get to the mission-station before you arrive. I told your servant that I thought he could be spared."

"By all means let them go if they wish. We shall all be glad to get home as we have been on a longer round than usual this time."

"Yes, sir; as William—that was my third—used to say, when he got safely back after leaning a little too far in the canteen direction: 'There's no place like home, even though it's only a pigsty, Maria, me dear,' that was his way of speaking, he was such a gentleman in his manners."

"My house is not a pigsty, Mrs. Hulver," protested Alderbury, while Eola's eyes twinkled.

"I'm not saying that it is, though there's no woman in it. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'A house without a woman is only a house; it can never be called a home, however clever the man may be.'"

"It is a fault that may be easily remedied," responded Alderbury.

Mrs. Hulver glanced at him suspiciously, and then let her eyes rest upon Eola.

"If you were a bishop you might say so, sir; but you're not a bishop, and begging your pardon for saying so, you're not likely to be if I may judge by your legs. Gaiters would be impossible for you, even though you let your apron down a good four inches. As William—that was my second and as soldierly-looking man as ever stepped—used to say: 'It isn't every figure that will fit every profession.' I may tell you, sir, that by reason of my fullness of figure I was never chosen when I was young for the leading fairy in the regimental pantomime at Christmas. I was given to fullness early; but excepting in the matter at the pantomime I never felt any inconvenience from being stout. My husbands all admired stout women, and they said one after the other that fat in a woman may make her short in the breath, but it keeps her smiling. Now you're given the other way and you've got just the figure for a missionary."

"And so missionary I am to remain, eh, Mrs. Hulver?"

"There's great virtue in knowing your place and your station, sir," responded Mrs. Hulver, feeling that she was having the opportunity of her life to give the ineligible a bit of her mind. "One day you will meet a lady, suitable for a missionary's wife; and though she may dress plain, she will soon turn your house into a home with curtains and carpets and decent house-linen. She must be a good housekeeper." Mrs. Hulver again let her eyes rest on Eola as though she were taking the measure of her shortcomings in that respect. "And she must be sharp as a needle with the butler over the house accounts."

"If I am ever a bishop, Mrs. Hulver, I suppose I need not be so rigid over the housekeeping qualities of my wife. A bishop usually has a housekeeper."

"Lor, sir, how you talk! As if that would ever come to pass! But as William—that was my third—used to say: 'Many people talk like generals but have to live like privates.' There's no harm in your talking of being a bishop as long as you're content to live like a missionary. I must be going; I have a lot to do."

She bustled away, and with her went the smile that had rested on Alderbury's face. Eola watching him noted the change.

"What is it?" she asked. "You are troubled. Are you thinking of Ananda?"

"Yes; and I am blaming myself," he replied quickly. "There is so much I might have done to prevent this catastrophe if I had come when your brother called me. Instead of coming I wrote. It was not enough."

"I don't believe in a catastrophe. I don't believe that he is dead; I am sure Mrs. Hulver doesn't believe it or she would not be so indifferent. What do you fear?"

"That they have killed him between them."

"They would not dare! That would be murder and they would fear the penalty."

"Unfortunately there is no penalty in the case of an outcaste, a convert to Christianity. There might be some sort of a trial, but no judge in the State of Chirapore would do more than impose a slight punishment."

"Come into the fernery and look at my palms and lilies," she said, rising to get her hat.

She succeeded in dispersing the anxiety that had settled down upon him as he considered Ananda's case; and once more the convert was forgotten. Her hands were buried in the fronds of a maidenhair when he said suddenly:

"Don't do that; it isn't safe; there might be a snake hidden in the fern."

She laughed, but did not move her hands. Then he took them in his and drew her away from the pot where he feared danger might lurk.

"Eola, will you come and make my house a home for me? I want you; I can't live without you," he concluded with a strong man's passion.

She looked up at him suddenly serious.

"Think how far I fall short of the ideal! I—— Oh, really you are the most masterful man I ever met. Mr. Alderbury——!" And then her head dropped and she surrendered.

"Are you converted to my way of thinking," he said at last. "Or, shall I continue my arguments?"

"I am quite converted; quite!" she replied, and her eyes shone.

"Then I may tell you a secret. Whatever my figure may be in Mrs. Hulver's opinion, the gaiters and apron are looming in the distance. I heard from England by the last mail that I have been nominated for a colonial bishopric;" and he named the diocese.

"What fun it will be to see the dear old woman's face when she hears of it!"

He drew her down to a seat among the ferns.

"Never mind the old woman. I want the whole of your attention. There is so much to talk about and we have only till to-morrow," he said, already grudging the moments.

"Anyway my conversion is complete."

"Oh, is it? I am not so sure of that. At any rate I will see that nothing is left undone to make it so!"

CHAPTER XXVI

Lunch was over; the car stood under the portico breathing gently like a tamed and willing monster held in a metal leash. Alderbury, ready to start, was inclined to yield to a new temptation and linger in his leave-taking. Wenaston politely stayed to see his guest off under the mistaken impression that it was a necessary courtesy. At the same time his ear was open for the sound of the school bell.

"I am sorry that you have not succeeded in the object of your visit," he remarked, his conscience still troubling him in the matter of the 'vert.

Alderbury and Eola exchanged glances with an amused twinkle of the eye. If there had been failure on one point, on another the missionary had achieved a marked success.

"We must leave it alone for the present," he said with a seriousness that was not assumed. "When you are confronted with caste, you stand before invincible plates of steel. To beat against them violently does more harm than good. We must wait for the doors to open of themselves. There can be no forcing them open."

"I hope the poor fellow is safe."

"And I hope and pray that he is standing firm in the new faith," responded Alderbury quickly.

"I used to think that Ananda was weak in character."

"Possibly he was; but after all that he has gone through his character must have strengthened marvellously. I have known similar cases, although not among the higher castes. The fervent religious instinct of the Hindu sustains him in circumstances where a less religious temperament would give way."

"You believe that he is under his father's roof?"

"From what I gathered yesterday afternoon in my inquiry of the town's people, I feel sure that he has not been allowed to leave the place."

"Is he safe?"

The question was asked with an anxiety the Principal could not hide.

"Ah! that I cannot undertake to say. All the same I have a strong hope that beyond petty persecution he is, comparatively speaking, safe. My hope originates with Bopaul. His manner gave me confidence. I met him in the town; he spoke openly of his friend's disappearance, and seemed in no way concerned about it. He laughed at the theory of suicide. If he had any suspicion of a tragedy he would not show such indifference. I know for a fact that he is very much attached to Ananda."

"They were together in England and they both felt Coomara's death. I was with them at the time, if you remember. The accident was a great shock to us all, and my nerves are not what they used to be. The person least affected was Bopaul apparently," said Wenaston.

"We don't know how it affected him; he has a peculiar nature, and hides his real sentiments under a careless flippancy which his actions frequently belie."

"He certainly is a strange mixture of incorruptible orthodoxy and modern tolerance," assented Wenaston.

Alderbury commented tersely and incisively on the new Hinduism of the Presidency towns, and compared it with the old-fashioned bigotry to be found up-country, where there was less European influence than in the great educational centres. Native states with their native officials were even still further behind than British India, opposing religious reform with strong prejudiced conservatism.

"I suppose you welcome this new tolerance as a step in the right direction."

"Not at all," exclaimed Alderbury, his fighting instinct roused. "It is more difficult to attack than the old intolerance; it is elusive, shifty, the outcome of the Brahmanical facility of adaptation which is the invariable resource of the Hindu philosopher in every religious innovation. I would rather come to blows with the fanatical old Brahman than with one of these modern men whose policy is to agree with reservation."

"So you turn to the untouchables."

"Who form a sixth of India's population. They offer us a wide field for our energies," replied Alderbury.

"You are wise to give the caste people the go-by."

The missionary was up in arms at once at the implication that he turned his back on any one.

"Excuse me! We don't give them the go-by. We are ready watching for the moment when the thin edge of the wedge may be inserted without bringing disaster upon them and ourselves. By the by, an odd thing happened yesterday. Bopaul to my astonishment asked me if I would befriend his sister, the widow of the man who was killed in the railway accident."

"Coomara! I had forgotten that he married Bopaul's sister."

"It was no more than a betrothal. Bopaul explained that his sister was not happy at home; and that it would be a relief to the whole family, in his opinion, if she were removed. Then he laughed as though the attitude of his relations amused him. He proposed that she should be placed in our mission school."

"Does the family consent?" asked Wenaston in some surprise; for no one understood the prejudices of the high caste families of Chirapore better than himself.

"Apparently his parents are too indifferent to the widow's fate to care whether she throws herself down the well or disappears off the scenes in any other way. I told him to speak to his people about it; and if they consented I would willingly take her."

The school bell rang and Wenaston rose from his chair.

"I must be off. Good-bye, Alderbury," exclaimed Wenaston. "Come again as soon as you can; a warm welcome will be ready for you."

The hand-clasp expressed even more than the tongue, as the two friends parted with the knowledge that before long a closer and more intimate tie would be forged to bind them together.

Five minutes later Alderbury stood on the steps of the verandah ready to enter the car. He turned to Eola once more.

"I haven't said good-bye to Mrs. Hulver. Have you told her our news?"

"Not yet; she has been too much occupied with her son to think of anything else. She was to go off early this morning with young William; and she asked me not to expect her back till this evening. I might have let her into the secret last night; but I heard after dinner that she had gone to bed."

"I don't know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. I am sure that she will forbid the banns," he replied in comical concern that did not deceive Eola.

"She will quote the wisdom of the three departed Williams in support of her action," she added, and her laugh had a new ring of happiness in it.

The car slid noiselessly down the drive and turned into the great southern road. Alderbury leaned back on its cushions luxuriously, his thoughts busy with the woman he had just left. He had been lifted along on the wings of destiny. He had come to Chirapore to hold out a helping hand to a fellow creature in distress, and had found his own happiness as a reward.

Having taken the step he was of too strong a character to entertain any doubt as to its wisdom. However short she might fall of the ideal missionary's wife, she was his desire and he was hers. This new knowledge and certainty lifted him into a sphere of joy he had never before touched.

After a few minutes indulgence in purely selfish dreams, Eola with all she meant for him was put resolutely aside. He took out the bundle of letters that awaited him at the college house and proceeded to read them afresh, making notes of the replies on the envelopes.

The car moved along the smooth road at a moderate pace. Now and then the eyes of the occupant ranged over the undulating landscape, resting with appreciation on the patches of green forest covering the crests of the hills, and the stretches of rice fields interspersed with plantations of areca-nut palms in the valleys.

Few travellers were on the road. A string of country carts crept slowly towards the town, bearing the produce of the rich smiling land to market. The car shot by with a deep hum that set the wild-eyed bullocks snorting and backing under their yokes; and transformed the drivers into kicking fiends. In vain they sought to inspire the terrified cattle with courage and confidence by a liberal application of the toe. It was not until the car disappeared in the distance, and its weird hum was lost to the ear that the bullocks were recalled to order and a sense of duty, and the drivers were able to drop back into idle clucking at their beasts.

Six miles of quiet travelling came to an abrupt end. The native chauffeur pulled up at a signal from a traveller on the road, walking in the same direction as the car was moving. Alderbury, who was absorbed in the composition of a letter to the head office of his society, looked up, and to his amazement recognised Bopaul.

"I am going to ask you a great favour, sir," said the latter after the exchange of greetings. "I have my sister here. Will you be so good as to give her a seat in the car; and to take her to your mission-station?"

Alderbury glanced beyond the speaker and caught sight of the shrinking figure of the widow. Her saree was drawn over her bald head to hide the mark of shame and disgrace. Her eyes were cast down, and the hand that grasped the coarse cloth to keep it in position trembled.

"Of course you take the responsibility upon yourself, Bopaul," said Alderbury looking at the girl with pity born of an intimate knowledge of what widowhood meant for one so young.

"Certainly, sir," responded Bopaul quickly.

"She will be at perfect liberty to return if the family desire it. It does our work no good to have even the semblance of abduction."

"You need have no fear of trouble, sir. My people will make no objection whatever. If her husband were alive it would be quite another matter; but with a widow!" he smiled with gentle cynicism, "whoever heard of any regret being felt at the absence or even the death of a Hindu widow?"

"Very well; I will take your word for it that all is well, and that I am only carrying out the general wish of the family. Let her get in the car at once, as I must be going on my way, or I shall be benighted."

"She will sit by the chauffeur."

"There is plenty of room inside," said Alderbury, pushing cushions and rug into some order.

Bopaul went to the side of the road where his sister stood and said a few words in a low tone. She did not reply, but made a movement of the head showing that she understood his directions. Then he took her by the hand and led her to the car.

"Get in, little sister. You will be quite safe with the missionary; and if you are not happy with him, ask him to write and tell me so. I will come myself and fetch you back, but I know you will not want to come back; you will find your happiness there; not here."

"It is understood by your family that she will probably become a Christian if she remains with us," said Alderbury who was a little puzzled by Bopaul's manner.

"She is at liberty to do as she pleases. Of one thing I can assure you; I can answer for her willingness to work at anything that will help to earn her keep."

"And her name?"

"I call her Mayita; but she will probably prefer to be called by some other name when she enters the mission," replied Bopaul with another smile.

"She has no luggage of any kind, no bundle of clothes?"

"Widows own nothing. They are deprived of every possession in the world. Even their hair is taken from them," her brother answered.

During this conversation Mayita sat silent with her head bent and the saree veiling her face. Suddenly the cloth was pushed backwards and she leaned towards Bopaul both hands extended.

"Brother, may the gods reward you for your goodness to the poor widow!"

"Good-bye little sister. Take heart and be brave. Now go, sir, and believe me that all will be well."

The car glided forward and left Bopaul standing there. He watched it until nothing was visible but the cloud of soft dust that hung like smoke in the warm air of the afternoon.

Then he turned round and set off at a steady pace homewards. Again the characteristic smile appeared and he murmured to himself:

"In the name of friendship; not in the name of religion!"

CHAPTER XXVII

Alderbury addressed a few words to his companion in the language of the country and received monosyllabic replies which gave him no encouragement to persevere in his efforts at making conversation or to extract information. He concluded that she was a shy and frightened member of a zenana where very little liberty was allowed. It would all come right in time; she would lose the shy self-consciousness with education.

From his companion his thoughts went to her brother. He distrusted Bopaul's cynicism, mild and harmless though it might be; but he could not help admiring the force of character in the man who had struck whilst the iron was hot. If Bopaul had not handed her over personally and assured him that all was well, Alderbury would never have ventured to take the girl away. The parents had probably been urged to give a consent, and before they could withdraw it their son had taken action to carry out the intention. It was evident that he revolted against the Hindu system of widowhood, and with his modern enlightenment desired reform. This was his method of protest and it was to be commended. It was also in its way a mark of the philanthropy that is entering the Hinduism of the present day, one of the attributes of Christianity which Brahmanism is ready to adopt into its system and claim as its own.

More than two hours passed during which Mayita, shrouded in her saree, nestled in the corner of the big motor car. Alderbury returned to the perusal of his letters and forgot her very existence. So still and silent was she that she might have been one of the leather cushions instead of a human waif. They passed the boundary of the native State and sped through British territory. In another half hour they entered the little town that had been Christianised. Alderbury put away his letters and kept his eyes on the road, that he might not miss the smiles and nods of the villagers as they welcomed him back.

The mission house was a large rambling bungalow with thatched roof and wide verandahs. In the same compound stood the school and orphanage. At a little distance was the church shining with marble whiteness in the afternoon sun.

As the car drew up under a porch made of rough square stone pillars and palm-leaf roof, Alderbury thought of the handsome portico of the college house, a very different building. He jumped out of the car with his habitual impetuosity forgetting his companion. Mrs. Hulver's words were in his mind. A house without a woman was only a house. It was quite true although his careful servant had not forgotten to prepare a late afternoon tea. He noted the table set in the verandah with the earthen tea-pot and the thick cups that bore the mark of many camping expeditions through his district. Very different, was the table from the dainty arrangement in another verandah, where the figure of the tea-maker was set in a background of ipomea and bignonia.

"Bring tea quickly, boy," he said as he passed on towards his sitting-room in search of the letters that should have come by the morning post.

The servant glanced after him and then held up his hand to arrest the figure that followed.

"Wait, lady, until the master calls," he said respectfully; and Mayita stood listening and trembling in the verandah.

As Alderbury entered his sitting-room a man rose from a chair and advanced to meet him. He was dressed in European clothes although he was a Hindu. Over his eye was a recently healed wound.

"Ananda!" cried Alderbury, astonished beyond measure.

"The same, sir," was the reply.

"How did you get here? We made so sure of your being still under your father's roof that I can scarcely believe my eyes."

"By the help of friends. It is a long story——"

His words were checked by the sound of a cry. The widow refusing to be detained any longer by the servant, rushed forward past Alderbury, never stopping till she had fallen at Ananda's feet. In a moment he was on his knees by her side forgetful of the missionary and all else.

"My wife! my pearl! my beloved! How did you manage to escape? how did you get here? But what have they done to you my beautiful lotus? They have cut off your hair! and this cloth! what does it mean?"

The words poured from his lips with a string of eager questions which Dorama could only answer with sobs.

"Who do you say this woman is?" demanded Alderbury in some bewilderment.

"She is Dorama, my wife, sir! And see what they have done to her, poor child! Not content with nearly beating the life out of me they have widowed her! the brutes! This is my uncle's doing. I will be even with him. He shall answer for it with his life! I will kill him as he would have killed me; and I will widow his——"

"Gently, Ananda! The Hindu in you dies hard. You do well to be angry, but don't mistake anger for revenge."

The hand that was laid upon his shoulder held in check the tempestuous wrath.

"Forgive me, sir. Wrong done against myself I can forgive—but this!" He looked down at his wife.

"They believed that you had drowned yourself, so successfully have you been hidden," said Alderbury. "And they considered themselves justified in their action."

Ananda lifted his drooping, but happy, wife to her feet and kept his arm about her. His anger melted and he forgot his wrath in the consciousness of her presence.

"How did she come here," he asked in calmer tones.

"I brought her," replied Alderbury.

"You, sir," repeated Ananda in surprise.

"Yes; your friend Bopaul must have interested himself in your affairs; for it was he who met me on the road this afternoon and begged me to take his widowed sister to the mission house and keep her there. He deceived me and took me in completely."

A smile dispersed the frown of anger that had rested on Ananda's face.

"Ah, the clever Bopaul! It was well planned. He is a friend worth having!" he said warmly.

"I'm afraid he is—a—a perverter of the truth!" blurted out the missionary.

"A splendid liar!" agreed Ananda enthusiastically. "I know of no one better. It is a great accomplishment in a Hindu to lie usefully and successfully."

"But it is altogether wrong in a Christian."

"I know it is!" replied the 'vert with a sigh of contrition. "I am afraid I have not been altogether straightforward myself of late."

"Tell me all about yourself and how you managed to escape," said Alderbury kindly, knowing that it would be best for him to talk it out instead of brooding over his wrongs, and perhaps being incited by his wife to further ill-will in considering the persecution she had endured for his sake. "When did you arrive?"

They seated themselves, Ananda retaining his hold on his wife as though he still feared lest she should be snatched away from him again. She sank upon the floor at his feet, resting an arm upon his knee with a comfortable sense of security which went towards compensating her for some of the unhappiness that had lately fallen to her lot. Alderbury called for the tea to be brought into his sitting-room.

"I arrived this morning."

"By train?"

"No, sir; I came by bullock cart. Let me tell you the story from the beginning. After your call at my father's house I was allowed to see my wife in the presence of the guru, who paid us a visit to inquire why the restitution ceremonies had not been performed. He tried to come between myself and my wife; but I was determined not to permit anything of the kind. Our interview was not pleasant. After it was over, and I had returned to my room I resolved to put an end to the uncomfortable state of affairs and leave my father's house."

"You were right in your intention."

"I made a mistake in not accepting your offer of help, sir. It was an error of judgment. My intention was to right my own battle without assistance."