CHAPTER IV
Chirapore, the capital of the large native state of Chirakul was situated on plateau land. In the months of March and April the thermometer rose above ninety degrees; but the rest of the year the climate was subtropical in character, and accounted cool as compared with the plains.
The plateau was bounded on one side by hills—spurs of the Western Ghats—where the virgin forest nestled in the ravines and valleys, and big game wandered free and unmolested by the war of extermination that progressive man too often wages in his encroachment upon nature.
Between the hills and Chirapore lay fields of grain and topes of fruit trees, the latter always green in the subtropical climate; there was a continual passing from seed-time to harvest, from flower to fruit without the paralysing inactivity induced by the hard winters of the temperate zone, or the fiery tropical summers of the torrid regions.
The city itself was built upon undulating ground, its centre being the old fort. Before British rule was established the inhabitants of Chirapore lived as near to the fort as was possible, seeking protection from the guns; but in later days, when there was no longer any fear of Mahratta horsemen, they ventured further afield, and the town was extended upon the smiling plateau in nobler lines. Handsome roads lined with private houses or shops intersected the suburbs. Many of the larger dwellings were older than the roads, and stood within their own grounds, a wall dividing them from the public way and ensuring the privacy essential to the happiness of caste families.
It was in one of these substantial mansions that Ananda's father, known as Pantulu Iyer, lived. It had belonged to the family for several generations. In course of time Ananda would inherit it with the silk farms and looms by which Pantulu and his immediate ancestors had accumulated a considerable fortune. As is usual with families of good caste and wealth, the members were numerous, including relatives of near and distant degree. There was no lack of room for them in the large house; and many of them gave their services in the domestic work of cooking and housekeeping.
Pantulu's wife, a woman of character, full of pride and caste prejudice, ruled the household with a firm but not unkind hand. Her position was strengthened by the fact that she was her husband's first and only wife. She had given him a son, and he was satisfied. Ananda had fulfilled all their dearest expectations; and as has already been stated, the parents had sent him to England to complete an education that should eventually fit him for a post in the Maharajah's Government, an assistant-commissionership; and later, perhaps, a place on the Council. To a father's ambition for his son there is no limit. Pantulu saw no reason why his son should not one day step into the Dewan's shoes should an opportunity occur.
The time approached for the return of the son of the house. News had been received of Coomara's death, but not a word had been said of the effect it had produced upon Ananda, nor of the grave consequences that had ensued.
Bopaul, travelling with his friend, was careful to drop no hint. He knew intuitively that the step Ananda had taken could not fail to rouse a disastrous storm. Bopaul had a fastidious dislike to storms; and the longer the announcement of the change of religion could be deferred the better pleased he would be. He was in no way responsible for the actions of the other; but it was possible that he might be drawn into the trouble that it must inevitably raise.
During the voyage out the subject of Ananda's change of religion was not mentioned between the two friends. Bopaul felt strongly that there was nothing to be said one way or the other. The deed was done and could not be undone. If the step had only been under contemplation and not irrevocably taken, he might have urged delay, consultation with the head of the family, consideration for the feelings of others besides himself. It was too late for all that; therefore it was useless to discuss it, and he kept a discreet silence.
Ananda attended the services held on Sunday for the benefit of the passengers and ship's officers. No one spoke to him on the subject of religion or attempted to win his confidence. His history was not known nor were his companions aware, with the exception of Bopaul, that he had accepted Christianity. He followed the service reverently; and if any one troubled himself with conjectures, he probably came to the conclusion that the young man had received baptism. For all that was known he might have been born a Christian.
Bopaul glanced at the peaceful face of his friend when he rejoined him on deck after the service, and wondered if Ananda realised what was before him. Of a nature inclined to shrink from any violent display of emotion, how would he meet the turbulent passions that would be roused in every member of his family as soon as the news was told. Did he realise all that was involved? He had been well instructed in the doctrines of Hinduism by his guru; and he had duly performed the various ceremonies prescribed at different periods of childhood and youth by the laws of his religion. What thought was it that stirred in his mind as he leaned on the taffrail and looked pensively down at the seething white froth churned by the passage of the big ship through the waters of the Indian Ocean?
Bopaul would have lifted his eyebrows in amused surprise could he have seen the figure that filled the mental vision of his friend. It was none other than Dorama, the young wife to whom after a long absence he was returning.
When the marriage took place bride and bridegroom were but children. The depths of their emotions were unruffled by the honeymoon which was spent, according to custom, three years later under the paternal roof. Two or three years of placid married life followed, during which Ananda was still absorbed in his studies, and Dorama was engaged in housewifely duties under the supervision of an autocratic mother-in-law, who was not unkind, but rigidly exacting, with no leaning whatever towards modern innovations.
Then came the birth of the son. Ananda found it a little difficult to believe that he had really attained the much-desired estate of paternity. He let his eyes rest on the girl-mother and his child with wondrous delight. The sight of them stirred him strangely, and awoke new longings that he did not understand. Those longings were the instinctive desires of the animal man to claim his mate for himself; and to carry her and her baby to some remote fastness, where he could hide her from the swarms of relatives who in their joy seemed to think that she belonged to them rather than to him. He wanted to gloat over her beauty, her wifehood and her motherhood, and to exult in sole possession. What did it mean? It almost awed him in its strength and insistence. Surely he was not rebelling against the time-honoured custom of the family life! He was not seeking to leave the home of his fathers!
Then came the journey to England and the separation. The underlying, scarcely recognised discontent vanished with the excitement of travel; but the memory of Dorama in her new character did not fade. On the contrary, it grew clearer and more beautiful the longer he cherished it, gathering romance and raising the wife far above all other women.
He determined that he would ask his father to give him a house of his own on his return with a suitable establishment over which his wife could rule. The plan commended itself for more reasons than one. Since he had changed his religion and adopted many western habits as well, his parents, who were people of discernment, could not fail to understand the necessity for some such arrangement. They might not like it; they might not be pleased that those western habits were adopted; they would assuredly disapprove of the change of religion; but when they comprehended that the changes had been effected to increase the comfort and happiness, spiritually as well as bodily, of their son, they would become reconciled. In sending him to England they must have been aware of the risks he ran of assimilating the ideas of the people among whom he had to live in such close intimacy. The doubts that troubled the keener-witted Bopaul did not therefore ruffle his serenity. He had no forebodings of the thunder-clouds that were gathering.
Pantulu, in company with Bopaul's father, went to Bombay to meet the mail boat. They decided not to go on board, but to await the coming of the travellers on the landing-stage. As Ananda and his companion stepped ashore with the throng of passengers the two men pressed forward. The sons folded their hands in reverence, and then extended the right in the clasp that is general in these days all over the world. The greeting attracted no attention, so quiet was it in its nature; but underneath the simple formalities lay a feeling too deep for words. Later, when the luggage had been disposed of and they were in the privacy of their own sitting-room in the hotel, Ananda, who had been unusually silent, spoke.
"I have something to say, my beloved and honourable father."
At the words Bopaul sprang to his feet.
"Come, sir," he said to his father, "we will leave his Excellency Pantulu Iyer with my friend Ananda to talk over their private affairs——"
Before the older man could rise, Ananda said hastily—
"Stop, Bopaul! I wish you to remain and hear what I have to say. Possibly I may have to ask you to confirm my statement. My father may otherwise find it difficult of belief."
Bopaul reseated himself, looking ill at ease. His father, influenced by a suddenly roused curiosity, which he had no scruples in satisfying, showed a disinclination to move. The eyes of both parents were fixed in surprise upon the sons, and they waited breathless to hear what communication Ananda had to make to his father.
Pantulu had removed his turban and replaced it by a velvet cap that covered his shaven head and the knot of hair on the crown. He had drawn his feet up beneath him, and his thoughts, if they were occupied at all, were busy building up a gilded future, in which his son was the chief figure. It took some seconds to detach his mind from his ambitious visions and concentrate it upon the fact that Ananda had something to say. In his old-fashioned opinion, children listened; it was for the parents to speak.
With mild astonishment he fixed his eyes upon his son. No suspicion of the blow that was impending crossed his mind. Doubtless Ananda was going to suggest an extension of the visit to Bombay that they might see a little of the Presidency town before going south.
"My father, I hope that it will not trouble you to learn that during my residence in England I have adopted many of the ways of that country."
"They will soon pass off, my son, when you return home and find yourself in the family once more. It is well to have a knowledge now-a-days of western customs, many of which the Maharajah himself has adopted. The time may come when you will often find yourself in his presence. Your English experience will serve you well on those occasions."
Ananda listened in silence without interrupting the speaker. Bopaul showed more uneasiness, rising from his chair and moving restlessly about the room as though longing to escape.
"I have learned to like the ways I have adopted—and the dress."
Ananda glanced down at the neat frock coat and trousers that became his figure and set it off to advantage.
"Our Maharajah wears the same kind of garments. There is no reason why you should not retain the dress in public."
"I intend to retain the dress and habits of English life," he replied with decision. Then, after a slight pause that seemed to the listeners to be shadowed by some strange unknown danger, he continued: "But this is not all. After much thought and deliberation I have also adopted the religion of England."
A dead silence greeted this announcement. Its full meaning did not immediately strike the listeners. Bopaul glanced from one to the other. The expression on the face of his own father held his attention. It was a curious mixture of astonishment, dismay, and incredulity. The jaw dropped; the eyes opened to their widest extent, and the brows were like two rainbows, so arched had they become. Bopaul had that insane desire to laugh which seizes men and women at a crisis fraught with possible disaster; he turned his back on the company to hide his trembling lips. An inarticulate sound made him look round. It came from his own parent, who struggled in vain to frame a question.
Bopaul divined its import. Was he, too, a renegade, a 'vert? He controlled his lips and strangled his ill-timed mirth. A sign in the negative set his father's mind at rest on that point, and enabled the older man to give his undivided attention to what was passing between Pantulu and his son.
Pantulu, like his friend, had been struck dumb by the shock of Ananda's statement. He moistened his lips, and after a few ineffectual attempts accomplished articulation. His voice sounded strange and unlike his usual tone.
"You have—adopted—the religion of—England, my son! I fail to grasp your meaning!"
"I have become a Christian."
Ananda spoke clearly, but with a doggedness that seemed a little forced. Under his calmness lurked timidity. Bopaul detected it and again his lips quivered, this time with the ghost of a scornful smile. It required a magnificent courage and enormous endurance for a caste man to make such a change. If he knew Ananda aright his friend had no great store of either courage or endurance. His Christianity would soon be knocked out of him when the family had him back again in the old home away from foreign influences, unless he, Bopaul, was very much mistaken.
Pantulu dropped his feet to the ground, raised himself by the arms of the lounge on which he was seated, and rose without haste to his full height. The folds of his soft white muslin cloth fell over his lower limbs, the flowing drapery giving him an oriental dignity that was patriarchal. He wore a dark-blue serge coat, a white shirt and linen collar, with tie to match the coat. Everything was of the best quality and fitted his aristocratic well-made figure without fault. On the little finger of his right hand shone a diamond of rare beauty, his only ornament. The sparkle of the gem caught Ananda's eye as the hand was slightly raised in growing horror.
"A Christian! a Christian!" he repeated. Then lowering his hand he seemed to shake off the horror by an effort of will. "I have not understood you, my son. There is some mistake. Whatever strange customs you may have thought fit to adopt during your stay in England, you must drop them now. They have served their purpose, and they must be thrown aside like the strange weeds that as a child you gathered in the jungle, and cast upon the dust heap on your return before entering the house. You have returned to the home of your fathers a Hindu, an orthodox Hindu, a Vishnuvite. Even now at this moment the Swami, our guru, waits at our house in Chirapore to see the ceremonies performed that will restore your caste and purify you from the pollution of these western habits."
The voice grew firmer until it rang out like a sharply-struck bell. Yet for all its firmness there was a strain of desperate entreaty running through it, as though the speaker waited in passionate hope for confirmation of his assertions. That confirmation did not come. Ananda, as he stood before his father, shifted uneasily from one foot to the other; and as the elder ceased speaking he said falteringly—
"No caste ceremonies will be required. I have given up Hinduism. I have been baptised and received into the English Church. It is not necessary to look so serious over it, honoured father. All that will be needed can be done without difficulty. It will be advisable to give me a separate house and establishment for myself and my wife and son, since our presence will naturally create trouble for my mother in the preparation of food. I am also prepared to find that many members of your household may demand my exclusion from the family circle."
Ananda's even voice appeared to have a paralysing effect upon both the older men; for they were silent. Bopaul's father was the first to find his tongue.
"My friend, I am sorry for this. It is an unspeakable misfortune."
Pity, unsolicited and unexpected, and equally unwelcome, broke the spell and opened the floodgates of wrath. Again the diamond flashed as the paternal hand was raised.
"A Christian! My son a cursed Christian! an outcaste! an alien! lower than the pariah, more loathed than the punchama sweeper! Oh! what have I done that the gods should curse me thus? What sin have I committed that I should be thus afflicted and punished? My son! my only son!" Once more a desperate effort was made to reject, to disbelieve the terrible news. "My little son!" he used the pet name by which Ananda had been known as a child, and it came from his lips with infinite tenderness. "My little son! tell me you have but joked, and that you have been playing upon your poor old father's fears. Be satisfied that you have startled and frightened him. Now reassure him! restore him to happiness, my little son! Be kind and tender in your strong young manhood to one who is growing old and whose life is bound up in yours."
He placed his hands together, palm to palm, and bowed his proud head in humble entreaty. Bopaul once more turned his back upon the company and strode towards one of the windows. The sight of Pantulu's grief and distress pained him more than he cared to admit. Ananda did not hear the appeal unmoved. Tears sprang into his eyes, and he too averted his gaze from a sight that sent a sharp knife through his heart; but, like all weak natures, he possessed a strain of obstinacy that came now to his assistance. Bopaul, who had more force of character, could not have listened to such an appeal from his father without wavering in his determination, no matter how great might have been his courage. With Ananda it had a contrary effect. It distressed and pained him beyond expression; but it strengthened rather than weakened his resolve, and created a desire to justify his action. He answered firmly and decisively, and in that answer his father recognised the obstinacy of the perverse boy who so often succeeded in getting his own way in spite of his timid nature.
"It is true. I am a Christian, and I intend to remain a Christian. I am sorry if it hurts you, my father; but I have arrived at man's estate and must judge for myself. I have taken the step deliberately and with due thought and consideration."
"This is the Professor's doing, him to whom I entrusted you!" cried Pantulu, his wrath rising hotly.
"No, it is not! The Professor had nothing to do with it!" replied Ananda, in a sharp, clear voice. He turned to Bopaul, who was still standing with his back to them. "Reassure my father on this point, please. Had Professor Twyford or his family anything to do with the step I have taken?"
"To the best of my belief, none. He showed as much astonishment when you announced the change as I felt myself. What was more, he was terribly disturbed by the news."
Pantulu made no comment on this confirmation of his son's story, and Ananda began again.
"It happened in this way——"
"Silence!" thundered his father, in a voice that made them all start. "When the dhoby's donkey falls into the tank, does it bring him to life again to explain what caused his foot to slip? Thou art cursed! cursed! cursed! No longer shalt thou be a son of mine! I am childless! Go from my sight, and never let my eyes fall upon thee again!"
He used the language usually addressed to inferiors, and it stung.
"Let me explain, most excellent father——"
"Call me not father, son of a dog!"
"If you would only let me speak, I can——"
"Sooner would I listen to the 'untouchable' who cleans the gutters and carries away the contents of the dustbin! Go!"
He moved towards him threateningly. Ananda stepped back a pace or two, but did not show any sign of leaving the room.
"It is not fair to judge any one unheard," he began again; but he was not allowed to finish the sentence. Pantulu, beside himself with rage, advanced with uplifted hand and brought his fist down upon his son's face. The diamond caught his lip and tore it open. Blood flowed and dropped upon the white shirt-front, leaving a large red stain.
Bopaul rushed forward, interposing himself between the two, and pushed his friend through the doorway leading to his bedroom.
The outraged father glared after his son and panted out in gasps—
"Never in the whole course of the boy's life have I laid a hand upon him. What have I done! What have I done!"
He sank down into his chair and covered his face with his hands. Joy, ambition, paternal pride, all had been extinguished, leaving him a broken and miserable man.
CHAPTER V
For the past twelve months the family of Pantulu Iyer had been preparing for the return of the son and heir. In the first place Gunga, Ananda's mother, had undertaken a pilgrimage to the large Vishnuvite temple at Srirungam, near Trichinopoly. She was a proud woman, full of energy, just but strict in the performance of duties, religious as well as social. She demanded of others the same rigid adherence to rule, and she countenanced no indulgence nor slackness in young or old among her dependents. By her decree Dorama and her little son were to accompany her.
The journey would have been easy by rail; but Pantulu's wife was not a woman to look for ease and comfort where ceremonial was concerned. She chose the way of her ancestors and elected to travel by road as they had travelled in the old days before the fire-carriage revolutionised the Indian methods of journeying.
It took many days, even though she used her own powerful bullocks. Besides the coach there was a country cart which carried the cooking-pots, bedding, and her own caste servants. The people of the villages through which she passed inquired the name of the gracious lady who honoured their poor hamlet by her presence. The reply was given by the drivers; she was the wife of a rich silk merchant of Chirapore, carrying offerings to the big temple at Srirungam. Why did she make offerings? Was her husband sick? No; it was because her son who had been to England was returning, and she was anxious to enlist the favour of the gods so that he might be restored to her in safety. The country folk received the information with much salaaming, and expressed a hope that she would be favoured. They supplied her with eggs and milk; and admired the fine handsome white cattle that drew her coach, praising the drooping ears and swinging dew-laps in loud tones that were intended to penetrate the curtains that hung before the windows of the carriage.
At the big temple she was honourably received. The gifts she brought were presented by her tiny grandson in the absence of any other male member of the family.
The little Royan, named after his great-grandfather, was decked in purple velvet and crimson satin; and his small person was laden with jewels of gold and precious stones. The soft baby hand, timidly extended to the awe-inspiring mahunt—who graciously deigned to receive the offerings in person—was weighed down by the solid gold lime resting on his palm. The great man smiled as he stooped and received the substantial gift. By the side of the child stood his grandmother, erect in her hale middle-age. Her limbs had not yet lost the lines of a comely youth, nor the features their haughty beauty.
Half hidden behind her was the smaller figure of Dorama, her eyes cast down, her rich silk cloth, plain in colour and pattern, veiling her lately-developed form. The eyes of the mahunt dwelt upon her as he asked a few questions. He learned that her husband was in England, and would be returning some time during the year.
"She will rejoin him and give you another grandson to rejoice your heart," said the mahunt.
"It may be so if the gods will," replied Gunga in a tone that seemed to dismiss the subject.
"Should your hopes not be fulfilled you must make another pilgrimage to the temple, and she must keep vigil before the god. It cannot fail to bring about the desired result."
To this proposition the elder lady made no reply, and the mahunt retired, casting another glance of approval upon Dorama.
After a few days' rest, Gunga returned as she went, making the journey by easy stages. The nights were spent at the various rest-houses on the road, where her attendants cooked the food and saw to her comfort. She chose a time when the weather promised to be fine, and it did not disappoint her. The expedition was a pleasant jaunt, which Dorama enjoyed more than a little.
On her return home Gunga superintended other preparations considered necessary for the occasion. The whole household—with all its dependents and caste servants numbering over fifty—had to be fitted out with new clothes. The little close-fitting jackets of bright colours affected by the women were fashioned by careful tailors. Men's coats of brilliant cloth, lined with silk and richly embroidered with gold, were put in hand. New lengths of muslin of the finest quality were purchased after careful and deliberate bargaining; and many of the family jewels were reset.
It was in these heirlooms that Dorama was most interested. According to time-honoured custom among modest Hindu women, she had laid aside her jewels on her husband's departure; nor was she permitted to use the golden saffron powder that is supposed to enhance the beauty of the Indian skin. With his return all restriction of self-adornment would end; and the finest and best of the jewels would be hung about her own neck and arms; and her smooth skin would gleam with powder that would match the newly-burnished gold.
The tailors needed supervision; the working goldsmiths required individual watching. A member of the family, usually one of the elder women, was told off to sit by his crucible and work-table whilst he plied his bellows and his delicate styles; and the half-finished ornament was carried home in the evening to be restored to the jeweller in the morning when the person in charge was able to resume her guard.
Then there were the preparations that belonged to the kitchen, the chutneys, pickles, and preserves that would be required when the time arrived for feasting and feeding the poor Brahmans.
Dorama assisted under her mother-in-law's directions, lending a hand here and there where special care was needed. She was very silent; but beneath that silence was hidden a fire of emotions varied and deep that the others little dreamed of. She thought of her wedding, long ago when she was but a child. At the time the ceremonies had excited her wonder, and she had experienced a fearful pleasure in the thought that she was the centre of attention. She remembered Ananda's smooth boyish face and his gentle acquiescence to all his parents' wishes. He had glanced at his newly-made wife with childish curiosity, in which passion and desire found no place.
Later the parents arranged a honeymoon for the young couple, to be spent under the paternal roof. On her side, at least, there was nothing but distaste and fear, with not a little grief at having to leave her own home. Then ensued a dull period when light household tasks instead of dolls and toys filled her life. It ended in the birth of a son. With the advent of the baby she was released from domestic work in the kitchen; and though she found that the wonderful living doll was not her exclusive property, but seemed to belong to the whole house as much as to her, existence had a new interest.
Before she was sufficiently recovered to take her new place as the favoured young mother of a son in the family circle, Ananda departed. She remembered how he had knelt by her side and looked at the tiny baby, their joint property, with a kind of delighted surprise, as though he found it difficult to realise that the little crumpled olive ball of humanity was his own, his very own. From his child his eyes went to his child's mother with a light in them that she had never seen there before. She was no longer one of the mere goods and chattels of the house to help to minister to his appetite, feed him, keep his clothes in order and perform other duties that contributed to his comfort and well-being. In giving him this son, who would one day call him by the name most highly prized throughout the land, she had done something purely personal, something exclusively for him; and in so doing she had endowed him with a delight and joy unknown before.
It was impossible for him to express his gratitude in words. The presence of his mother standing near with her dark, watchful eyes kept him silent. He could only gaze from wife to child and then back again at his wife. In his shining eyes, full of unspoken happiness, the girl might read what she pleased. Even as he knelt by the mat on which she lay the new longing arose to possess, to enjoy, to claim his own, and carry his precious treasures away.
The watching mother detected the emotion, and a twinge of jealousy caused her to stir uneasily. She advanced and laid a hand upon his shoulder, her gold bracelets ringing as they fell together upon her wrist with the movement.
"Come away, my son; she is still weak, and unable to bear a long farewell. Be assured that we will keep her safe and sound till you return, her and her little son."
Ananda bent lower over the recumbent figure, and his mother's brow contracted as she saw the motion.
"Beloved! keep your heart warm for your absent husband," he whispered, as he kissed the beautiful mouth.
Dorama, as a well-behaved married woman, should have shown no emotion beyond grief. She should have received the kiss and the words in silence, allowing the eyelids to droop under his ardent gaze; but in these latter days of progress the orthodox Hindu feels the insensible breath of the new spirit, and yields to it without actually breaking away from the old rules. That same spirit moved her to put her arms round his neck and to draw him down again till their lips touched a second time.
"Do not be long, beloved. The slave waits impatiently for her lord."
"Come! come! The carriage is ready, and his honour, your father, is impatient to be off," said the voice of his mother, as once more her hand rested on his shoulder.
He rose to his feet and accompanied her without another word, turning once only to look back and smile at the eyes that followed him so wistfully. Neither husband nor wife forgot the incident. Every detail, every look and word were engraved upon their memories, and with this their aching hungry hearts had to be contented until they should meet again.
As the time drew near for Ananda's return Dorama moved like one in a dream. During the day she was abstracted and thoughtful, except when she was with her little son. If by any chance she could carry him out of hearing of the other members of the family on pretence of giving him the air, she spoke of his father, pouring out the pent-up feeling in words, the meaning of which was beyond the child's comprehension. It brought relief, although it did not allay the terrible longing.
When the pink satin coat that Royan was to wear on his father's home-coming was finished, Dorama stole away to the little room she had shared with her husband, and slipped it on. The boy's eyes sparkled with delight at the colour and sheen.
"Your father is coming, blessed one! Say 'Father, excellent father! Your son and slave throws himself before your honourable footsteps!' Say it! Ah, good child! It was well done! Now again; and carry the hand to the forehead, thus! Good, little one! Mother's joy!"
Suddenly the sound of Gunga's voice fell on her ear as some order was given in the distance to one of the dependents.
"Ah! there is the grandmother! Quick! take it off! The coat is only to be worn in the presence of your father."
She pulled it off, the child entering into the fun and excitement of doing something that must be hidden from the rigid mistress of the house. When the coast was clear Dorama crept back, the coat hidden under her saree and her finger on her lips. The purloined garment was replaced in the clothes chest without discovery, and the two, laughing like a couple of mischievous children, ran away in happy glee over their secret.
At night she lay on her mat in the large room appropriated to the women of the household, wakeful with busy thought and anticipation. The deep breathing and occasional snore of her companions told her that they slept soundly. Then she ventured to move, to stretch her young limbs and sit up. Her brain seemed on fire. Would her mother give them again the little room; or would the son of the house be honoured by being assigned a larger and more important chamber? Would he be altered in any way? Possibly he had grown older in appearance, stronger in limb, more manly. How the women of England must have admired him! Hateful creatures! She detested English women! What was there to admire in them? They were blocks of ice with hard, cold, white skins and unkind eyes. She had never seen them except in the streets as they drove past in carriages or motors; but she was quite convinced that she read their characters aright, and that her opinion of them was correct.
She heard the cocks crowing as they marked the progress of the night. In the midst of her musings she fell asleep, and dreamed that he had come, that he leaned over her in greeting as he had leaned in parting, and that their lips met once more.
Among other preparations was the painting and decoration of the house. As the time approached Venetian masts were erected and wreaths suspended the length of the road in which they lived. Bunches of leaves and flowers were tied to the beams of the house, and whole plantain trees bearing their large clusters of golden fruit were fastened to every pillar.
Then the guru with his disciple arrived, and the purohit from the temple, to superintend the ceremonies that were necessary for the restoration of caste. Gunga, in the absence of her husband in Bombay, gave the holy men a welcome, and saw that nothing was omitted that was conducive to their comfort.
As the time drew near the whole household felt the thrill of expectation that never fails to move a family when one of its members is expected home after a long sojourn in foreign lands. What news there would be to hear, and to tell! The traveller would bring gifts for all. No one would be forgotten.
One morning a post peon appeared carrying a telegram. It was addressed to Pantulu's brother, Sooba, the little master, as he was called; and it announced that the ship had come in safely and that the passengers would land that afternoon.
"Is there anything in the telegram about the time they will leave Bombay?" asked the guru's attendant, as he waited to carry news to the great man. Gunga handed him the message in its brown envelope. Ten minutes later he returned.
"The master says that they will start to-morrow probably, either by the morning or evening mail, according to the time it takes to clear the luggage through the custom house."
The guru was well versed in matters temporal as well as spiritual.
"When may we expect them?" asked Gunga.
"It takes two nights and a day to travel from Bombay to Chirapore," replied the disciple. "If they leave to-morrow night they will be here on Wednesday morning."
"The day before the new moon! Not a lucky day to be travelling south," remarked Gunga, with a troubled expression upon her face. "If my husband remembers to go out of the house in which he is staying by a north door, the bad luck may be averted."
"He will surely think of it," observed the disciple, whose life was occupied in the consideration of omens.
"In the joy of meeting his son it is quite possible that it may be forgotten. I know that my lord will be nearly beside himself with delight at seeing his boy again, his only child!" she added softly, with a tenderness that she rarely exhibited.
That same afternoon a second telegram was received. It said "Disperse guests. Discontinue preparations for feasting and rejoicing."
Gunga listened speechless as her brother-in-law read it aloud.
"Again," she commanded.
He read it a second and a third time.
"Is there nothing about illness? Is no reason given for these strange orders?"
"None, most honourable mother of my brother's family."
"Call his excellency, the swami."
The guru, full of curiosity, came at the summons without delay. He read the message more than once, but was unable to throw any more light upon its meaning.
"A letter will come with full explanations," he said at last. "Until its arrival the directions of the master of the house must be carried out. My disciple shall tell the company of beggars who are already assembling that there will be no feasting. He had better give them an anna apiece, which you will provide, and say that they will be called together again on the arrival of the master."
"What can be the cause of this change?" asked Gunga, her dark eyes fixed with a questioning gaze upon the guru.
"Illness, perhaps, or an accident."
"My son is not dead!" she cried in sudden terror.
"No, that cannot be; nor can there be any dangerous illness. It is possible that your son may have missed his ship, in which case he will arrive by the next mail boat a week later. We shall learn in time. Meanwhile, I will go on my way to another house, where my presence is needed, and will hold myself in readiness to return a fortnight hence."
Pantulu's wife felt slightly relieved by the suggestion that her son might be coming a week later. It was better than entertaining the fear that he was ill or even dead. She accepted the situation, and set about carrying out her husband's directions at once. The new clothes were packed away in camphor-wood boxes; the pickles and preserves were tied down and put in the storeroom. The women were ordered to cease grinding curry-stuffs and pounding rice. The busy household dropped into sudden inaction, and an unnatural silence reigned everywhere. The women spoke in whispers, and the men betook themselves to the bazaar, or to the houses of their fellow-caste people, where they discussed the ominous message from Bombay without fear of being overheard by the stern woman who ruled the family.
Dorama with the rest had listened as the telegram was read out. Every word of it was engraven upon her brain. She went over it again and again, puzzling herself to find a reason for the strange mandate. If Ananda had missed his ship surely his father would have said so. On the other hand, if there was illness or an accident to cause delay, it might easily have been told in a few words. Some mystery lay beneath it. What could it be? Had Ananda lost his senses and become mad with the joy of his home-coming? She had known cases of temporary loss of the senses through excessive joy or grief.
The child plucked at her saree, jealous of her abstraction. She caught him up and crushed his soft little body to her heart.
"Thus and thus will thy father hug thee and me, my son, when he comes!"
The boy, irritated at being roughly handled, beat at her with his small fists.
"Thus and thus will I beat my father if he hurts me like that. Let me go, or I will ask him to find me another mother."
The senseless words fell upon her ear with strange force. What was it the child said? Another mother! Could it be possible that her husband had forgotten her in that foreign country, where he had lived so long? Was he bringing home another wife? a white woman, a hated European? No, no! It was impossible!
With a stifled cry she set the child down on his feet, and he seized the opportunity of escaping to the kitchen, the spot he loved best. She was left alone, and no one heeded her; they were all too busy discussing the mystery of the message and attempting to discover its solution. Suddenly she dropped to the ground, crouching as though some unseen hand were about to strike a deadly blow, her hands lifted to guard her head.
"No! no! no! If there were another I could not bear it. I should die!" she wailed. Then passion took hold of her. She stuffed the corner of her saree into her mouth and bit it savagely. "No, I will not die! It is the strange woman who shall die! Hear me, swami of the big temple! Hear my vow. I will live and have my own! my own!"
CHAPTER VI
The house in which Bopaul's father lived was situated in the same road, about a hundred yards distant, and on the opposite side. It was nearer the town, and though a substantial building, was not as large as the silk merchant's; nor was the compound as extensive. A similar preparation had been made by the family, but not on so large or expensive a scale; nor had the mistress thought it necessary to go on a pilgrimage. New clothes had been bought, and store-rooms were replenished. The house had been repainted and decorated.
There was no young wife with her little son to await the coming of Bopaul; but his bride was already chosen, and the marriage ceremony would be performed as soon as the restoration of caste was accomplished. She would not be present at his home-coming. The girl was a stranger to him, and he had yet to make her acquaintance. As in Pantulu's family, there were many relatives and dependents who performed the duties of servants; but claimed a right to share in the rejoicings as relations.
One forlorn little figure in that busy happy company was not a participator in the joy of Bopaul's return. This was his own sister Mayita, married in her infancy to Coomara. By Coomara's death she had become a widow, although she had been only a wife in name. Her degradation was aggravated by the fact that her husband had died abroad, with the funeral ceremonies, in which she should have taken a certain part, unperformed.
In dying out of his country the dead man was laid, as we have seen, under the ban of broken caste. It was irrevocably broken, no ritual having ever been devised by which it could be restored.
Dressed once more as a bride—this time in bitter mockery—the jewels had been stripped from her neck and arms; her head was shaven; the glass bangles of her childhood were broken upon her wrists. Never would she forget, young as she was, the crash of glass as the delicate circles were splintered under a sharp, irritable blow that in itself indicated how deeply her fate was resented by the family. The soft brown-and-gold saree that harmonised with her complexion was ruthlessly unwound with unnecessary force as she stood weeping and unresisting in the hands of the wailing women. It was thrown aside as though defiled by contact with her half-developed form. In place of it she was obliged to wear a coarse cotton cloth, with rough edges, that chafed her tender skin and brought her unfortunate condition constantly to mind.
No pity was felt for the shrinking, miserable girl as she flitted like a ghost about the house, avoiding with painful care young and old alike, lest her shadow should fall upon them and bring bad luck. In the preparations for her brother's return she had no part. When his eye should first fall upon her, he ought by all precedent to curse her, and command her to get out of his sight. It was this thought that hurt her most, and caused a sharper grief than she had felt for the loss of her husband. She was but thirteen years old. A vivid memory remained of the brother who in old days had been invariably kind. The longing to see him again was great; and many a secret tear was shed at the thought that she might no more bask in the sunshine of his fraternal love.
In the caste family that is poor the widow becomes the drudge of the house. It is often a blessing in disguise, if the work is not made too heavy, as it gives occupation for the mind. In Bopaul's family it was not necessary for Mayita to occupy that position. There were plenty of people to do the work, and she was not called upon to take any part in the household duties. She would have been happier for a little employment; but she was denied both work and play. The other children refused to allow her to join their games; and when she approached the women who ground the curry-stuffs, pounded and cleaned the rice, tended the kitchen fires or polished the numerous brass pots, they one and all motioned her away. If she begged to be given occupation of some sort, they set her a task that had perforce to be executed in solitude.
She sought her mother, but here again she was repulsed; not by rough words, but by her parent's sighs and tears. Bopaul's mother was a stout, lethargic person, who loved above all things her own comfort. Until her daughter was widowed she was rarely seen without a placid smile of content. She still wore it at times when the misfortune was forgotten. As soon as Mayita appeared the smile faded; the large, slumbrous eyes filled with tears, and she began her lamentations.
"What sin can my daughter have committed in a former birth that such heavy punishment should be meted out?"
Then she would send her with a message to another part of the house, and the child knew that she was not expected to return. If Mayita remained, the wailing was continued.
"The sight of your widowhood is a shame to the whole house. Such a misfortune can only come to those who have in some way grievously offended the gods."
The accusation of sin in a former birth was repeated so often that at last the girl became possessed with a vague sense of wrong-doing. Its responsibility added to the weight already resting upon the young shoulders, and increased her misery.
Shortly after the receipt of the second telegram, one of the women belonging to Pantulu's family slipped away to carry the news to her neighbours. She was received eagerly with a chorus of questions.
"What news? When do they come? We have heard nothing."
"It is not known when they arrive."
"Why do you look so gloomy? Is the news otherwise than good?"
"Yemmah! how can I tell? Aiyoh! to think of such a thing!"
After this enigmatic speech she began to weep with the ready ease of the oriental. The sensation created was gratifying to her vanity. There was a perfect clamour for an explanation.
"What is it? Speak! we are all on fire to learn!"
"The master has sent an order by the wire that there are to be no rejoicings. Aiyoh! to think that the young excellency should return to his father's house without rejoicings, without feastings and garlandings, and without fireworks and feeding of the poor!"
"What says the mistress?"
"That there has been an accident or an illness, and that their honours, the master and his son are not coming. If there is bad luck it will be the waning moon that will have caused it. Next week all would have gone well. What news has been received in this house? Has the ticking devil sent any message?"
"Only one. It was written on a thin slip of paper, and it came in a brown envelope."
"What did it say?"
"That the young master had landed in safety, and that they would leave Bombay by the night mail to-morrow."
"And the rejoicings?"
"There is no order to forbid them."
"Is the swami here?"
"He and his disciple arrived last night."
"Happy house! Happy mistress of an honourable family. She is to be envied."
"Our excellent lady has only one trouble; it is the presence of Coomara's widow."
"What will she do about it? It will bring misfortune on the young master if he meets his sister immediately on arrival."
"She will be locked in the room that opens into the cowyard; and she will be kept there till the middle of the next day. In the afternoon, when there is less fear of the frown of the gods, she may perhaps be permitted to see him; but only if he asks for her."
Other members of Pantulu's household slipped away to carry the news to the neighbours. The story was told and retold with variations till the whole town was agog with curiosity. Many were the surmises, but not a single one came near the true solution of the mystery.
On the morning of the day when Bopaul and his father were expected a large crowd gathered at the railway station to learn what had happened. No one knew whether Pantulu would be in the same train. It was Bopaul to whom they looked for news. Friends and fellow-caste men were permitted on the platform, which was crowded. A larger number, moved only by curiosity, assembled outside the station.
Chirapore was a terminus. The train arrived and poured forth its load of travellers. Some astonishment was caused by the sight of the large assembly gathered in and round the building; but the attention of Bopaul and his father was diverted to the recovery of personal baggage from the vans, and their curiosity as to the reason of so big a crowd was lost in anxiety to assure themselves of the safety of their property.
Through the crowd Pantulu and his son pushed their way hastily. So hemmed in were they that they escaped observation except by a few. In the hurry and bustle no attempt was made to detain them for a greeting which could be made with more dignity later. Pantulu led the way, passing straight through the station and out into the public road, where stood a row of carriages for hire. Ananda followed close upon his heels with his suit-case. His two portmanteaux were carried by a couple of coolies and placed without delay upon the roof of a hired gharry.
Father and son stepped into the carriage and were driven off. Not a word passed between them. Ananda was conducted back to the home of his childhood in an ominous silence that chilled him and destroyed all his happiness. He wondered vaguely what his father intended to do with him. He was aware that he could not join the family circle, eat with them, take part in the daily religious worship conducted by his father as head of the house before the chief meal of the day. His exclusion would have been insisted upon even if he had not taken the momentous step. Until the restoration of caste it was imperative that he should lead a life apart from the rest of the family. It would mean the occupation of an isolated room well away from the kitchen, the taking of his food in solitude, the reservation of earthen drinking vessels exclusively for his own use, to be destroyed afterwards. But with all this there would be nothing to prevent him from meeting the male members of the family in that general place of assembly in all Indian houses, the pial or verandah. There they could talk and he could relate his experiences, and the others might listen without fear of contamination. This condition of affairs might last without personal discomfort to any one for a week or ten days, or even longer, according to the decree of those who conducted the ceremonies for the restoration of caste.
Under the altered circumstances Ananda concluded that the arrangements for his accommodation would be of a permanent nature, and more comfortable than if they were temporary. He would be able to furnish his room to his liking, introducing a few western luxuries, such as an armchair or two, a writing-table, bookcase, a table at which he could sit to take his meals. He could join the family in the pial, but otherwise lead his own life as he had learned to lead it in England. No difficulty presented itself to his mind in the arrangement; in truth, there was none. Provided he did not force himself upon his family in a manner that would endanger their caste rules, no objection could be made to his staying for a time under his father's roof. Later he would propose the separate house—it might be small and unassuming—where he could live as he pleased with his wife and child.
In the midst of his speculations the noisy ramshackle vehicle drew up before the house. The plantain palms and festoons of green leaves remained where joyful fingers had placed them. The Venetian masts that were to have supported ropes of Chinese lanterns had also been left standing, some of them bare of decoration, others gaudy with red and white twists of calico. Not a living creature was visible. The big iron-studded door was closely shut. A few small windows looking towards the road were screened with Venetian shutters; the pial was empty. There was not even the joyous bark of a dog to welcome home the wanderer.
Pantulu stepped out of the carriage and directed the driver to place the two leather portmanteaux on the steps. He kept his back to his son whenever he was able, and studiously averted his gaze. The sight of the wound on his son's face hurt him more than a little. Ananda followed his father, and the coachman was paid and ordered to leave without delay. They waited till he had retreated in a cloud of dust; and then Ananda, who was impatient of delay, put his foot on the first step of the flight that led up to the pial.
"Stop!" said his father, sternly. "Follow me!"
He gave no explanation, and confined himself to as few words as possible. Leading the way round to the side of the house, he entered the compound and conducted his son to a little outer yard into which opened the door of a room that had no communication with the rest of the building. The room was empty, except for a thick layer of dust and dried leaves blown in by the wind through the open door. A tiny, unglazed, unshuttered window high up under the eaves of the roof, admitted a little light; but at best the room was but a den, and not fit for the accommodation of a human being, let alone a son of the house.
"Go in and wait there," said his father, shortly, as though the necessity of addressing his son was repugnant.
"I should like a chair—and a mat; and surely the room might be swept out with advantage," said Ananda, looking round with undisguised disgust.
Pantulu avoided meeting his eyes, and walked away without replying. Meanwhile the advent of the gharry had not been unnoticed by the wondering household. The mistress herself, overcome by her curiosity, pressed her forehead against the Venetians to peer through a chink and take a look at the arrivals. She could tell by the expression on her husband's face that something had happened to disturb him greatly. Nothing less than some serious misfortune could bring those deep lines upon his brow and cause the corners of his mouth to droop so ominously. Of one thing she assured herself with some satisfaction. Her son was sound in limb and well in health; and she caught her breath in a little sigh of relief.
Dorama, hugging her child close to her breast, stood behind her mother-in-law, listening eagerly for news.
"Has the excellent father arrived?" she ventured to ask at last, unable to repress her curiosity.
A bare affirmative was all she could elicit.
"Is he alone?" she asked presently.
Pantulu's wife shook her head without speaking, and presently moved away from the window. There was a little struggle among the women to secure her place. They were disappointed. The road and the short carriage-drive up to the house were empty except for a distant bullock-cart plodding its way to the market with a sleepy driver, who had eyes for nothing but his cattle.
Gunga went to the back of the house. She had not long to wait. Pantulu, dejected and gloomy, strode in by a door in the wall, passed quickly through the garden, mounted the verandah steps and, without a word, went straight to the front room, into which the big iron-studded door opened. He greeted no one. The men and women who had been waiting in the courtyard and inner rooms salaamed, but he took no notice of their salutations. His wife followed him, and he asked gruffly for his brother. A man some ten years younger than himself came forward and salaamed.
"All is well with my honoured elder brother! May the gods continue to smile on him and all his family!"
Pantulu suddenly flung his arms up and cried passionately—
"I am cursed! The gods have cursed me—me and my family!'
"In what manner, most excellent master of the house?"
"My son has become a Christian!—my only son! My only child!"
The words rang out sharply and reached the ears of the group that had circled round the master of the house. They were repeated from mouth to mouth with gathering consternation as the catastrophe was gradually realised. Gunga heard them, and at first seemed stunned, so still and silent did she remain. A groan escaped her lips, and the strong, shapely hands gripped the edge of her saree.
"A Christian! What do you say? My ears have played me false. I have not heard aright. My son a Christian? You jest, my husband!"
"It is true!" he replied, in a dull, despairing voice that in itself should have been convincing if she could have brought herself to believe in such a thing; but she fought against it, and refused to entertain the idea.
"Who dares to say that our son has become a Christian?" she asked fiercely.
"His own tongue. He calls himself by the accursed name, and he shows no shame."
"A Christian! a Christian!" echoed voices round him. "A Christian! a Christian!" was caught up by the women and repeated with increasing excitement.
"Oh! Aiyoh! Aiyoh! Aiyoh!"
The cry came from Gunga herself. It dominated the chorus of lamentation and silenced every other tongue. Suddenly the sound of a thud upon the floor startled the company. A childish scream followed.
"Water! bring water!" said one of the women. "The lady Dorama has fainted and let the child fall!"