CHAPTER XIV
A surprise was in store for Mrs. Hulver the next morning in the shape of a telegram from her son. He had arrived at Bangalore, and he proposed taking three days' leave to pay his mother a visit at once. Her head was fairly turned with delight, and she hurried off to tell the good news to her young mistress. She thrust the telegram into Eola's hand.
"Read it, miss. You will have to go through it two or three times before you can take it all in; at least, I had to do so; but then I'm flurried; and as William—that was my second—used to say: 'Flurry never fires straight!'"
"Can we manage to put him up?" asked Eola, wondering whether she ought to offer her pretty spare room to the young corporal.
"Quite easily, miss. A camp bed in my sitting-room will do nicely."
"Are you sure that you would not like the spare room for him——"
Mrs. Hulver interrupted her with a gesture of horror.
"A common soldier in the spare room, miss! and the room just done up, too! No, indeed! A missionary may use it if he is a friend of the house; but Dr. Wenaston should not stoop any lower. With the new curtains and carpet the room is fit for the Governor himself. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'The finest trappings in the world don't alter the breed of a horse.' My son may look very smart in his corporal's uniform, but for all that he's only the son of a man in the ranks."
Eola's delicate sense of hospitality was not satisfied. With the spare room empty she felt that the door should not be shut against an Englishman, whose character was perfectly respectable, but whose rank differed from her own.
"If it is inconvenient to you to have him in the sitting-room, I should be very pleased to let him use the spare room," she said.
Mrs. Hulver drew herself up with pride. "I know my place, miss," she replied, severely, as much as to say: "and you ought to know yours." She continued: "Even if I could bring myself to let him use the spare room, I should know all the time that it would not be good for him. As William—that was my first—used to say: 'Pride is a plant that needs neither water nor manure; it will grow fast enough by itself.' My son William will make himself comfortable you may be sure; and his pride will not be fostered by the camp bed, for it's a little ricketty, to say nothing of being a bit hard. My sitting-room will be like a palace to the boy after the barracks. I'm not sure that I ought to let him sleep there."
"Where else could you put him?" asked Eola in wonder, for she knew the limitations of the house.
"In a corner of the back verandah," replied Mrs. Hulver promptly. "It would be very convenient to have him there."
"The night wind might give him fever."
"That's true, miss. As William—that was my third—used to say, when I rated him for leaning a little too far towards his failing: 'Conveniences have their inconveniences and comforts their crosses.' Well, you mustn't keep me here gossiping or I shan't be ready for young William when he arrives. He's due at three o'clock this very afternoon."
She bustled away, too full of William the second, junior, to note the smile with which Eola received the intimation that it was she who was detaining Mrs. Hulver.
At twelve o'clock Wenaston came in. He was earlier than usual. As a rule he did not appear till the lunch bell rang at one. Eola seated in the verandah looked up as she heard his step.
"Well? What's the news? How are things going?" she asked.
"Badly! very badly! Only a quarter of the boys returned this morning. It will take a week or ten days to regain their confidence, and the loss of time will have an effect on my results. I would not have believed that so much feeling could have existed over the matter had I not seen its consequences."
"Did you hear how he got home yesterday?"
"Not without accident. You know, perhaps, that he came here after leaving college at Mrs. Hulver's invitation."
"She told me that he had lunched with her," Eola replied. "I was glad to think that the poor fellow had had a good midday dinner. She said that it was the first hot meal he had eaten since he left the boat at Bombay."
"It wasn't to give him food that she asked him in. She heard through the servants that a party of the boys were lying in wait to rough-handle him on his way home; and this was her way of preventing mischief."
"I wonder they dared to think of such a thing!" said Eola, with some indignation.
"They not only thought of it but they nearly succeeded in carrying out their design. Ananda left Mrs. Hulver's room in the afternoon, she having made sure that the boys were tired of waiting and had dispersed. At her advice he did not take the direct road home, but went round by a path not often used. Near his house he was obliged to walk along the road and as bad luck would have it, he met two of my boys—men they might more properly be called. They rushed at him with their sticks. He sprinted for home and escaped with a cut or two over the head."
"Of course he will prosecute the boys for assault," said Eola.
"He would do so if this were British territory; but being a native state, he, as a Christian, has no civil rights, no standing in a court of law. He can gain no redress; he hasn't even the power to bind them over to keep the peace."
"Have you written to Mr. Alderbury?"
"I wrote yesterday morning, and I have just had his reply by wire. He wants me to send Ananda to him at once. He has an opening for him and can find him employment before long. Meanwhile he will be glad to have him as his guest at the mission bungalow."
"You must see Ananda and tell him so; it will be a little consolation for the poor fellow, perhaps."
"There's just my difficulty," replied Wenaston in perplexity. "It isn't safe for him to show his face outside his father's premises."
"They are not ill-treating him inside the house, I hope," said Eola, with sudden anxiety.
"Nothing beyond humiliating him as much as possible by giving him the services of a sweeper, and cutting off the supplies of food. If it goes no further I don't think any bodily harm can happen to him as long as he stays at home."
"Mr. Alderbury must come and advise him."
"He says in his wire that he can't pay us another visit just yet. We must do our best without him. I ought to go to Ananda's house, I suppose, since he can't come to me."
"It won't take you long; not more than five minutes to get to the house if you go in the car."
"It isn't the time I am thinking of but the welfare of the college and my covenant with the Maharajah. I undertook not to meddle in any religious matters."
Eola laid her hand on her brother's arm. "Leave it to me," she said, "I will undertake to let Ananda know. Keep clear of the affair and get your pupils back as quickly as you can."
"You ought not to go to Pantulu's house," he rejoined quickly, as his eyes rested on her in doubt. "I don't know what sort of a reception you will get. You must not run any risk of rousing unpleasantness that I could not overlook."
"I promise you I will not run any risk nor get myself into trouble. I can manage, I think, to have your message delivered without going myself to Ananda's house. Will you tell me exactly what it is?"
"I have no other instructions than what are contained in the telegram. I shall have a letter to-morrow giving me more particulars. Meanwhile Ananda should be privately warned that he must be ready to leave not later than to-morrow evening by the night mail."
"Shall we lend him the car?"
"There again the difficulty occurs of assistance being rendered by me to an out-caste member of an important caste family, a member who is under the ban of the family's displeasure. No; he had better go by rail. The native chauffeur would sell the secret for a couple of rupees. I can't drive him myself; I haven't the time, and it would be risky."
"Mr. Alderbury will have to come and take Ananda away himself," said Eola, unconsciously ready to believe that a visit was necessary.
"If so he must not do it from this house," said Wenaston decisively. "But before anything can be settled as to ways and means, we must communicate with Ananda and find out what his wishes are."
"The simplest way is to write a letter."
"But it would be difficult to deliver it. It would never reach his hand."
Wenaston lunched and returned to the college. The boys were assembled in the playing-field, and his spirits revived somewhat when he noted that at the summons of the bell they entered the class rooms in greater numbers than in the morning. He had an interview with the Vice-principal before afternoon school began. At four o'clock he came into the verandah for tea.
"Have you done anything about communicating with Ananda?" he asked of Eola.
"Nothing beyond writing him a letter."
"Impossible to get it conveyed to him!" he exclaimed. "You mustn't go any further with the business. I have been talking to Rama Krishna, my Vice, and he implores me to remain strictly neutral for the sake of the school if for nothing else. He says that if I intend to help Ananda I may be able to do so later; but that at present I must be rigidly neutral."
"It seems rather hard not to lend a helping hand," said Eola, whose pity was roused. "I can't quite reconcile my conscience to a course of total inaction. Whatever the Vice may say—and he is a heathen—we ought not to withhold any assistance that may be in our power to give him."
"Rama Krishna assures me again and again that I can best help Ananda by remaining neutral. I shall only provoke the town as well as the family to open hostilities."
"Does he show any animosity towards Ananda?"
"None whatever. His life at the English University taught him tolerance. He recommends me to get the boys back at all costs as soon as possible. A mission agent like Alderbury is the right person to give the help required, and it is unfortunate that he cannot come just now. He argues that the missionary is paid to make converts and to help them; and the natives recognise the fact. Because he is paid to proselytise, they are ready to tolerate more from him than from an unpaid agent. It is equally well known that I am paid to teach and not to proselytise. This is a country that expects nothing more from a man than what he is paid for. Anything done in excess of the purchased duty must have, in public opinion, some hidden motive."
"Can't people understand that your motive in helping Ananda is a religious one?"
"No; and it seems impossible to convince them otherwise. Even the Vice, though he knows me so well, had a suspicion that there was a mercenary motive underlying my desire to assist Ananda. He suspected that I was working for a reward from Alderbury or for a bribe from the family. I think he inclined to the latter theory; but he was careful to hide his suspicions as they were not complimentary to me."
"I hope you undeceived him."
"I pretended not to see which way his thoughts leaned. What have you done with your letter?"
"I gave it to Mrs. Hulver. I explained the case to her, thinking she might contrive to have it conveyed somehow to Ananda without discovery."
Wenaston rose at once. "It won't do," he said. "There must be no communication between this house and Ananda's. I'll see Mrs. Hulver myself and tell her my wishes. She must understand definitely what they are."
He passed through the house towards the back verandah into which Mrs. Hulver's room opened.
"Poor Ananda!" thought Eola. "Will he have the courage to hold out? I am afraid my courage would melt away before such a fire of persecution as he seems to be meeting."
Wenaston presented himself at the door of Mrs. Hulver's sitting room. She met him with a broad smile of pleasure. Just behind her stood a man in uniform, the mother's smile reflected on his face.
"This is William, my son, sir. He has just arrived from Bangalore. He's the very image of his father. Stand forward and let Dr. Wenaston look at you."
She pushed the shy awkward young soldier forward. He stood at attention as if confronting his colonel and lifted his hand in a military salute.
"Very glad to see you, Smith. So he is like his father is he?" he said.
"They are as like as two peas, sir, in every respect but one. My son takes after his grandmother on my side in his complexion. He is darker than his father, who was very fair. But as William—that was my first—used to say if any one remarked on his being dark: 'Human blood is all of one colour no matter what sort of a skin may cover it.'"
"I hope you had a good voyage out," said the Principal. "Sit down, Smith, I have come to speak to your mother. Mrs. Hulver, Miss Wenaston entrusted you with a letter to deliver to Mr. Ananda. Will you kindly give it back to me."
Mrs. Hulver produced the letter and handed it to Wenaston, glancing at him with a natural curiosity which brought forth an explanation.
"You learned from Miss Wenaston what this letter contained?"
"Yes, sir; it was to show Mr. Ananda a way out of his troubles. He has got himself into rather a tight corner. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'Think twice before you tie a knot that you can't undo.'"
"I want you to understand my position fully, Mrs. Hulver. I am not able, I am sorry to say, to give Mr. Ananda any protection from the towns-people nor from his family. Assistance on my part would be looked upon as a breaking of my covenant with the Maharajah when he sanctioned my appointment to the college. I hope that you will be careful not to do anything which will compromise me in this matter."
"You may rely on me, sir, for not burning my own fingers nor setting your house on fire by meddling with other people's candles. I am sorry for the poor young man, but after all he has brought it on himself. As William—that was my third—used to say (he was the one who changed his religion to marry me): 'If you sow brambles you must expect to tread on thorns.' Mr. Ananda told me all about himself as he sat here waiting till those young imps of budmashes had gone home. I heard in the bazaar this morning that he had been set upon near his own house; but he managed to get in without being much hurt."
"Yes; that was so. You pick up all the news in the market."
"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Hulver complacently. She prided herself on possessing an accurate knowledge of the daily events of the town and Ramachetty was well aware that one of the roads to her favour was by way of the gossip that was reliable. Woe betide the unfortunate servant, however, who carried false news!
"What do they say in the town about the school?" asked Wenaston.
"That the boys will all be back by the end of the week. Don't you worry, sir, over those little budmashes. The school is known to be the best in the State under your superintendence. You have no need to run after pupils. They will run after you if you bide your time. As William—that was my third—used to say when I went into the garden to call him in to dinner: 'No occasion for the cook to hunt up the hungry; they won't fail to be where the food is when they're empty.'"
"Anyway I must be careful to see that nothing is done to give offence to the parents of the boys," said Wenaston, anxious to press home his orders.
"I understand, sir. We are to let Mr. Ananda alone. It shall be as you wish, of course. I pity him, I'm sure; but all the same, I would rather not be mixed up with his change of religion. It's turning out a bigger job than he thought. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'When a man bites off a bigger bit than he can chew, he can't look for any assistance from other men's teeth.'"
The school bell rang and Wenaston, punctuality itself, turned away to obey its call. Mrs. Hulver hastened to add her last word which, as usual, was the reflected wisdom of one of the departed.
"As William—that was my third—used to say after I had scolded him for leaning a little too far over towards his weakness: 'A stormy morning brings a clear evening, Maria, me dear, so perhaps your breath has not been wasted.' Everything will come right in the end if you give it time." Then, as Wenaston hurried away, she turned to her son. "William, you sit in the back verandah whilst I change my dress. We'll take a walk in the town and look at the boutiques in the bazaar."
Twenty minutes later Mrs. Hulver issued from her bedroom a very different figure from the white clothed housekeeper, who with cook and butler behind her, went marketing in the morning. Even William, junior, who had just come from London, was impressed by the glossy purple silk that "stood by itself," the white lace scarf and floral bonnet; to say nothing of the odds and ends of glittering jewellery that adorned her ample bust.
Mother and son, in purple silk and scarlet uniform, presented a patch of colour on the green landscape that was arresting to the most careless eye. The sensation created in the town was considerable. It was a kind of triumphal progress. Being fluent in the native language she explained who the stranger was, introducing him to the merchants sitting behind their stalls and to the few Eurasians who lived in Chirapore.
Bopaul, sauntering along the street, was attracted by the sight of a British soldier, and stopped to inquire his name. Mrs. Hulver hastened to explain with maternal pride and returned the compliment by asking about the identity of the questioner. The sun touched the horizon before she thought of home.
"Time to be going back, William. As your father used to say: 'Keep time as if it was your best friend, and take care you don't kill it or waste it or lose it."
CHAPTER XV
Eola sat with her brother after dinner as usual at the end of the verandah where there was shelter from the night air. Wenaston read, and Eola finding his society dull, retired early to her room. The servants had gone to their go-downs at the back of the compound to eat their evening meal. The cicalas whirred in the foliage of the oleanders, and a brown owl screamed in its shikarring flight over the roof of the house. Above the noises of the night was heard a step on the carriage drive.
Wenaston rose and went to the top of the verandah steps. Two men stood under the portico keeping in the shadow of the ornamental shrubs.
"Who is there?" he asked in a low voice.
One of the visitors came forward into the light and Wenaston recognised Bopaul.
"Oh, it's you, is it?"
"Yes, sir; I have brought Ananda. He wants to see you about Mr. Alderbury's offer."
Wenaston descended the steps and they retreated together out of reach of the lamp light.
"How did you hear of it?" he asked in some surprise.
There was a slight pause and then Bopaul explained that he had heard of it and had told Ananda.
"From the telegraph clerk, I suppose," said Wenaston. "If he knows it the whole town knows it."
"Perhaps; but Ananda's people have not been told."
"So much the better; it will make it easier for you to get away," said Wenaston addressing Ananda.
"I have come to see you to-night, sir, to say that I have decided not to accept Mr. Alderbury's invitation. I shall be glad if you will write and tell him so. I have sent a letter which Bopaul posted for me; but it will be as well if you will add your word to mine."
Wenaston listened in surprise. He had concluded that the visit was made for the purpose of raising money for the journey. It had not crossed his mind that the invitation would be refused. He gazed at his visitors in the darkness as though he had not heard correctly.
"Are you wise to remain here after the hostile demonstration we have experienced in the college? I am afraid it won't end there."
"It would be cowardly to run away," said Ananda in a firm voice that betokened determination backed by courage. "I have reasons for remaining under my father's roof. I am attached to my parents and——" he hesitated for a moment and then added quickly, "and to my wife and child. If these two would come with me I would go to-morrow, or even to-night; but I won't leave Chirapore without them."
"I am not sure that you are acting wisely; though I can't deny that it is courageous. You need not stay away for ever. You might return at any time. Popular antagonism will die down if you are not here to keep it alive; and your family might become more reconciled to the step you have taken."
"They might; on the other hand they might consider me as dead; and then think of the fate of my wife."
"They would regard her as a widow, you mean."
"The case is exceptional and without precedent in Chirapore. They are more likely to consider the marriage annulled by my departure, and to give my wife to another man. That shall not be as long as I have an arm to protect her. She is mine; mine by right of past possession and she shall be mine in the future."
Even Bopaul was impressed by the new attitude of his friend. The weakness had disappeared in a marvellous manner, and every trace of timidity had vanished.
"You might gain immediate possession of your wife if you would give up your new faith, and place yourself unreservedly in the hands of the guru and purohit," remarked Bopaul probing the new found courage with curiosity.
Ananda turned on him.
"That I will never do. I may have to suffer for it. Others have suffered for their religious opinions before now. I will keep my faith and I will have my wife and child. My father may disinherit me but he cannot deprive me of my son; and where the son is the mother will follow."
"You have no power as a Christian over your child," said Wenaston, feeling that it would be wrong to leave him in ignorance of his true position. "The law of the State will not give you the custody of him."
"Who says so?"
He named the native lawyer whom Alderbury had consulted.
"As long as you remain in the State of Chirakul you are in the position of an outlaw, deprived of your citizenship, your legal standing, your civil rights. As soon as you set foot in British India you resume your rights and can claim protection and justice in the courts of law belonging to the territory; although of course you can't obtain redress against this State. Hadn't you better go where your rights will be respected and where you will have religious freedom?"
"If things grow hopeless I might do so; but at present I wish to remain here and show my parents that I have no intention of running away. On the contrary I am going to fight for my rights."
Again Bopaul's eyebrows were uplifted.
"Were you hurt, by the by, yesterday?" asked Wenaston.
"Nothing to speak of. I had a nasty blow on my head; but beyond a head ache I am none the worse, thank you, sir. We won't keep you any longer. I shall be glad if you will let Mr. Alderbury know that I am grateful. At the same time make him understand that I have made up my mind to adopt this course, and that I am not likely to change. I think he will approve of my facing the situation instead of running away from it. And tell him also that I mean to fight for my wife and child."
Wenaston turned back into the verandah and took up his book; but his attention wandered, and a little later he gave up attempting to read. As he extinguished the lamp he said to himself; "I wonder how much endurance the man has; and how much he will require to carry him through his troubles. Where would the Christianity of some of us be if we were outlawed; and bashed on the head; and deprived of our wives and children?"
After bidding Dr. Wenaston good night Bopaul and his companion walked home by unfrequented paths to avoid chance pedestrians. There was not much danger of molestation unless Ananda deliberately put himself in the way of it. No concerted action was likely to be taken at present; and his prompt disappearance from the college went far to allay the irritation that had sprung up so suddenly among the students.
The two friends parted in silence except for a few whispered words from Bopaul to the effect that he would look him up on the morrow.
Bopaul's attitude towards his friend was curious. He had no sympathy with his conversion to Christianity. He regarded the action as inexpedient and bordering on foolishness. His opinion was that it had been carried out in haste, and without due consideration of all the different issues involved.
His friendship with Ananda was of long standing, dating from early childhood, and the two men were attached to each other by ties of affection that could not be easily broken. It grieved Bopaul to see his friend living in discomfort, and he was ready as far as he was able to render any little service that might be within his power. The English training had fostered an independence of thought with tolerance for the opinions of others; and it showed its effects in Bopaul's character. He took an independent line of action with regard to his friend as well as his sister. According to the unwritten law of caste the widow and the outlaw should have been ruthlessly thrust from his life. Instead of abandoning them to their fate he maintained a brotherly love for one and a friendly affection for the other.
Of the two Ananda interested him the more. He found himself studying the development of his friend's character under the fire of adversity. Obstinacy had already given birth to courage, and courage was breeding patience. Ananda's refusal to take flight roused his admiration. The firmly expressed determination to gain possession of his wife and child appealed to the romance that is inherent in all human beings, and of which Bopaul had a full share. In addition curiosity as to how the affair would end helped to retain his attention and interest.
Bopaul continued his habit of taking Mayita for a walk every day. This daily outing, sometimes in the morning, sometimes in the evening, was the breath of life to the girl. She lived for it; it was the one ray of veritable sunshine that entered her darkened life. Perhaps it was the knowledge of this fact that made the brother sacrifice everything else to the little daily act of charity.
They were a strange couple, the brother and sister; and more than one pair of inquisitive eyes looked after them as they strolled towards the forest. At first his mother shook her head over the arrangement. She even went so far as to try and stop it by setting Mayita tasks that would keep her occupied when her brother called for her to come. Bopaul with his casual manner, that was none the less insistent for all its apparent indifference, over-ruled his mother by seeking out Mayita and carrying her away from her unfinished work regardless of her protests.
"Let be, wife; and trouble not yourself. You need have no fear that our son will offend against the laws of caste," said his father.
"It is not that which I fear; it is the bad luck the widow may bring upon him," returned the anxious mother.
"Many men who have travelled have learned to disregard our omens. As long as the boy doesn't follow in Ananda's steps I am content."
"He is not likely to do that if we may believe the guru. The swami was satisfied that his faith in our gods was not shaken."
"If it had been shaken he would not have performed all the ceremonies that were necessary on his return. Be content and let the boy go which way he pleases. A little liberty in the field will keep the bullock from straying into the forest where the tiger lies."
Bopaul's mother was of too indolent a disposition to seek unnecessary trouble. Having spoken to her husband she rested in the comfortable assurance that responsibility was shifted on to his shoulders. She put no more obstacles in the way of the walks, and they were continued to Bopaul's satisfaction and the girl's intense delight.
She was in her fourteenth year, but she looked older. During the last few months she had lost all trace of childishness and had matured like most Hindu girls of that age.
As they walked, Mayita's hand in his, he told her of that wonderful country in the west where he had lived for more than three years among white people; where there was no caste; where widows after two years of mourning dressed themselves like other women with gold and jewels, and married again if they chose. She interrupted him to express her horror of such depravity on the part of widows in any country civilised or savage. She herself would sink into the earth with shame if she were asked to pursue such an outrageous course. He described the life on board the big ship; the wide blue water with no land visible; the storm and tumbling waves with their white crests. Then he took her in imagination to Bombay where the pictures he drew were easier to realise; and he told her of the crowded streets, the tall houses and the magnificent carriages of the Governor and native princes.
Now and then they stopped. Bopaul seated himself upon a boulder or a fallen tree and read a book. Mayita gathered flowers, and had it not been for her sad condition the sweet blossoms would have been pushed into the strands of her hair; but the luxuriant black locks were gone and the bare shaven pate in its widowed condition offered no temptation for floral adornment.
Sometimes she played a little game by herself with sticks and stones and leaves to represent the feast at which she would never again be present. She bade the imaginary guests welcome and served them with make-believe dainties. She paid them compliments and dismissed them with gifts of attar of rose and pan-supari, as she had seen her mother treat her real guests in the old days before Coomara died.
Then Bopaul would close his book and call to her to come home. On their way they sometimes stopped at Pantulu's house; and Bopaul leaving her under the trees by the compound wall sought Ananda in his little room. The solitary man responded eagerly, and joined his friend with an alacrity that showed how the little act of kindness was appreciated. They paced to and fro at the end of the compound furthest from the house, till it was time for Mayita to return once more to the women's quarters of her father's house.
No one interfered to stop the intercourse. If Bopaul liked to seek out his friend, he was welcome to do so; and if he brought his widowed sister with him there was no one to say him nay. He was at liberty to please himself; but to those who happened to observe the trio it seemed a strange way of amusing himself, to choose a widow as his companion and to visit an out-caste.
Unknown to Ananda one of the most interested watchers of his movements was Dorama his wife. Hidden from all eyes she gazed through the chink of a shutter at the familiar figure in the distance. The boyishness was gone; it was the form of a man, a strong well-set-up man who would find favour with any woman. In spite of all that had happened he was still her husband. The thought thrilled her with a strange restlessness and longing. It was very hard—it was almost unbearable to be separated thus. Did he yearn for her as she yearned for him? He could not or he would break down every barrier and come to her. He would submit to the ceremonies for the restoration of his caste. He would obey every order given by guru or purohit. He would allow nothing, nothing!—nothing!—to stand between them and keep them apart.
The tears coursed down her cheeks in anger and disappointment. At one moment she could have scratched and bitten him for the contumacy that was costing her so much misery; at another she could have devoured him with passionate kisses.
Meanwhile all unconscious of the secret watcher Bopaul and Ananda talked. They spoke in English mindful of listening ears. A little cross-examining of Mayita would elicit all she knew of what passed in conversation. It was best for those concerned that there should be no tale-bearing.
"You don't realise the greatness of your old faith," Bopaul was saying as they strolled under the shade of the trees that bordered the compound.
"How can it be great when it fails to satisfy?" objected Ananda.
"First let me show you that Hinduism is great by the light of its past history," said Bopaul eagerly.
He plunged into much the same story as Alderbury had told Eola. He described the antiquity of Hinduism; its marvellous organisation; its power of absorbing the conquered races; and he extolled the system of caste.
Ananda listened and at the conclusion he remarked, "Caste and the power of the Brahman are being already undermined."
"In what way?"
"We have apologists for their existence. If either were divine in origin there would be no necessity for an apology."
"I deny that the system of caste is being undermined. It may have overgrown itself and need pruning. Some of the senseless subdivisions should be broken up; and we want reform in our marriage laws——"
His eyes sought the figure of his sister as she gathered some starry blue flowers growing among the rank grass.
"Even if the caste system were reformed," objected Ananda, "and the greatness of Hinduism established in the world, there are certain tenets of its faith that seem to me impossible for an educated and enlightened man to accept."
"Such as——?"
"Transmigration."
"Ah, yes; I remember. That was the rock you split on."
"I cannot accept the weary round of those cycles of rebirths."
"You accept a cycle of existence of some sort?"
"Existence; life; immortality of the soul; yes."
"Which implies existence prenatal and after physical death?"
"Certainly; Mr. Alderbury says that the germ of that idea lies hidden in most religions."
"If you admit so much, why can't you accept the transmigration theory? It accounts for all the suffering that exists. It is a retributive system of perfect justice. The pains you suffer now are due solely to your own actions in a previous embodiment; and your conduct now will predetermine your pleasure and pain in your next incarnation. To me it is an acceptable theory relieving one of an enormous responsibility."
"If you really believe such a theory in its entirety, why do you attempt to give that child pleasure?"
Bopaul laughed but made no reply, and Ananda continued:
"The hopeless retributive character of the theory of transmigration seems to militate against our faith in the transcendence of God. The system imposes limits not consistent with His Infinitude. Transmigration may seem just and right from a human point of view; but it is too full of tragedy to be seriously regarded as the deliberate work of an unlimited Deity."
"It does away with injustice," persisted Bopaul.
"And grinds existence down to a mechanism," added Ananda. "Christianity gives something infinitely superior—a good and perfect God. The knowledge of this Deity has come to us through Jesus Christ. He has shown us not a retributive mechanical Deity, but a great and wonderful Father who deals with us better than we deserve. Though men may by their freedom of choice choose what ought to bring them to ruin, the desire of God expressed through Christ, the great teacher, is to save them from the consequences of their actions."
"What good can pain and suffering do if it is not a mill of retribution?"
"It is an education and a discipline in the government of self. I speak personally for I have felt my position in my father's house more than a little. You may not see any change in my character, but I know that my views on the brotherhood of man and the Fatherhood of God have altered. I don't mind confessing that my attitude towards the pariah who acted as my servant by my parents' orders has modified. They thought to humiliate me, but they have taught me a lesson. I recognise his humanity and his good qualities."
"Yet you can't take the food he brings you?"
"No, I can't; to my shame be it said; for it distresses him to see me starve. There's a wide gulf between theory and practice in his case, and for the present I prefer to starve."
"Poor, weak, human nature!" said Bopaul with a laugh in which Ananda joined, although the subject was no laughing matter.
"And if pain comes into the life of a child who is not old enough to have sinned; how do you account for it?" asked Bopaul returning to the charge.
"To reply in detail to this and similar objections would require a greater knowledge of the spiritual world than even the apostles themselves possessed. 'Now we see through a glass darkly,' said St. Paul. Later illumination will assuredly come. The curtain was partly lifted when Christ was born. At His second coming it will be entirely raised, and by that time our eyes will be strong enough to bear the light."
There was silence which Bopaul broke with another question.
"Does the missionary teach you that after death comes sleep?"
"No; there is no stagnation in the spiritual world any more than there is in the material world. The souls of the departed are possessed of conscious memory, and they have a sense of pain and pleasure. I believe," he spoke solemnly and with shining eyes that seemed to look beyond the limit of the Hindu's mental vision, "that Coomara instead of being reborn as a dog or a reptile in this world has entered into new powers of vitality and energy in a spiritual world that far exceeds the limitations of this world. He lived a blameless life according to his lights, and he has entered into another life in which there will be progression and development. With his entry into that new life he will acquire new powers of comprehension. There will be a great movement forward in spirituality between his state here on earth and the new estate in the world he has entered. The step will be as great or greater than if a dog entered the human life and were endowed with human privileges."
"Excepting that he died under the ban of broken caste, Coomara was without faults," acquiesced Bopaul. "But I cannot disregard the teaching of the guru who says that because of that broken caste he must suffer."
"And I say in all honest hope," cried Ananda in ringing tones that caused the widow to glance at him in surprise. "I say that through the power of the Christian's Man-God, Jesus Christ, the Great All-Father in His mercy and love will receive Coomara to Himself, and preserve him from the fate you anticipate. I think upon his prospects almost with envy. There was a time when I could only shudder in terror at what was promised by our faith; but now I am satisfied that he is happy."
"The Hindu faith does not deny a progression towards a better state after death," said Bopaul.
"May be; but it limits improvement to merit; and the merit is made to depend not only upon the past deeds of the dead, but also upon the voluntary deeds of the living descendants of the dead. A neglect of the shraddah ceremonies by the grandchildren to the fourth generation condemns the soul to inferior rebirth. Those rites for the repose of the dead are monstrous in their assumption and ridiculous in their childish nature."
"All rites seem ridiculous and meaningless if you judge them by their action alone," said Bopaul.
"Yet you perform them slavishly," said Ananda turning on him.
Bopaul laughed as though he shook off all responsibility for the reason of his actions.
"I am what that Englishman called his friend, do you remember? 'a blatant ritualist.' I love ceremonies. They give me a comfortable sense of having done my duty to the gods and to men. I feel as if I had got out of debt and was starting afresh with a clean page."
"Do you really believe in them?" asked Ananda searching the face of the other in a vain endeavour to penetrate the superficial lightness with which Bopaul touched these matters.
"The purohit and the guru believe in them. My father pins his faith to them, and I am content to take their word for it."
"And I am not! To my mind the three great props of Hinduism are crumbling away in spite of your blind faith—transmigration, the immaculate authority of the Brahmans and their Vedas; and the caste system."
"Rank treason!" cried Bopaul roused at last into something approaching excitement. "It is as well that the guru doesn't hear you! Caste will never die; it will change its constitution and become more social than religious. The Vedas will have new exponents and the germs that lie hidden in them will be brought to light and understood. Transmigration will be modified with a new theory of progression in a life in other spheres under different conditions of corporality from the earthly life; and Hinduism reformed will be greater than ever."
"It can only be done through Christ," responded Ananda with the enthusiasm of the convert. "Christianity will develop all the germs that lie fallow in Hinduism and will throw light in the dark places. Why is the west to monopolise a revelation that was originally given to the east? Why is the west to appropriate to itself the emancipation and promises made by that revelation? We have a right to claim Christ for ourselves," he concluded. "I for one make that claim and no one shall deny me!"
Again there was silence. Then Bopaul, without any outward sign of excitement, remarked:
"Haste is an evil counsellor. You are asking for trouble and you will get it. Tell me, have you had a decent lodging or meal since you have been under your father's roof?"
Ananda calmed down under the material inquiry after his bodily welfare, and he replied in a subdued voice:
"No, and I am not likely to get one as far as I can see unless, as I said, I accept it at the hands of the sweeper."
"How do you exist?"
"I have some biscuits and I buy a draught of water from the caste waterman in the town. Mr. Alderbury very kindly brought me some food when he came to see me."
"I can't bring you any food I am sorry to say. My mother would consider it an unfriendly act towards your parents. How is your money lasting?"
"It is nearly finished."
"And then?"
"I haven't thought about it," replied Ananda, a troubled expression overshadowing his face.
"I can lend you a little. I brought it to-day, a ten rupee note. It is all I have that I need not account for. I can get plenty from my father, but he takes good care to inform himself of how and where it goes. The note is in this envelope. Don't let my sister see it; she might tell my mother. Just slip it into your pocket as quickly as you can."
He held out his hand to Mayita. "Come, little one, it is time we went home."
At the entrance to the compound Bopaul stopped.
"Take my advice and go to Mr. Alderbury," he said suddenly.
"Not without my wife."
"She will never join you."
"That remains to be proved," replied Ananda unconvinced.
"And remember that as a 'vert you have no conjugal rights," to which remark the other did not reply.
Dorama still furtively watching saw Ananda return slowly and enter the mean little yard into which his still meaner room opened. The smell of the curry prepared for the midday meal of the household met her nostrils.
"How does he continue to live and look so strong and handsome? He refuses to eat the food sent by the sweeper. Ah! it should be given by my hand, the hand of his wife. It is my right. Husband! come to me! In your need, your hunger, cannot you hear the voice of your wife calling!"