CHAPTER XVI
The house of Pantulu Iyer was neither cheerful nor happy. The master himself had aged visibly since the arrival of his son. The signs were to be seen in the stooping figure and listless gait. He had grown thinner, and his appetite was failing. No matter how carefully the food was prepared he refused to eat, complaining sometimes that it was not palatable; at other times he asked with a querulousness that was not habitual, how they could expect him to eat when he knew that his dearly loved son was starving.
All day long he sat and moped either in the verandah of the inner courtyard, or in the front room that opened by the big door on the carriage drive. The door was kept shut and he seldom passed beyond it. If a friend came to call he refused to see him; and if any member of the family with the best intentions of amusing him attempted to talk to him, he dismissed him curtly.
His gloom had a depressing effect on his wife; and for the sake of the household as well as her own she begged him to rouse himself. She suggested visits to his looms in the town and to his silk farms in the suburbs. The office books were brought, and at her direction his younger brother read aloud the carefully-kept accounts, showing how the business had increased and how the prosperity of his ventures was assured; but these and all other devices failed to rouse his interest. With the aptitude for fostering misery, a peculiarity of fatalism, he resigned himself to his circumstances and refused to make any struggle against what he believed to be the inevitable.
In addition to the anxiety caused by her husband's melancholia, Gunga was further disturbed by the state of her grandson's health. At the time when Dorama let him fall from her unconscious arms he had not shown any sign of having sustained any injury. Beyond a few bruises no serious harm was apparent. At the end of a week the child complained of pains in his back and hip. He lost his activity and his good spirits; was disinclined to move and was always craving to be nursed by his mother or one of the women of the house.
A prompt examination of the hip and spine by a skilled surgeon might have discovered the mischief and given relief; but skilled surgery was not obtainable from the native apothecary nor from the native doctor. A vaityan—as the Hindu medical man is called, a person without any scientific knowledge—was summoned, and he prescribed for fever. As the medicine failed to have any beneficial effect, he declared that the child was suffering from the effects of the glance of an evil eye. He must have come under its influence in some way unknown to his mother. Where had she carried him or led him?
There was a searching back into memory for occasions when an evil eye might have rested upon him. Some one recalled the events of the day following Ananda's arrival home, how he appeared on the verandah in front of the open door and how the child ran towards him. It was also noted how the father of the boy had fixed his eye upon him with a great eagerness of possession.
The vaityan was more than satisfied that in the incident they had found a solution of the mystery. The unconscious longing awakened in the father at the sight of his child had given birth to a natural curse of the disappointment of his desire. If he could not have the child himself no one should have him. The baneful influence of the thought in the man's mind was working for evil in the boy's body.
This pronouncement did not tend to allay the irritation felt throughout the family against the son who had brought the shadow of sorrow upon his father's house.
The vaityan prescribed different medicine, and in addition recommended the performance of certain rites that were supposed to have the power of warding off spells. He solemnly tied an amulet specially prepared on the child's arm. The floor of the room where the boy slept was to be strewn with margosa leaves gathered fresh every day; and he was to drink the milk of a black goat that had not a single white hair.
The execution of these numerous orders served to occupy the time and attention of the women; at the same time they kept alive the irritation against Ananda for being the cause of the trouble.
In the midst of it all the guru appeared accompanied by his disciple. He had come unexpectedly and without invitation to learn why the restitution rites were not performed. Reasonable delay he was prepared to permit; but if there was a wilful deferring of the ceremonies it was his duty to exhort and persuade into speedy amendment.
The grave countenance of the swami struck terror into the hearts of the little company that hastily assembled to do him honour. Pantulu fell at his feet in a humble prostration; and Gunga followed his example. As neither offered any explanation Pantulu's brother took upon himself the office of spokesman. He described all that had happened; Ananda's conversion to Christianity in England; the punishments that had been inflicted when it was found that he not only refused to recant, but also declined to take any part in the restitution ceremonies. The guru was told how he was lodged and served; of the attempts that had been made to degrade him and starve him; and how he had not been permitted to see either wife or child.
The great man listened in silence; and when the story was ended the more timid ones of the little company trembled in apprehension of an outburst of anathema and general condemnation. It did not come. The expression on his face was severe but the words that fell from his lips sounded strangely mild and gentle.
"We must look into this matter and see what can be done. Let the child be brought; I am told that he is not well."
Every one from Pantulu downwards was sensible of relief. The anxiety that weighed so heavily was lifted and placed temporarily upon stronger shoulders. Where they had failed in their methods the swami might succeed, and the heir of the house be restored to them. What a rejoicing and feasting there would be! was the thought that ran through the minds of many of the women. The only person who differed in this attitude was Pantulu's brother. Slowly and insidiously he was stepping into the position rendered vacant by Ananda's apostacy to the faith of his fathers. The little Royan would inherit his grandfather's wealth, and during the long minority his great uncle would be practically master of the house and guardian of the person of the minor; but in the event of the child's death Sooba would be the heir.
The drooping child with pathetic signs of pain in his pinched features was brought to the guru who examined him closely and confirmed the opinion of the vaityan. The boy, he said, was placed under the displeasure of the gods and was suffering for his father's sins. If he died—he shook his head solemnly, not thinking of the inheritance but of the future state. The company did not require to be told the fate of a child dying under such circumstances.
Then Pantulu in a trembling voice described his own bodily failings, loss of appetite and sleep, weakness of limbs and an ebbing away of vitality that could only mean the approach of death.
Again the oracle assumed a severe expression. What could be expected but the withering and drooping of the parent when the son was so inhumanly wicked as to break away from his ancestral faith? He would consider what was best to be done, and consult with the brother of the sick man. Then the family offered up thanks and adoration, each member prostrating him or herself before the guru as he withdrew to the room assigned for his use. Sooba followed and the door was closed on the two men.
The interview lasted some time and advice was given that was virtually a command. Sooba would not divulge what it was until the moment arrived for action. Only to Gunga did he give a hint of what the great man intended to do; and she expressed her full approval.
"And if this should fail?" she asked with a sinking heart for she knew the strength of her son's obstinacy.
Her brother-in-law lowered his voice and replied in a whisper. Her head was bent and she made no reply; but her lips closed firmly.
"You will not speak to my husband on this matter. He is too weak, too feeble to deal with it," she said later.
"It will be best to keep him in ignorance—until the orders of the swami have been carried out," answered Sooba. "I have your consent to act?"
"There is no other way of bringing him to reason; and who am I to contradict and oppose one who speaks with the authority of the gods?" replied Gunga, sadly.
On the following morning, after Ananda had risen from his hard, uncomfortable bed and breakfasted on some hot milk and biscuits, he was surprised at receiving a visit from his uncle. The cup that had contained the milk had been replaced in the tiffin basket with the tin of biscuits, and no trace was discernible to the sharp eyes of the visitor of the simple morning meal.
In a more courteous tone than had been adopted by any member of the family hitherto, he asked Ananda to accompany him into the house. At first there was a very natural hesitation to obey such an unexpected summons; but on second thoughts Ananda deemed it wiser to go than to refuse. For all he could tell it might be the first sign of relenting.
He closed the book he was reading, placed it upon the table, and without a word followed his uncle through the compound to the front of the house. Side by side they mounted the steps that led into the verandah. The big door stood open, and they passed through it into the entrance-room. Bidding him stay there his uncle left him for a few minutes.
The door leading into the centre courtyard was wide open, and through it he caught sight of some of the women of the household, as they moved in and out of the kitchen and its offices in the execution of their domestic duties. His eye sought eagerly for the familiar figure of his wife or child, but no trace of them or of his parents was visible.
As he gazed into the sunlit yard memories crowded back upon him thickly. The place was full of associations connected with his childish games, the idle chatter of his boyhood, the visit of the guru and the purohit when they came to perform ceremonies that once were so full of awe and mystery; and that now by the light of the new teaching seemed so futile and childish.
In the midst of his reverie his uncle reappeared, and leading him to a room signed to him to enter. He heard the door close behind him and knew that his companion had not followed.
Ananda scarcely dared to believe his eyes. In front of him stood Dorama, not a sad tearful repellent Dorama; but a loving, expectant wife, happy and confident.
She was dressed as a bride in a rich silk saree. Her neck, arms and hair gleamed with gold and precious stones. Jasmine blossom peeped from the strands of her glossy hair. Her complexion was heightened by the subtle use of saffron, and there was an alluring scent of sandal wood in the air.
He strode towards her impetuously; gathered her into his arms pressing passionate kisses upon her unresisting mouth. The thirst of his heart was not easily assuaged. He lost count of time; his eyes were blind to everything but the beautiful woman who nestled against his breast with inarticulate murmurs of contentment. His pulses leaped as he realised that his kisses were returned. She loved him! She was his! How the clouds parted and rolled aside at the assurance!
A hand was laid upon his shoulder with no light touch, and they were forced apart. Ananda turned angrily upon the intruder who dared to interpose and found himself face to face with the guru. Yielding in his surprise to the old instinctive habit of his youth he placed his hands together palm to palm.
"Pardon, swami; I did not know that you were present," he said. "I thought I was alone with my wife."
For all his humility and deference there was a note of pride in his tone that jarred on the ear of the man who arrogated to himself the attributes of a god. The words seemed to imply that the third person present at such a meeting, whoever he might be, was an intruder; and that the sooner he departed the better pleased the husband would be.
As for Dorama her head sank upon her breast in what appeared to be an overwhelming fit of outraged modesty. Inwardly she was glowing under that ardent embrace, tingling to her finger tips, every nerve thrilled by his possessive touch. She had been well tutored beforehand as to her conduct, how she was to do all in her power to attract her errant husband and draw him back to her; how she was to appeal to him by words and tears and pray him to return. The programme thus mapped out for her did not include the unexpected greeting, and she felt confused. Ananda had begun at the wrong end and cut the ground on which she was to base her pleading from beneath her feet. She drew aside leaving the swami to speak.
"I have arranged for you to see your wife and speak with her. She is also to hear what I have to say to you. I understand that you have refused the rites that should restore your caste——"
"I have become a Christian and I have received the Christian rite of baptism. Under those circumstances the Hindu rites are unnecessary," interrupted Ananda, careful to preserve the courtesy rendered instinctively by a man of good caste to an equal.
"It matters not what you call yourself," replied his former spiritual teacher with a lowering glance; "nor does it signify in the least what strange ceremonies you may have seen fit to go through in England. They can all be cast aside like the blanket clothing you were obliged to adopt when the frost and snow came. The delayed rites must be performed, and I am here to see that they are properly carried out."
The guru restrained himself with difficulty. Ananda's independent attitude and simple courage roused his anger. The great man could not fail to observe that he had very little hold on the attention of his hearers. Already Ananda was turning impatiently to the woman as though he had disposed of the intruder and swept him off his horizon by the announcement of his change of faith.
"Wife, where is the child, our child? My eyes ache for a sight of him!"
"He is not well."
"Not well? How is that?" he asked with parental concern that sounded sweet to her unaccustomed ears.
"He pines for his father," she replied falteringly.
"Tell him how he has laid a curse not only on the child but also on his parents," broke in the swami unable to keep silence. "The curse will extend to his wife as well, if she fails to draw him back from his evil ways."
She looked from one to the other, trembling under the stern eye of the swami.
"Husband will you not return to us? The big father pines for a sight of his son. The old eyes are blind through tears. The child——!" she stopped unable to command her voice. "Husband!" she continued. "Your wife more than all pines also. The day is long and weary without you. The night is unbearable in its misery. Will you not come to us, our lord and master?"
She held out her arms, and again he would have clasped her to himself; but in accordance with instructions given by no less a person than the swami himself she drew back; and the guru by a slight movement glided in between them.
"The reward is ready and waits with impatience," said the swami, his lips parting for a moment and showing the white teeth in a smile that was not born of kindness or pity. "But you are not ready for the reward."
Ananda ignored the speech and continued to address Dorama with increasing emotion.
"Come? Will I not come? Beloved, I will come! I am ready; I have been waiting till my heart was sick with longing. Wife!" he cried passionately, "I claim you as my own unconditionally. I command you to join me. Come willingly if you can; but willing or unwilling I shall not cease trying to regain my rights."
"You have no rights!" cried the guru, a definite challenge in his voice.
"That remains to be seen," replied Ananda shortly, as though he grudged the precious moments wasted in speech with any one but his wife. He turned to her again. "Beloved! There is no reason why you should not come to me now."
Hot words of desperate pleading fell from his lips. He had no more regard for the presence of the swami than for a yellow lizard on the wall. Dorama listened with charmed ears, her lips apart in a smile that set her husband's pulses throbbing. She too under the magical influence of long deferred love was unconscious of the presence that overshadowed them.
She had promised faithfully to plead the cause of Hinduism, but religion was forgotten. Love and love alone was paramount. Nothing else mattered. Her eyes shone with a light that spoke volumes to both men, bringing joy and hope to Ananda but misgiving to the guru. He had not calculated on the turn events had taken. The warm impulsive greeting between husband and wife had been out of his reckoning. The magical effect of touch had been undreamed of.
Another factor that had not been considered was Ananda's matured manhood. The timid boy whom the guru had instructed in the old days with fatherly authority was gone, and in his place stood an individual of strong character developed in the hard school of persecution. It was not easy for the guru to obtain a hearing. He seized upon a pause when the husband having made his appeal waited for his wife's reply.
"Woman!" he cried, in a rough overbearing voice. "Tell your husband under what conditions you will consent to join him."
Dorama gave the swami a frightened glance, and began in a faltering voice as though she were repeating a half-learned lesson.
"If my lord will consent to the rites being performed——"
"Beloved wife! light of my eyes! joy of my heart! the ceremonies that made me your husband were long ago performed. They need not be repeated!"
"She means——" began the guru in a still louder voice than he had addressed Dorama.
Ananda took a step forward and in tones that echoed round the room, said—
"Silence, swami, silence! Let the husband plead with his wife. All the world over the rule holds good that the wife shall listen to her husband; aye, and obey him!"
"Outcaste, and cursed of the gods! She is no wife of yours!"
"Christian or Hindu, we are one, she and I whatever you may say!" Again he turned to Dorama. "My lotus bud, my pearl! Do not listen to his words. Believe me you are mine for ever. Do you remember our marriage, not the mere ceremonies that made you mine; but the after rites when they gave you into my arms? We were so young then! We were like children half grown and only half awake. Now, now, loved one! my own little wife! we are awake, yes, awake and waiting and longing! Come, beloved! We have waited too long!"
The words poured from his lips in an irresistible torrent, and the guru was powerless to stop them. At their conclusion Ananda moved towards his wife who stood with hands clasped, her face turned to his.
"Back, back!" cried the guru in threatening accents.
"Come, come, beloved!"
With a swift decisive movement Ananda thrust aside the intervening body of the guru; and Dorama half sobbing, half laughing, and wholly sweet and yielding, was once again in his strong embrace; once, again in spite of the terrible presence of the swami, she felt his lips upon hers and dared—yes, dared to give back kiss for kiss. Then she felt herself put away with the same purposeful force.
"Go, little one, go before the swami curse you," he said in her ear. Dropping his voice to a whisper he continued rapidly. "You know where to find me. If your heart is brave enough to seek your husband, come by day or in the dead of night, beloved, and you will find your place in these arms. Now go, light of my eyes, my priceless jewel!"
As he spoke he gently pushed her to the door and, opening it, thrust her out, closing it after her. He returned to the middle of the room and looked the guru squarely in the face.
"Now, swami," he said temperately; "speak out! Say what you have to say as man to man. I am ready to listen. Curse me if you like by all your gods. Your curses cannot hurt."
The unflinching gaze that accompanied this speech told the guru more plainly than words that as far as Ananda was concerned his authority was called in question, his influence was gone and his godhead denied. "As man to man," Ananda had said. There was no recognition of twice-born infallibility in that sentence. The guru ground his teeth in his rage. He knew what it meant; it was the attitude of the cursed Christian towards the Brahman. The Brahman and Christian met as man to man on a common human platform; and the man without caste, the follower of a strange faith that denied the Hindu deities claimed to be equal with the divinely born exponent of the Vedas, the being of exalted caste who was immune from sin. He, the guru, the swami, in whose body resided the mantric essence, the soul of the deity, he who was sinless, was thrust from his pedestal by one whom he had instructed in his youth!
Words failed him and he was speechless; he had lost command of his tongue and he could neither curse nor upbraid. Not only had Ananda spoken to him as an equal, but when he would have interposed between husband and wife, the apostate had laid a vigorous hand on him full of strength and determination and had put him aside. Never before had he been addressed in that manner, and never had such a thing been heard of as to touch the sacred person of a swami with a sacrilegious hand.
The warm shades of his skin yellowed and he gasped as he made for the door. With a strange courtesy learned in England Ananda passed before him, lifted the latch and held the door open. The guru strode from the room transported with a rage that knew no bounds; and Ananda even as he rejoiced in his triumph wondered vaguely in what form the man's vengeance would fall. God grant that it might be directed against himself, and not against the beautiful woman who had so lately nestled in his arms.
CHAPTER XVII
Ananda's interview with his wife and the guru produced a curious result. It not only roused him out of meek resignation, but it stimulated his nerves, strengthened his will, and focussed his mental vision on the situation created by his conversion to Christianity. It was as though a certain visible growth had begun; the fruit of that growth promised to be action.
Hitherto his policy had been one of waiting and of patience amounting to little less than apathy. He had been drifting and existing rather than acting and living. It is true that the passive period was not without its advantage.
The plant that shows no shoot above ground is not necessarily dormant and idle. There may be great activity underneath the soil. It was so with Ananda. Strong roots capable of standing the stress of mental disturbance developed. From them were to spring actions that would be marked by endurance and fortitude, where formerly there had been weakness and timidity.
As he held the soft yielding figure of his wife in his arms he was conscious of a concentration of purpose he had never experienced before. The waiting policy insensibly died. Definite determination took the place of vague desire. He resolved to strike out a line for himself. The object of it should be to gain possession of his wife and child and to find a means of providing a home for them both. With this determination came the conviction that his wishes could not be fulfilled by remaining any longer under his father's roof. He must leave home as soon as possible. The opportunity for so doing had been offered, but he had refused it. He must reconsider it. There was no necessity to write, it would be better not to do so lest by any chance the letter was tampered with. He was aware that he would be watched and spied upon more than ever after what had passed between himself and the guru; he must be cautious if he wished to escape. Alderbury, he was sure, would give him a warm welcome, and again proffer the helping hand.
He counted the change left out of Bopaul's ten rupee note. There was more than enough left to pay for his journey to the headquarters of the mission, whether he went by road or by rail.
The next question to be considered was the best means of getting away from the house with his luggage without raising opposition or provoking assault. The only servant at his disposal was the pariah, and his good offices were restricted by the fact that he had again been forbidden to wait on the young master any longer. His visits had to be paid secretly and at night. The man need not have come at all; but with that fidelity so often found among the lower people of India who serve their superiors, he remained faithful to the son of the house whom he had known and worshipped from a distance as a child and boy.
When the lights were extinguished and voices ceased murmuring in the women's rooms, the untouchable, as the caste people termed the pariah, crept softly into the little yard and entered the room where Ananda slept. By the dim light of the tumbler lamp he performed the duties he had been forbidden to do. With quick, silent fingers he tidied the room, cleaned the shoes and filled the earthen chafing-dish with fresh charcoal. So quiet was he in all his movements that his master's deep sleep was undisturbed till the moment when a gentle rattle of the milkcan against the compound wall outside told of the arrival of the milkman with his cow. Even then the faithful servitor, remembering his uncleanness, forbore to lay a hand upon the recumbent figure. Kneeling by his side he uttered the loud chirrup of the wall-lizard until the sound pierced the brain of the sleeper. Then Ananda rose, and, taking up the milk-bottle that belonged to his tiffin-basket, went to fetch the milk. The pariah watched, and when his master returned he blew up the charcoal on which the coffee was to be made. No conversation passed between the two. The one received and the other gave his services without thanks or apology. Yet Ananda was not ungrateful.
Although nothing of any consequence was said, this curious intimacy had a beneficial effect upon the 'vert. Unconsciously he was learning that wonderful lesson of Christianity—the brotherhood of man. His repugnance to the pariah was decreasing, and he no longer shrank with disgust as his eye fell upon his figure. The books given by Alderbury contained much that bore on the subject, and Ananda had had plenty of leisure to absorb their contents, with the result that in his desperate need he was able to turn without repulsion to the only human being who could render help.
In the small hours of the morning after Ananda's interview with Dorama, the usual routine had been observed, while scarcely a word passed between the two. The man was turning away to leave, having blown up the chafing-dish of live coal, when Ananda called softly to him. He stopped at once, and salaamed, wondering what his master could have to say if it was not complaint at some unconscious shortcoming in his service.
"I must leave my father's house, and I require your help."
Again the pariah touched his forehead with both hands; then, placing them together, palm to palm, he listened deferentially to Ananda's explanation and instructions. He was to bring a cart to take the luggage to the station in time to catch the night mail of that day.
The pariah prostrated himself and lifted his folded hands in entreaty.
"Sir! this unworthy slave prays your honour to be careful. There are men in the town who openly declare that if they meet your excellency they will beat you and drive away the Christian devil which they say has entered the noble body of the presence. During the day they wait outside hoping to catch your honour walking. There is danger also in the house."
"Danger!" repeated Ananda quickly. "How is that? Stand up and tell me about it."
The man rose apologetically to his feet and continued his story.
"My wife sweeps out the back yard where the refuse is thrown. She heard one of the kitchen women telling the girl from the market that the swami departed in anger, and that his wrath must be appeased, otherwise worse misfortune will befall the family. He left orders with the small master, the brother of our most noble big master, that your excellency was not to be allowed to leave the grounds."
"How can he stop me?" asked Ananda, with some heat.
"By the aid of the men who watch outside."
"Are they there all night?"
"No, sir; they do not think that you will try to leave secretly and at night. Where could your honour go to hide, they say? Every hiding-place is known to them, and no one in the town would dare to give shelter against the wishes of Pantulu Iyer's family. Great care will be needed in leaving your honourable father's house without permission."
Ananda was silent. The fact that he was living in a state of siege that might very soon become close imprisonment was being forced upon him. It was an unpleasant truth, but one to which he could not remain blind. His conviction that he must get away as speedily as possible grew; and the sweeper was right in urging upon him the necessity of caution if he wished to ensure success in carrying out his intentions.
The coffee seethed on the live coals. As he removed the pot he motioned to the pariah instinctively to stand away. The action was an involuntary response to the inherited prejudice. He was obeyed instantly and without resentment. The man retired to the doorway, and would have passed out into the darkness had it not been for another command.
"Come back, I have not finished what I have to say. Tell me, what do you think ought to be done?"
The other glanced at him in surprise, although he did not venture to express it. Had ever one of the twice-born been heard to ask the advice of a sweeper? If he should dare to say in the hearing of men of caste that he had been thus consulted, he would be beaten for his presumption until his back streamed with blood.
With ever-recurring apology for daring to advise so great an excellency, he unfolded a plan of escape which seemed to Ananda, the more he considered it, the only possible means of getting away. The excellency was to pack his property into parcels and bundles which the sweeper would convey away in the night with the assistance of his wife and son to some safe hiding-place in the jungle. The portmanteaux must be left behind, empty, or suspicion would be roused if by chance one of the family paid a visit to the master. On the second night after the household had retired Ananda was to steal quietly away and walk to a station some distance from the town, where he would not be recognised. The sweeper and his relatives would act as carriers for his luggage. His sister who served the College excellency would obtain a day's holiday from the housekeeper and help. All might be relied upon for keeping the secret, and his honour need have no fear.
Ananda made only one suggestion, that he should start with them and take the train twenty-four hours earlier. To this the man objected on the score of requiring more time to make the arrangements for the night march. When Ananda spoke of a reward the pariah protested vehemently that none was required. Some day in the future, when his honour had grown rich, perhaps he would allow his son and daughter to serve him—a promise easy to give and easy to perform when the time should come. The crowing of cocks fell on their ears, and the men started.
"I must be going, sir. The women will soon awake and be moving to the cattle shed. Your excellency must forgive this worthless servant for touching your honour's sacred property; but there is no other way," he said deprecatingly.
"It is forgiven," replied Ananda, remembering how roughly he had bidden that same man on his arrival to leave his trunks alone. Rather than have them contaminated by his touch he had himself hauled them into his room. "Did you not carry the Englishman's food basket for him? Then surely you may carry my clothing without offence."
All day Ananda was busy in the privacy of his little den, putting his personal belongings together in handy portable parcels, tying some in bundles when his limited supply of brown paper and string came to an end. Quiet reigned over the house; and if he chanced to look out of the door no one crossed his line of vision in the compound. By the afternoon he had finished. He put on his cap to take a little walk. Beyond the wall that bounded the grounds he caught sight of two or three figures. They would have attracted no attention had it not been for the warning of the pariah. The man was correct. Undoubtedly he was being watched as far as the outside of the house was concerned, and with no friendly intention either; but as long as he remained indoors he was left severely alone. This was satisfactory, as the sight of his preparations would rouse suspicion and endanger the success of his scheme.
His eyes frequently sought that part of the house in which he knew were the women's quarters. The small jealously-shuttered windows gave no hint of what was passing behind the Venetians. Was Dorama there? Did she seek for a glimpse of her husband as eagerly as he craved for a sight of his wife?
He paced up and down, book in hand, his thoughts busy elsewhere. The luggage was ready in its new form, and it was to be carried off that very night. In the small hours of the following night he would quietly slip away, and thus cut himself adrift for ever from the home of his birth.
Again he searched the landscape. A strong desire to see and speak once more with his wife lay at the back of his mind. He wanted to tell her of his plans; to ask her to wait and to beg of her to join him as soon as he had a shelter to offer her.
He cudgelled his brains for some device by which a message might be conveyed in safety, and could only think of the sweeper. The pariah servant had no opportunity, however, of approaching the lady Dorama within speaking distance. Even if chance favoured the messenger he would be unable to carry out his mission. At the mere sight of him she would shrink away with all the prejudice of her caste, and resent the smallest breach of the caste law. The pariah, by the unwritten law, could not do otherwise than maintain the prescribed distance between her and himself. If he dropped a letter in her path or placed it where she might find it, his contaminating touch would be sufficient for her avoidance of the missive. Moreover, a written letter was of no use. She could neither read nor write. His only hope was in a chance interview, and as the hours slipped by the hope grew fainter.
The following day passed heavily. The luggage was safely removed without accident. His books and writing materials were gone with the rest of his property, and he would not see them again till he arrived at the distant station. He had biscuits with him and some pomegranates. The sharp sweetness of the juice served to assuage his thirst.
He went out into the compound as often as he dared. It did not do to spend too much time in the open, since it had not been his habit. It might be remarked upon. He noted the figures beyond the wall, and knew that he was being watched with the same vigilance as was shown yesterday and the day before. Frequently his eye turned towards the blue-green mountain mass with its dark-grey rocks and heavy forest. Then he looked back at the familiar building, the home of his ancestors, and once the hot unshed tears made his eyes smart at the thought of leaving it. The blood rushed to his head and back again to his heart with a violence that almost threw him off his mental balance. Could he muster up strength enough to abandon all that the home meant? Would he have the courage when the moment came to sever the ties that bound him to father, mother, wife—no, not wife! She and the child would follow by and by. He refused to entertain any doubt on the subject.
All the same, he was conscious of a shudder, the kind of inward quake experienced by the soldier at the sound of the first bullet whizzing over his head on the battlefield. He checked it at once and took a fresh grip of himself, sternly and resolutely shutting down sentiment and its companion emotion.
"I can't go back! I can't go back! There is nothing but hideous darkness behind me. I must go forward. The light is in front! Ah! dear Christ, the Son of God! lead me forward in safety! Lead me on!"
The mental disturbance passed as suddenly as it had overwhelmed him. Once more he was conscious of a great peace. It was as though he had entered that wonderful temple of God standing in the heart of London, where the strains of the organ rise above the roar of the streets, and where a man may feel that he is in the presence of the living God of Love, the Father of the Universe.
The sun dropped behind a shoulder of the mountain, and the sky broke into a glory of many colours. He watched it until it faded. Suddenly he was startled by a sound. As the last ray left the top of the hill and the forest mantled into a sombre green, a wail arose in the women's rooms. It was followed by the beat of a tomtom.
He stood at the entrance of the yard and listened. As the light faded the wailing increased. He could distinguish by the sound of the voices a movement. They were leaving the house for the garden.
Yes! He knew the ritual of old! Some one was dying, and death was close at hand. The man or woman—he started as the thought struck him that it might be his father—had been carried out of the house and laid upon mother earth to breathe his last.
How well he remembered the ceremonies with which death was greeted; the lifting with tender care of the dying from the cot or mat and the gentle placing of the gasping patient upon the smooth ground. Close by grew the sacred tulsi, without which no spirit could take its flight in peace. He could picture his mother bending over the plant to gather a sprig. He fancied he could smell the aromatic scent of the broken stalk of sweet basil as she placed the sprig above the head of the sufferer—perhaps touching the dry lips with it, leading as she did so the wail of mourning.
The chorus of women's voices swelled on the evening air; the whole household must be joining in. Who could it be? The pariah had said nothing of any illness in the family. If it had been his father the man would have mentioned it. He concluded that it must be one of the many relatives who lived in the house. Some of them had joined the family during his absence in England; others had grown out of knowledge; it was useless for him to conjecture.
The presence of death is always a solemn moment, even though the person may not be known. Ananda remained standing by the entrance of the yard, his eyes turned towards the west, but his ears bent to catch every sound that came from the house. Each change in the note of grief spoke eloquently of the ebbing life, and he listened for the final cries that would betoken the drawing of the last breath.
The colour died out of the sky except upon the horizon, which glowed with a vivid luminous green. The steady yellow light of the evening star shone in the wake of the sun's path. Bats fluttered in the air, following the strong-winged moth that sought the almond-scented blossoms of the oleander. In the distance the faint hum of the town rose occasionally and died away again. A cart went slowly by, its axles groaning as the bullocks plodded along, urged by the guttural shouts of the sleepy driver.
The wailing in the house stopped and silence reigned. The stars grew brighter and the living green of the west was lost in darkening greys. An owl in the distant forest sent forth a discordant shriek. As if in reply the familiar note of grief was renewed in slightly different tones mingled with a violent tomtoming.
Death had come; and the patient, whoever he or she might be, had drawn the last breath.
Memory was busy with the past once more. Sad though the sound of mourning might be, it belonged to his life. Death without those accompanying sounds would not seem to be death, any more than marriage would seem to be marriage without the dancing girls and their love-songs.
He had renounced all such things and set them aside for ever. Again, with a determined effort, he thrust sentiment aside and shut his ears to the mourning. All night long the mourners would be up and busy over the preparations for the disposal of the body the next day. There was no reason why he should not sleep however. He had a long walk before him. The sweeper was to meet him at the station in the morning at eight o'clock, and he was to take the train that was due soon after that hour. He intended starting between three and four. The road was familiar. India is not troubled with too many by-paths. Even if the route had been unknown to him, he could not easily have missed it.
He retired to his room and threw himself upon his charpoy bed. He could still hear the monotonous wailing, but it was not disturbing. Having reassured himself that it could not possibly be his father, he troubled no more about the unknown dead. On the whole it was fortunate that the household was occupied with its own affairs. There was less likelihood of attention being directed towards himself. His escape ought to be easy, and, thus thinking, he fell asleep.
CHAPTER XVIII
Ananda lay in a deep, dreamless sleep, the restful slumber of a healthy man whose mind was as wholesome as his body. One hand was tucked under his cheek, the other was thrown forward and hung slightly over the edge of the cot. All his troubles, his doubts and fears, his deprivations and hardships, lately inflicted, were forgotten. It was the best preparation he could have for entrance on the new life, when he would have to live "by the sweat of his brow," like a multitude of good men who had gone before him, and others who would come after him.
He had had four hours of solid sleep without stirring, when he became aware of a touch upon the hand that rested on the border of the bed. It was a soft, coaxing touch that sent an electric message to his brain. In the old days before he went to England that same touch had often roused him at dawn. He lifted his head and breathed one word:
"Wife!"
"I am here!" came the ready response.
She was in his arms the next moment, clinging to him whilst convulsive sobs—stifled, but none the less strong—shook her from head to foot.
At first words failed them both, he in his astonishment and she in the violence of her grief; but as tears relieved the overburdened brain of the woman she regained sufficient command of herself to speak.
"Our little son!—my baby! He is dead!"
Then, as an exclamation escaped Ananda's lips, she placed her hand over his mouth.
"Ah! hush!" she whispered. "They do not know that I have come to you. If they find me here they will beat me again!"
"Beat you! My pearl! Who has dared to lay a finger upon my wife?" he whispered fiercely, drawing her still closer.
"Our uncle's wife. Of late she has taken much upon herself. She has tried continually to push me from my place, saying that her husband would be the big master of the house when your father died. Then she will be mistress, and as such it was only fitting that she should come next to your mother instead of me."
"But why should she strike you?"
"Ah! husband!—the child! They say that it was through my neglect and carelessness that the boy came under the influence of the evil eye; it was but right therefore that I should be punished."
The bereaved mother poured the story of little Royan's illness and death into her husband's ears. Together the parents wept, stifling their grief lest the sound of a sob or a sigh should betray them. Little, indeed, had Ananda suspected that as he listened indifferently to the wailing his beloved child was passing away from them for ever.
"What will life be without my child or my husband?" cried Dorama at last. "I cannot bear it; I shall die!"
"No, you will not. Beloved, I am leaving my home to-night to find more liberty than I am given here in this cruel town. Come with me. Let us go together. Once across the border of the State our rights will be respected. We are of age, free to act as we choose, and no one can separate you from me or do either of us any hurt."
"Husband! I am your obedient wife!"
*****
Ananda looked at his watch. It was half-past two.
"It is time we started, beloved. Can you walk as far?" he asked anxiously as he made his final preparations.
"I can walk the distance easily if my lord will give me time."
"Then let us begin the journey at once. We will go to the further corner of the compound and get over the wall. Before the sun is up we shall be far enough from the town not to fear recognition."
Together they crept across the enclosure, Ananda beating the grass softly with his stick at each step, to drive away the chance snake. Dorama followed closely.
The wall presented no difficulty; but as Ananda dropped lightly into the road he startled a half-starved pariah dog returning to the town after its nightly prowl for food. The dog, more in fear than anger, barked wildly at him. Dorama, alarmed, hesitated to follow. He threw a stone at the animal with the intention of frightening it. As bad luck would have it the stone struck the dog, and though it was not much hurt, it shrieked after the manner of the village cur, as if it had been nearly killed.
"Wait!" said Ananda to his wife, who had not yet joined him in the road. "Sit down under the wall. The long grass will hide you."
He watched the house for a few minutes to see if a light moved or if there was any indication of an alarm being raised and a search. If Dorama's absence were discovered an immediate hunt would be made, and the noise of the dog would give a hint of the direction she had taken.
No sign of any movement was apparent, and Dorama, recovering her nerve, climbed the wall and joined him. They set off at a steady pace. There was no moon; but the stars gave sufficient light to help the travellers along the broad, well-kept road. Dorama's little feet were bare. They fell noiselessly except for the chink of her silver toe-rings. Ananda wore English boots, strong and serviceable; but the warm, sub-tropical climate had affected the leather and made them creak. Possibly it was the noise of his tread that drowned the sound of approaching footsteps.
Dorama was the first to hear it. She stopped and laid her hand on her husband's arm.
"What is that?" she asked sharply.
Before he could reply four men running barefooted came up with them from behind. Three of them hurled themselves upon Ananda. The fourth seized Dorama roughly by the arm.
"What madness is this?" cried the voice of their uncle. "Who gave you permission to take away the daughter of the house?" he demanded of Ananda.
The only reply of the latter was to struggle violently. He was soon overpowered, and between his three captors he was marched back towards his father's house. Ten minutes later he found himself once more in the little outhouse with his empty trunks. The door was closed upon him and its primitive hasp secured with a padlock. He was without food and without his personal property; but his concern was not for himself, it was for the weeping and trembling woman who was wrested from him to be driven back in unmerited disgrace and perhaps imprisoned like himself. There was nothing to be done but to submit, at least, for the present. He was calm and self-controlled once more now that he was alone. He would wait patiently for developments, relying on the love that he knew his parents bore him. It was impossible to believe that they had any intention of doing him personal violence, though they might subject him to further humiliation and discomfort.
It was the dog that did the mischief and put Sooba on the track of the fugitives. Dorama's absence was discovered as soon as she was required for a ceremony in the death chamber as mother of the dead boy. A search was made through the house, and some one suggested that possibly she had gone to the well to put an end to her sorrow for lost husband and child. Another mentioned Ananda. Could she have sought him in her trouble? After their interview in the presence of the guru it was not unlikely. When his room was found to be empty the belief was confirmed that the two were together somewhere, perhaps on the premises, perhaps in the forest.
The shriek of the dog betrayed the fact that it had encountered a human being and received some hurt. Its cry was a howl of pain and not of anger, as would have been the case had it met one of its own kind. The sharp ears of the man who of all that numerous family did not mourn the dead nor the disgraced, caught the sound, and he jumped to a correct conclusion. Further thought pointed to the obvious fact that the missing couple would not be likely to take the road leading to the town. In a short time he gathered a band of willing helpers, and, as we have seen, the capture was made.
Having disposed of the couple, Sooba called a family council. Pantulu declined to be present, but Gunga attended it. A decision was arrived at that she and her husband should leave the house that afternoon immediately after the funeral. They were to travel by bullock coach to one of his silk farms some ten miles distant from Chirapore. A small bungalow occupied by a relative who superintended the silk-worm culture would house them for a few days or until—Gunga looked at her brother-in-law sadly—until her husband had recovered his health. Other matters were discussed with general unanimity as to the course that should be taken as soon as Pantulu was removed. When it was over Gunga sought Dorama. The stern, unyielding woman stood in the centre of the room, her daughter-in-law prostrate at her feet. The younger woman trembled as she listened, and when the tale was ended she was shaken with sobs.
"Mother! mother!" she wailed. "Is it necessary? Must it be?"
The tears stood in Gunga's eyes as she pronounced again the sentence passed by the guru on her son and confirmed by the common consent of the family.
"Spare him, mother! spare him!" pleaded Dorama.
"He did not spare us his parents, nor his son, whose death he has caused. In a short time we shall carry his father to the arms of mother earth, as yesterday we carried the child. Why should we spare him?"
Dorama bowed her head in silence. She dared not question the accusation. Being a Hindu she was inclined to the belief that unconsciously his regard falling on the child as it did might have had an evil influence. Nor could she be blind to the probability that Pantulu would die of grief before many weeks were over.
"There must be punishment for you too, daughter," continued Gunga.
Dorama's hands were raised over her bowed head as if to protect herself from a shower of blows. The fear of immediate violence was without foundation. Gunga took no pleasure in inflicting pain. The task would be left to the man whose power in the house was growing more dominant each day that passed.
The last rites for the disposal of little Royan's body were performed, and the party had returned to the house to watch the departure of the master and mistress. The coach was ready, and the bullock bells jangled as the large white beasts shook the flies from their heads and stamped a cloven hoof, breathing out heavily through their glistening nostrils.
Pantulu, bowed like a man of seventy, left the house by himself and climbed into the bullock coach without waiting for his wife. She stayed behind to give the final directions to her women. As she crossed the threshold to the big iron-studded door, Dorama ran forward and caught her arm.
"Mother! mother! is it not possible to pass over the offence? Oh! mother! I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!"
Gunga released herself with no light touch from the clinging hand and spoke with a roughness that hid her own emotion.
"Go back to your room. You forget yourself, daughter! Look at the big master! Is not the sight of his deep sorrow and affliction enough to win the consent of every member of his house?"
Dorama's face sought shelter behind her trembling hands, and she began to cry piteously like a child. Her mother-in-law strode on towards the bullock coach, her grey head covered with the saree drawn like a hood over her forehead till her features were almost hidden. She did not keep strict purdahnasheen, but she was careful not to expose herself to the public gaze more than was necessary. Sooba himself closed the door of the coach.
"Farewell, sister," he said in a smooth voice. "The change will do my brother good if anything will; but his spirit is too much broken by his many sorrows to give us any hope of his recovery. It is a matter of time only."
"We shall see," replied Gunga sharply, and not best pleased at the assurance with which her husband's death was mentioned.
"By the time you return," continued Sooba, unruffled, "we shall have better news to tell you of the breaking of an obstinate will."
Gunga turned from him without response. The motherly instinct in her struggled to make its voice heard. She stifled it ruthlessly. Yet she looked back as the bullocks moved forward with an uneven jerk and said—
"Do nothing but what the swami commanded," she said. "It will be sufficient."
The noise of the wheels prevented further conversation. Sooba, watching the cart as it swayed in its exit through the gateway of the compound wall smiled unpleasantly.
"It was just as well that I did not tell her all, or she might have refused to leave the house. Mothers are in the way when troublesome sons and daughters require chastisement."
He passed through the centre courtyard towards the back of the building. Dorama, dejected and miserable, her eyelids swollen with weeping, stood listlessly near the kitchen door. His eyes dwelt on her jewellery, the gold bangles on her arms, her nose and ear ornaments, and a pearl necklace that covered the cord on which was suspended the marriage token.
Inside the kitchen the sharp voice of his wife was raised as she issued orders to the gang of women employed in cooking the evening meal. She came to the door and caught sight of her husband. There was an exchange of glances between the new self-constituted master and mistress. It was sufficient without speech. She called to Dorama.
"Come, little sister; enough of grieving! Go into the kitchen and see to the making of the green chutneys. The girl who is pounding them is too stupid to flavour it to your uncle's liking. Now that the big mistress is away I must take her place. It is a favour to allow you to take mine."
Dorama glanced at her through misty eyes. She did not answer, but entered the kitchen and seated herself by the side of the girl who was compounding the delicacies known as green chutneys. The work she had been asked to do was light, and she was glad to be employed. Hitherto it had not been thought necessary that she should help with the preparation of meals. The care of the child was considered sufficient occupation; but now she was without any charge it was only right that she should take her share in the household duties. She had no objection to the labour involved; but she could not help feeling the humiliation of the position assigned her. As wife of the son and heir she ranked next to the mistress. It was she who should be at the head of the household giving orders. It was she who should light the lamp at evening and call together the family at daybreak for the morning hymn and pujah. Before Ananda returned, and while the child lived, she had looked forward confidently to the time when she should succeed to these recognised duties of the mistress of the zenana. Now the bitter truth was thrust upon her; with her husband outcasted and her son dead they could never be hers. Silently she took up the work assigned to her, tears dropping occasionally from her sad eyes.
The women in the kitchen glanced at her with a sympathy they dared not express. There was not one among them who would not have preferred to see Dorama in her aunt's place. In view of what the near future probably held they deemed it wiser to keep their thoughts to themselves and to obey orders without a murmur.
At the evening meal Dorama was made to feel again her subordinate position both in serving the men and in being served herself. But it came to an end at last. When it was finished the green leaf platters were thrown out on the refuse heap; the brass pots and dishes were rinsed and turned upside down to drain, and the kitchen fires were allowed to sink into grey ash. Many of the women, tired out with a night of preparation for the funeral, lay down on their mats, and drawing a sheet over their heads, were soon fast asleep. Two or three continued to move about the house, not having completed their duties. One by one they too retired, and only Dorama remained awake. As soon as she was assured that her companions were safely asleep she rose and opened the door. Placing it ajar, she seated herself close to it, so that she had a view of the central court through the narrow opening. Her heart beat like a sledge-hammer. It seemed to her that it must be heard throughout the house. An hour passed, and still she continued to watch and wait with wakeful eye and alert ear.
Between ten and eleven she caught sight of the dark forms of men passing silently through the courtyard towards the back verandah. They entered the garden, and turning through the gate in the garden wall, went towards the room occupied by Ananda.
Before daring to follow she waited for sign of further movement in the men's quarters. There might be others who out of curiosity, if nothing else, would join their superiors uninvited. All was silent, and she concluded that they who intended to visit her husband that night had gone to his room.
Gathering her saree closely round her she crept out into the courtyard, taking care to close the door of the sleeping-room after her. Listening and moving with the utmost caution, she went through the garden door and out into the compound. The stars were bright, and by their light she could distinguish the footpath leading direct to the little yard where the green gourd flourished.
She hesitated to venture along the track by which the men might return at any minute. Her courage failing her she followed the wall till she reached the first corner. Here she stopped and listened. Feeling her way, she went on till she arrived at a spot outside the yard which she calculated was close to the open door of Ananda's room. The fear of snakes was conquered in her intense anxiety to learn what was happening, and she crouched low down in the long grass till she was hidden from sight.
The position she had chosen was the best for the purpose of overhearing all that passed in Ananda's room. Only twenty-four hours before, she had entered it with confidence, and sought for consolation in her distress at the loss of her child. His love and his pity were poured out upon her. His kisses were still warm upon her lips. She seemed to hear the words of joy and love that he breathed in her ear as he held her to him. She thrilled again when she recalled all that he had promised of the future that should be theirs, if she would take her courage in her hands and come away with him—future love, future happiness, future maternity, all might be secured if only she would be brave. In British territory his rights would be recognised—how hopefully he spoke!—he could earn enough to keep them both. She would be a happy wife, her own mistress, with no aunt to bully and tyrannise; and if the good God willed it, she would also be a happy mother again. As he pleaded she forgot his broken caste, his disgrace, his excommunication. A new and great love blossomed out of the old, bestowing upon her both courage and faith. She would go with him—oh, so gladly! she whispered. What had she to live for now but her lord, her husband! The grip of his arms told her how he appreciated her devotion.
Then came the sudden ending to their dreams. That golden future which was to begin then and there was shattered; and punishment, dread bodily punishment, was to be meted out to the one human being left for her to love.
Her train of thought was disturbed by voices. Her uncle's dominated the rest. It was loud and overbearing, and it seemed to increase in acrimony as he talked. Ananda's replies were given temperately yet firmly. Apparently angry tones and open insults had no power to raise fear or wrath. He presented a firm front, growing, if anything, calmer as the other became more excited. The older man would have found his task easier if his nephew had lost his temper, and become abusive and violent.
Again and again Sooba demanded recantation. Each demand was met with a firm refusal, given patiently and without faltering. Threats and blustering commands produced no effect, and so far the victory lay with the younger man. That his uncle was fast losing control of himself was evident by his lapse now and then into a veritable scream of rage.
After an outburst of this kind more virulent than any that had gone before, came a call to his confederates. Four or five men who were waiting outside the door, entered, and Dorama could distinguish that some action was taking place. She divined what it was, though she heard no words. Violence was being done to her husband's person, and he had not met it with the calmness that had characterised his speech. He had fought for his liberty, and in his struggles he had knocked over two of his assailants and his chair. Five strong men were too many for him however; and as the noise and the scuffle subsided, Dorama knew that he was secured and bound.
Once more there was silence; it was presently broken by the hectoring tones of Sooba. This time they met with no reply. The men who had helped added their voices and raised an angry chorus of upbraiding and reproach. It died down when their vocabulary of abuse was exhausted. This time the silence was so complete that Dorama could hear the melancholy cry of a night-bird as it passed overhead on its way to the forest-clad slopes of the mountain. In the distance a jackal howled and led the yelping of the prowling pack of night-scavengers.
Suddenly she started and shivered as a sound fell on her ear that she had heard before at rare intervals in her life. It was repeated, and she trembled from head to foot, burying her face in her hands.
The Hindus, rich and poor, much as they love litigation over boundaries, irrigation rights and the division of property, rarely bring family quarrels and offences into court. In cases of murder the law interferes; but where it is only assault in the privacy of the family, it is kept strictly private. The victim and the aggressor equally shrink from the public inquiry necessitating the intrusion of the police.
Dorama understood perfectly what was happening. It would have been wise if she had returned then and there to her room. She could do no good by stopping, and she ran a risk of being discovered. But although she was aware of what would be discreet and wise, she was unable to tear herself away. It seemed heartless to the beloved one to leave him in his dark hour. She could not bring him consolation, but she could suffer with him.
And suffer she assuredly did. At every recurrence of the dull thud she shivered as though she herself had been struck. Once a low cry escaped the lips of the victim, and her nails dug into her breast clawing unconsciously her own soft smooth flesh in her agony.
Fifteen minutes passed which seemed fifteen hours. Surely it was enough and more than enough to expiate his sin against the guru and against his family. Now they would stop! they must stop! that horrible sound must cease! But the sentence of the swami was not completed yet, and again her ears were assailed by that ominous thud. He bore it very silently. Had they gagged him? or was he faint, she wondered?
At last a groan came from the sufferer, as though his endurance were failing. It was too much for Dorama. She felt that she must shriek aloud if she remained a moment longer. She rose to her feet and, impelled by a mad desire to help him, she ran to the entrance of the yard. How she was to accomplish her purpose she was not composed enough to think.
The door of the room was open. She hesitated. Dare she enter and bid them stop in their cruel work? No! no! it would only increase their fury, and they would visit her offence upon him. Perhaps they would kill him. In the light of the yellow oil lamp she caught sight of the bamboo as it was once more lifted with slow, deliberate precision.
Putting her fingers in her ears she fled, never stopping until she reached the room in which she slept. Prostrate upon her mat, her saree over her mouth to stifle her sobbing, she lay convulsed with grief. The women in the room slept heavily. One of them stirred. She lifted her head, drew aside the sheet that covered her, and listened.
"Is that you, sister? Poor little mother! The child is gone, and all through that evil husband of yours! May he be cursed in a thousand miserable births! Lie down, child! Think no more about him!"
Dorama did not reply. She subdued her sobs, and listened once more with painful alertness for the sound of returning steps through the inner courtyard. They came, and as the men walked slowly back they talked in low voices. It was well for Dorama's peace of mind that she could not hear what they said.
"Will he die under it?" asked one.
"Not he!" replied Sooba. "I took care to use the stick so that it neither killed nor broke bones. Although a Christian has no standing in a court of law in the State of Chirakul, there might be trouble with the English if he were done to death."
"Where was he going when we caught him?"
"To the missionary," replied Sooba, shortly.
"No fear of his attempting to run away again just yet. He will not be able to stand for a couple of days," remarked one.
"Therefore I did not trouble to lock the door," said another.
"He has starved since last night, and now he has been beaten. All this will surely drive the devil out of him," said a third.
"If not he can have plenty more of the same medicine," rejoined Sooba, at which they all laughed in the best of humours.