CHAPTER XXII
Little news was received from Pantulu Iyer and his wife. It was conjectured that there was none to impart. If he became decidedly worse the family at Chirapore would be duly informed; but if he only continued to drift gradually down the hill nothing would be said. Sooba and his wife, ever ready to believe as they hoped, made up their minds that the head of the house could not last much longer, and that the younger brother would soon be called upon to perform those ceremonies which should belong to the son, the performance of which established the right of the performer to be recognised as head of the house. Could they have glanced at the presumably dying man they would have sustained a shock.
Contrary to all expectation Pantulu was improving in health every day. He recovered his appetite as well as his strength and spirits with a readiness that astonished his wife. Away from his home and surrounded by new interests he shook off the terrible depression caused by his son's conversion to Christianity. A reaction was setting in, enabling him to detach his thoughts from the trouble and centre them elsewhere.
The silk farm was one of his early ventures, when, as a young man, he had tried with considerable success to improve the culture of silk-worms. The system he introduced answered so well that it was generally adopted throughout the silk-growing districts, with the result that a finer and stronger silk was produced. Perfection, however, was not attained, and of late years there had been a forward movement in the Far East which again placed the silk of Chirakul in the background. The relative in charge of the farm was an enthusiast in his way, and he was delighted to find that in Pantulu he had a ready and sympathetic listener. He was quite sure that further improvement might be effected in the boiling of the cocoons and the bleaching of the silk. He had made a few experiments himself and he exhibited the results with some pride. Together they pored over the evil-smelling stuff that was one day to robe a woman's dainty form, and exhale nothing but the atta of rose and sandal-wood with which it should be scented. It was a good strand of silk, but the tint, a dull stain, would only take crude strong dyes, that lost their brilliancy and purity through the stain.
The manager of the farm had recently been to Bombay where he had met some silk growers from China. Though these men were reticent and jealous of imparting their knowledge to foreigners, he managed to extract some information and to gather that more might be learned by a visit to China and Japan. Since his return he had made the attempt to improve the silk; and though the result left much to be desired, it was sufficiently encouraging to show the old expert that the experiment should be pursued.
The second day after his arrival Pantulu spent the morning over the caldrons; and when summoned to the midday meal he entered the little bungalow with a firm, brisk step that bespoke an unusual readiness for dinner, and a line of thought that was free from anxiety. Gunga looked up from the steaming pot of rice which she was manipulating and glanced at her husband with surprise. If this was the result of a return to work it should not be her fault if the cure was not completed.
Always prompt and unusually practical for a woman of her nation, she made a startling proposition that very afternoon. It was nothing less than the despatch of the manager to China and Japan on a tour of inspection, that he might examine thoroughly into the methods of silk-growing and preparation for the dyers' vat. She suggested that Pantulu himself should manage the farm during his absence. The cousin's wife and family were to remain on the estate and keep house as usual. Every now and then Gunga would go over to Chirapore and see that all was going well. Meanwhile Sooba and his wife would represent the head of the family and look after the business in the town.
The proposal was received by the two men with approval. Pantulu's eyes grew bright as he considered the plan; and at her question as to whether he felt strong enough for the work that it would involve, he drew himself up to his full height and assured her that it would make a new creature of him. The change of air had already wrought wonders and she must not look upon him as an old man past all business.
"My brother will be surprised when he hears the news," remarked Pantulu with a new pride in his rejuvenation.
"This is not to be spoken of at present," said Gunga with authority. "I have other plans connected with it, and until they are more forward I wish for secrecy; for I will have no interference; none!"
Her lips closed firmly, and Pantulu knew of old that when his wife was determined on any course of action nothing moved her from her course.
"What are they, wife?" he asked, with a smile of amusement. "May we of this house be told?"
"If you can keep your tongues quiet. Our cousin's wife, here, is a Mahratta woman who knows Bombay. She has suggested that we should send our son there to act as agent for the sale of our produce. She says that though he is lost to our religion, he need not be lost to the family business. Many people of caste in Bombay have joined the Brahmo Somaj and the Arya Somaj and a few have become Christians. With all these changes before their eyes the people of Bombay feel less bitterness towards the men who take up a new faith than those of a state like Chirapore; and there is no persecution. The English Government protects them all."
Pantulu did not reply immediately, and Gunga continued to unfold plans that were to include the obstinate son and a compromise. She paused to take breath and he spoke.
"The difficulty over the shraddah ceremonies will still remain, the rites by which my ancestors and I may escape the lower rebirths."
Gunga looked at him and pursed up her lips as though she had by no means exhausted her resources.
"Our cousin's wife has proposed a remedy for that."
He glanced at her with questioning eyes that showed how near to his heart the subject and consequent anxiety lay. Before he could frame the query as to ways and means she continued.
"The time has not arrived yet to talk about it. First and foremost, husband, you are the chief consideration. You must get well and strong. For that purpose there is nothing like work and food and change of air, as I have told you more than once. Here you will have all that is necessary."
"What shall we tell my brother?"
"Leave that to me. I will dictate a letter saying that it will be advisable for you to remain here, and praying him to look well after your interests at Chirapore. When I go back, which I shall do before long, I will explain more."
Pantulu was well content to leave everything in his wife's hands. The new venture had taken hold of his mind, and it dominated every other consideration. At the bottom of it lay money; and though his wealth was great already, "Gold" had a reviving effect upon the man, as the word "rats" had upon the sick terrier.
On the day appointed for the ceremonies to take place, which were to brand Ananda's wife with the curse of Hindu widowhood, a large party assembled at Pantulu's family mansion in Chirapore. Relatives accompanied by relatives arrived from all parts of the State. Gossip circulated freely. News was given and demanded; and many were the questions asked concerning the absent master and mistress. Sooba was ready with his tale, adorned and coloured according to his imagination without much regard to the truth. Gunga's letter had been received; and as she made no allusion to her husband's health it seemed safe to assume that there was no improvement.
"My sister-in-law asks me to consider myself the head of the house as long as my brother is absent. She says that it is best for him to remain where he is; it will give him a better chance of recovery," he said.
"Then there is hope that he may get well?" asked one of the guests.
"She may have hope herself; we do not entertain much. It is more than likely that he is too sick to move."
"How long do you think he will last?" enquired another.
"A few weeks at the outside," replied Sooba. "The news of the disappearance of his son will probably hasten his end."
"Has it been sent yet?"
"Not yet; we are waiting till this ceremony is finished. It would be very bad for him if he insisted on returning for it; so we have thought it best to get it all over before mentioning anything."
It was very gratifying to be treated as the master of the house. Sooba revelled in the situation, and swaggered about among his guests as if he already owned his brother's wealth. It all helped to sooth the wounded self-esteem; and to soften the memory of the insults he had received at the hands of Mrs. Hulver.
The afternoon had been chosen for the ceremony; but ever since daybreak active preparations had been in progress. The victim had undergone ceremonial ablutions; her hair had been combed and oiled and her whole person scented. The long glossy strands of hair were plaited and in the plaits were woven white jasmine blossoms. Gold ornaments freshly burnished were fastened on her head and in her ears and nostrils.
A close-fitting jacket of crimson satin and a rich tawny silk saree the colour of wall-flowers enfolded her figure. Round her neck hung four beautiful necklaces of pearl and gold and precious stones, all of which had adorned Gunga on her wedding day many years ago. Ankles and wrists were laden, and Dorama's slender fingers were filled to the first joint with rings that were heirlooms. Her forehead was rubbed with sweet sandalwood paste, her lips touched with rouge, and the beautiful brown eyes intensified in size by dark touches beneath them. They needed no pungent juices to make them bright. The unshed tears were sufficient to keep them moist.
The assembled guests had had time to dine and afterwards to talk over all the news. Many had paid a visit to the well down which they glanced morbidly at the root where the cap was found hanging. By half past three the waiting began to grow irksome, and enquiries were made for the widow. She was coming! they were told. It had taken long to fasten all the jewels. There were so many! not one worn on the wedding day was missing; and in addition she wore others that were purchased for her when her son was born.
The mention of little Royan was the signal for sighs and lamentations. They were interrupted by the appearance of Dorama led by her aunt. Dressed as when she was given to her husband she stood before them, her eyes downcast and brimming with tears, her delicate fingers plucking nervously at the folds of her saree.
At the sight of her the women burst into open wailing. Some of them pressed forward and cracked the joints of their knuckles over her head as though they would still try to avert her hideous fate. Others kissed her cheek and hair, her soft arms, even the gold embroidered edge of her saree. Tears flowed freely; the sight of the grief of others opened the fountain of her own sorrow, and Dorama wept with them.
It was a pathetic sight; the girl dressed in bridal array for the last time in her young life, and the sympathetic company bewailing her fate.
A golden ray of the afternoon sun shot slanting downwards into the courtyard and caught the gleaming jewellery, reddening the rich tint of her silk garment, and warming the lights in the precious metal. Here a crimson ruby sent out a shaft of fire; there a green emerald and blue sapphire set in gold completed the rainbow colours.
The company revelled in the luxury of grief and prolonged the leave-taking, repeating over and over again their sorrow and regret that the gods had dealt thus hardly with her. Then as the sun drew down towards the west, she was led by her uncle and aunt through the little yard and into Ananda's room. The company followed, and the space was quickly filled with the throng of sightseers still wailing and weeping without restraint. The green foliage of the gourd was trodden down; its fruit and yellow blossoms were crushed under careless feet as the crowd pressed forward to see the degrading rites that were to be carried out by the two relatives who had constituted themselves master and mistress of the ceremonies.
First the jewels were removed. One by one they were unclasped and handed to members of the family to be held in safe keeping till they could be restored to the jewel chest. Every woman rich or poor wears a few dark bangles of glass. Among the golden circlets on her arms Dorama had three or four such rings on each wrist. With every movement the bangles clinked musically as they fell against the gold bracelets. Armed with a stone her aunt seized her by the hand and struck the brittle glass sharply. At the sound of the blows the wail of grief was again raised. This was the first act in the tragedy.
Denuded of all her adornments she was next disrobed. The coloured jacket was removed; the silk saree unwound from her limbs. A coarse rough cloth of unbleached cotton was produced and twisted round her figure. Widowhood permitted but one garment; nevermore would she be allowed to wear jacket or petticoat or any soft material that might protect her sensitive skin from the rough web of the cotton saree. This was the second act.
The third, by far the worst part of the ordeal, was still to come. Her abundant hair was unplaited slowly and the sweet jasmine blossoms that had been woven into it dropped upon the ground at her feet, where they lay all unheeded, contaminated and cursed by the touch of the widow. Again the women crowded closely, some of them lifting the tresses to their lips, with lamentations that one so young and beautiful should meet with such misfortune.
In the light of the sunset glow the scissors shone as the hand of the barber woman was raised to perform her share of the ceremony. The hair that reached far below Dorama's waist was gathered in none too gentle a grip and severed close against the head. Not content with this, custom demanded the use of the razor. As the sunlight faded behind the purple mountain, Dorama's head was disfigured beyond recognition. A fresh cry of grief rose from the assembled crowd, as they stared with growing repulsion at the sight. The only dry eyes were those of the temporary master of the house and his wife.
One more ceremony remained to be performed. This was the severing of the marriage cord on which the badge corresponding with the European woman's wedding ring hung, Dorama felt the cord press against the back of her neck as her aunt drew it tight the better to divide it. As it parted the tension relaxed and the gold badge dropped into the hand extended by her uncle to receive it.
With a despairing cry Dorama fell upon her knees, and leaning forward touched the ground with her forehead as if in resignation to the will of the gods. Round her lay the scattered jasmine blossoms that had dropped from her hair. In their death they exhaled their sweetness on the evening air. They were no longer the adornment of the bride but the offering to one who was to suffer a living death. Nevermore would the sight of the wax-white flowers remind her of a happy expectant bridegroom. Thenceforth they would speak only of death and misery.
It is strange how the Hindu who is extravagant in his grief, piles up pain and sorrow for poor suffering humanity. As if the gods had not brought sufficient wretchedness on the unhappy wife by the loss of her husband, he devises in his inhuman ingenuity this barbarous method of enhancing the sorrow that is already almost too great for endurance. When the girl is dressed up for the last time and appears before the assembly she is greeted with profound pity. As the ceremonies proceed that pity gradually emerges into loathing and contempt. The woman herself with all her sweetness and gentleness is forgotten, and her widowhood only is remembered. She enters upon an existence that is absolutely without a relieving ray of hope. She is often the drudge of the house; she has no rights moral or otherwise; and she is at the mercy of the most tyrannical woman of the household and the most licentious man. Her only chance of escape is in death; but even death has no promise of greater happiness. Her rebirth on earth will, according to her faith, only plunge her in deeper misery and degradation.
How such an appalling custom can have arisen out of the past ages it is difficult to say; and it is still more puzzling to understand why it is maintained among a people who are neither savage nor uncivilized. No other nation has anything to offer that is its equivalent in refined and far-reaching cruelty. Never a day passes but the rites are performed somewhere throughout the length and breadth of India. Never a night goes by that does not see some stricken girl or woman grovelling on the floor of her chamber in abject misery alone and uncomforted. Too often the misery is ended by a catastrophe, a rush towards the well; a plunge and then stillness.
And what then? Does any one care? Not in the least. Even the mother of the girl sheds no tear and makes no lamentation. The house is relieved of the presence of the ill-starred widow, a certain source of misfortune, and her removal is a blessing for which the gods are thanked.
One by one the company drifted away, some to depart at once for their homes, others to indulge in fragments of gossip in the back verandah. The place was empty at last of all save the prostrate figure lying among the jasmine blossoms in the room where, only a few nights ago, she had crept into the arms of a loving husband. The gourd was crushed and trampled to death in the yard; the glory of its green leaves and yellow cups was as ruthlessly destroyed as her own crown of womanhood.
A cicala in the grass outside began his evening note of challenge. It was answered by the metallic defiance of a rival. A pair of little flycatchers slipped into their roosting place in the oleander bush at the entrance, with complaining chirrups at having been kept up so late by the invasion of the yard. A pale, yellow moth fluttered like a ghost over the jasmine flowers, puzzled at its inability to draw honey from what had been done to death. The hum of the town, busy with its evening trading, came faintly through the stillness of the air and died down again; and the peace of approaching night dropped softly on the earth.
Not one of that numerous family gave a second thought to the stricken woman whom they had left. Not a soul returned to offer consolation. Their actions faithfully indicated their minds. No one cared what became of the widow; no one heeded her steps. Under her ban she was free to come and go as she chose. From thenceforth she need have no fear of lock and key; unless it might be for the purpose of keeping her out of sight of her more fortunate fellows.
In earlier days Dorama had wondered how Mayita had been able to bear the fate that had overtaken her. She recalled the fact that she had herself shrunk from the baldheaded child, and avoided a meeting without any attempt at disguising her action. And now she was in exactly the same case herself! ah! she could not bear it. It was intolerable; a moan broke from her lips as the reality of the present separated itself from the shadows of the past. She writhed in rebellion against her fate, and as she did so she felt the iron of the inevitable enter her soul.
It was unbearable. She could not face it! Cost what it might she must escape!
There was but one way. She knew it, as she had heard it spoken of when other women suffered the same fate. Yes: they were right. Death was preferable to life under such conditions. Her beloved husband had sought for death in the well. If she ran quickly, and hurled herself over the low wall before she had time to look into the black cold depths, she could find courage enough to carry out the design without faltering. It would be best too for the house, and relieve it of the disastrous presence of a widow. Royan was gone; Ananda was gone; it was only fitting that she should go too.
She rose to her feet determined to act at once before her courage failed her. She turned and staggered blindly to the entrance that admitted the faint starlight of the night. As her foot crossed the threshold she felt a pair of small arms thrown around her.
"Dorama! sister, it is I! Coomara's widow! I have come to join my tears with yours!"
And promptly Mayita buried her face in the coarse new saree of her sister-widow and gave full rein to her grief.
Dorama felt like a drowning waif who had abandoned hope, and to whom was suddenly held out a friendly hand. She clung passionately to Mayita, trembling and catching her breath in dry sobs.
"Sit down, sister," said Mayita presently. "Let us talk. No one cares where the widow is, nor what she does. Listen; I have news for you. This morning they put ladders down the well by the cattle shed where your husband's cap was found. They searched for his body with hooks and nets, but they found nothing. If he is there he lies like a stone at the bottom. Some say that as he turned Christian he cannot come up. The devil living in the well has eaten him. My brother laughs and says they are all mistaken. He is not there."
"Not there!" cried Dorama startled. Then as the flicker of hope momentarily kindled died down she added: "But if not there, where can he be?"
"He has gone to the missionary, the good Englishman, who will be a father to him."
"Impossible! He could not stand, far less walk, after the beating that they gave him; and he had no friends."
"My brother assures me that he is alive and he means to make sure of it by secret inquiry. Oh, Dorama! dear sister! I am so sorry for you. But listen! Beloved!—I may call you so now. Beloved! it is so sweet to have a sister! I have been so lonely since my evil fate overtook me. Oh! so lonely! With only the good Bopaul to say a kind word to me. Even my mother hates the sight of me, and curses me because I bring bad luck to the house."
There was a pause during which the two girls clung together.
"Sister!" whispered Mayita striving to catch sight of the other's face in the dim light. "Sister, where were you going when you fell into my arms?"
Dorama did not reply, but suddenly she began to moan. Mayita strove to comfort her, and when the agitation lessened she began again.
"Sister! you were going to the well. It must not be. You must live lest by any chance your husband comes to life again. It will be hard, oh, very hard sometimes, almost more than one can bear. But for his sake it must be borne; for, if he ever does come back, it will assuredly send him to the well if he finds that you are dead. Promise me, sister; promise me that you will not go to the well."
"I promise, little one!" replied Dorama brokenly.
"That's right! Now it is time for me to go back."
"Alone, little sister?"
"My brother waits for me by the gateway. He is so good! oh, so good to the poor widow. May the blessing of all the gods I have offended rest for ever on his dear head."
Dorama watched her white figure till it was lost in the darkness of the night. Then she turned her face towards the garden entrance and passed unnoticed into the house. They who happened to be near the path she took in crossing the courtyard, stepped aside so as to place themselves well out of reach of possible contact with her shadow. Others seeing her coming turned back into the room they were leaving, and closed the door till she should have passed.
When the evening meal was served out, knowing too well what was expected of her, she remained outside the family circle until all had finished, including the youngest and most insignificant child of the establishment. Then and then only did she—who among the women had been formerly helped immediately after the big mistress and before her aunt—received her portion. It was ample and sufficing; but it was eaten in bitter humiliation and anguish of heart, as she realised the dreadful fact that this was only the beginning of a lifelong existence from which there could be no escape.
CHAPTER XXIII
A week passed during which Pantulu's family settled back into the ordinary routine. Sooba was gratified by the performance of the widowing ceremonies; he felt to a certain degree revenged upon his unfortunate nephew. The adulation received from the visitors did something to restore his wounded vanity; but the disrespect shown by Dr. Wenaston's housekeeper was not yet atoned for; and his vindictiveness in that direction continued to smoulder.
A second letter arrived from Gunga asking for news of Ananda. It contained a message that amounted to a parental order. Gunga desired her son to come to her at once. She suggested that by this time the popular feeling against him in the town would have subsided; and it would be quite safe for him to travel in the bullock coach which had taken her and her husband to their new home. She went into further detail about the proposed journey, and asked that some personal property should be forwarded by the conveyance that brought her son. Sooba read the letter aloud to his wife in his perplexity.
"It means that my brother is worse and he wants to make one more appeal to his son," he commented.
"You will have to tell him that Ananda is dead."
"I shall do nothing of the kind—at present. It is strange that the well refuses to give up the body."
"Not at all, husband. The gods have permitted the demon of the well to do its worst. Perhaps one day his bones may be brought to light; but we shall never see his body again."
"As far as we are all concerned it would be a good thing if he were never seen again. It would solve the difficulty of funeral ceremonies," remarked Sooba complacently.
"Does our sister say nothing about Dorama?"
"Nothing at all."
"If she knew she would ask for the jewels. You have them all safe?"
"Perfectly safe."
"Why not replace them in the family chest?" she asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice.
"Because I choose to keep them myself."
She was silent in spite of her uneasiness. She was aware that Sooba had not only taken possession of the jewels, but had also appropriated some of the money recently paid in by the middle-men who purchased the produce of Pantulu's estate. They brought rupee notes and took Sooba's receipt without a suspicion of anything wrong. Sooba himself saw no harm in his action. He was a little premature; but as it would all be his at no distant time there was nothing dishonest about it.
"What answer shall you send?"
"I shall say that we gave Ananda the punishment commanded by the swami, taking care not to be too severe."
"It was very severe all the same. Sometimes I think that he may have crawled away into the jungle and died there."
"Chah! woman! you babble like a fool!" retorted Sooba with irritation. "We are speaking now of what is to be said to our sister. In return for our leniency—for not having given him the full measure prescribed by the holy one——"
"The men said that it was more than——"
"Peace, idiot! Let me finish what I intend to say to my sister-in-law. In return for our kindness he has gone off, we can't say where. He tried to entice away the foolish deluded Dorama and persuade her to go with him; but we discovered the plan just in time to stop her."
His wife was not satisfied. She had no objection to the distortion of the tale. What she feared was the discovery of the truth by Gunga. The story of the widow ceremony must come to her ears before many more days were passed; and nothing would be gained by rousing her wrath unnecessarily. As long as there was a breath of life in Pantulu, Gunga ruled absolutely; and it was in her power to turn out Sooba and his wife if serious offence were given.
"Leave it to me," said Sooba confidently and untroubled by any qualms of conscience. "Our sister is occupied in looking after her husband. Her own approaching widowhood will take up the rest of her thoughts. We need not fear that she will make inquiry or trouble about anything until the end comes. Then I in the absence of Ananda will be chief mourner and master of the house. It will be your voice and not our sister's that will hold the attention of the zenana. The jewels may be worn by you; they will become you well, wife."
She was not satisfied even with this rosy dream of wealth and authority, and she asked uneasily:
"When will you tell Gunga of her son?"
"In another week perhaps I may begin to break the news."
The days that followed the widowing rites passed strangely for Dorama. She hated her new position and inwardly revolted against it. She loathed her rough garment and bare head. The cool evening wind caught her behind the ears and at the back of her neck—where formerly the heavy strands of hair formed a covering—and gave her twinges of neuralgia. She shivered and drew up the saree shawl-wise over her head, but it slipped down having nothing to cling to. She missed the daily details of her toilet. There was no hair to comb, and scent, and plait with fresh blossoms; no jewels to fasten on arm and neck. She was not permitted to use any of the various cosmetics treasured in the brass box with its many divisions that was her own special property; the rouge, sandal-wood paste, saffron powder, lip-salve, henna and the sweet atta of rose. The only thing allowed was the use of pure water. The food was good, but the mode of serving deprived her of appetite. By the time her turn came she was so full of misery and impatience at her altered circumstances, that she found no pleasure in eating the excellent curry prepared in the kitchen. Alone and like a guilty thing she bolted her meals, sometimes shedding bitter tears as she did so. Even the luxury of grief was denied. If tears were seen or a sob heard, she was reproved. Did she want to bring bad luck upon the house? she was asked. If a basin was broken or a pot upset, angry glances were directed towards her. If the woman slicing vegetables cut her finger, she showed it to the widow with an injured expression, as much as to say: Look at the effect of having a person like you in the house!
Her services were not urgently needed in the kitchen where many hands made light work; and it frequently happened to her to be ordered out of the room. She wandered away in listless fashion, aware that wherever she went her presence would be unwelcome. Only one spot seemed free to her, and this was because it was deserted by all others. The small room formerly occupied by her husband was always empty, and thither she was drawn by memory and association.
At first she merely sat upon the mat and brooded, looking out of the open door at the forest-clad mountain with eyes that saw nothing of its beauty in line or colour. On the third day she noticed that the dust had accumulated, and that the dead jasmin blossoms remained just where they had fallen. She went out into the compound and gathered a bunch of twigs with which she swept out the room. In so doing she discovered a glove that had belonged to her husband. She recognised it as his and, picking it up, she kissed it passionately. Once, not so very long ago, it had been a covering to his dear hand. He had worn it in that far-off smoky city of the west, and the strange scent still clung to it.
When she had finished her self-appointed task, she seated herself on the mat to indulge in the pleasure of gloating over her treasure; and to devise a secure hiding place for it in the fold of her saree. A dozen times it was hidden and brought out again to be fondled and gazed at, to be tenderly nursed like a baby on her arm. She was startled by the sound of a footfall. Hastily thrusting her treasure into her saree she looked up and saw Mayita.
"Ah, dear sister. How good it is to meet again! My brother caught sight of you as he walked through the compound, and he sent me to talk to you while he goes to the house to ask for news of your husband."
"There is no news," replied Dorama sadly.
"Not yet; but there will be soon," replied Mayita confidently. The child entered the room and glanced round with approval. "You have swept it and made it tidy. Does any one come here?"
"Not that I know of," replied Dorama, her hand slipping under the folds of her cloth to close secretly over the glove.
"Then it is ours for the present, ours! sister! Think how delightful! Widows are not allowed to possess anything, so they say! But listen, I will tell you a secret now that you are my sister. They think I have nothing, nothing in this big world; but I have lots of treasures. I am rich. I have silver pots and golden cups and china dishes. Sometimes they are filled with oranges and mangoes, pomegranates and mangosteens. I have jewels and silk sarees——"
"What are you talking about, child!" cried Dorama staring at her in astonishment.
"Hush, speak low, and I will show you some diamonds. They are the dower of a bride in a marriage I am making."
She untied a corner of her cloth and produced some small white stones that she had picked up in the compound. She chose one and lifted it daintily.
"This magnificent stone of the first water was found at Golcondah a thousand years ago. It was once in the crown of a rich Maharajah. It is worth twenty lacs of rupees; and if this wedding can be arranged——" her brow puckered suddenly, "but things are not going well. The astrologer has pronounced unfavourably on the horoscopes. The bride's element is water, and the bridegroom's partly air and partly fire. Air and water will agree; but fire and water!—what can it mean unless it be misfortune?"
"What will you do?" asked Dorama entering into the fanciful world of the other with the kindly indulgence of the older woman towards the younger.
"I have paid a large sum to the astrologer. He is a very clever man—oh, so wise—and he has gone to a big temple in the south to ask for the assistance of the gods. I would do anything rather than disappoint the bridegroom. He is so handsome, so fair, so big and strong! The bride will die of grief if she is not permitted to marry him. Already she is drooping and languishing because of the delay. Beloved sister, you must come to the wedding. You shall be the bridegroom's mother."
A generous offer that Dorama accepted with a sad smile. There was a vast gulf between the two widows. One had never tasted the reality. She had only been a bride in name, and she was still able to live in the rosy dreams of maiden fancy. The other had drunk the cup and realised every thing. To her this make-believe was but a mockery, the dust and ashes of a tantalising memory.
"Where is the bridegroom?" asked Dorama.
Mayita untied another knot in her saree and produced a wood-apple which she exhibited proudly.
"See, isn't he well made?" she said. "Look at his limbs. Feel his smooth skin! How tall! how proud he is and how strong. He will be the father of many sons."
"Have you the bride as well?"
"She has to live with her people at present. Her home is in the datura bush. She wears a saree of pure white satin and she hangs her head with beautiful modesty. Sister!" Mayita's eyes surveyed the room with approval. "We will have the wedding here. The astrologer will soon be back from the south, and I am sure that his visit to the temple will have made matters smooth. We shall be able to decorate the place and lay out the feast. I will bring my silver pots and china dishes to-morrow and we will hide them behind your husband's boxes. Oh, how delightful it will be! What a wedding we will have!"
Mayita's eyes sparkled, and the beautiful brown tones of her skin were enriched as the warm blood coursed through her veins. In spite of her shaven head and coarse garment, her youth and comeliness asserted themselves. She babbled on about the wedding, the difficulties that had occurred over the dower as well as the horoscope, the number of guests to be invited, and other details to which Dorama listened, her hand over the hidden glove, her thoughts wandering back into the past when there was another wedding less nebulous than that of Mayita's devising, and she herself was the bride. A call outside checked the flow of description, and Mayita rose quickly to her feet.
"It is my brother. Come to the entrance of the yard while I ask him for news; and listen."
Bopaul in the customary manner of a caste man, stood a little way off waiting for his sister to join him.
"What news of Ananda?" asked the child, stopping in the entrance and calling to him.
"They have none."
"Where is he?"
"They still speak of the well; but I do not believe that he is dead. Come, little one, it is time we returned."
Mayita kissed Dorama.
"My brother is right. Your husband lives; but for the present you are his widow. To-morrow Coomara's widow will come again. There will be news by that time from the astrologer, and we shall be able to begin the preparations for the wedding. Sister, those big boxes must be pushed aside; they will be in the way. Do you think that we could move them? We will try to-morrow."
Another call from Bopaul, and Mayita beat a hasty retreat. Dorama was left standing at the entrance. The sun had disappeared in a heavy bank of cloud that later would be streaked with electricity. Rain was wanted; there had been none for the last few days. Her eye rested on the gourd that had been trampled by the inquisitive crowd. She went to it.
"Poor plant! They killed you I am afraid; but no, you are not dead! Here are some buds coming and fresh leaves!"
She stooped over the vine and plucked away the bruised foliage leaving the stalks almost as bare as her own poor head. Unlovely though the rough stems were they were full of virility; and the rain and sun would mend what was marred and reclothe the plant with verdure. She straightened out a few twisted stems and lifted some leaves that had been trodden down but escaped total destruction. It was a curious sight; the crushed tending the crushed.
Then she entered the room again and thought of the child. Why should she not have the small pleasure of playing her little game on the morrow. She looked at the two portmanteaux and considered how they could be moved out of the way. They were her husband's and must be cared for, as they contained his clothes and books. Of course they were heavy and beyond her power to move.
She gripped the handle of one and putting all her strength into the effort attempted to lift it. To her astonishment it yielded with such ease that she nearly fell over backwards. A cry escaped her lips as she dropped it. It was empty. She tested the weight of the other with the same result. That too was empty, if she might judge by its lightness.
The knowledge came as a shock; it was a revelation, and threw a fresh and unexpected light on her husband's disappearance. If he had thrown himself down the well it was hardly likely that he would have taken all his clothes and books with him. They would still be here. Where they had gone he must have followed. But stay! had some thief stolen the contents? If so the locks would betray him. She examined them closely. They were sound and unbroken. No sign of the hand of a thief was to be seen. The boxes were properly locked and their contents had been removed with the owner's consent.
A great joy swept over her, lifting a dull dead weight from her heart. Bopaul had asserted his belief more than once that his friend still lived, and she had heard the assertion with very little faith. This discovery altered the complexion of affairs completely and brought conviction. Her husband was surely alive! In spite of the dreadful bangle-breaking ceremony; in spite of the coarse clothing and shaven head she was not a widow. One day he would come back to her and claim her for his own. She would feel his dear arms round her again, his lips upon hers, his words of love would be breathed in her ears once more!
The joy of it all deprived her of muscular strength for the time, and she sank down by those rough battered trunks, leaning her arms upon them and laying her cheek against the stained leather. She could have hugged and kissed them in her gratitude for what they had revealed.
Gradually her mind cleared; it seemed to have matured during the last few weeks and to have aged with experience. She thought of all she had gone through. First there was the bewilderment caused by his change of faith, which raised a barrier between him and herself, and she realised how intensely disappointed she was. Then came the loss of the child and her sorrow. Lastly, she had had to endure the degradation of widowhood which, coming as it did on the top of her loss of husband and child, brought her to the verge of hopeless despair. Had it not been for the opportune visit of Mayita she would now be lying in the well where, up to the present, she had believed her husband to be.
The conviction that he was alive grew upon her as she sat there in the darkening room. She drew out the glove and pressed it to her lips. To all intents and purposes she was still a widow, and as such she must remain for the present. As she cherished the glove and hid it, so she must keep her discovery a secret. She must also guard against showing the new hope that had sprung up; the hope that he would return, that sooner or later he would seek her out and bid her come. Could he do it openly? She doubted the wisdom of such a course. She remembered how they had failed in their first attempt to escape. There must be no failure the second time. She must be careful and cautious and trust to no one.
The more she contemplated the step she might be called upon to take at any moment, the more clearly she understood its seriousness. The effect would be far-reaching and irretrievable. To throw in her lot with her husband would mean that she would cut herself adrift from the family for ever. She must be one with him, of his faith, and dead to all her relatives.
Was she prepared to make the sacrifice? Yes, a thousand times, yes! The old spirit that had led her remote ancestresses to the funeral pile to die in the flames that devoured their dead husbands' bodies, rose strongly within her and bound her to her living husband. For his sake she would endure and bear as he had endured and borne. She would be ready when his summons came; and she would go gladly, even though he beckoned to her from the fire of adversity, that burned as fiercely as the flames of the old suttee funeral pile; she would join him and cling to him for ever!
She lifted her head with eyes that shone, not with tears but with a new light. The last vestige of the child died within her; and the woman who walked thoughtfully back to the zenana, as the shadow of night settled over the landscape, was a woman of determination and strength of purpose. The baptism of sorrow had lifted her on to a higher plane, and had fitted her for better things than a colourless life of inert misery.
CHAPTER XXIV
Alderbury had been travelling over his district. As superintending missionary his presence was urgently needed in half a dozen places at once as a rule, not to teach his converts hymns, but to govern their temporal business and to guide their spiritual affairs, to encourage the faint-hearted and to shake the pastoral staff, metaphorically speaking, in the faces of those who showed signs of the old Adam. They received his ministrations with admirable meekness and adored him all the more for his reproof or praise. He loved his people in return, but that fact did not blind him to their weaknesses.
He journeyed in a country cart; not a luxuriously fitted bullock coach such as conveyed Pantulu and his wife to their destination, but a veritable springless vehicle of the country with a hood of matting of the roughest description. At the bottom was laid a mattress. Between the driver, who sat on the same plane with his feet on the pole, and the mattress were piled the boxes and baskets containing the necessaries of life required on the itinerating picnic. They formed a kind of screen between the driver and the occupant of the cart. The back of the hood was curtained with a piece of calico thick enough to keep out the sun. The most comfortable position for the traveller whether journeying by night or day was to lie down at full length with his head towards the driver.
Alderbury usually travelled by night for various reasons. It was cooler; it saved time; it was far more comfortable than sleeping at a village school-house, where nothing but a mat was provided. In this way he arrived at his destination soon after sunrise ready to begin the day's work of inspection, services, surplice duties, pastoral visits and interviews with the native agents.
It was just nine days since Ananda had disappeared. Wenaston wrote to the missionary after Sooba's visit of inquiry and told him of the intrusion; he asked him to come on his way back and stay for a couple of nights or more if he could spare the time. He thought something should be done in the way of inquiry after the welfare of the convert, even though he had definitely refused help on a former occasion. The letter followed Alderbury out into the district, and found him just in time to allow of his carrying out Wenaston's suggestion.
From long practice in constant travelling Alderbury had learned to sleep fairly well in the cart, in spite of its jolts and jerks and the strange utterances of the driver when he occasionally woke up and spoke to his cattle. On the morning when he intended to arrive at Chirapore he roused himself before dawn; and sitting up as well as he could he dressed himself with more care than usual. He knew who would be waiting for him in the trellised verandah with its mantle of blue ipomea. In fancy he could see the tea-table laid out and the early tea ready, a rack of crisp toast and the boiled eggs.
There had been a shower in the night, and the air was fresh and cool. He jumped out at the back of the cart, without stopping the slowly moving cattle, and strode forward with a superabundance of that vitality which never seemed to fail him. The earth smelt sweet of growing vegetation, and the rain had laid the dust and washed the foliage. Here and there the scent from clusters of newly-opened blossom on the roadside trees permeated the air. On either side of the way spread cultivated fields and patches of garden, for the town was not far off, unconfined by any visible boundary. Pomegranate bushes showed vivid spots of manderin scarlet where the flower promised fruit. All kinds of birds twittered and whistled and chirrupped in bush and tree. Noisiest of all were the barbets that never ceased their monotonous call.
Alderbury's eye lingered over every detail with an inborn joyousness that put him in sympathy with all living creatures. The last mail from England had brought him news that might change the current of his life and bring him into new and wider fields. It would mean harder work than ever; heavier responsibilities; greater liabilities that would leave him if anything poorer rather than richer; but he was ready for all and everything if—— Ah, that little if! there was so much behind it. Prudence tried to reason and urged objections that were half true and unproven. Was she sufficiently in sympathy with his work, with his aims? Would she be a help? It would be fatal if she drew away and separated her interests from his. The more he doubted the more blindly he loved and desired; the more eager he was to know his fate.
The pale rays of the sun shot up above the horizon on the east, and the white sheets of mist lying on the fields seemed to shiver and shrink as the merciless sun-god sent forth his heralds to give warning of his approach. Long-legged natives wrapped in rough black blankets strode towards their tasks on the land, their brains still slumberous and their bodies still inert with sleep. The cows and buffaloes followed the herdsman to the town, stopping before the doors where the milk was awaited for the early morning coffee. Leisurely and without haste India awoke to its daily round free from the fever and fuss that marks the day in the west.
Alderbury had the road to himself except for a municipal cart that passed now and then with the load gathered from the streets in the night. Behind him rumbled his own conveyance which he was out-walking rapidly. The cattle had done the journey well, and he was earlier than he dared to hope; yet for all that his walk, was quick and impetuous as though he were drawn towards his goal in spite of himself.
He arrived at the first house on the outskirts of the town. It was the one in which Pantulu's family lived. The household was astir and a group of men stood in the verandah preparing to go out on their various errands and duties. From the midst burst Sooba who recognised the missionary although the latter was not acquainted with Pantulu's brother.
"May I have a word with you, sir," asked Sooba.
"With pleasure," replied Alderbury in some surprise. He had no adherents in Chirapore nor in the State, and for the moment he had forgotten Ananda's existence. "What can I do for you?"
"I wish to ask you a few questions about my nephew," said Sooba.
"Yes; but tell me first who is your nephew?"
As he spoke Alderbury looked up at the house and suddenly remembered the visit he had paid.
"Of course, I recollect now. This is where Ananda lives. How is he? I hope he is well."
Sooba glanced at the Englishman suspiciously, trying to hide his distrust under a forced smile.
"My nephew sought your assistance some days ago, sir."
"I think you are mistaken. I offered help but he refused it. Since that time I have neither seen nor heard of him, except the fact mentioned by Dr. Wenaston in a letter, that he had left his home and that you were under the impression that he had gone to the college. It was extremely kind of the Principal to allow you to go through his private rooms. I am not sure that I should have been so obliging."
Alderbury's voice had unconsciously assumed a tone of reproof, and Sooba writhed inwardly under it.
"Dr. Wenaston could not refuse, since a refusal would have been a tacit acknowledgment that he was harbouring a Christian and breaking his covenant with the Maharajah."
"Not at all," replied Alderbury sharply. He did not like the manner of the man. "You took a great liberty. It was sufficient for all purposes that he assured you Ananda was not there. What made you think that your nephew had gone to him for help?"
"The gardener gave me a hint that some one had arrived the night before," said Sooba sullenly.
"The gardener! Ah, the man owes his mistress a grudge. The housekeeper caught him stealing her roses. So that was how he took his revenge, and you were foolish enough to be made the instrument."
"The gardener was right in saying that a visitor had arrived in the night. The woman's son, a sick soldier, came in by the mail. I saw him lying in her room drunk."
"Where do you suppose your nephew has gone?" asked Alderbury not choosing to discuss Mrs. Hulver with the man.
"That is what I expect you to tell me, since he has been so foolish as to break his caste and join a religion that is acceptable to the pariahs and panchamas only."
"Sorry I can't oblige you; good morning," said Alderbury, checking his rising anger with difficulty.
Sooba was left standing in the road. His eyes followed the athletic form of the Englishman with no good will. He believed Alderbury when he declared his ignorance of Ananda's movements, because the drowning theory commended itself for various reasons, and because he had already ascertained that his nephew was not at the mission station. Ananda ought to be at the bottom of the well; every circumstance pointed to it. At the same time seeing the missionary on the road he thought it was a good opportunity of speaking to him. At the back of his subtle mind was the hope that, in a chance conversation of the kind, he might be able to offer him some slight about which he could brag afterwards to his friends. It was not necessary that Alderbury should notice and resent any discourtesy; it was sufficient that it should be shown; and it would go towards compensating the ill-conditioned man for the treatment he had received from Mrs. Hulver.
Alderbury knowing the Oriental suspected something of the kind, and his suspicion was confirmed as soon as Christianity was mentioned. He put an end to the interview abruptly leaving Sooba with a sense of failure that did not tend to smooth matters for him.
The bullocks, recognising that they were not far off their halting place, put on a spurt and caught up the pedestrian, who dived into the cart from the back and sat cross-legged on his mattress until, with much jangling of bells, sighing and snorting of cattle, and creaking of cart-wheels, he arrived under the portico of the college house. The welcome he so confidently anticipated struck no note of disappointment.
Three hours later breakfast was over and Wenaston had departed to take up his duties in the college. Eola was interviewing Mrs. Hulver and settling the housekeeping programme for the day. She was inclined to be absent-minded, her thoughts wandering to such an extent that she was guilty of ordering two joints instead of one. Mrs. Hulver regarded this lapse of memory with suspicion and recalled her young mistress to the subject somewhat sharply.
"Mr. Alderbury has a dainty appetite more suitable to a bishop than a missionary. He doesn't want two joints," she remarked.
"Dear me! did I order two?" asked Eola in some confusion.
"Yes, miss; you asked for a boiled hump of beef and a roast saddle of mutton. The saddle you shall have to-morrow. The hump is for to-night as it has been quite long enough in pickle. That with the fish and entrées will more than satisfy Mr. Alderbury. I don't hold with a daintiness above your station. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'A private can't expect captain's grub, and a captain mustn't look for general's fare, else there'll be proud stomachs.'"
"Have you ever seen a bishop?" asked Eola, feeling vaguely that she must throw off suspicion and show an interest in Mrs. Hulver's conversation.
"Yes, miss, of course I have! Wasn't I confirmed by one? He was tall and solemn and had a thin grey beard. He reminded me somehow—it wasn't his legs—of a picture in my father's big family bible of the goat that was sent out by the Children of Israel into the wilderness."
"The scape-goat that had to bear the sins of the people," said Eola, her eyes wandering through the house to the front verandah where she could see her guest in the distance absorbed in his letters.
"Yes, miss. The bishop was just like the picture. Hadn't he got to bear the sins of his people? and a very serious business it was too. When he confirmed me he gave me clean sheets and started me afresh; he took my sins on him. I shouldn't like to be a bishop considering all he has to bear and wear. The gaiters and the tights would be enough to put one off the job, even though the apron does lend a little decency to the style. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'All are not saints who go to church, or bishops and padres would have an easy time of it.'"
During this speech Eola's attention again wandered. Mr. Alderbury was still busy with his letters. As soon as he had finished reading his correspondence she intended joining him.
"Then that's all for this morning," she said, as Mrs. Hulver came to an end of her dissertation on church dignitaries.
"You haven't ordered the pudding, miss."
She made the announcement in the same manner in which she might have said, "You haven't said your prayers, miss."
"I'm so sorry. What has cook brought? Green mangoes? Yes; they will do nicely stewed; and a custard pudding."
"Custard pudding!" repeated Mrs. Hulver with disdain. "It's the pudding Mr. Alderbury gets every other day of his life! and him with the tastes of a bishop!"
"Then I leave it to you, Mrs. Hulver. Now let me finish with the accounts."
Mrs. Hulver was more vigilant than ever this morning over Ramachetty's charges. Miss Wenaston was clearly not fit for the matutinal crossing of swords with the sharp-witted butler, and it was the housekeeper's duty to intervene and protect.
"As William—that was my third—used to say: 'It's fatal to go into action unless you've got your wits about you and your guns are in good order,'" remarked Mrs. Hulver when she had checked the butler for the third time.
Eola did not see the point of her remark and Mrs. Hulver made no attempt to explain. The bazaar account book was closed with relief, and the butler and cook dismissed.
"How is young William getting on?" asked Eola, preparatory to dismissing her housekeeper as well.
"He is nearly well, though I can't get the colour of his eye down altogether. What his colonel will say to him to-morrow I don't know. He will have to be told the truth if he asks about the black eye."
"He may not make any inquiries if he finds young William"—by common consent the adjective had been given to distinguish the son from the three Williams of the former generation—"doing his work properly."
"There are colonels and colonels, miss. Some can put on the blinkers when they think fit. Others shy and jib at everything that comes within sight. Fortunately young William's complexion helps a bit, and the black eye doesn't show as it would if he were as fair as his father."
"Then you think of sending him back to-morrow."
"His leave will be up by that time."
"I must tell my brother. He said he would speak to him about the canteen and fighting."
"It would do him good, miss; but to tell the truth I've said pretty nearly all there is to be said and I haven't sounded cease firing yet."
"I hope the scolding has not been overdone," said Eola, a wave of pity for young William passing through her as she thought of the lectures the anxious mother had already given to her erring son.
"No fear, miss. It's my chance and I haven't spared him. I shan't see young William for some time to come. I've let him have it broadside, in the front and in the rear. As William—that was my third, and he was a gunner—used to say, 'Don't spare powder and shot if you want to produce a lasting impression on the enemy.' There's one thing I want to ask you, miss. Is Mr. Alderbury going on from here by his carts or by train?"
"By motor; the carts are to leave early to-morrow morning or to-night. The motor will be wanted after lunch to-morrow. The chauffeur must spend the night at the mission bungalow and return the next day."
"Then nothing will be needed for Mr. Alderbury's tiffin basket," remarked Mrs. Hulver as though dismissing the subject since it did not concern her any further.
Eola caught sight of her guest pacing to and fro in the verandah and she turned away to join him. Mrs. Hulver followed her.
"I should be glad if you could spare me to-morrow for half a day. I should like to go to the station with young William and see him off. He will leave by an early train so as to get in in time to report himself before six."
"By all means take as much time as you like."
"Would you like to come and speak a word to young William, miss?"
"No, please not; I really have nothing to say."
"It would do him good if you just said as before; 'Let it be——'"
Eola interrupted her hastily.
"Oh, no, Mrs. Hulver; I am sure that more than enough has been said. Young William will be glad to get away."
"Then the Doctor will come and talk to him."
"Is it necessary? Don't you think he might be let off any further scolding?"
"Well, miss; he has yet to face the sergeant and perhaps the colonel. So it isn't done with yet; and he won't be out of the firing line till he has reported himself and had his dressing-down."
"Then I am sure that he must be spared anything further from us."
Mrs. Hulver's reply was to the effect that it should be as Miss Wenaston pleased. Ten minutes later the housekeeper might have been seen, in a huge mushroom topee and with a large white umbrella, crossing the compound in the direction of the camping-ground chosen by Alderbury's driver and servant. In the afternoon business took her to the town to make some purchases for young William, she explained to Ramachetty.