"I'm the belle of the Naini Tal mall.Houp la!Not a colonel nor sub at the messBut makes love when he can to sweet Sal.To their wives do they dare to confessThat I'm belle of the Naini Tal mall?Yes, I'm belle of the Naini Tal mall.Houp la!"
"I'm the belle of the Naini Tal mall.Houp la!Not a colonel nor sub at the messBut makes love when he can to sweet Sal.To their wives do they dare to confessThat I'm belle of the Naini Tal mall?Yes, I'm belle of the Naini Tal mall.Houp la!"
Then the singer called aloud, "Captain! Captain Barfield!" But, getting no response, she beat a furious tattoo on the wooden panels of the carriage, shouting at the top of her voice, "Pretty sort of a jaunt to Moradabad this is! You're a liar, captain! But I'll tell your doll-faced wife how you treated her when her baby was only two weeks old." She then swore a round of torrid oaths, and wound up with a scream that might have been heard a mile off.
"Mem-sahib," said Ram Deen, "bide here with the hostler till I have tamed that she-devil, and then I will take thee to the captain sahib. The little one,—is it warm?"
"Quite warm, and still asleep, coach-wan. Go, and God advance thee!"
Ram Deen found the captain seated on a log in front of a blazing fire. With his elbows on his knees, the captain pressed a finger to each ear to escape the tirade of the terrible woman in the carriage. A touch on his shoulder made him start to his feet, and as he turned round Ram Deen salaamed gravely.
"I thought the sahib slept. No? Her speech galled thee," pointing to the carriage, "and thou wast fain not to hear it?"
The captain nodded assent. He was worn with the trying position his folly had placed him in, and, at another time, he might have resented the touch on his shoulder, but the tall native in front of him spoke with dignity and a quiet assurance indicative of a large fund of reserve force,—and he might be helpful.
"Where are thy servants, sahib?"
"They fled when she cursed them. May the devil take them!"
"I am the driver of the mail-cart on this road, sahib, as thou mayest see," said Ram Deen, pointing to his badge and bugle, "and this woman's tongue stayeth the Queen's mail; for on my cart, which I have left behind the bend of the road yonder, is a mem-sahib who perchance knoweth thee, for she, too, cometh from Naini Tal, and 'twere well she should not hear thy name on this woman's lips. She must not be kept waiting long, sahib, for the babe in her arms is but two weeks in age" (the captain started), "and the night is exceedingly bitter. Have I the sahib's permission to drive his carriage beyond the hearing of those who are fain to pass?"
"Drive her to Jehandum, coach-wan, so she come to no hurt."
Thereupon Ram Deen approached the carriage, and tapped on the door, saying, "Woman, it is not meet that the worthy traffic of the Queen's highway should be disturbed by thy unseemly conduct."
For answer he received a volley of curses in broken Hindustani, such curses as are in vogue in the barracks of English regiments in India; and the woman in the carriage wound up with a request for more brandy.
"Nay, it is not brandy thou shouldst have, but water,—cold water to cool thy hot tongue," and mounting the carriage Ram Deen urged the jaded horses into a trot.
Two hundred yards farther on the road crossed the Bore Nuddee, now a sluggish river about four feet deep. Leaving the road Ram Deen drove down the bank and into the stream. When the woman in the carriage heard the splashing of the horses, and felt the water rise to her knees, she screamed with fear and became suddenly sober.
"Hast had water enough to cool thy tongue?" asked Ram Deen, tapping on the roof of the carriage.
"Stop, stop!" she entreated, frantically. "I will do whatever you wish."
"Canst thou forget Captain Barfield's name, or must I drive into deeper water?"
"I know not whereof you speak."
"'Tis well! And who is thy husband?"
"A soldier whose regiment is at Delhi, whither I go."
"Thou must be true to him hereafter.—Ho there, horse! the alligators cannot swallow thee!"
"Alligators! Are there alligators in this river?" whined the woman in the carriage.
"There is scarce room for them within its banks."
"Oh, sahib, I am fain to go to my husband, whom alone I care for. Proceed, for the love of God!"
So Ram Deen drove her through the stream and up the opposite bank on to the road. When he had tied the horses to a tree by the highway, he said, "There will be travellers going thy way presently, and they will drive thee to Moradabad. Remember, I may have business in Delhi very soon. Salaam, Faithless One."
And the woman responded in a very meek tone, "Salaam."
"Come, mem-sahib," said Ram Deen, as he resumed his seat on the mail-cart; "the captain sahib awaits thee."
When they were abreast of the fire, she called in a faint, tremulous voice, "Harry, Harry, my dear husband! I am very tired, and very cold. Won't you come to me?"
Leaving the hostler in charge of the mail-cart, Ram Deen followed the captain as he carried his wife to the fire.
Seating her on the log, Captain Barfield knelt beside his wife, chafing and kissing her hands.
"Thank God, you found me!" he sobbed.
"The ayah told me a few hours after you left me that that—that woman had been seen to join you beyond Serya Tal; so I and the baby came to help you. You still love us, dearest?" she asked, pleadingly.
"My beloved, I am not worthy of you! There is a sword in my heart!" And he bowed his head on her lap and wept, whilst she stroked his hair with a slender hand.
"God has been very good to me to-night," she said, softly.
Soon after, removing the shawl from the little one's face, she said, "Kiss your baby, Harry."
His lips touched the little face.—It was very cold. He started back, and, taking the child from its mother's arms, he held it near the firelight.—It was dead!
As they looked across the little limp body into each other's eyes with speechless agony, Ram Deen bent over them and took the little one tenderly from the captain's hands.
"Attend to the living, sahib; I will see to thy dead," he said, softly.
He turned away his face from the sorrow that was too sacred to be witnessed by any one save God.
As Captain Barfield folded his young wife in his arms, a deep groan rent his breast at the thought of his folly and its consequence.
"Thou wert very tender—a mere blossom—and the frost withered thee," said Ram Deen very gently, composing the baby's limbs.
"Ah, small villain, budmash! must I send thee back to Nyagong, thee and thy dog, to learn respect for thy betters? The Thanadar's son hath the ordering of thee, and thou hast beaten him,—toba, toba!"
"My father," replied Biroo, respectfully, to Ram Deen, "Mohun Lal took my kite, and when I strove to hold mine own he smote me, whereon I pulled his hair; and 'twas no fault of mine that it lacked strength and remained in my hand. So he set his dog on me; but Hasteen slew it. Wherein have I offended, my father?"
And the Thanadar laughed, saying, "Ram Deen, Mohun Lal but received his due." To the "defendant in the case" he said, "Get thee to sleep, Biroo; and be brave and strong; so will Nana Debi reward thee." Then turning to those who sat round the fire, he went on, "Brothers, 'tis late, and I would have speech with Ram Deen. Ye may take your leave."
When they were by themselves, the Thanadar spoke. "The man-child waxeth fierce and strong, my old friend; 'twere well he were restrained. He will be wealthy by thy favor, and the favor of Nyagong, when he cometh to man's estate, and 'twere pity that he should lack courtesy when he is a man grown."
"Thanadar ji, thou art his father as much as I am. Thou shouldst correct him with strokes whenas I am on the road and carrying the Queen's mail."
"Blows but inure to hardness, and—Gunga knoweth!—little Biroo is hard already. Why dost thou not give up the service of the Queen, and——" He paused, and after awhile asked, "What didst thou receive from Captain Barfield?"
"The gun thou hast seen, Thanadar ji; but from his mem-sahib five hundred rupees, a timepiece of gold, and whatsoever I may want hereafter. The money lieth in the hands of Moti Ram, the great mahajun (banker) of Naini Tal."
"Wah! Ram Deen, thou art thyself rich enough to be a mahajun. Consider, too, the kindness bestowed by Nyagong on Biroo at thy asking,—two hundred rupees and over, and much merchandise. Leave the road, my friend, and put thy money out at usury. A woman in thy hut to cook thy evening meal, and mend Biroo's ways, were not amiss. Eh? The daughters of the Terai are very fair, as thou knowest, coach-wan ji."
"The road hath been father and mother to me, Thanadar Sahib, since I lost my Buldeo, who knew not his mother; so I may not leave it. And when I think of Bheem Dass, bunnia and usurer of the village whereof I was potter three years ago, and whom ye found dead on the road the day I brought in the mail, and was made driver, as thou rememberest, I may not live by harassing the poor and the widow and fatherless. God forbid! As for women,—they be like butterflies that flit from flower to flower; perchance, if I could find a woman who cared not to gossip at the village well, and had eyes and thoughts for none save her husband, I might—but I must be about my business on the road, and I have no time for the seeking of such a woman. Wah! I have not, even as yet, tried the gun Barfield sahib gave me."
Soon afterwards, by an alteration of the service, Ram Deen brought the mail to Kaladoongie in the early afternoon, and availed himself of the opportunity thus afforded of rambling about during the rest of the day in the jungle with Biroo and Hasteen, in search of small game.
One day they came upon a half-grown fawn, at which Ram Deen let fly with both barrels; but as his gun was loaded with small shot only, the deer bounded away apparently unhurt, with Hasteen in hot pursuit, whilst Ram Deen and Biroo followed with what haste they could.
Presently, they could hear the baying of the great dog and the shrill cries of a woman in distress. Directed by these sounds, they crossed the road that leads to Naini Tal, and, scrambling up the bank and over a low stone wall, they found themselves in a neglected garden, in the middle of which was a grass hut, whence issued the cries that had quickened their steps. They arrived just in time, for Hasteen had almost dug himself into the hut.
Calling off the dog, Ram Deen hastened to allay the fears of the woman in the hut, who was still giving voice to her distress in the Padhani patois. "The dog will not harm thee; see, I have tied him with my waistband to a tree."
"Who art thou?" asked the woman. The tones of her voice, when she spoke, were exceedingly soft and pleasant, and made one long to look upon the face of the speaker.
"I am Ram Deen, the driver of the mail-cart, and well known in Kaladoongie."
"I have heard of thee and thy doings, and will come forth. But the dog (Nana Debi, was there ever such a dog!—he almost slew my fawn), art thou sure he cannot harm us?"
"Kali Mai twist my joints, if he be not well secured."
Whereupon the door of the hut was opened a few inches. Having satisfied herself that all was as Ram Deen had said, the young woman came out of the hut with one arm about the fawn.
She was a Padhani, and in her early womanhood. The simple kilt she wore allowed her shapely ankles to be seen, and her bodice well expressed the charms of her youthful figure. Ram Deen thought her eyes were not less beautiful than the fawn's.
After salaaming to him, she looked at her pet. "Oh, sahib, she bleeds,—my Ganda bleeds!" she exclaimed, pointing to a slender streak of red on the fawn's flank.
"Belike some thorn tore her skin as she fled," said Ram Deen; but he knew that at least one shot from his gun had taken effect.
"'Tis a sore hurt, Coach-wan sahib. Will she die?"
"Nay, little one, 'tis nought. See!" and with a wisp of grass Ram Deen wiped the blood from the fawn's skin.
"But the dog, coach-wan,—thou wilt not permit him to fright my Ganda again?"
"Of a surety, not." Then, with a hand on the fawn's head, he rebuked Hasteen, saying, "Villain, the jackals shall pursue thee if thou huntest here again!" And Hasteen hung his head, putting his tail between his legs; and the young girl knew that Ganda was safe thereafter from the great dog.
As they talked together, a very decrepit old man appeared at the door of the hut; after peering at Ram Deen from under his hand, he spoke in the flat, toneless voice of a deaf man: "Tumbaku, Provider of the Poor, give me tumbaku."
Ram Deen put his pouch of dried tobacco-leaf in the old man's hand, and looked inquiringly at the young woman.
"It is my grandfather, and he is deaf and nearly blind,—and a sore affliction. Give back his tumbaku to the sahib, da-da," she said in a louder voice to the old man.
"Nay, nay, let him keep it!" said Ram Deen; then after a pause, and by way of excuse for staying a little longer, he inquired the old man's name.
"Hera Lal, Coach-wan sahib; our kinsman is Thapa Sing, of Serya Tal, who was accounted rich, and planted this garden and these fruit trees many years ago. We stay here by his leave in the winter time, to keep the deer and wild hog out. My name is Tara, and I sell firewood to Gunga Ram the sweetmeat vender."
Whilst she was speaking, Biroo had approached the fawn with a handful of grass.
"Is this the little one they say ye found on the Bore bridge, sahib?" inquired the young Padhani.
Ram Deen nodded affirmatively.
"Poor child!" she exclaimed, and, moved by a sudden impulse of pity, she knelt beside Biroo, and smoothing the hair from his face she put a marigold behind his ear.
Next day, after he had delivered the mail, Ram Deen, making a bundle of his best clothes, started off into the jungle. When he was out of sight of the village, he donned a snowy tunic and a scarlet turban, and encased his feet in a pair of red, hide-sewn shoes. When Tara, on her way to the bazaar with a load of firewood, met him soon after, she thought she had never seen any one so bravely attired, and stepped off the path to make room for him to pass.
"Toba, toba!" he exclaimed; "it maketh my head ache to see the load thou bearest. Gunga Ram will, doubtless, give thee not less than eight annas for the firewood."
"Nay, Coach-wan sahib, Gunga Ram is just, and besides giving me the market price,—two annas,—he often bestoweth on me a handful of sweetmeats."
"Thou shalt sell no more wood to Gunga Ram. He is base, and his father is a dog. Set thy load at my door; here is the price thereof," and Ram Deen laid an eight-anna piece in her palm. Before she could recover from her astonishment he said, "The fawn Ganda, is her hurt healed?"
"It is well with her. And what of Biroo, sahib?"
"He is a budmash, Tara, and I repent me of befriending him."
"Nay, Coach-wan sahib, he is but little, and hath no mother."
"That is the evil of it," said Ram Deen, leaving her abruptly.
When Tara returned to her home that evening, she noticed the footprints of a man's shoes in the dust in front of the hut; her grandfather, looking at her cunningly, smoked sweetened tobacco that was well flavored, and the clay bowl of his hookah was new and was gayly painted.
A similar scene was enacted on the jungle path the next day, and many days in succession, and the tale of Biroo's iniquities grew at each recital. Every day there was some fresh villainy of his to relate, and each day Tara's grandfather waxed in affluence, which culminated one day in a new blanket and a small purse with money in it.
"Tara," said Ram Deen one day, "put down thy load; I have bad tidings to tell thee concerning Biroo. He and Hasteen killed a milch-goat to-day belonging to the Thanadar."
"'Twas the dog's doing, Ram Deen."
"Nay, Biroo is the older budmash, and planneth all the villainies. To-morrow I must pay the Thanadar three rupees and eight annas, or Hasteen will be slain and Biroo beaten with a shoe by the Thanadar's chuprassi."
"Biroo shall not be beaten for a matter of three or four rupees, sahib. Lo, here is the money," and Tara, taking a small purse from a tiny pocket in her bodice, held it out to him.
"Nay, listen further!" exclaimed Ram Deen, holding up his hands; "thou knowest I am wifeless, and I might have the best and fairest woman in the Terai for my wife; but she liketh not Biroo, and will not share my hut because of him. Verily, I shall return him to the men of Nyagong."
"Thou art, doubtless, entitled to the best and the fairest wife in the Terai," said Tara, with a sudden catch in her voice; "but Biroo goeth not back to Nyagong as long as our hut standeth and as long as Gunga Ram, who is a just man and a generous, will pay me two annas each day for wood." She turned away her face, so that Ram Deen should not see the tears that suddenly filled her eyes.
"'Tis well, Tara; thou shalt have him, but thou must beat him every day, and often, to make an upright man of him."
"Nana Debi wither the hand that striketh him! He is not a dog to be taught with stripes." Then, after a pause, she went on, "And the—the woman who is to be the best and fairest wife in the Terai,—what manner of woman is she?"
"She is about thine age."
"Yes?"
"And as tall as thou art."
"Proceed."
"Her voice is soft and sweet as a blackbird's, and her eyes are like a fawn's. Her name is——"
"Well, what is her name?"
"'Tis the most beautiful name that a woman can bear. Nay, how can I tell thee her name if thou wilt not look at me?"
When she had turned her eyes on him, he put his hands on her shoulders, saying, "Her name is Tara, star of the Terai."
And Tara put her head on his breast, and was very happy.
"Thou must beat Biroo, Beloved, or he will be hanged."
"Thou wouldst have been hanged, budmash, hadst thou been motherless and beaten by strangers. Biroo's mother will make him a better man than thou art, O Beater of Babes."
"And thou takest me for love?"
"Nay, coach-wan ji, but for the training of Biroo."
About a mile below the eastern gorge of Naini Tal, the favorite hill-station of Kumaon, is a Padhani village overlooking Serya Tal. It is inhabited by a few score of low-caste hill-men, who earn a living, they and their women-folk, by carrying rough-hewn stones from the hillsides for contractors engaged in building houses, or by selling fodder-grass and firewood to the English residents.
When a Padhani has accumulated sufficient means he purchases a wife and stays at home every other day; and when he has attained affluence and bought two wives, he stays at home altogether; which accounts for the fact that a large majority of these carriers of wood and stone are women.
It is not to be supposed that the Padhani women look upon their toilsome tasks as a hardship: nature, and the decrees of evolution, have endowed them with superb health and strength, and they are wont, as they carry the most astonishing loads, to sing joyous choruses, and so lighten their toils. Every one who has been to Naini Tal is familiar with the sight of a string of Padhani women, short-kilted, showing a span of brown skin between their bodices and skirts, and singing in unison.
They never seem to weary of their choruses, and Captain Trenyon of the Forest Department, and hiskhansamah, Bijoo, never tired of looking at them as they passed below his bungalow with swaying hips and jaunty carriage. They were a trifle darker than their Rajpoot sisters (quod tune, si fuscus Amyntas), and they might have been akin to Pharaoh's daughter, she who was "black but comely."
Now, Bijoo was a Padhani, and he took more than a casual interest—such as Captain Trenyon's, doubtless, was—in the laughing and singing crowd that filed below the captain's house several times a day. Chiefest among them, and distinguished by her beauty and her stature, was Chandni; and, ere the season was over, Bijoo purchased her from her crippled father for ten rupees, and, thereafter, Captain Trenyon turned his back on the Padhani traffic of the Mall to watch Chandni instead, as she helped Bijoo to clean the silver; and the songs of the Padhani women attracted him no more.
The following year, before the snows of February had cleared off from Shere-ke Danda and Larya Kata, Chandni returned alone to the house of her father, Thapa, at Serya Tal. It was night when she pushed back the thatch door of his hut, which was in darkness within, and called him by name:
"It is I, father, Chandni, thy daughter."
"Moon of my Heart!" said the old man, waking from his sleep, and he would have "lifted up his voice and wept," as is the manner of all orientals when greatly moved, but she prevented him by the impressiveness of her "Choop, choop! father; proclaim not my return to the village!"
"Where is Bijoo, the man thy husband?"
"Nana Debi alone knoweth, my father, and I have come back to thee."
"Is he dead, little one?"
"He is dead to me, da-da; and I have returned to cook thy food and carry wood and stone for thee, if thou wilt let me."
"Let thee, O Spray of Jessamine!" and the old man caught his breath, and once more she had to check his emotions with an imperative "Choop, choop!"
He left his charpoi, and raking together the embers in the chula, he blew on them till they kindled into a blaze, at which he lit a smoky chirag, whose dim light showed Chandni sitting on the ground with her back towards him, swaying to and fro, and crying softly "Aho, aho, mai bap!"
He sat by the fire patiently, waiting for her to speak, his hands trembling with apprehension.
When her composure was sufficiently restored, she said, "Thapa Sing, my father, Nana Debi hath no ears for a woman's prayers; do thou, therefore, sacrifice a goat to him to-morrow at Naini Tal, and entreat his curses on all Faringis. See, here is money," and she threw a small bag of coins towards him.
He picked up the purse, and after a pause she went on:
"My father, the Mussulmanis do well to veil their women's faces. Trenyon sahib looked upon me ere I was married to Bijoo, and since then, daily, in his jungle camp hath he scorched me with his eyes, till my cheeks felt as though the hot wind had blown on them.
"One day, Bijoo came home with a coin of gold in his hand, such as I had never seen before, and which, he said, the sahib had given him; and he bored a hole through it and hung it on my forehead, and bade me wear it there at the sahib's request; but he stabbed me with his eyes as he put it on me.
"And the next day, Bhamaraya, the sweeper's lame wife, (Kali Mai afflict her with leprosy!) came to the door of our hut, Bijoo being gone to the village market for food supplies, and she extolled my beauty, and showed a picture of myself made by Trenyon sahib by the help of the sun; and thereafter I veiled myself when I went abroad.
"She came again the next day, and whensoever Bijoo was away from home, always praising my lips and my eyes, and telling me what Trenyon sahib spake concerning me. And yesterday she came to me and said, 'Chandni, O Moon of the Jungle, Trenyon sahib would fain have speech with thee. To-night will he send Bijoo with a message to the thana at Kaladoongie, and when he is gone and the other servants be asleep I will conduct thee to the sahib's tent. See what he hath sent thee,' and she placed at my feet a gold bangle.
"When I would have spurned her and her lures from my door she laughed wickedly, saying, 'Ho, ho, my Pretty Partridge! if golden grain will not catch thee, assuredly thou art entangled in the snare of necessity, thou Wife of a Thief!' and she pointed at the coin on my forehead.
"Then, as my heart turned to water, she went on: 'To-morrow the Thanadar will return with Bijoo, and, unless thou asketh the clemency of the sahib, Bijoo will be charged with theft and taken back to Kaladoongie as a prisoner.—The Sircar sends men across the Black Water for lesser offences than this!'
"And being a woman, and fearing I knew not what dangers for Bijoo and myself, I entreated Bhamaraya to take me to the sahib's tent, promising to say naught to Bijoo.
"And thus it fell out, Bijoo being away, that I went with the lame she-wolf to Trenyon sahib's tent last night to make appeal for my husband."
She paused in her narrative once more, swaying herself to and fro and moaning, "Aho, aho!" Then, after a while, she went on:
"When we were in the sahib's presence Bhamaraya plucked the chudder from my face, saying, 'Lo, sahib, I have brought thee the Rose of the Terai!' Whereon he filled her palms with rupees. And as she left the room she spake to me, saying, 'The saving of Bijoo were an easy task for thy beauty, thou Flower-Faced Chandni.'
"And I stood suppliant before the sahib, with folded palms and downcast eyes, and in the silence I could hear the beating of my heart. After a while, and because he spake not, I looked up and met his eyes that burned upon my face; and then I knew the price that was set on Bijoo's safety.
"Falling before him, I clasped his feet, saying, 'Provider of the Poor, let thy servant depart in honor, and so add one more jewel to the crown of thy worth. See, here is the coin Bhamaraya says was stolen from thee by the man Bijoo, my husband.' And, unwinding the gold piece from my head, I laid it at his feet.
"Thereupon he raised me from the ground, and because great fear was upon me, and because my limbs shook, he seated me upon his bed, whereon was a leopard's skin. Then, filling a crystal vessel with sparkling waters that bubbled and frothed, he bade me drink. And my courage revived, and once more I made plea for Bijoo.
"And then I noticed, for the first time, that the air of the tent was heavy with the odor of attar; slumbrous music came from a magical box on the table, and the thought of Bijoo seemed to go far from me, as though he were in another land, and I became as one who had smoked apheem or churrus. Then the sahib bound the gold coin on my brow again, and spake words to me such as I had never heard from man, assuring me of Bijoo's safety, and calling me Queen of the Stars, Dew of the Morning, Breath of Roses, and putting a strange stress upon me that cared not for any consequences.
"When I had flown, as it seemed to me, to the highest peak of elation, he gave me another draught of the sparkling waters, and, as I sank back on the pillows, the last thing I had sense of was his hand on mine. Oh, Nana Debi, that I had never waked again! Aho, aho!"
And once more the woman stopped to indulge her grief.
"When I waked again," she resumed, "the sahib sat by the table, asleep, with his head on his arm, the light still burning brightly over him. A bird cheeped uneasily in the peepul-tree above the tent, and through the chink of the doorway I could discern the faint glimmer of the false dawn. Fearing to be seen in or near the sahib's tent by the servants, who would soon begin to stir, I made shift to rise from the bed, but my head swam from the effects of the strong waters I had drunk, and I fell back on the pillows and shut my eyes for a few moments.
"When I looked again Bijoo stood within the doorway. Holding up a menacing finger that enjoined silence, he advanced stealthily on Trenyon sahib with an unsheathed khookri. Arrived within striking distance, he touched the sahib on the shoulder, and, as the sleeper raised his head from the table, the heavy blade descended on it and shore it from the shoulders, and Trenyon sahib passed from sleep to death without any waking.
"Tearing the coin from my forehead, Bijoo wound his fingers in my hair and bade me follow him without any outcry on pain of instant death.
"When we had passed into the jungle a mile from the camp he bade stand, and then, O my father, he inflicted the punishment our men exact from unfaithful wives."
"O Moonlight of my Heart, say not thou art a nakti! Not that! not that!"
For answer she rose slowly to her feet and turned towards him. Drawing from her face the chudder, which was soaked with blood, she disclosed to his horrified gaze a countenance with a hideous gap between the eyes and mouth, and bearing no resemblance to that of the once beautiful Chandni.
The Terai was in consternation: Captain Trenyon of the Forest Department had been killed by his khansamah, Bijoo; the latter's wife, Chandni, had been horribly mutilated by her infuriated husband in accordance with an immemorial right claimed by the men of the Terai in such cases, and the government had offered a reward of one thousand rupees for the capture of the injured husband.
"Are we dogs?" said Ram Deen, indignantly, when the Thanadar had displayed a notice of the reward printed in Nagari that was to be posted throughout the Terai. "Are we dogs, brothers, that the sircar should tempt us with base money to betray men for exacting just retribution from those who wrong them?"
"We be men, coach-wan ji," said the bullock driver, valiantly; and whilst he spoke the great dog, Hasteen, who lay at Ram Deen's feet, pricked up his ears and growled as a shadow crept along the ground from the peepul tree in front of the village temple to a clump of tall grass some fifty paces from the Thanadar's fire.
"Peace!" exclaimed Ram Deen, venting his spleen on the dog with a blow from his shoe; "dost thou not know a jackal as yet?" Then to those assembled round the fire he went on, raising his voice: "Kali Mai wither the hand that betrayeth Bijoo, and fire consume his hut! There is contention even in my house, because the woman Chandni is kin to my wife, who believes in her innocence; but better such contention, and bitter silence for kindly speech, than that brothers should sell brothers, and so make light the honor of men in the Terai!"
"Nevertheless," said the Thanadar, "this notice must be posted wherever men pass or congregate throughout this Zemindaree."
"Nevertheless," retorted Ram Deen, bitterly, "without disrespect to thee, Thanadar Sahib, it shall be told throughout the Terai that Ram Deen spat on the notice of the sircar and tore it in shreds," and the driver of the mail-cart proceeded to make his words good.
Next evening, when the mail-cart drove up to the post-office, little Biroo plucked Ram Deen's sleeve as he dismounted. "Thou must come with me," he said, simply.
"Must, Little Parrot?"
"Ay, father mine. Tara wanteth thee; and there is pillau for thy evening meal."
Now Ram Deen had fed on Gunga Ram's stale cates the evening before for having expressed approval of the mutilation of Chandni, and this prospect of pillau, besides appealing shrewdly to his eager stomach, was, perhaps, a sign of capitulation on the part of the young wife he had but lately wedded.
As he approached his hut his nostrils were assailed with the odors of a great cooking.
"Thou seest, my father," said little Biroo, with the ineptitude of infancy, "thou seest what awaits thee inside."
When Ram Deen entered his abode a woman's voice came to him from the inner apartment, saying, "Feed, Big Elephant, stupid as thou art tall!"
As Ram Deen fell to, Biroo also dipped his hand in the dish, mouthful for mouthful; and when his little stomach was pleasantly distended, he paused and said, "Where didst thou sleep last night, my father?"
"'Twere better to eat pillau, little Blue Jay, than ask questions that may be answered only through the soles of thy feet," replied Ram Deen.
"O valiant Beater of Babes!" said the voice from the inner room, "were it not for Biroo, I would return to my grandfather's house; but thou wouldst starve and ill-use the little one."
"Nay, my Best Beloved," said Ram Deen, in a conciliatory tone, "thou art not even just to me. Listen——"
"I will not listen, O Brave to Women, till thou hast answered Biroo's question."
"My Star, an' you should tell it abroad that I did not sleep in mine own house last night, it would blacken my face in Kaladoongie."
"Thou wilt say, perchance, that I gossip at the village well. Go on, what next?"
"Nay, then, if thou must know it, I slept in Goor Dutt's bullock-cart."
"'Twas well, Lumba Deen (Long Legs). Ho, ho, ho! Thy case was that of a ladder balanced across a wall. Proceed."
"The grain bags I lay on, Heart of my Heart, were stony, and the night was full of noises."
"Yes. And thou wast warm?"
"Nay, Beloved, for there was not room for the drawing up of my knees between myself and Goor Dutt, so my feet were frozen, and Goor Dutt ceased not from snoring."
"'Twas well, Oppressor of Women and Children. And thy evening meal?"
"Light of the Terai, Gunga Ram's stale pooris were ill-bestowed on a pariah dog,—but the savor of thy pillau hath effaced the wrong done to my stomach last night."
"Ah! And now what thinkest thou of my kinswoman Chandni?"
"Tara, Light in Darkness, thou art dearer to me than life itself, and I would not lightly vex thee. What is done is done; why slay me with thy questions? I were not worthy of thee if I answered thee differently concerning the price to be demanded for the virtue of a woman; nay, do not cry, little one."
A sound of wailing came from the inner room, where two women were weeping in each other's arms. "Aho! aho!"
"Tara," exclaimed Ram Deen, starting to his feet, "who is the woman with thee? and why is she here?"
"It is I, Chandni," said a thick, muffled voice, "and thou doest me wrong, coach-wan ji. Listen!" Then the strange woman proceeded to tell Ram Deen of the slaying of Trenyon sahib, and of her own horrible mutilation.
When she had finished, Ram Deen said, "It was a brave stroke that Bijoo gave the sahib."
"It was well done, khodawund."
"And thou art not sorry for the killing of the sahib?"
"Doorga restore me and afflict me again, if I do not think it was a good killing!"
"They will hang Bijoo for it; a thousand rupees hath been offered for his taking, alive or dead."
"Aho! aho!" wailed the strange woman. "Men will be wicked for even ten rupees."
"But he robbed thee of thy beauty," remonstrated Ram Deen.
"'Twas right to do so, in his eyes," was the reply.
"And 'tis true thou wast in Trenyon sahib's tent for the helping of Bijoo?"
"As Nana Debi is my witness. And I know not all that happened, for the sahib gave me strong waters to drink that robbed me of my senses."
"Toba! toba!" exclaimed Ram Deen, walking towards the outer door. "Wife, see to it that thy relative is properly lodged this night."
"And to-morrow night?" queried Tara.
"To-morrow night I would eat of a kid seethed in milk and stuffed with pistachios by thy honorable kinswoman. Moreover, I will make provision for her ere the week is out."
"My lord is good as he is great," said Tara, as Ram Deen left the hut.
The next night, as they sat around the fire, Ram Deen waited till the shadow crept from the peepul tree to the clump of tall grass.
"Brothers," he began, speaking deliberately and in loud tones, "the woman we spake of last night is guiltless of wrong, as I now know. She is here and in my hut, and an honored guest." He paused and looked round the circle grimly.
"We be poor men, coach-wan ji," said the little driver, deprecatingly, "and thy honorable kinswoman is deserving, doubtless, of thy exalted consideration."
"She is deserving of the consideration due to a woman who was greatly wronged by the villain who was slain, and by the madman, his slayer. She was lured, brothers, into the sahib's tent by the sweeper's wife, Bhamaraya,—who is a lame she-wolf!—for the purpose of pleading for her man, Bijoo, who was accused of theft; and then she was robbed of her senses by the sahib's strong waters, and hath done no wrong; let no man in the Terai gainsay it!"
Ram Deen paused awhile to "drink tobacco," but nobody made comment on a matter in which he was so greatly interested.
"Bijoo's life is forfeit," he resumed; "and the rope that shall hang him is already made, for the sircar never fails to find whom it seeks. But Bijoo, alive or dead, is worth a thousand rupees to the man who shall take him. 'Twere pity that the money should go to some jackal of a man, for it belongs, of a right, to Chandni, whom he hath wrongfully mutilated; but he is a man, and will, doubtless, make the only reparation in his power, and yield himself up, for her sake, to some one who will bestow the blood money upon her."
The shadow rose from the tall grass and speedily disappeared in the darkness. Soon after, those who sat round the fire heard the dreadful lamenting of a strong man who walks between Remorse and Despair.
"Brothers," said Ram Deen, as he rose to go to his hut, "alive or dead, Bijoo will be here to-morrow night."
At the fire, next evening, no one spoke; they were waiting for the fulfilment of Ram Deen's prediction, and the bugle-call of the fateful man had just been heard in the direction of the Bore bridge.
"Bijoo hath come, Thanadar ji," said Ram Deen, as he dismounted from the mail-cart.
He then proceeded, with the help of his hostler, to lift a heavy burden covered with a cloth from the back seat of the mail-cart. The limp hands trailing on the ground as they carried it showed their burden to be a corpse. They laid it in the firelight; and Ram Deen, drawing the covering from its face, disclosed the dreadful features of a man who had been hanged; part of the rope that had strangled him still encircled his throat.
"This was the way of it," began Ram Deen, after due identification had been made and the corpse had been carried to the thana; "this was the way of it: this evening, just before we began the descent that leads to the Bore bridge, a man sprang from the darkness in front of the horses and stayed the mail-cart below the great huldoo tree that stretches its arms across the road. The light of the lamps showed him to be Bijoo. So I sent the hostler forward to the bridge to await my coming, for Bijoo and I were fain to be alone for that which had to be said between us.
"When we were by ourselves I bade him mount the mail-cart and sit beside me. As he took his place, he said, 'Wah! coach-wan, dost thou not fear to be alone with a hunted man on a jungle road? I might slay thee now, for I am armed, and so remove the only man who can match me in the Terai.'
"'Nevertheless,' I replied, 'I will take thee to-night to Kaladoongie with my naked hands, if need be.'
"'We will speak of that hereafter,' said Bijoo; 'but now tell me of her.'
"'She is as you made her,—nakti and poor and a widow; for thou art but a dead man, Bijoo.'
"'And you spake the truth, last night, when you said she went to the sahib's tent to plead for me?'
"Taking one of the lamps, I held it to my face, saying, 'Draw now thy khookri, Bijoo, and slay me if thou thinkest I have lied.'
"''Tis well,' he replied, sheathing his weapon. 'And what will become of Chandni?'
"'She shall dwell honorably with her kinswoman in my hut, and respected of all men as long as I live; but the road is not safe, Bijoo, and bad men and jungle fever and wild beasts have slain better men than I; and, bethink thee, by yielding thyself my prisoner thou canst bestow one thousand rupees on Chandni, and so set her beyond the reach of want and scoffers till her end come.'
"He mused awhile, and then replied quietly, 'I will go with thee. Proceed. I know thou wilt bestow upon her the reward offered by the sircar.'
"'But they will hang thee, Bijoo.'
"'Of a surety. Proceed.'
"''Tis a shameful death, for the hangman is a sweeper,—some brother to Bhamaraya, perhaps.'
"'Nevertheless, proceed; but promise me that thou wilt trap the lame witch in some pit of hell, Ram Deen.'
"'Fret not thyself on that score, Bijoo; I have already given the matter thought. But why should the sircar hang thee? They—would—not—hang—a dead man;' and I flicked a branch that overhung us with my whip.
"'Thou art right, Ram Deen,' he said, quietly; 'but, lo! I have not slept for many nights, and my thought is not clear.' He then stooped downward, groping in the bottom of the mail-cart, and drew forth one of the heel ropes of the horses.
"Throwing one end of the rope over the branch that was above us, he fastened it thereto with a running loop, and then encircled his neck with a noose at the other end.
"As he stood up on the seat, he asked, 'Thou wilt give me honorable burning, Ram Deen?' And I replied, 'I will be nearest of kin to thee in this matter.'
"'Tis well. Thou wilt not forget thy reckoning with Bhamaraya?'
"But ere I could make reply, the gray wolf that hunts beyond the bridge bayed, and the horses broke from me in their fear, so that I could not stay them till we reached the Naini Tal road."
"Yea, brothers," said the hostler, at whom Ram Deen looked for confirmation of this part of his story, "I had scarce time to leap to one side, as the mail-cart sped past me whilst I waited on the bridge."
More he would have said,—for he had never before enjoyed the privilege of speech at the Thanadar's fire, and the occasion was epochal,—but he saw in Ram Deen's face that which made him whine and say, "But I am a poor man, and know nothing, and my sight is dim by reason of sitting overmuch by grass fires,—only Ram Deen, Bahadoor, could not stay the horses, though he cursed their female relatives for many generations, and——"
"So, Thanadar ji," interrupted Ram Deen, "as soon as I could restrain the horses I turned them back, and, after picking up the hostler (who, because he is more silent, is wiser than most poor men who are ever talking of what they know not), I drove to the huldoo tree where hung Bijoo as dead as you saw him but now."
Then, after a pause, he said, "Brothers, let it be told in the Terai that Bijoo came back as befitted an honorable man."
"Thy man-child is very beautiful, my lord," said Tara.
Ram Deen was sitting outside of his hut on a charpoi, whilst Tara rubbed their month-old babe with "bitter oil" in the forenoon sun.
The little brown manikin, without a stitch on him to conceal God's handiwork, sprawled on his stomach across his mother's knees, making inarticulate noises, and wriggling after the manner of infants when it is well with them, for the sun was pleasantly warm, and his mother's rubbing appealed to his budding sensations.
"It is not so beautiful as its beautiful mother," said Ram Deen.
"Thou Worthless!" exclaimed Tara. "Sawest ever such hands?" and she put a finger into the wee palm that clasped it by "reflex action."
"Toba! toba!" swore Ram Deen. "Nana Debi send grace to evil-doers in the Terai in the days to come, or else shall they be undone by these hands. Why, they might almost crush a fly!"
"Nevertheless, coach-wan ji, my lord, thy son shall be taller than thou when he is a man grown."
"Khoda (God) grant it, for thy son must drive the mail-cart in the time to come, and the Terai is full of dangers."
"But heshall notdrive the mail-cart," said Tara; "he shall be Thanadar of Kaladoongie, and he shall feed his father and his mother when his beard begins to sing on a scraping palm. Eh, my butcha?" and the young mother, after the manner of young mothers the world over, bent her head and kissed the little one's dimples.
"He shall be rich, too, coach-wan ji," said a tall woman with a beautiful figure appearing in the doorway of the hut. Her eyes made beholders long to look upon the rest of her face; but that was closely veiled, for it was horribly mutilated.
Her voice was thick and muffled, and she spoke with difficulty. It was the unhappy Chandni.
"He shall be rich, if a thousand rupees can make him rich, and the wishes of thy humble servant. Tulsi Ram, pundit, hath this day indited a letter for me to Moti Ram, the great mahajun of Naini Tal, directing him to hold the money, that was the price of Bijoo, for thy son till he comes to man's estate."
"Now, nay, Chandni," remonstrated Ram Deen; "I am richer than most men in the Terai, and, through the advice of my friend, the Thanadar, my wealth groweth apace, and my son shall lack nothing. Biroo, too, is provided for; thou mayest need the money thyself, for the thread of life parts easily in the Terai, as thou knowest, and the shelter of my hut may be wanting to thee some day."
"Nevertheless, my lord and my master, thy lowly handmaid must not be thwarted in this matter," and Chandni disappeared into the hut.
"Let her have her will, my lord," pleaded Tara; "we owe her much," and with a sweeping gesture she indicated the garden in which they sat and which was Chandni's special care.
The enclosure in which Ram Deen's hut stood used to be, ere the days of Tara and Chandni, the most neglected spot in the village; but, after the arrival of the latter, it gradually began to assume an appearance of neatness and thrift that made Ram Deen's home-coming a daily delight to him.
The young peepul tree in front of the hut was aflame with a gorgeous Bougain-villea, and the flower-beds laughed with marigolds and poppies of many hues sown broadcast. A little runnel sparkled through the garden, and, in one part of its career, chattered pleasantly over a tiny pebbly reach artfully contrived to produce the "beauty born of murmuring sound," which is nowhere more grateful than in the domain of the Hot Wind.
In one corner of the garden were planted radishes, and turnips, and carrots, with their delightful greenery. Chili plants and Cape gooseberries abounded, and many a potherb pleasant to behold and good in a curry. Every plant and shrub gave evidence of loving care, and repaid the tilth bestowed upon them with lavish interest.
A little machand (dais) of plastered mud, under the peepul tree, had been specially built for little Biroo, who decorated it, after the manner of the small boy, with bits of gayly-tinted glass and potsherds, bright feathers and cowries, and such other gauds as appeal to his kind.
In another corner of the compound was a tiny hut, wherein Heera Lal, Tara's old grandfather, lived in such ease and affluence as he had never dreamed of in his wildest imaginings. His day was setting in scented clouds of sweetened tobacco, and he had tyre to eat every morning. Every week he added two annas (six cents) to the hoard under his hearth; it was saved from the allowance made to him by Ram Deen; and he owed no man anything. Moreover, in Ram Deen he had found one who could be most easily overreached, and Ram Deen delighted to be swindled by the old man in matters involving small change.
Even Hasteen had not been forgotten in the improvements made in the enclosure: in one corner a small space had been carefully lepoed (plastered) and roofed with thatch for him. Farther on, Nathoo, Biroo's kid, was tethered to a stake; and beyond that the fawn, Ganda, had a little paddock to herself.
The whole compound was fenced in by a flourishing mandni hedge, which gave Ram Deen a fuller sense of possession. As he sat on the charpoi, lazily smoking his hookah and drinking in the beauty of the garden and of the day beyond, he was the happiest man in all the Terai. When Tara had finished the baby's simple toilet and put it to her breast, the thought passed through Ram Deen's mind that, if God ever smiled, it must be when he looked on a young mother suckling her first-born.
"Respect the aged and infirm," said a whining voice, breaking in upon Ram Deen's pleasant reverie. The speaker, who stood outside the hedge, was an old mendicant equipped like his kind, with an alms-bowl containing a handful of small copper coin and cowries. He was smeared with wood ashes, and his tangled, grizzly hair hung to his waist.
"Respect the aged and poor, Ram Deen, for the sake of the beautiful babe." (Tara immediately covered it with her chudder for fear of the evil eye.) "Listen, I have tidings for thee."
"Speak, swami," replied the driver, throwing him a small piece of silver.
"Bhamaraya, the lame mehtrani, cometh this way. She is on the road on the hither side of Lal Kooah, in a covered byli whereof one of the wheels has come off. The byl-wan walked into Kaladoongie with me this morning to seek assistance, leaving the old woman on the road."
"'Tis well, jogi ji. Durga will doubtless protect her own. Salaam," said Ram Deen, dismissing the mendicant.
The time had come for the fulfilment of his promise to Bijoo. What he should do when he came across the mehtrani who had wrecked Chandni's life would doubtless be suggested to him by the circumstances of the place and the hour, but for the present he was satisfied that she was completely in his power.
That day Chandni was absent from the mid-day meal.
The Hot Wind blew fiercely, rattling the leafless branches of the forest trees. The Bore Nuddee, below the head of the canal that supplied Kaladoongie, had shrunk to a few scattered pools that became shallower every day.
"Nana Debi send thy kinswoman is in a cool shade this day," said Ram Deen, addressing Tara.
"She hath doubtless gone to the ford of the Bore Nuddee to bleach her new chudder," explained Tara.
But when evening came and Chandni had not returned, the driver became alarmed. After he had made his preparations for taking the mail to Lal Kooah he joined the circle in front of the Thanadar's hut.
The Hot Wind had abated its fury to little puffs that came at intervals and seemed to sear the skin, and the sun had set like a copper disk in the haze that overhung the western sky. As the hostler brought the mail-cart round, Ram Deen told the Thanadar of Chandni's absence, and received his assurance that immediate search should be made for her.
As they spoke together a little puff of wind came out of the west, laden with the smell of fire. They instinctively turned their faces windwards. The glow of the setting sun, that had but just disappeared, seemed to be returning in the west and illuminated the under surface of a huge black cloud that was growing rapidly in size.
"The jungle through which thou must drive is on fire, Ram Deen, and thou must make haste if thou wouldst take the mail to Lai Kooah to-night."
"But thou must not go to Lai Kooah to-night," said little Biroo, running up to Ram Deen. "Chandni said so ere she went away this morning. I was to tell thee, but I had forgotten till I saw just now the money she gave me for the telling of this to thee;" and opening his hand he showed the men a rupee.
"Therefore must I go, Thanadar ji," said Ram Deen. "Had this little budmash spoken sooner Chandni had been home now, and not on a quest that belongs properly to me. Toba, toba!" he exclaimed, as a tongue of flame shot high into the air, "was ever such fire lit for the purification of the jungle? But I must make haste if I would save Chandni;" and the next minute Ram Deen was speeding towards the Bore bridge. Two miles beyond the bridge they reached the hither end of the fire, which was now being driven furiously by a storm of its own creation towards the road, from which it was distant about half a mile. The hostler leaped to the ground, refusing to go any farther; but the element of danger and the risk to Chandni only stirred Ram Deen's pulses into activity, and he shook the reins and urged his horses into a headlong gallop.
The wild things of the Terai fled in front of the fire and across Ram Deen's path, heedless of the presence of man, who was but a pygmy to the wrath behind them. The roar of the giant fire put a great stress upon the fleeing animals, so that they were as of one kin in the presence of a common danger. A herd of spotted deer, with a leopard in their very midst, dashed across the road in front of the mail-cart. A wild boar came next in headlong fashion. Jackals, hares, nyl-gai followed each other pell-mell, making for the shelter of the bed of the Bore Nuddee, whilst overhead was seen the flight of the feathered denizens of the Terai.
All this confusion and rush but accented the roar of the pursuing fire. When Ram Deen looked back for an instant he saw that it had leapt across the road at a point he had passed but a minute before, and now he knew that he was running for his life.
A quarter of a mile farther on the road turned to the left, thus increasing his chance of reaching the southern limit of the fire, which was travelling due east. By the light of the flames he could see a tall woman sitting on the parapet of a small culvert, about one hundred yards in front of him. On the edge of the jungle beside her was an overturned byli, and from it there came the most appalling screams that could be distinguished even through the din of the fire.
The woman on the culvert saw him as soon as he turned the bend of the road, and forthwith mounted the parapet; and he saw it was Chandni. As the mail-cart swept past her she sprang towards it, and Ram Deen passed an arm round her and drew her on to the seat beside him.
"For the love of God, Chandni, for the love of God!" screamed the woman in the byli as a burning branch fell on it. But the mail-cart sped away, and presently only the roar of the angry fire could be heard.
A quarter of a mile farther on they had passed the southern edge of the fire, which was within fifty yards of the road when they reached safety.
"The woman in the byli?" asked Ram Deen.
"Bhamaraya," was the quiet reply.
"And why came she not forth?"
"Because of the rope that hanged Bijoo."
The Commissioner of Kumaon had arrived at Kaladoongie in the course of his winter tour of inspection, and the same evening Joti Prshad, his butler, sat beside the Thanadar on a charpoi and smoked with metropolitan ease amidst the awe-struck notables of the jungle village.
Ram Deen alone was not abashed, and puffed his hookah unconcernedly, although Joti Prshad told many wonderful things of the sahiblogue, and spoke concerning the doings of the great world of Naini Tal during the greater rains.
Joti Prshad was a small man, and Ram Deen'sblasémood galled his sense of superiority; it was but right that he should snub this exasperatingly cool villager.
"Thanadar ji," he began, "thou and I know that nowhere in Hindoostan is there such greatness assembled as at Naini Tal during the Greater Barsât."
"Men say that the governor-general still goeth to Simla, but, doubtless, the sirdar knoweth best," said Ram Deen.
"The Lât-sahib, indeed, goeth to Simla, but those with him be mere karanis (clerks), and shopkeepers, and half-castes. 'Tis plain thou hast not seen Naini Tal, coach-wan."
"The Terai sufficeth me, Joti Prshad."
"They say," piped Goor Dutt, the little bullock driver, "that the mem-sahibs at Naini Tal bare their shoulders and bosoms and dance with strange men. Toba, toba!"
This being an indisputable fact, and one to which Joti Prshad had never reconciled himself, the latter did not speak, and the diversion thus made by the byl-wan was felt by all to be in Ram Deen's favor.
Taking advantage of the silence of Joti Prshad, Ram Deen went on: "The people of Naini Tal come and go, but the children of the Terai never forget their mother. What sayest thou, Thanadar ji?"
"'Tis even so, brothers," said the Thanadar, with the gravity of one who is in authority and under the stress of weighing his words.
As they evidently waited for him to proceed, the Thanadar continued: "The jungle is our father and our mother, and the huldoo trees our near kin, O my brothers; and we who have once seen the beauty of the morning in the jungle, and the rye-fields laughing in the clearings in the winter, may not live elsewhere."
"Ay, Thanadar ji," said Ram Deen; "and, moreover, the senses of those who live in bazaars are asleep as with bhang, and they cannot see nor hear the wonders of God."
A general "humph" of assent followed Ram Deen's speech.
"If the sirdar will stay with us we will show him whereof we speak," said the Thanadar. But the butler had fond recollections of Oude and the rose-fields of Shahjahanpoor, where they make attar, and shook his head dissentingly. So the Thanadar went on: "Many seasons since, a holy man—a Sunyasi—who had given up his wife and children and lived in a hollow tree by the Rock of Khalsi (whereon are written the laws of the great king Asoka) returned to Gurruckpoor, his native village, when he felt the Great Darkness coming on. He told the village Brahmin that he longed for death, but that he could not die outside of the Terai."
After a pause, during which the bubbling of his narghili was heard, the Thanadar said: "It is the same with all who are born in the Terai,—Faringi and Padhani, Brahmin and Dome, Sunyasi and fair woman,—all are alike in bondage, and return, sooner or later, to their jungle mother. Listen. Twelve years ago there came to Gurruckpoor to hunt big game an Englishman named Fisher Sahib. He was of those favored by God who have much wealth, and to whom sport standeth for occupation. As he was accustomed to fulfil his heart's desires, he hired two shooting elephants from the Rajah of Rampore,—one for himself and the other for his mem-sahib, who accompanied him. And he had a great camp, and many servants, and beaters, and shikaris, chief of whom was Juggoo, whose fame as a hunter reached from Phillibeet to Dehra. He it was who always rode with the sahib in his howdah, and he had command from the mem-sahib never to leave the sahib's side in the jungle, in that he was rash and loved danger, and many a time fell into it unawares by reason that he saw not clearly except he looked through a piece of glass that he wore in one eye.
"One day the sahib had shot a deer, and let himself down from his elephant—Juggoo going with him—to give it hallal, according to the rule of the Koran,—for he intended the deer as a gift to the Mussulmanis in his camp. As he bent over the deer to cut its throat with his khookri, a great boar ran upon them from a thicket. Juggoo uttered a cry of warning, but ere the sahib could find his sight the boar was upon them, and Juggoo thrust himself in its way and got his death, or the sahib had been killed.
"So they carried the dead man to the camp, where his daughter, Chambeli, having cooked his evening meal, awaited the return of her father. She was fifteen years in age, and a widow,—for her betrothed husband and all his people had died five years before of The Sickness (small-pox); so she had returned to her father, and had cared for his house ever since. And Kali Dass, who was learning jungle-craft from her father, would have had her to mistress. 'Come and live with me, my beloved, beyond the head-waters of the Bore Nuddee,' he had pleaded; 'and when thy hair hath grown again none shall know thou art a widow, and the people of the foothills shall wonder at thy beauty.'
"'But I shall know and Nana Debi,—and the others matter not, Kali Dass'" she replied firmly.
"So Kali Dass went his way; and the young man and Chambeli looked at each other, but spake no more together.
"The mem-sahib it was who told Chambeli of her father's death, Kali Dass standing by, and she turned on him like a leopard bereft of its young and upbraided him, saying, 'Hadst thou been a man, Kali Dass, my father were still living.' Thereafter she swooned, and the mem-sahib laid her on her own couch, and held her in her arms and comforted her, because Juggoo had died to save the sahib.
"Then for that she was childless and very wealthy, and could do whatsoever seemed good in her eyes, the mem-sahib took Chambeli across the Black Water. They brought her up as their own kin, teaching her whatsoever it is fitting the daughter of a Faringi should know, and training her to work amongst our women and children when they should be afflicted with sickness; and, furthermore, she was to turn them from Nana Debi to the God of the Faringis.
"Moreover, to aid her in her work she was married to a young English padre; and they came to Kaladoongie six years ago, when the next new-year festival of the Faringis shall arrive. And because we knew her and still remembered Juggoo, her father, we of Kaladoongie waited on her at the dâk-bungalow on the day she returned.
"She came out to us on the veranda, dressed in the garments of a mem-sahib, and we saw that she was a woman grown and in the mid-noon of her beauty. She was glad to see us, calling us all by our names, and we greeted her with such gifts as we could,—fruit and flowers and sweetmeats. Last of all came Kali Dass, and behind him four men bearing a leopard but newly slain, slung from a pole.
"They laid the beast at her feet, and Chambeli laughed and clapped her hands till the little padre, her husband, frowned at her; whereon her nostrils twitched and she looked at him in wonderment, as though she saw for the first time that he was a small man with a pale face, and void of authority.
"Then turning to Kali Dass she said in our Terai tongue, 'Is it well with thee, shikari ji? Thou art doubtless married and happy?'
"And he said, 'Nay; I have no spouse, save only my jungle-craft.'
"'And the jungle?' she asked, looking on the ground.
"'It is my father and my mother, and fairer than any of its daughters, mem-sahib. But thou hast been in great cities, and across the Black Water; thou hast read in books, and hast changed thy gods,—what shouldst thou care for the jungle?'
"'It is the garden of God, Kali Dass, and I am fain to see it again, for I am a Padhani born, and a daughter of the Terai.'
"Ere she gave us leave to depart it was arranged that she and the padre sahib, accompanied by me and Kali Dass, should start in the early morning and follow the Bore Nuddee backward into the foothills.
"Kali Dass was at the dâk-bungalow before me in the morning; and he was dressed in holiday clothes; his face shone, and behind one ear he had placed a marigold.
"When the padre and his mem-sahib came forth from their chamber, behold! she was dressed as a Padhani; and she was the Chambeli we knew of old, only taller.
"'I am but a Padhani,' she explained, 'and shall get nearer to my people the more I am like to them.'
"It was a time of great stillness when we started, for the morning was just born, and the dew lay on all things. Taking the road to Naini Tal, we struck into the jungle when we came to the path that leads to the ford of the Bore Nuddee, and Chambeli alighted from her pony and walked in front of the rest with Kali Dass. A faint flush showed in the east, and presently a jungle-cock greeted the dawn. Chambeli stopped, and, with joy in her face, she turned round to the padre sahib, exclaiming, 'Didst hear that?' And he laughed, saying, 'It was but the crowing of a cock.'
"'But it came out of the stillness of the morning, and the dew accorded with it,—and it was a wild thing,—but how shouldst thou understand? thou art not of the Terai,' she said.
"Soon the glow in the east became brighter, and the jungle burst into its morning song. Chambeli stopped and put her hands to her forehead, as if she would remember something; then she said to the shikari, 'Something is lacking, Kali Dass; what is it?' And even as she spake there came the call of a black partridge from a thicket near by: 'Sobhan teri koodruth!' Brothers, ye know that the black partridge is the priest of the Terai, and at its voice Chambeli fled with a cry of joy from the path and into the thick jungle.
"The little padre sahib, knowing not what to think, urged us to follow her. When we came up with her, Kali Dass stood by regarding her with a smile, whilst she lay on the ground with her face buried in the dewy grass, moaning and saying, 'O Jungle Mother, I will never leave thee again, I will never leave thee again!' And the little padre chid her in his own tongue; whereat she rose shuddering; and brushing the dew and the tears from her face, she returned to the path.
"She had eyes and ears for everything that morning, and was as a wild thing that had just fled from captivity.
"When we came to the brow of the hill that slopes down to the ford, the sun rose over the tops of the trees and laid a gleaming sword across the stream; and as we looked at the brightness and wonder of it all there came to us the song of a string of Padhani women approaching the ford. In an instant Chambeli took up the song, and set off swiftly down the narrow path, we following as we could.
"As she neared the ford she lifted her sari and took the water with her bare limbs; and I looked at the little padre, who seemed sore amazed.
"When we had all crossed the ford, Chambeli and Kali Dass were not to be seen on the road that ran by the stream. A traveller on his way to Kaladoongie said he had not met them, and as we questioned him there came the report of a gun.
"'Kali Dass hath met game, padre sahib,' said I.
"'Find them, and bring them back instantly, Thanadar,' commanded the holy man, and his voice shook with anger.
"Following the direction of the shot, I came upon their tracks, and thereafter I found a handful of fresh feathers. A few paces beyond lay a small book; it was the sacred book of the Faringis printed in Nagari, and on the first leaf, which was held down by a stone, was writing in English. On the path a pace farther were two sticks crossed, and beyond that other two; and I knew it was the warning of Kali Dass, who must not be followed.
"So I returned with the little book to the padre sahib. And when he had read what was written on the first leaf he trembled and clutched at his throat, and I caught him in my arms as he fell from his horse.
"I returned with him to Kaladoongie; but Chambeli and Kali Dass never came back.
"I showed the writing in the book to Tulsi Ram. Speak, pundit, and tell our brothers what it meant."
Tulsi Ram, pleased and proud to give an exhibition of his scholarship, replied, "Brothers, and you, O Joti Prshad, the writing said: 'Like to like: Kali Dass is of my blood, and the great jungle hath claimed her daughter this day.'"