On an afternoon in the early days of the British occupancy of India,
Blackmore-Sahib sat alone at the big desk in his study, in his hand
a report which had just reached him from one of his districts. At
his elbow the tea tray was untouched, although at this hour of the
afternoon he was usually stretched out in a rattan chair in the
living-room with the punkah swinging over him, the latest magazine,
three months old at that, in his hand, and the tea tray already
replaced on the small table beside his chair by the cigar service
holding cigarettes all neatly rolled ready for his match. It was not
because the report was urgent that he had forsaken his accustomed
ease to prove it up; nor was it that he was particularly interested
in the task, for apparently he was forcing himself to go over the
lines of type and up and down the columns of figures. As his pencil
reached the bottom of a column it would almost drop from his
listless fingers until, with a start, he would begin upon the next
row as if in great haste.
The bearer, entering the room noiselessly, saw the untouched tea
tray standing just as he had left it a half hour before and looked
anxiously at his master's face. But without disturbing his master he
removed it and turned to the side table where stood the tobacco
service. Not a cigarette was rolled! He clumsily attempted to
prepare some but none of his efforts were really successful.
However, he put several bulky ones in a saucer and placed them near
his master's hand. Still in silence but with many backward glances
at the man bending over the slowly-moving pencil, the boy left the
room.
As the boy closed the door, the man dropped the pencil upon the
desk, put his hand to his head for a second, and then arose. He
walked to the door into the living-room and seemed to listen for an
instant; then he went back to the desk.
The servant, evidently having heard his master's step, entered with
fresh tea and toast.
"Is she better?"
As the boy set the tray down he replied hesitatingly, "No, Sahib,
she is still groaning."
"You fool, don't you suppose I can hear that? She has groaned
incessantly since last night."
"What can I do?" The man asked the question of himself as he turned
half around towards the veranda door.
[Illustration: "It was only a glimpse"]
"Won't the Sahib have some tea?" suggested the boy timidly, for
like every native-born this man feared his stalwart English master.
Blackmore-Sahib held out his hand without turning back from the
door. "Yes, I will take a cup. Perhaps it will steady me a bit."
"Poor little Nona!" he sighed as he took the cup.
He gulped down the tea hurriedly and reached for a cigarette. But as
his eyes fell on the clumsy ones in the saucer, they filled with
tears and he walked quickly out upon the veranda without taking one.
Up and down he paced unheeding the streaks of sunshine which found
their way in through the vines and fell upon his unprotected head.
"Poor Nona! Poor little girl!" he groaned. How skillfully she had
always rolled his cigarettes, just to his taste! how daintily she
had served his cup of tea! and how quietly she had sat every
afternoon beside him, never disturbing his nap or reading! "Poor
little Nona!" he sighed, for she might never sit beside him again.
He could hear her groans now from the bedroom at the other side of
the great living-room. Pitiable, heart-breaking little groans they
were! He could not trust himself even to go to the door and look in
upon her.
And yet he did not really love her. Nona had made Blackmore-Sahib's
life very comfortable for the last ten years and he could not bear
to think that she was suffering and probably would die. He did not
want to lose his little Indian wife and her affectionate care for
him, though of course she was his "wife" only according to the
customs of many white men in dark lands. As he paced up and down he
remembered how, when he had been sent by the government to this city
in the heart of India away from every European association, he had
rebelled until, seeing a pair of black eyes peeping from the doorway
of a certain mud house, he had become very much interested in that
section of the city although it belonged to a low caste of Hindus.
He remembered how for several evenings he had taken his evening walk
in that locality and furtively watched that house door in which he
again saw framed for a second a beautiful Indian face and a slender,
lithe Indian figure in a red sari. After a few more visits he had
several conversations with the men of the neighbourhood and had
learned that the man who lived in that house was, as they all were,
of low caste and desperately poor. Finally he had met the man
himself whom he heard loudly lamenting because he could not afford
to marry off his beautiful daughters. "Why, a wedding costs many
rupees nowadays!" he had heard him say.
So the sahib by a little courteous inquiry had learned that the man
had three unmarried daughters. By further courteous and diplomatic
conversation he had conveyed to the father the idea that if he, the
sahib, could have his choice of the three girls he would pay a dowry
for one of them. After several evenings of discussion and bargaining
the old man slowly and cautiously had consented, but the matter of
giving the sahib his choice had been a trifle difficult even among
the low caste. But, finally, having bidden the sahib stand at the
other corner of the street where he could see without being
particularly noticeable, on the evening the bargain was sealed, the
old man had called his daughters one at a time to the door of the
house on some trifling pretext. It had been only a glimpse, but as
the third girl disappeared from the doorway, Blackmore-Sahib had
been satisfied. On the very next evening, having promised to pay a
sufficient number of rupees to marry off both of the other
daughters, the Englishman had had the satisfaction of seeing a
little draped figure enter a covered ekka and be driven away towards
his bungalow.
He could remember, even after ten years, how the ekka had driven up
to his door and how he, having reached the door before her arrival,
would not pay the promised money until the girl's veil had been
lifted and he had seen for himself that no trickery had been played
upon him and that this was the one of his choice. She had been very
young, very timid, and very beautiful. He remembered that, cross,
burly chap though he was, he had delighted to tease her out of her
shyness and teach her the little ways by which she could make him
happy and his bungalow a home. She had been an ignorant native girl,
as the majority of Indian girls are, but she had soon learned to
love him and she had always been beautiful to look upon.
They had not been married. That was not necessary in those days in
the East. He had given her a good home and in doing that he had done
his whole duty. Yet he had never mentioned her in his letters to
England, for "they would not understand." Indeed, he had half
expected until the last two years to go back to England and marry a
fine girl whom he had known in boyhood. But when the time had drawn
near he had decided to stay here as he was;--for what would become
of Nona? He could not keep her, too, for even he did not think that
way of living right. He sometimes longed for the green meadows and
the hawthorne bush and the skylark, nevertheless he remained in
India, for he could not take Nona and he could not leave her.
But now it seemed as if Nona were going to leave him. If she should
die, he would be free to go to England to marry his childhood
friend, for a recent letter from his brother had told him that
Elizabeth was still unmarried and mistress of her own estate. But
now, of a sudden, he did not want to go; he did not want to marry.
Indeed, he did not want anything but to stay here with Nona. He
wanted Nona! She must not die! He needed her.
"Sahib!" A soft voice arrested his step and Nona's ayah besought
him: "Sahib, she is no better. May I get the memsahib? I think she
can help her."
"What memsahib?" he asked, his voice gruff with emotion.
"The missionary memsahib, master. Please let me get her."
"A missionary! Would a missionary come to my house?" he asked in
scorn.
Blackmore-Sahib had seen the missionary lady often, for she was one
of the very few Europeans in the city, but he never had spoken to
her. He knew missionary principles and he felt that he and Nona in
her eyes were worse than the Hindus "in their blindness." He had
always avoided a missionary's path; now he would not ask for help!
Even if he should humble his pride and do so, he felt that no
Christian would come to him, for were not he and Nona without the
law?
"No, she would not come," he said emphatically.
"Yes, master, she will come. I know she will come. See how ill my
mistress is! Hear her moans!" and the faithful ayah wrung her hands
in grief. "Oh, let me go to get her."
"Is she a doctor?" he asked. "Does she give medicine?" he went on,
trying to make the native woman understand.
"No, she is not a doctor, but she gives medicines," the woman
replied enigmatically.
There was no doctor within reach. If this woman could help Nona, had
he any right to let his pride keep him from at least asking for her
help? Blackmore-Sahib reasoned it out slowly. Although he was sure
that she would not come, he must do all that he could to help the
sick woman and so he must ask the missionary to come.
"Go!" he said finally to the ayah and as she sped down the road he
continued his pacing and his thoughts. His thoughts turned
strangely, after the interruption, to his boyhood home and his
boyhood days when even a lie, a wrong word, or an unkind deed had
hurt him almost as much as his mother. But his mother had died when
he was only a lad and after that had come school and then India
and--Nona.
The change from the rigid morality of a well-trained boy living
under the eye of a law-abiding people, to the moral thoughtlessness
and neglect of a man far away from the reign of aught but the law of
the conqueror among an inferior people; the change from the
conventional obedience to the social customs of a Christian land, to
the unconventional disregard of all Christian customs in a heathen
land, had come so gradually that Blackmore-Sahib had never before
realized how different he was in moral integrity from what he had
been in that boyhood home and how different he must be in reality
from what his mother had imagined that he would be in her fond
dreams about the future. Had India by her enervating climate, by the
ease with which she gratifies the sensual side of man's nature, and
by the intellectual loneliness in which she makes her foreign rulers
live--had India by these means warped his moral sense? Or had his
good life in Christian England been a foolish fanaticism and was his
life here the true living of a free soul?
Blackmore-Sahib was startled at the presence of such questionings in
a mind which heretofore had accepted his conduct and life
unquestioned. But at that moment there stole upon him the memory of
a sweet white face, drawn with pain and the sound of a low but
earnest voice saying, "My boy, I am going away--to leave you alone.
Be strong and brave and good." These memories as they mingled in
his mind and ears with the picture of a beautiful, dark face full of
suffering into which he had looked that very morning and the sound
of sharp moans still coming through the half-closed bungalow door,
worked strange havoc within him.
Although his thoughts had carried him far, only a few moments had
actually passed when, hearing quick steps beyond the compound wall,
he came to a halt and saw an English woman hurry in at the gate,
followed by the panting ayah.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Blackmore," spoke a pleasant English voice. "I
am not a physician, but I'll do the best I can."
Blackmore-Sahib followed clumsily, as a man does in a house of
illness, after the energetic little figure that went straight to
Nona's room. There the missionary spent much time examining her
patient and it was with anxious eyes that she finally looked at the
man as he sat near the door.
"It is a serious case. I have seen just one like it before," she
said. "But since it is impossible to get a real physician I will do
the best I can. Will you kindly send me a couple more servants and
order several tubs of hot water got ready? Then, please, go away for
a gallop and do not come back for several hours. I don't believe you
know much about sickness and a good ride will brace you up, for you
will have to watch with her to-night, I think." The last was said
with a smile as she started quickly and quietly about her
preparations.
At the end of two hours he met her at the bedroom door.
"She is more comfortable, but it will be a hard fight. I shall stay
here to-night. I don't dare trust the case to any one else yet."
In the morning, when at five o'clock he was wakened from a fitful
sleep by a rap at his door, the same voice said, "She is resting
now. Will you come and watch her while I go home for a short time? I
cannot leave her alone with the servants, for they are either too
tired or too stupid to obey instructions this morning."
About seven she returned and all day long, sometimes by turns,
sometimes together, they watched and waited, doing all they could to
help Nature bring back peace to the poor suffering body.
About the middle of the morning he asked her how she had gained her
medical skill. Then she told him of her life in India and how she
had found that by helping the sick she could most easily reach the
hearts of the people. She told of spending one furlough in a
hospital at home for training. Seeing that the conversation did not
annoy the patient and that it seemed to interest the man, she went
on telling about her work and the joys and sorrows that she had
experienced as a missionary. Not one word of preaching! She simply
told of her life as if talking to an old friend. There was not a
sign that she had recognized anything unusual in this household or
seen anything to condemn. He began to wonder if she knew and yet he
felt that she did know. She talked about England and the home she
had hoped to go to the next year; but no one had been found to take
her place and she could not go until there was some one to work for
her people. He was surprised at the light in her eyes when she said:
"I'll not leave them without some one to care for them even if I
have to put off my home-going all my life."
She talked of Christ so freely and of her own religious beliefs so
naturally that he felt that her speech grew out of her life and he
did not resent the personal religious element in her conversation
which he had always avoided and resented in others.
But while she was talking in low tones or listening to him as he, in
turn, told of his home in England, she kept a keen eye on her
patient. About eight o'clock at night a change came. The moaning
stopped; the restless brown hands grew still; the breath came
regularly; and Nona slept a quiet, restful sleep. The memsahib, on
her knees beside the bed, looked up at the big, burly, white man
standing on the other side of the narrow couch. "She will get well,"
she said simply. "And now--now"--she stammered with difficulty, "you
will marry her, won't you?"
As the astonished man gazed into her wistful, earnest face a slow
resolve grew in his own. The coming of this strong, wholesome woman
into his life, the revival of the memories of his boyhood, the face
of his mother, never entirely forgotten, and now clear and vivid
before his very eyes, and, more even than all these, the dawning
consciousness of the Presence in which his life had been lived and
was now being judged cleared away all his ethical confusion,
revealed to him the evil of his past life and begat in him a great
desire for cleansing and a high purpose to make amends for the past.
And so when the missionary memsahib said to him, "You will marry
her, won't you?" his astonishment slowly gave way to a sense of high
moral purpose. After a silence which revealed the struggle within,
he replied in a firm voice, "I will! and may God bless you."
With these words the man dropped upon his knees on the other side of
the bed and his head rested for a moment on the pillow very close to
the beautiful brown face there. Then, without asking permission,
the missionary prayed a simple prayer of thanksgiving for the life
of the woman and a request for a blessing upon her English brother
and herself that they might shape their lives after the character of
Christ and live according to Christian laws.
Then the missionary slipped quietly out of the room, for the danger
was over and the servants could take as good care of their mistress
as could she. But she promised the anxious ayah as she went away
that she would come in from time to time for a few days to see that
all went well.
* * * * *
Two weeks from that day an Englishman stood with a Hindu woman by
his side in a missionary's parlour and there a quiet wedding
ceremony was performed. To the bride it meant nothing, but to the
bridegroom it meant an entire change in his life and heart.
* * * * *
Several years later an English gentleman bore unflinchingly the
embarrassment--and worse--of introducing an Indian wife to his
English family at home. Tenderly he sheltered her from all
annoyances and apparently with pride he took her from place to place
in the homeland. Only one person, a missionary from India, home on a
long-delayed furlough, guessed that the journey was one prolonged
torture to the man who, from a high sense of duty to a woman who
could not even comprehend it, was making her all amends in his power
for a wrong which, also, she did not comprehend.
"I don't understand why he married a native," one of the
Englishman's relatives remarked to a friend. "Otherwise he is a
perfect Christian gentleman and an honour to the family."
The missionary, who chanced to overhear the remark, in her mind
erased the "otherwise."
V