Raicharan went back to his own village. Up to this time he had had no
son, and there was no hope that any child would now be born to him. But
it came about before the end of a year that his wife gave birth to a son
and died.
All overwhelming resentment at first grew up in Raicharan's heart at the
sight of this new baby. At the back of his mind was resentful suspicion
that it had come as a usurper in place of the little Master. He also
thought it would be a grave offence to be happy with a son of his own
after what had happened to his master's little child. Indeed, if it had
not been for a widowed sister, who mothered the new baby, it would not
have lived long.
But a change gradually came over Raicharan's mind. A wonderful thing
happened. This new baby in turn began to crawl about, and cross the
doorway with mischief in its face. It also showed an amusing cleverness
in making its escape to safety. Its voice, its sounds of laughter and
tears, its gestures, were those of the little Master. On some days,
when Raicharan listened to its crying, his heart suddenly began thumping
wildly against his ribs, and it seemed to him that his former little
Master was crying somewhere in the unknown land of death because he had
lost his Chan-na.
Phailna (for that was the name Raicharan's sister gave to the new baby)
soon began to talk. It learnt to say Ba-ba and Ma-ma with a baby accent.
When Raicharan heard those familiar sounds the mystery suddenly became
clear. The little Master could not cast off the spell of his Chan-na,
and therefore he had been reborn in his own house.
The arguments in favour of this were, to Raicharan, altogether beyond
dispute:
(i.) The new baby was born soon after his little master's death.
(ii.) His wife could never have accumulated such merit as to give birth
to a son in middle age.
(iii.) The new baby walked with a toddle and called out Ba-ba and Ma-ma.
There was no sign lacking which marked out the future judge.
Then suddenly Raicharan remembered that terrible accusation of the
mother. "Ah," he said to himself with amazement, "the mother's heart was
right. She knew I had stolen her child." When once he had come to this
conclusion, he was filled with remorse for his past neglect. He now gave
himself over, body and soul, to the new baby, and became its devoted
attendant. He began to bring it up, as if it were the son of a rich man.
He bought a go-cart, a yellow satin waistcoat, and a gold-embroidered
cap. He melted down the ornaments of his dead wife, and made gold
bangles and anklets. He refused to let the little child play with any
one of the neighbourhood, and became himself its sole companion day and
night. As the baby grew up to boyhood, he was so petted and spoilt
and clad in such finery that the village children would call him "Your
Lordship," and jeer at him; and older people regarded Raicharan as
unaccountably crazy about the child.
At last the time came for the boy to go to school. Raicharan sold his
small piece of land, and went to Calcutta. There he got employment with
great difficulty as a servant, and sent Phailna to school. He spared no
pains to give him the best education, the best clothes, the best food.
Meanwhile he lived himself on a mere handful of rice, and would say in
secret: "Ah! my little Master, my dear little Master, you loved me so
much that you came back to my house. You shall never suffer from any
neglect of mine."
Twelve years passed away in this manner. The boy was able to read and
write well. He was bright and healthy and good-looking. He paid a great
deal of attention to his personal appearance, and was specially careful
in parting his hair. He was inclined to extravagance and finery, and
spent money freely. He could never quite look on Raicharan as a father,
because, though fatherly in affection, he had the manner of a servant.
A further fault was this, that Raicharan kept secret from every one that
himself was the father of the child.
The students of the hostel, where Phailna was a boarder, were greatly
amused by Raicharan's country manners, and I have to confess that behind
his father's back Phailna joined in their fun. But, in the bottom of
their hearts, all the students loved the innocent and tender-hearted old
man, and Phailna was very fond of him also. But, as I have said before,
he loved him with a kind of condescension.
Raicharan grew older and older, and his employer was continually finding
fault with him for his incompetent work. He had been starving himself
for the boy's sake. So he had grown physically weak, and no longer up to
his work. He would forget things, and his mind became dull and stupid.
But his employer expected a full servant's work out of him, and would
not brook excuses. The money that Raicharan had brought with him from
the sale of his land was exhausted. The boy was continually grumbling
about his clothes, and asking for more money.
Raicharan made up his mind. He gave up the situation where he was
working as a servant, and left some money with Phailna and said: "I have
some business to do at home in my village, and shall be back soon."
He went off at once to Baraset where Anukul was magistrate. Anukul's
wife was still broken down with grief. She had had no other child.
One day Anukul was resting after a long and weary day in court. His wife
was buying, at an exorbitant price, a herb from a mendicant quack, which
was said to ensure the birth of a child. A voice of greeting was
heard in the courtyard. Anukul went out to see who was there. It was
Raicharan. Anukul's heart was softened when he saw his old servant. He
asked him many questions, and offered to take him back into service.
Raicharan smiled faintly, and said in reply; "I want to make obeisance
to my mistress."
Anukul went with Raicharan into the house, where the mistress did not
receive him as warmly as his old master. Raicharan took no notice of
this, but folded his hands, and said: "It was not the Padma that stole
your baby. It was I."
Anukul exclaimed: "Great God! Eh! What! Where is he?" Raicharan replied:
"He is with me, I will bring him the day after to-morrow."
It was Sunday. There was no magistrate's court sitting. Both husband and
wife were looking expectantly along the road, waiting from early morning
for Raicharan's appearance. At ten o'clock he came, leading Phailna by
the hand.
Anukul's wife, without a question, took the boy into her lap, and was
wild with excitement, sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping, touching
him, kissing his hair and his forehead, and gazing into his face with
hungry, eager eyes. The boy was very good-looking and dressed like a
gentleman's son. The heart of Anukul brimmed over with a sudden rush of
affection.
Nevertheless the magistrate in him asked: "Have you any proofs?"
Raicharan said: "How could there be any proof of such a deed? God alone
knows that I stole your boy, and no one else in the world."
When Anukul saw how eagerly his wife was clinging to the boy, he
realised the futility of asking for proofs. It would be wiser to
believe. And then--where could an old man like Raicharan get such a boy
from? And why should his faithful servant deceive him for nothing?
"But," he added severely, "Raicharan, you must not stay here."
"Where shall I go, Master?" said Raicharan, in a choking voice, folding
his hands; "I am old. Who will take in an old man as a servant?"
The mistress said: "Let him stay. My child will be pleased. I forgive
him."
But Anukul's magisterial conscience would not allow him. "No," he said,
"he cannot be forgiven for what he has done."
Raicharan bowed to the ground, and clasped Anukul's feet. "Master," he
cried, "let me stay. It was not I who did it. It was God."
Anukul's conscience was worse stricken than ever, when Raicharan tried
to put the blame on God's shoulders.
"No," he said, "I could not allow it. I cannot trust you any more. You
have done an act of treachery."