At sunrise Alderbury started off in the motor to drive back to that
particular mission centre of which he was the superintendent. It was
situated in British India, about forty miles from the town of Chirapore.
On his way he stopped at the house of Pantulu. He walked quickly round
to the side where the room assigned to Ananda was situated. He found
him sitting on his deck chair in the open doorway. He was trying to
concentrate his attention on a book, but his eyes often wandered to the
hills. He heard the tread of footsteps and looked up expectantly. As
soon as he caught sight of Alderbury he rose, pleasure plainly written
on his face.
"I did not think that you would have time to call and see me again," he
said, as he shook hands warmly.
"Dr. Wenaston's offer of the car has made it possible. I come with
good news. He has consented to my suggestion that you should take up a
post as junior master in the school. The salary you will draw will
enable you to support yourself and make you independent of your father."
Ananda's eyes grew bright at the prospect and he questioned his visitor
eagerly as to his duties. They were explained, together with the
subjects that were forbidden.
"I shall like it beyond all things," said Ananda. "For the present I
will go on living here. I am getting used to the room. It is not as
bad as it looks."
"Have your people sent you any food this morning; any coffee and rice
cakes?"
"No; they have never yet sent me anything in the early morning. The
pariah has returned, I am glad to say, with permission to sweep and
perform his usual duties."
Alderbury began to dive into the deep pockets of his travelling
overcoat. He produced bread, butter, a bottle of strong coffee, cake,
sugar, salt and various other eatables.
"You don't mind accepting these things from Miss Wenaston. Her
housekeeper gave them to me with her own hands. When you go to the
college to-morrow morning, call at the house and say you are grateful."
"Of course I will. I'll see the housekeeper as well as Miss Wenaston."
"And let me give you another piece of advice, Ananda. You must fill up
the whole day with regular employment, whether you are at the college
or at home. You must not allow yourself to drift into the habit of
idleness. It is bad for any man, European or Indian. You must read
and make notes of what you read. You must write to me and tell me what
you are teaching your class. I will send you some books addressed to
the care of Miss Wenaston as soon as I get back; and if you want
lighter literature you can borrow of her."
They talked of various matters for some time, and then Alderbury looked
at his watch.
"Half-past eight! how the time flies! Is that your man outside? Hi!
come here! I want you!" he called in the man's language.
The sweeper ran forward, and Alderbury gave him directions.
"Go to the car and bring me a small basket you will find on the seat."
The pariah returned and was directed to lift the lid, which he did. As
he held it open Alderbury took out a packet of sandwiches.
"I may as well save time by eating my breakfast whilst I talk."
The food disappeared without any hindrance to the conversation, and the
fact that it had been received from the pariah did not affect the
missionary's appetite.
"Put down the basket and give me that bottle and cup," said Alderbury
to the man. "Hold the cup while I pour."
The thermos flask was full of steaming coffee, and Alderbury took the
brimming cup from the hand of the despised pariah, giving him back the
flask to replace in the tiffin basket.
"This is Mrs. Hulver's own make; I never tasted better coffee. You
have got the same brew in that bottle, but without milk. It should
last you three or four days. Boil your milk and add it to the cold
coffee. Don't heat the coffee or you will spoil the flavour. I was to
be sure and tell you this from Mrs. Hulver. Good-bye and good luck go
with your new venture. Come along my man; bring that basket and put it
in the motor."
The lesson was not without its effect although nothing was actually
said. Somehow when the Englishman accepted food from the hand of the
pariah the action had a different complexion, and it set Ananda
thinking. Alderbury hoped it would bear good fruit, and help to make
matters easier if the time should come when no food was obtainable
except through the pariah. He was anxious to be off, and he bade
Ananda good-bye, parting with him at the entrance of the little yard
where the gourd spread its vivid green foliage.
As he approached the gateway of the compound leading into the road a
messenger met him with a request that he would come into the verandah
in front of the house. Pantulu Iyer desired a word with him. Quite
ready for an interview whatever might be its nature, hostile or
friendly, he mounted the stone steps.
A few minutes elapsed before Pantulu, accompanied by his wife,
appeared. They approached silently, their hands placed together palm
to palm, and stood before him with bowed heads.
"Sir!" began Pantulu, then he paused, unable to command his voice.
"Speak, Pantulu Iyer; what do you wish to say? I am ready to listen."
Alderbury's gentle manner broke down the nervous constraint and opened
the flood-gates of speech. In a voice that was so charged with emotion
as to be near breaking point, the old man prayed for the missionary's
assistance in the restoration of his son, his only child. There were
numbers of others, he pleaded, who were ready and willing to join the
Christian religion. Their apostacy would not be felt by their
families. With him it was different. In taking away his son the
missionary deprived him and his father and grandfather of happiness in
a future life. Who was to perform the shraddah ceremonies when he,
Pantulu, was dead, if his son Ananda refused to perform them? The
thought of his fate and the fate of his ancestors was intolerable,
unbearable, appalling!
As he poured forth his entreaty Gunga's tears flowed down her haggard
cheeks and fell upon the folds of her tawny silk saree. Her grey hair
was dishevelled, and its silvery strands were sprinkled with the dust
she had thrown upon her head according to custom in overwhelming grief
or misfortune.
Keenly sympathetic to human trouble at all times, Alderbury could not
listen unmoved. The appearance of both father and mother told its own
tale, and he fully realised the havoc that had been wrought in one of
the happiest homes of India. It was ever the same, even from the very
beginning of the story of Christianity, he thought with a sigh. All
pioneer work must run on similar lines; and although he knew that it
was inevitable, his heart ached at the sight of their distress.
"If you feel thus about the future why not take the same path your son
has taken? He is right. Go with him and you will find such joy and
peace in your old age as you have never experienced before."
"Can the bullock learn a new method of drawing the cart after spending
all its life under the yoke? We cannot change at our age. We must
follow in the footsteps of our fathers. Oh! sir! if you would only say
the word, and bid my son remember his poor old father, all might yet be
made right. Let him conform outwardly, whatever he may believe
inwardly, for our sake."
Yielding to a sudden impulse, Pantulu and his wife fell at Alderbury's
feet, touching their foreheads to the ground. By this time the tears
were falling from the old man's eyes.
"Our son! our dearly loved son! Give us back our child, our little
one! the only child that was ever sent by the gods to bless us!"
Not a word of reproach was mingled with the prayer which made it all
the harder for the missionary to bear.
"He cannot return to you. You must go to him," repeated Alderbury.
"Sir! if you will bring him back to us--and he will come! I know he
will! if you so much as hold up your finger--I will give you a lac of
rupees to build a temple for your God. Your God is merciful and kind.
He will take the church in exchange for the only son of two
heart-broken parents. He will be satisfied if you build it large and
put much gold and jewels in the sacred place. You shall have money and
jewels and gold and silk and rich carpets and hangings--all these and
more than you ask you shall have, if you will only give him back to us."
"Give him back to me, his mother! Let me have my little one again! my
little one whose tiny hands upon my neck awoke the mother-love within
me," prayed the proud Gunga at his feet in abject humility.
It was getting beyond Alderbury's endurance. His human pity brought
the tears to his eyes. He bent over the prostrate figures.
"I cannot grant your request even if I would. There can be no return
for your son. You must go to him; he cannot come back to you. May my
God, the God of love and mercy, help you!"
He turned and left the verandah. In another ten seconds the car was
speeding down the road hidden in a column of golden dust in the bright
morning sunshine.
* * * * *
The following morning, punctual to the minute, Ananda, accompanied by
the Principal, entered the class room where he was to instruct
twenty-seven boys whose ages ranged between twelve and fourteen. He
had already received his instructions, and was relieved to find that
nothing was required of him in the teaching line otherwise than what he
was easily able to perform.
The class had assembled and most of the boys were studying the lesson
that was to be repeated. There was a buzz of voices as each individual
conned aloud the portion he had prepared. A few talked together in low
tones with a solemnity that would be strange in English schoolboys.
Whether studying or chatting they all behaved quietly, with a total
absence of trickery or exuberance of spirits. This self-contained
orderliness, peculiar to native children in India, renders it possible
for a teacher to manage a class of fifty pupils. Not only are the boys
attentive, but many of them show an eagerness to learn which is
surprising to the English master.
There was a sudden breathless hush as Wenaston entered; and
twenty-seven pairs of eyes were fixed in rounded wonder upon the new
teacher. He was recognised by most of the boys. Many of them belonged
to families known to his own people.
He took his seat at the desk and began the lesson. Wenaston, after
listening a few minutes, nodded his head in approval and left the room.
His own class of young men preparing for one of the higher examinations
was waiting for him.
At twelve o'clock the classes broke up and the boys went home to the
midday meal. It was customary to reassemble at half-past one for games
in the playing-field and begin work again an hour later.
After lunch Wenaston put on his sun-topee and strolled into the
cricket-field. A few boys stood about in couples idly talking, but no
game was in progress. He called to one of the big boys and asked why
there was no practice at the nets. The reply was to the effect that
most of the boys were leaving at once for home where their presence was
required by their families, without waiting for afternoon school.
Wenaston was accustomed to the absence of his pupils on the occasion of
domestic ceremonial; but it was usual to let him know beforehand. The
reason was sometimes stated but not always. He passed on to his
private sitting-room in the college where he had papers to look over.
At three he went to the hall. His class was small; so also were the
classes of the other masters. At half-past five the bell rang and the
boys dispersed. He met Ananda outside the building.
"Come in and see Miss Wenaston," he said. "How did you get on this
afternoon?"
"Very well, indeed, sir, as far as my subject was concerned. It is a
great pleasure to go over the old ground again and renew my
acquaintance with it. I had very few boys this afternoon; only ten out
of the twenty-seven turned up."
"There must be some public festival going on; for the other classes
were also small. Do you know what it is?"
"Not a regular feast day, I am sure. If there is anything of the kind
it will be of a private nature: a wedding or a funeral. I am in
Coventry as you know, sir; and so I hear no news whatever."
"I hope you will not have to remain long in that uncomfortable
position. You must establish yourself in a house of your own."
"I intend to do so as soon as I can consult with my wife. Up to the
present I have not been allowed to see either her or the child."
"You will not leave without them?"
"No; they must come with me. As long as I remain in the house I have a
better chance of obtaining an interview."
They found Eola in the garden looking at the roses. Her favourites
were all back in their places, a dozen beautiful _La France_ plants.
Whether they were the originals she could not say. The pruning was
always a severe process that deprived the bushes of individual features
and made them all of one pattern. Mrs. Hulver was not far off; and the
gardener, beaming with satisfaction at the thought that his full wages
were assured, was half concealed behind a bank of ferns where he was
pretending to be very busy picking off dead leaves. Eola greeted
Ananda with a friendly welcome that set him at ease; talked of her
roses and other matters of no importance.
"I want to thank you, Miss Wenaston, for all that you sent yesterday by
Mr. Alderbury," he said.
"You must thank my housekeeper. It was her thought. Mrs. Hulver! Mr.
Ananda is very grateful to you for thinking of him in his need."
Mrs. Hulver, thus encouraged, approached and cast her shrewd grey eyes
over the visitor. His neat European dress and manner met with her
approval.
"I am glad the food was acceptable. I saw to the cooking of it myself.
Mr. Alderbury told me that you had been obliged to live on
biscuits--poor stuff for young stomachs. What a man wants is a hot
meal once a day. There should be meat as well as bread or rice. I
wasn't able to send you any meat, Mr. Ananda."
"I don't eat meat, so it was all right."
"Do you like fish?"
"Yes; and vegetables curried; but I have not tasted a curry since I
landed."
"Then you've gone to bed hungry more often than not in spite of your
biscuits. As William--that was my second husband--used to say: 'Sharp
stomachs make short tempers.' The best temper will sour under
starvation."
A little later Ananda said good-bye and walked back to his father's
house. On the way he met Bopaul. Mayita was his companion.
Regardless of ill omens the brother had renewed his friendship with his
sister; he took her for daily walks, avoiding the places where men and
women congregated.
"Not afraid of being contaminated by the company of an outcaste?" said
Ananda with some bitterness, as Bopaul turned to stroll part of the way
with his friend.
"No; nor of being overshadowed by the widow," replied Bopaul with a
light laugh. "How are things going with you?"
Ananda related the experience of the last week and his employment at
the college, together with his plans for the future.
"You will certainly have to clear out of your father's house as soon as
you can if you want any comfort."
"I shall not go without my wife and child," said Ananda, with the old
obstinacy.
"How is the child?" inquired Bopaul.
"The child! Is it ill that you ask?" said Ananda, startled.
"It had a fall the day you returned. No effect was seen at first but a
few days ago it complained of pain; and my mother, who went to see it,
thought that it was ill, though not very bad. Haven't they told you?"
"I hear nothing and I see nobody but the sweeper. Bring me news if
there is anything important to tell," said Ananda, trying in vain to
hide the sudden anxiety that sprang up as he heard that the child was
not well.
"I will," answered Bopaul, with a note of sympathy in his voice.
He stopped to turn back towards his own house, and Ananda passed on
with downcast troubled eyes that failed to see how his friend stood
watching him.
"Poor fellow!" thought Bopaul. "They are making it very hard for him;
but it is only what he might have expected. There is more grit and
endurance in him than I expected. I thought he would have given in by
this time. Pantulu Iyer's brother has met his match, and he won't step
into Ananda's shoes quite as easily as he thought."
The following morning Ananda arrived at the college, and was in his
place punctually to the strike of the clock. The bell rang but without
response. A strange silence prevailed in the college close, in the
hall and in the class rooms. Not a boy was visible. The masters were
in their places and the Principal in cap and gown on the platform ready
to begin his lecture. He waited a short time and then went to the
Vice-principal's room, a native who had taken a good degree at
Cambridge.
"Where are all the boys?" asked Wenaston, in some bewilderment. "Is it
a public festival?"
The Vice-principal paused before replying.
"I am afraid, sir, that they are purposely absenting themselves," he
said, reluctantly. He had a great regard for his chief, and it went
against the grain to say anything that might give him pain.
"Can you tell me the reason?"
"Because you have appointed the son of Pantulu Iyer as a master in the
school."
"Does the feeling run so strongly against him that they can carry it to
this pitch?" replied Wenaston in some indignation. "It is no concern
of theirs what religion he professes. His opinions are a personal
matter as long as he keeps them to himself. Did he mention the subject
to his class yesterday?"
"No, sir," the Vice-principal answered promptly.
"Then it is outrageous that he should be ostracised in this manner."
Wenaston had been haunted by the dread of something of the kind ever
since he had acceded to Alderbury's request; but he had not anticipated
that it would come so soon, nor in such a practical form as a strike.
The utmost he had expected was an inquiry on the part of the Government
authorities, followed by a recommendation that the appointment should
be cancelled.
"The sympathy in the town is all on the side of Ananda's parents. You
hardly realise, sir, what an appalling disaster it is for a high caste
Hindu to lose a son in this way," remarked Wenaston's colleague.
"You talk of him as if he were dead!"
"It would have been less of a disaster if he had died in the Hindu
faith before he became a Christian."
There was a pause. The Principal was troubled and perplexed. If the
animosity towards Ananda was roused to such an extent as to produce
these results something must be done and done promptly.
"If the feeling runs so high, I am afraid I shall be compelled to
dispense with his services. I shall be sorry to part with him for his
own sake; I could see that he would have suited admirably as a master;
his teaching is clear and lucid. But I can't have the school emptied
in this way. You must help me to get out notices at once which will
make it plain to the parents of the boys that the matter will be set
right and another man will take the class."
Dr. Wenaston had the unpleasant task before him of breaking the news to
Ananda and of warning him that he must not be seen on the school
premises again. There was no objection to an occasional visit to the
house. Miss Wenaston would be pleased to see him at any time; but he
must be careful to keep away from the class rooms and playing-fields.
Ananda received the news in silence. The sight of the empty rooms was
enlightening and needed no comment. He was not surprised when Dr.
Wenaston intimated in polite and gentle speech that he could no longer
permit him to appear in the college.
"I had better leave at once, sir; as soon as the boys know that I am
not here they will return," was Ananda's reply.
"You understand the situation?"
"Quite; the absence of the boys is convincing."
His dejection touched the Englishman. "I am sorry, very sorry for you.
We must see what can be done in some other way. I will write to Mr.
Alderbury at once."
Ananda turned his back on the silent rooms and walked towards the road.
The residence of the Principal stood on his left fronting the other
way. Mrs. Hulver was in the back verandah, her eye scanning the
landscape. She called sharply to the butler.
"Ramachetty, go and tell that native gentleman over there that I want
to speak to him."
Ananda, surprised at the summons, responded to her call.
"Come in, Mr. Ananda; I want a few words with you," was her greeting.
Mrs. Hulver bustled into her sitting-room, followed by her visitor.
"Sit down," she said, in her expansive maternal manner. "I have
something to tell you. Do you know that those imps of boys who ought
to be in class are waiting outside about a hundred yards up the road?"
"Are they, Mrs. Hulver? What do they want?"
Although he asked the question he was able to give a shrewd guess as to
the reason of their presence.
"They want you; and they mean mischief. You must just sit here for a
while, and when the coast is clear you can get away safely. I was in
the town this morning. I tell you it is in a ferment over your coming
to the college, and it isn't safe for you to be seen about in broad
daylight. Those young limbs of mischief mean to do you some hurt."
This was the work of his uncle, he was convinced; but he did not
express his thoughts aloud. He thanked Mrs. Hulver for her kindly
offices and sat down to wait. She gave him a book to read, and did her
best to make him feel at ease.
"You stay and dine with me. A good hot square meal will do you no
harm. It will be cooked by myself in the verandah and it will be ready
soon after twelve--hot soup, fried fish, vegetable curry and stewed
guavas; and we will eat it here in this room. As William--that was my
first husband--used to say: 'Better be in at the end of a feast than
the beginning of a fight'--and a losing fight it will be for you, Mr.
Ananda, if you get among those boys in their present temper."