Pantulu's brother returned from his domiciliary visit to the College
filled with a deep and implacable wrath. He buried it under a
cheerfulness he was far from feeling. Since the discovery in the early
hours of the morning that Ananda had disappeared, the house had been in
a ferment of unrest. Again and again had the premises been searched.
Visits were paid by various members of the family to the town and to
the houses of acquaintances. More than once had a call been made at
Bopaul's and guarded questions put. The market people who had arrived
that morning from the country were interrogated; clerks and porters at
the railway station examined but with no better result. Help of some
sort he must have had if he covered any length of distance. A few
hundred yards might have been possible but progress would of necessity
have been slow and painful.
Sooba was greeted on his return with a volley of questions from the men
of the family. To all of them he was obliged to confess that he had
failed signally.
"He is not there; of that I am positive," he repeated over and over
again.
"If he is not there, where can he be?" asked one in puzzled curiosity.
"He has joined the English missionary," said another.
"How could that be when he was unable to walk or even to stand?"
inquired a third.
"Some one has befriended him and he has escaped in a passing country
cart."
"Is it possible that he could have crawled to the jungle unassisted?"
asked another.
"A search in the forest with village dogs will soon settle that point."
"Why not send some one to the mission house. It will be easy to
discover if he has arrived. Once on British territory he need not hide
any longer as we cannot touch him there. He will be lost to us for
ever, and we must give up all hope of catching him. It will save
trouble to know for certain if he is out of our reach."
"Good!" responded Sooba, who felt that he must take refuge in action of
some kind if only to find relief for his injured feelings. "I will
send a runner at once to bring news."
"There is a post office peon who has a bicycle," said one of the
listeners. "For a consideration----"
"Let him be called at once," said Sooba. "He shall ask leave of
absence on account of his wife's illness----"
"He is not married."
"His brother's, his mother's, any one will do!" replied Sooba,
impatiently. "I will give him twenty-five rupees if he can bring us
the news by this time to-morrow."
The post peon was sent for, and in less than an hour he departed on his
errand.
The temporary master of the house was in an unhappy frame of mind. Yet
he had begun well. He rose in the morning feeling particularly
virtuous. Success, he felt certain, must attend his efforts at
recalling his nephew to his senses. All along he had urged a more
severe treatment. The parents had been too lenient in drawing the line
at the infliction of bodily pain. Even now if it had not been for the
insult to the swami the mother would not have consented. Since it was
the express order of the holy man she could not do otherwise than allow
things to take their course; but it had been considered advisable to
keep Pantulu himself in ignorance.
When Sooba had performed his domestic pujah, as became the head of the
family, he went to Ananda's room. The disappearance of the late
occupant was a shock from which he had not recovered; and his visit to
the Principal's house and the College only served to increase the
disturbance of his mind. It was not so much the failure of his search
as the memory of the indignities to which he had been subjected by the
woman who ruled the household. Had the incidents that occurred in the
housekeeper's room been witnessed by any member of his family or by a
fellow caste man, they would have been magnified into serious breaches
necessitating ceremonial purification. This would have entailed
expenses which, not being a rich man himself, he would fain avoid. He
did his best to school himself into the belief that he was mistaken;
that in his confusion at finding himself in the presence of an angry
woman and a sick soldier of admittedly bad temper, he imagined that he
saw signs of the untouchable.
After some hours of brooding he succeeded in persuading himself that he
had not been within the prescribed distance of the loathsome objects.
A little more concentration and he arrived at the comfortable
conviction that he was altogether deceived by a too vivid imagination
which had played him false. His caste had never been in jeopardy for a
single moment.
The disappearance of Ananda was not so easily dealt with. The fact
could not be ignored. The more he thought over it, the more he came to
look upon the escape as an insult directed against himself. He was the
master of the house in his brother's absence. It was a piece of gross
impertinence for any member of the family to leave without permission.
It was setting at naught his authority and treating him with contempt.
The more he contemplated the incidents of the last twenty-four hours,
the greater grew the conviction that there must be a reckoning with
some one. Properly speaking it should be Ananda himself, for he was
the origin of all that had occurred, including the disrespect
experienced in Dr. Wenaston's house; but his nephew's absence precluded
any possibility of settling with him in person.
Sooba thereupon turned his attention to Mrs. Hulver. Was there any
means of making her feel the weight of his displeasure? He took the
trouble to inform himself of her habits and mode of life. She seldom
left the house except to go to market in the morning. As the town
possessed no English church, Dr. Wenaston held a service for himself
and a few English people in Chirapore, in a room fitted up as a chapel
in the Residency. Thither Mrs. Hulver went on Sundays in the motor.
To attack her and offer violence in the market would simply mean police
and imprisonment. She was never without the faithful Ramachetty, the
cook, and the kitchen coolie who carried the purchases. In the motor,
seated with Miss Wenaston, she was safe from every kind of assault.
Brooding over the mystery of how Ananda escaped, who befriended him,
and how he, Sooba, was to taste revenge, the evening meal was eaten and
he retired to his pillow.
The next morning the search was renewed, the seekers going further
afield into the glades and woods of the mountain. Woodcutters,
herdsmen and cultivators were questioned; but not a sign had been found
of the missing man. Later in the day the cyclist returned with the
news that the fugitive was not at the mission station. Moreover, Mr.
Alderbury was away on tour out of reach of the railway. It was
impossible that Ananda could have joined him on the road. Even the
peons carrying letters and supplies were no longer following him up.
He was trusting to the villages through which he was itinerating to
sell him milk, butter, eggs and fowls; and it was not known exactly
where he was.
If Ananda was not in hiding at the College, nor at the mission house,
nor with the missionary himself where could he be?
This was the question faced by the whole family as they drank their
morning coffee and ate the freshly-made, unleavened rice cakes.
An elderly woman, experienced in the inner workings of the caste
families of Chirapore, breathed the word "well." It was an
inspiration, and the suggestion was caught up at once. Undoubtedly it
was the well. The premises contained no less than three wells; one for
the use of the house, deep and containing a never-failing supply of
pure water; a second near the cattle shed, and a third--more of the
nature of a pond--used only for the garden.
An examination of the wells followed immediately. Two hours later the
household was electrified by the news that Ananda's tweed cap had been
found in the well near the cattleshed. The well was deep; means for
probing its depths were not available. One of the herdsmen was lowered
in the leather bucket, and he discovered the cap hanging from a
protruding root in the masonry of the wall. He was about to enter the
water to dive for the body when he caught sight of a snake. In terror
he signalled to those above to draw him up at once; and after hearing
his tale no one could be persuaded to continue the exploration.
Sooba regarded the cap with a grim satisfaction which he took care to
conceal under an expression of consternation and regret. If Ananda
chose to drown himself who could help it? It was a fitting end to a
perverse and wicked line of conduct. He had caused the death of his
child; the exile of his parents with the probable death of his father;
and now he would be the cause of further disgrace to the family in the
introduction of a widow.
He presented himself at the kitchen door where his wife, full of
importance, was hustling the women through their appointed tasks. She
answered his summons at once, and inquired deferentially what it was
that troubled the master of the house. The busy hands ceased to pound
and grind and stir as each person listened open-eyed to the story of
the search and the discovery of the cap in the well by the cattle-shed.
"He is undoubtedly drowned and in three or four days we shall find his
body. This is a terrible calamity for his widow."
His glance passed beyond his wife and rested on the figure of Dorama,
who stood transfixed with horror at the story just told. As she met
his eye, in which, in spite of all his self-restraint, a malicious
triumph was revealed, she dropped to the ground covering her face with
her hands and moaned in the bitterness of her heart.
"It will be advisable for us to carry out the ceremonies as soon as
possible. They should be completed before my brother returns so that
he may be saved the additional grief of seeing what can only bring
before him more vividly all that has gone before."
No need for Dorama to ask what those ceremonies were. They did not
concern the body of the dead man but her own person. She shuddered as
she crouched before the curry stone on which she was working in the
preparation of green chutney, the task assigned to her regularly by her
aunt.
"When shall we perform them?" asked Sooba's wife, her eyes resting upon
the beautiful gold boss that adorned Dorama's glossy hair. "It is
usual to wait ten days from the date of the death."
"This is not a common case. To us and to his parents Ananda has been
as good as dead ever since he landed. There can be no funeral rites
even when his body is found. He has died an outcaste, defiled and
unpurified, and as such he must be buried--not burned--at night with
shame and dishonour and with no ceremonies. My brother must not return
till we have disposed of the dead man and completed the ceremonies of
widowhood. They shall take place three days hence which will give us
time to call together the friends of the family. You will also have
time to prepare for their entertainment. My brother will wish it done
well and no expense spared."
"And if the body is not found by that time, what then?" asked his wife.
"The rites must be performed all the same. I, the master of the house
in my brother's absence, give the order."
He raised his voice although it was not necessary. It penetrated to
the very end of the kitchen and not a word was lost to the many pairs
of listening ears. If ears were directed towards the acting master of
the house, eyes found another centre of attraction in the crushed
figure by the curry-stone. Pity struggled in their fatalistic minds,
but in none was it strong enough to cause a stretching out of the hand
in sympathy, nor to sound the note of consolation or comfort. There
was silence as Sooba walked away. Although his head was bent and his
features wore a sufficiently solemn expression, he was inwardly
triumphant and full of satisfaction. At last he had found an object on
whom he might be revenged; on whose devoted head he might with safety
retaliate. As he had suffered indignity and disrespect, so now she
should have the same measured out tenfold. In the absence of the man
himself it was meet that his wife should feel the weight of his
displeasure. The probability of Ananda being still alive was set
aside. As he desired so he chose to believe, and on that belief he
intended to take action with as little delay as was possible.
That afternoon Bopaul with Mayita in attendance, strolled into the
compound with the intention of looking up Ananda. Leaving the girl
under the trees near the wall, where she was partially hidden from
view--lest the sight of her should prove an offence to the family--he
turned towards Ananda's room. The green gourd outside in the little
yard had produced some shapeless succulent fruit. It continued to send
up an abundance of loose yellow cups of flowers to the sun, and though
there had been very little rain of late the foliage maintained its
emerald tint.
The door of the room was ajar. Bopaul called Ananda by name as was his
wont; but receiving no reply he entered. The place was deserted.
Except for the two portmanteaux it was devoid of all sign of the owner.
Hitherto on the occasion of his visits he had seen books and writing
material lying about; a coat thrown over a chair; cap and walking-stick
on the table. Nothing of the kind was visible, and he wondered what
had happened. Had his friend decided to go, and managed to slip away
after all? Yet he could not have gone far nor for long; the presence
of his luggage testified to the fact that he intended to return.
In the midst of his speculations a member of the family arrived
sauntering in with unconcern.
"You are looking for Ananda. We saw you come in and guessed that you
would be here."
"Where is he?" asked Bopaul, in surprise.
"He is dead; drowned in the well near the stable."
Bopaul expressed his consternation and regret, and asked how the
accident had occurred. The man laughed unsympathetically, in a manner
that grated on the feelings of the visitor.
"The wonder is that it has not happened before. It was not an
accident. He threw himself into the well at night when we were all
asleep. It was the best way out of the difficulty that he himself had
created by turning Christian. It will prevent further trouble and
vexation, even though it saddles the family with a widow."
"Have the funeral rites been performed?"
"How can an outcaste receive the funeral rites of an orthodox Hindu?"
the other asked contemptuously.
"He has been burned, then, without them?" said Bopaul, regarding the
man with increasing displeasure. He did not like the tone adopted.
"It is strange we have heard nothing of the affair."
"There has been no burning and no burial for the excellent reason that
we have not yet recovered the body from the well."
"It has been seen, of course?"
"His cap has been found."
"Have you only his cap as evidence?"
"Isn't that sufficient? The master considers it ample, and he and his
wife are already beginning to make preparations for the ceremony of
breaking the bangles and shaving the widow's head."
"Is that so? Surely it is full early for the widow rites when the body
of her husband is still missing?"
"If he were a respectable Hindu, religious and obedient to the law of
caste, it might be a trifle early; but in this case the man has been
dead to the family ever since his return from England. It was a cursed
day on which his father consented to his crossing the black water.
Alive or dead the sooner his position is recognised, and his wife
treated accordingly, the better pleased shall we all be."
"I don't believe Ananda is dead," remarked Bopaul, after a few seconds'
consideration. "He is not the man to commit suicide. It is far more
likely that he has gone away in the night and has made his escape from
those who waited for him with no kindly intentions."
"Run away or dead, it is all the same," persisted the other. "And as
for his wife she would have become as truculent as himself. Did you
hear how she tried to escape with him? We discovered her absence on
the night the child died and followed her. They were brought back
together; and as a reward for his pains Ananda was beaten by order of
his uncle."
"Beaten! Surely his father did not give his consent to such an extreme
course?"
"The big master was not asked and he knew nothing about it. He became
sick after the child's funeral, and he has gone to one of his
silk-farms ten miles away. He knows nothing and he cares nothing. His
spirit is broken by the wickedness of his son, who deserves all that we
gave him."
"Possibly Ananda has joined his father," suggested Bopaul, who refused
absolutely to believe in the theory of suicide.
"Not he! The stick fell too long and too heavily--for we all took
turns--to leave him with strength or spirit to run away again. After
we had finished with him he could not stand."
Bopaul turned away; he was disgusted with the openly expressed
brutality of the speaker; and he was profoundly sorry for his friend.
All along he had feared that something of this kind would occur. The
ways of caste families were familiar to him. His own people would have
pursued the same course had he become an apostate from Hinduism. He
stopped to ask another question.
"You are sure that he was unable to leave the compound after----" he
paused, unable to frame the expression. The other understood.
"Quite certain; the man was too sore to put one foot before the other,"
he replied with a hard laugh.
"How do you suppose he got to the well?"
"On his hands and knees, of course."
"And the widow ceremonies will take place three days hence?"
"Without fail, knowing how set upon the business Sooba is."
Bopaul walked back to his sister deep in thought. The news troubled
him. He was helpless in the matter, and could do nothing. He wished
that he had brought more pressure to bear upon his friend when the
offer came from Alderbury. That was a golden opportunity missed that
was not likely to occur again--always supposing that Ananda was still
alive. That he was dead, and by his own hand, was impossible of belief
the longer he considered it.
Mayita was still playing happily enough. She was in the middle of an
imaginary wedding. A datura blossom was the bride and a wood-apple the
bridegroom; she was playing the part of the go-between, and was
negociating the dower. When she saw her brother she hid the happy
couple in the folds of her rough cloth, whispering to the bridegroom
that his joy should not be long delayed.
"Come, little one," said Bopaul. "We must go home to our mother. You
will soon have a companion to play with."
"I! who will have the courage to play with a widow in the face of the
gods?" she asked sadly.
"One who will be in the same sad case as yourself, child."
"Another widow! I will not play with her! Is it not enough to have me
in the house? We do not want a second widow to double our ill-luck.
Only this morning the eldest son of our cousin met me by the cowhouse,
not knowing that my mother had sent me for some milk. He cursed me;
but all the same two hours later as he was running through the garden a
thorn entered his foot and made him lame. I thought his mother would
have beaten me; she was so angry; she said it was all my fault. I hid
till you called me; I was so frightened, too frightened to eat any
breakfast; so I am very hungry now. No! no! brother! we want no more
widows in our house."
"She will not live with us."
"Who is she?" asked Mayita, her curiosity aroused.
"Ananda's widow."
"Aiyoh! Is it possible that Ananda is dead!"
"Anyway his wife is a widow and the ceremonies take place three days
hence."
"Poor Dorama! Aiyoh! poor Dorama!"