OUT IN CAMP.
MR. HARTLEY and his son proceeded on their way towards Patwal, the slow
pace of the tattu allowing them to converse together, as Harold walked
beside his father, the sais following behind on foot. The conversation
was chiefly on subjects connected with mission work.
After a while Patwal was reached. Between the stems of trees in a thick
mango tope white tents were seen, on which the golden rays of the sun
about to set cast a rich warm glow. At a short distance the camels which
had carried tents and luggage were tethered, some crouching on the
ground, some browsing on the lower branches of trees. Turbaned servants
were moving hither and thither. Extemporized fire-places in the open
air, from whose neighbourhood sundry savoury scents proceeded, showed
that the Sahib’s dinner was in course of preparation. Mr. Hartley
dismounted and gave his card to one of the attendants, to be taken to
the Commissioner Sahib. After a short delay the servant returned with
his master’s saláms, the Oriental formula of admitting a guest. As the
Hartleys approached the large, square, flat-roofed tent of Mr. Thole,
they heard the commissioner’s voice from within give the order to lay
dinner for three. India is the land of hospitality; even had Mr. Thole
never before met either of his visitors, he would have welcomed them to
his well-spread board.
For no one need associate the idea of discomfort, far less that of
hardship, with the life of a commissioner going the round of his
district in the cooler months of the year. A good double tent holds all
that even luxury may require. The great Sahib has his numerous
satellites,—munshi to write, khansamar to cook, and masalchi to wash up
the dishes. He has his bearer to anticipate every want, khitmatgars to
wait at his well-furnished table; sweeper, water-bearer, camel-drivers,
and two servants to attend on each of his horses—one to groom him, the
other to cut grass. Besides this troop of attendants, from each town and
village near the halting-place come obsequious natives—those of the
higher rank on gaily-caparisoned horses, the more lowly peasants on
foot. Some come to offer petitions, some to seek employment, some, as it
appears, only to pay their homage to one of the lords of creation. What
lies under all this outward respect we need not now inquire. The
government of our Empress-Queen’s vast possessions in India may be
described as a kind of oligarchy, the English officials forming an
aristocracy to which all pay at least the semblance of honour. Low are
the saláms, fulsome the compliments paid to one of the higher grade, the
official’s rank rising, it appears, in due proportion to the shortening
of his titles. An assistant deputy commissioner is a chhotá Sahib
(little gentleman); cut off the first word, and he rises, we may say, to
the rank of a baron; cut off the second, and you may regard him as an
earl at the least. Strange must it seem to our Anglo-Indians, on going
home for good, to find themselves lost in a crowd, none to follow them,
flatter and fawn, meat dear and chickens expensive. Some doubtless heave
a sigh at the remembrance of the old days passed in India, when in the
pleasant cold weather they went camping out in the district.
Mr. Thole received the missionaries with courtesy flavoured with
condescension. Even tent-life had not shaken out of this bara Sahib
(great gentleman) all his starch. Unlike some of his equals, he was in
his nature rather pompous, and did not carry his dignity with the easy
grace which distinguishes those who seem born to rule.
“I fear that we have come at an inconvenient time,” began Mr. Hartley;
for already the servants were making preparations for serving in dinner.
“A little matter of business—”
“Oh! we’ll waive the business for the present,” said the commissioner,
with an expressive movement of the hand. “I’ve been at it since
daybreak, settling disputes, listening to the jabber of villagers, each
with a separate jargon; and now the first duty before me is to do
justice to what comes before me—on the table. Take your seat, Mr.
Hartley; you look as if you needed dinner and a good cigar after it even
more than I do. What! dined already, you say? Forget the past; let
bygones be bygones.” And with a little chuckle at his own mild joke, the
commissioner sat down to his steaming plateful of rich mullagatawny. It
was evident that to him dinner was an important business, to which all
else must for the time be postponed.
In vain Mr. Hartley urged that the sun was setting, and that he was
anxious to return to Talwandi before night should be far advanced. The
commissioner must have his dinner before he could listen to anything
which he called “shop.” The repast was a somewhat lengthy one, being
made more so by conversation; for the commissioner enjoyed his own good
stories as well as his soup. He told of hunting adventure, and adventure
with a snake; then, as his servant filled and refilled his master’s
glass, there came anecdotes of his horses, and a dissertation on camels.
“Apropos to camels,” said the commissioner, passing his damask napkin
over his thick grizzled mustache, “I met with a curious instance of
superstition the other day in regard to the slow-paced brute. An urchin
had a fall from one of the baggage-camels—rather a tall one—and
expecting at least a dislocation to be the result, I was surprised to
see the boy sitting composedly on the ground as if nothing had happened.
‘Is the fellow not hurt?’ I inquired of a servant. ‘No, Sahib,’ was the
careless reply; ‘it was only a fall from a camel—that is nothing; it
would have been worse had it been from a donkey.’”
“How did he make out that?” asked Mr. Hartley.
“The man was a devout Mussulman, and he explained the matter in true
Mohammedan fashion: ‘You see, Sahib, that the camel goes slowly on, as
if saying “Bismillah” [in the name of God] at every step; whilst the
donkey shambles on as if repeating, “Naddi tuti, naddi tuti” [Broken
bone], as he jogs on his way.’—Nizam, bring in the lights.—I think that
the Mohammedan is the most religious of men,” laughed Mr. Thole, “since
his piety extends even to his camels.”
“The ‘Bismillah’ on his lips,” observed Mr. Hartley. “has often as
little to do with his thoughts as the camel’s pace has to do with his
religion.”
The conversation then took a different turn, as the dessert appeared on
the table, and dates on the dish reminded the commissioner of dates on
the tree.
“I think that the tallest date-palms that I ever saw were by the temple
of Máta Devi,” said he. “Of course you have been to the place,” he
continued, addressing himself to Harold. “There is a most curious idol,
of great antiquity, with jewels for eyes.”
“I have been to the place on a preaching tour,” replied the young
missionary; “but I did not see the idol, for I did not enter the
temple.”
“Would not the Hindus admit you?” said the Sahib.
“Not unless I took off my shoes.”
“And why not take off your shoes?” said the commissioner, who held what
he considered to be very liberal views. “It is a mere matter of form.”
“Neither as missionary nor as Englishman could I pay any mark of respect
to an idol,” was Harold’s reply.
“Oh! I suppose that missionaries have a code of their own,” observed Mr.
Thole, with the slightest possible shrug of his broad shoulders; “but I
may be supposed to know as well as even the youngest of them what befits
an Englishman. We Government servants, whilst we are bound to pay no
respect to persons, are also pledged to pay due respect to all
religions. I should think no more of taking off my shoes in a temple
than I should of taking off my hat in a church. Had we lived in the days
when the goddess Yoyyathal was said to be wedded to the Indian
Government, I might have been bound to carry the bridal gift; and being
an official, the act would have done me as little harm as receiving the
Kashmir shawl did good to the idol. Do you not see that?” added the
commissioner, still addressing himself to Harold.
“I do not see it, sir,” said the young clergyman, a flush rising to his
cheek. “There are many officials, both civilians and military officers,
who do not think that duty to Government supersedes duty to God.”
The commissioner looked somewhat offended, and turning towards the elder
missionary, directed his speech to him, as if Harold, for presuming to
give an independent opinion, had forfeited any claim to further notice.
“Do you know, Mr. Hartley, any well-authenticated instance of an
official going straight against Government orders on account of some
religious scruple of his own?”
“The most striking instance which occurs to me is that of a man who
resigned ten thousand pounds per annum rather than violate conscience,”
was the quiet reply.
The commissioner elevated his bushy brows to express surprise not
unmixed with incredulity. “Who might this man be?” he inquired.
“Sir Peregrine Maitland,” replied Mr. Hartley. “His story may have
perhaps escaped your memory, as so many stirring events have occurred in
India since. This officer, at that time a leading man, was offered the
command of the Madras army and a seat in Council.”
“He was a lucky fellow,” remarked the commissioner, leaning back on his
chair; “such big prizes don’t fall often to the lot of a man. Pray go
on, Mr. Hartley.”
“Sir Peregrine accepted the high offices on the express condition that
they should not involve him in any connection with Hindu idolatry.”
Mr. Thole’s muttered “Humph!” and slight smile expressed no great
admiration for Sir Peregrine Maitland’s superfluous caution. The
commissioner helped himself to a cigar from a case brought by a servant,
after the missionaries had declined one, lighted it, and raised it to
his lip. He smoked it, whilst Mr. Hartley proceeded with his tale.
“Not many days after the commander had arrived in Madras, in the first
despatch-box which he received as a member of Council, came a document
to sanction the appointment and payment of dancing-girls in a certain
Hindu temple. Sir Peregrine was expected to sign this paper.”
“A mere matter of form,” observed Mr. Thole, removing the cigar from his
mouth for a minute. “Whether the member of Council signed or not, the
thing would be done. It was simply making a dash with his pen.”
“Rather than make that dash with his pen,” said Mr. Hartley, “Sir
Peregrine was ready to resign his high offices. After looking at the
paper the commander called out to his wife, Lady Sarah, who was
superintending the unpacking of their lately-arrived luggage, ‘Sarah,
don’t open these boxes; I am going back to England.’ And, after sending
home a fruitless appeal to Government, _go back he did_, resigning his
lucrative offices.”
“And I daresay that he repented so doing to the end of his life,” cried
Mr. Thole.
“Certainly not at the end of his life,” said Harold Hartley: “no man
ever on a death-bed repented of a sacrifice made for conscience’ sake.”
Mr. Thole did not relish the conversation, and broke it off abruptly.
Throwing away his cigar, he pushed his chair back from the table, and
said in rather a dictatorial tone to Mr. Hartley, “Now, sir, I am ready
to hear about the business which brought you hither.”
Mr. Hartley felt that the preceding conversation had been an unfortunate
introduction to what was coming, for Mr. Thole had resumed all his
official stiffness. However, there was nothing to be done but to make a
clear, concise statement of all that had led him to suspect that Miranda
Macfinnis, daughter of a merchant, supposed to have been murdered with
her parents about twelve years before in the Mutiny, was at present shut
up in a zenana at Talwandi, and, as a widow, treated with cruel
harshness and neglect.
Mr. Thole listened with stern gravity, neither stirring a muscle nor
interrupting by a single question until the missionary had produced all
the slender information that he possibly could give on the subject. When
Mr. Hartley stopped, the commissioner coldly asked, after a brief pause,
“Have you anything more to communicate, sir?”
“Nothing more at present,” was the reply.
“Then allow me to say that Mr. Hartley has not shown all the
discrimination and judgment which might have been expected from one of
his experience in bringing before me a case which has not a leg to stand
on,” said the commissioner, with a touch of impatience. “Your
daughter-in-law, a young lady who, as you own, possesses slight
knowledge of Urdu, hears a woman in a zenana shout out thrice what she
is pleased to consider an English word. It was probably the praise of
some of her myriad gods, _jai_ (victory) being easily mistaken for
‘joy,’ The girl is white; but that is not the slightest proof of
European origin—some Kashmiris and Pathans, as every one knows, having
complexions perfectly fair. You would have me give weight to the
evidence of a youth who owns that he always considered the girl an
Afghan, and who would never have thought of her as anything else, had it
not been put into his head that the widow may be a European. And on such
cobweb evidence as this you would have me to do what would justly make
me the most unpopular man in the Panjab, cause probably a serious
tumult, and expose me to Government censure!” Mr. Thole’s voice rose to
a more indignant pitch at each clause in his speech till it reached a
climax in the peroration: “No, sir; I have too much regard for the
interests of Government and my own honour to violate the sacred privacy
of a Hindu zenana by a demand for the production of one of its inmates
on an absurd suspicion confirmed by not even the shadow of truth!” Mr.
Thole pushed back his chair and angrily rose from the table.
“I see the force of what you say, sir,” observed Mr. Hartley; “but
should further evidence be brought forward—”
“Of course, of course, if there be documents or proofs such as would
justify a demand for the girl’s examination, I would do my duty,
whatever opposition might be aroused,” interrupted the commissioner in a
haughty manner: “at present there seems to be nothing of the kind; and I
can only regret, sir, that you have put yourself” (“and me” was
understood though not expressed) “to such unnecessary trouble.”
“Then we have only to wish you good-night, sir,” said Mr. Hartley,
attempting to rise; but weary, and overcome by a sudden attack of
giddiness, he was unable to do so, and sank back on his chair.
“You must not think of returning to Talwandi to-night, Mr. Hartley,”
said the commissioner; “you are evidently unequal to riding, even if the
road were a smooth one. You and your son can occupy the tent of my
munshi.”
The Hartleys were unwilling to avail themselves of hospitality offered
as a matter of course rather than of kindness; but Mr. Hartley was too
unwell to keep the saddle, therefore they were constrained to stay till
morning. Harold penned a short letter to his wife, recounting what had
occurred, and ending thus: “If my father be better, we shall join you
to-morrow; but do not expect us early, as I would not break his morning
sleep. The baptism must be delayed till sunset. If possible, gain more
information regarding the widow; you may find it advisable to visit the
zenana again.”
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