This story began and ended in a public library. An odd, forlorn little
offshoot of progress, dibbled out beyond the walls of a far-away
Indian city, which drowsed through the sunny to-day as it had drowsed
through many a century of sunny yesterdays. True it is that in a
certain mimetic and superficial manner Pooranabad had changed with the
changing years. It had evolved a municipal committee, and this in its
turn had given birth to various simulacra of civilisation; but in
effect the former was but the old council of elders in modern guise,
and the latter but Jonah's gourd, springing up in a day or a night at
the bidding of some minor prophet from over the seas. They came and
went, these minor prophets, each with his theory, his hobby; and even
when Pooranabad knew them no more, it could remember its rulers by the
libraries and band-stands, the public gardens, the schools, and the
museums they had left behind them.
The library itself stood in the midst of a newly laid-out public
garden, which but two summers before had been a most evil-smelling
tank--at least, for nine months of the year; the remaining three found
it a shining lake flushed with fresh rain and carpeted with pink lotus
blossom. But culture of all sorts had stepped in with drainpipes,
bricks, mortar, flowers, and books, and the result was a maze of
winding walks, stubbly grass, and stunted bushes gathered round a
square stuccoed building of one room encircled by an arched verandah.
To east and south the deceptive walls and flat mud roofs of the native
city looked like towers against the sky. To west and north stood
avenues of _shishum_ trees, with here and there a peep of the white
bungalows wherein the minor prophets dwelt and grew gourds.
Within, under the one roof hung with two punkahs, stood two tables,
the one littered with English magazines and illustrated papers, the
other bare, save for a few leaflets of the native press, with
high-sounding names and full of still more lofty sentiments. The
two bookcases, one at each end of the room, showed the same
well-intentioned, but unsuccessful, impartiality; for the eastern one
was nearly empty, while the western overflowed, chiefly with novels; a
dozen shelves of them to one of miscellaneous literature, made up for
the most part of works on the Central Asian question and missionary
reports. The novels, however, had a solid appearance, since most of
them had been re-bound by the district-office bookbinder in the legal
calf and boards which he used also for the circulars and acts by which
India is governed.
Before this bookcase stood the only occupant of the room, a tall weedy
boy of about fifteen. A boy with remarkably thin legs, somewhat of a
stoop in his narrow shoulders, and a supple brown finger travelling
slowly along the ill-spelt titles of the book; ill spelt, because the
Government bookbinder could hardly be expected to grapple successfully
with the title of a modern novel. The hesitations of this brown finger
might have served as an index to the owner's taste, and showed a
distinct leaning towards sentiment. It lingered over several
suggestive titles, until it finally settled on something writ large in
three volumes. After which the boy, crossing to a double desk midway
between the tables, wrote in the English register in a fine bold hand
any clerk might have envied:
_Amor Vincit Omnia_. Govind Sahai, Kyasth.
So, with two volumes under his arm, and one held close to his soft,
short-sighted black eyes, Govind Sahai, of the tribe of Kyasths, or
scribes, made his way citywards down one of the winding paths. Thus
strolling along he was typical of the great multitude of Indian boys
of his age. Boys who read--great heavens! what do they not read, with
their pale intelligent faces close to the lettering? And their
thoughts?--that is a mystery.
Govind Sahai's face was no exception to the rule; it was young, yet
old; high-featured, yet gentle; the ascetic hollows in the temples
belied by the long sweeping curves in the mouth, and both these
features neutralised by the feminine oval of the cheek. He was the
only son of a widow, who, thanks to his existence, led a busy and
contented life in her father-in-law's otherwise childless house; for
the honours of motherhood in India are great. Yet she was poor beyond
belief to Western ears. Across the black water, in a Christian
country, such poverty would have meant misery, but in the old
simplicity of Pooranabad the little household managed to be happy;
above all, in its hopes for the future, when Govind's education should
be over, and he be free to follow his hereditary trade as a writer.
His father had found his ancestral level, oddly enough, in compiling
sanitary statistics in an English office, until the cholera added one
to the mortality returns by carrying him off as a victim; after which
all the interest of life to the inhabitants of the little courtyard
and slip of roof which Govind called home centred in the clever boy,
who could only follow his father's trade if he succeeded in gaining
the necessary pass; for education has undermined heredity. So Govind
worked hard for the scholarship which would enable him to go to
college. Day after day he absorbed an amount of information which was
perfectly prodigious. Month after month found him further and further
adrift on the sea of knowledge. Even in play-time he gorged himself on
new ideas, as might be seen by the library register. It was not only
_Amor Vincit Omnia_ which showed on its pages, but many another
similar work:
_Lost for Love_, Govind Sahai, Kyasth.
_Love the Master_, " "
_My Sweetheart_, " "
_One Life, One Love_, " "
And so on down one column and up another, for the boy read fast.
On this particular hot, dusty May morning he became so interested in
his last book that he sat down on the parapet of the city's central
sewer, and twining one thin leg round the other plunged headlong into
a sentimental scene between two lovers, heedless of his unsavoury
environments. The interweaving of intellectual emotion and material
sensation pictured on the page seemed to this boy, just verging upon
manhood, to be an inspiration, lifting the whole subject into a new
world of pure passion. It appealed, as a matter of fact, though he
knew it not, both to his inherited instincts and his acquired ideas,
thus satisfying both.
"_My darling" said Victor, raising her sweet face to his, and pressing
a kiss on those pure, pale lips, "love such as ours is eternal. Earth
has no power_"--et caetera, et caetera, et caetera. The tears positively
came into his eyes; he seemed to feel the touch of those lips on his,
making him shiver.
_The little soft tendrils of her hair stirred with his breath as Una,
shrinking to his side, whispered, "I am not afraid when I am with you,
my king. I feel so strong! so strong to maintain the Right! Strong to
maintain our Love before all the world! For Love is of Heaven, is it
not, dear heart?" "Our Love is," murmured Victor, once more raising
her pure, pale_---- Et caetera, et caetera, et caetera.
Yes, it was very beautiful, very exalting; also very disturbing to
this inheritor of a nature built on simpler, more direct lines. That
ancestral past of his seemed brutally bald beside this highly
decorated castle of chivalry.
"Aha! Good evening, pupil Govind," broke in the accurate voice of
Narayan Chand, head master of the district school. "You have, I am
glad to see, availed yourself of advantages of public library. With
what mental pabulum have you provided yourself this summer's eve?"
As he spoke, he seated himself likewise on the parapet of the sewer,
and read over the boy's shoulder, _Amor Vincit Omnia_. Then his
spectacled glance travelled down the page, returning for comfort to
the title; that, at least, smacked of learning. "Ah, aha! I see. Light
literature. Good for colloquial, and of paramount use in _vivas_. So
far, well. For superiority of diction, nevertheless, and valuability
to grammar studies, give me _Tatler_, _Spectator_, and such classics."
Govind closed his book in most unusual irritation. "Even in English
literature, master-_ji_, new things may be better than old."
"Of that there is no possible doubt," quoted master-_ji_, with
cheerful gravity. He was a most diligent reader of the English papers,
and used to sit at the library table for hours of an evening devouring
the critiques on Gilbert's or Tennyson's last with undiscriminating
absorption in the formation and style of the sentence. His quotations
were in consequence more various than select. "Of that there can be no
possible probable manner of doubt, as a modern poet puts it tersely,"
he repeated, tilting his embroidered smoking-cap farther from his
forehead and drawing the black alpaca tails of his coat round his
legs; "yet still, for all that, it is held, that--to speak
colloquially--for taking the cake of scholarship the classics----"
Govind Sahai put his feet to the ground and the first volume under his
arm.
"Master-_ji_, when one labours long days at cube roots, then classics
in the evening become excessive. Life is not all learning; life is
love also."
He was quoting from the book he had been reading.
"Sits the wind in that quarter," began Narayan sagely; then he looked
at the boy reflectively and changed manner and language. "That brings
to memory, my son," he said in Hindustani. "When comes thy wedding
procession? I must speak to the virtuous widow that it come in
vacation time, so as not to interfere with study."
A sullen indifference was on Govind's face.
"You need not fear, master-_ji_; I mean to have the scholarship. The
wedding will make no difference."
Narayan Chand smiled a superior smile.
"Nay, my son; it must--it should--_for a time_. So is the vacation
convenient. Thou canst return to school when the festal season is
over. Come, I will speak to thy relations even now."
The widow was sifting wheat. A pleasant-faced little dump of a woman,
with dimples on her bare brown arms.
"Mother," said Govind calmly, "is grandfather in? The master-_ji_'
hath come about my wedding."
"What have men to say to such things?" she answered, with a shrill
laugh; "go tell master--_ji_, heart of mine eyes, that it is settled
for the first week of vacation. Her people were here but now. _Hurri
hai!_ but I shall laugh and cry to see thee! There shall be nothing
wanting at all! Flowers and sweets and merriment. Thy granny and I
have toiled and spun for it. And the bride sweeter than honey. Fie!
Govind, be not shy with thy mother! Think of the bride she gives thee,
and tell her thou art happy."
She flung her arms round her tall son, kissing him and plying him with
questions till he smirked sillily.
"Happy enough, mother," he admitted, then felt _Amor Vincit Omnia_
under his arm, and sighed. "I would much rather not be married; at
least, I think not. Oh, mother, I would she had fair hair and blue
eyes!"
"_Lakshmi!_ hear him! Wouldst marry a fright, Govind? Wait the
auspicious moment; wait till I lift the veil. Oh, the beauty! fresh
from the court of Indra, wheat-coloured and languishing with jewels
and love."
Govind shook his head.
"Profane not the great name of Love." He quoted to himself, being
forced to this secrecy by the fact that the only language his mother
understood has no word for love--as he meant it. So he added
mournfully, "I am ready for my duty whenever you wish it, mother; that
is enough."
Nevertheless, he dreamt dreams that night as he lay curled up on his
short string bed, with the second volume of _Amor Vincit Omnia_ under
the quilt, so as to be ready for the early summer dawn. Out under the
stars in the bare, mud-walled courtyard, destitute to Western eyes of
all comfort, he dreamt the dreams of his race--of a gorgeously attired
bride, shy, yet alluring, looking at him for the first time.
"Thou hast a nightmare," said his mother crossly, when just before
daybreak he woke them all by sitting up in his bed and declaiming,
_Amor vincit Omnia_ in a loud voice. "'Tis that book under thy head.
Put it aside, and lie as thy forefathers lay; they dreamt not of
pillows. So shalt thou sleep sound and let others sleep also."
She went yawning back to bed, and lay awake till dawn brought work,
counting over the savings she had made, and calculating how much she
could spare for flowers and sweets and spiced dishes, for all the
hitherto unknown luxuries which, according to custom, were to make the
boy's life a dream of pleasure for a time. Only for a time, since the
scholarship had to be gained.
A month afterwards a red-curtained bridal palanquin containing a
mysterious bride was carried over the threshold of the little mud
courtyard, and Govind Sahai, with a silver triptych on his forehead,
his ears tasselled with evil-smelling marigolds, his scented tinsel
coat hung with jasmine chaplets, dismounted from a pink-nosed pony
amidst an admiring crowd. That was an end of the spectacle as far as
the outside world was concerned. Within it was only beginning for
those two fond women who had spun and scraped and saved for this great
occasion ever since the bridegroom was five years old. Much had to be
done ere they would sit down in proud peace knowing that no possible
enhancement of delight had been omitted. The boy himself went through
the countless ceremonies, all tending towards an apotheosis of the
senses, with a certain shy dignity; perhaps the sight of master-_ji_
doing wedding guest in a copper-coloured alpaca coat gave him
confidence by reminding him that even the learned stoop to folly. He
was pale, partly from the turmeric baths, which are supposed to
produce a complexion favourable to feminine eyes, partly because he
really felt sick after the unusual sloth and sweets of the last few
days. So much for his physical state. Of his mental condition this
much may be presaged: that if either his inherited instincts or his
acquired convictions had any reality whatever, it must have been
chaos.
More chaotic than ever when, far into the night, after endless
tests and trials, Nihali, the mysterious bride, proved beautiful
as----as----?
Well, the fact was sure; only the comparison remained doubtful. The
inherited instincts said a _peri_, the acquired convictions an angel.
Both, it will be observed, denizens of another world. But then there
are more "other worlds" than one.
* * * * *
"Master Narayan Chand hath sent to remind us that school re-opens next
week," said Govind's mother when nigh two months had passed; two
months during which the path of life had been smoothed, scented, and
decorated for the special use of a boy and a girl. Govind Sahai looked
up from his work, which was, briefly, holding Nihali's slim,
ring-bedecked fingers. The fact that he did so on pretence of teaching
her to write is of secondary importance. She was undoubtedly a very
pretty girl, and her delicate, refined face was at that moment full of
adoring tenderness for the lad beside her. Not thirteen at the most,
she was taller than English girls of that age, but far more slender,
with a figure still following the straight lines of childhood.
Graceful for all that, since her small head poised well over a round
throat, and the want of contour was dexterously hidden by masses of
jewellery, gleaming through the tinsel-shot veil. Even from wrist to
elbow the thinness of the arm was concealed by the bridal bracelets of
white ivory lined with red, whilst the slender ankles beneath the
scarlet, gold-bordered petticoat were hung with silver-gilt jingles.
A typical bride briefly, arrayed in all attractions, save for the big
nose-ring, with its dangling golden spoon hiding the lip. Govind
objected to its presence, his mother to its absence--both, curiously
enough, for the same reason--because it served as a check to
indiscriminate kissing of the bride. The pious widow used to blush
over her son's habit of saying good-bye to his wife when he had to
leave her for an hour or two. It might be English fashion, warranted
by all the love-literature in creation; it was not decent. Neither did
she approve of seeing them, as now, seated together over that
ridiculous farce of pothooks. Marriage was one thing, love-making was
another, so she spoke sharply.
"Well," answered the boy, utterly unabashed, "dost think I have
forgotten, _amma jan?_ (Mother dear.) Nay! Nihali hath been hearing my
holiday task half the morning. Hast not--O Nihali?"
His arm, under cover of the veil, stole round the girl's waist and
remained there--a flagrant breach of decorum which, fortunately for
the female accomplice, remained unnoticed by mother-in-law, who was
busy over a knot in a thread she was skeining from her unending pirn.
Yet Nihali, despite this awful lapse, looked sweet and good enough to
fill the heroine's part in any novel, and her looks did not belie her.
The past two months had been a fever of delight to Govind. With the
curious apathetic resignation to the limitations of custom so
noticeable in clever Indian lads whose brains are full of theories, he
had accepted marriage in the spirit of his forebears, only to find
that Love (with a big L) such as he had read of in books was actually
within his reach. To be sure, in books the object was chosen by the
lover; but what did that matter in the end? So he used up all the
stock-in-trade of the sentimental novelist for little Nihali's
benefit, and she listened to his rhapsodies on perfect marriage and
twin souls, her eyes set wide with wonder, admiration, and belief. No
"first lady" in white satin could have played her part more prettily
than this Indian child of thirteen, who from her cradle had been
taught to venerate her husband as a god, and who now, in a sort of
rapture, found herself the object of a sentimental passion absolutely
novel and bewildering. She nestled her sleek head on his shoulder,
telling him that she believed every word he said. And so she did; had
he told her the world was flat, instead of explaining to her with
great pomp and precision that she was living on an orange depressed at
the poles, it would have been the same to her. The world she lived in
was of his creating. Like most Hindu girls of the higher classes, she
had a marvellous memory, and Govind had hardly known whether to be
pleased or pained at the discovery that, after hearing him read it
over a few times, she knew his repetition better than he did himself;
yet, shy of her own exploit, she only replied to his laughing
reference to the holiday task by a timid squeeze of the hand still
holding hers.
Mother-in-law broke the knot with a snap; a habit with the determined
little woman, who thereinafter would twirl the ends together as if
nothing had happened. One twist of the thumb, and all was as it had
been.
"I know not what holiday tasks may mean," she said scornfully. "In my
time work was work, and play play. So must it be now. Nihali's people
have sent to ask when she returns to them, after established custom. I
have answered, 'When school begins.'"
They had been so supremely, so innocently happy over their pothooks!
And now the consternation on their two young faces was quite piteous.
Mother-in-law, however, found it scandalous. Did not all decent girls
cry to go home long before the honeymoon was over? Had not she herself
wept bitterly in her time; and there was Nihali actually snivelling at
the idea of leaving; before her husband, too! And Govind was no
better.
"It is so soon," pleaded the boy, too much taken aback for instant
revolt; besides, the situation had never come into any of the novels
he had read, so he really felt unable to cope with it.
His remark only increased the pitch of his mother's voice. Soon, was
it? Had he not had two months of billing and cooing, to gain which she
and grannie had spun their fingers to the bone? Soon! Whose fault was
it if time had been wasted over alphabets and pothooks? Her shrill
tones brought grannie from her labours below, and before these two
eminently respectable matrons the guilty pair could only hold each
other's hands like the babes in the wood, feeling lost and miserable.
That afternoon he went over to the public library, for the first time
since his marriage, and spent hours hunting up precedents on the
subject, only to return discomfited and hopeless. Nihali would revolt,
of course, if he bade her follow his lead; but how could he bear to
have the finger of scorn pointed at her by those unacquainted with the
theory of perfect marriage and twin souls? That night, when the rest
of the little household retired from the roof, leaving the luxury of
fresh air to the younger people, he and Nihali sat down under the
stars on the still flower-strewn bed, and cried like the children they
were.
So with awful swiftness the dawn came when Govind had to put on the
pale-pink turban proclaiming him a first-class middle student, and set
off to school with his books under his arm; books, on the whole, less
disturbing than _Amor Vincit Omnia_ and its congeners. Nothing further
had been said about Nihali's approaching departure. It was inevitable,
of course; meanwhile, they must make the most of the time left to
them. So Govind looked haggard and feverish as he took his accustomed
place; nevertheless, being student by nature, the work beguiled him.
By evening he was lighthearted enough to run home and race up the
crumbling stairs leading to the roof, full of anecdotes and news for
Nihali. There was no one to receive them. The roof itself had resumed
its normal workaday appearance, and in the very place where the little
bride had sat on her lacquered bridal stool, squatted his mother,
piecing two broken strands of her skein together as if nothing had
happened. And nothing out of the common had happened. Whose fault was
it if Govind flung himself on his face and wept like a baby for what
was beyond his reach?
His mother had expected so much when she planned her _coup d'etat_.
But he continued to cry--which she did not expect; for something more
complex than simple passion had been aroused in the boy. Of that he
might have been ashamed; in this he gloried. Was it not, in short, a
legitimate subject for self-glorification? So he wept himself sick in
a subdued docile sort of way. Finally, master-_ji_ called one day in
consternation to say that, though painstaking as ever, poor Govind
could not remember the simplest problem; while as for riders, he just
sat and looked at them. The scholarship was thus in danger. She tried
scolding the boy in good set terms, but he met her reproaches with an
invulnerable superiority before which she stood aghast. What was to be
done? Perhaps this spiriting away of the bride in order to avoid a
scene had been an error, but was that any reason why she should be
requested to return? To begin with, it would be an appalling breach of
etiquette, and then there was the risk of consequences much to be
deprecated between such very young people. The whole household,
including master-_ji_, puzzled over the difficulty, which seemed all
the more puzzling because it was so uncalled for, boys having been
married at fifteen and sent to school again afterwards since time
began without any fuss. But then, those boys, had not read _Amor
Vincit Omnia_ and learnt to mix sentiment with passion.
While matters were at this deadlock, Nihali's mother arrived on the
scene unexpectedly, and, _en petit comite_ with the women-folk, gave a
new turn to affairs. The possibility suggested was in a measure
disconcerting, but, on the other hand, afforded Govind's mother an
opportunity of retreating with dignity, since the girl must not be
allowed to fret as she had been fretting.
The result being that a week afterwards Govind Sahai did a difficult
rider in a way which made Narayan Chand dream dreams of a future when
folk would say, "This eminent man received primary and secondary
education at the hands of our most successful teacher of youth, Pundit
Narayan Chand." It was a dream he frequently indulged in about his
pupils.
The little strip of roof was once more frequented by pigeons, and the
snappings and joinings of threads relegated for the most part to the
court below. Yet the boy's appetite did not return, and as winter came
on he developed a teasing cough in that narrow chest of his. The fact
was that he burnt the candle of life at both ends in more ways than
one. Perhaps if his soul could have been left in peace he might have
passed through the ordeal safely, as many a boy manages to do in
India. But it was not. Poor Govind had no rest. He strung himself up
to the highest pitch in obedience to the mixed result of his birth and
education. Then on this quivering instrument he proceeded to play
scales. It was Tausig's exercises on a zither. He had to teach
himself, teach Nihali, think of the coming baby, and go through the
whole gamut of intellectual and physical emotion of which he had read.
The first string gave way when his mother, laughing, crying, and
blessing him all in a breath, put a boy baby into his arms on his
return from school one day. He sat down stupidly on the lowest step of
the mud stairs, gazing at what he held in a sort of bewildered amaze
at finding himself thus, till his mother angrily snatched the child
from him, saying he should be ashamed of shedding tears on a newborn
baby's face. It was very like Nihali, he thought, only years older
with all those wrinkles. Then he thought helplessly how he had
decided, with Nihali's consent of course, on a thousand contraventions
of old customs at this time. Yet there was she upstairs in the hands
of the wise women, and the baby ready to be doctored by its
grandmother. What could a boy of sixteen do against such odds? So the
little proselytising pamphlet he had read was put away with a sigh;
and after all Nihali did very well under the old _regime_. He found
her, when the wise women permitted him, in the seventh heaven over the
baby. Was there ever such a doll, with its little sharp nose and
pinched-up lips! And would he believe it?--the tiny creature was so
lazy that grandmother had to tickle it so--on the mouth--before it
would take any interest in the sugar and spices! By and by, when she
could nurse it herself, it would be different. She lay smiling at the
idea, while downstairs, as they left the house, the gossips were
shaking their heads and saying calmly, "It is an unnecessary baby, but
a forerunner. Others will come. There is plenty of time."
Even when Nihali could not nurse the child, and they had recourse to a
Maw's feeder, which Govind, with many blushes, bought at the same shop
which supplied him with slate pencils, those two young things feared
nothing. He used to bring his books to the roof where she lay with the
little quiet mouse of a thing tucked away in her veil. Then, while
the sun set red over the dusty city, he worked away at all the
"ologies"--worked somewhat feverishly, since more depended now on his
success. Sometimes Nihali's smile gurgled over in laughter, and
Govind, looking up, would find baby's fingers being clasped round his
pen.
"Look you," she would whisper, as if in presence of some great
potentate, "I asked my lord if he wished to be a writer too, and see
how fast he holds!"
There was one thing, however, to which the baby did not hold fast, and
that was life. But not till the very day before the eventful
examination, which meant so much to Govind, did those two children
read fear in each other's faces about that other child.
"Oh, Govind! what shall we do? what shall we do?" wailed Nihali, when
the grandmother, seeing them wild with anxiety, told them the truth,
while the great-grandmother stood by wagging her head and mumbling of
others by and by. What was that to them now? How he got through the
next day he never knew. He took the papers and went with them to his
desk; nay, more, he did his level best with them, nerving himself to
the effort chiefly by thoughts of master-_ji's_ disappointment if he
failed. But his personal interest in the matter seemed gone; that was
centred on a roof in the dusty city where one child sat crying over
another. What were _plus_ or _minus_ to him save a world with or
without an unnecessary infant?
All that night was passed beside Nihali, waiting for his mother's
voice to say the end had come; but the morning found the little
sleeper still in the young mother's arms. Perhaps there was still
hope. He hastily swallowed some breakfast, and, delayed by this hint
of respite, found himself five minutes late in the examination-room.
The first papers had already been given out, and to avoid possibility
of fraud none save those present at the issue were allowed to compete.
So Govind had to sit idle for a while, knowing he had lost a definite
number of chances. Nor was this the worst; the pause gave him time for
thought. Hitherto, once within the familiar walls, old habits of
attention and forgetfulness had possessed him. Now, with nothing to
do, he remembered and yet forgot. So when the order to go up for the
second paper came he rose with his brain in a whirl, a wild desire to
cry, "Let me alone, my baby is dying!" seeming to blot out everything
else in the world. Perhaps had he done so he might have had a chance
in the examiners' human pity; as it was he pulled himself together,
and failed hopelessly.
In the pause before the _viva voce_ he sat looking straight before
him, dully conscious that he had done badly.
"Govind has never been the same since he married," whispered one boy,
and the other giggled.
"Silence!" cried Narayan Chand fussily. "Govind Sahai, your name is
first for _viva_. Come up, Govind Sahai, Kyasth." Then, as the dull
yet anxious face passed him, he whispered: "Now for value of light
literature. You are best at colloquial, my pupil, so courage, and
remember _Amor Vincit Omnia_ and such like things."
_Amor Vincit Omnia!_ The boy's last chance fled before those words.
When the ordeal was over, he turned back to his place mechanically. As
he passed the master-_ji_ once more, he read his fate in the
disappointed face raised to his, then in the confident smile of the
boy succeeding him, finally in the surprised nudging of the whole
class. Something seemed to snap in his brain; he paused, and, facing
the examiners, raised his hand. The rush of thought was too much for
him at first; then he broke silence in a gentle, deprecating voice:
"If you will be kind enough to excuse me, Sirs, I will beg leave to
retire. The exigencies of the case forbid explanation, but this much
is admitted--that _Amor vincit Omnia_."
"That boy speaks better English than I thought for," said one examiner
to the other, when the leave had been granted. "Give him five marks
more; he's failed, of course, but it's as well to be just."
When Govind reached home Nihali's arms were empty. There is no need to
say more. It was an unnecessary infant to all save those two.
"You have failed, failed badly, my poor pupil, owing, doubtless, to
domestic bereavement," said the master-_ji_, when he called a week or
two later full of vexed sympathy. "Such circumstances point to special
privilege of entering again next year, for which we will apply. And
then, Govind, there must be no killing of birds with one stone. There
must be no complicated states of mind, confusing idiom."
But Govind Sahai, Kyasth, did not avail himself of the permission duly
given, as the pundit-_ji_ put it, "in consideration of the strictly
nonregulation death of his infant at a premature age."
The old grandfather, whose small life-pension had been the prop of the
household, died of autumnal fever, and during the ensuing winter the
result of his failure to win the scholarship came home to Govind with
depressing force, since even from that poor ten rupees a month
something might have been spared to stand between those three fond
women and the grindstone, that last resort of poverty. Then Nihali's
mother, coming over unexpectedly and finding her daughter at the mill,
carried her off in a huff. This time Govind said nothing; the spirit
had gone out of him, and for the girl's own sake he gave in to custom.
He worked very hard, but as the winter advanced his shoulders seemed
to grow narrower and narrower, and the teasing cough became louder.
Good food, care, and rest might have done something perhaps; only
perhaps, for there is not much to be done when the candle of life is
alight at both ends, except to put it out. That is what happened one
April morning when the bougainvillea round the arched verandah of the
library looked like a crimson drapery. He used to go there every
morning before school hours, for the memory of his failure in _viva
voce_ rankled keenly, and he was possessed by a curious determination
to prove Master Narayan Chand wrong in attributing it to Govind's
unwise selection of books. So, secure at those hours from
interruption, he used to sit and study the idiom of light literature.
"Thou art not fit to go," said his mother tearfully one morning after
the boy had been kept awake all night by cough and fever.
"Reading will not hurt me, _amma jan_," he replied, "and the
examination is next month."
They found him two hours afterwards seated at the desk before the
ledger, his head resting on a novel he had just been entering in the
register. A horrible stain of blood from the blood-vessel he had
ruptured blotted the page, but through it you could still see, in his
bold handwriting:
_Amor Vincit Omnia_. Govind Sahai, Kyasth.