Fraternity, mingled with darkling threats--threats which must destroy
all three by depriving some brother of the Liberty of Life or at best
of an arm or a leg!
For they were only silly schoolboys, who, but for an alien ideal of
education, would have been learning, as their father had learnt,
unquestioning, unqualified obedience at a Guru's feet. Learning it
probably with tears, tied up in a sack with a revengeful tom-cat, or
with a heavy brick poised on the back of the neck for livelong hours;
such being the approved punishments for the faintest disobedience.
Small wonder then, if the organism accustomed to this immemorial
control, runs a bit wild when it finds itself absolutely free to do and
think as it likes.
These particular boys were very angry, apparently, because some one of
their number had been forced to obey something or someone. It was
tyranny. The Mother-land and their religion was outraged. They were all
Bengâli Brahmans; so Kâli worshippers by birth, and of the Sakta cult;
possibly of the Left-handed or Secret form of that cult. Anyhow they
talked big of Force being the one ruling principle by which men could
rule, of the true Saktas' or Tantriks' contempt for public opinion, of
their determination to show the world that the Tantras had been given
by the gods in order to destroy the oppressors of men. So, "_Jai_
Anarchism! _Jai Kâli! Jai Bhairavi! Jai Banda Materam!_"
It was a sad farrago of nonsense; Western individualism dished up
skilfully by professional agitators in a garb of Eastern mysticism; but
they talked it complacently, while Parbutti, still as a mouse, told
herself it must be the tall one; he had such a nice voice.
Her hopes gained confidence when he lingered behind with Govinda after
the others departed, and began speaking in a lower voice. Could he be
talking about her? Ever and always that came as the uppermost thought.
Then consideration told her this was not possible; no respectable
bridegroom could talk of his bride to another--not even if he also were
a Kulin and a brother. What was it then, about which they were so
mysterious when there was nobody nigh?--here a twinge of compunction
shot through her--at least nobody they could know about.
At last, her ears becoming accustomed to the strain, she caught one
sentence: "My father was Mai Kâli's priest here"; so by degrees
gathered that there was some secret receptacle somewhere, and that the
tall youth wished to hide something.
The something appeared to be in what Parbutti had supposed to be a
hooded cage such as students often carry about with their pet
_avitovats_ or fighting quails inside. But this one contained a square
box, which the boy removed with great care, and then, before Parbutti
had grasped what he was doing, he was round at the back of the carven
image, kneeling with his back towards her, and fumbling at the gilt
wooden drapery about Mai Kâli's waist; Govinda meanwhile keeping a
look-out at the door.
How close he was! If she put out a hand she could touch him--she
thrilled all over at the thought! Too close at any rate for her to
move; besides, she must see what happened.
Ye gods! The drapery slid up! Mai Kâli was hollow!
"If aught happens to me," said the nice voice solemnly, "I leave this
in thy charge, oh! Govinda Ram, Kulin. Thou art the only other living
soul who knows of it. And see thou use it as it should be used. A
cocoanut full for a bomb. It requires no fuse. The concussion is
sufficient if the hand is bold."
The box deposited, the panel slid back again, and the tall lad rising
from his knees stepped to the front again. As he did so, Parbutti
caught a glimpse of his face. It was beautiful as the young
Bala-Krishna, and the whole soul and body of her went out to him--her
hand stole through the bars to touch the air in which he had stood--the
happy air which had touched him.
So absorbed was she in her joy that she did not realise what was going
on until the sound of their voices brought her back to reality. Then
she recognised that they were repeating the vow of secrecy which is
imposed on all initiates to the Tantrik cult. "I swear by the Eternal
Relentless and Living Power I worship never to divulge the Secret, but
to bury it deeply in silence and ever preserve it inviolate and
inviolable. I will conceal it as the water in a cocoanut is concealed.
I will be a Kaula internally, a Saiva externally, and a Vaishnava when
talking at public meetings." Then they branched off into that of the
new secret political society which underlies the old religious
mysteries. And Parbutti listened with growing fear, for this was
sheer straightforward cursing of informers and lukewarm supporters and
spies--and--and----
If they should go on to her? If he should curse her?
The long stillness had told on her nerves--she felt as if she must
scream, must do something to prevent the dreadful sequence going on and
on....
"And cursed be they who listen and----"
The voices were checked by a passionate cry--
"Curse me not! Curse me not! I swear! I, Parbutti, swear to keep
faith!"
Then, terrified at everything, even her own temerity, she turned and
fled.
There was little leisure allowed her for thought in the women's
apartment that night, for each one vied with the other in devising
cantrips, most of them undescribable, to secure for her a truly
uxorious husband; but one thing beat through her brain. Would he, could
he--if it _were_ he--be angry with her? Surely not! She had sworn, and
she would keep her oath. Yes! she would keep it faithfully.
So the day dawned and another tumult of rejoicing rose around her.
In view of the delay in her betrothals it had been arranged to crowd in
the ceremonials as closely as possible, so as to expedite the actual
marriage, and everybody was running about, conches were blowing, women
were giggling and laughing as the professional guests of the male sex
cracked doubtful jests while they awaited the arrival of the
bridegroom.
And then came a sudden hush. Something must have happened. What was it?
Parbutti, sitting apart swathed in her wedding scarlet, was too dazed
to notice the pause at first, until low, and whimpering, an
unmistakable woman's wail rose amid the garlands and tinsels, the paper
flowers, the swinging lanterns.
She started to her feet--was someone dead?
In a way, the news that had come was worse than death. _That_ was an
act of God to be accepted with what resignation could be mustered. But
this? What! They had arrested a bridegroom on his wedding day!--and
Govinda, too, the son of the house! What! Those boys--they could not be
guilty! It was only the tyranny of the hated police. They could not be
mixed up with Anarchists. So said some of the men; but others held
their peace and looked sinister, while all the women wept and wailed,
and called on Mai Kâli to avenge the sacrilege. Only Parbutti sate very
still, very silent. She knew something that the others did not know,
but the knowledge only increased her blind resentment, only aggravated
her blind despair.
He had been filched from her--if it was he. She was too dulled by
disappointment at first to do more than realise her loss, and the
thought of her oath of fealty did not come to her at all until
after three months' needless delay in trying the conspiracy case
against some forty students in the college--a delay due entirely to the
hair-splitting efforts of the counsel for the defence--Govinda settled
it for himself by dying in prison of autumnal fever. His had never been
a good life; he had almost died of it the year before; he might have
died of it at home. But the loss of a son, even when he is not the only
one, is a grievous loss to a Hindu household, and it brought enhanced
and almost insensate anger to every member of it; except to Parbutti,
who went about her household duties calmly, almost stupidly.
Then came the final blow. The bridegroom--was it _he?_--she wondered
dully--shot himself with a revolver smuggled in to him by a woman, a
young and pretty woman full of patriotism and poetry, a woman brought
up on Western lines, who was almost worshipped by the Nationalist party
of unrest.
Parbutti heard the tale, still calm to outward appearance. She heard
women's voices, full of curiosity, tell of the deed of patriotism, as
it was called: she heard them wonder what the woman agitator was really
like, and say that Kâli Ma would surely, ere long, rise up in Her Power
and smite the M'llechas hip and thigh.
And then they looked at her and shook their heads. Neither maid, wife,
nor widow, it would be more difficult than ever to find fresh
betrothals for her. Whereupon Ramabhai wept as she had wept before with
sharp sobs and little outcries. And once more Parbutti said nothing,
though she was quivering all over. It would be impossible to define her
feelings, they were such an admixture of hatred, and love, of fear, and
jealousy, and despair. And through it all came the question: "Was it
he?"--while, as a background, sheer physical disappointment stretched
every fibre of her mind and body almost to breaking joint.
So it went on until one day someone spoke to her almost as if she had
been a widow, and bade her do something almost menial.
She did it without a word. It was noon time and the house was deserted;
those who were in it being asleep. She sate for a while in the sunshine
of the courtyard, her hands on her knees, doing nothing. Then suddenly
she rose, and slipped into the room which Ramabhai used as a wardrobe.
When she emerged from it she was swathed in the scarlet and gold
Benares _khim-kob_ that had cost four hundred rupees, and her arms, her
neck, her feet, were hung with golden ornaments.
They tinkled as she made her way down the steep stone stairs to Kâli's
shrine. Dark, and still, and small, it lay, with a faint scent of
incense about it; for the previous day had been a festival, and many
folk had been to worship there.
But Kâli--Mai Kâli--would never have better worshipping than Parbutti
meant to give her. How the idea had come to the girl's mind who can
say; but dimly, out of her confused thoughts had grown the conviction
that something must be done. She was the only one, now, who knew the
secret; but it was useless in her hands. She could not go out and throw
bombs, as he doubtless would have thrown them had he lived; so giving
the Great Goddess the Blood for which she craved. Yes! he had meant to
do it, for were not the aliens accursed? Had they not killed him?
She mixed everything up hopelessly; Mai Kâli and the Sacrament of
Blood, her own loss and the public good; she felt angry, and weary, and
disappointed; she felt that she ought to do something, that she must
get Someone stronger than she was on her side, to do what she was
helpless to do.
So, confused, obstinate, she stepped behind the image, slid back the
panel, and took out the box. Then, producing a cocoanut shell from the
folds of her _sare_, she filled it carefully, methodically, and put
back the box carefully, methodically.
This done, she went to the front of the image, smeared the floor once
more with blood-red, and began her maiden's prayer--the prayer that is
infallible!
"Om! Om! Kâli Ma!--
Dark! Dark! Not a star--
In my Heaven, Kâli Ma!--"
This time her voice was high and hard, for had not Mai Kâli to be
compelled--yea! even by the greatest of sacrifices?
"Thou shalt have it fresh and fresh--
Blood to drink, and lumps of flesh--"
Higher and higher grew the voice; it did not falter at all: not even
when at the final
"_Hoom phut_"
the girl, raising her hand on high, dashed the cocoanut she held upon
the ground boldly.
There was a faint flash, an instant explosion, a grinding noise as the
house rocked to its foundation, then steadied into quiescence.
But Parbutti had kept her promise to Mai Kâli, and to--_him_; for the
Goddess might have satisfied Her craving for Blood, Her desire for
Flesh amid the welter of broken stones and twisted grids, of shattered
wood-carving and torn Benares _khim-kob_, of jewels rent apart and
splintered bones, that was all remaining of Her shrine, Her image, and
Her worshipper.
Whether She will keep her part of the bargain is another matter.
But the Maiden's Prayer has been said, the Greatest of Sacrifices has
been made.
SILVER SPEECH AND GOLDEN
SILENCE
I
SILVER SPEECH
"It is not only the interest of India--now the most considerable part
of the British Empire--but the credit and honour of the British nation
itself, will be decided by this division. We are to decide by this
judgment whether the crimes of individuals are to be turned into public
guilt and national ignominy; or whether this nation will convert the
very offences which have thrown a transient shade upon its government
into something that will reflect a permanent lustre upon the honour,
justice and humanity of the kingdom! My lords! There is yet another
consideration equal to those other two great interests I have
stated--those of our Empire, of our national character--something that,
if possible, comes more home to the hearts and feelings of every
Englishman--I mean the interests of our constitution itself, which is
deeply involved in this case."
In the audience, a young man, fair of face, blue of eye, looked up
suddenly, then muttered under his breath:
"Hard cheek! What the deuce has he got to do with the British
constitution?"
"Do be quiet, Tom!" blushed the girl who sat next him in a whisper;
"they'll hear you."
Tom relapsed into bored silence, and the stream of words went on--
"But the crimes we charge against him are not lapses, defects, errors
of common human frailty which, as we know and feel, we can allow for.
There are no crimes that have not arisen from passions which it is
criminal to harbour, no offences that have not their root in avarice,
rapacity, pride, insolence, ferocity, treachery, cruelty, malignity of
temper; in short, in nothing that does not argue a total extinction of
all moral principle, that does not manifest an inveterate blackness of
heart dyed ingrain with malice, vitiated, corrupted, gangrened to the
very core."
"Confound his Billingsgate!" murmured Tom Gordon softly. "What good
does it do--anybody?"
"H'sh!" came the warning feminine whisper; "his accent is really very
good."
Tom shifted uneasily, and once again the strenuous, eager voice,
struggling bravely against the harshness of the English language, was
the only sound held in the white walls of the Mission School at Ilmpur,
a little Punjab town set in a waste of sand. The hot sunshine slanted
across it in broad, golden rays from the upper windows, to lay broad,
yellow squares on the cool whitewash. Through the doors, set open to
the air on all sides, the same hot, yellow sunshine slanted in on the
upturned faces of the students, all bent--with elation in their
looks--on the prize English speaker, who was declaiming his set speech
out of Burke's famous impeachment of Warren Hastings. Declaiming it
before, as the local paper put it, "Mr. Commissioner Gordon and his
good lady, Mr. Tom Gordon, a fine young man worthy of his great father
who has lately entered India from Eton in quest of police post, the
beautiful Miss Gordon, and many others of European renown, including
natives of high official positions, who have honoured the Reverends
Freemantle and Smith with attendance at their mission-school
prizegiving."
They sat in a semicircle on the dais. A quaint company. Mr.
Commissioner Gordon, with a painstakingly pious expression on his
grizzly red-bearded face, inwardly rehearsing the speech he would have
to make in his turn; his good lady nervously eyeing the gilt books
which she would have to give away, spread out on the table before her.
It was covered with a royal red cloth, and on it stood a packed posy of
jasmine blossoms and marigolds. The odour of the crushed blossoms
mingled with the confused scent of cocoanut oil, roses, and curry
powder which is inseparable from every Indian assembly. On one side of
the Commissioner sat the Reverend Freemantle, a gentleman with a beard
grown white in the service of education. Mild, placid, benevolent, his
face beamed out over his students. They were all doing well, and
Gunpat-Rai was simply excelling himself by showing complete mastery
over both vowels and consonants. Indeed, in the whole semicircle of
eager teachers and approvers upon the platform there was not to be seen
a dissentient expression; and one _zenana_-worker positively wept tears
of joy, because it was through her dreary daily drudgery amongst fetid
alleys and sunless back courts that the prize pupil had originally come
to the mission-school.
Otherwise he might have remained as his father had remained all his
life, proprietor of an odd little shop right away from all other shops,
where they sold matches and oil, flour and earthenware dishes, string
and pipe-bowls--everything, in fact, which might suddenly be wanted in
the big, high, tenement houses that elbowed and shouldered the little
dark lane.
"The law is the security of the people of England! It is the security
of the people of India!"
Gunpat-Rai's voice, overtaxed, almost broke over the climax of Burke's
rhodomontade, but the tumultuous, undisciplined applause which
followed, covered the fact, and he sat down feeling dazed, confused. It
was the first time he had ever spoken in public, and he had found that
he had not been afraid. That, in itself, was disturbing--he had not
felt afraid!
Meanwhile, Mr. Commissioner Gordon's loud voice was bombarding the wall
with fitful explosions of words which reverberated amidst an echo of
hesitating stutters.
"Gives me great pleasure, unalloyed pleasure to--er--er--er--to--to see
Indian youth--er--er--er--taking their place with--with--er--er--er----"
Here a glance at his son--who, after the manner of sons when their
fathers are speaking, was burying his face in his hands--seemed to
supply the lacking phrase--"with the youth of England."
"Good Heavens!" groaned Tom Gordon aside plaintively; "I say, Nell, how
long do you think the Guv'nor will be on his legs, for I'll slope out,
and have a smoke----"
"S--st, Tom!" reproved his sister severely. "You can't--and you've got
to play in the cricket match, you know."
Tom groaned again, but less plaintively; and so the speechifying
went on, the burden of all being the incalculable advantage of a good
sound English education in every walk of life. Did they but choose,
every student present--at any rate, students of the stamp of
Gunpat-Rai--might "rise to higher things."
So, with a final and formal hand-shake to the lad who had so
distinguished himself, the company trooped out into the sunshine and
the mission-school lay empty. Only in the place where Gunpat-Rai had
sat ere rising to speak, a tiny packet wrapped in silver-leaf betrayed
its presence by shining like a star. It was the talisman which his
little fifteen-year-old wife had given him that morning ere he started,
with tears and laughter, because it was only the first half-chewed,
half-sucked piece of dough-cake his firstborn had ever had. It had
dropped from his nerveless hand when, in a dire funk, he had stood up
in answer to the call of his name.
It did not, however, shine long, for an impudent sparrow soon
discovered that it was but dough made silvern, and promptly carried it
off.
Meanwhile the cricket match was in full swing, Tom Gordon captaining
one side, and the Reverend Mr. Freemantle (who still cherished an old
blue cap he had worn in his Oxford days) the other.
Youth, however, had to be allowed for, so the last-comer from
Eton found himself, to his great delight, at the head of ten
smaller boys--jolly little chaps with bright eyes and boundless
obediences--while the big students, including Gunpat-Rai--who was cock
at cricket as in English, ranged themselves under their master.
They won the toss, and Tom Gordon, as he suppled his hands with the
ball, told himself the bowling must be good.
And good it was, especially in style. The tall young figure in white
flannels, close clipped about the lean flanks with the light blue belt,
reminded one of a flying Mercury as it poised in delivery. Every
woman's eye was on it in admiration. As for the swift balls it sent,
they were a revelation to these Indian boys, who had never seen real
cricket. They crumpled up before them like agitated spiders when they
came off the wicket, and when they came on it, they looked helplessly
at the umpire to see if they were really out. The Reverend Mr.
Freemantle made a good stand, the memory of many a past day coming back
to give half-forgotten skill to his bat, his sheer delight in his
youthful adversary's prowess making him bold. Still the score stood
ominously at one figure when Gunpat-Rai took his place. Tom Gordon
hitched up his belt and looked.
"I should say leg before," he muttered, "but they're so thin, they
hardly count."
And then he let drive.
Now, whether the ball chose to hit Gunpat-Rai's bat or Gunpat-Rai's bat
chose to hit the ball, is immaterial. Away it went beyond the boundary,
and Gunpat-Rai's long legs scored four. A sharp, hissing roar of
delight rose from the assembled school, and Tom Gordon frowned faintly;
but he was far too good-humoured to withstand what followed. Heartened
up by his absolutely unlooked-for success, Gunpat-Rai who, though his
legs were thin, was a powerful enough young fellow, did everything and
more than everything that could be expected of him. He gambolled out
and slogged wildly, he pirouetted like a teetotum and nearly killed his
wicket-keep, and finally let drive at his partner's wicket, demolishing
all three stumps.
"Out!" cried the umpire ruefully, but with commendable impartiality,
and when Tom Gordon had sufficiently recovered from his laughter to
assert that no one but the stumps had suffered, another hissing roar of
applause rose from the school.
All things, however, must come to an end, and a skying block of
Gunpat-Rai's was finally caught by Tom Gordon as it appeared to be
descending on his mother's lap. But the score stood at thirty-six, and
as the batsman walked past him proudly yet sheepishly, the Eton boy
shook him by the hand.
"By George, you know," he said, "you'd be another Ranji, with practice!
I never saw such an innings played--never!"
Gunpat-Rai flushed up under his dark skin and gave back the grip with
all the curious, lissome strength of an Indian hand, in which the
sinews seem made of iron, the bones of velvet.
After that it seemed of little count that Tom Gordon, who began the
next innings, should, by a judicious foresight and the obedience of his
small boys combined, carry out his last bat as last man with a score of
seventy-two.
"You are too good for us, Gordon," laughed the Rev. Mr. Freemantle. "We
must deport him from the station, or request him not to play again,
mustn't we, boys?"
But the hissing roar which followed was of dissent, not assent, and
when it had died away, Gunpat-Rai, as head of the school, spoke up, to
his own surprise again, fluently.
"Cricket," he said, "is a noble game. We learn everything noble from
England. So are we pleased to acquire proficiency at the hands of Mr.
Tom Gordon, Esquire."
The soft dark eyes looked almost appealingly at the blue ones.
"All right," said their owner, curtly. "I'll come down and coach you a
bit, if you like."
And he did.
II
GOLDEN SILENCE
"Why on earth can't you learn to hold your tongue, Gunpat?" said Tom
Gordon roughly. "I thought you had more sense than to mix yourself up
with those Arya Somajh agitators. You'll be getting yourself into
trouble some day!"