Chapter II: Part 2

“Yes,” replied Manton Sahib; “I missed the ford when attempting to cross the river, lost my seat in the saddle, and never in all my life felt myself nearer to death than I did when the waters came rushing around me, for I am unable to swim. I believe that I should not have been sitting at this table to-day, had not three ryots, capital swimmers, come to my rescue.”

“And you gave each of them a rupee,” observed Padre Logan.

“Unlucky rupees they were,” cried the commissioner, shrugging his shoulders.

“How so?” inquired Padre Logan, whilst the rest of the company at table became silent in order to listen.

“Why, before the day was over, one of the fellows got drunk on his rupee,” replied Manton Sahib. “He actually attacked my bearers with a stick when I was going home in my palki in the evening, and was so noisy and troublesome that I was obliged to send him to prison.”

“But another of the ryots made a very different use of his rupee,” observed Padre Logan.

“That is to say, he made no use of it at all,” replied the commissioner. “But the very circumstance of his having the money brought the poor fellow to grief.”

“How so?” asked Colonel Miller, an officer who sat at the end of the table.

“A rumour had been abroad,” thus Manton Sahib made reply, “that week after week, and month after month, this ryot, whose name is Gunga Ram, has been saving money, pie by pie. But no one was sure of the matter, for the man’s earnings were so small that it was hard to believe that he should be able to scrape any money together. But it appears that Ya’kub, in his drunkenness, had made it known throughout the bazaar that Gunga Ram, like himself, had received a present from me; and perhaps rumour had turned the one rupee into ten.”

“That is likely enough,” said Padre Logan.

“Be that as it may, poor Gunga Ram had to pay dearly for his love of money,” said Manton Sahib. “About midnight some thieves entered his hut, and searched it, but at first could find nothing in it. Determined to reach the supposed hoard, the villains seized poor Gunga Ram, and cruelly tortured him to make him confess where he had buried his money. In his agony the poor wretch told them the place. The cries of Gunga Ram reached the ears of some of the police, who came to his aid; but before they entered the hut the thieves had made off with the money, and the police found only the miserable Gunga Ram stretched on the ground bleeding and groaning. He was carried off to the hospital at once. Thus you see that I had some cause to say that mine were unlucky rupees.”

“You have told us of the fate of two of the receivers of your gift,” observed the English padre; “let me now tell you something of the third ryot, and of the use which he made of his rupee, which may perhaps be to you yet more surprising.”

“One of the fellows is lodged in an hospital, another in a jail,” said Colonel Miller, laughing; “I suppose that the story of the third will be that he bought a rope with his rupee, and hanged himself in the next mango-grove.”

Most of the rest of the company laughed; but Manton Sahib turned attentively to listen to what Padre Logan was going to say. “What did the third man do with his money?” he inquired.

“He gave it to Padre Ghopal, to help to rebuild the little native church that was thrown down by the flood,” was the padre’s reply.

All the company looked surprised. No one had been surprised to hear of a man getting drunk on bang, or of another being tortured and robbed; but they regarded the poor ryot’s free-will offering to God as a very strange thing indeed.

“I can scarcely believe it,” said Colonel Miller; and his face expressed doubt yet more than did his words.

“I was myself present when Isa Das gave his rupee into the hand of Ghopal,” said the English padre.

“Then I can only say that this ryot gives me a higher opinion of the natives of India than I ever had before,” observed Colonel Miller.

“You see, sir,” said Logan, addressing himself to Manton Sahib, “that not all of the rupees went to the thieves or to the seller of bang.”

Manton Sahib was silent for some moments, reflecting deeply. At the time of his preservation from drowning he had thanked God for saving him from death, but never till he heard of the gift of the poor ryot had he thought of bringing a thank-offering, an acknowledgment of the mercy shown to him by God. The poor man’s piety kindled a feeling of piety in the breast of the wealthy Sahib, even as one torch is kindled by another.

“Are the natives, then, so anxious to have their church built?” the commissioner asked of the clergyman.

“Many wish it to be built,” was Padre Logan’s reply; “but Isa Das is the only one of whom I have yet heard as helping the cause by a gift.”

“Then let his example be followed,” cried Manton Sahib; “and my help shall not be wanting. Tell Ghopal, that whatever sum of money he may succeed in gathering from his native flock for the building of the church before Sunday next, shall be doubled by me.”

“Ghopal will not gather much, I suspect,” observed Colonel Miller to Manton Sahib; “your purse will not be greatly lightened.”

“Whether the sum be small or great, I will keep to my promise,” said the commissioner; “and the heavier the drain on my purse, the better shall I be pleased.”

VII.

Before the rising of the sun on the following morning, Padre Logan was on his way to the house of Ghopal, to carry to him the news of the commissioner’s promise. Before the sun had set on that day, Padre Ghopal had visited the dwelling of every native Christian in the place, and in every house had told of the poor ryot’s offering, and of the rich commissioner’s offer. Never had such interest and excitement been shown amongst the Christians before. The punishment of Ya’kub, the erring one, and the robbery of the money of the unfortunate Gunga Ram, were known to all; and the story of the three rupees from the lips of Padre Ghopal fell with more effect upon the ears of the hearers than ten sermons might have done. “God is great!” they exclaimed. “Happy is he upon whom rests the blessing of the Most High. Without that blessing, even money may bring but sorrow and shame.”

Padre Ghopal carried with him a bag to receive the contributions of the people. When he started in the morning, there was but one rupee in the bag—that one was the offering of Isa Das; but before Ghopal returned to his home the bag had become a heavy burden, full of pice, annas, and rupees. Those who had never given before now gave with thankfulness and joy.

“I was going to spend much on the marriage festivities of my daughter,” said one; “I will spend less on feasting and show, that I may have something to spare for the work of God. May the Lord Jesus grant His favour to my child; that is far better than dance or feasting could be.”

“I had intended to buy a new horse,” said a baboo; “but I will make my old pony carry me yet another year. I will ride him with pleasure; and mounted upon him, will go from day to day to see the house of God rising from its ruins, for I shall have put many bricks in that church.”

Margam, the mother of Padre Ghopal, had no money to give; but, with a happy smile, she drew from her arm a silver bangle, and dropped it into the bag of her son. “Let the silver be changed into bricks for the house of the Lord,” said the pious woman.

Before the appointed Sunday arrived, Padre Logan and Ghopal together, with thankful surprise, counted out the money which had been poured by rich and poor into the treasury of the Lord. The coppers and the silver together, and cowries also, that were found in the bag, amounted to a goodly sum; and when the last rupee had been counted, Padre Ghopal lifted up his eyes to heaven, and exclaimed, “God be praised! He hath answered our prayers even beyond our hopes. There is lying before me in these heaps half of the money required to build up our church!”

“And Manton Sahib will double the amount,” said the joyful Padre Logan. “He is a man who will never flinch back from keeping his promise.”

Padre Logan was right; nor had the commissioner the slightest wish to flinch back from keeping his promise. Manton Sahib rejoiced to help those who were helping themselves. Never had the Englishman written anything with more pleasure than when he dipped his pen and made out a cheque on the Bank of Bengal for the remainder of the sum required to complete the building of the church.

Fast went on the work of building; the church seemed to grow rapidly, as rice when the water rises around it. Every one in the Christian village rejoiced to see its progress, and many who could give no money gave a helping hand to the work.

“This is our own church,” the people would say; “we need no more money from England. We ourselves, with the Commissioner Sahib’s help, have built our house of prayer, and we will support our minister also. It is a good thing to offer freely and joyfully to the Lord. ‘God loveth a cheerful giver’” (2 Cor. ix. 7).

Before the rainy season arrived the little church was built and roofed in; and there was a glad gathering of all the people to celebrate the opening of the holy house with prayer and songs of praise. Gunga Ram and Ya’kub were there; the one had left his hospital, the other had been dismissed from jail. Gunga Ram had a pale cheek, and a deep scar left by a wound; and poor Ya’kub could scarcely lift his eyes from the ground, for shame covered his face. These two poor ryots joined in the prayer, but their voices were not heard in the songs of joy.

After the meeting was over, Gunga Ram and Ya’kub joined Isa Das, who was standing a little apart, his hands clasped, his face bright with happiness, as he looked at the beautiful building standing where only ruins had been.

“Ah, my brother!” cried Gunga Ram, “this is indeed a day of rejoicing for thee. Behold God hath heard thy prayer, and hath greatly prospered thy work.”

Gunga Ram spoke from the heart, for during the time of his sore sickness and pain God’s Holy Spirit had spoken to his soul. Gunga Ram had resolved that out of his little earnings a tenth part should always henceforth be devoted to holy uses, the support of his pastor, and the relief of the poor. Gunga Ram would seek to lay up for himself treasure in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal.

“I am as joyous as if I were sultan of the world,” said Isa Das, “when I look on that house, in which I hope that the gospel will be preached from generation to generation.”

“And thou thyself hath built that church,” said Gunga Ram.

“I build a church!—I, who am but a poor ryot!” exclaimed Isa Das in surprise. “Thou dost not well, O Gunga Ram, to speak words of mockery to thy friend.”

“They are not words of mockery, but words of truth,” replied Gunga Ram. “Without thy prayers and thy offering, that church would not have been standing there this day. It is thou who didst build that church.”

“I laid but one brick,” said Isa Das.

“But as from the seed springs the tree, so from that one brick laid in faith and prayer that goodly building hath risen,” said Gunga Ram. “O my brother, I have learned a great lesson whilst lying wounded and in sore trouble,—a lesson which is worth more to me than the nine rupees which the robbers carried away. Our money is as seed-corn which the Lord, the great Land-owner, commits to His servants that they may sow and reap a hundredfold. Ya’kub was as one who grinds the seed-corn and eats it, and lo, his field is brown and bare when the green blade is springing up in the fields of others around him! I was as one who hides his seed-corn till the time for sowing is past, and that which might have brought forth good fruit becomes corrupted and mouldy. But thou, O Isa Das, thou hast been as one who does the bidding of his lord, and in the day of harvest greatly rejoices. For is it not written in the Word of Truth, _He that soweth to his flesh, shall of the flesh reap corruption; but he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the spirit reap life everlasting_?” (Gal. vi. 8.)

III.

The Pugree[14] with a Border of Gold.

It was a happy day for Hassan, the Christian moonshee,[15] when all arrangements were settled for the marriage of his daughter Fatima with Yuhanna, a highly respectable baboo,[16] who held the same faith as himself. Hassan had had a time of great trouble both before and after his baptism; old friends had turned their back upon him, and those who had often eaten his bread had crossed to the other side of the road when they saw him. Reproach had been cast upon his name, and sharp words had pierced his soul like a sword. Yet Hassan had held fast to the faith which he had embraced; he had borne losses and endured reproach, strengthened by prayer,[17] and helped by the counsels of Alton Sahib, the English friend who had first placed a Bible in the hands of his moonshee. The storm of persecution had now passed over; men ceased to revile one whom they could not but respect; Hassan earned a comfortable livelihood by teaching; and now his daughter’s betrothal to the baboo whom above all others he preferred for a son-in-law, was as a crown to his prosperity.

“We will have a grand wedding, O Margam,” said Hassan to his wife; “a great _tamasha_,[18] and plenty of feasting!”

“And my daughter shall have goodly garments, meet for the bride of Yuhanna,”[19] said the smiling Margam. “She shall have a shawl woven at Amritsar, and embroidery from Delhi, and slippers worked in blue and silver, such as are worn by the begum.”[20]

“And what shall I have, O father?” cried little Yusuf, the youngest child of the moonshee, and dear to his heart as the light of his eyes.

“Thou at the wedding of thy sister shalt have a new pugree with a border of gold,” said Hassan, bending down to kiss fondly the brow of his child.

“For the wedding festivities and the goodly garments money must be borrowed,” observed Margam, who knew that the expenses to be incurred would amount to a sum much greater than her husband could earn in a year by teaching.

“Yes, I must borrow,” said Hassan calmly, but with a look of thought. “To whom shall I go for the money?”

“To Nabi Bakhsh,” suggested Margam.

“Not to Nabi Bakhsh, of all men!” exclaimed the moonshee; “he is an usurer who would squeeze juice out of a date-stone! Not to Sadik, for I owe him five rupees already.”

“There is the English Sahib; he is a great friend of my lord,” observed Margam; “surely when he hears that the money is required for a wedding-feast he will be ready to lend.”

“And Alton Sahib is able to do so,” cried Hassan; “his salary is five hundred rupees a month, and I doubt that he spends more than three. He has the smallest and worst bungalow in the station, and keeps fewer servants than a clerk on the railway would do. The Sahib must be laying up money; and he is so much my friend that I am sure that he would help me in this my need. To-day is a holiday in the school where I teach; my time is therefore my own, and I will go at once to the Sahib.”

“And as you come back by the bazaar, O father,” cried the eager little Yusuf, “be sure that you do not forget to buy for me the pretty new pugree with a border of gold.”

“I will not forget it, O my child,” said the moonshee with a smile, as he rose to depart.

Hassan had pleasant thoughts whilst he went on his way towards the bungalow of Alton Sahib. He considered how the Lord had brought him through all his troubles, and after the storm of adversity had given the sunshine of joy to His servant. “Those who despised me will envy me now,” thought Hassan; “my daughter is to marry a good man and a prosperous man, and the grand feast which I shall prepare will show to all that this is an occasion of great joy and rejoicing.”

When Hassan came in sight of the little bungalow of Alton Sahib, his thoughts flowed in another channel.

“It is strange that a government Sahib should choose to live in a place little better than a stable,” said the moonshee to himself. “That bungalow is only fit for owls and rats, and will come down in the next rains. The Sahib is at home, I see, for there is the syce[21] leading away his horse from the door. Horse, did I call it! How can an English Sahib ride such a wretched tattú?[22] The tall man’s feet must almost touch the ground as he rides. There is only one thing which I do not like about Alton Sahib. He is as good a Christian and as true a friend as ever trod the earth, but he must have a close fist, and be uncommonly fond of his money. I never hear of his entertaining a friend: and he seems to make his coat last for ever; I wonder whether he ever intends to buy a new one! I like a Sahib to spend freely, and never take to counting the pice. Does not the Bible say, ‘Lay not up for yourselves treasures on earth’? Why does one who loves God as the Sahib does hoard up his money thus? It is a grievous fault in the Sahib.”

Hassan forgot the Sahib’s fault when he stood in his presence, met his kindly smile, and heard his hearty congratulations on the approaching marriage in his family. Hassan was asked to take a seat; there were but two chairs in the room, which was very poorly furnished indeed.

Alton Sahib listened smilingly to all that Hassan had to tell him about the baboo who was to become his son-in-law,—how much respected he was by all, and how much property he had in his village. But the smile passed from the Sahib’s face when Hassan, after much other conversation, told the object of his visit, and asked for a loan of two hundred rupees.

“I have not the money,” said the Sahib gravely; “and if I had, it would be against my conscience to lend it.”

Hassan could scarcely refrain from an exclamation of surprise. He glanced round the room in which he sat, and Alton Sahib, who quickly read the minds of men, perceived that in that of the moonshee was arising the thought, “Can the Sahib be speaking the truth?”

The face of the Englishman flushed; he hesitated for several moments, as if it were a painful effort to him to utter that which he was about to say.

“Hassan, I seldom speak to any one about my private affairs,” said the Sahib at last; “but I believe that it will be better both for you and for myself if I do so now. You think me close-handed and unwilling to part with my money; you may even think me insincere, and therefore a most inconsistent Christian; but I spoke but truth when I said that I had no money. The fact is”—the Sahib lowered his voice as he went on—“the fact is, that I am in debt to a friend;” and the flush on the young man’s brow and cheek deepened as he uttered the words.

Hassan’s surprise was now twofold; he wondered how the prudent Sahib could have got into debt, and he wondered why any one should blush to own that he had done so. There was nothing shameful to Hassan in the idea of being in debt; like many of his countrymen, he thought it a very small matter, scarcely a misfortune, and not in the least degree a disgrace. It was clear that debt was not regarded in the same light by the English Christian.

It had often been a matter of regret to Alton Sahib to see how lightly debt weighed on the consciences of many in India. He took a deep interest in the spiritual welfare of Hassan, whom he regarded as a brother in Christ. “Shall I see my brother sin, and not tell him of his error?” thought Alton Sahib. “Debt in this land is as the canker-worm in the grain, or the hidden abscess in the human frame. I can best show Hassan how I abhor it by letting him know what efforts I have myself made, and am now making, to get rid of the plague.”

“I feel it due to myself to let you know something of the circumstances that involved me in the debt from which I am, and have been for years, struggling to free myself,” said the young Sahib, after another pause. “When I was in Calcutta, not long after my first arrival in this country, I was robbed at a hotel of all the ready money which I possessed. This was, of course, a source of annoyance to me, but not of serious difficulty, as I had a wealthy friend in a station in Bengal, who would, I knew, at once advance whatever I required to pay my hotel-bill, and to take me up to the Punjaub, the province to which I had been appointed. I believed that the loan would be very soon repaid by my father in England.”

“Your excellency’s mind must have been quite at rest in the matter,” observed the moonshee.

“As I dipped my pen,” continued the Sahib, “to write to my friend the judge to ask for a loan of three hundred rupees, the very smallest sum that would suffice to cover needful expenses, a servant brought in letters from England. I laid down my pen and opened the first one, little guessing the heavy news which it would contain. The letter informed me that, by the failure of a bank, all my father’s property, the savings of many years, had been swept away; and that he who had risen in the morning believing himself to be in affluence, had lain down at night in a state of poverty, which illness made more distressing.”

“Alas! the news was heavy indeed!” exclaimed Hassan.

“My father has since been called to that happy home where there is no more trial,” said Alton Sahib with a sigh; “he had laid up treasure in heaven, in that bank which never can fail. But at the time of which I speak his need was pressing; I wrote to the judge in haste, but instead of borrowing, as I had intended, three hundred rupees with the assurance that the money would be repaid in two months, I asked for the loan of five thousand rupees, to be repaid I knew not when, that I might send home help at once to my sick and afflicted father.”

“And the Judge Sahib gave the money?” asked Hassan.

“At once, most generously, most readily,” replied the young English Sahib; “nor do I believe that he would ever ask me for one rupee of the money again.”

“All is well, then, your excellency,” observed Hassan; “the Judge Sahib is rich, he needs not the money, the matter is no trouble to him.”

“But it has been a sore trouble to me,” cried the young Sahib quickly; “I could no more sit down quietly under that burden of debt, than I could calmly endure to wear a chain of iron around my neck. My life has been one perpetual effort to cast off that chain; link by link I have broken it away. I lived from the first on half my income—lived as no other English gentleman in my position would do. When my salary was increased, I did not increase my expenses. I have endured to be thought stingy and inhospitable, in a land where not to have the hand and the door open is esteemed a great reproach. I could not give alms or entertain guests on the money that was really another’s; it was better in man’s sight to be unjustly considered mean, than in the sight of God to be dishonest.”

“Dishonest!” exclaimed Hassan in astonishment; the word did not seem in his mind to be in the least suited for the occasion.

“Yes, dishonest,” repeated the Sahib; “money which we have borrowed is not really our own,—it belongs to the lender.”

“It was his pleasure to lend it,” observed Hassan.

“But not his pleasure that it should never be returned,” rejoined the Sahib with animation.

Still the moonshee did not appear persuaded that there could be any harm in incurring a debt to a man who was rich enough to spare the money.

Alton Sahib rose and went up to his table, on which lay a Bible. He turned over the pages, and then silently pointed out the text,—_Owe no man anything, but to love one another_ (Rom. xiii. 8).

“I knew not that such a command was in the Bible,” observed the moonshee. “But the Sahib was under necessity to break it.”

“Conscience does not reproach me for incurring my debt,” said Alton Sahib gravely, “but conscience would give me no rest if I neglected doing my utmost to pay back what I owe. I hope, when my last month’s salary comes in on Monday, to send back the last rupee to my friend; and the day on which I find myself free from debt will doubtless be one of the happiest days of my life.”

“Ah! then the Sahib will be able, after all, to lend to his servant!” exclaimed Hassan with pleasure; “the marriage of my daughter will not take place for more than a month.”

Alton Sahib felt vexed that all that he had said had had so little effect on the mind of the Christian moonshee. The young man closed the Bible and returned to his seat.

“Moonshee Jé,” he said, “I borrowed money from pressing necessity; you would borrow without necessity.”

Again surprise awoke in the breast of the moonshee. “Did I not tell your excellency,” he said, “that I required money for the wedding festivities of my daughter?”[23]

“And what necessity is there that those festivities should involve you in great expense, or entangle you in debt?” said Alton Sahib. “If you could be content to put aside pride and ostentation, to place simple fare before a moderate number of guests, and avoid all waste and show, your own means would suffice for the marriage expenses. Will your daughter be more happy as a wife, because her wedding-feast has made her father act in a way that befits not a Christian? Is God’s blessing on the union to be procured by disobeying God’s command? What profit is there in an expensive wedding-feast?”

“It is the dastur,”[24] observed Hassan, as if that expression were a sufficient answer to all objections.

“O my friend!” exclaimed Alton Sahib, “you who condemn the worship of idols, make not for yourself an idol of dastur. It was once the dastur in England for Sahibs who received a slight affront to call out the offender to some retired spot, that the two might shoot at each other with pistols, that so the offence, however small, might be wiped out in blood.”

“A very evil dastur,” remarked the moonshee.

“But one so generally observed, that it was thought the deepest dishonour to break through it,” said Alton Sahib. “But men were found brave and faithful enough to break through such a dastur for the sake of Christ and the gospel. It is now the dastur amongst Mohammedans to recite the praises of their prophet; it is the dastur amongst Brahmins to wear their holy threads; but you have broken through your dastur, and Brahmins, converted like yourself to the Christian religion, have cast aside their much-valued threads. Will you, O my friend, reserve _any_ dastur that is contrary to the will of God? Will you say to your Heavenly King, ‘Lord! I have given up for Thee the love of brethren, the favour of friends, many of the things which I prized most upon earth; but I cannot—will not—even to obey Thee, give up the dastur of half-ruining myself to have a grand wedding-feast. I at my baptism renounced “the world, the flesh, and the devil,” but I reserved one thing which is of the world which I will not renounce.’”

The face of the moonshee looked troubled. His friend had pointed out sin where he had hitherto seen no sin; dishonesty in what he had never considered dishonest; shame in what he had never thought shameful. With a deep sigh he made reply: “It is not for myself that I care; but what would those of my household say if I bade them, on such an occasion, act differently from all those who dwell around them!” Before the mind of the moonshee arose the images of Margam and Fatima, and the loved child who was perhaps the dearest of all. How could he bear to disappoint them, and expose them to the taunts of their neighbours!

“Go to your family; they too are Christians,” said Alton Sahib, “and, I trust, Christians not only in name. Repeat to them what I have said to you to-day. Ask them whether the pride of life which leads to sinful debt be not condemned in this verse?—‘All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the _pride of life_, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever’ (1 John ii. 16, 17). Ask them whether in another world, nay, even one year hence, the remembrance that a foolish dastur was given up for conscience’ sake will not be sweeter than the recollection of the grandest display at a wedding? The praise of man is as the gay paper-lamps at an illumination, that last but for a night; the praise of God is as the stars in the sky, that shone ere the day of our birth, and which will shine long after our bodies have been laid in the tomb.”

Hassan arose, made his salám, and took his departure. His reason was convinced, his conscience was aroused, he was almost persuaded to have a simple and inexpensive wedding; but whenever he thought of his family his resolution gave way.

“I will not return through the bazaar,” said Hassan to himself rather sadly; “I should be too much tempted to buy for my darling the pugree with a border of gold!”

No sooner was the shadow of Hassan seen on the threshold of his home than little Yusuf, full of eagerness, ran forward to meet his father. The child looked to see whether the moonshee had brought anything in his hand, and the face of the little one showed disappointment when he saw that the hand was empty.

“O father!” exclaimed Yusuf, “you have forgotten my pugree!”

“I forgot it not, my son,” said the moonshee, as, entering the inner apartment, he seated himself on his carpet.

“Has my lord ordered any of the things needed for the great day which is coming?” asked the smiling Margam, who was preparing the moonshee’s hookah. Fatima thought of bangles[25] and ear-rings, but she was too shy to utter a word.

“I have delayed making my preparations,” said the moonshee.

Margam saw that the mind of her husband was perplexed with much thought. “Has the English Sahib then given nothing?” she ventured to ask.

“The Sahib has given a great deal of good advice, but advice which we should all find it very hard to follow,” replied the convert. “Be seated, O Margam and Fatima, and you shall hear what the Sahib says regarding grand marriage festivities, and the debts to which, in this country, they almost necessarily lead.”

Wondering, and rather fearing what might be coming, Margam and Fatima seated themselves on the floor and listened. Little Yusuf took his favourite place close to his father, whose hand he fondled in both his own. The moonshee then repeated, almost word for word, what had passed between himself and his English friend. Margam broke in every now and then with an exclamation of surprise or displeasure; but Fatima listened in silence, with her glance bent on the ground. The large eyes of Yusuf were never taken from the face of his father; the child was eagerly drinking in all that was uttered. Though he could not understand every word, Yusuf took in the general meaning of much that was said.

When the moonshee ceased, there was a short silence in the room. Margam looked vexed, and the downcast eyes of Fatima were brimming over with tears. It would be to these women, Christians though they were, a terrible trial to break through dastur on such an occasion as that of a wedding.[26]

“I leave the decision to you all,” said the moonshee, glad perhaps thus to escape from himself deciding so difficult a question. “Shall I borrow from some one else, and have all things arranged according to dastur; or shall we give up everything that is not necessary, to avoid displeasing God by incurring debt?”

Again there was a short silence. Little Yusuf was the first to break it. Clinging to his father, the child raised himself to a position high enough for his lips almost to reach his parent’s ear, and then said in a whisper,—which was, however, distinct enough to be heard by all present,—“I will please the Lord Jesus by giving up my pugree bordered with gold.”

The most learned discourse could not have had more effect than those simple words of the child. The vexed look on the mother’s face changed to a smile; and though two big tears dropped down the cheeks of Fatima, she was able cheerfully to say, “I would rather please the Lord Jesus than have Malika Victoria’s jewel, the grand Koh-i-noor!”

A few weeks afterwards, the marriage took place. Great was the surprise amongst the neighbours of Hassan at the simple arrangements made for the wedding. The feast was chiefly of fruit, the ornaments chiefly of flowers; but the fruit was sweet, and the flowers fairer than anything that man’s hand could have made. Fatima was a very happy bride, for she thought to herself, “As the Lord deigned to come to the marriage at Cana, we can ask Him to be present at this simple feast, where there is nothing which my dear father is not able to pay for.” And no face at the wedding looked brighter than that of little Yusuf; the snow-white pugree above that happy young face needed no border of gold!

IV.

The Pink Chaddar.[27]

Hear, the story of Buté, the moonshee’s only daughter.

Buté had, when she was but a babe in arms, lost her mother, but she was to her father as the light of his eyes. The moonshee often went to teach a Mem Sahiba,[28] whose husband was in government employ. The Mem Sahiba was kind to little Buté; she let her sometimes come to her bungalow, and gave her sweetmeats, and once a doll from England. Those were happy days to little Buté when her father, taking her hand, led her to the white bungalow in which the Mem Sahiba dwelt.

One day the Mem Sahiba said to the moonshee: “The Sahib wishes to go on a journey into Cashmere, and to take you with him; are you willing to go for six months with the Sahib?”

The moonshee’s heart was glad, for he had long wished to visit the beautiful Vale of Cashmere; but then trouble came over him like a shadow, for he thought of his little Buté.

“If I go far from hence,” said he, “what will become of my only child? Behold, I have but one, and her mother is dead, and I have no sisters who would be to her as a mother. Buté, if I leave her, will be as a stray lamb that is found by the jackals.”

“Have no fear for Buté,” the Mem Sahiba made reply; “if it be your wish, I will place her in the school at Khushpore, for the Miss Sahiba there is my friend. Buté shall learn to read and to write, and all that is good will she learn; for the Miss Sahiba is one who fears God, and she dearly loves little children.”

And thus was it arranged; the moonshee went to Cashmere with the Sahib, and little Buté was sent to the school at Khushpore.

Buté shed many tears at parting from her father, but her tears were soon dried. The Miss Sahiba looked kindly upon her, and spoke sweet words; and though Buté was shy at first, and hung down her head in silence, even before the end of the day she was as merry as the little gray striped squirrel that runs up the trees, and hides in the branches.

Buté had now many companions, and soon made friends with them all. Very fond was the little girl of talking, and in the hours of play the words from her tongue flowed on as the brook that runs down from the hills. Buté liked to speak much of the Mem Sahiba whom none of the other girls had seen, and of the grand things in her house. Buté did not take any heed to speak truth, so that the stream of her words was not pure, but as a muddy and polluted brook.

“My Mem Sahiba,” the child would say, “has more shining rings on her fingers than there are leaves on that tree. The Sahib is a very great man; those who come near him bow down to the ground, and when he goes forth he rides on an elephant with a howdah of gold.”[29]

Some of Buté’s companions wondered when they heard her stories, and some laughed and called them _jhuth muth_ (fibs); but when the Miss Sahiba heard them she never laughed, but she sighed, and her gentle face grew grave. Often, when alone in her room, the Miss Sahiba would kneel down and thus pray to the God in heaven who listens to prayer: “O Lord, show my dear children the shame and the sin of lying! Teach them Thy way of truth; make them holy, for Thou art holy!”

When Buté came to school, she wore a chaddar pink as the petals of a rose. The Miss Sahiba did not much like to see this chaddar, for those worn by all her other girls were white. But Buté did not wish to change her pink garment for a plain white one.

“I cannot leave off wearing this chaddar,” she said, drawing it closer round her slight form. “My Mem Sahiba gave it to me, and she told me always to wear it.”

The Miss Sahiba made no reply, but her mind was not at rest. She thought to herself,—“I never know whether Buté be speaking the truth or not. Oh that I could but trust her word! I love my little Buté—she is gentle and docile, quick at her lessons, never cross, and ready to do a kindness to any of her companions; but a pleasant child with a deceitful heart is like a fruit that looks fair to the eye, but which is all decayed and worthless within.”

The Miss Sahiba used often to gather the children around her and talk with them when the hours for lessons were over; and much did they like to listen. Sometimes she told them of the dear mother whom she had left behind in England, that she might come and teach little Indian children the way to heaven.

The Miss Sahiba sat in the schoolroom on one hot summer’s day, when the weather was too sultry for even her native children to go out, and they were seated on the floor around her. The Miss Sahiba felt weary and faint, for she had come from a land where the heat is never great, and the glow of India was to her almost as that of a fiery furnace. But she thought that her dear Lord had given her these children as His little lambs to feed, and she was willing to live and even to die far away from her own home, if she only might be permitted to lead these children to the Lord Jesus, the Good Shepherd, who gave His life for the sheep.

“I think that there was never a better mother than mine,” said the Miss Sahiba, as she showed to the children a little picture of her dear parent which she had just received from England. “My mother was always kind and good to me, but there were three occasions in my life on which she showed the greatest love; and whenever I recall these occasions to mind, I bless God for having given me such a good mother.”

The children were eager to hear more, and little Buté, who sat nearest to the feet of the Miss Sahiba, looked up into her face and said, “Tell us of these three times when the Mem Sahiba in England showed so much love.”

“I will tell you,” replied the Miss Sahiba; “and you shall judge on which occasion the greatest love was shown.

“The first time was when I was sick with the small-pox. Day and night my dear mother watched by my bed. If, after feverish sleep, I opened my eyes at midnight, there, close at hand, ready with the medicine or cooling drink, I ever saw my beloved mother. But for her tender care, I believe that I should have died. Was it not true love that made her watch over me thus?”

The Miss Sahiba paused, and all the children who had heard her replied, “It was very great love.”

“The second occasion was this,” the Miss Sahiba went on. “One evening in winter, when the fire was lighted in our sitting-room, I saw above the mantlepiece a picture that had been crookedly hung. It was rather higher than I could reach with my hand, so I brought a stool, and stood upon it, that I might set the picture straight. I knew not that my dress, as I stood, had touched the fire, until, to my great terror, I found myself all in flames! My shrieks brought my mother to my aid. She threw me down on the floor; she wrapped a thick rug around me; with her own dear hands, all scorched and blistered, she put out the fire. Never shall I forget how my mother then clasped me to her heart, and wept, and thanked God who had enabled her to save her child from a terrible death. She was herself in very great pain from her burns, but she scarcely thought of the pain.”

Again the Miss Sahiba paused, and one and all of the children said, “The Mem Sahiba showed very great love.”

“On the third occasion, of which I am going to tell you,” said the English Sahiba, “I think that even greater love was shown, for my mother saved me from something worse than even fever or fire.”

Then every child bent forward to listen, and wondering, thought in her heart, “What can be worse than fever or fire?”

“The third time when my mother showed how well she loved me,” continued the Sahiba, “was—when she gave me a beating for telling a lie!”

The children were all so much astonished that they could not utter a word. They opened their black eyes wide, and stared at the Sahiba. Buté began to laugh,—it seemed so strange to her that a beating should be called a proof of great love!

“Oh! well, well do I recollect the grief of my mother when she found that her little girl had spoken an untruth!” said the Miss Sahiba. “The pain to her heart was worse, far worse, than the pain of the burns had been to her hands. She told me, with tears in her eyes, that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, that liars will be shut out from heaven. She punished me, but not in anger; oh no, but in very great sorrow and love. Then she and I knelt down together to ask God to forgive my great sin. I could not speak because of my sobs; but I heard my mother ask God to blot out her child’s sin in the blood of His dear Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, that which alone can wash away sin. My mother prayed—oh, how hard she prayed!—while the tears ran down her cheeks, that God, for the sake of the Lord Jesus Christ, would give me His Holy Spirit, to make my sinful heart clean, and to guide me into all truth. Dear children, I shall never forget that day, either the punishment or the prayer. Thanks to my mother who gave the punishment, thanks to God who heard the prayer, I believe that I have never since that time uttered a lie. Now, tell me, my dear children, did not my mother do more for me then, did she not show more true love for me on that sad day, than when she watched me through my illness, or saved my life from the flames?”[30]

Some of the girls said “Yes;” but one of them whispered softly, “It does not seem so to me.”

“I will tell you why I think it,” said the Miss Sahiba, who had heard the whisper. “Sin is a worse evil than fever, and the fire of God’s anger worse than fire that only burns the body. It was pain to my mother to punish me; but she did not shrink from the pain, no more than she shrank from throwing me down on the floor, or scorching her own hands when she was trying to put out the flames.”

Many of the girls were listening with interest and attention; but the Miss Sahiba saw but too well that Buté did not care for good counsel. The child’s eyes had wandered to the picture which the Miss Sahiba still held in her hand; and while others were thinking of the lesson of truth taught by the lady, Buté only asked the trifling question, “Is the frame of that picture real gold?”

Alas! that when God’s servants speak of heaven and the way to reach it, and of other solemn truths, some who might listen and learn let their attention be drawn away by the merest trifles. It is as if a person to whom a diamond is offered should turn away to chase a butterfly; or as if one fleeing from a tiger should stop to pluck a flower by the way.

It was not many days after that on which the Miss Sahiba had told her story, that her first friend, the Mem Sahiba, came to visit the school at Khushpore. It is easy to be imagined that Buté was rejoiced again to see her kind friend; and in honour of the visit, the Miss Sahiba promised all the children a feast of fruit.

The two ladies walked up the room in which the classes were assembled, and as they came near the place where Buté stood with her eyes sparkling with pleasure, the Miss Sahiba said to her friend, “Here is your little Buté, in the pink chaddar which she says that you gave her and told her to wear.”

“I never gave her a chaddar of any colour,” said the Mem Sahiba with a look of surprise; “what could make the silly child utter such an untruth?”

Do you think that Buté blushed and hung down her head in shame at having been found out guilty of lying? Alas! no. Buté had told so many lies in her short life that she felt no sorrow or shame for the sin. She was only vexed that the Miss Sahiba should know of her falsehood.

If Buté did not care, the Miss Sahiba cared a great deal. She thought, “Oh, how shall I cure this poor child of her terrible habit?” Then turning towards Buté, she said aloud, “Buté, I grieve to find that you have told me an untruth. I cannot let you share in our feast. Retire to the sleeping-room directly; I should not be your true friend if I passed over this matter.”

Then Buté began to cry; not because of sorrow for sin, but because she had lost the feast, and was sent so early to bed. She clasped her hands, and glanced towards her former friend, the Mem Sahiba, as if to entreat her intercession; but the lady looked grave and shook her head. She knew that the punishment had been deserved, and that it would be no real kindness not to inflict it.

But still poor Buté, accustomed from her infancy to hear lies, could not but think herself hardly dealt with. Had her lie got any one into trouble, had she slandered a companion, she would have seen that sin had been committed; “But what did it signify,” thought she, “whether I said truly that the chaddar had been given to me by my father; or untruly, that it had been given to me by the Mem Sahiba?” As Buté turned weeping to go to her room, the Miss Sahiba heard her murmur between her sobs, “Why does she make such a fuss? What harm could the lie do? it was such a little one!”

The feast of fruit began; plenty of nice kélas (plantains) were spread on the floor. Some of the girls were sorry for Buté, sent to remain in her bed to think over her fault; but soon even these girls forgot the poor child, who could hear from her apartment the sound of their laughter and singing. Buté lay crying, listening to the children’s voices, and longing to join them.

As the Miss Sahiba, with her friend, sat watching the young people enjoying their fruit, she was suddenly startled by a scream from the neighbouring room, which was that to which Buté had been sent in disgrace. The scream expressed violent terror or pain; and the Miss Sahiba, who loved the child whom she punished, rushed into the room with such speed to see what could be the matter, that almost before the girls had time to cry, “What has happened?” the lady was at the side of her poor little charge.

Buté was standing on her bed, her face pale with terror, looking at a small black scorpion which was running across the floor. The Miss Sahiba’s heel in a moment had crushed the scorpion, and in a quiet, composed manner she turned to Buté. “Why did you scream so?” she asked.

“It was on my bed—close—quite close to me! I just raised my arm, and it fell on the floor,” cried Buté, who was trembling violently from the effects of the fright.

“Why did you make such a fuss?” said the Miss Sahiba, after motioning to the girls, who were crowding into the room, to leave her alone with Buté.

“How could I help making a fuss?” exclaimed the astonished Buté; “the dreadful thing might have stung me!”

“Likely enough,” said the Miss Sahiba coldly, as she seated herself on the edge of the bed; “but what harm could it do?”

Buté was more and more surprised. “It was a horrid poisonous creature!” she cried.

“It was such a _little one_,” said the lady, looking steadfastly into the face of the girl.

Buté did not know what to make of her teacher taking the matter so quietly; she herself was not disposed to take it quietly at all. “I wish that you would have the place searched,—oh, every corner of it!” she cried. “I should not wonder if a whole nest of scorpions were hidden in some hole in the wall!”

“That’s likely enough,” said the Miss Sahiba quietly; “this is a season for insects. I saw pretty fire-flies last night; I am going to look for them again in the compound.”

“You think of fire-flies, when there may be scorpions in this very room!” exclaimed Buté. “The Sahiba does not seem to care for the danger to her poor little girl.”