Chapter II: Part 2

‘Ah, ah!’ shouted the púsári, gesticulating furiously with his stick. ‘I will have vengeance for it! I swear by Púliya I will not rest till I have repaid him with interest, though it cost me my last rupee!—How long,’ he continued, turning fiercely to the villagers, who stood round silent but sympathising—‘how long are we to bear with this man? He is a wild beast, as cruel and dangerous as the fiercest brute in these jungles. He will stand at nothing to gratify his hate. He has robbed me and slandered me, and brought false cases against me; and now, see the brutal way he has injured this poor brute of mine! He will try to murder me next. But I will have vengeance; I will complain to the headman!’

‘Not much use in that, _iya_’ [a term of respect], remarked the old man who had before spoken.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed the púsári passionately, ‘he will bribe the headman as usual, no doubt. But I will outbid him! The múdliya shall have my last ricepot ere I be balked of my vengeance!’ So saying, he strode into his house, muttering curses and threats.

Vallee, after a short time, followed him in. ‘The rice is ready, father,’ she said. ‘Shall I serve it?’

‘No!’ replied her father sternly. ‘I will neither eat nor drink till I have seen to this matter. I shall go at once to Mánkúlam and see the múdliya.’

‘Father!’ said Vallee hesitatingly, ‘perhaps Iyan did not do this; perhaps’——

‘You’re a fool, child!’ returned the púsári sharply. ‘Who but he could have done it?’

‘Valan told me’—— began Vallee timidly.

Her father interrupted her with an angry exclamation. ‘Did I not order you never to speak to him? Have you dared to listen to the brother of my bitterest enemy?’ and he raised his hand threateningly. ‘Now listen, daughter! If you ever speak to Valan or listen to him or have aught to do with him again, I will beat you as I would a dog; I swear to you I will.—Now, hearken to my words and obey!’ And with a threatening look and a suggestive shake of his stick, the púsári stalked out. After another look in silence at the wounded buffalo, he left the village and strode off in the direction of Mánkúlam, leaving Vallee crouching in a corner of the hut with her hands over her face and sobbing aloud.

Valan Elúvan, of whom they had been speaking, was the younger brother of the púsári’s enemy, and was Vallee’s lover. He was a man of a very different nature from his brother, being open-hearted, generous, and good-natured. Nevertheless, the púsári hated him almost as much as he did his brother. The understanding between Valan and Vallee had only recently been come to. For a long time, Valan had watched and admired the graceful maiden; but owing to the bad feeling between the two families, had not ventured to speak to her. One day, however, seeing her in difficulties with a troublesome cow she was trying to milk, he went to her assistance. She thanked him shyly, but with such evident pleasure at his attention, that he was emboldened to speak to her again, when he met her one day going to a neighbouring village. After that, they frequently found occasion to meet alone, and gradually their acquaintance grew to intimacy, and finally ripened to love. Unfortunately, her father discovered accidentally what was going on, and sternly forbade Vallee ever to speak to her lover again. Since then, she had only had one opportunity of seeing Valan. This fresh outrage on the part of Iyan Elúvan, she knew but too well, finally extinguished all chance of her father ever accepting Valan as her lover; so, crouching in the dark hut, she gave vent to her grief.

Meanwhile, the púsári was striding along the jungle-path leading to Mánkúlam, his mouth full of curses, and his heart full of hatred and thoughts of vengeance. The path was narrow and winding, leading now along sandy torrent-beds, then through lofty forest or thorny jungle. The village was three miles distant, and it was now evening, so he walked as fast as he could, finding some vent for his feelings in the violent exercise. When he had walked two-thirds of the way, he arrived at a broad river. It was now nearly dry, it being the hot season, and was merely a wide reach of deep sand, with shallow pools here and there under the high banks. The púsári had crossed the river and had just entered the jungle on the other side, when he suddenly uttered a curse and stopped short. Coming along the path towards him, and alone, was a man. It was his enemy, Iyan Elúvan! He was a broad-shouldered, big-headed man, with a round face, out of which looked two little pig-like, cunning eyes. A slight contraction of one side of his face causing him to show his teeth, gave him a peculiar, sinister, sneering expression. He had been at work cutting fence-sticks, for he was carrying his _katti_ or jungle-knife over his shoulder.

On catching sight of each other, the two men stopped and looked at one another. The púsári’s face worked with passion, his eyes glittered, and the veins stood out on his forehead. The other had a mocking, evil smile on his face, which seemed to irritate his enemy beyond endurance. Suddenly the púsári grasped his heavy iron-shod stick and made two steps forward. In an instant Iyan swung round his jungle-knife and stood on the defensive, while his sneering smile gave place to a look of concentrated hate. For a few moments they stood glaring at each other, and then the púsári slowly stepped to one side and motioned to the other to pass on, which he did, keeping an eye on his foe, however, and passing out of reach of him. As soon as he had gone by, the púsári resumed his journey, his rencontre with his enemy having added fresh fuel to the fire of evil passions blazing in his heart. Iyan watched him till he had gone some distance, and then, after a few moments’ hesitation, turned and followed, keeping him in sight, but remaining a long way behind.

A walk of a mile further brought the púsári to the village of Mánkúlam, with Iyan following in the distance. It was rather a large village, consisting of about a score of huts, scattered about a wide open spot in the jungle, with a tank on one side, and rice-fields stretching beyond it. On the outskirts of the village was a house larger and more pretentious than any of the others, and boasting a dense plantain grove, growing close to the hut, and a few cocoa-nut palms. This was the residence of the múdliya, or headman of the district. On entering the inclosure through the rude stile or gap in the fence, the púsári paused for a moment, for the place seemed deserted, no one being in sight. He heard, however, the sound of voices inside the hut, so, stepping forward, with a loud unceremonious ‘Salaam, múdliya!’ he entered the hut. Seeing his enemy enter the headman’s house, Iyan came cautiously forward, but paused irresolutely at the gate. A glance round showed him that the people of the house were all indoors, so, sneaking into the inclosure, he crept stealthily through the grove of plantain trees till he got close to the door of the hut, when he crouched down under the eaves. From his hiding-place he could hear all that was said in the hut.

‘What do you want?’ he heard a wheezy, unpleasant voice say, and he knew it was the headman who spoke. The tone in which the question was asked was harsh and unfriendly, and an ugly smile passed over the listener’s face as he noted it.

‘I am come to lodge a complaint against Iyan Elúvan,’ replied the púsári shortly.

‘I thought so,’ wheezed the headman. ‘You are as quarrelsome as a wanderoo he-monkey. Do you think I have nothing to do but to listen to your fools’ quarrels?’

‘You will listen readily enough,’ retorted the púsári angrily, ‘when Iyan Elúvan comes with his hands full of rupees!’

‘What!’ exclaimed the headman, wheezing and choking with wrath, ‘do you charge me, the múdliya of Mánkúlam, with receiving bribes?’

‘Ay, I do,’ replied the púsári sternly. ‘All the villages know it. Many a time have I brought just complaints to you, and you would not hear them. When Iyan threw a dead dog into my well; when he set fire to my straw stack; and when, by manthiram’ [magical arts], ‘he caused my cattle to fall ill, why did you not inquire into the complaints I made—why? but because your granary was bursting with the rice that Iyan gave you as hush-money!’

‘Get out of my house!’ screamed the headman huskily—‘get out, I say!’

‘I’ll have justice,’ shouted the púsári fiercely. ‘I am a poor man, and cannot bribe you; but I swear by Púliya-deva that I will have justice. I will make you both suffer for this. You shall pay for that buffalo that Iyan has lamed to the last hair on his tail. It shall be an evil day for you that you refused me justice. Look to yourself, múdliya; look to yourself, I say!’

‘Leave my house, you madman!’ exclaimed the headman in a voice scarcely articulate with rage.

A moment later, Iyan, from his hiding-place, saw his enemy burst out of the house almost beside himself with rage, his eyes ablaze, his lips drawn back in a grin of fury, and his whole frame trembling with excitement. He watched him stride across the inclosure and make for the path leading to Pandiyán, swinging his arms and gesticulating like one demented. Just as the púsári disappeared, a little boy came out of the hut, and Iyan heard him uttering exclamations of excitement and astonishment. He could also hear the voice of the headman inside wheezing out threats and curses. Presently, the little boy went out at the gate and disappeared in the village, and Iyan rose to leave his hiding-place. As he did so, he saw lying in the path a knife, which he at once knew must have been dropped by the púsári as he rushed out of the hut. Picking it up, Iyan crept back into his hiding-place, and crouching down, examined it long and earnestly, feeling its edge, and making motions with it in the air. Suddenly, an idea seemed to strike him. He looked up hastily and around with a scared, startled air, and then felt the edge of the knife again with his thumb slowly while he gazed earnestly in the direction of the door of the hut. Presently, an evil, cruel smile curled his lips and sent a baleful gleam into his little eyes. Muttering to himself, ‘Yes; I’ll do it; the suspicion is sure to fall on him!’ he rose slowly, glanced round again, to assure himself that no one was watching him, and then, with a rapid, silent step, entered the hut.

Meanwhile, the púsári was hurrying along in the direction of his village, cursing and raving. The injury done him by his enemy, and the refusal of the headman to give him justice, had angered him to the verge of madness. As he strode furiously along swinging his heavy stick, and grasping at the air with his other hand, as if he was in imagination tearing his enemy to pieces, he was quite oblivious of all surroundings, and only conscious of his wrongs and desire for vengeance. Blind with rage, he hurried on, heedless of where he was going.

By this time, the sun had sunk and night was rapidly coming on. Gradually the path grew less and less distinct, and the surrounding forest more gloomy and fearful. Suddenly, the púsári stopped and looked about him. Being unable to see his way, he had at last come to his senses. All that was visible of the path now was a dim white streak before him. For a few moments he stood looking round. Even in that faint light the path seemed strange to him, and he peered about in vain for some familiar object by which he could ascertain his position. He soon satisfied himself he was not in the well-known path between the two villages, but was following some game-track; however, he felt sure he was going in the right direction, so went on, instead of turning back to look for the lost path. Every now and then he stopped to listen, hoping to hear the distant barking of dogs or lowing of cattle at Pandiyán; but he only heard the sharp barking cry of deer in the jungle and the dismal hooting of a pair of owls. It grew darker and darker, and the path worse and worse. Soon it was so dark that he could not see his hand before his face. He tried to feel his way with his stick, but nevertheless stumbled against the trees and over roots and stones. More than once he stopped and shouted long and loudly; but no answer came but the mocking hooting of the owls. The púsári was a brave man; but the dense darkness, the loneliness and silence of the jungle, were beginning to shake his nerves.

Suddenly, just as he was about to give up in despair the attempt to find his way, a brilliant light appeared in the jungle ahead of him. Uttering an ejaculation of surprise, pleasure, and relief, the púsári pressed towards it. A few moments later he was standing, with open eyes and startled expression, gazing at a scene such as he had never before looked on. Before him stretched a long narrow bazaar of houses, shops, and sheds, huddled irregularly together. Close behind them, and overhanging them, rose the jungle like a wall of ebony, densely dark. Above, stretched a sky of inky blackness, starless and cloudless. The whole bazaar was ablaze with light from numerous fires, torches, and lamps. It was crowded with people, men, women, and children, all apparently busily engaged in buying and selling and other occupations. But they were people such as the púsári had never before seen—black, lean, ungainly, with thin evil faces, and long black hair flowing wildly over their necks and shoulders. He noticed, too, that their feet and hands resembled more the claws of wild beasts than human appendages. But the strangest thing of all was that, though the bazaar appeared to his eyes to be full of bustle and noise, and all the people to be talking, wrangling, singing, and laughing, he could not hear a sound! Could he have shut his eyes, he might have fancied himself alone in the jungle again.

For some moments the púsári stood staring before him, bewildered at the sight. To come suddenly upon a large village that he had never heard of, close to his own, filled him with speechless amazement He rubbed his eyes and felt his ears, thinking his senses must be playing him false. Suddenly his heart stood still, and he gasped with horror. He had realised where he was—it was an enchanted or magic village of _pisásis_ or demons that he had intruded on! As the full horror of his situation, alone among demons in the depths of the jungle at midnight, burst upon him, the púsári turned to flee. To his intense surprise and terror, on turning, he found behind him, not the jungle, as he expected, but another part of the bazaar! Rows of huts and shops, crowded so closely together that there was no way through them into the forest beyond, barred his way. After a moment’s hesitation, he plucked up courage, and muttering prayers and charms, started off to walk through the bazaar. Grasping his stick firmly, he walked boldly on, showing no outward sign of fear, but with deadly terror at his heart.

The bazaar seemed to lengthen before him as he went. He walked on and on, but it seemed to have no end. He turned aside into several by-lanes, but they only led into others. He looked in vain for any gap between the huts by which he could escape into the jungle. As he went, he passed through crowds of demon-folk. They took no notice of him, but he felt they were all watching him with their gleaming red eyes. To the púsári, everything around him seemed to be alive. The boughs of the trees waved above him threateningly like weird skinny hands and arms; hideous faces peered out at him from all sorts of strange, unlikely places. Even the rice mortars and pots lying about, and the articles being hawked about or lying exposed on the stalls, seemed to assume grotesquely human faces and figures and to watch him stealthily. Numbers of strange, vicious-looking cattle, and gaunt, evil-faced dogs wandered about, and the púsári noticed them leering at him and each other with a human sort of expression which showed him what they were. Rows of fowls of queer shape were perched on the roofs of the huts, and watched him as he passed with heads knowingly on one side.

Many a strange sight did the púsári see as he walked along. The shops were full of curious and extraordinary things such as he had never seen exposed for sale. He passed at one place a party of pisásis engaged in beating drums of strange shape with drumsticks of bones. Soon after, he came to a part of the bazaar where a furious quarrel appeared to be raging. In a dark corner he caught sight of a large party of she-pisásis, who appeared to be engaged in some horrible rite. More than once he thought he saw the mock-animals wandering about the bazaar talking to the keepers of the shops and to each other. It seemed to the púsári that he had been walking for hours, yet the bazaar appeared to be as interminable as ever. He walked on as in a dream, for, in spite of the apparent bustle and excitement around him, he could hear nothing. Stupefied by his fearful position, he walked on mechanically, having now lost the sense of fear, and feeling only a sort of vague wonder.

And now a raging thirst seized on the púsári. He had been on foot all day in the sun, and all the afternoon his mouth had been hot and bitter with curses. He had drunk nothing for many hours. As he walked along, the craving for water grew stronger and stronger, till he could bear it no longer. He realised vaguely the peril he ran in accepting anything from the hand of a pisási, nevertheless he stopped and looked about, in the hope of finding something to drink. Near at hand was a small shop presided over by a hideous old she-pisási. Undeterred by the horrible aspect of the red-eyed, wrinkled, old hag, the púsári approached her with the intention of asking for a drink of water. As he did so, he felt conscious that all the pisásis had suddenly stood still and were watching him. The she-pisási’s shop contained some strange things. On one side lay a huge rock python cut into lengths, each of which was wriggling about as if full of life. On the other side lay a young crocodile apparently dead; but as the púsári approached, it turned its head and looked slily at him with its cold yellow eye. Over the old hag’s head hung a crate full of live snakes, that writhed about and thrust their heads through the withes. Strings of dead bats, and baskets full of loathsome reptiles and creeping creatures, filled the shop. In front of her stood a hollow gourd full of water.

‘Mother! I am thirsty,’ said the púsári as he pointed to the water. But though he said the words, he did not hear his own voice. The old hag looked fixedly at him for a moment, and then raising the gourd, gave it to him. He raised it to his lips, and drank long and eagerly. As he put the empty vessel down, he felt everything reel and swim about him. Gazing wildly round, he grasped at the air two or three times for some support, and then fell to the ground motionless and senseless.

AN EVERY-DAY OCCURRENCE.

There are in all our lives episodes which we should be glad to forget; of which we are so much ashamed, that we scarcely dare to think of them, and when we do, find ourselves hurriedly muttering the words we imagine we ought to have said, or making audible apologies for our conduct to the air; and yet these are not always episodes which necessarily involve a tangible sense of wrong done either to ourselves or to others. Some such episode in a commonplace life, such as must have fallen to the lot of many men, we would here reveal.

Once upon a time—to commence in an orthodox fashion—a man and a maid lived and loved. On the woman’s part the affection was as pure and generous as ever filled the breast of a maiden; on the man’s, as warm as his nature permitted. His love did not absorb his whole soul, it rather permeated his mind and coloured his being. Like most men of his not uncommon stamp, his affection once given, was given for ever. His was not a jubilant nature, nor did his feelings lie near the surface, and his manner was undemonstrative. The girl was clear-sighted enough to see that what love there was, was pure and true, and she made up for its scarcity with the overflowings of her sympathetic nature. She idealised rather than condoned. She gave in such measure that she could not perceive how little she was receiving in return; or if she noticed it, her consciousness of its worth seemed to her a full equivalent. He was an artist; and circumstances forced the lovers to wait, and at the same time kept them apart. A couple of days once a month, and a week now and again, was the limit of the time they could spend together. This, of course, prevented them getting that intimate knowledge of each other’s personality which both recognised as an essential adjunct to the happiness of married life, though they did their best to obviate it by long letters, giving full details of daily events and of the society in which they moved. The remedy was an imperfect one. Strive as they might, the sketches were crude, and the letters had a tendency to become stereotyped. We only mention these details to show that they tried to be perfectly honest with each other.

While the girl’s life, in her quiet country home, was one that held little variety in it, it was a part of the man’s stock-in-trade to mix with society and to observe closely. Whether he liked it or not, he was compelled to make friends to such an extent as to afford him an opportunity of gauging character. Unfortunately for the purposes of my study, he had no sympathy with pessimism or pessimists. He loved the good and the beautiful for their own sakes, and in his art loved to dwell on the bright side of human nature, a side which the writer has found so much easier to meet with than the more sombre colouring we are constantly told is the predominating one in life. Like most artists, he was somewhat susceptible, but his susceptibility was on the surface; the inward depths of his soul had never been stirred save by the gentle girl who held his heart, and she was such as to inspire a constant and growing affection rather than a demonstrative passion.

At one of the many houses at which he was a welcome guest, the lover found a young girl bright, sensuous, beautiful. Unwittingly, he compared her with the one whose heart he held, and the comparison was unsatisfactory to him; do what he would, the honesty of his nature compelled him to allow that this beautiful girl was the superior in a number of ways to her to whom he had pledged his life. He was caught in the Circe’s chains of golden hair, and fancied—almost hoped—yet feared lest, like bonds of cobwebs in the fairy tale, the toils were too strong for him to break. He could see, too, that the girl regarded him with a feeling so warm, that a chance spark would rouse it into a flame of love; and this gave her an interest as dangerous as it was fascinating. His fancy swerved. Day after day he strove with himself, and by efforts, too violent to be wise, he kept away from the siren till his inflamed fancy forced him back to her side.

To the maiden in the country he was partially honest. In his letters he faithfully told her of his visits, and as far as he could, recorded his opinions of the girl who had captivated his fancy. Too keen an artist to be blind to her faults, he dwelt on them in his frequent letters at unnecessary length. When the lovers met, the girl questioned him closely about her rival, but only from the interest she felt in all his friends known and unknown, for her love for him was too pure and strong to admit of jealousy, and he, with what honesty he could, answered her questions unreservedly.

Little by little he began to examine himself. Which girl did he really love? Should he not be doing a wrong to both by not deciding? The examination was dangerous, because it was not thorough. The premises were true, but incomplete. Yet we should wrong him if we implied that he for a moment thought seriously about breaking off his engagement. Even had he wished, his almost mistaken feelings of honour would have forbidden it. This constant surface introspection—a kind of examination which, had not the subject been himself, he would have despised and avoided—could have but one result—an obliquity of mental vision. He had a horror of being untrue—untrue to himself as untrue to his lass, and yet he dreaded causing pain to a bosom so tender and innocent. When he sat down to write the periodical letters to the girl to whom he was engaged, he found his phrases becoming more and more general and guarded. He took pains not to let her know what he felt must wound her, and the letters grew as unnatural as they had been the reverse; they were descriptive of the man rather than the reflex of his personality.

The country girl was quick of perception. The letters were more full of endearing terms than ever; they were longer and told more of his life; yet between the lines she could see that they were by one whose heart was not at rest, and that a sense of duty and not of pleasure prompted the ample details. Their very regularity was painful: it seemed as if the writer was anxious to act up to the letter of his understanding. She knew that the letters were often written when he was tired out. Why did he not put off writing, and taking advantage of her love, let her exercise her trust in him? Eagerly she scanned the pages to find the name of her rival, and having found it, would thoughtfully weigh every word of description, of blame or praise.

When the lovers met, she questioned him more closely than she had ever done before. He was seemingly as fond as ever; no endearing name, no accustomed caress, was forgotten. He spoke of himself and his friends as freely as usual, and all her questions were answered without a shadow of reserve. Yet the answers were slower, and his manner absent and thoughtful. For a time she put it down to the absorbing nature of his pursuits; but little by little, a belief that she was no longer _dearest_ crept into her heart, and would not be dislodged, try as she might. She thought she was jealous, and struggled night and day against a fault she dreaded above all others; then, in a paroxysm of despair, she allowed herself to be convinced of what she feared, and, loving him deeply, prepared to make the greatest sacrifice an unselfish woman can offer. He no longer loved her; it was best he should be free.

When he had been with her last, he had told her that his ensuing absence must perforce be longer than usual, and this she thought would be the best time for her purpose.

‘Dear Frank,’ she wrote at the end of a pitiful little letter, ‘I am going to ask you not to come here next week. This will surprise you, for in all my other letters I have told you that what I most look forward to in life is your visits. But I have been thinking, dear, that it will be best for us to part for ever. I often ask myself if we love one another as much as we did, and I am afraid we do not. A loveless married life would be too dreadful to live through, and I dare not risk it. It is better that the parting should come through me. Do not fancy that I am reproaching you; I cannot, for to me you are above reproach, above blame. All I feel is that our affection is colder, so we had better part. God bless you, Frank; I can never tell you how deeply I have loved you.—ELSIE.’

Frank was almost stunned by the receipt of this letter. He read it and re-read it till every word seemed burnt into his brain. That the girl’s love for him was less, he did not believe; he could read undiminished affection in the vague phraseology, in the studied carefulness to take equal blame on herself. That she should be jealous, was out of the question; long years of experience had taught him that this was totally foreign to her trustful nature. There was but one conclusion to come to. She had given him up because she thought his happiness involved. Yet she wished him to be free; might it not be ungracious to refuse to accept her gift?

Free! There was a terrible fascination in the sound. Be the bondage ever so pleasant, be it even preferable to liberty itself, the idea of freedom is irresistibly alluring. If the same bondage will be chosen again, there is a delight in the consciousness that it will be your own untrammelled choice. Frank was aware of a wild exultation when he realised the fact that he was once more a free agent. In the first flush of liberty, poor Elsie’s image faded out of sight, and that of the siren took its place. Now, without wrong, he might follow his inclinations. He determined to write to Elsie, but knew not what to say, and put it off till the morrow.

There could be no harm in going to the house of his fascinator; it was pleasant to think that he might now speak, think, look, without any mental reservations; there would be no longer any need to watch his actions, or to force back the words which would tell her that she exercised a deadly power over him. The girl received him with a winning smile, yet, when he touched her hand, he did not feel his brain throb or his blood rush madly through his veins as he had expected. He bore his part through the evening quietly, and owned that it was a pleasant one; still, the flavour was not what he had expected. He called to mind that when he was abroad for the first time, he had been served with a peculiar dish, which he remembered, and often longed for when unattainable. After several years, he had visited the same café and ordered the same dish. The same cook prepared it, and the same waiter served it, but the taste was not the same; expectation had heightened the flavour, and the real was inferior to the ideal.

So it was with Frank. Before, when the siren had seemed unattainable, he had luxuriated in her beauty, admired her grace and genius, and revelled in her wit; now, when he felt he might call these his own, his eye began to detect deficiencies. The girl noted his critical attitude, and chafed at the calmness of his keen, watchful glance. Where was the open admiration she used to read in his eyes? Piqued at his indifference, she grew silent and irritable; and when he bade her farewell, both were conscious that an ideal had been shattered.

He buttoned his overcoat, and prepared for a long walk to the lonely chambers where he lived the usual careless, comfortless life of a bachelor whose purse is limited. All the way home he submitted himself to a deep and critical examination. He felt as if he was sitting by the ashes of a failing fire which he had no means of replenishing; the night was coming, and he must sit in the cold. If passion died out, where was he to look for the sympathy, the respect, the true friendliness which alone can supply its place in married life? Then he thought of Elsie. He had made a mistake, but a very common mistake. He had thought that the excitement of his interest, the enchaining of his fancy, and the enthralment of his senses, was love, and lo! it was only passion. He analysed his feelings more deeply yet, and getting below the surface-currents which are stirred by the winds, saw that the quiet waters beneath had kept unswervingly on their course.

When he reached his chambers, he sat down by his table and drew paper and ink towards him. ‘I shall not accept your dismissal, Elsie,’ he wrote hurriedly in answer to her piteous letter: ‘I should be very shallow if I could not read the motive which prompted your letter. I shall come down as usual, and we will talk over it till we understand each other fully. Till then, you must believe me when I tell you that I love you all the more for your act of sacrifice, and that I love you more now than I have ever done before.’

Frank and Elsie have been long married, and are content. There is no fear of his swerving again; but the event described left its mark on Frank. He knows now that he was on the verge of committing a grievous mistake, and one which might have darkened all his future life. For it is not great events, involving tragedies and tears, that impress themselves most deeply upon the body of our habits and thoughts; but the tendency of our life, as in the case before us, is often most deeply affected by what is no more than ‘an every-day occurrence.’

A NIGHT IN A WELL.

The station of Rawal Pindi, in which the following incident took place, is a large military cantonment in the Punjab, about a hundred miles from the Indus at Attock, where the magnificent bridge across the rapid river now completes the connection by rail between the presidency towns of Calcutta, Madras, and Bombay with Peshawur our frontier outpost, which, like a watchful sentinel, stands looking straight into the gloomy portal of the far-famed Khyber Pass. It was at Rawal Pindi that the meeting took place between the Viceroy of India, Lord Dufferin, and the present Ameer of Afghanistan, before whom were then paraded not only the garrison of Rawal Pindi, or, as it is more generally known in those parts, by the familiar abbreviation of Pindi—a Punjabi word signifying a village—but a goodly array of the three arms, artillery, cavalry, and infantry, drawn from the garrisons of the Punjab and North-west Provinces of India. In ordinary times, the troops in garrison at Pindi consist of four or five batteries of royal artillery, both horse and field; a regiment of British, and one of Indian cavalry; and one regiment of British, and two of Bengal infantry, with a company of sappers and miners. The barracks—or, as they are called in India, the lines—occupied by these troops extend across the Grand Trunk Road leading to Peshawur, those of the royal artillery being almost, if not quite on the extreme right, and it is here that the occurrence which gives the heading to this article took place.

In front of the lines of each regiment is the quarter-guard belonging to it, at a distance of two or three hundred yards from the centre barrack. The men of this guard are turned out and inspected once by day and once by night by the officer on duty, technically known as the orderly officer. In rear of the quarter-guard, as has been already said, are the men’s barracks; and in rear of them the cook-houses and horse-lines, amongst and behind which are large wells—‘_pucka_ wells,’ as they are called, from being lined for a long way down and about the surface with brick-work and cement, in distinction from the ordinary ‘_cutcha_ wells,’ which are merely circular holes dug until water is reached.

The _pucka_ wells in the Pindi cantonments are from twelve to fourteen feet in diameter, and from thirty to forty feet from the surface to the water. They are surrounded by low parapets; and from each well extend long troughs of brick and cement, into which the water drawn from the well is conducted by channels, for the use of the horses and other cattle belonging to the artillery or cavalry. The low parapets round the wells are sufficient protection, at all events in the daytime; though instances are not unfrequent when accidents have occurred on a dark night to goats, sheep, and even bullocks straying from their tethers, especially when a dust-storm has been adding by its turmoil to the bewilderment of all so unfortunate as to be caught abroad in it, as the writer has on more than one occasion, when compelled to stand or sit for hours behind some protecting wall or tree; the darkness in noonday has been so great that his hand, though held close to his eyes, was with difficulty discernible. When to such a state of things are added the roar of the wind and the beating of broken branches of trees, wisps of straw, and other articles caught up and hurtled along, it may be easily imagined how dazed and perplexed is the condition of every creature so exposed. A dust-storm, however, had nothing to say to the accident with which we have to do.

In rear of the cook-houses, wells, &c., come the mess-house and the bungalows in which the officers reside, each in its own compound or inclosure, about eighty or a hundred yards square, and about a quarter of a mile from the men’s lines.

One night in the cold season of 1866-67, as well as I can remember, the subaltern on duty at Pindi was Lieutenant Black—as we will call him—of the Royal Horse Artillery. He was well known in the arm of the service to which he belonged as a bold and fearless horseman, who had distinguished himself on many occasions as a race-rider both at home and abroad. On the evening in question he remained playing billiards in the mess-house until it was time to visit the quarter-guard in front of the lines. A little before midnight he mounted his horse at the door of the mess, and started. It was very dark; but he knew the road well, and had perfect faith in his horse, a favourite charger; so, immediately on passing the gate of the mess compound, he set off, as was his custom, at a smart canter along the straight road leading to the barracks. He passed through these, and soon reached the guard, which he turned out, and finding all present and correct, proceeded to return to his own bungalow, having completed his duty for the day. He rode through the lines by the way he had come; but then, being in a hurry to get to bed, he left the main road and took a short-cut across an open space. Notwithstanding the darkness, the horse was cantering freely on, no doubt as anxious as his master to reach his comfortable stall, when all at once Black felt him jump over some obstacle, which he cleared, and the next moment horse and rider were falling through the air; and a great splash and crash were the last things of which Black had any consciousness. After an interval—how long he couldn’t tell—sensation slowly returned, and he became aware that he was still sitting in his saddle, but bestriding a dead horse. His legs were in water; and the hollow reverberation of his voice when he shouted for help, as he did until he could do so no longer, informed him that he had fallen into one of the huge wells somewhere in the lines. It was intensely dark; but he soon became aware that there were other living creatures in the well, for from its sides came occasional weird rustlings and hissings, which added considerably to the horror of his situation, by creating a vague feeling of dread of some unknown danger close at hand.

Slowly the long night passed, and he could plainly hear the gongs of the different regiments as the hours were struck on them, and the sentries, as if in mockery, crying the usual ‘All’s well.’ Gradually day began to dawn, and light to show up above at the mouth of the well. By degrees, his prison became less dim, and he could see his surroundings. He was bestriding his dead charger, which lay crumpled up with a broken neck at the bottom of the well, in which was not more than three feet of water. Black himself, except for the shock, was uninjured. His legs were pretty well numbed, from being so long in the water, but there were no bones broken; and barring the terrible jar to his system, he was sound in every respect. As the sun arose, he began to peer about, and again tried to make himself heard above ground. This caused a renewal of the peculiar rustlings and hissings we have referred to; and he was now enabled to verify what he had dreaded and suspected when he first heard them in the dark. All round the sides of the well were holes, tenanted by snakes, most of them of the deadly cobra tribe, and many, seemingly, of an extraordinary size. Presently, like muffled thunder, the morning gun roused the sleepers in the various barracks, and the loud reveille quickly following it, brought hope of speedy release to the worn-out watcher.

The _bheesties_ coming to draw water were the first to discover him, and their loud cries soon surrounded the mouth of the well with stalwart artillerymen. Drag-ropes were brought from the nearest battery; and Black, barely able to attach them to his body, was at length drawn, to all appearance more dead than alive, to upper air, unable to reply to the eager questionings of those by whom he was surrounded. He was placed on a hospital litter, and hurried off to his own bungalow. Under careful treatment, and thanks to a splendid constitution, he was in a short time again fit for duty.

When recounting the events of the night, Black didn’t forget to mention his sensations at hearing the hissings all round him, and which the darkness at first made him think to be closer even than they were. This at once caused a proposal to be made for a raid upon the inhabitants of the holes; but he begged that they should not be disturbed, saying that they could do no harm where they were, and that he couldn’t but feel deeply grateful for their forbearance in confining themselves to hissing his first and, he sincerely hoped, his last appearance in a well.

PERSEPHONÉ.

A LAY OF SPRING.[1]

Through the dusky halls of Hadës
Thrills the echo of a voice,
Full of love, and full of longing:
‘Come, and bid my heart rejoice!
Daughter, all the world is barren,
While I mourn thy long delay!’
It is fond Demeter calling
On her lost Persephoné.

Sad she leans, the queen of Hadës,
On the gloomy monarch’s breast,
When upon her fettered senses
Falls that wail of Earth distrest;
And it woos her latent fancy
With a dream of days gone by—
And her heart responds in rapture
To that eager parent-cry!

Gently from the shadowy circle
Of his arms she lifts her head,
And its youthful beauty lightens
Even the Kingdom of the Dead.
Half a-dreaming, yet resistless
To the voice that bids her come,
Soft she murmurs: ‘Mother calls me;
Hermes waits to lead me home.’

‘Wilt thou leave me? I have loved thee,
Held thee dear as queenly wife;
It was Zeus who gave thee to me—
Life to Death, and Death to Life!’
Still a-dreaming and bewildered,
‘Ah!’ she says, complaining low,
‘Hear ye not Demeter calling?
King and husband, let me go!’

Lingeringly he yields his darling,
But she leaves the Shadow-land
With his spell upon her spirit,
With his chain upon her hand.
‘She will come again,’ he whispers,
‘And our union earth must own;
Young Life drawn from Death’s embraces
Will return to share his throne!’

. . . . .

Pure and queenly, all immortal,
Stands she ’neath her native skies:
Cloud and sunbeam, dew and rainbow,
Mingle in her lucid eyes:
Fitful smiles and vivid blushes
Blend to banish every tear,
And, like lute, her tender accents
Fall upon Demeter’s ear:

‘Mother, from the heart of Hadës
I have come again to thee!’—
Desert wide and boundless welkin,
Grove and valley, hill and sea,
All the animate creation,
All the haunts of listening day,
Echo with Demeter’s answer:
‘Hail, my child Persephoné!’

Lo! the world awakes to rapture;
Love rejoices, gods are glad,
Flowers unfold around her footfalls,
Youth in virgin garb is clad;
All the Muses chant a welcome;
Nymph and Naïad swell the strain;
Dancing sunbeams, laughing waters,
Aid the triumph of her train.

Where she moves, a magic whisper
Stirs the world to wanton mirth;
Winter flies before her presence;
Forms of beauty find new birth;
Nature’s languid pulses flutter
With the fervid breath of Spring,
Zephyrs tell to opening blossoms:
‘Eros comes to reign as king!’

Ah! while life breaks forth in music,
Emerald hues, and heavenly light,
Warmth, and love, and fairest promise,
Still a vision of the night
Glides athwart the happy Present,
Vague as harvest hopes in May;
’Tis a dream of gloomy Hadës
Haunts the young Persephoné!

So, to Mother Earth she falters:
‘Though thy daughter, still his wife.
Zeus decrees in kingly fashion,
Death shall hold the hand of Life:
Zeus decrees, and in one circle
Life and Death doth still combine.
Though I crown thee with my beauty,
Though my soul is part of thine,
Yet the mighty Hadës holds me
By a power that is divine.

‘But, sweet mother, Life can only
Be withdrawn. It never dies.
From the heart of sombre Hadës,
At thy call I will arise.
Year by year thy eager summons
Shall have power to break the chain,
And in all her youthful glory,
Will thy daughter come again.

‘Yet, because his spell must ever
Lie upon my charmèd soul,
He, the gloomy Lord of Shadows,
Shall my wayward will control.
As I heard thee call, my mother,
So his call I must obey;
Even here shall come his mandate,
And I may not answer nay.
Ah! when harvest fruits are garnered,
Mourn thy child Persephoné.’

JESSIE M. E. SAXBY.

[1] Persephoné, according to the Greek mythology, was the daughter of Zeus (the Heavens) and Demeter (the Earth). Various legends are related of her, one of the later and most beautiful being that, when young, she was carried off by Pluto (ruler of the spirits of the dead), and by him made Queen of Hadës (the nether world). Her mother, in agony at her loss, searched for her all over the earth with torches, until at last she discovered her abode. The gods, moved by the mother’s distress, sent a messenger to bring Persephoné back, and Pluto consented to let her go on condition that she returned and spent a portion of every year with him. From this, Persephoné became among the ancients the symbol of Spring, her disappearance to the lower world coinciding with winter, and her reappearance in the upper world bringing back vegetable life and beauty.

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