Chapter XX: Behári Lál

DURING the time Rita was singing, a boy who was passing down the lane had been attracted by the unusual sound. And then, seeing the crowd gathered, had joined in, and standing on the outskirts listened to the hymn being sung. At first, he could not see the singer, but by gradually forcing his way, he at last came in sight of her.

If anyone had been watching him, they would have seen him give a violent start. He might have seen a ghost, and indeed he thought he had, for as he looked at the scene before him he felt quite certain that the blind girl, arrayed in her clean white sari, sitting by the side of the dying woman, was none other than his cousin Hira, who had died a year ago.

Had he not been present when Sukhiya had come in and announced her death, with bitter cries and reproaches?

Anyway, she was sitting there before him—whether in real flesh and blood or not, he could not tell. He had heard of strange things happening at the time of death, and even he could see that the woman lying there was dying, so maybe the girl who had been so loved by her, though by no one else, had appeared to comfort her at that hour.

Still, being a plain, matter-of-fact boy, he hardly thought this likely, and was much more inclined to believe that Hira really had never died; so he determined to wait and see what would happen next.

As soon as Hira knew that her old friend was dead, she began to think of returning home, for she remembered Anandi's parting injunction not to stay a minute longer than she could possibly help.

Then the difficulty arose—how was she to get back? The old woman, whose legs were still aching, did not volunteer to take another walk, and there was no one else who knew the house.

Here Behári Lál (Hira's cousin) saw his opportunity, and determined to have a little fun out of the strange event. So coming forward, he offered the girl to see her safely home.

To Hira's quick ear, the voice had a familiar sound, but when or where she had heard it, she could not remember. And being only too glad to find anyone who was willing to be her escort, she was quite ready to trust herself to the boy's guidance.

But Behári Lál had no intention of taking his cousin to Rámpál Singh's house. If he had told the truth, he had not the least idea where it was; rather he meant to take her to his own home, and give those there a good fright by showing them a ghost. What fun it would be to see their consternation!

So the two started on their way. Hira's mind was too full of the scene she had just left, to think of which way she was going, so she the more easily fell into the trap laid for her.

The boy thought it best to keep silent, lest his voice should betray him. So nothing was said till they reached the house, and Behári Lál knocked with the chain on the door.

"Where are the steps?" asked Hira in a bewildered voice, as she felt for the familiar entrance and did not find it.

"Just wait a minute till they bring a light; it is so dark I can hardly see where we are," answered the boy. "Perhaps I have brought you to the wrong door. Don't be troubled; I will see you safely home."

After a further knocking and waiting, the door was opened.

Behári Lál had taken care to have a good grasp of Hira's arm. And before she had time to think, she was inside the courtyard. Then followed a scene of great confusion.

"I have brought someone to see you," said the boy.

And his mother, catching sight of the blind girl, whom she had thought of as dead for more than a year, uttered a loud scream.

By this time, she knew that she had been led astray, that she had not been brought to Rámpál Singh's house, but to some strange place.

Then, as she began to distinguish the voices, it flashed upon her what it all meant; the familiar voice was that of her cousin, and he had brought her to her uncle's house. But why her appearance should have caused such consternation she could not imagine. Now her heart sank within her! Suppose they should refuse to let her go, and she had to go back to the old life of poverty and misery? Gradually the clamour of voices grew less, and she was able to make herself heard.

"Why have you been so cruel as to bring me here," she asked, "where no one wants me? You promised to take me home, and this is my home no longer. I am a Christian and live with Christians. Take me back to them; they will all be looking for me."

"Tell us first," answered the aunt angrily, "who made up all that fine story that we had turned you out into the storm and you had died of cold and wet? Fine Christians those who have taught you to lie like that, though certainly you did not need much teaching."

Then Hira began to get angry too, for she understood nothing of the story of her death. "I never said I was dead," she said in a shrill, excited voice. "I never said you turned me out; I never said anything about you, and it was you who taught me to lie. Now I am a Christian, I know better, and I never tell lies. But take me home—do take me home; they will all be wondering where I am."

"And where is your home but here, where your father left you? And what will he say when he comes back and hears that you have become a Christian? Far better that he should hear that you are dead, as we all thought."

"But I 'won't' stay here," cried Hira, stamping her feet angrily; "if you try to keep me, I will run away again; you cannot make me stay if I don't want to. How can a Christian live with Hindus? Oh, do let me go!"

"How do 'we' know where your Christian friends live?" asked Behári Lál. "So how can we take you there? They are no friends of ours, these new friends of yours, who steal other people's children."

Hearing this, Hira became more angry than ever, and uttered many bitter words of anger and scorn. If it had not been for her tall figure and clean, tidy clothes, it might have been the very same child who had disappeared a year ago.

"A fine Christian you are!" said her aunt contemptuously. "And nice friends those must be who have taught you to come back and abuse your relations like this. We have heard quite enough of you for now, so you had better be quiet and go to sleep."

Hira's only answer was to sit down on the ground and weep bitterly.

No one took any more notice of her, and when she was exhausted with crying, she lay down where she was, but no sleep came to her.

Gradually the rest of the household left off talking, and settled themselves for the night. And in the silence that followed, Hira had a good opportunity for thinking over what had passed and what was likely to happen next.

Her anger had begun to subside, and in its place a feeling of shame begets to steal over her. Again, she seemed to hear the words of her aunt, "A fine Christian you are, and nice friends those must be."

How often she had been told that it was useless to bear the name of Christ unless she also had His spirit and did as He would do! Now she had proved to her heathen relations that the so-called Christian Hira was no different to, no better than, the Hindu Hira.

Again she wept bitterly, but this time they were not tears of rage and bitterness, but of shame and sorrow.

She felt so lonely and desolate, for she was not only separated from her earthly friends, but how could she believe that her heavenly Friend could be near her when she had so sinned against Him?

"Please, Lord Jesus, forgive me for being so naughty and keep me from
getting angry any more. And oh, do take me home again," she whispered.

And so from that heathen home went up the first prayer which had ever been offered in it.

We may be quite sure that it was answered, and in spite of her sorrow and loneliness, a sense of quietness and peace stole into the child's heart. She knew she was alone no longer, that there was One beside her able to take care of her under all circumstances, and to save her from the greatest dangers.

Then she began to wonder what she could do to atone for the wrong she had done. And finally made up her mind that as soon as her aunt woke, she would ask her to forgive her. Then, she thought, she will see that if Christians do naughty things, they are sorry for it afterwards. After that, with a mind at rest, she fell asleep.

The next morning she woke with a start, roused by the sound of voices. For a moment, she could not think where she was. How did she come to be lying on the hard ground? And who were those people who were talking so loudly around her?

Then it all came back to her: Sukhiya's death, her being brought to her uncle's house, the stormy scene which had followed, her prayer for forgiveness, and her determination to confess her fault to her aunt.

Again from her heart went up a cry for divine help.

"Please, Lord Jesus, keep me good and tell me what to say."

Then she listened to what was being said, and found that Behári Lál was being scolded for bringing her there. Suddenly the voices became more subdued and she could only just catch the mention of rupees, and understood nothing of what it meant.

As soon as the discussion had come to an end, she got up from the place where she had been lying, and groping her way along, called her aunt by name.

The response she received was not encouraging. But Hira never lacked courage, and she said bravely, "Please, aunt, forgive me for being so angry last night; I know it was very naughty. And please send me home."

A sudden silence fell on the group, for all were surprised to hear the fiery Hira speaking words of such gentleness. It was probably the first time in their lives that they had ever heard anyone confess themselves in the wrong, or ask for forgiveness.

The aunt hardly knew how to grant it, never having done so before, so she only looked at the blind girl with astonishment. And, after a pause, said, "Let you go home! Why shouldn't we? We have no money to buy you fine clothes like those; and what would you say to our food now, I wonder? Besides, how can Hindus and Christians live together?"

"Then you will send me back?" cried Hira joyfully.

"And where are we to send you?" asked the uncle, who was standing by. "'You' cannot find the way, and 'we' don't know it."

Here was a difficulty Hira had not thought of. She shrank from being entrusted to Behári Lál's care, but what else could be done? So she said, "Let Behári Lál go with me, and we will ask and ask until we find the house. Everyone knows Rámpál Singh and his daughter, because they are so good."

But Behári Lál thought differently. "No indeed," he exclaimed on hearing the proposal; "I was abused enough last night for bringing you here; I am not going to take you anywhere else."

It was difficult for Hira not to give an angry and reproachful answer. But, remembering her late repentance, she held back the words which were so ready to come, and said nothing.

In the meantime, her uncle and aunt whispered together, after which the latter said quite kindly, "Wait patiently a little while, and all will be settled rightly. Your uncle is going out, and will, maybe, find out where these people live."

So Hira had to be as patient as she knew how. In a little while, the men of the household went out, and she and her aunt were left alone. Then she was glad she had not gone away at once when she wanted to, for in the talk which followed, she was able to tell all which had befallen her.

And for the first time in her life, the one who had never heard the good news of salvation, listened to the sweet story as it was told by her blind niece.

She listened attentively, and at the end said, with a sigh, "Your words are very good, Hira, and as I listen, I forget everything else and feel glad; but they are not for me. It is a good thing for you that you have become a Christian, for by doing so you have got food to eat and good clothes to wear; but what can I do? I must just go on as I am."

"But it was not to get clothes and food that I became a Christian," cried the girl eagerly; "it was to get my sins put away and be ready to meet God; and the Lord Jesus will do just the same for you if you ask Him."

"No, no, child," was the answer. "What time have I to learn these new things? All my time goes in thinking of food and pice. I will go the same way as my forefathers have gone, and what I don't know, God does."

Hira was sorely disappointed with this indifferent answer, and wondered that anyone should hear such good news without being glad.

Just then a woman came in with flour to sell, so there was no more opportunity for talking. The new-comer was full of the story of Sukhiya's accident and death, which Hira, so taken up with her own experiences, had forgotten to mention. She too expressed her astonishment at the appearance of the blind girl, whom all had thought to be dead.

This led to Hira's asking for an explanation. And she heard of the false story which her old friend had invented on her behalf, and how she had thought and planned for her good.

"Hail, King of the Jews!"

WHEN the chief priests of the Jews had determined to kill the Lord Jesus, after examining Him for many hours on that dreadful night in which He had been betrayed by Judas and forsaken by His disciples, as they did not like to put Him to death themselves, they took Him when the morning dawned to Pilate, the Roman governor, for they thought he would do what they wished.

The Jews and the high priest had asked the Lord Jesus whether He really was the Christ, the Son of God; and Jesus, to leave them without excuse, told them plainly that He was, and that hereafter they would see Him sitting in heaven and coming back to earth in the clouds.

At this, they were fearfully angry, and tore their clothes, and led Him away to Pilate, in the hopes that Pilate would at once order Him to be put to death.

So Pilate examined Jesus and put to Him many questions. But the dear Lord, who could have asked His Father to send thousands of angels to be with Him, stood before Pilate and answered nothing.

Pilate was very much afraid to do anything to the Lord Jesus. His wife sent to him when he was sitting on the judgment-seat, telling him of a dream she had had, and begging him to have nothing to do with Jesus, because He had done nothing wrong.

But the Jews kept on clamouring that Jesus should be crucified, and Pilate was more afraid of the Jews than he was of displeasing God. So at last, he ordered the dear Lord to be scourged, and then told the soldiers they could take Him away to be crucified.

So they led Him into a great hall, and there they gathered together all the rest of the soldiers, and began to mock at the dear Lord whom we love so much.

They clothed Him with a purple robe and plaited a crown of long sharp thorns and put it on His loving head, and then they began to bow to Him and call Him in mockery the King of the Jews.

Jesus did not mind being called the King of the Jews, because He came to be their King; He was only sorry they would not love Him or have Him for their King.

But oh, how it must have cut Him to the heart in all His pain to have them mock Him, and beat Him on the head, and spit upon Him, and pretend to worship Him!

If our hearts are filled with grief that He could have suffered so much, should it not make us love Him more than ever, and hate the sins which He died on purpose to put away?

We may not know, we cannot tell, | There was no other good enough
What pains He had to bear, | To pay the price of sin,
But we believe it was for us | He only could unlock the gate
He hung and suffered there. | Of heaven, and let us in.
|
He died that we might be forgiven, | Oh, dearly, dearly has He loved,
He died to make us good, | And we must love Him too,
That we might go at last to heaven, | And trust in His redeeming blood,
Saved by His precious blood. | And try His works to do.

GRAND-DAD'S ADVICE.

BY CATHARINE SHAW.

ROLLO had said only that morning that he wished Clare's brat were at the bottom of the sea!

And he had wished it just then, for all night long Clare had been walking up and down her room, while the baby had moaned and cried ceaselessly.

But now here was Clare coming down over the beach, with white face and eyes heavy with unshed tears; and surely she looked as if something were the matter as she came up and showed the babe to grandfather.

Rollo's heart smote him; beneath his rough boyish exterior he had a tender spot, and that was for his sister Clare who had brought him up since he was a toddling child.

"What is it, my dear?" asked grandfather in his sympathetic, cheery tones, looking in the little face as he spoke.

"I can't think," said Clare despairingly. "The neighbours say I shall lose him. There was a white dove flew against the window this morning—"

"I wouldn't trouble over that," he said gently, "but think what's best to be done for the little 'un. I should take him indoors, and give him a warm bath and keep him wrapped up a bit. And then—"

"Then?" asked Clare, raising her heavy eyes.

"Then I should tell the Lord all about it, and ask Him to bless what you've done, and make the little 'un better in His own time."

"I wish I could trust Him like you do, grand-dad," she said tearfully, as she turned and made her way back to the cottage with her treasure.

Rollo stood looking on.

What if his cruel thought that morning were to deprive Clare of her baby?

"Grand-dad," he said, moving closer, "if you was to wish a wrong thing in your heart and then be ever so sorry you had, what would you do?"

"I'd run quick and ask the Lord to forgive it; and I'd make what amends I could, if so be I'd hurt anyone."

Rollo ran after his sister.

"Clare," he said, "I'm ever so sorry I was nasty about the baby—and indeed, I've asked God to forgive me, and to make him better—"

"Dear old Rollo!" she said, but she felt comforted.

HIRA'S QUEST.