Chapter XIII

At sunrise Alderbury started off in the motor to drive back to that particular mission centre of which he was the superintendent. It was situated in British India, about forty miles from the town of Chirapore.

On his way he stopped at the house of Pantulu. He walked quickly round to the side where the room assigned to Ananda was situated. He found him sitting on his deck chair in the open doorway. He was trying to concentrate his attention on a book, but his eyes often wandered to the hills. He heard the tread of footsteps and looked up expectantly. As soon as he caught sight of Alderbury he rose, pleasure plainly written on his face.

"I did not think that you would have time to call and see me again," he said, as he shook hands warmly.

"Dr. Wenaston's offer of the car has made it possible. I come with good news. He has consented to my suggestion that you should take up a post as junior master in the school. The salary you will draw will enable you to support yourself and make you independent of your father."

Ananda's eyes grew bright at the prospect and he questioned his visitor eagerly as to his duties. They were explained, together with the subjects that were forbidden.

"I shall like it beyond all things," said Ananda. "For the present I will go on living here. I am getting used to the room. It is not as bad as it looks."

"Have your people sent you any food this morning; any coffee and rice cakes?"

"No; they have never yet sent me anything in the early morning. The pariah has returned, I am glad to say, with permission to sweep and perform his usual duties."

Alderbury began to dive into the deep pockets of his travelling overcoat. He produced bread, butter, a bottle of strong coffee, cake, sugar, salt and various other eatables.

"You don't mind accepting these things from Miss Wenaston. Her housekeeper gave them to me with her own hands. When you go to the college to-morrow morning, call at the house and say you are grateful."

"Of course I will. I'll see the housekeeper as well as Miss Wenaston."

"And let me give you another piece of advice, Ananda. You must fill up the whole day with regular employment, whether you are at the college or at home. You must not allow yourself to drift into the habit of idleness. It is bad for any man, European or Indian. You must read and make notes of what you read. You must write to me and tell me what you are teaching your class. I will send you some books addressed to the care of Miss Wenaston as soon as I get back; and if you want lighter literature you can borrow of her."

They talked of various matters for some time, and then Alderbury looked at his watch.

"Half-past eight! how the time flies! Is that your man outside? Hi! come here! I want you!" he called in the man's language.

The sweeper ran forward, and Alderbury gave him directions.

"Go to the car and bring me a small basket you will find on the seat."

The pariah returned and was directed to lift the lid, which he did. As he held it open Alderbury took out a packet of sandwiches.

"I may as well save time by eating my breakfast whilst I talk."

The food disappeared without any hindrance to the conversation, and the fact that it had been received from the pariah did not affect the missionary's appetite.

"Put down the basket and give me that bottle and cup," said Alderbury to the man. "Hold the cup while I pour."

The thermos flask was full of steaming coffee, and Alderbury took the brimming cup from the hand of the despised pariah, giving him back the flask to replace in the tiffin basket.

"This is Mrs. Hulver's own make; I never tasted better coffee. You have got the same brew in that bottle, but without milk. It should last you three or four days. Boil your milk and add it to the cold coffee. Don't heat the coffee or you will spoil the flavour. I was to be sure and tell you this from Mrs. Hulver. Good-bye and good luck go with your new venture. Come along my man; bring that basket and put it in the motor."

The lesson was not without its effect although nothing was actually said. Somehow when the Englishman accepted food from the hand of the pariah the action had a different complexion, and it set Ananda thinking. Alderbury hoped it would bear good fruit, and help to make matters easier if the time should come when no food was obtainable except through the pariah. He was anxious to be off, and he bade Ananda good-bye, parting with him at the entrance of the little yard where the gourd spread its vivid green foliage.

As he approached the gateway of the compound leading into the road a messenger met him with a request that he would come into the verandah in front of the house. Pantulu Iyer desired a word with him. Quite ready for an interview whatever might be its nature, hostile or friendly, he mounted the stone steps.

A few minutes elapsed before Pantulu, accompanied by his wife, appeared. They approached silently, their hands placed together palm to palm, and stood before him with bowed heads.

"Sir!" began Pantulu, then he paused, unable to command his voice.

"Speak, Pantulu Iyer; what do you wish to say? I am ready to listen."

Alderbury's gentle manner broke down the nervous constraint and opened the flood-gates of speech. In a voice that was so charged with emotion as to be near breaking point, the old man prayed for the missionary's assistance in the restoration of his son, his only child. There were numbers of others, he pleaded, who were ready and willing to join the Christian religion. Their apostacy would not be felt by their families. With him it was different. In taking away his son the missionary deprived him and his father and grandfather of happiness in a future life. Who was to perform the shraddah ceremonies when he, Pantulu, was dead, if his son Ananda refused to perform them? The thought of his fate and the fate of his ancestors was intolerable, unbearable, appalling!

As he poured forth his entreaty Gunga's tears flowed down her haggard cheeks and fell upon the folds of her tawny silk saree. Her grey hair was dishevelled, and its silvery strands were sprinkled with the dust she had thrown upon her head according to custom in overwhelming grief or misfortune.

Keenly sympathetic to human trouble at all times, Alderbury could not listen unmoved. The appearance of both father and mother told its own tale, and he fully realised the havoc that had been wrought in one of the happiest homes of India. It was ever the same, even from the very beginning of the story of Christianity, he thought with a sigh. All pioneer work must run on similar lines; and although he knew that it was inevitable, his heart ached at the sight of their distress.

"If you feel thus about the future why not take the same path your son has taken? He is right. Go with him and you will find such joy and peace in your old age as you have never experienced before."

"Can the bullock learn a new method of drawing the cart after spending all its life under the yoke? We cannot change at our age. We must follow in the footsteps of our fathers. Oh! sir! if you would only say the word, and bid my son remember his poor old father, all might yet be made right. Let him conform outwardly, whatever he may believe inwardly, for our sake."

Yielding to a sudden impulse, Pantulu and his wife fell at Alderbury's feet, touching their foreheads to the ground. By this time the tears were falling from the old man's eyes.

"Our son! our dearly loved son! Give us back our child, our little one! the only child that was ever sent by the gods to bless us!"

Not a word of reproach was mingled with the prayer which made it all the harder for the missionary to bear.

"He cannot return to you. You must go to him," repeated Alderbury.

"Sir! if you will bring him back to us--and he will come! I know he will! if you so much as hold up your finger--I will give you a lac of rupees to build a temple for your God. Your God is merciful and kind. He will take the church in exchange for the only son of two heart-broken parents. He will be satisfied if you build it large and put much gold and jewels in the sacred place. You shall have money and jewels and gold and silk and rich carpets and hangings--all these and more than you ask you shall have, if you will only give him back to us."

"Give him back to me, his mother! Let me have my little one again! my little one whose tiny hands upon my neck awoke the mother-love within me," prayed the proud Gunga at his feet in abject humility.

It was getting beyond Alderbury's endurance. His human pity brought the tears to his eyes. He bent over the prostrate figures.

"I cannot grant your request even if I would. There can be no return for your son. You must go to him; he cannot come back to you. May my God, the God of love and mercy, help you!"

He turned and left the verandah. In another ten seconds the car was speeding down the road hidden in a column of golden dust in the bright morning sunshine.

* * * * *

The following morning, punctual to the minute, Ananda, accompanied by the Principal, entered the class room where he was to instruct twenty-seven boys whose ages ranged between twelve and fourteen. He had already received his instructions, and was relieved to find that nothing was required of him in the teaching line otherwise than what he was easily able to perform.

The class had assembled and most of the boys were studying the lesson that was to be repeated. There was a buzz of voices as each individual conned aloud the portion he had prepared. A few talked together in low tones with a solemnity that would be strange in English schoolboys. Whether studying or chatting they all behaved quietly, with a total absence of trickery or exuberance of spirits. This self-contained orderliness, peculiar to native children in India, renders it possible for a teacher to manage a class of fifty pupils. Not only are the boys attentive, but many of them show an eagerness to learn which is surprising to the English master.

There was a sudden breathless hush as Wenaston entered; and twenty-seven pairs of eyes were fixed in rounded wonder upon the new teacher. He was recognised by most of the boys. Many of them belonged to families known to his own people.

He took his seat at the desk and began the lesson. Wenaston, after listening a few minutes, nodded his head in approval and left the room. His own class of young men preparing for one of the higher examinations was waiting for him.

At twelve o'clock the classes broke up and the boys went home to the midday meal. It was customary to reassemble at half-past one for games in the playing-field and begin work again an hour later.

After lunch Wenaston put on his sun-topee and strolled into the cricket-field. A few boys stood about in couples idly talking, but no game was in progress. He called to one of the big boys and asked why there was no practice at the nets. The reply was to the effect that most of the boys were leaving at once for home where their presence was required by their families, without waiting for afternoon school.

Wenaston was accustomed to the absence of his pupils on the occasion of domestic ceremonial; but it was usual to let him know beforehand. The reason was sometimes stated but not always. He passed on to his private sitting-room in the college where he had papers to look over. At three he went to the hall. His class was small; so also were the classes of the other masters. At half-past five the bell rang and the boys dispersed. He met Ananda outside the building.

"Come in and see Miss Wenaston," he said. "How did you get on this afternoon?"

"Very well, indeed, sir, as far as my subject was concerned. It is a great pleasure to go over the old ground again and renew my acquaintance with it. I had very few boys this afternoon; only ten out of the twenty-seven turned up."

"There must be some public festival going on; for the other classes were also small. Do you know what it is?"

"Not a regular feast day, I am sure. If there is anything of the kind it will be of a private nature: a wedding or a funeral. I am in Coventry as you know, sir; and so I hear no news whatever."

"I hope you will not have to remain long in that uncomfortable position. You must establish yourself in a house of your own."

"I intend to do so as soon as I can consult with my wife. Up to the present I have not been allowed to see either her or the child."

"You will not leave without them?"

"No; they must come with me. As long as I remain in the house I have a better chance of obtaining an interview."

They found Eola in the garden looking at the roses. Her favourites were all back in their places, a dozen beautiful _La France_ plants. Whether they were the originals she could not say. The pruning was always a severe process that deprived the bushes of individual features and made them all of one pattern. Mrs. Hulver was not far off; and the gardener, beaming with satisfaction at the thought that his full wages were assured, was half concealed behind a bank of ferns where he was pretending to be very busy picking off dead leaves. Eola greeted Ananda with a friendly welcome that set him at ease; talked of her roses and other matters of no importance.

"I want to thank you, Miss Wenaston, for all that you sent yesterday by Mr. Alderbury," he said.

"You must thank my housekeeper. It was her thought. Mrs. Hulver! Mr. Ananda is very grateful to you for thinking of him in his need."

Mrs. Hulver, thus encouraged, approached and cast her shrewd grey eyes over the visitor. His neat European dress and manner met with her approval.

"I am glad the food was acceptable. I saw to the cooking of it myself. Mr. Alderbury told me that you had been obliged to live on biscuits--poor stuff for young stomachs. What a man wants is a hot meal once a day. There should be meat as well as bread or rice. I wasn't able to send you any meat, Mr. Ananda."

"I don't eat meat, so it was all right."

"Do you like fish?"

"Yes; and vegetables curried; but I have not tasted a curry since I landed."

"Then you've gone to bed hungry more often than not in spite of your biscuits. As William--that was my second husband--used to say: 'Sharp stomachs make short tempers.' The best temper will sour under starvation."

A little later Ananda said good-bye and walked back to his father's house. On the way he met Bopaul. Mayita was his companion. Regardless of ill omens the brother had renewed his friendship with his sister; he took her for daily walks, avoiding the places where men and women congregated.

"Not afraid of being contaminated by the company of an outcaste?" said Ananda with some bitterness, as Bopaul turned to stroll part of the way with his friend.

"No; nor of being overshadowed by the widow," replied Bopaul with a light laugh. "How are things going with you?"

Ananda related the experience of the last week and his employment at the college, together with his plans for the future.

"You will certainly have to clear out of your father's house as soon as you can if you want any comfort."

"I shall not go without my wife and child," said Ananda, with the old obstinacy.

"How is the child?" inquired Bopaul.

"The child! Is it ill that you ask?" said Ananda, startled.

"It had a fall the day you returned. No effect was seen at first but a few days ago it complained of pain; and my mother, who went to see it, thought that it was ill, though not very bad. Haven't they told you?"

"I hear nothing and I see nobody but the sweeper. Bring me news if there is anything important to tell," said Ananda, trying in vain to hide the sudden anxiety that sprang up as he heard that the child was not well.

"I will," answered Bopaul, with a note of sympathy in his voice.

He stopped to turn back towards his own house, and Ananda passed on with downcast troubled eyes that failed to see how his friend stood watching him.

"Poor fellow!" thought Bopaul. "They are making it very hard for him; but it is only what he might have expected. There is more grit and endurance in him than I expected. I thought he would have given in by this time. Pantulu Iyer's brother has met his match, and he won't step into Ananda's shoes quite as easily as he thought."

The following morning Ananda arrived at the college, and was in his place punctually to the strike of the clock. The bell rang but without response. A strange silence prevailed in the college close, in the hall and in the class rooms. Not a boy was visible. The masters were in their places and the Principal in cap and gown on the platform ready to begin his lecture. He waited a short time and then went to the Vice-principal's room, a native who had taken a good degree at Cambridge.

"Where are all the boys?" asked Wenaston, in some bewilderment. "Is it a public festival?"

The Vice-principal paused before replying.

"I am afraid, sir, that they are purposely absenting themselves," he said, reluctantly. He had a great regard for his chief, and it went against the grain to say anything that might give him pain.

"Can you tell me the reason?"

"Because you have appointed the son of Pantulu Iyer as a master in the school."

"Does the feeling run so strongly against him that they can carry it to this pitch?" replied Wenaston in some indignation. "It is no concern of theirs what religion he professes. His opinions are a personal matter as long as he keeps them to himself. Did he mention the subject to his class yesterday?"

"No, sir," the Vice-principal answered promptly.

"Then it is outrageous that he should be ostracised in this manner."

Wenaston had been haunted by the dread of something of the kind ever since he had acceded to Alderbury's request; but he had not anticipated that it would come so soon, nor in such a practical form as a strike. The utmost he had expected was an inquiry on the part of the Government authorities, followed by a recommendation that the appointment should be cancelled.

"The sympathy in the town is all on the side of Ananda's parents. You hardly realise, sir, what an appalling disaster it is for a high caste Hindu to lose a son in this way," remarked Wenaston's colleague.

"You talk of him as if he were dead!"

"It would have been less of a disaster if he had died in the Hindu faith before he became a Christian."

There was a pause. The Principal was troubled and perplexed. If the animosity towards Ananda was roused to such an extent as to produce these results something must be done and done promptly.

"If the feeling runs so high, I am afraid I shall be compelled to dispense with his services. I shall be sorry to part with him for his own sake; I could see that he would have suited admirably as a master; his teaching is clear and lucid. But I can't have the school emptied in this way. You must help me to get out notices at once which will make it plain to the parents of the boys that the matter will be set right and another man will take the class."

Dr. Wenaston had the unpleasant task before him of breaking the news to Ananda and of warning him that he must not be seen on the school premises again. There was no objection to an occasional visit to the house. Miss Wenaston would be pleased to see him at any time; but he must be careful to keep away from the class rooms and playing-fields.

Ananda received the news in silence. The sight of the empty rooms was enlightening and needed no comment. He was not surprised when Dr. Wenaston intimated in polite and gentle speech that he could no longer permit him to appear in the college.

"I had better leave at once, sir; as soon as the boys know that I am not here they will return," was Ananda's reply.

"You understand the situation?"

"Quite; the absence of the boys is convincing."

His dejection touched the Englishman. "I am sorry, very sorry for you. We must see what can be done in some other way. I will write to Mr. Alderbury at once."

Ananda turned his back on the silent rooms and walked towards the road. The residence of the Principal stood on his left fronting the other way. Mrs. Hulver was in the back verandah, her eye scanning the landscape. She called sharply to the butler.

"Ramachetty, go and tell that native gentleman over there that I want to speak to him."

Ananda, surprised at the summons, responded to her call.

"Come in, Mr. Ananda; I want a few words with you," was her greeting.

Mrs. Hulver bustled into her sitting-room, followed by her visitor.

"Sit down," she said, in her expansive maternal manner. "I have something to tell you. Do you know that those imps of boys who ought to be in class are waiting outside about a hundred yards up the road?"

"Are they, Mrs. Hulver? What do they want?"

Although he asked the question he was able to give a shrewd guess as to the reason of their presence.

"They want you; and they mean mischief. You must just sit here for a while, and when the coast is clear you can get away safely. I was in the town this morning. I tell you it is in a ferment over your coming to the college, and it isn't safe for you to be seen about in broad daylight. Those young limbs of mischief mean to do you some hurt."

This was the work of his uncle, he was convinced; but he did not express his thoughts aloud. He thanked Mrs. Hulver for her kindly offices and sat down to wait. She gave him a book to read, and did her best to make him feel at ease.

"You stay and dine with me. A good hot square meal will do you no harm. It will be cooked by myself in the verandah and it will be ready soon after twelve--hot soup, fried fish, vegetable curry and stewed guavas; and we will eat it here in this room. As William--that was my first husband--used to say: 'Better be in at the end of a feast than the beginning of a fight'--and a losing fight it will be for you, Mr. Ananda, if you get among those boys in their present temper."