Chapter XXIII

A week passed during which Pantulu's family settled back into the ordinary routine. Sooba was gratified by the performance of the widowing ceremonies; he felt to a certain degree revenged upon his unfortunate nephew. The adulation received from the visitors did something to restore his wounded vanity; but the disrespect shown by Dr. Wenaston's housekeeper was not yet atoned for; and his vindictiveness in that direction continued to smoulder.

A second letter arrived from Gunga asking for news of Ananda. It contained a message that amounted to a parental order. Gunga desired her son to come to her at once. She suggested that by this time the popular feeling against him in the town would have subsided; and it would be quite safe for him to travel in the bullock coach which had taken her and her husband to their new home. She went into further detail about the proposed journey, and asked that some personal property should be forwarded by the conveyance that brought her son. Sooba read the letter aloud to his wife in his perplexity.

"It means that my brother is worse and he wants to make one more appeal to his son," he commented.

"You will have to tell him that Ananda is dead."

"I shall do nothing of the kind--at present. It is strange that the well refuses to give up the body."

"Not at all, husband. The gods have permitted the demon of the well to do its worst. Perhaps one day his bones may be brought to light; but we shall never see his body again."

"As far as we are all concerned it would be a good thing if he were never seen again. It would solve the difficulty of funeral ceremonies," remarked Sooba complacently.

"Does our sister say nothing about Dorama?"

"Nothing at all."

"If she knew she would ask for the jewels. You have them all safe?"

"Perfectly safe."

"Why not replace them in the family chest?" she asked, a touch of anxiety in her voice.

"Because I choose to keep them myself."

She was silent in spite of her uneasiness. She was aware that Sooba had not only taken possession of the jewels, but had also appropriated some of the money recently paid in by the middle-men who purchased the produce of Pantulu's estate. They brought rupee notes and took Sooba's receipt without a suspicion of anything wrong. Sooba himself saw no harm in his action. He was a little premature; but as it would all be his at no distant time there was nothing dishonest about it.

"What answer shall you send?"

"I shall say that we gave Ananda the punishment commanded by the swami, taking care not to be too severe."

"It was very severe all the same. Sometimes I think that he may have crawled away into the jungle and died there."

"Chah! woman! you babble like a fool!" retorted Sooba with irritation. "We are speaking now of what is to be said to our sister. In return for our leniency--for not having given him the full measure prescribed by the holy one----"

"The men said that it was more than----"

"Peace, idiot! Let me finish what I intend to say to my sister-in-law. In return for our kindness he has gone off, we can't say where. He tried to entice away the foolish deluded Dorama and persuade her to go with him; but we discovered the plan just in time to stop her."

His wife was not satisfied. She had no objection to the distortion of the tale. What she feared was the discovery of the truth by Gunga. The story of the widow ceremony must come to her ears before many more days were passed; and nothing would be gained by rousing her wrath unnecessarily. As long as there was a breath of life in Pantulu, Gunga ruled absolutely; and it was in her power to turn out Sooba and his wife if serious offence were given.

"Leave it to me," said Sooba confidently and untroubled by any qualms of conscience. "Our sister is occupied in looking after her husband. Her own approaching widowhood will take up the rest of her thoughts. We need not fear that she will make inquiry or trouble about anything until the end comes. Then I in the absence of Ananda will be chief mourner and master of the house. It will be your voice and not our sister's that will hold the attention of the zenana. The jewels may be worn by you; they will become you well, wife."

She was not satisfied even with this rosy dream of wealth and authority, and she asked uneasily:

"When will you tell Gunga of her son?"

"In another week perhaps I may begin to break the news."

The days that followed the widowing rites passed strangely for Dorama. She hated her new position and inwardly revolted against it. She loathed her rough garment and bare head. The cool evening wind caught her behind the ears and at the back of her neck--where formerly the heavy strands of hair formed a covering--and gave her twinges of neuralgia. She shivered and drew up the saree shawl-wise over her head, but it slipped down having nothing to cling to. She missed the daily details of her toilet. There was no hair to comb, and scent, and plait with fresh blossoms; no jewels to fasten on arm and neck. She was not permitted to use any of the various cosmetics treasured in the brass box with its many divisions that was her own special property; the rouge, sandal-wood paste, saffron powder, lip-salve, henna and the sweet atta of rose. The only thing allowed was the use of pure water. The food was good, but the mode of serving deprived her of appetite. By the time her turn came she was so full of misery and impatience at her altered circumstances, that she found no pleasure in eating the excellent curry prepared in the kitchen. Alone and like a guilty thing she bolted her meals, sometimes shedding bitter tears as she did so. Even the luxury of grief was denied. If tears were seen or a sob heard, she was reproved. Did she want to bring bad luck upon the house? she was asked. If a basin was broken or a pot upset, angry glances were directed towards her. If the woman slicing vegetables cut her finger, she showed it to the widow with an injured expression, as much as to say: Look at the effect of having a person like you in the house!

Her services were not urgently needed in the kitchen where many hands made light work; and it frequently happened to her to be ordered out of the room. She wandered away in listless fashion, aware that wherever she went her presence would be unwelcome. Only one spot seemed free to her, and this was because it was deserted by all others. The small room formerly occupied by her husband was always empty, and thither she was drawn by memory and association.

At first she merely sat upon the mat and brooded, looking out of the open door at the forest-clad mountain with eyes that saw nothing of its beauty in line or colour. On the third day she noticed that the dust had accumulated, and that the dead jasmin blossoms remained just where they had fallen. She went out into the compound and gathered a bunch of twigs with which she swept out the room. In so doing she discovered a glove that had belonged to her husband. She recognised it as his and, picking it up, she kissed it passionately. Once, not so very long ago, it had been a covering to his dear hand. He had worn it in that far-off smoky city of the west, and the strange scent still clung to it.

When she had finished her self-appointed task, she seated herself on the mat to indulge in the pleasure of gloating over her treasure; and to devise a secure hiding place for it in the fold of her saree. A dozen times it was hidden and brought out again to be fondled and gazed at, to be tenderly nursed like a baby on her arm. She was startled by the sound of a footfall. Hastily thrusting her treasure into her saree she looked up and saw Mayita.

"Ah, dear sister. How good it is to meet again! My brother caught sight of you as he walked through the compound, and he sent me to talk to you while he goes to the house to ask for news of your husband."

"There is no news," replied Dorama sadly.

"Not yet; but there will be soon," replied Mayita confidently. The child entered the room and glanced round with approval. "You have swept it and made it tidy. Does any one come here?"

"Not that I know of," replied Dorama, her hand slipping under the folds of her cloth to close secretly over the glove.

"Then it is ours for the present, ours! sister! Think how delightful! Widows are not allowed to possess anything, so they say! But listen, I will tell you a secret now that you are my sister. They think I have nothing, nothing in this big world; but I have lots of treasures. I am rich. I have silver pots and golden cups and china dishes. Sometimes they are filled with oranges and mangoes, pomegranates and mangosteens. I have jewels and silk sarees----"

"What are you talking about, child!" cried Dorama staring at her in astonishment.

"Hush, speak low, and I will show you some diamonds. They are the dower of a bride in a marriage I am making."

She untied a corner of her cloth and produced some small white stones that she had picked up in the compound. She chose one and lifted it daintily.

"This magnificent stone of the first water was found at Golcondah a thousand years ago. It was once in the crown of a rich Maharajah. It is worth twenty lacs of rupees; and if this wedding can be arranged----" her brow puckered suddenly, "but things are not going well. The astrologer has pronounced unfavourably on the horoscopes. The bride's element is water, and the bridegroom's partly air and partly fire. Air and water will agree; but fire and water!--what can it mean unless it be misfortune?"

"What will you do?" asked Dorama entering into the fanciful world of the other with the kindly indulgence of the older woman towards the younger.

"I have paid a large sum to the astrologer. He is a very clever man--oh, so wise--and he has gone to a big temple in the south to ask for the assistance of the gods. I would do anything rather than disappoint the bridegroom. He is so handsome, so fair, so big and strong! The bride will die of grief if she is not permitted to marry him. Already she is drooping and languishing because of the delay. Beloved sister, you must come to the wedding. You shall be the bridegroom's mother."

A generous offer that Dorama accepted with a sad smile. There was a vast gulf between the two widows. One had never tasted the reality. She had only been a bride in name, and she was still able to live in the rosy dreams of maiden fancy. The other had drunk the cup and realised every thing. To her this make-believe was but a mockery, the dust and ashes of a tantalising memory.

"Where is the bridegroom?" asked Dorama.

Mayita untied another knot in her saree and produced a wood-apple which she exhibited proudly.

"See, isn't he well made?" she said. "Look at his limbs. Feel his smooth skin! How tall! how proud he is and how strong. He will be the father of many sons."

"Have you the bride as well?"

"She has to live with her people at present. Her home is in the datura bush. She wears a saree of pure white satin and she hangs her head with beautiful modesty. Sister!" Mayita's eyes surveyed the room with approval. "We will have the wedding here. The astrologer will soon be back from the south, and I am sure that his visit to the temple will have made matters smooth. We shall be able to decorate the place and lay out the feast. I will bring my silver pots and china dishes to-morrow and we will hide them behind your husband's boxes. Oh, how delightful it will be! What a wedding we will have!"

Mayita's eyes sparkled, and the beautiful brown tones of her skin were enriched as the warm blood coursed through her veins. In spite of her shaven head and coarse garment, her youth and comeliness asserted themselves. She babbled on about the wedding, the difficulties that had occurred over the dower as well as the horoscope, the number of guests to be invited, and other details to which Dorama listened, her hand over the hidden glove, her thoughts wandering back into the past when there was another wedding less nebulous than that of Mayita's devising, and she herself was the bride. A call outside checked the flow of description, and Mayita rose quickly to her feet.

"It is my brother. Come to the entrance of the yard while I ask him for news; and listen."

Bopaul in the customary manner of a caste man, stood a little way off waiting for his sister to join him.

"What news of Ananda?" asked the child, stopping in the entrance and calling to him.

"They have none."

"Where is he?"

"They still speak of the well; but I do not believe that he is dead. Come, little one, it is time we returned."

Mayita kissed Dorama.

"My brother is right. Your husband lives; but for the present you are his widow. To-morrow Coomara's widow will come again. There will be news by that time from the astrologer, and we shall be able to begin the preparations for the wedding. Sister, those big boxes must be pushed aside; they will be in the way. Do you think that we could move them? We will try to-morrow."

Another call from Bopaul, and Mayita beat a hasty retreat. Dorama was left standing at the entrance. The sun had disappeared in a heavy bank of cloud that later would be streaked with electricity. Rain was wanted; there had been none for the last few days. Her eye rested on the gourd that had been trampled by the inquisitive crowd. She went to it.

"Poor plant! They killed you I am afraid; but no, you are not dead! Here are some buds coming and fresh leaves!"

She stooped over the vine and plucked away the bruised foliage leaving the stalks almost as bare as her own poor head. Unlovely though the rough stems were they were full of virility; and the rain and sun would mend what was marred and reclothe the plant with verdure. She straightened out a few twisted stems and lifted some leaves that had been trodden down but escaped total destruction. It was a curious sight; the crushed tending the crushed.

Then she entered the room again and thought of the child. Why should she not have the small pleasure of playing her little game on the morrow. She looked at the two portmanteaux and considered how they could be moved out of the way. They were her husband's and must be cared for, as they contained his clothes and books. Of course they were heavy and beyond her power to move.

She gripped the handle of one and putting all her strength into the effort attempted to lift it. To her astonishment it yielded with such ease that she nearly fell over backwards. A cry escaped her lips as she dropped it. It was empty. She tested the weight of the other with the same result. That too was empty, if she might judge by its lightness.

The knowledge came as a shock; it was a revelation, and threw a fresh and unexpected light on her husband's disappearance. If he had thrown himself down the well it was hardly likely that he would have taken all his clothes and books with him. They would still be here. Where they had gone he must have followed. But stay! had some thief stolen the contents? If so the locks would betray him. She examined them closely. They were sound and unbroken. No sign of the hand of a thief was to be seen. The boxes were properly locked and their contents had been removed with the owner's consent.

A great joy swept over her, lifting a dull dead weight from her heart. Bopaul had asserted his belief more than once that his friend still lived, and she had heard the assertion with very little faith. This discovery altered the complexion of affairs completely and brought conviction. Her husband was surely alive! In spite of the dreadful bangle-breaking ceremony; in spite of the coarse clothing and shaven head she was not a widow. One day he would come back to her and claim her for his own. She would feel his dear arms round her again, his lips upon hers, his words of love would be breathed in her ears once more!

The joy of it all deprived her of muscular strength for the time, and she sank down by those rough battered trunks, leaning her arms upon them and laying her cheek against the stained leather. She could have hugged and kissed them in her gratitude for what they had revealed.

Gradually her mind cleared; it seemed to have matured during the last few weeks and to have aged with experience. She thought of all she had gone through. First there was the bewilderment caused by his change of faith, which raised a barrier between him and herself, and she realised how intensely disappointed she was. Then came the loss of the child and her sorrow. Lastly, she had had to endure the degradation of widowhood which, coming as it did on the top of her loss of husband and child, brought her to the verge of hopeless despair. Had it not been for the opportune visit of Mayita she would now be lying in the well where, up to the present, she had believed her husband to be.

The conviction that he was alive grew upon her as she sat there in the darkening room. She drew out the glove and pressed it to her lips. To all intents and purposes she was still a widow, and as such she must remain for the present. As she cherished the glove and hid it, so she must keep her discovery a secret. She must also guard against showing the new hope that had sprung up; the hope that he would return, that sooner or later he would seek her out and bid her come. Could he do it openly? She doubted the wisdom of such a course. She remembered how they had failed in their first attempt to escape. There must be no failure the second time. She must be careful and cautious and trust to no one.

The more she contemplated the step she might be called upon to take at any moment, the more clearly she understood its seriousness. The effect would be far-reaching and irretrievable. To throw in her lot with her husband would mean that she would cut herself adrift from the family for ever. She must be one with him, of his faith, and dead to all her relatives.

Was she prepared to make the sacrifice? Yes, a thousand times, yes! The old spirit that had led her remote ancestresses to the funeral pile to die in the flames that devoured their dead husbands' bodies, rose strongly within her and bound her to her living husband. For his sake she would endure and bear as he had endured and borne. She would be ready when his summons came; and she would go gladly, even though he beckoned to her from the fire of adversity, that burned as fiercely as the flames of the old suttee funeral pile; she would join him and cling to him for ever!

She lifted her head with eyes that shone, not with tears but with a new light. The last vestige of the child died within her; and the woman who walked thoughtfully back to the zenana, as the shadow of night settled over the landscape, was a woman of determination and strength of purpose. The baptism of sorrow had lifted her on to a higher plane, and had fitted her for better things than a colourless life of inert misery.