The Pestilence at Noonday

I

“But you will forget me, my lord!”

“Yes! ’tis not unlikely,” was the response. “I shall have many things to interest me: knowledge to acquire, the world to sample, a name to make. How, then, will there be room for thought of women, and petting, and suchlike? But when I am tired of it all I’ll come back to this forgotten little spot, and I’ll find you just the same, sitting here among the lotuses and marigolds, and with a heart just as full of love for me as it is now—rather fuller, perhaps, with the enforced repression!”

“Oh, my lord, how unkind you are! I’ve spoiled you!”

“Have you indeed? Who would be the more unhappy, you or I, did my father wed me to the wealthy Tara? Now listen. Seriously, Sita, you must drop this nonsense. I am sorry that I let them educate you. It has given you notions which patch clumsily on to the heritage of traditions into which you were born. Remember you are still a Hindu wife, however glibly your tongue may adapt itself to foreign languages. And remember what that means. When you rode the ‘marriage’ horse beside me (how many years ago was that?), or, even later, when you trod the seven steps round the sacred fire, ’twas not because I loved you, or you loved me. It was partly, as you know, because the astrologers gave the word, and partly because your dowry was sufficiently attractive. True it is that I fought your battles for you, Sita, when we were children together, playing in the great courtyard at our gillie-dandu or our ātia pātiā; and I won’t deny that I have been very kind to you, letting them teach you most of the things I learnt myself, and saving you from household drudgeries. And I have even let you call me by my name, and raise your eyes in my presence, and dine, sitting by my side (think of that!), and I daresay you’ve boasted of all this to the women at the well, of a morning. But I warn you, Sita, set not too much store by these indulgences. They are indicative of nothing save, perhaps, of my own superiority to trifles. (Sita stole a look at him. No! he was quite serious.)

“There is, remember, a habit of loving, and it includes in its generous scope all who come within physical range of its influence all accustomed daily objects. Think of all that that may mean, Sita, in the long years when you no longer form an item in my immediate horizon. Think of it, and perhaps that will cure you of expecting too much. . . . Yes! the gods and fate have created you for my convenience and ministration; the only dignity which you can ever acquire will be incidental. Hitherto you have failed me, and were I to die to-morrow, who is there to raise the supplicatory censer beside the pyre?

“Be thankful, little Sita, for what of affection and indulgence you have been allowed, and while I am away you will best please me by being a good daughter to my old father. He dotes on you, you know, and—well, I won’t promise, but give me your ear, Sita; if you should send me word that I need not fear about the funeral pyre—you understand?—why, I may hurry home in a year or so—who knows?”

They stood by a little pond of lotuses—the man and woman; both strong, handsome young creatures, developed wholesomely, mind and body. The girl, in her clinging white and green draperies, seemed herself but a human rendering of the delicate yet stately flower, as it floated in its dainty purity on the close surface of graceful green leaves. And the man seemed to be noting this with an air of satisfied proprietorship through his half-shut, sleepy eyelids. She had been a bit playful to begin with, and had even ventured a jeer or two and a saucy glance with her handsome black eyes; but, as the unimpassioned homily proceeded she drew away, hurt and doubtful, and listened with drooping head.

There was now a moment’s silence. An ugly toad dared a clumsy leap over the divine lotus, and Het Ram threw a stone at him. The sound roused Sita; she drew herself up to her full height, and seemed about to speak; but changing her mind, she walked rapidly away.

“Sita!” called her husband; but for once no little caressing creature came to rub a gentle cheek against his extended hand.

II

It is nine years since the scene by the lotus bed. The hour is again that of the short Indian twilight. The little silver bell tinkles at a wayside shrine, calling the labouring man to propitiate the idol for the carelessness and detected dishonesties of his day’s labours, and goodly Hindus, men and women, stream down the busy thoroughfare, responsive to the call. The street presented a whole spectrum of exquisite colour. There were the graceful draperies of the women, and the brilliant turbans of the men—for the sterner sex is, in India, allowed the indulgence of primitive tastes for the attractive in dress; and, indeed, to the seeing eye, the little procession was inarticulate history. That sharp-eyed, slightly-built man with the curious close-fitting turban, terminating in a seeming bottomless crown, is by caste and profession a bania, or money-lender; he probably comes from Kathiawad, and the well-worn books under his left arm contain, I doubt not, matter sufficiently explanatory of the anxious look on his unabsolved countenance.

With this other devotee, humorous, kindly, old, one wishes better acquaintance.

On his forehead he bears an open triangle and a large black dot—the mark significant of the god to whom he has allotted himself, the classic Vishnu; and he divides his attention between a pair of old steel scissors and a pair of new red shoes, which last he carries carefully under a protecting left arm. The white dust is not unpleasing to his toes, and, as for the shoes, they are no addition to the dignity of old Narain the tailor, than whom the town holds no more respected citizen.

Beside him walks a hybrid production, a creature evidently of the very new school. His large, flat, red turban with its golden fringe is his one concession to his caste. For the rest, he creaks aloud in cheap patent leather shoes and dubious white socks—ineffectual covering for a gratuitous display of muscleless leg, surmounted by folds of loose white drapery and a rusty black coat. He is discussing with old Narain the chance of escape for the city from the dread disease, news of which is brought from infected towns by fear-stricken refugees. But his pompous periods are suspended for remark on the slender, gracefully clad figure of a woman, who, avoiding the crush, hugs the shop-fronts, hurrying swiftly forward to anticipate the inrush at the little temple.

“You know Sita?” he says complacently to his companion, “Sita of the house of Nagarkar, the old pundit? In a week or so she will be my bride. There are no prouder souls on this incarnation than the girl and her father: but they will yet be suppliant to me. I shall not curse this sickness if it humbles them—not but that Sita will be worth the price I pay,”—he added generously. “She will be a great help to me over my new paper. ’Tis well to educate girls sometimes; it makes them marketable.

Bhikku the oilman jostled him at this moment. He was clad in a slight garment wound about his loins; of distinctive headdress he was innocent, but his shining personality advertised his calling with sufficient emphasis; and he bore, pendent, a small vessel full of the sweet oil of the country. A judicious swing deposited a full pice-worth on the brand-new patent leather.

“Hi, Master Gopal!” exclaimed the knave, in well-simulated sullen resentment, “you know how to write essays on the rights of the poor, and the wrong done us by the Government with its taxes and assessments; but what of the champion of the poor himself, who robs the poor man of his oil, and the god of his offering?”

“Insolent son of a pig!” retorted Gopal, who had already been instant with curses and bitterness, “what of my new shoes?”

But a general laugh forced upon his wounded vanity the need of some display, and, “There!” he added, “you are not worth consideration; replace your oil, and buy yourself some manners!”

Bhikku’s eyes dilated at sight of the rupee, and clutching it eagerly he turned aside to test it on the pavement—gratitude came not but in the wake of an assuring ring. Then, “Protector of the poor,” he yelled after the retreating figure, “may the thread of your life continue unending; ’tis Bhikku the oilman who prays it. . . . And,” he added in a lower tone to the knot of loiterers who had backed him, “may Bhikku often bespatter your infidel-clad feet, in the presence of such true worshippers of the gods as these my brethren!”

Indeed, so elated was he by the success of his device, that he would willingly have scattered largess to the extent of three whole pice—had he not feared that ’twould be accepted!

Sita has now reached the little shrine. ’Tis a small stone pavilion, to which a few worn steps give access. The idol is—as man has made him; and sits smiling blandly through more than one coating of oil and green paint. Over his head is an umbrella, the emblem of sovereignty; a quiver of arrows hangs at his back; in one hand he holds his bow of destruction, and in the other a flower of the living lotus, as who should say, “I slay, and I make alive.”

Sita, his wife, once sat by his side, but in a fit of jealousy at her transcendent beauty he killed her, say the priests, one stormy night, with his great bow and arrow, and a shred of protecting veil, with a fragment of broken arm, emphasised the story, as it filtered down to generations yet unborn.

Yet, clearly, his devotees were not as other religionists were, or even as some mere sensationalists, seeking to realise Ram Chandra’s graphic omnipotence by means of gigantic efforts after magnificence and ceremony—for they worshipped quietly enough—the humblest of them himself approaching the god with his simple offering, unattended by acolyte or mace-bearer, or any pomp and circumstance of prayer. At most, on festal days, the blind priest from beneath the pipal tree would be requisitioned in attendance—to beat, with upturned face and wriggling body, a wild tattoo on an ill-shapen and tuneless drum.

To-day, however, Ram Chandra was in mufti, so Sita found her way, unimpeded into the silence of the presence-chamber, and dropped at the petrified feet of the idol her small offering—a handful of yellow marigolds and some beauteous white lotus flowers. Then she retreated, and looked at the smug, complacent creature with some scorn. “You are ugly,” she said. “Is it to propitiate you that I continue my daily sacrifice? I certainly do not love you. And you have done nought for me these nine long years. Perhaps you have not the power even to hurt me. Perhaps you are just a poor dead block of stone, after all—just that, and nothing more!”

But the people were approaching, so she hastened to add her usual orison. “Good luck to my dear husband, and oh! a swift return!”

Then, drawing her veil closer about her, she turned and sped back the way she had come.

The door into the little courtyard creaked painfully as she helped it open, and there was a sad look of poverty and ill-fought decay about the once handsome house. The old carvings along the wood balcony were chipped and casual; no longer did the serpent-headed sport in wanton freedom with apocryphal nymphs, and the famous monkeys leered in the most sinister of split mouths at the great Vishnu and Lakshmi, whom erstwhile they had worshipped with abject dejection, in the sanctified company of Hanuman the divine. While, apart from artistic effect, what of the safety of those great tottering columns?

In the broad verandah on a large wooden swing, hanging by rusty iron chains from the beams overhead, sat a venerable old man, clean-shaven, head and face, but for a small wisp of thin grey hair, which, grown in the centre of his head, was gathered into a single long-looped knot, and bobbed against his back in perfect accord with the motion of the board. Curled close beside him, the old man’s lean right arm keeping him in steady safety, was a poor wee child, his face too keenly intelligent and his eyes too lustrous for health.

You would have thought he was but six years in age, but he had been in this sad world about four years longer. His eyes brightened at sight of his mother. “Mother,” he said, “come and swing—see! there’s room for you.” But the old pundit stopped the intended game.

“Nay, mother of Rama!” he said, “I would speak with thee. Give to the care of the trusty Mukti this thy son, and come thou with me to the lotus pond.”

Sita bent her head in grave acquiescence, and summoning the nurse, had soon overtaken the stately-stepping pundit.

“What is it, father?” she asked, her hand in his. “What ails thee—the day’s sunset?”

“Nay!” he made answer; “by the lotus bed will I speak.”

Sita helped him mount the little mound overlooking the still water and the eternal flowers, and, throwing down a square of gay Indian carpet to protect the aged limbs against the early dew, “Now,” she said, expectant.

“My child,” said the sage, “in the holy book is there all wisdom; yet not even much reading and study of the word teaches one when and of whom the gods may demand vengeance. Whether we ourselves, you and I, Sita, or whether our ancestors have sinned, how can I tell, whence discover? But this I do know, that, unless the gods relent, some fearful calamity awaits us. The oracles have never lied to me. Now, child of my heart, hear me; but hear the worse alternative first. Thou knowest that there is but a handful of rupees in the jar, buried over against the Buddha column. ’Tis true that, as a Brahmin, my demand for money would bring a special blessing to Lalluchand, that godless son of the stone-bleeding banker, or to any of those ill-begotten dogs of usurers. But ever since the old Krishnaram, the ancestor of your son, got the rich grant of land from the grateful but wily Sivaji (never mind that story now, you know it), no sleek bania has written our honoured names in his dishonest account books—nor shall he do so now! And ’tis thou must help me, Sita. Gopal of the Samachar seeks thy hand in marriage; he promises gifts, unusually generous. Thou hast for two years been accounted a widow. Have we not waited nine long years for some sign of life from thy husband? That the demon of the sea has prepared him for his next incarnation seems certain, beyond a doubt. Why shouldst thou wear thy young eyes with watching down the avenue of all the weary years, for a wanderer who will never come? Gopal is clever; you will have many tastes in common. For thy son’s sake, Sita, consent to this. Gopal is impatient (and I blame him not),—was here urging me, just after thou didst leave this evening for the temple, light of my eyes. . . . For thy boy’s sake,” he repeated, as the girl still spoke not.

Then she lifted to him a face almost stern with resolution. “No, father, not yet—I cannot. For my husband’s sake I remain unmarried, till he comes to claim me. If he be dead (and of this I must have proof), then—why, then, what matters it to me what life I lead, whether as Gopal’s wife or another’s? Yet, I tell you, father, I like not this new notion of re-marriage. Your grandparents would have deemed it sin. . . . But he is not dead, I know; and there is a way other than the one through Gopal’s courtyard. Of what avail is all that you have let me learn, all the Sanskrit and English and other things, an I am less able to help myself than the woman who grinds the corn for our daily bread? I will seek my old teacher; she will surely show me how to make use of my learning.”

The old man looked at her in admiration. “Thou wert ever quick-witted, Sita. But the plan is too untried to praise—just yet. Meantime, now that thou hast heard the worse alternative, and heard it with courage, listen to the possible escape. Dost thou remember my talk of Symonds sahib, the planter on the — estate? Sociable he was, and open-handed, learned also in the ways and language of our people, and river-hearted, ever kind to those in distress. But he was reckless and extravagant, and the women of his acquaintance were more exacting than the greediest idol. Soon his debts became matter for scandal in the department, and he came to me. We had enough and to spare then: ’twas many years agone, now, Sita—you would not remember—and he was an Englishman, and had been good to me. ’Twas not like lending money to the close-fisted bania—so—well! I hold a bond for 10,000 rupees. He meant well by me, for his bankers have till lately sent me the interest regularly. ’Tis true ’twas but a nominal rate, but that was at my own desire. I would not be a bania, putting out money to be doubled in my friend’s houses! But what I can’t understand is the fact that the auguries are not more favourable! For, look you, he is now in this neighbourhood, and he is an English gentleman. If I go to him and say, ‘Sir, I have not pressed my bond these many years, but we are in trouble; the little Sita whom you saw as a child, and her boy, and I . . . and, though I am ashamed to ask it, we want the money, now.’. . . or, perhaps my voice will fail me, ere I’ve said a thing, but he will understand, and will take my hand, and say, ‘My friend, why did you not come to me earlier, or press for the money through my bankers? Would you not have me come to you in my trouble?—nay, did I not come?’ And, I shall be ashamed for another cause—for this indeed, that I am so poor a creature that to beg a kindness of my friend is gall to me. And I shall weep, but I’ll be happy too, in that he will have saved you, Sita, and the boy . . . and, I will come to you, with my hand tightly clasped on that little cheque of his—a small piece of paper, Sita, why, the wind, even on a still day, would bear it away like a feather! but it will mean freedom for us, and life and health to the boy. . . . And we shall journey, we three, to the far hills where the air is pure, and where no dragon of disease can stalk in our wake. But, Sita! Sita! Sita! tell me, why were the auguries inauspicious? Is it that I may never meet him? But you could claim the money? The boy would still be saved. What matters about me? the thread of my life is nearly run out.” . . . Then, suddenly, “I will go to him to-morrow, Sita; we shall cheat the Fates, yet!”

He rose with some of his old energy, and was indeed quite cheerful over the simple evening meal, recalling stories of his own dear planter sahib, and acquiring fresh confidence from his reminiscences. . . .

“Why, you look ten years younger, my father!” said Sita, as in the freshness of the early morning she equipped him for his journey, binding his small bundle about his shoulders, and herself placing the staff in his well-knit hand.

“You will deduct a second decade on my return,” he chuckled. But the gate creaked ominously behind him.

III

“There is really nothing more luxurious than tent-life in India.” It was an Englishwoman who spoke her thoughts aloud, and she spoke in a brisk cheery voice. She seemed about forty years or thereabouts; the eyes were small and round and kindly, and the sunburnt face beamed health and benevolence. She lay in a low deck-chair, under the flap of a comfortable Jubbalpore tent. “How am I to make them believe at home that here, a hundred miles from civilization, I have—all this?” And she inspected her canvas home with much satisfaction. Small shelves of attractive books hung against the walls of the tent. In one corner stood a table, littered with the nameless requisites of a lady’s letter-writing. Soft Persian rugs wooed one’s feet. A table laid with spotless linen and glittering silver promised speedy pacification to clamorous appetites. Easy-chairs and soft cushions offered repose to tired limbs. She rose with a sigh of content and walked to the tent door. The little encampment gleamed white in the early sunlight. “I wish they’d come,” she said. And, as though her wish were electric, the clatter of horses’ hoofs came to her on the wind.

At a casual glance these men might have served, at an imperial exhibition of human beings, as typical of the Anglo-Indian. The routine of officialism, the strict application of codes with the one and the habit of ruling with the other, seemed to have robbed their faces of much individuality. They were no longer John Caldecott and Henry Symonds—they were the trusted commissioner and the successful tea-planter. The characteristics of the type, however, were sufficiently forcible: hard, stern faces, browned with exposure to sun and wind; the light active frame of men whose lives had been spent in the country of sport; and the careless good humour of the exile in the company of boon companions. But closer observation revealed differences. Henry Symonds had squandered all the good material with which life had endowed him. He had wasted his substance—not exactly in the riotous living of the prodigal, but in brainless extravagances, usually wild bids for popularity. He had a generous heart and an instinctive dread of giving pain, but he allowed an entire severance between wit and sentiment, and, as a result, his generosity was rarely well-placed; while the dislike of pain had grown to a curiously sensual and selfish aestheticism.

The chief human being to be saved from pain was himself. Yet he was excellent company, could tell a good story and sing a rollicking song, was invaluable at private theatricals, and had even written a stray novel or two. Sinister tales were afloat, of not altogether justifiable attempts to readjust the inactivities of his banking account; but those stern lines about the mouth belied the rumours.

His friends did not reflect that the trend of the workaday mill may have been a more peremptory force in his life than any effort of his own weak nature.

However, here he was—a godsend in the desert, and in three short months John Caldecott would be waving a white handkerchief to the P. and O. boat which carried his friend to an evening of quiet in the Devonshire village where he meant to make his home.

“Here you are, you hunters,” said cheery Mrs. Caldecott. “You must defer baths till after breakfast. If you’ve not brought the proverbial hunger home with you, it’s because I’ve usurped the craving.”

Food was not hard to procure in this district. The eggs and milk of the outlying villages were a great improvement on the dwarfed and diluted productions of the towns; while of flesh they had an assortment varied by each fresh expedition of the sportsmen. It is true that, in deference to the prejudices of their Hindu neighbours in these ignorant wilds, they forbore from the sacred cow, but tinned substitutes offered sufficient opportunity for homage to British instincts. And indeed the encampment had nought culinary of which to complain.

Conversation, as is not uncommon in India, was mostly of the pig-sticking and polo type, and the men continued, after breakfast, to exchange experiences over their cigars, while Mrs. Caldecott busied herself at her writing-table. Presently she looked round. “I was quite forgetting,” she said, “that there is a queer old man waiting in the office-tent, to see the planter sahib. He is a most picturesque creature, with a certain quiet dignity in his face and bearing. He was carrying his own bundles, and looked quite poor; but there was something about him which made me feel almost shamefaced when they sent him to the office instead of showing him in here. Could you go and see him at once, Mr. Symonds? It seems not right to keep him waiting any longer.”

Mr. Symonds rose at once, and his friend promised to follow in a minute, to see to a stray official letter or so.

“Oh, Shastri, my good friend, greeting!” said the ever-ready Henry. “It is close upon—how many years since I saw you? And now tell me of the small girl, and that boy of yours.” . . . So he rattled on in his old familiar way.

“He’s just the same,” said the poor old man to himself; and, drawing on the thought for courage, he produced the bond, and made his request. . . .

When Mr. Caldecott reached the tent his friend was laughing a hard laugh as he tore up a stamped document; and a shrunken little man was cowering opposite him, with a face that was almost ashen.

“Hallo, Symonds! What’s the row? Is the wife’s prince a badmaash?”

“Oh, no! he’s only a creditor claiming ten thousand rupees, and more that’s all! That’s the bond!” and he pointed to the torn fragments in the waste-paper basket.

Caldecott shook his head unbelievingly. “You were always an actor, Symonds,” he said, “and that was really a fine scene. Put it into your next play; ’twill be a variation on the immortal Shylock. . . . But, I say, that man does look ill. What is the matter? Will he have a peg?”

“Not he! said Symonds; “and not even water, from us. He’s a Brahmin of the Brahmins. Why, I remember a journey he made in my company one hot, thirsty day, when his respect for his mother, the cow, nearly parched his throat eternally. The only place where water was procurable was in the vicinity of the shambles, and, ‘I can’t drink here,’ he said. . . . Come, Shastri, don’t take on so. That paper would have made no difference. When I am rich enough you shall have the money, anyhow. I am sure you exaggerated your trouble. Tell the pretty Sita I shall send her a present for her wedding—and mind you get her married as soon as possible. Gopal is a good enough fellow, I am sure. Come, look livelier! and tell me that you trust me. I am still an Englishman, you know. Has the magic of that fact lost its charm?”

But the old man seemed petrified; and, feeling really uncomfortable now, the planter turned away, whistling.

“Obstinate!” he said, “always obstinate. Well, if you won’t be comforted, you won’t!”

IV

Excitement prevailed in the town whence the Shastri had journeyed. The dreadful plague had already begun its ravages, and a wise Government was putting in practice stringent measures. Men stood discussing these at the meeting of the ways and on the steps of the temples. The inflammable young Indian had called monster meetings, and was airing his budding eloquence. There were Mahommedan meetings, and Hindu meetings, and meetings of both combined. In the great public library, in the heart of the city, had met the densest of these miscellaneous crowds.

Some greyheads had been on the platform, urging prayer as the best means of averting the disease; but they offered this suggestion cautiously, as if afraid of eventually attracting to their heads the blood of the community.

Up rose a young fanatic; the idea pleased him—he would urge it home. (‘Twas Gopal of the Samachar.) “We will not go, my brethren,” he said, “to the hospital. Our temples are our hospitals.” (Loud cheers from the panic-stricken crowd.) “They will send carriages to take your sick away. Be not deceived: the carriage they send is—a hearse”—(groans)—“only you are made, my friends, to ride in it while the blood still flows in your veins, that you might chant your own death-song, and see, as in a vision, that which is shortly to be.

“You mothers! how will you feel when your dying children are snatched from your arms?

“You husbands! where is your manhood, that you can allow other men to hold the hand of your faithful wives?

“You wives! how will you abandon your husbands’ corpses to contamination?

“And, all ye fathers, mothers, husbands, wives, sisters, brothers,—ye who guard the religion of the nation, what of the caste rules broken? Ye Mahommedans, what of the spiritous liquors they will force upon you?” . . . (Here the storm which he had excited drowned his own vapourings; but after a while he was heard again.) “And not only when you are ill will you be taken captive, but when you are in health. Listen, fellow-citizens: this is the plan. First will come the sepoys—curse the renegades! every sister’s son of them! They will come with their swords in their hands, and search our houses. The trembling woman and crying child will be brought into the fierce light of the open street. If you have but a headache, or a scratch on your small finger, you will be thrust into the awful hearse—the entreaties and cries of your relations and friends all unheeded. They, indeed, are driven like sheep, the dogs of sepoys biting at their legs, away from house and home, their little property being perforce abandoned to the greed of every passer-by.

“Near the Christian burying-ground is a row of white tents; there they will house them, safely out of the way, while they dig up your own poor dwelling, to look for treasure”—(hisses)—“while they unroof all the rooms, and burn all your property. That white canvas is the monument to a living grave, . . . for, when your friends return to you,—if they ever do,—what care have they for life, their loved ones gone, their fortunes to rebuild?

“And, look you, even white rupees will not now buy your ransom. While the sepoys were in command, the rascals, it was ‘Off you go, Hari, unless you produce ten rupees.’ But they say in the bazaar that the English soldiers will do the search now; the English soldier, and the doctor-memsahibs and sahibs. . . And though there won’t be the oppression of the sepoy, you will certainly be carried away without mercy.” . . .

Thus the firebrand: and the poor ignorant people, panic-stricken, ready to believe anything, uncertain how to fight this unrelenting foe, listened to him, little wotting that they listened to their worst enemy. Some of the leaders of the people did indeed try to get a hearing for wiser counsels.

“My children!” said one old Qazi. “Have you not come to me in all your troubles, public and private, these many years? This plague, remember, is God’s visitation, not man’s device. Are not the ‘Government’ people’ fighting it for themselves and their wives and children, as well as for us? And, indeed, more on our behalf than on theirs; for to infection our poor people are most susceptible. And do you not know that the doctor-sahibs go to the stricken with their own lives in their hands? Was it not but yesterday that one of the gentle English nurses took the disease and died? Day after day she had tended others. I saw her in the plague-sheds, always bright and cheerful, easing others’ pain with such skill and tenderness. When she was ill herself and a special nurse was told off to care for her—‘Send her to the wards,’ she said, ‘they need her, my own poor patients.’” (Here the women said “Hi! Hi!” in sympathy, but the young orator Gopal started ironical cheers.) “To-day two English doctor-sahibs are down. Some of our Indian doctors may take it too. Many are brave and fearless, their names are written in our hearts; but I ask you, my friends,—Why have certain of them themselves fled to the hills, leaving their charges? I ask you why the houses of some of our influential leaders are closed in the time of stress? Why are we left unshepherded?

“You are ignorant, my children. You do not know that if the authorities separate the sick from the well, the evil (in health) from the good, ’tis to give both a chance of life. Those white tents are no monuments to the expectant dead; they are indeed monuments, but to the care for us, of our rulers!

“Yon youth would remind you of plunder. ’Tis well. Ganesh the goldsmith was sitting at his door, covered with a sheet. I saw him; he was but a bit lazy, and a bit chill in the early dawn,. . . and he told me this, sanely enough.

“The policeman who walks the beat by his house came up. ‘Ganesh’, he said, ‘you are ill.’

“‘You lie!’ said Ganesh.

“‘I will prove it,’ said the policeman. ‘Twenty rupees, and a promise of twenty more in a week, Ganesh, or I will help you into the plague cart, which will be round presently!’

“Ganesh had no alternative, as you know. But, mark you, my children, ‘twas your own brother who did that, not an Englishman. And ’twas his own evil act, commanded of no one . . . Our best plan——”

But this plain speaking did not suit the excited portion of the audience, though some others would have heard him gladly; the old man was easily overpowered, and thrust forth into the street. He walked slowly, with downcast head, pondering on life and death and human folly.

He was joined by an elderly Hindu, who had been giving him his support in the hall. “’Tis no use, Qazi sahib,” he said; “would you counsel wild beasts or fretful children? And, mark you, though you and I know the foreigner too well to yield him aught but reverence, ’tis a better understanding reciprocally, which we want among the masses of the nations.

“Moreover, there is too much which is inevitable, which neither English nor Indian can help, at this stage. You know very well that ’tis not death which the people dread, but contamination and loss of caste. I, who am a Hindu, appreciate this more than you, notwithstanding your kind sympathy. See how wide a gulf lies between you and me in some matters! . . . And the best of intentions cannot meet some of our most perplexing difficulties at a time like this. The Government is conceding much, I grant. What will ignorance concede, when in this panic ’tis so hopeless to persuade it of even any need for concession?”

Thus talking they turned down a by-street into what seemed a cul-de-sac. A gateway standing yawning an invitation, and the passage through a small well-kept garden, brought them to the meeting-place of the Reformers, or more enlightened Hindus. The worshippers sat on little soft hassocks, cross-legged, on the floor, and the air seemed electric with devotion.

On a raised divan sat a yogi; there was a low table before him holding an illuminated copy of the Vedas and a few sticks of incense, which diffused a sickly sweetness in the close room. The man’s lips moved in prayer. “Om, Om,” he said gutturally below his breath, while his body swayed to and fro. . . . “Surely the ‘cloven tongue’ must now appear!”

He was clad in the pilgrim’s garb, and his strong firm face betrayed many watchings and fastings. Then he spoke aloud.

“Let me adore the supremacy of that divine sun, the godhead who illumines all, from whom all proceeds, to which all must return, and which can alone irradiate not our visual organs merely, but our souls and our intellects.” . . . It was but the translation of that mystic Om, which none may utter aloud and live, and which is the faithful Hindu’s usual initiatory invocation.

For the rest of the prayer,—’twas only the sigh of impotence to omnipotence in this dread calamity;—the people listened with bowed head.

V

And the evening and the morning were the seventh day of the Shastri’s absence.

“He ought to have been back three days ago,” said Sita. “I should not have let him attempt the journey; it was selfish of me; yet he seemed so bright and hopeful.”

“Mother!” wailed a querulous voice from a low bed, which had been carried into the sunlit courtyard to suit the child’s whim, “Come, tell me pretty stories. When will grandad be back?” And the pretty story was so prettily told that the question about grandad was forgotten.

The child had been strangely languorous that morning, but this was nothing new in his usually poor state of health. Indeed, that he had any wishes at all was hopeful.

“Now tell me Surya!” he begged, and just as she finished—

“Lord of the lotus, father, friend and King,
Surya, thy power I sing!”

the rusty door creaked on its hinges and the old Shastri entered, led by a devotee, and looking terribly tottering and aged.

Sita was at his side instantly, tenderness and anxiety commingling in her cry of welcome—and he was soon on a comfortable cushion, being crooned over, and revived with nice fresh milk and unlimited petting.

But he could not speak just then, and the faqir dare not; for, as Sita saw, he was a Maunee, and, as such, bound to perpetual silence. In course of time, however, she did hear of the luckless visit, but this much and no more, that it had failed; yet the marriage with Gopal was not pressed. The old man seemed too listless to urge anything.

Since plague regulations had been in force Sita had intermitted the daily visits to the god, and the terror of the city reached the little household but obliquely and vaguely.

The child still ailed: for the last day or so he had been feverish, and had complained of a bad head, and of demons who overmastered him in ill-matched wrestling contests—leaving him with pains in back and limbs. The child’s head was full of strange fancies, born of the mythology with which his mother fed his baby cravings for a story.

Nor was he her only invalid; the old Shastri was comatose and inert, causing Sita much the greater anxiety of the two, lying dazed and quiet, and rousing himself only occasionally to query “What of the plague?” She nursed both with unfailing cheerfulness, distracting her father’s attention as best she could, but keeping herself well-informed, nevertheless, through the old Mukti, who was sent on a nightly expedition of inquiry. One evening the woman came back horror-stricken.

“The search-party will be in our street to-morrow or next day,” she said, “and the child and Shastri sahib will both be taken to the hospital for certain; and thou, Sita, wilt not be allowed to tend them.”

No sleep did the darkness bring to the overburdened Sita. What was wisest to do?—wisest for them all: and should she tell the Shastri? The earlier part of the morning passed in alternate resolves and regrets, and finally she left Mukti in charge of her patients, and slipped away to the street then under inspection. She would see for herself what the dreaded visit might bode.

The silence of death seemed to reign everywhere. From the busy quarter leading to the temple the shopkeepers had fled. Barred doors sighed desolation. A few were chalked, “Gone to Lanowli.” One or two, more hopeful, added, “Open again in a month,” but for the most part the significance of the closed shutter was unrelieved. Now she turned into a street which was different: for the common country-made padlock was substituted a strong good lock and an official seal.

“They have examined this street already,” she said, and she looked with interest at the dwelling-houses, and such others as showed signs of recent occupation.

On the doors were hieroglyphics which struck terror to her heart. Great red noughts—and in nine cases out of ten would appear a cross within the nought. . . . “Plague”, it meant: “death from plague.” She needed no lexicon to expound that to her. The roofs, moreover, of such houses were untiled, the rough transverse beams giving every opportunity of in-draught to the still plague-laden breeze. Through an occasional chink in an ill-fitting door she could see that the floor was likewise manipulated, raked and uphewn.

Here and there a desperate thief, with hungry eyes and thin haggard face, was climbing down through the gap, in rash hope of possible treasure.

“Poor things!” said Sita, “poor everyone!”—and she was a-quiver with the apprehension of a like fate in store for her own much-loved home. But now there were indications of life. She had come upon the search-party. There were police sepoys standing at all exits and entrances, and a locksmith had just let into one of the larger houses a little party of soldiers and inspectors and a group of women, with a stray doctor-memsahib. In the middle of the road squatted coolies, beside light stretchers and ambulances, and in the distance was an unwieldy hospital cart.

Sita boldly joined the group at the door, and stood watching, unheeded. The house was evidently empty: the chief police sepoy was called in, and a thorough examination was made in his presence of every nook and corner. Here and there closets had to be broken into; all preservable goods were disinfected in the courtyard behind the house, while all suspicious rags, etc., were piled into a wholesome bonfire. Sita almost smiled at the little gods and goddesses sitting side by side waiting for a common phenyl bath.

Just as the party was about to issue forth, a box, cunningly placed under a side staircase, attracted the attention of the chief inspector. In it was found a poor old woman, in a dying condition. Air had been let in through a large hole made in that side of the box which was most remote from inspection, else she would most probably have been suffocated long since. She was trembling with fear, but tried to assure the searchers that she was quite well. If they must take her away, let it not be to the hospital. The lady doctor was very gentle, explaining that she would be well cared for and the Hindu nurse helped her on to the ambulance. “’Tis the death-bier, my son, my son!” shrieked the old woman, “and of what caste are they who carry me to my burning? My eyes are dim, I cannot see.” There emerged from effectual hiding a shock-headed youth, seemingly half-witted, but so haggard and tottering that, at sight of the inevitable, he fainted dead away, and the two were carried gently to the nearest hospital.

A band of workmen stayed behind to untile the roof, and to dig up the floor, to do the usual lime-washing and sulphur-burning, and the party proceeded to the next door.

Sita sighed. “There will soon be two noughts on that door,” she said; “on what door will they mark the crosses?”

She would peep at one more search, and then get back to her beloved charges. This was a washerman’s house, and the man at the ironing-table sang out cheerfully enough, “Enter, enter, huzoor! no sick are there within these walls.” But the gaiety was apparently forced; he whistled, and tried an occasional much-strained joke on the attendant sepoy.

A woman stood helping him, and her hand shook so that the irons rattled violently, and she had to busy herself elsewhere.

She was examined, but was found to be not otherwise than unduly frightened. One of the nurses now noticed a movement in the pile of white shirts and frilled blouses, which lay ready to be bound into bundles for delivery in cantonments. And she whispered the intelligence to the inspector.

There was a moment’s silence in the gay whistle, but it went on boldly enough, till, the clothes being removed, disclosed an old man in an advanced state of plague. . . And so the sickening search continued: in some cases corpses were discovered lying among rafters; here and there a corpse would have been made even to simulate life. The great idea, however, seemed to be that cheerfulness disarmed suspicion; and the ghastly attempts at deception brought the tears to the eyes of the kindly nurses. . . .

Sita had followed, fascinated, from one house to another, but now she turned and fled. “Were they coming to her? What should she do?”

But eleven o’clock struck, and the party was due at the subdivisional office to write reports. So Sita had a night in which to lay plans. Meantime the child had developed swollen glands; and the old nurse was in despair, because he could not swallow the glass of sweetened milk for which he was generally so impatient. The Shastri was just tired, every inch of him. “’Tis old age,” he said, “and the planter sahib” (he added under his breath). But, hearing Sita’s story, he roused himself. The party would most likely be at their house about eight o’clock next morning. He would climb into the leafiest of the trees—wasn’t he a climber as a boy! Had not he ever told her? Ah! Sita should hear stories when they were all happy once more, in a dear little home, remote from this sickly town. Well, he would climb the tree, and the wee boy should lie quite still on his lap.

“You will be still, boy—won’t you? Such a game of hide-and-seek, with the Sarkar to chase us!” And the old man chuckled, and the boy nodded, with bright, feverish eyes, eager for the fun. And then, Sita—what should she do? Sita should grind corn, and sing in the vestibule, overlooking the place of sanctuary and the lotus bed; so each would know what was happening to the other, and—did the party come again, once the inspection was over?

“No!” said Sita, “not if it were safely over!” . . .

“Ah, ha!” said he, “ah, ha! we shall eat our midday meal in peace. Sita, you shall make me little bhujyas of the edible leaf, you know, rolled tightly—how I love them, when you make them! And see, I did not tell you before, for I meant to return it, but, here—” and the old man pulled forward the inner end of his winding sheet, and untied something crisp, which had been knotted clumsily into a corner. “See! the commissioner sahib came to me, as I was coming away after that accursed visit, and he pressed this hundred-rupee note upon me. ‘You will grant me this boon,’ he said, ‘that you keep it. My wife sends it to your small grandson, from her own little boy in England. You won’t refuse it.’ And there was the kind lady standing at the door of her tent, smiling and nodding; and while I hesitated she brought me the picture of two sweet little children—children like the baby Krishna sleeping in the cup of the full-blown lotus—and she made her husband tell me about them, and she said kind words in English. And so I took the money, meaning to return it later: but we will keep it now, Sita. The gods have sent it to take us safely away from here, so safely. Why did I not make use of it, these many days? My heart was full of hatred and bitterness, Sita, when it should have been full of gratitude. . . And I am punished.”

“No, no, father!” she said; “‘twill all be well yet, you will see.” . . .

The little household was up betimes. Sita had got in some phenyl, and had flushed the drains, and had also had sulphur burnt in the empty rooms to give the search-party some confidence in her knowledge of preventive disinfection. She had determined that her visit of the previous day should be turned to every account. Her anxieties were all for her two charges. She was so well and strong herself; and a passing pain in her head was dismissed with impatience. And now the old man had been helped into the tree, and—-yes! he was quite safe: neither Sita nor Mukti could discover stray toes or unruly wisps of hair. They covered his legs with a green saree, which harmonized cleverly with the foliage, and now, if only the boy would keep still! And, if only the old Shastri could stand the strain of holding him! “Was he comfortable?” asked Sita. “Yes! He would cling to the tree like death. Trust him!” . . . So Sita arranged herself in her pretty “lotus” saree, and sat to the grinding. It was a hand-mill; two circles of stone, one over the other, between which the grain was crushed. She worked it with a wooden handle affixed to the upper stone; but there was more singing than grinding, for the weight was over-heavy for the slender arm. The old Mukti was busy in the kitchen. . . . And now, the door creaked. Sita waved and nodded reassuringly to the pair in the tree, and went forward gracefully to meet the searchers. Her veil was drawn with becoming modesty over her face, but she answered the inspector’s questions herself, and in English.

Yes! the house was of course open to the usual search. Where would he begin? There were but she and that old woman on the verandah (for Mukti hearing noises had come to guard her loved mistress). Her husband was in England, and her father had gone a journey with the small boy, her son—(oh! may the gods forgive the gentle lie!). The head policeman knew her by repute and was nodding belief in the straightforward story, when the lady and nurses, who were somewhat in the rear, entered, and Sita sprang forward with a joyous cry. It was a new memsahib this morning, the doctor lady from her own mission school.

“Sita!” she said, “how glad I am to see you! and you are well, and alone? Yes, we must search the house, I fear. Ah! good child to be so careful! Everything smells so clean! Poor little Sita, alone! Where is the Shastri, and where my friend the baby?” So Sita had to repeat the lie: how she loathed it! Would it not be better to tell them all, and trust to their mercy? But they were in the verandah now, and examining the old woman.

We shall put a white mark on your door, Sita, to say we’ve examined and passed you, for the present” said the lady; “but don’t be alarmed if an inspecting officer comes again shortly, to see that all continues well. And you are sensible—see, this is what must be done in case of infection.” . . . Some terse directions followed, concluding with, “And you’d better take your usual exercise in your garden; it’s safest so.”

They were just about going, and Sita was already vowing offerings to every goddess of her acquaintance, when a dark-browed Maratha in the rear ventured a remark. “The lady has not herself been examined,” he said, and he said it meaningly. “Moreover, she was yesterday in more than one house on whose door is now chalked the plague signal.”

“It’s true, Sita,” said the lady. “You must be examined; I was forgetting. But were you indeed in stricken houses yesterday? Yet you disinfected yourself when you got home, surely?” Sita was compelled to confess that she had not; and, after the examination there was a brief consultation: then the lady spoke. “I am sorry, Sita,” she said, “but I fear that I can’t save you from it. The inspector sahib thinks you must go to the segregation camp. We’ll make everything as comfortable for you as possible, and your old Mukti shall attend you. I myself, or one of the ladies whom you know best at the mission house, shall come and see you. “It will really matter nothing to you, this change, since you are alone.”

“But, said Sita in dismay, “I promise faithfully to come to the hospital if I am ill. You know I have no ignorant prejudices.”

“Ah, then, my child, be obedient now,” was all the response she got. And even a farewell to the place of concealment was impossible. She daren’t risk betraying them. But, just as the party was safely outside the door, she begged one indulgence.

“A last good-bye to my home,” she urged, “in solitude. I shall be but one minute, by the lotus bed. Let me go alone, dear lady.” And they let her, saving her the ignominy of a watch, though the Maratha wished it. Swiftly she sped to the tree. “Father!” she whispered, “keep a brave heart. There is food in the house: take it, and fly, outside the town, to Singhur. Mind! Singhur. You will be safe so, for at the railway stations they examine folk. Marothi, at the police station, will get you a palanquin. I will tell him as I pass now, and I shall watch for you by the segregation tents this evening at dusk. Your road lies past them, you know. I’ll meet you at the old toll-house. I can run away; they won’t watch me very closely. Good-bye, dear father. Good-bye, my son. The blessing of the great God be upon you.”

But there was no answer, for the old man had half fainted when he saw Sita led away; yet so strong were both his will and that well-acquired habit to a praying Brahmin of maintaining any given position, that the clutch on the branches never relaxed its grasp, nor did the knees unbend.

“You were longer than a minute, Sita,” said the lady reprovingly; but, as Sita’s eyes were moist, she patted her hand and said no more.

VI

When the Shastri recovered himself it was already noon, and though the sun blazed overhead he was stiff and cold; and—good God!—the boy lay dead on his lap!

It took him a minute or two to grasp the awful fact; but he had the spirit of another Eastern sage: While the child was yet alive, I fasted and wept; but now that he is dead, wherefore should I weep? Only, his sequel was otherwise. What mattered death?—that would come to all, sooner or later; ’twas contamination which did matter. So long as that was avoided there would be some chance of recognition in the re-birth. Yes, he must thank the gods for saving his boy from the hands of sweepers. . . . He would take him himself to the burning ghat. So, descending with difficulty, he placed the boy on the green-sward. There was the suffering of a dumb creature in his eyes, but tears were a luxury denied to him; and so, indeed, was the indulgence of grief of any sort. Might not the party be back any moment! But when he strove to readjust the little burden he tottered and fell, and a nameless fear overwhelmed him. What if he should not reach the ghat? Down he was on his hands and knees, muttering to every god and goddess whose names his vast reading had ever suggested to him—praying for strength, a little strength. “Spare me yet a little while, O Vishnu! O Krishna! O Maroti! O all ye gods! And thou, O great Brahm, Source of Life, grant me but one short hour longer of the vital flame, . . . then quench it, if thou wilt, for ever!” . . .

He rose, dazed, and stumbled into the house, where, finding some still fresh milk, and the meal which they three were to have eaten in happy unity, he fed savagely: and, thus refreshed, returned to the cold burden. It was comparatively easy now to hoist it on to his back.

“No bier,” he muttered; “they would suspect a death.” So round his neck he clasped the little dead hands, and on his shoulder rested involuntarily the unresisting head, and from under the cloth with which he covered it there peeped one limp dead foot. . . . Ah! the pathos of it!

The hour was auspicious. Plague officials were having a short compulsory rest, after the morning’s exertions; heavy-eyed policemen dozed on their beat; and citizens, such as were abroad, were too occupied with their own ills to notice other folk. He had chosen the devious way through the garden wicket, and it was well, for the courtyard door was officially sealed.

Trudge, trudge, under the blazing sun, while the air seemed heavy wth death, and a myriad thoughts flashed through the aching brain. No fire, he said, my child! no fire, no incense, no censer, no bier, no mourners; and thy father—God knows where! And this is the end of the house of Nagarkar, son of Krishnaram! Who can tell what will anger the gods, or this or that? And in what generation Nemesis will come?”

After a time his senses got dulled; the aged feet moved mechanically. . . . Ah! there was the stretch of river coiling like a silver-scaled snake among the rushes, and there, on the farther side, was the strip of dry sand, the “mount of sacrifice.”

The water was low, and the bund dry; he would walk across this, avoiding the weary bridge; and he would save thus, too, a good fifteen’ minutes. . . . His feet held firmly to the sun-baked stone; but the water, as it splashed cool and joyous against the great boulders, touched something in his brain.

Was it last night he had dreamed of a bath in the river of life?

The river rose in the enchanting mountains of mystery, and it flowed through the valleys of time, and it made its way to the fathomless sea of eternity! And so kind it was to all who trusted themselves, unquestioning, to its swift current. Was this the river of life?

But here is the ghat; and the preparations are simple enough. A few dry twigs laid so, beneath and over the little dead “fuel.” . . . “Do the sticks hurt, my child?”

A rope!—he’d never brought a rope! And he must grope about for some suitable flints for the initiatory spark. The search was slow; round black pebbles and yellow sand in abundance were there, but never a white gleaming crystal; and, O, God! dear God!—how the sun does blaze! And those brown-winged, strong-beaked kites, how they whirl closer and closer to the little upturned face!. .. But he had come now upon a mud-walled hut: he would beg a light and a rope, and perhaps a little incense.

“Peace be to this house!” he said, “peace! and the blessing of Vishnu! And may disease and death be slain—victims themselves, of health and life!”

But no one made answer; and pushing open the door he found a smouldering fire and a half-baked cake, and a woman lying on her back, lifeless, though not yet cold. . . . “Death, death, he said wearily “everywhere death!” but he took what he sought, and made his way back to the ghat.

The little corpse was bound firmly now, and the Shastri contemplated his work with some satisfaction. But what was it that he had to tell the gods?—Something, something, quick before the flame should reach the feet! Ah! he knew now.

“Great Brahm!” he said, “in this city of the dead no ceremonies have been possible. I have omitted the washings and anointings, the perfumes and the flowers; no gold, no gem has saluted the child’s mouth, his nostrils, eyes or ears. I myself am unbathed. Forgive, great Brahm, forgive the omission, lay it not to his charge. . . . Forgive!” . . . And now the flame was doing its work; the rope crumbled into ashes, the puny little body leapt into the air—and then—both hands were shielding the old man’s ears against the sound of that awful combustion . . . the single salute as the soul entered the spirit world! . . .

He gathered his weary limbs together—yet, what need to hurry? Who was there who would expect him? Cruel time!—to claim the tender saplings and leave the old withered trunk! . . . Then a fierce impulse seized him—“The river of life”—ah! there was the reason of his solitude.

“Bear me gently, good river, to the shoreless sea of eternity!”

VII

It was in the grey dawn of the next morning that the segregation inspector, making his punctual way to his duties at the camp, found, on the road to Singhur, the dead body of a young and gently-nurtured woman.

Scouts and a litter were soon in requisition, and the official examination resulted in the verdict he had foreseen: death from that type of plague which lays a sudden grasp on the breaking heart. . . .

And as night fell over the city, once more was an unresisting burden borne to the water’s edge; while the watchman, proclaiming the hour, sang his usual lullaby—“Rest in peace, in peace, ye living! and, eke, ye dead! For love is stronger than death, than death, than death!”