The streets of Madras are neither paved nor provided with flagged footpaths. For the most part they are broad roads of red laterite, along which at intervals are built villages of unbaked bricks. Between the villages, and standing aloof in their own grounds, are the palatial residences of the Europeans. It is literally true of Madras that the poor man lives at the rich man’s gate. The compounds are well wooded, and along the roads trees lift their crowns of foliage and cast a grateful shade across the way. There is width and elbow room everywhere, except where the clustering native houses gather thickly together and push stalls into the streets. Perhaps, too, in Blacktown, where the merchants have their offices, the streets are narrow. But even there the cocoanut palm raises its feathery head, from some small back-yard, high above the roofs, and waves its fronds in the sea-breeze. 

But Death envied the couple their happiness. Suddenly He stood by the bedside, and stretching out a beckoning finger, cut short an ideal existence, turning Desormieux’s life into bitterness and ashes.

The merchant was left with several children, all boys but one, the last. She was a dazzling little image of her mother, and he named her Averine, after an ancestress. The child was as the apple of his eye, being a link between himself and the wife who had been so dear. For this reason he could not bring himself to part with her till she was fifteen. He gave her, as he had given her mother, the best of everything. Trustworthy English nurses and accomplished French governesses were engaged to tend and teach her. But, in spite of European supervision, the child grew up with the East before her eyes, the East in her ears, and the East in her soul. She understood the languages of the people who surrounded her; and her large-hearted cosmopolitan soul turned to them with a rich sympathy, the more strange since no drop of country blood ran in her veins. This overflowing sympathy with creation shed a golden light upon her life, beautifying many things which for the ordinary individual possessed no charm. The material wealth which surrounded her from babyhood enlarged her heart by enabling her to follow its best dictates.

At the age of fifteen Averine went to England for her education. It lasted four years. At the end of that time she was to join her father on the west coast. Before she sailed there came a telegram to say that he was dead. A few hours of illness, a hasty summons to the nearest medical man, and he was gone. 

By the advice of her eldest brother, a captain in the army, she remained in England, much against her will. She made her home with him, and when she was twenty-one she was put in full possession of the wealth apportioned to her by her father’s will. Life seemed to have lost some of its richness, and her soul was filled with longings which she could not define. When the birds sang amongst the blossoms of May, when soft balmy breezes brought the scent of growing vegetation, her spirit leaped and went out to the tropics. When the hot days of summer suggested luxurious idleness, she heard the mysterious call of the country of her birth. She struggled against it, and gathering some friends together, sought the Thames. There, with a happy party, she lounged away a few weeks in a bower of flowers, listening to the lapping of wavelets against the side of the house-boat. Whilst her companions thought only of the sedges and the river, she sat dreaming of the passionate beat of the monsoon-driven surf upon the west coast of India. 

“It was not his doing; the animal fell as it turned out of the yard. It distresses me to hear you, Miss Desormieux, addressing such words to that dirty scoundrel. Fortunately, he does not understand English, and you know nothing of Tamil.”

A hearty laugh greeted this protest. Stormond had no intention of being narrow and intolerant; but his profession perhaps fostered impatience with anything that approached lawlessness. Law and order were as the breath of life to him. Irregularity was distressing; it upset the balance of the world, and put it out of joint. He believed in the good old principle taught in the Church catechism—that it is incumbent on every one to do his duty in whatever station of life it may please God to call him; but he would have added another clause—“and to remain in it.” To climb out of that station and enter a new field was not to be tolerated, especially amongst the lower orders. India, according to him, was too big a place for advanced opinions to be fostered. Let her millions with their inherited caste rules keep their places, otherwise they would get out of hand, and bring trouble to those who had to govern them.

The right arm of the Sanyasi was still extended towards the horse, which regained its feet and stood trembling in every limb. The syces sprang to its head, sharing in some measure the terror of their charge.

The ascetic was of fair complexion and regular features. His well-knit figure showed no signs of fasting, but the dreamy abstracted expression of the eyes marked the devotee. He, as well as the English lady, had barely escaped being overthrown by the runaway horse in its endeavour to regain its freedom. The death of a Sanyasi at the very gateway of the yard would, in the opinion of the syces, bring disaster upon the stable and all who belonged to it. It was a miraculous deliverance from evil, and, lest he should curse them for their carelessness in allowing the horse to break loose, they salaamed apologetically, saying—

Branching off from the Mount Road are streets that lead to the sea, and to the old ruined town and seaport of Myliapore. Down one of these the Sanyasi bent his steps as Averine drove away. Choosing a spot where the road was wide, he seated himself under the shade of a sacred banyan tree, his face towards the East, his pot of water by his side, and his alms-bowl in front.
Passers-by checked their steps and stopped to look. Clerks on their way to office and shop counted it a lucky day to have found the Sanyasi in their road. Grass- cutters, their heads set towards the inland country where the grass grew, smiled in happy confidence; not only would they be successful in finding grass, but they might also expect a good market. Half-clothed coolies and smartly-dressed shop-assistants alike, were not indifferent to the good luck of the moment, and dropped coins into the bowl unsolicited,—not that the Sanyasi might live, but that the gods might shower favours for alms given to one of their devotees.

There was another member of the Dunbar household who received Miss Desormieux as one of the family. This was Miguel, the butler, who had been in Mrs. Dunbar’s service many years. Though he wrote his name Miguel, he pronounced it Miggle. A very governor-general in his way, he ruled her domestic establishment with an iron hand tempered with wisdom and mercy. Miguel was a great man, not only in his own estimation and in the eyes of the household, but also in the bazaar, where he was known as the liberal purchaser on behalf of an opulent master. It was equally notorious that he was a man of means himself, having various sums of money out at interest, and being the owner of a group of butticas, or native shops, in the village of Teynampet on the Mount Road. 

By no means handsome, Miggle’s black face was redeemed from ugliness by a pair of small twinkling eyes, shrewd, and sharp-sighted. An uneven set of white teeth were prominently visible every time he spoke or smiled. It was a magnificent world-embracing smile, such as might have adorned the image of a Hindu god. A large turban of white and gold covered his head. The turban was always spotlessly clean and beautifully folded; it seemed in a sort of way to balance the smile. Mrs. Dunbar had noted the set of the turban, when she engaged him nearly a quarter of a century ago, and was influenced in his favour by its neatness. In those days there was no gold upon it. The gold had come with years of prosperity; first a small thread, but increasing in breadth proportionately with his master’s advancement in the firm; until now, when Mr.
Dunbar stood at the head of it, the turban contained as much gold as it was possible for one of muslin to show.

Through all the length of years Miggle served his master and mistress with a grand fidelity, identifying himself with their interests, and making their griefs and joys his own, after the manner of the “first sorts” Madras butlers. Needless to say, that he remembered his own interests as well as theirs. And he had his little weaknesses.

“That is Mr. Worthington’s house; he is the Collector.”

Vansittart’s eyes sought the spot with an eagerness that did not escape his companion.

“You know him, perhaps,” he asked.

“No,” said the Australian, “I have not had the pleasure of meeting him.”

“He has friends from Madras whom you have probably met, Mrs. Dunbar and Miss Desormieux. I have had several business transactions with Mr. Dunbar’s firm, and in days gone by with Miss Desormieux’s father. Here is the English club. Now we leave the cantonment behind, and begin to enter the town. Before us is the Rock with its enormous temple. My house is on the other side, between the Rock and the Cauvery river.”

The rays of the morning sun gilded the strange isolated hill and the hoary temples of granite that crowned its summit. Clouds of dust arose in the narrow streets and the pace became slower as they traversed the densely thronged way. The high caste women of South India are not purdahshin or hidden behind the purdah. Numbers of Brahmin women in silk cloths—their delicate refined features tinted with saffron—bore brass pots upon their hips as they passed to and from the well with a supply of water for the day. Every one, from the highest caste to the lowest, seemed to smile with a careless happiness telling of absolute freedom from anxiety. Chattering, laughing, gesticulating, never in haste, the townspeople began their day oblivious of yesterday, indifferent to the morrow, and keenly appreciative of the present. The sun steeped them in its glory, enriching their souls with joy as it enriched their clothing with colour. They revelled in its warmth and light like happy sun-birds that knew no other land and desired nothing better.

The two looked into each other’s eyes, unmindful of the presence of Mrs. Dunbar, who retired to the verandah feeling that she had no part in such a meeting. As Averine scanned the features of the man who clasped her hands, her spirit was strangely moved. They were the features of her father; but the brown eyes belonged to the Indian mother. The figure was familiar, the tall upright form, the set of the head, the easy carriage, were her father’s, but the olive skin indicated a foreign race. Fascinated, spell-bound, each studied the other, too much moved to speak the words which trembled on their lips. Averine was the first to recover herself.

“Your letter was a surprise. I never dreamed that my father had——”

“Another son,” said Vytalingum, quickly filling in the slight pause.

“I am glad—yes, I am glad that I know it,” she continued, with growing approval. “You gave no hint of your identity when we met at Mr. Worthington’s house.”

“Ah, you remember my visit! I was master of my desire then, and kept silence.”

“What was your desire?” she asked softly.

“It was that I might meet a sister as I do now; stand face to face with my father’s daughter, and hold her hand in mine.”

He paused, and his eyes gazed beyond her with the abstracted look of one who tried to pierce the phantom world of dreams. Averine waited for him to tell her more. Upon his features gathered the rapt expression of the devotee, and he was gradually transformed into another being. His voice sounded a new note—a note of exaltation and enthusiasm.

“Yet there are times when my mother’s nature dominates the inheritance from my father; when I am obliged to obey the call of the gods.”

Spell-bound with a new wonder, she watched his rapid movements. The turban was cast aside and the long black locks unknotted. He sprang to his feet and shook the glossy hair over his shoulders. Dipping his fingers into a saucer that stood upon the side-board, he passed them over his forehead, leaving three horizontal lines, the mark of his god.

“Have you seen me thus? Do you know me?” he cried, turning upon her with eyes in which flashed the fire of fanaticism.

The Europeanized native gentleman had vanished, and in his place Averine beheld Peroo, the Sanyasi.

“Salaam, little sister; the favour of the gods go with you,” he said in the soft speech of the west coast.

Peroo, the Sanyasi, beckoned, and Vytalingum, the merchant, obeyed the call. Together they fell back into the warm, sunny embrace of the East from which there was no return.

“It is too late,” he said at length, his low voice vibrating through his listener. “It is too late! When once the banyan tree builds its forest of stems, not even the gods themselves can transplant it.”

But she would not take this for his answer; she refused to let him go without another effort. Extending both her hands towards him, she entreated again.

“Come! Oh, brother, come! You shall begin a new life with me.”

He shook his head sadly. Her solicitude was sweet; but his gods spoke to him in the voice of the tomtom and forbade him to listen.

“My father planted the young tree in an Indian garden, and left it to the care of the Indian gardeners,” he said. “It has come to maturity and must bear the fruit of the country. What is done cannot be undone.”