harold came in late to breakfast on the following morning. he was not unaccompanied, for his hand was resting on the shoulder of kripá dé. whilst the young kashmiri looked pale and excited, his missionary friend’s face wore an expression of thoughtful satisfaction which told of prayers granted and efforts crowned with success.
“we have a guest to share our breakfast to-day, alicia,” he said; “so prepare for him a place and a welcome.—robin, i am sure that you will make room for our new brother, both at the board and in your heart. kripá dé has asked to be baptized, and comes to-day to take the preliminary step of breaking his caste by eating for the first time with christians.”
mr. hartley, who had long watched the gradual growth of conviction in the mind of the young brahmin, held out his hand to the convert. “god bless you, my son,” he said; “the day will never come in which you will repent having cast in your lot with the followers of christ.”
robin heartily embraced the kashmiri; and alicia, obeying a glance from harold, held out to kripá dé her small fair hand. the youth kissed it with timid reverence, and then shyly took his place at the table beside robin hartley.
the english reader can hardly estimate the significance of so simple an act. the first spoonful of suji which the convert ate at a christian’s table was to him a passing of the rubicon, a renunciation of all that he had looked upon as the high privileges of his birth; it was a cutting himself off from home and family, a taking up of the cross, the sign of suffering and shame.
“kripá dé will remain here to-day,” observed harold, “and at night will sleep on the roof, for we must keep him concealed. after his baptism, which will take place early to-morrow, he must depart at once for lahore till the first burst of the storm is over. when once it is known in the fort that kripá dé has taken the decisive step of baptism, it will be hardly safe for him to remain at talwandi.”
“but kripá dé is of an age at which the law lets him choose his own religion,” said robin.
“true, he would not be given up in a court of law, but his age would not protect him from the violence of a mob in a remote corner of a district. kripá dé’s baptism is sure to cause great excitement amongst the hindus.—until that excitement subside,” continued harold, addressing himself to his wife, “you will have, i fear, to suspend your visits to the fort.”
“give up my only zenana!” exclaimed alicia, “and just when i have become so much interested in one of its inmates, and have learned ‘joyful, joyful!’ in urdu, on purpose to give her comfort!”
“the poor little widow could hardly receive comfort from that christian hymn,” observed harold. “if her present existence be like one in a prison, over the future to her hangs a heavy curtain of darkness.”
“i might lift it, just a little,” said alicia, “to let one little ray come in.”
“to-morrow the news of a baptism will probably cause the door to be closed against you.”
“then let me go to-day,” cried alicia with animation, rising from her seat as she spoke. “i must, i really must, see that sweet fair young kashmiri again.”
“let her go, harold, let my brave little sister go!” exclaimed robin.
kripá dé had been watching the discussion with eager eyes, as if he could drink in its import through them. harold briefly explained to him the lady’s wishes, and asked him whether she could safely visit the zenana.
“to-day, not to-morrow,” was the reply; “no one in the fort knows that i am here.”
“but if the women should question you?” said harold in english, addressing himself to his wife.
“i am not a bit bound to answer them, even if i could do so,” said alicia playfully; “for my conversational powers in urdu will not carry me far into any dangerous subject. i do not know the words for conversion, baptism, or breaking caste. if the women ask me a thousand questions, talking together after their fashion, i shall merely look puzzled after my fashion, and get out of any difficulty by beginning to sing.”
“let her go!” repeated robin, laughing. “i only wish that i were small enough to be packed into her bag, that i might see the fun.”
harold, after consulting his father, gave a rather reluctant consent. utterly fearless regarding himself, he was anxious regarding his wife.
alicia again, armed with her bag of books, her fan, and her white-covered umbrella, took her seat in her doli, and started for the fort. she really ran but little risk of annoyance, for, as kripá dé had said, his relatives did not know whither he had gone. the kashmiri’s determination to declare himself openly a christian was as yet a secret known but to himself and the hartleys. it would not be at once noised abroad in talwandi that he had broken his caste; for mangal, a mohammedan, and faithful to his salt, was the only native aware of the fact.
alicia proceeded towards the fort without anything occurring to cause her the slightest alarm. she saw in the narrow streets the people engaged in their usual occupations. the mochi glanced up for a moment as the doli was carried along, then went on with his delicate work of making slippers adorned with thread of gold. the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer was not interrupted, and the sweetmeat-seller, behind his little pile of metai, looked as unconcerned as if the passing of a doli were a thing too ordinary to be noticed. alicia, to her comfort, saw no sign of any approaching tempest; nor did the lady meet with any inconvenience save from the troops of thin, overladen donkeys which sometimes obstructed the way, notwithstanding the loud warning “bach!” (save thyself!) with which the kahars tried to clear a passage for the doli.
the fort was soon reached. there, also, the first feeling of curiosity had passed away. a smaller crowd of dirty, bare-footed children greeted alicia with loud, shrill cries of “mem! mem!” and when the upper terrace was reached, only two or three bibis made their appearance. to alicia’s disappointment premi was not amongst them. so little interest was shown in the lady, that alicia resolved not to visit a zenana again on consecutive days. the bibis’ stock of questions had been exhausted, half of them had been misunderstood or unanswered; the white lady’s dress was the same which she had worn on preceding days, and she was not likely to have anything to communicate but what the hindus did not care to hear. sometimes disappointment is experienced by workers when the hearers who crowded round them on their first appearance dwindle away as visits are repeated.
“how different is zenana-visiting from what i had pictured it to be!” thought alicia, as she saw the women eagerly examining some new purchase which had cost a few coppers, as if it were an object of interest too absorbing to leave any room for care about the soul. “i feel as if i were trying with a small penknife to carve a statue out of granite. it seems hopeless to try to make an impression. is it possible to make these poor heathen think of anything beyond the trifles of the day?” alicia showed a few pictures to the children, who were somewhat more attentive than their elders, and she tried to betray no impatience when little brown fingers, just taken from a mouth half-stuffed with metai (sweets), scrabbled dirty marks on her book.
then alicia bethought herself of her new song—that might help her to gain some attention. clear rose her voice in the translation of “here we suffer grief and pain,” in which the cheerful tone of the melody belies the sadness of the first line. but when alicia had begun the well-known refrain, which was, of course, in urdu, to her astonishment a clear “joyful, joyful, joyful!” in unmistakable english, rang from the upper roof. alicia, startled, raised her eyes, and saw for a moment, clear against the blue sky, the unveiled head of premi in the act of eager listening. a most un-oriental flush was on her cheeks, a bright but bewildered expression in her eyes, as if she listened to some song from dreamland and joined in it by some irresistible impulse. in a moment the voice was silent, the head withdrawn, and alicia remained gazing upwards, listening and wondering, asking herself whether both her senses could have at once deceived her. then she turned to the nearest hindu, who chanced to be darobti, standing with her fat little boy on her hip.
“does premi know english?” asked alicia eagerly.
darobti at first did not appear to hear the question, nor to understand it when she did hear. when alicia had repeated her inquiry five or six times, it only elicited the reply, “premi knows nothing; premi grinds corn.” saying this, darobti turned away, and sauntered off to another part of the building.
was it to teach that song to the children that alicia sang it again and again, until little lips began to catch the refrain? if such were her only object, why were the englishwoman’s eyes so constantly wandering from her auditors in the direction of that lofty terraced roof? alicia sang in english as well as urdu. she lingered in the fort longer than she would otherwise have done, in hopes of catching a sight of premi’s face, with the rosy blush upon it. alicia was disappointed in her hope, and at last quitted the gallery over the court, where she had now no auditors but the children. as she descended the dark staircase, alicia almost expected to hear premi’s step behind her. as harold’s wife was crossing the inner court-yard she again paused to look up and listen for that “joyful, joyful!” from above. she heard only the laugh of the children and the snort of a buffalo in the outer yard.
all the way back to the bungalow alicia could think of nothing but the incident which had occurred. she was so eager to tell of it that it was a real disappointment to her to find nobody in the veranda, and the bungalow empty. it is one of the trials of the first year of mission life to feel idle when others are busy, lonely because companions are out at work. there is the uncomfortable sensation of being like a drone in the hive. the remedy is study of the language; but alicia felt too unsettled and impatient to sit down to grammar, and struggle with strange idioms and incomprehensible combinations of verbs. she sat fanning herself, glancing up at the clock every two minutes, and wishing for harold’s return. the striking of that clock—for robin had succeeded in setting it going—was the first thing to rouse alicia from her dreamy, indolent mood.
“it would be far better if, instead of wasting my time thus, i spent more of it on my knees,” thought alicia. “a baptism is to take place to-morrow, the first baptism in talwandi, and i have never yet in my private prayers remembered the youth over whom my harold is rejoicing with trembling. i have not prayed earnestly, and as one who believes in the power of prayer, for poor premi. i am neglecting one of the best means of helping those who toil in the mission field, whilst grieving that i can do in it next to nothing. i am thinking what i may accomplish when i can speak to natives in their urdu tongue, and care too little to pour out to god my hearts desires in my own. lord, forgive my selfish neglect, and shed on thy feeble child more of the spirit of prayer, specially of intercessory prayer!”
the tediousness of alicia’s waiting-time was over; one by one there rose before her mind the names of those for whom she ought to plead. not only did she pray for her nearest and dearest—they had not been forgotten in her early prayer—but for servants, kahars, all who came within reach of her own or her husband’s influence. with kripá dé’s name came that of his youthful widowed sister; then alicia pleaded for the poor ignorant bibis of talwandi, and the little ignorant children. harold’s young wife was surprised to find how large a circle might be enclosed by the prayer of one who was but standing, as it were, at the open gate of the harvest-field which she as yet felt herself scarcely worthy to enter.
