mr. hartley and robin returned soon after alicia, with a spirit refreshed and strengthened, had risen from her knees. the elder missionary looked so much heated and wearied that his daughter’s first care was to bring him a cool, refreshing draught. then alicia told of her visit to chand kor’s zenana, and of the strange effect of a little hymn.
“and premi looked a different being,” continued alicia, “with that colour on her cheek and that light in her eyes. it almost seemed as if the english word ‘joyful’ had transformed her into one of ourselves. she was not like a hindu at all.”
“you probably mistook the word sung by the young kashmiri,” observed mr. hartley, who knew how easily the ear is deceived when something is spoken in a foreign tongue. he tried to recall some urdu or kashmiri word which might be mistaken for “joyful,” but none such came to his mind.
robin looked full of animation; his eyes told, before his lips spoke, that a new thought had flashed on his brain. “is it not possible,” he cried, “that some european child, whom all supposed to have been murdered at the mutiny time, may have been spared to endure the worse fate of being buried in a zenana?”
“oh, what an idea!” exclaimed alicia, clasping her hands and turning sparkling eyes on robin. “my own uncle and aunt and their two little girls were killed in the mutiny, more than eleven years ago—at least we always thought so.”
“at what place?” inquired mr. hartley.
alicia mentioned a distant city.
“that is very far away—not in the limits of the panjab. and one thing is evident,” continued the missionary—“kripá dé is undoubtedly a kashmiri brahmin, so no sister of his could be english.”
alicia looked disappointed; but robin said quickly, “are you sure that the widow is kripá dé’s sister?”
“i think that the bibis said so,” answered alicia.
“oh, but you might not have understood the bibis; or the bibis might not have understood you; or—but here comes kripá dé himself with harold. let’s have the real truth from his lips.—kripá dé,” he continued, addressing the convert, “are you and premi the children of one mother?”
“no,” replied the youth. “premi was only my little playmate when she was a child.”
the negative reply made alicia’s heart beat fast with excitement. “oh, question him more closely!” she exclaimed, feeling more distressed than she had ever done before at her knowledge of urdu being so imperfect.
mr. hartley’s interest was thoroughly aroused. “was premi always in the fort?” he inquired of kripá dé; “or can you remember her first arrival?”
“i remember premi being brought in one night,” said kripá dé; he spoke slowly, like one trying to recall impressions of the distant past. “she was then quite a little girl, some years younger than myself. i recollect that the bibis crowded around her, and that darobti jested me about the child’s skin being as white as my own.”
“she said that you were like brother and sister?” suggested robin.
kripá dé shook his head and looked embarrassed; which made the questioner shrewdly guess that darobti had joked the boy on the coming of a little white bride for a little white bridegroom. marriage, even of infants, forms a large subject of interest in the indian zenana.
harold, who had been briefly informed by alicia of what had occurred, now took the place of catechiser.
“how many years have elapsed since the child was brought to talwandi?” he asked.
“who knows?” was the reply. native children keep little count of time.
“have you no sort of idea? think again.”
“i was just tall enough then to see over the wall. it seems a great many years ago.”
“perhaps ten or twelve?” suggested robin. “you know that you are now eighteen. have you no sort of guess how old you were then?”
“perhaps seven or eight,” replied kripá dé.
harold translated each question and answer to his eager young wife.
“did those who brought the child not explain how she came to be in their hands?” inquired mr. hartley.
“i cannot recollect; i never heard. it has sometimes been said in the zenana that premi was brought from kabul; that she is white as being the child of pathans. i never considered the matter at all.”
“ask how the little one was dressed when she arrived,” said alicia eagerly.
kripá raised his hand to his brow and reflected. “i think that the child had a shawl wrapped round her, and—yes—yes—one white thing like what the english wear on their feet!” cried kripá dé. “i remember that; for the bibis laughed, and fitted it on their hands. we had never seen such a thing before. but why do you question me thus?” the young brahmin suddenly asked.
“because we suspect it to be possible that premi is neither kashmiri nor pathan,” said harold, “but the child of english parents.”
kripá dé’s countenance, with various expressions flitting rapidly across it, was a study to those who watched it. surprise, perplexity, now pleasure, now pain, succeeded each other on it, leaving at the end one look of anxious hope as he asked, “if premi were english, would she be free?”
“certainly,” replied every voice; and harold added, “no english girl could be kept in confinement; the government would claim her, and heavy punishment would fall on any one who dared to attempt to detain her.”
“but the difficulty would be to prove that she is english,” observed mr. hartley. addressing himself to kripá dé, he inquired whether the zenana child had ever talked of other scenes or of other people.
“never,” was the kashmiri s reply—“at least i never heard of her doing so.”
“there was nothing to awake a suspicion in your mind that premi was connected with europeans? did she talk just like those around her?”
kripá dé, pressing his hand over his forehead, made strong efforts to revive any faint impression left on the sands of his memory, but could not at first discover any. “if premi’s language had at first been strange,” he observed, “i would only have thought that she was speaking in pushtoo” (the language of the afghans).
“my father, are you aware that the commissioner is now on circuit?” said harold. “i accidentally heard to-day that mr. thole is encamped at patwal, only six miles from this place; but he may possibly have moved on. would it not be well to lay the whole matter before him, and procure from him a warrant for the production in court of a young widow suspected to be of english birth? if our suspicions be correct, other proofs would probably come out if the matter were thoroughly sifted by a government official.”
it was now kripá dé’s turn to need an interpreter, and his eyes were anxiously turned towards robin.
“i think that we should not lose a day in consulting mr. thole,” was mr. hartley’s reply. “i have a slight, a very slight, acquaintance with the commissioner; he knows who i am, and he will, i hope, give me audience at once.—robin, give orders for the tattu to be saddled without delay.”
“not, i trust, before you have taken your meal,” said alicia pleadingly. “o father, you need rest and refreshment so much!”
“why not let robin and myself go, and you remain here?” suggested harold. “you have already exerted yourself beyond your strength.”
mr. hartley would not hear of this arrangement. he knew the character of mr. thole, and that he would be far more likely to listen to an elderly man, of whom he had seen something, than to two young missionaries who were to him utter strangers. mr. hartley felt that the matter might need delicate handling. mr. thole was one of those government officers who pride themselves on being strictly just. the commissioner could not endure the imputation of favouring a countryman, above all if that countryman happened to be engaged in mission work, with which mr. thole had not the slightest sympathy. the official’s justice, like ambition, thus sometimes overleaped itself, and fell on the other side; and mr. thole actually showed no small tendency to partiality, from the very dread of being considered partial. mr. thole looked upon evangelistic efforts as a waste of money, if not an actual means of disturbing the public peace. to the commissioner it was a matter of indifference whether india were hindu, mohammedan, or christian; but he was very anxious to do his duty to government, very desirous that his district should be regarded as the most quiet and prosperous in the land. mr. hartley knew that to bring his frank, impetuous, and not always discreet robin into contact with a calm, cold man of the world might utterly defeat his own desire to make mr. thole act in a delicate, difficult matter. the missionary therefore decided that harold and himself should go in search of mr. thole, and lay before him the case of premi. the only point conceded was that the expedition should be postponed to a later hour in the day. six miles was a short distance, and patwal could easily be reached before sunset. after a brief rest, mr. hartley on his tattu and harold on foot were on their way to the commissioner’s encampment, to seek his aid in instituting inquiries regarding the nationality of premi. without the weight of his authority, it would be impossible to make inquiries at all.
after watching from the veranda the departure of mr. hartley and her husband, alicia, accompanied by robin, returned to the room in which they had left the kashmiri. kripá dé was not to venture out of the house, lest he should be seen by any one who might betray to his family the secret of his being amongst christians. alicia was struck by the anxious, thoughtful expression on the convert’s fair young face. he was seated on the floor, with his hand pressed over his eyes.
“what are you thinking of, kripá dé?” asked robin, taking his place on the mat beside him, so as to be on a friendly level with his companion.
“i am trying to recollect more about premi and the days that are past,” was the reply. “i remember that the little child cried and called for her mother, and that i tried to quiet her with bits of sugar-cane; but i supposed that the dead mother was a pathan. there is a woman in the fort who could, i feel sure, tell a great deal more about premi than i am able to do. has the mem noticed an old bibi with one eye who goes about in the zenana?”
robin translated the question to alicia, who replied, “i remember well an old woman with one blind eye: she is always talking; she interrupted me every minute.”
“that bibi was the first to carry in the white little girl,” observed kripá dé. “that jai dé has said strange things about premi; they are coming back to my mind. were she questioned, i am certain that she could tell a good deal more.”
“what things has she said?” asked robin.
“i have heard her remark, more than once, that it was unlucky to bring into the fort a child of blood. i supposed from that word that premi’s father had been probably killed in some feud; but with the pathans that is a thing too common to attract much notice. jai dé has also said that it must have been to keep off some bhut [demon] that a black charm had been hung round the little girl’s neck.”
“a black charm!” exclaimed alicia eagerly, after the words had been translated. “can she have meant a black locket?”
“likely enough. but what makes this strike you so much?”
“after my grandmother’s death,” said alicia, “her husband gave a black memorial locket to each of her female descendants. there were seven purchased; two went to my cousins in india, and i have another. the seven were exactly of the same pattern, with a little inscription, initials, and a date. if premi had a locket like mine, i should feel perfectly certain that she is my cousin.”
robin, eager as alicia herself, closely questioned the kashmiri. but the youth could only reply on the authority of jai dé that the charm worn by premi was black; he had never himself seen it. “but i will try to see it, if it has not been thrown away,” he cried, rising hastily from the ground. “i will get from jai dé all that she knows; i will go back at once to the fort.”
“stop, madman!” cried robin, who had sprung to his feet, and who now laid a strong grasp on the convert’s shoulder. “if you go back now, we shall never set eyes on you again. where does your family suppose you to be at this moment?”
“on a pilgrimage to the shrine of máta devi at rangipur,” replied the kashmiri. “i am not expected back at the fort till to-morrow at sunset.”
“i hope that you did not tell your people that you were going on pilgrimage?” observed robin gravely.
“of course i did, or i could not have got away,” replied the convert, without any appearance of shame.
“it was a lie,” said robin bluntly. “i am sure that my brother did not know that you had told one, or he would never have consented to your being baptized to-morrow.”
then indeed a flush rose to the kashmiri’s pale cheek, and he looked perplexed and troubled. kripá dé had indeed received the christian faith in all sincerity; but brought up as he had been in an atmosphere of falsehood, he could hardly be expected to have that abhorrence of a sin which he, hardly recognized to be one which was a characteristic of the english youth. robin translated kripá dé’s words to alicia, who was more indulgent to the weakness of the convert.
“do you not think,” she observed, “that in some cases it may be pardonable to deceive, such as this, for instance, where life itself may be at stake, or the safety of a soul?”
“surely such deceit comes from want of faith,” replied robin. “can we believe that he who created the universe, and called the dead from their graves, cannot save bodies or souls without our trying to help him by breaking his laws?”
“but what is to be done now?” cried alicia, looking distressed. “it is of such importance for us to gain information regarding premi, and only kripá dé can procure it. what is to be done?” she repeated more earnestly, as robin gave no immediate reply.
“kripá dé must not go back to the fort,” replied robin with decision. “if he go, he will assuredly be questioned; he may even be asked whether he has eaten with us and broken his caste. caste is all nonsense to us; but to hindus, and specially brahmins, to eat with christians is a far worse crime than slandering or stealing. if kripá dé be thus questioned, he will be tempted to lie; and if he do not lie—”
“he will be imprisoned, perhaps murdered,” cried alicia.
“likely enough,” was the rejoinder. “so we must keep him under our eye.”
“and poor premi, what is to become of her?”
“do you not think that the lord cares for the poor young widow at least as much as we do?” said robin. “my father has gone to try to procure a government warrant for premi to be produced in court. all that we can do, at least so it seems to me now, is for us to pray that he may succeed.”
very earnest prayer was offered, both in english and in urdu—in the latter for the sake of kripá dé, who could not otherwise have joined in or have understood the petitions offered up.
in the evening, when alone with the convert, robin tried to impress on kripá dé the necessity under which every real christian lies to speak the truth always, and to fear nothing but sin.
“if you do not hate falsehood,” said the young evangelist, “where is the proof that you love him who is the truth as well as the life?”
“did i not give proof of my love for christ,” replied the kashmiri, “when for his sake i threw away my brahminical thread?”
robin was not yet sufficiently versed in hindu customs to understand the full force of this simple appeal. “was it then such an overwhelming trial to part with a thread?” he inquired.
kripá dé looked as much surprised at the question as a king might be if asked whether it would be a trial to part with his crown. then the young brahmin told the strange story of his own early life. he described the mysterious ceremony with which he had been invested with the brahminical thread, revealing to his listener some of the strange force of that superstition which helps to choke spiritual life among the hindus.
“immediately after the solemn act of putting the brahminical sign round my neck,” said the youthful convert, “i was confined for three days in a closed room, and was not allowed to have intercourse with any one but my grandmother. she has since died, and her ashes, collected from the funeral pile, have been carried hundreds of miles to be thrown into the ganges.”
“tell me more about your three days of seclusion,” said robin.
“during those three days in which i remained shut up my grandmother was my teacher. she reminded me of my new duties, and told me what honour i must claim from the lower orders simply on account of my being a brahmin. through her teaching my vanity increased: i thought in my pride that i was in possession of divine power, and could destroy any one who should dare to stand against me simply by the breath of my mouth.”
“could you believe such a tremendous falsehood?” exclaimed robin hartley.
“i did believe it,” was the reply, “and i resolved to use my power. immediately after my release, i thought of trying an experiment on one of my playmates who belonged to the kayasta caste, a boy with whom i was not always on good terms. so after i was set free to walk about the village and join my former companions, one of the first things which i did was to pick a quarrel with the boy whom i wanted to destroy.”
“kripá dé, were you ever such a fiend?” burst from the lips of the astonished listener.[5]
“i was a brahmin,” said kripá dé, as if that were sufficient reply.
“pray go on with your story,” said robin.
“in the quarrel i gave the boy two or three severe blows, and then warned him not to touch me, as i had now the power of reducing him to ashes. notwithstanding my warning, he gave back as many hard knocks as he had received. i tried in vain to destroy him by the breath of my mouth; and at last threw my sacred thread at his feet, expecting to see him consumed by fire.”
“and you were disappointed to find that your thread had no power to work such a horrible miracle!” observed robin.
“i was so bitterly disappointed that i ran crying to my grandmother to tell her what had happened. the result was a great quarrel between her and my playmate’s mother, who resented my attempt to burn up her son. other women joined in the dispute, and the noise and wrangling lasted for more than an hour. all that i had at last was a rebuke, not for wishing to kill my companion, but for parting with my brahminical thread, which was soon replaced by another.”
5. this strange story is no invention of my own imagination; it is the relation of what he himself did, copied almost verbatim from an address by t. k. chatterji, a talented christian native gentleman, who had once been a brahmin. here indeed truth is stranger than fiction!
this extraordinary revelation of what the spirit of brahminism is made a strong impression on robin. it was a glimpse of the features of the demon with whom the young knight of the cross was to combat till death should end the struggle. robin repeated the story of kripá dé to alicia that evening.
“i can hardly believe that one who looks so gentle, so mild, could ever have been possessed by such demons of pride, hatred, and malice,” she exclaimed.
“the master has cast out the demons,” observed robin, “and the convert is now sitting at the lord’s feet, clothed and in his right mind. what a miracle of grace is a proud brahmin’s conversion!”
the return of mr. hartley and harold was watched for eagerly by the little group in the mission home. many a time robin quitted the bungalow to look down the road and watch for his father’s return. the last gleam of light faded from the sky, the stars shone out, but the missionaries had not returned. kripá dé was sent to sleep on the roof; but alicia and robin sat up watching, growing more and more impatient as hour after hour passed on. at last their uncertainty was ended by the return of the sais (groom) who had accompanied mr. hartley. the man brought a note from harold. what information it contained will be given in the following chapter.
