Part 4

“But it has been a sore trouble to me,” cried the young Sahib quickly; “I could no more sit down quietly under that burden of debt, than I could calmly endure to wear a chain of iron around my neck. My life has been one perpetual effort to cast off that chain; link by link I have broken it away. I lived from the first on half my income—lived as no other English gentleman in my position would do. When my salary was increased, I did not increase my expenses. I have endured to be thought stingy and inhospitable, in a land where not to have the hand and the door open is esteemed a great reproach. I could not give alms or entertain guests on the money that was really another’s; it was better in man’s sight to be unjustly considered mean, than in the sight of God to be dishonest.”

“Dishonest!” exclaimed Hassan in astonishment; the word did not seem in his mind to be in the least suited for the occasion.

“Yes, dishonest,” repeated the Sahib; “money which we have borrowed is not really our own,—it belongs to the lender.”

“It was his pleasure to lend it,” observed Hassan.

“But not his pleasure that it should never be returned,” rejoined the Sahib with animation.

Still the moonshee did not appear persuaded that there could be any harm in incurring a debt to a man who was rich enough to spare the money.

Alton Sahib rose and went up to his table, on which lay a Bible. He turned over the pages, and then silently pointed out the text,—_Owe no man anything, but to love one another_ (Rom. xiii. 8).

“I knew not that such a command was in the Bible,” observed the moonshee. “But the Sahib was under necessity to break it.”

“Conscience does not reproach me for incurring my debt,” said Alton Sahib gravely, “but conscience would give me no rest if I neglected doing my utmost to pay back what I owe. I hope, when my last month’s salary comes in on Monday, to send back the last rupee to my friend; and the day on which I find myself free from debt will doubtless be one of the happiest days of my life.”

“Ah! then the Sahib will be able, after all, to lend to his servant!” exclaimed Hassan with pleasure; “the marriage of my daughter will not take place for more than a month.”

Alton Sahib felt vexed that all that he had said had had so little effect on the mind of the Christian moonshee. The young man closed the Bible and returned to his seat.

“Moonshee Jé,” he said, “I borrowed money from pressing necessity; you would borrow without necessity.”

Again surprise awoke in the breast of the moonshee. “Did I not tell your excellency,” he said, “that I required money for the wedding festivities of my daughter?”[23]

“And what necessity is there that those festivities should involve you in great expense, or entangle you in debt?” said Alton Sahib. “If you could be content to put aside pride and ostentation, to place simple fare before a moderate number of guests, and avoid all waste and show, your own means would suffice for the marriage expenses. Will your daughter be more happy as a wife, because her wedding-feast has made her father act in a way that befits not a Christian? Is God’s blessing on the union to be procured by disobeying God’s command? What profit is there in an expensive wedding-feast?”

“It is the dastur,”[24] observed Hassan, as if that expression were a sufficient answer to all objections.

“O my friend!” exclaimed Alton Sahib, “you who condemn the worship of idols, make not for yourself an idol of dastur. It was once the dastur in England for Sahibs who received a slight affront to call out the offender to some retired spot, that the two might shoot at each other with pistols, that so the offence, however small, might be wiped out in blood.”

“A very evil dastur,” remarked the moonshee.

“But one so generally observed, that it was thought the deepest dishonour to break through it,” said Alton Sahib. “But men were found brave and faithful enough to break through such a dastur for the sake of Christ and the gospel. It is now the dastur amongst Mohammedans to recite the praises of their prophet; it is the dastur amongst Brahmins to wear their holy threads; but you have broken through your dastur, and Brahmins, converted like yourself to the Christian religion, have cast aside their much-valued threads. Will you, O my friend, reserve _any_ dastur that is contrary to the will of God? Will you say to your Heavenly King, ‘Lord! I have given up for Thee the love of brethren, the favour of friends, many of the things which I prized most upon earth; but I cannot—will not—even to obey Thee, give up the dastur of half-ruining myself to have a grand wedding-feast. I at my baptism renounced “the world, the flesh, and the devil,” but I reserved one thing which is of the world which I will not renounce.’”

The face of the moonshee looked troubled. His friend had pointed out sin where he had hitherto seen no sin; dishonesty in what he had never considered dishonest; shame in what he had never thought shameful. With a deep sigh he made reply: “It is not for myself that I care; but what would those of my household say if I bade them, on such an occasion, act differently from all those who dwell around them!” Before the mind of the moonshee arose the images of Margam and Fatima, and the loved child who was perhaps the dearest of all. How could he bear to disappoint them, and expose them to the taunts of their neighbours!

“Go to your family; they too are Christians,” said Alton Sahib, “and, I trust, Christians not only in name. Repeat to them what I have said to you to-day. Ask them whether the pride of life which leads to sinful debt be not condemned in this verse?—‘All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the _pride of life_, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever’ (1 John ii. 16, 17). Ask them whether in another world, nay, even one year hence, the remembrance that a foolish dastur was given up for conscience’ sake will not be sweeter than the recollection of the grandest display at a wedding? The praise of man is as the gay paper-lamps at an illumination, that last but for a night; the praise of God is as the stars in the sky, that shone ere the day of our birth, and which will shine long after our bodies have been laid in the tomb.”

Hassan arose, made his salám, and took his departure. His reason was convinced, his conscience was aroused, he was almost persuaded to have a simple and inexpensive wedding; but whenever he thought of his family his resolution gave way.

“I will not return through the bazaar,” said Hassan to himself rather sadly; “I should be too much tempted to buy for my darling the pugree with a border of gold!”

No sooner was the shadow of Hassan seen on the threshold of his home than little Yusuf, full of eagerness, ran forward to meet his father. The child looked to see whether the moonshee had brought anything in his hand, and the face of the little one showed disappointment when he saw that the hand was empty.

“O father!” exclaimed Yusuf, “you have forgotten my pugree!”

“I forgot it not, my son,” said the moonshee, as, entering the inner apartment, he seated himself on his carpet.

“Has my lord ordered any of the things needed for the great day which is coming?” asked the smiling Margam, who was preparing the moonshee’s hookah. Fatima thought of bangles[25] and ear-rings, but she was too shy to utter a word.

“I have delayed making my preparations,” said the moonshee.

Margam saw that the mind of her husband was perplexed with much thought. “Has the English Sahib then given nothing?” she ventured to ask.

“The Sahib has given a great deal of good advice, but advice which we should all find it very hard to follow,” replied the convert. “Be seated, O Margam and Fatima, and you shall hear what the Sahib says regarding grand marriage festivities, and the debts to which, in this country, they almost necessarily lead.”

Wondering, and rather fearing what might be coming, Margam and Fatima seated themselves on the floor and listened. Little Yusuf took his favourite place close to his father, whose hand he fondled in both his own. The moonshee then repeated, almost word for word, what had passed between himself and his English friend. Margam broke in every now and then with an exclamation of surprise or displeasure; but Fatima listened in silence, with her glance bent on the ground. The large eyes of Yusuf were never taken from the face of his father; the child was eagerly drinking in all that was uttered. Though he could not understand every word, Yusuf took in the general meaning of much that was said.

When the moonshee ceased, there was a short silence in the room. Margam looked vexed, and the downcast eyes of Fatima were brimming over with tears. It would be to these women, Christians though they were, a terrible trial to break through dastur on such an occasion as that of a wedding.[26]

“I leave the decision to you all,” said the moonshee, glad perhaps thus to escape from himself deciding so difficult a question. “Shall I borrow from some one else, and have all things arranged according to dastur; or shall we give up everything that is not necessary, to avoid displeasing God by incurring debt?”

Again there was a short silence. Little Yusuf was the first to break it. Clinging to his father, the child raised himself to a position high enough for his lips almost to reach his parent’s ear, and then said in a whisper,—which was, however, distinct enough to be heard by all present,—“I will please the Lord Jesus by giving up my pugree bordered with gold.”

The most learned discourse could not have had more effect than those simple words of the child. The vexed look on the mother’s face changed to a smile; and though two big tears dropped down the cheeks of Fatima, she was able cheerfully to say, “I would rather please the Lord Jesus than have Malika Victoria’s jewel, the grand Koh-i-noor!”

A few weeks afterwards, the marriage took place. Great was the surprise amongst the neighbours of Hassan at the simple arrangements made for the wedding. The feast was chiefly of fruit, the ornaments chiefly of flowers; but the fruit was sweet, and the flowers fairer than anything that man’s hand could have made. Fatima was a very happy bride, for she thought to herself, “As the Lord deigned to come to the marriage at Cana, we can ask Him to be present at this simple feast, where there is nothing which my dear father is not able to pay for.” And no face at the wedding looked brighter than that of little Yusuf; the snow-white pugree above that happy young face needed no border of gold!

IV.

The Pink Chaddar.[27]

Hear, the story of Buté, the moonshee’s only daughter.

Buté had, when she was but a babe in arms, lost her mother, but she was to her father as the light of his eyes. The moonshee often went to teach a Mem Sahiba,[28] whose husband was in government employ. The Mem Sahiba was kind to little Buté; she let her sometimes come to her bungalow, and gave her sweetmeats, and once a doll from England. Those were happy days to little Buté when her father, taking her hand, led her to the white bungalow in which the Mem Sahiba dwelt.

One day the Mem Sahiba said to the moonshee: “The Sahib wishes to go on a journey into Cashmere, and to take you with him; are you willing to go for six months with the Sahib?”

The moonshee’s heart was glad, for he had long wished to visit the beautiful Vale of Cashmere; but then trouble came over him like a shadow, for he thought of his little Buté.

“If I go far from hence,” said he, “what will become of my only child? Behold, I have but one, and her mother is dead, and I have no sisters who would be to her as a mother. Buté, if I leave her, will be as a stray lamb that is found by the jackals.”

“Have no fear for Buté,” the Mem Sahiba made reply; “if it be your wish, I will place her in the school at Khushpore, for the Miss Sahiba there is my friend. Buté shall learn to read and to write, and all that is good will she learn; for the Miss Sahiba is one who fears God, and she dearly loves little children.”

And thus was it arranged; the moonshee went to Cashmere with the Sahib, and little Buté was sent to the school at Khushpore.

Buté shed many tears at parting from her father, but her tears were soon dried. The Miss Sahiba looked kindly upon her, and spoke sweet words; and though Buté was shy at first, and hung down her head in silence, even before the end of the day she was as merry as the little gray striped squirrel that runs up the trees, and hides in the branches.

Buté had now many companions, and soon made friends with them all. Very fond was the little girl of talking, and in the hours of play the words from her tongue flowed on as the brook that runs down from the hills. Buté liked to speak much of the Mem Sahiba whom none of the other girls had seen, and of the grand things in her house. Buté did not take any heed to speak truth, so that the stream of her words was not pure, but as a muddy and polluted brook.

“My Mem Sahiba,” the child would say, “has more shining rings on her fingers than there are leaves on that tree. The Sahib is a very great man; those who come near him bow down to the ground, and when he goes forth he rides on an elephant with a howdah of gold.”[29]

Some of Buté’s companions wondered when they heard her stories, and some laughed and called them _jhuth muth_ (fibs); but when the Miss Sahiba heard them she never laughed, but she sighed, and her gentle face grew grave. Often, when alone in her room, the Miss Sahiba would kneel down and thus pray to the God in heaven who listens to prayer: “O Lord, show my dear children the shame and the sin of lying! Teach them Thy way of truth; make them holy, for Thou art holy!”

When Buté came to school, she wore a chaddar pink as the petals of a rose. The Miss Sahiba did not much like to see this chaddar, for those worn by all her other girls were white. But Buté did not wish to change her pink garment for a plain white one.

“I cannot leave off wearing this chaddar,” she said, drawing it closer round her slight form. “My Mem Sahiba gave it to me, and she told me always to wear it.”

The Miss Sahiba made no reply, but her mind was not at rest. She thought to herself,—“I never know whether Buté be speaking the truth or not. Oh that I could but trust her word! I love my little Buté—she is gentle and docile, quick at her lessons, never cross, and ready to do a kindness to any of her companions; but a pleasant child with a deceitful heart is like a fruit that looks fair to the eye, but which is all decayed and worthless within.”

The Miss Sahiba used often to gather the children around her and talk with them when the hours for lessons were over; and much did they like to listen. Sometimes she told them of the dear mother whom she had left behind in England, that she might come and teach little Indian children the way to heaven.

The Miss Sahiba sat in the schoolroom on one hot summer’s day, when the weather was too sultry for even her native children to go out, and they were seated on the floor around her. The Miss Sahiba felt weary and faint, for she had come from a land where the heat is never great, and the glow of India was to her almost as that of a fiery furnace. But she thought that her dear Lord had given her these children as His little lambs to feed, and she was willing to live and even to die far away from her own home, if she only might be permitted to lead these children to the Lord Jesus, the Good Shepherd, who gave His life for the sheep.

“I think that there was never a better mother than mine,” said the Miss Sahiba, as she showed to the children a little picture of her dear parent which she had just received from England. “My mother was always kind and good to me, but there were three occasions in my life on which she showed the greatest love; and whenever I recall these occasions to mind, I bless God for having given me such a good mother.”

The children were eager to hear more, and little Buté, who sat nearest to the feet of the Miss Sahiba, looked up into her face and said, “Tell us of these three times when the Mem Sahiba in England showed so much love.”

“I will tell you,” replied the Miss Sahiba; “and you shall judge on which occasion the greatest love was shown.

“The first time was when I was sick with the small-pox. Day and night my dear mother watched by my bed. If, after feverish sleep, I opened my eyes at midnight, there, close at hand, ready with the medicine or cooling drink, I ever saw my beloved mother. But for her tender care, I believe that I should have died. Was it not true love that made her watch over me thus?”

The Miss Sahiba paused, and all the children who had heard her replied, “It was very great love.”

“The second occasion was this,” the Miss Sahiba went on. “One evening in winter, when the fire was lighted in our sitting-room, I saw above the mantlepiece a picture that had been crookedly hung. It was rather higher than I could reach with my hand, so I brought a stool, and stood upon it, that I might set the picture straight. I knew not that my dress, as I stood, had touched the fire, until, to my great terror, I found myself all in flames! My shrieks brought my mother to my aid. She threw me down on the floor; she wrapped a thick rug around me; with her own dear hands, all scorched and blistered, she put out the fire. Never shall I forget how my mother then clasped me to her heart, and wept, and thanked God who had enabled her to save her child from a terrible death. She was herself in very great pain from her burns, but she scarcely thought of the pain.”

Again the Miss Sahiba paused, and one and all of the children said, “The Mem Sahiba showed very great love.”

“On the third occasion, of which I am going to tell you,” said the English Sahiba, “I think that even greater love was shown, for my mother saved me from something worse than even fever or fire.”

Then every child bent forward to listen, and wondering, thought in her heart, “What can be worse than fever or fire?”

“The third time when my mother showed how well she loved me,” continued the Sahiba, “was—when she gave me a beating for telling a lie!”

The children were all so much astonished that they could not utter a word. They opened their black eyes wide, and stared at the Sahiba. Buté began to laugh,—it seemed so strange to her that a beating should be called a proof of great love!

“Oh! well, well do I recollect the grief of my mother when she found that her little girl had spoken an untruth!” said the Miss Sahiba. “The pain to her heart was worse, far worse, than the pain of the burns had been to her hands. She told me, with tears in her eyes, that lying lips are an abomination to the Lord, that liars will be shut out from heaven. She punished me, but not in anger; oh no, but in very great sorrow and love. Then she and I knelt down together to ask God to forgive my great sin. I could not speak because of my sobs; but I heard my mother ask God to blot out her child’s sin in the blood of His dear Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, that which alone can wash away sin. My mother prayed—oh, how hard she prayed!—while the tears ran down her cheeks, that God, for the sake of the Lord Jesus Christ, would give me His Holy Spirit, to make my sinful heart clean, and to guide me into all truth. Dear children, I shall never forget that day, either the punishment or the prayer. Thanks to my mother who gave the punishment, thanks to God who heard the prayer, I believe that I have never since that time uttered a lie. Now, tell me, my dear children, did not my mother do more for me then, did she not show more true love for me on that sad day, than when she watched me through my illness, or saved my life from the flames?”[30]

Some of the girls said “Yes;” but one of them whispered softly, “It does not seem so to me.”

“I will tell you why I think it,” said the Miss Sahiba, who had heard the whisper. “Sin is a worse evil than fever, and the fire of God’s anger worse than fire that only burns the body. It was pain to my mother to punish me; but she did not shrink from the pain, no more than she shrank from throwing me down on the floor, or scorching her own hands when she was trying to put out the flames.”

Many of the girls were listening with interest and attention; but the Miss Sahiba saw but too well that Buté did not care for good counsel. The child’s eyes had wandered to the picture which the Miss Sahiba still held in her hand; and while others were thinking of the lesson of truth taught by the lady, Buté only asked the trifling question, “Is the frame of that picture real gold?”

Alas! that when God’s servants speak of heaven and the way to reach it, and of other solemn truths, some who might listen and learn let their attention be drawn away by the merest trifles. It is as if a person to whom a diamond is offered should turn away to chase a butterfly; or as if one fleeing from a tiger should stop to pluck a flower by the way.

It was not many days after that on which the Miss Sahiba had told her story, that her first friend, the Mem Sahiba, came to visit the school at Khushpore. It is easy to be imagined that Buté was rejoiced again to see her kind friend; and in honour of the visit, the Miss Sahiba promised all the children a feast of fruit.

The two ladies walked up the room in which the classes were assembled, and as they came near the place where Buté stood with her eyes sparkling with pleasure, the Miss Sahiba said to her friend, “Here is your little Buté, in the pink chaddar which she says that you gave her and told her to wear.”

“I never gave her a chaddar of any colour,” said the Mem Sahiba with a look of surprise; “what could make the silly child utter such an untruth?”

Do you think that Buté blushed and hung down her head in shame at having been found out guilty of lying? Alas! no. Buté had told so many lies in her short life that she felt no sorrow or shame for the sin. She was only vexed that the Miss Sahiba should know of her falsehood.

If Buté did not care, the Miss Sahiba cared a great deal. She thought, “Oh, how shall I cure this poor child of her terrible habit?” Then turning towards Buté, she said aloud, “Buté, I grieve to find that you have told me an untruth. I cannot let you share in our feast. Retire to the sleeping-room directly; I should not be your true friend if I passed over this matter.”

Then Buté began to cry; not because of sorrow for sin, but because she had lost the feast, and was sent so early to bed. She clasped her hands, and glanced towards her former friend, the Mem Sahiba, as if to entreat her intercession; but the lady looked grave and shook her head. She knew that the punishment had been deserved, and that it would be no real kindness not to inflict it.

But still poor Buté, accustomed from her infancy to hear lies, could not but think herself hardly dealt with. Had her lie got any one into trouble, had she slandered a companion, she would have seen that sin had been committed; “But what did it signify,” thought she, “whether I said truly that the chaddar had been given to me by my father; or untruly, that it had been given to me by the Mem Sahiba?” As Buté turned weeping to go to her room, the Miss Sahiba heard her murmur between her sobs, “Why does she make such a fuss? What harm could the lie do? it was such a little one!”

The feast of fruit began; plenty of nice kélas (plantains) were spread on the floor. Some of the girls were sorry for Buté, sent to remain in her bed to think over her fault; but soon even these girls forgot the poor child, who could hear from her apartment the sound of their laughter and singing. Buté lay crying, listening to the children’s voices, and longing to join them.