Part 15
"Nay," replied the bunnya, with spirit. "'Tis worth a good seventy-five, though thy man--I'll warrant me--paid a hundred. So seventy-five thou shalt have; but, look you, daughter--or, if thou willest it, mother--keep Prem in leash, or a surety the footsteps of a dog will show on his ashes."
She looked at him, startled. Curious how the phrase, born of a belief that one can read the reward of the dead from the marks which show on his funeral pyre, should crop up. First from Prem, regarding the Lala-_jee_, next from the Lala-_jee_ concerning Prem. Was there any truth in it, she wondered? She had the money, that was one comfort, and Prema would be pleased. Then, when the Biluch mare foaled, and they sold it as a yearling for the three hundred rupees Prem thought it would fetch, she would tell him how she had pawned his gift; meanwhile, a brass bracelet, to be had at the shop for a rupee, would serve to deceive his eyes. But not the sharp ones of Veru, the young widow who was the only other inhabitant of the wide courtyard with its slips of arcaded rooms round about it, and great stacks of millet stalks, and huge bee-hive stores of grain.
Her eyes were on it from the moment Sarsuti, sitting down above her on the little raised mud dais, began to spin.
"Thou needst not stare so, girl," broke in Sarsuti, at last. "Yes! I have pawned it. He needed money, and he is more to me than aught else beside--more than thou, husbandless, can dream, child."
Veru--she was indeed but little more than a child, this virgin widow of Sarsuti's half-brother, who had been born and died in his father's old age--held her head lower over her wheel, and said nothing. Her widow's shroud seemed to swallow her up. Yet in that Jat household she was kindly enough treated, for Sarsuti's strong arms loved work, and she had a great pity in her great soft heart for all unloved things. Here was no question of shaven head or daily fasting. Veru simply led a cloistered life, and did what share her strength allowed of the daily work. Of late that had not been much; she had complained of fatigue, and had sat all day spinning feverishly as if to make up for her failure in other ways; for she was a sensitive little thing, ready to cry at a word of blame.
So the evening passed by. Prema was not to be back from the well till late, not, indeed, until the moon set; for the young millet had been neglected somewhat, and even he was roused to the necessity for action. Water it must have, or there would be no crop. Thus, as the sun set, Sarsuti cooked the supper, reserving the best dough cakes, the choicest morsels of the pickled carrots against her husband's return, and then, being weary, lay down so as to freshen herself up to receive him as he should be received. The night was hot, there was a restlessness in it which found its way into her mind, and she lay awake for some time thinking of what the Lala-_jee_ had said. Yes! It was time, it was growing time for so many things. Yes! she must harden her heart and be wise--the footsteps of the ...
Here she fell asleep.
When she woke, there was pitch darkness. The moon had set. What had happened? Had Prema returned, and, full of kindliness as ever, seen she was tired and so refrained from waking her? She put out her hand and touched his bed, but he was not there. How late he was! And where was Veru? Veru, who should have been watching for him.
"Veru! lazy child--art asleep?"
Her question came back to her unanswered; Veru, also, was not in the wide courtyard. Where were they?
The very conjunction of her thought regarding them, woke in her a sudden swift pang of jealousy.
Where were they?
A minute later, holding an oil cresset in her hand as a guard against snakes, she was passing swiftly through the deserted village on her way to the well. Prema might have fallen asleep--he might be asleep still. The night was so dark, she held the lamp high above her head so as to throw its light before her on the narrow edge of a pathway between the flooded fields. It was so still, she could hear the faint sob made by some deadly thing slipping from her coming into the water, over which a wandering firefly would flash, revealing an inky glimmer between the rising shoots of corn. Ahead, that massed shadow was the banyan tree. The fireflies were thick there, thick as cressets at a bridal feast ...
If Prema slept--Yes! if he slept, to be awakened by a kiss.
Underneath the arching branches of the banyan tree it was dark indeed, but the silence of it told her that the oxen anyhow were at rest.
And Prema!
As she held the light forward, something on the ground at her feet caught her eye--jasmine! Jasmine twined into a wreath. For whose head? Not hers!
"Prema!" she called. "Prem!"
There was no answer. But he was there for all that; half resting on the forked seat, as if he had flung himself upon it when weary; weary and content; his head thrown back upon his arm, his whole body lax with sleep--and with content.
She had seen him look thus so often! "Prem!" she whispered. "Prem!" and touched him on the bosom.
Then a hideous shriek of terror and horror startled the sleeping oxen into forward movement, as from the folds of his clothes, like some evil thought, there slipped a snake, swift, curved, disappearing into the darkness.
"Prem! Prem! Speak to me! Oh, Prem--speak!"
As she flung herself upon him, the forward movement of the oxen forced her to her knees, so heeding it not at all, one hand holding the light close to his face as she strove vainly to rouse him, she was dragged along the accustomed round, until the beasts, recognising the unaccustomed strain, paused once more.
"Prem! Say thou art not dead--say only that, Prem!" she moaned.
Her voice seemed to reach him on the far edge of the great Blank, for his eyelids quivered. Then, for one moment, he looked at her, and there was appeal in his eyes.
"Wife--Veru--my----" It was scarcely a whisper, but she heard it, and with a cry of joy, she caught him in her strong arms, laid him on the ground, and, tearing his cloth aside, sought for the wound. Finding it, her lips were on it in a second. Ah! could kisses draw the poison, surely her frantic love must avail.
But no. His eyelids closed. There was no sound, only a little quiver that she felt through her lips. Then his beauty lay still beneath them.
After a time she drew herself away from him, and laid his head upon her lap. So she sat, dazed, thinking of that jasmine wreath in the dust, and of that half-heard whisper--
"Wife--Veru--my----" My--what?
* * * * *
"And there is none to come after him," said the village worthies, when the fire of Prema's burning had died down to smouldering embers, and the oldest man of his clan in the village had performed the rites which should have been the duty of a son.
And then they shook their heads wisely, thinking that men of Prem Singh's kind ran an ill risk in the next world without a son to perform the funeral obsequies; especially, nowadays, when the law prevented a dutiful wife from ensuring her husband's safety and salvation by burning herself on his funeral pyre. Yea! it was an ill world indeed in which the fostered virtue of a woman you had cared for and cossetted might not avail to save the man she loved from the pains of purgatory. And then they drifted away, full of surmise and deep desire concerning the headship of the village. Mai Sarsuti could not hold it as a widow, though she could hold the land; and there were no relations--none. So the coast was clear for many claims.
Sarsuti meanwhile had not clamoured--as many an Indian widow does even nowadays--to be allowed to sacrifice herself for her husband's salvation. She had scarcely wept. She had, on the contrary, spoken sternly to Veru, bidding her keep her foolish tears until all things had been done in due order to keep away the evil spirits and ensure peace to the departed.
Then, after all the ceremonies were completed, and Prem's beauty lay swathed awaiting sunset for its burning, she had sat on one side of his low bier, while Veru sat on the other, and the wail had risen piercingly--
"Naked he came, naked he has gone; this empty dwelling-house belongs neither to you nor to me."
There had been a menace in her voice, high-pitched, clear, almost impassive, while Veru's had been broken by sobs.
So now that frail weakling was asleep, wearied out by her woe, while Sarsuti sat where the bier had been, still in all the glory of her wifely raiment, still with the vermilion stain upon her forehead, still wearing round her neck the blessed marriage cord with which he had so often toyed. For she had point-blank refused to allow it to be broken. Time enough for the widow's shroud, she had said. To-day she was still Prem's wife--he had scarce had time to die.
So she sat quite still, looking at the place where he had lain, thinking of those last words. Had she really heard them? Was it possible, the thing that had leapt to her mind?
Deep down in her heart she knew vaguely that the feet of her idol had been of clay; that with Prem all things were possible. Poor, wandering feet, which might yet have kept to the straight path, if--Oh, Prem! Prem! Had it been her fault? Or was she wronging him?
Then, suddenly, that recurring phrase recurred to her once more.
"The footstep of a dog--the footstep of a dog."
Was it past midnight? Had another day begun--the day of judgment? Surely; then she could see--yea! She could prove it was not true.
The moon was just sinking as, close-wrapped in her veil, she crept down to the edge of the nullah, where the burning-ground lay; a gruesome place, haunted by the spirits of the departed, not to be ventured near after dark. But Sarsuti had forgotten all the village lore, she had forgotten everything save that deadly doubt.
Yonder, it must be on the point close to the water, for still an almost mist-like vapour lingered there. She sped past the faintly lighted patches on the hard-baked soil which told of other burnings, murmuring a prayer for the peace of dead souls, and so found herself beside that little pile of dear ashes. A breeze from the coming dawn stirred them, sending a grey flake or two to meet her.
"Prem!" she whispered; then, as she stooped to look, the whisper passed to a cry--
"Oh! Prema! Prema!"
She lay there face down, her hands grovelling in the still warm embers on which there showed unmistakably the footstep of a dog!
And the moon sank, so there was darkness for a while. Then in the far east the horizon lightened, bringing a grey mystery to the wide expanse of the level world. And behind the greyness came a primrose dawn, and the sun, rising serene and bright, sent a shaft of light to touch her as she lay.
Then she rose, and dusting the dear ashes from her almost blistered hands, she crept back to the wide courtyard, where Veru still slept, worn out by sorrow. She stood watching her asleep, wondering at her own blindness. Then she touched her on the bosom.
"Wake!" she cried, in a loud voice. "Wake! Oh, Veru! And speak the truth!"
The girl started up, and the eyes of the two women met.
* * * * *
The village was bitterly disappointed; but, of course, there was nothing to be done but wait and see if the child was a son, for Mai Sarsuti had stolen a march on them. She had gone straight to the burra-sahib, straight to the head district official, and told him of her hopes. What is more, she had petitioned for trustees to work the land, seeing that she and her sister-in-law were poor widows; and she, especially, unfit for work.
So three of the village elders had been convened to see to the land and render account to the sahib, who would be sure to keep an eye on them seeing that Mai Sarsuti was an upstanding, straightforward Jatni, just the kind to whom the sahib-logue gave consideration. And, after all, she and hers deserved it, for they came of a long line of virtuous, loyal people.
So Sarsuti, with Vera, lived in the seclusion which befitted her recent loss; though, according to custom, she still wore a wife's dress. But she grew haggard as the months went by. Small wonder, said the village matrons, when they returned from their occasional visits, seeing that she awaited a fatherless child.
Then one morning, Veru, looking very worn and frightened, and ill, came to tell the elders that a son had been born to Sarsuti. Perhaps it was as well, they thought, since otherwise there might be disputes about the headship. Now there could be none; and as there would be a very long minority under the care of the sahibs, Prem's son would come in to free land, and money laid up in the bank. A rich headman was always a prop to the village. So their wives went to congratulate the new-made mother.
She was looking haggard still, and scarcely seemed to rejoice in her great gift; but that, perhaps, might come by and bye.
But it did not. Sometimes she would take the baby and look at it long and earnestly. Then she would give it back to Veru, whose arms were seldom empty of Prem's child, and return to the work of the house, or sit watching them gravely from her spinning-wheel, her large dark eyes full of wistful pain.
So the months sped by.
And still Sarsuti wore a wife's dress and smeared vermilion on her forehead; and the mangala sutram, still unbroken, held the wife's medal round her throat. It would be time, she answered proudly to the shocked village women, to think of breaking it when Prem should have been dead a year, and the child be able to suck cow's milk.
She prepared for the anniversary by purchasing a Maw's feeding bottle, and an eagerness grew to her face as she watched little Prem take it, and roll over contentedly to sleep, like the fat good-natured little lump of a healthy child as he was. But Veru wept.
Still, Maw had supplanted Motherhood when the night came round again on which Sarsuti had heard that faint whisper from her dying husband. The child slept as a child should, and Veru, once more worn out by tears, slept also.
But, as on that night a year ago, Sarsuti sat on the place where Prem's bier had lain and thought, her dark eyes full of a great resolve. Suddenly she rose, tall, straight, upstanding, and passed to where the child lay. She stooped and kissed it--kissed it for the first time--then, throwing her arms skywards, murmured to High Heaven, "Lo! I have saved him--I, his wife"; and so, catching up a small bundle which she had prepared, passed into the darkness of the night.
* * * * *
They found her charred body at dawn, face downwards, where the footsteps of a dog had shown upon Prem's ashes.
She had saturated her clothes with paraffin, and set fire to herself deliberately.
"Lo! how she loved him," said the village elders, behind their outward and decorous disapproval. "See you, she is decked as a bride with all her jewels. Now, with a son in his house, and suttee on his pyre, there is no fear but what Prem hath found freedom."
"Ay!" assented the Lala-_jee_. "The footstep of a dog will not be seen on his ashes."
THE FINDING OF PRIVATE FLANIGAN
We were quartered up in the hills making a military road when Private Flanigan was lost. It was to be a big road, cutting clean into the heart of the Himalayas, so various detachments were set to work upon its long length. Ours was the last but one, and we were lucky in getting by far the best pitch on the whole line. It would be difficult, indeed, to exaggerate its beauty, and as summer came on the advantages of shade-shelter which it afforded made us feel blessed above our fellows. It was a green oasis about half-a-mile long by some quarter broad, of fine emerald sward not to be beaten by any English lawn. And it was irregularly fringed by the most magnificent deodar cedars I have ever seen. When we arrived in early autumn these were wreathed with virginia creeper already russet, which, as winter advanced, flamed like fire among the dark spines. Now, in spring the trees were hung to their very tops with a rambling white rose, faintly double, faintly yet penetratingly scented, which festooned the whole forest, making it look as if it were garlanded for some festival, and turning the oval greensward into a veritable _stadium_ fit for the sport of a King; for an amphitheatre of blue hills rose behind the forest, with here and there a peak of eternal snow.
It was simply a ripping place, and when on Saturday evenings, the detachment further south, and the detachment further north, used to come over to play football, the fellows were always full of envy. Our men--there were but two officers with each detachment--were little Ghurkas, but they played an uncommonly good game, thanks partly to the fact that my captain was an old Rugby man, and gave his countenance to practice. But our chief asset was Private Flanigan of the small party of Sappers and Miners who acted as overseers on the works. He was not, perhaps, a shining example to the men in other ways, but so far as football went, he was the best possible coach.
The result was, that, despite their small size, our Ghurkas could hold their own with the detachment of Tommies further south. They never actually won a match, but they made a stubborn fight, and accepted honourable defeat good humouredly, treating their adversaries right royally at the canteen afterwards in the manner of Ghurkas when they get chummy with British regiments. It was a quaint sight to see them hob-nobbing together at the further end of the _stadium_, where there was a duck-pond sort of lake half filled with sacred lotus, blossoming white and pink. A wood-slab little temple dedicated to Kâli stood beside this lake with steps leading down to the water; but nobody seemed to notice its presence, and the very brahman in charge used to come and watch the games with interest; perhaps he thought it sufficiently savage to please the terrific goddess who sat enshrined in a little dark hole, where nothing was to be seen of Her but crimson arms and hands, one of them apparently holding a football. It certainly was bloodthirsty enough one day when the detachment further north came down to try their luck. They were the biggest, tallest, lankiest lot of Sikhs I ever saw, but, perhaps because they had such long shins, they simply knuckled under before a rush of our little beggars. It was almost pitiable to see them; the more so because they were furious, and would not accept consolation, even at the hands of Private Flanigan, who with unblushing kindness of heart, took all the credit to himself in the curious dialect he used as a means of communication with his pupils; for being a Manchester Irishman, his English had to contend with a town accent, a Lancashire accent and an Irish accent, while his Hindustani was of the lowest type to be picked up in a barrack square.
"'Taint your _kussoor_ (fault), sonnies, at all, at all! be jabers! _nahin_ (no). Don'tcher fret. _Dil khoosh_ (heart happy). Kape yer 'air on. _Dekko you soors_--beg pardon, gintlemen, it was a mistake entoirely!--You 'aven't a _Nadmi_ (man) like Tim Flanigan to _purwarish karo_ (nourish) _you_." So in his garbled language he went on to boast of what he had done for the little Gherkins, as he was wont to call them, making them, indeed, rhyme to jerkins and firkins in a football song he had composed; for Private Flanigan was great at singing, also at clog dancing. In fact, he was good at anything and everything he chose to take in hand thoroughly; but that was not much, for a more idle, able, devil-may-care fellow did not exist. He was, however, a general favourite, and I noticed that even my regulationarily correct captain dealt leniently with his not infrequent lapses from good behaviour. Flanigan was in tremendous form at a sing-song held the night of the football match, and literally brought down the house with his clog accompaniment to a patter song in which he parodied the feelings of victor and vanquished. Even the priest of Kâli, who, as usual, viewed the performance from a distance, was reported to have observed that the energetic and active Goddess herself could not have danced with greater vigour upon the prostrate body of Shiv-_jee_!
As for the Sikhs, they positively bellowed with delight, although Private Flanigan had not paltered with such obvious rhymes as kicks and licks. In fact, the whole audience was so happy and hilarious that we hoped the slight difference of the afternoon was forgotten; but we were mistaken. About midnight Sunt Singh, havildar, began to attribute Jye Kush _naick's_ flat nose to a provision of the All-wise Creator in view of football squashes, and assert magniloquently that God never made an ugly Sikh, whereat strife arose, and _kukries_ and _bichwas_ might have drawn blood had not my captain shown discreet firmness, and sent an exactly equal number of Sikhs and Gurkhas to the guard room.
It was very shortly after this incident that Private Flanigan found himself there also; as usual for patronising the canteen too liberally. But this time he was profusely indignant, and assured me on his Bible oath--as a rule he professed Roman Catholicism--that it was a gross case of mistaken diagnosis. He had not been drunk; still less, disorderly. When the sergeant put him under arrest he was merely giving a realistic and spirited representation of last year's All England match _as it had appeared to him_. And this he was doing solely for the benefit of his pupils, the little Gherkins; shirkin', lurkin' little Gherkins, who had basely failed to speak up for him when he was comatose from fatigue.
That was about the last time I ever spoke to poor Flanigan; for about a week after he was mysteriously lost. I say mysteriously, because though all sorts of theories were put forward to explain his disappearance, none of them were entirely satisfactory. I myself, inclined to the explanation that, being, according to the Ghurkas' testimony, a little bit on at the time, he lost his life in a sudden spate of the river caused by the melting of the snows in the higher hills. It was a very sudden spate, and caught the working party as they were clearing the southern end of a deep cutting--a tunnel, indeed, for twenty yards or so--which lay just at the end of our section. The Sikhs, however, who were working at the northern end, escaped the flood altogether, and rather jeered at our men who had to scramble for dear life, some regaining the camp and others spending the night in the open; so, each party thinking Flanigan must be with the other, he was not missed till next morning, when it was too late to find his body.
We dragged the river pools to no purpose, then, as the spate had ruined half our work, gave up the search and duly reported his death at headquarters.
With the prospect of the advancing hot weather before us, when we must knock off, there was not much time for amusement, and we were kept pretty close at it. But a Himalaya spring in the uplands was a perpetual temptation to me, and I used to start off at dawn time for a long tramp on the higher _murgs_ or alps, taking my gun with me in case I came across an old cock _minawul_ pheasant. There was a perfect mosaic of flowers beneath one's feet; forget--menots, pansies, white anemones, yellow gillyflowers, scarlet potentilla and half-a-hundred others whose names I did not know. You could not set your foot down without crushing some beautiful thing; you felt that you were ramping through a veritable garden.