5

It was when we were spending our summer days in our mountain home that I first had glimpses into the early life of my parents. The scenery around and the associations of the place bore so striking a resemblance to the old home where my father had spent his life, that my mother was unconsciously led to revive past scenes, and my brother, Bhasker, in his walks, to dwell with characteristic enthusiasm on the particulars of my father’s life. I loved to draw from my mother’s lips the little incidents of her childhood. I loved to dwell on them, and picture them to myself, and when the pictures were incomplete, with love and veneration, I tried to fill in the gaps. Our father’s name was always mentioned with reverence, and the recollection of his face haunted our minds and produced in us a glow of pride and emulation which made us exclaim—‘Oh! we must walk worthy of our noble father.’ But childhood is a wonderful period, the influences are exaggerated, the impulses are strong, the heart is full of fire, and there is no room for dull apathy or indifference. It is contact with the cold, selfish world that damps the fire of good impulses and compels the once noble soul:

To linger on the ignoble plain,

To truckle for a soulless gain,

And learn the tricks and shifts of trade..

The summer visit came to a close all too soon. A cart journey was arranged for. My brothers were anxious to leave the place, and eagerly looked forward to the excitement of the journey. But as for me I could not leave without a pang the place where I had spent so many happy days, and where each day I had discovered a new loveliness in everything around me, where the rocks and the trees, the mists and the shadows seemed friends, and where each new and varying phase of the mountain scene found a corresponding place in my heart. I remember well the last day when Bhasker and I got up while the stars were still shining, and stole to the mountain  haunts to have a last look at the dear place. There was nothing to be seen at first as far the eye could reach, except small and great hills and peaks all around; but soon the scene changed. As we ascended the hill in front of our house we seemed to be leaving the world, and piercing the region of the unknown, so thick was the mist round us; and when we reached the highest point we were startled by the dim majesty and grandeur that burst upon us. We seemed to be looking down on mortals below from another world. The shadowy cloudland, dark and gloomy, like a large bird with spreading wings hovered overhead, and the great world sleeping in mist lay below in its purity and whiteness, like a huge sea stretched at our feet. The billows in it heaved and rolled in silence. It was the silence of eternity linked to the world for a moment. A soft starry dreamland light enwrapped and overspread all. Above the ocean of mist the neighbouring peaks, distant and dark, mysteriously loomed like fingers point to heaven. The strangely transformed world, the heavenly beauty and purity of the scene bound us fast, and when I look up my brother seemed strangely excited. He turned to me and said: ‘It was in this place with such a scene before me some years ago that I determined that my life should be pure and holy. Oh! how our lives are wasted. Promise me that yours will be devoted to God’s glory—wholly to God’s glory.’ We were alone, alone with God on the mountaintop, and we fell on our knees and prayed. The tension of feeling was too great for me to bear; I rushed down at the first sign of the dissolution of the magic scene. I could not bear to watch the mist clouds rise like giants from the earth, or be driven hither and thither, a fantastic mass of light and colour. When I reached the valley below I received a broad shining smile and a merry laugh from the stream I knew and loved so well. How it used to tempt me with its reeds, its flowers, and its pure gurgling water! There were the groves and the singing birds, and each note of their sweet voice went into my heart like the tones of a departing friend. Strange, they seemed sad notes today, the stream seemed gentle and quiet, and the wind that thrilled all the leaves and wrapped itself round me so softly seemed to speak to me. I listened for its voice and felt its sad meaning in the low moan that fell on my ear through rocks and trees, and childlike I felt that winds and the birds were sorry too. My brother Bhasker was near me. I knew he sympathised^[1] with me, but wilst my thoughts were childish, his were grand and sublime.

At home the boys were all excitement and in high spirits. They made huge bundles and stowed away all sorts of delightful things in the carts. They revealed to me, as a great secret, a bundle of glittering quartz which surely contained gold, but which was unfortunately destined to be thrown away by the indignant driver as making the cart too heavy. Soon I fell into the spirit of the adventure. It was a delicious novelty. I had often longed to be driven in a cart, and the broad white road in front of our house, as it curved round the hill, crossed the bridge near the valley and shot down, a long arrowy streak of white in the midst of sloping hills and broad waving trees, losing itself in what seemed interminable stretches of the blue distant country, had a great attraction for me. I hate the bustling, hurrying smoking trains in which everything seems to fly past me when in motion, and everybody to stare at me when at rest; and the busy stations in which crowds of hurrying people jostle one another amid the deafening din of voices and the creaking of wheels. But what delight do these primitive cart journeys afford! What a wild breeziness and what freedom from restraint there is about them! We feel that all men are akin to us. The weary wayfarer, the peasant toiling in the fields, the chatty old dame that tells of her affairs loudly and walks briskly on, the sturdy farmer returning loaded with drooping sheaves of corn, their smiling faces a study in themselves,—all seem one with us. Safely we jog on in our two-wheeled clumsy vehicle, safe from any interruption, safe to enjoy our days and nights. The bullocks walk on at a uniform pace, and the driver now nods at his post, and now with a start, and with a sense of neglected duty, applies his hand vigorously to twist the tails of the patient animals. Once the village and the limits of human habitation are passed, the straggling fields and solitary temples soon disappear, and we are face to face with nature in all her wild grandeur. The soul catches a responding note of wild, joyous freedom. Sometimes idly a dreaming and watching, we seem to see in the sky-mingling distance fairy castles gently take shape and rise, revealing in the nearer view some ancient fortress of a ruined Mahratta  power. Then we find ourselves surrounded by hills, dark and frowning and melting into the blue in the hazy distance. Then suddenly as if by the touch of a fair want the scene changes, and a smiling river, green fields, villages embosomed in clusters of trees, and waving cornfields rise in the place of rugged, barren uninviting scenes. The  sound of waters is in our ears. Large spreading trees extend their gigantic boughs, which meet overhead and form a long cool alcove, through which light comes in fitful gleams. The chattering monkey and the soft notes of birds fill the air with a pleasant din. A little further and the forest disappears; we emerge in the sunlight, and look with a mysterious, superstitious dread on the dark avenue left behind. Before us rise shrines and temples hew out of solid rocks, solemn and solitary in the midst of twisted, stunted,^[2]  trees. The rocks and stones grown more numerous, till it seems as if all the stones in the world have been thrown in picturesque heaps by the roadside. The sun sets, and its yellow rays light up the stones and the weird trees into brown, gold, and red. Night falls, and we are alone in the silent solitude of stars. Somewhat like this was the journey to our city home.

Our house was in a narrow street with a broad tank  in front. At the further edge of the tank was a temple, with a few stunted trees peeping over a broken wall and overshadowing the steps of the tank. Our little home was the smallest in the street. It was built differently from the others. It had a balcony in front and a covered staircase at the side. The neighbouring banyan  sent its long branches right in front and almost hid the house from view, and then a hardy creeper covered the balcony all around with a light green drapery, so that we seemed in a real bower in rain, storm, and thunder, and looked out into the world through twinkling leaves and tufts of flowers. At night the stars peeped through and the moonlight danced on the leaves. In front of the house was a little compound. Bhasker had planted plantain trees there, and under their shade we worked, and tended our jessamine and roses. The little hall, which was our drawing room, had windows on all sides. In continuation of a portion of the hall was a small study and a narrow passage. My room was next to the hall. Then came a bedroom, another passage, the place where the fireplace was, and lastly the small pipe room.

Soon we had settled down and the daily routine of work commenced. My brothers went to school, and my mother to her work of preaching. I sewed and read and helped my mother morning and evening. But how dusty, crowded and palling seemed all around me now! How dejecting the view of a sea of houses from my window! What a sickly light seemed to be cast over it all! The  plants where grew had a tendency to wither as if a blight had fallen on them. The only cheering sight in the midst of all this was the tall coconut trees with their graceful crowns lifted here and there above the mass of houses. The sky was an old friend, but seen under a new aspect it appeared somewhat dull. It laid aside its brightest blue and its gayest colours, as if unfit for a place like this, and wore our hue—a greyish neutral tint. The sight of the tank, a broad sheet of water in front of our house, was, however, always refreshing. I had a peculiar satisfaction in thinking that the huge stones by its sides were real rocks, something like the ones that I had left behind me. I clothed them with verdure or left them barren and blank, and in my imagination I placed the tank amongst hills, so that it seemed a real lake, with living springs, reflecting clods and surrounded with ills with their every-varying colours. I felt they were all with me, those hills and rocks, fields and flowers. I had only to shut my eyes and see them all. I soon took a greater interest in everything round me; my lessons became quite a treat. The mornings and evenings were very enjoyable. All that was done outside was discussed at home with a childish gust, and I took my share in the fun and laughter, which somehow seemed to centre round my second elder brother, Dinkar, who had quite a knack of unwittingly doing queer things in his quiet solemn way. When the laugh turned on him at the odd things he managed to do, he would look astonished at us and laugh too. Many stories are told of his early doings. On one occasion it was said his mother gave him a half-anna  piece, and told him to buy a couple of plantains and eat them. He remembered this, and went straight to the plantain woman, gave his half-anna, and asked for two plantains; and when she, looking at the money, gave him four, he said: ‘No, mother said only two’, and would not have four on any account. On another occasion, when quite a baby, he toddled in a pool of water and stuck fast in water and mud for hours together, yet he would not cry or call out. A search was instituted, and he was discovered standing stolid and calm as a philosopher. He was constantly in the habit of losing his way, and used to be brought home by the policeman, looking undisturbed and calm while the whole house was in a commotion. He was quite a character—a lad full of downright earnestness and straightforwardness, but strangely lacking in humour and common sense. As children we laughed at his mistakes yet loved him, and he laughed too, but all the same  he failed to comprehend why we laughed, and would seem pleased at having provoked such mirth.

Soon after we returned we heard the glad news that our favourite sister was to come home with her husband to spend a few days in the city. This was her first visit after her marriage. The evening came when we were looking out for her eagerly, and when the carriage arrived we at once rushed downstairs. Our sister in her calm, smiling way took each of us fondly and kissed us, lingering over our pet names, stroking our heads, and saying that her little ones had grown so much that she hardly recognized them. On the way upstairs my mother met and greeted my sister with many tears and kisses. We shook hands with our new brother with some shyness. But we began to feel more at home with him when our sister described each of us to him just as she left us, and we very soon began to look upon him as one of ourselves. Soon also we seemed to forget that our sister had ever left us, and crowded round her as of old. I sat on a stool; and felt proud of the touch of her hands. My little brother, the Benjamin^[3] of the family , kept very close to her and kept looking up to her confidingly. Our new brother talked to our mother with the courtly grace of a gentleman. He was tall, spare, thin-looking, with a noble brow and a cast of countenance that seemed to have the sad thoughtful element mingled with the keenly intellectual. He had a charming manner, the force of which one felt when one came within the range of his expressive look and smile. He could not be called handsome, but at all times his face beamed with intellectual brightness, and was fully expressive of the mind within—a bright, pure, noble soul. Bhasker was delighted, I could see; and his talk to our sister was that of a companion and an equal. They had much in common and much to tell each other. By and by, Bhasker and our new brother got together and became deeply absorbed in each other. Our sister, our mother, and the rest of us formed a group of our own, and we went through all the rooms in the house. It was a proud moment for us, and we displayed all the treasures we possessed; she patted us and spoke kindly to us. In the evening we had dinner, all sitting on the floor, with a white sheet spread in the centre. There were frankincense and other fragrant sticks burning in the corners, and all over the windows of the hall there were stuck tufts of banyan  and mango leaves. We laughed as we put garlands round the necks of our guests, and set fire to the sweet-smelling sticks. Our sister  thanked us and quietly took the garland out and put it round my neck, and our new brother did the same to my little brother, who had somehow managed to get between them, and was enjoying a large share of the dainties.

Next morning we all in a body went to our sister’s house. Her stay was very short, and we wished to be with her as much as possible. She was reclining on the sofa, and her husband was reading to her, and as we went in my brothers seemed so rough with their creaking shoes, and I somehow felt ashamed of myself, and for the first time in my life, I looked at my clothes and tried to smooth my uncontrollable hair. ‘Were my shoes also too large for my feet? Would my sister notice them?’ And with cast -down spirits I approached her, but sat somewhat behind half hiding myself. But she, apparently not noticing my feet, said: ‘Where is my curly girl? I missed her,’ and this with such a smile that I forgot all my defects and went straight up to her. My hair, as usual, was hanging over my eyes in dishevelled^[4] locks, and my sister remarked with a humourous nod: ‘I know it of old. Come, let me tie it at the back.’ Then turning to my brother, she said: ‘How are they getting on, Bhasker? Are they giving you a great deal of trouble?’

Bhasker looked at us with a smile. ‘They are all right now, but I had a great many disputes to settle at one time. Boys seldom like girls.’

‘But she wanted to do exactly like us,’ said one of my brothers impetuously in self-defence.^[5]

‘And am I not as good as a boy? I can do as many sums as they,’ I said as I came out hastily, afraid of losing ground, ‘and I can read and write too.’

‘Bravo!’ said my new brother, looking at me with a laugh; and all laughed together. Somehow I felt that the laugh was against me, and I turned my head away. But my sister drew me to her and said: ‘Never mind. Tell me what you would like to have.’

‘I only wanted to learn with them, and now they are going to have a teacher. Must I not go and learn too?’

My sister and her husband look at me curiously and smiled, but this smile was different. ‘Yes,’ said my sister, ‘learn as much as you like. I only wish you had some girls for companions. I am afraid the boys are rough, and tease you a great deal.’

‘No, they don’t,’ I said. Something prompted me to say that. They were my only companions, and I knew that they loved me  in spite of their occasional rough and boisterous behaviour towards me. For what meant those looks of fright, those voices exclaiming in agony and fear: ‘Stand still, stand still,’  when I was attempting to descend a precipitous and dangerous place, the willing hands were outstretched to bring me safely down, and the looks of joy and relief that beamed in their faces when I reached a place of safety? Whey did they show such concern whenever I was absent from them for some time? What meant their rough and ready sympathy that would make them say: ‘Why do you cry? Don’t cry’, in a blunt off-hand way, whilst they would at the same time wipe the tears from my eyes and shake me to make me laugh. All these little things came before me in a moment, and I said in a distressed tone: ‘I don’t want girl friends. These are better.’

Something in my look made my sister laugh and say: ‘Now! Now! Don’t look like that. You are not going to have girls. There is no chance of these boys leaving you,’ and then turning, she said to Bhasker: ‘She is a strange girl, is she not?’

It was at a gather of native Christians that I first met my two friends, Prema and Harni. The party was at Prema’s father’s house. The largest room was nicely carpeted; chairs were put in; and on the table at the side were arranged a few good books, the family album being one of them. My brother Bhasker and all our friends were there. The musicians with drum, vina,  and fiddle, were squatted on the floor in the centre, and our only Christian poet was their leader. The music was at first soft and plaintive, falling in gentle cadence though somewhat monotonous, and one did not mind the gesticulation of the performers or the jarring sounds proceeding at intervals from the native drum. Some of the guests seemed to be pleasantly engaged in a low conversation, while others looked on with apparent indifference. The mothers and wives sat in a semicircle, and were busy passing to each other the betel leaf tray . A few young men stood in the windows or walked about. Some of them wore native clothes, some English, and some a mixture of both. Our old friend, the pastor, an important personage, sat in the semicircle among the older guests. He was a very shrewd person, and had a perfect acquaintance with the world. He was fond of giving advice with a patronizing air, and when anything went wrong he was ever ready with his ‘Didn’t I say so?’ Prima’s father, the host, a hearty old man, kept bustling about looking to the comforts of others. He was simple and kind and innocent as  a child. One of the guests who was made much of was a middle-aged man who had lately come to reside in our midst. He kept looking minutely and good humouredly all around. A great deal of attention was shown to him, and he took it all with great complacency as if it were his right. There was, besides, the intellectual-looking Baboo Rao with a keen thin face. He was a great wit and delighted in puns. In a jovial party his presence was invaluable. Conspicuous in the company was Harni’s father with his broad, smiling face. He was as slippery as an eel, so that one could not bind him or catch him in any of his words. He waved his hands and welcomed everyone heartily. ‘Come along! come along,’ he said, ‘we were just waiting for you. Nothing could go on without you.’ He used to imitate Baboo Rao in his punning, but somehow or other he always failed ridiculously. Harni was near him, flashing her long, half-veiled glances, sitting prominently in front, and laughing when her father laughed. I remember that when I saw her first I thought there was something artificial and untrue about her. Her father teased me as usual and would not leave me alone. And at last made me go with Harni. She took me inside with a studied sweeping grace, and gave me into the hands of another tall girl who was serving out tea, bread, and jelly. ‘Here is aunty’s^[6] sister,’ she said, ‘I have brought her for tea,’ and went back. She had a prominent seat near her father next to the semicircle of men and did not like to give it up. She seemed to take great interest in the conversation that was going on. Prema, the girl with whom I was left, was busy at the tea table and took no notice of outsiders. She was sweet and simple-looking, and asked me about my mother, and gave me tea and cake and told me to come often. I could not eat anything, but I kept looking at her. There was kindness in her face, and I said that I would come if she would let me sit with her in the room. She laughed and said, ‘But I don’t sit here always. I must go out now. My work is done. Come, we will go.’ So saying she led me out. There was a stir in the room, and everybody was anxious to give her a chair, but she quietly took her seat at the other end of the room.

There was another person present, a sage or a seer, whom I should not fail to mention. His face was stamped with humility, meekness, and modesty. He was sitting behind, conversing with some people near him, amongst whom was my brother. He was full of wisdom, a giant among Christians, who led a life of unblemished purity;  and yet his manner with those with whom he talked was that of a learner. Young and old alike found in him a kind friend and a sympathizer. A halo of love was round him, and one could not approach him without feeling oneself in the presence of a good man.

Tea followed. The conversation became general. Baboo Rao punned freely. Our pastor cracked jokes. Harni’s father laughed. The women put in a word now and then, especially if an explanation of an old saying or some subject that came within their special province was discussed. The young ladies were asked to sing, and after a little preliminary fuss some English songs were sung and the meeting came to a close.

I often visited Prema and Harni with my mother. I was very shy at first, but my mother made me feel more at home with them, and insisted on my seeing more of girls. Prema and Harni both took a liking to me, though I was much younger than they. Both were the only daughters of their parents. They were educated with care and were thought much of in their different mission circles. I used to visit the mission churches alternately with my mother, and was honoured with a nod from them in church. They regarded me as a younger sister, and let me hold their hand and stand by them while they chatted with others after the service. They would also draw the attention of others to me, and now and then would whisper something in my ear. Prema, my first friend, to whom I have only made a cursory reference, was tall, and had a peculiar sweetness of face and manner. She was not a beauty; yet the curved upper lip and slightly open mouth gave her a look of sweet simplicity. This, with soft deep eyes and a smile that one never forgot, made up a very interesting face. She talked English as her mother tongue, for she went to a European school. She was fond of telling me of her school, where the teachers wore a train and belt and a flower, and where she expected soon to be a teacher; for she was in the highest class. ‘Young ladies wear long trains and not short skirts,’ she explained with an air of importance for my special benefit, ‘and then they are taken into society.’ Her words were all enigmas to me, but I liked to hear her talk, and was proud to be taken notice of by a tall, clever girl like her. One day she told me as a great secret that her ma had given her a novel, but that Pa did not know anything of it, and that she knew a great deal of the world now. (She always spoke of her parents as Ma and Pa).

‘And what is a novel?’ I said, afraid to show my ignorance and yet wanting to know what it was.

‘A novel! a book, you know, but you must not read one. Little girls should not read novels. It is different with me,’ she said proudly.

‘And am I to keep this a secret then?’ said I, with an indifferent idea of what a secret was, and wishing to possess one.

‘Yes! never tell anyone,’ she said, smiling and giving me a shake.

Like many a novel-reading girl she lived in a world of her own making and enjoyed it. She knew that the native Christian community was very small, and that there was no society to speak of, neither long skirts nor short skirts. Her mother wore a aree^[7].  But she attended an English school, and her thoughts were influenced by those with whom she mixed. And who knows what the rising Christian community may not aspire to in the future? Nothing is so startling in these days as the unconscious imitation of English customs and manners by the people of India. The fault, if indeed it can be called a fault, is characteristic not only of native Christians, but of Hindus as well. It is not because the manners and customs are English that they are unconsciously imitated, but because they are looked upon as necessary concomitants of a higher stage of civilization. Probably the change is inevitable, and it is useless to try to prevent it, but I sincerely hope that my countrywomen, and for the matter of that, my countrymen also, in their eagerness to adopt the new will not give the good that is in the old.

But, to return to my tale, my other friend Harni had a peculiar grace, was tall and fair, with black, half-veiled eyes which wore a sleepy look. She was decidedly a beauty, but she often gave me a chill, so cold and emotionless she seemed. Yet now and then a flash of fire revealed itself from under those sleepy eyelids. Harni was an only daughter, and was much petted by her parents. Her mother, a stout and burly peasant woman, scarcely able to read or write, expressed aloud her admiration for the beauty of her daughter. She gave utterance to her thoughts in the form of instruction to her daughter about the manner she should dress and walk. ‘Do go and wear better shoes Harni; these may suit others more hardy,’ she would say, with a look at me which I did not enjoy, ‘but not you. Your delicate feet gleam pitiably from them.’ And as Harni walked in with a self-conscious smile, her mother  would exclaim quite loudly, ‘Oh, my God, what beauty, if the girl would only take better care of herself!’ Harni was never to be seen doing anything vulgar. She never went near the cooking place. It would have been shocking. Smoke would never do for those pretty eyes, and gardening would spoil her hands completely. She was made only to gather flowers, not to work. How she would beautify a grand palace! She would be a real queen with handmaids. That used to be the sum and substance of her mother’s talk. All the while I was content to think that smoke did not try my eyes, and that my little garden under the plantain trees was my delight. Surely, I thought, there must be something innately superior in her; and yet why did others speak slightingly of her family? She had a great deal to tell me of the great men that visited their house, and how one actually came in a carriage and stayed in a hotel. This was a Baboo, who was ever so rich and wore a ring with a large diamond which sparkled so brilliantly. Then, with a feigned shy smile, she added: ‘I won’t tell you what mother said about him,’ and no coaxing of mine could ever make her tell me what it was. Once she broke out abruptly: ‘Your sister was pretty and thought much of; she had ever so many offers of marriage even when people knew she did not want to marry,’ and when I opened my eyes wide with wonder she added: ‘Your mother—did she not tell you that? Some of her suitors were great people that came from other parts of India. But my mother says that your sister never knew how to dress well, and that I look better in my dress and jewels, though of course everybody says that your sister was clever and beautiful. People also say that I will soon be very like her.’

‘You like my sister?’ I said at last, shocked and surprised beyond measure. ‘How dare you say that? Nobody can be or ever will be like my sister.’ I felt a great inclination to cry and run away. She, however, treated me coolly, and laughed at my words. Yet how was it, that though I did not feel quite comfortable in her society, I used to go to her house whenever my mother went? There was a certain inexplicable attraction about this consciously beautiful girl. She also went to a grand English school. That was another inducement for me to go to see her. I used to make her tell me what she learned there, so that I might ask my brother to teach me the same. I did not care for the dresses which she showed me with so much pride. I felt that I could not be comfortable in such, and that I would be very much worried thinking of all the trifling  details connected with them. After my visits to this friend’s house I always felt that there was no place like my dear home—my home with its sweet simplicity and where everything was natural.

Just about this time, as nearly as I can remember, Prema’s father brought a visitor to our house. Prema’s father was a great favourite with us. He was a hearty old man with a humorous twinkle in his eye, a broad face, and great broad shoulders. He was fond of entertaining visitors and giving feats, and knew ow to make everybody laugh. He used to come straight upstairs, call us by our names in one long string, take a seat and ask for a cup of tea as if he were in his own house. His coming was the signal for us all to rush out to see him Even my brother Bhasker was tempted to come out from his study, and in his grave manner laughed at the remarks of the good old man. This day he brought a visitor and introduced him in the following words to my mother: ‘Here is a new native Christian who has come to live with us, Radhabai, and he has lots of money.’ While he said this his hand went unconsciously to his pocket and a twinkle came into his eye, and we laughed, for we knew the old man’s fondness for money. ‘He has more money than he knows what to do with,’ the old man continued. ‘He has English Manners, but that does not matter^[8] Nowadays all young scamps run after what is English. He wants to settle down here. Now this is just what we want—some nice rich people who will be one with us, not those stuck-up England-returned creatures with little brains and affected manners who will have nothing to do with us, poor old-fashioned folks.’ We glanced at the stranger, a dark-looking young man, dressed tightly in English clothes, very self-confident, and with an air of swagger which showed that he thought himself somebody. They had come to invite us to a novel kind of party,—a bunder boat trip on the sea, which the stranger had arranged. My mother said that she never went anywhere, but turning to Prema’s father, who was making fun with my little brother, she said: ‘When you go you can call over and take these children. Prema is fond of my girl.’

‘Yes! yes!’ said the old man, ‘let them come by all means,’ and then to us: ‘Bring long, long pockets. There will be nice things to eat.’

The next day there was great confusion in the boat. The young people sat outside the square room where the elderly people were seated. There were benches and seats all round, and Prema’s  mother, an invalid, reclined on a chair in the corner. Great consideration was shown to her, for she laid pretension to refinement. The others were all seated down, the young ladies on low folding chairs specially brought in for them. The newcomer discussed the English way of doing things, gave general instructions as to how everything should be done, and paid flattering compliments all round to the girls, of whom there were three or four besides Prema and Harni. The girls were charmed with him, I could see; and he held a binocular in his hand which was a great attraction. He kept adjusting it for them. Harni laughed her best and looked her best with her father by her side, but one could see that it was Prema’s family that held precedence. Prema herself unpacked the cakes and took the keenest interest in everything. Most of the other young men imitated the newcomer in dress and even in style of talk. My brother Bhasker was not there, and I felt ill at ease and out of place. How different if would have been had he been there! He had so many interesting things to say, and could excite an interest so different from the silly talk and laughter that were the order of the day. I felt the want of my brother. I look at the green islands sleeping in the sea, the tall palm trees that stood beckoning from the opposite shore, and the hills in the distance, and longed to be away in my little home. This day led to many similar parties, but I seldom went except when pressed by Prema. On these occasions the newcomer, who was now firmly established among us, would be seen sitting on the deck, talking grandly of his experiences to young girls who listened to him with rapt attention. One tall simple girl with a little fondness for English ways was always seen near him. This was Prema, and many disapproved of her behaviour. I used with surprise to watch her listening to him, anticipating his wants and doing little odds and ends for him with a shy smile. She would then come nearer to hear him talk. Others would gather also, but none looked so soft on the stranger as Prema, and I wondered why.

The next time I saw Prema in the church, there was a dreamy look in her eyes and she seemed sadly absent. She made a mistake in starting the tune—she who used to take such pride in this part of the service; and the eyes of all were upon her. When the service was over she took me to the trees and we walked on the grass-plot. We were silent, strangely silent. Prema only held me by the hand,  but she was looking far away. ‘Prema! What is it?’ I said at last, half afraid to disturb her.

She turned round with a sweet, full smile and said ‘A great deal,’ and with a sigh, ‘Oh, I cannot tell you. Were you in the bunder boat yesterday in the storm?’

‘No, I never go now. Was there a storm?’ How was it that she did not notice absence, I thought.

‘Yes! and the big boat was tossed up and down like a feather.’

‘Oh, how dreadful!’

‘No! it was not dreadful. I liked it. I did not feel afraid.’

‘But why?’

‘Because, because, oh, I cannot tell you why. In the storm Mr — was very near me and he asked me if I would like to go over the seas with him if they were ever so rough. I said I did not mind rough seas, and he took my hand in his hand^[9] wanted to know why . I told him because he would be there, and then, oh, nothing. It is funny to have a great big grown-up friend, is it not?’

‘Yes,’ I said hastily, ‘but you must not go overseas.’

‘Don’t be foolish. Who is going?’ said Prema, hiding her face for a moment. ‘What a goose you are! You are getting jealous of my having another friend,’ and she laughed heartily at the idea, and took me to my mother who had a caressing way of asking how she was. Prema’s eyes suddenly filled with tears as she tried to say with a smile that she was wel.

When I saw Prema again she seemed to have the air of one who held some secret as an exclusive treasure, and was supremely content. She told me that she had left the school, and, in a girlish whisper, added that she was to be engaged. It was in our balcony that she said this, and the hurried whisper that followed left me strangely confused.

‘And what was that you said?’ I asked.

‘Oh, you don’t know. You must not know. It is only girls of my age that know what it is. When a man offers his hand in marriage, the young lady accepts it. Then she is engaged and a ring is put on her finger.’

‘And shall I be engaged too?’ I said.

‘Oh! not all girls are engaged. When they are young ladies, you know, like me. They must be fifteen and you are only twelve.’

Some months passed. My happiness seemed to grow everyday till I thought there was nobody so happy as I in the world. I was  my brother’s confidant now. When making his plans for the future he did not leave me out. He told me about his studies, how soon they would be over, about his professor and principal who loved him and treated him as a brother and friend, and about the long hours that they had together. He took me to his college, to meetings, to public places. Our last visit was to Convocation. How well I remember my brother proudly walking by my side and leading me through the crowd to the reserved seats. I was the only native lady present. I was somewhat frightened when people put up their glasses, and the Europeans next to us stared at me, but my brother placed himself by me and instructed me as to the degrees that were being conferred. ‘Those are the B.A.s. Won’t you be proud when I take my degree? I shall soon be among them, and you must be the first lady to distinguish yourself. I will teach you. Don’t you be afraid.’

But a day came which I shall never forget. A heavy blow fell upon us. I have asked myself over and over again why God afflicted me just when my happiness was so complete, but I have never been able to find an answer.

It was on a Friday that I was sitting on the floor in a corner of the hall, reading my lessons for the evening, with my parrot’s cage beside me. The house was silent. The servant woman was cowdunging^[10] the chool^[11]  and humming to herself. My mother was away visiting. The street cries were grating on my ear, when all of a sudden a buggy stopped at a door—a very unusual thing. I stooped forward to see who it was, and what was my surprise to see my brother Bhasker and my second elder brother getting down! Why was Bhasker so weak, and why did his step falter for a moment, while my older brother waited to see him down? It was soon evident that something was seriously wrong, for the odd and unmovable brother came hurriedly up and drew the long armchair forward, and Bhasker followed him calm, grave, yet with apparent difficulty, up the stairs and sat in the chair. My head swam when I saw him spit up blood. ‘O God avert it,’ I exclaimed in agony. But there was no time to be lost. There was not a word whispered. Pen and paper were placed hastily before him, and he wrote for the doctor. My tongue had cloven to my mouth and my voice had almost gone. With great difficulty I whispered: ‘Get mother.’ My brother gave a nod, and when the letter was put into his hands, ‘What else?’ he burst out, ‘What else?’ ‘Get any doctor,’ I said, ‘and  keep the buggy. Bhasker sat straight in the chair, but was silent and calm except for a husky cough at intervals. My mother came in a minute, and the doctor also came rushing up. I was in the other room, and a painful moment of suspense followed, during which my brothers stood round me, looking at each other, hushed and speechless. I was frightened and peeped in. The doctor, a genial, pleasant-faced man, beckoned to me. He asked me if I knew English. I nodded. I couldn’t talk; I almost choked. Looking at me he said: ‘Don’t be frightened. Come here. You will be a good little nurse, won’t you? Your brother is very ill. Don’t let anybody come in. Give him this medicine every half-hour,’ and he poured out the required quantity. ‘I will come again, plenty of ice. Now take care, and make no noise,’ and after a whispered talk with Bhasker he went away. M brother looked in my face, drew me near him and stroked my cheek. The very act seemed to unloose something that seemed tightly bound up in my breast, a deep sob was followed by many loud sobs and a great flood of tears. Bhasker’s face flushed up as he whispered, ‘God’s will be done.’ His lips twitched, but his hand lay lightly on my head. I was somewhat relieved after a time. My work was to attend on Bhasker night and day; my whole heart was in it. I could not leave him for a moment; nothing was left undone. I prepared his congee myself. In my spare moments I went to the corner of the balcony, and prayed to God to make my brother well.