7

It was midnight. A soft, subdued light filled the room. The wind moaned and rustled through the creepered window with a strange wail, the only sound that disturbed the calm which prevailed. The moonbeams kissed the twinkling leaves and fitfully glanced into the room. Several figures were seen moving about, but all were hushed and speechless; their eyes seemed to be watching one object, their looks pointed to one thing, and that was to the pale, thin, wasted figure of a young man lying silent and still. A soft slumber held his eyes, but over his face shadows were passing, and cold perspiration gathered on his brow. The lips softly smiled and murmured. Many were the silent tears wrung by anguish from the eyes of those around. They were hastily wiped. ‘Hush! he sleeps,’ was whispered in the ear of a newcomer by a gliding figure, while an old lady with gray hair was seen sitting on the floor, her head leaning on the bed. Another figure was near the window looking out, gazing fixedly with the vacant gaze of hopelessness and despair. One awful thought was present in each mind, and each was making an effort to hide it. One alone was seen near the bed who seemed not to comprehend the situation. It was a young girl who now gazed intently on the sufferer, and now eagerly scanned the faces around. Suddenly the sick and moved, the figure of the gliding lady bent lower and lower. ‘Better, Bhasker? Better?’  came the anxious inquiring words.

‘Yes! better,’ said he and smiled. ‘Don’t be anxious, I shall soon be better.’ He made an effort to rise, but sank back wearily. The girl near him caught the word ‘better’ in a half-dazed manner and grasped his hand eagerly crying, ‘Better! better! soon you will be better.’

‘Hush,’ said he with finger raised, ‘I saw my father in my dream. He told me of the wondrous land to which I am going. I may not be with you long.’

‘Say not so,’ the girl desperately cried. All heads bent low over him. ‘You are better, better,’ they said, and grasped his hand in their own, as if to clutch at life’s great stream and keep it back with their grasp. He smiled at their eagerness and heaved a sigh.

Hush! what was that? The sick main raised himself, and pointed to the door. His gesture was intently watched, and all eyes were directed towards the door. Then followed five or ten minutes of restless watching. What was he expecting? ‘See, he is coming.’ ‘Who is it Bhasker?’ but before he could answer, the figure of a tall English gentleman glided in. One could see from his emaciated face that his life had been one of self-renunciation, for the thin, spare form and the deep lines on the forehead bore the stamp of hard continuous labour, and yet in spite of the faded look there was a certain beaming brightness—a glow which suggested that he had walked with God. Who was he? Why had he come to the bedside of the sick man at that hour of the night? An expression of relief and joy came into the sick man’s face and into the faces of all at the sight of the visitor. They greeted him lovingly and joyfully, though he scarcely stopped to acknowledge their thanks. His place was near the bed. There he offered a prayer and pronounced a benediction. His presence diffused an inexpressible calm and peace. ‘Something told me you needed me, my boy, so I have come,’ said he, in answer to the sick man’s grateful look and murmured thanks. ‘Did you expect me? The blessing of Christ rest upon you. His peace dwell with you.’

He picked up his stick, and with a press of the hand and a last caress this strange being passed out. An angel’s presence could not have diffused a greater calm that did his. Who was he? He was one of those of whom the world is not worthy: a holy man, a ministering servant, an angel of mercy. His life was devoted to the service of God and man. Wherever there was distress and sorrow, he came unasked, uninvited, the sick man’s comfort, the widow’s stay, the orphan’s refuge. Praise from our lips for such a one is presumption.

I was the one who sat at Bhasker’s head wiping the death dews that gathered on his brow, and murmuring ‘better’,^[1] ‘better’ to my sinking heart. After another short slumber he looked refreshed and joyous, but his words went piercing to my heart. ‘You must not sorrow, you must not cry,’ said he, turning to our mother. ‘We are all pilgrims. I am going before, and you will follow me.’ Mother’s head sank on his arm in utter despair, while I looked into his face that looked so bright, so lovely. I fixed my eyes on his and demanded my answer. ‘You are better, are you not?’ He smiled faintly and pointed upwards, but the tears trickled from his eyes as he looked round and silently gazed into the face of each one present. The whole thing seemed to me a dream, in that solemn, midnight hour. My sister was by his side. I heard her words. ‘Bhasker, you are going home. Give my love to Papa, to Dora, to Sundra, and all those that have gone before.’ I saw him nod his head, and then there was silence. He asked for his brothers, and they came round. The youngest he held tightly in his hand, and the others bowed their heads. ‘Be real torch-bearers.^[2] Be good, my brothers, and we shall meet again.’ The young, hardy forms were moved. They started as he uttered the words. Then they fell back. Bhasker’s hand sought mine. He pressed it. The contact sent a thrill through me. I felt shaken as if by a mighty force. Is it then all true? Is it my turn now? Is he taking leave of me? I was convulsed. ‘Bhasker! Bhasker! you must not die. You cannot die. I must come with you.’

‘Hush,’ he said; but I held him tightly round the neck. Something seemed to be slipping away. Darkness came over me, and I knew not where I was. When I awoke, the cry rang in my ears: ‘Lift her up quietly. It is all over. He is dead.’

Soon I realised the extent of my loss, and I can hardly describe the sorrow and misery that took possession of me. My life had been bound up with that of Bhasker, but the tie was now severed and life appeared a blank. It seemed as if the gap in our little home could never be filled up; we felt helpless and alone, and the world seemed drear and dark with no one to lead and guide. For months after Bhasker’s death we used to gather round our old mother in the dusk of evening and feel that we had none other left but she. She would fold us round in her arms and say: ‘Yes! God, God alone is left now.’ But somehow I failed to understand God’s ways, and for a long time my grief was intense, almost rebellious. I often cried in anguish, ‘Why, O God? Why did you take my brother away?’ For a year and more my life seemed to hold out no hope, and the days did but linger on, as it were. After some time, however, I began to have deep longings to be able to do something, but like a rudderless boat I was driven by every wind and found not my way. I made mistakes and flung myself on God, always with the cry: ‘Oh! why was my brother taken away from me?’ Now and then I took vigorously to study, and I thought I would please Bhasker by doing just as he liked; but I missed my brother’s guiding hand, and soon came to a sudden stop. Then I felt afresh the blank and the void which his death had created. I longed for some object in life, something that I could lay hold of, that I could put all my heart and soul into. Was there no work for me, now that my brother was no more? Where were all those golden dreams of usefulness in which I had lived—dreams in which I pictured myself helping my brother, catching the fire of his enthusiasm, uplifted by his example and his encouraging words, treading the path of life with the consciousness of work accomplished? Where were they all? My brother lay cold in his grave, and in my mad grief I fell upon it and appealed to it in vain. My mother took me out to see people. I used to sit with girls and boys of my own age, and while astonished at their mirth, their small talk, their delight in little things, I almost wished I could be like them, unconcerned with the realities of life, and unconscious of the emptiness of all. Gradually I began to change. My grief was not so boisterous. I glided into a visionary kind of state. I summoned my brother in my imagination and enjoyed long talks with him. Were they real? Yes, they were quite real to me. I told him all that I felt, and got answers that spoke comfort and joy to my soul in a wonderful way. I saw him in the stars, in the moon’s faint ray. Often I heard him calling to me, and I rushed out in the dusk and sat in an ecstasy of delight, thinking that he was watching and caring for his sister just as he used to do of old. I was braced by the thought, and every day received more strength and comfort. Did God really send him to me in those quiet still hours? Why did his soul speak to my soul? If not, who was it that told me that life is not to be what we want it to be, but what God chooses for us, that it is sin to rebel against God’s will, to cripple one’s existence and squander one’s time by giving in to mad grief, whilst there is work to be done in this world. This view of things did not dawn on me all of a sudden, but was revealed gradually. In a mysterious way I became convinced that Bhasker, in heaven, realised that high and holy existence which in this sin-stained world his souls was vainly longing for and aspiring to attain, and that he enjoyed that peace and blessedness unutterable, of which he had often spoken, and which come from perfect obedience to the will of God. Even to this day, in times of trouble and perplexity, the consciousness of the presence of my departed brother exercises and influence so soothing, so marvellous that I forget my trouble, or find a way out of my difficulties.

My sister paid a visit to the city, not long after Bhasker’s death. She noticed my retired ways and my peculiar moods and took me to her home. One day as I was sitting in the hall, puzzling my head over some books that I found in the study, two ladies were announced, and before I had time to run away, they were in the hall. The first grasped my sister’s hand in hers and gave her a hearty kiss. Her appearance at once attracted my notice. She seemed fresh-coloured, tall, as she looked with a good-humoured smile at me over sister’s shoulder. There was a twinkle in her eye, as if she wished everyone to be a partaker of her high spirits. She was certainly strikingly different from other ladies, I thought, and I listened with great attention to what she had to say. She spoke of her success in her visits in high-flown words, and asked for some more introductions to my sister’s zenanas. Then she turned round towards me, and, catching hold of both of my hands, put question after question to me in such a way that I could not but answer. She had large light brown eyes, a fine, full long face, a nose rather blunt, and a broad, high forehead. I liked her. Presently she turned towards my sister and talked aside for a few minutes while her companion smiled to me and drew me towards her. But before we could talk much the other turned towards me, and said: ‘So that’s settled; you are to come next month and stay with me. You will learn to your heart’s content there, but mind, you are to be very free with me and tell me everything. I mean to quarrel with you very often. Ah! you critical thing. Don’t I know what you are thinking?’ and with a warm, but rather rough hug and a brushing kiss she left me. My sister said I must go and stay with the two ladies for some time. I liked the idea and made up my mind to go. The first thing that I was told on going to Miss Roberts—for that was the name of the lady who took charge of me—was that I was a little girl; that in England girls of fourteen and fifteen were considered mere chits, and that I was to lay aside all solemnity of manner and behave as a girl. When it came to the lessons I was asked what I was learning.

I said: ‘History, Geography, etc.’

‘What in History?’

‘I have finished Landmarks of the History of Greece, and am reading…’

‘Greece! Greece! What have you to do with Greece?’ I had loved this little book. It was like a story-book, and I thought that she would have been pleased, but she only murmured: ‘Well! I will see. I must get something more suited to you. What about English? Can you read fluently?’

Longfellow’s poems were put into my hand. The volumes opened at ‘Pleasant it was when woods were green.’^[3] I read this fast enough.

‘Too fast.’

‘Oh I know it by heart,’ I exclaimed, anxious to show my cleverness. I shut the book and repeated the whole thing to her. I had once learnt it in a fit of study, and it had given me much pleasure.

‘Well! I tell you what,’ she said, shutting the book, ‘you know a little too much. When a horse goes too fast, what does his master do?’

I did not know what he did, but I thought the comparison was not a good one, and I exclaimed abruptly: ‘I am not a horse.’

‘Well! well!’ she said laughing, ‘we won’t discuss that pint. I think you want occupation. You must teach in my little school this afternoon. Now we have done with our lessons for one day.’

To my great surprise she shut up the books and put them by. When dinner time came I saw the other lady for the first time. She gave me a smile and pointed to my place by her side, but Miss Roberts never left me alone. She began by saying to her neighbor: ‘Girls in England never sit at the table with their elders, but of course we shall allow this one.’ In my sister’s house I had learnt to some extent how to use spoon and fork, but when I found the lady’s eyes fixed on me my fingers trembled, and I thought I was sure to make all kinds of mistakes to her amusement. Already her eyes were twinkling with fun and laughter. I refused many a tempting thing that was offered, while she kept on remarking: ‘That’s right, don’t eat if you don’t care. Girls in England don’t eat these things.’ At last came curry and rice, of which I took a little, and enjoyed it.

The other lady had been long resident in India. She shook her head and said that I was a growing girl and must eat. ‘Oh, give her some gruel,’ said Miss Roberts. After this I had always some gruel or congee made in various ways both morning and evening. The butler had orders to place mine next to my plate on the breakfast table, and in the evening to serve it in my room, but the utmost I could do was to swallow a few spoonfuls. My brothers, however, used to come often, and they generally brought something from mother.

My stay with the ladies raised me much in the estimation of my brothers. They paid visits to me regularly, and my little brother, the youngest of the family, became much endeared to me. He told me he missed me at home, and brought little trifles for me, leaving them in my room without my knowledge. The ladies encouraged him to stay a long time, for they were fond of the shy little fellow, and called him the little gentleman of the house. During the day the school was my delight. This Miss Roberts managed. She instructed me in the art of teaching, in which I found a great delight. I was astonished at the explanations which I was able to give, and the way in which a knowledge of things seemed to spring into existence when it was required. I was in a whirl of delight with the blackboards, the large maps and the pictures, and the new dignity that all these conferred on me. Miss Roberts smiled at my eagerness, and forgot to say that I was only a child. I loved to think myself grown-up and important. Miss Roberts used to quarrel with me as impetuously and passionately as if she had been of my own age, and then make it up by giving me a hearty hug and a kiss. She had very peculiar views, and we often had little fights with each other. I can hardly help thinking that she sometimes gave expression to her views for the sole purpose of teasing me. ‘Oh, Miss D, what made you receive the Bible-woman in the drawing room?’ she said one day, alluding to a very respectable person, a great friend of our family. ‘In England we receive them in the kitchen. She is no better than a servant, I assure you.’^[4]

‘In the kitchen?’ I said, in amazement and indignation. I was angry, and thought of many grievances that I had heard spoken of. I had also heard that we were the real aristocrats of our country, and that the English ladies who came to India only belonged to the middle class, and I resolved to tell her than, so I boldly added: ‘What do you think of us? We are the real aristocrats of this place.’ Unfortunately, I pronounced the big word wrongly, and she burst out laughing and repeated it again and again, as I had done. ‘I don’t care. Anyhow, you are middle-class people. She is a Brahmin, and only takes money from the Mission because she is poor. She is no servant. In your country you are no Brahmins. You are Sudras.’ Tears fell from my eyes, and I felt as if I should choke.

‘Miss D!’ exclaimed the angry lady, now quite beside herself, ‘do girls ever talk at table like this? I protest against this. I can’t have it. I tell you I can’t,’—this with so much emphasis that I was quite frightened. Miss D looked at me and shook her head. The tears were rolling from my eyes I hastily wiped. ‘What can I do?’ I said, while a shower of words, such as ‘rude’, ‘bad’, ‘naughty’, ‘disrespectful’, etc., fell on my head. Tiffin over, Miss Roberts when with a bounce to her room and I went to mine and began to cry. ‘Natives,’ I said to myself, ‘we are natives. Tomorrow she will say that my mother was a Bible-woman too. Oh! I will go away from her,’ and I began to cry more. About five minutes afterwards the door behind me opened, and Miss Roberts rushed in, took hold of me, and kissed me profusely. ‘Now it is all right,’ she said, smiling and wonderfully changed. ‘We won’t talk about it.’

‘And you won’t send Bible-women to the kitchen?’ I said. She shook her head and rushed away from me laughing.

In the evening we generally sat together in the lobby. It was our free time, and I was told to say anything I liked. I used to sit far back on the deep seat with my hands on my lap, although there was a table in front. I liked to draw my own pictures, with the stars and shadows outside, and often my thoughts were with Bhasker; but I was always disturbed and told to talk. Generally the ladies had some fancy work in their hands; but I never brought any. One day Miss Roberts rebuked me and said: ‘Why did you not bring some work?’

I felt guilty, but still as I rose I said somehow: ‘I thought we were expected to be free at this time.’

‘Yes, but we must not appear so. I hate laziness.’

Something in this remark caught my attention. I stood near the table and looked out. All my pictures vanished. I looked into her face and said: ‘It is only for appearance, is it? What is the good of that? Won’t it be acting falsely?’

She flew into a passion, and when I tried to escape to my room, she forced me down. ‘Falsely! sit and be lazy,’ she said, ‘and let every one of us put you to shame.’

The second lady, however, calmed her, saying: ‘Really I don’t do anything. I had better sit quietly too.’

‘Sit, sit,’ said Miss Roberts; who had by this time nearly spent her wrath and was in a little pet.

The other lady had on various occasions whispered to me: ‘She is Irish and means nothing,’^[5] and now she looked and smiled at me.

My greatest trails always came through my tongue. I had got into the habit of thinking loudly. Bhasker had encouraged it, and the discussions carried on by my other brothers, in which I often took part, had made me quite an adept in defending my views. I had had to stand up for my rights from my childhood. I had not then learnt the beauty of silence. One day, I was sitting in the lobby in my usual half sleepy, half dreamy state, when I heard a visitor announced. As soon as Miss Roberts heard the name, she broke out abruptly: ‘Oh, how disgusting! What a bore she is! and she wants me, that is true enough.’ So saying she walked out, and an elderly lady met her near the lobby.

‘Oh! I am so glad to see you. How do you do?’ Miss Roberts said in a hearty tone as she brought in the visitor. Surely this is somebody else, and I am glad that it is a surprise for Miss Roberts, I said to myself. The talk evidently was cheerful and genial but as soon as it was over, I was rather taken aback to hear Miss Roberts say: ‘Oh, what a bore to be sure! How glad I am she is gone! We must really not have visitors at this time.’

‘She! she!’ I said, ‘Was not she a surprise to you?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Miss Roberts, turning abruptly round on me.

‘No! I thought the lady was a surprise to you. You said you were so glad to see her.’

‘Oh! oh!’ she said, lifting her voice and her hands.

‘Mass^[6] D! I tell you I can’t have this imper—’

‘You said free speech was allowed here,’ I answered, interrupting her.

‘Free speech, but not to your superiors, not to me,’ this with a thump on the table. ‘You naughty girl.’

But it was a little overdone, and there was a burst from the other lady in which Miss Roberts found herself joining heartily.

Later on I came to know that they did not mean anything. It was only the custom, and they used the few set phrases that etiquette compelled them to use. But my readers will understand from this what a bore I was. I loved these two ladies and stayed with them for months, and in spite of little quarrels now and then, I lived very happily with them. Not long after I was attacked with fever, and my sister was compelled to take me away.

When I returned home, I was so ill that I could do nothing. I felt, however, a sweet happiness, a sense of security and safety in my mother’s company. I had been all along vaguely longing for this. There was no fear of anybody misunderstanding me now, and I enjoyed the perfect rest and quiet to my heart’s content. It is true that at first the little narrow home seemed cramped and small after the large spacious one where I had lived for nearly a year, and some of the household duties appeared as drudgery. I had in a way enjoyed the refined surroundings, the pleasant occupation, the conversations and company of the life that I had just left behind. There is a subtle pleasure in having one’s powers drawn out and in the consciousness of the thought that in some respects one is in no way inferior to others, but there seemed to be an artificiality in the life which I had shared to which, brought up as I was in almost primitive simplicity, I never became quite reconciled. Something seemed wanting, and what it was I failed to comprehend. I missed the charm and satisfaction of doing little things with my own hands. But now that I was back in my home I seemed to have perfect rest. I enjoyed the simplicity, the isolation, and the freedom from restraint to my heart’s content. I could here learn, talk, and do anything as I pleased, and in my joy I pulled off my shoes and stockings, and put my hand to all kinds of work. I enjoyed immensely, and I took a special delight in chatting with country peasants who came to our door to sell butter, milk, vegetables and other things. Hearty and cheering were the voices of the peasants, bawling out: ‘Take ghee, take curd.’ The breath of their homes seemed to linger round them, and I could not help being carried in imagination over the dividing sea to the breezy moorland hut and to the hardy toiler’s field. The thrashing of corn was in my ears, the voices of men and children mingled with the bleating sheep and the lowing of cows, while the scented hayrack, yellowing in the sun, arose round the rude sheepfolds which were scattered here and there over the newly mown fields. Oh! those hardy peasants, what an anomaly they are in a town! and they feel it. I often questioned them about their homes. There was many a sigh and many a backward look, as each one dwelt on the corn stowed away, the house full of children, and the cows and bullocks tied in the yard. ‘It is two years. Come for stomach and money. Land is mortgaged,’ the weary longing fellow would say, ‘but in Divali I shall go back,’ and a smile would overspread his big brawny countenance. My dear old mother was astonished at me. ‘I thought you would be a great lady,’ she said once, ‘and despise your little home after you stay with the ladies.’

‘O mother, nothing can ever come up to my home’,^[7] I would say, and my brothers would add: ‘She is a strange girl, mother.’

‘Yes, the simplest kitchari satisfies her, and if she has her worm-eaten books she will never tire of home,’ my mother would add with a smile.

I never became tired of home, but the habit of morbidly reflecting and analysing grew upon me. In my ill and depressed moments, especially, it became very strong. A few incidents had happened during my stay with the ladies which cast a gloom among us. Two of our greatest friends had suffered unaccountably. They were old people, who had once been full of life and spirit. Generosity had marked their actions, and everyone who came in contact with them felt the charm that a good and happy old age exercises on the young. Their grey heads were now bowed in sorrow, and they showed a bitterness of spirit which contrasted painfully with their previous cheerfulness and geniality. There was the dear old man, our yearly visitor, whose house in the suburbs was ever thrown open to all Christians. There we as children had always received a hearty reception. His wife had been our nurse, our second mother, and his visits had been always welcome, for he generally brought all sorts of things for us, and when he went back he took one of us with him. He was childless, and his old wife and he doted on us. His was the new year’s gift of flowers to me, choice jessamines that he had procured on his way to our city home, which he laid with trembling fingers in my hair, while my brothers laughed at me and said that the new year was sitting on my head. But now what had come over him? Broken down and decrepit he had trudged the weary way and was pouring his sorrows into my mother’s ear. He had trusted a friend, trusted him with his money, and that friend had betrayed him. Worst of all, there was no deed, no writing of any kind to prove anything. They were like brothers once, but now the one went abroad as a respected man, a good man, while the other was foolish in his sorrow, his grey head bowed low, and his eyes full of tears. It was the old story—the shrewd, the money-loving, the mercenary thriving, while the simple and the good suffered. The sweet satisfying glamour with which childhood surrounds every object was torn, as it were, forcibly from my eyes, and life with all its stern realities was revealed to me. I was conscious of defects on all sides. The very love and regard which each man shows for the other seemed an endless mockery, a sham. To my morbid, overexcited mind it seemed that each was trying to get the better of the other, regarding with a jealous discontent the success of some which ought to be the triumph, the pride of the united community. Brotherly feeling, pride in the bettering of others, the homage and reverence due to elders and superiors,—all these seemed to have vanished. People toiled and laboured no doubt, but for what? For a petty triumph over someone who held his head high. For that the midnight oil was consumed, for that sleepless nights were spent, for that the features wore that triumphant look. ‘See! see! how he walks! What pride! What conceit! What a fine thing it would be to pull him down!’ Nothing true and noble remained. At Harni’s, as I walked through the rooms, the ornaments and various treasures sent a chill through me. Everything was counted over and over again; gain and loss seemed to occupy all attention; money, beauty, accomplishments all were thrown into the market as it were, and I seemed to take part in the farce. Full of thoughts such as these I felt utterly depressed.

Poor Prema, fresh and innocent, was no more. Like the flower of the field she had bloomed awhile and had passed away. It seemed as if the world’s load of misery had been too great for her to bear. Was it that she had cast her all on that momentary hapless love, or was it merely that she had lifted her head, taken a sudden sweeping glance at all round, and shuddering at the sight, the meanness and falseness, closed her eyes for ever on the world? She was taken away for a change and she never returned. For me, she, lily-like, reflected only the purity of the world. She had thought no guile. In her ye the world was fair, unblemished as her own soul. She had loved with her whole soul, but her love had not been returned. For me, however, she seems still to live. Sometimes in dreams I see her all smiling and happy, emerging from an old turret or tower where she had hidden herself, a triumphant smile on her face, and with these words on her lips: ‘Did I not say he would come? There he is.’ At other times I discover her, my long-lost Prema, in a mountain cave, and I hear her say: ‘Oh I am so happy. Don’t take me out. You come and stay with me. I don’t care for the world.’ ‘Oh you are hiding somewhere. I know you would be found,’ will come from my delighted lips. But away false, delusive dreams. She is no more, and the world is not the better for it. I saw Prema’s old sorrow-stricken father immediately after her death, and a wave of grief passed over me. A great longing to see once more the hills and the valleys, the rocks and the bubbling brooks took possession of me, and I fell asleep every night with a picture of the hills before me and with the forest’s roar in my ears.

About this time my second eldest brother, who had no settled mode of life, came to see us. He gave a vivid description of his wild life, and proposed to carry us all away bodily to his semi-barbarous home. I was delighted. People said that this brother was no good, and that he would never do anything in the world. Our pastor especially was very hard upon him. He always thrust him before us as a ‘ne’er do well’.^[8]  Nevertheless, I envied his log hut and his life in the jungle. ‘Come away,’ he said to my mother, whose pet he was, ‘let us see if we cannot make them all strong;’ and so we went first in a steamer and then in carts with our wild brother, who was of a very domineering character, exacting all sorts of duties from us, and making us adhere to old-fashioned rules of conduct. For instance, he would insist on our calling him tatya (a master) instead of by his own name, it being considered disrespectful to call an elder brother by his name. I discovered, however, that my nature was not altogether foreign to his. I had his love of a wild life and his clinging to natural scenes, though I could not, like him, despise books and learning. We found his home perched on a hilly slope and full of curiosities. It was a wild place, having the combined charm of the sea and the hills, and my morbid sadness left me altogether. Life seemed full and complete among simple folks and amid glorious scenes, and here I realized in actuality what I had before been able only to summon up in my imagination. Our elder brother looked after his timber contracts, and in the evening invariably gave us a row on the sea. Ah! it was lovely to visit the old Angria fortress and the abodes of the sea pirates, sometimes right in the sea in ruins, and sometimes perched on rocks, their buttresses and towers rising solemnly through a world of water. My brothers would often leave me on the solitary rocks, and go to these places for game, and come round and take me back. We met curious characters in these places, and our love of adventure led us into many scrapes. Often we lost our way, and when on one occasion pressed by hunger we invaded a hut we met with a shower of abuses from an old crone, almost blind, who came out and threatened us with a big stick. However, a young girl, a rustic nymph with commanding features, a graceful carriage, and a child on her hip, enlightened the cross old dame as to who we were, and when we said: ‘So hungry, anything you have give,’ she grinned and brought some very hot chillies and coarse cakes made of nachani,—grain the name of which signifies dancing. It really is a most indigestible stuff, and is said to give a dancing fit of indigestion to those who are not accustomed to it. It was the damsel after all that showed us the way, and gave us a good round scolding for losing it.

On another occasion I was sitting on a rock reading a book with the waves heaving round me. I took an occasional glance at the boys who had gone for a row. The simple fishermen mending their nets were within call, and were ready to do anything for me, and if ever I felt proud it was then. A princess could not have been happier than I was. Just then, however, I saw somebody approach from a distance. Soon the figure of a tall Englishman dressed in flannels came prominently in view. Surely an Englishman is the last person one would expect to meet here, I thought to myself. My self-complacency left me, and I felt anything but proud and comfortable. I looked around and found that the waves had nearly hemmed me round, so that I was in a sort of an island. Already the sight had attracted the fishermen’s attention, and they were all looking towards me. I was rather inquisitive at first to see how the stranger managed to get over the rocks, but I refrained from looking toward his direction, keeping my eyes deep in my book, though my ears were strained to catch every sound. Suddenly I heard steps approach, and I knew the stranger must be standing on a ledge of rock opposite. He made a sound as if clearing his throat, and took to dropping stones in the water. One huge stone fell with a crash, and I looked up with as natural an air as possible and took him in at a glance, and then kept looking far away as if not the least concerned. My brothers’ boat gleamed in and out of the ruins in front.

‘Is that a book that you are reading?’ he asked.

‘Yes,” I said, without turning my head.

‘By Jove! you look as if you saw Englishmen all your life long in these wilds.’

‘I have not seen Englishmen here, but I have seen English gentlemen elsewhere.’

‘Ha! ha! ha! what do you know of gentlemen as you say?’

‘You look a gentleman, but you talk before you are introduced, and you don’t know when you are not wanted. There is the whole beach before you, but I suppose I must excuse you, being in the wilds as you say.’

‘Yes’,^[9] he said interrupting me and looking very crestfallen, ‘I saw on your lap a book, and thought I should have some intelligent conversation. Excuse me if I am disturbing.’

‘Not at all,’ I said, ‘I shall be going soon,’ but I did not tell him how.

‘What book is that you are reading?’

‘Spenser’s Faery Queen.’

I saw him raise his eyebrows, and, turning to him, I said, ‘Have you read it?’

‘You are very clever to understand it. An English girl twice your age would not understand it.’

‘I don’t know what you mean by understanding. I guess the meaning. I am not at all clever, though I want to be clever.’

The boat was approaching, and I was quite courageous and did not mind a rough wave that nearly dashed at my feet. I was not quite surrounded with water, and had just a little bit of ground to stand upon. The Englishman, I know, was looking at me very highly amused.

‘How are you to get to land?’ he said, ‘unless you can swim’,^[10] and when he saw a huge wave that was threatening to sweep me off my feet, he again gave utterance to his favourite ‘by Jove’.^[11]

‘There is my boat’,^[12] I said with pride. The boat had suddenly turned the corner of one of the ruins and came abruptly into view. It did not take a minute before a fisherman jumped into the water, steadied the boat as I bounded in, and gave it a push away from the rock. The Englishman, I could see, was taken quite by surprise. He instinctively took off his hat while we all waved our handkerchiefs triumphantly as we went rolling along.

It was delightful climbing cliffs and looking out on the sea dotted with white sails and majestic steamers. It was delightful also to watch the long belt of dark surging water coming inland with a sweep and separating us from the rugged hills on the other side. I was fairly braced up both in mind and body by the rough life in this grand place, and we were sorry to leave the jungle abode and part with our brother who had given us so much pleasure and had himself taken such delight in our amusement. He fired his last shot in our honour, as he said, and wished us success in our studies, and with something like a glistening tear in his eye, said: ‘You won’t forget your rough brother here. Come often, bring all your books, and you will be welcome, though it is only to a hut.’ I told him if he did not mind I would come and live forever with him after I had finished learning. We left him to count his logs of wood, make out accounts, and settle disputes with his hearty peasant round him, who would have laid down their lives for him.

When we returned home there was a great deal of excitement about an institution which had just then been formed for the purpose of giving a superior education to young native Christian girls.^[13] A number of ladies had charge of the institution, and the pupils, who lived with them, had the privilege of receiving a high-class English education. The arrangements seemed perfect, and many an up-country family long lost to view paid a visit to the city, bringing with them their grown-up daughters. I saw these young girls at meetings and in church, and learned that each had some definite work in view for which she was receiving a training. This was a great incentive for me to join them. I was longing to be able to do some definite work, but at times it seemed as if I could never bear being in a school. I had been brought up so much along with boys and had become very reserved. What I shrank most from, however, was my being in a place where I would become public property, as it were, and be watched by girls of my own age, laughed at, and freely criticised by all. Oh, how shall I go through all the orders and regulations? Will they leave me alone quite to myself? Is there no easier way of attaining what I want? Such thoughts were often in my mind, and I spent much time in self-communings of this kind. Yet I envied the girls their dependence on some responsible person, their being cared for and guided and trained for some definite work. I succeeded, however, in conquering my scruples.