The Mercy of the Lord Part 29

"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 impa.s.sive, 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 pa.s.sed 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 pet.i.tioned 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 pa.s.sed 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, pa.s.sed 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!" a.s.sented 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 a.s.set 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-n.o.bbing 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 Kali stood beside this lake with steps leading down to the water; but n.o.body 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 G.o.ddess 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!