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Tara: A Mahratta Tale

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Title: Tara: A Mahratta Tale

Author: Meadows Taylor


        
Release date: April 18, 2014 [eBook #45430]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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TARA: A MAHRATTA TALE




_EXTRACTS FROM SOME PRESS NOTICES OF "TARA."_


THE "TIMES."

"For its rapid action, in fact, we have seldom read a better story, or
one which is more full of incidents, sanguinary, trenchant, and robust."


THE "DAILY TELEGRAPH."

"A true and a wonderfully well-sustained piece of Oriental life and
striking history."


THE "SPECTATOR."

"This is a very remarkable book. It is a determined attempt to bring
the interior Hindoo and Mussulman life of a great Mahratta province
during the most exciting times home to the hearts and understandings
of Englishmen, to interest them in people with whom they have nothing
except human nature in common."


"MORNING POST."

"'Tara' is a unique work. There is nothing like it in the English
literature of fiction. No other writer has ever attempted the portrayal
of Indian life, society, and interests, entirely free from any European
admixture of character or incident. The author himself now does so
for the first time. 'The Confessions of a Thug' related to British
jurisdiction in India. 'Tippoo Sultan' dealt with the gallant struggles
of that monarch against the encroaching British power, but 'Tara' is
all Indian."


"SATURDAY REVIEW."

"It is seldom that we meet with a work of fiction executed with
anything like the conscientious care and minute elaboration of Captain
Meadows Taylor's Indian Tale. His characters have mostly the clearness
and individuality of portraits, and his scenery exhibits all the marked
and decisive features of photographs taken on the spot. The work
throughout is evidently that of a master of Oriental life and character
in love with his subject, to whom nothing appears trivial or beneath
notice that can illustrate the peculiar traits of Asiatic nature, or
kindle an enthusiasm for knowing more of the history, manners, and
usages of our fellow-subjects in the east."


THE "STANDARD."

"In no one part of the work has Captain Taylor shown more thorough art
than in those pages in which he details the features of the Hindoo
and Mahomedan family life. He never overloads; his characters are not
lay figures attired in triple folds of gorgeous robes to hide their
nakedness. With a few subtle touches he shows us the interior life of
each household, and the morning springs of every character, and he
leaves us to fill in the obvious details for ourselves."


COLONEL MEADOWS TAYLOR'S INDIAN TALES.

Each complete in 1 volume, Crown 8vo. Illustrated, price 6s.

  THE CONFESSIONS OF A THUG.
  RALPH DARNELL.
  TARA.
  TIPPOO SULTAUN.


LONDON: C. KEEGAN PAUL & CO.




[Illustration: "Now listen, all ye Brahmuns; I am true and pure, and I
am Sutee henceforth."
P. 461.]




  TARA
  _A MAHRATTA TALE_

  BY
  MEADOWS TAYLOR,
  C.S.I., M.R.A.S., M.R.I.A., ETC., ETC.,
  AUTHOR OF "SEETA," "CONFESSIONS OF A THUG," ETC., ETC.

  THIRD EDITION

  LONDON:
  C. KEGAN PAUL & CO., 1, PATERNOSTER SQUARE.
  1879.




(_The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved._)




  To
  HIS EXCELLENCY
  THE EARL OF CARLISLE, K. G.,
  VICEROY OF IRELAND,
  ETC. ETC. ETC.

MY LORD,

THE SCENES AND CHARACTERS WHICH I HAVE ENDEAVOURED TO DEPICT IN THESE
VOLUMES WILL BE NECESSARILY NEW AND STRANGE TO YOU; BUT IF THEY
EXCITE INTEREST IN THE NATIVE ANNALS OF A COUNTRY OF WHICH I FIND BUT
LITTLE REAL KNOWLEDGE EXISTING, THE OBJECT OF THE WORK WILL HAVE BEEN
ATTAINED; WHILE, BY THE KIND COURTESY WHICH PERMITS ME TO DEDICATE IT
TO YOU, YOUR EXCELLENCY CONFERS UPON ME A VERY SINCERE GRATIFICATION.

  I HAVE THE HONOUR TO BE,
  YOUR LORDSHIP'S VERY FAITHFUL SERVANT,
  MEADOWS TAYLOR.

  OLD COURT,
  HAROLD'S CROSS, NEAR DUBLIN,
  _August, 1863_.




PROLOGUE.


In the year 1839, I became acquainted with the late Professor Wilson;
and in course of conversation on the possibility of illustrating events
in Indian history by works of fiction, the details of the present
story, among other subjects, were slightly sketched out by me. He was
interested in them, and suggested my writing the tale for "Blackwood's
Magazine." I could not, however, then commence it, and deferred doing
so till my return to India; but, falling into political and civil
employment there, was never able to continue what I had begun, till my
return home.

The history of the period of this tale, A.D. 1657, will be found at
length in Scott's "Ferishta," and vol. i. of Grant Duff's "History of
the Mahrattas;" and to these works I beg to refer such of my readers as
may be curious in regard to its particulars, of which a slight sketch
may not, perhaps, be altogether out of place.

In A.D. 1347, a great portion of the Dekhan was consolidated into a
kingdom by Sultan Alla-oo-deen, who founded the Bahmuni dynasty. It
was divided into three great provinces, Dowlatabad, Beejapoor, and
Golconda, which, on the decay of the royal house, became separate
kingdoms under their several viceroys, who successively declared
their independence. Of these, Beejapoor was the largest, and became
by far the most important and powerful. Yoosuf Adil Shah, a Turk of
European descent, believed, indeed, to have been the son of a Sultan of
Constantinople, threw off his allegiance to the Bahmuni dynasty in A.D.
1489, and established himself at Beejapoor, which afterwards rose to be
the greatest, as it was the most magnificent, city of the Dekhan.

The prosperity of the Dekhan kingdoms excited the jealousy of the
Moghul Emperors of Dehli, and their subjugation was projected by
the Emperor Akbur; but it had made little progress at his death in
A.D. 1605. In the reign of his grandson Shah Jehán, the State of
Ahmednugger, or Dowlatabad, was finally subdued about 1630, and the
Moghul power so far established in the Dekhan. His son, Aurungzeeb,
pursued the reduction of the two remaining kingdoms, Beejapoor and
Golconda, with varying success, but untiring pertinacity; and, before
his death in 1707, they had succumbed to him. Beejapoor fell on the
15th October, 1686; Golconda in September, 1687.

Amidst the struggles of the Mahomedans, the predatory power of the
Mahratta people arose under Sivaji, and assumed a more definite form
than it had ever before possessed; and, as the author of the Mahratta
History observes, "stirred those latent embers till, like the parched
grass kindled amidst the forests of the Syhadree mountains, they burst
forth in spreading flame, and men afar wondered at the conflagration."

Of the many remarkable and romantic events connected with the rise of
the Mahratta power, those which form the subject of the present tale
are, of all, the most cherished by the people; and they are recited,
or sung in ballads, with an interest which time does not diminish, and
which has exalted the national hero, Sivaji Rajah, to the distinction
almost of a demigod.

At the period of the tale, 1657, though the political foundations of
Beejapoor were shaking, nothing had affected its material prosperity;
and the palaces, mosques, mausoleums, and other public buildings of the
capital, were in their greatest magnificence. The city itself, except
its vast fortifications, which are still perfect, has now, for the most
part, disappeared; and long lines of shapeless mounds, covering an
immense area, mark where its streets existed. In some quarters there
are villages, widely separated, which once formed part of the general
masses of habitations; and there are everywhere remains of mosques,
tombs, and palaces, which convey a true estimate of the wealth of
those for whom they were constructed, and the taste and skill of the
architects.

The citadel is still perfect as to walls, towers, and ditch, and is a
very complete and picturesque specimen of Puthán fortification. The
royal palaces situated in it, are, however, roofless, much ruined,
and advancing to destruction; and the gardens and terraces, with their
fountains, are covered by brushwood and tangled creepers. It is a
happy thing, however, that the liberality of the Indian Government has
arrested decay, wherever practicable, and that all the most beautiful
buildings have been restored, while repairs continue to be made as
needful.

The buildings so restored are--

  The Mausoleum of Ibrahim Adil Shah, called the Ibrahim Roza;
  The Mausoleum of Mahmood Adil Shah;
  The Méhturi Mahal;
  The Jumma Mosque;
  The Assar Shureef;
  The Royal Well, with its cloisters; and some others.

Of the above, the Assar Shureef is one of the ancient royal palaces,
which contains some sacred relics; and, being in the actual condition
in which it was left, is perhaps the most interesting of all.

By orders of Government also, drawings from actual measurement were
made a few years ago by a clever civil engineer and architect, of all
the principal buildings. These are now in the India Library in London;
and, to any one curious on the subject, will give a far better idea of
the superb Saracenic architecture of the Adil Shahy dynasty, than any
description. Mahomedan architecture in India is always beautiful; but
there is a combination of grandeur and grace about that of Beejapoor
which is not approached elsewhere, and a beauty of ornament and
execution nowhere exceeded. The Jumma Mosque, with its side aisles, was
constructed for the accommodation of eight thousand persons at prayer;
and the superb dome of the Mausoleum of Sultan Mahmood Adil Shah, built
of hewn stone, is the largest in its outward diameter in the world.

With these noble remains, the country around them, and its population
of all classes, I have been familiar for many years past; and such
descriptions of scenery and character as may be found in these volumes,
are the result of personal knowledge. The actors in my story are Hindus
and Mahomedans; but the same passions and affections exist among them
as among ourselves, and thus the motives and deeds of my characters
may, at least, be intelligible. I can only hope they may prove of
interest.

It was very strange, twenty-five years ago, to observe the remarkable
interval of exactly one hundred years, between the attack of Sivaji on
the Beejapoor Mahomedans in 1657, and the victory of Lord Clive over
those of Bengal at Plassey in 1757. Both results led directly to the
establishment of powers widely differing in their aims and characters,
but not the less irresistible by the Mahomedans; and the victory at
Pertâbgurh was as directly conducive to the establishment and extension
of the Mahratta authority, and the decadence of the Mahomedan, as
that of Plassey has been to our own sovereignty, and to the political
extinction of both. But this curious accordance of dates becomes
still more interesting, when we observe that, on the anniversary of
a third century, June, 1857, the heads of Mahomedan and Mahratta
power were leagued against that which had subdued both; and know that
their combined efforts however desperate, and their intrigues however
virulent, proved alike futile.




TARA: A MAHRATTA TALE.


CHAPTER I.


"Tara, O Tara! where art thou?"

"Mother, I am here. Is it time?"

"Yes; we should go with the offerings to the temple. Come, thy father
hath long been gone, and it will be broad day ere we can reach it.
Come," said her mother, entering a small open verandah which skirted
the inner court of the house, where the girl sat reading by the light
of a lamp, now paling before the dawn which was fast spreading over the
sky.

She shut her book with a reverential gesture, laid it aside in its
quilted cover, and stood up. How beautiful she was! Let us describe
this Brahmun girl to you, O reader! if we can, and tell you a little
concerning her.

There were many fair women of her sect in Tooljapoor, and they are
always the most remarkable of their country-women, but none so fair as
Tara, the daughter of Vyas Shastree.[1] From her earliest childhood
she had given promise of grace and beauty, and since that period--from
the time when, hanging shyly to the skirt of her mother's garment, she
passed daily through the crowded bazaar and street which led to the
upper gate of the temple--to the present, she had ever been an object
of remark and admiration; while the rank and learning of her father,
and his position as chief priest, had maintained for her a continued
and increasing interest as she grew up. None who had the privilege of
addressing her ever omitted a loving greeting or respectful salutation:
the public flower-sellers intrusted her with their choicest garlands
or nosegays to offer up at the shrine--the confectioners had ever a
delicate sweetmeat with which to tempt the child--and even the rudest
peasant or soldier looked at her, as she passed him, in wonder,
stretched out his hands to her, and kissed the tips of his fingers in a
worshipful salutation and benediction.

The promise of the child was more than fulfilled in the girl now
budding into early womanhood; and her appearance was so remarkable
that, while many of her old friends in the bazaar now rarely ventured
to accost her, and even turned aside their heads reverently as she
passed, she could not traverse the crowded street which led from her
house to the temple, or, indeed, move anywhere during the day without
attracting admiration from the crowds of strangers who, from all
parts of India, visited that renowned shrine of which her father was
the chief priest and manager. Many a pilgrim and worshipper gazed
wonderingly upon the calm, gentle face which met him at the earliest
dawn in its devotional perambulation round the temple, or followed
with his eye the graceful figure which, carrying the daily sacrificial
offerings, descended the flights of steps by which the shrine was
approached; and, far away in his native village, under the snows of
Himalaya, the burning sands of Raméshwur, or the green plains of
Bengal, told of the beautiful vision, and never forgot it.

Tara has been up since before the false dawn. She has assisted her
father with water to bathe, and in his private worship of the household
gods. She has bathed herself, and is now dressed in the simple saree,
or robe of all Hindu females. It is of dark blue silk, striped with
a fainter blue, and has a broad border of a light but rich pattern
harmonizing with the colours of the garment which, consisting of one
long piece only, is wound round her several times to form a skirt, then
passed about her body and over her head on the left side, whence the
end, which is of rich gold tissue interwoven with crimson flowers and
green leaves, hangs heavily over her right shoulder and back. Below the
garment is a closely-fitting bodice of striped orange silk only; but
no portion of it is visible except a little of the sleeve above the
elbow. Tara is holding the border of her dress close to her cheek, as
if to conceal it even from her mother; and the graceful outline of her
arm may be followed, from the tips of the taper fingers past the wrist
partly covered with purple bangles and a massive gold ring, along the
soft round arm to the dimpled elbow, whence it is lost among the folds
of the saree which falls over it.

Do you expect that her complexion will be fair like that of our own
northern girls? Ah, no! that would not harmonize with the dress or the
country; and yet it is very fair. Not a deep rich olive, but what seems
at a first glance pale and colourless; yet the skin is so glossy and
transparent that the warm glow of her blood is suffused under it with
the least passing emotion or excitement, which, as it fades, leaves, as
you think, a more beautiful tint behind.

And the features harmonized with the colour. To a casual observer their
expression was almost one of habitual sadness, yet it was not so in
reality: there was calm, which as yet had known no rude ruffling--a
sweetness that was index to a simple, loving, trustful mind. True, she
had cares beyond those of ordinary household occurrences, and these had
no doubt increased the pensive expression always remarkable. So her
countenance was not easy to describe: nor could you account very well
for the patient, care-enduring look which met you from one so young.
What every one saw first, were the soft brown eyes, shaded with long
eyelashes which rested upon the cheek. Ordinarily perhaps, or if seen
when cast down, these eyes appeared nowise remarkable; yet if passing
emotions were noticed, they closed when she was merry, till only a
bright spark of light remained glistening through the long lashes; and
again, if surprise, wonder, or admiration were excited, they suddenly
expanded, so that one looked into a depth of clear glowing colour,
violet and brown, the expression of which could not be fathomed. But
habitually they were modest, pensive, and gentle--full of intelligence,
and seemed to correspond with a low musical cadence of voice perfectly
natural, yet assisted, perhaps, by the habit of reading and studying
aloud, which she had learned from her father. In those calm eyes there
was as yet no passion of any kind. Some suffering, perhaps, but no
rough awakening to the reality of life.

The rest of her face left nothing to be desired. The Brahmuns of
Western India usually possess features more European in their character
than those of the same sect in other parts of the country, and in this
respect the women share them with the men, if they do not, indeed,
exceed them. So Tara had a soft oval face, with small full lips and
mouth, a thin straight nose with nostrils almost transparent, which
seemed to obey the passing emotions of her countenance. Though the
features were soft, they were neither insipid nor weak in character; on
the contrary, they appeared full of a woman's best strength--endurance
and patience; while, in the full glossy chin and throat, enough of
determination was expressed to show firmness and consistency of no
common order. Except the eyes, perhaps, there was no feature of the
face which could be called exactly beautiful, yet the whole combined to
create an expression which was irresistibly interesting and charming;
and where all harmonized, separate portions were not remarked.

Every movement of her lithe form was displayed by the soft silk drapery
which fell over it in those graceful folds which we see expressed in
ancient statues, and it was cast in those full yet delicately rounded
proportions which sculptors have best loved to imitate. Standing as she
was, the girl had fallen into an attitude which was most expressive:
her head raised and turned to meet her mother's entrance: a delicate
naked foot, with a chain anklet of gold resting on it, put out from
beneath her robe: her eyes open, yet not to their full width: and her
lips apart, disclosing the even glistening teeth:--she appeared, in her
arrested movement, as if she waited some further communication from her
mother, or had herself one to make before she stirred.

No wonder that, as each morning she left the house with her mother to
pay her devotions at the temple, and passed along with downcast eyes,
her graceful figure attracted increased attention day by day. Many a
good wish followed her--many a benediction from the aged poor of the
town, to whom her charities were liberally dispensed; and it might be,
too, that other admiration, less pure in its character, also rested
upon her, and often, unknown to her, dogged her steps.

The contrast between Tara and her mother was in most respects a
striking one. No one could deny that Anunda Bye was a handsome woman;
her neighbours and gossips told her so, and she quite believed it.
She looked, too, very young of her age; and as she sailed down or up
the street leading to the temple, and received the humble salutations
of shopkeepers, flower-sellers, and all the tradesmen of that busy
quarter, with an air which plainly showed how much she considered
it due to her rank and station--it would have been difficult to say
whether the timid girl following her, and screening her face from the
gaze of the people as she moved along, was her daughter or youngest
sister. Either she might be, and it seemed more probable the latter,
than the former.

Taller than her daughter as yet, Anunda Bye was not without much of the
same grace of figure; but it was cast on a bolder scale. The features
were more decided and prominent, the colour several shades darker.
The face, handsome as it was, had little of the softening element
of intellectuality in it; and Anunda was ignorant of everything but
household management, in which she excelled, in all departments, to
a degree that made her the envy of her female acquaintance, and her
husband the envied of his male associates whose domestic affairs were
not conducted with the same regularity, and whose cookery was not so
good.

Enter the Shastree's house at any time, and you were at once struck
with its great neatness. The floor was always plastered with liquid
clay by the women-servants when he was absent at the temple for
morning worship, and retained a cool freshness while it dried, and,
indeed, during the day. It was generally decorated by pretty designs
in white and red chalk powder dropped between the finger and thumb,
in the execution of which both mother and daughter were very expert
and accomplished. The Shastree's seat, which was, in fact, a small
raised dais at one side of the large room, was usually decked with
flowers, while upon the floor before it, the greatest artistic skill
was expended in ornament by Tara and her mother. Above it were
pictures of favourite divinities, painted in distemper colour: the
amorous blue-throated Krishna playing to the damsels of Muttra; the
solemn four-armed Ganésha, sitting with a grave elephant's head on
his shoulders; the beautiful Lakshmee and Suruswuti, the goddesses
of wealth and learning, the objects of household adoration: and the
terrible six-armed Bhowani in her contest with the demon Mahéshwur,
in commemoration of which the temple had been erected--all surrounded
by wreaths of flowers interwoven with delicate border patterns;--had
been partly executed by the Shastree himself, and partly by Tara, who
followed his tastes and accomplishments after a pretty fashion. Thus
decorated, the dais had a cheerful effect in the room: and choice and
intimate friends only were admitted to the privilege of sitting upon it.

The house itself was perhaps in no degree remarkable. Outside, facing
the street, was a high wall, with a large door within a projecting
porch or archway, which had a seat on either hand as you entered. The
door-frame was richly carved, and on each side a horse's head projected
from the upper corner. Above the door, in a space left for the purpose,
was written in red Sanscrit letters, "Sree Martund Prussunn," "The holy
Martund protects;" and Martund was one of the appellations of Siva.
This legend was surrounded by wreaths of flowers in the same colour;
and across the whole was a garland of mango leaves now withered, which
had hung there since the last festival.

As you entered the court, the principal room was before you, on the
basement of the house, which you ascended by three steps. It was a wide
open verandah, extending the width of the court, supported upon seven
wooden pillars, also richly carved, on which crossed square capitals
were fixed, and from these, beams were laid to form the roof. This
verandah was double; the inner portion being raised a step above the
other to form a dais, and at each end of the inner portion were two
small rooms in the corners, one of which was the Shastree's library.
The whole of these verandahs could be shut in closely by heavy curtains
of quilted cotton, neatly ornamented by devices of birds and flowers,
which hung between the pillars; but usually all was open, or closed
only by transparent blinds of split cane suspended outside.

Having a northern aspect, this room was always cool, and was the
ordinary resort of the Shastree. Here he received his friends and
neighbours, held disputations, and instructed his pupils. The women
seldom entered it except in the evenings when undisturbed; for, though
unsecluded from men, a certain degree of reserve and retirement is
always observable in the women of Hindu families. There was no ornament
about the main apartment except the Shastree's dais, and the borders
painted about the niches and architraves of the doors; but it was kept
a pure white, and was scrupulously clean.

In the centre of the back wall of the inner verandah was a door which
opened into a second court, round which was a verandah also open, and,
leading from it on three sides, sleeping chambers and a bath-room. In
this verandah there was nothing but a few spinning-wheels and their
low stools; for Anunda Bye had no idea of allowing women-servants to
be idle, and when they were not working otherwise, they were spinning
cotton yarn for their own clothes. Anunda herself had her wheel, and
Tara hers, and sometimes they spun yarn fine enough for the Shastree's
waist-cloths.

On the fourth side of the court was the kitchen, and, passing by it, a
door led into a third court, more private, though not so large as the
second. In the centre of it was an altar painted in distemper, on which
grew a bush of toolsee or sweet basil, grateful to the gods; and in the
verandah, another altar, similar in form, on which burned the sacred
fire never extinguished. Close to it was the door of the private temple
of the house, which contained the household gods of the family. Here it
was that Tara best loved to sit when her share of domestic affairs was
completed. Here she tended the sacred fire, and offered worship, such
as a woman could perform, in the temple. She had a small garden in one
corner of the court, which contained a few jessamine bushes, marigolds,
and other common flowers, which she cultivated for offerings to the
household gods in the daily worship. Here she could study undisturbed,
and did so with all her heart--here, too, it was that her mother found
her.

There was no decoration about the house, except, as we have already
mentioned, border patterns and quaintly designed birds and flowers upon
the walls. Furniture, such as we need, was unknown. A small cotton or
woollen carpet laid down here and there, with a heavy cotton pillow
covered with white calico, sufficed for sitting or reclining; and as
the goddess Bhowani, in her incarnation at Tooljapoor, does not choose,
as is believed, that any one in the town should lie upon a bed except
herself, a cotton mattress on the floor, or a cool mat, sufficed for
sleeping.

The house, therefore, would have appeared bare in any of my readers'
eyes; but it was neat and pleasant to look at: and one can imagine,
though decorated in a higher style of art, the Roman houses at Pompeii
to have been similar in most respects of plan and domestic arrangement.

There was no evidence of wealth, yet the Shastree was a prosperous
man; and could you have seen Anunda Bye's stores of copper and
brass utensils--large vessels for boiling vast quantities of rice on
festivals and household ceremonies--her brass lamps and candelabra,
her silver plates for eating from, and silver drinking vessels;--could
you have seen the contents of her private room, in which were sundry
large chests, full of sarees, or women's garments, of great value;
some heir-looms, woven with gold and silver thread, each having its
peculiar history; the shawls which belonged to her husband, the gifts
of princes and nobles, tributes to his learning, of which she was very
proud;--could you have seen, too, the strong box that lay hidden among
the clothes in the largest chest, full of family jewels and ornaments,
among which were two necklaces of fine pearls, massive gold ornaments
for ankles and wrists, for neck and ears;--could you have seen all
these, and the heavy gold cinctures round Anunda's and Tara's trim
waists, and their massive gold bracelets and anklets,--you would have
been envious, my dear reader, of considerable wealth in this particular.

Otherwise, indeed, the Shastree was a man of substance. Being an only
son, with no other sharers, at his father's death, he had inherited
a considerable property. He had himself earned, by his scholarly
abilities, a small estate in a neighbouring province, the rent of which
was punctually paid, and was improving, for he was a good landlord.
He derived a handsome income from the temple service, and from the
offerings made to him as head of the establishment. He farmed some
land, too, near the town, on the bank of the small river Bóree, and
had an excellent garden near the village of Sindphul, in the plain
below the hills, the daily supply of vegetables from which was very
profitable from the large and constant consumption in the town.
Finally, as one of the most learned Sanscrit scholars of the Dekhan,
his instruction was held in deserved repute, and his classes were
attended by young Brahmuns from all parts of the country, from whom he
received fees according to their means.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] For explanation of Oriental words, see Glossary.




CHAPTER II.


In many respects Vyas Shastree was a remarkable man, and, very
deservedly, he was held in great respect throughout the country. No one
could look on him without being conscious of his extreme good breeding
and intellectuality. Well made, there was no appearance of great
strength, though in the town gymnasium, as a youth, he had held his
own among the wrestlers, and had even been famous as a sword-player.
Those were troubled times, when a knowledge of weapons was needed by
all men, and even peaceful merchants and priests did not neglect the
use of them; but, as he grew older, the Shastree had laid aside these
exercises, and spare, strong, muscular arms were perhaps the only
evidence of them that remained. Certainly the head and face were fine.
The forehead was high and broad, slightly wrinkled now, and furrowed
by parallel lines. The head was shaved, except the lock behind, and
its intellectual organs were prominent. The eyebrows, strongly marked,
but not bushy, projected boldly over expressive eyes of a deep steel
grey, which were very bright and clear, and a prominent nose of Roman
character, which corresponded with a well-shaped mouth and chin.
Certainly it was a handsome face--pale, sallow perhaps in colour,
yet healthy, and which occasionally assumed a noble and even haughty
expression; but, ordinarily, it was good-humoured: and evidently
elevated and purified in character by intellectual pursuits.

The Shastree was a man of note, as we have said, as to learning and
accomplishments. He was a profound Sanscrit scholar; and in law,
grammar, and logic, with the deep metaphysics of the Védas, and their
commentators, he had few superiors. With mathematics and astronomy
to calculate eclipses and positions of planets, he had sufficient
acquaintance to assist an old friend, who was infirm, in the
arrangement of the "Tooljapoor Almanac," a task by no means easy, as
it included calculation of the eclipses of the year, and astrological
tables. Of the popular Poorans he had less knowledge, or perhaps did
not believe them; and, as many do now in these later days, held more to
the ancient Vedantic theism than to the modern idolatry of the Pooranic
worship. The Shastree, as a devout Brahmun, had made pilgrimages, being
accompanied by his wife; and in disputations at Benares, Nuddea in
Bengal, and Gya--as well as at Madura and Conjevaram, in the south of
India--had gained credit, if not renown.

In lighter accomplishments, too, such as music, he had a fair amount of
knowledge, and sang sweetly the various Rāgs, Droopuds, and other
measures of the classic styles. He considered, perhaps, ordinary songs
below notice; yet when he relaxed, and was prevailed upon to sing some
of the plaintive ballads of his own Mahratta country, to his own Vina
accompaniment, or any of his own compositions, the effect was very
charming. Tara had been carefully taught by him, and the neighbours
often listened to her sweet voice in the morning and evening hymns, and
chants of the service, in the little temple of the house. Yet with all
this wealth, which he shared liberally with the poor--all this worldly
good and honour--Vyas Shastree had two great cares which pressed upon
him heavily, and were shared by his wife. The first was that he had
no son; the second, that his beautiful daughter was already a virgin
widow. And these were heavy griefs.

Anunda Bye had borne him two sons and a daughter, of which Tara was
the first-born. The others had followed, and had died successively
when giving promise of healthy childhood. In vain had the parents
made pilgrimages to the shrines in the Dekhan after the death of the
last son, and to Benares also, to propitiate Siva in his holiest of
temples, and had from time to time remitted propitiatory gifts to his
shrine--no further offspring followed. An heir was not only desirable
for the property, which, in default of one, must devolve upon a very
distant relative--but, in a higher degree, for the performance of those
ceremonies for himself and his family after death, which could only be
effectual from a son, real or adopted.

Often had Anunda urged him to marry again, and assured him of her
love and protection to a young wife, as a mother or elder sister;
and she had even named several parties of good family who would have
considered an alliance with the Shastree a positive honour. Why should
he not marry? He was yet comparatively young: men older than himself
had married twice, nay thrice, or till the object of their desire was
accomplished. Why should he not do the same? Was he too old at forty,
nay, even less? So urged his wife and his best friends.

Yet the Shastree had not consented. The fact was, he loved Anunda very
dearly; she had been a good and true wife to him. He feared, too, a
certain imperious tone of temper which he could control, but which, in
contact with a second and younger wife, might change to jealousy, and
become, to say the least, inconvenient. Or, if he made new connections,
there would be the usual tribe of new relations to provide for, or to
trouble him with importunate demands. On the whole, it might be better
to adopt a son of that distant cousin who lived at Nassuk, and bring
him up as his own. In any form, his necessity was urgent, and Anunda
grew more and more earnest about the matter, and had even induced Tara
to join in it.

"If you had a son," she would say to her husband, "he would be a young
man before you were old. Even if you died, the property would descend
to him, and the ceremonies would be properly performed. If you grew
old, and I were with you, he would take care of us and of Tara. Who
will do this now?"

Yes, the echo in his heart was sad enough. Who would do so? There
might be two widows, perhaps, mother and daughter, both left to the
mercies of distant relatives who had no personal knowledge of them,
and to whom they would be as ordinary widows only, no matter what
amount of property they had brought with them--shaven, dressed in the
coarsest and scantiest raiment, and used for menial offices--perhaps
worse. Yes! the echo--"who would do so?"--often as the words were
said, fell heavily on the Shastree's heart; and recently he had told
his wife that--"he would think about it if his life were spared
for another year; until after the next unfavourable conjunction of
planets"--"he would think about it;" and so Anunda, without making
any formal propositions, was yet collecting information as to the
appearance, character, property, and accomplishments of many girls in
the neighbourhood, and, in short, wherever she had any acquaintance.

Most heavily, however, of all domestic cares did the situation of
his daughter oppress the Shastree. She was growing very beautiful;
in his eyes supremely so. So kind, too, so loving, so thoughtful, so
unselfish, so clever a scholar! She might have been a happy wife--ere
this, perhaps, a happy mother--yet at sixteen she was a widow, with a
gloomy future: not felt as yet; for the girl had grown up with him, had
shared in his studies, and had in all respects so entirely enjoyed her
young and peaceful life, that any thought of change had never occurred
to her.

She had been married at an early age, according to the custom of her
sect--when, indeed, she was little more than six years old--to a youth,
the son of a friend, who was one of the chief priests of the temple of
Punderpoor, a lucrative office, and one which would devolve upon his
son by hereditary right. The family was opulent, and the young man gave
promise of learning and of character. No matter now; he was dead. Three
years after the marriage he had been cut off suddenly by a fever, to
the grief of his family and to the extinction of the Shastree's hopes
for his daughter. Since then, with no further worldly hope before her,
Tara had betaken herself to the study of the holy books in which her
father delighted; and, doomed as it were to a life of celibacy, had
vowed it to the performance of religious exercises after the manner of
her faith.

It was unusual then, that Brahmun girls were taught to read or
write--more so than it is now; and in accordance with the rules of
the sect and the customs of the country, Tara, had her husband lived,
would ere now have joined him, and become mistress of his household--a
sufficient distinction for a Brahmun girl; but before that event, the
application of the child to such rudimental teaching as her father had
given her was so remarkable, that in process of years the conventional
rules of the caste had been set aside, and it was a loving and grateful
task to the father to lead his widowed daughter through the difficult
mazes of Sanscrit lore, and find in hers an intellect and comprehension
little short of his own.

Many of his friends shrugged their shoulders at this strange innovation
of ordinary custom, and argued astutely, that it was a dangerous
thing to fill a girl's mind with learning. Others, his enemies, were
loud in their condemnation of the precedent it would afford to many,
and the bad uses it could be put to; and in disputes upon the subject,
texts were hurled at the Shastree by angry parties, to be answered,
however, by appeals to ancient times, as illustrated in holy books,
when women were deep scholars and emulated the men; and so Tara's
desultory education went on. "After all, what does it matter?" said her
father very frequently, if hard pressed by caste clamour; "she does not
belong to the world now: God has seen it good to cut off her hopes:
she has devoted herself to a religious life, and I am teaching her and
preparing her for it."

But this did not satisfy the adverse Pundits, still less the fact that
Tara as yet wore ordinary clothes, and her head as yet had not been
shaved. The degradation of Brahmun widowhood had not been put on her;
and she was too beautiful to escape notice, or the envious comments of
others, both male and female. The rites of widowhood must be performed
some time or other. Her father and mother both knew that; they would
have to take her to Punderpoor, or to Benares, or to Nassuk, or other
holy city, and after ceremonials of purification, all that beautiful
hair must be cut off and burned, the pretty chaste bodice discarded,
and she must be wrapped, ever after, in a coarse white cotton--or
silk--or woollen--sheet, and all other dresses of every kind or colour
be unknown to her.

Ah! it seemed cruel to disfigure that sweet face which they had looked
upon since she was a child, and had watched in all its growing beauty!
Any other less pure, less powerful parents, would long ago have been
obliged to comply with those cruel customs; and were they not performed
every day at the temple itself? "Why should the rite be delayed?" said
many; "the girl is too handsome; she will be a scandal to the caste.
The excuses of going to Benares, or to Nassuk, are mere devices to gain
time, and sinful." "The matter must be noticed to the Shastree himself,
and he must be publicly urged and warned to remove the scandal from his
house and from the sect, which had been growing worse day by day for
the last three years."

Yes, it was true--quite true. Tara herself knew it to be true, and
often urged it. What had she before her but a dreary widowhood? Why
should she yet be as one who ostensibly lived in the world, and yet did
not belong to it? For whom was she to dress herself and to braid her
hair every day? For whom deck herself in jewels? She did not remember
her husband so as to regret his memory. She had had no love for him.
Married as a child, she had seen him but a few times afterwards, when
he came to perform needful annual ceremonies in the house, and she had
then looked up to him with awe. He had rarely spoken to her, for she
was still a child when he died. Once she remembered, when he was on a
visit, her father had made her recite Sanscrit verses to him, and read
and expound portions of the Bhugwat Geeta, and had said in joke that
she would be a better Pundit than he was.

She remembered this incident better than any other, and soon after its
occurrence he had died. Now she felt that, had he lived, she might
have loved him, and the reproach of widowhood would not have belonged
to her. These thoughts welled up often from her heart with grief, and
yearning only known to herself, and as yet only half admitted: yet
which increased sensibly with time, and recurred, too, more frequently
and painfully, as girls of her own age, honoured wives and happy
mothers--girls who had already taken their places in life--met her at
the temple with laughing crowing children on their hips, proud of their
young maternity: or came to visit her, and spoke of domestic matters
commonly--interests which she could never create or enjoy, and yet for
which the natural yearning was ever present.

"Why did he go from me?" she would cry to herself, often with low
moaning; "why leave me alone? Why did they not make me Sutee with him?
Could I not even now be burned, and go to him?" And if these thoughts
changed, it was to the idea of a new wife for her father, who, perhaps,
would be as a sister. If a brother were born, what a new source of
pleasant care and occupation! Yet this had its dark side also. "Would
she be friendly to her and her mother? and if not----"

Her father and mother observed when gloomy thoughts beset her, and when
she became excitable and nervous in her manner, and they did their best
to cheer them away. "She might yet be happy in doing charitable acts,"
they said, "in reading holy books, in meditation, in pilgrimages; and
they would go with her to Benares and live there." "Why not," the
Shastree would say; "why not, daughter? We have but thee, and thou hast
only us; it will be good to live and die in the holy city."

Well, it sufficed for the time, and there were intervals when people's
tongues were quiet, and these were happy days because so tranquil, and
Tara had given herself and her destiny into her father's hands.

"Do with me as thou wilt, O father," she said; "what is good to thee is
best for me; but do not risk anything of thy honoured name for one so
hopeless as I am. Why should I be a mockery to myself? It may cost me a
pang to part with all these;" and she would pass her hand through those
long, glossy, curling tresses; "and ye too will grieve to see them
gone, and your poor Tara shaved and degraded; but there is no help for
it, and the honour of your house is more to your daughter than these
ornaments. Without them I should be a comfort to ye, and at peace
with the world and with myself; with them, only a source of disgrace
and calumny, and I were better dead. Yes, let us go to Benares, to
Nassuk--anywhere--so that I leave my shame behind me."

If that poor struggling heart were laid open, was there nothing in
its depths which, as she spoke it, combated this resolve fiercely and
unremittingly? If it had not been so, she would have been more than
human. There was the natural repugnant dread of this disfigurement
and disgrace. Worse, far worse, the endurance of the after-life--the
life of childless barren widowhood of which she knew and saw daily
sad examples. She knew of the bitter experience of such widows, when
all modest retirement, respect, and honour of virgin or married life
was discarded with the ceremonial rites, and men's insult and women's
contempt took their place: and that from this there was no refuge till
death.

When she shuddered at these truths--they were no delusions, and her
soul rebelled against them--some ideal being, mingling his life with
hers, caressing the beauty she was conscious of possessing, would
present himself in dreamy visions, waking or sleeping, and beset her
in terribly seductive contrasts. The very books she read offered such
to her imagination. There were no demigods now, no heroes fighting
for the glory of Hinduism, as related in the Ramayun; but there were
ideal examples of nobility--of bravery--of beauty, which enthralled
her fancy, and led it to portray to her realities. Yet there was no
reality, and could be none. She had not seen any one to love, and
never could see any one. Who would care for her--a widow--who could
love a widow? And yet the dreams came nevertheless, and her poor heart
suffered terribly in these contests with its necessity. After all, it
was more the calmness of despair than conviction of higher motive which
brought to her lips words such as we have recorded:--"she would leave
her shame behind her."

But her parents did not go, and the rites were deferred indefinitely.
Last year they were to have gone to Nassuk for the purpose to their
relatives; but the planets were not propitious, or the business of
the temple and its ceremonies interfered. This year, when the cold
season was nearly over, in the spring, at the Bussunt festival, if the
conjunctions were favourable, "they would see about it." They did not
get over the--"if."

So here were the two great cares of the household. Which was the
heaviest? To the Shastree, certainly, Tara's ceremony of widowhood.
His own marriage was a thing which concerned himself only, and, at
the worst, he could adopt an heir; but that Tara should be a reproach
to him, the revered Shastree and priest, and remain a reproach among
women--it could not be. The caste were becoming urgent, and the
Gooroo, or spiritual prince, the "Shunkar Bhartee Swâmi," whose agents
travelled about enforcing discipline and reporting moral and ceremonial
transgressions, sent him word, privately and kindly, that the matter
should not be delayed. He quite approved of the ceremony being
performed at Benares or at Nassuk, out of sight, for the old man knew
Tara--knew her sad history, and admired her learning and perseverance
in study. At his last visit, two years before, he had put up in the
Shastree's house, and had treated the girl as his daughter; but the
requirements of the caste were absolute, and were she his own daughter
he dared not to have hesitated.

But we have made a long digression.

"Come, daughter," said Anunda, "cast that sheet about thy head. It
strikes me that men look at thee too earnestly now as we pass the
bazaar, and the morning air is chill from the night rain."

"Nay, dear mother, not so. Am I a Toorki woman to veil my face?" said
Tara, quickly. "Am I ashamed of it? Art thou, mother?"

"If thou wert not so beautiful, Tara. I dread men's evil eyes on thee,
my child, and I dread men's tongues more."

"Ah, mother! I dread neither," replied the girl. "They have done me
no harm as yet, and if my heart is pure and 'sutee' before God and
the Holy Mother, she will protect me. She has told me so often, and
I believe it. Come--I think--I think," she added, with an excited
manner, as she clasped her heavy gold zone about her waist, her bosom
heaving rapidly beneath the silken folds over it, and her eyes glowing
strangely, "I think, mother, she came to me last night in my dream. She
was very beautiful, O, very beautiful! She took hold of my hair, and
said, 'Serve me, Tara, I will keep it for thee.'"

"Tara! art thou dreaming still?" exclaimed Anunda. "Holy Mother! what
light is in thine eyes? Put the thought far from thee, O dearest; it is
but the echo of what thy father said last night when he comforted us
both--it will pass away."

"Perhaps so, mother," answered the girl, abstractedly. "Yet it seemed
so real, I think I feel the touch on my hair still. I looked at it
when I rose, and combed it out, but I saw nothing. Yes, it will pass
away--everything passes away."

"And what was she like, Tara?" asked her mother, unable to repress her
curiosity.

"O mother, I was almost too dazzled to see. I am even now dazzled, and
if I shut my eyes the vision is there. There!" cried the girl, closing
her eyes and pointing forward, "there, as I saw it! The features are
the same; she is small, shining like silver, and her eyes glowing, but
not with red fire like those in the temple. O mother, she is gone!"
she continued, after a pause, "she is gone, and I cannot describe her."

"Didst thou tell this to him--to thy father, Tara?" asked her mother,
much excited.

"Yes, mother. I awoke before him and could not sleep again. I got
up and drew water for him to bathe. I tended the fire, and sat down
to read. Then he went and bathed; and when he had come out of the
temple[2] and put on dry clothes, I read part of the 'Geeta' to him,
but I was trembling, and he thought I was cold. Gradually I told
him----"

"And what said he, daughter?" asked her mother, interrupting her.

"He seemed troubled, mother, and yet glad, I could not say which. He
said he would ask 'the Mother' after the morning hymn was ended."

"Come then, Tara, we will go to him at once. Nay, girl, as thou art,
thy words have given me strength, my pearl; come."




CHAPTER III.


The Poorans relate that the goddess Doorga, Kalee, or Bhowani, the wife
of Siva, once slew a frightful giant named Muhésha, having the head of
a wild buffalo, to the great relief of the people who suffered from its
existence; and Hindus generally believe that this event took place at
Tooljapoor in the Dekhan. Toolja is another name for Bhowani or Kalee,
and hence Tooljapoor--the city of Toolja. After the monster was slain,
and the presence of the goddess was no longer required on earth, she
left the form she had appeared in as witness of what had been done,
changed it to stone, and it was in after years discovered in the ravine
where the monster had been slain.

The image still remains where it is alleged to have been first found,
and where certain miraculous indications of its presence were made.
A temple was built over it, and a town gradually gathered round the
temple, which became famous throughout India, and is frequented by
pilgrims from all quarters. It is now the idol worshipped there, and is
a figure of black marble, or perhaps basalt, highly polished, small,
but of elegant proportions, with features of the pure Hindu type. The
eyes are composed of large uncut rubies; and, as the image stands upon
its altar, clothed in a woman's garment, in the small dark sanctum of
the temple, they have always a strange, weird, and, to the worshippers,
a fascinating appearance, glittering through the gloom, and smoke of
lamps and incense always burning.

The temple is a very picturesque object, from its situation in
a deep glen, the bottom of which is nearly filled by it. Pious
worshippers, and votaries from time to time, have enriched it by
buildings and courts surrounded by cloisters, ascending one above
the other, connected by flights of steps: and in these courts are
several cisterns, filled from springs in the sides of the hill. One
of them, peculiarly sacred, as believed to come from the Ganges,
gushes from a cow's mouth carved in the rock, and enters a large basin
and reservoir: and in all these cisterns pilgrims to the shrine,
both male and female, must bathe before they can worship the image.
Crowded by these pilgrims from all parts of India, of various colours
and physiognomies, languages and costumes, men and women,--bathing,
ascending or descending the broad flights of steps, pouring into the
lower courts in dense throngs, chanting mystic adorations, and singing
hymns in different languages and accents; it is impossible to conceive
a more picturesque or exciting scene than they present on occasions of
particular festivals, or, in general, on the day of the full moon of
every month.

The town of Tooljapoor adjoins the temple walls on three sides, and
ascends from them--the terraced houses clinging, as it were, to ledges
of the rugged glen--on the north and south. On the east, the ascent is
more regular; and the principal street slopes from the crest of the
tableland down to the first flight of steps leading to the first court,
and thence down successive flights of steps, through other courts, to
the lowest, which is the largest, and in which stands the principal
shrine, surrounded by cloisters and other buildings. Large tamarind,
peepul, and other trees, have grown accidentally among the cliffs
around, or have been planted in the courts, and have flourished kindly,
affording grateful shade; so the result, in the mingling of foliage and
buildings of many styles in the temple--surrounded by the rugged sides
of the ravine, occasionally precipitous:--and the terraced houses,
temples, and other buildings of the town above them--is remarkably
picturesque, and even beautiful.

The temple ravine opens into another of large dimensions, which, in the
form of an irregular semicircle, is perhaps a mile long by nearly half
of a mile at the broadest part of the diameter, narrowing to its mouth.
It is called the Ram Durra, and opens gradually beyond the hills,
upon one of the great undulating plains of the Dekhan. To the north,
the large ravine presents the appearance of an amphitheatre with
precipitous sides, from which, in rainy weather, a number of small but
lofty cascades descend from the tableland above, and form the head of a
small river which eventually falls into the Bheema.

The hills which bound the ravine are about four hundred feet high,
and are, in fact, the edge of a very extensive plateau called the
Bâlâ Ghaut, which extends nearly a hundred miles, with only a slight
descent, towards the east; and, after ascending to the town of
Tooljapoor from the ravine, a flat plain is reached, on which the
greater portion of the town stands. One promontory of the entrance of
the great ravine juts out past and bounds the temple on the left or
south side, and along its face is the road by which the ascent is made
from the plain below. The hill then turns round sharp to the east, with
precipitous sides, leaving a level plain of a few hundred yards in
width between the town and the declivity.

On the edge of this precipitous side, to the south, are two other
temples, also holy. One, a tall octagon building, now covers the rock
on which the goddess is stated to have alighted from heaven when she
came to engage the monster who lived in the adjoining ravine; and the
other, a little further on, and much more ancient, is situated at, and
encloses the head of a spring which fills a cistern, as it trickles
down the precipice at all seasons of the year. This is also a sacred
place, and is called "Pâp-nâs," or "the sin destroyer;" and the legend
says that the goddess bathed in this spring, and washed the monster's
blood from her hands, after she had slain him; so it is held sacred.

Truly the whole corner of the plateau is very beautiful. The quaint
old town hanging literally on the mountain edge: the deep gloomy
ravine of the temple opening out to the larger one: the precipices
and rugged hills to the west and north, and the beautiful undulating
plain to the south, over which the eye wanders as over a map for fifty
miles or more, checkered with thriving villages and their rich fields
and gardens,--form a striking assemblage of objects. But the interest
centres in the temple itself, with its gilded spires and picturesque
groups of buildings, as well as its strange effect in the position in
which it has been placed, attesting, no doubt, in the opinion of the
people--if there were any question on the subject, the truth of the
legend.

It will be understood from the foregoing, that the town is situated
considerably above the temple, and part of it on the level ground of
the plateau or plain. The Shastree's house was on the edge of the crest
of the ground, looking to the south over the ravine of the temple,
the cliffs, and a portion of the town beyond, across the small plain
which lay between the edge of the temple ravine and the precipitous
side of the mountain, and thence over the plain which, in the far
distance, mingled with the sky. To the south-east the line of hills
was rugged and broken, descending by steep spurs into the lower plain;
but from its edge, all round to the north, the eye followed a fair,
rich country, sloping eastwards, covered with grain-fields, through
which the small river Bóree, here only a brook, pursued a quiet course
among the town gardens. Again, to the north and west, looking into and
across the large wild ravine, were the precipices of the Ram Durra, and
the rugged basalt hills beyond them. So, wherever you turned, it was a
fair or wild scene alternately; and standing upon the terrace of the
Shastree's house, or sitting in a small chamber which had been built
over one of the corner rooms, you could see all that has been told; and
very beautiful it was.

The Shastree had travelled in his pilgrimages all over India. He had
seen wilder and grander scenes perhaps, but none pleasanter to live
in, than this cool, breezy, healthful mountain town, enhanced by the
presence of one of the holiest shrines in the country. Here he must
bear his misfortune calmly; and though his necessity urged the change
we have alluded to, he never issued from his door and looked over the
fair prospect about him, or performed the sacrificial ceremonies at
the temple, without being strengthened in his desire to live and die
here; and therefore the struggle in regard to his daughter was the more
bitter.

That morning he had risen unrefreshed--his sleep had been restless.
Something in one of the books he had been explaining to Tara in the
evening had brought up the subject of widowhood and its consequences
and obligations, and the message of his spiritual prince had been
discussed with much grief and misery to all. There seemed to be no
evasion of them possible--the rites must be fulfilled; and he had
again spoken of Benares, and Tara had simply and meekly given herself
into his hands, and prostrated herself before him and her mother in
submission. She was no doubt excited; and her first communication in
the morning startled him exceedingly.

You, O Christian reader! must not try his feelings by your own
standard. You live under a holier and simpler faith. If in the ordinary
occurrences of life, and its joys and sorrows, there is little
difference between you, it is very different in regard to faith. You
have but one object of calm, loving, trustful, humble adoration. He,
as all educated Hindus, believed in the same one God, but it was
overlaid by a gorgeous and picturesque mythology, and two distinctions
of--as he believed them to be--heavenly beings, to whom separately and
collectively worship was due, and yet whose interests and designs were
so different and apparently irreconcilable.

His household faith was for the most part a pure theism; but
circumstances arising out of hereditary rights had placed him at the
head of the local worship of the dread goddess, whom, either lovingly
or in deprecation of her possible wrath, he worshipped daily. But
the worship of Doorga or Bhowani, as the wife of the creating and
preserving power in her beneficence, and of the same power in her
destroying aspect--in her wrath terrible and unrelenting--is perhaps
more fascinating to women than to men; and, alternating with both
aspects, a woman, in all moods and in all necessities, may most
naturally perhaps apply to another woman, in whose power she believes,
for sympathy and assistance. Has it not ever been so? Greek, Roman,
Egyptian, Indian--nay, even Christian?

Nevertheless the Shastree believed, not lovingly perhaps, but in
deprecation of wrath; while his wife and daughter, unable to follow
the mystically subtle metaphysical creeds of the Véds and Shastras,
saw in their goddess enough to fill their hearts with practical faith
in, and reliance upon, her power over their destinies. To her, both
had addressed their vows and daily supplications, very simply and
earnestly, for this devotion of their lives to her was all they could
give, if their prayers were granted.

What wonder, then, that Tara's vision agitated him? The Shastree knew
of many women on whom the spirit of the goddess in divine afflatus had
descended. They were possessed by her: they spoke and prophesied when
they were full of her presence: and he dreaded them while he worshipped
the power displayed. As Tara told him her dream, and the service the
goddess had asked, could it be real? Could his daughter, as an inspired
priestess, ever speak before the image? That, however, must be tried
without delay, and he hastened more rapidly than usual to the temple,
having bid her follow when her mother was ready.

He arrived as the ceremonies of bathing and dressing the image were
being performed by the inferior priesthood, and, these concluded,
the morning service began. We need not detail it--the decking of the
altar with flowers, the marking the forehead of the image with the
sacred colours, the offerings of daily food and sacred elements with
flowers, and the singing of mystic hymns. Vyas Shastree was speedily
joined by other Brahmuns and priests, and bare-headed, naked to the
waist, carrying the sacred fire and sacrificial offerings, and chanting
hymns with the accompaniment of clashing cymbals and lutes. Thus the
procession was passing round and round the temple, and the simple but
strange melody rising and falling amidst the buildings, trees, and
cliffs, and filling the ravine with sound, as Tara and her mother
gained the outer gate, and began to descend the steps which led to the
lower court.

Ordinarily they did not bathe in the sacred cistern where, from
the carved stone cow's mouth, the stream of the holy spring gushed
sparkling into the basin; but Tara paused as they passed it. She had
felt more and more excited as she neared the temple, and the melody of
the hymn and the clashing of the cymbals, as they came up together
through the trees in the still air, had added to the effect already
produced in her mind by her dream.

"Mother," she said, hesitatingly--"mother, ought I not to bathe here?
Can I go into the presence, even with these garments on me, after what
the Holy Mother said last night? They should be wet and pure."

"It is too cold for thee, my child," replied Anunda. "Come, Tara, come
on; the hymn will be finished ere we can join--come."

"No, mother, I am hot--burning; something urges me to the well, and I
cannot resist it. Mother, I must be pure before the shrine. May I go?"

"The spirit of the goddess is with her, truly," thought her mother.
"Go, Tara, it may refresh thee," she said; "and there are dry clothes
in the temple. Go, be quick, my child!"

The girl descended the steps into the basin, and, turning to the east,
poured libations from her hands to the four quarters of the earth;
then the three libations to the sun, saying a short hymn from the
Véda. Then followed her prayer to the goddess. "Holy Mother, do what
thou wilt with me; take me, leave me, or use me as thou wilt, but do
not cast me away! Behold, I come!" Then she stepped forth from the
basin, her silk garment clinging to her sweet form, and revealing its
perfect proportions more than the innate modesty of her mind permitted;
hastily, therefore, she shook it free from her limbs, while her mother
wrung the water from the ends.

"I am ready now," she said, simply; "come, mother, I will go to her
pure, and sit before her. If she wants Tara she will speak. Come!"

Her mother had observed her glistening eye and glowing cheek, which
even the chill of the water did not subdue, and seeing the expression
of her face, as she ascended from the basin, was changed from its
habitual sadness to one of excited triumph, she caught the infection
herself, and seized Tara by the hand. "Come," she cried, "Jey Kalee,"
"Victory to Kalee!" And so they descended the steps more rapidly, while
the music of the hymn and the clash of the deep-toned cymbals resounded
through the lower court, and seemed to be echoed and repeated in the
cliffs and buildings above and around them.

The procession of Brahmuns and priests was turning the corner of the
temple as Tara and her mother met it in the full swell of the music.
Usually the girl and her mother fell in behind, reverentially and
calmly, and followed it as it passed round. Now, however, the Shastree
and his companions were amazed to see Tara separate herself from her
mother, and put herself at the head of the party, toss her arms into
the air, and join in the hymn they were singing--leading them on more
rapidly than they had moved before. The Shastree marked that she had
bathed, and that her wet garments dripped as she went along. "She is
pure," he thought; "she has prepared herself, and if the goddess will
take her, it is her will. There is something in this that cannot be
stayed."

The other Brahmuns stopped, still chanting, and looked to Vyas Shastree
with wonder for some explanation, which was as quickly given. "The
goddess spoke to her last night, and will not be repelled," he said.
"Go on, do not stop her; let her do as she lists."

No one dared stop her, or touch Tara. The height of excitement, or,
as they thought, inspiration, was in her eye, and that sweet face was
lifted up with a holy rapture. She seemed to fly rather than to walk,
so completely had her feelings carried her forward; and as she moved
she looked behind to those following, still chanting with them, her
arms waved above her head, and beckoning them onwards. They could not
resist the influence. So they passed on, round and round the temple,
still singing. Other morning worshippers, attracted by the strange
sight, joined them, or stood by wondering till the hymn was finished.
Then Tara, noticing no one, entered the porch of the temple rapidly,
and advancing alone, knelt down before the door of the inner shrine in
front of the image, and they watched her silently.

What did she see to cause that earnest look? The image was familiar
to all. The light of the lamps within shone out strongly on the
kneeling figure, shrouded in its wet clinging drapery, but hardly
illuminated the gloomy space in the deep outer vestibule, around which
the spectators arranged themselves reverentially. The ruby eyes of
the goddess glittered with a weird brilliance from among the cloud of
incense burning before her; and the fragrant smoke, issuing from the
door, wreathed itself about her form and ascended to the roof, and hung
about the pillars of the room.

Those looking on almost expected the image would move, or speak, in
greeting or in reprehension of the young votary, and the silence was
becoming almost oppressive when the girl's lips moved: "Mother," she
cried, in her low musical voice--"Mother! O Holy Mother! Tara is here
before thee. What wouldst thou of her?" And she leant forward, swinging
her body to and fro restlessly, and stretching forth her hands.
"Mother, take me or leave me, but do not cast me away!" She could only
repeat this simple prayer, for the yearning at her heart could find no
other words; but her bosom heaved as though it would burst the bodice,
and her hands and arms, with her whole frame, trembled violently.

"She is possessed, brother," said another priest to her father. "What
hath come to her? When did this happen?"

"Peace," said the father, in a hoarse whisper; "disturb her not: let
what will happen, even if she die. She is in hands more powerful than
ours, and we are helpless. O Tara, my child! my child!"

"Mother, dost thou hear? I will do thy bidding," again murmured the
girl. "Come, come! as thou wast in my dream. So come to Tara! Ah, yes,
she comes to me! Yes, Holy Mother, I am with thee;" and, stretching
forth her arms, she sank down on her face, shuddering.

"She is dying; my child! my pearl!" cried her mother, frantically, who
had been with difficulty restrained and who rushed forward. "Will none
of ye help?"

"Touch her not, Anunda," exclaimed her husband, holding her back; "this
brooks no interference. Let her lie and do as the Mother would wish
her; this will pass away." So they gathered round Tara and watched
her. She was tranquil now, not shuddering: the fair round arms were
stretched out towards the shrine, and the light fell on the rippled
glossy hair, which had escaped from the knot behind, and hung over her
face and neck, shrouding them in its heavy waves.

"Let us chant the hymn to the praise of Doorga," said the old Pundit
who had before spoken; "brothers, this is no ordinary occurrence. Many
come and feign the divine afflatus, but there hath been nothing so
strange as this in my memory;" and, striking a few chords on the vina
he held in his hand, the hymn--a strange wild cadence--was begun. The
sound filled the vaulted chamber, and was taken up by those outside,
who crowded the entrance. Still she moved not, but lay tranquilly;
the full chorus of the men's voices and the clashing of the cymbals
were not apparently heeded by her. As it died away, there was a
faint movement of the arms, and gradually she raised herself to her
knees, tossed back the hair from her face and neck, which fell over
her shoulders and back, and looked around her wildly for a moment;
then, seeing her mother, she leaned towards her as she advanced, and,
stretching forth her arms and clasping her knees, hid her face in her
garment, and sobbed convulsively.

"My child, I am here; I am with thee," said Anunda, supporting her, and
herself sobbing hysterically. "Speak! what is it? What hast thou seen?
My daughter, my sweet one, O speak to us!"

"Water, mother, water! my throat is parched! I cannot speak. Is she
gone?"

"Who, Tara?"

"The Holy Mother; she was with me--she entered into me. O mother, what
can I do? Where am I?"

"Here is water for thee, Tara; drink."

She tried to do so, but gasped at every attempt; at last she swallowed
a little, and was relieved. "She was not angry, mother," she said,
smiling. "Did you not hear her speak? What did I answer?"

"No, my child," said her father; "thou wert silent, and we feared the
goddess had taken thy spirit; but thou livest, and we are grateful."

Tara turned to her father with an imploring look for silence, and
again, but now calmly, prostrated herself before the image, while the
brilliant ruby eyes seemed, to those who beheld them, to glow still
more brightly through the smoke of the incense.

"Holy Mother of the gods," she said, in a low voice of prayer, "I am
thy slave. I fear thee no longer. Blessed Mother, I will love thee, who
art kind to Tara.... Here will I live and die with thee according to
thy word." Then she arose and continued to him: "Come, father; behold,
I am calm now."

"She is accepted, brethren," said the old priest, turning to the
others; "let us do her honour. With no life for the world, let her
widowhood remain in the Mother's keeping: she has chosen her, let no
man gainsay it. Come, daughter, let me mark thee as she would have it
done;" and, entering the shrine, he took several of the garlands from
the neck of the image, and a small vessel containing water in which
were the leaves of the sacred Toolsee; dipping his finger into which,
he marked her gently on the forehead, sprinkling some on her head, on
which he placed his hands as he said the incantation which denoted the
presence of the divinity. Then he hung the garlands about her neck, and
the fragrant red powder of the morning sacrifice being handed to him,
he drew some gently across her forehead and bade her stand up.

"Jey Toolja!" "Victory to Toolja!" was shouted by the attendant priests
and worshippers. "Victory to the Holy Mother!" "Victory to her votary!"
"Let us take her in procession!" "Let us go with her!" cried all around.

"Ah, no, friends," said the girl, rising modestly; "ye see but a poor
helpless child who was in grief, and whom the Mother has comforted.
Leave me! let me go! I would go home. Mother, take me away! Father, do
thou come with me!"

"It may not be, daughter," said the old priest, kindly; "we must
neglect nothing, else it were dangerous for thee and for us. Bring
a palkee," he shouted to the attendant priests, "and get the music
ready, and flowers too, and offerings for the Pâp-nâs. Yes, brother,"
he continued to her father, "for once I usurp thy office; thou knowest
what is needed. Come, let us not delay."

Tara looked imploringly at her father; she would fain have escaped
the public procession if she could. She only wanted now to get home
unperceived, and to hide herself in her chamber. What had she done to
be so honoured--to be so noticed?

"It must be, my child," he said; "this cannot be begun and abandoned;
let not thy heart fail thee, the Holy Mother will be with thee. Come!"

Tara yielded: she bent reverently before the old priest, and touched
his feet, then her father's, and going round the Brahmuns assembled she
did the same; last of all her mother's, who was sobbing, yet not in
sorrow. "Come," she said, "I am ready; do with me as ye list. Ye are my
elders, and I obey."

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Most Brahmuns perform their early morning worship after bathing in
cold water, and with their garments still wet.




CHAPTER IV.


So they led Tara forth and placed her in the open palankeen, and, as
they decked her with flowers, and strewed garlands over its canopy, the
temple music struck up a joyous marriage measure. Then, as the bearers
moved gently forward, her father and mother holding the sides of the
litter, the priests arranged themselves on all sides of it, and began
another solemn chant of victory to the goddess.

By this time, news of the event had passed on into the town, and it was
the hour when all the people were astir. Men and women, collected in
groups, heard strange tales of how the goddess had appeared to Tara and
taken her away to heaven; again, that she had died before the shrine,
and they were bringing away her body. The general conviction was, that
she had died, and many women, collected in knots, were weeping bitterly
and beating their breasts. But as the temple trumpets and conchs blew
a sudden and quivering blast, and the glad music was heard with the
chant, now rising, now falling, as the procession slowly ascended
the steps, and traversed the court,--and at last, as it emerged from
the gateway and entered the broad street which led to the centre of
the town,--the popular enthusiasm knew no bounds. "Jey Toolja!" "Jey
Kalee!" "Bome! Bome!" the cries of victory--were taken up from those
who led the procession, leaping and shouting. Many ran for incense or
for garlands: men and women thronged from street and alley and joined
the procession as it moved up; others stood upon the terraces of their
houses and waved garments or handkerchiefs, or hung out cloths from the
balconies and windows. "Jey Toolja!" "Jey Bhowani!" shouted all who
came. Pilgrims from the Ganges, Sunniasis holding aloft their withered
arms; Gosaees with their orange clothes and matted locks, strange,
wild, eerie folk,--issued from archways where they had slept, or vaults
where they had lodged; and still the crowd swelled, and the shouting,
and through all, and over all, the solemn chant and the hoarse and
shrill quivering notes of the trumpets.

Few knew why this was, but the procession advanced out of the temple
gate, so it belonged to it; and as the girl passed, seated calmly now
in her litter, flowers were cast on her, incense was burned before her,
and fragrant powder thrown over her, with blessings. Her old friends,
the flower-sellers, emptied their morning baskets of jessamine over
her, and touched her feet reverentially; and the old confectioner, who
had always kept a sweet morsel for his young friend, threw showers of
comfits upon her litter, and in his excitement generously flung the
contents of his baskets among the crowd.

So they passed on, through the eastern gate, and over the plain which
led to the Pâp-nâs temple, and the sun was now rising over the distant
purple hills in great glory among gorgeous golden clouds. As the first
beams fell upon the procession, the priests changed their hymn to that
in adoration of the Sun, from the Védas, which we adopt from a free
translation:--

  "Risen in majestic blaze,
    Lo, the Universe's eye,
  Vast and wondrous host of rays,
    Shineth brightly in the sky.

         *       *       *       *       *

  "See, he followeth the Dawn,
    Brilliant in the path above,
  As a youth by beauty drawn
    Seeks the maiden of his love.

  "Hear us, O ye gods, this day!
    Hear us graciously, we pray;
  As the Sun his state begins,
    Free us from all heinous sins.

  "Mitra, Varun, Aditi--
    Hear, O hear us graciously!
  Powers of Ocean, Earth, and Air,
    Listen, listen, to our prayer."[3]

And the people still shouted the cry of the goddess, or joined in the
hymn of the priests, till the small temple was reached.

The ceremonies there were brief and simple. Tara bathed in the
sin-cleansing basin, but she would not change her wet garments, still
resisting her mother. Once more were holy texts and incantations said
over her by all the priests collectively; and for the last time they
led her round and round the little shrine and court of the spring,
chanting a hymn of praise; her father leading, but submitting to the
old priest who has already been mentioned. It was finished, and her
new life began. The excitement which had possessed her and carried her
on was already passing away, and giving place to a sick weariness and
irrepressible languor, which not only her face but her limbs expressed.


"She will need careful tending for a long time, brother," said the
old priest to her father. "Give her a cooling drink of toolsee and
tamarinds, sweetened with honey; put her into dry clothes, and let her
rest quietly; she may not even speak for many days; for so I have known
it. Let us take her home."

"I am thankful to ye all, friends and brethren," said the Shastree,
much affected. "This manifestation hath filled me with many cares, for
we were not votaries of the goddess. Now she hath come into the house,
and the service she exacts is rigid, yet we will obey and do her will.
If ye will depart and leave us, take my blessing."

"Nay, say not so," cried all who were near. "Let us take her home; and
in honour and duty let this rite be finished." So the procession was
again formed, and in the same order that it had reached the temple,
it again returned to the town-gate, and wound through the streets,
thronged with curious gazers, to the door of the Shastree's dwelling,
where the priest and Brahmuns were dismissed with thanks and those only
remained who were specially bidden to do so.

Tara's exhaustion had been increasing since the ceremony was concluded;
and the wet garments about her, which had not been felt while the
excitement lasted, now struck a chill into her which even dry clothes,
cast over her by her mother, did not remove. She could not speak,
and could hardly move from the litter as it was set down; and when,
supported by her mother and the servants, she reached the inner
apartment, she sank helplessly in her mother's arms. But she was now
in gentle, careful hands, and at rest; and though she did not speak as
yet, her grateful looks ere long expressed all the consciousness her
mother longed to see.

She had ever after only a confused recollection of what had occurred;
and even as they came home there was a vacancy in her look which had
seriously alarmed her parents. Her father could remember many such
votaries, in whom the light of reason had been utterly quenched, and
he trembled for his daughter. We can account for the occurrence by
rational causes: a long-continued mental excitement and suppressed care
brought on by the nature of her own belief in, to her, that goddess
of dread power, yet of sympathy with human requirements,--and its
hysterical effect; but to her father, and more so to her mother, as
also to all the priests of the temple and people of the town, it was a
manifestation of the divine interest, and a claiming of the girl for
her own peculiar service.

We will not follow the conference between the Shastree and his friends,
which related to ceremonies to be performed and sacrifices to be
offered: nothing must be neglected. One of them was the resident agent
of the spiritual prince before alluded to, who had only a few days
before delivered the friendly warning, now unneeded. "The Mother hath
settled this matter herself, friends," he said, "and no one can resist
it; we will write collectively to the 'Swâmi,' and tell him of it;
he, too, will be assured that this divine favour is the result of
Vyas Shastree's piety, and his daughter's devotion to religious rites;
better this than worldly allurements and ties, sweet as they are."

There was no dissentient voice. Nor in the town, nor among the caste,
could any one impugn the act. It had been involuntary and public.
Thousands had witnessed it, and they bore testimony of the holy fervour
which had animated all who accompanied Tara from the temple. All seemed
to have caught a portion of the divine manifestation and enthusiasm.

So every one said that the beautiful daughter of Vyas Shastree had
become a Moorlee or priestess of the temple, and that the goddess
herself had called her from her disgrace of widowhood to the glory of
her own service. Was not this better than worldly ties? Now she was
free!

Did Tara think so? It was many weeks ere the feverish excitement passed
away, during which the loving eyes glowed with unnatural lustre, and a
fierce fire seemed to possess her. It was to be expected; and she had
skilful and tender attendance. With perfect rest and quiet, and simple
remedies, it would pass away, they said, and it did so gradually, and
Tara arose weaker, but calm. By-and-by she would be allowed to make her
sacrificial offerings, but not yet; and till then her beloved books,
the household worship, and occupation, were enough to occupy her.

"Time enough," said the old Pundit, who frequently visited her and had
become interested in her, "with a life of service to be done. When you
are strong you shall come to us, but not till then."

Was Tara satisfied? If the dread of her shame had been removed, the
void in her heart had not as yet been filled; but the new life had to
begin, and she would do her best, and so she comforted herself.

Were others satisfied? Yes. As we have said, most who knew her envied
her lot, but some sneered, and already shook their heads.

One man had looked at the distraught girl, as she was placed in the
litter and covered with garlands, who was satisfied, yet not as the
rest. More beautiful in the unconsciousness of her excitement than he
had ever seen her before,--far more so, to his sight, than she had
ever appeared while ordinarily attending the temple worship with her
mother, and where he had watched her for months past, Moro Trimmul had
joined the throng in order to observe her better. Being a Brahmun, he
had closed up to the edge of the litter bare-headed and unnoticed,
singing the hymns as one of the attendant priests, and had thus been
able to accompany the procession, gloating upon the girl's loveliness
with an unholy desire. As the litter was taken up he fell out of the
procession, and, watching it depart, sat down alone on the edge of
the cliff looking over the plain, and by the side of the small stream
which, issuing from the Pâp-nâs temple, fell down the face of the rock
in a sheet of foam. A girl's voice aroused him from a reverie which we
dare not follow.

"So the Pundit is not dancing back to the town as he came out, before
the new Moorlee," she said ironically.

"Nor thou either, Gunga. Dost thou not welcome a new priestess?"

"I marvel at it," she continued, with a sneer; "thou wast looking
enough at her. I dance before her? When she dances with us before the
Mother, then she will be a true Moorlee--not else. Now I hate her; I
shall always hate her."

"Ah! she will never join ye," he returned; "she is of another sort than
the rest of ye: Gunga, thou art jealous of her beauty, girl."

"By the Holy Mother, she shall not remain so, Moro Trimmul. She--a
widow--to think of setting herself above us! That cat-faced girl! If
she has chosen to serve the Mother she must obey her rules, and be one
of us. Think ye we will let her come there unless she is?"

The Brahmun shook his head. "I was thinking about her," he said,
absently.

The girl sighed. "I thought so," she replied, "and thou wilt love me no
more--no more now. Is it not so? say it, if it is to be so."

"Love thee!" returned the man, bitterly--"yes, as thou canst be
loved--by gold. Hark ye, Gunga, make her as thou art; get her into my
power, and I will give thee a waist-belt of gold."

"As heavy as hers?" cried the girl, excitedly.

"Thou shalt weigh the one against the other and thine shalt turn the
scale--will that content thee?"

"Wilt thou?--shall it? Swear on my neck and my feet to give this, and
I will do thy will. Yes, to humble her pride and her father's--who
drove me from the temple one day, and I have hated him ever since. I
shall hate thee too, afterwards; yet I will do it," cried the girl,
excitedly, clapping her hands--"yet I will do it."

"I swear," said the man, touching her neck. "Come and sit here by me."
She did so, but neither spoke for some time.

"Thou hast a sister, Moro Pundit, and she is beautiful. She ought to
have been married ere this. A little more time, and can it be done?"
she said, breaking the silence.

The Brahmun winced. "She was betrothed once," he said, "but the man
died."

"Perhaps she was married," continued the girl, with a sneer, "and she
is as Tara Bye, or worse. Is it not so?"

"No! by the Holy Mother, no!" cried the Pundit, sharply, and with
flashing eyes. "Breathe such a thing and I will have thy life. Beware
what thou sayest, even to me! A word more, and I fling thee down the
precipice!"

"O, I fear not for my life," said the girl, carelessly, "the Mother
takes care of that, and I will say nothing, lest I should lose my
pretty gold zone. But what of thy sister? The Shastree wants a new
wife, we hear; Anunda Bye wants a son to cheer her and him, and why
should not thy sister be taken there? If I do not err, she can have her
chance. She is of a good age--why not? Could she understand what to do?
Could she be taught?"

"Ah!" said the Pundit, abstractedly, "I had thought of it too, but it
seemed impossible. I do not know him--yes--if----"

"If?--why if? Art thou afraid? The girl is here--let me see her and
know her, and leave the rest to us."

"Gunga," said the Brahmun, after a pause. "If thou canst bring this
about--if thou canst get me speech of this Shastree----"

"Let me speak to the girl first. 'Radha,' that is her name, is it not?
Let me see if she is resolute and as I hear of her. If she be, she
shall have her desire; thou shalt have thine; and I--ah, yes! I will
have more gold. Yes," she cried, clapping her hands again, "more gold!
I will have gold anklets, like Tara's. Why should she wear gold anklets
and mine be only silver? Wilt thou give them?--all I can hope, now she
hath taken thy love from me----"

"When my sister is Vyas Shastree's wife thou mayst have what thou wilt,
Gunga. I swear it to thee on thy neck and feet. Art thou content? Yes,
thou shalt see her now. Manage the matter as ye will, women's wits are
sharper than mine. Now follow me unobserved," he said, rising.

"Once more, Moro Pundit," continued Gunga, "tell me if the marriage can
be performed now? Is there a fitting conjunction of planets?--within a
month?"

"Yes; till the Now Râtree; after that not for a long time."

"Enough to do, enough to do, in the time," muttered the girl to
herself. "Hast thou any women with thee--any relations?"

"Yes, her mother's sister--a widow; no more. Our mother is dead, my
father is dead, and there are only ourselves left of a large family."

"Then the Shastree will like the connection all the better, and--ye are
rich, they say. Yes, I will bring the widow and Anunda together."

"We have enough. In that respect I can satisfy the Shastree fully."

"Ah! he will ask no questions. His wife is shrewd and clever, and will
guide him," she replied; "but he will be careful about the horoscope of
thy sister, for he is a great astrologer."

"My aunt is wise, as you will find when you know her; and as for the
rest, Gunga, it is in my hands. I, too, am an astrologer and can cast
Radha's nativity as I please."

The girl laughed heartily. "Yes, it will answer," she said. "Now go
by that path; we must not be seen together. I will come to thee before
noon; we have no time to lose. Only remember thine oath, Moro Trimmul,
and beware how thou triest to evade or deceive me. I would not hurt
thee willingly; and for the sake of----. No matter now," she continued,
gulping down what was rising in her throat, "no matter now. It is
gone--I see no more of it in thine eyes."

"I am in thy hands, Gunga, and may be trusted," he replied; "nay, more,
there may be better days for thee yet, girl----"

"No--no more. No more like the old ones," she said, shaking her head
mournfully. "Only the gold now--only the gold!"

FOOTNOTE:

[3] "Specimens of Old Indian Poetry, translated from the original
Sanskrit." By R. T. H. Griffith, A.M.




CHAPTER V.


"Yes, surely it is strange that the two nativities should fit so
exactly," said Vyas Shastree to himself, some days after the events
recorded in the last chapter, as, seated by himself upon his dais,
and having given orders not to be disturbed, he appeared absorbed in
a table of nativity which lay before him; "yes, it is strange indeed.
The date of birth, the signs under which she was born, and the few
calculations which have been made by a master hand, all agree, as they
ought to do; and the result, as I have worked it out, is clear enough.
This girl, born at Wye, an utter stranger to me hitherto, and brought
here by a chance pilgrimage, is proposed for me; and Anunda, Tara, and
the old Josee will have it so. Yes, it is a curious coincidence indeed;
but let me test these formulæ again; there may be error."

While the Shastree is busy with some curiously abstruse calculations
upon his own and the other horoscope he is considering, we must digress
a little, to show by what steps Gunga's plans, roughly shadowed out to
Moro Trimmul, as we have recorded, were apparently fast approaching a
satisfactory completion.

Negotiations had been satisfactorily opened by Anunda with Sukya
Bye, the aunt of Moro Trimmul. This lady had, indeed, already become
a great favourite with Anunda and Tara, and she had been guided in
her intercourse with them by the directions of Gunga. Eventually,
the question of marriage, or otherwise, having passed the ladies
favourably, rested with the Shastree himself.

The contrivances by which this result had been brought about were
apparently too simple to cause suspicion. Yet they had been produced
by carefully designed arrangement. It was first of all necessary to
get Sukya Bye and Anunda acquainted, and this was brought about at the
temple on the night of the ceremonies of the last full moon. The wife
of the chief priest had the power to render the performance of the
necessary worship convenient to any one she pleased. She could direct
special attendance by assistant priests on her friends, and could
reserve seats for them, on which they could see and hear to the best
advantage. So as Sukya Bye, whose figure and dress bespoke her rank and
respectability, was apparently vainly endeavouring to reach the shrine
to make her offerings with other women,--Gunga, seeing her hustled and
pushed about, assisted her as far as possible; and, feigning to be
unable to do more, appealed to Anunda, who had herself noticed the old
lady's struggles, for assistance to her.

Sukya Bye was one with whom it was no degradation to be seen
associating. Her tall figure, dressed in the richest of plain silk
garments, and the heavy gold rings she wore round her arms, wrists, and
ankles, betokened wealth, as did her shaved head that she was a widow;
and the stout Mahratta serving-men, who, armed with sword and buckler,
attended her, proved that she was of some rank, certainly of very
respectable position.

Gunga had left her under Anunda's care, and ere the ceremony was
concluded the ladies had become excellent friends. It will be
remembered that Anunda herself was from the western provinces of the
Dekhan, and the dialect and intonation of the lady Sukya sounded
pleasantly in her ears. Questions were asked, some mutual acquaintances
discovered, and a visit by Anunda soon followed.

Moro Trimmul, his aunt, and sister, lived or lodged but a short
distance from the Shastree, and it soon came to pass that the ladies
visited each other frequently. Sukya had a point to gain, so had her
niece Radha, and both worked in concert with the girl Gunga, to whom
whatever happened was related. Her fresh instructions from day to day
guided them perfectly, not only to gaining the good will of mother and
daughter, but of establishing a more affectionate interest in their
concerns than would otherwise have arisen out of a common acquaintance.

Sukya, proud of her own birth and connections, found Anunda perfectly
in accord with herself on that subject. She saw the wealth and comfort
of the house, she led Anunda to detail their domestic cares, and
offered her sympathy, which was accepted. "Ah, yes, if the Shastree
would only marry again!" said Anunda to her in confidence, "and there
should be a son born, they would take him to Benares and devote him to
Siva. They had wealth; yet without this it was a weight and a care to
them, which increased rather than diminished."

During these visits of confidence between the elders, Tara and Radha
had their own pleasant time too, and Tara's trustful nature was easily
won by the other. Radha was ignorant, it was true, but she was to all
appearance open-hearted and simple, and she soon learned to feign that
reverential yet intimate association with the beautiful widow and her
mother, which Gunga counselled, and which was indeed necessary to the
success of the whole scheme.

For some days Anunda made no communication to Sukya Bye of the subject
nearest her heart; but as she saw the intimacy of the two girls
increase, and that the intercourse had served to turn Tara's thoughts
into new channels, and also that she herself, as she gradually gained
strength, always found some pretext for a daily visit to her young
friend, the thought gradually pressed the more upon her mind, that
here was a connection which was most desirable for her husband; and,
finally, the question alone remained, whether Radha's family would
consent.

Tara had no objection either. Indeed, from the first sight of
Radha's present extreme beauty, and promise of its development--from
her respectful, nay reverential, demeanour to her mother, and her
apparently loving trustfulness of herself--she, too, began to think
that a better selection could not be made, if her father were willing
to take a second wife, than this girl. So she grew to wish it.

Therefore, with much exhortation to privacy, and in the fullest
assurance of confidence, Anunda had ventured to ask Sukya Bye, after
all reserve had been broken down, whether the alliance might be hoped
for. She dwelt at length upon her husband's accomplishments and his
wealth. He was not old; many men married far beyond his age. Money was
no object--it could be paid if necessary; and she herself would be as
a mother, and Tara a sister, to the new wife. In short, Anunda opened
her whole heart to her new friend, and in the end found the sympathy
she had expected. Yes, the more Sukya Bye considered the matter, the
more, as she told Anunda, was she convinced it would be an admirable
arrangement. Radha had once been betrothed as a mere child; the person
had died lately, else they were to have been married this year.
Delay had occurred because the intended husband was poor. He had not
sufficient to pay the expenses of the ceremonies. Then Radha's father
had died, then her mother, when Moro Trimmul was as yet a youth. He
had made no provision for his sister. How could he? So she remained
unmarried. Another connection must have been sought for this year, and
Anunda's proposal was admirably timed.

Now, all this was true enough in some respects, but not entirely. It
was enough, however, for two persons to believe, whose affections were
already enlisted in the progress of the matter; and such inquiries
as they could make from people who knew Wye, confirmed what had been
told them by their new acquaintance. Was the girl herself willing?
Apparently she was. And she received, with all the bashfulness and
interest necessary to the occasion, the proposal made to her by Tara on
the part of her mother. Anunda had had her fears on this subject, lest
the young and beautiful girl should refuse to ratify what her aunt had
proposed; but beyond a natural shyness there seemed no objection.

One doubt only remained,--were the horoscopes of the parties in good
accordance? "Moro Trimmul," Sukya Bye said, "would never consent to
give his sister where the planets did not provide good fortune--in
short, till he was satisfied there was no ceremonial objection
or direct hindrance. And before the proposition was made to the
Shastree--before, in short, the men were to discuss the proposed
arrangement, Moro Trimmul wished to see the Shastree's horoscope,
in order that the last point of doubt should be removed." He also
would give his sister's to the Shastree, if the proposal were to be
persevered in.

Very unsuspectingly, therefore, did Anunda take the scheme of her
husband's nativity, his "Junum Putr," from the casket in which it was
kept, and, with many injunctions as to its safety, gave it to Sukya
Bye. It was not long detained; and she was gratified by hearing that
the Josee, seated in an adjoining apartment, considered it a most
happy one. "Might he copy a few portions? they had been so admirably
calculated." And the dame had no objection.

Certainly the plan had been well laid, and as yet well executed. No
very deep persuasions were necessary with these simple unsuspecting
people. The mother and daughter had yielded long ago; and the result
of the examination of the Shastree's Junum Putr had removed the last
obstacle which concerned him. The matter, as arranged, should be broken
to him that evening on his return from the temple. And the lady Sukya
suggested that he should examine her niece's horoscope as corroborative
of his own.

So Moro Trimmul had that day put the finishing touch to his work. He
had been concealed when the lady Anunda brought the paper we have
mentioned; he had rapidly copied the principal points in the table, and
noted all the most remarkable of the latter indications exhibited; and
he knew that, before evening, he could prepare a corresponding document
regarding his sister, which the Shastree himself could not detect.
This was a branch of science which Moro Trimmul had studied deeply;
and it was with perfect confidence that he followed the astrological
combinations relating to the Shastree, and constructed, yet not with
too minute detail, the table in his sister's name.

Few Hindu parents care to have the Junum Putr, or "birth letter," of
their daughters worked out; but after Moro Trimmul had cast the table
itself on an imaginary date of birth, two years later than the real
age of his sister, and as if it had been done carelessly and then
abandoned, he followed up several of the formulæ indicated, leaving
the last incomplete. He felt assured, therefore, when the paper was
submitted to the Shastree, that he would himself carry out the last
calculation, which had been so arranged as to lead to the present time,
and to a combination with his own.

All had been finished. The paper on which it was written was new,
but it was not paper of that part of the country; it was from his
own district. An ornamental border was quickly drawn round it, in
red, black, and yellow lines; the signatures of the witnesses to his
sister's original and true Junum Putr were carefully copied; finally,
the whole document was held over wood-smoke till it was of a proper
brown colour, then rubbed and frayed at the edges, and creased here and
there as if it had been often examined; and, lastly, it was perfumed
with camphor to remove the smell of wood-smoke, and with the odour of
benzoin and sweet pastille. No one, without much difficulty, could have
detected the forgery; and, without suspicion, the Shastree had set
himself to work out the problem left unfinished--the occupation which
we have already noted.

On leaving their friends, after this early visit, in which the Junum
Putr was taken, Anunda and Tara had determined to lose no further time
in breaking the matter to the Shastree. It was a fortunate day, as they
had been told by the old astrologer, the Shastree's friend, whom they
had consulted as they went home; whatever they did was sure to prosper.
The Shastree was in good humour with himself, with them, and with the
world generally, and for many reasons. His greatest care about Tara had
been removed. She had been accepted as a votary of the goddess, and
had already recovered from her excitement. He had written with others
a joint petition to the "Swâmi" on the subject, and she had been duly
recognized by her spiritual prince. No fear of reproach now existed;
and if the Shastree had at first winced at the idea of his daughter
becoming a Moorlee, a public votary at the temple, the feeling was
passing away. The gods forbid she should become as other girls, who
were devoted to the temple service! No; she desired to be pure, and
should continue so.

The long and expensive journey to Nassuk, or worse, to Benares, had
been saved, and half a year's rent had just come in from his estate.
The crops were fine; there were no remissions needed; prices were high,
and the rent had been punctually paid. The produce of the gardens and
farms was also good this year, and the fees and dues from pilgrims were
abundant. This was a special year for pilgrimages to the shrine, and
full moon after full moon the crowd would increase.

"What are we to do with it all?" Anunda would ask, as day after day the
bag containing the Shastree's dues was brought from the temple by the
attendant clerk, or as her husband gave over to her the liberal gifts
presented to him by wealthy visitors to the shrine.

As she asked this question of him, the Shastree laughed, and told her
it must increase, for the Now Râtree, or nine nights of the goddess,
then coming on, were attended by a wonderful conjunction of planets
foreboding marvellous events, and which could not indeed occur again
in many years--indeed, not under less than a cycle. There would be
thousands upon thousands of worshippers there, and the gain would be
enormous. What, indeed, were they to do with it all? "We must spend
it upon poor Brahmuns, dig wells in desert places, and give marriage
portions--all good works, and pleasing to the gods: what have Brahmuns
to do with wealth?" said the Shastree.

"Nay; but we will have a marriage at home," thought Anunda; and from
the time the alliance was shaped into form she began to hoard every
rupee she could get. Never had the gardeners found her so active in
coming down to Sindphul to look after the fruit and vegetables in the
garden there. Never had the sellers in the Bazar known her to be so
keen after the returns of sale. As she said to herself, if there is a
marriage, my lord shall have a good one.

This very plethora of wealth brought about the question with her
husband. "What can we do with it?" he said one day, on receiving an
unusually large gift.

"We will marry you," said the wife. "Tara and I have determined upon
it in our own minds; and oh, my dear honoured husband, you are not to
object! We have kept this from you as yet; but if you will agree, we
have found a treasure, a jewel, such as we can give to you, and be
proud and thankful to see you wear."

There was no circumlocution in the matter. Anunda, watching her
opportunity, as a wife best knows how to do, had gone direct to the
point, and, seconded by Tara, had smoothed away all difficulties and
won the victory.

The Shastree made but one condition--that which Moro Trimmul had
expected, and for which he had provided. "I care not for wealth or for
beauty," he said to his wife. "We are rich--too rich; and thou, Anunda,
art more beautiful than ever; but the 'birth letter' must accord; and
she must be pure and high in blood."

So Anunda had told him that, as to the first, she would ask for the
"birth letter," and hope it would be good; as to the second, what doubt
at all? She could vouch for good birth, as good as their own, and for
wealth if that were needed.

Now, therefore, that the matter all hinged upon the fitness or
otherwise of Radha's "birth letter," and the last link in Anunda's
chain was to be completed or for ever broken, it may be conceived that
she awaited her husband's decision on the subject with much anxiety.
He had requested not to be disturbed while he made the examination. So
Anunda and Tara waited within. The outer door of the court had been
fastened as well as that of the school, and he was, as we found him
at the beginning of this chapter, alone on his dais, absorbed in the
contents of the document before him.

"Yes," he said again aloud, "that it is strangely coincident, there can
be no doubt. Again and again I have checked these formulæ, and they
are right, and the abandoned calculation leads direct into my own. Ho,
Tara! Anunda!" he cried, "bring my Junum Putr, quick; I need it." And
Anunda took it, and, laying it before him, did not venture to stay or
to speak; but she saw by the expression of his face that he was deeply
interested, and she again withdrew.

He opened it, that strange shadowing of his life which, with a
fascination he could not resist, he had occasionally examined, yet
without daring to pry into the future. Enough that he could follow the
past as nearly as might be from the fallible nature of the science.
Now, he laid both papers together; and his eye passed from one to
another rapidly, as his chest heaved and his pulses throbbed with an
excitement to which he had long been a stranger, forcing from him the
exclamations of wonder which we have recorded.

"Marvellous and mysterious agents in our existence," he continued,
"who can withstand ye? who can refuse your directions? Here I bow
before ye, O mystic fates, lead me as ye will; this happiness, aided by
these heavenly indications, I dare not resist. Anunda! Tara! O wife! O
child!" he continued as they entered, stretching out his hands towards
them, "be it as ye will, beloved!"

That was a happy evening for the three. It was not too late to ratify
the act, and then the preparations were soon made. A few lumps of
sugar-candy and some spices were placed on a silver salver, and
garlands of fresh flowers procured from the flower-sellers. Anunda
dressed herself in one of her best suits, and Tara put on a simple
new garment befitting her position. Several of the servants who had
suspected the matter, poured forth their congratulations. A marriage,
with all the new clothes, and feasting; oh, it would be delightful! And
now the betrothal sugar was to be taken, so the matter was decided.
Might they accompany the lady? Yes, they were all to come, and one was
to go and prepare the lady Sukya; and so, finally, preceded by a pipe
and tabor, the little procession went forth into the street.

No concealment now. As the neighbours gathered at their doors they knew
why the lady Anunda and Tara went forth. Some wondered, some sneered;
but the majority thought Anunda wise. The Shastree was to marry again,
and there might again be a male child in the house.

The preparation by Sukya had been made, and the girl Radha, dressed by
her aunt and Gunga, who was there, in a rich saree of orange and gold,
with wreaths of flowers hanging about her, had been placed on the dais
in the house where they lodged. She wore heavy ornaments of gold, and
Anunda felt proud of her selection for her lord, as well for Radha's
great beauty as for the wealth of which she had evidence. No, she was
no common girl. Here were no crowds of poor relations; even money was
needless; but they would be too well bred to refuse it.

So they were. The music continued to play a merry measure suited to
the ceremony. The girl's forehead was marked with the sacred colours;
a fragrant paste rubbed upon her hands and arms, neck and bosom, by
Anunda and Tara. Rice and other grain, emblems of fertility, sprinkled
over her head, money poured into her lap, and sugar put into her mouth;
while the sacred hymn and incantation from the Véda was chanted by Tara
and her mother, and joined in by those who had collected around.

Then all went into the household temple of the dwelling and paid their
adoration to Bhowani and Lakshmee, and the rite was finished. Radha was
the betrothed wife of Vyas Shastree.

"Mayst thou be happy, O my sister!" said Moro Trimmul, who, though
present, had not interfered further than to direct the ceremonies.
"Surely this is a fortunate day for us all. Now I go to the temple to
lay my offerings before the Mother, and, with your permission, lady,
I will visit the Shastree to-morrow. Long have I desired to know him,
for the fame of his learning has gone far and wide; but who would make
a stranger known to him? and surely it is providential that our houses
have thus been united."

"You will be welcome, sir," said Anunda, as she rose to take her
departure.




CHAPTER VI.


Anunda was not a person to allow useless time to elapse between
the ascertained necessity of any act and its completion, and the
preparation for the marriage went on merrily. What stores of flour,
and rice and ghee, and condiments were laid in! What gorgeous dresses
selected! Ah, young English ladies, and indeed I may include mothers
also, who may read these pages, you are not to believe that wedding
trousseaux are confined to your own country and society! Very far from
it. A young Hindu lady, or Mahomedan either--there is not much to
choose between them in this respect--is as full of hope of a liberal,
a handsome, outfit on her marriage, as any fashionable young lady of
Belgravia or Mayfair; and believe me, is as proportionably delighted if
it be so.

There was much to spend, and no grudging. So one old cloth-seller had
been dispatched to Sholapoor, and another to Wyrāg; one to Nuldroog
also, then a large camp and emporium: and the result was, as we may
say, an overplus of riches. It was hard to select from the bales on
bales which were sent up from the shops; still, piece by piece, the
dresses accumulated, and were indeed lovely. Silk and gold sarees; silk
and cotton mixed; plain cotton with silk borders; bodice pieces, stiff
with gold and brocade--all betokening wealth and comfort. No milliner
required here. The garments of one piece, only remarkable for their
richness and diversity of colour and pattern, were such as were, and
are still, worn by the better classes of society. Anunda was determined
that no fault could be found with her own and Tara's selection, and
certainly it was better to be on the liberal side.

Then how busy the goldsmiths were! In the Shastree's school court,
half-a-dozen men, sometimes more, were to be seen sitting over pans of
charcoal, blowpipe in hand, beating silver or gold on small anvils, and
fashioning them into massive and quaintly beautiful ornaments. Anunda
had given some of her old things to be broken up and re-made. We will
not say how many ounces of virgin gold were added, but here too the
good lady was liberal--very liberal; and Tara, of her own accord, had
added from her own store some valuable jewels. Yes, the arrangements
for the marriage were to be pushed on; it must be completed within a
month, for after that, there was a "gutt" or planetary conjunction
averse to marriage, which was to last long. As yet the day had not
been fixed, but it must soon be; and the Shastree was passive when it
was mentioned. Not so those with whom he had now irrevocably connected
himself.

On the other side, preparations had been as active, though simpler.
Moro Trimmul's object was haste, and he had desired his aunt and
sister to spare nothing within their means. Strangers as they were in
the town, they found the girl Gunga, with whom, since the ceremony at
the temple, Sukya Bye had become intimate, a very useful ally. She
knew what Anunda was preparing. Her gossips--the flower-sellers, the
cloth-merchants, and the goldsmiths--detailed all that was being done,
and to aunt and niece they were amply satisfactory. They knew the
Shastree was wealthy, but the profusion they heard of surprised them.

"The Shastree loves thee, girl," the lady Sukya would say. "He will
spend his wealth on thee. What lucky chance brought us here, who can
tell? else who would have cared for thee? To whom could we have given
thee? Be content; he is not old; he will love thee, for thou art
beautiful. Wait and see."

Truly she was so! Not Tara's tranquil, pensive beauty; not Anunda's
even in her prime. This girl was very different from both. She was
darker than either--a warm, richly-tinted, clear, golden brown, with
a skin like velvet; a small head, oval face--perhaps more round than
oval--and a mass of thick wavy hair, which, if loosened, fell far below
her waist, curling at the ends; a low broad forehead, strongly marked
arched eyebrows, and a nose straight and delicate in outline, were
perhaps the ordinary possessions of a good-looking, well-bred Mahratta
girl; but the eyes and mouth were more remarkable, because they gave an
index to her character.

"We will not tell what she is like," Anunda said, as her husband
frequently asked her of Radha, for as yet he had not seen her. Perhaps
he was indifferent on the subject, yet hardly so; it would have been
unnatural not to care at all. Certainly, as the days passed, the
Shastree grew somewhat curious, and he had to wait many more ere he
should see her.

"Content thyself, husband," Anunda would say, as he questioned her;
"I have told thee she is beautiful, else I had not noticed her: she
hath a shape like a nymph, eyes like a deer, and a mouth like that of
Kāmdeo. What need to say more? Wait and see." So the Shastree waited
patiently. Another would have followed the girl--contrived to see her
by some means not perhaps over scrupulously; but the Shastree was very
honourable, and such an alternative did not even suggest itself to him.

But they were right. What Anunda had noticed, and Tara too, were only
the eyes and mouth and the figure. Who could pass them by unheeded?
Such eyes--so large, so soft in their velvet blackness when at rest,
yet if excited, how different! The long, thick lashes, which were
positively heavy in character, shaded them ordinarily, and produced a
soft, dreamy effect; but if the girl looked up, or was interested, or
suddenly roused, these eyes seemed to glow internally, and to assume a
character almost oppressively fascinating.

Radha well knew their power: since she was a child she had been told
of the beauty of her eyes, and she believed it--nay, added to their
expression by slightly staining the inner portion of her eyelids,
which gave to the already heavy lashes a softer character if the eyes
were at rest, or increased their effect if they were excited. Lately
a habit had grown upon her of contracting her brows, and dilating her
eyes till their effect was almost fierce, which both her brother and
aunt had tried to check, but it did not leave her easily. Sometimes it
gave place to a look of dreamy languor inexpressibly touching, and so
sorrowful in character that, had the girl been older, it might have
been attributed to some great grief lying at her heart, or some painful
recollection. As it was, it was unsuspected, except by those who knew
the cause.

The mouth followed the eyes. When they were excited by any emotion,
the lips at once closed and were firmly compressed; but ordinarily
they remained a little open in the centre, showing teeth white, pure,
and glistening with a pearly lustre. The lips were full, red, and
moist--the upper deeply arched and curved, with the corners falling
back into deep dimples; yet the mouth was small and delicate, pouting,
and decidedly voluptuous when at rest or smiling, yet capable of
being hardened into an expression of self-will and obstinacy, which
indicated an inflexible determination should there be occasion to
exercise it. No wonder that, seeing her in her most placable moods--for
the girl from the first had appeared charmed by the prospect of her
marriage--Anunda and Tara had been captivated by beauty so remarkable.
It would have been well, perhaps, could they have seen the face under
other expressions, and so been saved from what, under different
circumstances, had an irresistible fascination.

Need her figure be described? Being younger than Tara, there was not
the same development of form. The arms and throat were less rounded,
yet the lines were as graceful and full of promise of perfection as
hers. Eventually they would be about the same height--Radha, perhaps,
a shade taller, and both slighter than Anunda ever had been. Her hands
and feet were small and beautifully formed, more so, perhaps, than
Tara's; they were indeed, remarkable features in her figure--so much so
that, as Tara was bathing her one day, and washing them, she had held
them to her lips and kissed them in succession involuntarily.

It was difficult to tell her age. Her "birth letter" told the Shastree
she was not yet twelve. Had she exceeded much that age, to their
knowledge, Anunda would have objected to the marriage; indeed, she
could not have been married at all. But she was in reality fourteen,
nay more. Sometimes, when her features relaxed, her eyes soft and
dreamy, her mouth smiling, and her whole face assuming a loving
tenderness of expression, she appeared hardly the age she was said to
be; but when there was any change, and the rigid look already noticed
took its place, she appeared considerably older.

Now, Anunda was by no means desirous of a very young girl for
her husband's new wife. Many had been offered of very tender age
indeed, whom she had invariably declined. She could not be troubled
with a child; and if a thought that Radha might be older than she
was represented to be, ever crossed her mind, a bright smile, a
tender caress from the girl at once removed the doubt, and restored
confidence. As to her figure, it did but furnish earnest of mature
development. And were not many girls precocious? She had been so
herself. Yes, Radha was very beautiful; and, as day after day passed,
Anunda longed the more for the time when she should be able to clothe
her in one of those gorgeous dresses, to deck her with flowers and
jewels, and to present her to her husband a bride worthy of him--worthy
of her own affection--the most precious gift she could make to him.

We have said that Radha was older than she was represented--and perhaps
a brief sketch of her previous history is needful. She had been an
indulged and precocious child, of a vain, weak, but beautiful mother.
Her father, one of the hereditary Josees, or astrologers, of Wye,
had died some years before, and her mother shortly after him. Moro
Trimmul, on succeeding to the care of the house, had given charge of
his sister to his aunt, and betaken himself to the company of certain
wild associates, with whom, from his powers of learning, he had become
an especial favourite. The head of these was the Rajah Sivaji, whose
rapid career to independence was one of the remarkable events of the
times; and the wild exploits of the young prince, his raids against
the Moghuls and Mahomedans in general, had long since enlisted the
sympathies of the Mahratta people.

Sivaji's early career had been dissolute, but that was a venial
fault among the people. His companions were the young Mahratta
gentry,--yeomen, and farmers, whom he best loved to draw about him;
above all, young Brahmuns who would join him, whether as priests or
soldiers, or both, in his wild enterprises. Moro Trimmul was one of
these--one who had grown into his deepest confidence. So long as Moro's
father lived, he had in some degree restrained his son; but his private
meetings with his prince were still frequent; and in the plays and
recitations, of which Sivaji was passionately fond, Moro was generally
an actor and reciter. Thus it was that Sivaji frequently came to Wye,
and put up at the Josee's house; and so he came to know Radha--a
beautiful child then, whom he could caress without hindrance. He a
Mahratta, she a Brahmun--any union was impossible; and yet she grew to
be more than interesting to him as she advanced in age.

Eventually Radha's betrothed husband died. Other offers were made for
her, but were always refused, so peremptorily, that people believed the
report designedly set afoot by her brother and Sukya Bye, that she was
to be married to a distant relative who, now absent on pilgrimages,
would return and claim her, or she would have to be taken to him. And
so the girl grew, the time for marriage passed, and the Rajah's visits,
often clandestine, were encouraged by aunt and nephew, with what
ultimate hope of result might be imagined. Yet both were careful there
should be no scandal.

Perhaps their scheme might have succeeded had not Sivaji himself, now
feeling his way to power, seen the peril of the connection. Was she
wife or widow, there might have been fewer scruples, but, an unmarried
Brahmun girl would be a burden, a disgrace, which he dared not
encounter--one that would not fail to be resented by the priests, whom
it was his aim to gain. He could not spare one so devoted, so able, and
so unscrupulous as Moro Trimmul, nor could he replace him; he needed
many such, and he loved him too much to break with him on this point.

It was a hard struggle. But the young prince, whose firm will and
self-control finally won him a kingdom, successfully resisted
the opportunities deliberately offered. As the girl grew, as his
intercourse with the house became more and more unreserved, it
was clear to him that her love for him was growing as part of her
existence. The girl, for whom he had always a kind word and free
greeting, who claimed the privilege of serving "her Rajah," when he
put up at their house, became by degrees shy and reserved; cried if he
spoke kindly to her, and trembled if he approached her. He could not be
mistaken in those eyes: they told their own story--love.

Under such circumstances, among such people, love is passion. It has no
medium except in maturer age and constant association. The girl--still
a child in years--loved deeply, passionately; and as she grew older,
month by month, day by day, the news of her prince's exploits, now
beginning to be sung in ballads through the country, excited her
fearfully. Her aunt and brother had detected her in more than one
attempt to escape to him, and, fearful of the result, had prevented
it. Had he taken her away, would they have pursued? Surely not; but he
was careful--he admitted his own danger to himself--and he gradually
avoided the house, though he clung the more closely to Moro Trimmul.
Radha found means to send occasional messages to him--a child's love,
a child's yearning for him were told to him; and we know that, in some
instances, a child's love--there and here the same--is more passionate,
because more pure and more absorbing, than a woman's. What was marriage
to her? If she could only be with her Rajah--to serve him, to live with
him, to ride, nay, to fight with him--she would go, or die.

The last time Sivaji had seen her she had grown desperate. She had
never spoken so to him before; but she had told him she must die if he
did not take her away. "Nay, but I will come with thee," she cried,
"even if thou cast me out among thy servants." And he confided this
to her brother. "For my sake," he said, impressively, "if not for
thine and hers, keep her safe; take her away and have her married; the
farther away from hence the better. It is no use speaking to her. Moro
Trimmul! save me from the temptation, thyself from the contumely this
would bring upon us. I know what is in thy heart; but, beautiful as she
is, it cannot be."

So a plan was quickly arranged between them. Moro had an intimate
acquaintance with the Mahratta gentry of the Dekhan, and he was
despatched to canvass them. This necessitated journeys from place to
place. He was well provided with money, and he travelled, as one under
vows of pilgrimage, to different shrines. Thus opportunity might occur
for marrying Radha; and, leaving all servants behind him but a few
men in whom he had perfect confidence, he took his aunt Sukya Bye with
him as protection to his sister. No one cared to inquire who the young
prince's envoy and counsellor was, or what his family affairs were.
Enough that he had a sister and an aunt with him, and was conducting
his secret mission with admirable policy and address.

Thus he at length arrived at Tooljapoor alone. The rainy season had
set in, and travelling was no longer pleasant or easy. The town was a
good position for his purpose, and there were many rich families and
landholders in the "Bâlâ Ghaut" province to be brought over. For a
time he secluded himself, and lived humbly in a hired lodging or in
one of the courts of the temple. Here he had seen Gunga, and here also
he daily watched Tara as she and her mother performed their worship.
Even thus early the advantage of marrying his sister to the Shastree,
of whose household circumstances Gunga had told him, had appeared most
desirable; but as his passion for Tara grew, it was a thing to be
accomplished at all hazards. Gunga did not appear able to help him,
for it was clear that neither the Shastree nor his wife noticed the
inferior priestesses of her class, and Tara never spoke to them. He
therefore secured a good house for some months, and sent for his aunt
and Radha from Punderpoor, where he had left them: and, till their
arrival, had busied himself in obtaining local information for the
furtherance of his future designs.

On leaving their home at Wye, and after Radha's first paroxysms of
disappointment were past, Sukya Bye and Moro Trimmul had instructed
the girl what to do. Perhaps, in despair of accomplishing her ends, or
with the desire of all Hindu girls for an early settlement, she was an
apt scholar. Radha was to deny all knowledge of her age, to assume a
childish demeanour, to acquiesce modestly, and as she saw other girls
do, if she were proposed for. She was assured she would be given to
none but a man of wealth--her beauty would secure her this. If possible
he should be young; but this was a difficult point, and what matter if
he were old? She could have jewels, rich clothes, an establishment of
her own--she would have all these secured to her, and afterwards would
be her own mistress.

But if she refused, or opposed these efforts in her behalf, she would
soon be too old to be assisted at all. As it was, few would believe her
to be within the marriageable period for Brahmun girls. In a year, nay
less, her marriage would be impossible, and she must be treated like a
widow, shaven and degraded, or married to a dagger,[4] and turned into
a temple to shift for herself.

Was it wonderful that the girl submitted to, nay, even assisted in,
their deceptions, or that those eyes looked dreamily after her own
prince, while her spirit, chafing within, carried her, in those moments
of abstraction, away into his glorious mountains, to be loved and
caressed as she felt he, and, he only, could love and caress her if she
were with him?

FOOTNOTE:

[4] Female devotees are married to a sword or dagger, as emblematical
of union to the divinity to which they have been devoted.




CHAPTER VII.


After preparations for the Shastree's marriage had been actively
commenced on both sides, there was no further hindrance. Moro Trimmul
having been made known to the Shastree by Anunda, as she had promised,
the two men soon found a day in the calendar, so far unexceptionable
as regarded planetary influences, that they at once fixed upon it; and
the ladies, having been consulted, declared there were no objections or
hindrances now, for on both sides of the houses everything was prepared.

Meanwhile his new acquaintance was a delightful addition to Vyas
Shastree's circle of friends. Who more accomplished for his age than
Moro Trimmul, more fascinating in manner, or astute in argument and
judgment? He had not the refined beauty of his sister, except that
his eyes were, like hers, large, soft, and very black, with the same
habit of dilation, relaxing into an almost womanish tenderness: but
when aroused, their excited expression was infinitely more fierce
than Radha's, even to savage cruelty. The mouth was always coarse and
sensual, but there was at least good-humour about it if he were not
angered, and a strength of character in the countenance which could
not be mistaken. Now, nothing occurred to cause even a passing cloud,
and the days which intervened between the betrothal and the marriage
were pleasantly spent by all. Even Radha was interested, and clung
more closely to Tara than ever; for with Anunda, as with her aunt, she
preserved the habitual reserve and respect required by their positions.

"I will go to the temple, daughter," said Anunda one evening, "and keep
thy father there. Do thou bring Radha here, and let her look at the
dresses and jewels: if there is anything she wants in addition, tell
me, and we will get it." The good lady could not do too much.

Kind Anunda! it was so considerate. Could any doubt of her ultimate
happiness remain in the girl's heart? What other "sister wife" would
have cared so for her?

Oh, the girl's delight at those gorgeous clothes and jewels! She had
heard of splendid gifts at marriages, and there was one at Wye in
which she had helped to deck the bride; and when she had seen her--she
was but a mere child--dressed in a brocade garment stiff with gold, she
had wondered whether it would ever be possible to possess one like it.
There were several--green and gold, crimson and gold, purple and gold.
The most glossy of Pyetun silks, soft muslin sarees from Narrainpett
and Dhunwar, of which she had heard, but had never seen; they did not
come to her country: all were beautiful.

Then the ornaments. There were massive gold chain anklets, with small
bells to them, armlets, bracelets, ear-rings, necklaces. There was
the sacred "talee," which would be tied round her neck. Tara showed
them all as they were laid out in cotton upon a tray covered with red
muslin. How beautiful they were! and all would belong to her; they
would be put on her the day of the ceremony, and her own taken off as
she entered the house. Then the place where she was to be bathed and
dressed was newly coloured and plastered, and the comfort of the house
and its pretty decorations--all satisfied the girl's longing. It was
what she had pictured to herself; and Tara said her father was kind, so
kind--he would love his little wife after his quiet fashion, and deny
her nothing.

So it was not to be wondered at if any repugnance which she had felt
was fast passing away, and if, when her brother asked her whether she
would be content, she told him she was grateful for what he had done;
and for the time perhaps she was so.

Sukya Bye had told her nephew of Radha's visit to the Shastree's house
by stealth with Tara: she was afraid he might hear of it otherwise,
perhaps through the servants or Gunga, and was rejoiced that he
considered it a happy circumstance. "She will be satisfied with the
wealth," he said, "and all that she sees will excite the desire for
more, and so, aunt, we shall best hold her to our purposes. She cannot
recede now; and, while moulding the Shastree to her will, by-and-by she
need not forget Sivaji Rajah." But he did not tell this to Radha; and
neither by her brother, nor Sukya Bye, was any reference made to the
past. When all was beyond chance of disturbance, he would set her to
work to compass his own ends.

The Shastree and Pundit were of different schools of philosophy; the
former, as we know, belonged to the ancient, and, as he considered,
orthodox, Vedantic school of Véda Vasa; the Pundit to the more modern
Mimansa school of Jomiai, and to the doctrines and mythological
histories of the Poorans. So they had discussions, in which other
Brahmuns of the town joined, while the ladies sat behind a screen
and heard their disputations, and Tara explained to them what she
could follow. Or the friends played at chess, both having excellent
skill;--the Shastree calm and steady, the Pundit fiery and impetuous,
as were their natures; and so they had many an earnest battle.

It was not long before the politics which then agitated the country
began to be discussed between them. They lived under the same
Mahomedan government, that of Beejapoor: but while Tooljapoor and the
districts around it were as yet in entire subjection, those to the
west--particularly the wild rugged country beyond Wye, the Mawuls or
mountain-valleys of the Ghauts, stretching into the Dekhan--owed but
a slight allegiance to the Mahomedan dynasty, and perhaps had never
been completely subdued. Here it was that many of the oldest Mahratta
families had taken refuge after the overthrow of the Hindu dynasty of
Deogurh, the modern Dowlutabad, and the subsequent subjection of the
country by the Mahomedan Emperors of Delhi; and it was among these
families, the Bhóslays, Nimbalkurs, Morays, Ghoreparays, and others,
that the germs of that combination to resist--to them an oppressive and
corrupt government--existed, which was presently to be ripened into a
successful revolution.

On the other hand, this dynasty of Beejapoor had already been
attacked by the immense power of the Emperors of Delhi; and while
the independent kingdom of Ahmednugger--itself at one period little
inferior in splendour to that of Beejapoor--had been entirely
subdued, and the princes of its house annihilated by the Moghuls, any
combination to resist them by the two states had not only been rendered
impossible, but it was clear that Beejapoor would follow its example:
and those were not wanting who hoped, under a new power, to regain many
privileges which hitherto had been withheld from them.

But it was in the antagonism of the two contending Mahomedan powers
that the Hindu families of the Dekhan saw the means of emancipation
from both. It might be a work of time, and of immense labour and skill:
but the opportunity seemed to present itself; and while feigning
submission alike to the Moghuls, as after the conquest of Ahmednugger
their forces were poured into the provinces which had formed that
kingdom, and, on the other hand, to the older-established dynasty of
Beejapoor, a stirring spirit began to be aroused among the Mahrattas;
and that secret combination silently progressed, of which Moro Pundit
was one among many other agents employed by Sivaji, the prince to whom
all now looked as the present head, if not the instigator, of the
movement.

It had, in fact, already been some time covertly in progress. Shahji
Bhóslay, the father, of Sivaji, had commenced it in a series of wild
irregular forays and raids from his patrimonial estate, which was
situated among the Mawuls west of Poona, against the Mahomedan posts
and garrisons of the western provinces of Beejapoor. For a time he
was successful, but only as a mere freebooter; and in the end he was
defeated, taken prisoner, and confined in a dungeon in Beejapoor for
several years by the monarch Mahmood Adil Shah, the father of the king
reigning at Beejapoor at the period of our tale. But Mahmood was not
implacable. On the intercession of his mother, by whose wise counsels
he had often been guided, Shahji was not only released but raised to a
high command, and during the subsequent invasion of Beejapoor by the
Moghuls did good service, and so the progress of the Mahratta power was
stayed.

Of his two sons, Sivaji early took the lead, and, encouraged by his
mother, a lady of high family and ambition, and admirable judgment,
he aspired to be the head of a Mahratta confederacy. What progress he
eventually made is already matter of history, which will have no record
in these pages; but at the time of which we write, he was strengthening
himself in his own wild country, collecting adherents, canvassing those
who still held aloof, fortifying rugged and inaccessible strongholds,
and, by the suddenness and successful issue of his continuous forays,
was rendering himself famous in the eyes of the people. While he
treated with both of the rival Mahomedan powers by turns, he took his
own course; and yielding alternately to each whenever their force was
locally in excess of his own, was in reality faithful to neither.

To Sivaji, also, belonged the prestige which none else had dared to
assume--that of receiving aid from heavenly powers. The goddess Bhowani
was the tutelar deity of his family; and it was the popular belief that
she had chosen his father as the champion of her faith, but that he had
transgressed warnings and visions, and, implacable as she was believed
to be, she had cast him off. It was otherwise, however, with his second
son Sivaji. She had chosen him to be the scourge of the cow-slaying,
impure, and licentious Mahomedans. The cries of her votaries had arisen
to her, and the land was to be purged of uncleanness. Temples would be
again filled with Brahmuns, and the sweet incense of pure sacrifice
would ascend to her. The mother of Sivaji, it was reported, saw and
recorded visions, too glorious to relate, in which her son was a
victorious conqueror, and the infidel Mahomedans were slain in tens of
thousands by the Mahratta people in those great battles which were to
ensue. And these visions were believed.

As yet these prophecies were circulated privately among the people,
but there was not a Mahratta, far or near, who did not know of them.
Ballads were written about them, and sung at fairs and markets. Women
composed and chanted extempore verses as the household mills flew
merrily round in the early morning. Men sang them to their oxen as
they ploughed, or drew water from their wells; and so a spirit spread
through the people which eventually became irresistibly powerful.

In this excitement, too, existed the incentive to the worship of
Bhowani at all her most celebrated shrines; and everywhere--to gather
her votaries together, to excite them to action, and to warn them to
be ready when the time arrived--were agents such as Moro Trimmul,
despatched by the young chieftain. Nothing appeared on the surface.
Experience had taught extreme caution. There were no assemblies of
armed men, no displays of force: an occasional successful raid or
resistance by Sivaji kept up what might well be called the national
spirit; but all delayed to strike, till, in the expressive Mahratta
phrase, Dônguras, lavilé Déva, "the fire was on the hills."

Very dexterously, therefore, and after having prepared him for the
communication, did Moro Trimmul confide to the Shastree some of
the popularly-reported plans of his friend and prince, and sought
his counsel and assistance, and partly also the purport of his own
mission. He asked information as to the families of the Bâlâ Ghaut,
the Nimbalkurs of Wasi, the Kallays of Nelinga, the Bhóslays and
Ghoreparays of Akalkote, all neighbours; and also respecting the
wealthy yeomen and farmers of the country. He did not mention Pahar
Singh, with whom, through the Gosaees of Kullianee, and their agency at
Tooljapoor, he had already opened negotiations, and found the robber
chieftain fickle and undecided, extravagant in his demands for estates,
for high command, and other rewards.

Nor did he disclose that weightier secret, known to his prince and
himself, on which, for the present, the success of their enterprise
rested. Khan Mahomed, the Wuzeer, or Prime Minister, of Beejapoor,
might be detached, it was said, from the royal interest of his house;
and he was then, with a large army, lying at and about Nuldroog, little
more than twenty miles distant from Tooljapoor. To this man, at his
own request, in phrases only to be interpreted by himself, a letter
had been forwarded through the Gosaee banker's agent at Tooljapoor;
but no reply had been received. Nor was Moro Trimmul sanguine on the
subject, for reports of the Wuzeer's intrigues in other quarters were
in men's mouths. No; it was from the Mahratta families alone that he
had expectations; and he knew that at the ensuing festival, all or most
of the province would assemble at Tooljapoor.

To say that he found a zealous coadjutor, or hoped for one, in the
Shastree, would not be correct. The Shastree was not ambitious. He
enjoyed already, as we know, a very lucrative and prominent position,
in which he was honoured and respected. He avoided all Mahomedans upon
principle; but the governors of the province often sought his advice
and assistance in civil and judicial matters regarding Hindus, and
he was not only never molested, but, on the contrary, respected and
treated with consideration, and had even been invited to court. He
had, therefore, no quarrel with the Mahomedans, and he well knew their
power. He had watched Shahji's failures, and he had noted the effect of
Sivaji's efforts; still he admitted there was more chance of success
now than before; and he agreed to assist Moro Trimmul, by bringing
him into communication with the gentry of the province, provided he
were not required to take any prominent part in what should follow.
To say that Vyas Shastree was indifferent in this matter, would be
incorrect; but to anticipate enthusiasm or personal zeal would have
been impossible from his character, and Moro Trimmul did not expect
them.

"After the ceremony," he said to the Shastree, "Radha, of course, will
remain with you. Sukya Bye will return to Wye with the servants. Give
me, then, letters to the Nimbalkurs of Wasi, and to such others as you
please, and I will go alone. Introduce me as a reciter of plays, and
I will make my own way unnoticed and unsuspected. Here I can be of no
use, and may even attract suspicion."

To this plan Vyas Shastree gave his cordial consent. Moro Trimmul would
go before the Now Râtree, and return for the festival.




CHAPTER VIII.


I am afraid it would take more time than the limits of this history
will afford, were I to describe minutely all the festivities and
observances of Radha's marriage. I assure you, dear readers, that a
proper, orthodox Hindu marriage, is a very tiresome affair; and, like
many other marriages, perhaps, everybody is glad when it is over.
Very noisy, tediously minute in ceremonial, liable to interruption
from disputes--it is often an arena for rival factions of families to
fight out all the ill feeling, discontent, and jealousy which have
accumulated for years. Sometimes the feasts provided are not eaten,
and have to be thrown away or given to beggars. Musicians won't play,
processions can't be formed, or are interrupted in progress: offence is
taken at trifles, and the whole proceeding rocks to and fro as though
it would tumble to pieces altogether, till it suddenly comes right, and
affairs go on--to a happy conclusion, or otherwise, as it may be.

When all prospers, it is a right merry affair; but I am afraid you,
dear young lady, would be very weary if you had to be married as Radha
was. No such thing as going to church comfortably in a luxurious
carriage, to be attended to the altar by six loving and lovely
bridesmaids, to hear there a short, simple, affecting service and
blessing, to sign your maiden name for the last time in the vestry,
and to go home, having dried your eyes on the most delicate of
lace-bordered cambric pocket-handkerchiefs, to a champagne breakfast,
all the delicacies of the season, a carriage and four, and--unlimited
bliss in prospect.

Ah, no! with Radha it was very different. Her marriage ceremonies--will
you believe it?--occupied ten days of really very hard work. So many
dressings and undressings; so many bathings; so many anointings; so
many changes of ornaments; such smotherings in flowers, and in large
sheets, lest her husband should see her; such being carried from place
to place by the servants, lest her feet might touch the ground--once
too by her husband, whom she could feel, but not see; and a rare
strong arm and hand his was, taking her up, she felt, as if she were a
child, and gently and respectfully too. Then worshippings at the great
temple, where she had never been before, and where the priests put
flowers on her and led her into the shrine where "the little Mother"
sat, with her weird red eyes blinking through the smoke, and Radha was
half frightened by them; greetings, too, from the people with whom the
marriage was popular; and the flower-sellers and comfit-makers poured
baskets of their stocks over her and her decorated litter, while she
looked curiously about her from under the veil of jessamine flowers
which covered her face, and acknowledged with shy timid gestures their
hearty salutations. No doubt a great deal of this was excellent fun,
and the girl's spirits rose with the genial joyousness; but at times
she was very weary.

Seldom had there been a merrier wedding. What jokes were played
off by her brother, who was a capital hand, as we know, at acting
plays, disguising himself, and personating characters, with which
he mercilessly interrupted the orthodox ceremonies. Now a Mahomedan
mendicant, whose intrusion was resisted by the servants, and whose
presence had polluted the food, proved to be he; or the pipers'
instruments were filled with wax, and they blew discordant screeches,
or could not blow at all; or a pertinacious begging Brahmun or Byragee
pestered them when most engaged, insisted on seeing the bride, or
threatened, otherwise, to cut himself and bring trouble on her. Now one
thing, now another; teasing his sister, playing a sly joke with Anunda,
tormenting the Shastree in all manner of ways, he was the life of the
meeting, and always so disguised as to dress, figure, and even voice,
that no one recognized him.

Then were there not all the pipers of the country? the temple
musicians, and drums of all kinds, tenor and bass? Such crashes of
noise! Village bands, the temple musicians, and the hired performers,
and dancing women, all playing different tunes at the same moment. The
horn-players and drums of half the country came in hopes of largess;
and there was one burly fellow from Andoora, near Nuldroog, whose
horn had wreaths of flowers tied to it, with gold and silver tinsel
ribbon, the wild screams of whose instrument, and sometimes its mellow
quivering notes, could be heard high above all the others.

And, to be sure, what feasting! The household cooking-pans were not
half big enough, and those from the temple had to be borrowed: and the
neighbours' kitchens, on both sides, were filled with cooks. Pecks and
bushels of rice, butter, vegetable stews, and curries; sweet things,
hot things, savoury things; and Anunda's famous "poorees," reserved for
the choicest guests--some even made by herself and Tara.

There was no room in the house or in the courts for eating, so the
street outside was swept and watered; and every day, early in the
afternoon, you might see a posse of stout young Brahmuns laying down
fresh green plantain-leaves in double rows on the ground, with broad
alleys between them, and then long files of clean-shaven Brahmuns sit
down behind them; and after them a procession of men bearing on their
shoulders huge pans full of rice, hot from the kitchen, and slung on
poles--baskets of hot bread, poorees, curries, stews, and the like,
would march down the middle, ladling out portions of all to each, and
helping liberally to melted butter, hot "chutnees," and other toothsome
condiments.

And the men ate and ate till they could eat no more, and the crowds on
the house-terraces above them watched the eating, cheered the eaters,
and bandied free jokes from side to side of the street at themselves,
the eaters, the carriers of the viands, or the passengers. So they ate
and ate by hundreds and hundreds at a time; and many a hungry Brahmun,
hardly knowing how to get a meal of coarse jowaree cakes in his own
home, took his water-vessel and blanket, travelled from twenty to
thirty miles round to the wedding, received a hearty welcome, and ate
as he had perhaps never eaten before, and remembered it all his life
afterwards.

Yes, it was a capital wedding; and the village and town gossips who
criticised it at the time, and spoke of it afterwards, could actually
find no fault. There was not a poor old hag in Tooljapoor or Sindphul,
ay, and for the matter of that, in other villages further distant, who
did not get a hearty meal; or if she were too infirm to stay and eat,
a liberal dole of flour, or rice and butter, with salt and pepper. Not
a family of Mahrattas in the town, nor, indeed, respectable Mahomedans
either, who had not materials for a meal sent to them, accompanied by
pipe and tabor, horn and drum, or band and trumpets, according to the
scale of their rank. And from all friends, presents for the bride, in
proportion to their means, from the richest silken and gold sarees,
down to a humble cotton bodice, added to the stores with which Radha
was already provided.

One by one the ceremonies were finished. The last--the solemn rite of
actual marriage--as the bride and bridegroom sat side by side, when the
consecrated thread was wound round them by the attendant Brahmuns, and
the mystic hymns and invocations chanted; when their garments were tied
together in the irrevocable knot, and they repeated the promises and
vows, much like our own, to love and cherish each other--then Radha's
veil was raised; and though he had seen her form for many days in
succession, Vyas Shastree now saw his young wife's beautiful face for
the first time.

It was a happy look, in one of her happy moods. Those glorious eyes
were not excited, but soft, timid, and shyly raised to him in trust
and confidence. Anunda and Tara had watched for the effect upon him
with beating hearts and clasped hands. There could be no doubt of the
expression of his face--wonder first, then gratification, perhaps love.
"Thou wast right, wife," he said afterwards; "she hath a nymph's form,
a deer's eyes, and a mouth like Kāmdeo."

So it was all finished at last; the guests departed, the courts were
swept, and the house again cleaned out. The garlands of leaves and
flowers still hung at the gate, and from pillar to pillar of the
verandah; and certain post-nuptial ceremonies performed at the temple
was all that remained of the outer show of the marriage. Within was
the girl-bride, happy in being free from her brother, whom she feared
though she loved him, and from her aunt, whom she disliked as well as
feared; happy in her new sister-wife, to whom she felt like a daughter;
happier in Tara, a sister in truth, and she never had known one before;
content, too, to see the Shastree unreservedly, and to feel that her
beauty grew on him--for as yet, beyond a few words, they had not spoken.

As Moro Trimmul had determined, Sukya Bye was despatched to their home
a few days after the ceremony. She had pleaded hard to be allowed
to stay over the Now Râtree, and Anunda had asked the favour at her
instance; but her nephew was distinct in his refusal, yet not so as
to display anger or vexation. It was simply impossible, he said; she
had been too long absent from home, and he himself must go on his own
affairs. So she received parting gifts of rich silk cloths from Radha,
Anunda, and the Shastree, and departed to Wye.

       *       *       *       *       *

The last night that Moro Trimmul was to remain at Tooljapoor, he took
an opportunity of telling Radha that he should pretend to go out, but
conceal himself in the school court, which was not lighted, and that
she was to come to him when all were asleep or retired; he should wait
for her there, for he had much to say to her.

So he had. How he had restrained himself hitherto he knew not. How,
day by day, he had seen Tara, spoken to her, amused her, excited her,
gloated over her beauty, which, if remarkable abroad where she was
guarded, was in a thousand degrees more captivating and enthralling
in the free household intercourse--and yet had done nothing towards
possessing himself of her--was what he could neither understand nor
endure any longer. Gunga could not help him; he saw clearly that Tara
utterly refused communication with her: utterly refused to participate
in the lower degrees of ceremonies and orgies at which Gunga assisted
with a lower order of priests who officiated for the inferior castes
of the people; and she refused the mystic marriage to the sword of
the goddess, which the "Moorlees" performed in order to cloak their
profligacy.

Gunga, therefore, baffled for a while, bided her time; but she and her
sister priestesses had vowed revenge, and were all in Moro Trimmul's
interest. Meanwhile his sister must help him; and this, with cruel
perseverance, it was his object to effect through her at any risk.

He waited long, for the girl could not get away unobserved. At last she
came, scared and terrified lest her absence should be detected; but all
were asleep--Tara beside her in the verandah, the Shastree among his
books in the book-room, Anunda in her own sleeping-room within. She did
not find her brother in better temper for his detention.

"Take this," he said to her, returning a gold anklet of Tara's, which
Radha had borrowed from her to be copied; "for I go to-morrow early,
and shall not see thee again till the Now Râtree; but thou hast kept me
long, girl, and I had much to say to thee."

"The Shastree was awake reading: even till now I could not pass his
door," she said; "be quick, brother."

"Ah, thou art trembling. Is this the girl who would have fled to Sivaji
Rajah; and art thou changed already into a Shastree's wife?" he said,
with a sneer.

The girl shivered. "Do not say such things, brother. I strive to put
them away, and they will go, perhaps; yes, they will go, when no one
tells me of him."

Her brother laughed. "No, they shall not go, Radha, if I can prevent
it; but thou must be patient, girl. So much for thyself; now for me."

"What can I do, brother?"

"Thou canst gain Tara for me. Nay, Radha," he continued, as she
trembled still more, and hung to the court door in terror, "none of
this cowardice! I tell thee it must be, and thou must do it."

"Brother! brother!" gasped the girl, piteously. "Not I--not I! What can
I do? O, not I! O, not I!"

"What canst thou do? Much," he returned, sharply; "listen, Radha. Such
things are no sin. She is a Brahmun, as I am; she is a widow. She is a
Moorlee, as free as Gunga, or any of them, and she can please herself.
I know she is not indifferent to me: it is for thee to improve this.
Speak to her of me, lead her to think of me, tell her what deeds I have
done with thy Rajah--I am with him in them--and sing her our country
ballads. I tell thee, girl, if thou doest all this, it will gain her."

"Never, brother, never; she has no heart for thee. She shuddered
yesterday when I spoke of thee. I saw her--I could not be mistaken. Her
heart is with the gods, in her books, cold and dead. O brother, think
not of her! What can I do?"

"Is it so, sister?" he said sneeringly. "Then she must be awakened, and
that dead heart gain new life; Radha, thou must do it, thou!--else"--he
felt the girl shivering as he grasped her arm, and shook her
savagely--"else, wilt thou be long here? Would this Shastree keep thee
one hour in his house if he thought, much less if he knew, thou hadst
been married before, girl? Yes, married before! Ah, that touches thee!
And listen more, if my affair is not furthered he shall know it. What
if he cast thee out? Thou canst go to the temple like Tara; thou canst
go to him--to Sivaji--but thou wilt be a reproach and an outcast.
Choose!--to be happy as I have placed thee, or as I have said. One or
other, girl! the last, and what I have risked for thee--what I have
done for thee--will be repaid. O sister! what Sivaji Rajah is to thee,
a burning thought day and night, so Tara is to me, and more. Dost thou
hear?"

"I--I," gasped the terrified girl, "I hear--I hear. O brother,
be not cruel, do not destroy me; or, if thou wilt, one blow of
thy knife--now--now--here," and she bared her breast. "It will be
mercy--strike!"

"Poor fool," said Moro Trimmul, "I would not harm thee. Go, remember
what I have said, and do as I tell thee. If she be in the same mood
when I return, why then----Go," he continued, interrupting himself, "I
can wait no longer. Fear not, my blessing is on thee," and he put his
hands on her head. "For his sake, my lord, my prince and thine, thou
shalt come to no harm. Go!" And saying this he put her gently away from
him into the court, closed the door, and easily climbing the low wall,
dropped into the street beyond.

"One thing more ere the night passes," he said, as he walked rapidly
through the deserted streets to the house they had lived in, near the
Shastree's: "if she is there, well; if not, I must seek her. What she
wanted must have been brought ere this."

"She is within, master," said a man sitting at the gate, with a black
blanket round him, who spoke ere Moro Trimmul could ask; "she has been
here an hour or more; and here are some things the sonar brought this
evening when you were absent."

"Good," said the Pundit, passing in; "see that no one enters."

The man laughed. "It is too late, master, now. No one will come. Are we
to leave early?"

"Tell them to bring the horses at daylight," he replied; "we will get
on to Darasew before noon. We must be at Thair before night. Is all
prepared?"

"Yes, the saddle-bags are packed, and Bheema and myself remain; all the
rest went with the lady Sukya."

"Then go and sleep, for we have a long journey to-morrow. I do not need
thee. Give me the key of the court door. I can lock myself in, and I
shall be awake long before you in the morning."

He entered the court and locked the gate behind him. A lamp was burning
in a recess of the verandah, and its light fell upon the figure of the
girl Gunga, who had covered herself with a sheet, and, most likely
weary with waiting for him, had fallen asleep. She did not hear him;
and as he had left his shoes by the side of the outer door, there was
no noise whatever from his bare feet.

Moro Trimmul stood over her, and, as he did so, she moved uneasily in
her sleep, turned and said something; he could not catch the words.
Then some cruel thoughts passed suddenly through his mind. Gunga knew
too much; a blow of his knife would silence for ever all chance of
disclosure of what had been done for Radha; the gold he had to give her
would be saved. There was a large well or cistern behind the house;
the wall of the back-yard hung over it; it was a place where the women
of the town washed their clothes, and was so held to be unclean. That
would hide her. A Moorlee? What Moorlee had not jealousies and strifes?
Who would care for her? And he drew the dagger and stood over her in an
attitude to strike.

Why he hesitated he could never tell; certainly it was not from fear.
Perhaps some lingering feeling of compassion for one so young--perhaps
the memory of some caress--stayed the blow for an instant, for he did
not strike. The light fell full on her eyes and face as she turned, and
she smiled and awoke suddenly.

"I dreamed of thee, beloved," she said, stretching out her arms to
him, "and thou art here----But why the knife?" she continued, quickly
sitting up, as the light gleamed on the blade. "Moro!--I--I--I--fear
thee; why dost thou look at me so? Ah!" and she covered her eyes with
her hand, expecting death.

"Only to cut these strings," he said, with a hard laugh, recovering
himself and dividing the cord which was tied round the paper containing
the gold anklets. "Look, Gunga!" and he held them up to the light, and
shook them till the little bells on them clashed gently.

"Thou art good," she said, looking up as he held them above her, still
shaking them; "they are very, very beautiful, but thou wilt not give
them to me, for thou hast not got Tara. Ah! thou hast just come from
her, and wilt not give them. Go! go back to her."

"But my sister is her father's wife, and these are heavier than Tara's.
I have not broken faith with thee, Gunga," he replied, "nor my oath at
the Pâp-nâs temple. Take them--they are thine henceforth. And now wilt
thou go with me, Gunga? I have prepared a horse for thee, and Bheema
can walk."

"To the end of life," cried the girl, who had risen to her knees to put
on the anklets, and who now clasped his feet,--"to the end of life!
Kill me if thou wilt, Moro Trimmul, who would care? It would be no pain
to Gunga."




CHAPTER IX.


A thick heavy rain was falling, which had lasted nearly all day without
intermission, and the afternoon was now advanced. The sky was one
uniform tint of dark grey, in which, near the horizon, some yellowish,
lurid colour occasionally appeared. Dark masses of cloud came up slowly
from the south-west at times, causing a deeper gloom as they passed
overhead, accompanied by bursts of rain, which sometimes fell in
sheets, deluging the ground, and dashing up muddy spray from the soft
earth. The air was stifling; and there was a strong sulphurous smell
with the rain, which increased the disagreeable effect of the close,
hot atmosphere. Sometimes a gentle breeze, hardly sufficient to give
the rain a slanting direction, arose, and felt refreshing; but as the
heavy clouds passed, it died away, and the rain fell perpendicularly
again, with a constant monotonous plash, which, coming from a wide
plain, sounded like a dull roar.

Little could be seen of the plain itself; for not only was the rain too
thick to allow of any distance to appear definitely, but there was a
steamy mist rising from the previously heated earth, which increased
the already existing dimness and gloom. Sometimes a few trees in the
vicinity, which appeared tall and ghostly in the grey light and thick
air, stood out more in detail as the rain slackened for a while, and
seemed to give promise of breaking; and on these occasions two villages
became dimly visible; one of them nearly a mile distant, the other
perhaps half a mile farther, situated to the right and left of what,
in dry weather, was a well-beaten road-track, but which could only now
be known as such, by being bare of grass, and by the slightly raised
banks, covered here and there by low bushes, which bounded it.

The place we are about to describe occupied the summit of a small
eminence, below which, in a valley watered by a rivulet, was a
village surrounded by tall crops of grain, now coming into ear,
mingled with fields of cotton, as yet very low, and pulse, and other
cereals, generally about waist-high. This difference in the height
of the crops left the valley comparatively open; and the road-track
could be followed by the eye, whenever the mist and rain cleared a
little--through the fields to the gate of the first village, before
which there was an open piece of ground, past a small Hindu temple
surrounded with trees, and up a slight ascent beyond, to a plain, along
which it continued, till it disappeared among the tall jowaree fields
and other cultivation of the next village. These two villages were
called the greater and less Kinny.

The valley, or hollow, was little more than a descent in the undulation
of the country; but, when the rain fell heavily at the nearer village,
so as almost to conceal it, the effect from the eminence we describe
was, as though it were actually deep and broad; and then also the
farther village, with its trees, appeared distant, and sometimes was
not visible at all. Thus alternating, as sometimes plainly in view, and
at others not to be seen, these villages appeared to be objects of deep
interest to three men, who occupied the spot we have just mentioned.
Occasionally, and as the rain cleared a little, one or other of them
would proceed to the top of a heap of stones near at hand, and look
anxiously along the line of road, past the fields and the open space
before the gate of the first Kinny, up the ascent beyond, and over the
plain to the second; and there were moments when a man on horseback
might easily have been descried even at the further village, certainly
at the second, or between them, had such a person been upon the road;
but no one appeared.

The spot was remarkable as the highest point for a long distance either
way upon the road-track; and indeed, had the day been clear, a large
extent of country could have been seen from it in all directions. Now,
however, the view was very limited; and on the opposite sides from
the two villages nothing could be seen but a plain, thinly covered
with grass and bushes, and strewn thickly with black stones, which,
uncultivated as it was for miles, looked doubly desolate through the
misty air, being partially covered with pools of water of a yellowish
brown colour, the result of the present rain. Over this plain, three
roads or paths diverged from the place the men occupied. The main
track, which had the appearance of being somewhat beaten, was broader
than the others, and led westward to the town of Allund, about six
miles distant,--the others to villages from two to four miles to the
south and west.

The plain was, as we have said, very stony, and at the place we allude
to, the heap of stones had been formed gradually by travellers who,
coming from all sides, took up one from the path, and threw it, with
a prayer to the local divinity, upon the pile. This had been done, no
doubt, for centuries; still the stones upon the path appeared as thick
as ever, and sorely impeded and harassed all travellers, whether on
foot or horseback.

Over this heap of stones grew a large banian, and close to it several
scraggy neem trees; a peepul, too, had once existed, but was dead. Part
of the trunk and one large branch remained standing, white and dry, and
a portion of another lay on the ground, from which chips of firewood
had been cut from time to time. It looked as if it had been struck with
lightning, which, indeed, was not improbable, as several branches of
the banian were scathed and riven, probably from the same cause. Of
all these trees, however, the banian or "burr," as it is called in the
language of the country, was most remarkable.

Not possessed of the luxuriant foliage common to this tree in other
places, probably because the soil was too poor and rocky, its huge
gnarled boughs were bare of small branches and leaves; some were naked
and actually withered, others apparently so, and all stretched their
white gaunt arms into the sky, with a wild and ghastly effect against
the leaden grey of the clouds. In process of the centuries of its
existence, several boughs had become detached from the parent trunk,
and were upheld by stems which had once been pendant roots, and had
struck into the ground. These portions, if anything more bare, and more
gnarled and twisted than the parent tree, rose loftily into the air,
and with the same effect we have already noticed.

The larger boughs and stems were full of holes, which sheltered a
numerous colony of small grey tree owls, whose bright yellow eyes
stared from behind large boughs, and out of crevices in the trunks, or
from among the ornaments of the roof of the temple below; while they
kept up a perpetual twittering, as if they conversed together, which
indeed perhaps they did. On hot bright days lizards, large and small,
crept out of crevices and basked in the sun; and among them a family
of huge black ones, with bright eyes and scarlet throats, which they
inflated as they appeared to swell with importance. Shepherd boys
believed these to be evil spirits, and if they were brave, pelted them
with stones, or if otherwise ran off, as one of them issued forth and
looked about curiously.

Some large holes, too, near the top of the tree, contained great horned
owls, which, if attracted by any noise, sat, with stupidly-grave aspect
and wide saucer-eyes, looking down upon the road--the tufts of feathers
over their ears alternately erected and depressed--till they flew out
with a loud hoot to look for some more undisturbed retreat. These owls,
great and small, with the lizards, had the tree, for the most part, to
themselves. Probably there was not enough foliage to tempt other birds
to rest there; for except an occasional wandering flock of chattering
parroquets, mynas, or green pigeons, none frequented it by day. By
night, however, it was otherwise: for it was then the roosting-place
of the vultures, eagles, and other carrion birds of the district, with
whom the owls did not apparently interfere.

At the back, partly behind the parent tree and the heap of stones,
was a small and evidently ancient Hindu temple, consisting of one
chamber and a porch. The chamber was not much larger than sufficed to
contain the image, and allow a priest to officiate before it in case
of necessity, and was too low to admit of a man's standing upright.
The porch, which was supported in front by two roughly-hewn stone
pillars, was somewhat larger; and the three men we have mentioned,
were enabled to sit in it comfortably, protected from the rain. The
doorway was narrow and low, and the inside of the chamber was dark; but
a small Phallic emblem could be seen within set upon a low altar, and
a rudely-sculptured stone bull, in a sitting posture, had originally
been placed before the porch facing the image. The temple, image, and
bull showed that the grove had been originally dedicated to Siva, or
Mahadeo, in the form of that ancient "pillar and calf" worship so fatal
to the Israelites of old, and which for them possessed so strange a
fascination.

The temple was deserted, and, except on the annual festival of the god,
when some priest from a neighbouring village swept out the chamber,
brought a light to burn before the image, poured the usual libations,
and hung a few garlands of jessamine and marigold flowers over it,
no one ever came with intent to worship, and the place was utterly
neglected. Last year's garlands were now but dry brown leaves hanging
to a cotton thread; the chamber was dirty, and strewn with dead leaves;
the stone bull in front was overthrown, and lying on its side, and
even in bright sunshine the place presented a melancholy, deserted
appearance. Sometimes, in the heat of the day, village lads, in charge
of goats and cattle, would meet there, but only in lack of other
shelter from the sun; for indeed the spot had an evil reputation, and
not without reason.

It is not surprising that it was believed to be the resort of
malignant spirits which love to dwell in such places, and of tricksy
and mischievous sprites which inhabited the large holes in the old
trunks, sharing them with the owls and lizards that lived there: vexed
travellers' horses, causing them to cast shoes in the stones, or led
wayfarers astray, especially at night, among the many paths over the
stony plain--or bewitched cows and buffaloes, and dried up their milk.
So, ofttimes, shepherds came with flowers, and poured libations of milk
and curds, after a rude fashion, over a few large stones which lay
among the gnarled roots of the great tree, and had been placed there as
devoted to the local divinities--Fauns and Dryads--and therefore held
in rude reverence; and these, on such occasions, were smeared with red
or black powder in a kind of deprecatory worship.

It was not for these reasons alone that the place was dreaded; it
had, from other causes, even a worse reputation. It was notorious as
the place of meeting for most of the gang robberies in the country;
for assemblies of parties of highway robbers, and the distribution of
stolen property. Watchmen on village towers at night, sometimes saw
fires twinkling about the temple, and well knew the cause of them;
and shepherd boys next day found rude clay crucibles and extinguished
charcoal fires in one place where the trunk was hollow at the root of
the tree, and thus knew that gold and silver had been melted there at
night.

Murder, too, had been done there. On one occasion, not very long ago,
several fresh corpses had been found in the old well barely concealed
by leaves and bushes; and, more recently, a body found lying on
the road had been dragged from the line of one village boundary to
another--for several boundaries of village lands diverged from that
spot--to escape the king's fine, till it was eaten by vultures and
hyenas, and the bones lay and bleached under the great tree for many
a day, to the terror of all wayfarers. In short, the place was thus
esteemed evil for many reasons; and whether villagers or travellers
came past it by any of the roads over the plain, or from the two
Kinnys, alone or in company, they hurried past the temple, breathing a
spell or prayer against the ghosts and spirits which dwelt in it, and
heartily wishing themselves safe beyond its precincts.




CHAPTER X.


The three persons who were sheltering themselves in the porch of the
temple had apparently no apprehensions. Each in turn, throwing a
coarse black blanket about him, mounted the heap of stones and looked
eagerly toward the villages and along the line of road. The others
sat together, rolling up leaves of the banian tree from time to time,
which they filled with tobacco from their pouches, and smoked as fast
as made. All three were heavily armed with long straight swords with
solid basket-handles, from which a spike projected below the hilt,
enabling the wearer to use his weapon double-handed, as well as to
protect the wrist; shields of stout hide, with brass bosses, hung at
their backs, and daggers of different forms were in their girdles. In
the chamber of the temple their three matchlocks leaned against the
wall--two being ordinary ones with long bright barrels, the other short
and handsomely inlaid with gold, evidently of superior value to the
others. The men wore their large crooked powder-horns, and bullet-bags,
with tinder-boxes, attached to soft leather waist-belts, and their
priming-horns, hung to the breast-buckles of their sword-belts, of buff
leather. The matchlocks were ready for instant use; for the matches
were lighted, and the smoke, from the match-ends, and that of a small
fire made of dried twigs, filled the chamber and issued from the door.

The two men who were sitting in the porch--one had just gone and
taken post again upon the stones--were stout square-built fellows,
of dark-brown complexion, with peculiarly round powerful shoulders,
which gave them almost the appearance of deformity. They wore coarse
cotton tunics and tight drawers, which reached to the knee, leaving
the lower part of the legs bare, and showing them to be sinewy and
well exercised by constant travel. They had not removed their sandals,
which were strong and studded with large-headed nails, and, as they
sat together, the resemblance in figure was very striking. They were,
in fact, twin-brothers, and, being Mahrattas, had been named, as is
usual, Rama and Lukshmun, after the popular heroes of the Mahabarut.
Even in features there was a strong resemblance; but the expression of
the elder, Rama, was as gloomy, if not savage, as that of the younger,
Lukshmun, was cheerful and good-natured.

The brothers had been long silent, and the third person, who, with a
heavy black blanket thrown over his head, had been sitting for some
time upon the stones, got up and returned to the porch as a fresh
cloud passed overhead, accompanied by heavier rain than before,
which gradually shut out the village and road from his view, shook
the wet from the blanket, and stood looking gloomily at the sky and
the torrents of water which were running off the ground towards the
declivity of the eminence. There was a great contrast between this
person and the others in every respect, and he merits, perhaps, a
separate description.

Though young, he was evidently the leader of the party, and his
comparatively fair complexion and regular features, as well as the
caste-mark on his forehead, showed him to be a Rajpoot, descended
from those emigrants from Northern India whom military service, even
at that period, had tempted from Oude and Delhi to the remote Dekhan.
In stature, as in powerful make, he much exceeded his companions, and
his carriage was soldierlike and graceful. He wore a quilted tunic of
what had once been gay red "mushroo," the strong satin of the country,
but now stained and frayed; long tight drawers, turned up to the
calf; a dark red turban, of fine texture, jauntily cocked aside, its
gold thread end being turned back over the top; and his powder-horn,
bullet-bag, and shield, as well as a little gold embroidery upon his
sword-belt, all of a better quality than the others, with a fine
single pearl ear-ring--proved him to be as much superior to them in
rank, as his expression and deportment were in intelligence.

Gopal Singh, for such was his name, was, in truth, decidedly
good-looking. Large black eyes, full of light, a prominent nose, bushy
whiskers, very neatly trimmed, and a small moustache twisted upwards
into close curls at the corners of a mouth delicately formed and almost
effeminate in character when relaxed, but which, when the lips were
compressed, seemed full of deep expression both for good and evil,--the
chin, clean-shaved and prominent, betokening firmness,--all combined
to form a countenance in which decision and energy were evident; but,
in spite of his good features, their general expression was repellant,
expressing cruelty and lawlessness of no common order.

"He will never get across the Benathoora to-day, my friends," he said,
stepping into a dry corner of the porch and sitting down; "and we have
a weary journey to Itga before us in this mud; yet I dare not face the
master, my uncle, without some news of him."

"Maharaj," replied Rama, respectfully, folding his hands--"Great
prince"--by which title (an ordinary one of respect), or that of
Jemadar, Gopal Singh was usually addressed by them--"I know the
Benathoora, and she will not come down before night; and if it be true
that the man left Kullianee yesterday, there is plenty of time for him
to be here by sunset. Depend upon it, he will make for Allund to-day,
and there will have been no deep mud for some hours after he left.
Couldst thou see nothing on the road?"

"Nothing, Rama. At one time I thought I saw him at the gate of the
village yonder, but as the rain cleared off, it was only some cattle
going in; then the mist closed up the view, and I could see no more,
and came away. By Krishna, but this rain is something to see! I
question whether he could cross the nulla down there before Kinny, it
seems filling so fast."

"Ah! he can ford it well enough if he is bent on coming," said
Lukshmun, "and he could not stop at either village, for I told the
Gowra this morning, if a stranger came, to send him on with a guide,
and to shut the gate if he wanted to stop. So, if he left Kullianee
yesterday, he ought to have come a good distance before night; and if
he started again this morning, there is no river, or nulla, between to
stop him but the Benathoora, and that will be fordable till midnight,
even with heavier rain than this. He would not stay for the rain to
clear?"

"He must have left it," returned the Jemadar; "he dared not stay there.
One of old Lukmun Geer's disciples was to accompany him to a village
half-way to Allund yesterday, and send him on from thence with guides
from village to village. We offered escort, but he would take no
one--the fellow was suspicious."

"Then he is quite safe, Maharaj. The guides may plague him; but if he
started under injunctions from the old Bawa's disciple, he will be
passed on carefully," returned Rama.

"I hope he is, brothers. I would not lose our chance of the gold he has
for something--nor indeed of himself."

"Gold! Jemadar," cried both eagerly, in a breath.

"Yes, my friends; good royal mohurs, I know; for the day before
yesterday he rested at the Gosai's Mutt, and had a Hoondee cashed in
the shop. It was a goodly pouchful, I know, and it will come to us if
we wait patiently."

Gopal Singh lighted some tinder with his flint and steel, and then a
leaf cigarette, as we may call it, and began to smoke in silence which
was only broken by the dripping of the rain from the porch of the
temple and the tree, the general plash over the plain, and the loud and
continuous croaking of the frogs in the pools and puddles.

The Jemadar first broke silence. "Some one must look again," he
continued, after a while; "and it is brighter now. Go thou, Lukshmun,
take the blanket and sit close."

"It is not weather to turn out a dog," muttered the man, sulkily,
getting up and stepping down from the porch; "but I will go, Maharaj,
if it is your order. Shall I go on to Kinny," he continued, "and see
if I can get tidings of him? Better that than sitting up there like a
drenched scarecrow in a field."

"Good, brother, go! Try the nulla before you venture into the middle of
it, lest it be too strong for you," said Rama.

"And wait there for a time," added the Jemadar. "If he do not arrive
before night thou canst bring some flour, ghee, and sugar from the
Patel; for if we are to watch here all night we had need to eat, and
I must make some bread; but if the man comes, bring him on--he will
be well-mounted and will not fear the nulla, and thou canst invent
something about going back to Allund on urgent business."

"Trust me for that, Jemadar. If I have an ugly face I can speak soft
words when I choose, and I know enough of the camp language to make
him understand. Now, I am going." So saying, he doubled the blanket in
a peculiar manner, so as to form a cloak, threw it over his head and
shoulders, and folded the sides tightly about him; then taking off his
sandals, which he carried in his hand, he strode away in the rain, as
rapidly as the mud would admit.

"Take care of the thorns in the lane near the village; put on your
sandals there: we can't have you troubling us with a Bábool thorn in
your foot," shouted the Jemadar.

Lukshmun turned round and nodded his assent, and continued as before.
They watched him silently till he disappeared over the brow of the
eminence, when Rama said to his companion, "What if they have sent the
man on by the other road, or warned him, Jemadar?" There was another
road which passed about half a mile to the south of where they sat.

"He dare not, Rama; by his soul he dare not," replied the Jemadar,
with flashing eyes and distended nostrils. "Do you think he would dare
my uncle's vengeance? does he wish his cattle to be harried by Pahar
Singh, and his village burnt?"

"Perhaps not; and it would be likely enough to happen, Jemadar," said
Rama, laughing; "and, I suppose, we should have to come to do it. But
what is to be done with the man?--That?" and he pointed significantly
to the old well with his thumb.

"O no, Rama," returned the other, laughing in his turn. "Nothing of
that kind, now. The man himself is precious, why, the uncle knows, and
some more of them, though they have not told me. I only hope he will
not make a fight of it and get hurt."

"Then we could not help it, of course, Jemadar."

"No, indeed, friend. But we are three to one, and he is only a
Mutsuddee after all--not a man of war--he will be quiet enough, I dare
say."

"Well, if I am to say the truth, Maharaj, I am glad of it," returned
Rama. "It is all very well to kill people in a fair foray, or if
anybody will fight in a Durôra, one's blood is up, and it does not
matter; but, somehow or other, the last affair here was not agreeable,
and ever since I have not liked the place at night. We need not add
to the people that lie yonder," and he pointed over his shoulder to a
corner of the tree, "unless, indeed, it is to be, then of course we
can't help it."

"Nor I either, Rama. It is only pleasant here when there are fifty
or sixty good fellows assembled, and the gold and silver are boiling
in the pots yonder. I don't like this new business as well as the
old----By Gunga, what a flash!"

Indeed the flash of lightning, which caused both to start to their
feet, was nearly blinding. Without warning, except by the passage of
another dark cloud above, it had fallen on part of the old tree which
was separate from the rest--a branch supported by two roots which
had struck into the ground--and had riven away part of it, which
fell across the mound of stones with a loud and heavy crash, and was
followed by a cracking peal of thunder, so loud and so near that the
men involuntarily put their hands to their ears.

"It would have killed him if he had been on the stones," said Rama, who
first spoke, as the peal, spreading itself over the heavens, was dying
into deep growls in the distance. "By all the gods! was there ever such
thunder?"

"It will break up the clouds, perhaps," returned the Jemadar, "and this
rain will then stop. Yes, it was a narrow escape, indeed, and we may be
thankful he went. It is a good omen for us, Rama!"

"I vow a rupee to be inlaid in the floor of the temple of Dévi,
at Tooljapoor, and to feed twenty-four Brahmuns," said the man,
reverently. "Yes," he added, looking up and over the plain, "I think it
will break up before sunset."

But we must follow the spy on his double errand, while the pair, who
still converse, speculate upon the probable issue of it, smoke by
turns, and long for a break in the rain. And there is another person,
too, who must needs be looked after on his journey hitherward.




CHAPTER XI.


A stout serving-man was holding a powerful grey horse, which, well,
if not handsomely, caparisoned, stood neighing loudly before the door
of an ordinary house in the main street of Surroori, a small village
nearly midway between the towns of Kullianee and Allund, as a person
within, evidently of a superior class, was girding up his waist with a
shawl, and otherwise preparing himself for a day's journey. Of middle
stature, thin but well-proportioned, with a light bamboo-coloured
complexion of a pale cast, and a slight habitual stoop, the man seemed
unaccustomed to rough exertion; and the sword he had just fastened into
his waist-belt, along with an ivory-handled poniard and knife, was
apparently more for ornament than for use--such a one as might be used
at court, or by a boy,--not the weapon of a soldier.

The man's face was clean shaven, except a long moustache, which
drooped very much at the corners, and the features were by no means
ill-favoured. A first glance showed an expression of much intelligence,
mingled, however, as you looked further, with much cunning. The eyes
were small, deep-set under bushy eyebrows, and of a light grey; the
nose high and aquiline, but broad across the nostrils, and hung
over the moustache in a peculiar manner; the forehead was wrinkled
into furrows by habitual elevation of the eyebrows; and, as far as
the upper part of the face was concerned, it had an appearance of
firmness, which the lower portion belied; for the mouth, drawn up at
the corners in a constant and apparently hypocritical attempt to smile,
was evidently performing an office foreign to its intention; and the
chin, which suddenly retreated into a somewhat bony throat, had no
character but decided weakness, if not, indeed, actual cowardice and
deceit. Thus, the whole features wore a restless, suspicious, and
hypocritical expression, which, most likely, was a true indication of
the possessor's mind.

Lalla Toolsee Das was not a native of the Dekhan, but had served for
the last two years, or nearly so, in the Dufter, or Record Office of
the Emperor Aurungzeeb. The Lalla had been sent from Delhi to his
uncle, who was in the Emperor's service: and, having given proofs of
ability as a Persian scholar, he had been appointed to a confidential
situation about the Emperor himself. What use the Lalla had made of his
position will appear hereafter, as also why he now undertook a long
journey alone, in a strange country, and at an inclement season of the
year. Meanwhile we have only to describe his progress, which, so far as
the weather is concerned, appears uncertain.

The Lalla had risen early, bathed, breakfasted, and packed his
saddle-bags. He had looked out several times since morning, but always
with the same result as to the sky, which continued of a dull, leaden
grey, with occasional rain. There was no wind, it was close and hot,
and his host, an old Byragee, who was a lay monk of the Mutt, or
monastery, at Kullianee, which the Lalla had left the day before, was
persuading him to remain. But the indifferent night's rest he had
endured from the venomous mosquitoes, the moaning of a cow over a
new-born calf, and other noises from cattle and goats,--from the women,
who ground at the mill so early in the house, singing a discordant
Canarese song--and, above all, his personal anxiety to proceed,--have
weighed against the weather.

"Ah, my poor Mootee," said the Lalla, as he heard his horse neigh,
"thou wilt have a hard day of it, I fear, in the mud. How far didst
thou say it was, Bawa Sahib?" he continued to his host.

"It is six coss, by our reckoning here, by one road--seven or eight by
the other," replied the Byragee, "which, in the coss you are accustomed
to in Hindustan, will be ten one way, and thirteen the other."

"And you recommend the longest road, Bawajee?"

"Well, sir, it is as you please. You will have somewhat less mud and
stones by the upper road than by the lower--that is all."

"Ah, friend," continued the Lalla, as we shall call him, "four coss
more at the end of a hard day is not pleasant, and so the less the
better. Let me see; here is my route. Ah, Kinny, little and great; I
suppose I can rest at either if I like, though I should prefer getting
on to the worthy Fathers' Mutt at Allund."

"Certainly," replied the old man; "but do not stop at Kinny, if you
can help; and, above all, do not shelter yourself at the temple on the
hill, under the 'Burr' tree. Ah, yes, there will be heavy rain to-day,
Lallajee, for it is so hot," he continued, looking up at the clouds,
now deepening into fringes of black here and there; "you had better
stay."

"No, Bawa, I must go on; and if it rains I can't help it. But about the
tree," the Lalla continued; "I suppose there are sprites and devils in
it as usual; and, to say the truth, I am not afraid of them. A man
that always lives among soldiers, you know, gets brave."

"Indeed," returned the Byragee dryly. "O, of course! But take my
advice, and when you change guides at Kinny, ask them to send you by
the south road; it's--it's the best, and some bad places are avoided.
But here is the Patel," he added, as that functionary, emerging
from his doorway opposite, with a striped blanket over his head and
shoulders, saluted the Lalla with a loud "Numascar Maharaj!" "He will
direct the guide himself, Lallajee, which will insure a speedy and safe
journey."

They followed the Patel through the village, which, under the steadily
increasing rain, looked sufficiently wretched to deter any one from
staying, who had not urgent necessity for doing so. This was not
the Lalla's predicament; and he now unfastened a large thick felt
travelling-cloak from the pommel of his cloth saddle, put it over his
head, and wrapped it around him so as to cover his legs, which were
protected by long, soft, Persian riding-boots.

Few people were astir. Under shelter of the house-walls the dogs had
assembled in groups, and, standing with their tails between their legs,
barked at the stranger as he passed. Pigs and fowls, being disturbed
by his horse, ran to and fro, with noisy grunt and cackle. Some cattle
stood together in parties near their owners' houses, a heavy steam from
their nostrils ascending into the thick air, and broke the silence by
an occasional hoarse low. Here and there a stout motherly dame, with a
child seated astride on her hip, and others hanging about her, stood,
nothing abashed, at her house door, looking at the Lalla as he passed;
or a farmer, with his blanket cast over his head, smoking his morning
cigarette, lounged under shelter of his own eaves, and exchanged a
morning greeting with the Patel. The spouts of terraced houses were
beginning to run fast, and small streams of water were already making
their way through the mud.

In the gateway were two or three "jowans," or young men, who watched
and guarded it, and acted as messengers. One of these was sent for a
guide, and the party stayed under shelter till he arrived, when the
Lalla and his bundle were formally made over to him, to be delivered up
at the next village, about two miles distant; and finally, the Lalla
mounted.

"Don't forget the south road from Kinny," said the Byragee, wishing him
a good journey, as the Lalla, making his parting salutation, rode out
of the gateway.

"Who is that?" asked the Patel. "You kept him mighty close in your Mutt
last night."

"I don't know," returned the other; "but he goes on the government
business to Beejapoor, and you know the order which came with him. I
suppose it is some secret matter, else he would have had an escort."

"Well, he is gone, whoever he is," said the Patel; "and I would rather
he travelled than I, even on that good beast of his, to Allund, to-day.
It is going to rain badly--but it will do the grain good." And so they
fell to talking of their farms, and the prices of grain at the last
market, while the Lalla and his guide proceeded onward.

If the Lalla could have understood his guide, the way might have been
beguiled by pleasant gossip of the country round; but of the vernacular
of that part of the country he was profoundly ignorant, and every
attempt he made in the "Oordoo," or court language, was met with a curt
"Tillid-illa"--"don't understand"--or an occasional very expressive
pantomimic action on the part of the guide, who, looking back,
sometimes pointed to the bundle on his head, then to the rain, and
again tapped his own stomach, or stuffed his fingers into his mouth,
conveying the intimation that he expected to be well rewarded, and was
very hungry. Thus the next village was reached, the first guide was
dismissed with a little extra gratuity, and the Lalla again proceeded
with a fresh one.[5]

The ranges of low hills crossed from time to time had been stony but
firm ground, and as yet Motee had not suffered. The dreaded river,
which might have cut him off from Allund, was now behind him; and,
after ascending a small eminence, and a wide plain appeared before
him, our traveller congratulated himself on a speedy arrival at his
destination, having, as he considered, got over at least one half of
his journey.

Very soon, however, the rough, stony path changed into one which at
times was difficult to discern at all. The plain over which the road
now lay was cultivated as far as could be seen, but the fields were as
yet unsown. Step after step the mud appeared deeper, the stones in it
more numerous and slippery; and, in fact, after about a mile, during
which the rain had fallen more heavily than ever, the plain appeared
covered with water, which could not run off, and the black soil of the
road and fields to have turned into liquid mud, barely able to support
the stones which lay so thickly upon it. So long, too, as the rain had
not penetrated far below the surface, Motee's feet had at least the dry
earth to rest upon; but now not even that remained, and yet the gallant
horse struggled on, snorting, and occasionally plunging, but evidently
becoming wearied by efforts which had no respite. Still the guide led
on, sometimes by the road-track, sometimes by its grassy banks, and
again leaving both, struck into other paths through the fields which
promised firmer footing.

The rain continued to pour in torrents: indeed, it was more than ever
violent: and a flash of blinding lightning, followed by a roar of
thunder before them, promised worse weather. Poor Motee even winced,
evincing a strong determination to turn round and set his tail to it;
but a few words of encouragement from his master, and being led a few
paces by the guide, restored his temper, and he proceeded gallantly.

At the junction of two roads, the guide paused for a moment. One, it
was clear, led to a village they had seen for some time past, the trees
of which loomed large and heavy through the thick air, but it appeared
out of direction of the path. The Lalla's stock of Canarese was simply
nothing--of Mahratta not much more; but the name of his destination
was, at least, intelligible. "Allund," he said, holding out a rupee
between his finger and thumb, "Allund!"

The guide grinned as he took the coin. "Allund!" he returned
affirmatively, and striking into a path to the right, the Lalla could
see that, by avoiding the village to the left, the road led apparently
in the direction of what looked like a clump of trees standing out
against the sky. Was that the banian tree of which he had been warned
by the old Byragee at Surroori? The Lalla's little stock of Mahratta
was again put into requisition, and the guide seemed to understand it
readily.

Yes, the village to the left was Little Kinny; that to the right,
great Kinny, and that was the "Burr" tree beyond. Good; then he had
only to avoid the tree, if that indeed were necessary. Since the peal
of thunder the rain had decreased, and a breeze was springing up in
his face, which was very refreshing. The clouds, too, were breaking,
as appeared by patches of bright fringe in the south-west. The guide
pointed to them cheerfully, as he moved on at a steady pace; for the
plain, though muddy in parts, was now not so bad as what he had already
passed. So, as our friend is likely to reach Kinny without farther
trouble, let us see what Lukshmun has been doing s

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