CHAPTER XXXIII
The next morning Razat Sing, a tall old man, leading by the hand his blind wife, presented himself at the Chandos verandah, and asked to see the Mem Sahib.
"What would you?" she demanded, in her shrill voice.
"Great lady," and he salaamed to the ground, "protector of the poor, it hath come to my knowledge that Abdul Buk—whose rope is round our necks—will do much for a word from thee."
"Aré, what nonsense is this?" she screeched, in her fluent Hindustani. "Art thou mad? What have I to do with such as thee?"
All her daughters were assembled in the verandah, listening to this conversation; the servants, too, were, as usual, within earshot.
"It is true, O! lady, they say, that thou hast done him some noble favour; therefore, will he listen to thee. We ask not much—only to remain in the old house by the old well, on the soil on which I was born. Lo! when I say we ask not much—we ask our lives. Sixty years have I toiled and striven," holding up as he spoke his worn, knotted hands; "I have not wasted my money on aught; I have gone no pilgrimages; I have held no feasts; I have fed scantily; I have worked harder than a mill bullock, but to no avail—the fruit of these hands hath gone to the money-lenders, for once, in an evil hour, I did borrow one hundred rupees. Alas, I am now in the toils of Saloo, the soucar—he groweth richer and richer as we wax poorer and poorer; and I have no son to carry on the debt—therefore am I driven forth, being old and feeble. Speak but one word, oh, great lady, and Abdul Buk will grant us our request."
As he pleaded the poor old creature, whose body was almost skeleton-like in its leanness, whose only garments were a dhoti and a ragged red turban, sobbed aloud as he went down upon his knees, and placed his head at the feet of Mrs. Chandos.
"Bah! what have I to do with Abdul Buk?" she cried, "and his affairs? Go! I mix not myself up with crops and beggars!" To avoid further importunity—and secretly startled and alarmed—she retreated indoors. The old ryot raised himself with a groan, slowly picked up his stick, took his blind wife by the hand, and with downcast head led her away in silence. They were a truly pitiful sight. Verona and Pussy whispered together. Between them they had two rupees, and with these in her hand, Pussy ran after old Razat Sing, and pressed the silver into his palm, but he seemed to be dazed with trouble, and scarcely aware of her gift.
"I know where he lives," said Pussy to Verona, "it is the old house under the big pepul tree, a mile off the Bhetapore road. Let us walk up there to-morrow morning, and take them some clothes. We will get Nani to help us."
The two girls constantly walked in the morning, but Dominga was a lie-a-bed. And now and then they were joined by Mrs. Lepell—also an early riser.
At tennis that same evening, Verona related the story of Saloo to Mrs. Lepell.
"I mean to go to see old Razat Sing, too," she declared. "My husband will give him quarters, and he can sweep up the leaves in the garden; of course, it will be a change from his home, but still it means food and shelter. If I could pay off his debt, I would, but if I began to release the poor slaves, I should never have done—I might as well try to empty the sea with a tea-spoon."
At three o'clock the next morning the three ladies set forth on their charitable errand; the two girls carried a piece of calico for a turban and a little shawl, Mrs. Lepell some rupees. On their way they were overtaken by Salwey, who, strange to say, was also about to look up the unfortunate ryot; he dismounted and walked along with Verona, his aunt and Pussy being in advance.
It was a beautiful February morning; the dew was still glistening on the grass, the air was cool, the sky blue and cloudless; presently the little party came in view of a dwelling, standing some way off the road. There was a well, an enclosed patch of garden, a ruined cart-shed, and at the back some cow-sheds. The whole place had a forlorn and dilapidated appearance, but once upon a time had evidently some pretensions to importance.
Mrs. Lepell and Verona went to the door and knocked gently—no reply. They opened it and entered; the room was bare and scrupulously clean. The fire was out; near it were some earthen pots, an iron spoon and plate; some very old harness hung on the wall; in one corner was a plough and a battered leather bucket. The inner room, into which they peeped, was dark; there they discerned a string bed, on which lay a huddled-up figure under a tattered coverlet.
Mrs. Lepell addressed this figure in Hindustani, but there was no reply. She went nearer, and turned back the comli, or blanket; the old blind woman lay with her face to the wall; she did not move when her visitor placed her hand on her shoulder, for she was quite dead. Charged with this appalling discovery, Pussy darted out to break the news to Salwey, who had been fastening up his horse. When he came in and surveyed the still figure on the charpoy, he looked very grave; then, as he led the way into the outer room, he said to the three ladies:
"Will you wait here? I will be back in a moment."
In a very short time he returned; he had an open clasp knife in his hand.
"It was as I feared," he said, "the poor old chap is dead too; he hanged himself with the well rope—I have just cut him down."
Having locked up the house of death, Salwey rode off at once to make arrangements for the inquest, while the three ladies returned home. Pussy, who was weeping bitterly, sobbed to her sister:
"You remember yesterday, Verona, what poor old Razat Sing said, 'he was asking for their lives'—it was true."
As the police officer galloped in to the cantonments he believed that he held in his hand the clue to Saloo's identity, for he had found a morsel of writing in the ragged turban of the suicide. If old Razat Sing was the means of delivering others from the usurer's yoke—he had not died in vain.