‘I thought that some one else should be consulted; namely, the young lady. I was going to Amritsar ... so I resolved to have a private interview with the maiden, whose future was to be decided upon. The lovely—let’s call her X.—had returned to ——; so there I sought her, and had a tête-à-tête. I wanted to know whether she cared for B., whom she had had many opportunities of seeing from her childhood.... We had almost taken it for granted that X. must care for him.
‘Hitherto all had gone pretty smoothly. I had even thought what presents I should give, and the Weitbrechts and I had talked over the day for the wedding. But an unexpected obstacle arose. X. could make no objection to B.; I do not think that she has a thought for any other suitor; but she does not want to marry at all! “I want to read,” she said. “I wish to remain like you!”
‘This opened our eyes to a peril in the infant Church, of which you probably never would dream. Ellie and I set to counting up young maidens who are of a suitable age to become brides,—well-educated, nice girls,—and came to the conclusion that a kind of fashion is setting in not to marry. The Native delights in imitating the European. The girls see that most female Missionaries, whom they love and honour, are unmarried. They enjoy freedom.... Christian women are at a premium. Widows are eagerly sought as Bible-women....
‘Of course, I would never wish X. to marry one she does not care for. I have told her father that the matter is at an end. But he looks grave enough, and sees the peril to our Infant Church as clearly as we do. If our nice maidens scorn to marry, where are our fine, well-educated men to find Christian wives? How are girls—except in very rare cases—to work in zenanas without the care of a husband? It would be thought improper, hardly safe.
‘“The consequences are” that I have written a little book in honour of the holy estate of Matrimony; which—the new book—has had Ellie’s approval, and I am sending it to Herbert for his. What we want in India are good wives and mothers. No science or literature can make up for the lack of such.’
It was in the summer of this year that Miss Tucker mentioned in one letter a curious little scene at the railway station. She had gone there to meet a friend, who failed to arrive. Two young Native Christians happening to be present, and also a young English officer of her acquaintance, she brought them together with a kind of half introduction. When she had left the station, the officer began talking to the two, asking lightly why they had left their own religion for another. ‘It’s all the same,’ he said. ‘Muhammadans, Hindus, Christians, all know that there is One God.’ This far from brilliant remark received an answer which it well deserved. ‘If so,’ one of the Indians replied, ‘what difference is there between you, us, and the Devil?’ The train moved on, carrying the speaker away; and no more could be said. But more might have weakened the force of the retort.
A few slight memoranda, contributed by two Native Christians, come next. The first are sent by Dr. I. U. Nasir, formerly one of the boys in the Baring High School, already quoted in an earlier chapter. He speaks of himself as an adopted ‘son’ of Miss Tucker’s, not, like others a ‘nephew.’ The second set of extracts, which I give last, not because they are of inferior interest, but because I wish to accentuate one suggestion, by letting it end the chapter, are from the Rev. Mian Sadiq, at one time Indian clergyman in Amritsar, and later the same in Batala.
I.
‘Of all the India’s sons, especially those with whom she had to deal at Batala, it was my privilege to be called her “son.” She was an “Aunt” to a good many Missionaries, but only did she allow me to call her “Mother”; and she did love me as a true mother....