"They ought to be," he replied; "the cultivators pay about fifteen rupees an acre for cane, which in a good season produces two or three hundred rupees' worth of juice; but they are all in debt to the money-lenders."
"How is that?"
"Well, you see they have no savings or capital; they live hand to mouth. For a marriage, a birth or a funeral, they must spend largely; it is a tradition handed down for centuries; they borrow money on the coming crop, say two hundred rupees—that is fifteen pounds. For this the money-lender takes as interest, one anna per rupee per month, which is seventy per cent.; it runs up like the celebrated nail in the horse's shoe! The unfortunate ryot soon finds that the interest has trebled the original debt; in a short time the account will show that all the money due from his harvest, does not half cover the first advance! and still the interest on the debt rolls on month after month. The cultivator who once pawns his crop never gets out of the money-lender's power, but the money-lender allows him enough grain to keep the wretched man alive—who, sooner than be turned from his paternal home, becomes his bond slave for life."
"Is it not dreadful?" Verona exclaimed.
"Yes; the usurer makes enormous profits, and allows the other just what keeps soul and body together. He is careful not to kill the goose who lays the golden eggs—his manner is always most kind and sympathetic! The old story of burying money in a pot is dying out; usury has taken its place. Most of the money paid down in that office," and he nodded to the building below, "goes to them."
"Can it not be prevented in some way, Mr. Salwey?"
"I'm always trying to stop it, but with little success; there are men in the city, living at their ease, and piling up thousands, while these"—pointing to the broad expanse of cane land and the swarms of workers below—"toil."
"Usury is the ancient custom of the country," she remarked.
"So was once suttee. It is the curse of India."
"Do you know any of the money-lenders?"