HAROLD’S BRIDE

Alicia’s Escape.

Harold’s Bride

A TALE

BY

A. L. O. E.,

Author of “Driven into Exile,” “Pictures of St. Peter,”

“The Shepherd of Bethlehem,”

“Exiles in Babylon,”

&c. &c.

THOMAS NELSON AND SONS

London, Edinburgh, and New York

——

1902

Harold’s Bride

“Then He did hear me!”

T. Nelson and Sons

London, Edinburgh, and New York

Preface.

Many years ago a huge panorama of a vast extent of country was exhibited in London. Of what country it was memory retains no clear impression; but I recollect a remark made by the exhibiting artist. Referring to the tints of some hills pictured in the panorama, he observed, “They ought to be natural, for I took my materials from the hills themselves.”

The artist’s remark had slight weight, for the fact that he had used pigments taken from the actual soil was no warrant for the accuracy of his delineation; but I am reminded of that remark by the circumstances under which the following tale has been written. It was not penned in some study in London, nor in some rural home in an English county; the authoress was living, as it were, surrounded by the materials needed for her picture. The old missionary came in heated and tired from the daily round in zenanas to dip her pen and write of a zenana. The materials for her touches of natural history lay, as it were, at her elbow. She might feelingly picture little inconveniences which she herself had experienced.

Such of A. L. O. E.’s readers as are already, from former volumes, acquainted with the Hartley brothers, may perhaps like to hear how they fared when they had crossed the ocean, and had entered on the mission life which they had contemplated from boyhood. It may be that the tale will be thought suitable for reading aloud at working parties in aid of missions, and that it may help to give a more vivid idea of life in some of the more isolated stations in India. But not mere amusement is in view. A. L. O. E. would fain hope that some enthusiasts, who would undertake the work of carrying the gospel to the heathen more in a spirit of romance than that of earnest self-consecration, may be led by her book to reflect on what a solemn thing it is to be “allowed of God to be put in trust with the gospel” (1 Thess. ii. 4). Some maiden, ere linking her lot to that of a missionary, may be induced to consider the responsibility attending the position of an evangelist’s wife. Something far more onerous is before her than the pleasant duty of making a cheerful home for a good man; she must share the burden, she must aid in the labour, or she is likely to prove a hindrance instead of a helpmeet. By some women, even amiable ones, this responsibility is almost ignored; but by being ignored it is not avoided. May some lesson be learned from the little weaknesses and mistakes of

Harold’s Bride.

Contents.

HAROLD’S BRIDE.

CHAPTER I
HOUSE-BUILDING.

“What’s this?—not a coolie at work; the place a litter of bricks and dust; the pillars of the veranda not a foot high! Instead of growing upwards, they seem to grow downwards, like lighted candles. The bricks also are good for nothing—chipped, broken, katcha [only sun-dried], when I gave strict orders for pakka [baked]. Cannot a fellow be absent for a week without finding everything neglected, everything at a standstill?—Nabi Bakhsh! Nabi Bakhsh!”

The call was rather angrily given, and was obeyed by a dusky, bearded man in a large dirty turban, who made an obsequious salám to Robin Hartley, after emerging from some corner where this overseer of the building works had been placidly smoking his hookah.

“What has become of the coolies? have they all gone to sleep?” cried young Hartley, in Urdu more fluent than correct. “The work seems at a deadlock, and you promised that I should find the veranda finished by my return. Do you think that we are to pay you for merely looking at rubbish like this?” Robin struck one of the bricks with his heel, and broke it to pieces.

The excuses of Nabi Bakhsh need not be detailed,—how there had been a religious feast, and of course the men could not work; then the grandmother of Karim had died, and of course every one had gone to the funeral.

“I believe that she was the fourth grandmother that has died!” exclaimed Robin, half angrily, yet half playfully, for his wrath seldom lasted for more than a minute. “Feasts, fasts, and funerals, delays and excuses, one coolie doing nothing and another helping him to do it,—it’s hard to get work finished in India. But call the men now, and let them make up for lost time. My brother and the Mem [lady] will be here in a few days, and what will they say to a mass of confusion like this?”

Nabi Bakhsh went off to call the workmen. Robin, though just off a twenty-miles walk, pulled off his jacket, and set to work himself with all the vigour which youth, health, and light spirits can give. The youth talked to himself as he laboured, being fond of soliloquizing when no one was near with whom to converse.

“Only a month to build a house in, and only one thousand rupees [less than a hundred pounds] with which to pay for bricks, mortar, and work! It’s well that the place is a small one; but big or small it won’t be ready for Harold’s bride. It’s hard on a delicately-nurtured young lady to be brought to such a bungalow as ours—two bed-rooms, one sitting-room, and a place for lumber, with three missionaries to share with her the limited accommodation. Besides, Alicia has no end of luggage. I cannot imagine where we shall stow it away. I suppose that Harold was right in marrying so soon—dear old fellow, he’s always right—but I cannot help wishing that Colonel Graham had not been starting for England till April, so that his daughter’s wedding could have been delayed till we had some corner to put her up in.”

Robin paused, wiped his heated brow, and looked up at the tiny house on which he had expended a great deal of personal labour, as well as that of urging on the coolies and bricklayers, who, whenever his back was turned, would sit down for a smoke. Robin had with his own hands made all the doors, inserting in each the four panes of glass which made it serve as a window. Robin had constructed the wooden eye-lids, as he called them, to keep off the sun from the roshandáns (upper windows), which to a novice standing outside might give the false impression that the bungalow had an upper story. Robin had trampled down into something like solidity the layer of mud on the roof, which was intended to moderate heat and keep out rain. Tiles and slates were things unknown at Talwandi. The youth was a little proud of his work, yet, as he looked up at the uncompleted dwelling, an expression of doubt, almost of dissatisfaction, came over Robin’s bright young face.

“Bricks and mud have no natural affinity to beauty,” he said, “not even to picturesqueness. As for comfort, even if we could get the veranda up and the mats down, the place would be too damp to be lived in. Poor Alicia must be content to squeeze herself into our nutshell—father and I in one room, she in the other, whilst the one sitting-room, backed, or rather fronted, by the veranda, must serve as drawing-room, dining-room, study, reception and school room, and whatever else be required. Well, happily we are not likely to quarrel any more than do double kernels in one nut.”

Robin glanced down the dusty road, bordered with ragged cactus, which led to the small native town of Talwandi, which was the head-quarters of this branch of the mission. A town it was with some dignity of its own, as it boasted not only two little mosques with domes, and a big Hindu temple with stumpy spire, but one house of some height and pretensions, domineering over some hundreds of low houses built of mud.

“I wish that father would come home,” said Robin to himself. “But he did not expect to have me back so soon, with the appetite of half-a-dozen jackals. Father had ordered nothing for himself but dál

Mr. Hartley was coming along the cactus-bordered way, a heavy bag in one hand, an open umbrella held up by the other, and a thick hat made of pith on his head. The missionary was pale, thin, and somewhat bent, with many a line on his face; but his mild countenance lighted up with pleasure as he caught sight of his son. Robin flung down his mattock, and bounding forward the youth greeted his parent with a most unconventional hug, which was as warmly though more quietly returned. Robin’s impetuous affection was more that of the child than that of a youth with down on his lip. It had often been said that Robin, with his rough curly head, his joyous spirit, and his absolute freedom from guile, would never, should he live to a patriarch’s age, be anything more than a boy.

Whilst, laughing and chatting, Robin is accompanying his father into the little house, the position of the Hartley family at the time when my story begins may be briefly described. The circle consisted of the veteran missionary and his two sons. Harold, the elder, on receiving deacons’ orders, had started to join his father on the mission-field in the Panjab. Robin, who was several years younger than his brother, had accompanied Harold, as the youth himself said, “as a kind of general helper, a Jack-of-all-trades—carpenter, blacksmith, builder, tailor, cobbler, and what not besides;” an unpaid but valuable servant to the mission. In vain the lad had been urged to complete his education in college. Robin perhaps under-estimated his own powers as a student. He compared himself to a rough knotted branch that might do well enough for a bludgeon, but could by no skill be shaped and planed into a library table. He would be a stick in Harold’s hand, and perhaps help him over rough bits of the road, or assist him to knock down some difficulty in his way. Mr. Hartley made no objection to Robin’s plans, for he yearned to have both his sons under his roof; and Harold secretly rejoiced that his own advice had not been taken, and that he should not be obliged to leave behind him a brother whom he would so greatly have missed.

After about a year of earnest preparatory work at Talwandi, Harold had gone to the city of Lahore to pass a double examination—that which mission-agents must undergo, and that which precedes admission into priests’ orders. Both examinations had been passed by the young clergyman with the highest credit. The effect of Harold’s success was immediately seen in his being urgently pressed to act as temporary chaplain to a large English congregation during the very severe illness of him to whom the office belonged. Harold had hesitated about accepting the post, being unwilling, even for a few weeks, to give up his own missionary work; but he knew that for those few weeks’ service he would be handsomely paid by Government, and money was urgently needed to start a school at Talwandi. “Not one piece shall be appropriated to my own use,” Harold had reflected. “My time belongs to the mission; but in procuring help for the school I may be serving my society even more effectually than by my personal efforts.” So Harold consented to act as chaplain.

The Rev. Mr. Cunningham’s illness lasted longer than had been expected; the weeks were prolonged into months. During this period Harold’s clerical duties brought him into close and friendly intercourse with those over whose spiritual interests he had temporary charge. The young missionary was welcomed almost everywhere, but specially in the house of Colonel Graham, an officer on the point of retiring from the Indian service. The colonel had a fair daughter, and Harold, at first almost unconsciously, found that his visits to Graham Lodge were rendering his residence in the city to him very delightful. There is no need to describe how these visits became more frequent, and how Harold increasingly felt that life would be a blank without Alicia. The young maiden, on her part, thought that she saw in Harold Hartley everything required to make her future life perfectly happy. Alicia, under a playful manner, had deep religious convictions. She loved Harold chiefly because she thought him the highest type of a Christian whom she ever had met with. His sermons refreshed her soul, and seemed to lift her into a higher, purer atmosphere than that which she had hitherto breathed. Alicia was not a worldly girl. She felt that she would rather share the humblest lot with Harold than rank and wealth with any one else.

Mr. Hartley and Robin were not a little startled one day by a letter from Harold asking his fathers consent to his suing for the hand of Alicia Graham. He had, as he wrote, already made the lady fully aware that his means were slender. Her father knew his position; there had been no concealment of his circumstances, no attempt to hide the fact that not only toil but something of hardship might be a part of missionary life. Miss Graham had said that she feared neither toil nor hardship.

“I think that Harold must have done the wooing already,” observed Robin, “before asking your consent to the suing.”

There was something like a smile on the lad’s lips as he spoke, but nothing of the usual mirth in his eyes. Robin was taken by surprise. He had never contemplated Harold’s seeking a wife. Perhaps there was a touch of pain in the idea of any one standing in a closer, dearer relationship to his almost worshipped brother than he did himself. But Robin’s frank, generous nature was not one to harbour mean jealousy.

“Because I was satisfied with his companionship, there was no reason to suppose that Harold would be satisfied with mine,” thought Robin. “I ought to rejoice that a true-hearted girl values my brother as he ought to be valued.”

Mr. Hartley did not speak for several minutes. As was usual with him, any emotion that stirred him deeply took the form of silent prayer. He then slowly reread Harold’s letter, pausing at every sentence as if to weigh its meaning. The old missionary then folded his thin hands, and said, rather as if speaking to himself than addressing Robin,—

“If He who chose Rebekah for His servant Isaac, and made her willing to share his tent, have chosen this maiden for my son, the union must and will be blessed.”

So the suing followed the wooing, and both being successful, the engagement was duly announced to the world. An early day was fixed for the wedding, on account of Colonel Graham’s approaching departure. Mr. Hartley and Robin were, of course, requested to be present at the marriage. The elder missionary not only was unwilling to leave his station without a worker, but he felt his own strength and spirits unequal to such a sudden plunge into society after years of seclusion. Robin, he said, should be his representative upon the joyful occasion.

The weeks that passed before Robin went to Lahore were very busy ones indeed to the youth. It was evident that a separate residence would be absolutely needful for Harold and his bride. Colonel Graham had given a cheque of £100 as a small contribution to the building fund, little thinking how far the trifling sum would be made to go. Mr. Hartley was generous almost to a fault, and at this time had left himself with scarcely a rupee in hand. The first weight of the pecuniary difficulty fell upon Robin, who worked early and late, but who could not, with all his energy, make one rupee do the work of five. Robin, however, worked cheerily, and marvels were performed as long as he remained on the spot; but his absence, as we have seen, caused a sudden suspension of labour. The young amateur architect returned to find that nothing whatever had been accomplished while he had been away, except in the way of a blunder or two, the effects of which he would have to repair.

CHAPTER II
AN EXOTIC.

As Robin and his father sat at the small dining-table (which the youth himself had made out of a packing-case, painting the rough wood which would not take a polish), conversation flowed freely. Robin, as usual, engrossed the larger share.

“This fowl, if somewhat tough since it was running about an hour ago, is to my mind as good as the turkey, with legs tied up with white satin ribbon, which figured at the wedding breakfast. What a display we had there!—potted tongues, potted beef, hams, creams and jellies, and a huge cake, of course, iced and covered all over with fancy designs; it was such a work of art that it seemed a shame to eat it. The bride’s health was drunk in sparkling champagne. I think that her health would have had a better chance if all the rupees gulped down to do honour to the toast had been kept to give her a better house.”

Mr. Hartley smiled and nodded assent.

“I own that I did grudge the expense,” said Robin, “when I heard the popping of so many corks. I wondered, also, what the bride would do with her elegant white satin dress in a jungle like this, with only the kites and crows to see it! If there had been simpler dressing and plainer feeding, we might have had a good third room to the little dwelling, and had the bricks pakka throughout!”

“You seem to have been pleased with your new sister,” observed Mr. Hartley; “I care less to hear of the dress than of the wearer.”

“I am more than pleased with Alicia. She has one of the sweetest faces that ever I saw, with eyes soft and large like those of a gazelle, yet sometimes sparkling with fun. Alicia’s complexion is fair, but a little too pale, except when she flushes, as she did with fright on the first evening after my arrival. She certainly has uncommonly weak nerves.”

“What caused her alarm?” asked the father.

“Oh, merely a poor little bat that, attracted by the lights, went noiselessly wheeling and circling around the room. Alicia started, trembled, put up her hands, almost screamed when the creature’s shadowy flight brought it within a foot of her head! It was difficult to keep from laughing. Then when the intruder had been expelled, Alicia asked me anxiously whether she would find many snakes at Talwandi. ‘Not till the weather is warmer,’ said I; ‘at present they keep snug in their holes.’ Alicia did not look reassured. ‘Can you not kill them?’ she asked. ‘I always do when they come within reach of my arm,’ I replied. ‘I’ll cut a stick for you to have handy if ever a snake pay you a visit.’ You should have seen her look!” continued Robin, laughing at the recollection. “I think that the snakes are in little danger from Alicia’s prowess; I doubt whether she would be a match for a baby scorpion.”

“I am sorry my new daughter is so timid,” observed Mr. Hartley: “such nervousness may cause her distress in a wild place like this—twenty miles from civilized life, and these twenty miles of the roughest of roads.”

“I wonder how much of the lady’s luggage will survive the jolting and bumping?” said Robin. “Alicia has a number of wedding presents, enough to half furnish a shop. They were all put out to be admired, and they covered three tables and, I think, two chairs besides.”

“Where shall we put them?” asked Mr. Hartley.

“A question I’ve asked myself twenty times, but I have never succeeded in finding an answer. There is a piano, too, which Alicia is to play on, and I am to tune, though I have never tuned one in my life! Some of the presents seemed to me funny. There were three silver fish-knives in satin-lined cases; but where, oh where shall we find the fish?” Robin burst into a merry laugh as he added, “If any one had consulted me as to what would be an acceptable gift, I should have suggested a big kitchen kettle or a dozen good iron spoons.”

“You must try the jhil [lake] for fish,” said Mr. Hartley.

“One clock (there were two) took my fancy,” continued Robin. “The design on the top was evidently taken from Moore’s song about the love-lorn mermaid who was in pity transformed into a harp. There was the siren as the poet described her:—

‘Her hair, dropping tears from all its bright rings,

Fell over her white arm to make the gold strings.’

I thought, if her lover had been true, and had married the mermaid, how would the lady have enjoyed her new strange life on shore? After floating about serenely on summer seas, how would the mermaid have enjoyed being jolted along in an ekká

Mr. Hartley saw that his son was not thinking alone of the fabled siren, and he observed with his quiet smile,—“Sad indeed for her to exchange her native element for another quite uncongenial, unless she were gifted with wings to raise her to one higher and purer than either water or earth.”

“I think that Alicia has such wings,” said Robin more gravely: “she seems to be truly, earnestly pious. Had she not been so, she would never have been Harold’s choice. Alicia spoke to me so nicely about helping in mission work. She has begun to read the Bible to her ayah, and has learned by heart all the first part of the parable of the Prodigal Son—in Urdu.”

“Good!” was Mr. Hartley’s laconic comment.

“Alicia speaks the language like—well, of course not like a native, nor very grammatically neither, but very fairly indeed for a lady who has been but one cold season in India, and has had only servants on whom to practise. I daresay that in time she will make herself understood even by zamindars’ bibis [wives]. Only I’m afraid she’ll have—”

“What?” inquired Mr. Hartley as his son stopped short.

“Headaches,” responded Robin.

“Many missionaries have headaches,” observed his father, who was now seldom without one.

“Yes; but some can take headaches, and other aches too, as a hunter takes a hedge: it lies in his way; he goes over it or scrambles through it, spurs on, and is in at the death. But not every one is a hunter.”

“You think, in short, that our bride has been too delicately nurtured, is of too soft a nature, too sensitive a frame, to bear the rough life which is before her?” said Mr. Hartley.

“I think that we’re transplanting an exotic which requires a glass frame,” replied Robin; “and we’ve nothing for it but a hard, rough wall, exposed to rude blasts. But I forget,” the youth continued, resuming the cheerful tone which was natural to him, “our sweet exotic will have a fine strong pillar to lean on and cling to; and with the sunshine above and the pure air around her she may—yes, and will—rise higher and higher, till she may smile down on us all.”

CHAPTER III
HAPPY DAYS.

Harold allowed himself but a brief honeymoon; but it was as bright as it was brief, especially to the young wife. The happiness of Alicia was undisturbed by the petty cares which, like musquitoes in the sunniest hours, occasionally buzzed about her husband. The very anxiety which Harold felt to shield his bride from the slightest annoyance or even inconvenience added considerably to his cares. It was he who had to think about ways and means. The young husband had believed that by economy on himself he had saved enough of rupees to supply every probable want; but expenses came on which he had not sufficiently reckoned. Both at Colonel Graham’s house, after the marriage, and at the bungalow lent by a friend of Alicia, there seemed to be no end to demands for bakhshish (tips). Khitmatgars, khansamars, chankidars, “all the others that end in ar,” and a great many others that do not, came smiling and saláming, and hailing the young bridegroom as father and mother, and nourisher of the poor, even as flies gather round honey. It was not in Harold’s nature to be stingy, especially at so joyful a time. His stock of money appeared to melt like snow; he would have barely enough, he saw, to cover travelling expenses.

Yet, after all, what were such cares when Alicia was beside him? Sometimes he forgot them altogether. When their conversation was on spiritual subjects, then, most of all, Harold realized what a treasure he had in his wife. At other times the expression of innocent joy and pleasant hopes flowed like a rippling stream from the lips of Alicia.

“We shall have a girls’ school, dearest,” she said to her husband as she sat with her hand clasped in his; “I have been taken to such nice ones by missionary ladies. I was charmed to see the rows of little girls with shining black eyes, gay chaddars, and such a quantity of glittering jewels. When I have such schools of my own I shall feel like a hen in the midst of her brood of chickens. How delightful, too, it will be to carry happiness into zenanas, to go like a welcome messenger proclaiming to captives that they are free! I do long to see the delight pictured on the dark faces of those who have never before heard the glad tidings! Oh, what a blessed lot is mine!”

Harold met with a smile the smile on the fair young face upturned towards his, yet felt that he must put some sober tints into Alicia’s bright picture.

“You must remember, my love,” he observed, “that the work in Talwandi is rather that of clearing and breaking up ground than that of reaping a harvest. You must be prepared for some difficulties in a new station like ours, which has been worked for scarcely a year. When my father was moved to the Panjab he had a new language to learn, and not one of his native helpers beside him. He has had at Talwandi very uphill and rather discouraging work.”

“Was not your father grieved to leave his old station and friends?” asked Alicia.

“Much grieved; for there were many converts, most of whom he himself had baptized. But there were circumstances which made the move advisable; and my father, without a murmur, though not without a sigh, gave up his long-cherished hope of spending his last days in his old home and amongst his own people, and being buried in the same grave as my mother.”

“I think that it was very hard to send your father away against his will!” exclaimed Alicia.

“Missionaries must have submissive wills, my love, and think nothing hard that is right.”

“Oh, it will take me a long time to learn that lesson,” cried Alicia. “Papa always let me have my own way—perhaps more than was quite good for me. Do you know,” Alicia added in a more lively tone, “when I asked Robin—playfully of course—whether I should not make a capital missionary, he was bear enough to shrug his broad shoulders and say, ‘Time will show’?”

“Robin could not flatter to save his life,” remarked Harold; “but with all his bluntness you will like him, Alicia. He has the kindest, the truest of hearts.”

“Oh, I like him amazingly!” cried the bride. “We were hand and glove from the first—only the glove is not a kid one. Robin will help to make our house the daintiest little home to be found in all the Panjab. I have quantities of pretty things, you know—pictures and beautifully-bound books. We will have a flower-garden too, and creepers all over the house. I mean it to look like a bower.”

Harold did not like to speak again of difficulties; he only remarked with a smile, “Missionaries cannot always contrive to have very elegant homes, my Alicia.”

“But I know that they have, for I have seen them. Some of the bungalows are quite charming,” said the bride.

“Probably in older stations, my love, when it is easier to gather little comforts around one.”

“Perhaps one can do without some of the little comforts, darling,” said Alicia, “when one has the greatest comfort of all!” Very tender was the bride’s tone as she added, “With you every place will be Eden to me.”

Harold fondly stroked the small clasped hands which rested so confidingly on his knee.

“I do so want to be a help to you—never a hindrance. Do you not think that missionaries’ wives, as well as their husbands, should have the missionary spirit?”

“So strongly do I feel it, my love, that I should think a worker for God a traitor to the good cause if he united himself to one in whom such a spirit is wanting.”

“Ah, you think better of your poor little wifie than does Master Robin,” said Alicia. “He copied out for me a song all about the duties of Mission Miss Sahibas. So, like a dutiful little sister, I learned it by heart, and set it to a capital old tune. Would you like to hear it? I wish that my piano were here; but it has been sent on with the heavy luggage.”

“Your voice needs no accompaniment, my love,” said Harold; “the nightingale requires no piano.”

Alicia smiled and began, in a very musical tone, a song set to the air of “The Fine Old English Gentleman.” After the first stanza Harold’s manly voice joined in the chorus, as he beat time with his foot.

MISSION RULES AND REGULATIONS.

The Mission Miss Sahibas must never complain;

The Mission Miss Sahibas must temper restrain

When sust [lazy] pankahwalas won’t pull at the cane;

Must never be fanciful, foolish, or vain.

Oh, listen ye, Miss Sahibas;

These are the Mission rules!

The Mission Miss Sahibas must furnish the brain,

Of two or three languages knowledge obtain,

When weary and puzzled must “try, try again,”—

We cannot learn grammar by legerdemain.

Oh, listen ye, Miss Sahibas;

These are the Mission rules!

The Mission Miss Sahibas should know every lane,

Climb ladder-like stairs without fearing a sprain;

Must rebuke and encourage, exhort and explain;

Dark babies should fondle, dark bibis should train.

Oh, listen ye, Miss Sahibas;

These are the Mission rules!

Let Mission Miss Sahibas from late hours refrain,

For they must rise early, and bear a hard strain,

Like vigorous cart-horses drawing a wain,

That pull well together when yoked twain and twain.

Oh, listen ye, Miss Sahibas;

These are the Mission rules!

“Just as you and I are yoked together, Harold,” said Alicia, pausing for a merry little laugh.

“I may be a cart-horse, but you are rather like a white fawn,” was Harold’s rejoinder. “Pray go on with your song; we have not yet discovered the whole range of the ladies’ duties.”

“The next verse is a funny one,” observed Alicia: “I hope that the formidable warning with which it closes is not needed by me.”

The Mission Miss Sahibas in dress must be plain;

The Mission Miss Sahibas must work might and main,

And therefore good nourishment should not disdain,

Or danger is great of their going insane!

Oh, listen ye, Miss Sahibas;

These are the Mission rules!

The Mission Miss Sahibas must topis [sun-hats] retain

To guard against sunstroke, to health such a bane;

‘Midst flies and musquitoes must patient remain;

By Mission Miss Sahibas snakes should be slain.

Oh, listen ye, Miss Sahibas;

These are the Mission rules!

The Mission Miss Sahibas should sow well the grain,

To bibis and begums [princesses] should love entertain;

Should smile and should soothe, but not flatter or feign,

And to usefulness thus they may hope to attain.

Oh, listen ye, Miss Sahibas;

These are the Mission rules!

“Bravo!” cried Harold, as the chorus was concluded; “that is no bad lesson for Miss Sahibas to learn.”

“Or Mem Sahibas either,” said Alicia laughing. “I suppose that the duties of married and unmarried are much alike, only the Mems may leave the snake-slaying to their lord and masters.”

CHAPTER IV
INDIAN TRAVELLING.

The Hartleys soon left their pleasant place of sojourn, and started on their journey towards Talwandi. The piano and large packing-cases had been sent on before by a luggage train; and Harold had arranged that a big bullock-cart should meet them at the station where the railway-line must be quitted. Nothing could be pleasanter to the young couple than the journey as long as it could be made by train, though, for economy’s sake, the carriage which they occupied was second class. The travellers were to descend at the station of Chuanwál, twenty miles from Talwandi. Harold had made every possible arrangement beforehand for the comfort of his young bride. He had secured a dák-gári (the Indian substitute for a post-chaise) in which she should accomplish the last part of the journey.

Chuanwál was reached. After helping Alicia down to the platform, and rapidly emptying the carriage of two big rolls of bedding, umbrellas, a hamper, and six or seven other articles which must on no account be left behind, Harold looked for the station-master.

“You have been good enough to lay our dák; a carriage is ready, I hope?” said Harold.

“Here is the munshi, sir; he will explain,” said the station-master, as a stout, dark, sensuous-looking man came forward, book in hand and pencil behind his thick ear, proud of an opportunity of airing his stock of English.

“Dák no lay—can’t lay. No station Talwandi way—dusri ráh [other way]. How Sahib change horses where no horses be found?” said the munshi.

“Well, suppose that we cannot change horses on the journey, one pair of stout animals can easily accomplish twenty miles.” The last part of Harold’s sentence was half drowned in the shrill scream of the departing train.

The fat munshi seemed to see mountains of difficulty in the way. “If horses go Talwandi, must come back Chuanwál,” at last he sagely observed.

“Of course; they will return here to-morrow. The question is, Have you the gári [carriage] and horses which I ordered three days ago?”

After a good deal of beating about the bush and cross-questioning, Harold elicited the fact that there was a gári, and moreover a pair of horses.

“Then have the horses put in at once. Why were they not ready? The lady is tired of waiting,” said Harold, glancing towards Alicia, who was sitting on one of the bundles of bedding.

Orders were given to a man waiting near, who went off to see about the gári; and the munshi took his pencil from behind his ear. “Sahib must pay beforehand,” said the munshi.

“All right. How much have I to pay?” asked young Hartley, drawing from his pocket his bag of rupees.

The munshi surveyed the bag, perhaps making a calculation as to its probable contents, then named a sum that was an exorbitant charge for so short a journey. To pay it would more than drain Harold’s bag. The missionary remonstrated, but in vain. The munshi knew that the travellers were in his power. They must pay what he chose to demand, or no dák-gári should start.

“I shall inform the Government official of the extortion,” began Harold; but he was not allowed to conclude the sentence.

“No Government dák—private affair,” said the munshi, showing a row of white teeth in a smile of triumph. “If Sahib no like pay, Sahib try find ekká.”

Harold’s first thought was, “So I will;” but when he glanced again at his simply but elegantly dressed wife, he could not bear the idea of her having to climb up into a vehicle so rude, to be jolted over twenty miles of rough road, seated Oriental fashion, and holding the ropes at the side to prevent herself from being jerked out on the road. No, no; Harold would not take his bride home in an ekká.

“Harold, what is all this delay and discussion about?” asked Alicia, who, weary of waiting, had sauntered up to the side of her husband.

“This fellow is making an unreasonable demand: he asks for more than I have with me,” said Harold, looking slightly annoyed.

“Oh, is that all? I’ll be your banker,” cried Alicia. “Just help me to open my box, and I’ll get out the money.”

In a few minutes Alicia’s pretty purse was in the hand of her husband. The lady was rather amused at the idea of lending to Harold; but he was by no means pleased at having to borrow from his bride. The money was paid, the amount registered in the munshi’s greasy book, and in due time the gári appeared.

“Is it not like an old bathing-machine?” said Alicia. “It looks hardly as luxurious as one would expect from the cost of its hire.”

A dák-gári is by no means luxurious, especially on a rough country road. It has neither springs nor windows, and cushions must be improvised from the rugs which travellers carry with them. However, Alicia was perfectly satisfied. “Mission Mem Sahibas must not care for luxury,” thought she.

When nearly half the journey had been accomplished, the travellers passed a heavily-laden bullock-cart, slowly jolting on its way.

“There, see! there’s our piano and our big cases!” exclaimed Alicia. “I thought that we should find them all ready unpacked on our arrival at home. We sent on the luggage ages ago.”

“There was probably some hitch at the station,” said Harold; “and bullocks travel very slowly indeed. But the cart will be in before morning; we shall arrive some hours before it.”

Harold was calculating without his host, or rather without his horses. A brief pause was made half-way to Talwandi for the driver to quench his own thirst and that of his horses, and to indulge himself with a pull at his hookah. The pause was unfortunate, for it gave one of the animals time to consider that he had not been taken out of harness and relieved by another horse, as he had a right to expect. The creature resolutely determined—and some Indian horses have resolute wills—not to go a single step further. The driver had resumed his seat on the box, and cracked his whip as a sign to move on; but in vain was whip-cracking or urging or beating. The horse reared and plunged and kicked, and turned almost right round, after the fashion of nat-kat (naughty) horses in India.

“O Harold! Harold! what is that dreadful creature doing?” exclaimed Alicia, in terror grasping her husband’s arm.

“It is only that we have a nat-kat in the shafts,” replied Harold. “There will be a regular battle between the will of man and horse, as shown in the picture which we were looking at in the clever book ‘Curry and Rice.’”

“Oh, this is terrible!” cried Alicia, as the horse’s iron hoofs beat a tattoo against the gári. “There—oh, look!—he has turned round—his head will be in the carriage; he’s as fierce as a tiger! What a frightful noise he makes—between a neigh and a scream!”

“I will get out and help the driver,” said Harold, with his hand on the sliding panel of the gári, which was but half pushed back.

“Oh no; the horse will kick you or bite you—nat-kat horses bite!” cried Alicia, almost frantic with terror. Stronger nerves than hers have been tried by a nat-kat brute.

Neither could the driver master the furious beast, nor Harold soothe the terrified lady. A quarter of an hour passed—a half-hour; mindless of rein, only irritated by blows, kicking, snorting, backing, now to the right side of the road, then to the left, doing his utmost to overturn the heavy gári, the nat-kat would go any way but forward.

“O Harold, I can bear this no longer; help me out!” gasped Alicia, looking so pale that her husband feared that she was going to faint. Catching his opportunity, Harold sprang from the gári, lifted his wife down on the side nearest the quieter horse, and placed the trembling lady at a safe distance from the heels of the plunging nat-kat.

“Harold, I feel so nervous; I will not attempt to get into that carriage again,” faltered Alicia Hartley.

“But we must go on, my love; the driver will at last get the better in the struggle.”

“There is the bullock-cart coming along the road; we will go in that, the oxen are so quiet. Oh, mercy!”

The nat-kat, half-maddened by the punishment which he was receiving, with distended nostrils and flashing eyes, was indeed attempting to bite as well as to kick. Harold in vain urged that the bullocks would take hours to accomplish the journey, and that the sun was about to set. Alicia declared that to go home slowly was better than not getting home at all. Harold was constrained to let the timid creature have her own way, and the furious horse had his; for while Alicia was with difficulty squeezing herself behind the piano, and Harold trying to arrange the luggage taken from the gári, the nat-kat and his companion were tearing away at the utmost speed that the weight of the gári permitted on their way back to Chuanwál station. Mightily amused was the fat munshi when he heard of the adventure, and with great satisfaction he stroked his beard and jingled his bag of rupees.

It was some time before the nervous Alicia, in her most uncomfortable niche in the bullock-cart, could recover her wonted composure. Harold tried to make the best that he could of circumstances, but thought with regret of the despised ekká, in which he might so much more quickly and cheaply, and perhaps more comfortably too, have accomplished a tiresome journey. Poor Alicia had been so much frightened, and was now so much shaken and tired, that she had difficulty in keeping in her tears. She had a fear that she had displeased, or at least had annoyed, Harold, and that Robin would laugh at her for making so poor a beginning of missionary life. The slow pace of the bullocks made the journey terribly tedious, and dark night closed in long before they had accomplished five miles.

Travelling adventures were not over. A bit of specially bad and boggy road was encountered. First the cart stuck fast in the mud. Harold sprang down, and his exertions, combined with those of the driver and the struggles of the belaboured oxen, at last succeeded in setting the clumsy conveyance in motion again. A few yards further on there was a sudden shock and a crash. One of the big wheels had come off. A great deal of the luggage was precipitated on the miry road.

“Quite a night of adventures!” cried Harold cheerfully, to reassure his young wife and prevent her noticing that a falling box had inflicted on his arm a very severe contusion. He bit his lip with pain, and then added in the same playful tone, “We shall laugh over our little troubles when we reach our destination.”

“But when shall we reach it?” exclaimed Alicia; “how far are we now from Talwandi?”

“I should say four miles,” replied Harold; “but it is difficult to guess in the darkness, when one can see no landmarks. How we are to proceed with a wheel off is a difficult problem to solve. If you permit, I will press forward and bring back a lantern and my fathers tattu [pony], on which you will ride.”

“Oh no; you must not leave me!” cried Alicia, clinging like a terrified child to her husband’s strong arm. “I can walk—I would far rather walk.”

And walk she did, all the long weary way over a rough road; for the four miles proved to be five, and to the young traveller seemed to be ten. Mr. Hartley, after staying up till midnight to welcome the pair, had given them up and retired to rest, when Harold and his tired—almost exhausted—bride reached the little bungalow at last.

CHAPTER V
FIRST IMPRESSIONS.

Alicia’s was rather a cheerless arrival at home. Her old father-in-law was asleep on his charpai (small bedstead), and Robin, overcome by slumber on his arm-chair, was in the midst of a dream, when both were roused by the sound of Harold’s familiar voice. Up in a moment sprang Robin, ready to give a warm welcome. After kindly greetings were over, the lad turned hastily away to see what could be done for the comfort of those who had arrived in the middle of a cold February night.

“Oh, this is too bad—the fire out, and the lamp all but burned down!” cried Robin. “That lazy dog Mangal asleep, of course. But I set him the example.—Mangal! Mangal! bring more logs; fill the kettle—no, I’ll do that myself.—There is plenty of food in the doli [meat-safe]; we’ll have it warmed up in ten minutes. I am so provoked at having gone to sleep; but who would have dreamed of your coming on foot, and at such a late hour?”

The bride was too weary to wait till a fire could be lighted and food prepared. “I will go to my room, please,” she faintly said, “and the ayah will bring me my tea.” The poor girl forgot at the moment that an ayah’s services was one of the luxuries which she was to forego at Talwandi.

“I will act as your ayah,” said Harold. “As soon as Robin can coax fire to burn and water to boil, I will bring you your tea.”

As he spoke, Mr. Hartley, looking, as Alicia thought, haggard and pale as a ghost, came wrapped in his dressing-gown to welcome his daughter. It was an effort to Alicia to look pleased and happy on her first introduction to her new father; she felt something of awe not unmixed with pity, and wondered whether she could ever venture to be lively in the presence of such a man.

While the servant was preparing the food, Mr. Hartley proposed united thanksgiving and prayer. Alicia expressed her wish to join in it, though she was hardly able to keep her eyes open during the service, brief as it was. She then retired—if it could be called retiring in a place where the accommodation was so cramped that every sound could be heard over the house—and Alicia felt as if she must not only be uncomfortable herself, but make every one else so. The last sound which fell on her drowsy ear was that of Robin starting off with all the coolies whom he could manage to muster at that hour of the night, to go with him to the place where the bullock-cart had broken down, in order to bring home the luggage.

Alicia did not awake till very late on the following morning—so late that Mr. Hartley had gone to his work hours before; and Harold, who had a crowd of native visitors to welcome him back, was only waiting to give his wife breakfast before going the round of his station. After his months of absence, the young missionary’s work was much in arrears.

“Harold, dear Harold, can we not have a little quiet?” murmured Alicia. “It is very embarrassing to have such a number of black eyes staring curiously at the new Mem, as if I were some kind of white bear just imported from the North Pole.”

“I will carry them all off with me to the mango grove; but I must introduce a few of my boys to you first.—Kripá Dé, Bál Singh, make your saláms to the lady.”

They did so respectfully and with natural grace. Alicia was puzzled how to return the politeness, for she had had no intercourse with natives, except her servants.

“I see that your breakfast is just ready, my love,” said Harold. “Call for anything that you want; Mangal acts as khitmatgar [table-servant] as well as cook.”

“But surely you are going to take breakfast with me!” cried Alicia. “I am not to eat alone, and on the first morning here!”

“Forgive me, darling, for hurrying away. I do not know when I shall be able to overtake all the work which I find before me.”

“But you must eat breakfast,” began Alicia.

“I took mine hours ago with my father. I only waited to see you, and look after your little comforts. Indeed I must go,” continued Harold, vexed to see moisture rising to the eyes of his wife. “I have left my burden too long on the shoulders of others. You know that a missionary’s time is not his own;” and in another minute he was off.

“So I am not to have the society of my own husband, or have him always surrounded by natives!” murmured Alicia, as she sat down disconsolately to her solitary meal. “It is rather hard—but no! I must remember Harold’s words, that nothing is hard which is right. And missionaries should have submissive wills.”

Alicia gave a little sigh. Her eyes were opening to the fact that to be a good wife to a devoted worker like Harold would require some amount of self-denial. Time was already beginning to show to the bride that she needed a great deal of training to be fit for the position which she had lately thought the most enviable in the world. The conclusion at which Alicia arrived, as she rather pensively ate her suji, was that she must in future make her appearance a good deal earlier than ten o’clock in the morning.

“Already my folly and self-will have involved Harold in trouble,” Alicia said to herself. “If I had taken his advice, I should have waited patiently in the gári till the nat-kat’s temper was subdued, and should not have added the weight of ourselves and our luggage to an already overladen cart. Had I behaved like a sensible woman and not like a silly child, the cart might never have stuck in the mud nor the wheel come off.”

Alicia glanced around her and above, surveying her new habitation. “Very bare it looks, I must own; no ceiling to hide the rafters; nothing pretty to adorn the walls. This clearly has never been the residence of a woman. I will soon make mine look brighter than this. I am glad that Harold has promised to leave all the decorations to me. Ah, here come our goods at last!” exclaimed Alicia, springing up joyfully from her chair as Robin, himself carrying a large portmanteau, appeared at the head of a band of coolies, who, after the curious native fashion, bore their heavy loads on their heads instead of their backs. “O Robin, I am so glad to see you. Let the men set down their burdens here in the veranda. You will help me, I know, to open the boxes.”

Robin was hungry, and would far rather have taken his place at the breakfast table after a night of toil; but without a word he put down the portmanteau and went off for his tools. Alicia was very eager to have the cases opened, to ascertain that her goods had sustained no injury from the jolting or the fall from the cart. But when the wooden cover of the first large box was raised, and the tin beneath unsoldered (rather a tedious operation), the examination of the contents, slowly extricated from the hay in which they had been packed, was not very satisfactory to their owner.

“Oh, my clock—my beautiful clock! The siren broken to pieces! I daresay that the works are useless!” exclaimed Alicia.

“I hope not,” said Robin cheerily. “I am a bit of a watchmaker, you know. I hope to set the clock going again, though I cannot undertake to patch up the siren. Here, let me help you. That box is too heavy for your little hands.”

“It is my medicine-chest, and full of bottles,” said Alicia. “Oh,” she added in a different tone, “what can have happened? Something inside must have been broken; my hands are all covered with castor-oil! Ugh!”

Not only the fingers of the lady, but a good many things besides, were moistened with oil and full of its odour. Scarcely a bottle had survived the shocks of that journey. Alicia looked aghast when she became aware of the extent of the mischief done.

“Don’t worry about it, dear,” said her brother-in-law, with rough sympathy. “To have nice things spoilt is a very common experience with us missionaries, so I have often congratulated myself on having so few things to be ruined.” Seeing the cloud still on Alicia’s face, Robin added more seriously, “You know there is something in the Bible about taking joyfully the spoiling of goods.”

“It is difficult to take it joyfully, but I must try to take it patiently,” said Harold’s bride. “But where is my beautiful piano? Surely you have not left it behind!”

“One of the oxen is loaded with—with what remains of it,” said Robin slowly.

“Oh, surely the piano is not broken! My father’s gift! Don’t say that it too has come to grief!” cried Alicia.

“Then what am I to say?” replied Robin. “I am sure that I would far rather tell you something pleasant, but one of the big packing-cases fell on the poor piano.”

“And smashed it—quite smashed it?” cried Alicia.

Robin gravely nodded his head, then turned a little aside to avoid seeing the tears gathering in Alicia’s lovely eyes.

“Perhaps the piano is not past mending,” were the first words which she uttered, after a silence of several minutes.

Robin knew that the instrument was quite past repairing; his silence was sufficient reply.

“I suppose that missionaries must not let their hearts cling to anything earthly,” thought poor Alicia. “I must gradually learn to endure hardness like a good soldier of Jesus Christ. After all,” she said aloud, “one might have worse losses than even that of a new piano.”

So the sad face cleared up a little, and Alicia, with a resolution of making the best of what remained to her, turned to the second of her large packing-cases.

“That chiefly contains clothes and linen,” she observed, “and a very large roll of wall-paper. Nothing there is likely to have been spoiled. But I can examine nothing in it until I have washed these oily fingers.”

“May I suggest your waiting a little before doing any more unpacking,” said Robin. “You look tired already, and the first case is not fully explored. From what you say, it appears that there is little or nothing liable to be broken in this second box, so you can leave it for a while. Let these fellows carry both boxes into the bungalow.”

“Not into your bungalow, Robin; they would not leave us standing room,” said Alicia with decision. “Let everything be put into our empty house”—the lady glanced at the yet scarcely finished bungalow which adjoined the one in whose veranda she now was standing,—“there is space for everything there, and in it I shall gradually unpack all my things.”

“That house, newly built, is damp,” expostulated Robin; “you must put nothing into it yet.”

“Indeed, but I will,” was Alicia’s playful retort. “I want my own property in my own home, and it only gives useless trouble to carry it backwards and forwards. I suspect, Master Robin, that you wish to see the contents, and so you shall, but not till I have arranged them and put them into right order.”

“You have been in India so short a time,” began Robin; but the wilful girl cut him short with a laugh.

“And so you favour me with the results of your long experience. Oh, grave and reverend signor!” she cried, “I have been a little longer in the world than you have, and won’t stand like a meek little girl to hear how, when, and where I should open my boxes. So go to your breakfast, dear Robin. I have been very selfish to keep you from it so long. I am sure that I am much obliged to you for all the trouble which you have taken about my luckless luggage.”

As Robin sat at the breakfast-table drinking cold tea and eating colder suji, he heard Alicia, as she stood in her yet uncompleted veranda, ordering the coolies to take away or bring (she constantly confused the two verbs), eking out her slender amount of Urdu with English, and more comprehensible signs, and evidently rather pleased at finding herself in the position of mistress in her own dwelling.

“What father said yesterday was quite right,” reflected Robin. “He and I had better go out with our tent for some days itinerating in the district, and leave Harold and Alicia to settle down quietly here. It is quite natural that they should like to be a little together, with no one else near. Of course, the bride, accustomed to live in a handsome house in a city, finds our quarters uncomfortably small when we are all together. Let her and her husband have the bungalow for a while all to themselves.”

So in the course of the day this little matter was settled. Soon after dawn on the following morning, Mr. Hartley and his younger son started on an itinerating tour amongst the surrounding villages. A camel carried their tiny tent, a few wraps, and cooking-vessels. The old missionary rode his pony, and Robin walked. The weather was delightful, as it usually is at that time of the year. Harold and his bride were left in sole possession of the bungalow at Talwandi.

CHAPTER VI
LITTLE FOES.

Alicia was up in time to see the travellers off; with her own hands she filled the provision-basket, and helped Robin to pack her father’s portmanteau. She was resolved to show herself to be a capable, energetic missionary Mem. All her idle days were over: Alicia had grand designs in her head. She looked so bright, animated, and happy as she bade the travellers good-bye, that Robin, as he walked beside his father’s tattu, laughingly observed, “I think that our pretty exotic is taking root already, and promises to climb up bravely. To get so soon over the loss of a piano, the breaking of bottles, and the smashing of porcelain, shows a spirit worthy of Harold’s bride.”

What was one of the principal causes of Alicia’s cheerfulness on that Friday morning may be seen from a letter which she wrote to a sister in England on the following Monday.

“February 28, 1868.

“Dearest Lizzie,—I promised to give you a full and particular description of my new home at Talwandi; but I would rather delay so doing till I have brought some order out of chaos, some beauty out of confusion. Everything is now in the rough. I am going to be so busy, so desperately busy, that I am not at all sorry that my father-in-law and Robin are away on a preaching tour. I want to give them a grand surprise on their return, and a surprise also to my Harold, who is so dreadfully busy all day long with his native boys or his translations that he has no time to consider whether he lives in a palace or a wigwam.

“But first I must tell you what I think of Harold’s father, though I have seen but little of him as yet. Mr. Hartley is tall, but stoops slightly, as if from weakness. He is pale and thin and somewhat wrinkled—less from age, I think, than from toil. Harold has certainly a likeness to his parent; but, oh! I trust that my noble-looking husband, whose form is so erect, whose step so elastic, may never have such a worn-out appearance, such a faint voice, as the veteran worker. I feel a very great respect, almost reverence, for my new father; but he inspires me with something a little like awe. Mr. Hartley is almost too polite, for in the courtesy which he shows to me as a lady he seems half to forget that I am his daughter. I should like him to clap me on the shoulder and call me ‘Pussy,’ as dear papa used to do. Mr. Hartley will rise when I enter the room, nor resume his chair until I am seated, though I would often prefer standing or running about. The dear man listens with such courtesy to what I say that I dare hardly open my lips lest I should utter something silly. Then I feel that Mr. Hartley lives in a sphere so very much higher than my own, that I am humbled and a little constrained by his presence. Perhaps when I know him better this feeling may wear away. At present, my father appears to me something too high and spiritual for earth—like the rainbow which we admire but cannot touch. Yet Robin is as playful as a kitten with his father, who evidently enjoys his fun. Harold regards his parent with much veneration and love. It is beautiful to see the confidence and affection existing between father and sons.

“To quit this subject, I must tell you of the grand work which I started last Friday, almost as soon as the travellers had left us. My Harold knows nothing about it; I only said to him as he went off to the school which he holds (in a mango grove, I believe), ‘Please give Nabi Bakhsh and Mangal strict orders to obey me in whatever I tell them to do.’ ‘I am sure that I may trust my little queen with despotic power,’ replied Harold, smiling. ‘Your subjects shall obey your commands, if you can make them understand them.’

“No sooner had my husband left me than I ordered a big bowl, or rather my basin, full of paste, and flew off to my work in my own little home. Foreseeing, like a prudent housewife, that nothing elegant could be procured at Talwandi, I have brought a quantity of the loveliest wall-paper that ever I saw—pale lilac ground, as smooth as satin, with a pattern of roses twining over a trellis of gold. Nothing can be more tasteful, or more suited to make ‘Paradise’ (as I have named our little bungalow) a sort of fairy bower. I had Nabi Bakhsh and Mangal to help me in the work of papering my room; for though I have brought a huge brush, I could not do all the pasting myself. I could, however, trust nothing that required common sense to my assistants: for I found Mangal putting my roses upside down; and when I bade Nabi Bakhsh hang my pictures on some brass nails which Robin had fixed in the wall, I saw the drawing representing our church so placed that the tower and trees hung downwards, suspended, as it seemed, from the sky! Of course, it was absurd to begin to hang up pictures before I had papered the room; but I did so because it gave me such pleasure to see them whenever I glanced up from my work. Nor could I resist the pleasure of filling the book-shelves (also Robin’s kind thought) with my very prettiest books.

“How I laboured that day! how I swung my big brush, and dashed the paste over the brick-work! You would have laughed, Lizzie, to have seen your Ailie perched on a ladder, now stopping to look down to direct or scold her assistants, now dabbing paste on the ugly bare wall, which was not graced with even a coating of whitewash. I worked and worked till hands were tired and head was throbbing and eyes aching from looking up. Then I stopped to admire my rosy bower, and went on again with fresh vigour. I pasted away as long as the light lasted, and then, not wishing Harold to see the work incomplete, I left my huge roll of paper (a good deal lessened in size) on the floor, sent Mangal to look after cooking the dinner, quitted the house, and locked the door behind me. No one should enter ‘Paradise’ as long as one brick remained uncovered in its bare ugliness in that room.

“I was at first—though dreadfully tired—in high glee when Harold returned. He was tired too, and needed his meal, which Mangal took ages to prepare. It had never occurred to me that the khansamar could not cook while he was pasting. When the food came at last, I took to shivering instead of eating, and my looks awakened alarm in the mind of my tender husband. Harold took my hand; it burned with fever, and I was obliged to confess to a pain in my head. It appeared that I had taken a chill. Harold was uneasy at my having even a touch of Indian fever so soon after my arrival. I was condemned to imprisonment and a strong dose of bitter quinine. Do not be alarmed, dear Lizzie; mine was only a passing attack, and it gave me the luxury (was it selfish to enjoy it?) of more of the company of my beloved. I believe that the school-lads had a holiday on Saturday, for Harold scarcely quitted my side. I was very much better on Sunday; but my dear jailer would not let me quit my room, and gave me a little English service there. It was a happy, peaceful Sabbath to me. The time when Harold was away holding religious converse with a young Hindu who reads the gospel, I spent in learning a good many verses from the Urdu Bible, which, when I repeated them in the evening, won for me the prized reward of my husband’s praise. To-day (Monday) I had hoped to go on with my papering work; but as there happened to be a rough wind, and the fever had left a cold on my chest, Harold bade me keep one day more in the house.

“‘I forgot to ask you for the key of our new bungalow,’ said he; ‘pray give it to me now, for we must keep all the doors open during the daytime, and have a large fire burning within. I had a tree cut down on purpose to have plenty of wood to burn. I ought to have seen to this matter before; but give me the key now, please, my love.’

“Now, for Harold to have had the key would have spoilt the charming surprise which I was preparing for him. This would never do; so I begged my husband not to wait for the key, and I promised to send Nabi Bakhsh to throw open all the doors and pile up roaring fires. Harold went off to his inquirers, and I—shall I confess it to you, Lizzie?—I became so much interested in my studies that I quite forgot my promise. There was no feeling of cold to remind me that fires may be needed, for the days are quite warm, to me even hot, though at night the air becomes fresh. It is now too late to have the doors opened, so I am spending the twilight, before Harold returns, in writing to you. I shall be too busy to-morrow pasting and papering to do more than add a line to tell of the success of my work.

“Harold is later than usual; he is probably having a religious conversation with Kripá Dé, whom he thinks almost, if not quite, a Christian in heart. I have only seen the lad once or twice, but I am exceedingly struck with his appearance. Kripá is as fair as an Englishwoman, only the complexion has in it no tinge of colour; it is, I hear, one not uncommon among Kashmiris. Kripá Dé has a delicacy of feature and grace of—There is the step of my Harold! no more writing to-day.

“Tuesday.—O Lizzie, I little thought how this long letter was to end,—how my bright fancies, my eagerly pursued occupation, were to bring nothing but disappointment! I have only too much leisure for writing to-day, and must relieve my mortified spirit by telling my troubles to you.

“I was almost impatient for Harold to go out to his work, so eager was I to resume mine. I hurried off to my little house, after calling to Mangal to prepare a fresh supply of paste, and asking Nabi Bakhsh to get some one to bring plenty of logs for a fire (coals are unknown in Talwandi). I knew that I had been imprudent in not having had a fire lighted on Friday, and that I had brought fever on myself and trouble on my husband by neglecting this simple precaution. I will not be so foolish again.

“Well, to go on with my story. I turned the key in the lock of my door, pushed it open, and entered the room where I had left my fancy paper, some on the wall, some on the floor. Yes, I entered with eager step, and then—stood simply aghast. Ugly dark damp-marks had completely marred what I, with such labour, had put up but three days ago; and worse still, my pictures, my choice pictures, were almost completely spoilt. I felt inclined to sit down and cry; but to have given such way to my vexation would have been unworthy of Harold’s wife. It was a comfort, I thought, that the larger portion of the beautiful wall-paper had not yet been put up; that, at least, should be kept to be used after the house should have become quite dry. I went up to my large roll (which, you remember, I had left on the brick floor), and saw—oh, how shall I describe what I saw with mingled astonishment and disgust! The paper, with its roses and golden trellis, was, as it were, alive with odious little white maggots. It almost sickened me to see them; I could not touch one of the horrid things. I called loudly for Nabi Bakhsh, and when he appeared I could only point to the disgusting mass on the floor. ‘Dimak,’ he said calmly, as if there were nothing astonishing in the sight. Then Nabi Bakhsh walked leisurely to the wall, and knocked down a quantity of branching excrescences of something like mud, in shape a little resembling coral, but of the colour of mire. This, too, was alive with grubs, and again the Moslem said, ‘Dimak.’ There is no danger of my ever forgetting that hateful word.

“As I stood almost petrified with this my first introduction to white ants, one of the plagues of India, I was startled by the unexpected entrance of Harold. He had returned for some book, and seeing the door open had walked in.

“Harold asked no questions; he saw at a glance what had happened. ‘Call the mihtar [sweeper], and have all this cleared away at once,’ he said to Nabi Bakhsh. Then gently taking my hand, my husband led me out into the open veranda. I was too much agitated to be able to speak. I attempted to smile, but failed.

“‘I am very sorry to find the white ants in possession already,’ said Harold. ‘We must fight them in this bungalow, as we have fought them in my father’s. Happily a good supply of tar is left; some shall immediately be put round the lower part of the walls, and below the rafters, or the wood-work will become the prey of greedy little foes.’

“‘The rafters!’ I murmured faintly; ‘would the dimak bring down our very roof over our heads?’

“‘If we gave them time and opportunity they would do so,’ was the not consolatory reply. ‘But be assured, my Alicia, that active measures shall be taken at once.’

“And what was the result of these active measures, Lizzie? I have just come in from looking at my poor, certainly misnamed, Paradise. All my pretty paper has been pulled down and cleared away, and men are putting a funeral band of hideous black all round the upper part of the walls, along the rafters, and a few inches above the floor. There is a bespattering of the tar in unsightly spots even where it is not supposed to be needed. The whole effect is horrible, and my new bungalow smells like an old steamer. I do not know whether to laugh or to cry.”

CHAPTER VII
DIGGING DEEP.

At sunset Mr. Hartley and Robin unexpectedly returned to Talwandi, the strength of the former having proved unequal to the fatigues of camp-life. The old missionary had hardly been able to keep the saddle.

“Why, Alicia, you must have been ill! what have you been doing while we were away?” was Robins first exclamation, as he took the hand of his sister and looked with affectionate concern at her pale face and drooping appearance.

“Alicia has been a little imprudent,” said Harold.

“And has paid dearly for her imprudence,” added Alicia with a rather forced smile.

Then followed the story of the invasion of the white ants, and an account of the means taken to prevent its repetition.

“Tar is not enough to keep out the dimaks,” said Robin; “they are the most persevering little workers in the world. Hunt them from one corner, and presently you see their brown tunnels in another; chase them from the floor, and they are up in the beams. There is no weapon for fighting the white ants to be compared to a good stout spade. I’ll take mine, and go out early to-morrow morning, and see if I cannot find the trace of a colony somewhere near. If I do, then will come the work of sapping and mining. We must follow the enemy to his underground fort, and if possible capture his queen.”

“I never saw white ants in Lahore,” said Alicia.

“They have rural tastes like myself: they prefer country to town, like those gentry whose music now breaks on the ear.”

“Oh, what is that frightful yelling and howling?” exclaimed Alicia in alarm. “I hope, I trust, that this jungly place is not infested by wolves!”

“Merely jackals,” said Harold quietly.

“But don’t jackals hunt in packs? might they not attack one?” asked Alicia anxiously, as the wild yells came nearer and nearer.

“Jackals are the most cowardly brutes in the world,” exclaimed Robin; “they have none of the boldness of the dimak. I doubt whether jackals would attack any human being, except, of course, a baby. Even you, Alicia, might face a jackal.”

“I should rather not meet one in the dark, to say nothing of a pack!” cried the lady. “I never before heard such a horrible sound as their yells.”

“You will grow accustomed to it,” observed Harold.

On the following morning Robin started off with his spade, and did not return for hours. Harold went to his work, and Alicia was left with her father-in-law, who was too poorly to leave the house. Mr. Hartley was for some time occupied with translating, whilst Alicia, seated near him, removed from some of her choice books, as far as she could, traces of the ravages of damp and of white ants. The two were making a study of the veranda, the single sitting-room in the mission bungalow being uncomfortably crowded by Alicia’s luggage, which had been removed for the present from her damp house.

After writing for some time, Mr. Hartley glanced up from his desk, and his eyes met those of Alicia, who had also paused in her occupation, after laying down a sadly marred volume of poems.

“I wonder why white ants were created?” she murmured; “they do nothing but mischief in the world.”

“They are probably, like briers and thorns, a part of the curse,” observed Mr. Hartley, putting away his pen. “But as all things work for good to the servants of the Lord, even white ants may have their mission.”