The Daughter of Brahma, I. A. R. Wylie [carter reed txt] 📗

of things." She turned her pony's head round to the gate. "You are to give mother's kind something or other to your mother," she went on. "I'm sorry I haven't time to play with you."

"It doesn't matter --I'll just go as far as the gate with you."

He had laid his hand on the saddle, but the impatient pony broke into a trot, and, in his stumbling effort to keep pace, he nearly fell.

She reined in immediately, with a movement that was not without impatience and the blood surged into his sallow cheeks.

"Sorry!" he apologised. "I'm no good at running." They relapsed into a walk, and suddenly he looked up at her. "I expect you are quite glad you haven't got to play with me, aren't you?" he asked.

"Why?"

"Well, you don't much care for it, do you?"

She replaced her helmet, and adjusted it so that her eyes were shaded from the horizontal rays of sunlight.

"Oh, I don't mind; but I always win, you see."

"You only like to be with people who win?"

She nodded emphatically.

"Yes."

"Dicky, for instance?"

"Oh, I can beat poor old Dicky at most things," she retorted.

He hung his head.

"I don't think I shall ever win at anything," he said, almost inaudibly.

She did not seem to be listening. A sudden flush had come into her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with some new thought.

"And after Christmas we are going to England," she burst out impetuously. "Just mother and I. Our berths are already booked. Won't it be fun?"

"I-- I am to come too," he stammered.

"You with us!" She stared at him, openmouthed.

"Yes--I'm awfully sorry. It would have been more fun if I had been Dicky." His tone was apologetic. "But mother won't--can't go, and I am to be sent to school."

"How jolly! Where are you going? My father and your father were at Eton. I expect you'll go there, too." He made no answer. His small, thin face was stony. "You'll miss your mother, though," she went on more seriously. "You're awfully keen on your mother, aren't you?"

Just for a moment the fire rekindled then died down.

"She is the loveliest woman in the world," he said.

She did not deny the statement, but she appeared to ruminate on it. There was a faint pucker between her arched brows.

"It's funny," she said absent-mindedly, patting the pony's sleek neck, "you like lovely things, and I like big things--it ought to be the other way round, I think."

He let this piece of wisdom pass unanswered. They had reached the gate of the compound, but he still held her saddle, and a look of eager nervousness had come into his face.

"I say, Di," he began, "you have lessons with Mr. Eliot, don't you?"

She pulled an eloquent grimace.

"I should just think so," she said. "I wish I hadn't. His lessons are as dull as his sermons, and nearly as stupid. Only I suppose he can't turn arithmetic quite upside down, like father says he does the Bible. He knows I should jolly well find him out. I hate him."

Her tone was annihilating, and the hearer felt that Mr. Eliot must have inevitably withered under it.

"He used to give me lessons, too," David said, "but after a few times he wouldn't. He said I I wasn't strong enough. So I don't know much. I wish you'd ask him something for me."

"What is it? I'll ask him when I don't know an answer,"

"Ask him what a Spartan is."

"A Spartan?" She frowned thoughtfully. "I've heard of that. It must be something I liked, or I shouldn't remember it. Yes, I know. Spartans were people who were fond of sport and exercise and hardship, and never gave in when they had a pain. They hated luxury and all that sort of thing, and when they had babies who were weak or deformed, they just killed them." She gave a soft chuckle. "I told Mr. Eliot it was a very good idea, but he said it was wicked. I expect he knew they would have drowned him at once." She was too amused at the idea of Mr. Eliot's probable end to notice her companion's face. It had grown very pinched.

"They were a wise people," he said. "I wonder if their mothers were sorry sometimes."

"I expect they were ashamed," she decided. "However, one can always get new babies if the first ones aren't nice." She urged her pony a little on one side, as though to free it from the boy's grasp. "I must go, David. It's getting quite dark, and father says it isn't safe to be out after sunset. There are all sorts of horrid natives about just now dacoities and secret sects, and all that sort of thing. I'm not afraid, but mother gets fits. Good-bye."

"Good-bye--and Di, don't say anything about my coming to England. Perhaps I shan't, after all."

"All right--oh, here, I had almost forgotten!" She put her hand in her pocket, and drew out a battered-looking object that had once been a rose. Unfortunately, it had suffered in its close quarters, and there was little left but the stem and a few crumpled petals. She considered it ruefully. "I am sorry. It was so pretty in our garden. It's rather faded now, I'm afraid."

He took it from her quickly.

"Never mind--it was awfully good of you to give it me. Thank you!"

He was close to her, and again she looked down into his face and started.

"You do look green!"

He gave a little, unsteady laugh, and the expression, which in an old face would have been passionate, faded.

"I'm tired--I'm nearly always tired," he said. "Good-bye, Di!"

"Good-bye!"

She shook the reins and the pony broke into a smart canter, whirling up the dust under its impatient hoofs.

David waited until the white clouds subsided, and the upright, energetic little figure had disappeared, but even then he did not move immediately. There was something forlorn and helpless in his attitude, as though he did not know where to turn or what to do. His gaze wandered over the yellow corn-fields to the jungle-clad mountains, and rested there wistfully and questioningly: they seemed to hold for him some secret, some mystery which he would fain have solved.

"Little Sahib! Little Sahib!"

Still he did not move. The ayah, who had been gazing curiously round from the verandah, came towards him with short, quick steps, which set her silver anklets jungling musically in the stillness. She had a pretty, dark little face, no longer young, and her white teeth gleamed as she touched the boy's arm.

"Little Sahib must come in--Mem-Sahib ask for him. It is not safe here after dark."

He shook his head, but did not look at her.

"That's all right, Sita. I'm glad you've come out. I want to know all about things--and about the Temple."

"The Temple?" The smile died, and gave place to a look of blank stupidity. "What Temple, Little Sahib?"

"You know out there." He pointed towards the hills. "You told me about it one night when I was ill, and you wanted to send me to sleep. You called it the Buried Temple--the Temple to the Unknown."

"It lieth in ruins," she answered, and her dark eyes flashed involuntarily in the direction which he indicated. "Twelve years ago last night the Lord Sahib, thy father, fell beneath the knives of the priests who worshipped there--he and all those who went with him. In the dark he dragged himself through the forest hither to the very doors of his house, and there he died. And on the morning of the next day thou wert born." She clasped her hands with a gesture of horror. "The face of the gods was turned from the Mem-Sahib in those hours; the curse of the evil spirits lay upon her. For a little I prayed to Parvati that the soul of thy father might enter into thee to bring her comfort. Ai, I offered incense and sandalwood at the Holy Shrine. But it was not to be. The curse was on her and hers."

David winced. She had spoken in Hindustani, but he understood her, for it was the language he had heard from his first hours.

"Tell me more," he commanded.

"Little Sahib, I know no more!" Nevertheless, the dullness had gone out of her face, and she went on rapidly. "In those days it was a great Temple. It stood alone on the high mountain, above the forest, like a god among a million worshippers. And at morning the sun kissed its altars from the east and at evening from the west. Its courts were full of pilgrims holy Yogi who came on their knees from the banks of the Mother Ganges and its priests were wise and powerful. In those days Vishnu was god." Her voice rang with a suppressed excitement, and then died down. She shook her head impatiently, for she was a Sudra and had been baptized into the Christian faith. "But now all lieth in ruins, and Vishnu is no more," she finished in a subdued tone.

"You call it the Buried Temple--why?"

"I know not." The old blank look clouded her face and her eyes sought the ground. "It is but a name, like many others."

"And it was there they killed him!" the boy said, half to himself. "What had he done to them, Sita?"

He did not see the subtle smile that flashed across her features.

"Little Sahib, the people were angry in those days. They did not love the Feringhi as they do now, and it was said among them that the English missionaries had stolen the son of the High Priest, Nanu Balagi. It may be that it was a falsehood, for Balagi had many enemies; but the Brahmins believed it, and laid plots for their revenge. Lai Pandra, an accursed Mohammedan, betrayed them, but they were warned. When the Lord Sahib came they killed him."

"That was unjust treacherous! He at least had not stolen the child!"

"The secrets of God are holy," she answered, with her eyes still fixed on the ground. "The Lord Sahib had seen what it is not for the unholy to see."

"Are we the unholy? I wonder what Mr. Eliot would say!" He gave a little laugh, and then grew grave again. "But now there are no more priests, no more worshippers, no more sacrifices?"

She drew a little closer. Her voice dropped suddenly to a whisper.

"Little Sahib, it is written in the Veda the altars of the gods shall not go unserved, the sins of the faithless shall not hold from them for ever the homage which is theirs. What should I know? Am I not as the Mem- Sahib, worshipping as she worships? Yet even I hear whispers, and it is said that at night-time, when the moon rises, the unsullied souls return for an hour from Swarga to kindle the dead fires, and pour out sacrifice before the altar. Thus shall the sins of the people be washed pure as the lotus-flower." She checked herself. "Such is the superstition of the ignorant," she muttered.

David Hurst shivered.

"Has no one ever seen?" he asked, awe-struck.

"Who should dare, little Sahib? Ai, the priests, perhaps, but they hold their peace. They alone know."

"Surely one of us would dare!" he broke in proudly.

Again the same swift, enigmatic smile.

"Little Sahib, thy father was a brave man. He dared. It is death. For who shall look on the eternal and live? Ah--" She gave a quick, dissatisfied gesture. "I talk as one who has never known the truth. I am old. The memory of things past arises at night-fall. Come, little Sahib. It grows dark."

He shook himself free, gently but firmly.

"No, no, Sita, I want to stay out here. It will do no harm, and my mother will not miss me long." His lips trembled. "Go, Sita!" In his thin voice there was a note of authority which Anglo-Indian children are quick to learn.

The ayah drew back.

"It is well, little Sahib."

She turned and glided into the shadows. So soft were her movements that her footsteps made no sound on the loose gravel, and only the delicious tinkle