The New Review.

No. 91.-DECEMBER, 1896.

A

SUNDARI

I.

S Ralph Eustace rode by the stagnant waters of the long and wide backwater near the town of Premanagaram, watching

the sun rise in all its sullen glow from beyond the far-off horizon, no holy Gayatri prayer, such as each Hindu daily pours forth to the glory of the divine vivifier, burst from his lips. His pallid face grew scowling as the hot slanting rays smote full beneath his helmet. He cursed the sickening sun and he cursed the recking vapours of pestilential decay which rose from the bordering shallow waters of the lake. He raised not his eyes to watch the swift sweep of the circling teal or brilliant plumage of the wild ducks as they gently glided here and there amid the sedge-grown waters. He paused but for a moment to listen to the low sad cry that camne moaning from the rice-fields close at hand, where a frog was slowly sucked to death by some huge rat snake. He cursed the piteous wail and he cursed the ceaseless plaint of the restless peewit that flitted to and fro along the shore. As he turned from the lake he noted not the stately grace of the long-winged flamingo sailing slowly across the waters to the glittering sands beyond. To him the deep-steeped beauty of the East had no soothing charms. India, its land, and people were to him accursed, and bitter cause he had for his deep hate.

He had landed in India one year before. All chances of success at home in his own profession he had relinquished, and accepted the certainty of a fixed income as an army doctor, so that he might be able to marry Mabel Grey, whom he had met at Cambridge. Both studious and full of bookish lore, they looked not forward to married Vol. XV.-No. 91.

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life as a dream of ideal happiness or perennial bliss, knowing well that love's fairy fancies often slip away as does dry sand when squeezed close in the feeble hand of a playful child.

In Premanagaram the year had dragged along its weary length, varied by official routine, the morning ride or drive for health, long afternoons spent in sleep or darkened rooms from which the blinding glare of the sun was shut out, and evenings wasted at tennis or band at the Mess House.

At home, even if success had been long delayed, the restless brains of Ralph and Mabel might have found congenial play in the struggling rush for golden trophies held out by a Western civilisation for the craftiest, most brazen, or most callous. In India they sank to listless apathy: like most of their race, viewing all things Eastern with pitying contempt or lofty indifference.

A slight change came when Mabel's child was born. In bitter irony they called it Hope, for they had resolved that before it grew from childhood they would leave the country and commence a new life at home, with brighter hopes for it and them. Daily the child grew wan and pale and fretful. Mabel shared the care of her boy with her trusted Ayah Lakshmi. It was Lakshmi alone who could soothe the child to sleep. She would sit the whole day watching its every movement with more than mother's longing; her brooding care was ceaseless as a bird's for its young or as a panther's for its whelps; yet, though her constant presence was moaned for by Hope with a fretfulness not to be denied, her great love seemed to rouse no answering affection in the child, over whose pale face no smile or sign or recognition of its Ayah ever passed.

Ralph liked not the Ayah, whose restless black eyes seemed ever to follow him as he moved from room to room. One day he saw on her neck and breast the clear marks of small-pox, and he sent her home and bade her not come back until cured. Lakshmi smiled as she thanked the Doctor Sahib, but as she raised her hands to her forehead her gleaming eyes scowled vegeance, for she saw not why she should be sent away when the goddess of small-pox had come to dwell within her.

During the absence of Lakshmi the child grew bright, the smiles came again to its eyes, from which the dark rims faded. As Ralph watched the change, he saw how his skill had been outwitted by the simple cunning of an out-caste native woman. Lakshmi, like all of her class when trusted, had daily lulled the child to

sleep with opium. She returned, when well, full of smiles and lowly salaams. Her tears came fast when she once more held the child in her arms, but as they fell Ralph noted how her keen shifting eyes followed him while he kept close at hand. She wept and wailed and bent her head over the child and her hand moved among her garments, but as it stole near to the child's mouth it was held firm in Ralph's grasp.

"Why for master seize my hand? no gentleman do that," cried Lakshmi, struggling to release herself, while Mabel took the child, and Ralph unclosed the clenched hand, and saw how, beneath the nail of one finger, was concealed the sleep-bearing opium. "I no give baby black drug," she continued, her eyes glaring with anger as she watched Ralph's pale face. "All native women eating the black medicine."

"Go," quietly said Ralph, "go, and come back here no more. You will get no letter from us, and every one in the station will hear that you are a bad woman."

“Every Ayah giving baby black drug," cried Lakshmi angrily, "them baby no cry and master and mistress happy. Every one happy and baby grow up plenty strong, not crying. Baby my child and master not: give baby black drug baby plenty cry and die. See, native children ali eat black drug and grow strong. Master not know this country customs. Plenty English ladies glad baby not cry and ask no questions.. Master bad man to send Ayah away from baby. I baby's father and mother, master wait, he see I speak true."

That day the servants went about their work as usual, none seemed to note the dismissal of the Ayah. Ramaswami, the head servant, or butler, as he liked to be called, however rejoiced, for he was now once more acknowledged chief of the household, since his sole rival, the Ayah Lakshmi, whose influence over his mistress he had always feared and resented, had now been removed.

After dinner Ramaswami brought coffee and a light for his master's cheroot, lingering in the room until Ralph noticed his efforts to be of service, and thought it well to humour him by saying: "Ramaswami, any one here know that Ayah?"

"No, sir," quickly replied Ramaswami, ready to pour forth all his pent-up wrongs of past months.

"No one here knowing that Ayah.

She bad woman that Ayah. Misses she engage that Ayah, no asking Ramaswami if that woman good woman. Misses not knowing this country people. Master know everything. Master always saying 'Yes" to Misses and no asking Ramaswami."

If you knew she was a bad woman why did you not say so? The Ayah had many letters of recommendation from ladies," said Ralph. "Master read those letters?" enquired Ramaswami with a selfsatisfied air, ignoring the first part of the question.

"Master well know

"No," answered Ralph," the Mem Sahib read them.” "Misses not knowing," replied Ramaswami. native people bringing plenty false characters. That Ayah always telling lies; master not listen, but misses always listening. No good servant stay with misses. I always stay with master; master plenty hear, no speaking, no getting angry, always cool man, natives all like that sort gentleman."

Does any one here know the Ayah's people?" asked Ralph.

"No one here know that Ayah's people,” replied Ramaswami, looking in doubt at Mabel, then back to Ralph. "That Ayah say plenty bad things about master."

'Mabel rose and walked towards the room where she had left Hope sleeping. The dining-room was in the centre of the bungalow, opening straight from the porch. Ralph's office room was to the left, Mabel's sleeping room to the right, the three rooms occupying the whole lower storey, round which ran a deep verandah. From the dining-room the other two were cut off by light baize-covered folding doors, with an open space left above and below to allow the air to pass free from room The room where Mabel had left her child sleeping in its cot was almost dark, a cotton wick, set in cocoa-nut oil, which floated on the top of water placed in a tumbler, gave but a glimmering light. When Mabel opened the door she started back, turning her face, pale as death, to Ralph who rose and hastened to her side.

to room.

The cot where Hope had been left sleeping was empty, and the door to the verandah beyond lay open. As Ralph gazed into the dimlylighted room a numbness stole through his limbs. They looked for a moment in each other's faces and each seemed to feel that as the dim light of the lamp flickered the very air seemed to pulsate and throb with vague whispering of some strange mystery. The hot air from the dried-up sandy soil around the bungalow stole through the room and passed in heaving waves towards the door where Mabel stood, enfolding her in its heavy close embrace, and choking her breath, which came in long gasps. Ralph led her fainting from the door back to the dining-room, where now the servants came hurrying from their food, summoned by Ramaswami's cries.

Vain to hope for help from natives who had that day listened in silence to the Ayah's vows of vengeance and ribald abuse of their master. Ralph waited not to ask empty questions. In the next compound to his was the mess-house. He quickly broke his way through the dividing thorn hedge, answering the sentry's quick, sharp, challenge by a hasty query: had any one passed by or noise been heard. His loud tones and hasty rush were followed by cries from the syces seated in front of the mess-house holding their now plunging horses.

Ralph stayed for an instant to hear the sentry's reply that no one had been seen and no noise heard, and then rushed up the steps, through the dining-room, to the billiard-room beyond. Startled by his sudden entry Jack Mowbray, the District Superintendent of Police, and three officers who were in the room, stood gazing at him in surprise. "Mowbray," gasped Ralph, "Hope, the boy, is gone."

"Gone?" cried Mowbray, laying down his cue and seizing his helmet. "Where? What has happened?"

“The Ayah has stolen him. Quick, she cannot be far gone. We were at dinner and the boy alone in the room next us. Come, quick, she must be traced and found. What can she mean to do?"

"God knows," answered Mowbray. "We must find her, and that soon. Here, quick," he cried, rushing to the verandah and summoning his orderly, "ride to the police station and tell the Inspector, Jagat Rao, to come to the Doctor Sahib's house."

At Ralph's house Jack Mowbray could learn nothing. The servants talked wildly, all in fear for their own safety now that the police were summoned.

When Jagat Rao arrived he asked no questions. A Brahman of high caste he wore the Government uniform, with its defiling leather belt, for the post was one of high importance, and gave him sway over a district where he was wealthy. Saluting the doctor and Superintendent, his proud face turned not to look at the cowering low-caste servants. He motioned to a constable to take them to their rooms and there examine them, thence to the police cells. He listened to all Ralph had to tell, then with the trusted village headman whom he had summoned, traced the Ayah's footsteps lamp in hand, from the soft sand near the verandah down the compound through the hedge to the open country. On his return he said that the footsteps. disappeared at a nullah, or water-channel, in the fields outside the