“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 [a kind of dried pease] and chapatties [flat baked cakes of flour]; but i wanted better fare. as soon as i arrived i pronounced the death-warrant on the fattest hen in the compound, so there will be something fit for dinner.” robin resumed his work, still soliloquizing. “dear father is not fit to have charge of his own comfort; he is always thinking about people’s souls, and has little regard for bodies. harold and i had agreed together never to leave him without a son beside him, for thirty years of hard work are telling upon him; but how could we help being absent on such an occasion as this? father himself would not hear of my not attending harold’s wedding, and harold—” robin interrupted himself in the midst of his sentence with the exclamation, “here’s father at last!”
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.
