The Cottage by the Hill (Short Story)

The Cottage by the Hill

I

I heard suddenly, in the stillness of the early morning, the song of a woman. Down there in the cottage, where sometimes the rains swept the hills and the wind blew, a pretty sad-looking woman lay on a little mean mattress; another was singing the song that I had heard; whilst outside the hut itself, a man was pacing to and fro, in an awful frenzy.

But the song was sweet to hear; it had such an air of lovely pliancy and softness about it; one remembered one's childhood whilst listening to that simple little song.

Then I heard a low cry of pain; a cry which a woman alone could utter in her tribulation, when she saw God face to face, as it were, and brought into being, a wee little creature fresh from the very God whom she had seen in her agony and in her suffering!

And a little baby began to cry, asking for the nourishment it needed in a helpless pathetic little way.

The birds were then singing in the air; the pink rays of the morning sun were entering that cottage.

I watched it all; I listened to it for a moment and then went away.

II

I was then–well, there is nothing much to be told about it–an assistant in the Laboratories of P– It was a drab existence all told. Work in the morning; work in the afternoon; work in the evening, with an hour's recess for lunch in between. My business was to attend to the distillation, to keep the valves steady and generally to manage the heating plant. I cannot say the work was very congenial; but it kept me going. And that was saying a great deal about it.

On Sundays I was just a vagabond. That was the day I had absolutely at my disposal, and to be sure I made the fullest use of it. The stars of the night were yet twinkling like little diamonds, and the sleepy cattle still in their stalls. Then I used to wander over the wills and stroll along the farmsteads, where the early roses bloomed and the tall ears of the jwari in the fields laughed to the music of the morning wind. Some kindly matron gave me the fresh foaming milk from her brightly polished brass carvis and I was content.

From there a long stretch of country right along the sleeping villages of Doraj and Sinhagad, past the sleepy hollow of the Women's University, where the girls still lay asleep dreaming, and then on to my little cottage by the Mutha canal. This was my usual round, and poor mortal that I was, I was happy; with my work, with my leisure and with my comforts.

I had no one to call my own–excepting perhaps Moti, the black collie dog. He was my companion. A strange destiny had left me destitute, and by sheer work and struggle I had finished my education. They were good to me–those professors at the big college where I studied–and they had helped me to get through my educational career which was neither brilliant nor very commonplace. It was just a struggle; I remember I used to do odd kinds of jobs to keep me going, to pay for my lights and rents. I remembered how I delivered the bundle of the Times of India, as it came from the Express, in the afternoon or went about the Cantonment, and lighted the street lamps. They were all odd jobs, and which college student would ever dream of doing such work? But I never minded it all. I was born independent and liked to be independent. I do not remember any one spoke to me in a kind, really affectionate way; but it did not matter: I read a lot–did well in my chemistry and then got on as an assistant in the Laboratory at P– That was the pleasantest part of my life. Mr. S. was a gentleman and he treated his assistants in a fine dignified fashion. So I learnt to make myself happy, cheerful and, strong; and grew content with my life and the world around me. Thus did the days pass away until one day, whilst out walking in the silence of that summer morning, I heard a baby cry, and that made me think–it awakened me to a new sense of Reality and I lost my balance as it were.

III

What is this mystery about these little human frailties? Why should a passing sigh, the echo of a distant voice, or the memory of a pleasant dream work upon one's mind in so tumultuous a manner? I cannot tell. But suddenly my heart went out to that woman who had uttered that low, moaning sound, on that still summer morning. Something of the manner of a vision was conjured up before my mind and I wanted to visit the cottage by the hill-slope again!

And so I went one day; then for several days too; timidly and with a great deal of nervousness. The man who had stood there the day before, was not to be seen, nor the woman who had given the song. Only a sad looking girl with a pink bundle of a baby. She smiled at me wanly and said "what may you be wanting, good sir? Brother has gone into the city, and maybe went home."

So that was the brother then! I told the girl at once my story: how I came there simply and straightly after the incident of the Sunday. Then she smiled, Oh, God of mine! I will not forget that sad smile: it had in it such an air of a forgotten expectancy and a simple trust of a something that was no more. And then she took the baby in her arms.

"Listen, friend," she said, "I am a poor simple girl. Once upon a time I went to school like the many others around me, bright and sweet: until one day I lost all those dear souls whom I loved, and I came to my brother. He is a job-man in one of those big printing presses. We stay far away as you see; and yet two men came from your college yonder and. spoke to me of a big wonderful world, of education, of universities and of a career for really smart girls. I grew puzzled and told my brother. He is a strong, pure man and he warned me against the college folk. He said they were rich men irresponsible as the birds, and that they treated the sisters of other men as dirt. I could not believe it all, for they were really sweet and honorable in their attentions; and so grew a friendship between us. I came to know many things–and got interested in the world outside, I who was just a village girl. One day they took me to the University and showed me all the beautiful things there. I went there with my brother's permission–although he scowled. But he would not say a word to hurt anyone, this brother of mine.

"The sun was sinking in a great mass of crimson and gold. We had bad a perfect day, wandering and making merry, until out of sheer weariness, I came near the little pretty stream, where the big stone-cross of the Orphans Church stands, and laid myself down and slept.

"When I awoke, I found some one was holding me–it was nearly dark and the faint sunset was behind the hills; I felt a curious sensation, and the handsome young man from the college had me in his arms. Such a thing had never happened to me before; and they were the first kisses I ever did receive; a great desire came to me to return them and I hung passionately–hungrily replying.

"Suddenly the moon came up wondering; and I rose up and for the first time became conscious of myself.

"He said softly to me, "Goodbye, my dear, don't forget me–I will come to you ere long . ." and then he went away. There was a lump in my throat, and my heart ached for that young man.

"I waited for him the next day; again the day after, and then for months and then lost him for ever. My brother grew sad: he did not mind the gossip–but he did want men to be fair to a woman and he knew I was ruined.

"But he never spoke a word, this great soul. Only, he said, ‘Sushie, you must allow me to bring that young man to you; he has no business to leave you at this rate.’ I felt sad. I wept, for I really loved the young man from the college.

"And so the days have passed away and he has not come. My situation has cost my brother his job; and he has sent mayee home: poor good mayee! She was also so good to me! and I am alone. Dear friend, do you think my darling would come to me? He said he lived in the college, that his parents were very rich and that his name was K–?.

IV

Oh! God of mine, what a story I listened to, and what a request! K–, alas! K . . . I had known him well. He was a really brave man–but very queer, and in a frenzy of despair he had thrown himself across the rushing train to Bombay on the prize-distribution day of the college. They said it was a case of suicide, and a lot of unmeaning words. So this was the mystery about him; but however could I tell this to this girl?

I do not remember what I said to her; told her something about hoping on, about faith in God and stuff of that kind, and promised to see her again.

I saw her then many a time; by and by we grew to be good friends and the baby grew up into a nice little girl with dark eyes and fair curls; and she got reconciled to her lot; and between us both, the good silent brother and myself, grew up a singular attachment and a bond which could never be explained. I gave up my lonely cottage and came to live with those good people.

V

One evening whilst the sun was sinking in the west, and it was twilight, the girl died. I cannot tell the reason; it was the case of a real heart failure: a tiresome, hopeless waiting, and then finally despair. We knew it, but what could two poor men do, when a girl pined after her lover that was dead? Only the child remained of that unfortunate wayward union of two innocent souls who had come from the ends of the earth, as it were, and met in so strange a way!

I find this in my diary: it is dated June 25^th . . . 19--. "A year has passed us by ; and we are still in the little cottage by the hill-slope. Only the girl, little Prema– she has been sent to the Girls' University yonder and we two men are alone–watching the candle burning away in it brass socket, casting queer shadows on the mud walls around."

I read the old account with tears over again. And the memory of that song comes to me!

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