# The Slave Girl of Agra/Book 1/Chapter 1

THE SLAVE GIRL OF AGRA
BOOK I
I. THE CHILD IS FATHER OF THE MAN
One evening in 1590—when an English Queen was laying the foundations of a proud Empire in the West, and the great Akbar was building up a rich and prosperous Empire in the East—three Hindu children were playing on the banks of the Ganges. The spot was picturesque and romantic, as it was historic. The broad river, after sweeping eastwards for hundreds of miles, here takes a sharp turn round the Rajmahal Hills and flows to the south. Through this narrow gate the tide of invasion has often rolled from the west into the fertile plains of Bengal, and founders of dynasties have often established themselves at this strategic point. Gaur, Tonda and Rajmahal are poor or deserted towns to-day, but were of old the seats of kings and conquerors, Hindu, Afghan and Mogul. And the wars of the sixteenth century nursed in this locality a race of hardy chiefs and resolute leaders, who joined one side or another in the frequent revolutions which decided the destinies of Bengal.
The children were at play on the sands. Behind them, to the east, lay the rich plains of Malda, waving ​with green rice, and darkened by a continuous line of those famous mango groves which still produce the finest fruit in the world. Before them swept the imperious river, and beyond it rose the jagged peaks of the Rajmahal Hills. Numberless cargo boats were moored for the night. They carried the rice and sugar and salt, the cotton goods and silk fabrics of Bengal to Northern India, or brought down the cereals of Behar, the brass ware or brocade of Benares, the richer manufactures of the imperial cities of the west. For the Ganges was the great highway of trade in India, and men still living can remember her broad breast covered with thousands of slow-moving but shapely boats sailing up and down the stream. Trade takes a swifter course by rail to-day, and travelling is quicker than in the days of boats and bullock carts. But life was perhaps more restful then, and men and women had more of repose in their hereditary crafts—more of the simple enjoyments of an Eastern life in their quiet villages.
In the dim light of the stars two boys were building houses of earth and sand and sticks on the river bank, and a slim, dark-eyed girl stood by, observant and silent. Night follows quickly on the heels of day in India, and within an hour after a brilliant sunset the shades of evening had closed. The neighbouring town of Birnagar was almost invisible, except as a dark line of mango groves, and a few lamps glimmered under the trees. The riverside formed a busier scene; boatmen sang after the labours of the day, and fire was lighted on every boat for the evening meal.
The two boys were of the same age, about fifteen, ​but were very different in appearance and temperament. Sirish was a plain, strong, robust lad, and had almost attained the strength of youth; and like many strong lads he was naturally of a pacific temperament. Noren had the bright complexion, the refined features, and the delicate form and face which, in India, often indicates high birth and noble ancestry. Clusters of dark hair fell on Noren’s fair forehead, and his dark eyes sparkled with joy as he ran about the sands. And yet he was easily provoked, and when the blue veins showed themselves on his forehead, his stronger companion did not care to face the rash stripling.
Born without the advantages of birth or wealth, Sirish was endowed with good sense, patience, and a calm perseverance which makes for success in life. Noren, on the other hand, was heir to ample possessions and to a name which was honoured in all the country side. He was gifted, too, with a quick intelligence which, like personal beauty, often a quick descends from parent to son; but he lacked those patient virtues without which more brilliant gifts lead often to failure—sometimes to misery.
And certainly Noren met with failure that evening, when he was building his house of sand under the light of the stars. Generally he was both ingenious and skilful, but this evening he was nervous under the watchful eyes of the little girl who stood by, observant and silent. Hemlata was a sweet girl of twelve, all gentleness and tenderness. Noren knew her from childhood, and loved her with all the impulsive ardour of a child’s love. He poured into her sympathetic ears all the secret sorrows of an ​orphan, and recounted to her all his bidden ambitions. She, tender soul, scarcely understood what the passionate boy felt and suffered and hoped, but she could feel for him as no one else did, and soothed him as no one else could. Thus they grew up, the little boy and the little girl, attached to each other by a secret sympathy, cherished all the more keenly because bidden from the world.
Sirish had come between them later, and to him the little girl was a gentle friend and playmate. Sirish asked for nothing more. Even in his wildest fancy he scarcely aspired to win this beauteous girl, the only child of a father who was now all-powerful in the land. Yet his calm, meditative eyes indicated deep thought and a resolution which few could guess. If he too had his secret ambitions they never found utterance.
To-night Sirish was pleased to see Hemlata watching his work, and went on, attentive and patient. Noren was nervous and restless, and often looked at Sirish and Hemlata with ill-concealed jealousy. Half an hour passed by; Sirish’s work was complete, and Hemlata clapped her little hands in joy to see the house so well done. Her merry laughter stung Noren; his hands shook, and his house of sand fell.
“Why, Noren, thou hast done nothing this evening. Where is thy boasted skill?" asked Sirish, as he came arm-in-arm with the girl to the place where Noren stood silent and morose.
"I want to do nothing this evening," said Noren, petulantly, kicking away the remains of his house.
"Then why didst thou ask me to come to the riverside, and why didst thou keep this girl here so ​long? Her father will be inquiring for her by this time, I guess."
"I will know what reply to make to her father if he asks me—to thee I will make none."
"Why, thou art as rude, Noren, as thou art unskilful. Thou hast lost thy house and thy temper."
"If I have lost my sand house, I have a better house to live in. There are people who have no house to call their own."
A wanton insult this to Sirish, who was then living as a dependant on Hemlata's father. Sirish winced but kept his temper, and he replied to Noren with the respect due to his rank.
"I know my position, Noren, and am not ashamed of it. I wish thou wouldst know thine and be worthy of thy grandfather's house."
"Good of thee to think of my grandfather's house, Sirish; though even now, methinks, there are those once quailed who under his eyes but would gladly purloin the estate which he left to me. Maybe my playmate knows something of these schemes!"
"I will leave thee to thy humour, Noren," calmly replied Sirish. "I will take Hemlata home, as her father must be getting anxious for her."
"And who made thee Hemlata's guardian, Sirish, and how long hast thou been her protector?" asked Noren, fiercely, as he saw the girl clinging closer to Sirish.
"I am no guardian of hers, Noren, but would fain protect her from a madman like thee!"
"Stand back!" shouted Noren. "The girl shall go home with me, as she came to the riverside to play with me."
​"Thou art welcome to take her home, Noren, when thou hast learnt better manners. I will not leave her to-night with an unmannerly lad."
"Stand back, thou low-born man, and make room for one who is worthier to take her side."
The strong frame of Sirish shook under this fresh insult, and he stood and glared at Noren. But he controlled himself and deigned no reply. He put his arm tenderly round the frightened girl and turned homewards.
This was more than Noren could stand. Maddened by the cool contempt of Sirish, he rushed at him and attacked him with all his might. Hemlata shrieked in alarm. Sirish was more than a match for Noren; he held the infuriated boy by the waist, lifted him like a feather, and flung him on the sands, helpless and panting.
Stung with shame at this discomfiture before the eyes of the girl, and covered with sand and earth, Noren picked up a stone and flung it at Sirish. It hit him just over his right eye and made a deep cut. Sirish sat down on the sands and tried to staunch the blood with his cloth. Hemlata was a silent witness. She cast one look of agony and reproach at the misbehaving boy, and her eyes glistened with tears. She then ran to the riverside and moistened her saree, and came back to Sirish to wash away the blood.
Sirish was not seriously hurt, but the blood was still trickling down his face as he slowly arose.
"Come home, Hemlata," he softly said; "it is late, and we must go home." They walked homewards, arm-in-arm, without casting a look on Noren. ​He stood there, alone and miserable, until the night closed around him. Bitter thoughts came to him as he stood in the darkness. He, the proud heir of an ancient house, had acted like a madman, and forfeited the esteem of her he loved. Sirish, a humble dependant, had forgiven him nobly and had won the sweet Hemlata. Was this a forecast of his life?