The Outcaste

by F. E. Penny

  CHAPTER III

  Coomara, the orthodox, the punctilious observer of caste rule andceremony, was dead. He had died in sin before the cleansing ritescould be performed which alone could restore the purity of his birthand reinstate him in his caste.

  Bopaul, when he had recovered from the stunned condition into which theaccident threw him, fell back upon the deadening doctrine of fatalism.It was destiny, and there was no escape. All-powerful fate hadordained it; first, that they should miss the earlier train whichreached its journey's end in safety; secondly, that Coomara should makea move to the opposite side of the carriage and seat himself on thevery spot to which the buffer penetrated. The rest of the occupantsescaped with bruises and a few cuts from broken glass. What else couldhave brought about the occurrence but the direct will of the gods?

  To Ananda the affair was a great shock. His nervous system wascompletely upset. The memory of the scene recurred again and againduring the day and the night, depriving him of sleep and rest. It wasnot only the loss of his friend and companion in exile that grievedhim, but the appalling thought that the dead man had been thrust into acycle of rebirths and existences wherein pain, sordidness andunspeakable degradation would be his lot; where beauty, joy and comfortwould find no part. At that very moment the troubled spirit might beentering upon its new life with groans and sighs in squalidenvironment. He recalled Coomara's careful observance of everythingthat related to his religion; his dislike of all that was not strictlyorthodox; his unwillingness even to listen to heretical teaching. Noman could be more innocent of intention in transgressing caste rulethan Coomara. With his sensitive temperament, his pride of birth andcaste, none could feel his punishment in a greater degree. Day andnight Ananda brooded and sorrowed, uncomforted by the oft-repeatedassurance of Bopaul that it was the inevitable decree of fate; and thatwhat was written on a man's forehead by the gods could not be averted.

  The Professor observed his distress and was troubled. It affected thehealth of his guest, causing his appetite to fail. Sleep camefitfully; and rest during the day seemed well-nigh impossible, asAnanda paced the room or wandered up and down the garden withoutpurpose. Everything in the shape of study ended. The books wereopened and the Professor began to lecture; but he soon discovered thathe failed to interest Bopaul, and that Ananda's thoughts had wanderedfar from the subject in hand. Under the impression that the mind mightbe relieved by speech, he encouraged both to talk of the trouble thathad overtaken them. He listened seriously and with patience as Anandapropounded the doctrine of transmigration. At the conclusion theProfessor combatted it, repeating all the arguments against the theory.

  "It is monstrous to ascribe such cruelty to the Deity," he said. "Youadmit that God is all-powerful. Why cannot you give Him credit forbeneficence? You call Him the All-Father. If He is a father, at leastallow Him the attributes of a father."

  "How can He break His own rules?" cried Bopaul. "It is laid down byDivine authority in the Vedas that certain consequences must followcertain deeds. It is a common law of life all over the world. Youhang your murderer, regardless of his repentance. Can you cleanse thehand of the murderer from the blood in which he has dipped it? Youyourself admit that as the tree falls so must it lie; the tree fallsnot by its will nor by its merit, but by fate."

  "Christ came into the world to give us a new law," said the Professor."It is true that by the old Mosaic teaching we punish the murderer. Ifhe dies repentant, we have the promise of Christ made on the Cross thathis sins will assuredly be forgiven. To the crucified thief He said,'This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.' He gave the promisealmost with his last breath, and the man to whom it was made had sinnedwilfully and with design. Is it likely that they who have transgressedunintentionally will have to suffer with those whose hearts arehardened?"

  "The thief on the Cross was a Christian already, probably, and afollower of your Prophet," said Bopaul.

  "There is nothing to show that he had followed Christ, or beeninfluenced by His teaching. All that he knew was that his strangecompanion was branded with no crime. If Christ could promiseforgiveness--which meant immunity from punishment--to a wilful criminalwho was neither baptized nor a follower, is it not believable that Hecould forgive and secure immunity from punishment to one like Coomara,whose life was humanly blameless? Our God is all-powerful,all-embracing, just and loving. Through His Son He shows mercy to all,regardless of race and religion."

  "Is He--is He--stronger than Brahma?" asked Ananda, in a low voice.

  "He is stronger and mightier than all the gods in the Universe,"declared the Professor, in ringing tones that almost carriedconviction. Even Bopaul, the trifler, was impressed. He rose from hisseat and strolled to the window.

  "Our guru would warn us that it was sinful to listen to the claims ofany other God but our own."

  As he spoke he turned and looked at Ananda with warning in his eye.

  "He who refuses to listen is a coward," said Twyford. "In these daysof tolerance and freedom of thought, the student asks for liberty toprobe and sound every doctrine that is presented. He demands a widefield that he may view from all sides, weigh and measure the new withthe old. Above all, he requires to be told all that there is to belearned; for, without hearing the arguments for and against, no man isable to form a just opinion."

  "In that case the guru ought to be here to represent and defend hisside of the argument," said Bopaul.

  "You have already learned all that he could teach you. Your peoplesent you to England that you might hear more; that you might be madeacquainted with every question that is agitating the western world ofscience, of politics and of religion."

  "Ah, well!" replied Bopaul, in a lighter and more careless tone. "Weare acquiring knowledge under you, sir; we can sift and compare withoutapostacy, I hope. Come for a walk, Ananda. The fresh air will clearaway the cobwebs from our brains and make us more profitable pupils."

  The Professor's grey eyes, full of sympathy and friendliness, rested onAnanda in silence. He did not say, "Go; the walk will do you good."Nor did he reach out his hand for pen or book, a sign that he was readyto return to his own studies. He waited, leaning back in the revolvingchair in front of his writing-table.

  "No, thanks; I would rather stay in-doors. The noise and traffic ofthe streets----"

  "You will never conquer your nerves by keeping away from the outsideworld. It will have to be faced sooner or later; the sooner thebetter," said Bopaul, as his hand touched the door.

  Ananda turned from the speaker to the silent Professor, and gatheredstrength from his steady gaze.

  "Don't wait, Bopaul; I am not going out this morning."

  With a lifting of the shoulders the other left the room, shiftingresponsibility on to the Englishman. Silence was maintained for someseconds after his departure. Ananda broke it.

  "If only I could believe that this endless cycle of rebirths need notbe, I should be happier," he said.

  The pathetic appeal for some ray of hope went straight to Twyford'sheart. Pity and an intense desire to help in spiritual trouble rousedthe man, and he poured forth the doctrines of comfort that console thedying Christian. It was not done with the intention of converting, butin the merciful desire of bringing some small consolation to thedespairing man to whom the fear of the future made life in the presentintolerable. The fate that had overtaken Coomara might at any moment,whether at home or abroad, be Ananda's.

  For more than an hour they talked, and the gloom on Ananda's facelightened.

  "It is most comforting as you put it, but--it is not my creed," hesaid. There was a pause, and he added, "I cannot change my faith."

  "I do not ask you to change it. Is it not possible, however, in thesedays of advanced thought that you may be able to modify some of thefossilised tenets of your religion? The spirit of reform is abroad,and a Hindu may become a member of the Brahmo-Somaj or the Ayra-Somajwithout losing caste, without cutting himself adrift from hiscommunity, h
is family. There is no hurry. The fathers may restcontent to think of these things. Their sons will act."

  There was a sound of a footstep outside. The door opened, and Bopaulappeared.

  "Lunch is ready, sir. I am sure you must be tired talking so long.You should have driven that foolish Ananda out into the air andsunshine, instead of letting him waste your time."

  "I don't think that the time has been wasted," replied the Professor,kindly.

  Bopaul shot a swift glance at Ananda, but learned nothing except thefact that the latter was ill at ease under his scrutiny. The lunchbell rang, and Ananda hurried to his room. As he disappeared Bopaulsaid in a tone that was unusually earnest for him.

  "Sir, remember your promise to his parents. Forgive me for remindingyou of it. I know his people, and what a terrible thing it will be forthem if his faith is shaken. He is their only son."

  "Believe me, I have not broken faith with them. I have been preachingreform rather than conversion, although I admit that it would please mebetter if it had been the other way about. Ananda must have led a verysheltered life in his youth, and this I fancy is his first greattrouble. He needs help, and it is difficult to give it under thepeculiar circumstances in which I find myself."

  * * * * *

  The Professor was not far wrong when he said that Ananda's childhoodhad been sheltered.

  Born of wealthy parents and the only son, surrounded with every luxurythat love could devise, he had been guarded from trouble of all kind.He, on his part, had been amenable to his parents' wishes, obedient andgentle, always ready to be guided. Content to be ruled, his will powerlay dormant, and there seemed little likelihood of it being roused intoactivity; for the desires of those whose authority he recognised neverclashed with his own. The life of his father, Pantulu Iyer, had beensmooth, as is the case with many men of high caste families. The lifeof the son promised to be the same.

  At the age of twelve he was married to Coomara's sister, three yearshis junior. When he was seventeen the marriage was consummated, andthe girl took up her residence with his parents. It was a happy home,free from strife, and the daughter-in-law found no difficulty infitting herself into her place. She shared the love that the parentsin the fullness of their affection showered upon their son.

  When Ananda was nineteen and Dorama, his wife, sixteen, she presentedhim with a son. If anything could have been added to the cup of joythat was already full, it was this.

  "Now we are assured of the completion of our happiness and thefulfilment of our desire," said his father. "We may allow ourselves toconsider your future. One day we hope to see you take a prominent partin the government of the country. Possibly you may rise to occupy aplace on the Maharajah's council. These honours cannot be attainedwithout a journey to England."

  "Is it necessary, my father?" asked Ananda, watching his young wife asshe sat on the fine grass matting with the baby on her lap. He wouldhave been more than content to continue in the pleasant backwater ofdomestic life without seeking new scenes.

  "It is necessary in these days of progress. His Highness himself takesoccasional voyages across the ocean to see the western world with hisown eyes."

  "His caste is not our caste," objected Ananda, with the unconscioussuperiority of a man of better birth.

  "Still, his example is to be imitated."

  "Not without loss of caste."

  "Caste can be restored on your return. The penances and penalties arelighter than they used to be."

  "But the breaking of caste is none the less serious for the lighteningof the penalties."

  "That may be," assented Pantulu. "All the same, it is imperative inthese days that men should see something of the world outside their ownState; and there is no doubt that those who have travelled in Europe,and lived for a time in England, are preferred in the council to thosewho have had no experience. Having thought the matter well over, myson, your mother and I have decided on this step. You will sail fromBombay in April next; and it is proposed by their families to sendCoomara and Bopaul with you."

  Ananda's father consulted with Wenaston, who had recently beenappointed as Principal of the large college at Chirapore, as to thebest place of residence in London; with the result that the threeHindus found themselves committed to the care of Professor Twyford.

  Bopaul had no qualms over his broken caste. He accepted the decree ofexile with pleasure, and determined to make the most of hisopportunities. He intended to amuse himself as well as read with theProfessor; and he carried out his programme, the only shadow to crosshis path later being the death of Coomara.

  Shortly before they left for England, the guru paid them a visit. TheVedas were quoted and the laws of Manu repeated with many warningsagainst falling away from the faith.

  "You are going to a foreign land, the home of revolutionary teaching.Be careful how you listen, and let no one undermine the instructionsthat I with divine authority have given you. Attempts will be made;you must resist them. Here in this State of Chirakul we still enjoythe great boon of an hereditary ruler. Under his government we havesuccessfully repelled the innovations that have been introduced intoBritish India. If fate should decree that any of you enter the serviceof our Maharajah, it will rest with you to help to preserve our ancientfaith."

  Coomara looked up at the tall figure that stood before him, and hisglance fell beneath the fiery eyes. He dropped at the feet of theteacher and pressed his forehead to the ground with words of worshipand adoration such as might have been addressed to the Deity. In hiseyes the guru was God Himself, neither His messenger nor prophet; andas such he bowed himself in deep humility and worshipped. As he laythere a voice like the voice of a god reached him.

  "My son, I do not forbid your ears to listen nor your eyes to see.What you hear and see will be of use in the work you will have to do onyour return. A knowledge of the enemy is necessary to success."

  "What work, oh swami? May thy servant know?"

  "The preservation of our great religion, the emancipation of ourcountry, the elevation of our nation; the casting out of a race ofdemons who would have us believe that they are spirits of light. Maythey be accursed with their Christ!"

  He broke into imprecations against the supreme power that claimedsovereignty over the Maharajah of Chirakul and against the Founder ofthe Christian faith.

  "Swami, is it your decree that I should take this voyage across theblack water--that I should break my caste?"

  "Only by going to England can you ever hope to rise to a positionwherein you may help the cause that we have at heart."

  "And if I die in that foreign land, swami?"

  "You will be born again to suffering and degradation," said theinexorable voice.

  "Swami, swami! Let me stay in my father's house."

  "It cannot be. It is the will of the gods!" replied the guru. "Myson," he added, in softer accents, "be not afraid. You will return insafety to help the cause we have at heart and be blessed by the holyBrahmans."

  Ananda and Bopaul heard the words and remembered them afterwards. "Youwill be born again to toil and suffering and degradation."

  And they believed them; for had they not been spoken by the guru, inwhom dwelt the divine afflatus?

  * * * * *

  Dr. Wenaston shortened his stay in town after the accident, andcancelled his social engagements. The death of Coomara affected him,though in a lesser degree. He developed an aversion to publicgatherings and to the assemblage of a crowd in street or train or onthe field of sport. A vague feeling of apprehension destroyed hispleasure, and he recognised with dismay that he, too, was sufferingfrom nerves.

  There was only one remedy, and that was to seek comparative solitudefor a while until the nervous system should recover its equilibrium.

  His sister suggested a leisurely motor trip into the depths of thecountry. They could choose their road and regulate their pace toplease themselves.

&nbs
p; They wandered through the south and west of England, fortunate in theirweather and choice of route. When it suited them they remained at aquiet little seaside place for a week or two; or in a still more sleepycountry town, with the happy result that Wenaston entirely recoveredhis health mentally and bodily.

  The summer passed and he sent his sister home to make her preparationfor the voyage to India, while he went to his club for the same object.He had not seen the Professor since he led Ananda and Bopaul back tohis house in dazed and prostrate condition on that memorable afternoon,and had told the story of the accident.

  On his arrival in town he wrote to Mrs. Twyford, saying that he wouldcome to lunch on the following Sunday.

  It was one of those bright autumn days, when the sun touched everyobject with a golden light. Even the city of smoke and fog wasrendered beautiful in its dress of grey and gold. The streets,thronged on week-day with traffic, were empty except during thehalf-hour before service. Church-bells rang out their call in alldirections, summoning their eclectic congregations to the morningservices. The sound of the great cathedral chimes dominated them all.

  Wenaston stood for a minute or two on the steps of St. Paul'slistening, that he might retain the echo in his ears and carry it awayinto exile. Temple-bells might clang around him, and theding-ding-ding of the Christian Church bell call him on Sunday; butnowhere throughout the East would a melody like that sent forth fromthe dome of St. Paul's ever ring in his ear.

  He entered the cathedral and moved swiftly up the centre aisle. Thespace under the dome was filling fast. He turned to the right andfound a seat near the pulpit.

  The chimes ceased, and the big bell monotoned the final invitation tothe increasing crowd. Before it stopped the organ pealed forth thefirst chords of the voluntary.

  If the truth is to be recorded, Wenaston had not gone to church withany conscious desire to humble himself in prayer, nor to lift his soulto God in praise. The melody of the choir succeeded the song of thebells. He listened passively, revelling in the perfect harmony andabandoning himself to the soothing, almost sensuous feeling of peaceand contentment brought by the music and environment. He knelt andstood, following mechanically the example of his neighbours; and whenthe organ ceased and the preacher entered the pulpit, he restedmotionless in his chair, yielding himself to the luxury of thesensations that had been roused by the music.

  At the conclusion of the sermon, eager for more of that which so soonwould be unattainable, he determined to remain to the end of theservice. A large number of people left the cathedral, and he moved upnearer to the choir, with the object of securing a better seat, butwith no intention of communicating.

  When the departing congregation had cleared away, his eyes were drawntowards a kneeling figure in front. Something in its outline wasfamiliar. The head, with short abundant black hair, was bowed insilent prayer. The worshipper was no idle visitor; nor had he come tohave his ears tickled or his senses steeped in superb harmonies. Themusic that echoed through arch and aisle was unheeded in the effort toraise the spirit to God. The man was there to pray, and his prayerfulattitude was unchanged until the first chords of the _Gloria_ werestruck. As prayer passed into a glorious song of praise, theworshipper lifted his head and Wenaston caught a glimpse of thefeatures. Astounded beyond measure--he could not have explainedwhy--he recognised Ananda.

  When the service ended he rose, and allowing the Hindu to pass outbefore him, caught him up at the west door. Ananda's eyes were notupon the crowd that jostled him, and he did not observe Wenaston'spresence. In their dark depths shone the light of a great happinessmingled with that exaltation which may be seen in the eyes of theconvert. Wenaston's surprise was not lessened as he noted it.

  "You! Ananda!"

  The Hindu turned at once and held out his hand.

  "Dr. Wenaston! We thought that you were still in the south of England!"

  "I have been there; but my leave is getting short, and I have come totown to prepare for my journey back to India. Mrs. Twyford did nottell you that I am to lunch with you all to-day?"

  "She said nothing about it."

  Wenaston gazed at him with searching eyes.

  "How is it that I find you in St. Paul's?" he asked, adding as anafter-thought. "And not as a spectator."

  "Because I have taken a momentous step. I have become a Christian."

  "Is this the Professor's doing?" asked Wenaston, after a slight pause.

  "No," replied Ananda, readily. "The Professor had nothing to do withmy act."

  "Tell me about it."

  They walked along the deserted city streets where a few well-dressedfolk were strolling and an occasional omnibus rolled noisily by.

  "After Coomara's death I was very much troubled. I could not bear tothink of his fate. Sometimes I was overwhelmed with grief on hisaccount; sometimes I was beside myself with terror on my own, lest alike fate should overtake me. It became more than I could bear. TheProfessor was very kind. He tried to console me with some of his owndoctrines, and suggested that I should draw comfort from them withoutnecessarily adopting Christianity. As you know, it was one of theconditions imposed by my father on the Professor that there should beno attempt on his part at proselytising. Being an honourable man, hekept faith with my father."

  "How did it come about, then?"

  "A curious thing happened. One of the English students living in thehouse introduced me to the mother and sister of the aviator who waskilled that day. In my grief and trouble over Coomara's fate I hadalmost forgotten the accident. I spoke to them about it, and told themof my own sorrow. They were goodness itself. To my astonishment I sawthat they were bearing their grief with a resignation that put me toshame. It was their belief--their unshaken faith in the future thatgave them strength. They were so sure, so certain that their belovedone was safe with God and happier than he could ever be on earth. Imarvelled at their peace of mind, and asked myself why I should notshare it. Sorrow had made them very tender towards the trouble ofothers. In short, it was through them that I changed my religion.They introduced me to their vicar. Unknown to the Professor, I putmyself under instruction, and three weeks ago I was baptized."

  "Without consulting your guardian?"

  "Without his knowledge. He knows now. I did not wish to compromisehim, and I begged my friends to keep my secret until I was baptized. Iam of age, and can please myself."

  He looked up at Wenaston, as if to hear what he had to say, and whetherhe approved.

  "You ought to have told Twyford."

  Ananda's hands were lifted in a little gesture of deprecation.

  "I was afraid, afraid of losing my new-found happiness. I was afraidof opposition from Bopaul if he knew. I was afraid lest the Professorshould want me to write first to my father and obtain his consent. Iwas afraid----"

  He paused, and Wenaston remarked with a gravity in which there wasconcern and doubt--

  "You may in truth say that you have taken a momentous step. God giveyou strength to be no longer afraid."