The Outcaste

by F. E. Penny

  CHAPTER XIII

  At sunrise Alderbury started off in the motor to drive back to thatparticular mission centre of which he was the superintendent. It wassituated in British India, about forty miles from the town of Chirapore.

  On his way he stopped at the house of Pantulu. He walked quickly roundto the side where the room assigned to Ananda was situated. He foundhim sitting on his deck chair in the open doorway. He was trying toconcentrate his attention on a book, but his eyes often wandered to thehills. He heard the tread of footsteps and looked up expectantly. Assoon as he caught sight of Alderbury he rose, pleasure plainly writtenon his face.

  "I did not think that you would have time to call and see me again," hesaid, as he shook hands warmly.

  "Dr. Wenaston's offer of the car has made it possible. I come withgood news. He has consented to my suggestion that you should take up apost as junior master in the school. The salary you will draw willenable you to support yourself and make you independent of your father."

  Ananda's eyes grew bright at the prospect and he questioned his visitoreagerly as to his duties. They were explained, together with thesubjects that were forbidden.

  "I shall like it beyond all things," said Ananda. "For the present Iwill go on living here. I am getting used to the room. It is not asbad as it looks."

  "Have your people sent you any food this morning; any coffee and ricecakes?"

  "No; they have never yet sent me anything in the early morning. Thepariah has returned, I am glad to say, with permission to sweep andperform his usual duties."

  Alderbury began to dive into the deep pockets of his travellingovercoat. He produced bread, butter, a bottle of strong coffee, cake,sugar, salt and various other eatables.

  "You don't mind accepting these things from Miss Wenaston. Herhousekeeper gave them to me with her own hands. When you go to thecollege to-morrow morning, call at the house and say you are grateful."

  "Of course I will. I'll see the housekeeper as well as Miss Wenaston."

  "And let me give you another piece of advice, Ananda. You must fill upthe whole day with regular employment, whether you are at the collegeor at home. You must not allow yourself to drift into the habit ofidleness. It is bad for any man, European or Indian. You must readand make notes of what you read. You must write to me and tell me whatyou are teaching your class. I will send you some books addressed tothe care of Miss Wenaston as soon as I get back; and if you wantlighter literature you can borrow of her."

  They talked of various matters for some time, and then Alderbury lookedat his watch.

  "Half-past eight! how the time flies! Is that your man outside? Hi!come here! I want you!" he called in the man's language.

  The sweeper ran forward, and Alderbury gave him directions.

  "Go to the car and bring me a small basket you will find on the seat."

  The pariah returned and was directed to lift the lid, which he did. Ashe held it open Alderbury took out a packet of sandwiches.

  "I may as well save time by eating my breakfast whilst I talk."

  The food disappeared without any hindrance to the conversation, and thefact that it had been received from the pariah did not affect themissionary's appetite.

  "Put down the basket and give me that bottle and cup," said Alderburyto the man. "Hold the cup while I pour."

  The thermos flask was full of steaming coffee, and Alderbury took thebrimming cup from the hand of the despised pariah, giving him back theflask to replace in the tiffin basket.

  "This is Mrs. Hulver's own make; I never tasted better coffee. Youhave got the same brew in that bottle, but without milk. It shouldlast you three or four days. Boil your milk and add it to the coldcoffee. Don't heat the coffee or you will spoil the flavour. I was tobe sure and tell you this from Mrs. Hulver. Good-bye and good luck gowith your new venture. Come along my man; bring that basket and put itin the motor."

  The lesson was not without its effect although nothing was actuallysaid. Somehow when the Englishman accepted food from the hand of thepariah the action had a different complexion, and it set Anandathinking. Alderbury hoped it would bear good fruit, and help to makematters easier if the time should come when no food was obtainableexcept through the pariah. He was anxious to be off, and he badeAnanda good-bye, parting with him at the entrance of the little yardwhere the gourd spread its vivid green foliage.

  As he approached the gateway of the compound leading into the road amessenger met him with a request that he would come into the verandahin front of the house. Pantulu Iyer desired a word with him. Quiteready for an interview whatever might be its nature, hostile orfriendly, he mounted the stone steps.

  A few minutes elapsed before Pantulu, accompanied by his wife,appeared. They approached silently, their hands placed together palmto palm, and stood before him with bowed heads.

  "Sir!" began Pantulu, then he paused, unable to command his voice.

  "Speak, Pantulu Iyer; what do you wish to say? I am ready to listen."

  Alderbury's gentle manner broke down the nervous constraint and openedthe flood-gates of speech. In a voice that was so charged with emotionas to be near breaking point, the old man prayed for the missionary'sassistance in the restoration of his son, his only child. There werenumbers of others, he pleaded, who were ready and willing to join theChristian religion. Their apostacy would not be felt by theirfamilies. With him it was different. In taking away his son themissionary deprived him and his father and grandfather of happiness ina future life. Who was to perform the shraddah ceremonies when he,Pantulu, was dead, if his son Ananda refused to perform them? Thethought of his fate and the fate of his ancestors was intolerable,unbearable, appalling!

  As he poured forth his entreaty Gunga's tears flowed down her haggardcheeks and fell upon the folds of her tawny silk saree. Her grey hairwas dishevelled, and its silvery strands were sprinkled with the dustshe had thrown upon her head according to custom in overwhelming griefor misfortune.

  Keenly sympathetic to human trouble at all times, Alderbury could notlisten unmoved. The appearance of both father and mother told its owntale, and he fully realised the havoc that had been wrought in one ofthe happiest homes of India. It was ever the same, even from the verybeginning of the story of Christianity, he thought with a sigh. Allpioneer work must run on similar lines; and although he knew that itwas inevitable, his heart ached at the sight of their distress.

  "If you feel thus about the future why not take the same path your sonhas taken? He is right. Go with him and you will find such joy andpeace in your old age as you have never experienced before."

  "Can the bullock learn a new method of drawing the cart after spendingall its life under the yoke? We cannot change at our age. We mustfollow in the footsteps of our fathers. Oh! sir! if you would only saythe word, and bid my son remember his poor old father, all might yet bemade right. Let him conform outwardly, whatever he may believeinwardly, for our sake."

  Yielding to a sudden impulse, Pantulu and his wife fell at Alderbury'sfeet, touching their foreheads to the ground. By this time the tearswere falling from the old man's eyes.

  "Our son! our dearly loved son! Give us back our child, our littleone! the only child that was ever sent by the gods to bless us!"

  Not a word of reproach was mingled with the prayer which made it allthe harder for the missionary to bear.

  "He cannot return to you. You must go to him," repeated Alderbury.

  "Sir! if you will bring him back to us--and he will come! I know hewill! if you so much as hold up your finger--I will give you a lac ofrupees to build a temple for your God. Your God is merciful and kind.He will take the church in exchange for the only son of twoheart-broken parents. He will be satisfied if you build it large andput much gold and jewels in the sacred place. You shall have money andjewels and gold and silk and rich carpets and hangings--all these andmore than you ask you shall have, if you will only give him back to us."

  "Give
him back to me, his mother! Let me have my little one again! mylittle one whose tiny hands upon my neck awoke the mother-love withinme," prayed the proud Gunga at his feet in abject humility.

  It was getting beyond Alderbury's endurance. His human pity broughtthe tears to his eyes. He bent over the prostrate figures.

  "I cannot grant your request even if I would. There can be no returnfor your son. You must go to him; he cannot come back to you. May myGod, the God of love and mercy, help you!"

  He turned and left the verandah. In another ten seconds the car wasspeeding down the road hidden in a column of golden dust in the brightmorning sunshine.

  * * * * *

  The following morning, punctual to the minute, Ananda, accompanied bythe Principal, entered the class room where he was to instructtwenty-seven boys whose ages ranged between twelve and fourteen. Hehad already received his instructions, and was relieved to find thatnothing was required of him in the teaching line otherwise than what hewas easily able to perform.

  The class had assembled and most of the boys were studying the lessonthat was to be repeated. There was a buzz of voices as each individualconned aloud the portion he had prepared. A few talked together in lowtones with a solemnity that would be strange in English schoolboys.Whether studying or chatting they all behaved quietly, with a totalabsence of trickery or exuberance of spirits. This self-containedorderliness, peculiar to native children in India, renders it possiblefor a teacher to manage a class of fifty pupils. Not only are the boysattentive, but many of them show an eagerness to learn which issurprising to the English master.

  There was a sudden breathless hush as Wenaston entered; andtwenty-seven pairs of eyes were fixed in rounded wonder upon the newteacher. He was recognised by most of the boys. Many of them belongedto families known to his own people.

  He took his seat at the desk and began the lesson. Wenaston, afterlistening a few minutes, nodded his head in approval and left the room.His own class of young men preparing for one of the higher examinationswas waiting for him.

  At twelve o'clock the classes broke up and the boys went home to themidday meal. It was customary to reassemble at half-past one for gamesin the playing-field and begin work again an hour later.

  After lunch Wenaston put on his sun-topee and strolled into thecricket-field. A few boys stood about in couples idly talking, but nogame was in progress. He called to one of the big boys and asked whythere was no practice at the nets. The reply was to the effect thatmost of the boys were leaving at once for home where their presence wasrequired by their families, without waiting for afternoon school.

  Wenaston was accustomed to the absence of his pupils on the occasion ofdomestic ceremonial; but it was usual to let him know beforehand. Thereason was sometimes stated but not always. He passed on to hisprivate sitting-room in the college where he had papers to look over.At three he went to the hall. His class was small; so also were theclasses of the other masters. At half-past five the bell rang and theboys dispersed. He met Ananda outside the building.

  "Come in and see Miss Wenaston," he said. "How did you get on thisafternoon?"

  "Very well, indeed, sir, as far as my subject was concerned. It is agreat pleasure to go over the old ground again and renew myacquaintance with it. I had very few boys this afternoon; only ten outof the twenty-seven turned up."

  "There must be some public festival going on; for the other classeswere also small. Do you know what it is?"

  "Not a regular feast day, I am sure. If there is anything of the kindit will be of a private nature: a wedding or a funeral. I am inCoventry as you know, sir; and so I hear no news whatever."

  "I hope you will not have to remain long in that uncomfortableposition. You must establish yourself in a house of your own."

  "I intend to do so as soon as I can consult with my wife. Up to thepresent I have not been allowed to see either her or the child."

  "You will not leave without them?"

  "No; they must come with me. As long as I remain in the house I have abetter chance of obtaining an interview."

  They found Eola in the garden looking at the roses. Her favouriteswere all back in their places, a dozen beautiful _La France_ plants.Whether they were the originals she could not say. The pruning wasalways a severe process that deprived the bushes of individual featuresand made them all of one pattern. Mrs. Hulver was not far off; and thegardener, beaming with satisfaction at the thought that his full wageswere assured, was half concealed behind a bank of ferns where he waspretending to be very busy picking off dead leaves. Eola greetedAnanda with a friendly welcome that set him at ease; talked of herroses and other matters of no importance.

  "I want to thank you, Miss Wenaston, for all that you sent yesterday byMr. Alderbury," he said.

  "You must thank my housekeeper. It was her thought. Mrs. Hulver! Mr.Ananda is very grateful to you for thinking of him in his need."

  Mrs. Hulver, thus encouraged, approached and cast her shrewd grey eyesover the visitor. His neat European dress and manner met with herapproval.

  "I am glad the food was acceptable. I saw to the cooking of it myself.Mr. Alderbury told me that you had been obliged to live onbiscuits--poor stuff for young stomachs. What a man wants is a hotmeal once a day. There should be meat as well as bread or rice. Iwasn't able to send you any meat, Mr. Ananda."

  "I don't eat meat, so it was all right."

  "Do you like fish?"

  "Yes; and vegetables curried; but I have not tasted a curry since Ilanded."

  "Then you've gone to bed hungry more often than not in spite of yourbiscuits. As William--that was my second husband--used to say: 'Sharpstomachs make short tempers.' The best temper will sour understarvation."

  A little later Ananda said good-bye and walked back to his father'shouse. On the way he met Bopaul. Mayita was his companion.Regardless of ill omens the brother had renewed his friendship with hissister; he took her for daily walks, avoiding the places where men andwomen congregated.

  "Not afraid of being contaminated by the company of an outcaste?" saidAnanda with some bitterness, as Bopaul turned to stroll part of the waywith his friend.

  "No; nor of being overshadowed by the widow," replied Bopaul with alight laugh. "How are things going with you?"

  Ananda related the experience of the last week and his employment atthe college, together with his plans for the future.

  "You will certainly have to clear out of your father's house as soon asyou can if you want any comfort."

  "I shall not go without my wife and child," said Ananda, with the oldobstinacy.

  "How is the child?" inquired Bopaul.

  "The child! Is it ill that you ask?" said Ananda, startled.

  "It had a fall the day you returned. No effect was seen at first but afew days ago it complained of pain; and my mother, who went to see it,thought that it was ill, though not very bad. Haven't they told you?"

  "I hear nothing and I see nobody but the sweeper. Bring me news ifthere is anything important to tell," said Ananda, trying in vain tohide the sudden anxiety that sprang up as he heard that the child wasnot well.

  "I will," answered Bopaul, with a note of sympathy in his voice.

  He stopped to turn back towards his own house, and Ananda passed onwith downcast troubled eyes that failed to see how his friend stoodwatching him.

  "Poor fellow!" thought Bopaul. "They are making it very hard for him;but it is only what he might have expected. There is more grit andendurance in him than I expected. I thought he would have given in bythis time. Pantulu Iyer's brother has met his match, and he won't stepinto Ananda's shoes quite as easily as he thought."

  The following morning Ananda arrived at the college, and was in hisplace punctually to the strike of the clock. The bell rang but withoutresponse. A strange silence prevailed in the college close, in thehall and in the class rooms. Not a boy was visible. The masters werein their places and the Principal in c
ap and gown on the platform readyto begin his lecture. He waited a short time and then went to theVice-principal's room, a native who had taken a good degree atCambridge.

  "Where are all the boys?" asked Wenaston, in some bewilderment. "Is ita public festival?"

  The Vice-principal paused before replying.

  "I am afraid, sir, that they are purposely absenting themselves," hesaid, reluctantly. He had a great regard for his chief, and it wentagainst the grain to say anything that might give him pain.

  "Can you tell me the reason?"

  "Because you have appointed the son of Pantulu Iyer as a master in theschool."

  "Does the feeling run so strongly against him that they can carry it tothis pitch?" replied Wenaston in some indignation. "It is no concernof theirs what religion he professes. His opinions are a personalmatter as long as he keeps them to himself. Did he mention the subjectto his class yesterday?"

  "No, sir," the Vice-principal answered promptly.

  "Then it is outrageous that he should be ostracised in this manner."

  Wenaston had been haunted by the dread of something of the kind eversince he had acceded to Alderbury's request; but he had not anticipatedthat it would come so soon, nor in such a practical form as a strike.The utmost he had expected was an inquiry on the part of the Governmentauthorities, followed by a recommendation that the appointment shouldbe cancelled.

  "The sympathy in the town is all on the side of Ananda's parents. Youhardly realise, sir, what an appalling disaster it is for a high casteHindu to lose a son in this way," remarked Wenaston's colleague.

  "You talk of him as if he were dead!"

  "It would have been less of a disaster if he had died in the Hindufaith before he became a Christian."

  There was a pause. The Principal was troubled and perplexed. If theanimosity towards Ananda was roused to such an extent as to producethese results something must be done and done promptly.

  "If the feeling runs so high, I am afraid I shall be compelled todispense with his services. I shall be sorry to part with him for hisown sake; I could see that he would have suited admirably as a master;his teaching is clear and lucid. But I can't have the school emptiedin this way. You must help me to get out notices at once which willmake it plain to the parents of the boys that the matter will be setright and another man will take the class."

  Dr. Wenaston had the unpleasant task before him of breaking the news toAnanda and of warning him that he must not be seen on the schoolpremises again. There was no objection to an occasional visit to thehouse. Miss Wenaston would be pleased to see him at any time; but hemust be careful to keep away from the class rooms and playing-fields.

  Ananda received the news in silence. The sight of the empty rooms wasenlightening and needed no comment. He was not surprised when Dr.Wenaston intimated in polite and gentle speech that he could no longerpermit him to appear in the college.

  "I had better leave at once, sir; as soon as the boys know that I amnot here they will return," was Ananda's reply.

  "You understand the situation?"

  "Quite; the absence of the boys is convincing."

  His dejection touched the Englishman. "I am sorry, very sorry for you.We must see what can be done in some other way. I will write to Mr.Alderbury at once."

  Ananda turned his back on the silent rooms and walked towards the road.The residence of the Principal stood on his left fronting the otherway. Mrs. Hulver was in the back verandah, her eye scanning thelandscape. She called sharply to the butler.

  "Ramachetty, go and tell that native gentleman over there that I wantto speak to him."

  Ananda, surprised at the summons, responded to her call.

  "Come in, Mr. Ananda; I want a few words with you," was her greeting.

  Mrs. Hulver bustled into her sitting-room, followed by her visitor.

  "Sit down," she said, in her expansive maternal manner. "I havesomething to tell you. Do you know that those imps of boys who oughtto be in class are waiting outside about a hundred yards up the road?"

  "Are they, Mrs. Hulver? What do they want?"

  Although he asked the question he was able to give a shrewd guess as tothe reason of their presence.

  "They want you; and they mean mischief. You must just sit here for awhile, and when the coast is clear you can get away safely. I was inthe town this morning. I tell you it is in a ferment over your comingto the college, and it isn't safe for you to be seen about in broaddaylight. Those young limbs of mischief mean to do you some hurt."

  This was the work of his uncle, he was convinced; but he did notexpress his thoughts aloud. He thanked Mrs. Hulver for her kindlyoffices and sat down to wait. She gave him a book to read, and did herbest to make him feel at ease.

  "You stay and dine with me. A good hot square meal will do you noharm. It will be cooked by myself in the verandah and it will be readysoon after twelve--hot soup, fried fish, vegetable curry and stewedguavas; and we will eat it here in this room. As William--that was myfirst husband--used to say: 'Better be in at the end of a feast thanthe beginning of a fight'--and a losing fight it will be for you, Mr.Ananda, if you get among those boys in their present temper."