The Outcaste

by F. E. Penny

  CHAPTER XVII

  Ananda's interview with his wife and the guru produced a curiousresult. It not only roused him out of meek resignation, but itstimulated his nerves, strengthened his will, and focussed his mentalvision on the situation created by his conversion to Christianity. Itwas as though a certain visible growth had begun; the fruit of thatgrowth promised to be action.

  Hitherto his policy had been one of waiting and of patience amountingto little less than apathy. He had been drifting and existing ratherthan acting and living. It is true that the passive period was notwithout its advantage.

  The plant that shows no shoot above ground is not necessarily dormantand idle. There may be great activity underneath the soil. It was sowith Ananda. Strong roots capable of standing the stress of mentaldisturbance developed. From them were to spring actions that would bemarked by endurance and fortitude, where formerly there had beenweakness and timidity.

  As he held the soft yielding figure of his wife in his arms he wasconscious of a concentration of purpose he had never experiencedbefore. The waiting policy insensibly died. Definite determinationtook the place of vague desire. He resolved to strike out a line forhimself. The object of it should be to gain possession of his wife andchild and to find a means of providing a home for them both. With thisdetermination came the conviction that his wishes could not befulfilled by remaining any longer under his father's roof. He mustleave home as soon as possible. The opportunity for so doing had beenoffered, but he had refused it. He must reconsider it. There was nonecessity to write, it would be better not to do so lest by any chancethe letter was tampered with. He was aware that he would be watchedand spied upon more than ever after what had passed between himself andthe guru; he must be cautious if he wished to escape. Alderbury, hewas sure, would give him a warm welcome, and again proffer the helpinghand.

  He counted the change left out of Bopaul's ten rupee note. There wasmore than enough left to pay for his journey to the headquarters of themission, whether he went by road or by rail.

  The next question to be considered was the best means of getting awayfrom the house with his luggage without raising opposition or provokingassault. The only servant at his disposal was the pariah, and his goodoffices were restricted by the fact that he had again been forbidden towait on the young master any longer. His visits had to be paidsecretly and at night. The man need not have come at all; but withthat fidelity so often found among the lower people of India who servetheir superiors, he remained faithful to the son of the house whom hehad known and worshipped from a distance as a child and boy.

  When the lights were extinguished and voices ceased murmuring in thewomen's rooms, the untouchable, as the caste people termed the pariah,crept softly into the little yard and entered the room where Anandaslept. By the dim light of the tumbler lamp he performed the duties hehad been forbidden to do. With quick, silent fingers he tidied theroom, cleaned the shoes and filled the earthen chafing-dish with freshcharcoal. So quiet was he in all his movements that his master's deepsleep was undisturbed till the moment when a gentle rattle of themilkcan against the compound wall outside told of the arrival of themilkman with his cow. Even then the faithful servitor, remembering hisuncleanness, forbore to lay a hand upon the recumbent figure. Kneelingby his side he uttered the loud chirrup of the wall-lizard until thesound pierced the brain of the sleeper. Then Ananda rose, and, takingup the milk-bottle that belonged to his tiffin-basket, went to fetchthe milk. The pariah watched, and when his master returned he blew upthe charcoal on which the coffee was to be made. No conversationpassed between the two. The one received and the other gave hisservices without thanks or apology. Yet Ananda was not ungrateful.

  Although nothing of any consequence was said, this curious intimacy hada beneficial effect upon the 'vert. Unconsciously he was learning thatwonderful lesson of Christianity--the brotherhood of man. Hisrepugnance to the pariah was decreasing, and he no longer shrank withdisgust as his eye fell upon his figure. The books given by Alderburycontained much that bore on the subject, and Ananda had had plenty ofleisure to absorb their contents, with the result that in his desperateneed he was able to turn without repulsion to the only human being whocould render help.

  In the small hours of the morning after Ananda's interview with Dorama,the usual routine had been observed, while scarcely a word passedbetween the two. The man was turning away to leave, having blown upthe chafing-dish of live coal, when Ananda called softly to him. Hestopped at once, and salaamed, wondering what his master could have tosay if it was not complaint at some unconscious shortcoming in hisservice.

  "I must leave my father's house, and I require your help."

  Again the pariah touched his forehead with both hands; then, placingthem together, palm to palm, he listened deferentially to Ananda'sexplanation and instructions. He was to bring a cart to take theluggage to the station in time to catch the night mail of that day.

  The pariah prostrated himself and lifted his folded hands in entreaty.

  "Sir! this unworthy slave prays your honour to be careful. There aremen in the town who openly declare that if they meet your excellencythey will beat you and drive away the Christian devil which they sayhas entered the noble body of the presence. During the day they waitoutside hoping to catch your honour walking. There is danger also inthe house."

  "Danger!" repeated Ananda quickly. "How is that? Stand up and tell meabout it."

  The man rose apologetically to his feet and continued his story.

  "My wife sweeps out the back yard where the refuse is thrown. Sheheard one of the kitchen women telling the girl from the market thatthe swami departed in anger, and that his wrath must be appeased,otherwise worse misfortune will befall the family. He left orders withthe small master, the brother of our most noble big master, that yourexcellency was not to be allowed to leave the grounds."

  "How can he stop me?" asked Ananda, with some heat.

  "By the aid of the men who watch outside."

  "Are they there all night?"

  "No, sir; they do not think that you will try to leave secretly and atnight. Where could your honour go to hide, they say? Everyhiding-place is known to them, and no one in the town would dare togive shelter against the wishes of Pantulu Iyer's family. Great carewill be needed in leaving your honourable father's house withoutpermission."

  Ananda was silent. The fact that he was living in a state of siegethat might very soon become close imprisonment was being forced uponhim. It was an unpleasant truth, but one to which he could not remainblind. His conviction that he must get away as speedily as possiblegrew; and the sweeper was right in urging upon him the necessity ofcaution if he wished to ensure success in carrying out his intentions.

  The coffee seethed on the live coals. As he removed the pot hemotioned to the pariah instinctively to stand away. The action was aninvoluntary response to the inherited prejudice. He was obeyedinstantly and without resentment. The man retired to the doorway, andwould have passed out into the darkness had it not been for anothercommand.

  "Come back, I have not finished what I have to say. Tell me, what doyou think ought to be done?"

  The other glanced at him in surprise, although he did not venture toexpress it. Had ever one of the twice-born been heard to ask theadvice of a sweeper? If he should dare to say in the hearing of men ofcaste that he had been thus consulted, he would be beaten for hispresumption until his back streamed with blood.

  With ever-recurring apology for daring to advise so great anexcellency, he unfolded a plan of escape which seemed to Ananda, themore he considered it, the only possible means of getting away. Theexcellency was to pack his property into parcels and bundles which thesweeper would convey away in the night with the assistance of his wifeand son to some safe hiding-place in the jungle. The portmanteaux mustbe left behind, empty, or suspicion would be roused if by chance one ofthe family paid a visit to the master. On the second night after thehousehold had re
tired Ananda was to steal quietly away and walk to astation some distance from the town, where he would not be recognised.The sweeper and his relatives would act as carriers for his luggage.His sister who served the College excellency would obtain a day'sholiday from the housekeeper and help. All might be relied upon forkeeping the secret, and his honour need have no fear.

  Ananda made only one suggestion, that he should start with them andtake the train twenty-four hours earlier. To this the man objected onthe score of requiring more time to make the arrangements for the nightmarch. When Ananda spoke of a reward the pariah protested vehementlythat none was required. Some day in the future, when his honour hadgrown rich, perhaps he would allow his son and daughter to serve him--apromise easy to give and easy to perform when the time should come.The crowing of cocks fell on their ears, and the men started.

  "I must be going, sir. The women will soon awake and be moving to thecattle shed. Your excellency must forgive this worthless servant fortouching your honour's sacred property; but there is no other way," hesaid deprecatingly.

  "It is forgiven," replied Ananda, remembering how roughly he had biddenthat same man on his arrival to leave his trunks alone. Rather thanhave them contaminated by his touch he had himself hauled them into hisroom. "Did you not carry the Englishman's food basket for him? Thensurely you may carry my clothing without offence."

  All day Ananda was busy in the privacy of his little den, putting hispersonal belongings together in handy portable parcels, tying some inbundles when his limited supply of brown paper and string came to anend. Quiet reigned over the house; and if he chanced to look out ofthe door no one crossed his line of vision in the compound. By theafternoon he had finished. He put on his cap to take a little walk.Beyond the wall that bounded the grounds he caught sight of two orthree figures. They would have attracted no attention had it not beenfor the warning of the pariah. The man was correct. Undoubtedly hewas being watched as far as the outside of the house was concerned, andwith no friendly intention either; but as long as he remained indoorshe was left severely alone. This was satisfactory, as the sight of hispreparations would rouse suspicion and endanger the success of hisscheme.

  His eyes frequently sought that part of the house in which he knew werethe women's quarters. The small jealously-shuttered windows gave nohint of what was passing behind the Venetians. Was Dorama there? Didshe seek for a glimpse of her husband as eagerly as he craved for asight of his wife?

  He paced up and down, book in hand, his thoughts busy elsewhere. Theluggage was ready in its new form, and it was to be carried off thatvery night. In the small hours of the following night he would quietlyslip away, and thus cut himself adrift for ever from the home of hisbirth.

  Again he searched the landscape. A strong desire to see and speak oncemore with his wife lay at the back of his mind. He wanted to tell herof his plans; to ask her to wait and to beg of her to join him as soonas he had a shelter to offer her.

  He cudgelled his brains for some device by which a message might beconveyed in safety, and could only think of the sweeper. The pariahservant had no opportunity, however, of approaching the lady Doramawithin speaking distance. Even if chance favoured the messenger hewould be unable to carry out his mission. At the mere sight of him shewould shrink away with all the prejudice of her caste, and resent thesmallest breach of the caste law. The pariah, by the unwritten law,could not do otherwise than maintain the prescribed distance betweenher and himself. If he dropped a letter in her path or placed it whereshe might find it, his contaminating touch would be sufficient for heravoidance of the missive. Moreover, a written letter was of no use.She could neither read nor write. His only hope was in a chanceinterview, and as the hours slipped by the hope grew fainter.

  The following day passed heavily. The luggage was safely removedwithout accident. His books and writing materials were gone with therest of his property, and he would not see them again till he arrivedat the distant station. He had biscuits with him and somepomegranates. The sharp sweetness of the juice served to assuage histhirst.

  He went out into the compound as often as he dared. It did not do tospend too much time in the open, since it had not been his habit. Itmight be remarked upon. He noted the figures beyond the wall, and knewthat he was being watched with the same vigilance as was shownyesterday and the day before. Frequently his eye turned towards theblue-green mountain mass with its dark-grey rocks and heavy forest.Then he looked back at the familiar building, the home of hisancestors, and once the hot unshed tears made his eyes smart at thethought of leaving it. The blood rushed to his head and back again tohis heart with a violence that almost threw him off his mental balance.Could he muster up strength enough to abandon all that the home meant?Would he have the courage when the moment came to sever the ties thatbound him to father, mother, wife--no, not wife! She and the childwould follow by and by. He refused to entertain any doubt on thesubject.

  All the same, he was conscious of a shudder, the kind of inward quakeexperienced by the soldier at the sound of the first bullet whizzingover his head on the battlefield. He checked it at once and took afresh grip of himself, sternly and resolutely shutting down sentimentand its companion emotion.

  "I can't go back! I can't go back! There is nothing but hideousdarkness behind me. I must go forward. The light is in front! Ah!dear Christ, the Son of God! lead me forward in safety! Lead me on!"

  The mental disturbance passed as suddenly as it had overwhelmed him.Once more he was conscious of a great peace. It was as though he hadentered that wonderful temple of God standing in the heart of London,where the strains of the organ rise above the roar of the streets, andwhere a man may feel that he is in the presence of the living God ofLove, the Father of the Universe.

  The sun dropped behind a shoulder of the mountain, and the sky brokeinto a glory of many colours. He watched it until it faded. Suddenlyhe was startled by a sound. As the last ray left the top of the hilland the forest mantled into a sombre green, a wail arose in the women'srooms. It was followed by the beat of a tomtom.

  He stood at the entrance of the yard and listened. As the light fadedthe wailing increased. He could distinguish by the sound of the voicesa movement. They were leaving the house for the garden.

  Yes! He knew the ritual of old! Some one was dying, and death wasclose at hand. The man or woman--he started as the thought struck himthat it might be his father--had been carried out of the house and laidupon mother earth to breathe his last.

  How well he remembered the ceremonies with which death was greeted; thelifting with tender care of the dying from the cot or mat and thegentle placing of the gasping patient upon the smooth ground. Close bygrew the sacred tulsi, without which no spirit could take its flight inpeace. He could picture his mother bending over the plant to gather asprig. He fancied he could smell the aromatic scent of the brokenstalk of sweet basil as she placed the sprig above the head of thesufferer--perhaps touching the dry lips with it, leading as she did sothe wail of mourning.

  The chorus of women's voices swelled on the evening air; the wholehousehold must be joining in. Who could it be? The pariah had saidnothing of any illness in the family. If it had been his father theman would have mentioned it. He concluded that it must be one of themany relatives who lived in the house. Some of them had joined thefamily during his absence in England; others had grown out ofknowledge; it was useless for him to conjecture.

  The presence of death is always a solemn moment, even though the personmay not be known. Ananda remained standing by the entrance of theyard, his eyes turned towards the west, but his ears bent to catchevery sound that came from the house. Each change in the note of griefspoke eloquently of the ebbing life, and he listened for the finalcries that would betoken the drawing of the last breath.

  The colour died out of the sky except upon the horizon, which glowedwith a vivid luminous green. The steady yellow light of the eveningstar shone in the wake of the sun's pat
h. Bats fluttered in the air,following the strong-winged moth that sought the almond-scentedblossoms of the oleander. In the distance the faint hum of the townrose occasionally and died away again. A cart went slowly by, itsaxles groaning as the bullocks plodded along, urged by the gutturalshouts of the sleepy driver.

  The wailing in the house stopped and silence reigned. The stars grewbrighter and the living green of the west was lost in darkening greys.An owl in the distant forest sent forth a discordant shriek. As if inreply the familiar note of grief was renewed in slightly differenttones mingled with a violent tomtoming.

  Death had come; and the patient, whoever he or she might be, had drawnthe last breath.

  Memory was busy with the past once more. Sad though the sound ofmourning might be, it belonged to his life. Death without thoseaccompanying sounds would not seem to be death, any more than marriagewould seem to be marriage without the dancing girls and theirlove-songs.

  He had renounced all such things and set them aside for ever. Again,with a determined effort, he thrust sentiment aside and shut his earsto the mourning. All night long the mourners would be up and busy overthe preparations for the disposal of the body the next day. There wasno reason why he should not sleep however. He had a long walk beforehim. The sweeper was to meet him at the station in the morning ateight o'clock, and he was to take the train that was due soon afterthat hour. He intended starting between three and four. The road wasfamiliar. India is not troubled with too many by-paths. Even if theroute had been unknown to him, he could not easily have missed it.

  He retired to his room and threw himself upon his charpoy bed. Hecould still hear the monotonous wailing, but it was not disturbing.Having reassured himself that it could not possibly be his father, hetroubled no more about the unknown dead. On the whole it was fortunatethat the household was occupied with its own affairs. There was lesslikelihood of attention being directed towards himself. His escapeought to be easy, and, thus thinking, he fell asleep.