The Outcaste

by F. E. Penny

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Ananda lay in a deep, dreamless sleep, the restful slumber of a healthyman whose mind was as wholesome as his body. One hand was tucked underhis cheek, the other was thrown forward and hung slightly over the edgeof the cot. All his troubles, his doubts and fears, his deprivationsand hardships, lately inflicted, were forgotten. It was the bestpreparation he could have for entrance on the new life, when he wouldhave to live "by the sweat of his brow," like a multitude of good menwho had gone before him, and others who would come after him.

  He had had four hours of solid sleep without stirring, when he becameaware of a touch upon the hand that rested on the border of the bed.It was a soft, coaxing touch that sent an electric message to hisbrain. In the old days before he went to England that same touch hadoften roused him at dawn. He lifted his head and breathed one word:

  "Wife!"

  "I am here!" came the ready response.

  She was in his arms the next moment, clinging to him whilst convulsivesobs--stifled, but none the less strong--shook her from head to foot.

  At first words failed them both, he in his astonishment and she in theviolence of her grief; but as tears relieved the overburdened brain ofthe woman she regained sufficient command of herself to speak.

  "Our little son!--my baby! He is dead!"

  Then, as an exclamation escaped Ananda's lips, she placed her hand overhis mouth.

  "Ah! hush!" she whispered. "They do not know that I have come to you.If they find me here they will beat me again!"

  "Beat you! My pearl! Who has dared to lay a finger upon my wife?" hewhispered fiercely, drawing her still closer.

  "Our uncle's wife. Of late she has taken much upon herself. She hastried continually to push me from my place, saying that her husbandwould be the big master of the house when your father died. Then shewill be mistress, and as such it was only fitting that she should comenext to your mother instead of me."

  "But why should she strike you?"

  "Ah! husband!--the child! They say that it was through my neglect andcarelessness that the boy came under the influence of the evil eye; itwas but right therefore that I should be punished."

  The bereaved mother poured the story of little Royan's illness anddeath into her husband's ears. Together the parents wept, stiflingtheir grief lest the sound of a sob or a sigh should betray them.Little, indeed, had Ananda suspected that as he listened indifferentlyto the wailing his beloved child was passing away from them for ever.

  "What will life be without my child or my husband?" cried Dorama atlast. "I cannot bear it; I shall die!"

  "No, you will not. Beloved, I am leaving my home to-night to find moreliberty than I am given here in this cruel town. Come with me. Let usgo together. Once across the border of the State our rights will berespected. We are of age, free to act as we choose, and no one canseparate you from me or do either of us any hurt."

  "Husband! I am your obedient wife!"

  * * * * *

  Ananda looked at his watch. It was half-past two.

  "It is time we started, beloved. Can you walk as far?" he askedanxiously as he made his final preparations.

  "I can walk the distance easily if my lord will give me time."

  "Then let us begin the journey at once. We will go to the furthercorner of the compound and get over the wall. Before the sun is up weshall be far enough from the town not to fear recognition."

  Together they crept across the enclosure, Ananda beating the grasssoftly with his stick at each step, to drive away the chance snake.Dorama followed closely.

  The wall presented no difficulty; but as Ananda dropped lightly intothe road he startled a half-starved pariah dog returning to the townafter its nightly prowl for food. The dog, more in fear than anger,barked wildly at him. Dorama, alarmed, hesitated to follow. He threwa stone at the animal with the intention of frightening it. As badluck would have it the stone struck the dog, and though it was not muchhurt, it shrieked after the manner of the village cur, as if it hadbeen nearly killed.

  "Wait!" said Ananda to his wife, who had not yet joined him in theroad. "Sit down under the wall. The long grass will hide you."

  He watched the house for a few minutes to see if a light moved or ifthere was any indication of an alarm being raised and a search. IfDorama's absence were discovered an immediate hunt would be made, andthe noise of the dog would give a hint of the direction she had taken.

  No sign of any movement was apparent, and Dorama, recovering her nerve,climbed the wall and joined him. They set off at a steady pace. Therewas no moon; but the stars gave sufficient light to help the travellersalong the broad, well-kept road. Dorama's little feet were bare. Theyfell noiselessly except for the chink of her silver toe-rings. Anandawore English boots, strong and serviceable; but the warm, sub-tropicalclimate had affected the leather and made them creak. Possibly it wasthe noise of his tread that drowned the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Dorama was the first to hear it. She stopped and laid her hand on herhusband's arm.

  "What is that?" she asked sharply.

  Before he could reply four men running barefooted came up with themfrom behind. Three of them hurled themselves upon Ananda. The fourthseized Dorama roughly by the arm.

  "What madness is this?" cried the voice of their uncle. "Who gave youpermission to take away the daughter of the house?" he demanded ofAnanda.

  The only reply of the latter was to struggle violently. He was soonoverpowered, and between his three captors he was marched back towardshis father's house. Ten minutes later he found himself once more inthe little outhouse with his empty trunks. The door was closed uponhim and its primitive hasp secured with a padlock. He was without foodand without his personal property; but his concern was not for himself,it was for the weeping and trembling woman who was wrested from him tobe driven back in unmerited disgrace and perhaps imprisoned likehimself. There was nothing to be done but to submit, at least, for thepresent. He was calm and self-controlled once more now that he wasalone. He would wait patiently for developments, relying on the lovethat he knew his parents bore him. It was impossible to believe thatthey had any intention of doing him personal violence, though theymight subject him to further humiliation and discomfort.

  It was the dog that did the mischief and put Sooba on the track of thefugitives. Dorama's absence was discovered as soon as she was requiredfor a ceremony in the death chamber as mother of the dead boy. Asearch was made through the house, and some one suggested that possiblyshe had gone to the well to put an end to her sorrow for lost husbandand child. Another mentioned Ananda. Could she have sought him in hertrouble? After their interview in the presence of the guru it was notunlikely. When his room was found to be empty the belief was confirmedthat the two were together somewhere, perhaps on the premises, perhapsin the forest.

  The shriek of the dog betrayed the fact that it had encountered a humanbeing and received some hurt. Its cry was a howl of pain and not ofanger, as would have been the case had it met one of its own kind. Thesharp ears of the man who of all that numerous family did not mourn thedead nor the disgraced, caught the sound, and he jumped to a correctconclusion. Further thought pointed to the obvious fact that themissing couple would not be likely to take the road leading to thetown. In a short time he gathered a band of willing helpers, and, aswe have seen, the capture was made.

  Having disposed of the couple, Sooba called a family council. Pantuludeclined to be present, but Gunga attended it. A decision was arrivedat that she and her husband should leave the house that afternoonimmediately after the funeral. They were to travel by bullock coach toone of his silk farms some ten miles distant from Chirapore. A smallbungalow occupied by a relative who superintended the silk-worm culturewould house them for a few days or until--Gunga looked at herbrother-in-law sadly--until her husband had recovered his health.Other matters were discussed with general unanimity as to the coursethat should be ta
ken as soon as Pantulu was removed. When it was overGunga sought Dorama. The stern, unyielding woman stood in the centreof the room, her daughter-in-law prostrate at her feet. The youngerwoman trembled as she listened, and when the tale was ended she wasshaken with sobs.

  "Mother! mother!" she wailed. "Is it necessary? Must it be?"

  The tears stood in Gunga's eyes as she pronounced again the sentencepassed by the guru on her son and confirmed by the common consent ofthe family.

  "Spare him, mother! spare him!" pleaded Dorama.

  "He did not spare us his parents, nor his son, whose death he hascaused. In a short time we shall carry his father to the arms ofmother earth, as yesterday we carried the child. Why should we sparehim?"

  Dorama bowed her head in silence. She dared not question theaccusation. Being a Hindu she was inclined to the belief thatunconsciously his regard falling on the child as it did might have hadan evil influence. Nor could she be blind to the probability thatPantulu would die of grief before many weeks were over.

  "There must be punishment for you too, daughter," continued Gunga.

  Dorama's hands were raised over her bowed head as if to protect herselffrom a shower of blows. The fear of immediate violence was withoutfoundation. Gunga took no pleasure in inflicting pain. The task wouldbe left to the man whose power in the house was growing more dominanteach day that passed.

  The last rites for the disposal of little Royan's body were performed,and the party had returned to the house to watch the departure of themaster and mistress. The coach was ready, and the bullock bellsjangled as the large white beasts shook the flies from their heads andstamped a cloven hoof, breathing out heavily through their glisteningnostrils.

  Pantulu, bowed like a man of seventy, left the house by himself andclimbed into the bullock coach without waiting for his wife. Shestayed behind to give the final directions to her women. As shecrossed the threshold to the big iron-studded door, Dorama ran forwardand caught her arm.

  "Mother! mother! is it not possible to pass over the offence? Oh!mother! I cannot bear it! I cannot bear it!"

  Gunga released herself with no light touch from the clinging hand andspoke with a roughness that hid her own emotion.

  "Go back to your room. You forget yourself, daughter! Look at the bigmaster! Is not the sight of his deep sorrow and affliction enough towin the consent of every member of his house?"

  Dorama's face sought shelter behind her trembling hands, and she beganto cry piteously like a child. Her mother-in-law strode on towards thebullock coach, her grey head covered with the saree drawn like a hoodover her forehead till her features were almost hidden. She did notkeep strict purdahnasheen, but she was careful not to expose herself tothe public gaze more than was necessary. Sooba himself closed the doorof the coach.

  "Farewell, sister," he said in a smooth voice. "The change will do mybrother good if anything will; but his spirit is too much broken by hismany sorrows to give us any hope of his recovery. It is a matter oftime only."

  "We shall see," replied Gunga sharply, and not best pleased at theassurance with which her husband's death was mentioned.

  "By the time you return," continued Sooba, unruffled, "we shall havebetter news to tell you of the breaking of an obstinate will."

  Gunga turned from him without response. The motherly instinct in herstruggled to make its voice heard. She stifled it ruthlessly. Yet shelooked back as the bullocks moved forward with an uneven jerk and said--

  "Do nothing but what the swami commanded," she said. "It will besufficient."

  The noise of the wheels prevented further conversation. Sooba,watching the cart as it swayed in its exit through the gateway of thecompound wall smiled unpleasantly.

  "It was just as well that I did not tell her all, or she might haverefused to leave the house. Mothers are in the way when troublesomesons and daughters require chastisement."

  He passed through the centre courtyard towards the back of thebuilding. Dorama, dejected and miserable, her eyelids swollen withweeping, stood listlessly near the kitchen door. His eyes dwelt on herjewellery, the gold bangles on her arms, her nose and ear ornaments,and a pearl necklace that covered the cord on which was suspended themarriage token.

  Inside the kitchen the sharp voice of his wife was raised as she issuedorders to the gang of women employed in cooking the evening meal. Shecame to the door and caught sight of her husband. There was anexchange of glances between the new self-constituted master andmistress. It was sufficient without speech. She called to Dorama.

  "Come, little sister; enough of grieving! Go into the kitchen and seeto the making of the green chutneys. The girl who is pounding them istoo stupid to flavour it to your uncle's liking. Now that the bigmistress is away I must take her place. It is a favour to allow you totake mine."

  Dorama glanced at her through misty eyes. She did not answer, butentered the kitchen and seated herself by the side of the girl who wascompounding the delicacies known as green chutneys. The work she hadbeen asked to do was light, and she was glad to be employed. Hithertoit had not been thought necessary that she should help with thepreparation of meals. The care of the child was considered sufficientoccupation; but now she was without any charge it was only right thatshe should take her share in the household duties. She had noobjection to the labour involved; but she could not help feeling thehumiliation of the position assigned her. As wife of the son and heirshe ranked next to the mistress. It was she who should be at the headof the household giving orders. It was she who should light the lampat evening and call together the family at daybreak for the morninghymn and pujah. Before Ananda returned, and while the child lived, shehad looked forward confidently to the time when she should succeed tothese recognised duties of the mistress of the zenana. Now the bittertruth was thrust upon her; with her husband outcasted and her son deadthey could never be hers. Silently she took up the work assigned toher, tears dropping occasionally from her sad eyes.

  The women in the kitchen glanced at her with a sympathy they dared notexpress. There was not one among them who would not have preferred tosee Dorama in her aunt's place. In view of what the near futureprobably held they deemed it wiser to keep their thoughts to themselvesand to obey orders without a murmur.

  At the evening meal Dorama was made to feel again her subordinateposition both in serving the men and in being served herself. But itcame to an end at last. When it was finished the green leaf platterswere thrown out on the refuse heap; the brass pots and dishes wererinsed and turned upside down to drain, and the kitchen fires wereallowed to sink into grey ash. Many of the women, tired out with anight of preparation for the funeral, lay down on their mats, anddrawing a sheet over their heads, were soon fast asleep. Two or threecontinued to move about the house, not having completed their duties.One by one they too retired, and only Dorama remained awake. As soonas she was assured that her companions were safely asleep she rose andopened the door. Placing it ajar, she seated herself close to it, sothat she had a view of the central court through the narrow opening.Her heart beat like a sledge-hammer. It seemed to her that it must beheard throughout the house. An hour passed, and still she continued towatch and wait with wakeful eye and alert ear.

  Between ten and eleven she caught sight of the dark forms of menpassing silently through the courtyard towards the back verandah. Theyentered the garden, and turning through the gate in the garden wall,went towards the room occupied by Ananda.

  Before daring to follow she waited for sign of further movement in themen's quarters. There might be others who out of curiosity, if nothingelse, would join their superiors uninvited. All was silent, and sheconcluded that they who intended to visit her husband that night hadgone to his room.

  Gathering her saree closely round her she crept out into the courtyard,taking care to close the door of the sleeping-room after her.Listening and moving with the utmost caution, she went through thegarden door and out into the compound. The stars
were bright, and bytheir light she could distinguish the footpath leading direct to thelittle yard where the green gourd flourished.

  She hesitated to venture along the track by which the men might returnat any minute. Her courage failing her she followed the wall till shereached the first corner. Here she stopped and listened. Feeling herway, she went on till she arrived at a spot outside the yard which shecalculated was close to the open door of Ananda's room. The fear ofsnakes was conquered in her intense anxiety to learn what washappening, and she crouched low down in the long grass till she washidden from sight.

  The position she had chosen was the best for the purpose of overhearingall that passed in Ananda's room. Only twenty-four hours before, shehad entered it with confidence, and sought for consolation in herdistress at the loss of her child. His love and his pity were pouredout upon her. His kisses were still warm upon her lips. She seemed tohear the words of joy and love that he breathed in her ear as he heldher to him. She thrilled again when she recalled all that he hadpromised of the future that should be theirs, if she would take hercourage in her hands and come away with him--future love, futurehappiness, future maternity, all might be secured if only she would bebrave. In British territory his rights would be recognised--howhopefully he spoke!--he could earn enough to keep them both. She wouldbe a happy wife, her own mistress, with no aunt to bully and tyrannise;and if the good God willed it, she would also be a happy mother again.As he pleaded she forgot his broken caste, his disgrace, hisexcommunication. A new and great love blossomed out of the old,bestowing upon her both courage and faith. She would go with him--oh,so gladly! she whispered. What had she to live for now but her lord,her husband! The grip of his arms told her how he appreciated herdevotion.

  Then came the sudden ending to their dreams. That golden future whichwas to begin then and there was shattered; and punishment, dread bodilypunishment, was to be meted out to the one human being left for her tolove.

  Her train of thought was disturbed by voices. Her uncle's dominatedthe rest. It was loud and overbearing, and it seemed to increase inacrimony as he talked. Ananda's replies were given temperately yetfirmly. Apparently angry tones and open insults had no power to raisefear or wrath. He presented a firm front, growing, if anything, calmeras the other became more excited. The older man would have found histask easier if his nephew had lost his temper, and become abusive andviolent.

  Again and again Sooba demanded recantation. Each demand was met with afirm refusal, given patiently and without faltering. Threats andblustering commands produced no effect, and so far the victory lay withthe younger man. That his uncle was fast losing control of himself wasevident by his lapse now and then into a veritable scream of rage.

  After an outburst of this kind more virulent than any that had gonebefore, came a call to his confederates. Four or five men who werewaiting outside the door, entered, and Dorama could distinguish thatsome action was taking place. She divined what it was, though sheheard no words. Violence was being done to her husband's person, andhe had not met it with the calmness that had characterised his speech.He had fought for his liberty, and in his struggles he had knocked overtwo of his assailants and his chair. Five strong men were too many forhim however; and as the noise and the scuffle subsided, Dorama knewthat he was secured and bound.

  Once more there was silence; it was presently broken by the hectoringtones of Sooba. This time they met with no reply. The men who hadhelped added their voices and raised an angry chorus of upbraiding andreproach. It died down when their vocabulary of abuse was exhausted.This time the silence was so complete that Dorama could hear themelancholy cry of a night-bird as it passed overhead on its way to theforest-clad slopes of the mountain. In the distance a jackal howledand led the yelping of the prowling pack of night-scavengers.

  Suddenly she started and shivered as a sound fell on her ear that shehad heard before at rare intervals in her life. It was repeated, andshe trembled from head to foot, burying her face in her hands.

  The Hindus, rich and poor, much as they love litigation overboundaries, irrigation rights and the division of property, rarelybring family quarrels and offences into court. In cases of murder thelaw interferes; but where it is only assault in the privacy of thefamily, it is kept strictly private. The victim and the aggressorequally shrink from the public inquiry necessitating the intrusion ofthe police.

  Dorama understood perfectly what was happening. It would have beenwise if she had returned then and there to her room. She could do nogood by stopping, and she ran a risk of being discovered. But althoughshe was aware of what would be discreet and wise, she was unable totear herself away. It seemed heartless to the beloved one to leave himin his dark hour. She could not bring him consolation, but she couldsuffer with him.

  And suffer she assuredly did. At every recurrence of the dull thud sheshivered as though she herself had been struck. Once a low cry escapedthe lips of the victim, and her nails dug into her breast clawingunconsciously her own soft smooth flesh in her agony.

  Fifteen minutes passed which seemed fifteen hours. Surely it wasenough and more than enough to expiate his sin against the guru andagainst his family. Now they would stop! they must stop! that horriblesound must cease! But the sentence of the swami was not completed yet,and again her ears were assailed by that ominous thud. He bore it verysilently. Had they gagged him? or was he faint, she wondered?

  At last a groan came from the sufferer, as though his endurance werefailing. It was too much for Dorama. She felt that she must shriekaloud if she remained a moment longer. She rose to her feet and,impelled by a mad desire to help him, she ran to the entrance of theyard. How she was to accomplish her purpose she was not composedenough to think.

  The door of the room was open. She hesitated. Dare she enter and bidthem stop in their cruel work? No! no! it would only increase theirfury, and they would visit her offence upon him. Perhaps they wouldkill him. In the light of the yellow oil lamp she caught sight of thebamboo as it was once more lifted with slow, deliberate precision.

  Putting her fingers in her ears she fled, never stopping until shereached the room in which she slept. Prostrate upon her mat, her sareeover her mouth to stifle her sobbing, she lay convulsed with grief.The women in the room slept heavily. One of them stirred. She liftedher head, drew aside the sheet that covered her, and listened.

  "Is that you, sister? Poor little mother! The child is gone, and allthrough that evil husband of yours! May he be cursed in a thousandmiserable births! Lie down, child! Think no more about him!"

  Dorama did not reply. She subdued her sobs, and listened once morewith painful alertness for the sound of returning steps through theinner courtyard. They came, and as the men walked slowly back theytalked in low voices. It was well for Dorama's peace of mind that shecould not hear what they said.

  "Will he die under it?" asked one.

  "Not he!" replied Sooba. "I took care to use the stick so that itneither killed nor broke bones. Although a Christian has no standingin a court of law in the State of Chirakul, there might be trouble withthe English if he were done to death."

  "Where was he going when we caught him?"

  "To the missionary," replied Sooba, shortly.

  "No fear of his attempting to run away again just yet. He will not beable to stand for a couple of days," remarked one.

  "Therefore I did not trouble to lock the door," said another.

  "He has starved since last night, and now he has been beaten. All thiswill surely drive the devil out of him," said a third.

  "If not he can have plenty more of the same medicine," rejoined Sooba,at which they all laughed in the best of humours.