The Outcaste

by F. E. Penny

  CHAPTER XXI

  Pantulu's brother returned from his domiciliary visit to the Collegefilled with a deep and implacable wrath. He buried it under acheerfulness he was far from feeling. Since the discovery in the earlyhours of the morning that Ananda had disappeared, the house had been ina ferment of unrest. Again and again had the premises been searched.Visits were paid by various members of the family to the town and tothe houses of acquaintances. More than once had a call been made atBopaul's and guarded questions put. The market people who had arrivedthat morning from the country were interrogated; clerks and porters atthe railway station examined but with no better result. Help of somesort he must have had if he covered any length of distance. A fewhundred yards might have been possible but progress would of necessityhave been slow and painful.

  Sooba was greeted on his return with a volley of questions from the menof the family. To all of them he was obliged to confess that he hadfailed signally.

  "He is not there; of that I am positive," he repeated over and overagain.

  "If he is not there, where can he be?" asked one in puzzled curiosity.

  "He has joined the English missionary," said another.

  "How could that be when he was unable to walk or even to stand?"inquired a third.

  "Some one has befriended him and he has escaped in a passing countrycart."

  "Is it possible that he could have crawled to the jungle unassisted?"asked another.

  "A search in the forest with village dogs will soon settle that point."

  "Why not send some one to the mission house. It will be easy todiscover if he has arrived. Once on British territory he need not hideany longer as we cannot touch him there. He will be lost to us forever, and we must give up all hope of catching him. It will savetrouble to know for certain if he is out of our reach."

  "Good!" responded Sooba, who felt that he must take refuge in action ofsome kind if only to find relief for his injured feelings. "I willsend a runner at once to bring news."

  "There is a post office peon who has a bicycle," said one of thelisteners. "For a consideration----"

  "Let him be called at once," said Sooba. "He shall ask leave ofabsence on account of his wife's illness----"

  "He is not married."

  "His brother's, his mother's, any one will do!" replied Sooba,impatiently. "I will give him twenty-five rupees if he can bring usthe news by this time to-morrow."

  The post peon was sent for, and in less than an hour he departed on hiserrand.

  The temporary master of the house was in an unhappy frame of mind. Yethe had begun well. He rose in the morning feeling particularlyvirtuous. Success, he felt certain, must attend his efforts atrecalling his nephew to his senses. All along he had urged a moresevere treatment. The parents had been too lenient in drawing the lineat the infliction of bodily pain. Even now if it had not been for theinsult to the swami the mother would not have consented. Since it wasthe express order of the holy man she could not do otherwise than allowthings to take their course; but it had been considered advisable tokeep Pantulu himself in ignorance.

  When Sooba had performed his domestic pujah, as became the head of thefamily, he went to Ananda's room. The disappearance of the lateoccupant was a shock from which he had not recovered; and his visit tothe Principal's house and the College only served to increase thedisturbance of his mind. It was not so much the failure of his searchas the memory of the indignities to which he had been subjected by thewoman who ruled the household. Had the incidents that occurred in thehousekeeper's room been witnessed by any member of his family or by afellow caste man, they would have been magnified into serious breachesnecessitating ceremonial purification. This would have entailedexpenses which, not being a rich man himself, he would fain avoid. Hedid his best to school himself into the belief that he was mistaken;that in his confusion at finding himself in the presence of an angrywoman and a sick soldier of admittedly bad temper, he imagined that hesaw signs of the untouchable.

  After some hours of brooding he succeeded in persuading himself that hehad not been within the prescribed distance of the loathsome objects.A little more concentration and he arrived at the comfortableconviction that he was altogether deceived by a too vivid imaginationwhich had played him false. His caste had never been in jeopardy for asingle moment.

  The disappearance of Ananda was not so easily dealt with. The factcould not be ignored. The more he thought over it, the more he came tolook upon the escape as an insult directed against himself. He was themaster of the house in his brother's absence. It was a piece of grossimpertinence for any member of the family to leave without permission.It was setting at naught his authority and treating him with contempt.The more he contemplated the incidents of the last twenty-four hours,the greater grew the conviction that there must be a reckoning withsome one. Properly speaking it should be Ananda himself, for he wasthe origin of all that had occurred, including the disrespectexperienced in Dr. Wenaston's house; but his nephew's absence precludedany possibility of settling with him in person.

  Sooba thereupon turned his attention to Mrs. Hulver. Was there anymeans of making her feel the weight of his displeasure? He took thetrouble to inform himself of her habits and mode of life. She seldomleft the house except to go to market in the morning. As the townpossessed no English church, Dr. Wenaston held a service for himselfand a few English people in Chirapore, in a room fitted up as a chapelin the Residency. Thither Mrs. Hulver went on Sundays in the motor.To attack her and offer violence in the market would simply mean policeand imprisonment. She was never without the faithful Ramachetty, thecook, and the kitchen coolie who carried the purchases. In the motor,seated with Miss Wenaston, she was safe from every kind of assault.

  Brooding over the mystery of how Ananda escaped, who befriended him,and how he, Sooba, was to taste revenge, the evening meal was eaten andhe retired to his pillow.

  The next morning the search was renewed, the seekers going furtherafield into the glades and woods of the mountain. Woodcutters,herdsmen and cultivators were questioned; but not a sign had been foundof the missing man. Later in the day the cyclist returned with thenews that the fugitive was not at the mission station. Moreover, Mr.Alderbury was away on tour out of reach of the railway. It wasimpossible that Ananda could have joined him on the road. Even thepeons carrying letters and supplies were no longer following him up.He was trusting to the villages through which he was itinerating tosell him milk, butter, eggs and fowls; and it was not known exactlywhere he was.

  If Ananda was not in hiding at the College, nor at the mission house,nor with the missionary himself where could he be?

  This was the question faced by the whole family as they drank theirmorning coffee and ate the freshly-made, unleavened rice cakes.

  An elderly woman, experienced in the inner workings of the castefamilies of Chirapore, breathed the word "well." It was aninspiration, and the suggestion was caught up at once. Undoubtedly itwas the well. The premises contained no less than three wells; one forthe use of the house, deep and containing a never-failing supply ofpure water; a second near the cattle shed, and a third--more of thenature of a pond--used only for the garden.

  An examination of the wells followed immediately. Two hours later thehousehold was electrified by the news that Ananda's tweed cap had beenfound in the well near the cattleshed. The well was deep; means forprobing its depths were not available. One of the herdsmen was loweredin the leather bucket, and he discovered the cap hanging from aprotruding root in the masonry of the wall. He was about to enter thewater to dive for the body when he caught sight of a snake. In terrorhe signalled to those above to draw him up at once; and after hearinghis tale no one could be persuaded to continue the exploration.

  Sooba regarded the cap with a grim satisfaction which he took care toconceal under an expression of consternation and regret. If Anandachose to drown himself who could help it? It was a fitting end to aperverse and wicked line of conduct
. He had caused the death of hischild; the exile of his parents with the probable death of his father;and now he would be the cause of further disgrace to the family in theintroduction of a widow.

  He presented himself at the kitchen door where his wife, full ofimportance, was hustling the women through their appointed tasks. Sheanswered his summons at once, and inquired deferentially what it wasthat troubled the master of the house. The busy hands ceased to poundand grind and stir as each person listened open-eyed to the story ofthe search and the discovery of the cap in the well by the cattle-shed.

  "He is undoubtedly drowned and in three or four days we shall find hisbody. This is a terrible calamity for his widow."

  His glance passed beyond his wife and rested on the figure of Dorama,who stood transfixed with horror at the story just told. As she methis eye, in which, in spite of all his self-restraint, a malicioustriumph was revealed, she dropped to the ground covering her face withher hands and moaned in the bitterness of her heart.

  "It will be advisable for us to carry out the ceremonies as soon aspossible. They should be completed before my brother returns so thathe may be saved the additional grief of seeing what can only bringbefore him more vividly all that has gone before."

  No need for Dorama to ask what those ceremonies were. They did notconcern the body of the dead man but her own person. She shuddered asshe crouched before the curry stone on which she was working in thepreparation of green chutney, the task assigned to her regularly by heraunt.

  "When shall we perform them?" asked Sooba's wife, her eyes resting uponthe beautiful gold boss that adorned Dorama's glossy hair. "It isusual to wait ten days from the date of the death."

  "This is not a common case. To us and to his parents Ananda has beenas good as dead ever since he landed. There can be no funeral riteseven when his body is found. He has died an outcaste, defiled andunpurified, and as such he must be buried--not burned--at night withshame and dishonour and with no ceremonies. My brother must not returntill we have disposed of the dead man and completed the ceremonies ofwidowhood. They shall take place three days hence which will give ustime to call together the friends of the family. You will also havetime to prepare for their entertainment. My brother will wish it donewell and no expense spared."

  "And if the body is not found by that time, what then?" asked his wife.

  "The rites must be performed all the same. I, the master of the housein my brother's absence, give the order."

  He raised his voice although it was not necessary. It penetrated tothe very end of the kitchen and not a word was lost to the many pairsof listening ears. If ears were directed towards the acting master ofthe house, eyes found another centre of attraction in the crushedfigure by the curry-stone. Pity struggled in their fatalistic minds,but in none was it strong enough to cause a stretching out of the handin sympathy, nor to sound the note of consolation or comfort. Therewas silence as Sooba walked away. Although his head was bent and hisfeatures wore a sufficiently solemn expression, he was inwardlytriumphant and full of satisfaction. At last he had found an object onwhom he might be revenged; on whose devoted head he might with safetyretaliate. As he had suffered indignity and disrespect, so now sheshould have the same measured out tenfold. In the absence of the manhimself it was meet that his wife should feel the weight of hisdispleasure. The probability of Ananda being still alive was setaside. As he desired so he chose to believe, and on that belief heintended to take action with as little delay as was possible.

  That afternoon Bopaul with Mayita in attendance, strolled into thecompound with the intention of looking up Ananda. Leaving the girlunder the trees near the wall, where she was partially hidden fromview--lest the sight of her should prove an offence to the family--heturned towards Ananda's room. The green gourd outside in the littleyard had produced some shapeless succulent fruit. It continued to sendup an abundance of loose yellow cups of flowers to the sun, and thoughthere had been very little rain of late the foliage maintained itsemerald tint.

  The door of the room was ajar. Bopaul called Ananda by name as was hiswont; but receiving no reply he entered. The place was deserted.Except for the two portmanteaux it was devoid of all sign of the owner.Hitherto on the occasion of his visits he had seen books and writingmaterial lying about; a coat thrown over a chair; cap and walking-stickon the table. Nothing of the kind was visible, and he wondered whathad happened. Had his friend decided to go, and managed to slip awayafter all? Yet he could not have gone far nor for long; the presenceof his luggage testified to the fact that he intended to return.

  In the midst of his speculations a member of the family arrivedsauntering in with unconcern.

  "You are looking for Ananda. We saw you come in and guessed that youwould be here."

  "Where is he?" asked Bopaul, in surprise.

  "He is dead; drowned in the well near the stable."

  Bopaul expressed his consternation and regret, and asked how theaccident had occurred. The man laughed unsympathetically, in a mannerthat grated on the feelings of the visitor.

  "The wonder is that it has not happened before. It was not anaccident. He threw himself into the well at night when we were allasleep. It was the best way out of the difficulty that he himself hadcreated by turning Christian. It will prevent further trouble andvexation, even though it saddles the family with a widow."

  "Have the funeral rites been performed?"

  "How can an outcaste receive the funeral rites of an orthodox Hindu?"the other asked contemptuously.

  "He has been burned, then, without them?" said Bopaul, regarding theman with increasing displeasure. He did not like the tone adopted."It is strange we have heard nothing of the affair."

  "There has been no burning and no burial for the excellent reason thatwe have not yet recovered the body from the well."

  "It has been seen, of course?"

  "His cap has been found."

  "Have you only his cap as evidence?"

  "Isn't that sufficient? The master considers it ample, and he and hiswife are already beginning to make preparations for the ceremony ofbreaking the bangles and shaving the widow's head."

  "Is that so? Surely it is full early for the widow rites when the bodyof her husband is still missing?"

  "If he were a respectable Hindu, religious and obedient to the law ofcaste, it might be a trifle early; but in this case the man has beendead to the family ever since his return from England. It was a cursedday on which his father consented to his crossing the black water.Alive or dead the sooner his position is recognised, and his wifetreated accordingly, the better pleased shall we all be."

  "I don't believe Ananda is dead," remarked Bopaul, after a few seconds'consideration. "He is not the man to commit suicide. It is far morelikely that he has gone away in the night and has made his escape fromthose who waited for him with no kindly intentions."

  "Run away or dead, it is all the same," persisted the other. "And asfor his wife she would have become as truculent as himself. Did youhear how she tried to escape with him? We discovered her absence onthe night the child died and followed her. They were brought backtogether; and as a reward for his pains Ananda was beaten by order ofhis uncle."

  "Beaten! Surely his father did not give his consent to such an extremecourse?"

  "The big master was not asked and he knew nothing about it. He becamesick after the child's funeral, and he has gone to one of hissilk-farms ten miles away. He knows nothing and he cares nothing. Hisspirit is broken by the wickedness of his son, who deserves all that wegave him."

  "Possibly Ananda has joined his father," suggested Bopaul, who refusedabsolutely to believe in the theory of suicide.

  "Not he! The stick fell too long and too heavily--for we all tookturns--to leave him with strength or spirit to run away again. Afterwe had finished with him he could not stand."

  Bopaul turned away; he was disgusted with the openly expressedbrutality of the speaker; and he was profoundly sorry for
his friend.All along he had feared that something of this kind would occur. Theways of caste families were familiar to him. His own people would havepursued the same course had he become an apostate from Hinduism. Hestopped to ask another question.

  "You are sure that he was unable to leave the compound after----" hepaused, unable to frame the expression. The other understood.

  "Quite certain; the man was too sore to put one foot before the other,"he replied with a hard laugh.

  "How do you suppose he got to the well?"

  "On his hands and knees, of course."

  "And the widow ceremonies will take place three days hence?"

  "Without fail, knowing how set upon the business Sooba is."

  Bopaul walked back to his sister deep in thought. The news troubledhim. He was helpless in the matter, and could do nothing. He wishedthat he had brought more pressure to bear upon his friend when theoffer came from Alderbury. That was a golden opportunity missed thatwas not likely to occur again--always supposing that Ananda was stillalive. That he was dead, and by his own hand, was impossible of beliefthe longer he considered it.

  Mayita was still playing happily enough. She was in the middle of animaginary wedding. A datura blossom was the bride and a wood-apple thebridegroom; she was playing the part of the go-between, and wasnegociating the dower. When she saw her brother she hid the happycouple in the folds of her rough cloth, whispering to the bridegroomthat his joy should not be long delayed.

  "Come, little one," said Bopaul. "We must go home to our mother. Youwill soon have a companion to play with."

  "I! who will have the courage to play with a widow in the face of thegods?" she asked sadly.

  "One who will be in the same sad case as yourself, child."

  "Another widow! I will not play with her! Is it not enough to have mein the house? We do not want a second widow to double our ill-luck.Only this morning the eldest son of our cousin met me by the cowhouse,not knowing that my mother had sent me for some milk. He cursed me;but all the same two hours later as he was running through the garden athorn entered his foot and made him lame. I thought his mother wouldhave beaten me; she was so angry; she said it was all my fault. I hidtill you called me; I was so frightened, too frightened to eat anybreakfast; so I am very hungry now. No! no! brother! we want no morewidows in our house."

  "She will not live with us."

  "Who is she?" asked Mayita, her curiosity aroused.

  "Ananda's widow."

  "Aiyoh! Is it possible that Ananda is dead!"

  "Anyway his wife is a widow and the ceremonies take place three dayshence."

  "Poor Dorama! Aiyoh! poor Dorama!"