The Outcaste

by F. E. Penny

  CHAPTER XXIII

  A week passed during which Pantulu's family settled back into theordinary routine. Sooba was gratified by the performance of thewidowing ceremonies; he felt to a certain degree revenged upon hisunfortunate nephew. The adulation received from the visitors didsomething to restore his wounded vanity; but the disrespect shown byDr. Wenaston's housekeeper was not yet atoned for; and hisvindictiveness in that direction continued to smoulder.

  A second letter arrived from Gunga asking for news of Ananda. Itcontained a message that amounted to a parental order. Gunga desiredher son to come to her at once. She suggested that by this time thepopular feeling against him in the town would have subsided; and itwould be quite safe for him to travel in the bullock coach which hadtaken her and her husband to their new home. She went into furtherdetail about the proposed journey, and asked that some personalproperty should be forwarded by the conveyance that brought her son.Sooba read the letter aloud to his wife in his perplexity.

  "It means that my brother is worse and he wants to make one more appealto his son," he commented.

  "You will have to tell him that Ananda is dead."

  "I shall do nothing of the kind--at present. It is strange that thewell refuses to give up the body."

  "Not at all, husband. The gods have permitted the demon of the well todo its worst. Perhaps one day his bones may be brought to light; butwe shall never see his body again."

  "As far as we are all concerned it would be a good thing if he werenever seen again. It would solve the difficulty of funeralceremonies," remarked Sooba complacently.

  "Does our sister say nothing about Dorama?"

  "Nothing at all."

  "If she knew she would ask for the jewels. You have them all safe?"

  "Perfectly safe."

  "Why not replace them in the family chest?" she asked, a touch ofanxiety in her voice.

  "Because I choose to keep them myself."

  She was silent in spite of her uneasiness. She was aware that Soobahad not only taken possession of the jewels, but had also appropriatedsome of the money recently paid in by the middle-men who purchased theproduce of Pantulu's estate. They brought rupee notes and took Sooba'sreceipt without a suspicion of anything wrong. Sooba himself saw noharm in his action. He was a little premature; but as it would all behis at no distant time there was nothing dishonest about it.

  "What answer shall you send?"

  "I shall say that we gave Ananda the punishment commanded by the swami,taking care not to be too severe."

  "It was very severe all the same. Sometimes I think that he may havecrawled away into the jungle and died there."

  "Chah! woman! you babble like a fool!" retorted Sooba with irritation."We are speaking now of what is to be said to our sister. In returnfor our leniency--for not having given him the full measure prescribedby the holy one----"

  "The men said that it was more than----"

  "Peace, idiot! Let me finish what I intend to say to my sister-in-law.In return for our kindness he has gone off, we can't say where. Hetried to entice away the foolish deluded Dorama and persuade her to gowith him; but we discovered the plan just in time to stop her."

  His wife was not satisfied. She had no objection to the distortion ofthe tale. What she feared was the discovery of the truth by Gunga.The story of the widow ceremony must come to her ears before many moredays were passed; and nothing would be gained by rousing her wrathunnecessarily. As long as there was a breath of life in Pantulu, Gungaruled absolutely; and it was in her power to turn out Sooba and hiswife if serious offence were given.

  "Leave it to me," said Sooba confidently and untroubled by any qualmsof conscience. "Our sister is occupied in looking after her husband.Her own approaching widowhood will take up the rest of her thoughts.We need not fear that she will make inquiry or trouble about anythinguntil the end comes. Then I in the absence of Ananda will be chiefmourner and master of the house. It will be your voice and not oursister's that will hold the attention of the zenana. The jewels may beworn by you; they will become you well, wife."

  She was not satisfied even with this rosy dream of wealth andauthority, and she asked uneasily:

  "When will you tell Gunga of her son?"

  "In another week perhaps I may begin to break the news."

  The days that followed the widowing rites passed strangely for Dorama.She hated her new position and inwardly revolted against it. Sheloathed her rough garment and bare head. The cool evening wind caughther behind the ears and at the back of her neck--where formerly theheavy strands of hair formed a covering--and gave her twinges ofneuralgia. She shivered and drew up the saree shawl-wise over herhead, but it slipped down having nothing to cling to. She missed thedaily details of her toilet. There was no hair to comb, and scent, andplait with fresh blossoms; no jewels to fasten on arm and neck. Shewas not permitted to use any of the various cosmetics treasured in thebrass box with its many divisions that was her own special property;the rouge, sandal-wood paste, saffron powder, lip-salve, henna and thesweet atta of rose. The only thing allowed was the use of pure water.The food was good, but the mode of serving deprived her of appetite.By the time her turn came she was so full of misery and impatience ather altered circumstances, that she found no pleasure in eating theexcellent curry prepared in the kitchen. Alone and like a guilty thingshe bolted her meals, sometimes shedding bitter tears as she did so.Even the luxury of grief was denied. If tears were seen or a sobheard, she was reproved. Did she want to bring bad luck upon thehouse? she was asked. If a basin was broken or a pot upset, angryglances were directed towards her. If the woman slicing vegetables cuther finger, she showed it to the widow with an injured expression, asmuch as to say: Look at the effect of having a person like you in thehouse!

  Her services were not urgently needed in the kitchen where many handsmade light work; and it frequently happened to her to be ordered out ofthe room. She wandered away in listless fashion, aware that wherevershe went her presence would be unwelcome. Only one spot seemed free toher, and this was because it was deserted by all others. The smallroom formerly occupied by her husband was always empty, and thither shewas drawn by memory and association.

  At first she merely sat upon the mat and brooded, looking out of theopen door at the forest-clad mountain with eyes that saw nothing of itsbeauty in line or colour. On the third day she noticed that the dusthad accumulated, and that the dead jasmin blossoms remained just wherethey had fallen. She went out into the compound and gathered a bunchof twigs with which she swept out the room. In so doing she discovereda glove that had belonged to her husband. She recognised it as hisand, picking it up, she kissed it passionately. Once, not so very longago, it had been a covering to his dear hand. He had worn it in thatfar-off smoky city of the west, and the strange scent still clung to it.

  When she had finished her self-appointed task, she seated herself onthe mat to indulge in the pleasure of gloating over her treasure; andto devise a secure hiding place for it in the fold of her saree. Adozen times it was hidden and brought out again to be fondled and gazedat, to be tenderly nursed like a baby on her arm. She was startled bythe sound of a footfall. Hastily thrusting her treasure into her sareeshe looked up and saw Mayita.

  "Ah, dear sister. How good it is to meet again! My brother caughtsight of you as he walked through the compound, and he sent me to talkto you while he goes to the house to ask for news of your husband."

  "There is no news," replied Dorama sadly.

  "Not yet; but there will be soon," replied Mayita confidently. Thechild entered the room and glanced round with approval. "You haveswept it and made it tidy. Does any one come here?"

  "Not that I know of," replied Dorama, her hand slipping under the foldsof her cloth to close secretly over the glove.

  "Then it is ours for the present, ours! sister! Think how delightful!Widows are not allowed to possess anything, so they say! But listen, Iwill tell you a secret now that you are my
sister. They think I havenothing, nothing in this big world; but I have lots of treasures. I amrich. I have silver pots and golden cups and china dishes. Sometimesthey are filled with oranges and mangoes, pomegranates and mangosteens.I have jewels and silk sarees----"

  "What are you talking about, child!" cried Dorama staring at her inastonishment.

  "Hush, speak low, and I will show you some diamonds. They are thedower of a bride in a marriage I am making."

  She untied a corner of her cloth and produced some small white stonesthat she had picked up in the compound. She chose one and lifted itdaintily.

  "This magnificent stone of the first water was found at Golcondah athousand years ago. It was once in the crown of a rich Maharajah. Itis worth twenty lacs of rupees; and if this wedding can bearranged----" her brow puckered suddenly, "but things are not goingwell. The astrologer has pronounced unfavourably on the horoscopes.The bride's element is water, and the bridegroom's partly air andpartly fire. Air and water will agree; but fire and water!--what canit mean unless it be misfortune?"

  "What will you do?" asked Dorama entering into the fanciful world ofthe other with the kindly indulgence of the older woman towards theyounger.

  "I have paid a large sum to the astrologer. He is a very cleverman--oh, so wise--and he has gone to a big temple in the south to askfor the assistance of the gods. I would do anything rather thandisappoint the bridegroom. He is so handsome, so fair, so big andstrong! The bride will die of grief if she is not permitted to marryhim. Already she is drooping and languishing because of the delay.Beloved sister, you must come to the wedding. You shall be thebridegroom's mother."

  A generous offer that Dorama accepted with a sad smile. There was avast gulf between the two widows. One had never tasted the reality.She had only been a bride in name, and she was still able to live inthe rosy dreams of maiden fancy. The other had drunk the cup andrealised every thing. To her this make-believe was but a mockery, thedust and ashes of a tantalising memory.

  "Where is the bridegroom?" asked Dorama.

  Mayita untied another knot in her saree and produced a wood-apple whichshe exhibited proudly.

  "See, isn't he well made?" she said. "Look at his limbs. Feel hissmooth skin! How tall! how proud he is and how strong. He will bethe father of many sons."

  "Have you the bride as well?"

  "She has to live with her people at present. Her home is in the daturabush. She wears a saree of pure white satin and she hangs her headwith beautiful modesty. Sister!" Mayita's eyes surveyed the room withapproval. "We will have the wedding here. The astrologer will soon beback from the south, and I am sure that his visit to the temple willhave made matters smooth. We shall be able to decorate the place andlay out the feast. I will bring my silver pots and china dishesto-morrow and we will hide them behind your husband's boxes. Oh, howdelightful it will be! What a wedding we will have!"

  Mayita's eyes sparkled, and the beautiful brown tones of her skin wereenriched as the warm blood coursed through her veins. In spite of hershaven head and coarse garment, her youth and comeliness assertedthemselves. She babbled on about the wedding, the difficulties thathad occurred over the dower as well as the horoscope, the number ofguests to be invited, and other details to which Dorama listened, herhand over the hidden glove, her thoughts wandering back into the pastwhen there was another wedding less nebulous than that of Mayita'sdevising, and she herself was the bride. A call outside checked theflow of description, and Mayita rose quickly to her feet.

  "It is my brother. Come to the entrance of the yard while I ask himfor news; and listen."

  Bopaul in the customary manner of a caste man, stood a little way offwaiting for his sister to join him.

  "What news of Ananda?" asked the child, stopping in the entrance andcalling to him.

  "They have none."

  "Where is he?"

  "They still speak of the well; but I do not believe that he is dead.Come, little one, it is time we returned."

  Mayita kissed Dorama.

  "My brother is right. Your husband lives; but for the present you arehis widow. To-morrow Coomara's widow will come again. There will benews by that time from the astrologer, and we shall be able to beginthe preparations for the wedding. Sister, those big boxes must bepushed aside; they will be in the way. Do you think that we could movethem? We will try to-morrow."

  Another call from Bopaul, and Mayita beat a hasty retreat. Dorama wasleft standing at the entrance. The sun had disappeared in a heavy bankof cloud that later would be streaked with electricity. Rain waswanted; there had been none for the last few days. Her eye rested onthe gourd that had been trampled by the inquisitive crowd. She went toit.

  "Poor plant! They killed you I am afraid; but no, you are not dead!Here are some buds coming and fresh leaves!"

  She stooped over the vine and plucked away the bruised foliage leavingthe stalks almost as bare as her own poor head. Unlovely though therough stems were they were full of virility; and the rain and sun wouldmend what was marred and reclothe the plant with verdure. Shestraightened out a few twisted stems and lifted some leaves that hadbeen trodden down but escaped total destruction. It was a curioussight; the crushed tending the crushed.

  Then she entered the room again and thought of the child. Why shouldshe not have the small pleasure of playing her little game on themorrow. She looked at the two portmanteaux and considered how theycould be moved out of the way. They were her husband's and must becared for, as they contained his clothes and books. Of course theywere heavy and beyond her power to move.

  She gripped the handle of one and putting all her strength into theeffort attempted to lift it. To her astonishment it yielded with suchease that she nearly fell over backwards. A cry escaped her lips asshe dropped it. It was empty. She tested the weight of the other withthe same result. That too was empty, if she might judge by itslightness.

  The knowledge came as a shock; it was a revelation, and threw a freshand unexpected light on her husband's disappearance. If he had thrownhimself down the well it was hardly likely that he would have taken allhis clothes and books with him. They would still be here. Where theyhad gone he must have followed. But stay! had some thief stolen thecontents? If so the locks would betray him. She examined themclosely. They were sound and unbroken. No sign of the hand of a thiefwas to be seen. The boxes were properly locked and their contents hadbeen removed with the owner's consent.

  A great joy swept over her, lifting a dull dead weight from her heart.Bopaul had asserted his belief more than once that his friend stilllived, and she had heard the assertion with very little faith. Thisdiscovery altered the complexion of affairs completely and broughtconviction. Her husband was surely alive! In spite of the dreadfulbangle-breaking ceremony; in spite of the coarse clothing and shavenhead she was not a widow. One day he would come back to her and claimher for his own. She would feel his dear arms round her again, hislips upon hers, his words of love would be breathed in her ears oncemore!

  The joy of it all deprived her of muscular strength for the time, andshe sank down by those rough battered trunks, leaning her arms uponthem and laying her cheek against the stained leather. She could havehugged and kissed them in her gratitude for what they had revealed.

  Gradually her mind cleared; it seemed to have matured during the lastfew weeks and to have aged with experience. She thought of all she hadgone through. First there was the bewilderment caused by his change offaith, which raised a barrier between him and herself, and she realisedhow intensely disappointed she was. Then came the loss of the childand her sorrow. Lastly, she had had to endure the degradation ofwidowhood which, coming as it did on the top of her loss of husband andchild, brought her to the verge of hopeless despair. Had it not beenfor the opportune visit of Mayita she would now be lying in the wellwhere, up to the present, she had believed her husband to be.

  The conviction that he was alive grew upon her as she sat there in thed
arkening room. She drew out the glove and pressed it to her lips. Toall intents and purposes she was still a widow, and as such she mustremain for the present. As she cherished the glove and hid it, so shemust keep her discovery a secret. She must also guard against showingthe new hope that had sprung up; the hope that he would return, thatsooner or later he would seek her out and bid her come. Could he do itopenly? She doubted the wisdom of such a course. She remembered howthey had failed in their first attempt to escape. There must be nofailure the second time. She must be careful and cautious and trust tono one.

  The more she contemplated the step she might be called upon to take atany moment, the more clearly she understood its seriousness. Theeffect would be far-reaching and irretrievable. To throw in her lotwith her husband would mean that she would cut herself adrift from thefamily for ever. She must be one with him, of his faith, and dead toall her relatives.

  Was she prepared to make the sacrifice? Yes, a thousand times, yes!The old spirit that had led her remote ancestresses to the funeral pileto die in the flames that devoured their dead husbands' bodies, rosestrongly within her and bound her to her living husband. For his sakeshe would endure and bear as he had endured and borne. She would beready when his summons came; and she would go gladly, even though hebeckoned to her from the fire of adversity, that burned as fiercely asthe flames of the old suttee funeral pile; she would join him and clingto him for ever!

  She lifted her head with eyes that shone, not with tears but with a newlight. The last vestige of the child died within her; and the womanwho walked thoughtfully back to the zenana, as the shadow of nightsettled over the landscape, was a woman of determination and strengthof purpose. The baptism of sorrow had lifted her on to a higher plane,and had fitted her for better things than a colourless life of inertmisery.