The Outcaste. F. E. Penny

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СКАЧАТЬ in the work you will have to do on your return. A knowledge of the enemy is necessary to success."

      "What work, oh swami? May thy servant know?"

      "The preservation of our great religion, the emancipation of our country, the elevation of our nation; the casting out of a race of demons who would have us believe that they are spirits of light. May they be accursed with their Christ!"

      He broke into imprecations against the supreme power that claimed sovereignty over the Maharajah of Chirakul and against the Founder of the Christian faith.

      "Swami, is it your decree that I should take this voyage across the black water—that I should break my caste?"

      "Only by going to England can you ever hope to rise to a position wherein you may help the cause that we have at heart."

      "And if I die in that foreign land, swami?"

      "You will be born again to suffering and degradation," said the inexorable voice.

      "Swami, swami! Let me stay in my father's house."

      "It cannot be. It is the will of the gods!" replied the guru. "My son," he added, in softer accents, "be not afraid. You will return in safety to help the cause we have at heart and be blessed by the holy Brahmans."

      Ananda and Bopaul heard the words and remembered them afterwards. "You will be born again to toil and suffering and degradation."

      And they believed them; for had they not been spoken by the guru, in whom dwelt the divine afflatus?

      *****

      Dr. Wenaston shortened his stay in town after the accident, and cancelled his social engagements. The death of Coomara affected him, though in a lesser degree. He developed an aversion to public gatherings and to the assemblage of a crowd in street or train or on the field of sport. A vague feeling of apprehension destroyed his pleasure, and he recognised with dismay that he, too, was suffering from nerves.

      There was only one remedy, and that was to seek comparative solitude for a while until the nervous system should recover its equilibrium.

      His sister suggested a leisurely motor trip into the depths of the country. They could choose their road and regulate their pace to please themselves.

      They wandered through the south and west of England, fortunate in their weather and choice of route. When it suited them they remained at a quiet little seaside place for a week or two; or in a still more sleepy country town, with the happy result that Wenaston entirely recovered his health mentally and bodily.

      The summer passed and he sent his sister home to make her preparation for the voyage to India, while he went to his club for the same object. He had not seen the Professor since he led Ananda and Bopaul back to his house in dazed and prostrate condition on that memorable afternoon, and had told the story of the accident.

      On his arrival in town he wrote to Mrs. Twyford, saying that he would come to lunch on the following Sunday.

      It was one of those bright autumn days, when the sun touched every object with a golden light. Even the city of smoke and fog was rendered beautiful in its dress of grey and gold. The streets, thronged on week-day with traffic, were empty except during the half-hour before service. Church-bells rang out their call in all directions, summoning their eclectic congregations to the morning services. The sound of the great cathedral chimes dominated them all.

      Wenaston stood for a minute or two on the steps of St. Paul's listening, that he might retain the echo in his ears and carry it away into exile. Temple-bells might clang around him, and the ding-ding-ding of the Christian Church bell call him on Sunday; but nowhere throughout the East would a melody like that sent forth from the dome of St. Paul's ever ring in his ear.

      He entered the cathedral and moved swiftly up the centre aisle. The space under the dome was filling fast. He turned to the right and found a seat near the pulpit.

      The chimes ceased, and the big bell monotoned the final invitation to the increasing crowd. Before it stopped the organ pealed forth the first chords of the voluntary.

      If the truth is to be recorded, Wenaston had not gone to church with any conscious desire to humble himself in prayer, nor to lift his soul to God in praise. The melody of the choir succeeded the song of the bells. He listened passively, revelling in the perfect harmony and abandoning himself to the soothing, almost sensuous feeling of peace and contentment brought by the music and environment. He knelt and stood, following mechanically the example of his neighbours; and when the organ ceased and the preacher entered the pulpit, he rested motionless in his chair, yielding himself to the luxury of the sensations that had been roused by the music.

      At the conclusion of the sermon, eager for more of that which so soon would be unattainable, he determined to remain to the end of the service. A large number of people left the cathedral, and he moved up nearer to the choir, with the object of securing a better seat, but with no intention of communicating.

      When the departing congregation had cleared away, his eyes were drawn towards a kneeling figure in front. Something in its outline was familiar. The head, with short abundant black hair, was bowed in silent prayer. The worshipper was no idle visitor; nor had he come to have his ears tickled or his senses steeped in superb harmonies. The music that echoed through arch and aisle was unheeded in the effort to raise the spirit to God. The man was there to pray, and his prayerful attitude was unchanged until the first chords of the Gloria were struck. As prayer passed into a glorious song of praise, the worshipper lifted his head and Wenaston caught a glimpse of the features. Astounded beyond measure—he could not have explained why—he recognised Ananda.

      When the service ended he rose, and allowing the Hindu to pass out before him, caught him up at the west door. Ananda's eyes were not upon the crowd that jostled him, and he did not observe Wenaston's presence. In their dark depths shone the light of a great happiness mingled with that exaltation which may be seen in the eyes of the convert. Wenaston's surprise was not lessened as he noted it.

      "You! Ananda!"

      The Hindu turned at once and held out his hand.

      "Dr. Wenaston! We thought that you were still in the south of England!"

      "I have been there; but my leave is getting short, and I have come to town to prepare for my journey back to India. Mrs. Twyford did not tell you that I am to lunch with you all to-day?"

      "She said nothing about it."

      Wenaston gazed at him with searching eyes.

      "How is it that I find you in St. Paul's?" he asked, adding as an after-thought. "And not as a spectator."

      "Because I have taken a momentous step. I have become a Christian."

      "Is this the Professor's doing?" asked Wenaston, after a slight pause.

      "No," replied Ananda, readily. "The Professor had nothing to do with my act."

      "Tell me about it."

      They walked along the deserted city streets where a few well-dressed folk were strolling and an occasional omnibus rolled noisily by.

      "After Coomara's death I was very much troubled. I could not bear to think of his fate. Sometimes I was overwhelmed with grief on his account; sometimes I was beside myself with terror on my own, lest a like fate СКАЧАТЬ