The Outcaste. F. E. Penny

Day and night Ananda brooded and sorrowed, uncomforted by the oft-repeated assurance of Bopaul that it was the inevitable decree of fate; and that what was written on a man's forehead by the gods could not be averted.

      The Professor observed his distress and was troubled. It affected the health of his guest, causing his appetite to fail. Sleep came fitfully; and rest during the day seemed well-nigh impossible, as Ananda paced the room or wandered up and down the garden without purpose. Everything in the shape of study ended. The books were opened and the Professor began to lecture; but he soon discovered that he failed to interest Bopaul, and that Ananda's thoughts had wandered far from the subject in hand. Under the impression that the mind might be relieved by speech, he encouraged both to talk of the trouble that had overtaken them. He listened seriously and with patience as Ananda propounded the doctrine of transmigration. At the conclusion the Professor combatted it, repeating all the arguments against the theory.

      "It is monstrous to ascribe such cruelty to the Deity," he said. "You admit that God is all-powerful. Why cannot you give Him credit for beneficence? You call Him the All-Father. If He is a father, at least allow Him the attributes of a father."

      "How can He break His own rules?" cried Bopaul. "It is laid down by Divine authority in the Vedas that certain consequences must follow certain deeds. It is a common law of life all over the world. You hang your murderer, regardless of his repentance. Can you cleanse the hand of the murderer from the blood in which he has dipped it? You yourself admit that as the tree falls so must it lie; the tree falls not by its will nor by its merit, but by fate."

      "Christ came into the world to give us a new law," said the Professor. "It is true that by the old Mosaic teaching we punish the murderer. If he dies repentant, we have the promise of Christ made on the Cross that his sins will assuredly be forgiven. To the crucified thief He said, 'This day shalt thou be with Me in Paradise.' He gave the promise almost with his last breath, and the man to whom it was made had sinned wilfully and with design. Is it likely that they who have transgressed unintentionally will have to suffer with those whose hearts are hardened?"

      "The thief on the Cross was a Christian already, probably, and a follower of your Prophet," said Bopaul.

      "There is nothing to show that he had followed Christ, or been influenced by His teaching. All that he knew was that his strange companion was branded with no crime. If Christ could promise forgiveness—which meant immunity from punishment—to a wilful criminal who was neither baptized nor a follower, is it not believable that He could forgive and secure immunity from punishment to one like Coomara, whose life was humanly blameless? Our God is all-powerful, all-embracing, just and loving. Through His Son He shows mercy to all, regardless of race and religion."

      "Is He—is He—stronger than Brahma?" asked Ananda, in a low voice.

      "He is stronger and mightier than all the gods in the Universe," declared the Professor, in ringing tones that almost carried conviction. Even Bopaul, the trifler, was impressed. He rose from his seat and strolled to the window.

      "Our guru would warn us that it was sinful to listen to the claims of any other God but our own."

      As he spoke he turned and looked at Ananda with warning in his eye.

      "He who refuses to listen is a coward," said Twyford. "In these days of tolerance and freedom of thought, the student asks for liberty to probe and sound every doctrine that is presented. He demands a wide field that he may view from all sides, weigh and measure the new with the old. Above all, he requires to be told all that there is to be learned; for, without hearing the arguments for and against, no man is able to form a just opinion."

      "In that case the guru ought to be here to represent and defend his side of the argument," said Bopaul.

      "You have already learned all that he could teach you. Your people sent you to England that you might hear more; that you might be made acquainted with every question that is agitating the western world of science, of politics and of religion."

      "Ah, well!" replied Bopaul, in a lighter and more careless tone. "We are acquiring knowledge under you, sir; we can sift and compare without apostacy, I hope. Come for a walk, Ananda. The fresh air will clear away the cobwebs from our brains and make us more profitable pupils."

      The Professor's grey eyes, full of sympathy and friendliness, rested on Ananda in silence. He did not say, "Go; the walk will do you good." Nor did he reach out his hand for pen or book, a sign that he was ready to return to his own studies. He waited, leaning back in the revolving chair in front of his writing-table.

      "No, thanks; I would rather stay in-doors. The noise and traffic of the streets——"

      "You will never conquer your nerves by keeping away from the outside world. It will have to be faced sooner or later; the sooner the better," said Bopaul, as his hand touched the door.

      Ananda turned from the speaker to the silent Professor, and gathered strength from his steady gaze.

      "Don't wait, Bopaul; I am not going out this morning."

      With a lifting of the shoulders the other left the room, shifting responsibility on to the Englishman. Silence was maintained for some seconds after his departure. Ananda broke it.

      "If only I could believe that this endless cycle of rebirths need not be, I should be happier," he said.

      The pathetic appeal for some ray of hope went straight to Twyford's heart. Pity and an intense desire to help in spiritual trouble roused the man, and he poured forth the doctrines of comfort that console the dying Christian. It was not done with the intention of converting, but in the merciful desire of bringing some small consolation to the despairing man to whom the fear of the future made life in the present intolerable. The fate that had overtaken Coomara might at any moment, whether at home or abroad, be Ananda's.

      For more than an hour they talked, and the gloom on Ananda's face lightened.

      "It is most comforting as you put it, but—it is not my creed," he said. There was a pause, and he added, "I cannot change my faith."

      "I do not ask you to change it. Is it not possible, however, in these days of advanced thought that you may be able to modify some of the fossilised tenets of your religion? The spirit of reform is abroad, and a Hindu may become a member of the Brahmo-Somaj or the Ayra-Somaj without losing caste, without cutting himself adrift from his community, his family. There is no hurry. The fathers may rest content to think of these things. Their sons will act."

      There was a sound of a footstep outside. The door opened, and Bopaul appeared.

      "Lunch is ready, sir. I am sure you must be tired talking so long. You should have driven that foolish Ananda out into the air and sunshine, instead of letting him waste your time."

      "I don't think that the time has been wasted," replied the Professor, kindly.

      Bopaul shot a swift glance at Ananda, but learned nothing except the fact that the latter was ill at ease under his scrutiny. The lunch bell rang, and Ananda hurried to his room. As he disappeared Bopaul said in a tone that was unusually earnest for him.

      "Sir, remember your promise to his parents. Forgive me for reminding you of it. I know his people, and what a terrible thing it will be for them if his faith is shaken. He is their only son."

      "Believe me, I have not broken faith with them. I have been preaching reform rather than conversion, although I admit that it would please me better if it had been the other way about. Ananda must have led a very sheltered life in his youth, and this I fancy is his first great trouble. He needs help, and it is difficult to give it under the peculiar circumstances in which I find myself."

      *****

      The Professor was not far wrong when he said that Ananda's childhood had been sheltered.

      Born of wealthy parents and the only son, surrounded with every luxury that love could devise, he had been guarded from trouble of all kind. He, on his part, had been amenable to his parents' wishes, obedient and gentle, always ready to be guided. Content to be ruled, his will power lay dormant, and there seemed little likelihood of it being roused into activity; for the