At the age of twelve he was married to Coomara's sister, three years his junior. When he was seventeen the marriage was consummated, and the girl took up her residence with his parents. It was a happy home, free from strife, and the daughter-in-law found no difficulty in fitting herself into her place. She shared the love that the parents in the fullness of their affection showered upon their son.
When Ananda was nineteen and Dorama, his wife, sixteen, she presented him with a son. If anything could have been added to the cup of joy that was already full, it was this.
"Now we are assured of the completion of our happiness and the fulfilment of our desire," said his father. "We may allow ourselves to consider your future. One day we hope to see you take a prominent part in the government of the country. Possibly you may rise to occupy a place on the Maharajah's council. These honours cannot be attained without a journey to England."
"Is it necessary, my father?" asked Ananda, watching his young wife as she sat on the fine grass matting with the baby on her lap. He would have been more than content to continue in the pleasant backwater of domestic life without seeking new scenes.
"It is necessary in these days of progress. His Highness himself takes occasional voyages across the ocean to see the western world with his own eyes."
"His caste is not our caste," objected Ananda, with the unconscious superiority of a man of better birth.
"Still, his example is to be imitated."
"Not without loss of caste."
"Caste can be restored on your return. The penances and penalties are lighter than they used to be."
"But the breaking of caste is none the less serious for the lightening of the penalties."
"That may be," assented Pantulu. "All the same, it is imperative in these days that men should see something of the world outside their own State; and there is no doubt that those who have travelled in Europe, and lived for a time in England, are preferred in the council to those who have had no experience. Having thought the matter well over, my son, your mother and I have decided on this step. You will sail from Bombay in April next; and it is proposed by their families to send Coomara and Bopaul with you."
Ananda's father consulted with Wenaston, who had recently been appointed as Principal of the large college at Chirapore, as to the best place of residence in London; with the result that the three Hindus found themselves committed to the care of Professor Twyford.
Bopaul had no qualms over his broken caste. He accepted the decree of exile with pleasure, and determined to make the most of his opportunities. He intended to amuse himself as well as read with the Professor; and he carried out his programme, the only shadow to cross his path later being the death of Coomara.
Shortly before they left for England, the guru paid them a visit. The Vedas were quoted and the laws of Manu repeated with many warnings against falling away from the faith.
"You are going to a foreign land, the home of revolutionary teaching. Be careful how you listen, and let no one undermine the instructions that I with divine authority have given you. Attempts will be made; you must resist them. Here in this State of Chirakul we still enjoy the great boon of an hereditary ruler. Under his government we have successfully repelled the innovations that have been introduced into British India. If fate should decree that any of you enter the service of our Maharajah, it will rest with you to help to preserve our ancient faith."
Coomara looked up at the tall figure that stood before him, and his glance fell beneath the fiery eyes. He dropped at the feet of the teacher and pressed his forehead to the ground with words of worship and adoration such as might have been addressed to the Deity. In his eyes the guru was God Himself, neither His messenger nor prophet; and as such he bowed himself in deep humility and worshipped. As he lay there a voice like the voice of a god reached him.
"My son, I do not forbid your ears to listen nor your eyes to see. What you hear and see will be of use 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