The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
reading. For Mrs. Boucicault had sunk together like a faded flower
whose stem had been snapped. The elaborate lace dress and the jewelled
hands in her lap added painfully to her look of broken helplessness. But
it was in her eyes that Mary Compton had seen her self-betrayal. They
were half-closed, and from under the heavy lids they kept watch as a dog
watches who has been beaten past protest, even past subjection into a
terrible patient waiting. She pushed her daughter's hand aside, and
Anne smiled down at her with an attempt at careless ease which had its
own piteousness.
Colonel Boucicault came up the verandah steps, his hand to his helmet
with that exaggerated formality which made the greeting a veiled gibe.
"I trust I don't interrupt," he said. "Anne is celebrating, isn't she?
I heard whispers of something of the sort, but I was not invited. In
fact, I suspect that the entertainment was fixed for the afternoon in
the hopes that my duties might keep me elsewhere."
He accepted the chair which his subaltern had vacated for him. "Thanks,
Radcliffe, always the soul of correctness, and ever to be found where
there is nothing more arduous going than champagne. Well, what are you
all silent for? Mrs. Brabazone, you are positively pale. Has anything
happened?"
Mrs. Brabazone waved one of her podgy hands with a gesture that was
probably an expression of an otherwise inarticulate rage. Boucicault
laughed at her. Whether he had been drinking or not could not be said
for certain. He never betrayed himself. His hands and his voice were
equally steady. His complexion, sallow and unhealthy, added to the
unnatural brightness of his pale eyes, which, like the mouth under the
heavy moustache, expressed a deliberate, insane cruelty.
Anne Boucicault met his roving stare and tried to smile.
"We heard firing," she stammered. "We didn't know what it was. We were
rather frightened."
"Frightened? Of course you were. You're given that way, aren't you,
Anne?" He held out an irritable hand for the glass which Meredith had
filled for him. "Well, you weren't the only one. Five more terrified
wretches I never saw--why, I can't think. A transmigration at this time
of the year must be rather agreeable."
Mary Compton turned her head sharply.
"The five men who mutinied," she exclaimed, "they were shot---just now?"
Though the sunlight was still strong the garden seemed to have suddenly
passed into a chilling shadow.
Colonel Boucicault nodded.
"Yes, before the whole regiment with the exception of this gentleman who
had--what was it--the toothache?" He lifted his glass towards
Radcliffe, whose boyish face had whitened under the taunt. "Allow me to
congratulate you on your taste in champagne, sir. You should be
invaluable on the mess committee at any rate."
Radcliffe's lips twitched but he made no answer, and it was Sigrid
Fersen who spoke. She bent down, stroking Wickie's pointed ears with a
deliberate hand.
"Wasn't the execution a trifle ostentatious, Colonel Boucicault?" she
asked.
He stared back at her, an ugly smile at the corner of his lips.
"It was meant to be ostentatious. I'm afraid I cannot always consider
the delicate female nerves."
"My nerves weren't upset," she returned levelly. "I'm not afraid of
anything."
"Indeed?" He seemed to meditate a moment, as though something either in
her voice or appearance struck him, then jerked his head in Anne's
direction. "My orderly told me there was a messenger for me. Bring him
here."
"Here, father?"
"That was what I said."
Anne slipped from her place, and, motioning Meredith aside, hurried into
the house like some frightened little animal. As she disappeared Mary
Compton started a conversation which was taken up eagerly but without
more than a faltering success. It failed altogether as Anne returned.
"That's Ayeshi," Radcliffe whispered in Sigrid's ear.
She looked up. The young Hindu had salaamed gravely, partly to
Boucicault, partly to the assembled company and now stood upright and
silent. He was barefooted, and the white loose clothes were grey with
dust. Yet there was that in the carriage of his slender body and in the
dark, delicate featured face which was arresting in its dignity. To
Boucicault, possibly, the boy's untroubled ease appeared as insolence.
He frowned at him moodily.
"You are Major Tristram's servant," he asked in English.
"Yes, Sahib."
"Well, he has not taught you manners. But that was hardly to be
expected. You have brought a message?"
"Yes, Sahib."
"Deliver it."
"It is by word of mouth, Sahib."
"Well, then, deliver it, in Heaven's name."
Ayeshi put his hand to his neck, pushing back the short black curls
which escaped from under his turban. He seemed to become suddenly
conscious of the attention centred on him, and his eyes, moving over the
watching faces, encountered Sigrid Fersen. He looked at her intently
and then at the dog at her feet, and she saw that his lips quivered
though not with fear.
"It is that there is cholera at Bjura," he said. "The Dakktar Sahib is
hard pressed, and begs for help."
"He is always doing that. Tell him I have no one to send. Captain
Treves is on furlough, and I should not dream of recalling him. The
Dakktar Sahib must manage as best he can."
Ayeshi held his ground. His mouth had hardened.
"The Dakktar Sahib is ill," he said.
"Well, let the physician heal himself," Boucicault laughed.
"Colonel Sahib--it is urgent----"
Boucicault rose to his feet.
"You can go," he said. Then, as Ayeshi lingered, with a suddenness that
was awful in its expression of released passions, Boucicault lifted his
hand and struck the native full on the mouth. "Now will you go?" he
said softly.
Mrs. Brabazone screamed, but her voice was drowned wholly by a more
full-throated sound. Wickie, barking furiously and bristling with all
the fighting fury of his Scottish forbears, broke from a long restraint
and flung himself at the aggressor. Even his teeth, however, could not
prevail against the leather riding-boots, and Boucicault kicked himself
free. His passion had died down or had become something worse, a cold
still fury.
"What brute is this?" he asked. He looked at Anne, and she tried to
meet his eyes and flinched.
"It's Major Tristram's dog--he gave it to me to take care of--it had a
broken paw--it was shut up in the compound--I hoped you wouldn't mind,
father."
Boucicault made no answer. He took the riding-crop which he had
carried. There was a tight line about his jaw which betrayed the
grinding teeth. He was very deliberate, almost ostentatious in his
purpose. Anne watched him. She held out a hand of protest--then let it
drop. Her pallor had become pitiful. Sigrid Fersen got up. She was so
swift and light in her movement that no one realised what she was doing
till it was done. She crossed the verandah and picked up Wickie in her
arms, narrowly escaping the murderous descent of the riding-crop. Then
she rose and faced him.
"I like Wickie," she said. "From henceforward, Colonel Boucicault, he
is under my protection."
Boucicault drew back. His face was grey looking.
"You have some courage, Mademoiselle," he said almost inaudibly.
She smiled composedly.
"I am not 'Mademoiselle,' and you know it, Colonel Boucicault. Also, as
I said before, I am not afraid. I killed a mad dog once, and since than
I have been afraid of nothing." She turned carelessly. Ayeshi stood
behind her. There was blood on his mouth and on the hand which he had
raised in self-defence. His eyes were full of a sick suffering which
was terrible because it was not of the body. She laid her free hand on
his arm. "You are hurt," she said; "please go to my bungalow. Mrs.
Smithers will look after you--tell her I sent you. You mustn't mind
what has happened----" She looked back mockingly over her shoulder.
"Colonel Boucicault is a little out of temper. He would hit me if he
dared."
There was a silence of sheer stupefaction. Mrs. Compton's temperament,
usually leashed by her passionate care for her husband's career, bolted
with her, and she laughed outright, and Mrs. Brabazone settled herself
back in her chair with a subdued complacency of one who has seen herself
fitly avenged. But Anne Boucicault had risen to her feet. There was a
look on her face more painful than her fear, and almost reckless in its
self-betrayal. For an instant she stood looking at the woman who faced
her father, and then without a word she turned and slipped into the room
behind her. Meredith followed. He did not speak to her. He knew where
she was going, and the knowledge gave him an odd comfort, as though in
her need she had remembered him and turned to him. Like a shadow she
glided along the dim passages. The verandah overlooking the rose-garden
was deserted and the garden itself already full of a cool twilight which
added to its sad air of neglect and death. Roses grew well in Gaya, but
they did not grow well in Anne's garden. She loved them but not
successfully. Meredith stood beside her as she lay huddled together on
the old bench and waited. Though she was so still he felt that she was
crying and the knowledge stirred him to a compassion that was not one of
understanding. In truth he understood as yet very little--the mere
surface of her grief. Presently he sat down beside her and drew her
hand gently and resolutely from her face. It was wet with tears.
"Anne!" he said unsteadily. "Little Anne!" Loyally unselfish and
modest though he was, yet at that moment he accused himself of a tender
insincerity as though his grief and pity were masks covering his own
happiness. The thing for which he had longed and prayed had come to
pass, so swiftly and splendidly that in his warm faith he seemed to
recognize the hand of the God he prayed to. "You mustn't grieve so," he
whispered. "People understand--and we are all your friends. We know
too what this country can do with a man's character--we can make
allowances. And then, dear, no harm was done. Miss Fersen saved the
situation for us all."
She withdrew her hand slowly and looked at him then, in spite of her
girl's tears and the veiling twilight, he wondered at the unyouthfulness
of her expression.
"Yes, I suppose she did. She saved Wickie. She was very brave."
"I thought so too."
"And yet I hate her." She made a quick gesture, silencing his
involuntary protest. "I hate her--not wickedly. There is a hatred
which isn't wicked--the kind of thing we feel for what is harmful and
evil. I've tested myself over and over again. I know--I feel that she
isn't a good woman--she has no faith, no ideals. She has done harm in
Gaya already--she sticks at nothing--and because of that she wins, and
people yield to her and let her poison them. That is why I hate her."
The man beside her was silent for a moment. He had no answer ready. He
had felt nothing for Sigrid Fersen save a masculine admiration for her
cool courage. Anne's passionate dislike, compared to what he hoped was
coming to them both, seemed a little thing and yet it chilled him. The
cold shadows of the neglected garden laid hands upon him, checking and
paralysing the headlong impulse and joyous confidence with which men win
victories. With an effort he tried to free himself.
"You may be right," he said quietly, "I don't know. I'm no judge of
character. But the truth is, I haven't thought about her. I haven't
thought of any but the one woman--of any one but you, Anne." He paused
a moment. He no longer dared to look at her, but leant forward, his
hands tightly interlocked, his eyes fixed on the on-coming tide of
darkness. He did not know that his voice shook. "Anne, I haven't dared