The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
Mlle. Fersen dance and he sent her a bouquet--very respectfully--and
gave a supper-party in her honour--also very respectable--and assured
her of a warm, respectable welcome in Gaya should she ever visit India.
Well, she's come--as why shouldn't she?--and he's trying to do the
handsome and the respectable at the same time. You don't suppose old
Armstrong would have written about her if everything wasn't quite all
right." He pulled out his cigarette case and looked round helplessly
for the matches. "My dear, you will find that she is not only a perfect
lady, but that our ways will shock her into fits, and that we shall have
to live up to her."
Mrs. Compton gave him the matches with the air of a nurse tending a
peculiarly incapable child.
"You disappoint me horribly," she said, and went out on the verandah. A
minute later she called the two men after her and pointed an indignant
finger in the direction of the highway. "Look at that, Archie! How do
you suppose anybody's going to respect us with that sort of thing
running about! It's positively unpatriotic. It's a blow at the very
foundations of the Empire----!"
"Why, it's the old Hermit," Compton interrupted, soothingly. "Don't
worry about him. If there were a few more hermits--Bless the man!
what's he doing? Ahoy, Tristram, ahoy there!"
In answer to the shouted welcome, the little procession which had
aroused Mrs. Compton's ire turned in at the compound gates. The Dakktar
Sahib came first. He wore a duck suit with leggings, and carried his
pith helmet in both hands as though it were a bowl full of priceless
liquid. In its place, a loud bandanna handkerchief offered a slight
protection to his head and neck. Behind him, at her untrammelled
leisure; came Arabella, her reins trailing, her nose almost on the
ground, her legs obviously wavering under the burden of her protruding
ribs. Behind her again, in a cloud of sulky dust, waddled Wickie,
forlorn and spiritless. The three halted at the steps of the verandah,
and the Dakktar Sahib sat down on the first step without ceremony.
"I'm done," he said.
Mrs. Compton almost snorted at him.
"I should think so! What on earth were you walking for, you impossible
person? What is the use of having a horse--if you call that object a
horse--if you don't ride?"
"Arabella's dead beat," he explained simply. He put his pith helmet
between his knees and stared down into its depths as though something
hidden there interested him. "I know she's no beauty," he went on
earnestly. "But she's an awful brick. Never done me or any one a bad
turn in her lire. Can't say that of myself. And just because I paid
fourteen quid for her, I don't see why I should put upon her. I suppose
we three couldn't have a drink, could we?"
Compton shook his head. He came and sat down on the step beside the
big, travel-stained figure and looked cooler and more immaculate by
contrast.
"Afraid not. If you weren't so delightfully absent-minded, Hermit, you
would know perfectly well that we're not at home. Don't you recognize
the old dak-bungalow when you see it?"
Tristram turned and looked about him rather blankly. At that moment Mrs.
Compton, who was feeling unjustifiably irritable, thought he was quite
the ugliest man she had ever set eyes on.
"No--to tell you the truth, I was too dead to notice. I just tottered
in. What's happened? The old place looks as though it had had its face
washed. Who are you expecting?"
"Ever heard of Sigrid Fersen?"
Tristram returned rather suddenly to the contemplation of the mysterious
contents of his helmet.
"Yes--on my last leave home. I saw her dance the night before I
sailed."
"Well, she's coming here--world tour or something. The Rajah invited her
to Gaya, and Armstrong gave us a hint to do the hospitable. Mary is all
on the _qui vive_, hoping she'll do the high kick at a Vice-Regal
function or something."
Tristram made no answer, and his silence was at once irritating and
final. He seemed scarcely to have heard. Mrs. Compton, watching his
profile with dark, exasperated eyes, suddenly softened.
"You _do_ look fagged!" she exclaimed impulsively. "Has it been a bad
time, Hermit?"
He looked up at her.
"Pretty bad. I haven't seen a white face for two months or slept in the
same quarters for two nights running. There's any amount of trouble
brewing out there in the villages. It's the drought--and the poor
beggars can't get the hang of our notions. Anything might develop. I'm
going back to Heerut tonight. I came along only to get fresh medical
supplies. I left Ayeshi at the last village. He's a gem."
Meredith, who had been standing by the verandah railings, drew himself
up, his swarthy face was brightened by his eyes, which were alight with
a grave, sincere fervour.
"Yes, Ayeshi's unusual," he said. "He's different from the rest. I've
often noticed him. I wish we could get hold of him, Tristram."
"Get hold of him?"
"Give him a chance. You know what I mean. It's that type of man we
want. He ought to be encouraged to go ahead."
"Ayeshi's all right," Tristram remarked slowly. "He's happy. And he's
a sort of poet, you know. I'd leave him alone, if I were you."
Meredith laughed good-temperedly.
"It's not my business to leave people alone," he said.
There was a silence which unaccountably threatened to become strained.
Mrs. Compton, wearied by her struggles with refractory curtains, drew a
chair up to the steps of the verandah and sat down, ruffling her
husband's sleek hair with an absent-minded affection. He bore the
affliction patiently, his lazy blue eyes intent on the approach of a
neat, slow-going dog-cart which had turned the bend of the high-road.
"It's the Boucicaults' turn-out," he said. "And little Anne driving
herself, too, by Jove! I wonder what she wants round here?"
"Whatever it is, she must want it pretty badly," his wife remarked.
"She hates driving--if the truth were told, I believe that pony
terrifies her out of her life. Poor little soul!"
"No nerve," Compton agreed. "Broken long ago."
Meanwhile, with a lightness and agility that was unexpected in a man of
his short, heavy build, Owen Meredith had swung himself over the
verandah rails and walked down to meet the new-comer. The trio on the
steps watched him in silence. Then Compton chuckled rather mirthlessly.
"She'd make a first-rate parson's wife," he said. "If only----" then he
broke off and became suddenly business-like and astonishingly keen.
"Tristram--stop fidgeting with that damned helmet of yours. I know
you're dog-tired, old chap, but I want you to go round to the
Boucicaults before you return to the wilds."
Tristram looked up. The tiredness had gone out of his face.
"Anything wrong--I mean, worse than usual?"
Compton threw his half-finished cigarette at Wickie.
"You don't know what it's been like these last two months. The man's
mad, Tristram, or he's possessed of the devil. The whole regiment is
suffering from c.b. and extra drill and stopped leave--for
nothing--nothing. I oughtn't to talk about it, I suppose, but
something's got to be done. The men are getting nervy and out of hand,
and no wonder. There are moments when I feel ready to lash out myself."
"Can't something be done? Can't you get rid of him?"
Compton laughed shortly.
"You know what happens to men who complain of their superior officers.
Besides, he's so devilishly efficient, and everything he does is done in
cold blood. It's drink, of course, but it doesn't make him lose his
head. It makes him deadly, hideously quiet. And it's not only the
regiment, Tristram--there's his wife. We hardly ever see her--and when
we do--well, they say----"
Mrs. Compton clenched her small brown fist and thumped her husband's
shoulder in a burst of indignation.
"They say he beats her," she said between clenched teeth.
Tristram got up as though he had been stung.
"That's--that's damnable!" he stuttered.
"That's just the word," Mrs. Compton acknowledged gratefully. She
looked up at him and admitted to herself that, after all, he pleased her
profoundly. At that moment he was not ugly in her eyes. In one way,
she recognized him to be magnificent. She knew no other man with such
shoulders or who carried his height and strength with so natural a
grace. But now even his face pleased her, red-bearded and unlovely
though it was. In her quick, Celtic way, she imagined a sculptor who,
in an inspired mood, had modelled a masterpiece, incomplete, rough-hewn,
yet vigorous with life and significance. She liked his blue eyes, which
usually looked out on the world with a whimsical simplicity and now
flared up, dangerously bright. "Positively," said Mrs. Compton, "there
are moments when I love you, Hermit."
Archibald Compton grimaced and pulled himself to his feet.
"Anyhow, after that brazen-faced declaration you might help us," he
said. "You're a doctor. It's your business to interfere. Couldn't you
drop a hint at headquarters--suggest long leave or something?
Do--there's a good fellow----"
Tristram had no opportunity to reply, for Anne Boucicault her companion
were now within earshot. Meredith walked at the wheel of her cart and
was talking gaily, his face lifted to hers, and, freed for the moment
from its habitual expression of fervid purpose, was almost boyish. She
smiled down at him, and then, glancing up at the group at the verandah,
the smile faded and she jerked the reins of her pony so that the animal
came to an abrupt stand-still.
"Major Tristram!" she exclaimed. "Why, I didn't know you were back--I
thought----" She broke off, flushing to the brows. Her incoherency and
that quick change of colour added to her rather touching sweetness. She
was not pretty. Neither the dainty white frock nor the shady hat could
help her to more than youth. But her youth was vivid and gracious.
There was something, too, in her expression, in the look of the brown
eyes, that had all the appeal, the wistfulness of an anxious, frightened
child. There was nothing mature about her save her mouth, which was
firm, even obstinate.
Major Tristram came to her and gave her his big hand.
"I'm back for only a few hours," he explained, "and then my victims have
me again. But it's good to catch a glimpse of anything so fresh as
yourself. Isn't the sun ever going to wither you like other mortals?"
The smile dawned shyly about the corners of her lips.
"I don't know. I keep out of it as much as possible. I don't like it.
I only came out this afternoon because----" She hesitated and then
added rather breathlessly: "I knew Mrs. Compton was here--and I'm
anxious about mother."
Mary Compton laid an impulsive brown hand on the white one which held
the reins in its frail, ineffectual fingers.
"Well, here we all are, anyhow," she said, "and just dying to be useful.
What's the trouble, dear?"
"Mother is ill," Anne Boucicault answered, with the same curious
hesitancy. "I was frightened. Major Tristram, if only you could
come----"
He did not wait for her to finish her appeal. He scrambled up on to the
seat beside her, and took the reins from her hands.
"You look after Arabella and Wickie, Compton," he said, "and hand me up
my helmet. No--not like that--for goodness' sake, be careful, man!
Thanks, that's better."
"And I hope you're going to wear it," Mrs. Compton remarked, with
asperity. "I suppose you don't want to arrive with a sunstroke or give
Mrs. Boucicault a fit with that awful handkerchief?"
Tristram shook his head.
"Sorry, can't be done. It's occupied already. A patient of mine." He
put his battered headgear between his knees and poked gingerly about the
depths, producing, finally, amidst a confusion of straw and grass, a