The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
myself. I'm a rotten sentimentalist, dear--and I've ended by doing
something mean and low, like a thorough-paced cad. I deserve to
lose--all that I have lost."
She shook her head. Something of her old detachment, a little of her
demure humour, tinged with satire, shone in her eyes.
"It's almost funny--your blaming yourself. I hunted you down--and I am
going to marry Mr. Barclay."
He swung round on his heel, white to the lips.
"That man----!" he burst out.
"That woman----!" she retorted cynically.
He fought desperately for self-control.
"Anne is a good woman----"
"Is she? A better human being than Barclay? Have you started to lay
down the standard of values like the rest of us?"
For an instant they confronted each other as antagonists, then he made a
gesture of despair, of fierce self-loathing.
"No--you're quite right. I don't judge--I can't. I seem going down-hill
fast with my theories--my--my infernal humanity. I can't believe
it--everything seems to have gone at once--you didn't care--it wasn't
love you felt for me----"
"Aren't you glad--doesn't that relieve you of all responsibility?"
She watched him for a moment in silence. Then her face softened. He
was standing against the table, his hand pressed upon it as though he
held himself upright only by an effort of will. She laid her hand on
his, diffidently, pityingly. "Tristram, we're both mad with pain, but
don't let's hurt each other more than we must. It's no one's fault. We
pick up threads in our lives carelessly and without a thought, and from
day to day they weave themselves without our will into a pattern--into
tragedy. That's all there is to it, Tristram." He nodded silently, and
she turned away from him, sighing. "It's quite quiet now. I'll go back
to Gaya, Tristram."
He went out beside her into the empty moonlit street. A black shadow lay
huddled against the wall, and involuntarily he bent and touched it.
"Dead!" he muttered.
"The feast of Siva!" she said. "He who destroys!"
Her small pale face was lifted to the great silver disk above her. It
seemed to his aching eyes that she was no more than a frail white
ghost--a haunting spirit of the haunted moonlight.
"Sigrid----!" he whispered.
"Hush--it's no good. We've got to go on--Tristram Sahib----"
He walked beside her as she rode out of Heerut. It was very still---no
sound but that of her horse's hoofs and the soft swish of the long Arab
tail. They went out across the plain. The conflagration of the day had
burnt itself out, leaving grey ash and a few stains on the white fields.
The temple lay sinister and watchful beneath the shadow of the jungle.
It was as though all life had been swept away in a deluge of
destruction.
He looked up and saw how bravely she held herself.
They came within a hundred yards of the bridge-head, and she drew rein.
They could hear voices and the jangle of steel. He stood close to her,
touching her, feeling the warmth of her, drinking in a faint elusive
perfume which was her own. His brain reeled. He was sick and faint at
the nearness of the end.
Suddenly she bent down and took his hand. He felt something clasp
itself about his wrist.
"I can't give you up--not altogether--I can't, Tristram. I want to keep
you in my life--the dream of you--to haunt you a little--to claim you a
little--in this world and the next--for good and evil--my
bracelet-brother----"
She was gone. He stood there, listening to the thud of her horse's
hoofs.
_*BOOK II*_
*CHAPTER I*
*MRS. COMPTON STANDS FIRM*
"Among all the noble, disinterested, selfless things I've done--and my
life is full of them--this is the noblest, most disinterested, most
selfless."
Mrs. Compton stood back and surveyed the dainty Dresden figure perched
on the shelf with the dignity of renunciation. Mrs. Bosanquet sniffed.
It was an uncorrected habit of hers when confronted with the
incomprehensible and absurd.
"I don't see what you're so upset about," she commented from her large
and comfortable pose in the most accommodating chair of which the rather
shabby-looking room boasted. "Why, I've seen things just as pretty as
that in sixpenny bazaars. I'm sure Anne won't like it. Anne's my type.
We both have our spiritual homes in a London suburb--not a
garden-suburb, my dear, with nasty modern folk in sandals and
_djibba_--but in the old kind, with good old Victorian plush everywhere.
It's just a tragedy that we should have to live in India with queer
specimens like the Judge and Tristram." She chuckled. The serene
detachment with which she regarded her own weaknesses and the weaknesses
of her fellow-creatures had made her an institution in Gaya, and was a
good substitute for a talent. Mrs. Bosanquet could not make a joke or
tell a funny story without disaster, but she could hold up mirrors for
herself and her friends and grimace into them with most excellent
results, as far as the gaiety of the station was concerned. It was
whispered, however, that the Judge's somewhat halting progress towards
higher honours was not a little due to his wife's passion for showing
plain but superior people just what they looked like.
Mary Compton continued to regard her treasure with wistful tenderness.
"Tristram will like it, anyhow," she said.
"H'm, poor Tristram!"
"Why 'poor Tristram'?"
"Oh, I don't know--a kind of inspiration. Anne did want him so badly,
and now she's got him. It's a real triumph of goodness. Now she can
pull long noses at dear, disgraceful Eleanor and be sentimental over
dear, disgraceful Richard. Also she can make the place too hot for--for
that woman. Altogether a wonderful strategic position for any one quite
so harmless as dear, respectable Anne."
There was a distinct and unusual note of asperity in Mrs. Bosanquet's
review of the situation, and Mary Compton turned to her with apparent
puzzlement. But her eyes were bright and rather defiant, as though she
was preparing for a long-expected engagement.
"Whom do you mean by 'that woman'?" she asked, not very steadily.
"My dear, there's only one 'that woman' in Gaya as far as I know. The
rest of us are--what are we--ladies! or is that Victorian again?--in
fact, I mean 'that woman,' and you're just pretending not to know whom I
mean."
"I won't pretend." Mrs. Compton steadied to the attack. "If you mean
Sigrid----"
"I do, my dear."
"Then I think it's mean and disloyal of you. You were one of the first
to kow-tow to her----"
Mrs. Bosanquet settled herself back fatly and serenely unoffended.
"I did--I don't deny it. I kow-towed. Figuratively, I licked her
boots. She could have walked over me if she'd had a fancy for
mountaineering. She could have done a high-kick under the Viceroy's
nose and I should have applauded to poor George's everlasting undoing.
She could have eloped with that puppy Radcliffe. She could have become
Rani of Gaya and worn a nose-ring. My ample bosom would still have
welcomed her. But that man! No. It's not only the man, but it's what
must be in her to be able to touch him with a fire-tongs. There's a
rotten streak in her--there must be. And even if one got over
that--well, it isn't feasible. One can't swallow her without him, and
it's too big a mouthful. Can you imagine sitting down to dinner with
him?"
Mary Compton faced her visitor. She held herself very straight, and her
brown, alert face had a rigid look about it which boded trouble.
"Yes, I can," she said quietly. "It's a possibility everybody will have
to face who comes here."
"Mary!"
She nodded confirmation. She lost her first rather tremulous
aggressiveness and became quiet and resolute, her hazel eyes sparkling
with the zest of battle.
"Yes, Archie and I figured it out as soon as we heard. We don't
understand--we don't pretend to--and--and we hate it. Nobody can loathe
it more than I do. I've run counter to that man, and I can guess what
we're in for. But we're going to stick to her. We didn't become her
pals on the understanding that she was to marry one of our nice select
circle. She was just Sigrid. Well, as far as we're concerned, she's
Sigrid still. Her husband's her business."
"Then," said Mrs. Bosanquet gravely, "you're in for a fight with the
whole station--and, what's more, with an unwritten law which is based on
sound principles. 'East is East and West is West and never the twain
shall meet.' But they do meet occasionally, and it's then the trouble
begins. We can do with a Rasaldu because we're not responsible for
him--it's like watching a foreigner eat peas with his knife--but
Barclay, no--he's a scandalous, illegitimate relation, and the more he
claims us the more uncomfortable we get. My dear, we shall fight to the
last ditch, and you'll be beaten, and badly beaten. You'll damage
yourselves, and that's about all."
"Are you going to help beat us?" Mary asked quietly.
Mrs. Bosanquet pursed up her fat, good-natured lips.
"I can't help myself. I'm really sorry----"
"Rubbish! If you were sorry, you wouldn't do it."
"I've got to think of the Judge----"
"Well, I've got Archie. He's got his career, too."
"He'll get into trouble with the regiment."
"It's more than likely. We're not going to--to behave like cads on that
account."
Mrs. Bosanquet got up, leaning heavily on her gold-topped stick. She
had reddened slightly, but otherwise remained benignly unruffled.
"Quite right, my dear. I applaud. The trouble is that the majority of
us are cads at the bottom--that is, we think of our own safety first.
I'm sure I do. The station will ostracize Sigrid--has begun to
ostracize her already. I can't stem the tide, and I shan't try."
Mary Compton smiled bitterly.
"How pleased Anne will be!"
"Eh?"
"How pleased Anne will be," she repeated.
Mrs. Bosanquet paused on the threshold of the verandah. She had become
suddenly very angry.
"You're a very annoying woman, Mary Compton. You said that just to
upset me. You know I can't bear Anne. In a previous existence, I
believe we were next-door neighbours in our suburb, and that she played
hymns on a pianola. Please don't mention Anne to me."
"And you're fond of me, and you were fond of Sigrid," Mrs. Compton
persisted, not without malicious amusement. Mrs. Bosanquet turned round
as sharply as her bulk would allow.
"She's driving up now," she said helplessly. "My dear, for goodness'
sake, get me out--I don't want to meet her--I haven't made up my
mind--I'm really not in a fit state--have pity on an old woman with a
weak heart and an Indian liver--let me out by the back--do, there's a
dear--I'll think it over--I will really----"
"You can go out by the back," Mary Compton allowed coldly. "You'll
probably give the butler a fit, but that doesn't matter. By the way,
we're giving a dinner next week. We hope you and the Judge will honour
us."
Mrs. Bosanquet glared from the doorway.
"I dislike you intensely," she said, "and I won't be bullied."
"Nor will I," Mrs. Compton retorted, and then with an uncontrollable
burst of venom. "You nasty old woman!" The curtains fell with a
furious rustle and Mary Compton returned to her Dresden shepherdess.
Her interest was either very intense or very artificial, for she did not
appear to hear the dog-cart which rattled up the drive, and started
guiltily when she was called by name.
She turned and saw Sigrid standing on the threshold. The latter still
carried her lace parasol over her shoulder, as though she were not
certain of coming in, and the tinted shadow which veiled her head and
shoulders afforded a delicious contrast to the unrelieved whiteness of