The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
her dress. Mrs. Compton, not given to poetic comparisons, was driven in
the first breath to the memory of the cool, intoxicating seductiveness
of a narcissus flowering in the fresh winds of an English spring-time.
But, in the second breath, she was realizing, not without a little
twinge of unreasonable disappointment, that the muslin dress was not
English but Parisian, and that the graceful lines of the unpretentious
garden hat represented an expenditure which would have covered the
greater part of Mrs. Compton's yearly outfit.
"Can I come in, or are you not at home?" Sigrid asked. Her head was a
little on one side and her eyes and mouth were quizzical. Mary Compton
promptly kissed her and took charge of the parasol, which she handled
with an almost masculine awe of its amazing daintiness.
"Sigrid, I'm just thankful. I didn't know it was you. I didn't
recognize the cart."
"It wasn't mine." She hesitated for a second and her mouth was
uncontrollably wry. "Jim brought me in."
"Oh!" For the life of her, Mrs. Compton could think of no better
answer. She drew her visitor to the chair which Mrs. Bosanquet had just
vacated. "Anyhow, you're just the person I was longing to see," she
added lightly.
Sigrid's lips quivered.
"Am I? Well, that's more than Mrs. Bosanquet would have said! Poor
lady, how she must have hurried. Which way did she go? Out through the
servants' compound?"
"My dear Sigrid!" Mrs. Compton turned to her Dresden shepherdess to
hide the fact that her face was suffused with the red of sheer panic.
"Don't be so absurd! Mrs. Bosanquet and I have been 'having words,' as
Mary Ann would say. She was too cross to face anybody."
The smile lingered about Sigrid's lips, as though some secret thought
amused her. Her eyes, dark shadowed and rather wistful, were fixed
absently ahead. Mary Compton trusted she had not noticed her own
confusion. Suddenly, though she did not look up, she held out her hand.
"What have you got there, dear?"
Mrs. Compton responded thankfully. She came like an eager child,
kneeling at Sigrid's feet, the Dresden shepherdess held up reverently
for inspection.
"My pet shepherdess. I don't think you've seen her before, I've made up
my mind to part with her. I've been almost in tears over it."
"Have you?"
Mary nodded. She was convinced that her visitor was not listening, but
she rattled on determinedly, set on holding off an inevitable crisis.
"Yes. You know, our little bits of china are just like children to us.
In fact, they're substitutes--only much nicer. They don't get the
measles, they don't become increasingly expensive and unsatisfactory,
they don't live to curse your grey hairs. On the contrary, they become
increasingly valuable and lovable. You see, when Archie and I married,
we were desperately in love, but we hadn't a single high-class interest.
We adored dancing and tennis and theatres and expensive food at
expensive restaurants. There were times when we felt we hadn't a soul
between us. You don't know how it worried us, because we do want to go
on existing and having good times together in the next world, and we
felt we never should if we didn't cultivate our higher selves or
something. We thought of children, but you know we don't like children a
bit, and we've forty cousins between us, so that there's no chance of
our families dying out. When we found we both loved beautiful china, we
almost wept for thankfulness. We knew then that there was something in
us above food and drink. And there's our most precious bit. Isn't she
a gem?"
Sigrid took the shepherdess and considered it gravely.
"Yes--a real find. Tell me, what were you and Mrs. Bosanquet
quarrelling about?" She waited a moment, and then, as Mrs. Compton,
very red and almost sullen in her aggrieved sense of thwarted diplomacy,
remained silent, she went on quietly: "You were quarrelling about me.
You were discussing whether to cut me or drop me gently; isn't that so?"
Mrs. Compton looked up with a sudden resolution. "We were quarrelling
about you."
"That's good. That's frank of you, Mary." She put the shepherdess on
the table and took the elder woman's hand tenderly between hers. "What
did you decide?"
"There wasn't anything to decide where we're concerned. You can do what
you like, Sigrid. Archie and I are far too much in love with you----"
Sigrid laughed.
"Don't get me into worse trouble by making out that I'm a
husband-snatcher. So you're going to stick to me. And the others----?"
"I don't know, dear."
"And you--you're both awfully shocked and horrified."
Mrs. Compton's mouth tightened with the struggle. She did not flinch
under the steady, penetrating eyes.
"We don't understand--that's all."
"You loyal soul!" She was thoughtfully silent for an instant, and then
went on: "But you must understand--at least a little. It's only fair,
since you're going to fight my battle. If you'd decided differently, I
shouldn't have told you. I'm an adventuress, Mary--I've never pretended
to be anything else--not in a bad sense. I've lived very straightly in
some ways, but I've always staked my all on a day. I've lived
fabulously--like a Roman empress, Mary. And one day there was nothing
left to stake. In ordinary language, I was bankrupt--or near it. So I
took what was left and set out round the world--husband-hunting----"
"Sigrid!"
"Yes, that doesn't sound very ideal, does it? But in reality it was
rather a wonderful quest. I was looking for a man who could give me all
that I conceived necessary for life--who would share it with me in
understanding and whom I could care for--deeply." She smiled in
self-mockery. "That sounds better, doesn't it? But, unfortunately, I
never found him."
"Never?"
There was significance in Mary Compton's eyes--a challenge.
"No, never. And three months ago, when Mr. Barclay asked me to marry
him--I had one hundred pounds and my passage left me in the world."
Mrs. Compton sprang to her feet, her hands clasped in consternation.
"Why didn't you tell us--you could have come to us. Oh, no, I know
that's nonsense--we're poor as mice. But you could have gone back--you
could have danced again and in one night you would have made enough----"
She stopped short, arrested by something that passed over the other's
face--a shadow, a wince of physical, deadly pain. "Sigrid, couldn't
you----"
"Yes, I could have done that. And the money would have paid for a
gorgeous funeral."
"Sigrid--don't joke--be serious----"
"I am serious----" Her voice hardened. "Horribly serious. One night's
triumph, if you like--and then the end. That's what I came to tell you.
No one else knows except Smithy. It's my secret. It's yours now."
Alary Compton stood transfixed. The colour had faded from her face,
leaving it sallow with fear and grief. She bit her lips, trying
desperately to hold back an overwhelming rush of tears. She hated
tears. Now they choked her. Through a mist, she saw Sigrid lay her
hand lightly on her side. "A little affair of the heart--_c'est tout_."
Mrs. Compton dropped on her knees. Reckless of the expensive gown, she
buried her face on Sigrid's breast, clinging to her with a defiant
fierceness.
"Oh, my dear, my dear--and we didn't know. I can't believe it--you so
strong--so perfect----"
"Yes--almost perfect." She passed her hand caressingly over the
grey-flaked, curly head much as though the grief was not her own.
"Perfect in my Art--almost perfect in body. But the 'almost' was the
price I paid. Oh Mary, just once again to glide out into the lights, to
hear the music--to lose the sea of gaping faces--to rise right up on the
crest of living----" She drew herself erect, her eyes burning. "Oh, my
Art, the greatest Art of all! Scientists, musicians, painters--just so
many lopsided distortions! But I was the soul and the body, the perfect
union. I was music and poetry and speech. I was a miracle greater than
the dreams of science. I was the perfect human body with an inspired
soul----" Her voice failed. The life died out of her eyes. She sank
back, laughing brokenly. "Isn't that absurd--funny--for I am going to
marry Mr. Barclay."
There was a long, heavy silence. Both women faced the tragedy, the one
with the bitter knowledge that her understanding could only be dim and
incomplete. She roused herself at last, disengaging herself gently from
the enfolding arm, rubbing the tears from her cheeks.
"Sigrid--there were other men--good men--of one's own blood----"
"Oh yes, I know. There was one in England. I meant--but things
happened. I can't explain. You've got to take that much on trust. Mr.
Barclay offered me more than money."
"You mean----?"
"Silence."
Mary Compton rose slowly to her feet. She was quiet now and very grave.
She gazed at the woman in the chair and realized for the first time a
change in her. The old serenity, the laughing, godlike attitude towards
life had gone. She had the wan dignity of a fighter who, from a post of
easy vantage, has gone down into the arena.
"I don't want to know any more. I do take you on trust."
"And there was more in it than that," Sigrid went on, following the
train of her thoughts. "It was a bargain. I, too, had something to
offer. That suited my pride. I could do for him what I could not have
done for another man. I could give him what he desires, I believe, more
than life----"
"Position----?"
"Yes."
Mrs. Compton shook her head. Her seriousness was now business-like,
scarcely touched with emotion.
"And you think you are strong enough?"
"I don't know. I must be. Everything that matters to me now depends on
it."
"If you went away--to another part of India--oh, I don't want you to
go--I'm trying to think only of your good----"
"It would be useless. I have won my position here. I have friends.
Anywhere else I should just be his wife."
"His wife--you! Oh, it's hardly bearable! Just because we are your
friends it hurts worse." She ruffled her hair with an unhappy hand.
"Sigrid, you can count on us, of course. I believe you may count on
Mrs. Bosanquet, and the Judge follows automatically. She's furious just
now, but she has a regular schoolgirl rave on you and it will be too
strong for her. I daresay the other women will follow. Even Anne----"
She saw Sigrid move restlessly in her chair, and hastily swung off,
moved by she knew not what consciousness of pain. "It's the men who'll
be the hardest to fight. They'd forgive you most things--things we
wouldn't forgive--a vulgar intrigue, an elopement with somebody else's
husband--but this is against their code. Men are conventional, women
moral. It's the one vital difference between the sexes. And then there
are other troubles. Things are rocky in Gaya. We know that the
regiment is disaffected. The new Colonel makes no headway.
Boucicault's work was too thorough for that. Then there's Rasaldu. He
regards your engagement as a sort of insult--and, weak tool though he
is, we've got to keep him in hand. All that counts against you. Oh, it
will be a fight, though we shall have Tristram. He's always ready for a
lost cause----"
She stopped again. Sigrid had risen to her feet. She seemed not to
have heard the last sentence. She picked up the Dresden shepherdess
with a light, reckless hand.
"How pretty it is! Why are you parting with it? Who's the lucky
recipient----?"
"It's a wedding present." She felt a sick misery creep over her. "For
Anne and Tristram----?"
"Ah, yes--of course--for Anne and Tristram----" Her voice was very
level and matter-of-fact, rather indifferent, as though she were echoing
mechanically something that scarcely reached her intelligence.