The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
tiny bulbul. The little creature fluttered desperately, and then, as
though there were something miraculous in the man's hand, lay still, a
soft, bright-eyed ball of colour, and stared around it with an audacious
contentment.
"Its wing's hurt," Tristram explained. "Wickie bit it. In point of
fact, Wickie and I aren't on speaking terms as a result. It's a subject
we shall never agree upon." He soothed the little creature's ruffled
plumage with a tender forefinger, and held it out for Anne Boucicault's
inspection. She peered at it curiously and rather coldly.
"It's very sweet," she said, "but wouldn't it be kinder to put it out of
its misery?"
"Rather not. Besides"--his eyes twinkled in Meredith's direction--"it's
not my business to put people out of their misery. And I'd rather keep
this little chap alive than some men I know of. He's one of creation's
top-notes. He's a poem all to himself. He wants to live and he's a
right to live, and he's going to. His wing'll mend. I've mended dozens.
It's an instinct--mending. I've got a baby cheetah with a broken paw at
my diggins----"
Compton laughed hilariously at his wife's grim disapproval.
"I don't believe you could drown a kitten," she said.
"Why on earth should I want to drown a kitten?" He put his _protege_
tenderly back in its impromptu nest. "I brought two tabbies from
England, and there are a lot more now. The whole village looks after
them. They believe they're a specially imported sort of devil, and take
every opportunity to propitiate them with edible offerings. It's
great!"
Mrs. Compton looked helpless.
"You beware of that man, Anne," she said. "He's probably got a
dyspeptic rattlesnake in one of his pockets. As to you, Tristram
Tristram, I warn you that sooner or later you will get into serious
trouble. You're a sentimentalist. There--go along. And, meanwhile,
I'll let Arabella eat the grass tidy, and that so-called dog shall have
a bone. Good luck to you!"
"I'm awfully obliged," he said solemnly. "Not a chicken bone, please.
They stick in his throat."
"If I followed my conscience, I should give him poison," Mrs. Compton
retorted, with her brows knitted over laughing eyes.
She had, however, no opportunity to carry out her threat. As the
dog-cart turned out of the compound gates the disgruntled Wickie, who
had been lying afar off, panting and disgraced, picked himself up, and,
uttering a hoarse wail of indignation and despair, took to his bandy
legs and rolled after the disappearing vehicle in a miniature storm of
dust.
*CHAPTER III*
*TRISTRAM BECOMES FATHER-CONFESSOR*
So long as the gleaming, unsheltered roadway lasted, Tristram remained
silent. His eyes were swollen with fatigue, and the sun blinded him.
Through a silver shimmer of heat, he could see the undulating plain,
yellow with the harvest, and his knowledge saw beyond that to the river
and the rising jungle land, and the scattered hapless villages where his
enemy awaited him. Cool and beautiful, Gaya lay above them, circling
the hillside, the white walls of the bungalows sparkling amidst the dark
green of the trees like the gems of a diadem. Tristram and his
companion watched it thirstily. As they trotted at last into an avenue
of flowering Mohwa trees, he drew rein and glanced down at the girl
beside him. She was sitting very straight as though in defiance of the
heat, her hands folded in front of her, her lips sternly composed. The
youthful tears were not far off, yet, through a transient break in the
future, he saw her as she would be years hence. And somehow the vision
amused and touched him. It was as though the phenomenon reversed
itself, and a stern-featured, middle-aged woman had grown young before
his eyes.
"You mustn't worry," he said gently. "I don't suppose it's anything
serious. Tell me about it. I don't want to worry her with questions."
"It won't worry her." He saw how her hands trembled as she clasped them
and unclasped them. "She wants to talk--it's terrible--that's why I was
so anxious--I had to find some one who would listen--and--and soothe
her. I really came for Mr. Meredith. She doesn't like him, I'm afraid,
poor mother, but that's because she doesn't understand. He's so awfully
good."
"He's a fine fellow," Tristram agreed.
"And I thought he might help her," she went on, earnestly,--"might give
her strength. Trouble overwhelms her. She resents it. And she has
nothing to fall back on--nothing to console her."
Tristram did not answer immediately. They were going uphill, and he
gave the pony his head, letting him manage the ascent after his own
fashion.
"It takes a lot to console a man when his machinery's out of order," he
said at last. "And one somehow does resent it. And then, I must say,
if I had the toothache, I shouldn't want Mr. Meredith."
She gave a little nervous, unamused laugh.
"You know quite well what I mean, Major Tristram."
"Yes, I do. And I'm wondering if, after all, Meredith isn't the man you
want. He and I both concentrate on humanity, but we do it from
different points of view. I'm the man who looks after the house and sees
that it's hygienic and watertight and all that. Meredith puts in the
furniture and the electric fittings and keeps them polished."
He glanced whimsically at her puzzled face. "I mean just that the soul
isn't my business," he added.
She raised eager, trusting eyes to his.
"I think it is, Major Tristram, I'm sure it is."
"Well, to tell you the truth, I think so too. I believe that the soul
is the body and the body is the soul, and that one can't be healthy or
unhealthy without affecting the other. But that's heresy, isn't it?"
A waxen, beautiful blossom from an overhanging mango-tree fell into her
lap. Mechanically she picked it up and tore it with her restless
fingers.
"It's not what we are taught to believe," she answered.
"No. You see, I'm a Pagan, Miss Boucicault. It's hereditary. My old
mother--she's nearly eighty--she still totters up on to the mountain
tops to say her prayers. As for me--" he gave a contented chuckle--"you
hear that little chap chirping inside my helmet? Well, he's my
consolation for every ache and sorrow I ever had--he and his like, and
the trees and the stars and the flowers--even that mango blossom you're
tearing up. To me they're just so many parts of God."
"Oh!----" She looked at the tattered flower in her lap and brushed it
aside as though it suddenly frightened her. "I don't think that can be
right. I'm sure you're not a Pagan, anyhow, Major. You couldn't
be--and do the things you do."
They came out of the belt of shadow into the broad sunlight, and the
blinding change covered his silence. A company of native infantry came
up from a cross-road and swung past them amidst a cloud of slow-rising
dust. The officers saluted Tristram. For an instant they seemed to
throw off their weary dejection and to become almost gay. But the men
did not lift their eyes. Their beards were white with dust and their
faces set and sullen. They passed on, the beat of their feet sounding
muffled and heavy on the palpitating quiet.
"They look pretty bad," Tristram commented.
"I'm frightened of them," she returned quickly. "Some of them mutinied
last week, and father was nearly shot. I wake up every night and fancy I
hear them firing on us."
"They belong to a regiment that stuck to us through thick and thin in
1857," he answered. "It's not like them to turn against us."
Her lips tightened.
"You can't trust any of them," she said.
By this time they had reached the first large bungalow of the European
quarter. It was at once a sombre, pretentious building, evidently newly
done up, and as they passed, a man on horseback turned out of the
compound. Seeing Anne Boucicault, he saluted at once with a faintly
exaggerated courtesy. The exaggeration matched the ultra-smartness of
his English riding-clothes and the un-English flashiness of his good
looks. Anne Boucicault returned the salutation stiffly, not meeting his
direct glance, which passed on with an unveiled curiosity to Tristram.
The latter urged the pony to a smarter trot as though something had
irritated him.
"That's a stranger, anyhow," he said. "Two months brings changes even
to Gaya. I thought that place was deserted and haunted for all time."
"Mr. Barclay has it now," she answered. "He came six weeks ago. I
believe he trades with the native weavers or something. He's very
rich."
"He doesn't look like an Englishman."
"He's not--not really. An Eurasian. His mother was a native, and his
father----" She broke off. "He makes it a sort of half mystery. He
just hints at things--I don't believe he knows himself. Anyhow, we hate
him and try to avoid him. It's awfully awkward."
"I seemed to know his face," Tristram said, half to himself. He heard
her sigh, and the sigh roused him from his tired search after an elusive
memory. "He doesn't bother you, does he?" he asked.
She shook her head, but he saw her lips tremble with a new agitation.
"Not exactly--only it's all going to be so different. We were like a big
family, weren't we, Major Tristram--all friends, all of the same set,
and now this man has come, and then--you've heard, haven't you--about
this woman, this dancer----"
"Mlle. Fersen, you mean?"
"That's what she calls herself." There was a chilly displeasure in her
tone, which made her seem suddenly much older. "What does she want
here? Why does she come? She can't have anything in common with us.
She may even be a foreigner--vulgar and horrid----"
"I don't think she's like that," he interposed.
She flashed round on him.
"You know her, then?"
"I've seen her--just once," he answered, slowly.
"Is she----" She seemed to struggle with the question. "Is she very
beautiful, Major Tristram?"
"No--I think not--not at all."
"That's worse then." And then quickly, passionately: "Oh, I wish she
wasn't coming! I don't know why the very thought of her frightens me.
It's as though I knew she was going to bring trouble--a sort of
presentiment----"
"You're tired and anxious," he interrupted, and smiled down at her.
"Nothing will happen--or perhaps I'm sanguine because I shan't be there
to witness the upheaval."
"You're going into camp again?"
"Tonight."
"For long?"
"Until I've got things straight."
He happened to see her hands, and how they were tightly interlocked as
though she were holding herself back. But her voice was quiet enough.
"Will you go on like that always, Major Tristram?"
"Until they push me on to the rubbish heap," he answered lightly.
"It must be very, very lonely."
He plunged his hand into his side-pocket and drew out a big bundle of
letters. His blue eyes twinkled.
"You'd better not waste sympathy on me, Miss Boucicault. Look at these.
I picked them up at the station--two by every mail. What do you think
of that? And all from one woman!"
"A woman?" she echoed, stupidly.
"My old mother." He laughed with a boyish satisfaction. "We're the
greatest pals on earth, she and I. A man couldn't be lonely with her in
the background. We've got each other to live for."
"But she's in England. How she must miss you!"
He put the letters slowly back in his pocket.
"Yes. It's like a chronic pain. It hurts, but it weaves itself into
the pattern of one's life. My mother's like that. My father was out
here too, and they were often separated. She accepts it as inevitable."
"But you--your loneliness must be worse, out there in the wilderness."
"It's not a wilderness, it's peopled with all kinds of things--all kinds