The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
breath. "How gay it all is--fairy-like! One can scarcely believe that
there is such a thing as reality. Perhaps there isn't. Mrs. Boucicault
is a daring hostess. It requires nerve to dance with a dead husband in
the house."
It occurred to him then to tell her what he had just discovered. He
held back. He was afraid of troubling the surface of their
relationship. They did not know one another. The man and woman who had
faced each other that night in Heerut belonged to a different life.
They were shadows--or had become shadows.
"By the way, Major Tristram, what has happened to the Wickie Memorial?
Is he still among the living?"
"He lives and rejoices in the name of Richard," he answered lightly.
"Do you sometimes let him out of the compound?" she asked.
He did not answer her at once. Her voice had sounded casual enough, and
yet he knew that there had been something deliberate in her words--a
deliberate desire to hurt, to thrust down through his seeming
tranquillity to a raw and open wound.
"How did you know?" he asked curtly.
"I don't know--I guessed."
"My wife doesn't like animals about the place," he said steadily. "I do
what I can for the little chap. You see, in Heerut it was
different--and I don't live at Heerut now."
"Of course not. You have become so civilized." They had reached the
verandah steps and she turned to him with a laugh. "So civilized. The
old landmarks have gone--the beard, the disreputable clothes, the
wild-man-o'-the-wood's hair--and heaven knows what else! Is there
anything left of the Dakktar Sahib, or is he smothered under the
respectability of Major Tristram?" Her eyes ran over him--mockingly.
He raised his right hand--he could not have told why. It was at once a
movement of pain and self-defence. Then he saw that her eyes were on
his wrist. "I'm sorry----" she said, gently. "I am intolerable. There
are things one must believe in or perish--Forgive me. And, for a
wedding-present, will you give Richard back to me? I think he would be
happier."
He nodded. He had the feeling that therewith something for which he had
fought had been finally surrendered. He followed her silently up the
steps. At the top they were met by Anne. She went up to her husband
and put her hand on his arm. She did not look at Sigrid, and the
deliberateness of her disregard betrayed how keenly she felt the other's
presence. Her obstinate mouth was compressed and unsmiling.
"I have been wanting you, Tris," she said sharply. "Where have you
been?"
"With your father," he answered. "I'm sorry. I did not know you were
looking for me."
"You might have told me----" Her voice sounded pettish and breathless.
"I should have come with you. And you haven't danced with me once."
He laughed. He felt rather than saw that Sigrid had turned away and
joined one of the parties of the verandah. He heard Radcliffe offer her
his place and the sulky deference in the boy's voice. It gave him a
sudden knowledge of the fight she was waging.
"I can't dance--not even as well as a polar-bear," he said. "You've
married a loutish barbarian, Anne."
"Your barbarism seems to appeal to some people," she flashed back. He
knew then that she had listened. But he could feel no resentment. She
looked ill and almost old. Her home-made evening dress did not become
her, and the Indian sun had begun to drain the colour from her cheeks.
As though remorse-stricken, she pressed his arm, looking up at him
pathetically. "Tris, I didn't mean to be cross and horrid. I wanted to
go home with you----"
"Weren't you enjoying yourself?" he asked.
"I couldn't--Tris, don't you see----?"
He looked past her into the brightly-lit rooms where a few couples were
still dancing. He saw then what it was that had driven her out to seek
him. Mrs. Boucicault danced the tango with Barclay. They were both
conspicuous. Barclay was the only man in civilian dress, and, thanks to
Rasaldu's angry absence, his deeper isolation was made more manifest.
But he danced well--perhaps too well. Mrs. Boucicault gave a fierce
little laugh of pleasure as he guided her swiftly across the room. She
herself was an outrageous figure in her youthful, almost childish dress,
high at the neck and loaded with jewellery. Her fluffy grey hair looked
tossed and disordered, her cheeks were painted. But as she suddenly
broke off and came towards them leaning on Barclay's arm, Tristram saw
that there was nothing artificial in her shining eyes.
"Now, what do you think of me, Tristram?" she exclaimed. "Isn't there
life in me yet? Don't you admire me?"
He felt Anne shrink closer to him. He bowed gravely.
"With all my heart," he answered.
"Oh, it's been splendid! I've been chasing the years and catching them
up. Mr. Barclay dances so wonderfully, Anne: you should try your step
with his----"
Barclay made a little movement forward. He only glanced at Anne. His
eyes fixed themselves on Tristram's face.
"I haven't the pleasure," he said, in his soft mincing way. "Perhaps
you'd introduce me to your wife, Tristram----"
"I don't care whom I dance with as long as our steps match," Mrs.
Boucicault continued, with reckless ecstasy.
There was a moment's silence. Barclay had heard. His eyes narrowed a
little and his nostrils dilated with his quick breathing. Tristram
turned to Anne. She stared straight up at him. Her face was sallow and
pinched-looking.
"Will you please take me home, Tris?"
She slipped her arm through his and turned to go. Barclay held his
ground. His lips were trembling. The little vein of success that he
had had with Mrs. Boucicault had intoxicated him, but many things had
happened that evening. It was as Mrs. Bosanquet had said--Gaya was
fighting to the last ditch.
"I don't think Mrs. Tristram understands," he said huskily. "We're sort
of relations, aren't we? Won't you do the brotherly, Tristram?"
He had not meant to say it. It was the look on Anne's face which had
goaded him--the hundred petty pin-pricks which he had endured patiently,
the sudden realization of the impossible gulf between him and the tall
standing uniformed figure before him.
Anne gave a little laugh. It was tremulous and disgusted.
"I really think we'd better go, Tris."
"I'm not drunk," Barclay said. "It's true. You'd better ask him.
Captain Tristram was my father right enough----" He swung round. "Why
don't you own up to it, damn you----?" he burst out.
The little group nearest him turned to look at him. He was only
conscious of Tristram and Sigrid. The latter had half-risen from her
place. He saw her face as a white blank. Some one came and touched him
on the arm. That was what he wanted--to come to grips with them, to
choke them with some of the humiliation that was like dry dust in his
throat.
"Look here, Barclay----"
"It's perfectly true," Tristram said suddenly. "Mr. Barclay is my
half-brother. I understood that he did not wish it known--or I should
have acknowledged the relationship before. I do so now."
There was a silence. He had spoken simply and very naturally. It was
as though a bomb had been thrown into the room and he had picked it up
and proved it an empty shell. Still more, it was as though a child had
burst out with some weighty, wonderful secret and had been met by cool,
indifferent laughter. The whole situation seemed to have lost
point--become tiresome and ridiculous. The man who had interfered drew
back, muttering an apology. Mrs. Boucicault laughed.
"How silly it all is!" she said, half to herself. "What does it
matter?"
But Barclay turned and crossed the crowded verandah and stumbled down
the steps. Afterwards he ran like a madman. He had not seen Tristram's
detaining hand. He thought he heard some one laugh, and the sound was
like the cut of a whip on an open sore. He ran till his breath jarred
from him in aching sobs. He ran till the last light had vanished among
the trees, till there was no sound but his own tortured breathing. Then
he stood still swaying on his feet, his hands pressed to his wet face.
He remained thus many minutes. Then he walked on. He was hatless and
coatless. As he turned into the gates of his own compound, a light fell
on his face and it showed piteously wild and stupid-looking, like that
of a hunted animal.
Something moved in the shadow of a tree and came out and stood in his
path. Barclay jerked to a standstill. He passed his hand over his eyes.
"Who the devil are you?" he muttered.
"Ayeshi. I've been here waiting for you."
Barclay gave a little unsteady laugh.
"I don't know you. You're not Ayeshi. Ayeshi's gone to the devil.
You'd better clear out----" Then he was silent, staring at the face
which turned itself deliberately to the light. "Good God!" he muttered.
"Vahana sent me to you. I've not tasted food for a week. I didn't dare
go to the villages. They're still hunting for me. Are you going to
give me up?"
"Where have you been?"
"Calcutta."
"What did you do there?"
"I learnt things."
"What things?"
"I learnt that I had been a fool. Hatred, too----"
"You mixed with the students?"
"Yes."
"What else----?"
"I know who I am."
Both had spoken in English, and each accent had its own quality.
Barclay peered into Ayeshi's face. He was breathing, quickly, with a
smothered excitement.
"You're ill, aren't you?"
"I am dying."
"What do you want to do?"
"I don't know yet. Are you going to give me up?"
Barclay looked back over his shoulder into the darkness. He was
shivering.
"No," he said. "I'll not give you up--not to them."
He made a sign, and they went up towards the bungalow, keeping to the
shadow of the trees.
*CHAPTER IV*
*ANNE MAKES A DISCOVERY*
Anne had given a little tea-party. A tea-party was a favourite function
of hers. Mrs. Bosanquet, fond of developing her ideas, set it down to a
tendency inherited from the suburban days when Anne had played hymns on
a pianola. Anne liked tea-parties because they were inexpensive, and
sober. She liked to be quiet and to talk gently and seriously. Gaya
had other ideas of amusement, but came nevertheless and sat on the cool
verandah and talked gently and seriously, till there was no character in
the station that was not in ribbons. And this was not because they were
venomous, but because they were bored and their Anglo-Saxon bodies
yearned for violent exercise.
A week before, Tristram had set out for a brief round of the nearest
villages, and the tea-party was a method of filling in a few hours of
his absence. Anne detested his absences, and gradually he had reduced
the camping-out days to the least possible number. She had never
pleaded with him. Her pressure had been almost imperceptible but
persistent.
Gaya had accepted her invitation to the last available man. They had
had a vague idea that they were thereby "backing up" the poor old
Hermit, whom they vaguely pitied. Only two people in Gaya had been
ignored, and it was on their account that Mrs. Bosanquet and the two
Comptons lingered after the rest of the company had excused itself
homewards. Mrs. Bosanquet sat on one side of the prim, muslin-frocked
figure and Mary Compton on the other. Archibald Compton took up his
place on the verandah step and smoked innumerable cigarettes. Knowing
the probable trend of events, he felt wretchedly uncomfortable.
Anne chatted about her servants. She did not quite approve of Mrs.
Bosanquet, who was too irresponsible for her size and years. On the
other hand, she was the Judge's wife, and what she did not know about
native cooks was not worth knowing. So Anne related her woes, and in