The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
consequences. I am going back to my husband."
"Going back to him?" he echoed heavily.
She nodded.
"I can do nothing here. My father's condition is unchanged. Dr. Martin
is staying on, but he believes that the operation has failed. At any
rate, I shall be within reach and my place is at my husband's side. I
see that in many ways I could have done more to help him. Now I mean to
share his life--to stand by him. I am going to Heerut."
"There's no place for a woman," Owen exclaimed.
"I think there is. I am a good nurse. I could help him. And out there
I should see all that is good in him--oh, Owen, I must love and respect
him if I can."
She lifted her eyes to his and for the moment in which their gaze met
they acknowledged to each other the naked, hopeless truth. He turned at
last with a broken laugh.
"I think hell itself must be paved with useless sacrifice," he said.
"Oh, Owen, don't talk like that--it's terrible. I can't bear it. Help
me!"
"How can I help you?" he asked almost impatiently.
"Ride with me to Heerut this afternoon--take me back to Tristram."
She did not realize what she asked. She did not see his face. She was
possessed with a restless feverish desire for action--to start out on
the road she had chosen.
"Dear, it's not possible. The weather and the roads are too bad.
You're not strong enough. A man told me this morning that the river is
terribly swollen--dangerous even----"
"I am not afraid," she said proudly. "Owen, won't you help me this last
time?"
"This last time?"
She faltered.
"Oh, I didn't mean that--it was just a phrase----"
"God knows, it may be the truth--of late I have felt----"
He broke off and added quickly: "Yes, of course I will take you if it
can be done."
"Thank you, Owen. I knew you would always help me if you could."
"Always."
Their hands met. The tears shone in her eyes, and they were not far
from his. He bent and kissed her solemnly between the wet curls on her
forehead.
"My little sister in God!" he whispered.
"Dear Owen!"
And neither of them was conscious of a lie. Their hypocrisy was
pathetic in its stern sincerity.
That same day Owen Meredith rode with Anne to Heerut. The pitiless rain,
the roads, so deep in mud that their horses had to pick their way at a
walk, prolonged the fifteen-mile journey into the late afternoon. They
scarcely spoke. The strain and physical discomfort kept them silent, and
on Meredith's part there was an abstraction, a curious detachment which
made speech difficult. It was as though somewhere, somehow, a vital
link between himself and life had been cut. Something was finished--a
book had been closed. He knew no more than that, but the vague
knowledge numbed even his suffering. From time to time he glanced at
his companion, questioning her power to bear so much; but her upright
figure, the brilliant flush on her cheek, reassured him. He knew that
she was setting out on a road of abnegation. He saw how wonderful she
was.
They reached the new bridge and drew rein for a moment to watch the
angry river rush past between the arches. The soffits were already
awash. The monstrous flood of roaring water deafened them, and the
voice of the engineer who had crawled out of his shanty to watch the
progress of events came to them only in gusts.
"Damnable--you never know where you are--these accursed rains--nothing
in moderation--my life's work--the lady'd better go back--it's no time
to cross----"
"I am going to join my husband," Anne said slowly.
The man grunted.
"Better if he joined you," he grumbled.
They reached Heerut at last and urged their weary horses to a canter
down the deserted, evil-smelling street. Tristram's hut was empty, but
there were signs of a recent habitation--a pipe on the table, some
instruments washing in a basin of carbolic, an open book. The dank
nakedness of the place drove Meredith out of his stupor.
"Anne, is it wise--hadn't you better come back--you're not strong enough
to bear all this privation----"
She shook her head with a faint smile.
"I'm not strong enough to ride back. Besides, I wouldn't. I've set out,
and I'm going on."
He placed her saddle-bags out of reach of the rain which oozed in
through the open doorway. He knew now that he had acquiesced in a
reckless, ill-judged adventure, but a spirit of weary fatalism silenced
him. Perhaps good would come of it--a real and lasting reconciliation.
He thought of that night in this very place when he had intervened and
his whole being winced under the lash of his self-contempt. He would
not intervene again.
"So it's good-bye, Anne."
"Good-bye, Owen--and thank you."
Their hands met. He did not kiss her. Though he did not own to it, the
presence of Tristram was strong in that drear place, and his own passion
more vivid, less subdued by resignation than he had believed.
"God bless you, Anne--I--I--shall pray for you always."
"And I for you."
Such was their leave-taking. There was in it an element of finality
which neither analysed nor understood. When the door had closed on him
an instant's pang of fear and yearning forced his name from her lips,
but he did not hear and she did not call again. She sat down, looking
about her. Now that she was alone she knew that she was very tired--so
tired that even rest offered no relief. At other times, after a long
day in the saddle, the thought of sleep had been like a draught of fresh
water to a thirsty man, but now it seemed hideously afar off--almost
unthinkable. Instead her weariness goaded her to movement, whilst her
brain was numb. It was as though something mysterious was working up
inside her physical being, gathering together for some unknown crisis.
She tried to think--to visualize things. She tried to picture
Tristram's entry and the scene between them. She had gone over it so
many times, and now it eluded her. She tried to remember what her
husband was like, but could not. A little prayer for strength and
guidance came into her mind, but after the first words she forgot that
she was praying. In despair she drove herself to think of Sigrid in
this place, of Sigrid in her husband's arms; but the picture left her
numb and indifferent. Her mind rode helpless on a great shoreless sea
of exhaustion. Nothing mattered but her body, and its rising suffering.
Her hands and face burnt. The room was stifling. She got up
uncertainly to open the door, but on the way remembered her wet things
and began to unpack the saddle-bags. In the midst of it she fancied she
heard Tristram's step and a new desire obtruded itself on her masterless
thoughts. She had meant to get a meal ready for him--to make the place
homely--to welcome him as his wife, his comrade. She swayed as she drew
herself up. She began aimlessly to clear the table----
Half an hour later, when Tristram returned, he found his supper waiting
for him and his wife unconscious on the ground.
The shock, coming as a climax to a fruitless day of labour among men and
women who had once loved him and now shrank from his very shadow, did
not hinder prompt action. He gathered her up tenderly and laid her on
his bed. Her clothes were wringing wet, but the fever of her body burnt
through them, and, knowing what Meredith did not know, he cursed with an
anger inspired by pity. He forced a little brandy between her lips, and
he was beginning to remove her soaking riding-skirt when her eyes
opened.
"Tris--what's happened? Did I faint?--oh, how stupid of me--don't
bother--I can manage--I shall be all right in a minute----"
"You must lie still," he said impatiently. "Why did you come? It was
madness. If you had wanted me you could have sent for me. You've made
yourself ill."
"I don't know--I wanted----" She tried desperately to think, to recall
all her plans and motives. They slipped through her fingers. And
meanwhile he was tending her skilfully, tenderly. He scarcely heeded
her broken muttering. Suddenly she stretched out her hand and drew him
to her.
"Tris, I know what it was--I wanted to come to you--and tell you
that--that--I--I--forgive--I was harsh--and cruel--I--misjudged. Mrs.
Barclay told me--how loyal you had been. I'll stand by you--I'm your
wife--it's my duty--I want to do what's right--I'll help
you--here--I----" Then her body overwhelmed her. It threw her soul to
the earth, whining and whimpering. "Oh, Tris, Tris, I'm in such awful
pain--such awful pain."
"I know," he answered hoarsely, "my poor little Anne----"
Her eyes turned to his. They cleared for an instant.
"Tris--you don't think----"
"Dear, I'm afraid so. We've got to do the best we can. You mustn't be
frightened----"
She began to cry helplessly. Then the pain dried even her tears. She
clung to him in a frenzy of agony.
"Oh, Tris--Tris--help me----"
She passed at last into a merciful unconsciousness. Not once during
that night did she regain knowledge of his presence and yet he knew that
even in that mental darkness she suffered as only women are doomed to
suffer. Watching her, alleviating where he could, he gave no thought to
the past or future, no thought to the other woman who had lain in the
selfsame place, battling with the selfsame enemy. He did not ask
himself whether, had this piteous offer of forgiveness been made in the
crisis of their lives, it would have stemmed the torrent of events,
whether indeed there is any power which can check the course of
character and the heart's will. Nothing of all that mattered. Nothing
but this pitiful suffering. He saw Anne only in her girlish youth and
innocence and ignorance. He saw her as a child ground between life and
her own child's beliefs and ideals. She claimed him by the great right
of pain.
Her poor fevered little hand rested in his. Even in her unconsciousness
she clung to him as though his touch soothed her. But in her delirium
she called on Owen--called on him incessantly----
And in the early hours of the morning her hope was taken from her.
* * * * *
Owen Meredith reached the river shortly before nightfall. The muffled
roar of the water sounded louder and nearer than before. As he crossed
the bridge he could feel the steel girders quivering under the strain;
he could see the yellowish-greyish mass racing from under his feet into
the gloom of the coming night. It conveyed nothing to him. He was
thinking of Anne--praying for her with a dull, stupid persistence.
The engineer, encased in waterproof, met him with a torrent of grim
abuse.
"What we poor devils have to put up with! If this blessed thing doesn't
hold--I'm dished. Bah--India! What the dickens are we doing in this
_galere_? The very elements are against us." He shook himself like a
wet dog. "Well, you'd better hurry. You'll catch up that fat monkey of
a Rajah. He's in a towering rage about something--somebody been rude to
his Allmightiness. You'd better soothe him down. There's trouble enough
going----"
Meredith rode on. He did not want to catch up with Rasaldu. He was
still thinking of Anne when the Rajah, wet through and mounted on a
limping English thoroughbred, loomed up like a ghost in the rain-soaked
twilight. He greeted Meredith much as the engineer had done.
"This rotten climate! Look what a mess I'm in. I've just come from
Heerut--incog. you know. Wanted to do the poor beggars a good turn and
they threw stones at me--they--they insulted me. It's that damned
blackguard Barclay. He ought to have been shot. You English are
getting too devilish delicate. One's got to hit, and hit hard." He
rambled on furiously. Meredith understood that Rasaldu, without escort,