The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
one has the right to punish--to resist evil. But I haven't any real
theories. I can't bear pain--that's all."
Her eyes softened.
"I know. You have been so good--so tender to me. Last night I
understood better all you are--but it's too late----"
"No, Anne--it isn't. Live--give me the chance to make up to you. Dear,
you can. Ask God to give you the will. We've muddled it so far, but
we've seen our mistakes. We can start again. Who knows but if all this
trouble and pain wasn't meant to bring us together--to give us a real
love and knowledge of each other, Anne; couldn't it be----?"
He was using instinctively the language which she could understand best.
Yet there was a sincerity behind the artificial sentences, a passionate
eagerness which moved her. She turned her head wearily on the pillow,
looking steadily into his face.
"Would you be glad--if I lived?"
"Unutterably glad."
"Perhaps we might learn to love each other--in the end----"
"I would try to earn your love."
She smiled wanly.
"I would try to--to make you love me too. I don't know. I would be
glad to live--perhaps if I could only sleep a little. Is there a
chance----"
"Only try."
"Will you stop by me whilst I sleep?"
"I won't leave you."
"I think--if you're there--if you wish it--yes--I will try. I will ask
God to let me live." He bent and kissed her hand. "You won't leave me,
Tris?"
"I promise you."
Her eyes closed peacefully. Her hand rested in his. He remained
motionless, hushing his own breathing. He did not want to disturb her
by the faintest sound, and he himself was tired almost past feeling. He
tried to hush even his thoughts--to create an hiatus between present and
future in which they could both rest. For an instinct in him knew well
that the great battle lay still before them. The time would come when
the warmth of reconciliation would grow cold, and they would face each
other again in the full strength of their conflicting temperaments. But
so long as this silence lasted there was peace, and in that peace they
were very close to each other--closer than they had ever been.
They were both so unutterably tired.
Of what use to force the issue now, even in his mind? Who knew--perhaps
they had indeed learnt their lesson--perhaps they would have patience
and help each other. All things were possible. He had sworn to himself
to make them possible.
He sat there, bent forward, and listened to the rain and the monotonous
boom of the river. His hearing was that of a man coming out of an
anaesthetic--it distorted and magnified sounds, and yet held them a long
way off as though they came from another world. He could not bring his
thoughts to bear upon them.
Then, amidst the dull persistency of it all, there broke the sharp,
staccato beat of hoofs--the splash of a horse galloping through water.
Tristram rose cautiously to his feet. He had to unclasp his wife's hand
and her eyes opened.
"What is it, Tris?"
"My messenger back from Gaya, I expect. I didn't believe he meant to
go, but it seems I misjudged him."
"You won't leave me, Tris?"
"I've promised you."
The horse had been drawn up sharply. Tristram went to the door and
opened it, letting in a wave of dank air. Sigrid stood on the threshold.
She was drenched with rain and mud. She went past him, closing the door
behind her.
"Tristram--I----" she began breathlessly.
"For pity's sake!" he muttered, in utter consternation. Then she saw
Anne lying on the bed by the wall. There was an instant's silence.
Anne had lifted herself on her elbow. Her cheeks blazed with colour.
All the childish wistfulness had gone from her expression, which was old
and hard and cruel.
"Is this an appointment?" she asked clearly. "Didn't Tristram warn you
in time?"
"Anne--what are you saying?" He came to her side, trying to force her
gently back. "I know nothing of Mrs. Barclay's coming--she will tell
you herself----" He looked towards Sigrid, standing white and still in
the centre of the room, and his voice shook with anger. "Mrs.
Barclay--explain to my wife--and to me----"
But Anne freed herself from his hands.
"Please--don't ask her to perjure herself. I don't believe you,
Tristram--lies are nothing to you--and I shouldn't believe her. She
didn't hesitate to try and take you from me before--a woman who can do
that is bad----"
"It's not true," he broke in sternly.
"It is true. She told me so with her own lips. I wouldn't be here now
if she hadn't confessed to me. You wouldn't have her--that's what she
said. Now, I don't believe even that----"
She stopped, gasping for breath. Sigrid took a step forwards, and
Tristram, as he saw her face, felt the anger go out of him. She also
had tried to atone--to safeguard the happiness of a woman they had both
wronged. It had been in vain, grotesquely, tragically in vain. But she
had not spared herself.
She went past him, straight to Anne's side.
"Mrs. Tristram----" she began, "your husband has told you the truth. He
knew nothing of my coming. I bring grave news----"
Anne shrank back from her.
"Tristram--tell her to go--I can't bear it--won't you do even that for
me? I'm dying--you'll have time enough afterwards. You'll be happy
with her then. Can't you give me this hour--tell her to go----"
He stood big and determined before her.
"You are unjust, Anne. And you are doing yourself harm----"
"Does that trouble you?"
"I tell you, you are unjust. At least, hear why Mrs. Barclay has come.
She may have a message for us--perhaps from your father."
She laughed bitterly.
"You are very clever, Tristram. But I shan't believe her. I won't hear
her----"
"You've got to," Sigrid interposed resolutely. "Mr. Meredith is dead.
He has been murdered. I found him dying--and his last message was a
warning to Tristram."
She had meant to cut short the ugly scene. There was no time to waste.
One sentence was to save Anne the agony of a suspicion which seemed
justified enough. But no relief came into the poor, passion-twisted
features--only a more terrible change. Without a sound, Anne dropped
back among her pillows. Her eyes were closed, the last atom of colour
drained from her open lips.
Tristram bent over her, his hand on her pulse. The fear of that moment
sickened him.
"Owen,--Owen----!"
The whispered name, warm with tenderness and grief, silenced them both.
They could not look at each other. It was as though they had pried
unwillingly into a secret which filled them with shame and a sense of
tragic futility. She, too, had borne her burden--her share of their
common error.
"Owen--Owen----!"
Sigrid touched Tristram's bowed shoulders. There was an odd diffidence
in her touch, as though she had become afraid.
"I didn't know--how could I have known? Have I hurt her?"
"It seems our fate," he answered bitterly.
"I couldn't help it. There was no time to think. Something is very
wrong. Rasaldu was missed yesterday. Then Meredith--and there was no
one at the bridge. I came as fast I could--to warn you----"
He drew himself up painfully.
"It's no good. We can't leave here. You'd better go back to Gaya." He
glanced quickly at her. Her ethereal pallor, the look of wan
spirituality, smote him to the heart, and yet he spoke roughly. "You
ought never to have come. Why didn't you return to Gaya at once?"
"He sent me," she said simply, like a child that has been reproached.
"He knew that Anne was here," he muttered. His eyes returned to the
white, still face of his wife, as though he saw her for the first time.
Sigrid's answer seemed to him no more than the whisper of his own
thoughts.
"Perhaps I should have come anyhow."
"You won't be strong enough to ride back."
"Oh--yes--I am quite strong. It's as you said, Major Tristram--I think
I shall live to be quite old."
He heard her turn to go. He remained motionless, his hands clenched at
his side. No other words could have expressed more poignantly his own
vision of the future, and yet he dared not answer, dared not look at
her.
"Ask them to send help," he said thickly. His voice shook beneath the
harsh self-repression. "You see--how it is--I can't leave here--I
couldn't leave her here----"
"Yes--I understand--I'll send help." The door opened. Yet he knew that
she still lingered. "Major Tristram--I'm afraid, somehow, it's too
late."
He turned. He heard what she had heard.
"Close the door," he said quietly.
She obeyed. There was something inexpressibly gentle and docile about
her. He remembered--not in thought, but in a vivid picture--how once
before they had confronted each other in that selfsame place--he saw her
resolute, defiant of life, splendidly self-assured. All that was gone.
It was as though her physical being, her bodily vitality had been worn
away, and that there was nothing left but the spirit, unbroken, yet
intensely weary.
The sound of voices grew nearer. The cries, at first blurred into one,
became separate, sharp, shrill notes played on the dull bass of the
booming waters. Inarticulate though they were, they carried an
unmistakable significance; they were cries of fear, more terrible, more
pitiless than anger.
Tristram made a gesture of quiet understanding.
"Yes, it is too late," he said. "It's been working up to this. We
shall have to face it together."
She assented silently.
"I can't do much. I haven't a weapon--not so much as a rusty revolver."
He smiled grimly, remembering their first day together. "I shouldn't do
much damage, anyway."
"I'm glad," she answered.
Their eyes met. They dared look at each other now. In that steady,
passionless encounter there was acknowledgment and confession. They saw
their visions of the future as realities and knew that they had been the
creations of their despair. It was all impossible. They could not have
gone on. They were exhausted. They had worn themselves out in the
effort to bear their burden honourably, to break the rare mysterious
decree which binds one being to another in defiance of all human law and
circumstance. It was over. Soon they would be able to rest.
"If only Anne were safe!" he said.
"We must try and help her----"
He felt a hand on his sleeve. He looked down and saw that his wife's
eyes were open. She clung to him.
"You won't leave me, Tris?"
"No, no, I promise you."
"I'm so frightened----"
He could not answer. The vain assurance died on his lips. He could
only hold her hand in his, comforting her to the last. The door opened
and he turned, facing whatever was to come.
Barclay entered; Vahana, at his heels, lingered sinisterly in the
shadow, but Barclay strode straight forward, his arrogant eyes flashing
from one face to the other. He held himself as he had always longed to
hold himself--as the master, as the more than equal. He looked straight
at Tristram, and in that steadfast regard there was satisfaction, an
almost voluptuous foreknowledge of satiated passions.
"You are my prisoner," he said.
"Whom do you represent, Mr. Barclay?"
"The Rajah Ayeshi." He saw, or thought he saw, amusement in Tristram's
eyes, and pointed to the open doorway--"and two thousand armed men."
"Is this Ayeshi's order?"
"It is my order--Rajah Ayeshi accepts my leadership."
"Then it was you who murdered Rasaldu and Mr. Meredith?"
He smiled.
"And others. Believe me, there will be no living white man or woman in
Gaya by midnight--my wife excepted." He made Sigrid a little satirical
bow. "In spite of circumstances, I am glad of the chance to make that
exception. My wife will follow me."
"Your wife is waiting for you in Gaya," she answered. She felt rather