The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India
story. It was about a Lancashire coal-heaver--or was it a
cotton-spinner? What do they do in Lancashire? I never can remember.
But I know they make a frightful lot of money, and are horribly
extravagant." She considered a moment. "Yes--it is extravagant, not
mean. I get so confused. And one day when he was dying----"
Some one laughed, and Mrs. Brabazone glanced up perplexedly. "My dear,
that isn't the point--at least, I don't think so. George, do tell it.
It's such a good story."
The Judge, usually the soul of courtesy, turned a deaf ear and fixed his
attention with an expression of almost passionate interest on Colonel
Armstrong, who was seated on Mrs. Boucicault's left. The Colonel was
discussing the prospects of the rains, his manner beautifully
Anglo-Saxon in its optimistic serenity.
"I'm sure we can congratulate ourselves that the worst is over," he
said. "As long as the banks at Bjura hold there is nothing to fear, and
Rutherford promised to let us know the moment there was any danger--on
account of the bridge, of course. Poor Matherson was rather rattled
about the bridge. It's his first single-handed job, and a swollen river
like that is a severe test. However, he's kept quiet, so we can presume
that it's holding out."
Mrs. Boucicault smiled. She smiled very often--always when a reply was
expected of her. It covered over her silence. It was a curious smile.
It came suddenly and faded slowly, leaving behind it a kind of grimace.
Her eyes, abnormally large and intensely blue, were fixed blankly on the
length of the table. Its display of silver, the many flowers, the
subdued lights, the noiseless servants whose dark hands reached out
spectrally from the shadows, seemed to absorb her. Certainly it was a
feast unequalled in the annals of Gaya's sociabilities. Some of the
guests were even vaguely oppressed by it. A pace was being set which
none of them could hope to keep up.
Dr. Martin, seated a few places lower down on his hostess's right,
scarcely turned his eyes from her face. She seemed to fascinate him.
His neighbour--the wife of a newly arrived Captain--decided that he was
a very stupid little man. He rarely spoke, and seemed to have no
appetite. Her inherited antipathy for civilians increased to dislike,
and she pitied herself intensely. In despite, she amused herself with
Captain Compton, who was her _vis-a-vis_, dilating rather maliciously on
the glories of Simla, from whence she hailed.
The conversation never flagged. Its feverish persistency covered the
splash of the rain outside the open windows and the sound of smothered,
angry whisperings somewhere behind the curtained doorways. Mrs.
Compton, who was an old hand at Indian life, sensed "nerves" in that
perpetual chatter, in that resolute determination to shut out alike
thought and silence. The last weeks had been almost unbearable. She
herself had never experienced anything to equal the incessant downpour.
But it was more than the climate. There was unrest in the air. From
her husband she had heard mutterings to the effect that Armstrong, good
soldier though he was, did not know how to tackle the ugly temper of his
men--that a demand had been sent to headquarters for a battalion of
white troops. Then other things had gone wrong--Rasaldu, Sigrid,
Barclay--it was one long sequence of trouble.
And now tonight, Mrs. Boucicault sat at the head of the table with her
staring, unseeing eyes and grey, powdered face, looking like a smiling
death's-head.
Mary Compton thought of the man who lay paralysed and silent behind the
walls, and wondered if beneath their gaiety the others thought of him
and of the unknown hand which had struck him down. Things happened in
India. They came out of the darkness like lightning--struck, and
vanished. It was no wonder people had nerves. They were in the
minority--in reality quite powerless. It was just bluff--splendid
bluff.
Mrs. Compton bit her lip. She had nearly screamed. In the midst of her
unpleasant reflections, the voices in the corridor had risen to an angry
clamour. Suddenly the curtains were pushed violently aside. The butler
entered backwards, expostulating, gesticulating, followed overwhelmingly
by Mrs. Smithers. Her entry, her rain-soaked clothes and dishevelled
grey hair might have been comic--might have caused amused
surprise--discomfort; but there was something else about her--a
resolution, a reality of tense anxiety which, reflected on the faces of
those who saw her first, brought the rest to an instantaneous silence.
She looked round the table, and, seeing Mrs. Compton, who had half
risen, burst into breathless speech.
"It's Sigrid--she's gone--she's been gone since this morning--I've
waited--I couldn't bear it any longer. She'll die. It's her heart. And
that man--that scoundrel--his real wife's down there now--crying her
eyes out. It made me sick. I had to come. Mrs. Compton, you cared for
her--you'll help me. Don't you know anything--don't you know where
she's gone?"
The broken, incoherent flow came to a more resolute end. The servants
made a movement as though to approach her, but Mrs. Boucicault waved
them back. She had become suddenly alert and watchful, as though for
something which she had long foreseen.
Mrs. Compton looked helplessly round the table.
"Does any one know--I haven't seen Mrs. Barclay for days----"
"You can call her Miss Fersen," Mrs. Smithers broke in doggedly.
"Well, you know who I mean. Perhaps she's taken shelter----"
"It was raining when she started out. That was this morning
early--after that woman came----"
"What woman----?"
"Mrs. Barclay--a nigger, like him."
Mrs. Smithers was uncompromising--violent. She did not care that she
interrupted, that forty of Gaya's most important inhabitants stared at
her with varying feelings of consternation and annoyance. She was
frightened. Her fear had tightened its hold with every hour of futile
waiting, till what self-consciousness she had was stifled out of her.
Her fear was everything. These people were nothing. Her disparagement
of them expressed itself in every line of her grim, ashen features.
"You mean"--Colonel Armstrong leant back judicially in his chair,
fingering the stem of his wine-glass "you mean actually that Mrs.--your
mistress discovered this morning--that--that, in fact, her marriage had
been illegal----?"
"That's it. She wasn't _his_ wife--never had been, thank God."
"Isn't it conceivable--I don't want to frighten you--that in her despair
she may have done something rash?"
Mrs. Smithers jerked her head with a movement of utter contempt.
"You men seem to think we're always in despair if we lose one of you
precious creatures--most times it's t'other way round. She was glad.
It's the first time I've seen her happy for months and months. He's
done away with her--and you sit there like a herd of stuck pigs----"
"Really, my good woman----"
"I'm not your good woman. A lot you care. She's one of your
blood--worth the whole crowd of you--and you treated her like dirt just
because she got into the clutches of one of
your--your--wickednesses----"
"Smithy!" Mrs. Compton implored.
"I don't care--it's true."
Armstrong looked helplessly at Mrs. Boucicault; but Mrs. Boucicault was
staring in front of her with that same look of tense expectancy. The
new arrival from Simla shivered. She did not understand the scene, but
she thought it vulgar and horrid. These out-of-the-way stations were
very uncivilized. It was amazing how quickly the smartest people lost
their polish.
Captain Compton came suddenly to the rescue.
"It's a queer thing," he said, in his deliberate way. "Meredith and
Rasaldu and now Miss Fersen----"
"Rubbish!" Armstrong knitted his brows at his junior. "Meredith has
probably taken the Rajah with him on his rounds. It's happened before.
As to Mrs.--Miss Fersen, there are any amount of possible explanations.
Her horse may have fallen lame. I've always set my face against this
silly craze for riding alone, and now----"
He stopped. The stem of his wine-glass snapped under the sudden
pressure of his fingers. The Simla woman gave a little scream and rose
to her feet. He frowned at her. The men exchanged glances. The women
were curiously still--looking towards the window. Armstrong laughed,
mopping up his wine with his napkin. "'Pon my word, we're all suffering
from nerves. Absurd. Some sentry----"
But no one listened to him. Compton got up and ran out of the
window--down into the garden. They heard scuffling--a muttered
exclamation--the sound of something soft and heavy being dragged up the
steps. They sat still--waiting. They saw Compton hesitating on the
threshold of the light. He was bending down----
"Give me a hand some one, for God's sake!"
George Brabazone pushed back his chair and turned to his assistance.
Between them the huddled, shapeless something was pulled into the room.
It lay inert. The shadow covered it. One of the men snatched up a
light, holding it above his head.
"What is it----?"
"Tristram----"
"What--not----?"
"I don't know--tumbled off his horse. Pull the curtains--get the
servants out of the room." Armstrong took over Compton's command. The
natives fled noiselessly before his imperative gestures. The curtains
were dragged across, shutting out the black, menacing gulf. They were
all on their feet now--two brilliant lines of colour--with that blot
lying in a pool of mud and rain----
"Give me wine--anything."
Tristram stirred. With Compton and Brabazone on either side of him, he
dragged himself to his knees. The water dripped from his face--from his
clothes. He was almost unrecognizable.
"It's nothing--they--missed me. Only winded----" He pushed the
proffered glass aside. "Rasaldu--Meredith--both murdered
yesterday--regiment mutinies--organized for tonight--not a soul to
escape--any minute now. That was the first shot----"
"Where have you come from?"
"Heerut. Bridge gone. Had to swim for it----"
"Matherson----?"
"Gone--I don't know. Don't talk----"
"Of course not--we must act. Who's on duty to-night?"
"Farquhar--Haverton----"
"They must be warned."
"It's too late. It'd show them we were prepared. Our only chance is to
take them by surprise-- What's that----?"
"Firing. Poor devils! We shall be the next. Who's at the bottom of
this, Tristram?"
"Ayeshi--Barclay--what's it matter? Do something!"
They looked at each other. Something like a smile passed over their
faces. They were very calm--very quiet. The men and women were equally
aware that there was not much they could do. They were cut off by
hundreds of miles from any real assistance. It would have taken an hour
at least to have gathered the rest of Gaya together and prepared a
defence that might suggest even a fighting chance. As it was, they had
perhaps a few minutes--if one or two of them had a weapon in his
possession it would be a great piece of luck. The thought of a
five-chambered revolver--three chambers empty--which he happened to have
slipped into the pocket of his military overcoat some days back--gave
Compton such an absurd thrill of satisfaction that he laughed.
"We shall have to shy the spoons at 'em!" he said.
Mrs. Boucicault brushed the fluffy grey hair from her forehead.
"My husband has a few guns in his rack," she said quietly. "He used
them for hunting, but they might do. I think there are some cartridges,
too--I don't know--we might look."
"Better than nothing." Armstrong began to direct, heavily but
systematically. "Compton, get the servants together. Shut them up and
see that they don't get a chance to communicate with any one outside.