The Hermit Doctor of Gaya: A Love Story of Modern India

Five of you had better keep a lookout. The rest stay here. It would be better to go on as though nothing had happened. We shall defend this side of the house--this room, in fact. We're too few for anything more. Mrs. Boucicault, please lead the way----" He was obeyed. The women reseated themselves. Mary Compton began to talk. Mrs. Brabazone took up the tangled thread of her story and unravelled it laboriously. The dead white tablecloth and the brilliant colours of the flowers made their faces look vivid. "It's like old times," Mrs. Compton declared. "I expect it's really a blessing in disguise. If we didn't have these periodical shake-ups our livers would never work at all. We do eat such dreadfully unhealthy things. Somebody pass me the almonds. Let's have our desserts now as well as in the hereafter!" It was an old and rather feeble jest, but it served its purpose. The Simla woman laughed heartily. Mrs. Brabazone grumbled. "People always seem to find something in Mary's remarks. It's base favouritism. I'm every bit as funny----" "A lot more, my dear." Mrs. Compton's manner was that of a rather over-excited school-girl. She ate salted almonds vivaciously and threw one at Tristram, who had stumbled to a chair and sat there with his face between his hands. "You look like a drowned rat, Hermit--not a bit lovable. Where's Anne?" He glanced up with bloodshot eyes. "I--think she's dead," he said, hoarsely. "She died alone in Heerut. Sigrid has gone with Barclay. It was his offer--you understand? I shouldn't be here now if it wasn't for her. She and Anne--they thought of you--they neither of them funked." They were silent for a moment. A spasm passed over Mary Compton's face. She reached desperately for the sweetmeats. "Mrs. Brabazone--for mercy's sake, tell that Lancashire story of yours----" "It's about a miner," Mrs. Brabazone began jerkily. "You know how horribly dirty they are. And one day he came home--he was very ill, you know, and his wife said----" She laboured on with quivering lips. They listened attentively. A sound of shouting came from the barracks not a quarter of a mile distant. Tristram and Mrs. Compton exchanged glances. "They're working up to concert-pitch----" * * * * * In the quiet, whitewashed soldier's room, Armstrong and Brabazone were collecting what weapons they could find. Mrs. Boucicault had underestimated, but even so there was not much hope to be found in the six double-barrelled guns and the few cases of ammunition. Mrs. Boucicault stood at the foot of her husband's bed looking at him. They were both so still--the grey-haired, painted woman and the big man lying stretched out beneath the thin sheet--that Armstrong almost forgot them. But at the door he remembered and looked back. "You'd better explain to your husband--I'll send some one to carry him--he must be where we are----" He hesitated, and then added gruffly: "You don't need to worry, Boucicault. You shan't fall into their hands, I give you my word of honour." They went out. Still Eleanor Boucicault remained at her place at the foot of the bed. The man's eyes were fixed on her. They were distended. The dim light could not reveal their expression, yet all the life which had made its last stand in their depths seemed to gather together--with a supreme effort--to spread over his face--to swell the withered muscles. The distant shouting reached them. The sound released her from her still absorption. She threw herself down on her knees beside him. "They're going to kill us, Richard--they're going to kill us. It's the regiment--your regiment.--Colonel Armstrong says we can't do much. They'll just--just do what they like! Do you hear that shouting? That means they're coming. They know we're here--they know you're here. You made them hate us--just as you made me hate you." She gripped him by the shoulders, her words rushing down on him in a fevered, awful torrent. "It doesn't matter to me--I'm dying, anyhow. You've killed me. That's what I want to tell you. I didn't tell you before, because I thought you'd be glad. But now we're going to die together I want you to understand. Look at this----" She tore open the bosom of her dress. "You did that--that time you struck me. It never healed--it never will. It's cancer. Oh, but I've had a good time all the same. I've spent your money, Richard. I've made you suffer. I've had you to hurt when I couldn't bear the pain any longer. And now--now you're just going to die like a rabbit in a trap." She burst out laughing. There was a long flat chest against the wall, and she went to it with quick, tottering steps and opened it. The neatly folded uniforms, the sword in its leather case--she flung the whole contents down before him with a shrill cry of bitter triumph. "You'll never wear them again, Richard. You won't go down fighting--_I_ shall, but not you--you'll just lie there and trust to us to have mercy on you. You're just a wreck--a crumbling, hideous ruin. That's why I hate you--why they hate you--those men who are coming to kill us. We loved you so. You were our god--our Bagh Sahib--and then you became--a devil." She knelt down by the heap of red and gold splendour. She was crying, and the tears carved deep channels through the paint and powder. "Bagh Sahib!" She put her hand over her mouth. It was as though she had tried to smother a scream, but no sound had come from her lips. She shrank back from him, farther and farther back till she cowered on the floor, watching him. Slowly--so slowly yet steadily that the movement seemed supernatural--he was lifting himself up. He did not look at her. His gaunt face was tense and absorbed as though the whole being of the man were turned inwards on the contemplation of a miracle. His arms hung straight at his sides. He lifted them--holding them out before him. "Bagh Sahib!" He pushed the sheet back and slipped his legs over the edge of the bed. They were mere sticks--fleshless, piteous--yet he stood up swaying like a tall reed in the wind. The woman, huddled on the floor, dragged herself to her feet and stumbled towards him. He put his arm round her shoulders, leaning on her. "Nelly--poor Nelly--something in my head--it's better--help me----" It was a child talking--a mumbling, broken appeal. Yet there was a purpose in him stronger than his weakness. He lurched across the room. "Nell--sweetheart--my uniform--my parade--things--my sword----" "They're here--dear--you can't----" A shot was fired--this time close at hand. He made an odd little sound like a laugh. "They've not done with me yet--by the Lord--they shall meet Bagh Sahib again--we'll see who's strongest--even now----" He held out his palsied hands; he was gasping, but it was in the flood-tide of returning life. His eyes shone like a young man's. "Nell--you used to know the way--there wasn't a buckle you couldn't manage--quicker to spot things than a sergeant on parade. No mistakes now--Bagh Sahib never made mistakes--the smartest man in the Indian Army. By Gad--there's the sword--not rusty? No--that's like you--so--now--kiss me----" Between each sentence there had been a gap of time. She had obeyed him like a woman possessed. Now he stood before her--a ghostly figure in the loose-fitting uniform--the shadow of the man whom she had once loved--but at least the shadow. She clung to him--half supporting him, herself shaking from head to foot. "My Richard----" "Nell--sweetheart--help me--to go to them--just to the door--and then alone----?" "Yes--yes----" "Kiss me!" Her poor, wizened little face glowed like a girl's as she lifted it to his. The years, with their bitterness, dropped from her memory. She did not need to understand more than one thing, that he had been given back to her as he had once been. Nothing mattered now--not even death itself. "Lean on me, Richard--I am quite strong----" They went together down the gloomy passage, his arm still about her shoulders. She had need of her boasted strength. At first his weight almost bore her to the ground. But with every step he held himself straighter, freeing himself from her support. At the door of the dining-room he stood upright, only his hands touching her. He kissed her. Then he went in alone. A handful of women still sat at the table and talked loudly and incessantly. The rest were helping the men barricade the verandah window. Mrs. Smithers worked with the grim energy of despair, keeping to Tristram's side as though his nearness brought her some comfort. It was she who saw Boucicault first, and in her consternation clutched at her companion's arm. "Lawks a-mercy!" she whispered. "Look----!" Tristram turned. It seemed to him that he had known even before she had touched him. Incredible though this thing was, it was also inevitable. The gaze of the two men crossed. Tristram waited for the hating, satiric smile, bracing himself to meet its triumph. But there was no change in Boucicault's face--scarcely recognition. A bugle-call rang above the approaching storm. Boucicault came forward. "Gentlemen--gentlemen--this is child's-play! Do you suppose my fire-eaters care for a few arm-chairs and a crazy gun? Why, we've swallowed whole fortresses armed with cannon in my time. Who's in command here?" He frowned round on them. Not even Armstrong himself moved. This man had risen from the dead. If their own nearness to death blurred the miracle of it, they were no less under the ban of a miraculous authority. Boucicault shrugged his shoulders. He crossed over to the window and pulled the curtains aside. To the right, towards the barracks, torchlights ran backwards and forwards like distracted fireflies, gradually converging together in a solid block of flame. A black rage settled on the old man's sunken features. "Who the devil has been meddling with my men?" he cursed. "The 65th never revolted in its history. Whose fault is this? Can't somebody speak?" But they could only look at each other in pitying helplessness. He had forgotten. He was back in the old days when he had led his men triumphantly into a fire under which every other regiment had withered. He was Bagh Sahib, the hero, the demi-god. He had forgotten--and even if they could, they would not have penetrated that merciful oblivion. He settled his helmet. His thin hand rested tremblingly on the hilt of his sword. "The civilians stay here with the women," he said. "The rest follow me." He went waveringly down the steps. And then only they recovered their power of action. Tristram was at his side as he reached the garden. "Colonel Boucicault--you're not in a fit state----" The light from behind him flashed into the cold eyes. "Not fit? I'm more fit than those arm-chair soldiers." A wintry smile quivered under the grey moustache. "You were always confoundedly interfering, Major Tristram." "What do you mean to do?" "Take command of my regiment." He turned his back on them. Arabella, still panting and covered from head to foot in mud, had drawn his attention. "Your horse, Major, I am sure? Your mounts were always a disgrace to your service. Saddleless, too? However--better than nothing. Help me up----" He was obeyed. They might have thrown themselves on him--held him back by sheer force, but they could not. He had taken command. Dr. Martin wrung his hands as though his own death were not howling at him within a couple of hundred yards. "It's impossible--the man was paralysed half an hour ago--he ought not to be able to stand. If you allow him to go, I won't take the responsibility----"