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} - - div.clearpage, div.cleardoublepage - { margin: 10% 0; border: none; border-top: 1px solid gray; } - - .vfill { margin: 5% 10% } -} - -@media print { - div.clearpage { page-break-before: always; padding-top: 10% } - div.cleardoublepage { page-break-before: right; padding-top: 10% } - - .vfill { margin-top: 20% } - h2.title { margin-top: 20% } -} - -/* DIV */ -pre { font-family: monospace; font-size: 0.9em; white-space: pre-wrap } -</style> -<title>THE HERMIT DOCTOR OF GAYA</title> -<link rel="coverpage" href="images/img-cover.jpg" /> -<meta name="DC.Language" content="en" /> -<meta name="PG.Title" content="The Hermit Doctor of Gaya" /> -<meta name="DC.Created" content="1916" /> -<meta name="DC.Creator" content="I. A. R. Wylie" /> -<meta name="DC.Title" content="The Hermit Doctor of Gaya A Love Story of Modern India" /> -<meta name="PG.Id" content="49555" /> -<meta name="PG.Producer" content="Al Haines" /> -<meta name="PG.Released" content="2015-07-30" /> -<meta name="PG.Rights" content="Public Domain" /> - -<link rel="schema.DCTERMS" href="http://purl.org/dc/terms/" /> -<link rel="schema.MARCREL" href="http://id.loc.gov/vocabulary/relators/" /> -<meta content="The Hermit Doctor of Gaya A Love Story of Modern India" name="DCTERMS.title" /> -<meta content="/home/ajhaines/gaya/gaya.rst" name="DCTERMS.source" /> -<meta scheme="DCTERMS.RFC4646" content="en" name="DCTERMS.language" /> -<meta scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" content="2015-08-04T06:56:59.206519+00:00" name="DCTERMS.modified" /> -<meta content="Project Gutenberg" name="DCTERMS.publisher" /> -<meta content="Public Domain in the USA." name="DCTERMS.rights" /> -<link rel="DCTERMS.isFormatOf" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49555" /> -<meta content="I. A. R. Wylie" name="DCTERMS.creator" /> -<meta scheme="DCTERMS.W3CDTF" content="2015-07-30" name="DCTERMS.created" /> -<meta content="width=device-width" name="viewport" /> -<meta content="Ebookmaker 0.4.0a5 by Marcello Perathoner <webmaster@gutenberg.org>" name="generator" /> -</head> -<body> -<div class="document" id="the-hermit-doctor-of-gaya"> -<h1 class="center document-title level-1 pfirst title"><span class="x-large">THE HERMIT DOCTOR OF GAYA</span></h1> - -<!-- this is the default PG-RST stylesheet --> -<!-- figure and image styles for non-image formats --> -<!-- default transition --> -<!-- default attribution --> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="clearpage"> -</div> -<!-- -*- encoding: utf-8 -*- --> -<div class="container language-en pgheader" id="pg-header" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States -and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no -restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it -under the terms of the </span><a class="reference internal" href="#project-gutenberg-license">Project Gutenberg License</a><span> included with -this ebook or online at </span><a class="reference external" href="http://www.gutenberg.org/license">http://www.gutenberg.org/license</a><span>. If you -are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws -of the country where you are located before using this ebook.</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<div class="container" id="pg-machine-header"> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span>Title: The Hermit Doctor of Gaya -<br /> A Love Story of Modern India -<br /> -<br />Author: I. A. R. Wylie -<br /> -<br />Release Date: July 30, 2015 [EBook #49555] -<br /> -<br />Language: English -<br /> -<br />Character set encoding: UTF-8</span></p> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-start-line"><span>*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK </span><span>THE HERMIT DOCTOR OF GAYA</span><span> ***</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst" id="pg-produced-by"><span>Produced by Al Haines.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="noindent pfirst"><span></span></p> -</div> -<div class="container frontispiece"> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<div class="align-center auto-scaled figure margin" style="width: 67%" id="figure-11"> -<span id="a-mad-whirl-of-sound-and-colour-do-you-mind-he-said-can-you-face-it-drawn-by-william-j-shettsline-see-page-266"></span><img class="align-center block" style="display: block; width: 100%" alt="A mad whirl of sound and colour. "Do you mind?" he said. "Can you face it?" Drawn by William J. Shettsline. (See page 266.)" src="images/img-front.jpg" /> -<div class="caption centerleft figure-caption margin"> -<span class="italics">A mad whirl of sound and colour. "Do you mind?" he said. -<br />"Can you face it?" -<br />Drawn by William J. Shettsline. (See page </span><a class="italics reference internal" href="#id1">266</a><span class="italics">.)</span></div> -</div> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="container titlepage"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold xx-large">The Hermit Doctor of Gaya</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="x-large">A Love Story of Modern India</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">By</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="large">I. A. R. Wylie</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="small">Author of "The Native Born," etc.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">"This kiss to the whole world" -<br /></span><em class="italics medium">Beethoven's Ninth Symphony</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="medium">G. P. Putnam's Sons -<br />New York and London -<br />The Knickerbocker Press -<br />1916</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<div class="container verso"> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">COPYRIGHT, 1916 -<br />BY -<br />I. A. R. WYLIE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="small">The Knickerbocker Press, New York</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CONTENTS</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics">BOOK I</em></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><span class="small">CHAPTER</span></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><span>I.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-story-of-kurnavati">The Story of Kurnavati</a><span> -<br />II.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#tristram-the-hermit">Tristram the Hermit</a><span> -<br />III.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#tristram-becomes-father-confessor">Tristram Becomes Father-Confessor</a><span> -<br />IV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-interlopers">The Interlopers</a><span> -<br />V.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-vision-of-the-backwater">A Vision of the Backwater</a><span> -<br />VI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#broken-sanctuary">Broken Sanctuary</a><span> -<br />VII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#anne-boucicault-explains">Anne Boucicault Explains</a><span> -<br />VIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-two-listeners">The Two Listeners</a><span> -<br />IX.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#lalloo-the-money-lender">Lalloo, the Money-Lender</a><span> -<br />X.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#an-encounter">An Encounter</a><span> -<br />XI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#inferno">Inferno</a><span> -<br />XII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#in-which-fortune-pleases-to-jest">In which Fortune Pleases to Jest</a><span> -<br />XIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#crossed-swords">Crossed Swords</a><span> -<br />XIV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#tristram-chooses-his-road">Tristram Chooses his Road</a><span> -<br />XV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-weavers">The Weavers</a><span> -<br />XVI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-meredith-to-the-rescue">A Meredith to the Rescue</a><span> -<br />XVII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#mrs-smithers-does-accounts">Mrs. Smithers Does Accounts</a><span> -<br />XVIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-feast-of-siva">The Feast of Siva</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="italics">BOOK II</em></p> -<p class="noindent pnext"><span>I.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#mrs-compton-stands-firm">Mrs. Compton Stands Firm</a><span> -<br />II.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#a-home-coming">A Home-Coming</a><span> -<br />III.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#mrs-boucicault-calls-the-tune">Mrs. Boucicault Calls the Tune</a><span> -<br />IV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#anne-makes-a-discovery">Anne Makes a Discovery</a><span> -<br />V.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#crisis">Crisis</a><span> -<br />VI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#of-your-blood">"Of your Blood"</a><span> -<br />VII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-price-paid">The Price Paid</a><span> -<br />VIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#return">Return</a><span> -<br />IX.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#for-the-last-time">For the Last Time</a><span> -<br />X.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#anne-chooses">Anne Chooses</a><span> -<br />XI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#freedom">Freedom</a><span> -<br />XII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-meeting-of-the-ways">The Meeting of the Ways</a><span> -<br />XIII.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#to-gaya">To Gaya!</a><span> -<br />XIV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#resurrection">Resurrection</a><span> -<br />XV.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#the-snake-god">The Snake-God</a><span> -<br />XVI.—</span><a class="reference internal" href="#towards-morning">Towards Morning</a></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-story-of-kurnavati"><span class="bold x-large">The Hermit Doctor of Gaya</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="bold italics medium">BOOK I</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER I</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE STORY OF KURNAVATI</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Thus it came about that, for her child's sake, the -Rani Kurnavati saved herself from the burning pyre and -called together the flower of the Rajputs to defend Chitore -and their king from the sword of Bahadur Shah."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The speaker's voice had not lifted from its brooding -quiet. But now the quiet had become a living thing -repressed, a passion disciplined, an echo dimmed with its -passage from the by-gone years, but vibrant and splendid -still with the clash of chivalrous steel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The village story-teller gazed into the firelight and was -silent. Swift, soft-footed shadows veiled the lower half -of his face, but his eyes smouldered and burnt up as they -followed their visions among the flames. He was young. -His lithe, scantily-clad body was bent forward and his -slender arms were clasped loosely about his knees. Compared -with him, the broken circle of listeners seemed half -living. They sat quite still, their skins shining darkly -like polished bronze, their eyes blinking at the firelight. -Only the headman of the village moved, stroking his fierce -grey beard with a shrivelled hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Those were the great days!" he muttered. "The -great days!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The silence lingered. The Englishman, whose long, -white-clad body linked the circle, shifted his position. He -lay stretched out with a lazy, unconscious grace, his head -supported on his arm, his eyes lifted to the overhanging -branches of the peepul tree, whose long, pointed leaves -fretted the outskirts of the light and sheltered the solemn, -battered effigy of the village god like the dome of a temple. -A suddenly awakened night-breeze stirred them to a -mysterious murmur. They rustled tremulously and secretly -together, and the clear cold fire of a star burnt amidst -their shifting shadows. Beyond and beneath their whispering -there were other sounds. A night-owl hooted, a herd -of excited, lithe-limbed monkeys scrambled noisily in the -darkness overhead, chattered a moment, and were mischievously -still. From the distance came the long, hungry -wail of a pariah dog, hunting amidst the village garbage. -These discords dropped into the night's silence, breaking -its placid surface into widening circles and died away. -The peepul leaves shivered and sank for an instant into -grave meditation on their late communings, and through -the deepened quiet there poured the distant, monotonous -song of running water. It was a song based on one deep -organ note, the primæval note of creation, and never -changed. It rose up out of the earth and filled the darkness -and mingled with the silence, so that they became one. -The listeners heard it and did not know they heard it. It -was the background on which the night sounds of living -things painted themselves in vivid colours.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Englishman turned his face to the firelight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on, Ayeshi," he said, with drowsy content. "You -can't leave the beautiful Rani in mid-air like that, you -know. Go on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Sahib." The young man pushed back the short -black curls from his neck and resumed his old attitude of -watchfulness on the flames. But his voice sounded louder, -clearer:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thereafter, Sahib, the need of Chitore grew desperate. -In vain, the bravest of her nobles sallied forth—the armies -of Bahadur Shah swept over them as the tempest sweeps -over the ripe corn, and hour by hour the ring about the -city tightened till the very gates shivered beneath the -enemy's blows. It was then the Rani bethought her of a -custom of her people. With her own hands she made a -bracelet of silver thread bound with tinsel and gay with -seven coloured tassels, and, choosing a trusty servant, sent -him forth out of Chitore to seek Humayun, the Great -Moghul, whose conquering sword even then swept Bengal -like a flail. By a miracle, the messenger escaped and -came before Humayun and laid the bracelet in his hands, -saying:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'This is the gift of Kurnavati, Rani of Chitore.'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Humayun looked at the messenger and asked:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'And if Humayun accept the gift of the Rani -Kurnavati, what then?'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Then shall Humayim be her bracelet-bound brother, -and she shall be his dear and virtuous sister.'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Humayun looked at the gift and asked:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'And if I become bracelet-bound brother to the Rani -Kurnavati, what then?'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'Then will the Rani of Chitore call upon her dear and -reverend brother, according to the bond, to succour her -from the cruel vengeance of Bahadur Shah.'</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And because the heart of Humayun loved all chivalrous -and noble deeds better than conquest and rich spoils, he -took the bracelet and bound it about his wrist, saying: -'Behold, according to the custom, Humayun accepts the -bond, and from henceforth the Rani Kurnavati is his dear -and virtuous sister, and his sword shall not rest in its -scabbard till she is free from the threat of her oppressors.' And -he set forth with all his horsemen and rode night and -day till the walls of Chitore were in sight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well——?" The story-teller had ceased speaking and -the Englishman rolled over, clipping his square chin in his -big hands. "Go on, Ayeshi."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He came too late." The metal had gone from the -boy's voice, and the firelight awoke no answering gleam in -his watching eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Rani Kurnavati and three thousand of her women -had sought honour on the funeral pyre. The grey smoke -from their ashes greeted Humayun as he passed through the -battered gates. The walls of Chitore lay in ruins and without -them slept their defenders, clad in saffron bridal robes, their -faces lifted to the sun, their broken swords red with the death -of their enemies. And Humayun, seeing them, wept."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi's voice trailed off into silence. The headman -nodded to himself, showing his white teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Those were the great days," he muttered, "when men -died fighting and the women followed their husbands to -the——" He coughed and glanced at the Englishman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But ours are the days of the Sahib," he added, with great -piety, "full of wisdom and peace."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just so." The Sahib rose to his feet, stretching -himself. "And, talking of wives, Buddhoos, if thou dost not -give that luckless female of thine the medicine I ordered, -instead of offering it up to the village devil, I will mix -thee such a compound as will make thy particular hereafter -seem Paradise by comparison. Moreover, I will complain -to the Burra Sahib and thou wilt be most certainly degraded -and become the mock of Lalloo, thy dear and loving -brother-in-law. Moreover, if I again find thirty of thy needy -brethren herded together in thy cow-stall, I will assuredly -dose thy whole family. Hast thou understood?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The headman salaamed solemnly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Dakktar Sahib's wishes are law," he declared -fervently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should like to think so. And now, Ayeshi, it is -time. We have ten miles to go before morning. Give me -my medicine-chest. I see that Buddhoos has a longing -eye on it. Come, Wickie!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The last order was in English, and a small, curious shape -uncurled itself from the shadows at the base of the tree and -trotted into the firelight. The most that could be said of -it with any truth was, that it had been intended for a dog. -Many generations back there had been an Aberdeen in the -family, and since then the peculiarities of that particular -strain had been modified to an amazing degree by a series -of </span><em class="italics">mésalliances</em><span>. In fact, all that remained of the Aberdeen -were a pair of bandy legs and a wistful, pseudo-innocent -eye. Nevertheless, it was evidently an object of veneration. -The village elders made way for it, regarding it with gloomy -apprehension as it leisurely stretched itself, yawned, and -then, with the dignity which goes with conscious yet modest -superiority, proceeded to follow the massive white figure -of its master into the darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The headman salaamed again deeply and possibly thankfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A safe journey and return, Sahib!" he called.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Sahib's answer came back cheerily through the stillness. -He looked back for an instant at the patch of firelight -and the sharply cut silhouettes of moving figures, and -then strode on, keeping well to the middle of the dusty -roadway, his footsteps ringing out above the soft accompaniment -of Ayeshi's patter and the fussy tap-tap of Wickie's -unwieldy paws. He whistled cheerfully. So long as the -sleeping, odoriferous mud-huts of the village bound them -in on either hand, he clung tenaciously to his disjointed -scrap of melody, but, as they came out at last into the open -country, he broke off, sighing, and stood still, his arms -outstretched, breathing in the freedom and untainted air -with a thirsty, passionate gratitude.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was no moon. The luminous haze which poured -out over the limitless space before them was a mysterious -thing, born of itself without source, without body. Its -pallid, greenish clarity stretched in a ghostly sea between -the earth and the black, beacon-studded sky, distorting and -magnifying, as still water distorts and magnifies the rocks -and tangled seaweed at its bed. It lapped soundlessly -against the cliff of rising jungle land to the right, and -beneath its quiet surface the shadow of the village temple -floated like a sunken island, its slender </span><em class="italics">sikhara</em><span> alone rising -up into the darkness, a finger of warning and admonition. -It was very still. The voice of the invisible, swift-flowing -river had indeed grown louder, but it was a sound outside -this world of shadows and phantoms. It beat against the -protecting wall of dreams, unheeded yet ominous and -threatening in its implacable reality.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The two men crossed the path which encircled the village -and made their way over the uneven ground towards the -temple. As they drew nearer, the light seemed to recede, -leaving the great roofless </span><em class="italics">manderpam</em><span> a shapeless ruin, -whilst the </span><em class="italics">sikhara</em><span> faded into the black background of -the jungle. The Dakktar Sahib whistled softly; a horse -whinnied in answer, and the amazing Wickie bounded -forward as though recognizing an old acquaintance. The -Sahib laughed under his breath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We know each other, Wickie, Arabella and I," he said. -"A wonderful animal that, Ayeshi."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Truly, a noble creature, Sahib," Ayeshi answered very -gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A minute later they reached the carved gateway of the -temple where two horses had been casually tethered. They -stood deep in shadow, but the strange, unreal light which -covered the plain filled the </span><em class="italics">manderpam</em><span> with its broken -avenue of pillars, and threw into sharp relief the carved -gateway and the figure seated cross-legged and motionless -beneath the arch. Both men seemed to have expected the -apparition. Ayeshi knelt down before it and placed a bowl -of milk, which he had been carefully carrying, within reach -of the long, lifeless-looking arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For the God thou servest, O Holy One," he said, and -for a moment knelt there with his forehead pressed to the -ground.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old mendicant seemed neither to have heard nor seen. -He was almost naked. The bones started out of the -shrivelled flesh, and the long, matted grey hair hung about -his shoulders and mingled with the dishevelled beard, so -that he seemed scarcely human, scarcely living. Only for -an instant his eyes, half hidden beneath the wild disorder, -flashed over the kneeling figure, and then closed, shutting -the last vestige of life behind blank lids.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Dakktar Sahib bent down and placed a coin in the -upturned palms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That also is for thy God, Vahana," he said, with grave -respect. Receiving no answer, he turned away and -untethered his horse, a quadruped which even the solemn -shadow could not dignify. It must have stood over -seventeen hands high and its shape was comically suggestive -of a child's drawing—six none too steady lines representing -legs, back, and neck. The Dakktar Sahib whispered -to it tenderly and reassuringly: "Only ten miles, Arabella, -on my word of honour, only ten miles. And you shall have -all tomorrow. I know it's rotten bad luck, but then I -have got to stick it, too—it's our confounded, glorious duty -to stick it, Arabella, and you wouldn't leave me in the -lurch, would you, old girl?" Then came the crunch of -sugar and the sound of Arabella's affectionate nozzling in -the region of coat pockets. The Dakktar swung himself -on to her lengthy back. "Now, then, Ayeshi; now then, -Wickie!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The three strange companions trotted out of the shadow, -threading their way through the long, coarse grass in the -direction of the river; but once the Englishman turned in -his saddle and looked back. By some atmospheric freak, -the temple seemed to have drawn all the green phosphorescent -haze into its ruined self and hung like a great, dimly -lit lamp against the wall of jungle. The Dakktar Sahib -lingered a moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They must have dreamed wonderfully in those old -days," he said, wistfully. "To have built that—think of -it, Ayeshi! To have given one's soul an abiding expression -to wake the souls of other men thousands of years hence—to -bring a lump into the throat of some human being long -after one's bones have crumbled to dust. Well—well——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He broke off with a sigh. "And you believe that tonight -the Snake God will drink your milk, Ayeshi?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He or his many brethren, Sahib. He lies coiled about -the branches of the highest tree in the jungle and on every -branch of the forest another such as he keeps guard over -his rest."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No man has ever seen him, Ayeshi?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No man dares set foot within the jungle, Sahib, save -Vahana, and he is a Sadhu, a holy man. He has sat before -the temple for a hundred years, and none have seen him -eat or heard him speak."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You believe that, Ayeshi?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The boy hesitated a moment, then answered gravely:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Sahib. My people have believed it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your people? Well—that's a good reason—one of -our pet reasons for our pet beliefs, if you did but know it, -Ayeshi. There's not such a gulf between East and West, -after all." He rode on in silence, and then turned his head -a little as though trying to distinguish his companion's -features through the darkness. "Who are your people, -Ayeshi—your father, your mother, your brothers? You -have never spoken of them. Are they dead?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do not know, Sahib. I have never known father or -mother or brethren."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Dakktar Sahib nodded to himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are not like the other villagers," he said. "One -feels it—one doesn't talk in the same way to you. Tell -me, Ayeshi, have you no ambitions?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"None but to serve you, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Englishman threw back his head and laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, that's a poor sort of ambition. Why, I might -get knocked on the head any time—typhoid, cholera, -enteric—I'm cheek by jowl with the lot of them half -the days of my life. And then where would you be, -Ayeshi?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should follow you, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That sounds almost biblical. And what for, eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because of this, Sahib——" Suddenly and passionately, -he discarded the English language which he used -with ease and plunged into his own vernacular. "Behold, -Sahib, there is the snake-bite on my arm, the wound which -the Sahib cleansed with his own lips. Is that a thing to -be forgotten? A life belongs to him who saves it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pooh, nonsense!" The Englishman leant over his -saddle. "For the Lord's sake, Wickie, keep away from -Arabella's hoofs! Are you a dog or an idiot? Ayeshi, -you don't understand. That sort of thing's my job—there, -now, you've nearly run us into the river with your silly -chatter——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They drew rein abruptly. It was now close on the dawn, -and the darkness had become intensified. The stars seemed -colder and dimmer. Where they stood, their horses snuffing -nervously at the unknown, they could hear the steady -hurrying of the water at their feet, but they could see -nothing. The Englishman patted the neck of his steed -with a comforting hand. "In a year or two, there will be -a bridge across," he said. "Then Mother Ganges won't -have such terrors for us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother Ganges demands toll of those who curb her," -Ayeshi answered solemnly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mean, that no bridge could be built here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I mean, Sahib, that the price will be a heavy one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Dakktar Sahib made no answer. Suddenly he -laughed, not as though amused, but with a vague embarrassment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was a fine story you told us tonight, Ayeshi. I -don't know what there was about it—something that made -one tingle from head to foot. I've been thinking of it on -and off all the time. Those were days when men did mad, -splendid things—bad too—worse than anything we do, -but also finer. Sometimes one wishes—but it's no good -wishing. The Rani Kurnavati and her bracelet are gone -forever."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Humayun also is dead," Ayeshi said, in his grave way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mean——? Yes, that's true, too, I suppose. -But oh Lord"—he lifted himself in his saddle with a -movement of joyous, fiery vitality—"though I'm no -Great Moghul, worse luck, still, if a woman sent </span><em class="italics">me</em><span> her -bracelet and she were being murdered on the top of Mount -Ararat, I'd——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Sahib would come in time," Ayeshi interposed -gently and significantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Englishman dropped back in his saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, anyhow, Arabella, Wickie, and I would have a -good shot at it," he said, gaily. He turned his horse's -head eastwards and touched her gently to a trot. "But -it's no good bragging. No one's going to make either of us -bracelet brother. That's not for the like of us. And -meanwhile, we've got eight miles to go and the dawn will -be on us in an hour. I wish we'd got the seven-league -boots handy. But you don't know the story of the -seven-league boots, do you, Ayeshi? I'll tell it you as we go -along. A story for a story, eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They trotted off along the bank of the river, Arabella -slightly in advance, Wickie skirmishing skilfully on either -hand, the Dakktar Sahib's voice mingling with the song -of the waters as he told the story of the seven-league -boots.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Behind them the temple had sunk into profound shadow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana, the mendicant, still sat beneath the archway. -He took the bowl of milk and drained it thirstily. The -coin he spat on with a venomous hatred and sent spinning -into the darkness.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="tristram-the-hermit"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER II</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">TRISTRAM THE HERMIT</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Of course, all that one can do is to hope," Mrs. Compton -said, ruffling up her dark, curly hair with a distracted hand. -"I don't know who it was talked about hope springing -eternal in the something-something, but he must have -lived in Gaya. If we hadn't hope and pegs in this withered -desert——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear," her husband interposed, "in the first place, -Gaya isn't a desert. It's the Garden of India. In the -second place, no lady talks about pegs—certainly not in -the tone of devout thankfulness which you have used. -Pegs is—are masculine. They uphold us in our strenuous -hours, of which you women appear to know nothing; they -soothe our overwrought nerves and prepare the way for -a liverish old age in Cheltenham. Praise be to Allah!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton sighed and surveyed the curtain which she -had been artistically draping. Her manner, like her whole -wiry, restless personality, expressed a good-tempered -irascibility.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anyhow, they keep you human and grant us luckless -females a lucid interval in which we can call our souls our -own. What you men would be like if you didn't have your -drinks and your tubs and all your other multitudinous -creature comforts—well, it doesn't stand thinking about. -Archie, do you like the curtain tied up with a bow or—oh, -of course, it's no use asking you, you materialistic -lump." She turned from the long, lean figure sprawling -on the wicker chair by the verandah window and appealed -to the second member of her audience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Meredith, you're a clergyman, you ought to have -a soul. Do you like bows or don't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith looked up with a faint smile on his grave face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like bows, Mrs. Compton. I hope it's a good sign -of my artistic and spiritual development?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, it is. I like bows myself. Oh, dear——" She -stopped suddenly. "But supposing she's a horror! -Supposing she paints and smothers herself in diamonds, and -gets hilarious at dinner, and has a shrill voice! -Goodness knows, I don't boast about our morals, but we're -immoral in our own conventional way, so that it becomes -almost respectable, and anything else would shock us -frightfully. You know, I think we're running an awful -risk."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Captain Compton guffawed cheerfully, and the smile -still lingered in Owen Meredith's pleasant eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shouldn't worry, my dear lady," he recommended. -"After all, some of them are the last thing in respectability. -It belongs to their profession. They're bound to be physically -perfect, and physical perfection goes with morality. -Besides, I understand that there can be genius in that sort -of thing, and that she's a genius."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, genius doesn't go with respectability, anyhow," -Mary Compton retorted. "A professional dancer and a -guest of the Rajah's! What can one hope for?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith compressed his lips and passed his hand over -his black hair with a movement that somehow or other -revealed the Anglican. A look of what might have been -habitual anxiety settled on his square, blunt features, and -he found no answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Captain Compton got up, stretching himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Rajah's the best guarantee we could have," he -said lazily. "He's a harmless type of the little degenerate -princeling who apes the European and lives in a holy terror -of doing the wrong thing. He wouldn't set Gaya by the -ears for untold gold. I know just what's happened. He -saw Mlle. Fersen dance and he sent her a bouquet—very -respectfully—and gave a supper-party in her honour—also -very respectable—and assured her of a warm, respectable -welcome in Gaya should she ever visit India. Well, -she's come—as why shouldn't she?—and he's trying to do -the handsome and the respectable at the same time. You -don't suppose old Armstrong would have written about her -if everything wasn't quite all right." He pulled out his -cigarette case and looked round helplessly for the matches. -"My dear, you will find that she is not only a perfect -lady, but that our ways will shock her into fits, and that -we shall have to live up to her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton gave him the matches with the air of a -nurse tending a peculiarly incapable child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You disappoint me horribly," she said, and went out -on the verandah. A minute later she called the two men -after her and pointed an indignant finger in the direction -of the highway. "Look at that, Archie! How do you -suppose anybody's going to respect us with that sort of -thing running about! It's positively unpatriotic. It's a -blow at the very foundations of the Empire——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, it's the old Hermit," Compton interrupted, -soothingly. "Don't worry about him. If there were a -few more hermits—Bless the man! what's he doing? Ahoy, -Tristram, ahoy there!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In answer to the shouted welcome, the little procession -which had aroused Mrs. Compton's ire turned in at the -compound gates. The Dakktar Sahib came first. He wore -a duck suit with leggings, and carried his pith helmet -in both hands as though it were a bowl full of priceless -liquid. In its place, a loud bandanna handkerchief offered -a slight protection to his head and neck. Behind him, at -her untrammelled leisure; came Arabella, her reins trailing, -her nose almost on the ground, her legs obviously wavering -under the burden of her protruding ribs. Behind her -again, in a cloud of sulky dust, waddled Wickie, forlorn -and spiritless. The three halted at the steps of the -verandah, and the Dakktar Sahib sat down on the first step -without ceremony.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm done," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton almost snorted at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should think so! What on earth were you walking -for, you impossible person? What is the use of having a -horse—if you call that object a horse—if you don't ride?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Arabella's dead beat," he explained simply. He put -his pith helmet between his knees and stared down into its -depths as though something hidden there interested him. -"I know she's no beauty," he went on earnestly. "But -she's an awful brick. Never done me or any one a bad -turn in her lire. Can't say that of myself. And just -because I paid fourteen quid for her, I don't see why I -should put upon her. I suppose we three couldn't have -a drink, could we?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Compton shook his head. He came and sat down on -the step beside the big, travel-stained figure and looked -cooler and more immaculate by contrast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Afraid not. If you weren't so delightfully absent-minded, -Hermit, you would know perfectly well that we're -not at home. Don't you recognize the old dâk-bungalow -when you see it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram turned and looked about him rather blankly. -At that moment Mrs. Compton, who was feeling unjustifiably -irritable, thought he was quite the ugliest man she -had ever set eyes on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—to tell you the truth, I was too dead to notice. I -just tottered in. What's happened? The old place looks as -though it had had its face washed. Who are you expecting?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ever heard of Sigrid Fersen?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram returned rather suddenly to the contemplation -of the mysterious contents of his helmet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—on my last leave home. I saw her dance the -night before I sailed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, she's coming here—world tour or something. -The Rajah invited her to Gaya, and Armstrong gave us a -hint to do the hospitable. Mary is all on the </span><em class="italics">qui vive</em><span>, -hoping she'll do the high kick at a Vice-Regal function or -something."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram made no answer, and his silence was at once -irritating and final. He seemed scarcely to have heard. -Mrs. Compton, watching his profile with dark, exasperated -eyes, suddenly softened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You </span><em class="italics">do</em><span> look fagged!" she exclaimed impulsively. -"Has it been a bad time, Hermit?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked up at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Pretty bad. I haven't seen a white face for two months -or slept in the same quarters for two nights running. -There's any amount of trouble brewing out there in the -villages. It's the drought—and the poor beggars can't get -the hang of our notions. Anything might develop. I'm -going back to Heerut tonight. I came along only to get -fresh medical supplies. I left Ayeshi at the last village. -He's a gem."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith, who had been standing by the verandah railings, -drew himself up, his swarthy face was brightened by -his eyes, which were alight with a grave, sincere fervour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Ayeshi's unusual," he said. "He's different -from the rest. I've often noticed him. I wish we could -get hold of him, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Get hold of him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give him a chance. You know what I mean. It's -that type of man we want. He ought to be encouraged to -go ahead."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi's all right," Tristram remarked slowly. "He's -happy. And he's a sort of poet, you know. I'd leave him -alone, if I were you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith laughed good-temperedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not my business to leave people alone," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a silence which unaccountably threatened to -become strained. Mrs. Compton, wearied by her struggles -with refractory curtains, drew a chair up to the steps of -the verandah and sat down, ruffling her husband's sleek -hair with an absent-minded affection. He bore the affliction -patiently, his lazy blue eyes intent on the approach -of a neat, slow-going dog-cart which had turned the bend -of the high-road.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's the Boucicaults' turn-out," he said. "And little -Anne driving herself, too, by Jove! I wonder what she -wants round here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whatever it is, she must want it pretty badly," his -wife remarked. "She hates driving—if the truth were -told, I believe that pony terrifies her out of her life. Poor -little soul!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No nerve," Compton agreed. "Broken long ago."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meanwhile, with a lightness and agility that was -unexpected in a man of his short, heavy build, Owen Meredith -had swung himself over the verandah rails and walked down -to meet the new-comer. The trio on the steps watched -him in silence. Then Compton chuckled rather mirthlessly. -"She'd make a first-rate parson's wife," he said. "If -only——" then he broke off and became suddenly business-like -and astonishingly keen. "Tristram—stop fidgeting -with that damned helmet of yours. I know you're -dog-tired, old chap, but I want you to go round to the -Boucicaults before you return to the wilds."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram looked up. The tiredness had gone out of his -face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anything wrong—I mean, worse than usual?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Compton threw his half-finished cigarette at Wickie.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't know what it's been like these last two -months. The man's mad, Tristram, or he's possessed of -the devil. The whole regiment is suffering from c.b. and -extra drill and stopped leave—for nothing—nothing. I -oughtn't to talk about it, I suppose, but something's got -to be done. The men are getting nervy and out of hand, -and no wonder. There are moments when I feel ready to -lash out myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't something be done? Can't you get rid of him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Compton laughed shortly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know what happens to men who complain of their -superior officers. Besides, he's so devilishly efficient, and -everything he does is done in cold blood. It's drink, of -course, but it doesn't make him lose his head. It makes him -deadly, hideously quiet. And it's not only the regiment, -Tristram—there's his wife. We hardly ever see her—and -when we do—well, they say——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton clenched her small brown fist and thumped -her husband's shoulder in a burst of indignation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They say he beats her," she said between clenched -teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram got up as though he had been stung.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's—that's damnable!" he stuttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's just the word," Mrs. Compton acknowledged -gratefully. She looked up at him and admitted to herself -that, after all, he pleased her profoundly. At that moment -he was not ugly in her eyes. In one way, she recognized -him to be magnificent. She knew no other man with such -shoulders or who carried his height and strength with so -natural a grace. But now even his face pleased her, -red-bearded and unlovely though it was. In her quick, Celtic -way, she imagined a sculptor who, in an inspired mood, had -modelled a masterpiece, incomplete, rough-hewn, yet -vigorous with life and significance. She liked his blue -eyes, which usually looked out on the world with a whimsical -simplicity and now flared up, dangerously bright. -"Positively," said Mrs. Compton, "there are moments when I -love you, Hermit."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald Compton grimaced and pulled himself to his feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anyhow, after that brazen-faced declaration you -might help us," he said. "You're a doctor. It's your -business to interfere. Couldn't you drop a hint at -headquarters—suggest long leave or something? Do—there's -a good fellow——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram had no opportunity to reply, for Anne Boucicault -her companion were now within earshot. Meredith -walked at the wheel of her cart and was talking gaily, -his face lifted to hers, and, freed for the moment from its -habitual expression of fervid purpose, was almost boyish. -She smiled down at him, and then, glancing up at the group -at the verandah, the smile faded and she jerked the reins of -her pony so that the animal came to an abrupt stand-still.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Major Tristram!" she exclaimed. "Why, I didn't -know you were back—I thought——" She broke off, -flushing to the brows. Her incoherency and that quick -change of colour added to her rather touching sweetness. -She was not pretty. Neither the dainty white frock nor -the shady hat could help her to more than youth. But her -youth was vivid and gracious. There was something, too, -in her expression, in the look of the brown eyes, that had -all the appeal, the wistfulness of an anxious, frightened -child. There was nothing mature about her save her -mouth, which was firm, even obstinate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Major Tristram came to her and gave her his big hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm back for only a few hours," he explained, "and -then my victims have me again. But it's good to catch a -glimpse of anything so fresh as yourself. Isn't the sun -ever going to wither you like other mortals?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The smile dawned shyly about the corners of her lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know. I keep out of it as much as possible. -I don't like it. I only came out this afternoon because——" She -hesitated and then added rather breathlessly: "I knew -Mrs. Compton was here—and I'm anxious about mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton laid an impulsive brown hand on the -white one which held the reins in its frail, ineffectual fingers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, here we all are, anyhow," she said, "and just -dying to be useful. What's the trouble, dear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother is ill," Anne Boucicault answered, with the -same curious hesitancy. "I was frightened. Major -Tristram, if only you could come——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not wait for her to finish her appeal. He scrambled -up on to the seat beside her, and took the reins from -her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You look after Arabella and Wickie, Compton," he -said, "and hand me up my helmet. No—not like that—for -goodness' sake, be careful, man! Thanks, that's -better."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I hope you're going to wear it," Mrs. Compton -remarked, with asperity. "I suppose you don't want to -arrive with a sunstroke or give Mrs. Boucicault a fit with -that awful handkerchief?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sorry, can't be done. It's occupied already. A -patient of mine." He put his battered headgear between -his knees and poked gingerly about the depths, producing, -finally, amidst a confusion of straw and grass, a tiny bulbul. -The little creature fluttered desperately, and then, as though -there were something miraculous in the man's hand, lay -still, a soft, bright-eyed ball of colour, and stared around it -with an audacious contentment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Its wing's hurt," Tristram explained. "Wickie bit -it. In point of fact, Wickie and I aren't on speaking terms -as a result. It's a subject we shall never agree upon." He -soothed the little creature's ruffled plumage with a -tender forefinger, and held it out for Anne Boucicault's -inspection. She peered at it curiously and rather coldly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's very sweet," she said, "but wouldn't it be kinder -to put it out of its misery?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rather not. Besides"—his eyes twinkled in Meredith's -direction—"it's not my business to put people out of -their misery. And I'd rather keep this little chap alive -than some men I know of. He's one of creation's top-notes. -He's a poem all to himself. He wants to live and -he's a right to live, and he's going to. His wing'll mend. -I've mended dozens. It's an instinct—mending. I've got -a baby cheetah with a broken paw at my diggins——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Compton laughed hilariously at his wife's grim disapproval.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't believe you could drown a kitten," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why on earth should I want to drown a kitten?" He -put his </span><em class="italics">protégé</em><span> tenderly back in its impromptu nest. "I -brought two tabbies from England, and there are a lot more -now. The whole village looks after them. They believe -they're a specially imported sort of devil, and take every -opportunity to propitiate them with edible offerings. It's -great!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton looked helpless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You beware of that man, Anne," she said. "He's -probably got a dyspeptic rattlesnake in one of his pockets. -As to you, Tristram Tristram, I warn you that sooner or -later you will get into serious trouble. You're a -sentimentalist. There—go along. And, meanwhile, I'll let -Arabella eat the grass tidy, and that so-called dog shall have a -bone. Good luck to you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm awfully obliged," he said solemnly. "Not a -chicken bone, please. They stick in his throat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I followed my conscience, I should give him poison," -Mrs. Compton retorted, with her brows knitted over -laughing eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had, however, no opportunity to carry out her -threat. As the dog-cart turned out of the compound gates -the disgruntled Wickie, who had been lying afar off, panting -and disgraced, picked himself up, and, uttering a hoarse wail -of indignation and despair, took to his bandy legs and -rolled after the disappearing vehicle in a miniature storm -of dust.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="tristram-becomes-father-confessor"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER III</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">TRISTRAM BECOMES FATHER-CONFESSOR</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>So long as the gleaming, unsheltered roadway lasted, -Tristram remained silent. His eyes were swollen with -fatigue, and the sun blinded him. Through a silver shimmer -of heat, he could see the undulating plain, yellow with -the harvest, and his knowledge saw beyond that to the -river and the rising jungle land, and the scattered hapless -villages where his enemy awaited him. Cool and beautiful, -Gaya lay above them, circling the hillside, the white walls -of the bungalows sparkling amidst the dark green of the -trees like the gems of a diadem. Tristram and his -companion watched it thirstily. As they trotted at last into -an avenue of flowering Mohwa trees, he drew rein and -glanced down at the girl beside him. She was sitting very -straight as though in defiance of the heat, her hands folded -in front of her, her lips sternly composed. The youthful -tears were not far off, yet, through a transient break in the -future, he saw her as she would be years hence. And -somehow the vision amused and touched him. It was -as though the phenomenon reversed itself, and a stern-featured, -middle-aged woman had grown young before his eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mustn't worry," he said gently. "I don't suppose -it's anything serious. Tell me about it. I don't want to -worry her with questions."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It won't worry her." He saw how her hands trembled -as she clasped them and unclasped them. "She wants to -talk—it's terrible—that's why I was so anxious—I had to -find some one who would listen—and—and soothe her. I -really came for Mr. Meredith. She doesn't like him, I'm -afraid, poor mother, but that's because she doesn't -understand. He's so awfully good."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's a fine fellow," Tristram agreed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I thought he might help her," she went on, -earnestly,—"might give her strength. Trouble overwhelms -her. She resents it. And she has nothing to fall back -on—nothing to console her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram did not answer immediately. They were going -uphill, and he gave the pony his head, letting him manage -the ascent after his own fashion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It takes a lot to console a man when his machinery's -out of order," he said at last. "And one somehow does -resent it. And then, I must say, if I had the toothache, I -shouldn't want Mr. Meredith."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave a little nervous, unamused laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know quite well what I mean, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I do. And I'm wondering if, after all, Meredith -isn't the man you want. He and I both concentrate on -humanity, but we do it from different points of view. -I'm the man who looks after the house and sees that it's -hygienic and watertight and all that. Meredith puts in the -furniture and the electric fittings and keeps them polished."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He glanced whimsically at her puzzled face. "I mean -just that the soul isn't my business," he added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She raised eager, trusting eyes to his.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think it is, Major Tristram, I'm sure it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, to tell you the truth, I think so too. I believe -that the soul is the body and the body is the soul, and that -one can't be healthy or unhealthy without affecting the -other. But that's heresy, isn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A waxen, beautiful blossom from an overhanging mango-tree -fell into her lap. Mechanically she picked it up and -tore it with her restless fingers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not what we are taught to believe," she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No. You see, I'm a Pagan, Miss Boucicault. It's -hereditary. My old mother—she's nearly eighty—she still -totters up on to the mountain tops to say her prayers. As -for me—" he gave a contented chuckle—"you hear that -little chap chirping inside my helmet? Well, he's my -consolation for every ache and sorrow I ever had—he and -his like, and the trees and the stars and the flowers—even -that mango blossom you're tearing up. To me they're -just so many parts of God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!——" She looked at the tattered flower in her lap -and brushed it aside as though it suddenly frightened her. -"I don't think that can be right. I'm sure you're not a -Pagan, anyhow, Major. You couldn't be—and do the -things you do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They came out of the belt of shadow into the broad -sunlight, and the blinding change covered his silence. A -company of native infantry came up from a cross-road and -swung past them amidst a cloud of slow-rising dust. The -officers saluted Tristram. For an instant they seemed to -throw off their weary dejection and to become almost gay. -But the men did not lift their eyes. Their beards were -white with dust and their faces set and sullen. They -passed on, the beat of their feet sounding muffled and heavy -on the palpitating quiet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They look pretty bad," Tristram commented.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm frightened of them," she returned quickly. "Some -of them mutinied last week, and father was nearly shot. -I wake up every night and fancy I hear them firing on us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They belong to a regiment that stuck to us through -thick and thin in 1857," he answered. "It's not like them -to turn against us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her lips tightened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't trust any of them," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By this time they had reached the first large bungalow -of the European quarter. It was at once a sombre, -pretentious building, evidently newly done up, and as they -passed, a man on horseback turned out of the compound. -Seeing Anne Boucicault, he saluted at once with a faintly -exaggerated courtesy. The exaggeration matched the -ultra-smartness of his English riding-clothes and the -un-English flashiness of his good looks. Anne Boucicault -returned the salutation stiffly, not meeting his direct glance, -which passed on with an unveiled curiosity to Tristram. -The latter urged the pony to a smarter trot as though -something had irritated him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's a stranger, anyhow," he said. "Two months -brings changes even to Gaya. I thought that place was -deserted and haunted for all time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Barclay has it now," she answered. "He came -six weeks ago. I believe he trades with the native weavers -or something. He's very rich."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He doesn't look like an Englishman."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's not—not really. An Eurasian. His mother was -a native, and his father——" She broke off. "He makes -it a sort of half mystery. He just hints at things—I don't -believe he knows himself. Anyhow, we hate him and try -to avoid him. It's awfully awkward."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I seemed to know his face," Tristram said, half to -himself. He heard her sigh, and the sigh roused him from -his tired search after an elusive memory. "He doesn't -bother you, does he?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head, but he saw her lips tremble with a -new agitation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not exactly—only it's all going to be so different. -We were like a big family, weren't we, Major Tristram—all -friends, all of the same set, and now this man has come, -and then—you've heard, haven't you—about this woman, -this dancer——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mlle. Fersen, you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's what she calls herself." There was a chilly -displeasure in her tone, which made her seem suddenly -much older. "What does she want here? Why does -she come? She can't have anything in common with us. -She may even be a foreigner—vulgar and horrid——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think she's like that," he interposed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She flashed round on him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know her, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've seen her—just once," he answered, slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is she——" She seemed to struggle with the question. -"Is she very beautiful, Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I think not—not at all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's worse then." And then quickly, passionately: -"Oh, I wish she wasn't coming! I don't know why the -very thought of her frightens me. It's as though I knew -she was going to bring trouble—a sort of presentiment——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're tired and anxious," he interrupted, and smiled -down at her. "Nothing will happen—or perhaps I'm -sanguine because I shan't be there to witness the upheaval."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're going into camp again?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tonight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For long?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Until I've got things straight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He happened to see her hands, and how they were tightly -interlocked as though she were holding herself back. But -her voice was quiet enough.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you go on like that always, Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Until they push me on to the rubbish heap," he -answered lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It must be very, very lonely."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He plunged his hand into his side-pocket and drew out -a big bundle of letters. His blue eyes twinkled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You'd better not waste sympathy on me, Miss Boucicault. -Look at these. I picked them up at the station—two -by every mail. What do you think of that? And -all from one woman!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A woman?" she echoed, stupidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My old mother." He laughed with a boyish satisfaction. -"We're the greatest pals on earth, she and I. -A man couldn't be lonely with her in the background. -We've got each other to live for."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But she's in England. How she must miss you!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He put the letters slowly back in his pocket.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. It's like a chronic pain. It hurts, but it weaves -itself into the pattern of one's life. My mother's like that. -My father was out here too, and they were often separated. -She accepts it as inevitable."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you—your loneliness must be worse, out there in -the wilderness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not a wilderness, it's peopled with all kinds of -things—all kinds of"—— He caught himself up. "And -I have friends in all the villages, and my animals and my -work."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know your work is wonderful—the noblest work in the -world." She spoke with a grave, youthful wisdom. "But -the loneliness must remain all the same, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent for a moment, and then shook himself as -though freeing himself from a burden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It can't be helped," he said. "No one can share it -with me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Many people would be proud and glad to share it," -she answered. She held her head high, and there was a -fervent simplicity in her low voice which raised the -impulsive words above suspicion. He turned to her with -warm eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you," he said. "I don't think it's true, and -I shan't ever put it to the test—but it's good hearing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned the pony neatly into the gates of the -Boucicaults' bungalow and drove up the shady avenue to the -porch. A syce ran out to meet them and caught the reins, -and a minute later Anne Boucicault had been lifted gently -to the ground. "And we've chattered so much," Tristram -remarked shamefacedly, "that I don't even know your -mother's symptoms."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She made no answer, indeed did not seem to have heard -him. She had lost all her vigour, all her faintly -self-opinionated eagerness. As they stood together in the -entrance hall she seemed just cowed and broken, a white, -frightened little ghost.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My mother's in here," she said, scarcely above a -whisper. She held the door open for him, and he went -past her into a room so carefully darkened that for a -moment he hesitated blindly on the threshold. Then a -sound guided him. It was the sound of some one crying. -Not passionately, not desperately, but with a terrible -monotony. Then one salient feature detached itself from -the shadows—a wicker chair drawn up by the curtained -window, and beside it, huddled together, with her face -buried in her arms, the figure of a woman. She wore some -loose, dark-coloured garment, and was so small and still -that she would have seemed scarcely living, but for the -jerking sobs. Tristram checked the girl's anxious -movement and went forward alone. He knelt down by the -piteous heap and put his hand on her arm, and remained -thus for a full minute. He did not speak to her, and she -seemed unconscious of his presence. The sobbing went -on unbrokenly. Then he picked her up quietly and effortlessly, -and placed her in the chair, dexterously slipping a -silk cushion behind her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Boucicault!" She did not answer. Her eyes -were closed. Her small, white face under the mop of fair -hair, fast turning grey, was puckered like a child's. Her -little hands gripped the arms of her chair. From her place -near the door, Anne watched with a frightened wonder. -"Mrs. Boucicault!" Tristram repeated quietly. Her eyes -opened then. They were tearless and very bright. She -stared straight ahead, her under-lip between her white -teeth, and began to rock herself backwards and forwards. -She was still sobbing. Tristram knelt again and took one -of her hands and held it between his own. She looked -down then—first at her hand, as though it puzzled her, and -then at him. Suddenly, violently, she freed herself and -tore open the heavily embroidered kimono. Her shoulders -were bare. On the right shoulder was a black swollen -stain bigger than a man's hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look!" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne Boucicault caught her breath with a vague, vicarious -shame. She saw that Tristram had moved very slightly. -His square jaws looked ugly against the dim light of the -window.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Get hot water and bandages," he commanded. "Linen -will do—and ointment—anything greasy." As she slipped -from the room he drew the kimono gently over the poor -lacerated shoulder. "You've had a nasty accident, -Mrs. Boucicault," he said, levelly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was no accident." Her sobs had stopped. Her -voice sounded like the rasp of steel against steel. "</span><em class="italics">He</em><span> -did it—my husband. It's not the first time, Major Tristram. -It won't be the last. He'll kill me—and he'll kill -her." She nodded towards the door. The words poured -from her as though released from a long restraint, but she -was coldly, violently coherent. "Yes—he'll kill her—slowly, -by inches. He'll break her. She'll go under fast. She's -not like me—I'm wiry—she's hard, but she'll snap. For all -her prayers and her church and her God, she'll go -under." Something contemptuous and angry crept into her face. -"Anne's cowed already. And it's not only us. His -men—they tried to shoot him. Did you hear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her eyes blazed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I wish to God they'd done it!" she burst out, from -between clenched teeth. "Oh, why didn't they? He's -goaded them enough. One of these days they'll murder -us all for his sake. He's a devil. He's made life a hell. -He likes to make suffering. He likes to see us wince. Oh, -if he were only dead!" Suddenly the tense mask of -hatred broke up into piteous lines of helpless misery. Two -great tears rolled unheeded down her white cheeks. "Anne -talked about bearing our cross, and prayer, and God's will," -she went on chokingly. "But I want to be happy, Major -Tristram, I want to be happy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have an absolute right to happiness," he answered. -"You've got to be happy, Mrs. Boucicault. I'm going to -see to it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She dropped back wearily among her cushions. Her -grey eyes, now pale and faded-looking, rested on his face -with a childish questioning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You talk as though—as though you could."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I can do something—I promise you. Close your eyes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She closed them at once, and he took his handkerchief -and brushed the tears from her cheeks. Then he resumed -his kneeling position, her hand in his, soothing it much as -he had soothed the frightened, broken-winged bird. Once -she sighed deeply, as if released from some stifling weight, -and thereafter her breathing sounded quiet and regular. -By the time Anne Boucicault returned, her mother had -dropped into a heavy sleep.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Major Tristram got up noiselessly, and motioned the -girl to follow him. His movements were curiously light -and noiseless, and brought no shadow of change on the -sleeper's face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's better that she should sleep," he said quietly. -"I shall come in again tonight before I leave. I doubt -if she wakes before then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They went out together. On the mat the ubiquitous -Wickie lay extended in a state of dusty misery. He rolled -over as Tristram appeared, displaying much humility and -a blood-stained paw. Tristram picked him up and hugged -him. "You're not a dog—you're an ass, Wickie," he -declared. "And I'll wager you consider yourself a martyr -into the bargain, you assassin of innocent bulbuls. What -do you suppose I'm going to do with you—carry you, I -suppose?" He turned a wry, laughing face to his -companion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I'll be off now, anyhow," he said. "You'll see -me tonight. Good-bye till then—and don't worry her or -yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She took his extended hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you. I thought it would be so terrible—for -any one to know how things are with us. I haven't minded -you a bit."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm awfully glad."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He took up his impromptu bird's-nest from its place of -safety in an empty fern-pot. The contents chirped defiance -and terror, and Tristram looked up smiling. He saw then -that Anne Boucicault's eyes were fixed on something -beyond him, and that they were wide and stupid-looking -with dread. He turned. A man stood in the sunlit -verandah. Against the golden background he bulked -huge and threatening, his features and whatever expression -they bore blotted out by shadow. The switch which -he carried beat an irritable tattoo against his riding-boots.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram nodded a greeting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good evening, Colonel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good evening, Major." He bowed satirically and -crossed the threshold. "This is a pleasant surprise. I -understood you were out camping."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have been for the last two months. I am off again -tonight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then my daughter and I are indeed fortunate to catch -this glimpse of you." He came farther into the shade, -half turning to fling his helmet and whip on to a table. -The light fell on his profile, revealing the livid skin, the -brutal line of the jaw. "To what are we indebted, Major?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I came professionally," Tristram answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On Anne's behalf, I suppose?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, for Mrs. Boucicault." He scrutinized the elder -man deliberately. "Perhaps I could do something for you, -Colonel. You're not looking well. You ought to take a -year's leave."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Colonel Boucicault allowed a moment to elapse before he -answered. He had the tensely vicious look of a hard -drinker who is never drunk, and whose jangling nerves -are always writhing under restraint. Finally, he seemed to -take a stronger hold over himself. He laughed out, shortly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thanks, I'm very well. I'll last the regiment another -year or two—to its infinite satisfaction, no doubt. As -to Mrs. Boucicault, your visit was kind but unnecessary. -There's nothing wrong in that quarter but feminine -hysteria."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think so," Tristram returned. He had coloured -slowly to the roots of his ruddy hair, but his voice was even -quieter. "I take a serious view of the case. I have -ordered Mrs. Boucicault an immediate return to England."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was another break. The two men eyed each other -squarely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is an absurd proposition which I cannot sanction," -Boucicault said in the same tone of violent self-restraint.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm afraid you'll have to, Colonel."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The antagonism, whose note had sounded even in their -greeting of each other, now rang out clearly. Boucicault's -big hands twitched at his sides.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Surely, Major, that is scarcely fitting language——" -he began.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't care a damn for what's fitting," Tristram broke -in. "Mrs. Boucicault's going to England with Anne. If -she doesn't, I'll have you hounded out of the army even -if I get hounded out myself in the doing of it. That's my -bargain."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By God, Major——" Boucicault took a step nearer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By reason of his heavy build, he seemed to tower over the -younger man. His eyes were bloodshot in their inflamed -rims; his whole body quivered. "You'd better get out of -here," he stammered thickly. "And take my advice—keep -clear of this place—keep out of my way."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thanks." Tristram tucked Wickie more securely -under one arm. "I'll be round this evening," he added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He ignored the threatening gesture, and went leisurely -down the steps and along the drive. At the gates he -stopped, drawing his breath with a quick, deep relief.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Across the roadway, the stems of the trees stood out -black and straight as the pillars of a great temple, whose -red-gold lamp had been lowered from the dome and now -sank swiftly into an extinguishing pool of shadow. A -breeze rustled coolly overhead, brushing away the sweet, -heavy incense of many flowers and bringing the first warning -of nightfall. A belated finch fluttered amidst the dense -foliage, and then all was still again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram remained motionless, apparently plunged in -his own thoughts, for he started when a hand touched his -arm and turned almost angrily. Anne Boucicault stood -beside him. She was breathless, her lips were parted, and -the wind had blown the dark, curly hair from her white -forehead, adding impulse and eagerness to her staid girlishness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had to come," she panted, "to—to thank you. And -then—you mustn't keep your promise. You mustn't -come—it isn't safe——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head. His eyes, after the first glance, had -gone back to the fading light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shouldn't hurt your father," he said, gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you——!" she exclaimed. "No one knows -what he might do to you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think that matters," he returned, still in the -same rather absent tone. "Anyway, if he's mad, he's -not a fool. You mustn't worry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lingered. Her hand rested tremblingly on his arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I want to thank you, Major Tristram. You've -helped poor mother—and I was so proud. No one's ever -faced him like that. I wish——" She faltered. "If we -could only do something for you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent for a moment, then, as though her words -only reached him gradually, he turned with a quick smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can. Take Wickie in as a boarder, will you? -He's lame, and my hands are full already. I couldn't take -him with me. Ayeshi could fetch him in a week or two. -Would you mind?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd love to have him." She took the unwieldy, protesting -mongrel, and held him rather clumsily in her arms. -"And your little bird?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, he'll want special medical treatment. Thanks -awfully, all the same." He bent and patted Wickie's -black snout with an apologetic gentleness. "Don't fret -your heart out, old chap. It's your own fault—and Ayeshi -shall come for you, upon my honour he shall."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll take care of him," Anne said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know you will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-bye, Major Tristram." The sunlight was in her -eyes, and they were very bright. The colour in her cheeks -deepened. "And God bless you," she added, timidly but -very seriously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled down at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you and Wickie and everybody," he said. "I'm -sure He does."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He strode off, and at the bend of the road turned and -waved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But long after he had disappeared, she stood there gazing -into the dusk, the unhappy Wickie pressed tightly against -her breast.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-interlopers"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE INTERLOPERS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Rajah Rasaldû was wonderfully, if not impressively, -European. He wore a frock-coat and grey trousers, -English in intention, French in execution. They were -almost too perfect. The native, brightly hued turban, -an unwilling concession, as he admitted, to local prejudice, -came as a rather startling finale, though it suited him -better than his Europeanism. He was a short, unmuscular -little man, built in circles rather than in straight lines, and -a determined course of Parisian good-living had added -seriously to a natural tendency to embonpoint. His -manner, even in sitting still, was restless and fussy. He -had, in fact, neither the inscrutable dignity of the native -nor the self-assured ease of the race he aped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When I look at you, Mademoiselle," he was saying, -earnestly, "I forget that I am in this dreadful country, and -I imagine myself back to London. I see myself in the -darkened box, and you in all the brightness. I hear the -music and the roar of applause. I feel at home—almost -happy." He stared down at his round, soft hands as though -he were rather pleased with their severe lack of adornment, -and sighed. The woman he addressed did not look at -him. She was watching the little groups of white-clad -figures dotted about the garden, with her head turned -slightly away from him. Next her, Mary Compton and the -Judge's wife were talking with the lazy earnestness -engendered by tea and the cool shade of a flowering mango.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But this is your country," Sigrid Fersen said. "You -are surely happiest here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was born here. The Government has put me in a -position of trust, and it is my duty to be at my post from -time to time. But my heart is with you—with the West -and Western civilization. And of all that, Mademoiselle, -you are the personification."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed a little, as though secretly amused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me your impressions of Paris, Rajah," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He told her. From time to time his brown, dissipated -eyes shot irritable glances at the figure seated immediately -behind his hostess. It was perhaps a somewhat startling -figure, and though Gaya approved of companions and -chaperons, and had indeed heaved a sigh of relief over -Mrs. Smithers's existence, it had none the less been considerably -startled by her personality. She was well past middle -age, and, in spite of the considerable heat, was dressed -severely in black grenadine, and wore a mob-cap on a -remarkably fine head of white hair, which she occasionally -patted with a nervous hand. If it is true all human beings -bear a resemblance to some animal, then Mrs. Smithers -might easily have been associated with a bull-dog of -exceedingly determined character. Her face was settled in -wrinkles of challenging tenacity, but she never moved and -never changed her expression. She sat there, bolt upright, -and only her roving eyes betrayed the fact that she was -alive. They expressed also the bitterest and most -annihilating disapproval of everything existent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton accepted her third cup of tea from an -engagingly youthful subaltern and went on talking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course he's mad," she was saying. "He hates -Tristram worse than any one living, which is saying a lot. -They had an awful row over Mrs. Boucicault just before -Tristram went away, and now Boucicault is taking his -turn. He refuses to forward Tristram's appeal for help—says -the whole thing's a scare, and that Tristram is simply -fussing for his own glorification. But it isn't true. Ayeshi -came to my husband last night and told him. It's -cholera—oh, my dear Susan, don't jump like that! Heerut's -fifteen miles away, and we've the river between us, and -Gaya's healthy when everything else is riddled. Besides, -Tristram has got the thing in hand. He hasn't slept for -four days. Ayeshi said he didn't look human. Some of the -natives went crazy with fright and got out of hand. But -Tristram managed them—single-handed, my dear, and -with not so much as a revolver. Ayeshi talked about him -as though he were the tenth Avatar, or whatever they call -it. Of course, he'll do that sort of thing once too often. -</span><em class="italics">C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre</em><span>. But I love -that man. I tell Archie once a day at least, and he's getting -quite tired about it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of whom are you talking, Mrs. Compton?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton started, and the Rajah, who had been -expatiating on French genius as revealed in the </span><em class="italics">Bal du -Moulin Rouge</em><span>, went on for a minute, carried forward by his -own momentum. Then he stopped and dropped into a -silence, which would have been sulky in any one less anxious -to appear civilized. As for Mrs. Compton, the question -had come with such self-assured, if quiet authority, that she -felt certain that, as a woman on her own ground, she ought -to take offence. In fact, all Gaya, as represented in the old -dâk-bungalow's garden, was in much the same position. -Without performing the high kick at the club dinner or -otherwise living up to the conventional reputation of her -class, the newcomer had sailed serenely across all their -unwritten laws, and not only had Gaya not been outraged, -but it had been secretly delighted. And it was ashamed of -itself for being delighted. Mrs. Compton was ashamed of -herself—ashamed that she, the untamable spirit of the -station who had insulted Colonel Boucicault to his face -should sit there and meet this woman with a smile of -propitiating amiability.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Major Tristram," she said. "He belongs to the Medical -Service. You haven't met him yet, and I don't suppose -any of us will see him for some time. He's fighting the -cholera in one of the native villages."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen nodded thoughtfully. Then she got up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I heard you say just now that you were interested in -old china," she said, abruptly. "I have a piece in the -drawing-room which I should like you to see. Will you -come?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I should be delighted——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your guests, Mademoiselle," Rasaldû murmured. -But his protest passed unheeded, and Mrs. Compton got -up and left the Judge's wife without a word of apology. -Mrs. Smithers had risen with equal promptitude and -brought up the rear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They crossed the garden to the bungalow, and the little -parties grouped lazily in the vicinity of the tea-tables -became silent, and remained silent until Sigrid Fersen had -disappeared. Then they went on talking. Very few of -them realized that they had ever stopped, much less that -they had been staring with the naïve directness of children. -They certainly made no comment. Only Jim Radcliffe, -the newly joined subaltern, who had the inexhaustible -restlessness of a fox-terrier puppy, became quiet to the -point of thoughtfulness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By Jove, did you see her walk?" he said to -Mrs. Brabazone. But the latter made no reply, being in a -state of dudgeon and not inclined to appreciation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meantime, Mary Compton had become aware of a profound -and very mysterious change in her own psychology. -As she crossed the threshold of the darkened drawing-room -she perceived that every earnest, painstaking effort of hers -to make the place habitable and presentable had suffered -a ruthless upheaval. The hours of patient questioning -which she had spent on the to-be or not-to-be of the curtain -bows had been so many hours wasted. Yet her fiery -Celtic susceptibilities remained unruffled. She admitted -at once that the changes were improvements,—small but -effective strokes of genius. Moreover, various new items -had been introduced—a piano procured from heaven alone -knew where, a few rich embroideries, a vase or two, and a -pale-tinted Persian rug. She was busy cataloguing these -items, when her quick eyes encountered Mrs. Smithers. -Mrs. Smithers had seated herself promptly on the chair -nearest the door, and assumed her former attitude of -unbending severity and disapproval. Her appearance -somehow made a further reduction in Mrs. Compton's forces of -self-assurance, and when her hostess, who had been busy -with the contents of a carved chest, came back to her, -she was overpowered by an unusual sense of almost fatuous -helplessness. Whatever this small woman meant to do, -she would do. And therewith the fate of Gaya seemed -sealed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There—you recognize it, of course."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton forgot Gaya and her own lost prestige. -In the ten years of her married life, there was one passion -for which she and the easy-going, hard-working Archie -had scraped and saved. It was a passion which was one -day to find a fitting background in some English home, a -place created almost daily afresh in their minds but always -with the abiding features of spacious lawns and an orchard -and stables, and within doors oak cupboards guarding the -treasures of the hard years. But with all their savings -and searchings, they had never possessed anything like -this.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's Sèvres—of course—how beautiful! I'm almost -afraid to touch it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't be. It's yours."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mine!" Mary Compton gasped—whether audibly or -not, she did not know. She felt that there was fresh cause -for offence coming and that she had no adequate forces with -which to meet it. "But, of course not——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I bought it for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton nearly regained her usual briskness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's nonsense. We haven't known each other a -week. And you must have bought that in Europe."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—I did, years ago. But I bought it for you, all -the same. I bought it for some one who would look at it -and touch it as you did. And besides, I want you to have -something of mine—I am selfish enough to wish to be -remembered by those who have been kind to me—as you -have been. It was the Rajah's invitation which brought -me to Gaya, but only a woman could have welcomed -me. Any one in my position makes enemies automatically, -and without you I should have had to face a whole army -of prejudices. But you paved the way—you made it -possible to invite all these people without offending -them—and this in spite of the fact that you thought you were -probably introducing a firebrand." She laughed in her -curious, reflective way. "And then it was your hands -prepared this beautiful home for me," she added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton crimsoned and swallowed the delicate -morsel of brazen flattery with a ridiculous pleasure. She -made a last effort, however, to retire to her first position -of friendly reserve.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course, we did what we could," she said. "Gaya -is rather proud of its hospitality. We wanted you to take -back a good impression, Mademoiselle——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A quick gesture interrupted her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not 'mademoiselle.' I'm English. My mother -was a Swede, and I took her maiden name because—there -never has been a great English dancer, and in England -what hasn't been can't be. It's just one of the Rajah's -foibles to give everything a Gallic touch. But I'm just -Miss Fersen—or Sigrid if you like."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Celtic temperament works both ways. The only -certain feature is its uncertainty. Mrs. Compton -abandoned her offensive-defensive and with great dexterity -managed to cling to the Sèvres vase and kiss the giver -on both cheeks without disaster.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd like it to be Sigrid," she said warmly. "And my -name's Mary—and I'm going to take the Sèvres because -I want it badly, and because I like you and I shan't mind -feeling horribly grateful. And I hope you'll make me your -master of ceremonies, and our bungalow your headquarters. -You will, won't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She thrilled under the touch of the cool, small hand on -hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I promise you. It's what I wanted. I shall -need a friend. A great many people will hate me—men -and women. I have seen it in the eyes of one woman -already. And, besides that I want to get to know real -human beings. All my life I have lived for and in the one -thing. People have been shadows to me. Now I need -them. But they must be real—good, honest flesh and -blood. Not puppets." She sat down on the big divan -drawn up against the wall and patted the seat beside -her. "Tell me about this Major Tristram," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Mrs. Compton, whose rules of etiquette were Gaya's -social law, sat down and for half an hour talked about -Major Tristram, whilst Sigrid Fersen's guests wandered -unshepherded about her garden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At the end of the half-hour Mrs. Compton found her -husband near the gates, disconsolate and alone, guarding -the rather shabby little turn-out which they called a -dog-cart. He was in uniform, and had evidently been at some -pains to escape notice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You said six o'clock and it's half-past," he commented, -gloomily. "I shall be confoundedly late. What on earth -have you been doing? And what's that you've got under -your arm?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She chuckled to herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't you recognize Sèvres when you see it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By George—what a piece!" His eyes opened with -a hungry appreciation. Then he shook his head at her. -"My dear girl, put it back! I knew we should come to -this sooner or later—all collectors do. Put it back before -it's missed. Think of the scandal. And a newcomer, too!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She broke into a half-pleased, half-ashamed laugh and -wrapped the precious trophy in the protecting folds of -a rug.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She gave it me—yes, she did. And she calls me Mary, -and I call her Sigrid, and we've kissed each other, and I've -given her the run of our bungalow." She climbed up into -the driver's seat and took the reins. "You know how I -</span><em class="italics">hate</em><span> those sort of sudden familiarities, Archie. But I've -no explanation. Have you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She isn't beautiful. I'm better-looking myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A dozen times, old girl."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled down upon him with a rather absent-minded -graciousness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe she's got electric wires instead of nerves and -sinews," she said reflectively. "I felt them in her hand. -It was like putting one's fingers into a steel glove covered -with velvet. What bosh I'm talking. I believe I'm -hypnotized. I shall go round and look up poor Anne and -restore my self-respect. Mr. Meredith told me she looked -as though she was breaking her heart over something. -Of course, it's that brute! Why aren't you men plucky -enough to shoot him——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear girl——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His wife cut short his protest by turning her pony out -of the gates and up the broad avenue which led from the -outlying dâk-bungalow to Gaya proper. The steep hill, her -new possession, and various rather confused speculations -accounted for the fact that her pony promptly dropped to -a walk and was allowed to proceed in a leisurely fashion, -which culminated in an abrupt halt. Mrs. Compton -awoke then. She felt vaguely annoyed with herself, and -her annoyance changed to something like consternation -when she perceived that the stoppage was not attributable -either to the pony's disinclination or her own day-dreaming. -A man stood at the animal's head and now came up to -the step, his long, brown hand lifted to his topee in -greeting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I called to you, Mrs. Compton," he said, "but you -didn't hear me, and I took the liberty of stopping you. -I hope I'm forgiven."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stared down at him. Her confusion of warm disjointed -musings chilled instantly to her usual trenchant -matter-of-factness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you wanted to speak to me, Mr. Barclay——" she began.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know—I might have called formally. But I ran the -risk either of being refused or landing into a crowd of people. -I wanted to see you alone." He waited a moment. His -hand rested firmly on the side of the cart, and she could -not have driven on without going over him. She saw also -the dogged set of his dark face and waited with an angry -resignation. "You've just come from Mademoiselle -Fersen's At Home, haven't you?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I used to know her," he said, "that is to say, I was -introduced at some big reception in England. She wouldn't -remember me. That was in my undergrad days. I was -at Balliol, you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton's fine lips twitched satirically. She was -not feeling charitable, and this man was offering her his -credentials in a way that incited derision. He must have -seen her expression, for his brown eyes, with their -blue-tinted whites, never left her face. "I want you to do me -a favour," he burst out. "I want you to introduce me -again, Mrs. Compton."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her smile faded. She was thoroughly angry, but some -other less definable emotion confused her indignation to -the point of ineffectuality.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sorry, Mr. Barclay, but I really haven't the right -or the power to introduce any one to Miss Fersen without -her permission."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know that—at least, your friends and acquaintances -would be introduced naturally——" He broke off. The -nostrils of his fine, aquiline nose distended, his whole face, -handsome in line and profoundly brooding in its fundamental -expression, was tense and strained-looking. He -seemed like a man doggedly setting himself to a hated task. -"May I be straightforward with you, Mrs. Compton?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course. Why not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know you are anxious to drive on—over me even," -he said, with a flash from a smothered bitterness. "But -you are the only person I feel I can speak to, and I mayn't -get you alone again. Look here, Mrs. Compton, I'm an -Englishman. My father was English—I was educated at -an English University—I hold an English degree. I've got -any amount of money. It seems to me I've got the right -to demand—well, decent civility. So far—I've been here -two months—I've been out of things. Of course, I don't -belong to the military lot, and I haven't a government -appointment—but it seems to me-out here in an alien -country—we English ought to hold together——" He -was choking and breaking over his words like a man breathless -with running, the fatal mincing accent betraying itself -in his gathering excitement, and instinctively Mrs. Compton -looked away from him. He was trembling, and somehow -the sight filled her with an odd pity almost stronger -than her repugnance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want me to do, Mr. Barclay?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"After all—it's not much. If your husband would put -me up for the Polo Club—I'm a good player, and I've got -some of the finest ponies in India. Gaya could beat any -team you like with my ponies. Your husband's popular—he -could easily do it—if he wanted to——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't ask him," she interrupted hurriedly. "It's -not my business. I hate backstair influence with -husbands." She took refuge in a cowardly compromise. "You ought -to speak to Captain Compton yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed shortly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That means you won't," he broke out suddenly and -violently. "It's the touch of the tar brush that's worrying -you, isn't it? Yet you don't mind kowtowing to a -full-blooded native. You'll have that dissipated degenerate -Rasaldû at all your feasts, though he's not even accepted -by his own people. His grandfather was a village cow-herd, -and the Government set his people up in the place of the -hereditary heirs because they were likely to be more -tractable. You know all that, and yet you'd lick his boots, -whilst I, with your own blood in my veins——" He -caught himself up, smoothing his working features with a -desperate effort. "Look here, Mrs. Compton, I want to -do the right thing. I want to serve my country loyally. -But I've got to have a country—I've got to belong -somewhere. Otherwise——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She tightened the reins, moving her pony's head round -so that she could go forward without driving over him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sorry," she said, coldly. "I have no prejudices -myself, but I also have no right to interfere with the -prejudices of other people. You must make your own way. -Please let me pass——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The pony started under the cut of her whip, and Barclay -instantly jumped out of danger. He stood then in the middle -of the dusty road, his hands clenched at his side, his cheeks -wet. He was crying with the helpless passion of a child. -Meanwhile, the swift Indian nightfall had risen up out -of the plain to Gaya's hilltops pouring its shadow army -into the dâk-bungalow's neglected garden, veiling its -rambling decay with an unfathomable, shapeless beauty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Rajah had been the last to leave, lingering clumsily -and obsequiously to the limits of the law, but now even he -had gone, and in the place of the voices and subdued -laughter there was nothing but a flutter of a night-bird -among the trees, the hushed, mysterious rustlings and -whisperings of darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen had drawn her chair near to the verandah. -A lamp burnt behind her, and she was reading intently in -some old vellum-bound book. Mrs. Smithers sat opposite -her, knitting a sock, which even now that the day's heat -was over had a curiously smothering and woolly appearance. -From time to time her faded, truculent blue eyes -glanced across to the figure beneath the light, and their -habitual expression of grim disapproval yielded to a wistful -anxiety.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For half an hour there had been no sound but the turning -over of the thick leaves and the click of the knitting-needles. -Now Sigrid Fersen touched the soft-voiced silver bell -beside her. The curtains at the far end of the room parted -almost immediately in answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell the syce to have the best horse in the stable saddled -by daybreak," she said. "I am riding to Heerut. I shall -need a guide."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a moment's perceptible hesitation. The -ayah's roe-eyes were large with trouble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib, there is much sickness in Heerut."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It may be, Mem-Sahib, that no guide will dare——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He need not accompany me farther than the river. -See to it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It shall be done, Mem-Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The curtains fell noiselessly in their place. Mrs. Smithers -dropped her knitting-needles.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, lawks a-mercy!" she said. "Lawks a-mercy!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was as though some solemn old Egyptian sphinx had -broken into broad Cockney, and, having given vent to its -feelings, relapsed into the historic pose of unfathomable and -supercilious meditation. Sigrid Fersen closed her book. -She rested her head on its smooth yellow surface with a -curious tenderness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mustn't be unhappy, Smithy, and you mustn't -try to prevent me. One way or the other, my days are -numbered, and each one of them has to be an episode, -something definite and new, something to take with me or -to look back on. Afterwards——" Her voice lifted from -its veiled softness and rang clearer. "We have travelled -a long, long way, Smithy, and now we are almost at the -end. You have seen it all with your wise old eyes, perhaps -better than I have, and you know what life is. What shall -it be, Smithy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old woman clasped her knotted hands together and -rocked herself slowly backwards and forwards.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—I don't know. It's just a nightmare. -I wake up sometimes o' nights and ask myself if I've gone -clean mad, or what we're doing here in this awful heathen -country—you, the greatest of 'em all, hobnobbing with -ninnies wot don't know Taglioni from Queen Elizabeth, and -me trying to be a lady by dint of keeping my mouth shut -like a mouse-trap—me, that stood and waited for you night -after night and 'dressed' you quicker than the smartest -of them—lawks a-mercy, wot am I doing here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen got up slowly, putting her book on the -table, and came and stood at her companion's side. She -caressed the grenadine-clad shoulder lightly, affectionately. -"You're here because I am, and because you've stuck to -me through everything. You can't help sticking to me any -more than I can help wanting you somewhere in the -background. And I'm here because of this"—she laid her -hand on her left side—"and this——" She opened a -drawer in the table, and, taking out a little shiny-backed -note-book, dropped it into the old woman's lap. "Open -it. Now take the bottom figure on the right-hand column -from the bottom figure on the left. What does it leave?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers coughed apologetically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I never was a hand at figures, Sigrid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never mind. Take your time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know rightly—it looks to me like a thousand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That must be about right. Well, that's what we've -got. No more. What would you have me do—teach -dancing to loutish girls in some stuffy English suburb? No, -Smithy. You wouldn't. In my art there is no one greater -than I—there never has been—and though I want to live -I mustn't burn out like some poor candle. I must be a -splendid rocket, lighting up all the country, and most -splendid of all at the last. Then darkness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old woman put up her hand blindly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, my dear, my dear——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen seemed to have forgotten her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"'To die in beauty.' That's Ibsen. It's the most -wonderful thought in the world. It's the only prayer I -know. Not squalidly, not in misery and decay and ugliness, -but in beauty. That is the goal of life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't understand, Sigrid. And I can't believe it all. -I can't. Never to wait for you in the wings—never to hear -men shout for you—and see the women crying for love of -you. Never to hear you silence them all so that they don't -even seem to breathe. Lawks a-mercy, when I think of -that there waltz—Chopin, wasn't it—the tune runs in my -head now—I can see the faces in the front row, white as -death, Sigrid, as though they had seen——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her voice cracked. Sigrid Fersen turned away from her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—never again—or perhaps once more—just once——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went out on to the verandah and stood there motionless, -her face lifted to the darkness.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-vision-of-the-backwater"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER V</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A VISION OF THE BACKWATER</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The Dakktar Sahib stepped carefully over the body of -Ayeshi, who lay asleep inside the doorway, and went down -the centre of the street. The village was silent and -seemingly deserted. Even the grain-dealer, Lalloo by name, -not unknown as a money-lender with Eastern ideas on -interest—had deserted his wooden booth, and the lean -dogs which were wont to nose hungrily in the gutters -had gone elsewhere for their hunting-ground. The gutters -themselves were clean; there was no cattle to wander -haplessly in and out of the open doorways; the half-naked -babies were hidden and silent. And in all this silence and -garnished peace there was something ominous and dreadful. -A mighty scavenger had passed through the village and -swept it clear of refuse and misery and sickness and life -itself. Heerut lay under the burning midday sun like a -body awaiting burial, wrapped in the orderliness of death, -silent, colourless, for all its piteous poverty, majestic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram's footsteps rang out loudly in the stillness. -He alone was alive and bore the agony and stress of life -stamped on his body. He was ugly with the ugliness of a -soldier returning from the battle-field. His clothes were -dirty. He reeled drunkenly, his eyes were bloodshot and -swollen in their deep sockets, and a month's growth of -reddish beard covered his long chin. He might have passed -for a spectre of Death itself, stalking through the place of -its visitation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He reached the village cross-roads. The pointed leaves -of the council-tree hung limply, their soft mysterious -voices hushed. Underneath, the earth was scarred and -burnt by the bonfires around which the village elders -clustered at nightfall, listening to the tales from the great -past. There had been no bonfire for many nights, and the -elders had gone their ways.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram went on, out of the village, across the ancient -half-obliterated path of Auspiciousness, through the coarse -jungle grass to the river. It flowed broad and swift, swirling -against its muddy, artificial barrier with sullen impatience, -its farther bank lost in the blaze and shimmer of heat. -Tristram went on, past the temple whose battered walls -glowed warm and golden in the sunlight, to the clump of -trees beyond. He entered their shade at a stumbling run -like a man seeking refuge from pursuers, and burst through -the tangled undergrowth with the whole weight of his -body.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Here, beneath the branches of the stately Mohwa trees, -the Ganges had built herself a backwater. Her waters, -grey still with the snows of her mountain mother, had -turned from their stern course and become clear as crystal -and still as the surface of a mirror. They reflected softly -the flaming green of the overhanging foliage and the red -and gold of the strange flowers growing on their banks. A -lotus-flower floated like a fairy palace in a patch of subdued -sunshine, its pale petals half open and delicately tipped with -pink as though the light had awakened them from their -white sleep to life. Beneath, in the shining, deceptive -depths was a world of mystery, forests of twining, sinuous -growths, the monster blossoms swaying in the under-current.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram dropped down on his knees at the water's edge -and then rolled over with his face hidden on his arm. He -lay so still that a golden lizard flashed out from the long -grass and lingered almost at his elbow and a water-hen -gliding down on to the breast of the water preened herself -in complacent security.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The patch of sunlight moved on. It left the lotus-flower -in an emerald shadow, and rested like a bright, watchful eye -on a patch of flaming poppies on the farther bank. The -silence deepened. Even the gentle parting of the -undergrowth behind the spot where Tristram slept brought no -sound. With a noiseless strength the lean hands of Vahana, -the Sadhu, pressed back the opposing branches. He came -forward so slowly, so stealthily, that the foliage seemed -rather to thin imperceptibly before him like a green mist, -leaving him at last unveiled on the fringe of the clearing. -Even then it was as though he had been there always, not -a man, not even living, but the dead twisted stump of some -tempest-riven tree.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the water-hen heard and saw him and rose with a -whirr of wings. The lizard flashed back into his hiding-place.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram did not stir. The emaciated, half-naked body -glided towards him and bent over him. For a long minute -Vahana remained thus, scrutinizing the half-hidden face -of the sleeper, then he stood upright, tossing the hair -from his wild eyes, his long, fleshless arms raised high -above his head, with a gesture that was as a salute to -some oncoming, resistless destiny. Then, in an instant, -he seemed to shrivel, his arm sank, and with one swift -glance about him he turned and vanished among the trees.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram awoke suddenly, but not completely. He rested -on his elbow, gazing at the blur of colour before him with -heavy eyes, then drew himself up and, with the clumsiness -of a drunken man, began to undress. Presently he slipped -into the quiet water; the circles widened about him, and -the lotus-flower rocked on the breast of the strange upheaval, -but after that the intruder scarcely moved. He became -as one of the giant weeds growing amidst the stones, -upborne by the water, himself inert and quiescent. His -head was thrown slightly back and his eyes had closed -again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Half an hour later, when he scrambled back on to the -bank, the agony of exhaustion had been washed from him. -He held himself upright to the air and sun, his body shining -white and splendid against the background of foliage, the -joy of life in every muscle, in every firm and graceful line. -Then, with a sigh of unutterable content, he began to dress -leisurely, retrieved a battered cigarette case and a box of -matches and crouched down, tailor fashion, amidst the -grasses. For a time he smoked peacefully, watching the -light changing on the water and the swift moving life that -hid in the shallows and darted out between the stones and -swaying weeds. The lizard, tempted by his quiet and -perhaps some luscious prospect of supper, wriggled out and -took grave stock of him, and he stared back as motionless -and absorbed, until the forgotten cigarette burnt him, when -he swore and the lizard vanished like a tiny golden streak -into its fastness. The man laughed to himself and dropped -back upon his elbow. A smile still lingered about his mouth, -but his eyes under the big square brows had forgotten their -amusement. They were fixed dreamily ahead, and what -they saw smoothed out the last lines of tension from his -features, and lent them a look of youth and tenderness. -And presently he dropped back, and, with his hands clasped -behind his head, stared up into the shadowing green, as -though whatever dream he conjured up had taken refuge -there.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He slept again, not heavily as before but on the border-land -of consciousness where thoughts break from their -moorings, and sail out into a magic, restless sea of change -whose bed lies littered with forgotten treasures. When -the thud of hoofs broke on the stillness a dream rose up -and shielded him, covering the sound with a fantastic -picture, so that he slept on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The patch of sunshine travelled upwards. It had forsaken -the poppies as it had left the lotus-flower, and rested -on the fair head of a woman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Though Tristram saw her he did not move.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stood scarcely five paces from him near an opening -in the trees. One hand rested on the bridle of a tired -horse, the other was lifted to her face, the forefinger to her -lips, half in reflection, half as though hushing her own -breathing. A pith helmet and the white coat of her -simple riding-habit were fastened carelessly to the pommel -of her saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stood quite motionless—as still and living as a bird -resting among the flowers. It was that wonderful, -restrained lightness in her that made her seem smaller and -more fragile than she was. Her hair, of a gold paler than -the sunlight and parted primly in the middle, waved down -smoothly on a forehead that was high and too domed for -beauty. Her face was small, more round than oval, with -small features, exquisitely imperfect, demure, and resolute. -There was something Victorian about her, and something -vitally modern. It was as though a Botticellian Madonna -had thrown off her serene and lovely foolishness and stepped -down into life with the mocking happy humour of a faun -at the corners of her fine lips and the wisdom of the world -in her eyes. And added to all this there was in her -expression an odd touch of an impersonal, aloof pity and -tenderness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stood there looking down at the man in the grass -with her subdued smile, and he stared back at her. Then -presently she spoke:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you do, Major Tristram? My name is -Fersen—Sigrid Fersen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know," he answered. His own voice seemed to -break a spell, for he shot up as though she had struck him, -his hand flying to the neck of his graceless, unbuttoned -collarless shirt. "I beg your pardon—I'm awfully sorry—I'd -been asleep—and day-dreaming—I thought you were -just—not real——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A sort of concrete vision?" she suggested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It sounds absurd, of course, but it wasn't an ordinary -sleep. In fact, barring today, I don't know when I slept -last. That makes a man queer——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Obviously." Her enigmatic kindly smile was like -sunshine on her demure gravity. "For instance, you -said 'I know' when I introduced myself." The blood -welled up under the man's brown skin, and she went on -lightly. "I saw you half an hour ago. The shade tempted -me—I was hot and tired. Fortunately I came quietly. -You had just come out of the water and stood there like -a young Beethoven—'this kiss to the whole world——'"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I felt like that," he stammered. "It just expresses -it—only——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course I went away at once," she said. "I felt -you would be disconcerted if you knew—possibly very -shocked. You may be now for all I know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked down at his right hand, and then, as though it -annoyed him, thrust it into his pocket.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he said, "I'm not."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't think you would be." She led her horse -down to the water, and, with accustomed fingers, unfastened -the bit. "Please sit down again, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He obeyed her instantly, and with his big hands clasped -about his knees watched her as she came towards him. The -blood was still dark in his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm wondering how you knew me," he said abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Gaya described you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He burst out into a big laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My word! Did Gaya tell you I usually went about -with nothing on or in these evil-smelling rags?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is enough that I recognized you," she said primly. -She added, as an after-thought: "They didn't tell me you -were so beautiful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Me—beautiful?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As far as your figure goes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And my face?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked at him whimsically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, not exactly." She slipped down into the long -grass beside him with an effortless, unconscious grace. -"We're rather like each other," she went on, "both of -us—how shall I say?—plain, and both of us quite lovely in -our way. A perfect body is worth more than a perfect nose."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he agreed. His voice sounded suddenly thick -and tired and he looked away from her. "You're not -alone, are you?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have been. I've a faithful syce waiting at the -bridge-head five miles up. He wouldn't come any farther. -Perhaps——" She studied his hard-set profile with -amused eyes. "Perhaps you're wishing I hadn't burst in -upon you, or perhaps you share Gaya's dismay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Was Gaya dismayed?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very. One or two are still. They thought I was -an adventuress, partly on account of the Rajah and partly -on account of my profession. And they were quite right." The -laughter died out of her. Her voice sounded grave -and eager. "I am an adventuress. I can't conceive -myself being anything else. To live is to explore an -unknown country, with every day a step forward. Some -people shrink from it and cringe at home, and when they're -taken by the scruff of the neck and flung out they're -frightened and helpless. I'm not like that—you're not. Even -my art was an adventure—the greatest. Every bar of -music, every step, every inspiration that came to me, was -like a mountain peak scaled and a new vista into a new -country. Do you understand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned to her, his sunken, red-rimmed eyes warm -with a generous, almost passionate sympathy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can understand your feeling like that—I do too, -in my way, especially out here. Out here nothing lasts. -Every day brings change—the very trees and flowers and -fields and forests—I don't know how it is—one says -good-night to them and in the morning it's as though new -friends had taken their place—people whom one had to -study and wonder at—and then——" He turned away -from her again and stared down at his strong -hands—"anything can happen—the most wonderful, impossible -things——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not answer him. When she spoke again it was -after a long silence and more lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't believe you're an official at all," she said. -"You don't talk like one. You haven't asked me what -business I have here or tell me that I am a danger to myself -and a nuisance to everyone else. Why haven't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I forgot," he answered quietly. "For one thing, I -knew you were not afraid, and people who are not afraid -have nothing to fear. And besides that, the infection -is over in Heerut. The poor beggars are either -underground or isolated miles away. I did that 'on my own,' -and I expect there'll be lots of trouble about it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've had a bad time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said simply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Compton told me. I was immensely interested, -and made up my mind to call on you. The 'lone fight' -has always thrilled me. I don't care whether the fighter -is a murderer or a hero so long as he fights against odds."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I'm not a criminal or a hero," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't tell. We're all potentially one or the -other—or both."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He seemed on the verge of protest, but, looking at her, -dropped to silence. She leant forward, her chin in the -palm of her hand, and he saw that she smiled to herself, her -eyes intent on the shadowy water.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doesn't Brahma sleep in the heart of that lotus-flower, -Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He did once—so they say. And it is the lotus-flower -which encloses our world. When the pink-tipped petals -open then it is dawn with us." He hesitated, and then -added with a shy laugh, "Shall I fetch it for you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, why spoil it? It is loveliest where it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I know—but if you had wished it——" He -broke off. "Somehow I'm glad you didn't," he said -almost inaudibly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The quiet rose up between them. It was like a mist, -veiling them from each other with a drowsy peace. When -she spoke again her voice sounded gay but subdued.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Major Tristram, I'm disappointed—I meant to drop on -like a bombshell—and here you sit next me as though -it was the sort of thing you had done all your life. You -don't even bother to talk to me. Do you think we were -married in our last pilgrimage?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man turned his head away from her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anything seems possible, here," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Even hunger," she suggested gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hunger?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The dreamy unreality which had sunk upon them dissolved, -letting through the light of every-day facts. She -laughed at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">I'm</em><span> hungry. I haven't eaten anything since dawn, -and I didn't bring food because Mrs. Compton said you -practically lived here. I was sure—after the first -skirmish—that you'd ask me to tea."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was on his feet now—less with eagerness than with a -half-angry consternation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Compton misled you——" he began hotly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She didn't—she didn't know I was coming. Are you -going to let me starve?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I </span><em class="italics">do</em><span> live here," he went on stammeringly, "but in a -native hovel like the rest of them. I can't take you there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?" Her eyes were mocking, her lips pursed -into a demure, ironic challenge. "Don't you want to?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not that——" His opposition collapsed and he -faltered like a boy. "Only—well, I daresay you know -what they call me—Tristram the Hermit. It's because -I've had to live alone so much. No one comes out here. -I've got accustomed to it. I'm like a miser with my -loneliness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then I had better go," she said gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—not now. I want you to come. You'll -understand better——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bridled her horse and brought it to her. For a -moment they looked at each other with a steadiness in -which there was a vague antagonism. Then the man -stooped, hiding his face, and placed his hands for her to -mount. She scarcely seemed to touch them. He looked -up into her small face, flushed now with an eager colour. -"You are lighter than the leaf on the wind," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed, but her laugh was more meditative than gay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you, Major Tristram, are a poet in the wilderness," -she answered.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="broken-sanctuary"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">BROKEN SANCTUARY</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>He walked beside her, his hand light on her bridle, -and silently they made their way through the long grass, -along the banks of the grey, wide flowing river, past the -temple, and into the empty village streets. Only once did -she speak to him, bending slightly towards him in her -saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have been wondering what your name is," she said, -"your other name. I've been trying to fit you with one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded, and she repeated the name thoughtfully -under her breath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's a curious repetition——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, my mother liked it. It's the only thing we've -ever quarrelled about. I tell her she suffered from lack of -imagination, and that she took a mean advantage over my -helplessness. What could anybody expect of a Tristram -Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And yet it suits you somehow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not flattered," he answered laughing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The magic sunlight had gone and the low thatched huts -were grey and sordid in the rising tide of shadow. Here -and there a golden patch lingered palely, and the council-tree -at the cross-roads blazed in the full flood from the west.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is my home," Tristram said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The hut from the outside was not different from its -fellows, save for the big windows that had been cut in the -mud wall. The rough wooden doors stood open. Sigrid -Fersen slipped out of her saddle and for a moment he -barred her path. "You won't let me go forward to prepare -the way?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I want to see what you are like, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's as though I made you a confession," he said -unevenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am woman enough to want to hear it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood aside and she passed through the low doorway. -At other times the contrast to the foetid street outside -must have been overwhelming, but even now the dwelling's -cool monastic purity arrested her on the threshold. A -curtained doorway appeared to lead into a second apartment. -There was scarcely any furniture—a chair, a table, -a couple of Persian rugs on the uneven floor, a pile of -cushions heaped into a divan against the wall. Nothing -on the walls. Yet the old, exquisitely shaded rugs were -probably priceless, and all the art and mysterious symbolism -of India had gone into the carving of the great chair whose -high back was Brahma the Creator and whose wide arms -were pictured with strange fantasies of the Avatars. As -her eyes grew accustomed to the twilight the woman saw -beyond this dignity to details that brought a sudden -laugh to her lips. A yellow ball that looked like a spotted -St. Bernard pup rolled yelping off the cushions, displaying -its teeth and a bandaged paw, and thereby rousing its -bedfellow—a common English tabby, who stretched itself, -threw an offhand curse at its disturber, then advanced -arching its back and purring stormily. Sigrid bent down -to stroke him, but he passed on with the crushing disdain -of his race and rubbed himself against Tristram's leg.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's Tim," Tristram explained. "He has a wife, -but she's probably out hunting. To tell the truth, she -does most of the work. There were half a dozen kittens, -but they died, worse luck. Couldn't stand the heat."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anything else?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wickie isn't here. And Arabella. Laid up, both of them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And pray what is Wickie and what is Arabella?" she -persisted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">I</em><span> call Wickie a dog and Arabella a horse," he answered -solemnly, "but I'm told the matter is open to dispute. -Wickie's boarding out with Miss Boucicault."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, Anne Boucicault!" She echoed the name with an -amused inflection of her quiet voice. "An odd little -person who detests me. And she is so touchingly -conscientious about it. Not in the least spiteful, only very -religious and full of doubts and scruples——" She made -a little gesture which seemed to brush Anne Boucicault -into nothingness. "Go on with your menagerie, Major -Tristram. Introduce that terrifying little growl-box."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He picked up the yellow ball by the scruff of its neck -and offered up his fist to the ineffectual first teeth as a -sacrifice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A cheetah cub. I found him on the edge of the forest -with his paw broken. He's nearly all right now, and will -be able to go home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And start his criminal career," she suggested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh well, that's the risk the world runs every time a new -infant is brought into it," he retorted. But he had become -suddenly embarrassed, almost guilty-looking, and, after -one glance at him from quizzical brows, she changed the -subject.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I at liberty to inspect, Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must do whatever you wish." He stood at the -entrance to the hut and watched her as she crossed straightway -to the writing-table. His face, now in shadow, was -set in grim resolution. There were two large photographs -on the table, and one of these she picked up and held to -the light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A fine old face—your mother, Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he assented briefly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She must be very beautiful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think she is," he answered, with a sudden relaxing of -his strained features.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not a bit like you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He feigned a rueful discontent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not a bit. I always tell her that she was jealous, and -wouldn't spare me so much as one good feature."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whereat, I hope, she boxes your ears for your -ingratitude, you mortal with the perfect body!" She -replaced the picture regretfully. "And this——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She broke off. It became very still in the low-roofed -room. Even the cheetah had ceased its infant growlings -as though it felt the tension in the quiet about him. -Tristram threw back his head, his chin thrust out, and did not -speak. Suddenly she turned to him. Her lips were parted, -in a wide, eager smile that was like a child's. Impulsively, -ingenuously, she held out her ungloved hand to him, palm -downwards.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that your confession, Tristram Tristram!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For one instant he wavered, the next he was at her side, -had taken her hand and bowed over it and kissed it. Then -he stood back, defiant, trembling, like a man who has -committed a world-staggering enormity. But to her, it -seemed, nothing had happened, nothing that she had not -willed and desired. Still smiling, she turned away from -him and, seating herself in the high-backed chair, placed the -photograph where she could see it best. Then she became -intent, absorbed. The brief incident and the man who -watched her waveringly seemed to have been swallowed -up in something greater, some passionate feeling. Without -a word he left her and she did not hear him go. It was -only when he returned presently and placed a cup and -saucer before her that she looked up, colouring faintly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A poet in the wilderness and now Worcester! Major -Tristram, I begin to think you are a rather strange and -wonderful doctor!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled with frank pleasure in her pleasure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I love beautiful things," he said. "I fancy they are -to me what wine is to some men. I'm like my mother in -that. She understands. She saved and saved to buy me -that cup. There's a teapot—not to match—I hate -sets—but equally lovely. You shall see it when the water -boils."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the chair—and these rugs! I know a Park Lane -plutocrat who would sell his greasy soul for them. Was -that your mother too?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, the rugs are a gift from Lalloo the money-lender. -His baby son had a bout of something or other, but got -over it, and Lalloo wanted to shower blessings on -somebody. He knows the markets for rare things and I have a -shrewd, painful suspicion that he used unholy forces of -financial coercion to get hold of these. Ayeshi carved the -chair for me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is Ayeshi a wood-pecker, or what?" she asked gaily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed with her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—my aide-de-camp, orderly, servant, friend, all in -one. Rather a wonderful sort of person. Heaven alone -knows where he came from. He was brought to me by -the man who 'owned' him, he was suffering from snakebite, -and after the cure he stuck to me. Nobody minded. -The people he lived with were afraid of him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I don't know—he wasn't of their caste—any one -could see that. He is a Brahmin of the Brahmins, and -believes in his gods. There isn't anything so disconcerting -to conventional religionists as genuine belief." Tristram -was on his way to the door of the inner room. He -stopped a moment and looked back at her. "And he can -tell the most wonderful stories," he went on slowly, as -though overtaken by some memory. "One day you must -listen to him as I do—by the firelight, with night overhead."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall come," she answered deliberately. "And I -shall see the snake-bite on his arm and think of the story -of the man who saved him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram had gone. She laughed a little and then fell to -her old brooding contemplation of the picture at her elbow. -But when he returned with the promised teapot and a -plate of sandwiches she pushed it impatiently from her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me, Major Tristram, are you glad I've broken into -your sanctuary?" she asked abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He poured her tea out for her with a hand that shook a -little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's ungracious, Major Tristram. But you're -altogether unexpected. Even this room-it's not a man's -room. Where are your guns, your skins, your trophies?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked about him, flushing to the roots of his fair, -untidy hair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I haven't got any—I never had a gun of my own. -I've got an Army pistol somewhere in the kitchen, but it's -got rusty and I don't know what would happen if I fired -it." He put the sandwiches near to her and then stalked -across to the doorway and sat down cross-legged on the -rug, his irregular profile cut sharply against the light. "I -can't kill things," he said doggedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on, Major Tristram. I am getting almost excited. -A man who can't kill things!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He heard the irony in her voice and winced, but did not -look at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh—I know it's ridiculous—laughable. Compton says -I'm a sentimentalist—a freak. I can't help it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it a theory—Tolstoyism, Jainism——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I haven't any theories—it's just instinct—perhaps a -kind of revulsion. My father was the finest shot in the -Indian Army. Once when I was in Scotland I killed a -stag. I felt—beastly—like a sort of cowardly criminal -who couldn't be punished and knew it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Still go on. Tell me more. I came here to get to -know you, Major Tristram, and I am a spoilt woman. -Yes, you are a freak. I want to know how freaks originate. -Tell me—no, not about your father—I have a fancy he was -not freakish—but your mother——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stiffened, averting his head, his brows stern.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My mother is different——" he began proudly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have known me so long," she interrupted, "did -you think I meant to joke at her? Haven't you -understood better than that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned. Twilight had begun to invest them both. In -the great carved chair among the shadows she looked -almost luminous, a white spirit neither of heaven nor earth, -aloof and radiant in fairy immortality and serene with a -wisdom high above the man's painful plodding. Seeing -her, he caught his breath; the anger passed from his face, -leaving it with a curious look of bewilderment and pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sorry——" he said unevenly. "Of course I -ought to have known. But I am a heavy, unpresentable -fellow—rather ridiculous too—and I didn't want you to -think I was like her." He turned away again, his eyes -intent on the dark strong hands clasped about his knees. -"As to my antecedents, there isn't much to tell. My father -was a Captain in the Indian Army. He was killed out here -in Gaya when I was a baby. No one ever found out how -it happened. My mother was in England at the time. She -had nothing but her pension. She starved herself to keep -me fit and give me my chance." He broke off sharply. -"I'd rather not talk about that. It means a responsibility -that would be intolerable if I wasn't so proud of it—it -would be awful to fail a woman who had starved for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can understand that, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He seemed to listen a moment as though to an echo of -her low voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All my people had been in the Indian Army," he went -on. "I knew I should make a dismal failure of soldiering. -It seemed to me—it's my nearest approach to a theory—that -it's a man's business to make life more tolerable—not -to destroy it. So I compromised with the I.M.S. And -here I am."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A hermit!" She leant forward, with her chin resting -in the palm of her hand. "Is that also part of your law -of life, Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have my work," he answered. "It's a huge district, -and I've got to be at it all the time. It is my life. But -I'm a queer cuss—I have other thoughts too—absurd -daydreams. I'm alone so much that it's natural enough—and -if I came much among men and women I should be -afraid——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—that the vision might become concrete." She waited -a moment—"or fail you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—not that. But since I have got to be alone always -I mustn't want anything too badly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She got up suddenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is getting late," she said. "I promised to be at -the bridge-head by nine. Mr. Radcliffe, who is in the -adventure, meets me there and escorts me back to safety. -We should be home by midnight, and tomorrow Gaya -will have a new scandal. Mr. Radcliffe is very young. He -will be so pleased."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will come with you as far as the bridge-head," Tristram -returned gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had expected nothing less."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For all her change of tone the suspense which had crept -in upon them with the twilight remained unbroken. It lay -upon the man like a quivering hand. As he led her horse -through the black streets it vibrated on the hot obscurity. -They came out on to the plain and it was there also, at his -throat, suffocating him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The full moon hung low on the horizon like a silver lamp. -There was nothing hid from it. It revealed and transfigured -fantastically; the very blades of the high-standing -grass were drawn in separate delicate lines of shadow, but -they did not look like grass. The great river flooded -through the darkness—an endless winding army of ghosts -whose murmur was never still.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen looked down at the man beside her. As -distance brings out the significance of a rough sketch, so -now the grey half-light threw into relief lines and hollows -of his face which she had not seen before. They were as -vigorous and ugly as they had ever been, yet their silhouette -under the helmet rim conveyed to her a new impression—the -thought of something chivalresque and simple, mystic -and single-hearted—a Pure Fool on the Threshold of his -Quest. She bent towards him, stroking her horse's neck -with a gentle hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I too have a theory, Tristram Tristram," she -said, as though there had been no silence between them. -"It is this—that there can be no going back for any of us. -We climb from experience to experience, and grow or shrivel -as our experience is a high or low one. There was a man -sleeping by the backwater. He is gone, and in his place -you walk beside me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why should I not be the man by the backwater?" he -asked. "He knew you also."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Since when?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Since two years ago."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me how he met me—I have forgotten."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You never knew," he answered. "It was his last -night in England. He had said good-bye to all he -cared for, and he felt pretty bad. He knew what -lay ahead of him—lonely, hard years and perhaps -no return. So he did what he had never done before, -because money and pleasure had not come his way—he -took himself and his pain into a theatre. And there he -saw you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well—and then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's all. There was wonderful music, and you -explained it to him. You showed him a new beauty that he -had never dreamed of, you unlocked a door, and he entered -a new world. When it was over he got up and left the -theatre. He behaved like a boy—he went and stood by -the river until day broke."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the photograph."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He bought it to take with him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled to herself, tenderly, ironically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It did not occur to him to ask for my autograph—to -seek me out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, then you would have been a reality to him—an -unattainable reality. He wanted you as a dream he could -live with and conjure up at will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As he did by the backwater."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes." He pointed out towards the grey bulk of the -temple lying against the forest. His voice lost its habitual -unevenness, and grew full and clear. "One thing you -danced—do you remember?—the ballet in </span><em class="italics">Robert le Diable</em><span>? -The scene was a churchyard—an ugly thing of cardboard -and clumsy carpentering until you came. But out there is -a real temple. At night the moon plays through the great -sun-window of the </span><em class="italics">sikhara</em><span> and fills the space between the -pillars. And I have gone there at night-time and seen you -dance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall you go again, Tristram Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—I don't know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They went on in silence. There was no sound but the -song of the water and the swish of the grass at their feet. -Presently she drew rein.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We are near the bridge; I can hear voices, and I want -to say good-bye to you now. I want to thank you. I have -made my experience, and climbed higher."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked up at her with a wistful smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know about that—I don't know what I have -done. I do know that I have grown frightened for you. -I've been thinking of infection and cheetahs on the home -road and all the horrors I don't believe in. I wish I could -go with you to Gaya."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is nothing to fear, Tristram Tristram. And you -will come to Gaya tomorrow or the next day or next week -and I shall play to you Beethoven, Chopin, Brahms—all -the most wonderful music in the world. I shall open new -doors for you and new worlds——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's cholera out in Bjura."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Still you will come——" she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her hand touched his. Then she was gone—a speck of -moving light—into the darkness.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="anne-boucicault-explains"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">ANNE BOUCICAULT EXPLAINS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was Anne Boucicault's birthday—her twenty-second—and -Owen Meredith had proposed her health in lemonade—a -beverage which he was assured had no unlucky superstition -attached to it. The rest responded in champagne. -It was not Colonel Boucicault's champagne, though it was -on his verandah that Gaya had gathered to celebrate. -Jim Radcliffe, who, since his midnight ride with Sigrid -and the consequent hubbub, had developed into a very -debonair and self-confident young man, had produced -a case-full with the satisfaction and mystery of a popular -conjurer, and Mrs. Boucicault showed neither offence nor -appreciation at this addition to her hospitality. She -sat in the shade near the doorway and scarcely spoke. -From time to time her hand rose involuntarily to the -high collar which had been added to her elaborate gown, -and rested there as though it hid something painful. When -a remark reached her a fitful smile quivered about her -lips steadied to artificial gaiety. But her pale eyes were -wide and unsmiling, their sight turned inwards on to -some ugly vision, and never lifted from their unseeing -watch on the avenue leading to the high-road. Anne sat on -the arm of her chair and held her hand. She looked very -young, and, whilst Meredith spoke, almost radiant. He -had seen the colour creep back into her pale cheeks, and had -become gay and eloquent and a little reckless. For all the -lemonade, and the little chilly mannerisms of his calling, he -was a passionate young man, and the sight of her fragile -pleasure roused in him a fierce pity and tenderness. He -betrayed himself, and did not know it. Afterwards, when -he came and touched her long-stemmed glass with his -tumbler, he lingered, looking down at her, his hazel eyes -bright with a new purpose and an old hope suddenly and -daringly set free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne—dear—before I go tonight I have something I -want to say to you. Give me a chance, will you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She met his eager gaze for an instant, and then her own -eyes faltered and dropped. She looked startled, a little -frightened, like a child that has been taken unawares, but -her colour remained unchanged.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course—we shall be going into the garden. Come -with me. I will show you our new rose-trees."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you," he answered. He stood back, others -crowded to take his place, and she received their good -wishes much as she had received him, with a shy graciousness -that made her appealingly attractive. Only when -Sigrid Fersen held out her glass she stiffened, and grew -suddenly much older. It was as though for an instant they -had changed places, and the girl had become the woman -defending herself coldly and bitterly against the threat of -youth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I can wish you nothing better than that you should -always have some one like Mr. Meredith to wish you so -much good, with so much fervour," Sigrid said lightly. -She turned her head towards the man standing behind Anne -Boucicault's chair, and her eyes in the shade of the big -garden hat sparkled with subdued merriment and kindly -mockery. "Tell me, is Mr. Meredith so eloquent in the -pulpit?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You should hear him for yourself," Anne replied -staidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But then, I never go to church."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is a pity." She flushed a little, her mouth small -and tight-looking. "It is especially a pity out here—because -of the natives. But then, of course, you haven't -our responsibility."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith frowned slightly, not at Anne's words, but at -the expression which he saw pass over the small face -opposite him. It was still kindly, but the merriment had -become ironic. Up to that moment he had felt nothing -very definite towards her, recognizing, with an unclerical -modesty, that he did not understand her. Now he thrilled -with an odd dislike.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm afraid my eloquence won't cure Miss Fersen's -backsliding," he said, hurriedly good-humoured. "And, -in the meantime, behold a new arrival, breathless with -congratulations."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The new arrival proved to be Wickie, escaped from the -compound, who bounced up the verandah steps and -advanced among the scattered tables practising the -ingratiating squirm with which the Aberdeen masks his real -impertinence. He was received with acclamation, partly -for his master's sake, partly as a tribute to his own -irresistible ugliness. Anne whistled timidly to him, but he -ignored her and sniffed at Sigrid's outstretched hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's almost as though he knew you," Anne said sharply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, we know of each other at any rate, don't we, -Wickie?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How?" The question was rude in its abruptness and -Anne's manners were always very gentle. Sigrid Fersen -did not look at her. She bent down and balanced a generous -portion of cake on Wickie's hopeful snout.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Major Tristram told me about him," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But Major Tristram has not been in Gaya since you -arrived."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nevertheless, we have met." She glanced across at -Radcliffe who chuckled with boyish self-consciousness. -"I paid Major Tristram a visit," she added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At Heerut?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, we had tea there—but we met by the river. -Major Tristram had been bathing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne Boucicault sat very straight and still and hard-eyed. -Meredith saw that her hands were clenched so that -they were white at the knuckles, and again he felt the -passing of a sudden emotion which was this time a mingling -of inexplicable pain and dread.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That must have been an unusual—dangerous adventure," -Anne uttered from between stiff lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had hoped that it might be—it proved to be nothing -but a very agreeable afternoon," was the answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The dialogue passed unnoticed. Mrs. Brabazone was -telling one of her only three stories, and trying to sort out -the point. Gaya listened and waited reverently, and -Mrs. Brabazone, being possessed of a fine sense of her own total -lack of humour, finished with a round fat laugh which -added a perfecting touch to her rotund figure and -creaseless, elderly face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anyhow, I do amuse you," she said triumphantly. -"Nobody amuses you like I do. I don't believe you could -get on without me. One of these days I shall have that -story right, and then you'll see that it was worth waiting -for it. You know, I always mix it up with the one about the -Lancashire woman who——" She stopped, her mouth -agape. "What on earth was that?" she demanded sharply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Firing," Mary Compton answered. She raised herself -from her comfortable lounging attitude on the long chair, -and leant forward with a curious expression on her alert -face. "What was it, Mr. Radcliffe?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The boy got up hurriedly, ostensibly to refill his -neighbour's empty glass. His fresh-coloured face, not yet -burnt with the Indian sun, had turned a dull red.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I don't know," he said. "Some silly ass over in -the barracks. A rifle gone off by mistake. Or a sentry. -The sentries have taken to firing at their own shadows."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It may have been at the barracks," Mrs. Compton -pursued, "but that wasn't a rifle, Jim Radcliffe. It was -a squad firing, and you know it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And how do you know?" Mrs. Brabazone broke in. -"Sometimes, Mary, I feel that you can't be really nice. -You do know such dreadfully unwomanly things."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was shut up in Chitral with Archie when the regiment -mutinied," Mrs. Compton retorted coolly. "I learnt to -know the meaning of every sound—even to the snapping of -a twig under a naked foot."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Brabazone shook herself like a dog throwing off a -douche of cold water.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear, don't! You're trying to insinuate that we -are on the verge of being murdered in our beds, and I know -it perfectly well. I tell the Judge so every night, and he -says he's sure I shall die of a broken heart if I have to go off -peacefully. But then——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her voice trailed off. For once her headlong garrulity -failed to evoke a response, and the little group of men and -women sat silent, avoiding each other's eyes. It was very -still again. A drowsy late afternoon peace hung over the -shady garden at their feet. Yet the sound which had -fallen lingered among them like a long-drawn-out echo.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They lived lightly and gaily, these people of Gaya, most -blessed of Indian stations. Polo and tennis, a drag-hunt -here and there, a constant happy-go-lucky exchange of -hospitality, a close fraternity which allowed for scandal -and malice and all uncharitableness, and never failed at a -pinch. And then for an instant a rift—a glimpse down -into the thinly crusted abyss on which they danced—a -tightening of the lips, a laugh, a call for a new tune, a fine -carrying-on of their life with the secret knowledge that -their pleasure and their brotherhood was other and greater -than they had thought.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton broke the silence. Her voice sounded -light and careless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think we're going to die just yet, anyhow," she -said; "there's Colonel Boucicault. Perhaps he will -condescend to tell us what Mr. Radcliffe won't." She gave the -latter one of those penetrating glances which made her a -rather dreaded little personality, and immediately afterwards, -catching sight of Mrs. Boucicault's face she flushed -crimson. It was, as she afterwards expressed it, as though -she had been caught eavesdropping or prying into a -confession not meant for her reading. For Mrs. Boucicault had -sunk together like a faded flower whose stem had been -snapped. The elaborate lace dress and the jewelled hands -in her lap added painfully to her look of broken helplessness. -But it was in her eyes that Mary Compton had seen her -self-betrayal. They were half-closed, and from under -the heavy lids they kept watch as a dog watches who has -been beaten past protest, even past subjection into a -terrible patient waiting. She pushed her daughter's hand -aside, and Anne smiled down at her with an attempt at -careless ease which had its own piteousness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Colonel Boucicault came up the verandah steps, his hand -to his helmet with that exaggerated formality which made -the greeting a veiled gibe.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I trust I don't interrupt," he said. "Anne is -celebrating, isn't she? I heard whispers of something of the -sort, but I was not invited. In fact, I suspect that the -entertainment was fixed for the afternoon in the hopes -that my duties might keep me elsewhere."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He accepted the chair which his subaltern had vacated -for him. "Thanks, Radcliffe, always the soul of correctness, -and ever to be found where there is nothing more -arduous going than champagne. Well, what are you all -silent for? Mrs. Brabazone, you are positively pale. Has -anything happened?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Brabazone waved one of her podgy hands with a -gesture that was probably an expression of an otherwise -inarticulate rage. Boucicault laughed at her. Whether -he had been drinking or not could not be said for certain. -He never betrayed himself. His hands and his voice were -equally steady. His complexion, sallow and unhealthy, -added to the unnatural brightness of his pale eyes, which, -like the mouth under the heavy moustache, expressed a -deliberate, insane cruelty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne Boucicault met his roving stare and tried to smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We heard firing," she stammered. "We didn't know -what it was. We were rather frightened."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Frightened? Of course you were. You're given that -way, aren't you, Anne?" He held out an irritable hand -for the glass which Meredith had filled for him. "Well, you -weren't the only one. Five more terrified wretches I never -saw—why, I can't think. A transmigration at this time -of the year must be rather agreeable."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton turned her head sharply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The five men who mutinied," she exclaimed, "they -were shot—-just now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Though the sunlight was still strong the garden seemed -to have suddenly passed into a chilling shadow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Colonel Boucicault nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, before the whole regiment with the exception of -this gentleman who had—what was it—the toothache?" He -lifted his glass towards Radcliffe, whose boyish face had -whitened under the taunt. "Allow me to congratulate -you on your taste in champagne, sir. You should be -invaluable on the mess committee at any rate."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Radcliffe's lips twitched but he made no answer, and -it was Sigrid Fersen who spoke. She bent down, stroking -Wickie's pointed ears with a deliberate hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wasn't the execution a trifle ostentatious, Colonel -Boucicault?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stared back at her, an ugly smile at the corner of his -lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was meant to be ostentatious. I'm afraid I cannot -always consider the delicate female nerves."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My nerves weren't upset," she returned levelly. "I'm -not afraid of anything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Indeed?" He seemed to meditate a moment, as -though something either in her voice or appearance struck -him, then jerked his head in Anne's direction. "My -orderly told me there was a messenger for me. Bring him -here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Here, father?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was what I said."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne slipped from her place, and, motioning Meredith -aside, hurried into the house like some frightened little -animal. As she disappeared Mary Compton started a -conversation which was taken up eagerly but without more -than a faltering success. It failed altogether as Anne -returned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's Ayeshi," Radcliffe whispered in Sigrid's ear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked up. The young Hindu had salaamed gravely, -partly to Boucicault, partly to the assembled company -and now stood upright and silent. He was barefooted, and -the white loose clothes were grey with dust. Yet there was -that in the carriage of his slender body and in the dark, -delicate featured face which was arresting in its dignity. -To Boucicault, possibly, the boy's untroubled ease appeared -as insolence. He frowned at him moodily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are Major Tristram's servant," he asked in English.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, he has not taught you manners. But that was -hardly to be expected. You have brought a message?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Deliver it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is by word of mouth, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, then, deliver it, in Heaven's name."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi put his hand to his neck, pushing back the short -black curls which escaped from under his turban. He -seemed to become suddenly conscious of the attention -centred on him, and his eyes, moving over the watching -faces, encountered Sigrid Fersen. He looked at her intently -and then at the dog at her feet, and she saw that his lips -quivered though not with fear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is that there is cholera at Bjura," he said. "The -Dakktar Sahib is hard pressed, and begs for help."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is always doing that. Tell him I have no one to -send. Captain Treves is on furlough, and I should not -dream of recalling him. The Dakktar Sahib must manage -as best he can."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi held his ground. His mouth had hardened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Dakktar Sahib is ill," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, let the physician heal himself," Boucicault -laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Colonel Sahib—it is urgent——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault rose to his feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can go," he said. Then, as Ayeshi lingered, with -a suddenness that was awful in its expression of released -passions, Boucicault lifted his hand and struck the native -full on the mouth. "Now will you go?" he said softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Brabazone screamed, but her voice was drowned -wholly by a more full-throated sound. Wickie, barking -furiously and bristling with all the fighting fury of his -Scottish forbears, broke from a long restraint and flung -himself at the aggressor. Even his teeth, however, could -not prevail against the leather riding-boots, and Boucicault -kicked himself free. His passion had died down or had -become something worse, a cold still fury.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What brute is this?" he asked. He looked at Anne, -and she tried to meet his eyes and flinched.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's Major Tristram's dog—he gave it to me to take -care of—it had a broken paw—it was shut up in the -compound—I hoped you wouldn't mind, father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault made no answer. He took the riding-crop -which he had carried. There was a tight line about his -jaw which betrayed the grinding teeth. He was very -deliberate, almost ostentatious in his purpose. Anne -watched him. She held out a hand of protest—then let -it drop. Her pallor had become pitiful. Sigrid Fersen -got up. She was so swift and light in her movement that -no one realised what she was doing till it was done. She -crossed the verandah and picked up Wickie in her arms, -narrowly escaping the murderous descent of the -riding-crop. Then she rose and faced him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I like Wickie," she said. "From henceforward, Colonel -Boucicault, he is under my protection."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault drew back. His face was grey looking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have some courage, Mademoiselle," he said almost -inaudibly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled composedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am not 'Mademoiselle,' and you know it, Colonel -Boucicault. Also, as I said before, I am not afraid. I -killed a mad dog once, and since than I have been afraid -of nothing." She turned carelessly. Ayeshi stood behind -her. There was blood on his mouth and on the hand which -he had raised in self-defence. His eyes were full of a sick -suffering which was terrible because it was not of the body. -She laid her free hand on his arm. "You are hurt," she -said; "please go to my bungalow. Mrs. Smithers will look -after you—tell her I sent you. You mustn't mind what -has happened——" She looked back mockingly over her -shoulder. "Colonel Boucicault is a little out of temper. -He would hit me if he dared."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a silence of sheer stupefaction. Mrs. Compton's -temperament, usually leashed by her passionate care -for her husband's career, bolted with her, and she laughed -outright, and Mrs. Brabazone settled herself back in her -chair with a subdued complacency of one who has seen -herself fitly avenged. But Anne Boucicault had risen to -her feet. There was a look on her face more painful than -her fear, and almost reckless in its self-betrayal. For an -instant she stood looking at the woman who faced her -father, and then without a word she turned and slipped -into the room behind her. Meredith followed. He did -not speak to her. He knew where she was going, and the -knowledge gave him an odd comfort, as though in her need -she had remembered him and turned to him. Like a -shadow she glided along the dim passages. The verandah -overlooking the rose-garden was deserted and the garden -itself already full of a cool twilight which added to its sad -air of neglect and death. Roses grew well in Gaya, but -they did not grow well in Anne's garden. She loved them -but not successfully. Meredith stood beside her as she -lay huddled together on the old bench and waited. Though -she was so still he felt that she was crying and the -knowledge stirred him to a compassion that was not one of -understanding. In truth he understood as yet very -little—the mere surface of her grief. Presently he sat down -beside her and drew her hand gently and resolutely from -her face. It was wet with tears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne!" he said unsteadily. "Little Anne!" Loyally -unselfish and modest though he was, yet at that moment -he accused himself of a tender insincerity as though his -grief and pity were masks covering his own happiness. -The thing for which he had longed and prayed had come -to pass, so swiftly and splendidly that in his warm faith he -seemed to recognize the hand of the God he prayed to. -"You mustn't grieve so," he whispered. "People -understand—and we are all your friends. We know too what -this country can do with a man's character—we can make -allowances. And then, dear, no harm was done. Miss -Fersen saved the situation for us all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She withdrew her hand slowly and looked at him -then, in spite of her girl's tears and the veiling -twilight, he wondered at the unyouthfulness of her -expression.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I suppose she did. She saved Wickie. She was -very brave."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought so too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And yet I hate her." She made a quick gesture, -silencing his involuntary protest. "I hate her—not -wickedly. There is a hatred which isn't wicked—the kind -of thing we feel for what is harmful and evil. I've tested -myself over and over again. I know—I feel that she -isn't a good woman—she has no faith, no ideals. She has -done harm in Gaya already—she sticks at nothing—and -because of that she wins, and people yield to her and let -her poison them. That is why I hate her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man beside her was silent for a moment. He had no -answer ready. He had felt nothing for Sigrid Fersen save -a masculine admiration for her cool courage. Anne's -passionate dislike, compared to what he hoped was coming -to them both, seemed a little thing and yet it chilled him. -The cold shadows of the neglected garden laid hands upon -him, checking and paralysing the headlong impulse and -joyous confidence with which men win victories. With an -effort he tried to free himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You may be right," he said quietly, "I don't know. -I'm no judge of character. But the truth is, I haven't -thought about her. I haven't thought of any but the one -woman—of any one but you, Anne." He paused a -moment. He no longer dared to look at her, but leant -forward, his hands tightly interlocked, his eyes fixed on the -on-coming tide of darkness. He did not know that his -voice shook. "Anne, I haven't dared boast to myself—and -yet we have been so happy together—we love the same -things and have the same faith; we look at life with the -same eyes. All that is surely something. As to myself—God -knows how little I have to give you—but I won't -apologize for the rest—not for my work. That is the -grandest, best thing I have to offer. I know you think so -too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Owen." She put her small, unsteady hand on his -arm. And for a second hope blazed up in him, dying down -again to grey premonition. "And you weren't boastful to -think I cared—I do—but not like that, Owen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something impersonal within himself marvelled at the -banality of tragedy. People made fun of scenes like -this—caricatured them. And he was sick with pain and -weakness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Little Anne—you're so young—how should you know?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do know," she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he looked at her, driven out of himself by the -simplicity and strength of her confession. She held herself -upright and even though her face was full of shadow he -could see the line of her mouth and it frightened him. -He knew now what he had always refused to know. -Ruthlessly, from the secret depths where we bury our hated -truths, he drew out a memory and a fear and recognized -them for what they were. The recognition was the end of -the one hope of personal happiness he had granted himself, -and it staggered him. Then the man and the Christian in -him rose triumphant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I won't pretend I don't guess," he said quietly and -naturally. "I do. And, Anne, though I was selfish -enough to want you myself—still, there was one thing I -did want more. It isn't a phrase—it's honestly true. I -wanted you to be happy. I think you will be—I think -you are—so I haven't the right to grumble, have I?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He tried to smile at her. Commonplace as his form of -renunciation had been, he was not conscious now of any -banality either in himself or her. He stood on that rarely -ascended pinnacle whence men look down on their daily -life and see in its tortuous monotony the weaving of a divine -pattern. He felt for the instant glorified as some men are -who stand before a miracle of nature, or a great picture, or -listen to grand music. It was his vision of the -Beautiful—willing sacrifice, happy renunciation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Anne Boucicault got up and stood beside him, very -straight, her hands clenched at her sides.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am not happy," she said. "I do not think I ever -shall be."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And she left him standing there in the twilight, a very -human and tragic figure, with the grey ash of his vision -between his hands.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Such was Anne Boucicault's birthday. Mrs. Compton, -driving home from the scene of celebration, met her husband -at the barrack gates and forced the reins upon him in -order that she might give herself over entirely to invective -and lurid description, two pastimes for which she had an -unlimited talent. Archie Compton chuckled at her picture -of Sigrid's dramatic and triumphant intervention, but his -chuckle was not all that she had expected, and she caught -herself up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What a brute I am!" she exclaimed repentantly. "I -had forgotten. You poor old boy! You must be feeling -sick——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am," he returned grimly. "It was damnable." His -voice was lowered for the benefit of the syce balanced on -the back seat, but it was no less vibrant with bitterness. -"But that's how it is out here. We—you and I—men -like Tristram—everybody—sweat out our lives, sacrifice -every personal wish we've got, play the game from the -Viceroy down to the new-fledged Tommy as, heaven knows, -the game isn't often played on this earth—for what? Well, -we don't talk about that. We just go ahead with our -best. And then some blundering ass—some blackguard, is -let loose among us and the whole thing is in the fire—we -might as well never have been—or played the deuce to our -hearts' content——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She caught a glimpse of his drawn, miserable face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You think—things are pretty bad?" she asked, -gropingly. "Something will happen?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sure." His grip tightened on the reins. "Something—God -knows what—but something——"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-two-listeners"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE TWO LISTENERS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It was typical of Owen Meredith that, as he left the -Boucicaults' compound behind him, he put aside his -own grief and turned sternly to the duty that lay nearest -him. That duty concerned Ayeshi. Possibly, had Ayeshi -been moulded in the common clay of his race, Meredith might -have taken his duty with less seriousness, though his blood -would still have burnt at Boucicault's wanton brutality—as -it was, a long-considered purpose now took a definite form.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It chanced that, as Meredith trudged on his way to the -Mission, the Rajah's English dog-cart swerved round a bend -of the dusty road, and came down upon him with the best -speed of a rather showy high-stepper. Rasaldû drove -himself, the knowledge of animals being the one talent -that he appeared to have inherited from his cowherd -ancestry, and, recognizing Meredith, he drew up so smartly -as almost to jerk his attendant from off his precarious -perch in the rear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have just come down from the dâk-bungalow," -he explained. "I was to have taken Mademoiselle Fersen -out with my new cob—beauty, eh?—but she was out. -Happened to have seen her?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith accepted the fat brown hand extended towards him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I left her at the Boucicaults'," he said. "But that was -some time back. It was Miss Boucicault's birthday, you -know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I didn't." Rasaldû's face fell like that of an -offended child, and Meredith hastened to add lightly:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was a very small affair—only a handful of Miss -Boucicault's women friends and an odd male or two like -myself. Miss Fersen was there as a matter of course. I -don't think any affair in Gaya could get along without her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Rajah chuckled, flattered and reassured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I suppose not. A wonderful woman. Well, I -daresay she had to go. Anything I can do for you, -Meredith? Want a new schoolhouse or anything like that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want money, Rajah," Meredith returned promptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thought so. You shall have it. Let me have the list -and I'll head it with as much as you like——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hadn't you better hear what it's for?" Meredith -suggested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rasaldû shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I don't know; that's hardly my business."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In this case, I think. It concerns one of your own -people, Rajah."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rasaldû's smile faded. He looked oddly crestfallen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A protégé of yours, eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, a very brilliant young man—much above his class. -Though I've not been able to trace his parentage, I imagine he -has good blood in his veins. Anyhow, I want to give him his -chance, perhaps eventually send him to Calcutta University."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Convert, eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That may come," was the grave answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rasaldû was silent a moment, busy with the restless -animal in the shafts. A rather supercilious smile flickered -at the corners of his thick lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you shall have all you want," he said finally. -"But send him to London—Paris. Paris is the place. It -opens a man's mind—gives him ideas. We want that -sort of stuff out here. Don't fuddle him with universities. -Show him life. And there's nothing like Paris for that. -It was there I met Mademoiselle Fersen, you know. A -fine woman, eh? Fairly taken Gaya by storm, I fancy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She certainly does pretty well what she likes," Meredith -admitted with a wry smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought so. She was bound to win. At home she -fairly walked over everyone—don't know why exactly. -It wasn't only her dancing—I couldn't quite understand -it myself—not enough of it or too much—and it wasn't -her beauty. She isn't in the least beautiful.... There -were women in Paris I knew——" He caught sight of -Meredith's face and burst out into a good-natured laugh. -"Well, all that won't interest you. But you shall have -your money. Keep clear of the wheels, my dear -fellow—the brute's got the devil in her—good-bye."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He raised his whip in salutation, and a minute later was -a speck in a rolling cloud of dust.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Owen Meredith trudged on patiently and interwove his -thoughts of Ayeshi's future, and of the slow piling of stone -upon stone which was to make a new temple in India, with -the red thread of his own pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meantime the subject of his anxious consideration sat -on the top step of the dâk-bungalow and was ministered -to by Mrs. Smithers. Mrs. Smithers had accepted him -much as she would have accepted a herd of wild elephants -if they had presented themselves in Sigrid's name. She -brought hot water and bathed the blood from his face, -and set food in lavish quantities at his side, all this—except -for a single exclamation, "lawks a-mercy!"—without -surprise or question or the slightest change in the expression -of her grim features. Ayeshi seemed scarcely aware -of her. Nor did he touch the food. He sat with his back -against the wooden pillar of the verandah, his knees drawn -up to his chin and shivered as though in the grip of a violent -ague. Mrs. Smithers tried to cover him with a rug, but he -thrust her offering aside.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am not cold," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're very ill, young man," Mrs. Smithers retorted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned his half-closed, suffering eyes for a moment -to her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is not my body——" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers gave it up. Nevertheless, she drew up a -chair on the other side of the steps and sat down with her -hands folded in her lap and kept watch over him as though -he had been a criminal given over into her keeping.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was thus Sigrid found them half an hour later. The -brief Indian twilight still lingered on the open roadway, -but in the happy wilderness which was the garden of the -dâk-bungalow it was night, and the figures of the two -watchers were only shadows.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid stepped out of the white military cloak which -covered her light dress and revealed the presence, -under one arm, of a black-snouted, alert-eared -something which in other days, when Aberdeens and their -mongrel offspring were unknown, would have been -taken for a baby dragon. Mrs. Smithers's unexpectant -lap received Wickie, helplessly entangled in the cloak, -and Sigrid knelt at Ayeshi's side. He had tried to -rise and salaam, but she forced him back with a resolute -hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We've had enough of that sort of thing," she said -almost angrily. "How you must hate us all!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He gave a long shuddering sigh like that of a child -which has exhausted itself with crying, and then was -still.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib is very good," he said softly. "But he -had the right——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He had not," she flashed back fiercely. "What gives -him the right?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If Mem-Sahib were not a stranger she would know," -he answered in his broken voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She struck her knee with her clenched hand in a storm -of anger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is no law——" she began.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is a custom, Mem-Sahib," he interrupted. "I -think many of them were sorry, but had I turned on him -and struck him they would have flung themselves on me. -That is the difference."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are as good as he," she protested recklessly. "If -you had a chance you would be more than he is. Major -Tristram has told me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There are barriers that Mem-Sahib would be the first -to remember," he persisted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the fire of her outraged chivalry burnt fiercer in the -wind of his opposition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're wrong, Ayeshi. I shouldn't. There are no -barriers—at least, none like that. Goodness knows, we're -not born equal, but the inequality that matters isn't of -birth or race, but of mind and soul. And you have a mind -and soul above most. There are no barriers for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bent his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is what Meredith Sahib has said to me. We are -all brothers—that is the message of his God to us. -Somehow, I do not think that Meredith Sahib is wise to bring -the message—nor you, Mem-Sahib—and yet we who are -athirst in the desert——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He seemed to meditate and to have forgotten her. He -rose stiffly and painfully to his feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I go to seek Tristram Sahib," he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She also had risen with an effortless slowness which -made even of the simple movement a kind of wonder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram Sahib? Is Tristram Sahib here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He pointed vaguely out into the darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There—in an hour I am to meet him with the Colonel -Sahib's answer. He would not come himself, for he is -hard pressed, and if he met the Colonel Sahib——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There would be an end to his theories," she interposed -with a little laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And to you also he sent a message, Mem-Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned to him. Mrs. Smithers, to whom the darkness -was in the nature of an impropriety, had lit the high -lamp in the room behind them, and the dim gold which -flooded Sigrid Fersen's face seemed more the dawn of an -expression than a reflected light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give it me!" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His back was to the light. He looked at her for a moment, -his face a blank, featureless shadow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is here, Mem-Sahib." From his tunic he drew out -a little bundle wrapped in a thick silk cummerbund, and -gave it tenderly into her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was that which made me most afraid," he added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That!" she said, scarcely above her breath. She -held the fragile china cup in both hands, her head bent. -"I can't accept it," she said hurriedly. "You must tell -him so, Ayeshi. It was his mother's gift—he valued -it—he loves beautiful things—I couldn't take it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib"—the young Hindu's voice sounded rough -and uneven—"the Dakktar Sahib goes to Bjura tonight. -There is much terrible sickness in Bjura, and the Dakktar -Sahib goes weary and single-handed. The cup was -precious to him—most precious—and that was why he sent -it to the Mem-Sahib who loves the beautiful as he does. -He believed that his mother would have wished it." He -waited and then asked: "What message shall I take to -the Dakktar Sahib?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wait—you must give me time to think, Ayeshi—or, -no, why should I think?" Her laugh sounded low and -unsteady. "Come, you must sit there in the shadow again. -It is not yet time for Tristram Sahib. Wait—I will give -him my message—sit there——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was gone noiselessly. Mrs. Smithers, who hovered -gloomily about the drawing-room in search of the absconded -Wickie, saw her go to the piano and throw it open. For -many minutes she sat before it motionless, seeming to -listen, then her left hand touched the keys, and almost -inaudibly, like the stir of a newly awakened wind, there -sounded the first notes of the Andante Appassionata.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers no longer fidgeted. She stood in the -shadow of the curtained window, her old, hard-set face to -the darkness. Only her mouth had lost something of its -grim severity, and had become tender. She did not see -Ayeshi, though barely the breadth of the verandah separated -them. She looked past him as sightlessly as he looked past -her. Evidently he had turned to go. One foot rested on -the lower step and his body was thrown back against the -balustrade as though he had been arrested in the very act -of flight. The dim light on his face revealed its look of -wonder—almost panic-stricken wonder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers continued to disregard him. But presently -she turned and went across to the piano. Whatever -momentary weakness had overcome her had gone and she -was again her ruthless, uncompromising self.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid—there's some one out there in the compound—under -the trees—a man. Who is he?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Major Tristram—the Dakktar Sahib—a very poor and -gallant gentleman—who is perhaps going out to die and -now trembles on the brink of Paradise." She broke off -and passed joyously into the next phrase and through its -glowing crescendo her voice sounded with a light -distinctness. "I can play too, Smithy! And dance. I could -dance to this and Beethoven would say I knew more of -his soul than half the fools who gape in stuffy -concert-halls. Think, Smithy, that man out there has never -heard such music—only Meyerbeer's pompous little ballet—and -after that he went and stood by the river until the -daybreak—because of me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers shook her head sternly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mustn't, Sigrid—you mustn't. It's not -fair—you've always been fair. You know nothing can't -come of it. You know yourself. You can't change your -course——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do know. But sometimes the wind shall blow -me whither it listeth. Haven't I the right to that -much?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not at some one else's cost, Sigrid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was no answer. Sigrid Fersen lifted her right -hand and touched her lips with her forefinger. It was as -though she called the very garden without to a deeper -stillness. Her left hand passed swiftly from chord to -chord, from major to a wistful minor, resting at last on one -deep lingering note of suspense.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hush, Smithy! Don't talk! What does anything -matter? Now listen! Do you remember—the D minor -valse—do you remember that last night—the grand-dukes -and the princesses, what were they all?—was there anything -but God and Chopin and I——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her fair small head was thrown back, her eyes were -bright, but not now with gaiety. Her mouth was slightly -open, and she was breathing deeply and quickly with the -glory of divine movement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers turned away again and went back to the -window. She was crying, her mouth stiff as though it -could not yield, even to grief.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man under the trees had taken a step forward and -now stood still again. Between them Ayeshi lay huddled -together on the top step of the verandah, his face hidden -in his arms.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="lalloo-the-money-lender"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">LALLOO, THE MONEY-LENDER</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>It had come to be an accepted fact in Gaya that the old -bungalow lying on the outskirts was haunted and therefore -undesirable. Not that Gaya feared ghosts or anything -else in heaven or earth. The average Anglo-Indian's -nerve, strained by the subtle but immediate juxtaposition -of frivolity and danger which shade so imperceptibly -into each other, that the border-line can be crossed -unconsciously and in an instant, cannot indulge in -emotionalism or fancies. He has to close his mind both to the -fascination and the veiled menace of Indian life, or be lost. -It is for that reason that he is always the last to admit the -fascination, except in regard to the social conditions, or -the danger, beyond the obvious ones of ill health and -consequent retirement on a beggarly half-pay.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So Gaya's inhabitants locked up fear, and hid the key -where it could not be found even by the most unbaked, -fluttered newcomer, and the old bungalow with its ugly -secret left them unmoved. But they never denied the -existence of the blight which rested on the gloomy, -tumbled-down building, and they avoided the place as unpleasant -and depressing, and took care that innocent newly appointed -officers and their wives, for whom so large and spacious a -dwelling seemed eminently suited, should house elsewhere. -It was owing to this circumstance that James Barclay -had been able to obtain possession and a consequent but -dubious foothold on the outskirts of Gaya's sternly fortified -social life. The bungalow had been built in the dim ages -before the Mutiny, and had been patched and patched till -little was left of the original. James Barclay promptly -renovated it from end to end, and added various bizarre -additions of his own which, however, did not alter the -place's fundamental characteristic of mouldering gloom -and depression.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the room in which he sat talking to Lalloo, the -money-lender, everything of native origin had been rigorously -excluded. The chairs were covered with English chintzes, -the curtains were futurist in design and colour; there were -copies of European masterpieces in heavy gilded frames -on the walls, and a new art bronze lamp suspended from -the hand of a marble Venus cast a bright, garish reflection -on the upturned, contemplative face of its owner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was curious, therefore, that, as little as he had been -able to eradicate the gloom, as little had he been able to -oust the indigenous element. The objects might be -Western, but the atmosphere remained obstinately Oriental. -Perhaps it was the irrepressible outbursts of colour-love -betrayed by the chintzes, or perhaps Lalloo supplied the -cause of this phenomena. He sat cross-legged on the -carpet and stroked his grizzled beard with a dark hand, that -seemed all the darker for the scrupulous whiteness of his -</span><em class="italics">puggri</em><span> and loose tunic. Compared with him, Barclay -looked almost blond, almost English. Yet Lalloo also -accentuated what was un-English in him. There were -lines about the old usurer's mouth and nostrils which were -already dimly suggested in Barclay's face. There was -a gulf between them, but there was also a bridge across.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is Seetul, who says he cannot pay," Lalloo -detailed monotonously, and as though he were reading -from an account-book. "He has owed us ten rupees -these last six months, and still he says he cannot pay. But -he has had many fine stuffs in his loom—and his daughter's -hands have been busy with rich embroideries on which -the Sahibs' wives have cast longing eyes. It would be -well to claim your due, Meester Barclay, before it is too -late."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay nodded absently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good. I can leave that to you, Lalloo," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is well. Then Heera Singh—we lent him five rupees -a year ago when the harvest failed. Twenty-five rupees is -what I claimed from him two days ago, and he has nothing—that -is to say, he has some fine cattle and this year the -rabi has done well. Your claim would be a just one, -Meester Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You'd better make it quick, then, before the beggar -sells out. Afterwards he'll come whining with some infernal -lie. He's had rope enough."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is well." The old man continued to stroke his beard -for a moment in silence, watching the face under the light -with a blank intentness which revealed nothing. "Nehal -Pal has paid in full," he resumed at length. "His daughter -was given in marriage to Meer Ali a week since. Meer Ali -is a very old man, and there was some difficulty, for in -these degenerate days the tongues of the women wag to -some purpose—but the marriage contract was very -favourable to Nehal Pal. And he has paid in full." Lalloo -patted his waistband and drew out a small jangling bag, -which he set with an almost religious gravity at his patron's -feet. "These and the other moneys of which I have -already rendered account are now before you, Meester -Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay picked up the bag and weighed it negligently in -his lean, brown hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've got an amazing head for figures, Lalloo," he -commended. "And you're some business man, as our -American friends would say. We shall want both qualities -badly in the future. I want money—as much as I can get. -I mean to rope in all the industries of every village within -three hundred miles and make them paying concerns. At -present, they're just in a state of straggling, unprofitable -hugger-mugger, out of which nobody gets anything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have done my best," Lalloo insinuated deprecatingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay tossed the bag on to the polished oak table beside -him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One man's best isn't enough. Nothing's of any good -without organization, and to organize one must have the -power to make others do what they're told. So far we've -got most of the grain-dealers into the net, and by the next -harvest they'll have to sell me their grain at my own price. -But that's a drop in the ocean. The weaving—that's the -thing. That's what's going to count. There are three -hundred thousand weavers round and about Gaya, swamped -by rotten fakes from Manchester. I'm going to change all -that. It's Manchester that's going to be swamped. One -of these days, I shall be a power in Gaya, Lalloo."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He said it with a mixture of arrogance, complacency, and -appeal which elicited no more than an enigmatic "It may -well be, Meester Barclay," from the expressionless Hindu -Kara cross-legged on the carpet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay got up and stood with his hands thrust into the -pockets of his riding-breeches, his eyes roving from one to -another of the expensive atrocities with which the room was -crowded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've begun here," he went on, in the same tone. "I -daresay they would have fought me tooth and nail for -possession of the place if they'd had the power. But they -hadn't. Even in Gaya money spells the last word, and I -had money. There isn't another bungalow like this in -Gaya."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That also is true," Lalloo assented. He turned his -head for a moment, fixing an intent look on the curtained -doorway as though it reminded him of something. "I -know the place well. It was here in this room many years -ago that I found the body of the great Tristram Sahib. -He had been murdered. There was blood on the floor—almost -where Meester Barclay stands now. The carpet -hides the stain. We tried to wash it out, but the blood had -soaked into the wood." He made a little regretful gesture. -"It had flowed freely, and we came many hours too late," -he finished. He gave his account as casually, tonelessly -as he had recited his accounts, not noting the uneasy start -of the man in front of him, but seeming to fall into a mood -of profound retrospection. Barclay came nearer to the -light again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Murdered?" he echoed. "In this room—by whom?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sharp brown eyes lifted for a moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is not known. One could tell, perhaps, but he -has been long silent. The young and foolish swear he has -not spoken for a hundred years, but that is vulgar -superstition. I remember Vahana the Holy Man when he was -young and handsome and loved a beautiful wife." He -jerked his head significantly. "It was her body I found -out in the garden well yonder," he added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Murdered, too——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo smiled subtly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram Sahib was handsome and brave and lonely. -It was said that he had a way with women—and he was -Sahib. No doubt she came willingly. In those days, -Gaya was not as now. She lived with him for a year -before the—accident. There was a child, but that was -never found."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Vahana?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The smile, unchanged, gained in significance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He was on a great pilgrimage to Holy Benares, Meester -Barclay." The old usurer put his hand to the neck of his -tunic and pulled up something which hung there by a cord. -The thing glittered yellow in the light. "See, this is what -I found on her body-0an old bracelet—strange and wonderful -in design, Meester Barclay. I wear it, for there is a -saying that a murdered woman's jewels shield a man from -the evil eye, and I, Lalloo, who believe in nothing, am -cautious. There was a fellow to it, but that I gave to -Vahana in remembrance of the wife he had loved. He -thanked me and went his way—some say to Kailasa, but -there is no knowing, for since that day no man has heard -him speak."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay, who had bent down for a moment, let the -bracelet slip from his fingers. He turned away and went -and stood near the spot which Lalloo had indicated, frowning -down at it as though the stain were still visible or bore -for him some deeper significance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And so, because of a sordid tragedy, many years old, -the place is boycotted by all save outsiders—such as I am. -Is that the delicate point of your story, Lalloo?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They say a spirit dwells in this room," Lalloo answered -indirectly, "—an evil spirit," he added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Or a living one. Ghosts, if there are any, are men's -deeds which live after them. But there are no ghosts." He -shrugged his shoulders and laughed. "Look about -you, Lalloo. A ghost couldn't haunt this room now. He'd -lose his bearings. It's changed since those days, eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo looked at the marble Venus with her lamp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is indeed wonderful," he assented.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay swung on his heel and came back. He was -suddenly neither arrogant nor pleading, but utterly and -rather terribly sincere.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't think it wonderful," he said, softly and -bitterly. "What you think, God knows, but at least it's -not admiration for me that you're hiding behind your -damned impassivity. I'm your partner—a very rich -partner. I'm Meester Barclay, that's all. But the youngest -whipper-snapper with a pink and white face and a pair of -epaulettes is Sahib." He stopped, trying to master -himself physically. The lean brown hands were clenched -at his side in the effort. "Why am I not Sahib?" he -asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo spread out his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I speak to you in English. Is not 'Meester Barclay' -the English way?" he asked with deference.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay laughed. The muscles of his handsome features -still quivered with the gust of nervous passion which had -swept over him, but there was a certain satisfaction in his -laughter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you have always a soft answer—and I understood. -I am simply not Sahib. They—your masters—have -not recognized me, so you do not recognize me. But -all that is going to change, and when you see me cheek by -jowl with the best of them you will salaam and ask the -bidding of Barclay Sahib." He paced restlessly backwards -and forwards in his excitement, the mincing quality of his -accent asserting itself. "You know the law, Lalloo. A -man is what his father was. My father was English—I -have got good English blood in my veins. I've always -known it—it would be damned awkward for some of them -if I proved it. But, at any rate, they've got to have me. -I'm forging a gold key to their strongest locks, and if that -won't do, then——" He broke off again, changing his -tone to one of trenchant decision.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've got to have money—money enough to swamp -them. I've got to have those weavers. Once get a hold -on the throat of the industries and the rest's easy. Start -at Heerut, Lalloo. They've had an epidemic, and will be -ready to sell their souls. You can give them easy terms—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo got up leisurely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At Heerut—no, Meester Barclay," he said. "Not there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And why not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Dakktar Sahib lives in Heerut. He is a strange -man. He has no love for my calling."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, are you afraid of him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No; he drove a devil out of my son," Lalloo explained, -without particular emotion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay laughed irritably.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That means fear, right enough. You think if he can -drive out devils, he can also inflict them. I know your -ways of argument. Well, in the name of the devil he -exorcised, who is the fellow?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The son," Lalloo explained, his eyes on the spot near -the curtain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>James Barclay turned on his heel and went over to the -window. For a full minute he stood there motionless and -silent, seemingly intent on the sound of English voices -which drifted towards him over the darkness of the -compound. When he spoke again it was with a drawling -heaviness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram——the son? That's a curious coincidence. -Still, I see your point, Lalloo. You could not very well -oppose him. Leave Heerut to me. I shall manage. You -can go now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old usurer lingered. He was watching the tall, -stooping figure by the window, his head a little on one -side, as though he, too, listened, but apparently to other -sounds. Presently he slid noiselessly to the door and -drew back the curtain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A woman entered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo greeted her with silent deference. He lifted -his hand half-way to his forehead, looking in Barclay's -direction, and the gesture was nicely expressive of a -courteous equality. Then he was gone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay continued to stand by the window. He had -noticed neither Lalloo's departure nor the woman's entry. -Evidently the English party outside on the road had just -returned from some entertainment. He could hear a -fragment of a laughing reference to champagne, then an -indistinguishable murmur pitched in a graver key, and a -woman's exclamation of contemptuous disgust. Some one -called good-night, a whip cracked, and a light-wheeled -vehicle rolled on its way down-hill towards the -dâk-bungalow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay drew in his breath between his teeth like some -one who has received a hurt, but he did not move. The -woman came nearer to him. Her movements were quiet -and graceful, and curiously typical of the whole of her. -Everything about her was harmonious in a supple, boneless -way. The big straw hat, made garishly ornate with -artificial poppies, flopped over the dark little face and its -untidy, beautiful frame of straight, jet-black hair. The -light sprig dress revealed the yielding lines of her body, -and was in itself pretty and badly made and carelessly put -on. She had all the charm, all the lithesome fascination -of a young animal, but there were also lines in her face, -in her figure, which gave warning of a less lovely maturity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As she came softly forward she clasped her hands, half -in excitement, half in a childish appeal, and they were -long-fingered, olive-tinted, and gaudy with bright rings.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jim!" she whispered. "Jim!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He started. The moody dejection passed. He swung -round, his features blank with the very violence of -contending emotions. For a moment he stared at her, whilst -the breathless joy in her eyes faded into hesitant questioning, -then into fear. "Oh, Jim," she repeated helplessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jim!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He strode up to her, catching her roughly by the wrist, -shaking her less with anger than in a kind of panic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why have you come?" he stammered. "How did -you get here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She cowered like a dog before threatening punishment, -and her eyes, lifted to his face, were dog-like in their -steadfast, wistful appeal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By train to Bhara and then I drove—for two days, -Jim. But no one knew me. I didn't ask any questions—I -didn't tell any one. Not a soul. I just found my way -here. I had your letters and they described things so -wonderfully, I felt I was coming home. Jim, how beautiful -it all is! Much more beautiful than I ever dreamed!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Partly she was trying to propitiate him, but partly the -exclamation was sincere. Her brown eyes were wide and -bright as they passed over the room's treasures, resting -at last on the culminating vulgarity of the Venus. -Barclay followed her gaze, then, without a word, he released -her, and going over to the lamp, turned down the wick. It -sputtered feebly, throwing up decreasing flashes of light -on to the white, stupid loveliness of the goddess, and then -died out. Through the darkness, Barclay's voice sounded -thick with anger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anybody might have seen us from the road," he said. -"You must be mad, Marie, or bent on doing for my chances. -Don't you know what I told you—or did you just choose -to forget? Good God, don't whimper! You're like a -child. You smash something and then you cry as though -you were the injured party——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was so awfully lonely——" she broke in, piteously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent. She could not read his expression, but -the quiet following on his first violence suggested a furious -effort to regain self-control. She waited, not moving or -speaking, and presently he took up her plea, scrutinizing -it with the level coldness of suppressed anger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lonely, you say? Hadn't you friends enough? You -used to make me sick with your boasts about them. There -were the Mazzinis and the Aostas—in our Calcutta days -they lived with us, fed on us, borrowed from us. What's -become of them? You had money enough to buy the lot. -Lonely!" He exploded on the word, falling on it with a -raging bitterness, then choked himself back to his pose of -judicial deliberation. "It did not at all occur to you that -I might be lonely, I suppose. It did not occur to you -that whilst you were lolling comfortably in your rut, I was -cutting new roads for us both through a granite opposition -with not a soul to help me. You imagined me in a whirl -of conviviality, no doubt—fêted, courted, the catch of -Gaya——" He laughed out. "You fool!" he flung at -her, in a paroxysm of exasperation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gasped, as though he had struck her across the face, -but she was no longer crying. Her voice sounded flat and -tired like a child's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was lonely," she reiterated patiently. "I had the -Mazzinis and the Aostas. I saw them every day, and they -were very kind. But they were not you, Jim. I wanted -you all the time, night and day, worse and worse. I -thought I should have died, wanting you. And I did -imagine things. I couldn't help it. I thought how brilliant -and handsome you were, and I knew you'd win through -and climb—ever so high—and I should be left behind. I -couldn't bear it, Jim, dear. I had to come."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay did not answer, but now his silence was no -longer the tense, savage thing it had been. She could see -his tall, slight figure dimly outlined against the paler -darkness of the garden. Presently he turned and drew up, the -Chesterfield to the shadow's edge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come here!" he said authoritatively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She came, groping blindly towards him and knelt down -at his knees. She put her hands up, touching his face his -shoulders, his whole body.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Jim!" she whispered huskily. "Just to feel you -again—just to know you're there—near me. It's like -slaking an awful thirst—you don't know what it's been——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hush!" he whispered back. She had flung aside -her hat, and he bent and kissed her hair. A curious -fragrance rose to meet him—Eastern, sensuous, intoxicating. -He flung his arms round, dragging her close to him, kissing -her eyes, her lips with a ruthless desire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And haven't I thirsted—haven't I wanted you? Do -you think I haven't been lonely—among these strangers -who turn their backs on me, shrink from me as though I -were a leper? Hush, don't cry! I'm not angry now. -I'm glad. We shall have these few hours together. -Tomorrow——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tomorrow?" she interrupted fearfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tomorrow you must go back." He laid his hand on -her lips, stifling her involuntary cry of pain. His own voice -grew clearer and less passionate. "You must. We can't -let ourselves be carried away by our feelings like this. It -would be ridiculous to sell the whole future for the present."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We were happy before," she whispered. "What more -can one be than happy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made a little impatient movement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were happy. But I—couldn't you see for -yourself—I didn't belong there—not among your set or the set -I'd been brought up in—poor, mean, petty folk, squabbling -and wrangling over the degrees of their insignificance. -Who was your father?—a rotten little clerk, sweating in a -Government office, too poor to get an English wife. But -my father——" He broke off, and then went on rapidly. -"I'm different, Marie. I've got good blood in my veins—good -English blood. It's restless in me. It won't let me -rot like the others. I've got to get on. I've got to win -through—back to my own people. Don't you understand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she said dully, "and I am afraid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went on, with gathering determination:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So you must go back and wait. I shall pull through, -but you couldn't, and I couldn't help you. You'd drag me -back. You must have patience and faith. When I've -made my position safe here——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will not want me," she interrupted gently. "You'll -have climbed too high for me, Jim. That's why I am -afraid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed a little. His hand brushed the tears from -her hot cheeks, and passed on caressingly down her arm to -her wrist and lingered there.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're tired and fanciful, Marie. Some one's been -putting ideas into your head. You've got to trust me and -help me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jim—what are you doing?" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The bracelet—the one I gave you—you're still wearing -it——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Always. Night and day. It's been like a bit of you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want it back——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She tried to wrench herself free from him. "Jim—don't—don't, -dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want it. Hush, don't make a fuss. You shall have -it back, I promise you. Heavens—what a child——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was crying now convulsively. He put his arms -round her and pressed her closer with an impatient -tenderness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was all I had of you," she sobbed. "It was our -luck—a sort of link—now it's gone——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—into my pocket," he retorted, good-humouredly, -"and in a week or two it'll be back on your wrist. I'll -put it there if I have to come all the way to Calcutta. Hush, -for God's sake; don't cry like that——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She became suddenly very quiet. Instinctively she knew -that he was trying to listen to something beyond her -sobbing, and she too listened, intently, with the alertness -of a frightened animal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jim—what is it——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He freed himself deliberately from her arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's down at the dâk-bungalow. Some one playing. -It's a long way off. The wind must be in the east——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The dâk-bungalow? Who lives there?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid Fersen——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A woman. Jim, do you know her?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He got up. It was as though she no longer existed for -him. The D minor valse came down to them on the breath -of the night-breeze—maddening and exhilarating—a song -of life at its full tide.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—I—I know her," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Jim, where are you going?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned on her, thrusting aside her clinging hands with -a cold violence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stay there!" he said. "Don't let any one see you. -Stay there——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He pushed past her and went down the verandah steps. -It was as though he had thrust a dog out of his path. She -called to him, but he did not hear her—a minute later, he -had vanished into the shadow of the trees.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="an-encounter"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER X</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">AN ENCOUNTER</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Ayeshi, with his face buried in his arms, had neither -seen nor heard, and it was Mrs. Smithers who stepped -challengingly into the man's path. Her old heart beat -terrifyingly, but she held herself with a very dour and -acrimonious determination.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of all the impertinence!" she hissed at him. "Go -away with you, you nasty, maraudering heathen——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it was then that Sigrid saw him, and the D minor -valse broke off sharply, leaving a flat and drear silence, -as though some splendid, glowing spirit had fallen lifeless. -She herself had risen and stood with one hand on the keys, -the other at her side. Her mouth was still a little open, -but no longer with her wide smile of joyous living. She -looked tired, and rather wan.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who are you?" she asked, breathlessly. "What are -you doing here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I beg your pardon." Barclay bowed to her. "I -assure you, I did not mean to interrupt your playing, but -this—this lady caught sight of me and I had to present -myself at once or be taken for a burglar. I hope I am -forgiven?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shrugged her shoulder, studying him with an -impassivity before which his suave manner faltered and -became uncertain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I neither know you nor your business," she said. -"When I have heard your explanation, it will be time to -consider whether I can accept your apology."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Meantime, I accept the reproof," he retorted. "But -we are old acquaintances—at least, we have met before. -That is the first paragraph of my excuse. We met at the -dinner Lord Kirkdale gave in honour of your return, and -I was introduced to you. My name is Barclay—James -Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There are many thousands of people who have been -introduced to me and whose names and faces I have -forgotten," she said, simply. "That does not warrant their -walking into my drawing-room at odd hours of the -night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His smile, uneasily ingratiating, persisted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Haven't I apologized, and won't you make some allowances? -I had missed you this afternoon at Colonel -Boucicault's—business detained me—and was bitterly -disappointed. Passing your bungalow, I heard you playing—I -was mortally tempted—and, relying on the fact that we -are in India and not in stiff-necked England, I ventured -to present myself at once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You relied on the facts that I am a dancer, that you -once paid half a guinea for a stall to see me dance, that you -cadged for an introduction where introductions were -valueless, and that, once a woman ventures out into publicity, -men of a certain type consider her fair game." She spoke -quietly enough, but there was a whiteness about her -distended nostrils which betrayed a rising anger. "Well, -as you rightly say, we are not in England. The half-guinea -stall is of no value here. My privacy is my right, and I -beg of you to respect it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He held his ground. His impulse had carried him into -an </span><em class="italics">impasse</em><span> from which he could not possibly retreat with -dignity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are like royalty, Miss Fersen," he said fluently. -"People whom you don't know, know you. It's the -penalty of greatness. You can't be hard on us poor mortals -who take the sunshine when they can get it. Besides, I -have only forestalled events. Sooner or later, I should -have met you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have lived in Gaya for two months," she interrupted, -"and I have neither met you nor heard of you, Mr. Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She closed the piano, sighing impatiently. Had she -looked at him at that moment she might have repented -her only half-intended cruelty, for his insolent ease had -become a desperate and rather pitiable humiliation. He -had committed a blunder which he had neither the art nor -the social adroitness to cover over, and he looked to her -to make his escape possible—decent. And she ignored -him. Whereat what little self-possession he owned deserted -him, leaving him to the mad guidance of a raw and -quivering pride.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know very well who and what I am, Miss Fersen," -he stammered, "or you wouldn't behave like this. If -I'd been one of the others, you'd have welcomed me. -You wouldn't have dared treat the merest subaltern as -you've treated me. If Rajah Rasaldû, a full-blown native, -from whom you accept——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned like a flash.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you go, Mr. Barclay?" she said, scarcely above -her breath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He remained stubbornly unmoved. A minute before, -he had been merely a tragi-comic figure, a victim of a -midsummer night's ambition, and his own intoxicated -senses. He might, to himself at least, have pleaded many -things in extenuation—certainly a fundamental harmlessness -and even a rather painful humility. Now he had -become dangerous.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll go at my own time," he said unevenly. Mrs. Smithers -had once more intervened and he pushed her back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can afford a scandal—you can't——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was at that moment that Tristram stalked in through -the open verandah. Sigrid saw him first, and laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So it's your turn to play </span><em class="italics">deus ex machinâ</em><span>," she said -gaily. It was as though his advent had swept away every -vestige of her annoyance. She looked at Barclay with -bright, malicious eyes. "You've just come in time to -show Mr. Barclay the way out," she said. "He was -unable to find it for himself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The two men stared at each other. At that moment -either of them could have passed easily for the villain of -the little drama, Barclay's quivering, passion-distorted -features being balanced by the Englishman's general -appearance, which was ragamuffinly, not to say ruffianly. -His white clothes had been washed since Sigrid had seen -him last, but had not been ironed, an unfortunate omission, -since the result was one of soiled inelegance. The stubble -on his unusual chin had become a reddish beard, in itself -an unlovely object, and lent his countenance a look of -aggression and truculence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay laughed. He was beside himself, less with -anger than with panic before the inevitable </span><em class="italics">débâcle</em><span>, and -he groped round for any weapon which might deliver -him with a semblance of dignity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I appreciate my blunder, Miss Fersen," he jerked out. -"I had no idea that I interrupted an—an appointment. -I can quite understand your annoyance—and I apologize. -I wish you both good-night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram blocked his way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your name's Barclay?" he asked quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've heard of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I daresay." The Eurasian's eyes narrowed. He -looked into his opponent's face with a sudden curiosity. -"I daresay we have met before, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps in a third person."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't understand," Tristram returned simply. -"But I have heard of you. Some time I'd like to have a -little talk—about various things, which concern us -both—notably about some friends of mine who have been hard -pressed.——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall be delighted to meet you any time, Major -Tristram," Barclay retorted. "I, too, may have matters -of interest to discuss with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram stood on one side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall we go together now?" he suggested. "Since -we are both intruding——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not you, Major Tristram," Sigrid interposed quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a moment's silence. The way was now open -to Barclay, and the three implacable watchers gave him no -choice. He tried to insinuate into his bearing, into his -exaggerated bow, a mocking ease, a cynical suggestiveness -which might give him even a semblance of advantage. -But he failed, and knew it. He stumbled out, blind and -sick with the consciousness of defeat, of a hideous, -self-inflicted humiliation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers saw him to the verandah steps as a policeman -sees a doubtful intruder off premises specially -recommended to his care. She adjusted her neat wig with -dignity and a touch of wrathful defiance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In a brace of shakes, I'd have boxed his ears," she -muttered ferociously. "Not but what my heart was -beating about inside me like a fly in a bottle. The -impudent blackguard! Called himself an acquaintance! What -next! We shall have the sweep dropping in for tea and -the butcher leaving his card——" She caught herself up. -"There, in another minute, I'd have forgotten I was a -lady and said things. Shall I see about coffee for you, -Sigrid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please, Smithy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen stood near the middle of the room, looking -out on to the dark garden, her hand raised to her small -face in the familiar attitude of half-whimsical, half-sad -reflection. Tristram glanced at her and then hurriedly -away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was dancing," she said suddenly, with a catch in her -breath. "I don't think I'd ever danced like that before. -And then he came. It was as though something vital in -me had been snapped—a bird brought down in full -flight——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi came out and told me you were in difficulties," -he said. "I was eavesdropping. I suppose I behaved like -a cad, too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was playing to you—and dancing. I knew you -would see me dancing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then you knew——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi told me you were coming. I knew if I played -you would come into the garden and listen. I wanted you -to come. And you came."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He tried to laugh, and the laugh failed him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am almost afraid of you," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She considered him quaintly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Smithy would say you were quite right to be afraid. -And Smithy would be right, too. I am dangerous."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I am a believer in the theory which bids us 'live -dangerously,'" he retorted more lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But with you the theory would work out as self-sacrifice—with -me it would mean the sacrifice of others." She -drew a lounge chair out on to the verandah and sat down -with a little sigh of relief. "How tired I am! The D -minor valse always tired me—not my body—that doesn't -matter—but the invisible spirit which makes a single step -a divine thing. Mr. Meredith would call it the soul, if he -could connect his speciality with anything so vulgar and -mundane." She laughed and snuggled herself back among -the cushions. "Anyhow, my soul has danced and my -soul is tired," she announced contentedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram remained standing. He was looking down at -her profile with a puzzled intentness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he admitted, "very tired."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That means—I'm looking ugly?" she suggested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he answered, abruptly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment, seated there with her back to the -light, she looked elfish, something aerial and inhuman. -Her fair hair, smoothed down with a delicious primness -on either side of her small head, made an aureole in which -her face gleamed white and transparent. Beauty and -ugliness were terms inapplicable to her. As well have -measured air and fire by the standards of a Venus de Milo. -"Still, you're not well tonight," Tristram persisted -obstinately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Feel that, then, Dakktar Sahib!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He took her outstretched hand. For a second it lay in -his, small, cool, amazingly soft and supple, then clasped -itself round his fingers like a steel band made living by -electric forces, and he looked up wincing and laughing, and -their eyes met. She was smiling at him with a childlike -satisfaction.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You see, I am stronger than you, Dakktar Sahib!" -she said gaily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That wouldn't be saying much tonight," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She still held his hand, but her hold had changed its -character.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had forgotten—Ayeshi told us—you are ill——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is nothing," he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She became thoughtful in her silence. Wickie made a -scrambling rush up the verandah steps and flung himself, -with an hysterical yell of triumph, against Tristram's legs. -By what cunning he had eluded Mrs. Smithers's methodical -but unpractised search cannot be told—but he was there, -a wriggling, writhing, panting mass of delirious happiness. -Tristram caught him up and hugged him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And how in the name of the Creator of Mongrel Puppies -did you get here?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I commandeered him," Sigrid Fersen answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I left him with Miss Boucicault."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Colonel Boucicault threatened to knock his brains -out, so I commandeered him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram glanced down at her wonderingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You bearded the Colonel? That was plucky of you. -Anne must have been frightened, poor little soul."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A faint, malicious smile quivered at the corner of Sigrid's -lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A little, I think. But she had no time to interfere. -I was nearest to the scene of action."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am awfully grateful. Wickie and I are old pals."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know. If I deserve reward, let him stay with me. -What will you do with small dogs out there?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—would he stay with you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Try him!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He set Wickie on his short bandy legs and she called the -dog by name. He came and sat in front of her, beating -the ground with his lengthy tail, his ears flat in an -ingratiating humility. She bent and patted him. "You see!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram nodded. His silence became tense and painful, -as though he laboured under a physical weakness, kept only -at bay by a sheer effort of will. She looked at him critically, -and saw that he was trembling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are ill, Major Tristram. Sit down and rest. -Smithy will bring us coffee—it will do you good to sit -with me here in the darkness and quiet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I ought to be on my way," he answered unevenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, then, if not for yourself—for me. I will admit -that I am ill and that I need the Dakktar Sahib's -ministrations. It comforts me to have you here. It is your -duty, therefore, to remain."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are stronger than I," he answered, with an unsteady -laugh. But he sat down opposite her, his body bent -forward, his hands clasped between his knees. She could -see nothing of his face, but the outline of his fine head, -distorted a little by its mass of thick hair, trimmed by an -amateur hand, lent his shadow a look of way-worn distress -and physical disintegration. Yet it remained an indomitable -shadow. She remembered him as she had seen him -once before. Since then the Quixote had had his tussle -with the windmill and now, bruised and broken, prepared -himself for a fresh onslaught.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why do you do it?" she flung at him, almost angrily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked up at her, as though waking from a dream.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do what?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shrugged her shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I know. Ayeshi has told me. You're going into -that hell single-handed and crippled. Boucicault has -refused to get you help. Why do you let him trample -on you? He is not in your service. Are you afraid of him, -too?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He met her taunt with a grave simplicity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I am not afraid. Up till now, Colonel Boucicault -has blocked my line of communication with the authorities. -That's over. There's going to be a tussle to the death -between us, and he knows it. That's why I didn't come -myself tonight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then why need you go? Any one would exonerate -you. Ayeshi said it might mean——" She recoiled from -her own thought. "It's almost your duty not to go," -she exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you want me to remain?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She beat her clenched fist irritably on the arm of her -chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—because it wouldn't be you then—because you are -a fool, Major Tristram—a sublime fool whom one wouldn't -have changed even to save him from destruction. Go, by -all means, and sacrifice yourself to your duty. For that -you were born."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He sank back in his chair, his face lifted to where the -jungle of the neglected compound thinned before the night's -luminous sapphire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't believe in duty and sacrifices," he said, "but -in happiness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And isn't your happiness here?" she demanded, -imperiously; "isn't this happiness—the thing you dreamed -of?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw his hands clench themselves.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—but a dream that can't be fulfilled—a secret -corner of fancy—that isn't enough. In the end—if one -lived on it, set it before one as the end-all—one would -sicken and starve. The dream itself would die. I've figured -it out—happiness is the consciousness of purpose——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What purpose can any one of us have?" she retorted -scornfully, "we who are ourselves purposeless creations?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He waited a moment. When he answered, his voice -sounded clear and steady, though his words were faltering, -groping efforts of expression.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—I mean rather that I can't explain. I'm -an inarticulate sort of fellow. It seems to me—ninety-nine -days out of a hundred we don't worry as to where -we're going or why. We do what we've got to do blindly. -But the hundredth day is a day of reckoning. You were -going to say just now that I might die if I went out there. -Well, that doesn't seem to me so important. Death is the -only visible goal we have. What matters, what is vital, -what is happiness is that we should reach that goal -splendidly—as splendidly as we can. Surely happiness is this, -that in our moments of reckoning, when we have to face -ourselves, or when we reach the goal, perhaps suddenly -and unexpectedly, we can look back on our course with -the knowledge that, whether punishment or reward or -nothing awaits us, we ran straight according to our lights."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And 'running straight' for you means plunging into -the sickness and suffering of others?" she asked moodily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw him throw back his tired shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What other 'running straight' is there that matters?" -he returned, ardently. "Those poor folk out in Bjura—I'm -the only hope they've got. Supposing I fail them? -No one would blame me—-no one would say I hadn't run -straight—but I should have broken the only law I -recognize—I should have denied the only god I know. And -more than that—I'm English. When I go out there, I -carry my colours with me. It depends on me whether -those colours signify to these people suffering or happiness, -and whether, in the end, they signify happiness or suffering -to us——" He paused, and then went on quietly. "And -they must be held higher and steadier because others have -forgotten."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As Colonel Boucicault has forgotten," she put in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And is he happy?" he asked quickly. She was silent, -and he made a little gesture of apology. "I'm sorry—I'm -like all lonely men—I've grown preachy and prosy. I've -tired you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But she turned to him, her head high, her eyes brilliant -with a suddenly revealed feeling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why should you apologize? I also have my theories -of life and death. Yes—to die splendidly—on the mountain -top, in a palace of gold and silver, in the full tide of -youth and strength, of one's own free-will, not knowing -decay or suffering—to look back on a life without ugliness, -without poverty or meanness—that is the goal—that is -happiness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is your vision," he said, smiling at her wistfully. -"But you are fire and air, and I am heavy earth."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She got up and went to the steps of the verandah, and -stood there with her back turned to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, your vision of me, Major Tristram—beware of it. -Why do you make an idol of me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But he did not answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi came out of the shadow of the trees, leading the -grotesque Arabella and his own sturdy pony. Tristram -half rose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No!" she said imperatively. "You have made me -tired and wretched and angry. You, a physician! You -have got to cure me before you go."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What shall I do?" he asked humbly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was quiet a moment, her finger to her lips. Her -anger had gone, and she was once more the being of swift -and joyous fancies.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look—the moon is showing between the trees. It has -made a white pool at my feet, Tristram Sahib. Do you -remember what you told me—how at night-time you sat -by the village fire and listened to Ayeshi's stories of the -great past? You promised that one day I should listen, -too. Now I claim fulfilment. We will sit round the -moonlight and warm our hands at it, and Ayeshi shall -tell the story that his Sahib loves best. Shall it be so?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Both Mrs. Smithers and the soft-footed native servant, -whom she now marshalled in with a forbidding air of -distrust, were waved imperiously aside.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—coffee and Smithy are civilized—and we are miles -from civilization. We are on the borders of the jungle. -If I listened, I should hear the howl of the jackals—so I -shan't listen, for I detest jackals. There are monkeys -overhead peeping at us and chattering soft insults—and -birds pluming themselves for sleep. The moonlight will -be on our faces, and it will be like the firelight. And the -river shall make the music to Ayeshi's story."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She slipped down on to the stone floor and sat there, -cross-legged, her chin cupped in her hand. The circle of -pale silver reflected itself back on to her earnest face and -painted faint, mocking shadows at the corners of her -composed lips. Ayeshi crouched dreamingly on the lower step -of the verandah. On the other side of the little circle, -Tristram sat with Wickie drowsing at his feet, his hands -outstretched as though, to please her fancy, he warmed -them at the firelight. Once, as Ayeshi told his story, he -looked across at her and his face was haunted with weariness -and suffering and famished desire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thus Ayeshi told of the Rani Kurnavati and her Bracelet -Brother.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The moonlight faded. With Ayeshi's last words a chill -darkness crept over them, hiding them from one another -and silencing them. It was as though they had indeed -warmed themselves at a fire which had gone out, leaving -them to the grey ash of their dreams.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Silently Ayeshi had risen and untethered the horses and -led them towards the gates of the compound. But Tristram -lingered, standing on the steps of the verandah, his -face turned from the woman who looked down at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laid her hands on his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you who go out very gallantly, perhaps to meet -the end which you fear so little—have you nothing to ask -first of life, nothing you desire, no fulfilment of mad dreams -dreamed by the river and by your fireside—nothing that I -might not grant?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made no answer. She felt him tremble under her -hands. Her laugh was subdued, pityingly triumphant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Tristram Sahib, do you think I don't know—do -you think I haven't read your heart?" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And bent and kissed him.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="inferno"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">INFERNO</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>He pitched his tent outside the village in a paradise -of brilliantly painted flowers and high grass, whose bright -emerald shone luminously where the dying sun touched -it. A pool in the shadow of the trees wore a score of -lotus-flowers on its still breast, and the ghosts of yellow -blossoms from the overhanging mango shimmered tremulously -beneath among the tangled undergrowth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But there was no living thing. The sand at the water's -edge was unbroken by the familiar </span><em class="italics">pugs</em><span>, and the trees and -the long grasses were empty and silent. Death and -over-abundant sensuous life lay side by side. The very soil, -rich and moist, gave out an aroma of sickly sweetness -tainted with corruption.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The native bearers shook their heads and crouched down -near their sleeping quarters, awaiting the loathsome, -invisible thing with the fatality of their race.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Tristram shouldered his case of medicaments and -sought the road leading to the village.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The road was ankle deep in a fine powdery dust, which -rose at each step and hung in the dead air long after he -had passed. There were treacherous ruts which the dust -covered, zig-zagging through what had been slimy -marsh-land and was now a crumbling, sun-baked bed of miasma. -Here, too, the stillness was absolute. The village -roofs rose out of the flatness like irregular ant-heaps, -deserted by their once restless workers. The night -which came striding over the plain was a stifling -mantle, choking out the last breath of life under its -smothering folds of darkness. The quiet itself was -eerie, unnatural, the terrible quiet of a suffering which has -passed protest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then at last there came a sound—a whimpering, inhuman -cry—and the man stood still, peering through the -darkness. A form lay by the roadside and held out thin -arms of appeal towards him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Siva! Siva! Have mercy!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He came nearer and knelt down. Once it had been a -woman, but the mysterious spectre which had laid hold of -Bjura had laid hold of her and twisted her out of human -semblance. A child lay under her side, round-limbed, -smooth-cheeked, as sweet as the lotus-flower growing out -of the poisoned waters of the pool. The bloated, shapeless -horror slobbered and whispered over it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Siva—my little son—have mercy!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perhaps some knowledge of another, gentler faith had -reached her that she appealed for mercy to a power which -knew none. Tristram bent over her and drew the child -away from her clawing, swollen hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am not Siva. I am the Dakktar Sahib come to help -you. Do not be afraid!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have mercy, Sahib!" She lay on her back staring -up at him through the gathering gloom with terrible eyes. -"Have mercy!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give me your child. I will take care of it. It shall -come to no harm—I promise you. Trust me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gaped at him with the chill non-comprehension of -gathering insensibility. Only the piteous appeal hung -perpetually on her lips like a maddening refrain. He took -the child and freed it from its filthy rags, and gave it to -Ayeshi standing near him, impassive and watchful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take it back to the camp and do the best you can," -he ordered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you, Sahib?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall go on—presently."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went back to the woman and knelt down beside her, -taking the terrible head upon his knee, and forcing a -sedative between her lips. A nauseating odour of disease rose -up to him, but it did not nauseate him. He knelt there and -waited for the first sign of relief. And presently the -laboured, agonized breathing softened; she half turned, -and her palsied, distorted hand fumbled over his coat, -groping its way down the sleeve to his wrist. She took -his hand and pressed it against her burning cheek, against -her lips. And he bore with her, holding her closer as she -neared the brink, whispering to her in her own tongue, a -medley of all the words of comfort that he knew. And all -at once she sighed deeply, and was quiet, with the quietness -which was more than sleep.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He got up and straightened out her poor body and -covered her with her rags, and went on towards the village.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was night now. A smouldering fire from behind the -first hut threw up a sullen glow against which the low, -ramshackle building stood out spectrely. Tristram passed -it, and a gust of foetid wind goaded the flames to a sudden -brilliance, so that he saw upon what it was they fed -themselves. A gaunt, naked figure crouched near the hideous -embers, and, turning as though to see whence the wind -came, saw the Englishman, and leapt up, wild-eyed, and -fled, shrieking, into the black fastness of the village.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now the silence was gone, and in its place there were -whisperings and the pattering of naked feet. A woman's -scream came from afar off. Tristram stumbled over a -body which neither moved nor cried out. He stood still, -knowing that he was no longer alone. The eye of the -electric torch which he carried flashed through the pitch -darkness and rested upon distorted faces, turned to him in -an agony of dread. And behind them, through the yellow -haze, he caught a glimpse of bodies heaped together in the -gutter, of cowering figures, faces hidden against the mud -walls, of gaping doors, blacker than the pervading gloom, -and threatening a nameless horror. He himself stood out -in the dim light, tall and white and spectral. He moved, -and the faces bowed before him like the heads of corn in -the wind, and a voice went up wailing, piteous:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Siva, it is the end—the end——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man whom he had seen crouching by the fire leapt -suddenly out at him, and he felt the cold breath of steel -against his cheek. He warded off the blow, and the -madman came on again and again, and each time he defended -himself patiently and without aggression. The circle of -faces closed in. His light was out, but he could feel how -the air about him grew hot and stifling. They -waited—stupidly, hungrily, with a frenzied lust of death. If he -fell—though they believed him God—still it would be the end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Even then he did not strike out. The last time, the -delirious fanatic stumbled and went crashing to the ground. -Tristram bent over him, turning his light on to the -foam-flecked old face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He'll come round all right," he said calmly. "But -we've got to get him shut up somewhere before he does -damage. Help me, some of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His voice sounded loud and clear amidst their low, -formless whisperings, but they did not move, and he picked -the old man up as though he had been a child. "Make -way there!" he commanded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They let him pass, but on the threshold of the hut he -came to a halt, arrested by a stench which was like a blow, -staggering his senses. With his free hand, he sent the -light darting about the corners of the hut, and then turned -and came quickly out. There was nothing to be done. -Death, most hideous, had leered at him in triumph from a -dozen frozen distortions of the human body.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For one moment, as he stood there, choking down his -physical sickness, he may have known the agony of -helplessness and isolation. But only for a moment. He -looked round, noting the gradual relaxation of the -fear-drawn faces about him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a pretty bad go," he said cheerfully, "and what -your headman was doing not to let us know before I can't -think. However, we'll make the best of it. Two of you -go and pile up that fire I saw as I came in. And I want at -least five who aren't stiff with funk to carry these poor -devils out. There's not got to be a body left in this village -by daybreak. We'll get the rest out into the air where they -can breathe, and I'll soak you and the place in carbolic." They -still hesitated, and deliberately he turned the light on -to his own face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bless you, I'm not Siva. I'm the Dakktar Sahib—sent -by the great English Raj to put you all straight. -But, by the Lord, if you don't do what I tell you in a brace -of shakes, Siva will be a joke by comparison."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The panic broke. The old headman crept out and -cringed before him, offering excuses. Tristram waved -him on one side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Get on with it!" he said, between his teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went from hut to hut, directing, ordering, disinfecting, -patient and imperturbable, infinitely gentle. And -all night soft-footed processions with their grim burdens -made their way out to the monstrous funeral pyre which -grew higher and higher. All that night and all through -the burning, blinding day to another night, and beyond -that again, Tristram drove Death back step by step from -his mauled and helpless victims, bringing peace into a -hell of suffering. Three nights and three days. And -on the fourth night he reeled back to the encampment -beneath the trees and dropped down with his face in the -long grass, and lay there inert as death itself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And for three days and nights again Ayeshi sat beside -him, tending him and listening to the muttered reiteration -of a woman's name.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="in-which-fortune-pleases-to-jest"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">IN WHICH FORTUNE PLEASES TO JEST</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The Rajah Rasaldû was in his element. By sheer -force of merit, he occupied the stage to the almost complete -exclusion of every other player. Gaya hung on his -movements, gasped—as much as Gaya ever gasped—over the -reckless twists and turns of his wonderful ponies, and -applauded the grace and apparent ease with which he -broke the defence and sent the ball spinning between the -posts. For, strange to relate, Rasaldû could play polo. -Flabby and unheroic as he was on all other occasions, once -in the saddle, he developed into an iron-wristed, -cool-headed strategist. What was more, he played for his -side and not for himself. Men who went into the game -disparaging his fatuous conceit and equally fatuous humility, -loved him after the first ten minutes of brilliant, unselfish -play, and the glow of affection usually lasted for -twenty-four hours after he had won for his side. Then they -tolerated him again until the next challenge came along.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rasaldû revelled like a child in Gaya's good graces. -There was something almost winning in his wide smile -of pleasure, as after the first </span><em class="italics">chukka</em><span> he came over to the -select group under the awning and received feminine -Gaya's congratulations. Had he not played such a daring -game he would have cut rather a comic figure. His -riding-clothes, taken in juxtaposition with his dark chubby face, -were wonderfully and terribly English, and his brown -boots, very new and very brown, shone almost too -beautifully. Between him and the turbaned soldiery crowded -against the ropes there was a gulf of false Europeanism of -which the latter seemed curiously conscious. They alone -had not applauded, him in his bold assault on the enemy, -and they stared at him now with an expressionlessness -which, translated, equalled distrust and contempt.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meantime, Rasaldû chatted with the volubility of success -and self-confidence. He chose to address himself chiefly -to Mary Compton, but from time to time his moist brown -eyes shot an eager glance at Sigrid Fersen, seeking her -smile, a meed of well-earned admiration. He was a little -afraid of her. She was not in the least beautiful, and she -undoubtedly owed her position in Gaya to his generous -patronage, facts which of themselves should have sustained -him in her presence. But the quiet, imperious self-belief -with which she had silenced alike criticism and opposition -and compelled rigid Gaya to accept her and her standards, -shook Rasaldû's self-complacency. It was for that very -reason, and also because Gaya had mysteriously collapsed -before her, that Rasaldû hovered about her with the helpless -and protesting infatuation of a moth for a naked light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And now today there was added to this emotion the heat -and intoxication of his own prowess, and the consciousness -that, if she was not beautiful, she possessed something -much more vital than beauty—the mysterious force of -temperament which through all time has made plain women -more dangerous, more powerful in the destiny of nations -than women endowed with all physical perfection. Rasaldû -had no talent for analysing temperaments, but he could -analyse certain obvious factors in her charm—the pale -gold hair, the perfect skin, unprotected by powder, the -svelte, tiger-like grace and strength of her reposing body. -Above all, he could analyse clothes. Gaya's women-folk, -none too well blessed with money, lived in London's last -year's creations and the clumsy imitations of the native -tailors. But this simple white dress of some clinging, -shimmering material, unknown to Gaya, and this simple -straw hat almost unadorned, came from Paris. Rasaldû, -who knew his Paris, knew that much. And, as a man -worships a token from his native soil, so he worshipped -Sigrid Fersen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And presently he ventured to address her directly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now you have seen what is best in India!" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Rajah Rasaldû playing polo?" she asked, smilingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are unkind, Mademoiselle," he answered, with the -hurt sensitiveness of a snubbed child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did not mean to be unkind. There are so many -wonderful things in India, Rajah, that I hesitated a moment -to endorse your opinion. Still—yes, it was a fine sight. -You should always play polo, Rajah. It suits you better -than fêting prima ballerinas in London restaurants."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at her and saw that she was serious, and her -seriousness mitigated the dubiousness of her compliment. -He would have preferred it in the reversed sense, but he -had to take what was offered him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was not really alluding to myself at all," he said, -naïvely, "but to the game. The game's the thing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—and the man who plays it," she answered. She -was smiling faintly, and he indulged in a flattered -self-consciousness until he realized that the smile was a -reminiscent one, and that she was looking through him to some -invisible picture of her thoughts. Whereupon, Rasaldû -hastily reverted to Mrs. Compton, whom also he feared, -but in a lesser degree. Her tongue was sharp, but at least -she did not attract him, and consequently her powers of -offence were of a less painful order.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen did not notice his dejection. She was -looking at Meredith, who at that moment had entered the -awning. He still wore his clerical clothes, having come -straight from the little chapel, where every afternoon he -held his service. It was rare that more than one person -should represent the congregation. Sometimes he managed -to collect a few convert school-children, but always Anne -Boucicault was there, devout and trembling, her brown -eyes following his every movement with the reverence of -a passionate believer in the initiated and anointed priest. -That hour in the day was very dear to Owen Meredith. He -believed that it was a religious ecstasy which flooded him -as he listened to her low voice give the responses—or at -least a pure joy in their fellowship in the one faith. He -had not realized how lifeless and empty his own prayers -could be without the inspiration of her presence. Now a -kind of fear oppressed him—a fear of himself, a doubt in -his own spiritual integrity. For this afternoon, she had -failed him and he had failed himself. He had held the -service, according to the law which he had made for himself, -sparing no detail, but his heart had been dead. Now, -as he saw her, it started to life again, to the knowledge of -pain. She sat beside Colonel Boucicault, and there was -that in her attitude which reminded Meredith of a frightened -animal cowering under the threat of the lash. All the -charm of youth had been twisted out of her by some -invisible, iron-handed suffering. And without that charm, -she was a drab, colourless little soul, almost ugly. But -Meredith did not see that she was ugly, only that she was -ill and unhappy. He thought he understood. As he came -and sat beside her, she shot a quick, frightened glance at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father did not wish me to come," she said, in a hurried -whisper. "He was fearfully angry about some letter——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>More she could not say. And even that much would -have been dangerous, had not the man beside her been sunk -in a sullen, inattentive brooding. She dared say nothing of -the appalling scene which had followed on the receipt of -that ominous official document, and which had left them -stupefied and bruised and sick. In the final phase, -Boucicault had forbidden her chapel attendance, not because he -disapproved, or cared, but because he knew that she -wanted to escape him. And all the afternoon he kept at -her side, taking an ugly delight in her wincing, broken -subservience, and in the knowledge that he held her with -him in his self-created atmosphere of fear and hatred.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Meredith believed he knew more of her pallor than -she even hinted at.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I met Ayeshi on the way here," he said. "He gave me -the news. Tristram is on his way back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—?" she queried, dully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He has been very ill. Ayeshi has come on ahead to -prepare quarters for him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was looking down at her hands. He could see how -she fought to control their trembling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If only we could have put him up—but we can't—father -wouldn't—oh, it is terrible to be so helpless."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told Ayeshi to bring him to my bungalow. I will let -you know how he is—and perhaps, later on, you could help. -I know what a fine little nurse you are——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are very, very good, Owen——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I would be glad to do anything for him," he answered, -without significance. Then chancing to look up, he found -that Sigrid Fersen's eyes were fixed on him, and guessed -that she had heard, or had wanted to hear badly. For an -instant, on behalf of Anne, he hated her again, and the -next he warmed towards her. She met his half-resentful -stare as frankly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am so thankful he is safe," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton thereupon chimed in.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If anything happened to Major Tristram, I should die -of a broken heart," she said, "—even if Archie divorced -me for it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She paid no attention to the laugh in which even Anne -joined timidly. She was looking at Colonel Boucicault, who -had shifted his position like a sleeper unpleasantly disturbed, -but the remark which seemed on the edge of her compressed -lips was not destined to be uttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At that moment a bell announced the next </span><em class="italics">chukka</em><span>; -a stir passed round the enclosure and Mrs. Compton, who, -in spirit, played a magnificent game for Gaya, forgot -Boucicault and Tristram in her stern concentration on -the field.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rasaldû braced himself and turned with a smile to Sigrid. -He felt more confident. In a minute she would be forced -to look at him, to admire him, to acknowledge that he also -"played the game."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wish me luck!" he begged cheerily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Return victorious!" she returned, in mock heroics. -"For the victors, Mrs. Compton and I have prepared a -mighty feast in the gardens of the dâk-bungalow, and the -vanquished shall sit afar off and partake only of the crumbs -of our graciousness. Be not among the vanquished, O -Rajah!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To win the place of honour, I will make a goal every -five minutes, or perish," he boasted elatedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He swung himself on to the back of the pony which his -groom held ready for him, and with a flourish trotted to -his place on the field.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault awoke then completely from his black -brooding. He bent forward, staring straight into Sigrid -Fersen's face, his clenched teeth shown in a smile -that had in its mirthless, contained fury the elements -of insanity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are a very great friend of Rajah Rasaldû, Miss -Fersen," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked at him steadily, measuring the quality of -the challenge which he had thrown down.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does friendship follow on acquaintance?" she questioned -back. "In that case, you and I should be friends, -Colonel Boucicault, for I have met you more often than the -Rajah."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then he has marked his joy in your acquaintanceship -with remarkable generosity," he retorted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is generosity your translation for hospitality, Colonel -Boucicault?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Rajah's hospitality is well known. He gives -liberally. He expects a return. And he is impressionable. -There is such a thing as love at first sight, Miss Fersen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was watching her with a hungry anticipation, but she -neither winced nor turned from him. Her calm gaze met -his, and there was no change in its rather sleepy placidity. -But the enigmatic smile which he remembered quivered -at the corners of her mouth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And there is also such a thing as contempt at first sight," -she remarked casually, "and that is much what I felt for -you, Colonel Boucicault."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are an outspoken enemy," he answered, with a -quick drawing in of his breath. She looked down for an -instant and saw that his big, brutal-looking hands shook.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have remarked on my outspokenness before."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, and I even admire it. But my admiration, Miss -Fersen, cannot influence my sense of duty. I am chief in -command in Gaya. The social as well as the military -authority rests in me. And where I see that a certain -individual is lessening our prestige, corrupting our morals, -or even upsetting the routine of our social life, then I have -the power to expel that individual—to make Gaya and -India impossible——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If, to speak clearly, you refer to me, Colonel Boucicault," -she interrupted, "then perhaps I shall have the -pleasure of travelling in the same boat with you to England."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His bloodshot eyes remained blank and stupid-looking -for an instant, then lit up with an insensate fury of -understanding. He stumbled to his feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You—you——!" he muttered. She saw his clenched -fists, and knew that, for all his position and the crowd of -witnesses, he had come within an ace of striking her. She -looked up at him over her shoulder and laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Keep that sort of thing for your family, Colonel -Boucicault," she advised lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault turned and pushed through the knot of -spectators behind him. He made his way across the paddock -where the ponies were being rubbed down, and out on to the -high road. His orderly, seeing him, ran after him, and he -turned on the man with a curse.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take the buggy back to the stables. I shall walk."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the Mem-Sahib——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Mem-Sahib can walk, too," he answered, grinning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man saluted, his face hard-set, his eyes meeting -Boucicault's with military steadfastness. But for an -instant the muscles about his mouth had quivered, betraying -that there was that beneath the surface which even his -native stoicism could not wholly master. And Boucicault -saw and understood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He strode on down the centre of the dusty, sun-baked -road. He had drunk heavily that day, but there was more -than drink fomenting in his inflamed brain. There was -that letter with its bold, humbugging politeness—after so -many years of service—an inquiry—certain charges—what -charges?—by whom brought? He muttered aloud, dwelling -on a name with a sneering hatred. Well—they should -inquire—he could answer the lot. But then there was -Anne cowering before him—why had God cursed him with -a cowardly girl——? and that man—— There had been -a time when, as a mere captain, his regiment would have -followed him through the gates of hell—and now—now—if -he went into action tomorrow—what then? He saw the -soldier's face again and re-read its significance. Strong -men made enemies, and he had always had enemies, but he -had also had friends in the past. They had gone. The -men who had believed in him—adored him—gone. He -felt himself haunted by spectres of what was and what had -been. They came out of the black abyss of his soul, whirled -up by ugly, incoherent passions—regret and remorse, -self-loathing and self-pity twisted out of recognition and -melted down to one vast, corroding hatred. Every other -emotion came too late. Only hatred remained to him—the -last link between him and his fellow-creatures—that -and the power to hurt, to inflict suffering—as he suffered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thus carried forward and half-blinded by the glare which -emanated more from his brain than from the blazing roadway, -he left Gaya behind him. He came to a bend in the -roadway where a thin belt of trees curved down towards the -plain, and there stood still, arrested by an unclear -recognition. At first he scarcely knew what had attracted his -attention; then little by little the red haze cleared, and -something within him started awake, some dormant desire -as yet unnameable.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Wickie lay on the fringe of shadow, his black snout -between his paws, his ears pricked, his brown eyes, showing -the whites, expressive of alert curiosity. A piece of broken -cord attached to his collar testified dumbly to a determined -and skilful evasion of Mrs. Smithers's coercive methods of -adoption.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a moment or two the man and the would-be Aberdeen -considered each other. Probably in a spirit of -good-natured triumph in his own prowess, Wickie had greeted -Boucicault's appearance by a tattoo executed by his tail -on the dusty road, and his eyes had twinkled an invitation -to participate in the joke. Now he lay motionless, watchful, -distrustful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault called him. He did not know why he called -him nor as yet what he wanted with the dog. The tumult -within his brain had died down. He had become calm -and deliberate. The letter, the menacing future, the -jumbled vision of failure which had been vouchsafed him -in Anne's cringing body and in the eyes of his orderly, -had given place to a sense of purpose, controlled, -extraordinarily calculated, but as yet veiled even to himself. -He called the dog again, and showed no signs of impatience -when Wickie remained unresponsive. Underneath his own -calm he felt the stirring of a curious pleasure, of a fierce -thirsty joy which must be gratified only with an Epicurean -restraint. And for that he held it back, curbing it, spurring -it to the limit of his control, tasting its anguished appeal -for freedom with a cruel delight in his own mortification. -Then, without hurry, without show of passion, he came -forward, and, catching hold of the trailing rope, dragged -Wickie to his feet. The dog struggled and growled -ominously, and Boucicault smiled, showing his set teeth. -There was a broken stick of bamboo lying at the roadside, -and he picked it up and tested its suppleness leisurely -against his boot. The animal snapped at him, recognizing -the enemy, and perhaps the impending danger; but Boucicault -continued calmly resolved. He was like a morphia-maniac -who, with the passionately desired drug in his hand, -prolongs the delicious agony of desire. He tied the end -of the cord round the stem of a young palm and stood -back a moment looking down at his captive. Wickie -sprang at him, and then, suddenly, terribly, he struck with -his improvised weapon, bringing it down with a sickening -thud on the animal's long back. The scream that answered -him was half human. Boucicault drew in his breath. -Like lava under a thin crust of restraining earth, his -murderous hatred welled up in him, choking him. This cringing -brute, its brown eyes turned on him in dumb horror—was -Anne, Anne who always cringed, always truckled -to him, whom he had so often wanted to strike down. -And then Anne vanished from the whirling circles of his -thoughts, and it was Tristram and that pale-haired -woman—these two who, in their different ways, had thwarted -and defied him, brought him face to face with himself. -It was his wife, the officers of the regiment, the men—all -with that smouldering, unspoken loathing in their eyes. -And he struck like a madman, blow after blow, slaking -his thirst for vengeance, making with each stroke a fresh -breach in the wall behind which men imprison their -infamous insanities. And sometimes the dog whined and -sometimes, like a human being, set its teeth in stoic fortitude, -and sometimes, as the pliant stick fell across its body, -screamed uncontrollably.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was one such scream that Tristram heard as he rode -up from the plain towards Gaya. He hung in the saddle -like a man whose backbone has been snapped, and the -reins trailed from Arabella's weary neck. It was fortunate -that the road was familiar to her, for Tristram neither -knew his destination nor cared about it. Some one had -helped him into the saddle, and there he had remained -instinctively; but his mind was empty of all purpose, even -of knowledge of himself. The scream roused him a little, -but only for a second. There were so many strange sounds -and scenes in his brain that he trusted none of them. It -was only when Arabella jerked to a standstill and stood -trembling with pricked ears, that he began to believe in -the substantiality of what was before him. Even then -he sat hunched together in the saddle, gaping stupidly. -He had begun to realize, but there seemed to be a hiatus -in his mind—a gulf between thought and action which he -could not cross. Then Wickie screamed again, and he -rolled off Arabella's back and stood there rocking like a -drunken man.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Colonel Boucicault!" His own voice sounded like -a shout in his own ears, though in reality it was little more -than a whisper, but it reached Boucicault, who turned -round. Tristram knew then that what he saw was not a -distortion of his fancy. "Colonel Boucicault!" he -repeated heavily. He found nothing more to say. His -inability to think coherently had become an acute suffering. -He saw Wickie make a desperate effort to reach him, and -the sight roused him to another effort. "Let my dog -go!" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault passed his hand over his forehead and laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've just come back in time, Major Tristram," he -said. "If you really lay claim to this cur, you can stay -here and see it thrashed within an inch of its life. A -dangerous brute——!" He kicked it, yelping, back against -the tree. He had made an excuse and was ashamed of it. -It spoilt his pleasure in his own untrammelled, inexcusable -cruelty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram reeled forward, intercepting himself between -Wickie and his assailant in time to receive a blow across -the arm. The sting of it was like a tonic, driving the blood -faster to his brain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've no right—let my dog go!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your dog—my dear Major! Stand out of the way. -I am master in Gaya. If I may offer advice, I should -suggest a bath and a change of clothes. You look—if I -may say so—not quite worthy of your position. I doubt -if even your admirers would care to recognize you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It would take more than a bath and a change to put me -right," Tristram managed to return, and then, with the -dull obstinacy of a sick man: "Let Wickie go!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault's momentary self-restraint broke down. He -lashed out savagely:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take it yourself then, you sneaking cur——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram flung up his arm. Instinctively, for his sight -failed him, he warded off the blows which rained about -him, but no more than that. His mind was working now, -very simply, in the two fundamentals of its make-up—two -vast forces fighting for supremacy, the one long dormant, -suppressed, scarcely recognized, at the throat of -his soul—-his faith. So long as the blows fell on him, the -latter remained triumphant. He shielded Wickie—that -was what he had meant to do. He felt as yet no animosity -towards the man whose discoloured face seemed to fill his -vision. He felt very little pain—only a queer, alarming -tightening of his muscles. Vague fragments of memory -came to him—his passionate love of all things living—even -to this man, his simple conception of duty—of life itself. -They upheld him; they kept the vital part of him quiet -and peaceful in the face of a gathering force of sheer physical -revolt. His smarting body cried out for vengeance, but -it had no power to move him. He stood there, taking -the punishment patiently, almost listlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault drew back from him a moment. He was -breathing noisily between his teeth. In him the -fundamentals had gone to pieces, and he was being carried -forward on a flood-tide of ungoverned, monstrous passions. -His mind, in the midst of its disruption, reasoned with -the swiftness of insanity. This hulking, stupid giant who -had set out to ruin him—who bore insult and pain with -less spirit than his dog—he could be ruined, too. An -inquiry? Good—let there be one—a court-martial—cashiered, -both of them. But first this block had to be -roused.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Possibly he was mad, but he had a madman's instinct -and deep knowledge of the secret madness in others. He -stepped suddenly on one side. The end of his stick was -sharp and jagged. With the steel-wristed strength -practised on many a day's pig-sticking, he lunged forward, -driving the spike straight into Wickie's body.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram had seen too late. He heard the yelp, broken -and ending piteously in a child's whimper. Then it was -done. Something in him snapped. Mind and body, -instinct and reason leapt together. He struck out with -all the terrible strength of his great shoulders, with all the -force of his outraged love of life, with all his pity—struck -to kill.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It grew very quiet. He had been battling in the midst -of a titanic natural eruption, and now suddenly the violently -aroused elements had dropped exhausted, leaving him -standing in the midst of ruin. The tide which had flowed -through his veins receded, and he became oddly tired and -weak and helpless. The old blindness was creeping over -him. Yet some things he saw in a kind of vague bigness. -He did not bend down, but the man lying stretched in the -dust seemed quite near to him—an austere, sinister shadow -floating on a grey mist which rose higher—close to his -face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A faint sound reached him—a dull, soft thudding. He -found himself on his knees, muttering incoherently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Wickie lay full length, his short, crooked paws stretched -out, seeking relief. There was blood on his brindle side. -One brown eye looked out of its corner, half-puzzled, -half-reassuring, a little glint of the old solemn humour showing -through, as though the joke at Mrs. Smithers's expense -still lingered in the fading brain. The tail beat the dust -softly, and into that feeble movement there was compressed -a love and understanding, almost a pity which defied death -and rose above all language.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram took the head on his arm. He saw that his -hand was wet and knew that he was crying. Wickie turned -a little, licking his hand feebly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Old fellow—dear old fellow—if I hadn't cared so -much—if I'd been able to drown a kitten—it wouldn't have -happened——" He bent lower, kissing the black snout. -"My best pal!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went on talking under his breath. He did not know -that he talked. Some one quite close whispered the words -into his ear. He was not conscious of thinking. It began -to grow very dark.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently Wickie sighed and stretched himself wearily, -contentedly, as though it were no more than sleep that -were coming—sleep by the camp-fire after a long day's -march. Then lay still.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram dragged himself to his feet. Out of the deepening -blackness of things, an instinct asserted itself dimly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Help—we've got to get help—somehow——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He said it aloud. It seemed to him that it had been -shouted by the invisible monitor at his side. He stumbled -over the prostrate figure lying so simple and still in the -dust, reeling back from it, his face turned from Gaya. -Then he began to walk. He walked long after the -blackness had become impenetrable. He was no more than -the one instinct, tragically dominant over the body which -had betrayed him. His body was dead. He could not -feel it. It was a machine that he willed to go straight -forward to some dim, vast punishment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He walked through hours and nights of darkness. At -last there were lights in front of him—great yellow balls -of haloed flame, which danced in ecstasy to a passionate -rhythm. He heard voices—a sea of whisperings which -surged towards him on a great wave, breaking over him -in one hushed sound. He tried to cling to it through his -fading consciousness. It became a face, gazing down at -him, serene, triumphant, pitying—it became a hand which -touched him, held him in its iron gentleness. He could -feel it holding to him surely, as all else broke from him, -flinging him down into a bottomless silence.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="crossed-swords"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">CROSSED SWORDS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>In reality, he had not gone more than half a mile. But -things had happened to him of which he had had no -knowledge—twice he had retraced his steps and once fallen -to his knees and groped his way through the dust in a -blind circle. The eternities had been less than an hour, -the darkness no more than the clear nightfall, the lights -a dozen lanterns twinkling from the trees of the -dâk-bungalow. His consciousness had been a dull, distorted -thing, presenting the reality to him in shapeless -exaggerations. He had heard music. It had sounded to him like -a huge, throbbing symphony in which these nights and -days in Bjura, the passions which had swept him out -of his path, were mercilessly reiterated motives. In reality, -it was just Carreño's unsophisticated little waltz which -Sigrid Fersen drew out lightly from a Steinway already -much the worse for its Indian sojourn. He heard voices. -It was young Radcliffe lounging in the shadow of the trees, -making a gloomy assault on the susceptibilities of the -latest sweetest thing from England, the while his real -deeply embittered self was in the drawing-room scowling -at Rasaldû, who, still crowned with laurels, leant against -the piano staring at Sigrid unrestrainedly and with a very -naked passion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The last voice that Tristram heard, the first and last -face that he had seen, had been Sigrid's, but that was -because she had swamped all other realization. It was -Mrs. Smithers, roaming like a dutiful policeman through -the compound, who found him lying huddled together just -inside the gates. She made no sort of outcry. Having -ascertained that he was alive, she did not even hurry -herself. She went and stood primly at Sigrid's side, her -mittened hands folded in front of her, her back to Rasaldû, -whom she openly detested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He's there," she said, jerking her head towards the -compound; "lying in a dead faint, poor dear. I guess it's -your fault—you'd better do something, hadn't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>After one swift glance at the grim face, and without a -word either to Smithers or Rasaldû, Sigrid had got up and -gone down the steps into the darkness where Tristram lay. -She knelt down beside him and touched him on his dry, -burning forehead, on his throat, gliding down to his -powerless hand. She spoke to him, calling him by name, and -she knew that he heard, and recognized her. For a long -minute she remained thus motionless, tasting her power -to probe beneath his physical consciousness to the self in -which he kept his dreams, his quaint beliefs, his simple, -world-embracing love of things. And she knew that if he -saw her, it was because her face lived in his inner vision, -and that if he felt her hand it was because the memory of -her touch was seared into his very flesh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She granted him and herself that moment, and then she -called for help. It came quickly, noisily. But though -others intervened, she remained at Tristram's side. Her -instinct told her that he knew she was there, and that she -held him back from the abyss towards which he was drifting. -They laid him between the faintly scented sheets of -her bed. It was her order. The shaded lamp threw a -subdued glow on the room's costly loveliness, on the -scattered, cunningly grouped treasures of five continents, on -fragmentary, priceless testimonies to a rare and varied -taste. They exercised a curious influence on the grieved -and troubled helpers. It was like a subtle intoxication, as -though all that these things represented crept into their -blood and fought there for mastery. And in silent, austere -contrast was the man lying dimly outlined beneath the -white sheet, the rugged, unkempt head tilted slightly back -against the pillow, the thin, suffering features composed in -a passing phase of grave serenity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They knew whence he came and what he had accomplished, -and the rarefied atmosphere of exquisite -Paganism jarred on them. It was a challenge, a kind -of sneer at his whole life. They did not reason about -it, they could scarcely define it. But it made -Meredith's manner cold to the point of antagonism as he -turned presently to where Sigrid stood in the shadow, her -eyes fixed on the old Italian vase which she had picked -up casually. He hated her again—she was so calm, -almost indifferent. He came and stood beside her, hushing -his full voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think we've done all we can. He's pretty bad, I'm -afraid. I'll have a wire sent to the next best station for a -doctor and a nurse. Of course, he can't stay here—we'll -try and move him tomorrow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I prefer him to stay here," she said, without looking up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He frowned, wishing that Rasaldû had not been one of -those to help carry Tristram and to share in the -unconventional intimacy of the scene. It revolted him that he -should stand there, watching and listening. The old ugly -suspicions which he had sternly repressed in himself awoke -again. They were not justly roused—it was only that he -was human and incensed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think Tristram would wish it," he said, and -unconsciously his voice took on its heaviest Anglicanism. -"He would not wish you to be put to any trouble. After -all, he is almost a stranger to you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know him very well," she returned. "I think he -has known me all his life. He would leave the decision to -me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At least, he would not wish you to be burdened with -the—unconventionally——" He stammered, half expecting -the vivid contempt with which she turned to him, and -conscious of deserving it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, you priest! You would rather your friend died -than that your fetish of Other People's Respectability -should be insulted." She waved him aside and flashed -past him to the doorway, pulling the curtains noiselessly -aside. In the second room, half-boudoir, half-dressing-room, -she found Mary Compton and Anne. The rest of -the guests had discreetly evaporated, or at most hovered -afar off waiting news of the man whom, oddly enough, they -loved without intimacy. He had lived so much his own -life, they had so often laughed at his oddities, and it was -something of a revelation to them that, now the inevitable -disaster had overtaken him, they were sick and afraid and -dumbly remorse-stricken.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Captain Compton stood at the compound gates under the -dying lights of the lanterns with a couple of his brother -officers, and smoked fiercely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor old Tristram—good old Hermit. It was bound -to happen. No human being could go on like that and not -crock up. Damn it, we oughtn't to have allowed it. We -took him too much for granted. It's always the way. -Good Lord, why doesn't some one come? What's Rasaldû -doing in that </span><em class="italics">galère</em><span>, I should like to know? And what -the devil is that tearing down the road——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rasaldû meantime, delightfully conscious of his utility, -had followed Sigrid and Meredith into the room where the -two women waited. Mary Compton had remained boldly. -She sat upright in her chair under the lamp with a rather -bleak look of authority and ready-for-anything alertness, -which had made her an adored terror in the grim days at -Chitral. Her evening dress, an antiquity cunningly -revised, fitted her badly, as though it knew she hated it and -meant to pay her out. She jerked her shoulders as Sigrid -entered, seemingly exasperated by the garment's stiff, -restraining influence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well?" she demanded. "How is he?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know yet," was the low answer. "But I think -he is very ill. I have only seen one person die—it was like -that." She turned her fair, smooth head towards Owen, -but did not look at him. "Mr. Meredith wishes him to be -moved. He is afraid my reputation might suffer—or that -there might be a scandal in his parish."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton considered the young missionary with a -cold curiosity, giving him an almost ludicrous consciousness -of the oft-denied but very profound sex solidarity of -women.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How idiotic! Men are just like babies in a crisis—always -fussing about the unessentials. Of course, Major -Tristram must stay—at any rate, until he is out of danger. -And, Sigrid, as a sop to a hopeless passion, let me help -nurse him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'll pull him through together," Sigrid answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Meredith, don't you think with Mrs. Compton and -Mrs. Smithers on guard, the situation should pass muster?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shrugged his broad shoulders. He was looking at -Anne—Anne whose white, tear-stained face peered out of -the shadow like a pitiful, frightened ghost's, and somehow -the sight filled him with a cold anger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My suggestion was well meant," he said. "I made it -for Major Tristram's sake as well as for yours. I thought -he would prefer to find himself among old friends."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He could have come to us," Anne said, in her thin, -broken voice. "I have nursed so much—and mother -understands sickness, too——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen glanced at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose Colonel Boucicault is an old friend," she said. -"Colonel Boucicault, who has helped to kill him——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a second of strained silence. Anne's face had -changed from white to red, and then to a deeper pallor. -She dropped forward with a little moan, her face hidden -in her hands, crying helplessly. Meredith took a step -forward, as though to protect her. The veins on his low, -broad forehead were swollen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Surely——" he began hoarsely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid made an imperative gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I cannot be bothered with your loves and hates," she -said. "I'm going to save Major Tristram—that's all that -matters to me. You can stay here if you want to—both -of you—but on my terms."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was like the cut of a whip across the face. Meredith -found no answer for a moment. He was sick with horror -at the tide of anger which swept over him. His primitive -instinct was to strike back physically. He knew now that -all Anne's distrust was justified. The woman was -dangerous—dangerous, above all, to Anne's happiness. He had -the right now to combat her—to set himself squarely against -her power in Gaya. He wanted to assume the authority -now, but it was too late. Moreover, at the bottom, he -knew he could not touch this enemy. She was of another -world, impervious to the penalties which his could inflict.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Compton stood on the threshold—Compton, whose -face was a sufficient warning—and behind him Ayeshi. -Both men had reached the verandah steps at the run, and -now Compton had pulled up, meeting his wife's stare of -reproof with a hurried apology.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sorry—-I didn't mean to make a row or startle -you. Ayeshi has just come with bad news. Miss -Boucicault—I think you ought to go home at once. Your -father has been badly hurt——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My father!" She sprang to her feet, her eyes wide -with an incredulous fear. "My father—hurt——?" she -echoed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He was found half-an-hour ago, unconscious. Some -one must have attacked him. Of course, now Tristram's -done there's no doctor. We'll telegraph at once. -Radcliffe's got his gig—I thought you might go with him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was now honestly conscience-stricken. What happened -was only terrible to him because of its significance. -It was like a signal of the first break of the storm—the thing -for which he had waited. That any one should care -personally for the injured man—least of all the girl whose -youth he had trodden underfoot—seemed incredible. Yet -she stood there, white and shivering with shock. He tried -to apologize again, but she did not seem to hear; only, as -Meredith came to her side, she turned to him like a -panic-stricken child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please take me home to him, Owen—please take me home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Compton made way for them both. He beckoned to -Rasaldû, who obeyed the summons reluctantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'll clear out and leave you the field. Ayeshi can -bring us the news to the club. Suppose I shan't see you -again for a bit, old girl."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not till my job's done here. Get the ayah to bring -round some reasonable clothes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Right-o! So long, old girl."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He came up to his wife and kissed her shyly. She patted -him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So long. Not too many pegs."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The room emptied. Neither Meredith nor Anne had -said good-bye nor looked at Sigrid. Rasaldû bowed over -her hand, but even he realized that she was not conscious -of him. As his broad, fat back vanished down the verandah, -Mrs. Compton got up, shaking herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now we can get to business. God defend me in my -last hour from sentimentalists of Anne's make. Can I -borrow a dressing-gown, Sigrid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do. Smithy will give you one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thanks. By the way, I expect Boucicault's not the -last to go. It's the first bubble on the water, and soon we -shall all be in it, and boiling nicely." She made her exit -on this rather light-hearted prophecy; but Sigrid, who had -made a movement to follow her, lingered for a moment. -Her eyes were cast down as though in thought, but in -reality they were fixed on Ayeshi's hand. When she raised -them suddenly, she found that he too, was watching her. -There was nothing insolent, nothing inquisitive in his -scrutiny. His expression was grave and reticent. It -made him seem much older. He was no longer the boy -who had cried on her doorstep. He looked at her with a -man's eyes, with a man's understanding and stern power -of secrecy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Was it you who found the Colonel?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Mem-Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is badly hurt?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think so. The blow was a terrible one. It seemed -to me that he was conscious. Once he looked at me, but -he could not move or speak."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you think it was one of his men, Ayeshi?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do not know, Mem-Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned away from him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is blood on your hand, Ayeshi."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He salaamed imperturbably.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will wash it away. It is a cut—a little thing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He followed her into the next room with the unobtrusive -decision of one whose right to enter could never be -challenged. Mrs. Smithers had moved the lamp behind a -screen, but Ayeshi, standing at the foot of the bed, looked -down through the veil of shadow as though the sleeper's face -was an open book in which he read intently. Then he -looked at Sigrid. She had taken her place close to Tristram's -pillow, and one hand rested lightly on the coverlet. -There was a caress in that touch. Her fair head was bent -in grave, pitying contemplation that was yet touched with -a curious detachment, as though she looked down from a -great distance. In the half-light, she seemed unreal, -fanciful, the very spirit of that beautiful æsthetic Paganism -which the room breathed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi shivered a little, and his slender, dark hands -resting on the carved wooden bed, tightened their grasp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib!" he said, softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Ayeshi?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib—I have seen so many die of late. Death -at its best is sleep. The Sahib sleeps deeply. Perhaps it -is the will of his God that death should come to him now -that he has given so much for those he loves. Is there not -a saying in your Book, Mem-Sahib—-'Greater love hath -no man than this, that he layeth down his life for his -friend'?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen lifted her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she answered steadily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Meredith Sahib taught it me. I have forgotten much, -but not that. It was true of him. Others—those who -come here to teach us—preach to us, but he lived. He did -not believe—no, not as Sahib Meredith believed. He -believed in the flowers and the birds and the wind and the -mountains—he believed in us." He put his hands to his -breast, and his eyes glowed in the darkness. "I was his -brother—his younger brother," he said proudly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And he loved you, Ayeshi."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He loved all men—even the worst." He came a step -nearer to her. "Mem-Sahib—a woman died out in Bjura—died -horribly. He stayed with her to the end. She was -hideous, and he took her head on his knee and comforted -her as though she had been his mother. There was a little -child, and he took it and promised he would care for it. -She died happy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her head was bent again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That was like him, Ayeshi."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib—if the end comes now it will trouble him -that he cannot keep his promise."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He shall keep his promise. I will keep it for him. -And you, Ayeshi—stay with me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But he drew back, and the light died out of his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is the end, Mem-Sahib. His and mine. I loved -him—I, too, would have given my life—remember that of -me, Mem-Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked up at him, and the naked agony in his eyes -was something that she indeed remembered long afterwards.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think he knows," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He salaamed deeply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I will go and guard the door, Mem-Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was gone without a sound. A shadow seemed to -have passed from the room. His very voice had been so -low, that now the silence flowed over it as though it had -never been. Yet what he had said lingered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen drew her chair close up to the bedside, and -sat there chin in hand watching. The dim light of the lamp -threw the shadow of Tristram's profile on to the -white-washed wall beyond. Ugly enough—the pointed beard -thrust out under the broad, unshapely nose—the big -forehead made grotesque by the outline of disordered hair. -But even the shadow gave a hint of what the face itself -revealed in its unconsciousness. The mouth, tender and -strong as a woman's may be, passionate and austere, -laughter and the joy and love of life in the corners of the -closed eyes, and over all, like a veil, pain. Quixote with a -grain of English humour—Quixote at the end, vanquished -and conquering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stirred a little in the first uneasiness of coming -delirium, and she laid her hand on his and he grew still again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton came in presently. With Mrs. Smithers, -she had been preparing a special fever antidote of her own, -and there was an air of resolve about her neat, kimono-clad -figure which made death seem afar off. She came -lightly up to the bedside, stirring the contents of a -malicious-looking medicine glass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, if we can only get him to take a few drops, they -will help to keep him quiet. Of course, we don't know -what in the world's the matter with him. It may be the -ghastly thing they had in Bjura; but I don't think so. -He wouldn't have come back. Are you afraid?" She -glanced down at her companion, and Sigrid met her close -scrutiny deliberately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you've been crying, anyhow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's possible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What for?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid's lips were twisted with a wry smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—I was touched about something, I -suppose. I think it was because I never thanked him for -something he gave me—I never gave him anything to -take with him when he went out there—I've just -remembered."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'm! How many times have you two met?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Twice—no, three times, and the first time counted -most of all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you in love with him, too?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've been trying to decide—yes, I think so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton poured out the medicine into a tea-spoon.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you mean to marry him? Because, if you do, you will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I'm not going to marry him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She made a gesture, brief, impatient.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear, can't you see? We live at the opposite -poles of things—he, the unbelieving Christian, I, the -believing Pagan. Look at his life—look at mine. Look at -this room—these things. You have a </span><em class="italics">flair</em><span> for what is -precious and beautiful—can't you see?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton continued to balance the spoon. Her -bright hazel eyes were fixed thoughtfully on the other's face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I see. And I love you, Sigrid, as Gaya does, -without caring who or what you are, or what you mean to -do with us. But just sometimes I'm afraid—sometimes -I think it would have been more merciful to have let us go -on our own old, stodgy way."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mean—him? He sought me out. I believe he -brought me here. There are more things in heaven and -earth, Mary, than are dreamed of in your philosophy. -And even if that weren't true—he knew as well as I did -what I was—what I wanted—-adventure, knowledge of the -finest and the best in life and in men—a last splendid -hour—he would not have denied it me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The last words had sunk below the whisper of their brief -conversation, and Mary Compton did not hear them. -Very skilfully she forced the opiate between the unconscious -man's lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"At any rate, we're a nice couple of nurses chattering -over poor Tristram's head. Will you watch for a little? -Mrs. Smithers and I will relieve you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you want him to live leave us alone. I shall not -sleep tonight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In those clothes?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She glanced down at her quaint, gold-brocaded dress.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. He loves beautiful things."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He may think he is in Paradise and you an angel," -rather satirically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Or perhaps men so near death see clearer——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton sighed and bent and kissed her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good night, then. If there is any change, send for us. -Ayeshi is at the door."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Goodnight."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now the last sound was gone. Even the man's shallow, -irregular breathing became for the moment quieter, as -though peace had crept into his troubled oblivion. Sigrid -sat motionless at his side. The light touched her with a -dim brilliance; it dwelt on the smooth gold hair, on the -gold of her dress, on the rich living whiteness of her arms -and shoulders. She shone subduedly like an image on an -altar-shrine—an image of life and of life's splendour faced -with the shadow of death.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently Tristram stirred and muttered to himself. -The words were at first thick, indistinguishable, but -suddenly he roused himself. She caught sentences, rapid, -fever-stricken—the incoherent risings from the depths of -the man's soul. It was his credo—a fragment of that faith -of which Ayeshi had spoken, perhaps never before formulated, -now poured in a molten stream of delirious sincerity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe in all things living—I believe in beauty—I -believe in the goodness of men and in their immortality. -I believe in the immortality of the flowers, of the trees, -of the grass in the wind—I believe in God who is all things, -who is myself and her. I believe in the sacredness of all -life——" An intolerable agony crept into his voice. He -repeated the last phrase on a rising inflection. "Oh, God, -I believe in the sacredness of life——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She bent over him. She laid her hand on his forehead -and suddenly his eyes opened. They rested full on her face, -but she knew, for all their extraordinary brilliance, that -they did not see her. It was not to her that he spoke, but -to the vision of her. "You must go, you too—everything. -A man who has broken faith—there is a curse on us—an -awful curse. We kill what we love—we kill what is -holy, unfathomable—every day of our lives—for pleasure, -because we must. We're doomed to destroy. We try -not to—we try to save—but the curse is on us—the curse -of Cain——" His voice had dropped; it broke now with -a groan and the brief glimpse of coherent thought was -over. He began to mutter again—isolated words, a name, -constantly a name. Still she remained bent over him. -Her small face had lost colour, and something of its aloof -pity. She was breathing quickly, through parted lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram!" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He raised one burning hand and pushed her back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—not now—you must go—for pity's sake. I've -carried you here—here—so long—through the burning -days—since that night. You don't know—no other woman—there -had been fancies—the flowers by the waterside—the -lotus there in the shadows—-the lizard in the long grass—you -were the golden corn swaying in the wind, the flowers—the -stars, the mountains, the slender trees in the storm—great -ships sailed down the river—you came in and out -of their ghosts flying over the water—I watched you till -dawn—you were the dawn—dancing over the world's grey -roofs—you were nature, life, God——" He raised himself -on his elbow in a frenzied ecstasy. She put her arm round -his shoulders trying to force him back. In a minute his -voice had changed—grew dry and harsh and imperative. -"Separate the living from the dead—no flinching—it's a -miracle, this life—a mystery—sacred—fan the flames—the -dead, too, are sacred—fire is pure—now it is over—finished—I -can sleep—" He sat upright, head thrown back as -one awaiting thirstily release, then lifted his arms high up -in a gesture of despair. "The colours—down—down in -the dust—a blow straight in the face of God—the goal -missed—in a minute—oh! God!—if I cared less——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He fell back exhausted, broken, his breathing so hushed -that for a moment she believed that it had ceased for ever. -She still held him, her arm crushed under his great shoulders, -and she called him by name, recklessly. He turned over -a little on his side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wickie understood," he whispered. "Wickie knew I -couldn't help it—but my mother—don't let her know—not -yet. She's old—so old—one long sacrifice—and now -to have failed——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She shan't know—I promise—I promise——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not, could not have heard. His head tossed -restlessly on the pillow. The collar of his shirt was open, -and she caught a glimpse of a red swollen line across his -chest. She drew her breath quickly—staring at it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must go back, Sigrid—you must. You are not -a dream—not now. Back up on to the mountain-top—to -your golden palaces—where there is no meanness—no -poverty—no sin—you could not go with me where I am -going——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She knelt beside him, holding, him with all her strength, -his head pressed against her bare shoulder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am going with you, Tristram Sahib—tonight at least -I'll go with you wherever you go—tonight. I'll try your -way of loving and dying—just this one night, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a blue, unfamiliar shadow about her lips. -The room with its dim treasures was no longer part of her. -She had lost her serenity, her easy detachment. Not the -triumphant quality of her power. This man was dying—not -of the body, but of the soul. She could feel him -sinking, and she went down with him—down into the -vortex of his unknown struggle, fighting as she had danced -and lived, with her whole will, with all the splendid -vitalness of her being.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And his eyes, glazing already, were turned to her and -saw her. They became peaceful—content. Whatever -message she had willed to pierce the dense cloud of delirium -had reached him. He sighed, and lay still in her arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently she saw that his eyes were closed. A faint -moisture glistened on his smooth forehead, and the wild -muttering passed into the quiet of an exhausted slumber.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still she did not move.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The night sank into deeper darkness and stillness. The -hours crept on their way, monstrous, heavy-footed. She -measured her breathing to his, she held him in arms that -had lost all feeling. The shadow about her lips crept over -her whole face, blotting out its youth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The dawn came at last, creeping in between the parted -curtains, mixing pallidly with the dying lamplight. The -rich embroideries and the glittering curios faded, the high -carved chair by the dressing-table became spectral, unreal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi entered noiselessly, passing like a ghost to the -quiet bedside. Tristram had turned over, his face to the -coming day, his head resting in the curve of his arm. So -Ayeshi had often seen him—by the camp-fire, after the -day's work.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And beneath, on the great tiger-skin, huddled and still, a -golden-clad, incongruous figure, which even in that moment -retained something imperious, conquering, exultant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi bent down and touched the pale, disordered hair. -He leant across and kissed the man's unconscious -hand—lightly, as if it had been a sleeping child's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then, noiselessly as he had come, glided across the -room to the open window and thence out into the morning.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="tristram-chooses-his-road"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">TRISTRAM CHOOSES HIS ROAD</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Dr. Martin from Lucknow had made his examination, -and now he sat opposite to the woman on whose husband -he was about to pass sentence, and told her the truth with -all the delicacy at his command. He was a civilian with -a considerable practice among women, and a corresponding -belief in his understanding of the sex. But he did not -understand Mrs. Boucicault. Possibly the long journey, -partly on horse-back, partly on a bone-racking bullock-wagon, -had upset his nerve and that nice balance of mind -which made a correct analysis possible. He had felt oddly -and ridiculously sickened by the man whose bedside he -had just left. There was something revolting in that -great hulk of over-developed, ill-conditioned strength, -inert and helpless, without power of speech or motion, -with nothing living in it but the eyes. Dr. Martin had -seen a great many ugly sights in his career, but nothing -uglier than those desperately living eyes in the dead body.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now the wife sat opposite him and smiled at him—a -slow, unending smile which might have pointed to a mind -deranged by grief if she had not been so eminently practical -and calm. She was dressed girlishly in white, with a red -rose stuck gaily in her belt. The grey fluffy hair had been -carefully yet loosely dressed, and there was a faint tinge of -artificial colour on her cheeks. Her restless fingers glittered -with valuable rings. It was still early in the day, and -Dr. Martin had pronounced a sentence which was practically one -of death, and he felt that the whole situation was horrid—a -kind of </span><em class="italics">danse macabre</em><span>. The only person who gave him the -remotest sensation of preserved decency was the daughter. -She sat apart from her mother with her head bowed, her -hands tight clasped in her lap, and he had seen a tear fall. -He thought her rather pretty and feminine. With the -rapid, constructive reasoning of his sex, he placed her in -the catalogue of good daughters of adoring fathers and -heartless mothers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And so," said Mrs. Boucicault, summing up, "you -don't think that there is much hope. He may live a long -time of course—but like that—quite conscious, but -helpless. On the other hand, the end might come suddenly. -Isn't that what you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dr. Martin fidgeted. He felt tact was wasted on her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Those are the two extremes of the case," he admitted. -"But there are intermediary possibilities. He might get -back a certain amount of activity—speech, for instance. It -all depends on the treatment. All that I can advise for -the present is that he should not be worried or alarmed. -Get him a long leave—don't talk of retirement—keep him -here, at any rate, for the present. That's the best you -can do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is what I intended," Mrs. Boucicault returned -deliberately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Again the little doctor felt himself vaguely upset. It -was as though just as he was bowling smoothly along a -familiar road, some one came and madly jolted him into an -uncomfortable rut. He clung obstinately to his course.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't say how I sympathize with you," he said. "No -one can appreciate more than I do the courage of our women -here in India. Literally we all go more or less with our -lives in our hands. Of course, the vast majority of the -natives are loyal, but in so many millions there are bound -to be one or two degenerate fanatics with a grievance. I -understand there has been some question of sedition in the -native regiment—at least, a good deal of discontent. We -had rumours of it even in Lucknow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne Boucicault looked up. She had certainly been -crying, but now her brown eyes were bright, and her lips -straight and firm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It wasn't any of father's men," she said on a low note -of defiance. "I'm sure it wasn't. Father is a fine soldier. -When he was captain they used to call him the Bagh Sahib -because of his fearlessness. They worshipped him. One -of the older men told me—I know they wouldn't have -touched him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dr. Martin smiled. He felt relieved and pleasantly -moved by the quick and passionate championship of the -hulk he had just condemned. He had, moreover, heard -something of Colonel Boucicault's past and something of -his present. For the latter he was prepared to find some -explanation in the grey-haired, bedizened figure of -indifference opposite him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One would be glad to believe that you are right, Miss -Boucicault," he said courteously. "If only the dastardly -coward could be got hold of——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe I know who he is," she interrupted in a hard -quick way, which was new to her. "Ayeshi, Major -Tristram's servant, has disappeared. He had some money -which the Rajah gave him for his education, and he has -stolen it and gone. I saw him that night when he came -and told us that father had been found. I saw blood on -his hand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dr. Martin hesitated an instant, as though in two minds -as to his answer. Finally he looked up with a professional -twinkle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Feminine intuition again! Well, since you've got so -far on your own, Miss Boucicault, I might as well tell you -that your surmise is shared by others. I met Captain -Compton at the dâk-bungalow, and he told me there's a -hue and cry after this said Ayeshi. Only it's to be kept -quiet. I understand the boy was a sort of protégé of -Major Tristram's, and there's a general opinion that, unless -it's necessary, the latter is not to be told. He's pretty weak -still, and it's something of a shock to get one of your pet -theories bowled over in that way."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne's eyes sank to her clasped hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is Major Tristram better?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fine. Well round the corner. But I fancy it must -have been touch and go with him. That fair-haired -woman—Miss Fersen, isn't that the name?—seems to -have fought every inch of the ground." He reflected -pleasurably for a minute. "Well, that's the sort of nurse -a man wants on his death-bed—a real fighter and worth -looking at to boot—something to make life worth struggling -for. Great dancer, isn't she? Well, I'm a sort of back-number -that never catches up, and there's always a different -star on the horizon when I get home on leave, and even then -I only get a glimpse. My people hang out in a God-forsaken -spot in Yorkshire." He rambled on for a time with a man's -affable, crushing indifference as to whether his listeners are -bored or otherwise, but finally, chilled by Mrs. Boucicault's -enigmatic smile and Anne's white silence, he got up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I'll be getting along to the club——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault remained seated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you spare me a minute, Dr. Martin? A little -trouble of my own—a bruise, a mere nothing, still perhaps -you would look at it. Anne, run away, would you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dr. Martin, a little irritated by this fresh and probably -petty call on his services, wondered at the girl's dignity. It -must be galling at her age to be told to "run away." He -scented tragedy, and sized it up and turned to its creator -with professionalism and small sympathy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, Mrs. Boucicault, if you could just tell me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne heard the last words and smiled bitterly to herself. -She went out on to the verandah and stood there looking -down into the sunlit garden with eyes that were blind with -misery and anger and contempt. In that quiet room, -listening to the doctor's pleasantly modulated voice, she -had been through purgatory. She knew that the ways of -God were inscrutable—it was the all-covering explanation -of her creed—but they were sometimes hard to tread. Why -had He given a bad woman the power to save the life of a -good man? Why had He allowed Evil to creep in and take -possession of peaceful Gaya? Was it perhaps a trial, a -test of their strength? That seemed possible. At least she -did not doubt the working of God's hand. She had seen -it strike—strike terribly. In a few hours it had brought a -miracle of change in her little cosmos. The figure of terror -had gone down like some monstrous clay-footed idol, and -become pitiful and pitiable. She no longer feared it—no -longer hated. She yearned towards it as towards a sinner -whose punishment has been meted out with an implacable -justice. He was a symbol of Divine wrath, an awful -admonition, but beyond man's hate or censure. He had -become almost sacred to her. But her mother had drifted -from her, had wilfully stood apart in that solemn moment, -with that hateful smile on her lips had seemed to deny the -very existence of God Himself. Anne shuddered. It was -as though a mask had fallen from the grey-tinted, childish, -wrinkled face, and that Anne saw her as she was, petty, -cruel, mean-souled—a hard, unlovable woman who had -perhaps driven her father to his destruction. Her father -had been a great man—a fine soldier, brave, daring, much -beloved. She thought of him with a dim, uncertain pride -which grew stronger and clearer. But her mother sank -into a shadow. She was little and selfish. In this awful -hour when Death hung over them, she thought of her own -petty ailments—of a trivial bruise, keeping Dr. Martin -back to discuss herself with a nauseating self-pity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In that moment Anne's heart turned towards her father -with an overpowering tenderness, a kind of comradeship of -understanding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>How long they were! Presently she heard her mother's -voice, high-pitched and steady. Mrs. Boucicault led the -way out on to the balcony. She was toying with the red -rose, smelling it with a deliberate epicureanism.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am so glad you are able to stay on a few days, -Dr. Martin. I am giving a dinner and a little dance to the -Station next week, and of course Miss Fersen will be of the -party. She is rather a friend of mine. You will meet her -then. Good-bye for the present, and ever so many thanks."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dr. Martin muttered something. Even then Anne -wondered at him. He took no notice of her, and went -stumbling awkwardly down the steps like a man shaken out -of his composure. His face was white and rather sickly -looking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The two women stood side by side, and watched him -clamber up into the dog-cart and drive off. Even after he -had disappeared they remained motionless as though both -feared the first move, the first break in the long silence -between them. Or perhaps it was only Anne who was -afraid, for when she turned suddenly she found her mother's -gaze fixed absently on the distance, her smile lingering at -the corners of her mouth like the forgotten grimace of an -actor who has suddenly ceased to act.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother—you didn't mean it—it was a mistake—I -didn't understand you, of course—it isn't true about the -dinner——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?" Mrs. Boucicault turned her faded blue eyes -to her daughter's face. "Yes, it's perfectly true," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne was shivering with an almost physical sickness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It isn't possible," she said breathlessly. "You can't -realize—with father so ill—so terribly ill. How can you -think of such a thing? It's wicked—cruel! What will -people think?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't really know. But they'll come. Sigrid Fersen -will come, I know. I wish she would dance—just once. I -have never seen her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That woman! You mean to have her—now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought you'd be glad. She seems to have saved -Major Tristram's life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Rajah's mistress!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault laughed lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear little daughter, how grown-up of you! Is -that the sort of thing your religion teaches you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne made no answer. She was ashamed and sorry, -but also full of a bitter resentment, as good people are when -they have been goaded into an unjustifiable aggression, an -ugly, unchristian outbreak. Yet she recognized her share -of the fault with contrition, and in penance sought to retrace -her steps, to bridge the widening gulf between her and the -woman who one short week ago had been her companion, -her half-protected, half-protecting comrade. She came -and laid her hand gently on her mother's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was horrid of me to say that—it was uncharitable. -But I am so unhappy——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Unhappy—are you?" Mrs. Boucicault smiled vaguely -down at the caressing hand as though it amused her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother—isn't it obvious?—Isn't it the most terrible -thing that could have happened?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It doesn't seem to me terrible at all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne held her ground. She was trembling with a kind -of painful excitement. In her own mind there was a -picture of herself fighting to bring this shallow little soul up -to the heights of realization, to some dim perception of -the real tragedy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is terrible," she affirmed patiently. "Even if you -don't love father any more you must see how awful it is -to be struck down like that in a minute, without time to -make his peace with any of us—and now to lie there dumb -and helpless, never able to tell us things—never able to -make up for anything. Isn't that pitiable? It's the very -coldest way one can look at it. But you must feel more -than that. After all, you did love him once. Of course -he was different then, but you must try and remember -him as he was in those days——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault patted the hand on her arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That sounds quite pretty and nice, Anne. But I -haven't time for remembering."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not time? You've got all your life. You must try -and make a new picture of him. I shall. I shall think -of him as the handsome, brave Tiger Sahib and learn to -love him. We've got to hold together, mother, and make -this awful trial bearable for him. After all, we can't -tell—it may be a kind of test of us all—it may be the saving -of him—of us——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault shook her head like a playful, obstinate -child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't look at it like that at all. I'm free. I'm going -to have a rattling good time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother!" She still retained her affectionate attitude, -but it had become official, perfunctory. All the warmth -in her died out, leaving a chill horror. "Mother—you -can't mean what you say! If you do you must be mad -or very wicked."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I daresay both, my dear. I really don't care. I'm -free—that's how I feel about it. I'm going to make up -for lost time——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne shrank away from her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's awful—horrible——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault threw her rose petulantly into the -garden. She had only worn it a short time, and it had -already withered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I guessed you would feel like that. If you don't like -it you could go down to Trichy and stay with the Osbornes. -They are your father's relations, and they always hated me, -so you'll get on. Of course I don't want to persuade you. -I'm very fond of you, Anne. I should like you to stay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And watch you make a mock of my father's misery?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, Anne—only having a good time."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It would make me sick to see you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, then—of course you must go."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The two women considered each other for a moment. -There was no pity, no relenting to be read on the older face, -only an inflexible purpose softened by a childlike look of -gay anticipation. Anne turned away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't bear it—I couldn't bear to live with you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She ran down the verandah steps into the garden as -though flying from a revelation of evil.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault looked after her, watching till the light-clad -figure had disappeared among the trees. Then, plucking -a fresh rose from the trellis-work, went back into her -boudoir. A few minutes later she entered her husband's -sick-room and motioned the nurse to leave them. In that -simple action there was an authority, an easy self-assurance -that seemed, to change even her appearance. She held -herself well, with lifted head as a prisoner does who breathes -the free air after many years.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault saw her. He could not turn his head, but -she stood well within the range of his roving eyes. He -stared at her, and she too studied him, the while scenting -her rose delicately. He had changed almost beyond -belief. The muscles of his face were withered so that it -looked much smaller and weaker. The consuming, -unappeasable temper was still marked about the mouth, in -the black puckered brow, but now it was merely pitiable. -It could never make another man or woman cower. It -could never make </span><em class="italics">her</em><span> cower again. Perhaps some such -reflection passed through both their minds. Boucicault -turned his eyes away like a sick animal. It was almost -the first sign he had given of understanding. Hitherto, -though obviously conscious, he had refused all response to -the code of signals which Dr. Martin had planned for him, -in his bitter humiliation of body seeming to cling to the -utter isolation of his mind. Now, though he could not -move, he appeared to shrink into himself, to cringe before -an encroachment which he could no longer avert. His -wife came and stood close beside him. She was playing -idly with her rose, twisting the stem between her fingers. -Her eyes were bright, wide open, with two sharp points -of light in them which seemed to dance. There was real -colour in her cheeks. She was not smiling now, and yet -her face, her whole body, radiated a fierce vivid amusement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've just seen Dr. Martin, Richard," she said. "You'd -rather I told you the truth, wouldn't you? He says there's -no hope of your getting well—not really well. Perhaps, -after a long time, you may be able to move a little, but you -might also die suddenly. No one can do anything for -you. You'll just lie there. I thought I'd tell you. I'm -going to have a good time. Anne doesn't think it quite -proper, but I'm sure you'll understand. I haven't had -much fun in the last few years, have I? And I was awfully -gay before I married you. You don't object, do you, -Richard? Do say so if you do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She grew bigger—taller, like a bird of prey spreading -itself over its maimed and helpless victim. The soldier's -whitewashed room, blank of all beauty, made a simple -frame for the artificial brilliancy of her. The man whose -dead body outlined itself massively under the thin covering, -burned and withered in it. His eyes met hers for an -instant in understanding and mad defiance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course we'll do all we can, Richard. We shall stay -in Gaya. Dr. Martin advises it, and I want to. It will -be nicer for you too, because if we went to a new place—or -to Cheltenham or something of that sort-nobody would -bother about you. Here, of course, people are bound to -take notice of you. They'll drop in and tell you about the -regiment and all that. I shall come in every day, so that -you shall hear all I am doing. I expect I shall be very -busy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She paused deliberately, assuming an attitude of closer -interest. "Have you tried to tell any one who killed you? -I wonder. Perhaps you don't want to. I expect it was -something discreditable. Besides, even if he or they were -caught and hanged it wouldn't help you much, would it? -You couldn't see it done—unless we dragged you out in -a long chair or something——" She laughed, and bent -over him—a pale-tinted, delicate, very sinister figure. -"Am I tiring you? You look tired. Smell that rose—isn't -it beautiful?—you can smell still, can't you? But I -forgot; you don't care for flowers. You wouldn't let me -have any in the house. Well, perhaps you will grow to -care for them. I will tell nurse to put some in a vase for -you." She touched his cheek lightly with the flower and -laughed again. "Well, good-bye for today, Richard."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She pirouetted on her heel like a girl, and went to the -door. He could not see her, but he heard her give a little -gasp and then utter a name. His eyes opened to the -full—he began to breathe quickly and laboriously. The veins -on his dark, wizened-looking forehead stood out in the -frightful effort to break through, to move, to speak——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Major Tristram—what a shock you gave me! I -thought you were at death's door. You oughtn't to be -here, I'm sure. I hardly recognized you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—I am a sight, aren't I? Still, I'm not dead—not -by some lengths. May I speak to your husband?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, you may speak to him. You won't mind a -monologue, will you? You've heard about it, I expect—spinal -column affected or something—but I'm so stupid -about these things. Do come and talk to me afterwards, -won't you, Major? I should like to hear all your news."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The door closed. Boucicault lifted his eyes. They were -sunken—so black, so lightless that their expression could -not be guessed at. It might have been an appalling -hatred—anything.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram did not return the gaze. He stood at the sick -man's side, rocking on his heels, fighting a purely physical -battle, then suddenly crumbled up on the edge of the bed, -his shaking hands to his face. Thus he remained for a -minute whilst Boucicault's eyes rested on him with mute, -unfathomable intensity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently Tristram raised himself, and the encounter -had taken place, almost actual in the poignancy and force -of the memory which flared up behind the mutual scrutiny. -Neither man flinched.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had the deuce of a business to get here," Tristram -said at last quite simply. "I had to humbug and dodge -any number of people, and get my own legs to crawl which -wasn't easy. But I had to come. I've got to speak to you, -Boucicault. I'd have come sooner, but I've been a raving -lunatic most of the time and this was my first chance. -You may think it damnable of me to hound you down -when you can't hit back, as it were, but I can't help that, -I've got to have it out." He paused a moment, running -his hand over his close-cropped head. He seemed to be -struggling for coherency. Boucicault's stare never wavered. -"It's not very much I've got to say. I won't waste time -and breath telling you what I feel—I've done something -worse than murder you. I smashed you up when I ought to -have realized that you were a man with a sick brain. I -was a sick man myself and—and couldn't think clearly. -I just heard poor old Wickie scream—well, we won't go -into that—it's too beastly. But I've just come to tell you -that I'm not going to give myself up to what some people -would call justice. That's what I meant to do at first—but -I see now that it was sentimentality and cowardice—the -sort of thing that drives some people to confess—a -kind of shaking off one's burden of responsibility on to some -one else. I'm rambling—it's so infernally difficult to keep -one's thoughts clear." He passed his tongue over his -cracked lips. Boucicault's eyes closed for an instant. -"Can you understand what I'm saying?" The eyes -opened again to their full stare and Tristram went on -more clearly. "Of course, it's possible you may get -all right or even be able to denounce me without that. I -shan't deny anything. I shall be jolly glad, I daresay. -But until then I'm going on with my work. We're men, -Boucicault—and I won't mince matters—you've smashed -up a good many lives in your time—men in the regiment, -your wife, Anne—and you and I have smashed each other -but that's the end of it. You may or you may not believe -me—but I'm not going to be dragged into disgrace if I -can help it—for my mother's sake. She's old—very old—she -can't last long—-she's had a rotten time, and the last -year or two—well, I shall protect them with all my -strength." He straightened his shoulders as a man does -who, groping through darkness, suddenly sees his way -clear. "That's what I conceive to be my duty. You -hate me, of course, but you're clever enough to know the -sort of man I am and you know quite well that whether -I'm punished or not, I've done for myself. That ought to -satisfy you for the present." He got up. "So I'm going -back to my work. I don't know whether you'll understand -what I mean when I say that I'm going to try and balance -the misery you and I have brought into this world—I've got -your responsibilities as well as my own to shoulder because -I've smashed your chance of making good. And there's -something else—if it lies in human power I'll set you on your -feet again. If I succeed I shall tell my mother the truth, and -I think somehow that then she will feel differently about it—it -won't be quite the same sort of failure. Of course you'll -want other doctors—you mayn't trust me—but no one else -will fight for you as I shall. Give me some sign. If you -trust me close your eyes once. I shall understand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>In the long silence which followed the two men held -each other in a gaze so ardent, so penetrating that it was -like the physical grappling of wrestlers, one of whom at -least knew no pity. The sweat of weakness and recent -effort showed itself on Tristram's forehead, but his features -wore a weary serenity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently a change showed itself on Boucicault's face. -There was a shadow at the corners of his stiff, powerless -lips—a kind of smile, malicious, calculating, ironic. His -eyes closed once.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's all I have to say, then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made his way from the bungalow, circuiting the -front verandah where he guessed Mrs. Boucicault would -wait for him, to the compound gates. There Sigrid Fersen -with the Rajah's dog-cart awaited him. She bent towards -him, her face white with anger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How could you, Major Tristram! I guessed somehow -you had come here and followed you. How could you do it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had to," he answered. He came up to the step of -the cart, trying to support himself against the shaft unseen -by her. "I had to," he repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A professional visit, I suppose?" she flashed scornfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In a sort of way—yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, anyhow—try and climb if you've the strength. -I'll drive you back to bed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked up at her and she frowned and bit her under -lip to keep back an exclamation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please—will you do something for me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it, you madman?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Drive me to Heerut."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Heerut—are you really insane? Do you want to die?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled wistfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Lord, no—I've jolly well got to live. But I'm -going back to work."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't—it's absurd—I won't be responsible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You wouldn't be responsible," he interrupted earnestly. -"Listen—I've got to go—there are my poor beggars in -quarantine—all sorts of things—believe me, it's urgent, -it must be—if you don't help me, I shall walk or get some -one else."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know that Ayeshi has gone—gone to Calcutta."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He averted his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—Compton told me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Wickie—disappeared. You'll be all alone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he agreed simply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She bent a little lower. She was smiling as one does at -an obstinate, unhappy child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In a few weeks I may have to leave Gaya. My time -is almost up. Are you flying from me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He remained patiently, doggedly silent, and she sighed -and drew back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Kismet</em><span>! So you make Fate for us both. I won't try -to thwart you. I will take you to Heerut. But I make -one stipulation."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is that before I leave Gaya we spend one day -together—a kind of farewell picnic—a high and solemn feast to -the end of all things. It is to be where and when I want it. -Do you promise?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not answer. He was still looking away from -her—down the white line of dusty road which wound past the -clustered barracks. A far-off, long-drawn-out bugle-call -fluttered out on to the hot stillness. She looked down and -saw his hand clenched on the splashboard, and the impatient -mockery faded from her lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I won't make any stipulation. You are too ill to be -bargained with. And, after all, it lies in my power to -seek you out when I choose—as I have done before"—her -eyes became veiled and intent—"in and out of the -ship's ghosts over the water—dancing over the grey roofs -of the world——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He frowned perplexedly, following her words through a -labyrinth of memory and fancy and finding no end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that a quotation?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A sort of one——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It seems to express something——" He paused, -meditating. The bugle sounded again, louder and more -metallic and now in answer came the subdued hurrying -of feet, the jangle of steel. Suddenly he faced her, fiercely, -almost violently, like a man throwing off an obsessing -weakness. There was a fire of energy in the throw-back of -his great shoulders, in the clear passionate desire of his -regard. She faltered under it. It swept her from her -light fantastic dominion over him into deep, fast-flowing -waters which engulfed her, stupefied her, shook her calm -supremacy to its foundations. She did not know what -had happened—what had wrought the change in him. -He who had fought grimly and knowingly with the realism -in the lives of others had somehow come to grips with -reality in his own. He had ceased to weave dreams. It -was not as a vision and a visionary that they faced each -other, but as a man and a woman. A flash of lightning -had burst through the unsubstantial mists of their -relationship. And behind the figure of the dreaming Stoic there -loomed the stark, primeval human being, vital, virile, -armed with all the white, burning power of unsoiled, sternly -guarded passions. They flared in his blue eyes which held -hers for the first time with full recognition, with a daring, -reckless revelation of their own existence. And though -inwardly she faltered, her gaze was as steady as his own. -She dared not turn from him. She felt that if she did she -would come face to face with herself—as fiercely, as terribly -awakened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They spoke very quietly, very naturally to one another.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll promise," he said. "A last day—no one could -grudge it me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No one." She held out her hand to him and it did not -tremble. "Come, now I will drive you to Heerut."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-weavers"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE WEAVERS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Barclay rode past the Boucicaults' bungalow on the -afternoon when Mrs. Boucicault gave her garden party -in honour of the regiment's new commander and his wife. -It was a very grand function, and rather gruesome if one -stopped to think what lay inert and listening in a room -somewhere at the back, but to stop and think was a mental -pastime in which no one in Gaya indulged willingly. -Mrs. Boucicault had been right. Gaya was not in the least -outraged. It was not even very upset when it found that -without a word of farewell Anne had gone south to Trichy -to pay her father's people a long visit. In its casual, -easy-going way, Gaya understood both points of view and -sympathized.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The regimental band was playing a waltz and Barclay -drew in his slender-limbed thoroughbred to listen. A -little band of natives with a saffron-robed Sadhu in their -midst coming round a bend of the white road, he drew out -a gold case from his pocket and selected and lit a cigarette -with an exaggerated deliberation. The procession drew -on one side and the leader saluted the Sahib respectfully. -Barclay took the salute with a curt, indifferent nod, but -something in the episode must have changed the nature of -his thoughts. He threw a glance towards the garden, -walled from his view by a circle of high palms, and his -black eyes were alight with a childish satisfaction. He -heard voices intermingle with the music and two young -men in immaculate tennis-clothes lounged out of the -compound gates. They looked after the procession, and one -of them laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's nothing—you'll soon get fed up with that native -stuff. When you've seen the festival at Heerut next week -you won't want another dose for years—these sort of fellows -with their humbugging old fakir will be pouring in till the -place is like an ant-heap. Talk about self-governing -India—oh, Lord!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay, a notable figure enough on his beautiful mare -stood not three yards away from the speaker, yet he -appeared to pass unnoticed. Neither of the two looked at -him. He drove his spurs into the animal's silken sides, -curbing her at the same instant with an iron hand, and set -her at a nervous, tortured canter down the road. His tight -mouth under the black moustache was curved with a -deliberate pleasure as he felt her sweat and tremble under his -mastery. He kept her at the pace for a mile through the -blaze of sun which poured down upon the unsheltered plain -and then, satiated, allowed her to drop to a quivering, -resentful walk.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He reached the bridge-head half an hour before sunset. -A D.P.W. man with a party of assistants was taking -soundings for the new traffic bridge which was to link up -Gaya and the administrative centre three hundred miles -away with the never-ending chain of villages of which -Heerut was the first and largest. He had had a bad -afternoon of it with Mother Ganges, and he stared savagely -at Barclay, who drew rein.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Getting on?" the latter asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Damnably. The river's never the same two days running."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay showed his white teeth in a smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's her speciality. You'll never build that bridge."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Won't I?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The natives have a superstition against it. No white -man will ever bridge the Holy Place. This </span><em class="italics">is</em><span> the Holy -Place, you know—the spot where the sacred serpents come -down from the jungle and take refreshment." He spoke -with much the indolent amusement of the two young men -outside the Boucicaults' compound. He aped it deliberately, -not knowing whence came his smarting satisfaction. -The Englishman mopped a moist and irate forehead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I didn't know," he snapped. "I'm not a native. -I haven't got any damned superstitions. Perhaps you'd -like to have a shot at it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay made no answer. The smile passed from his -lips. He sat his horse motionlessly, staring at the faintly -swaying native bridge in front of him. The Englishman, -unconscious of his own success, stumped off angrily towards -a fresh point of vantage.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently Barclay crossed to the farther side of the river, -turning his horse from the path, rode through the long -grasses to the temple, and here, within a few feet of the -carved gateway, he dismounted, and, tossing the reins over -the battered post which was all that marked the old Path of -Auspiciousness, he strolled through into the Manderpam. -The place was empty. Its usual inhabitant had vanished. -Barclay stood a moment, looking about him with the -detached, unfeeling interest of a tourist. The attitude was -deliberate, as were all his actions. He was setting the gulf -of race and tradition between himself and this austerely -sensuous beauty. He held himself an alien, walking idly, -but with loud steps over the grass-grown stones, humming -to himself, and beating time with his crop against his -riding-boots. But the silence, heavy with old dreams and -drowsy, bygone meditations, the stately avenue of roofless -pillars, daunted him. He came to a halt in the entrance to -the </span><em class="italics">antarila</em><span> and stared round furtively, peering into the -purple-tinted shadows, listening as to a sound which troubled -and escaped him. A little red-cheeked bulbul fluttered -from its nest high overhead on the summit of the crumbling -walls, and he watched its flight through the oblique bars -of alternate light and shadow with a curious anxiety. It -was as though he sought to rivet his attention on something -trivial, so that he should not have to face whatever lay -beneath the surface. The bulbul came to rest in some -hidden rock among the deep-cut, fantastic reliefs of the -frieze, and the soft, tender beating of its wings, like the last -throb of a dying pulse, passed under the weight of a brooding, -deathlike silence. Barclay turned and went noisily into -the </span><em class="italics">antarila</em><span>. But here his footsteps rang with a different -and startling resonance. They echoed among the broad, -stunted pillars and died sullenly in a gloom which shrouded -the place in unfathomable dimensions. Barclay, raising -his hand instinctively, touched the roof, but its dank -solidity could not remove the impression of a monstrous -nightfall, of a sky black and unlit, stretching up into -infinity. On either hand, his knowledge might have told -him, were thick walls, but they too carried no conviction, -and the darkness went on and on in narrow, endless passages -leading down into the bowels of an unholy mystery. The -faint gleam of light in front of him, the soft gold of the -courtyard behind, were like ghosts, painted luminously on -the solid blackness, themselves bringing no light, no relief.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay stopped, and, with his insolent deliberation, lit -a cigarette, afterwards holding the match overhead. He -saw that his hand shook and the tiny flame quivered an -instant and went out as though a secret breath had blown -against it. Barclay cursed and bit his teeth together as -the echo gibed at him from its invisible lurking-place, and -then went on, hushing his footsteps so that they should -not follow him. In the Holy of Holies there was neither -light nor darkness, but a haze which at once hid and revealed -all things. It was like a pall shrouding the sun, or a gauzy, -luminous veil of sunshine thrown over nightfall. It came -filtering down from the great sun-window which, high -overhead in the slender </span><em class="italics">sikhara</em><span>, looked out eastwards whence -at daybreak Laksmi, surrounded with the golden-haired -divas of morning, rises up to meet Vishnu, who watches for -her. It fell softly on the gigantic, monstrous effigy of -Vishnu himself, cross-legged on his altar, in either hand a -writhing serpent, his black eyes fixed in cruel, aloof -contemplation on an existence which knew neither joy nor -sorrow, neither humanity nor its desires and prayers. As -in the old days when men and women had passed worshipping -through his temple, so now that the worshippers -were still and the courtyard empty and his altar bare of -offerings, he remained indifferent and omnipotent. Men, -generations, and religions pass, the temple crumbles. -But so long as death remains, so long are the gods immortal. -The knowledge of its immortality was graven into the -image's mocking mouth, into the sightless, all-seeing eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay stood with one foot on the altar steps, and -stared up into the frigid face and blew rings of smoke into -the wide, cruel nostrils. There was more than a sightseer's -insolent disregard in the action. It was a sneer and a -defiance. He spat on the altar-step. But when a hand -striking invisibly out of the darkness sent him staggering -to the wall he screamed like a child whose nerve has snapped -suddenly under a long, agonizing tension. His mouth -was open, changing the character of his whole face. The -cigarette had fallen and lay like a tiny burning eye on the -stone flags. Vahana, the Sadhu, ground his heel upon -it. Whether he had been kneeling in the shadow or -whether he had crept after the interloper could not be -told. Gaunt and naked, the bones of his chest and ribs -starting out under the straining flesh, the wild grey hair -tossed back from his face, he sprang up before the idol, -protecting it with outstretched arms whose long, attenuated -lines flung the shadow of a huge cross on the wall -beyond.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Neither man spoke. Barclay bent down and picked up -his helmet, which had been knocked off, and, obeying the -Fakir's imperative gesture, went out of the Holy of Holies -through the priests' place into the columned, sun-lit outer -court. There he laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're a pretty custodian," he said loudly in English. -"Enough to frighten a harmless globe-trotter out of his -five senses. What sort of tip do you expect after that? -Or does one pay extra for the thrill?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was no answer. Vahana went past him and -squatted down in his accustomed place by the gateway. -The fierce outburst was over, and he seemed to have -forgotten Barclay's presence. The latter stood beside him, -propping his shoulders against the lintel, and searched -fumblingly for his cigarette case.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose it's allowed here, eh? You should put up -a notice, 'No smoking.' Oh, I forgot—a vow of eternal -silence is your speciality, isn't it? You needn't keep it -up with me. I shan't tell." He laughed again. "You -old humbug! I </span><em class="italics">could</em><span> tell a tale if I chose. What about -that evening I caught you sneaking out of Gaya? Been -having a compensating orgy, no doubt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Fakir shot a rapid upward glance which Barclay -caught with a grunt of satisfaction.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you understand English, anyhow, which is a good -thing because I want a word with you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He lit his cigarette deliberately, and, folding his arms, -surveyed the wide stretch of plain before him. Save for the -high grass, it was barren to the river edge, but beyond that -broad, swift-flowing barrier it became rich with pasture and -golden harvest. Barclay's eyes narrowed at the still ardent -sunlight, but beneath the heavy, drooping lids there was -a gleam of some smouldering passion, triumph—resentment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not much of that crop that isn't mine," he said loudly. -"They needn't call me Sahib—not yet—if they don't want -to—but I'm lord here, for all that. I've got the whip -hand, and that's what matters."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Fakir paid no heed to an outburst which was indeed -not intended for him. He bent forward from the hips -and whistled softly, on one monotonous note, the while -swaying from left to right with rhythmic precision. In a -minute the tangled growth which, like the first low waters -of an incoming tide, spread out from the jungle and lapped -the temple walls, rustled, parted, and a black glistening -body writhed out into the sunshine. There it paused, -listening, its arrow-shaped head lifted out of the tight -coils, and moving to the measure of its enchanter. Barclay -looked down and started and then laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Practising for the great show, eh? I suppose it'll -keep the old story going—the jungle of serpents. Lord, -how you must hate us, with our education and uplifting of -the masses. One of these days I'll clear the jungle and -build a factory, and you can go out of business. That -old trick——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still laughing, he crouched down on his heels and hissed -gently, his black eyes intent on the reptile's poised and -swaying body. Vahana continued to whistle. They had -entered into a competition which to Barclay was a mere -jest. But the serpent had grown still, attentive, its ugly -head drawn back in an attitude of cold deliberation. From -time to time its lithe, evilly forked tongue shot out and -then an expression seemed to dawn on the flat face—a kind -of satanic pleasure. Then, suddenly, as though arrived at -a decision, it uncoiled and came gliding towards Barclay. -Barclay no longer called to it. His eyes were clouded and -stupid-looking. He glanced up at Vahana and found that -he was being watched. Between the old man and the -uncannily moving adder there had developed an affinity. -The Fakir's face seemed to have narrowed and sharpened. -From the wide cheek-bones down to the chin there were two -straight converging lines between which ran the cruel curve -of the mouth. The eyes were hard and dead as a basilisk's. -But, like the reptile's, they expressed something—a sinister -amusement, a soulless, ageless wisdom.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay made a fumbling gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look here, I didn't know—call the brute off—I never -tried——" He was stuttering. The defiant arrogance -had gone out of him. He had become curiously afraid. -Vahana whistled again, and within a foot of Barclay the -adder recoiled, hissing resentfully, and swung to one side. -Vahana held out his wrist and the sinuous body twisted -itself about him in a monstrous bracelet. Barclay watched, -with a sick fascination. His fear had been neither physical -nor passing. In some odd way the incident had shattered -his self-assurance, even his self-control.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't know——" he began again. "It must just -have been chance. I had never tried——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His voice failed, and died into a shaken silence. The -reptile, lying with its head on the back of Vahana's fleshless -hand, held the Eurasian in the malevolent circle of its -watchfulness. Its beady, unflinching eyes neither appeared -to move nor to be fixed on any definite object, yet when -Barclay shifted his position they did not leave his face. -Thus they remained, staring at each other. Vahana had -sunk into an apparent apathy of meditation. But it was -no more than an appearance. Between the three there -was now a living, feverish communication.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay roused himself at last.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look here—I didn't come here for this tomfoolery. -Look at this. It was my mother's. Some one—Lalloo the -Kara—told me a tale about it. Said it belonged to—to -your wife. I want to know. I want to know who the devil -I am. If it's true then I shall know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana glanced at the gold circlet held out towards him. -The adder hissed furiously and he whistled it back to its -sluggish content. But he had nodded in assent, Barclay -drew his breath between his teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So that much was true. I've got to think this out. -I'm not your son. I've good English blood in my veins, -I've known that since I was a kid. If it was Tristram, -senior——" He stopped. Vahana had lifted his head, -and the change in him struck Barclay silent for a moment. -Then, gathering his determination, he added rapidly, -scarcely above a whisper—"whom you murdered."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it seemed that the Fakir had not heard, or that if -he had heard the words reached him only as an echo, a -shadow of something terrible and actual. The change in -him was indefinable. He had scarcely moved. Yet -Barclay stared at him stupidly, and a moment looked round -to follow the gaze of the fierce expressionless eyes. Then -he, too, became silent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A horseman rode along the river-bank. Evidently he -had come some distance, for the nose of his amazingly lean, -steed grazed the ground and he himself hung in the saddle. -As he passed he turned his head towards the temple, but -either the sun, setting with long upward striking rays -behind the hills, blinded him, or the watchers were too well -hidden in the shadow of the gateway. He did not see them, -and, coaxing the dejected quadruped to a canter, disappeared -presently in the direction of Heerut.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram Sahib by the grace of God!" Barclay -muttered. "Tristram Sahib!" He repeated the name, -pressing into it a restrained bitterness which suddenly -burst from him in a wild incoherent deluge. "Sahib—Sahib! -Good God—and what am I—with blood as good -as his—his blood—Meester Barclay, eh?—damn him—damn -them all. What right has he got to treat me like -dirt—or any of them? What right? Aren't I one of -them? Have I got to pay for their low, mean sins—their -little, back-door intrigues? I'm English too—it's their -law—why don't they keep to their laws, damn them——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His voice quivered. He broke down pitiably. It was -as though a garment which he held jealously about him -had been torn from him and with it his manhood, his -mincing, insolent, yet timorous pride. As he crouched -there, the tears of mortification and rage on his cheeks -he underwent a mysterious change. The over-perfect -English clothes no longer disguised him. They had become -grotesque.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana looked at him, looked long and intently, and then -at the bracelet lying between them. He touched Barclay -on the arm, and with his forefinger began to write in the -thick dust.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-meredith-to-the-rescue"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A MEREDITH TO THE RESCUE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>In the belt of fertile land about Heerut the work of -irrigation for the </span><em class="italics">khareef</em><span> had already begun. Half-naked -men and women in gay-coloured </span><em class="italics">chudders</em><span> laboured -in the slanting ruts which stretched down from the river -and criss-crossed over the wide fields in a maze of -intricate cunningly calculated lines. They worked in complete -silence, like a colony of ants, hurrying backwards and -forwards, their lean, fragile-looking bodies bent under -crushing burdens of freshly turned earth, their faces set -in patient acceptance. So much depended on the </span><em class="italics">khareef</em><span>—a -meagre sufficiency or a dearth that was always -complete—an avalanche of famine sweeping whole communities -from existence. Not that life or death was of much -significance. They fought for life half instinctively, -half because the Sahibs willed it so. It was a hard business -either way, and that much they realized dimly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram drew rein to watch them. Beyond the river -the white ungarnered corn lay in its silver fields awaiting -its long-delayed hour. He remembered how in the winter -months all Heerut had laboured at its irrigation—even as -they laboured now—thinking of the harvest. And now -the harvest was there and had begun to rot. Disease and -the dreaded, docilely accepted quarantine had stayed the -hands which should have gathered it. Now those who -survived turned to the more pressing task—to the crumbling -canals which were to bring life to the summer rice-crop. -What was lost was lost. The past was past; but the grim, -forbidding shadow of the future remained always.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Therein lay the tragedy of the unresting, patient figures—the -labour that was so often foredoomed to fruitlessness, -the struggle against an enemy who could never be wholly -vanquished, the hope of a victory that could never be more -than a breathing-space, a mere margin of life. But the -greater tragedy was their patience, their passive acceptance -of life as suffering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was that tragedy which Tristram saw as he watched -them. For him it blotted out what was lovely and full of -promise in the scene—the gay colours, the rich, deep -sunlight on the fruitful fields, the semblance of prosperity. -It made his greeting to those who passed him somewhat -grim and less cheery than was its wont. The men and -women nodded to him and smiled gravely in return. There -was no formal, deferential salutation such as the Burra -Sahib would have expected and received. He was less -and greater than any of the Sahibs who ruled their destinies, -and they merely smiled at him. No other man was to -them what he had become. Rough and ready of tongue, -imperious sometimes, occasionally ruthless, he yet was -never the representative of a ruling race. Other Sahibs -they feared and worshipped—the great warriors, the -myth figures of the rulers beyond the unknown, but -Tristram was the man of their daily lives, of their great -sorrows and little happinesses, the man who sat under the -council-tree at night and listened to the last village scandal, -or to some wonderful tale told by the village story-teller, -who tracked his way down the contaminated stream of -their faith to its pure source and drank with them. And -they who had known little of pity and less of love came -through him to a dim, faltering knowledge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Through the busy stillness there sounded a shrill -trumpeting and the rustle and crack of the high grasses before -swift and headlong passage of an elephant. Tristram -drew Arabella to one side. Already in the distance he -had seen the glitter and flash of the Rajah's gaudy howdah, -and was not unprepared for the procession which, now -bore down towards the river. There were five elephants in -all, the first showily caparisoned with a mahout in splendid -livery, the others more seriously equipped for the hunt. -Rasaldû and his guest, the new Colonel, whose face was -overshadowed by his helmet, rode in the first, and, seeing -Tristram, nodded with a cheerful condescension and held -up two fat fingers to indicate the success of their -expedition. Then the procession rumbled past like a noisy, -gorgeous carnival of life leaving a cloud of sullen dust and -the grey bed-rock of reality.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An old man who had taken refuge under Arabella's lee -put up a palsied hand and pointed in fierce scorn after the -disappearing Rajah.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"His father—a cowherd——" he stammered. "His -father served mine and betrayed him to the English."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And the Rajah who then was?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dead, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He left no heirs?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sunken eyes were lifted for a moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sahib, there are things we do not even whisper among -ourselves." Then his expression changed. It was as -though a vizor had dropped over his shrivelled features. -With bowed head he shuffled towards a group of villagers -who had gathered farther off, and Tristram, becoming -uncomfortably aware of a third presence, turned in his -saddle. He saw then that, under cover of the procession's -passing, he had been overtaken by a second horseman whose -delicately built Arab showed traces of hard and recent -galloping. The rider lifted his brown hand in formal -salutation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was loafing round the temple when I saw you pass, -Major," he said easily. "It occurred to me that our -long-planned interview might take place now and here. Are -you agreeable?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you wish it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"May I ride with you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you going to Heerut?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay showed his white teeth in a brief smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a moment of uncertainty on Tristram's side. -He stroked Arabella's long neck thoughtfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Still, I think we'd better say what we want to say now. -Your mare looks pretty winded—mine's all in. It won't -hurt to breathe them both."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As you like," Barclay answered. His manner was -touched with a certain tremulousness which might have -resulted from his rash gallop through the treacherous grass. -But otherwise there was no trace of the man who had -broken down at the temple gateway. "Look here," he -began abruptly, "do you think you're playing the game, -Major Tristram? What's your idea? What have I -done to you? We don't need to beat about the bush. -I know quite well whom I'm up against. I tell you -straight—I've got a short way with people who oppose me—I -smash them. But I don't smash till I've tried reason. -Why don't you let my affairs alone?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram stirred impatiently in his saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not interested in your affairs, Mr. Barclay, except -in so far as they concern my friends."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Friends!" Barclay laughed out with a forced good-humour. -"And what have I done to your friends, pray? -Look around you. Look at these rotten crops. Well, I've -lent good money on these crops—lent it to your precious -protégés. When am I going to see my money back?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When you want to," Tristram returned. "Next -harvest, or as soon as the poor devils get a cow they can call -their own—and fifty per cent. into the bargain."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fifty per cent. covers the risks—no more."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then it's a pity you bother yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's your idea of humour, no doubt, Major. But -I'm dead serious. I know what you've done. You've -set these people against me. You've used your influence -to prevent my doing business with them. I've no doubt -you used your power to terrify them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram laughed gaily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did that," he admitted. "I believe they think you're -the devil himself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you think that's fair? What right had you——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't care to see people paying fifty per cent. interest."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well. But what's going to happen? You're so -damned thoughtful for your friends—perhaps you'll tell me -what's going to happen to them. Those weavers—at -Heerut and Bjura and all round—they're smashed. No -one will touch their stuff for a year at least. Are they going -to starve—or are you going to advance them money out -of your screw?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram looked up, his blue eyes resting calmly and -even with a certain amusement on the other's dark and -bitter face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In a sort of way—at least I'm getting the Government -to take a hand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You—you did that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm trying to. You're quite right. I've done all I -can to keep you and your agents out. I'm a doctor, and -the material conditions of my people concern me. I've -seen some of your business methods, and I think you're -unhealthy, Mr. Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay contained himself with a desperate effort.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My word, that may be truer than you think. I'm -unhealthy to people who get in my way. Look here, Major -Tristram—I don't want to use the screw—after all, we're -Englishmen in a foreign country, and it's our infernal duty -to hang together—but I won't be kicked out of things like -that. I give you fair warning to leave my preserves alone, -and I'll tell you why. I know things—I know something -that would——" He stopped short. Tristram's eyes were -still on his face. They had neither flickered nor lost their -quizzical good-humour.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, what do you know? It's rather funny, but we -both seem to have found out something detrimental about -each other. For instance, though this is only our second -meeting, I'm convinced that you're a thorough-paced -blackguard, Mr. Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That may be. My father was one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sorry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have good reason to be sorry." His lips were -quivering. He burst out ungovernably. "You have -your share in him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mr. Barclay——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram—that's what my name should be. Your -father was mine——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that your attack, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay put up his hand as though to hide his unsteady -mouth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he said. "It is not. But it is the truth. I -can prove it. I guessed it some time back, but I wasn't -certain. Your—our father, lived in my bungalow. It was -there he was murdered—he and my mother by her husband. -How much you know——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't know that," Tristram put in quietly. He -looked away from Barclay, and the latter, watching him -with a fevered anxiety, saw that the fine hand lying on -Arabella's neck had lost its absolute steadiness. "You -must prove it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can do so."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If it's true—then I'm sorry—sorry I spoke as I did. -You've had the beastliest luck—I beg your pardon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He lifted his head again. The white gravity of his face -lent the rather boyish words a sincerity which Barclay -recognized with an inward faltering of his anger. For a -vivid instant the two men touched spiritually, or met on -some common ground of emotion—then broke apart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want pity," Barclay exclaimed childishly, -bitterly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't offer you pity. Or if I did—I meant it for us -both. It's not as bad—but I was rather proud of my -father. My mother—we'll leave that out. And, anyhow—I -suppose it's a small thing compared to what he did to -you. It was a pitiless thing to do." He hesitated, and -then added, with a shyness which sat quaintly enough on -his big manhood: "I suppose we're brothers, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay drew back from the outstretched hand. A mad -impulse had almost driven him to grasp it and kiss it, but -he crushed it under, shivering from head to foot in the -violence of the revulsion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So you acknowledge the relationship?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why shouldn't I?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'd better look the thing in the face. I'm an Eurasian, -and illegitimate at that. Are you going to own me before -your friends?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. I don't care what you are by circumstance. -Illegitimacy and race are nothing to me. A man's a man."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's not the law," Barclay returned sneeringly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I don't care a fig for the law either," Tristram said -with a faint smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay was silent. A dull anger was kindling in him. -It was a deeper, more dangerous passion than that which -had driven him to strike before he had intended. It had -its roots in their fundamental antagonism of character as -it revealed itself now, in Barclay's failure to strike hatred -out of a man he hated. For a moment whatever was fine -in him had flashed up in response to Tristram's simple -humanity, but that was gone, and there remained nothing -but the galling recognition of an inferiority which was not -that of race or circumstance. And with that recognition -the little light he had within him went out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's all very well," he said at last, "but it's just -talk. It won't help me. If you did recognize me, neither -of us would get anything out of it. I should have to leave -Gaya, and you'd get into trouble. That's not my game. -The only brotherly act I ask of you is to leave me alone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have told you already I don't want to interfere. -I've got to."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay gnawed at his thick under-lip, holding himself -in, calculating.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look here," he began again, "I guess I've inherited -something from my mother besides my infernal colour—a -sort of instinct—a knowledge of people. That night I met -you at Sigrid Fersen's I found out something about you. -I knew what was going on in you though you didn't know -it yourself. I know what's wrong with you now. Well, -I'll do the brotherly first. If you treat me fairly, you'll -have nothing to fear from me—and besides that, I'll give -you the straight tip—I know something of Sigrid Fersen. -She wants the cream of life—it's a sort of religion with her. -In London there wasn't a man or woman who could stand -up to her in magnificence. There were the wildest stories -told about her, and they were truer than most stories. She -wouldn't stand this sort of thing—not if she were dying -of love for you. Take my word for it—you'll want money—any -amount of it—then you'll stand a chance with her——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram, urged by a sudden disgust, and an intolerable -unrest, turned Arabella's head and touched her to a walk. -But Barclay was beside him, leaning towards him, talking -rapidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you can have money, Tristram"—and now he -was using the Christian name with a deliberate purpose—"you -can have as much as you need. I tell you this -country is like an unworked mine. I'm going to work it. -I'm going to be as rich and powerful as the pioneers in -South Africa. These Anglo-Indian officials treat India as -though it was a sort of toy—a kind of game against heavy -odds. There isn't a business man among them. I'm a -business man. And I'll take you into partnership—a -sleeping partner with a quarter share and nothing to do -but to sleep hard. I swear to you that in a year or two -you can marry any one you please—I tell you she's hard -up——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram pulled Arabella to a standstill.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't talk like that," he blazed out. "I don't want -to think you a scoundrel. If there is any blood common -to us both I don't want to loathe it. You've had rough -luck—it doesn't need to make you a cad."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doesn't it? I'm not so sure. What do you expect -me to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Throw up this slave-driving business. I'll stand by -you. I'll see you through, Barclay—whatever one man -can do for another I will do——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you? Will you come and live with me in -Calcutta—with my people—the only people who won't treat me -as though I were a nasty cross between a human being and -an animal—blowsy, feckless, shiftless outcasts—will you? -Well, you might—you're credited with queer things of -that sort, but it would do for you. Your white blood -wouldn't stand it. Nor will mine. I've got to get away -from them. It's our father in me. But there's nowhere -for me to go. I've got to make my world—make it in -blood and sweat if needs must. When I've money enough -to buy up Gaya, Gaya will accept me fast enough."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You said just now that we behaved as though we were -playing a big game," he said. "You may be right. And -good sportsmen can't be bought."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can't they? Well, we'll see. Meantime, if there's a -word of sincerity in all you've said, either come in with me -or keep out of my way. I can make you a rich man, -Tristram; don't forget that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're asking me to visit the sins of your father and -mine on to thousands of these luckless people."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Put it that way if you like. I'm going forward, -whatever you do."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then I shall fight you with every atom of influence and -power I have."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay tore at his horse's mouth, dragging the animal -round on its haunches so that he faced Tristram. Both -men were breathing heavily as though the struggle between -them had become a physical one. Barclay thrilled with -a savage satisfaction as he saw that the man before him -was as shaken as himself, black-browed, hot-eyed, with a -mouth set like a vice behind the short beard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then I'll smash you, Tristram—I've got reason enough -to hate you without that—you've got everything—now -I'll smash you—I can and I will——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly Tristram's face relaxed. He broke into a big -unaffected laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're like two villains out of old Adelphi melodrama," -he said. "We've made each other unacceptable offers and -threatened each other, and now I suppose it's to be a fight -to the finish."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay nodded. The laugh had been more bitter than a -blow. He turned his head away so that Tristram should -not see the treacherous weakness of his mouth. Then -with a muttered exclamation that was half a curse, half a -sob of ungovernable passion, he gave his trembling mare -her head and galloped recklessly back the way he had come.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram looked after him until Arabella, of her own -accord, resumed her patient amble towards Heerut. The -darkness began its race over the plain and swept up the -little shadows of the field workers as a wave sweeps up -driftwood. They came together silently; in a weary, -dejected stream resumed their trudge along the rough -tracts, bearing Tristram on his gaunt steed in their midst -like the high effigy of a god. Thus they brought him to -the doors of his hut and there left him, each man creeping -in the same ghostly silence to his own hovel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Owen Meredith was seated at Tristram's carved table, -reading by the light of an oil-lamp. Tristram had seen -the reflection beneath the ill-fitting doorway, but first had -settled Arabella for the night, talking cheerily to her and -lingering over his task as though deliberately avoiding the -moment when he should meet his unknown visitor. Now -seeing Meredith, his face expressed something akin to relief. -The two men greeted each other quietly, sincerely, but -without effusion. They were men of equal moral rank -but of a different spiritual race. They respected each other, -but real intimacy was not possible between them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought you wouldn't mind my dropping in on you -like this," Meredith said. "I've been doing a round of -the villages, and it was too late to go on. Besides, I was -dog-tired. I daresay that's my real reason." He closed -his pocket Bible as he spoke and laid his hand on it. He -had not spoken the whole truth, but of that fact he was not -even dimly conscious. He told himself that it was only -right to look in on this lonely man. -Tristram nodded absently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm jolly glad to see you. I've got a shakedown for -visitors. You won't mind eating off one plate, will you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thankful to eat anything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's good." He began to rummage in his little -kitchen at the back of the hut and returned presently -with the plate and some preserves. "It's not much," -he apologized ruefully. "I always forget about food until -I'm hungry. And then I want to kick myself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I expect we'll manage. You're all alone now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. No indoor patients. It's quite queer not having -a paw or a wing to bandage up."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've never found poor Wickie."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man seemed to shrink a little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No. I guess if the next life allows it, he's not far -off, poor old chap. He wouldn't be happy in Paradise -without me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith winced. It was the more painful to him because -Tristram was obviously quite serious. To Meredith he -seemed like a big, unconsciously blasphemous child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Ayeshi—you must miss him, too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes." The answer sounded curt, but Meredith persisted. -He had the feeling that, though Gaya's suspicions -had been kept quiet for Tristram's sake, the latter knew -more than he betrayed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was rather queer of him, the way he went off in -the middle of your illness. You thought he was so devoted."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He was." Tristram spread out an old newspaper over -the table. "You got the Rajah to subscribe for his -education. Well, I suppose he's gone to be educated. It's -what you wanted."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't expect him to go when he did."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He had good reason. I trust Ayeshi. But what your -education will make of him Heaven knows. A rotten, -dissatisfied little clerk in a Government office, I suppose. -A hundred years ago he would have been a king."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith sighed wearily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know you resented my interference. I've got to do -what I can in my own way, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know. But I wish you'd make Christians of our own -people first. If you did that thoroughly, you'd find my -villagers would come of themselves. They hear a lot about -Christianity. They don't see much of it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith's eyes flashed in answer. He leant forward across -the table with his hand clenched on the black-bound Bible.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are quite right, Tristram," he said, with restrained -passion. "We have failed badly hitherto. We have acted -like cowards, whispering and murmuring of our religion as -though we were half-ashamed of it. Who can believe in -cowards? This people has got to see Christianity as the -Romans saw it, apparent weakness pitted against the -majority and triumphant. They have got to see what our -faith means to us. Out here we are the early Christians. -We must pass through the same ordeals, we must pay the -same price. Therein lies our only hope of salvation, for -ourselves, for these, our brethren for whose souls we are -responsible to God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know much about their souls," Tristram -returned quietly. "I'm responsible for their bodies. It's -quite enough. What do you mean to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith threw back his square head. There was something -vivid and dominating about his personality at that -moment which lifted mere fanatical rhetoric to real -grandeur. In some such spirit Luther might have flung -down his immortal challenge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Testify to my faith before Cæsar, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And who is Cæsar?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The people. When they go down to the river to -worship their gods—at the Feast of Siva——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram got up, pushing his food from him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must be mad," he said hotly. "What should -we do, civilized though we are, if at Easter some Brahmin -insulted Christ from our altar?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith met him without flinching.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yours is the wretched toleration of our age," he said. -"There can be no righteous toleration of lies and wickedness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know what will happen? There'll be -rioting—bloodshed——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Possibly. I believe it to be necessary. I don't shrink -from it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's good of you." Tristram ruffled his shock of -reddish hair in a fit of angry humour. "What the rest -of your victims feel about it doesn't matter, of course. -Martyrs you'd call them. They wouldn't be martyrs. -If a horde of infuriated fanatics descend on Gaya, it will -be a slaughter stage-managed and engineered by yourself. -You and your like would be chucked out of India, and -serve you right. Gaya doesn't want to testify to its faith. -I doubt if it knows what its faith is." He stalked over to -the open door with his back to Meredith. "Well, I shall -warn the authorities," he finished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a silence. Meredith considered his companion -with a gradual relaxation of his intensity. He got up at -last and laid his hand on Tristram's broad shoulder. There -was something shy and uncertain in his manner, like a -school-boy who has been caught in heroics.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You won't need to inform the authorities," he said. -"I dare say I'm a pompous idiot. There won't be any -slaughter. We're miles from Gaya. Their enthusiasm -won't carry them that far. They'll duck me, and that'll -be about the extent of it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram looked down at the dark eager face, and, -catching the lurking humour in Meredith's eyes, laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, well, if only you and I are going to be massacred, -it's of no consequence whatever," he said. "There, man, -finish your supper!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But he himself left his food untouched. He went over -to a little roughly carved cabinet and produced a tobacco -jar and an old disreputable pipe. Meredith looked away -from him, playing absent-mindedly with the knife which -formed Tristram's dinner-service. His pulses had begun -to beat faster. He was dimly aware now that he had come -to Heerut with a purpose that he had cherished secretly -and painfully for many months past.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose you've not seen Boucicault lately?" he asked -suddenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram did not answer at once. He seemed absorbed -in the accurate filling of his pipe-bowl.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said, at last. "I saw him today."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Any change?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"None. I'm beginning to be afraid there never will be."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor Anne!" Meredith said, scarcely above a breath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram came over to the table and sat down on the -edge. He lit his pipe, and Meredith, alert now for every -guiding sign, saw that the hand with the match shook.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why 'poor Anne'? It's been ghastly, of course—but -then, what was her life like before? At least, there's -no one to cow the spirit out of her. She's free."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't understand Anne. I've known her so long. -Perhaps, as a clergyman, I had a deeper insight into her -mind. Boucicault terrified her, but she loved him. It -seems odd, doesn't it, but at the bottom he was a kind of -hero to her. She thought of him as he once was—Tiger -Sahib—a daring, handsome leader of men. That's what's -uppermost in her now. Everything else is forgotten and -forgiven. So you can see for yourself what she is suffering. -It's the pitiableness of the man's utter helplessness in the -face of her mother's amazing attitude——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram swung himself off the table and began to pace -the room with long, impatient strides. Meredith watched -him unceasingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I approve of Mrs. Boucicault's attitude," Tristram -said, in angry challenge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A great many people do. They think she's well rid -of a ruffian. But, as I've told you, Anne loved him. She -has a rare and wonderful spirit, Tristram, and she has -forgiven. Her mother's flaunted happiness and frivolity -were unbearable. She fled from it, and now she's longing -for her father. She hasn't a penny of her own. It's a -ghastly situation. The devil who did for Boucicault did -for Anne."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram stopped short. He was staring down at his -pipe, which had gone out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're confoundedly sure of things," he said brutally. -"You know her so well. Why don't you marry her?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I asked her to marry me two months ago," was the -answer. Meredith's hands were clasped on the table in -an attitude which, but for his level voice and composed -features, would have suggested an almost intolerable -suffering. "She wouldn't have me, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't wonder," with a rough laugh. "What woman -would care to share your life or mine?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't understand—it wasn't that. She'd be -glad and proud to go into the desert with the man she -loved. I wasn't the man. That's all." He was breathing -thickly, and suddenly he got up with a gesture that -even then Tristram recognized as poignant. "My God, -man, why don't you go in and win?" he burst out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They stared at each other through a long minute of -silence. The pipe slipped from Tristram's hand and fell -with a crack on the hard floor. He bent down and picked -it up. The stem was broken. He tried to piece it together -with a sightless persistency.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you—you trying to be damned funny?" he stammered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you think I should make a jest of a thing like -that?" was the fierce retort. "What I've done would -be the action of a cad if you weren't the man I know you -to be. It hasn't been easy—you can guess that. But I -wasn't going to see Anne's happiness break up or want -of a little sincerity. I believed you cared. I've been -watching you. I was almost certain tonight. I -understood your principles—you wouldn't ask a woman to share -your life—but I know what Anne feels—she'd stick by -you, Tristram——" He faltered, the thread of his -argument lost in a sudden ugly sense of uncertainty. He saw -Tristram's face in the shadow, and its sheer expressionlessness -frightened him. "I suppose I've behaved like a -fool," he said. "A man who cares as I do is liable to -become obsessed with an idea. Forget it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram started a little, as though awakening from a -deep mental abstraction. He came and stood at Meredith's -side, laying the fragments of the old pipe on the -table with a mechanical care.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's the only foolish thing you've said," he remarked, -gently. "I don't believe any one ever forgets anything. -It's just a sort of comfortable phrase— You did quite -right—you clergymen have a kind of insight into -things—you—you see where the shoe pinches—don't worry—I'm -awfully grateful. Even now, I see what a fine thing you've -done—I shall realize it much better later on. You've lived -up to your faith—you've made me respect it. It's a case -of the old Pagan and the early Christian. No, I'm not -jeering. I'm in deadly earnest. There, turn in and go -to sleep. I shan't want my bunk tonight. I've got to -think things out—get clear with myself. So many things -have been sprung on me—I've got to be alone. But don't -worry. You've done the right thing. Good night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He held out his hand, and now it was quite steady. -Meredith took it and wondered at the strength of it. In -the dull, bitter reaction from sacrifice, he visualized the -fervour of Tristram's happiness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good night. Don't let Anne guess——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never—on my word."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went out. The night was dark and oppressive. A -hush of exhaustion hung over the village. Afar off a jackal -howled dismally, and was answered nearer by a prowling -pariah dog. Tristram crossed the deep gutter which -lined the uneven roadway. Though he could see nothing, -he knew every stone, every turn; he could have named -the invisible huts and their owners as he passed them. -The pariah dog came snuffing round his heels, and he threw -it a crust which it was his habit to carry in his pocket for -the starving strays of the village. He heard the snap -of its famished teeth, and a hurried scamper through the -darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At the cross-roads a breeze came down from the west. -It rustled through the mysterious, never-silent leaves of -the council-tree. It seemed to him that their whisperings -were the ghosts of familiar voices now still. He stopped -to listen. He could hear Ayeshi's voice, low-pitched and -meditative, the harsher notes of the headman:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, those were the great days—the great days——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The headman had been swept away in the last epidemic. -Ayeshi was gone. He would never sit again by the red -firelight and listen to the story of the Rani Kurnavati. -He would never lie and stare up through the fret-work of -peepul leaves and dream his boyish dreams of her. -Gone—all gone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He walked on rapidly. He had no consciousness of -distance or any purpose—only a desire to be always moving. -But at last a sound broke through to him—the dull, menacing -roar of unseen water sliding past him into the darkness. -He knew then that he had reached the limit of his respite. -The menace was for him. This was the end of drifting—of -all dreams. Here was the reality—the whole future to -be faced.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood there listening—bracing himself....</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was close on daybreak when he returned. The lamp -still burned dimly. Meredith lay on the camp-bed, fully -dressed, apparently asleep. Tristram glanced at the -composed face and then stumbled over to the table against the -wall and sat down. The struggle was over, but it had left -him exhausted, broken, his mind blank save for odd distortions -of memory. He thought he heard Wickie patter over -the floor to meet him—Ayeshi's soft and friendly foot-fall—a -voice in his ear—-"I could make you a rich man—you -could marry whom you pleased——" He heard a woman -speaking gently with a subdued triumph—"Is this your -confession, Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Meredith was not asleep. He had spent the night -in a bitter conflict of uncertainties, in prayer, in alternating -thankfulness and dread. Up to now, his growing purpose -had been a light in his path, brightening as his eyes strengthened -to the prospect it revealed. He had hugged sacrifice -to himself and grown peaceful in his surrender. Now that -his sacrifice and surrender had been made full and complete, -he had lost his vision.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On Tristram's return, he had feigned sleep instinctively. -Now the big, powerful figure huddled by the table fascinated -him. He watched through half-opened eyes, painfully -aware that he was eavesdropping, spying, but unable to -turn away. Something was to be shown, made clear to -him. He saw Tristram pick up a photograph which had -stood hidden in the shadow and hold it before him. He -remained thus motionless for many minutes. Meredith -tried to speak to him, to hinder at all costs the self-betrayal -which was to come. But it was too late. Without a -sound, Tristram had dropped forward, hiding the portrait -with his body, his face in his arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thereafter Meredith lay still, with closed eyes, sick -with an unformed sense of disaster.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>By daybreak Tristram had disappeared. He left a -brief note. He had been called to the next village—a case -of fever. He hoped that the eggs would be all right for -Meredith's breakfast. All very matter-of-fact and natural.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the portrait on the table had vanished with him.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="mrs-smithers-does-accounts"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">MRS. SMITHERS DOES ACCOUNTS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>As she would have been the first to admit, arithmetic -was not one of Mrs. Smithers's intellectual strongholds. -Figures baulked her. They were an inexhaustible enemy -which, when aroused, flung themselves upon her in serried -legions and battalions, eluded pursuit, barricaded -themselves behind mysterious lines, multiplied themselves into -preposterous quantities, and utterly refused to "come out" -and surrender to Mrs. Smithers's somewhat individual -laws of subtraction and addition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On this particular afternoon, she had determined on a -grand assault, and had armed herself with a large sheet of -paper, a pencil sharpened to a nicety, removed her mittens, -straightened her wig, and figuratively rolled up her sleeves. -Having made these preparations, which were probably -intended more as a demonstration of impending "frightfulness" -than as an actual assistance in her task, she took -up her position in the dâk-bungalow dining-room and -opened fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had fought unflinchingly for an hour, when the -curtains at the far end of the room were pushed aside with -an impatience which Mrs. Smithers seemed to recognize. -Before she even looked up, she turned the sheet of paper, -with its pattern of astonishing hieroglyphics on its face, and -set her mittens upon it with an air of fixing a tombstone -over the body of her enemy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, lawks a-mercy, Sigrid, I thought you were -sleeping!" she exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The punkah-coolie had a nap instead. It was so hot—oh, -Smithy, what an annoying person you can be! I've -been hunting for you for the last hour."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In which case," Mrs. Smithers commented, with a -judicial flavour of speech culled from the law reports, -"you must have looked under all the chairs and tables. -I can't see how anybody could hunt for anything in this -nasty barn of a place without running into them in ten -minutes. Not a decent door, not a corner where you can -get a moment to yourself—let alone escape from those -crawling black things——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen sighed. She had been standing in the -doorway, one slender arm, from which the sleeve of her -pale green tea-gown had dropped back, raised to hold aside -the curtain. Now she came forward, moving restlessly -and noiselessly about the room, picking up one ornament -after another and putting it down without apparently -having looked at it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You never will let me wipe my boots on you, Smithy," -she complained. "I've trained you to be a doormat ever -since I was an infant in arms, and you still show not the -slightest aptitude. One of these days, I shall lose patience -and send you flying." She caught the line of contempt at -the corner of Mrs. Smithers's prim mouth and came over -and pinched her ear with real severity. "I saw that sneer, -you horrid, disreputable old tyrant! You think I can't -get on without you. I wish I could, just to spite you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stopped short, as though losing interest in her train of -thought, and stood at Mrs. Smithers's side stroking the -latter's withered cheek with a light, absent-minded hand. -Mrs. Smithers accepted the attention much as a cat would -have done, without gush or undignified gratitude, but with -sedate I-fully-deserve-it satisfaction. "Smithy, do you -realize that we shall have to pack up soon?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And a very good thing, too. A nice sight you're -getting to look in this oven of a place."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I? I thought so myself this afternoon. It quite -frightened me. Smithy, make an effort and tell the truth. -Am I showing signs of—of wear and tear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers unbent. She took the hand on her shoulder -and kissed it abruptly and shamefacedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Steel doesn't rust, Sigrid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doesn't it? That shows what you know about steel. -Also it proves you've been reading penny novelettes again. -Still, there is such a thing as poetic licence, and as a -compliment it will pass. No, I shan't rust, Smithy—I'd rather -snap like the good blade of your metaphor——" She -drifted along the currents of her thoughts for a moment, -and then added abruptly, "So it's hey for England and -the end of things."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The beginning, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know. We're almost at the end of our tether."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you knew that would happen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—I suppose I did. I remember making admirable, -lucid plans to meet the event. Nothing particular has -happened to upset them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing at all, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By the way, the Rajah has asked me to marry him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers laughed. Her amusement was usually of -a more restrained kind, and the laugh had a rusty, disused -sound.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's a good joke."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't it? I don't think he would have offered me -anything so respectable if he had had more pluck. He's -terrified of me and of Gaya. He imagines Gaya would -make him impossible if he insulted me. I've outgrown -his original intentions altogether."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What did you say?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I told him he wasn't rich enough. It was horribly -vulgar, but it's the sort of thing he understands. I've -never seen a man more humiliated. If I had told him he -was a blackguard, he wouldn't have minded. It's wonderful -how he has assimilated our Western ideals."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I know—I'm in a detestable mood. I'm upset, -Smithy. I've always controlled my life, moulded it into -the shape I wanted. I was so sure that I could never be -beaten by it. I thought there was only one real catastrophe -we human beings were afflicted with—ill-health—and that -I was prepared to master in my own way. But now——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers picked up her pencil and tapped the table -with a judicial air of summing up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're out of sorts, Sigrid. Look at things straight. -Two years ago we started off on a wild-goose chase. I -knew it was a wild-goose chase, but you had to be humoured -and so I just let you run. Besides, you had a grain of -horse-sense in you. If you couldn't find what you wanted -in those two years, you'd take the next best thing. Well, -you haven't found it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How do you know? What about the Rajah?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid—your mind wants a good spring-cleaning. It's -full of cobwebs and horrors——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Or Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers seized upon her mittens and folded them -up into a tight ball and smacked them viciously down on -the table.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course, you're in love with him, the poor benighted, -footling ninny. That's the whole trouble."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you're dying for me to marry him. That's why -you're always insulting him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She moved away from Mrs. Smithers's side and stood at -the open window looking out on to the garden, her hand -to her cheek in her favourite attitude of meditation. "Yes, -I am in love with him in a superficial sort of way. It's -his absurdity, his unreality, his utterly impossible -conception of life. And his love of me. Just as absurd as -the rest of him. A fantasia. Two years' worship of a -woman he saw dancing for ten minutes before a vulgar, -gaping, unseeing mob! Think of it. It's sheer worship, -Smithy. He sees something miraculous—divine in me. -That's the wonderful part of him. He's right. He's gone -right through me to what is divine—my art. He saw me -dance—he was just a country-bumpkin who didn't know -Beethoven from Bizet—and he didn't worry about my -beauty or the shape of my limbs, or wonder whether my -pearls were real or who gave them to me. He saw God in -me. I knew that when I found my photograph on his -table. In a kind of flash. It wasn't a silly, stage-door -infatuation. It was real—a perfect understanding." She -threw out her arms with a gesture of freedom, of spiritual -expansion. "Oh, it tasted good, that understanding. -I couldn't have done less than love him." She seemed -to sink into a deep, brooding contentment, and -Mrs. Smithers did not move or speak. "But I shan't marry -him. I am not young any longer. I have built my -house and have lived in it too long. I need space and -splendour, magnificence. I should stifle in his hovel. -I am no sensualist. I belong to the best of the old Greeks. -No vulgar display of wealth, no ugliness of poverty—but -absolute Beauty—that's my religion—the most austere -religion of the world. He understands, but he cannot -follow. He doesn't know it, but he has chosen the road -of the Galilean—not the Galilean of the Cross, but the -simple man who loved the sparrows and the lilies—and -I follow Diana and Apollo——" She broke off with a sigh -and turned away. "So that's the end of that. We shall -pack our trunks, and one day it will be just an episode. -But today—don't let any one worry me today, Smithy. -There's some one coming up the drive now. Tell them -I'm ill—anything—only don't let them worry me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She touched the old cheek with her lips, and then -soundlessly, like a flash of pale light, had vanished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers unfolded her mittens and put them on. -Apparently unmoved, she was about to resume her offensive -against her enemy, when Mary Compton made her appearance -on the balcony. Whereupon Mrs. Smithers postponed -her attack in order to settle first with the intruder. Her -manner, however, was almost gracious. She liked -Mrs. Compton. She liked her especially this afternoon because -she was wearing one of Sigrid's frocks—by no means an -old one—which Mrs. Smithers had altered with her own -hands. This detail formed an unbreakable link of affection -and fraternity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton did not wait for an invitation. She -dropped into the nearest chair, discarded her garden hat, -and flung her parasol on the floor, proceeding thereafter -to ruffle her grey-threaded curly hair with an exasperated -hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, the heat! Smithy, for pity's sake, don't tell me -I've faced it for nothing. Sigrid's in?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's in, Mrs. Compton, but she's not at home."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not even for me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not for a living soul."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's—she's not ill?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not that I know of." She shot a glance at Mrs. Compton's -crestfallen countenance, and relaxed her official -attitude. "You can have a cup of tea if you like."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, it's a poor substitute, but I'll take it. I should -expire on your doorstep if you didn't give me something -to revive me. I met that brute of a Barclay on the road -and he offered me a lift. The mere thought of it will keep -me on the frazzle for days. I only hope he isn't coming -here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He'd better not," Mrs. Smithers observed, with grim -significance. There was a moment's silence, and then she -jerked her head in the direction of the curtained doorway. -"It's the heat," she explained. "It's just wearing her to -ribbons. The Lord be praised, we shall be going back to -civilization soon."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton sat bolt upright, red with consternation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's not going back to England?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hope so, I'm sure."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's—it's an engagement, I suppose?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'm, a sort of one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Smithy—and it's just as though she only arrived -yesterday. What shall I do? Everything will be nothing -without her. What did she come for? Just to make -us all hate each other, just to show us what a silly, -colourless world we live in? Smithy, this means a divorce for -me. I shall desert Archie. I shall live at stage-doors and -spend my fortune on front seats in the pit. I shall see her -dance at last——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The very poignant feeling which underlay her desperate -humour touched Mrs. Smithers to the quick. At all times -she was inclined to treat facetiousness seriously, most of -life's jokes having been made at her expense, and she saw -more of Mary Compton's grief than the latter knew.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear, don't you do nothing silly. You wouldn't -see her dance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In London."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"In Paris, then——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not in Paris—nowhere."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But, Smithy——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If she did, she'd——" Mrs. Smithers took her tongue -between her teeth. She leant across the table, her stiff -old body quivering with menace. "Don't you breathe a -word—don't you let on—if you do, I'll—I'll——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>What Mrs. Smithers would or would not have done -Mrs. Compton never knew. In a state of uncomprehending -consternation, she almost welcomed the diversion created -by the entry of a frightened-looking servant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib—if you please, Mem-Sahib——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His announcement was also lost. He was pushed roughly -aside and James Barclay entered. At sight of his tall, -perfectly clad figure Mrs. Smithers was on her feet, and -for a moment Mrs. Compton believed she intended a -personal assault—a belief which Barclay himself appeared -to share, for his attitude became more deferential though not -less resolute. He bowed gravely to his opponent, including -Mrs. Compton in the greeting. Mrs. Compton ignored him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am sorry to be forced to intrude in this way," he -began with a certain dignity. "It seems to be fated that -I should have to burgle my entry. But I was practically -certain that an ordinary appeal for admission would be -ignored. So I just followed on your butler's heels. May -I speak to Miss Fersen?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers drew a deep breath of indignation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, you may not. She's not seeing any one—much less -you—you blackguard——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton jumped at the sheer vigour and audacity -of the attack, and then, as she saw Barclay's face, was -conscious of a pang of the half-angry pity which he had -caused her once before. A peculiar pallor showed under -his olive skin. He was no longer smiling, and his eyes -had a sick, stricken look like that of an animal badly hurt. -The next minute he was himself again, cool, resolute, -without that insolence which stamped most of his actions -as weak and fundamentally diffident.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am sorry you think of me like that, Mrs. Smithers, -but I won't argue about it. I must see Miss Fersen——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you want me to throw you out with my own hands?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I don't," he returned, with perfect gravity. "All -I ask of you is to give Miss Fersen this letter. It was -written in case she refused to see me. It is a business -matter."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers wavered, obviously nonplussed by the -man's quiet resolution. In despair, she appealed to -Mrs. Compton.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What shall I do with him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton stared out into the garden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You'd better take the letter, hadn't you? It gives -Sigrid a chance to decide for herself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, very well." She snatched the letter from Barclay's -hands and made her exit with what sounded like the -challenging snort of an old war-horse. Barclay maintained -his position quietly. He made no effort to speak to -Mrs. Compton, who continued to ignore him. But, without -knowing it, his restraint began to trouble her, and she -resorted to the mannerism of stage heroes when confronted -by the villain and a painful situation. She opened a silver -case on the table beside her, selected a cigarette, and began -to smoke with an insulting satisfaction. Had Barclay -offered her the lighter which she was certain he possessed, -she felt that she would have infallibly struck him; but he -stood stroking his moustache, and apparently as unconscious -of her as she pretended to be of him. The silence -became intolerable. Furiously conscious that he had -beaten her on her own ground, she got up and went out -on to the balcony, only to realize with increased annoyance -that she had been beaten by a second. Mrs. Smithers had -returned. She did not look at Barclay, and addressed her -message to the opposite wall.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can go in," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bowed, showing no sign of elation or surprise, and -the door closed behind him. Mary Compton returned, -and the two women busied themselves with the tea-things -which had been brought in, paying the function more -intent interest than was usual. They were both nervous. -For all Mrs. Smithers's excessive clatter, they could hear -voices, muffled and continuous, and something in the sound -paralysed their initiative. Neither wished to listen, but -they found nothing with which to cover their compulsory -attention. When Mrs. Smithers spoke at last it was -with a breathless tremulousness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know what Sigrid did it for," she said. "She -didn't want to see any one, and now this creature comes -along. Just because he met her once at some reception -he'd managed to wriggle himself into—she can be so -idiotically good-natured—it was a begging letter, I'm sure: -the nasty, cadging blackamoor."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton did not respond directly. She had what, -for all men say, is a quality equally rare in both sexes, a -profound reverence for the reticences and secrets of her -friends, and she wished to avoid the confidences which -might be hovering on Mrs. Smithers's unsteady lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hate meeting that man," she said, by way of an -answer. "He frightens me. I always think of him as an -English sin come home to roost—a bird of ill-omen, not -necessarily bad, just foredoomed to evil. I wish he hadn't -come to Gaya."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish he'd leave Sigrid alone," Mrs. Smithers muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton knew now that Barclay had been at the -dâk-bungalow before, and wished she did not know. The -knowledge troubled her, increasing an inexplicable -uneasiness. Something was going on in that next room. Though -she could not and would not have heard the words, the -voices persisted in attaining her consciousness. Their tone -was neither angry nor excited, but intensely earnest. -Business? What business could James Barclay have with -a woman he scarcely knew? She could not avoid the -question. Then came a silence infinitely worse than the -voices—it was so sudden and prolonged.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton became almost panic-stricken in her -effort to escape from the fascination of that silence. She -turned her attention to Mrs. Smithers, who had deserted -her tea and gone back to her figures.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you drawing patterns?" she asked hurriedly. -Mrs. Smithers shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sums," she explained. "Never could do them even -in me board-school days, and that's some time ago. Are -you any good?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wrestle with accounts once a week—not successfully. -But that's not the fault of my arithmetic. It's Archie's -pay. Can I help?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers sat back and folded her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What I'm trying to find out," she began, "is, what -income would one have if one had two thousand pounds?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It depends on the rate of interest."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What rate of interest can one have?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, three-and-a-half per cent. if you're rich, and five -per cent. if you're poor. If one hasn't much, it's a case -of sink or swim."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let's split the difference—say, four per cent. Here—you -can have the pencil——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can manage that in my head. Eighty pounds would -be about your income."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lawks a-mercy!" said Mrs. Smithers under her breath. -She brooded over this information for a minute, in which -her companion became aware that Sigrid was speaking -again—very quietly. If she had spoken angrily Mary -Compton would not have felt her heart beating against -her ribs in an absurd, horrible excitement. "It's amazing -what a little a lot of money is," Mrs. Smithers philosophized -gloomily. "I've done a powerful lot of saving, and two -thousand pounds seems a powerful lot to have saved, but -what's eighty pounds a year? A mere drop in an ocean. -One couldn't keep oneself in boots and shoes with it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton stared. Mrs. Smithers's elastic-sided -foot-gear did not suggest eighty pounds' expenditure, or -anything like it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I suppose not," she ventured.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And two thousand pounds, for that matter," Mrs. Smithers -continued, with increased contempt. "What's -the good of that? One couldn't live decently for six -months on it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I could," Mrs. Compton assured her with a smouldering -twinkle in her bright eyes; "but, of course, I'm different. -I say, Smithy, are you going on the bust—painting Gaya -red and that sort of thing? Do include me in the invitation -if you are. I'd just love to do something outrageous." But -Mrs. Smithers remained coldly unresponsive, and she -got up with a sigh of discomfort. "Well, I'm off. I can't -stand that man's voice, and I don't want to see him again. -Tell Sigrid I've been, and implore her to come round to -dinner. Archie and I are bored stiff with each other." She -paused on the edge of the verandah, driving the point -of her parasol in between the flags and becoming violently -slangy. "I say, Smithy dear, you know I look upon you -as a sort of guardian angel to Sigrid. I just wanted to -say—if there's anything wrong—any one who's in need of a -kicking or—or anything of that kind—or, in fact, if Sigrid -wants a body-guard physically or otherwise—just drop us -the wink. Archie and I are on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was blushing hotly. Mrs. Smithers cleared her throat.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall certainly drop you the wink," she said, in her -best manner.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton nodded, opened her parasol, and set out to -face the stretch of hot road back to her own bungalow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ten minutes later the door between the two rooms -opened. Mrs. Smithers did not so much as look at Barclay, -her only intimation that she recognized his passing being -a sudden stiffening of her long back. Barclay bowed to -her, still very calm and unchallenging, and went out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers waited until she heard the crunch of wheels -fade along the drive, and then sailed indignantly into the -next room. She was trembling a little and desperately -anxious to appear merely angry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't think how you did it, Sigrid. There was -Mrs. Compton wanting to see you, and instead you talked and -talked to that nasty half-caste. I was ashamed—I was -really—"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stopped, at the end of artificial fury, but still -trembling. Sigrid stood by her writing-table. A long beam -of evening sunshine rested lightly and lovingly on her. -In her delicate shaded gown, her slender body tensely still -and living, she looked like a huge butterfly, wings half-spread, -poised for flight. Her head was bent a little, and -she still held Barclay's letter in her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sorry, Smithy. It was important. It seems there's -a kind of matrimonial epidemic in Gaya. He has asked me -to marry him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers burst into loud and uncontrolled laughter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shouldn't have thought it would have taken you all -that time to give him his answer—the creature——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't give him an answer. I didn't know—I've got -to think things over."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It grew very still. Mrs. Smithers's withered hands -fluttered up to her breast and rested there in a helpless -weakness. Sigrid began to tear the letter across and -across.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why are you so upset, Smithy? After all, it's just -what we planned—just what you wanted. He's rich—very -rich. He was explaining to me how rich. And I -need money—a great deal of it—to live and die -beautifully——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid!" The cry snapped the palsy which had laid -itself on Mrs. Smithers's tongue. She came out of her -weakness strong and fierce and outraged. It did not -matter that her "h's" flew to the winds. There was nothing -comic in her as she stood there, stemming the disaster -with her utter disbelief. "You can't mean it—it would be -a wicked, wicked thing. It would be a crime—a dirty -crime—you'd be selling yourself—yes, I shall say it, Sigrid. -I've stood by you through thick and thin, I 'ave; I've -been like a dog that's never questioned, never thought if -what you did was right or wrong—I've licked your hand -through everything—but you'd be no better than—than -a woman on the streets——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Be silent!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I won't. This isn't what we planned. It's different. -I'll fight you, Sigrid. I'll fight you every inch. I've got -my share in you—I won't 'ave it spoiled and moiled. I -won't." She paused an instant, drawing her breath deep -and strong. "I'd kill 'im first," she said, between her teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid half turned. Her face looked small and white, -as though something withering had passed over it. The -wry, unsteady smile at the corners of her blue-shadowed -lips was like light on something dead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not if I didn't wish it, Smithy. I daresay I shan't do -it—I don't know yet; but, in any case, you can't get -away—you'll lick my hand, as you call it, to the very end."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They eyed each other like enemies, battling will against -will. The old woman wavered piteously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid, my dear—'ave pity—just because it's true—because -I can't fight you—because I belong to you—'ave -pity on yourself. Don't do it, my dear, don't do it, Sigrid. -I've got a bit of money saved. You can 'ave it—every -penny of it. I don't want it. It's your money—what -you've given me. An old woman like me doesn't want -much. Take it, Sigrid; it'll keep you for a bit, -until—until——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It won't do, Smithy—I want money—a great deal of -money. It costs so much to live magnificently—" She -spoke with great slowness and deliberation. Suddenly she -turned. There was a kind of panic in her eyes. "Life's -not got to be too strong for me—I've got to go on as I -will—stick to me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A wave of delicate, youthful colour swept up into Mrs. Smithers's -cheeks. Her whole life, lived selflessly, loyally, -in another's splendour culminated in this moment—in this -appeal. She held out her arms, holding the half-yielding -half-defiant figure in an embrace which challenged heaven -and earth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As though I shouldn't" she muttered fiercely. "My -dear, as though I shouldn't——"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-feast-of-siva"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE FEAST OF SIVA</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>They came, so it seemed, from all the corners of India—from -the east and west, north and south—thin streams of -life trickling across the fields and down the mountain sides, -till they converged in a broad, sluggish river which poured -ceaselessly, irresistibly towards the place of its dreams -and prayers. They had appeared miraculously, as though -at a signal they had sprung up on the edge of the horizon -and began their pilgrimage, as a conquering army bears -down from all sides on a helpless citadel. But in reality -they knew nothing of each other, and there was no order -in their advance. Some had come from the neighbouring -villages, some from villages hundreds of miles away. Some -had packed up with wife, child, and household gods -the night before—some many months ago. They had -come over the mountains, down lonely passes, through -wild tracts of country where dangerous and desperate -marauders, man and beast, preyed on their defencelessness. -They had borne hunger and thirst and much sickness. Many -of them had dropped by the way. But there had been -no lamentation, no turning back. They had no interest -in each other. Humanity, brotherhood, a common -faith—these things were without meaning for them. Yet, -where danger threatened, little groups had herded together, -driven by fear and instinct rooted deep in the trackless -jungle of humanity's beginnings. They knew no pity. -A pilgrim died by the roadside, and they looked at him -indifferently, as at a commonplace, and he himself watched -them pass with patient, unexpectant resignation. Suffering -and death were part of the scheme of things. They lived -under the shadow of a Juggernaut, and today it was this -man's turn to go under, tomorrow another's. They had no -hope and no clear faith. Their imaginations could not -conjure up much to hope for—a child perhaps, the fulfilment -of a curse against a neighbour, sufficient harvest—and -there were so many gods. And yet they came, mile after -mile, footsore and hungry, gravely or passionately intent -on a mystic goal whose significance they could not formulate -even to themselves. The gods knew, and the priests -perhaps; but the gods were silent in these days, and the -priests kept their counsel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram stood on the outskirts of the village and watched -them come down through the glory of the sunrise. They -rolled past him in a cloud of dust and a blare of -harsh-throated instruments and the rattle of native drums. The -bright morning rays picked out a hundred glints of colour -from among them—here, a gay woman's </span><em class="italics">chudder</em><span>, there -a rich </span><em class="italics">puggri</em><span>, or the glitter of gold ornaments, carried -secretly and at great risk through the long journey, or the -saffron robe of a holy man. All the stages of growth -and decay were there—Youth restraining its steps to the -halting measure of age, rags and tatters and gaudy finery, -gentle, mysterious-eyed women, lithe-limbed boys and -half-naked, pot-bellied babies rolling bow-legged at their -parents' side, comic as young puppies. Last of all, -grey-bearded and scarcely human, a fakir crawling on hands -and knees through the rising dust. So his oath bound him. -Years ago, he had started out on this pilgrimage. Now -the end was in sight. He glanced up as he passed, but -his face was without expression. Perhaps in those years -he had reached his goal—indifference, Nirvana, where there -is neither desire nor hope, pain nor happiness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An odd misery laid hold of Tristram as he watched them. -It was a pageant of life, all humanity struggling on through -the heat and turmoil of years, driven by a secret, fathomless -impulse, obeying the behests of self-created gods, seeking -a self-created goal out of the desperate need of their -hearts. And tricksters and men of God, fanatics, -conventionalists, bread-and-butter priests, preying on each -other, trampling on each other, pushing always forward in -pretended knowledge of the Force that drives them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But, to the man standing at Tristram's side, it was just -a tiresome business. He was a captain in the native -regiment, and was there with a handful of men to keep -order if order could be kept.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I daresay there'll be a shindy by nightfall," he remarked. -"There always is. Can't think why we put up with it. -We shall have a Holy Place on every inch of the river if -we go on encouraging them like this."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose they've got to have a religion," Tristram -observed absently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I wish they'd have a nice, quiet, Sunday-go-to-meeting -one like mine. Besides, it doesn't mean anything -to them. It's just their way of taking a summer -holiday."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram laughed and turned away.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, well, if there are any bones broken, you'll know -where to find me. And keep your eye on Meredith. His -religion isn't the quiet, unobtrusive kind you favour."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good old Meredith!" the other man rejoined comfortably.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram made his way along the fringe of the procession -back to his own quarters. When he closed the door he -shut out the light and dust, but not the noise, and for that -he was conscious of a vague thankfulness. The quiet of -the place had begun to haunt him. Rather than help him -forget, it reminded him of what was no longer there. He -was always looking round involuntarily for Wickie, peering -into his favourite hiding-place in the shadow, as though -the bright brown eyes would have to answer his appeal, -with their solemn, impudent contemplation. Or he would -rap out an order to Ayeshi—and catch himself up only to -realize the heaviness of the silence which answered him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And there were other things that troubled him—the -carved chair where Sigrid Fersen had sat and looked at him -with her disturbing eyes. At the time, she had seemed -unreal, a vivid day-dream, a white glowing figure of his -fancy, and now she was there always, dominating his -consciousness. The place where the picture of the dancer -had stood was empty, too, yet he saw her—the radiant -head, with its crown of vine-leaves, thrown back, the mouth -a little open, as though even in that moment of deliberate -pose she breathed the ecstasy of living. That was what -mattered, what made her most wonderful, and the poise -of her body, stereotyped enough and within the compass -of a ballet girl, a thing of Supreme Art.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned resolutely away from the empty place, allowing -the tumult from without to pour over his vision of -her, and went to his day's work. A subdivision of his little -kitchen formed a combined laboratory and chemist's shop, -and he set about cleaning his instruments, tidying up the -bottles, noting failing supplies. That had been Ayeshi's -job. He thought of Ayeshi as he dipped the instruments -into the sterilizer, wondering vaguely what he was doing, -what he thought. Ayeshi, he knew, had found Boucicault -and Wickie's body, and probably had buried the latter out -of sight. He had shielded Tristram. Probably, too, he -now sweated in the Calcutta University with bitter thoughts -of a man who had prated so much of life and half-killed -a fellow-creature for the sake of a dog. The idea did not -hurt Tristram. He ached for the comradeship of the -mysterious, romantic boy, but he had no sentimental -reverence for himself. He had never realized that he had ever -been so much as an ideal—idealizing in his own life too -ardently to consider himself at all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He hummed as he worked. To others, the tune might -have been unrecognizable, for at the best of times his voice -had an uneven quality, and in singing it escaped control -altogether. But in his brain the melody ran smoothly -and beautifully. In the midst of it, he heard the latch of -the door fall, and went out with his sleeves rolled up to -meet the newcomer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The door was wide open and framed her as she stood -with her back to the sun-flooded village street, smiling -at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I heard you singing," she said, with subdued mockery. -"It was irresistible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He strove to answer her, denying the savage, joyous -leap of his pulses. A kind of stupid deliberation settled -on his brain. He found himself wondering whether she -had removed her helmet because she knew the light would -be shining on her hair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you come all the way from Gaya to listen?" he -asked at last, with a brief laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I came for the fulfilment of a promise," she -answered. "For my day out."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was a bad—an impossible day to choose."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was my last day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent for an instant. He had tried to adjust -his tone to hers and had failed. Now he ceased to try. -He spoke roughly, rather brutally.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then you're leaving Gaya?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—perhaps. It all depends. At any rate, -this was my last chance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know how on earth you got here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"On horseback. I've put my steed with Arabella. -You don't mind?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not safe for you here—on a day like this."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled again, and for the first time he realized -something new in her amusement—a kind of repressed -earnestness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not afraid. Do you want me to go away?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—you don't know how glad——" He broke off -painfully, but she did not look at him or seem to notice -that he had faltered. She bent down and put something -which she had been carrying to the ground. It -was a round yellow something which unrolled itself and -developed four short legs, a stumpy tail, a sharp little -head peering out of a mass of fluffiness, and a strenuous, -defiant yap.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know what it is," Sigrid said gravely. "Perhaps -God does—I don't think any one else could even -guess. But I thought you'd like it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't understand," he said gently. He picked the -little creature up and rubbed its black nose against his -cheek. Then, looking at it, he burst into a big roar of -real amusement. "My word, what an absurdity!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, isn't it? And utterly forsaken. Mr. Radcliffe -found it somewhere with a rope and a brickbat round its -neck. That's why I thought you'd like it. At first, I -meant to get you something first-rate—a thoroughbred -with a pedigree—and then I thought you'd like this better. -You see, it's a sort of memorial to Wickie. You know -what people do when some one dies whom they love—they -build something or endow something—something the -dead person would like. Well, I think Wickie would like -you to adopt that puppy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at her. There was a real tenderness in her -eyes as they met his. He fancied that her lips were not -quite steady.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you say so, it must be so," he said. "Wickie loved -you. You knew all about him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We knew all about each other." She hesitated and -then asked, "You'll keep my puppy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rather! It's been horribly lonely—I've wanted someone -to give my scraps to——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The best bits! Oh, I know you, Tristram Sahib!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They both laughed. And suddenly the constraint -between them had gone. He busied himself eagerly, -preparing Wickie's old sleeping quarters, filling the tin -feeding-plate with recklessly collected puppy dainties.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wickie'll be jolly glad," he said, in his boyish way. -"He'd hate me to be lonely. And it's been lonely without -him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I know." She went and stood by his table, playing -idly with the letters which lay heaped upon it. "And -there's something I want to ask in return—a sort of farewell -gift. Make this a real day for us both—give me a good -time—humour me. Let us be real with each other—sincere, -just as we really are and feel. A sort of feast of honesty -and fellowship. Will you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood beside her, looking down at her from his great -height.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our day of days?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The day of our lives."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He flushed deeply under his tan, but he met her eyes -steadily. A subtle change had come into his feeling for -her. He could not have explained it—it was an odd sense -of quiet nearness, of understanding. And she, too, seemed -different. At other times she had been in earnest, but -not as now. There had always been that curious detachment -in her, as though she stood apart and laughed at life -and herself. Now for a moment, at least, she had ceased -to be an onlooker.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well—we'll make each other a present," he said. -"A day off from the world—something we won't account -for to anybody." All at once he became recklessly happy. -"I'll go and collect food," he said. "The pup can stay -here and play </span><em class="italics">locum tenens</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He came back presently from the kitchen. His sleeves -were still rolled up, but he carried a basket under one arm -and wore his helmet rakishly at the back of his head. -Seeing him, the gravity passed like a mist from her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, you caricature of Hercules!" she jeered at him. -"Tell me, have you ever worn decent clothes in your life?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sometimes. I have to squeeze into regimentals on -occasions—or into a frock-coat. You wouldn't know -me—I look a regular freak."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'm! and what do you think you look like now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ariel shouldn't mock at Caliban," he retorted gaily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Even when Caliban throws Ariel's portrait out of the -window." She pointed to the empty place on the table. -"Have I sunk so far below your thought of me, Major -Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He became serious in a moment, but without embarrassment. -She had a sudden pleasure in him as he came and -stood beside her—in his bigness, in his sheer unconsciousness -of himself and his strength. She felt oddly compassionate, -too—the awestruck compassion of a Brünnhilde -for a young Siegfried.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he said. "But I was a boy, at least, in thought -and feeling—and you were a boy's dream. Now I am a -man and you are a reality. It would have been an -impertinence of me to have kept you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's more in it than that, Tristram Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he assented gravely. "A great deal more."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They remained together an instant, looking down at -the empty place as though it held a secret significance for -them both; then Tristram turned to the door and made -a little grandiloquent bow of introduction. His eyes had -lost their seriousness and laughed at her. "Behold, the -day awaits us!" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext" id="id1"><span>They went out side by side into the glowing morning. -The stream of pilgrims had grown denser and filled the -street, beating up against the mud huts on either side and -spilling over into the open doorways. And there was a -thrill and fever in the air which gathered force, as at the -cross-roads one stream poured into another and swirled -and eddied in the effort to break a passage. Shrieks and -cries, the beating of drums, the harsh calls of the mendicants, -the tramping of thousands of feet, the swirl of dust -which could not rise for the pressure of the struggling -bodies—a mad whirl of sound and colour. Tristram turned to -the woman beside him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you mind—can you face it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed a little, with a repressed exultation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This is the tarantella as I danced it—the beginning -before the madness comes—the rising of the tide. Can't -you feel it beating in your blood?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A fresh band, headed by a swaying banner, pushed its -way through the leaderless crowd, and after that, carried -on the shoulders of four sweating, staggering men, the -image of the Triumvirate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sun poured down over the roofs and glittered fierily -on the three faces of the god. They had been gilded afresh -for the occasion, and the hand which had laboured at their -features had not failed in its simple craftsmanship. -Benevolence, cruelty, and an unutterable serenity stared over -the heads of the tossing multitude. The idol swayed from -side to side in its passage, and, as it caught the rays of the -sun, gleamed with a living, sinister brightness. There were -wreaths of faded flowers on the base of the altar, and there -was white dust everywhere. The crowd surged closer, -holding up its hands to it in greeting. Their lifted faces -showed neither reverence, nor fear, nor hope, but a kind of -frenzy seeking its outlet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Slowly, triumphantly, the image rocked on its way -towards the river, a spot of sullen fire on the breast of an -ever-changing sea of colour. Like a dangerous backwash, -the mob closed in, sweeping it forward and leaving behind -a sudden relaxation—a breaking-up of the sea into a -hundred drifting particles. It was the passing of a mad -dream. The sun blazed on to the peaceful bustle. The -note of frenzy died down. The old fakir had crawled on -his knees into the shade and held out his wooden bowl, -bleating monotonously.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Alakh! Alakh!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A merchant came out from his hiding-place in a cowshed -and exhibited his wares. The hovel opposite revealed -itself as a cook-shop, where the hungry could buy pulse-puffs -and dough-cakes and sweets of a hundred kinds. A sherbet-seller -pitched his tent a few doors lower down and clinked -his coloured glasses alluringly. An ascetic, with the face -of a mediæval saint, sold gilt-papered corks from champagne -bottles as sacred charms of marvellous efficacy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen looked up into her companion's face and -they both laughed, scarcely knowing why, but swept away -by a childish pleasure in the swiftness of the change, in -the naïve </span><em class="italics">volte face</em><span> of these simple folk, who a minute -before had trampled upon each other in a paroxysm of -religious frenzy and now wandered wide-eyed and eager -amidst all these bewildering fascinations.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And perhaps, as the deep secret source of their pleasure, -was the knowledge that the day was young and wholly -theirs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want to buy something," she said gaily. "Why -should we be superior? It's our feast, too. And who -knows if their values are not as good as ours? if their faith -in champagne corks isn't as effective as our superstitious -belief in the mysterious horrors compounded by an -honourable Dakktar Sahib!" She shot him a demure, malicious -glance. "Come, I am going to buy recklessly!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A bright-eyed boy beckoned them to the tray behind -which he watched cross-legged and eager, like a handsome, -bewitching spider. It was not in vain that he had bright -eyes or that he sold wares dear to the hearts of women. -The merchant in cheap stuffs from Manchester, and even -the sherbet-seller, watched him sourly as the soft-footed, -timid women hovered about him pricing his coveted -treasures.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Now he looked up, showing his white teeth in a smile -of innocent welcome.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Gifts for the Mem-Sahib—and gifts for him whom -Mem-Sahib loves."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid knelt down in the dust beside his tray, and -rummaged through the medley of his stock. Ear-rings, -bracelets, amulets, glass beads, vulgar trophies of Western -taste—paste diamond brooches stuck on cardboard and -labelled rolled gold—these last displayed with almost -passionate pride, and here and there a scornfully suppressed -relic of days when Manchester and Birmingham were not. -Tristram stood beside her and watched her. He had -the feeling that all this had happened before, years ago, -and that this companionship of a day was just a link in a -long, unbroken chain of days. It was so simple, so natural. -He felt no constraint, scarcely any excitement, just an -all-pervading peace. They had always known each other, -always shared their days, their thoughts, and desires. He -did not think about it. It filled his senses with a -well-being, a rare and exquisite content.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave an exclamation and held up something in the -palm of her little hand. He took it from her. It was a -bracelet made of seven threads of seven different colours -and bound with a silver clasp. The boy-merchant shrugged -scornfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is nothing—nothing, Mem-Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you remember?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded—not looking at her now.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Rani Kurnavati——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—that night when we sat by the moonlight and -Ayeshi told us her story——" She laid an extravagant -sum on the tray. "There, that is all I want."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The amazed merchant gasped his blessings after her. -She walked on, threading her way through the aimless -crowd, inspecting her purchase with a thoughtful pleasure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wanted to give it you," Tristram protested, aggrievedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I didn't want you to," she retorted. "You have -given me enough, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her solemn reversion to his title amused him. He -watched her smilingly as she snapped the bracelet about -her wrist.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What have I given you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The cup. Have you forgotten? I was so miserable -because I forgot to thank you. I'd never been remorseful -in my life before, but I was remorseful about that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sorry. Remorse is ghastly. And I hadn't expected -thanks."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You didn't expect to live. Ought I to give the cup -back?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But your mother——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have told her," he said gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They reached the confines of the village. The high grass -had been trampled down under the passing of a monstrous -animal. Through the dazzling blaze of sunlight they -could see a black mass swarming along the banks, a huge, -writhing octopus whose tentacles groped towards the -temple with greedy, hurrying persistency. And in the -midst of it, like a restless, menacing eye, the Triumvirate -flashed backwards and forwards in evil, delirious -triumph.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They're bringing up their offerings now," Tristram -said, rather grimly. "The Snake God and his retinue -will have food enough for months to come. It's a queer -thing—no one has seen these serpents in the memory of -man, and yet it's true enough that native sceptics who -have ventured inside the jungle have either never returned -or come out raving madmen. There is madness connected -with the whole thing—a kind of delirium which we English -don't understand. It's in their blood, just as it's in the -blood of some families to respond to supernatural influences -which others don't even feel. Anyhow, we'd better keep -clear of them today."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have made my plan," she answered, with sedate -authority.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He knew now where she was going. They made their -way in silence down the length of the river, touching the -monster only there where its tentacles reached up to the -temple, and came at last to the green-shadowed backwater. -Tristram held aside the branches of the trees for her to -pass through, and their eyes met.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't this a fitting place to celebrate our day?" she -asked, "—here, where a certain romantic Hermit beheld a -vision and was not afraid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Visions are not terrifying," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But the reality——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not seem to expect an answer. The boughs of -the trees had swung back into their place. They stood -together at the edge of the water, looking down into its -tangled depths, listening to the silence. Nothing had -changed. It was as though time had fallen asleep, and -they were still living in that first day of their meeting. -The dense foliage of the trees walled them in from the -heat and glare and tumult. The dull murmur that came -to them from time to time seemed no more than the soughing -of a rising wind. The peace of it laid itself upon their -senses like a cooling hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They sat down in the fresh grass, talking softly and only -a little, fearing to disturb the sleeping spirit of the place. -Tristram unpacked his basket and produced the day's -provisions, over which they laughed subduedly. It -appeared that he was cook as well as doctor, and she made -wry faces over the probable ingredients of his dough-cakes. -For her humour had lost its keenness and had become -very young and a little tremulous. He responded loyally -and easily. There was no constraint between them, no -sense of trouble. They were comrades together, responding -light-heartedly to the appeal of the sunlight, and the -flowers burning brightly in the cool shadows. They did -not know as yet that their real life lay beneath the surface -of that easy comradeship in a great stillness where their -own voices did not penetrate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But that stillness mastered them at last, flowing quietly -and mightily over their broken, careless talk. The -sunlight, falling aslant through the trees touched the green -stem of a high palm and began its upward journey. -Tristram watched it. He had slipped lower down the bank, -where he could see his own bulk shadowed darkly in the -water and the pale, ghostly reflection of the woman behind -him. At first, he had lain full length on his elbow looking -at her frankly, fearlessly, as she sat above him, her hands -clasped about her knees, her fair small head bent a little -from the light, so that her eyes seemed dark and more -serious than her lips. Now he had turned away from her -and watched the passing of the sunbeam. A kind of panic -had gripped him. The time was passing. He had begun -to realize dimly that what they had set out to do was -impossible—a defiance of the law of life. A day cannot -be set apart from its fellows either for joy or sorrow. It -is bound up with them by whatever menace or promise -they hold, and the menace of yesterday and tomorrow -touched him like the breath of a chill wind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He pointed out on to the water and saw that his hand -shook. His pulses had begun to beat heavily, thickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The lotus-flower has gone," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is dead. It's so long ago—it seems only yesterday -to us. Do you remember asking me if I wanted it? You -were glad because I let it live out its life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How did you know that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I knew that you loved living things."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't that a love common to us all?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave a short laugh out of which the joyful -irresponsibility had died.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Men love ideas—the fetishes of their intellects. Or -they love their cabbage-patch, or their country. Life and -humanity are nothing to the majority. But you cared—for -everything." It was a long time before she spoke -again, and then her voice had changed. It sounded -languid—indifferent. "It must be terrible to kill," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stirred, drawing himself up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The unforgettable sin," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Unforgettable? Have you ever known any one who -had killed——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. It was worse than killing. He smashed his -man—crippled him for life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps he didn't care."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He cared desperately. He thought of life as I do——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Another Tolstoyan! Well, he was punished, I suppose."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, yes, he was punished. Not by the law. He had -no belief in that Fetish of Justice—an eye for an eye. -His life was of value—to another. Of what use would it -have been to have smashed it with the rest? He found -the only way to make good the damage he had done—and -he took it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He spoke firmly, as a man does who has fought through -to a clear issue. He heard her move—he fancied that she -had held out her hand as though to touch him, and that -her hand had dropped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps he was mistaken," she said. "Some one once -said to me there is a curse on us—that we are damned to -destroy. Perhaps the life he took was justly -taken—perhaps it was a bad, valueless life——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned impetuously, with an intensity of feeling far -removed from his previous impersonal deliberation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't tell," he said. "That's the ghastly part of -it—you can't tell. You find a piece of broken glass on -your road. You grind it under foot or throw it away and -think you've done your fellow creatures a service. And -then a child comes along crying for its lost treasure. It -doesn't matter that you were justified. The thing had -its value, after all, and you smashed it. You hurt -someone——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Some one is always hurt," she interrupted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A mist of passionate introspection passed from his eyes, -and he saw her face—very pale, with a blue shadow about -the lips. He started, almost touching her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're ill—tired——!" he stammered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A little—it was the heat and the crowd——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at the light on the green stem of the palm, -as though to a warning hand. It had reached the end of -its journey and had grown dim. He got up, holding -himself desperately erect. "It's the end of the Feast," he -said, "the end of our day."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But she shook her head broodingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't tell that either—only the gods know the -end, Tristram Sahib."</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Something had wrapped itself about their senses. They -had talked of impersonal things and—save for that one -break of his—without emotion. But the emotion had been -there, below the surface, crushed out of sight by an effort -of the will which left them no physical consciousness. It -walled them within themselves as the trees and dense -foliage walled them in from the heat and tumult.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thus the storm broke on them without warning. It had -risen little by little with the dull boom of an angry sea. -They had heard nothing. But there had been a silence so -tense, so prolonged that they looked at each other, -wondering, waiting, though they did not know it, for the -scream that ripped through, tearing down the barriers -of their unconsciousness, forcing a breach through which -the full fury of the sound bore down upon them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid had risen instantly to her feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tarantella!" she breathed. "Tarantella!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not wait to speak. He pushed through the -undergrowth, not knowing that she had followed him. On the -fringe of the coppice he turned and found her at his elbow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Something's happened," he said briefly. "We can't -stay here—we've got to get back to the village——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She nodded. A minute before she had looked ill, almost -broken. Now the colour burnt in her cheek, she held -herself lightly, strongly, and her eyes shone as they swept -the scene before them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shall we get through?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—I don't know what's happened. It may -be nothing——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't believe that yourself. It is something. -Anyhow, we've got to try for it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The fear was in him, not in her. Even then, striding at -her side, bracing himself for whatever lay before them, he -wondered at her, thrilled at the joyous adventurousness -in her. Her head was erect and she was smiling faintly. -The howling of the frantic, demented mob which swept -backwards and forwards across the plain did not seem -to touch her. He felt how, with the coolness of a general, -she was measuring the distances, their chances. He saw -the tightening of her lips and that she had measured rightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If it's us they're mad with, it will be a close finish," -she said, with a low laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He scarcely heard her. He was watching the men and -women who overtook them and ran past. Their faces -were unknown to him. They looked back at him—-with -the wild-eyed curiosity of animals. As yet it was only -curiosity. They were as ignorant as himself as to the -passion which had broken through the crust of restraint -and now raged in a mad whirlpool between the temple -and the river. But the infection of frenzy was upon -them. They muttered as they ran past—broken sentences -in a dialect which he could not understand. They were -pilgrims from distant provinces. He knew that they were -in the majority and that he could have no hold over them. -They would sweep the rest with them—even his own people.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sprawling mass of life which had hugged the bank -of the river turned and rolled back. In an instant, it had -blocked the narrow passage on which he had based his -hope of escape. He could see the golden effigy swaying -madly above the crowd like a bright, sinister barque on a -black, raging sea, now flung back, now forward, but still -drawing steadily nearer. Through the wild uproar of -voices the dull thud of a drum persisted. It was as though -in that frenzied movement there was a purpose—a blind, -demented will to an end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stopped short.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We can't go on—it's too late—we must make a dash -back and try for the bridge——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is too late," she answered simply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He saw then what she had seen. They were cut off. -From left and right, the streams of hurrying men and -women converged upon them, sweeping them forward as -an Atlantic roller tosses driftwood on its crest. For an -instant they were separated. He fought his way savagely -back to her side, and caught her to him with the roughness -of panic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked up at him, smiling tranquilly, inscrutably. -"Afraid, Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—horribly—hideously—if I had lost you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You didn't. I'm not afraid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't forgive myself——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why should you? I am very happy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We must keep together. Give me your hand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave it him. He remembered how it had lain in his -once before, how the splendid vitality and strength of it -had thrilled him. It thrilled him now, it burnt like fire -through his nerves. They stood facing each other, holding -their ground, swept into a moment's oblivion of all else but -themselves. There was exultation in that grave, brief -contemplation. The panic had died out of the man's eyes. -He no longer pitied her or feared for her. He felt the joy -of their new, fierce comradeship.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If it were only myself—I could be glad——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Be glad!" she cried back. "Isn't it worth it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A wave of frantic humanity forced them forward. They -held together. He heard her laugh—the eager, triumphant -laugh of men in the glory of battle. "No one can separate -us now!" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No one!" he answered gladly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He knew it was true. Nothing, so it seemed to him, -could break the steel link of their hands. But he had -grown calmer. He had got to save her. The instinct -which damns the weak acceptance of annihilation burnt up -clearly in him. He gave ground to the force behind him, -keeping his feet with the utmost exertion of his strength, -striving to force a passage towards the village. It was a -vain effort. Faces were turned to him. He read their -expression. The mere curiosity had become distrust—a -furtive antagonism as yet unarmed with purpose. A fakir, -wild-eyed, bespattered with filth, his emaciated arms flung -up in imprecation, leered up at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Kill! Kill! Kill!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was no more than a whisper. But it passed from lip -to lip. They were pushed on, the circle about them tightening -in a strangling noose. For all her courage, he knew -that the woman beside him was weakening. He heard her -voice, strained and breathless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't let me go under—don't let me go under——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He knew the horror that had forced the appeal from her—the -terror which can change a man's heart to water—the -horror of those pitiless trampling feet—of those mad -mob rushes under which a human body can be stamped -out of recognition. He threw one arm about her. He -no longer resisted. It was better to go on—to be -forgotten. But the stench of those hot, dust-laden bodies -sickened him. It was the smell of hatred—of madness. -It sapped his strength. It was like the breathing in of a -hideous poison.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They swept on. They had reached the densest part of -the crowd. Above them he could see the golden image, -swaying dangerously from the shoulders of its staggering -bearers. A ray of red light from the sinking sun was on -the face nearest to them. Its frozen cruelty seemed to -have drawn life into itself—to be sucking up a horrible -vitality from the very passions to which it had given birth. -To Tristram's blurred vision the eyes blazed—the mouth -gaped with a grotesque lust of hatred.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was then he saw Meredith with his shoulders to the -base of the altar, his arm raised, shielding his face. A -half-naked fakir sprang at him and dragged the arm down, -and Tristram saw what had been done. The face was -blotted out with blood. The lips were moving. In one -clenched hand was an open Bible. Through the hellish -pandemonium Tristram caught a single sentence:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Father, forgive them——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram flung the man in front of him aside. He had -felt the tense revival of strength in his companion like an -electric current through all his nerves. They had got to -stand together—to go down with the man of their race, -for good or evil uphold him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're coming!" Tristram shouted. "Hold on!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith turned his head in their direction. Perhaps -he saw them through the veil of blood. He made a gesture -urging them back, and in the same instant the man whom -Tristram had flung aside revealed his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was Lalloo, the money-lender.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dakktar Sahib!" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Damn you—let me go past——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old man smiled imperturbably, shrugging his -shoulders. The whisper, "The Dakktar Sahib," ran like -an undercurrent of sound beneath the screams and curses -of the swaying, tossing multitude. A woman spat in -Meredith's disfigured face. Tristram lurched forward, -but already they had lost ground. Some new force had -them in its grip. They were bound in a revolving circle -of which Lalloo had become the pivot. Tristram looked -about him. He recognized faces which seemed to have -sprung from nowhere. There was Mehr Singh, the -corn-dealer, and Seetul the weaver, Peru the village -ne'er-do-well—men with whom he had lived and suffered. He -cursed at them in their dialect, and they regarded him -stolidly. He shook Lalloo fiercely with his free hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let us get out of this—I've got to get back to my -friend—do you hear. I've got to help him—do you hear, -you lying, grasping old man?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The circle rolled on. Meredith and the shining figure -of the three-faced god had gone down in the black tumult. -The roar of voices began to fade like thunder, rolling -faintly in the distance. A breath of fresh air fanned their -faces. The circle broke suddenly scattering in all directions.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram still held Lalloo by the shoulder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You—you saved us," he stammered thickly. "You -saved us—didn't you know me better than that——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo rubbed his thin dark hands and smiled vaguely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What have I done, Sahib?" he said. "What have -I done?" And with an amazing facility freed himself -and glided into the shadow of the deserted village.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They went on, not speaking, not looking at each other, -sick with the horror of that which they had left behind -them. At the door of Tristram's hut a man came running -towards them. It was the captain of the native regiment, -cursing volubly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram—where the devil have you been? What's -happened! What set them off?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Meredith—preaching the love of God to Siva."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, damn the parsons!" He mopped his face in -helpless exasperation. "Well, I've had a nice time of it. -Men vanished into thin air. They've been queer for -months—now they've gone. Anyhow, I shall have to stick to -it—overawe them with my presence and all that." Even in -that moment, his English good-humour prevailed. "Give -us a hand, Tristram—you've influence with them. What's -happened to Meredith?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, we'll try and get him out. Miss Fersen, you -stay quietly in there. There's no getting away just yet. -If neither of us get back, there'll be relief from Gaya as -soon as they get wind of this shindy. Come on, Hermit!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram held open the door for her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You won't mind my going? I may be able to help——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want you to go. I am not afraid."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They avoided each other's eyes. For one moment at -least they had expected death—perhaps willed to -die—and in that moment had dared to live.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went past him, closing the door after her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Night came on. It rose blackly out of the far corners -of the hut, creeping stealthily and soundlessly up the walls, -as water rises in a closed lock. She had sat and watched -it and listened to the deep, encircling silence beyond which -was sound—indefinable, subdued, continuous. Once it -had come nearer and instinctively she had sprung up, -bracing herself—then rolled back again with a thwarted, -muffled murmur.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She had fed the stray pup and put it to sleep on Wickie's -old bed. A disreputable, ill-bred-looking tabby had crept -slyly in through the open window and had eyed the intruder -with disapproving curiosity, then settled herself down as -one accustomed to eccentricities. Sigrid had laughed a -little at the interlude. It had seemed grotesque and -humdrum, a kind of satire on that which the sound painted on -the gathering darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently it was quite dark. She got up and lit a candle, -and held it high above her head. The flame threw a pale -circle of light down on the surface of the still black waters -which eddied round her. It gave life to an eerie procession -of formless, soft-footed shadows. She watched them slide -past, from darkness to darkness. Then she went back -to the table and sat there with her chin in her hand, her -wide eyes fixed broodingly on something far beyond the -tiny pillar of light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>An hour passed. She got up and moved restlessly about -the room. In the struggle, her helmet had been knocked -off and her hair loosened. She let it down and smoothed -its fair softness with her hands. There was no glass in -the place. She took the candle to the carved table against -the wall, and knelt down so that she could see a faint -reflection of herself in the glass of the big photograph. -She began to do her hair with fastidious, delicate carefulness. -When it was done she took the photograph and held it -to the light. There was a pile of letters on the table. -The envelopes bore the same handwriting—strong and -clear, yet not with the strength and clearness of youth. -It had an indefinable affinity with the old face that looked -out at her with its serene, smiling wisdom from the wooden -photo-frame. She counted the letters, lingering over -them, as though their touch brought her secret knowledge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The cat, sleeping by the wall, lifted its head. A minute -later, it got up, arching its back, its fur bristling, its eyes -blazing in the darkness. She glanced towards it, aroused -by its soft, menacing hiss of anger and fear. Then -suddenly the silence around her shivered and broke. She -turned and slipped into the second room. There was an -old hunting-knife lying among the debris of their hastily -prepared picnic. She snatched it up and ran back, placing -herself against the wall with the light between her and -the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The sound that rushed down upon her was a new thing—more -terrible than the roar which had beaten persistently -against the outer wall of her consciousness. It was like -rain and wind and water tearing through a narrow gully. -It came on swiftly, gathering speed and violence. It -came with a rush down the village street—nearer and -nearer—the patter of countless running feet—the gasp and groan -of hard-drawn breath, stifled mutterings, the shrill scream -of a woman breaking off into a choking gurgle. Nearer—in -a headlong torrent—right to the closed door. She drew -herself up, her lithe body tense and prepared—and it -swept past. It raced on in a ceaseless torrent. She heard -the jolt of a heavy body sent reeling against the walls of -the hut—and a little whimpering sound that was like a -child's crying. Behind the deluge there was a fresh -sound—the clatter of horses' hoofs at the gallop.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The door opened and closed. She had taken an involuntary -step forward to meet whatever was to come, the knife -clenched in her right hand; but, as she saw Tristram, she -relaxed with a short, shuddering sigh and her hand sank. -He stood leaning with his shoulders against the door, -staring at her. His clothes were torn and blood-stained. -There was something wild and violent in his face which -she had never seen before—the look of a fighter straight -from a struggle in which every nerve and sinew has been -put to a dire test—in which all the primitive passions of -men have risen like wolf-hounds tugging at the leash. -The sleeve of his shirt had been ripped to the elbow, and -she saw the grand curving line of his shoulder, expressive -of an immense, tutored strength.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The hot colour raced through her pallor. She looked -back to his face. His eyes had dropped to the knife which -she still held—they met hers now and blazed back her -fierce and sombre admiration. They remained thus -watching each other through a moment of shaken silence. -Then he lurched forward, dropping down on the chair -by the table, sprawling like a man overtaken by a sudden -exhaustion, his bleeding hands clenched before him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am sick—sick of bloodshed!" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laid the knife quietly on the table and stood looking -down at his bent head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Meredith——" she began.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He threw back his shoulders with a bitter laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you ever know of any one who set out to sacrifice -himself and who didn't sacrifice everyone else first? -Meredith's safe—but my people—my poor people—they didn't -mean any harm—they saved us—you and me. Even -though one of our kind had spat in the face of their -religion—they didn't forget. You don't know what it meant -to them to be so calm and loyal in all that frenzy. -Then—then the troops came from Gaya. There was a -stampede—no one meant to hurt any one—but they went -under—dozens of them—stamped out of recognition—old Seetul -and Lalloo's little son, whom I nursed once——" He -broke off with a harsh, dry sob. She knelt down beside -him. She drew his head down to her shoulder, soothing -him like a child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram—you mustn't mind so. Things happen like -that. We don't mean to harm each other—we don't -realize or we can't help ourselves. Some one has to go -under. We're always trampling on some one. It can't be -helped. The crowd is too great—we have to fight for -ourselves first. We were made like that——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made no answer. He leant against her with closed -eyes. The hurricane of galloping hoofs rolled past. She -kissed him lightly, tenderly—"Tristram——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His eyes opened. Their faces were quite close. Their -gaze became fixed, intoxicated, deepening in intensity -till it seemed as though they held each other, were drawn -closer and closer in an embrace of fire which burnt out -every intervening thought and consciousness. Suddenly, -violently, he sprang up, pushing her from him, and lurched -towards the door.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've got—to—see after things—there'll be an escort -for you at the bridge-head—later—I'll keep guard outside——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She also had risen as swift and soundless as a panther. -She stood by the table upright and exultant, a point of -light shining in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Stay here—here with me. If you go, it is because -you're afraid——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Afraid——?" He swung round, his hand still on the -door. "Of whom?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of me—of yourself. You promised to be honest with -me. This was to be our day of days for which no one -should demand reckoning. It is not ended yet. You were -honest once. That was when you thought we were going -to be killed. Then you dared to own to what I know -already—that you belonged to me—as I perhaps belong to -you—to our fate—a fate neither of us can escape, -Tristram——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He remained motionless; she could see the rise and fall -of his great chest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It isn't wise to be honest," he said thickly. "I'm afraid, -if you like—afraid of myself. You'd better let me go."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Back to your dreams? But they're gone. You were -just a grown-up boy, playing with a fancy. Now you are -a man and I am a woman. We've got to deal with the -reality now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's true." He came slowly towards her, reeling a -little in his stride. "I want you—body and soul."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know—you told me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The night you lay unconscious in my arms."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He put up his hand to his throat, as though something -suffocated him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You had better let me go," he repeated doggedly. -"We're both thrown out of our course. At my best, I'm -not much—I've learnt that—if I resist—things it's because -I don't care. And tonight——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You do care."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said, between his teeth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why should we resist what is the most splendid thing -in us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Splendid?" he echoed. "My—my dreams were -splendid. As you say—they've gone. And the reality—can -there be any reality between us—between a divinely -gifted woman and the loutish fool who dreams about her? -If I'd thought so—I'd have gone away—but it seemed to -me that you were just kind and pitying—amused even—and -I dared go on. And it is impossible—we belong to -different worlds—life isn't the same thing to either of us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We stand on different peaks of the same mountain -range," she answered wistfully. "There is the same sun -and sky and stars for us both. It seemed to me that we -could have watched the sun rise together."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He held out his hand as though to touch her, and then -drew back, his face drawn and hard with the bitterness of -mastered passion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't know what you're saying, Sigrid," he began -harshly. "Nor what you are offering me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Myself," she flung in, with joyful fearlessness. "My -love for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He began to pace the room backwards and forwards, -in and out of the light, his hands clenched at his sides.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't—oh, my dear—it's hideous, so hopeless." His -voice shook with rough suffering. "Even if things -were different—if I were cad—enough—you see, I am -being desperately frank now—don't you realize what it -would mean—can't you realize what you'd have to pay?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She watched him patiently. Her first fierce energy had -died down. The colour had faded from her cheeks, leaving -her with a look of pathetic weariness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've never bothered about the price of things. It's -been a curse in my life, I daresay; I shall never be able to -sink into a safe, comfortable mediocrity. I've burnt my -boats too thoroughly for that. But, instead, I've had the -highest and best in life. I've always dared to live to the -utmost, Tristram. I wanted to be perfect in my art, and -I gave my soul to it. I lived more austerely than a nun, -more grandly than an empress. Men wanted to love me, -but I never thought of them. There was only one thing -for me then—it was like a mountain that I had sworn to -climb. I climbed it. And then—then it was over. You -can't understand—but I had paid the price to the last -farthing. Now, before it's too late, I want the greatest, -most splendid thing that perhaps a human being can pray -for—the happiness of loving."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her voice had dropped gradually, as though she had forgotten -him. He stood still, frowning at her with a hopeless -misery in his exhausted eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid—if I'd asked you a month ago would you have -been my wife?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She started a little, seeming to shrink from what was -to come.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, Tristram—not then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And now—if things were different—if it were possible——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—now least of all." She heard the sharp, painful -catch in his breath. "It isn't possible—that's just it," -she added wearily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He resumed his restless pacing backwards and forwards.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then it was just a moment in your life you were offering -me—I was to be part of a new and splendid episode——" He -strode up to her and gripped her by the shoulders. -"Oh—I'm not proud—you're a creature of fire and air, -and I'm one of the earth. You could have walked over -me and I'd have been content. And yet—I don't know. -I might have cared too much. Perhaps I do care too -much—but there's something besides that now. I'm not a -moral or even a strong man, but there's only to be one -woman in my life—-the woman I marry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," she said listlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And Anne has promised to be my wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked up at him for an instant. It grew very still.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I might have told you that before. But it was to have -been our day—with no one between us—no one to demand -reckoning. I cheated myself. I'm a rotten sentimentalist, -dear—and I've ended by doing something mean and low, -like a thorough-paced cad. I deserve to lose—all that I -have lost."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head. Something of her old detachment, -a little of her demure humour, tinged with satire, shone in -her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's almost funny—your blaming yourself. I hunted -you down—and I am going to marry Mr. Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He swung round on his heel, white to the lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That man——!" he burst out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That woman——!" she retorted cynically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He fought desperately for self-control.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne is a good woman——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is she? A better human being than Barclay? Have -you started to lay down the standard of values like the -rest of us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For an instant they confronted each other as antagonists, -then he made a gesture of despair, of fierce self-loathing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—you're quite right. I don't judge—I can't. -I seem going down-hill fast with my theories—my—my -infernal humanity. I can't believe it—everything seems -to have gone at once—you didn't care—it wasn't love you -felt for me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you glad—doesn't that relieve you of all -responsibility?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She watched him for a moment in silence. Then her -face softened. He was standing against the table, his -hand pressed upon it as though he held himself upright -only by an effort of will. She laid her hand on his, -diffidently, pityingly. "Tristram, we're both mad with pain, -but don't let's hurt each other more than we must. It's -no one's fault. We pick up threads in our lives carelessly -and without a thought, and from day to day they weave -themselves without our will into a pattern—into tragedy. -That's all there is to it, Tristram." He nodded silently, -and she turned away from him, sighing. "It's quite quiet -now. I'll go back to Gaya, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went out beside her into the empty moonlit street. -A black shadow lay huddled against the wall, and -involuntarily he bent and touched it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dead!" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The feast of Siva!" she said. "He who destroys!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her small pale face was lifted to the great silver disk -above her. It seemed to his aching eyes that she was no -more than a frail white ghost—a haunting spirit of the -haunted moonlight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid——!" he whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hush—it's no good. We've got to go on—Tristram Sahib——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He walked beside her as she rode out of Heerut. It was -very still—-no sound but that of her horse's hoofs and the -soft swish of the long Arab tail. They went out across -the plain. The conflagration of the day had burnt itself -out, leaving grey ash and a few stains on the white fields. -The temple lay sinister and watchful beneath the shadow -of the jungle. It was as though all life had been swept -away in a deluge of destruction.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked up and saw how bravely she held herself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They came within a hundred yards of the bridge-head, -and she drew rein. They could hear voices and the jangle -of steel. He stood close to her, touching her, feeling the -warmth of her, drinking in a faint elusive perfume which -was her own. His brain reeled. He was sick and faint -at the nearness of the end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly she bent down and took his hand. He felt -something clasp itself about his wrist.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't give you up—not altogether—I can't, Tristram. -I want to keep you in my life—the dream of you—to haunt -you a little—to claim you a little—in this world and the -next—for good and evil—my bracelet-brother——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was gone. He stood there, listening to the thud of -her horse's hoofs.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="mrs-compton-stands-firm"><em class="bold italics medium">BOOK II</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER I</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">MRS. COMPTON STANDS FIRM</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"Among all the noble, disinterested, selfless things -I've done—and my life is full of them—this is the noblest, -most disinterested, most selfless."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton stood back and surveyed the dainty Dresden -figure perched on the shelf with the dignity of -renunciation. Mrs. Bosanquet sniffed. It was an uncorrected -habit of hers when confronted with the incomprehensible -and absurd.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't see what you're so upset about," she commented -from her large and comfortable pose in the most -accommodating chair of which the rather shabby-looking room -boasted. "Why, I've seen things just as pretty as that -in sixpenny bazaars. I'm sure Anne won't like it. Anne's -my type. We both have our spiritual homes in a London -suburb—not a garden-suburb, my dear, with nasty modern -folk in sandals and </span><em class="italics">djibba</em><span>—but in the old kind, with good -old Victorian plush everywhere. It's just a tragedy that -we should have to live in India with queer specimens like -the Judge and Tristram." She chuckled. The serene -detachment with which she regarded her own weaknesses -and the weaknesses of her fellow-creatures had made her -an institution in Gaya, and was a good substitute for a -talent. Mrs. Bosanquet could not make a joke or tell a -funny story without disaster, but she could hold up mirrors -for herself and her friends and grimace into them with -most excellent results, as far as the gaiety of the station -was concerned. It was whispered, however, that the -Judge's somewhat halting progress towards higher honours -was not a little due to his wife's passion for showing plain -but superior people just what they looked like.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton continued to regard her treasure with -wistful tenderness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram will like it, anyhow," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'm, poor Tristram!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why 'poor Tristram'?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I don't know—a kind of inspiration. Anne did -want him so badly, and now she's got him. It's a real -triumph of goodness. Now she can pull long noses at -dear, disgraceful Eleanor and be sentimental over dear, -disgraceful Richard. Also she can make the place too hot -for—for that woman. Altogether a wonderful strategic position -for any one quite so harmless as dear, respectable Anne."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a distinct and unusual note of asperity in -Mrs. Bosanquet's review of the situation, and Mary -Compton turned to her with apparent puzzlement. But -her eyes were bright and rather defiant, as though she was -preparing for a long-expected engagement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whom do you mean by 'that woman'?" she asked, -not very steadily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear, there's only one 'that woman' in Gaya as -far as I know. The rest of us are—what are we—ladies! or -is that Victorian again?—in fact, I mean 'that woman,' -and you're just pretending not to know whom I mean."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I won't pretend." Mrs. Compton steadied to the -attack. "If you mean Sigrid——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then I think it's mean and disloyal of you. You were -one of the first to kow-tow to her——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Bosanquet settled herself back fatly and serenely -unoffended.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did—I don't deny it. I kow-towed. Figuratively, -I licked her boots. She could have walked over me if -she'd had a fancy for mountaineering. She could have -done a high-kick under the Viceroy's nose and I should -have applauded to poor George's everlasting undoing. She -could have eloped with that puppy Radcliffe. She could -have become Rani of Gaya and worn a nose-ring. My -ample bosom would still have welcomed her. But that -man! No. It's not only the man, but it's what must be -in her to be able to touch him with a fire-tongs. There's -a rotten streak in her—there must be. And even if one -got over that—well, it isn't feasible. One can't swallow -her without him, and it's too big a mouthful. Can you -imagine sitting down to dinner with him?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton faced her visitor. She held herself very -straight, and her brown, alert face had a rigid look about it -which boded trouble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I can," she said quietly. "It's a possibility -everybody will have to face who comes here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mary!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She nodded confirmation. She lost her first rather -tremulous aggressiveness and became quiet and resolute, -her hazel eyes sparkling with the zest of battle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Archie and I figured it out as soon as we heard. -We don't understand—we don't pretend to—and—and we -hate it. Nobody can loathe it more than I do. I've run -counter to that man, and I can guess what we're in for. -But we're going to stick to her. We didn't become her -pals on the understanding that she was to marry one of -our nice select circle. She was just Sigrid. Well, as far -as we're concerned, she's Sigrid still. Her husband's her -business."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then," said Mrs. Bosanquet gravely, "you're in for -a fight with the whole station—and, what's more, with an -unwritten law which is based on sound principles. 'East -is East and West is West and never the twain shall meet.' But -they do meet occasionally, and it's then the trouble -begins. We can do with a Rasaldû because we're not -responsible for him—it's like watching a foreigner eat -peas with his knife—but Barclay, no—he's a scandalous, -illegitimate relation, and the more he claims us the more -uncomfortable we get. My dear, we shall fight to the -last ditch, and you'll be beaten, and badly beaten. You'll -damage yourselves, and that's about all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you going to help beat us?" Mary asked quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Bosanquet pursed up her fat, good-natured lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't help myself. I'm really sorry——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rubbish! If you were sorry, you wouldn't do it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've got to think of the Judge——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I've got Archie. He's got his career, too."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He'll get into trouble with the regiment."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's more than likely. We're not going to—to behave -like cads on that account."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Bosanquet got up, leaning heavily on her gold-topped -stick. She had reddened slightly, but otherwise -remained benignly unruffled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Quite right, my dear. I applaud. The trouble is that -the majority of us are cads at the bottom—that is, we think -of our own safety first. I'm sure I do. The station will -ostracize Sigrid—has begun to ostracize her already. I -can't stem the tide, and I shan't try."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton smiled bitterly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How pleased Anne will be!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Eh?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How pleased Anne will be," she repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Bosanquet paused on the threshold of the verandah. -She had become suddenly very angry.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're a very annoying woman, Mary Compton. You -said that just to upset me. You know I can't bear Anne. -In a previous existence, I believe we were next-door -neighbours in our suburb, and that she played hymns on a -pianola. Please don't mention Anne to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you're fond of me, and you were fond of Sigrid," -Mrs. Compton persisted, not without malicious amusement. -Mrs. Bosanquet turned round as sharply as her bulk -would allow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's driving up now," she said helplessly. "My -dear, for goodness' sake, get me out—I don't want to meet -her—I haven't made up my mind—I'm really not in a fit -state—have pity on an old woman with a weak heart and -an Indian liver—let me out by the back—do, there's a -dear—I'll think it over—I will really——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can go out by the back," Mary Compton allowed -coldly. "You'll probably give the butler a fit, but that -doesn't matter. By the way, we're giving a dinner next -week. We hope you and the Judge will honour us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Bosanquet glared from the doorway.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I dislike you intensely," she said, "and I won't be -bullied."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nor will I," Mrs. Compton retorted, and then with an -uncontrollable burst of venom. "You nasty old woman!" The -curtains fell with a furious rustle and Mary Compton -returned to her Dresden shepherdess. Her interest was -either very intense or very artificial, for she did not appear -to hear the dog-cart which rattled up the drive, and started -guiltily when she was called by name.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned and saw Sigrid standing on the threshold. -The latter still carried her lace parasol over her shoulder, -as though she were not certain of coming in, and the tinted -shadow which veiled her head and shoulders afforded -a delicious contrast to the unrelieved whiteness of her -dress. Mrs. Compton, not given to poetic comparisons, -was driven in the first breath to the memory of the cool, -intoxicating seductiveness of a narcissus flowering in the -fresh winds of an English spring-time. But, in the second -breath, she was realizing, not without a little twinge of -unreasonable disappointment, that the muslin dress was -not English but Parisian, and that the graceful lines of -the unpretentious garden hat represented an expenditure -which would have covered the greater part of Mrs. Compton's -yearly outfit.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Can I come in, or are you not at home?" Sigrid -asked. Her head was a little on one side and her eyes and -mouth were quizzical. Mary Compton promptly kissed -her and took charge of the parasol, which she handled with -an almost masculine awe of its amazing daintiness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid, I'm just thankful. I didn't know it was you. -I didn't recognize the cart."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It wasn't mine." She hesitated for a second and her -mouth was uncontrollably wry. "Jim brought me in."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh!" For the life of her, Mrs. Compton could think -of no better answer. She drew her visitor to the chair -which Mrs. Bosanquet had just vacated. "Anyhow, you're -just the person I was longing to see," she added lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid's lips quivered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Am I? Well, that's more than Mrs. Bosanquet would -have said! Poor lady, how she must have hurried. Which -way did she go? Out through the servants' compound?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dear Sigrid!" Mrs. Compton turned to her -Dresden shepherdess to hide the fact that her face was -suffused with the red of sheer panic. "Don't be so absurd! -Mrs. Bosanquet and I have been 'having words,' as -Mary Ann would say. She was too cross to face anybody."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The smile lingered about Sigrid's lips, as though some -secret thought amused her. Her eyes, dark shadowed and -rather wistful, were fixed absently ahead. Mary Compton -trusted she had not noticed her own confusion. Suddenly, -though she did not look up, she held out her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What have you got there, dear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton responded thankfully. She came like an -eager child, kneeling at Sigrid's feet, the Dresden -shepherdess held up reverently for inspection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My pet shepherdess. I don't think you've seen her -before, I've made up my mind to part with her. I've -been almost in tears over it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary nodded. She was convinced that her visitor was -not listening, but she rattled on determinedly, set on -holding off an inevitable crisis.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. You know, our little bits of china are just like -children to us. In fact, they're substitutes—only much -nicer. They don't get the measles, they don't become -increasingly expensive and unsatisfactory, they don't live -to curse your grey hairs. On the contrary, they become -increasingly valuable and lovable. You see, when Archie -and I married, we were desperately in love, but we hadn't -a single high-class interest. We adored dancing and -tennis and theatres and expensive food at expensive -restaurants. There were times when we felt we hadn't a -soul between us. You don't know how it worried us, -because we do want to go on existing and having good -times together in the next world, and we felt we never -should if we didn't cultivate our higher selves or something. -We thought of children, but you know we don't like children -a bit, and we've forty cousins between us, so that there's -no chance of our families dying out. When we found -we both loved beautiful china, we almost wept for -thankfulness. We knew then that there was something in us -above food and drink. And there's our most precious -bit. Isn't she a gem?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid took the shepherdess and considered it gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—a real find. Tell me, what were you and -Mrs. Bosanquet quarrelling about?" She waited a moment, -and then, as Mrs. Compton, very red and almost sullen in -her aggrieved sense of thwarted diplomacy, remained -silent, she went on quietly: "You were quarrelling about -me. You were discussing whether to cut me or drop me -gently; isn't that so?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton looked up with a sudden resolution. -"We were quarrelling about you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's good. That's frank of you, Mary." She put -the shepherdess on the table and took the elder woman's -hand tenderly between hers. "What did you decide?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There wasn't anything to decide where we're -concerned. You can do what you like, Sigrid. Archie and -I are far too much in love with you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't get me into worse trouble by making out that -I'm a husband-snatcher. So you're going to stick to me. -And the others——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know, dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you—you're both awfully shocked and horrified."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton's mouth tightened with the struggle. -She did not flinch under the steady, penetrating eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We don't understand—that's all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You loyal soul!" She was thoughtfully silent for an -instant, and then went on: "But you must understand—at -least a little. It's only fair, since you're going to fight -my battle. If you'd decided differently, I shouldn't have -told you. I'm an adventuress, Mary—I've never pretended -to be anything else—not in a bad sense. I've lived very -straightly in some ways, but I've always staked my all on a -day. I've lived fabulously—like a Roman empress, Mary. -And one day there was nothing left to stake. In -ordinary language, I was bankrupt—or near it. So I took -what was left and set out round the world—husband-hunting——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, that doesn't sound very ideal, does it? But in -reality it was rather a wonderful quest. I was looking -for a man who could give me all that I conceived necessary -for life—who would share it with me in understanding and -whom I could care for—deeply." She smiled in -self-mockery. "That sounds better, doesn't it? But, -unfortunately, I never found him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Never?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was significance in Mary Compton's eyes—a -challenge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, never. And three months ago, when Mr. Barclay -asked me to marry him—I had one hundred pounds and -my passage left me in the world."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton sprang to her feet, her hands clasped in -consternation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why didn't you tell us—you could have come to us. -Oh, no, I know that's nonsense—we're poor as mice. -But you could have gone back—you could have danced -again and in one night you would have made enough——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stopped short, arrested by something that passed over -the other's face—a shadow, a wince of physical, deadly -pain. "Sigrid, couldn't you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I could have done that. And the money would -have paid for a gorgeous funeral."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid—don't joke—be serious——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am serious——" Her voice hardened. "Horribly -serious. One night's triumph, if you like—and then the -end. That's what I came to tell you. No one else knows -except Smithy. It's my secret. It's yours now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Alary Compton stood transfixed. The colour had faded -from her face, leaving it sallow with fear and grief. She -bit her lips, trying desperately to hold back an overwhelming -rush of tears. She hated tears. Now they choked -her. Through a mist, she saw Sigrid lay her hand lightly -on her side. "A little affair of the heart—</span><em class="italics">c'est tout</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton dropped on her knees. Reckless of the -expensive gown, she buried her face on Sigrid's breast, -clinging to her with a defiant fierceness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, my dear, my dear—and we didn't know. I can't -believe it—you so strong—so perfect——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—almost perfect." She passed her hand caressingly -over the grey-flaked, curly head much as though the grief -was not her own. "Perfect in my Art—almost perfect -in body. But the 'almost' was the price I paid. Oh -Mary, just once again to glide out into the lights, to hear -the music—to lose the sea of gaping faces—to rise right -up on the crest of living——" She drew herself erect, -her eyes burning. "Oh, my Art, the greatest Art of all! -Scientists, musicians, painters—just so many lopsided -distortions! But I was the soul and the body, the perfect -union. I was music and poetry and speech. I was a -miracle greater than the dreams of science. I was the -perfect human body with an inspired soul——" Her voice -failed. The life died out of her eyes. She sank back, -laughing brokenly. "Isn't that absurd—funny—for I -am going to marry Mr. Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a long, heavy silence. Both women faced the -tragedy, the one with the bitter knowledge that her -understanding could only be dim and incomplete. She roused -herself at last, disengaging herself gently from the enfolding -arm, rubbing the tears from her cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid—there were other men—good men—of one's -own blood——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh yes, I know. There was one in England. I meant—but -things happened. I can't explain. You've got to -take that much on trust. Mr. Barclay offered me more -than money."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mean——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Silence."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mary Compton rose slowly to her feet. She was quiet -now and very grave. She gazed at the woman in the -chair and realized for the first time a change in her. The -old serenity, the laughing, godlike attitude towards life -had gone. She had the wan dignity of a fighter who, from -a post of easy vantage, has gone down into the arena.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want to know any more. I do take you on trust."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And there was more in it than that," Sigrid went on, -following the train of her thoughts. "It was a bargain. -I, too, had something to offer. That suited my pride. I -could do for him what I could not have done for another -man. I could give him what he desires, I believe, more -than life——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Position——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton shook her head. Her seriousness was -now business-like, scarcely touched with emotion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you think you are strong enough?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know. I must be. Everything that matters -to me now depends on it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you went away—to another part of India—oh, I -don't want you to go—I'm trying to think only of your -good——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It would be useless. I have won my position here. I -have friends. Anywhere else I should just be his wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"His wife—you! Oh, it's hardly bearable! Just -because we are your friends it hurts worse." She ruffled -her hair with an unhappy hand. "Sigrid, you can count -on us, of course. I believe you may count on Mrs. Bosanquet, -and the Judge follows automatically. She's furious -just now, but she has a regular schoolgirl rave on you and -it will be too strong for her. I daresay the other women -will follow. Even Anne——" She saw Sigrid move -restlessly in her chair, and hastily swung off, moved by -she knew not what consciousness of pain. "It's the men -who'll be the hardest to fight. They'd forgive you most -things—things we wouldn't forgive—a vulgar intrigue, an -elopement with somebody else's husband—but this is -against their code. Men are conventional, women moral. -It's the one vital difference between the sexes. And then -there are other troubles. Things are rocky in Gaya. We -know that the regiment is disaffected. The new Colonel -makes no headway. Boucicault's work was too thorough -for that. Then there's Rasaldû. He regards your -engagement as a sort of insult—and, weak tool though he -is, we've got to keep him in hand. All that counts against -you. Oh, it will be a fight, though we shall have Tristram. -He's always ready for a lost cause——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stopped again. Sigrid had risen to her feet. She -seemed not to have heard the last sentence. She picked -up the Dresden shepherdess with a light, reckless hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How pretty it is! Why are you parting with it? -Who's the lucky recipient——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a wedding present." She felt a sick misery creep -over her. "For Anne and Tristram——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, yes—of course—for Anne and Tristram——" Her -voice was very level and matter-of-fact, rather indifferent, -as though she were echoing mechanically something that -scarcely reached her intelligence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then a shadow fell across the sunlight patch on the worn -matting, and both women looked up. James Barclay -stood on the verandah. He raised his hand in a military -salute.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've come for Sigrid, Mrs. Compton," he said. "She -was such an unconscionable time, and one is naturally -impatient. Please forgive, if you were discussing secrets."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His dark eyes were on Mrs. Compton's face, intent, -curious, vaguely appealing. The thrill of loathing and -contempt which had passed through her gave place to a -bitter amusement. He was so wonderfully, correctly -dressed, so desperately at ease. She stared back at him, -burning with her first instinctive revolt against his presence. -Then she remembered. She glanced at Sigrid, who was -still toying idly with the Dresden shepherdess. Something -in the resolute submission of that proud, self-reliant -figure set fire to all the chivalry in Mrs. Compton's blood. -She turned again. She heard herself speaking:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're very pleased—won't you both stay for tea? And—and -I was just saying—I'm giving a dinner next week—to -celebrate—your engagement—if it suits you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was done. She felt as though she had cut through -a dam, and that the torrent was on her. She saw Sigrid -look up swiftly and then glance at the man by the window.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bowed gravely, but she caught the triumphant flash -in his eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is very kind. We shall be delighted—this afternoon -we've an engagement, haven't we, Sigrid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was all Mrs. Compton remembered clearly. Looking -back on the scene, she had a vague recollection of her own -voice flowing on ceaselessly over a seething inner conflict, -of a pale face watching her, half in pity, half in gratitude. -Presently, when they had gone, she flung herself down by -Sigrid's empty chair and cried with misery and humiliation. -And, when the last tears had been shed, she picked up the -Dresden shepherdess and put her back in her place in the -glass cabinet, and turned the key with an air of locking up -evil genii. Then she thought of her husband for the -first time.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor old Archie!" she muttered remorsefully. "Poor -Archie!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meantime, Barclay drove his showy cob towards the -dâk-bungalow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So you've managed it," he said. "You've really -managed. You're wonderful—even more wonderful than -I thought."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She drew farther away from him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have kept my part of the bargain."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Which is fortunate for everyone concerned."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Keep your part!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made her a little bow, his face suddenly flushed and -heavy-looking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As much as it lies in human nature, dear lady," he -answered.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="a-home-coming"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER II</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">A HOME-COMING</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Mrs. Boucicault welcomed her daughter with the -affable irresponsibility which had become her habitual -mood. She bore no grudge—not more than a steam-roller -bears towards the stones it has ground into acquiescence. -She had got what she wanted and was quite pleased that -Anne should have been equally successful. No one -witnessing the warm, rather absent-minded embrace could have -guessed at a very bitter parting or at a wedding at which -the bride's family was conspicuous by its absence. As a -matter of fact, the bitterness had been on Anne's side and -the wedding had been so recklessly hurried on that -Mrs. Boucicault's excuse that she could not leave poor Richard -at such short notice sounded acceptable. Gaya knew -perfectly well that the Governor-General's visit and its -attendant gaieties was the real reason, but extended a -charitable sympathy, and endeavoured to keep Anne in -happy ignorance, guessing that her understanding would -be altogether of a different kind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault kissed Tristram on both cheeks, putting -her hands on his shoulder in order to pull herself up to -the necessary altitude.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My dears, how well you both look! Really, I believe -you got married just for a month of the hills. How I did -envy you! We've been positively baked alive. I nearly -bolted, but of course your poor father could not have been -moved. It was terrible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She began to wander about the newly furnished room in -a restless, over-excited way, giving neither the time to -reply. "You must come and admire everything. We all -did our bit. I had some furniture sent from Lucknow. -Don't you like the chairs? They're a home product. -Mrs. Bosanquet gave such a lovely tea-service. My ayah -smashed a cup in the unpacking, but these accidents will -happen. I hope the servants will be all right. You both -know how they steal." She led them through the length -and breadth of the bungalow, whose decoration had the -charm of haphazard good taste. As Mrs. Boucicault had -said, everyone in Gaya had taken a hand in Tristram's -home and given of their best, attaining an unconventional -success. But Anne followed silently and without -expression of approval. Her natural composure of manner -seemed to have developed. She looked very well and much -older. Her girlishness had been completely swallowed up -in a rather self-conscious womanhood, and much that her -girlhood had promised had been fulfilled. The line of her -mouth had stiffened. Her very clothes, well-made but -severe, expressed a character already set within definite -and inelastic boundaries. Once or twice she glanced back -at her husband and her eyes were full of a half-timorous, -half-proprietary tenderness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you like it all, Tris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded, smiling down at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's first-rate. I don't know how they managed it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—it's quite nice. Of course, we shall have to -rearrange things. It's all so patchy, isn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not answer. Mrs. Boucicault came back to the -drawing-room and gave them tea. It was then, seated, -facing her with her back to the light that Anne noticed the -too-vivid red of her mother's lips, the tinge of artificial -colour on the grey cheeks. Her own eyes hardened a -little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is father better?" she asked coldly. "Is there any -change? I asked you to write to me, mother, but you -never did."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault helped herself daintily to cake.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's no change—at least, not for the better. He -had Sir Gilbert Foster here to see him. He happened to be -in Lucknow, and, of course, I've spared no effort—no -expense. Sir Gilbert agreed that there was very little -hope. Sometimes I think it would be more merciful if the -end came. He is so utterly helpless. He just lies there -and broods. Even the official attempt to get at some -clue with regard to the man who attacked him doesn't seem -to rouse him—and Richard was always so anxious to get -square with an enemy, wasn't he? Of course, I go and -sit with him every day and tell him our doings. It's very -dull for me, but one has to do all one can. Didn't I write? -I'm so sorry. I meant to, but we've been so busy——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've no doubt," Anne interposed, with contemptuous -bitterness. "Gaya has been quite gay, I hear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault smiled happily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, quite gay. And very upset into the bargain. It's -like living on an eruption or a volcano or whatever it -is I mean. I suppose you've heard, Tristram? The -regiment is just seething with sedition. Poor Richard -kept the lid on wonderfully, and now he's gone we're all -waiting for the lid to come off with a bang. Colonel -Armstrong is a dear, but he's got beautiful democratic ideas, -and bullies and distrusts his equals more than any one I -ever knew. So we're all waiting. And things have been -made so deliciously worse by the advent of Mr. Barclay. -You've heard of that, too? He's going to marry Sigrid -Fersen in two months. Awful, isn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne turned her eyes to her husband.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's revolting," she said. "He's the kind of man a -woman of her type would choose. The least she can do -is to leave Gaya."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She's not going to, though. The whole station is a -divided camp and armed to the teeth about it. Half of us -want to cut her and half want to swallow him for her -sake. Mary Compton and Mrs. Bosanquet are for swallowing—and -so am I. I don't see why people shouldn't do -as they like."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne's lips curled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You would choose the easy way, mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault shot her a glance, which was not entirely -free from malice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hardly easy in this case. Think of the complications! -Think of Rasaldû going about like a comic thunder-storm! -Think of our pet official snobs. Oh, we shall live to see -exciting times. More tea, Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head and placed a half-emptied cup on the -table. Throughout Mrs. Boucicault's garrulous chatter -he had been watching her narrowly and almost as though -he were listening to something beneath her words. Now he -turned and met his wife's eyes with an unflinching -directness. It seemed to check an impulsive answer. She got -up sharply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd better go and help the ayah unpack," she said. -"I'll drive round and see father tonight, mother. Let him -know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course, dear. He'll be so delighted. I'll go home -now and leave you two to settle down. Tell the syce to -bring round the cart, will you, Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On parting, she kissed them again with her new -absent-minded effusiveness and patted Anne's shoulder. -"It's so nice to see you happy at last, child. By the -way, you've never asked after poor Owen—and he's so -devoted."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A faint flush crept into Anne's cheeks. For an instant, -at least, her composure wavered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I hadn't forgotten. How is he?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dreadfully disfigured, poor fellow—and his sight -affected. But he goes on with his work just the same—like -a real martyr. It's such a pity the natives don't appreciate -it. They pretend he has the evil eye, and run away from -him. Terrible, isn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall have to look him up," Tristram observed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do—you're so clever." She took her place in the -dog-cart with the lightness and ease of a much younger -woman. Then as the syce jerked the reins, she bent -down. "Tristram, will you be coming round, too, this -evening?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he answered gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well—when you've seen Richard—will you have a -talk with me—a professional talk? I believe I'm getting -an Indian liver, and the natives seem to have such a holy -terror of your concoctions that I'm sure they're effective. -Will you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rather!" He laughed, though the blue eyes remained -seriously intent. "And I'll bring my deadliest blue pills -with me," he promised.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As the cart swung through the compound gates -Mrs. Boucicault turned her head and looked back. Tristram -waved, but Anne gave no sign. Her face was set and hard -as Tristram turned to her. He slipped his arm with a -rather shy affection through hers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you satisfied, dear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked up at him smiling, but perfunctorily, as a -grown-up smiles at a child, concealing her real feeling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, so satisfied with you and the home, Tris. But I -wish mother hadn't welcomed us. She makes me sick to -the heart the way she talks about father. I don't want to -hate her—and yet sometimes I can't help myself. And I -didn't want our first day here to be spoilt by hatred. It's -like a bad omen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent for a moment. Had she been looking at -him she might have seen the faint change which passed -over his features. It was a change that had come to them -more than once during these two months among the -hills—a kind of troubled perplexity—of uneasiness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne, I'm not satisfied with your mother," he began -suddenly. "I don't like the look of her. I believe she's -hiding something from us——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She interrupted him with an impatient, scornful gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's just her way. She's always imagining there's -something the matter with her. When father was almost -dying, she worried the doctor about a petty ailment of -her own. I think she does it to cover the way she -behaves——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you a wee bit hard on her?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hard? Tris, surely it's right to be hard sometimes? -One can't be lenient towards what's wrong. And it is -wrong to be cruel, and our duty is towards the sick and -sorrowful, no matter what they've done. Don't you think so?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he answered thoughtfully. "Perhaps our only duty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our first duty is to God." Then, with a quick movement -that was an instant's reversion to her girlhood, she -slipped her hand into his, pressing it, and rubbed her cheek -against his shoulder. "Tris, that sounded as though I were -criticizing. I didn't mean it. You're so good-natured and -tender-hearted—perhaps too forgiving. But at the bottom -we think and feel the same about things, I know. Only -you're too good for me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't let's talk about our respective goodness," he -implored lightly. "We shall quarrel. Let's go and -prospect for your rose-garden instead."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They went down the steps together, her hands linked -over his arm, and followed the path of sunlight through -the wilderness of wild-growing flowers and high luxuriant -trees which Gaya perhaps deliberately had left untouched.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall have to make it trim and neat," Anne said, -sighing. "My roses will never grow in all this shadow. -Besides, it's so untidy. Those big palms ought to be cut -down, too, don't you think?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She always appealed to him differently, yet as though his -agreement was an assured thing. He looked up, catching -a line of azure between the foliage. It seemed to him that -for an instant he breathed the scented virgin air of the -forests, that soon night would be creeping in stealthily -between the slender trunks of the trees and that he would -lie full length by the camp-fire and watch the distant -beacons flame up in the violet darkness. It was a picture -flashed from his memory, perhaps in contrast to those -smooth, cool, civilized days among the hills. He closed his -eyes to it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must have things as you like them, dear," he -said. "I want you to have everything—everything that -makes you happy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Really? Do you mean it?" There was a breathless -eagerness in her voice, no mere acknowledgment. He -paused an instant and looked down into her earnest face. -In a vague, instinctive way she had often resented his -eyes—or rather the something which their clouded introspection -held from her. Now she thrilled under them. They -were clear, intensely, fiercely living.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I do mean it," he said passionately. "Anne—if -I thought you happy, I should be content. If I knew of -anything that would give you only a moment's pleasure, I -wouldn't rest till I brought it you. I want you to be -happy—more than I can say."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She flushed girlishly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you love me so much as all that, Tris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't that proof?" he asked back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are very, very good to me." Still she held -her ground, watching him with her strange mingling of -diffidence and conscious power. "Tris—I do want -something awfully—something that will make me perfectly -content——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then it's yours, if a poor Major can squeeze it out of -his official fortune."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want my father here—with us." She saw no change -in him, and yet, absorbed as she was in her own appeal, -she felt the sudden check in his breathing, the tightening -of the muscles under her hand. She became reasonlessly -frightened. "Tris, is it too much to ask?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned and continued to walk on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I meant what I said just now. Only—I don't -understand, Anne—in the old days—before the accident—you -were so afraid of him. You dreaded him—I think -you hated him——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't!" she interrupted. "You can't think how it -hurts to be reminded of all that. Yes, he frightened me. -He made us all unhappy. Now he is helpless—broken. -Sometimes, looking back, it seems to me that we were to -blame—that perhaps mother was not the wife for him—that -she didn't understand——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He crushed back the exclamation that had risen to his -lips. He dared not admit even to himself that it had been -one of bitter impatience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That doesn't seem quite fair, Anne. He may have -been ill, mad, if you like. It's the best one can say."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He was considered a fine soldier," she returned, rather -primly. "His men worshipped him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You live in the past, dear," he persisted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something had risen between them, a pulsing, -quick-breathing irritation. She pressed his arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't understand," she said forgivingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, perhaps not." They had reached the gates of the -compound, and, arrested by sounds whose thrill for ever -outlives familiarity, they stood still, their faces turned to -the open high-road. Amidst the rattle of drums, and the -shrill call of the fifes, the regiment slogged its way sullenly -back to the barracks. The dust rose in silver columns under -the tramping feet. The red sun, lying already westwards, -fell aslant the dark, brooding faces and made a quivering -stream of fire of the fixed bayonets. The new Colonel -rode at the head of the column, chatting with his Adjutant. -He had a resolute serenity about him, an unimaginative -contentment. Tristram, saluting, knew that for him -there was no significance in that fiery line winding its way -up the hill in black silence—no hint of the future. Only -the common, daily routine.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He heard Anne's voice at his side, broken and piteous.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, if only father were there—at the head of his men—if -we could only bring him back——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't do that," he answered gently. "If I could, I -would. I never realized how much you cared. It's taught -me a lot about life—your caring. But if you think he -wishes it—he must come to us, whatever it may cost."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled at him through her tears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know he would wish it. Mother is cruel to him—I -know she feels cruelly. He will be happy with us. He will -get to understand that we both care—oh, Tristram, I can't -thank you enough. I promise you it shan't trouble you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A scarcely perceptible line deepened about his fine mouth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't promise rashly, dear. And remember, I said, -whatever it costs——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It became very still about them. The tramp of feet and -the rattle of drums grew muffled and rumbled into silence. -They could see the column wind its way up in and out of -the broken avenue of trees like a monstrous glittering -serpent. The dust sank back peacefully in golden particles, -and with the deepening silence there came a sense of relief, -of healing. The vague spirit of irritation and opposition -laid itself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram drank in the silence. In that subconscious -self where no thought or desire is formulated, he prayed -for its continuation. He held himself motionless so that -no movement of his should rouse his companion from her -seeming abstraction. For a moment, she had relaxed -her hold of him and he shrank back into himself, into a -loneliness where he seemed to draw breath, to lay down a -burden which he never acknowledged, and to stretch his -cramped soul in exquisite relief. The perfumed air, the -golden lights and splendid purples of a brief twilight -penetrated below his senses, and with light, magic fingers -opened the closed doors behind which he had imprisoned -all that the woman beside him could not understand, all -that was repugnant to her. They came out, these ghostly -figures of his fancy, and played before him. At first they -had been pale and wan, but as they drew in light and air, -they regained their youth and glowed with their old -splendour. He watched them, fascinated. His blood began -to move more swiftly. A thought shaped itself out of -the depths—the thought of the nights and days out there -on the fringe of the jungle—of the work that would claim -him back—of life as it might still be to him. Service! that -remained.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He felt Anne's fingers tighten on his arm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look!" she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The scorn and anger in her voice stung him. The lights -grew suddenly dim and the fancies faded. He looked the -way she pointed, and his pulses stood still. Two riders -were coming slowly down the hill towards them. Their -white-clad figures shone ghostly in the shadow of the trees. -They came on, up to the gates. Tristram's pulses resumed -their beating, heavily, suffocatingly. His hand went up -to his helmet, and the fair-haired woman on the Arab bowed -with grave indifference. The man beside her smiled, showing -his white teeth. Then it was over. He heard the man's -voice break on the silence—he was making some ironic -comment—and then the beat of horses' hoofs at a mad -gallop.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne's eyes were on his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris, how could you!" she said bitterly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned and looked at her. He felt stupid and heavy, -as though some one had struck him between the eyes; but -even then he realized her expression, the unbreakable will -showing through the mask of her femininity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What should I have done?" he asked, and was conscious -of a wry amusement. Beneath the surface their -wills grappled together. She was so small, so strong. He -would be so utterly beaten.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—You didn't even wait for her to bow. -It's not for me to dictate—surely it wasn't necessary to -know her—she's outside the pale—and that man—oh, it -was sickening, horrible——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her voice quivered. He put his arm about her shoulders,</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you want me to—to cut them?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not? I think it would have been better to do -what we must do right from the beginning. We can't -</span><em class="italics">know</em><span> them, Tris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must," he responded deliberately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He felt her whole body stiffen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why?" Her voice was very low now, subdued so as -to cover its real timbre. "Why?" she repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because I have no reason not to," he returned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A half-caste and an adventuress——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something tortured and leashed within him leapt up -flinging itself savagely against his self-control.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is an adventuress, Anne? A woman who ventures? -What better thing can any of us do?" He spoke -half-jestingly, striving to ward off the issue that was to -arise between them; but there was no pity in the hard -eyes which she lifted for a moment to his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you going to be one of those who are prepared to -sneer at our morality—at the whole prestige of our race?" -she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Even then he marvelled at her. She had been so young, -so childish. She challenged him now with a mature fixity -of outlook and of character. She might have been an old -woman. And he knew that it was no sudden development. -It had been there always, a deep-rooted inheritance -of her kind.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I cannot be other than I am," he said steadily. "As -to prestige—doesn't it belong to our English greatness to -shoulder our responsibilities? We're responsible to a man -like Barclay. He belongs to us more than any man of our -own blood. Don't you realize—he's our fault—we've flung -him into his position. We've made him what he is. He -had an English father—Anne, and he has a claim on me I -cannot and will not ignore."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He saw the curl of her lips. It was an answer straight -from those past generations stronger than all reason.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We must stamp out our sins—not foster them. And -that woman—do you expect me to meet her—the Rajah's -mistress—this man's bought property——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne!" A sick horror surged up within him—horror -of his own passionate anger—horror in some dim way -mingled with a vicarious shame. He turned away from -her. But the instinctive chivalry which prompted the -action was unnecessary. She held her ground with the -resolution of justification. "Anne, you're speaking -recklessly. I know that what you say is not true. And even -if it were—I can't judge other people—it's not in me—I -feel no right in me to judge. There's only one distinction -I can make between men and women—the happy and the -unhappy, the blessed and the cursed——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The good and the evil," she interrupted stonily. "There -is only one morality, Tristram——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He drew himself to his full and splendid height. The -red sunlight glowed on his impassioned face, in his blazing -eyes. For an instant he forgot her—became free, breathing -in the glory of his faith.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—That ye love one another," he exclaimed with happy -triumph. Her eyes sank. For that instant her instinct -told her that she could not touch him—that he had passed -beyond her reach. But, behind their lids, her eyes were -bright with a bitter resentment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you love Sigrid Fersen, Tris? People said you -did——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He came slowly back—down to the level, arid country -where he was to live his life. He stared down into her -white face. "Do you, Tris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He caught her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at -him. Her eyes were sullen and unhappy. Their unhappiness -shattered his anger, changing it to a burning remorse -and pity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're my wife. There can be no other woman for -me but you. That's my little fragment of morality. Isn't -that enough?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You stand up for her——" she persisted, with a sudden -break in her hard voice. She put up her hands, clinging to -him. "Oh, Tris, you make me afraid——" she cried -miserably. "I couldn't bear to lose you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He held her with a desperate tenderness. He had groped -his way to the source of her outburst, and the dawning -knowledge threw a pitiless light into his own heart. All -the antagonism had gone. In the moment's revulsion he -saw her as justified.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If it was because I loved her, I shouldn't fight for her," -he said hoarsely. "Don't you understand—it's not only -her—it's Barclay, too—it's everyone. I'd trample on -every feeling I had for your sake—but not on my -religion—don't you understand?" He knew she could not, that -the word "religion" had rung like blasphemy in her ears. -But she leant against him, crying wearily like a tired child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And this is our home-coming, Tris!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It makes a mockery of all my promises!" he answered -sadly. "What shall I do to make you happy again, little -Anne?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She bent and kissed his hand. "Oh, Tris, if we could -only go away from here—from Gaya—somewhere where we -should get away from everyone-everyone who makes me -afraid—couldn't we? We could start afresh with no one -to come between us——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It had grown very dark. Though she was watching -him again, she could not read his expression. And he was -looking past her, straight into the vision which she had -called up before him. But it was a vision of all that had -been. He saw the old landmarks—the river and the long, -broken roads, the camping-place beneath the trees, the -familiar faces whose solemn trustfulness he had fought -for with his best years, with all the ardour of his youth. -He saw the dreams he had dreamed—the hours tight packed -with action, with all the glory of battle and victory. And -now to begin again—to cut new paths through the waste -tracts, to call up fresh springs of faith and hope from desert -ground. He felt himself suddenly old and very tired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It should be easy enough," he said gently. "I could -get a new district—I'm not popular and they've just left -me here—but they'd do that for me, I daresay. Yes, we -will go away and start again, Anne."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was silent for a moment. She was breathing quietly -and contentedly. In a flash of knowledge which he -despised and hated, he knew that they had fought together -and that she had won.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're so good, Tris, so good to me. Sometimes we -don't quite understand each other. But we're husband -and wife, and that's all that really matters, isn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded. The tiredness stupefied him, bewildered -him. He fancied he saw something white glide in among -the trees—a slender figure that moved like a very spirit -of Life. He fancied there was music in the stillness—afar -off, intoxicating.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All that matters, Anne——"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="mrs-boucicault-calls-the-tune"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER III</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">MRS. BOUCICAULT CALLS THE TUNE</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The male-nurse had put the carefully shaded lamp on -the table behind the bed and gone off to take an unobtrusive -share in the festivities. Colonel Armstrong had lent the -regimental band for the occasion, and what with the music -and the superabundance of champagne and the pliability -of the native character, the male-nurse recognized golden -opportunities for a break in the tedium of his duties. -Possibly he was quite justified. It was a dull business -nursing a patient who could not even curse at you. -Moreover, there was nothing to do. What could be done for -a log that lay day in, day out, staring sightlessly up at -the white ceiling, whose every desire, if desire still lived -behind that appalling silence, had to be guessed at?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So the male-nurse threw a professional glance round the -scene of his activities, noted the perfection of orderliness, -and went his way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault continued to stare upwards. The shadows -were massed against the ceiling like sultry, motionless -clouds. They loomed over the withering body stretched -out beneath them in the rigidity of death, their stifling -intensity loaded with an overpowering perfume. There -were flowers everywhere—on the table, at the foot of the -bed, on the chest of drawers, on the shelves, lighting the -room's barren simplicity with fierce, burning colour. Their -vividness seemed a part of the music that came light-footed -into the sombre hush—an echo of the murmuring -voices, the merry jangle of harness, the patter of naked -feet, the clink of glasses. The room was like a white-cliffed, -deserted island in the midst of a moonlit, tossing -ocean of life. The wave slapped the walls, and rolled back -from them as from something alien and repellent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Or again, but for those eyes staring up at the ceiling, -the place might have been a death-chamber. There was -the same orderliness, the same white silence, the many -flowers. And the long, shrivelled body outlined on the -bed was quieter than any living thing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A voice broke from the distant murmur and came nearer. -It was a woman's voice, rather strained and high-pitched. -Something white and shimmering fluttered against the -darkness on the verandah.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure it's awfully nice of you, Tristram. He'll be -so pleased. I usually go in, but this evening I was too -busy. Don't stay too long——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The eyes distended and then closed. Perhaps the brain -behind them became conscious of a vital change in the -stillness, for a moment later they opened again and rested -full and direct on the man standing at the foot of the bed. -They stared at each other dumbly. The eyes became ironic -and cruel in their knowledge of power. But, as the man -moved and came nearer, they followed him, showing the -whites like those of a sick animal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram sat down on the edge of the bed. The light -from behind the bed drifted on to his face. He looked -weary and composed, and there was no trace of discomfort -under that watching enmity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had to come, Boucicault," he said quietly. "It got -on my nerves—the thought of your being alone like this. -You may not want to see me, but, on the other hand, it -may give you some satisfaction. I don't carry my secret -very well, do I?" He spoke without bitterness or sarcasm, -and the eyes gleamed. "And then there are things I -have to talk to you about," he added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The regimental band glided into a Viennese waltz, and -the intoxicating measure came swaying through the silence. -The eyes winced, and then steadied angrily, scornfully. -Tristram stretched out his hand and touched the coverlet. -There was something groping and passionately seeking in -the movement—an articulate appeal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Boucicault—it's rotten perhaps to come and preach—don't -let it eat into you—all this. Don't judge harshly. -I'm not speaking of myself, you know that. I'm thinking -of your wife. You lie there dumb and helpless—I don't -know what's going on in your mind. I can't understand. -Well, it's like that with most of us. Words and actions -don't matter much. We just hide behind them. But if -we could get down to the motive of each other's cruelty, -there would be neither hatred nor condemnation—at the -worst, pity." He was silent an instant, his strong hands -clasped between his knees. He had spoken sadly and -with a certain abstraction and unconsciousness of his -hearer, which lent his appeal force and took from it all -hint of patronage and mockery. "I say all this because -you must think a great deal—lying there—a great deal of -the past. For your own peace, it would be better to judge -gently a woman you must have cared for. Sometimes, -behind our worst frivolity, there is a great bitterness——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The eyes sneered. Tristram met their ferocious gibe -unflinchingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is one thing I had to say. And then—there's -Anne. When I asked her to be my wife, I didn't know -what you would feel about our marriage and I didn't care -very much. You had made her pretty wretched, and I -didn't consider at the time that what had happened -between us made any difference. You had been considerably -less than a father to her—and besides, you were knocked -out. I understand Sir Gilbert treated you like a brave -man and was quite honest with you. He doesn't believe -in your recovery—nor do I—chiefly because I've done -everything for you that science can do—and failed." He -paused again. His sentences had been clipped and -hard, the words almost brutal. But his attitude was not -that of a strong man talking down from the height of his -strength and well-being to a broken victim. The eyes -under the straight fair brows revealed pitilessly what lay -behind the dogged jaw, the composed and resolute exposition. -There can be no sentimentality between suffering -and suffering, only equality.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But there was one thing I hadn't understood," he said, -"and that was Anne's love for you. Frankly, I thought -she would be freer, happier without you. But I was -mistaken. It didn't matter that you'd made her wretched. -She only remembered that you were her father, the Bagh -Sahib, the fine soldier who had done great things. She -cared intensely, and all this—this sort of life smashed her -up. If she ran away from it, it was because she felt it as -an insult to you—a deliberate cruelty. She just ate her -heart out about it. When I realized how matters were there -was only one thing on earth I wanted to do, and that was -to come along and give her every mortal thing I could to -make her happy—you included—everything she'd missed. -It seemed to me pitiable to consider your feelings or any -conventional notions of—of propriety, as I suppose you'd -call it. She needed some one to look after her—some one -who cared. Well, I cared. Now that I have the right, I -shall live for her as far as one human being can live for -another. It is my most passionate hope to make her happy. -I don't know whether I shall succeed—that's another -matter. I shall do my best."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He got up and stood at his full height. The evening -regimentals which he wore did not become him. They -looked indefinably grotesque on his bigness—like a child's -toy uniform on a grown man. The short Eton coat exaggerated -the breadth of his shoulders, the black trousers the -narrowness of his hips, the length of limb. The gold and -red clashed with his tawny hair and the rugged, -weather-tanned features. He needed a background of forest, -of action, of stern living. His body needed the freedom -of rough clothing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne wants you to live with us," he said. "That is -what I have come to tell you. If you both would be -happier, I should be glad, too. There is a great deal I -might be able to do to make things more tolerable for -you—at least, I should try. I have given up my quarters at -Heerut. It is for you to decide."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The eyes sparkled. It seemed to Tristram that they -were blazing with satiric laughter. He had a reasonless, -overwhelming sense of near disaster. "Give me some -sign, Boucicault. If you consent, close your eyes or——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Slowly, as if weighed down by disuse, the withered arm -lying on the sheet lifted itself from the elbow. It remained -upright for an instant, throwing a sinister shadow on the -wall, seeming to point upwards with menacing significance, -then sank slowly to its place. The eyes were mad with -exultation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram was back to the bedside at one stride. He laid -his fingers on the savagely beating pulse. With rapid, -skilful movements, he began to test the muscles and nerve -of the now motionless arm. He was breathing quickly. -The weariness, the painful deliberation had gone from -him. He was himself again—the fighter on the vast field -of suffering, the physician glorying in the greatest of all -triumphs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By God, Boucicault, you don't know what that may -mean! It's what we'd hoped for. Look here—can you -do it again?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The arm remained inert, the eyes were, momentarily -veiled and insignificant. "How long have you been able -to do that?" He was still busy with his examination -and scarcely troubled about an answer. He had plunged -back into a world where there were no passions or conflicts, -but only huge immutable laws, no personal desires or unreal -dreams, but only facts, unending chains of cause and effect, -a thousand paths converging on one great end. It was -not till he had made every experiment complete that he -remembered. He looked up. The eyes were turned into -their corners, resting on his face. Their exaggerated -expanse of white gave them a look like that of a vicious -dog. They did not move save when Tristram lifted himself -slowly from his half-kneeling position, and then they -followed him with a malicious fixity. The rest of the face -was dead—a crumbling mask—but the life in those eyes -was inextinguishable, titanic in its will to continuation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had to escape from them. He went over to the wide-open -balcony and stood there with his back turned, staring -out into the darkness. For a moment, his brain refused -to face this reckoning with the future. He listened to the -music which poured through the scented stillness like the -drowsy, delicious murmur of running water. A man and -a woman came down the pathway which led from the front -of the bungalow. He could hear their voices—the man's -deep-pitched and earnest, the woman's silvery and ironic. -The light from a Chinese lantern shining softly among -the branches drew a subdued gleam from the gold on the -man's collar, from the woman's white, uncovered shoulders. -Suddenly the man bent down, and they stood together -through a tense, suffocating moment of silence. Then -the woman spoke again—breathlessly, the ironic lightness -gone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram drew back. He felt as though he had been -drawn out into the night's delirious sweetness; as though -in defiance of that silent, menacing figure his pulses had -leapt forward, his blood had clamoured for the fulfilment -of its elemental demand on all this wealth of living. He -was young still—young in his purity of feeling—young in -the unsatisfied forces of desire. Youth flung itself on -him with its imperative behests—now when he reeled under -the knowledge of its passing. For it was over. He reasoned -clearly enough through this storm of primitive emotion. -Boucicault would live. He might come back into life—he, -Tristram, would bring him back to life. It was the task -which his creed set him—not the creed of his profession -but the deeper, sterner creed of his blood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And what if his blood lied, what if his creed were a mad, -senseless paradox? Was not the happiness of the majority -the only good, its preservation the only morality? This -man had set himself against the law. In a ghostly, tragic -procession, those whom he had hunted out of their rightful -heritage passed before Tristram's memory—young officers, -those six men in the full glory of manhood standing in the -barrack yard, their backs to the wall, their faces to their -brothers, and the death which was to be dealt out to them; -Eleanor Boucicault grey-cheeked and wild-eyed pursuing -the phantom promises of life; Anne, cowed and broken, -haunted now by a remorseful treacherous memory; a -death-stricken little mongrel dog, most harmless, most -pitiable of all, with glazed eyes, seeking to understand the -black mystery of human cruelty.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram put his hand to the stiff military collar as -though it choked him. The foundations on which he had -built his life were crumbling under his feet. Was he to -give this criminal mind the power to act, to drag his escaped -and maimed victims back into the net of his authority, -to add others to that pitiable procession? Tristram -recognized the issues with an appalling clearness. His -trained intellect grappled with them with the same stern -impartiality of judgment as he would have used in tracking -the source of a disease. With regard to himself, he -discarded all false sentiment. As men judge, the blow he -had struck had been unfortunate but just. Was he to -heap an outrageous punishment upon himself, upon Anne, -upon an old woman who had known no happiness save her -joy in him? Would it not be a strong and logical following -out of his sincere belief if he made no effort to fan this -evil flame to life?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As yet he was not conscious of any direct temptation. -He was only facing the issues—weighing one life against -another, as it had happened a hundred times in his -professional career.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned slowly and came back into the room. The -eyes followed him, but their malicious knowledge no longer -reached him. The fight was not now between himself and -this man, but between two fundamental and opposite -conceptions of life. There was a little table at the foot of -the bed, crowded with the paraphernalia of sickness. He -stopped before it, because its interest offered a fresh delay, -and idly picked up one of the glass-stoppered bottles. -He opened it and smelt its contents. The faint, sickly -perfume flashed its significance to his brain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Men were given the power to kill——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked up. The eyes burning in that white mask -were on his hands. Their expression had changed—had -become more horrible. It was the very spirit of fear and -triumphant evil.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram put the bottle back in its place. He came and -stood by the bed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want you to hope too much, Boucicault," he -said, coolly and professionally. "In the best of cases, it -will be a long job. I shall come tomorrow and go over -you again and see what's to be done. If Sir Gilbert is -still in the land, we'll have him over. And you must do -all you can to help us. As to me—I quite realize I have -landed myself in an impasse from which there is no possible -escape. I don't know what Anne will feel or think. But -she'll be so thankful to get you back, the cost won't matter. -At any rate, I shall not speak of all this again to you. My -business with you is to give you back to life. The afterwards -is my concern. Good night, Boucicault."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As he had spoken, his eyes on the mask of bitterness and -hatred, something rushed over him. It was like the -melting of a frozen stream under the first warm sunshine. -It seemed to him that he had looked straight down through -those eyes into the very heart of human misery, and had -understood. He remembered his own words: "There is -only one distinction between men—the unhappy and the -happy, the cursed and the blessed." They blazed now -with a real significance. Men were pitchforked into this -world with distorted bodies or distorted souls—what did it -matter which? They deserved neither hatred nor -condemnation—they were the awful mystery of humanity, the -visible symbol of the curse under which humanity totters. -"Here, but for a wild incalculable chance, go I, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bent down and laid his hand on Boucicault's arm. -He did not stop to think whether or not his touch might be -repugnant to the other man. He acted out of an imperative -instinct.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mustn't worry," he said gently, and almost gaily. -"You'll live to do for me yet, Boucicault! Good night -again."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The eyes closed as though they had burnt themselves -out. Tristram moved quietly to the verandah. He had -a sudden sense of freedom, of physical relief, which was like -an awakening from a suffocating nightmare. He went -down the steps into the garden. It was then, as he stood -there listening to the music and the distant voices, that he -saw Sigrid Fersen come towards him. His eyes could not -have recognized her face, for it was dark and she was moving -quickly, like a pale mysterious light, through the shadow -of the trees. But he knew her. Was it her step—the lithe, -familiar motion of her body—or something deep-hidden -within himself which irresistibly went out to her? He -could not have told. He waited for her. She came on -unseeingly to the edge of the faint reflection from -Boucicault's room, and then stood still, staring at him. Her -small, white face had an aghast look. He tried to speak -to her and could not. His throat hurt him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He knew now that he had never known her, never, even -in his dreams of her, realized her potentialities. He knew -that she had deliberately thrown down her weapons to meet -him in the stern simplicity of his life. She had been too -proud, too self-assured perhaps to fear to show herself to -him physically at her least. Now he saw her at her -highest—the priceless, polished stone in a rare and exquisite -setting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A languorous breath of night-wind ruffled the smooth -gold of her hair and lifted the flimsy scarf from her shoulders. -It fluttered out behind her like a pale mist. He saw the -single string of pearls at her neck. He fancied he could see -the passionate life beating beneath them. And through all -her brilliancy, her burning vitality, there was a strain of -quaint Victorianism, a demure elfishness—like the -inter-weaving of a minuet with the riot of a bacchanal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He could not have spoken to her, and at last a smile -dawned at the corners of her mouth. He knew that she -had been afraid, and it flashed upon him that in the bitterest -moment she would retain her humour, her zest of life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You quite frightened me, Major Tristram," she said. -"I have never seen you in uniform before."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does it become me?" he heard himself ask back.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No. You look as though you were rather stifled by so -much magnificence. And you've never seen me in full -gala either, have you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It suits me, doesn't it? That's the difference between -us. I'm in my natural element. Will you take me back, -Major Tristram? I came out for a breath of fresh air and -to escape Mrs. Boucicault. Mrs. Boucicault asked me to -dance. I think she fancied it would be a good method of -rehabilitating me in the eyes of outraged Gaya. But I -didn't want to. What's the use of marrying if you have -to go on working for your living?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He walked silently beside her. He did not know this -woman with the hard voice—he felt that she did not want -him to know her. Her hand rested lightly on his arm. -He looked at it. It was like alabaster on the red sleeve. -"We're going to be married shortly," she went on. -"Mr. Meredith is trying to refuse his services. He doesn't -approve. He wants us to leave Gaya. It's so absurdly -Christian, isn't it? My husband's business will be in Gaya -and I like the place——" They had turned the curve of -the path and came within sight of the softly-lit garden. -They could see shadows of the dancers gliding through -Mrs. Boucicault's rooms to the rhythm of the latest American -distortion. Little groups had gathered round the tables -on the verandah and there was much laughter and the -subdued clinking of glasses. The Chinese lanterns shone -like bright warm eyes amid the trees.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid stood still an instant. He heard her draw a deep, -unsteady 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By the way, Major Tristram, what has happened to -the Wickie Memorial? Is he still among the living?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He lives and rejoices in the name of Richard," he -answered lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you sometimes let him out of the compound?" -she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How did you know?" he asked curtly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—I guessed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have been wanting you, Tris," she said sharply. -"Where have you been?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"With your father," he answered. "I'm sorry. I did -not know you were looking for me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't dance—not even as well as a polar-bear," he -said. "You've married a loutish barbarian, Anne."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Weren't you enjoying yourself?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't—Tris, don't you see——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 Rasaldû'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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now, what do you think of me, Tristram?" she exclaimed. -"Isn't there life in me yet? Don't you admire me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He felt Anne shrink closer to him. He bowed gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"With all my heart," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay made a little movement forward. He only -glanced at Anne. His eyes fixed themselves on Tristram's -face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I haven't the pleasure," he said, in his soft mincing -way. "Perhaps you'd introduce me to your wife, Tristram——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't care whom I dance with as long as our steps -match," Mrs. Boucicault continued, with reckless ecstasy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you please take me home, Tris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne gave a little laugh. It was tremulous and disgusted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I really think we'd better go, Tris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Look here, Barclay——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How silly it all is!" she said, half to herself. "What -does it matter?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who the devil are you?" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi. I've been here waiting for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay gave a little unsteady laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where have you been?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Calcutta."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What did you do there?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I learnt things."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What things?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I learnt that I had been a fool. Hatred, too——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mixed with the students?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What else——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know who I am."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're ill, aren't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am dying."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know yet. Are you going to give me up?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay looked back over his shoulder into the darkness. -He was shivering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he said. "I'll not give you up—not to them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made a sign, and they went up towards the bungalow, -keeping to the shadow of the trees.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="anne-makes-a-discovery"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">ANNE MAKES A DISCOVERY</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 -the very midst of them Mrs. Bosanquet blundered in with -her attack, for all the world like a squadron of cavalry -through a picnic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know, Anne, you're not playing the game," she -said. "That's my feeling about it. You're setting a bad -example. We can't go on like this. It's our duty to hang -together—not to build nasty little coteries and cliques. -We're not living in London, where there's plenty of room -for everybody's morals. We've got to put up with each -other and pretend we like it. I do my share, you must -do yours——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton nodded decided agreement. Her husband -hunted for his cigarette-case.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Them's my sentiments," he declared vulgarly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne had started a little. Now she looked from one to -the other and finally at the unhappy Archibald. Her lips -curled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course, I know whom you mean," she said; "but I -didn't think you would take that point of view, Captain -Compton. I thought men were so strict about that sort of -thing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What sort of thing?" Mrs. Compton asked, elbowing -her husband from the field of discussion, where he was not -likely to distinguish himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne's smile persisted. She was not in the least angry, -though the war-signals had been in the other's eyes from -the outset. She was prepared to discuss the question -reasonably and gently. She felt a queer, suppressed little -exultation throbbing beneath her reasonableness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Colour," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Both Compton and Mrs. Bosanquet grimaced involuntarily. -But Mary Compton was too accustomed to her -advanced position to feel any particular smart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mean, because Mr. Barclay has native blood?" -she asked. "It's ridiculous. Of course, we none of us -like it. We don't even like him. But he's going to marry -one of us——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not one of us," Anne interposed with a quick, upward -flash of the grave eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One of our blood," Mary Compton persisted. "And—and, -speaking for Archie and myself—one of our friends. -We can't have them ostracized by half the station like this. -The scene the other evening was intolerable, and it would -never have taken place if you had behaved reasonably. -You don't involve your heavenly salvation by bowing to -a man."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her fiery temper, which had been severely tested during -the last week, had taken the bit between its teeth during -her expostulation, and the knowledge that she was now at -a disadvantage did not help her to recover it. Anne's -mouth hardened. The memory of that scene still rankled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One has to draw the line somewhere," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I daresay. Still, it would have been wiser not to have -drawn the line at one's husband's brother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is not Tristram's brother." Her voice quivered, -and Mary Compton had the satisfaction of seeing the tears -rise to the brown eyes. "They're no relation—no legal -relation. These dreadful things happen—but one doesn't -acknowledge them or talk about them. It was absurd -and unkind of Tris to have behaved as he did. He has -such ridiculous notions. Anyhow, just because it's true, -it's all the more impossible for us to have anything to do -with him—or his wife. Surely you can see that, Mary." She -paused, and then added: "Everyone else does, you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was true. Mary Compton acknowledged it to herself -with an angry, sinking heart. Sigrid had not been strong -enough—not strong enough, certainly, to balance the -consternation, the uneasy sense of insulted tradition which -had punished Barclay's outburst. Mary Compton looked -gloomily at Tristram's wife, and wondered if it was only a -sense of outraged propriety which gave her naturally girlish -face that expression of old and set resolution.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Archibald Compton created a merciful diversion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a rotten business," he said, in his drawling way; -"and I can tell you one thing—it's not going to be settled -quite so easily as some of you people think. Barclay isn't -just an ordinary, feckless Eurasian. He's not going to -be snubbed for nothing. He's got Tristram blood in him. -I believe he's got a touch of the devil, too—which Tristram -senior may or may not have had—and a lot of dangerous -explosive stuff in his head which might go off any minute. -We've seen that. And I'll tell you something more—some -natives are jolly touchy about that sort of thing. I've no -doubt Tristram senior got the knife for his little escapade, -and a grudge dies hard. Besides, this fellow has an awful -hold over the natives. They've pretty well mortgaged -their souls to him. He can make himself jolly awkward -if he chooses." It was the longest, most dogmatic utterance -Compton had ever been guilty of, and he got up and groped -for his helmet on the chair behind him. "I guess we'd -better be clearing, old lady," he said awkwardly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His wife forgot to reprove him. She felt a glow of -passionate affection mingle with her general indignation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure we deserve whatever happens to us," she said. -"We're the pettiest, meanest lot of God-forsaken, benighted -idiots that ever made the word 'humanity' ridiculous. -Anyhow, I shall do what I can. You can all come to our -dinner or you can stay away. I've asked Sigrid and -Mr. Barclay, and they've accepted. It's in their honour. -So now you know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked at Mrs. Bosanquet, and the latter lady got up -with a fat sigh of resignation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I suppose I shall come," she said, "and George, -of course. It seems to be his luck, poor dear, always to -be on the wrong side."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne said good-bye to them with her composed little -smile. It was amazing how self-possessed, how deliberate -she had become in those few months of married life. It -was as though her character had been kept deliberately -in flux until her mate had been chosen, and had then -settled into hard, predestined lines. After the routed -deputation had waved its farewell, she went back into -the drawing-room and began to rearrange her wedding -presents for about the fourth time. They never quite -satisfied her. Gaya had divided its treasures in the true -Christian spirit. The family that had two silver candlesticks -gave one, and so on, and the result was distressing -for any one with a sense of symmetry. She sang softly -to herself as she worked, and when she came across the -Dresden shepherdess she put it in a drawer and turned the -key on it with a quiet satisfaction. After that, she found -an old foul-smelling pipe hidden behind a vase. She smiled -at it affectionately, disapprovingly, as at a child's broken -toy, and placed it in the waste-paper basket. Then she -rang the little silver-tongued bell and a soft-footed servant -slid into the room, and, in obedience to her slight gesture, -the waste-paper basket and its doomed contents disappeared.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was at that moment that she noticed the shadow of a -man on the verandah. His back was to the light, and at -the first glance she did not recognize him. Nor did he -make any movement to recall her memory. He stood -there looking at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why—Owen!" she said. "Owen!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She ran to him with a joyful relaxation of her staidness, -both hands outstretched. He waited for her to -come up to him. There was something at once proud -and humble in that deliberate waiting. He held his head -well up like a soldier, challenging nothing, fearing nothing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was the first time that they had met since the day -when he had seen her off on her way to Trichy. Between -then and now there had been the Feast of Siva and her -marriage. She looked up at him, her hands in his quiet -grasp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>One side of his face had no resemblance to the other. -It had been smashed and mended into a grotesque -hideousness—into a leering distortion. The eye was completely -closed. The whole face looked like a divided mask—one -half human, the other devilish. It was intensely, cruelly -pitiable.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne neither winced nor changed colour. She looked -up at him steadily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear Owen!" she said. "Dear Owen!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The one half of his poor twisted mouth smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've been hesitating outside for about an hour—listening -to your voices. I didn't like to come in—I was afraid -of startling you. I suppose you knew—but one can talk -about things one can't face."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He lisped a little, but the lisp could not weaken his -simple, unconscious dignity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You should have come before," she answered. "I -have thought so much of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't come. It took a long time to tinker me up, -and then I tried to go back to my work. It's been rather -difficult. The poor beggars think I've got the evil eye or -something."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She made him sit down in Tristram's long wicker chair -and sent for fresh tea. There was a gentle solicitude in all -her movements that was very touching. When she came -near him to bring him his cup, he saw there were tears on -her lashes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne—it's awfully sweet of you to be so sorry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled at him with unsteady lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think I am sorry. It isn't a matter to be -sorry about—one can only be very proud."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A boyish flush crept into his cheek.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's nothing to be proud of either. I thought -perhaps you'd be angry, as the others were."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't you know me better than that? Were the others -angry?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All of them, pretty well. They talked about the risk. -Tristram said I'd endangered their lives."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She considered a moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It isn't like Tristram to be afraid," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not for himself. My word, no. He came into the -thick of that scrum like a lion. You know how big he is. -He seemed to grow a lot bigger. He fairly picked me up -by the scruff of the neck and hauled me out over their -heads. How he managed, I don't know. It was a marvellously -brave thing to have done." He laughed. "I've -had a kind of hero-worship for him ever since," he added -shyly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't need to have. What you did was just as -brave. It was throwing yourself single-handed against -all the forces of evil. I was proud, Owen. It made me -feel that some of us are still ready to prove our faith at -whatever cost. It was as though one of the old martyrs -had come back to shame our indifference, our wicked -toleration. It gave me new hope——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The colour glowed vividly in her cheeks. He glanced at -her, and then turned away again, revealing the distorted -profile. There was a moment's crowded silence. She -could see his hands working nervously on the arm of his -chair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was awfully afraid," he said at last, and she knew -by his voice that he was living his bad hour of fear over -again. "And yet I had to go on. I had never understood -how real the voice of God can be. It's easy enough -to keep up the ordinary jog-trot service until the summons -comes to you—then you must either obey or give up your -mission. One can deceive one's conscience—not God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And God saved you," she said eagerly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She said it with her eyes set on his tortured face. He -nodded, and laughed whimsically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And with a strange instrument—a man who cursed me -in all the languages for doing the devil's work."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram, you mean?" There was no amusement in -Anne's eyes, but a shadow. "Poor Tristram, he just -doesn't understand. He hates sacrifice—I don't think he -knows what it means. He wants people to be healthy, -and have plenty to eat, and lots of pleasure. He thinks -that's all that matters. He doesn't understand the -significance of the Cross. Perhaps he has been too happy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith did not answer. He was thinking perplexedly -of the man who had lain stretched motionless across the -portrait of an unknown woman. It was a glimpse of -memory which never wholly faded. It blurred his -conception of Tristram's happiness. Then he looked at the -woman opposite him and forgot. He saw her goodness, -her purity, her steadfastness of soul. He saw that she -had developed. She had been a girl, she was now a woman, -strong and self-reliant. A thrill of sheer adoration ran -through his senses. She looked back at him steadily. -With a passionate thankfulness, he regained those moments -of communion when she had knelt before him at the altar -and they had been one in worship and understanding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are very happy, Anne?" he said gently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very happy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am glad. I wanted to see what a true marriage -can mean——" He hesitated. There was something -that he had come to tell her. It sickened him, and yet -it pleased him, as he knew it would please her. "Miss -Fersen and Mr. Barclay were married this afternoon," -he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked up. The sun had gone down behind the high -trees in the compound, and the room was full of fast-deepening -shadows. They were in her eyes, and he could not -read their expression.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You married them, Owen?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He heard the subdued reproach in her voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't help myself. What power had I to refuse? -But I confess I hated it. It seemed horrible to me—as -though I had taken part in an ugly farce. It was quite -private—no one knew about it. The banns have been up -sometime."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her lips were set in a hard line.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps they were ashamed," she said. "I only hope -they will leave Gaya. It is terrible to have them here. -I think she wanted to get hold of Tristram. Wasn't she -with him that day at Heerut?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She spoke carelessly. He wondered if she knew or only -guessed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—she went out to see the festival."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She would like that kind of thing—she is that sort -of woman." A spark of passion flashed in her quiet voice. -"I always distrusted her. Don't you remember, Owen?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded. He remembered everything that had ever -passed between them. He knew that he could not forget. -He did not want to. He hugged his sorrowful happiness -close to him. He loved her intensely and purely. He -knew that no other human love could ever come into his -life, and there was no evil in the knowledge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It had grown so dark that their faces were white ghostly -blanks. A native servant brought in a lighted lamp and -set it noiselessly at the far end of the room. Meredith -got up slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must be clearing," he said. "It's done me good -to be with you. You've always understood so wonderfully, -Anne."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish I could help you," she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have helped me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Their hands met in a long clasp.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram rode up through the shaggy, unkempt avenue. -It was still light enough outside for his amazingness to be -apparent to the two standing together on the verandah. -He wore his helmet at the back of his tawny, unkempt hair. -Three days' stubble was on his chin. He was collarless, -and his soiled shirt gaped at the neck. His long legs were -out of the stirrups, and dangled absurdly along Arabella's -sides. Arabella had grown, if anything, a little leaner -and she exhibited her favourite mannerism of trailing her -nose when tired of things in general, and camping-out in -particular. They were a wonderful pair.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram sang as he rode. His soft, rather hoarse -baritone struggled with a translation of the melody that was -running through his brain. It failed, and he knew it, but -he continued to sing. He had been three days in the -open—three days skirting the grey, sombre-flowing river, -ploughing through harsh jungle grass and following rough -tracts through forests where life lurked and rustled and -fled with a hundred distinct, familiar footfalls. For three -nights he had camped under the stars. He had seen the -moon rise like a silver lamp held aloft by a giant peering -down on a sleeping, pigmy land. He had sat under the -council-tree and smoked his pipe and listened to the -grumbles of the headman, the latest scandal, and many an old -legend. He had scolded and bullied and laughed and -triumphed. He had touched life again, and regained -his grip and his clear vision.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed as he swung himself out of his saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You didn't expect me, did you?" he asked gaily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne ran down to meet him. She kissed at first rapturously -and then with a little shudder of irrepressible disgust.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Tris, a beard again! And you smell horrid—of -horses and—and natives and things—you look a perfect -sight. What have you been doing?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not washing, anyhow. You remember that bath I -had just before I went? Well, it was my last. Been too -busy for such foibles of an effete generation. Hullo, -Meredith. Glad to see you. Not going, are you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must; I've been here hours."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne was jolly glad of your company, I expect. I'm -coming round some day to give you the benefit of my -medical genius. I believe I know more about things than -a lot of your high-brow Calcutta folk."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't fancy even you can do much," Meredith replied. -"I'm a bad job. But it's good of you all the same. Good -night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good night."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne would have watched till the white-clad figure had -disappeared, but Tristram put his arm about her and -drew her into the room. He was momentarily serious.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor old Meredith!" he muttered. "They have messed -him up. It must be almost unbearable."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She drew herself gently away from him. The feel of -his arm, with its ripple of steel muscle, had been wont to -thrill her. Tonight he jarred on some raw susceptibility; -his strength repelled rather than fascinated her senses.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't think Owen feels about it like that," she said. -"It's not awful to him. He recognizes it as a cross which -he is glad to bear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shrugged his big shoulders with good-humoured -impatience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why should one be glad to bear crosses? It's that -sort of spirit which makes crosses possible. Our business -is to get rid of them—to blot out the very memory of such -a thing——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A holy symbol!" she interjected eagerly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't see anything holy in it. It's a symbol of man's -cruelty to man. If I believed in a devil, I should say he -created it and put the idea into our poor heads that it was -a thing to be cherished." He chuckled. "Well, I shall -have a shot at lightening Meredith's cross whether he likes -it or not, though he doesn't deserve it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why not?" she asked. He was moving about the -room, evidently searching for his lost pipe. She watched -him coldly. She had been very happy only a little time -ago—very peaceful, very conscious of her own soul. It was -as though a dishevelled giant had burst into her world, -pulling it about her ears, trampling on her treasures. She -loved him, but she was not blind. She saw, almost for the -first time, that he was vitally of the earth. "Why not?" -she repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because through him lives were lost and endangered."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid Fersen, for instance?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The little sneer did not reach him. Having failed in -his search, he produced a briar of disgraceful antiquity -from the depths of a trouser pocket. He began to fill it -with a lover's tenderness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lots of decent fellows I knew were trampled to death -on that particular afternoon," he said simply. "Some of -them had saved my life."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You saved Meredith," she put in loyally. She wanted -to be just to him—to admire him, to stifle that feeling of -intolerant disgust.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, yes, I suppose I did. It was an inspiration. I -just shouted at them that he had the sunstroke and didn't -know what he was talking about——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was the best way. I had to fight like mad as it was. -I didn't want to have to kill any of my people." He -stretched himself out on the long chair and held out his -hand. "You don't mind if I rest a bit before I wash up? -I've been ten hours in the saddle. Don't be cross. Of -course, I didn't mean that about Meredith. He did what -he thought was right, and so it was right. I'd do anything -I could for him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave him her hand and sat down on the edge of the -chair beside him. She had herself well under control now. -She spoke gently and almost affectionately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You could help him if you wanted to, Tris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I do want to. Tell me how."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She bent her head, stroking the brown hand on her knee. -She did not know that she was stroking it. The action -was purely instinctive.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You could use your influence for him with the natives."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His vivid blue eyes rested rather anxiously on her face. -He sat up a little and drew her restlessly caressing hand into -a strong grip.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't do that, Anne."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not even for me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'd do most things for you—chuck my work even. -But as long as it is my work, I've got to do it as I think -right."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't it right to help people to be better and happier?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course. Only it doesn't seem to me that smashing -their faith is going to help them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We can give them a better faith——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not till we've lived it ourselves."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She got up abruptly and moved away from him. She -felt as though a chasm had opened at her feet. Or had it -always been there? Had she been blinded by her girlish -worship of his strength and almost feminine gentleness? -She did not know. She felt a physical nausea creep over -her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You promised to make me happy. You don't when -you talk like that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He thought a moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do want to make you happy, Anne. It's not an -exaggeration to say I'd give my life for you. But—I was -thinking it over whilst I was alone out there—happiness -isn't a thing you see in a shop window and buy for a price. -You have to have it in yourself if you're going to give it to -others. I shouldn't be happy if I pretended to be any one -else but myself. I should stifle and have no power to make -you happy. I can't humbug—I don't want you to, either. -We've both got to be free, or it's the end of everything." He -waited a moment, watching her. "Anne, do you -know whom I've seen?" he asked, with a complete change -of tone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sir Gilbert Foster. I heard that he was tiger-hunting -this way, and I tracked him down. I wanted to see him -and tell him about some favourable symptoms I have -noticed in your father's condition. Also I wanted to make -a suggestion. Well, he agrees with me. It means an -operation—a pretty dangerous one. I wanted him to -perform it, but he can't. He's got a Conference somewhere -or other. He thinks I'm the man to go ahead with it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned swiftly, suspiciously. She saw the flame -under the fine brows—perhaps glimpsed how deep and -passionate was his desire for her happiness, how eagerly -he had planned this moment. She came back to him and -knelt down, her trembling hands on his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris—does that mean—he might get well?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He might. It's a fighting chance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Tris—if it were only true——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled gravely down at her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You'd pay any price for it to be true, Anne?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Any price!" she answered joyfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He put his arm round her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We'll do our level best, dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They remained silent for many minutes. She half -crouched, half lay with her head against his shoulder. Her -antipathy had died down. He was again the strong and -perfect hero of her fancies. She loved him. The arm -curved about her shoulder was again a thrilling force. She -looked down tenderly at the slender, powerful wrist. Then -she laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris, why do you wear that silly, common bracelet? -It's cheap, and so unmanly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She felt his body grow suddenly tense. He answered -without effort, almost lightly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was a great gift—a gift of friendship."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"From whom?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A friend."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She drew herself up. At no time was a sense of humour -strong in her. She resented his lightness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You might tell me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it a secret?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose so—yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Husband and wife ought not to have secrets from one -another."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oughtn't they? Why not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They're one."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His eyes darkened. He saw that the anger was mounting -in her and strove to silence it. But an immense weariness -lamed him. All the life and hope which he had gathered to -himself out there on those wild fastnesses died out of him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They're not, Anne—heaven forbid. Because you and -I are to live together all our lives—because we care for -each other, our personalities don't cease to exist. We -have both our secrets—our very thoughts are secret. We -can't help it. I'll wager you don't tell me everything you -think about me. Do you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She got up slowly. She went and stood by the light, her -head averted. She was very truthful. She recognized the -truth of what he had said. She could not have told him -then what she thought.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I daresay—you're right. It was silly of me." But an -immense desire possessed her—a primitive desire beyond -her control and based on she knew not what knowledge—the -desire to hurt him. "By the way, Sigrid Fersen was -married this afternoon," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not answer for a moment. She heard him re-light -his pipe. The stem was evidently choked, for it drew badly -and noisily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, that was to be expected," he said. "My word—I -am tired—just dog-tired."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She kept her eyes averted. She was stifled by an emotion -that was half shame, half anger. Presently the shame -predominated. She turned to him, a word of reluctant -kindness ready on her lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His head had fallen back among the cushions. His -outstretched hand still held the pipe, which had gone out -again. She saw the great muscles of his bare neck—of the -half-exposed chest. His eyes were closed and he breathed -deeply and smoothly like a child.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The pipe slipped from his hand and fell on the mat with -a dull little thud. She crept nearer and picked it up, her -lips drawn together in ungovernable disgust.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="crisis"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER V</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">CRISIS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The Comptons had rushed into debt with their eyes -open and their teeth clenched. More than one piece -of valuable Sèvres had vanished from their collection -and its place been filled by a judicious rearrangement -of the remaining gods. Colonel Armstrong never met the -Captain without dropping a hint as to the inexpediency -of opposing oneself to the feelings of a touch-and-go -community like Gaya. The Comptons persisted recklessly -on their course. Archie Compton, no military genius, was -a fine soldier, prepared to fight to the last cartridge and -go down with his superior officer, colours flying.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His superior officer in this particular affair was one Mary, -his wife, and the last cartridge was about to be fired at her -command.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It could not be said that she faced this last encounter -with perfect equanimity. Throughout the day she had -felt her heart beat loudly and heavily. At the approach -of the fatal hour, woman-like, she had arrayed herself in -her very best, her courage trickling back to her in the -measure that she discovered herself still presentable. The -look of awed admiration which her husband threw her -from time to time gave her strength to meet the -advance-guards of the enemy forces.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Were they enemy forces or was it a capitulation? At -any rate Gaya had not turned its back, and that was -something to be thankful for. Mrs. Bosanquet, with George in -tow, was the first to arrive—probably an intentional -move on the part of that good-natured and loyal soul. -She kissed Mary on both cheeks and squeezed her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">Morituri te salutant</em><span>," she whispered. "My dear, you -have done things wonderfully. I had hardly recognized -the place. What are you giving them to drink?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Champagne—the very best," Mary Compton replied -grimly. "Twenty rupees a bottle, and unlimited supplies. -I've borrowed a cook from the Prevets at Lucknow. He's -supposed to be a wonder. We may pull it off."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We may," Mrs. Bosanquet agreed. "Gaya isn't an -ass. It would be a dull station without Sigrid, and it -knows it. Unless anything unlucky happens they'll give -in gracefully—especially after dinner. But why on earth -did these two go and get married like that? It adds a kind -of scandal——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton sighed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That man wanted it. He was finding the half and -half situation too trying. They both wished it to be -quiet—Sigrid especially. I think she thought we'd rather be -out of it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't wonder——" Mrs. Bosanquet began and -checked herself. She was in the unfortunate position of -doing something whole-heartedly of which she equally -whole-heartedly disapproved.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A fresh influx of guests sent her adrift. Everybody who -had a right to be considered in the first flight had been -invited and had accepted. They came in with more -formality than was usual with them. It was as though -they recognized that the occasion was in the nature of -ceremony—a kind of symbolic festival. If they swallowed -Mrs. Compton's dinner it was only to be understood that -they swallowed the Barclays with it. Mrs. Compton's -manner, if not her actual invitation, had made that -clear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton heaved a sigh of relief when Colonel -Armstrong and his washed-out-looking wife made their -appearance. He paid her a little old-fashioned compliment, and -she understood from his manner that he had reached -toleration, if not approval. Mrs. Boucicault swept both -out of her path. She was radiant. Even the painted -cheeks and reckless display of jewellery could not detract -from the wonder of her vitality, her irrepressible joy of -life. It was as though all the winds of heaven had blown -in with her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I passed the Barclays as I came along," she said. -"Mr. Barclay has such wonderful horses. He told me he -has the finest polo ponies in India just eating their heads -off. Won't it be splendid if we win the cup? Do look -at Tristram, Mary! Doesn't he look odd in uniform? -Anne, of course, loves it. She would, wouldn't she? She -made that dress of hers. It's not economy. She has a -sort of idea that it's wicked to be beautiful. And Anne -is so good." She gave a little malicious laugh. "I don't -know how she came to be my daughter."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She rambled on erratically, but Mary Compton heard -her only as a vague murmur. That moment of which she -had been so painfully conscious for the last week had -come. She drew her breath sharply between her teeth. -She had seen Sigrid—Sigrid and her husband. The little -groups went on talking, but there had been a general, -involuntary movement. It was not hostile. They turned -towards her as they had always done, scarcely knowing -that they did so, drawn by the magnetism stronger than -either good-breeding or dislike. And tonight it was not -easy to turn away. There was something new about -her—something more arresting than either beauty or even the -vivid life which had made her powerful amongst them. -They could not have defined it. She was not radiant, not -triumphant, not challenging. The gold hair was smoothed -down on either side of the small, erect head. Her face -was colourless, the mouth composed, unsmiling. The eyes -were wide open and intensely bright. There was a touch -of gold on the white, full-skirted dress—on the slippers, -on the small, perfect feet. She was a study of a burning -pallor—a white flame. Barclay came behind her. He -looked proportionately dark and very handsome. The -cut of his evening clothes proclaimed Bond Street. He -wore a red silk button in the lapel of his coat—an order -given him by King Leopold in recognition of short but -effective service in the unhappy Congo. He glanced -about him with a sombre distrust.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Gaya hesitated. Even a gathering of well-bred English -men and women can be swept by an invisible wave of panic, -and Gaya was panic-stricken, torn between a headstrong -admiration and an instinctive, inherent dislike. Moreover, -it was not easy to take the initiative, and the most -seasoned among them wavered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But before Sigrid and her companion could reach their -hostess Tristram had left his wife's side and gone to meet -her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I wish my bracelet-sister all happiness," he said in a -low tone. He held her hand for an instant and then turned -to Barclay and greeted him frankly as though nothing had -ever passed between them. But Barclay's hand hung at -his side. He bowed with an exaggeration that was a veiled -sneer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the ice had been broken, if not dispersed. Others -came forward, murmuring incoherencies which, they -thanked heaven, no one could wait to disentangle. They -tried earnestly, and they believed successfully, to include -Barclay in their welcome, and they would have been -surprised to learn that the most any of them accomplished -was a sightless nod in his direction. Perhaps, at the -bottom, they were of opinion that their resignation to his -presence was enough.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it all looked well enough from a distance, and there -was colour in Mrs. Compton's cheeks as she kissed Sigrid.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We've won," she whispered. "You've won, dear." -She gave Barclay her hand with a little vacant smile. -"You've got to take your wife in, Mr. Barclay," she said. -"You two are the guests of the evening, and must lead the -way. I'm sure we're all ready."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then another little rush of misery and panic swamped -her. She had gone over the points of precedence very -carefully. It had seemed to her best and most courageous -to take the bull by the horns, to drive the nail home with -all her strength. The Barclays were not to slip in—they -were to be the people of the evening. Gaya had got -to accept them whole-heartedly and with its eyes open. -Now she realized the horribleness of theories when applied -to human beings. She saw that she had made a blunder -and had set one person at least an almost intolerable task. -Sigrid laid her hand on her husband's arm. The entrance -to the dining-room was immediately opposite her—half a -dozen yards away, Gaya between. It was like running the -gauntlet. An almost imperceptible spasm passed over the -dead-white face. For an instant Mary Compton thought -she faltered. Then the two incongruous figures made their -way slowly across the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Mrs. Compton had seen that scarcely perceptible -change. She forgot her guests. She stood there, lost in -misery and helpless speculation. For what was this -intolerable price paid? Was this the splendour of living for -which a woman might sell herself? What silence could be -worth such galling humiliation? If Sigrid had committed -a crime, surely it was not in this way she would have chosen -to escape?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Mrs. Compton, finding herself on the verge of tears, -became exasperated and seized the arm of the man nearest -her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Please—please take me in," she said imperatively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He obeyed, perhaps aware of the nearness of disaster, -and thereby the order and decorum of the evening went to -the winds. Gaya, however, itself ill at ease, accepted the -situation, and followed haphazard, the two forsaken and -ill-assorted partners joining forces in good-natured -resignation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only Compton himself lingered. He had excused himself -to Mrs. Bosanquet, who had fallen to his lot, and whose -understanding of the situation was probably more poignant -than his own. As a rule, he knew what his wife let him -know and saw what she pointed out to him, but not much -else. He had not the vaguest idea why she had, as he -expressed it, "stampeded," but he did realize, as a -painstaking host, that one guest had been forgotten—and that -guest a personage who would be unlikely to accept the -oversight gracefully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Compton set himself to wait, therefore, with as much -patience as he could muster.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not till ten minutes later that Rasaldû made his -appearance. Unpunctuality was with him a fetish. On -this occasion his ordinary habit had been exaggerated -by circumstances which he explained elaborately as he -smoothed his sleek black hair before a glass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Only got back this afternoon—marvellous fine -shooting—two tigers and a cheetah. I got the tigers -myself—magnificent specimens. The biggest made a devilish fine -fight; if it hadn't been for my mahout I mightn't be here -now. Sorry to have kept you waiting."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not a bit of it," Compton assured him in his languid, -incoherent way.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Seems a special sort of affair. Anything up?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Compton stroked his little moustache. There were -times when the Rajah's Anglo-Saxon brevity jarred on -him. Moreover, for other reasons, he felt disinclined to -be communicative.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—nothing special," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All right. I'm ready."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For all his apparent good-humour, Rasaldû was in a -sulky mood. The tiger-hunt had been the expression of -an incoherent rage and sense of unforgivable humiliation -which Gaya had found amusing and not at all serious. -But to Rasaldû the whole matter had been serious. He had -dispensed European hospitality the while retaining an -entirely Oriental mentality. Sigrid Fersen had been in -part his guest. Her marriage was therefore an insult and -a gibe. She had made fun of him. In his own language, -"she had made a fool of him." And he was not given -either to forgetting or forgiving.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And now a fresh slight had been put on him. They had -gone in without him. They had deprived him of that -sense of grandiose arrival which was the most pleasing -part of any entertainment. It made him, at least for a -moment, the person of paramount importance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His round face was therefore creased with sulkiness as -he reached his place at the Comptons' table. Not even -the beauty and promise of the display soothed him. Mary -Compton had borrowed and been within an ace of stealing -in order to produce a result which would soften the bitterest -opposition. But she had counted without the Oriental -character. Rasaldû merely bowed in her direction, then, -before seating himself, he looked round, making the most -of his moment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay sat immediately opposite him in the centre of -the table, with Sigrid on his right hand. Outwardly he -had borne himself coolly enough, accepting his conspicuous -place of honour with an air of rather insolent ease. But -below the surface the whole man had been tense, agonized, -quivering with memories of past humiliations. In every -glance, in every word, he read the disparagement which -his instinct knew was still in arms against him. He had -won. He could look down the length of the table and tell -himself that these people were here to meet him, to do him -honour. He could remember the hour when his hostess -had left him standing in the dust of her cart-wheels. He -could look at Tristram and recall that twilight scene by -the temple. Best of all, there was the woman beside him. -He could turn to her white, quiet face with the memory -of a night when these two had watched him slink out before -them like a beaten dog.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Yes, he had won. He had broken through the invisible -barrier of their caste. He had fought his way into their -citadel, and yet——! It was as though he had grasped at -shadows and they had eluded him. He knew that he had -never been further from them—never more the stranger -and pariah. The English blood in him arose against him -in triumph. It showed him what otherwise might have -remained hidden—what Rasaldû could never have seen—the -hearts of these people, their splendid isolation, the -impregnable aloofness, their blank denial of himself. As -he sat there listening to their quiet, self-certain intercourse, -the bandages which he had wrapped about his bleeding -pride were ripped off and with them every trace of healing. -The sweat stood out on his dark forehead. He hated -them. He desired them. He wanted to spit in these -serene, immaculate faces. He would have grovelled to -them for one word of fellowship. He had as yet scarcely -touched the wine before him, but his blood was in an -uproar, warring against itself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then suddenly he looked up at Rasaldû across the table, -staring at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Perhaps that silent, deadly exchange lasted no more -than a second or two, yet the unbridled ferocity of it -rested like a chilling hand on those nearest and passed -on down the table so that the last murmur sank into -an appalled quiet. Something tigerish had leapt up in -the breasts of both men. On the one side the Oriental, -wounded in every susceptibility, threw off the mask of -English breeding; on the other, the English blood, fevered -by the maternal heritage, boiled under the insult of those -eyes, broke from its own frail bondage of self-control, and -by a mad paradox became native blood, native hatred.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The seconds passed. Then Rasaldû, with an insolent -little movement of the shoulders, bent down to Colonel -Armstrong on his right and spoke to him in an undertone. -The unhappy Colonel listened, tugging painfully at his -moustache. Mrs. Compton had half-risen, but Barclay -forestalled her. He got up, leaning across towards Rasaldû.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's the matter with you?" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rasaldû's thick lips curled. He looked at Sigrid with -the bloodshot, hating eyes of a thwarted animal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't eat with half-castes," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay seized his glass and threw the contents full into -the Rajah's distorted face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You swineherd upstart!" he gasped thickly. Then, -with a glance that swept the table, he turned and strode -out of the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The silence continued. No uproar could have been -more terrible than its unendingness. The Rajah stood -there quite still, his mouth open, the wine trickling from -his face on to the immaculate shirt-front—a ridiculous, -sinister figure. Mrs. Compton tried to master her voice, -to say something, but it was as though a gag stifled her. -She saw Sigrid get up—very slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stood there looking round her—and then across at -Tristram. He made a movement as though he would have -risen, but she lifted her hand slightly, imperatively, and -he sank back, not looking at her. Her lips were a little -parted with an odd, pathetic little smile. It seemed, as -she stood here, that she was trying, not to speak, but to -grope her way to some thought, to some answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Nobody spoke to her or tried to stop her. But at that -moment she belonged to them, was one of them—for the -last time. Sheer futility lamed all movement, all expression -of what they felt. It was as though a frail, beautiful -ship had broken from its moorings in a great tempest and -they stood there and watched it drift out seawards beyond -the reach of their voices, of their help or pity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only Mrs. Bosanquet cried openly—the tears rolling -down her fat cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid went out through the silence. She found Barclay -already in the driving seat of his dog-cart and without a -word clambered up beside him. He glanced at her and -brought the whip down savagely across the horse's head. -The animal did not need the blow. It felt the madness -in the man's hand and broke into a wild gallop. They -swung through the compound gates out on to the white -moonlit road. For an instant they seemed to hover in -mid-air, and then, with a grinding jar, the off-wheel came -back on to the ground and they raced on, down through -the black belt of the palm-trees and out again into the -silver road, pursued by their own frantic shadows.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Only once did Barclay speak, and then it was to himself -between clenched teeth:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now I know," he whispered. "Now I can see clear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not answer. She sat very still, gazing steadily -ahead into the half-light which ran before them, and -encircled them with odd, treacherous shapes, so that now -there seemed a barrier where there was none, and now a -clear road where suddenly it curved and dipped. He -drove well. Once the horse shied violently at an -overhanging branch, and with a turn of his wrist he brought -the animal to a baulked, fretting submission. Sigrid gave -a short laugh, and he glanced sideways at her. Perhaps -in that moment a grim admiration one for the other rose -between them. At least neither had shown fear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A syce, drowsing on the steps of the old bungalow, ran -out to meet them and caught the restive, sweating animal -by the head. Barclay threw him an order in Hindustani -and then, without a glance at his companion, led the way -to the room where the amazing Venus held her lamp. He -crossed straight over to the wide-open windows and pulled -the curtains to.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The door behind Sigrid closed softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still Barclay did not look at her. He opened a cigarette -box with a theatrical affectation of deliberation, but when -he struck a match she saw that his hand shook. The -tiny flame near to his face betrayed new, ugly lines cut -deep about the mouth and nostrils.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll tell you something queer," he said, glancing up -over the lighted match. "Tristram Senior was murdered -in this room—just here, where I'm standing. There's a -stain under the carpet. The place is supposed to be -haunted."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lifted her eyebrows. Her eyes were very steady -and watchful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes?" she queried.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He was murdered by my mother's husband. You see, -he had betrayed her. It was a sort of insult to my people." The -match went out almost at his finger-tips. He threw -it away. "Strange how things happen, isn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She made no answer. Her cloak had slipped from her -bare shoulders and she put her hand up and drew it back, -holding it across her breast. He began to move restlessly -about the room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And now Tristram Junior is in love with my wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You do not know——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I know well enough, I've seen it. What was—is. -I imagine a man doesn't forget you for that puling little -saint. How he must wince! Or have you told him? -Well, you'll have something else to tell him—tomorrow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We made a bargain," she said sharply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A bargain! What have you done of your share?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All that lay in my power."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He gave a wretched laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This evening, for instance? Well—it's finished, do -you hear? I've done with the whole thing. I gave them -and you a last chance. Now I'm going my own way—and -you're my wife. I've got that right left."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've no right but what I choose to give you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You'll choose—you've got to—you're helpless." He -paused, choking. He threw the half-burnt cigarette -on the floor and ground it under his heel. "There's no -one in this place that's going to bother about either of us. -Tristram won't play </span><em class="italics">deus ex machinâ</em><span> this time—you and -I—we're going to have this out alone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He saw her glance towards the door. "It's locked. -You can scream to your heart's content. Your Smithy -may hear, but she won't help. The servants have their -orders. Besides—what right has any one to interfere. -You're my wife. You swore before the altar——" He -stopped again. Like an animal lashing itself to fury, he -strode towards her and then turned and came back, his -face swollen and quivering. His words came in a broken -torrent of passion. "There's—there's a sort of -compensation—in things—my mother's body was found out there -in the well—she was good enough for an hour's sport—a -native—what did it matter?—a sort of superior toy for an -Englishman's pleasure-and the result—a half-caste, a -mincing, feckless muddle of two races—let him rot in some -stuffy Eurasian quarter and drink himself to death. If -he dares rise—if he dares come among us—if he dares -aspire to one of our blood—then spew upon him—roll -him in the dust—kick him out—let him feel the whip like -the misbegotten hound he is. As to our womankind—hands -off, or heaven help him——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I understand," she threw in breathlessly. "I am to -be your revenge—on them—on your brother——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned back to her, staring at her. Then he burst -into a laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Revenge? Oh, I don't know—nothing perhaps so—so -high-flown as that. After all—they'd hardly know, -would they? It's—it's a sort of instinct—to get -level—in one way or another. Besides—I want you——" He -measured her with a savage deliberation. "My God—it's -natural enough." He was shaking from head to foot. -Swift and soundless as a flash of light she put the table -between them and stood confronting him. Her fair small -head was thrown back, her mouth set in an unfaltering -line. "By all means—it's useless—I've the right and the -might——" Suddenly, like a tiger weary of toying with -its victim, he flung himself on the table, lifting it with -both hands. Then, as he did so—he stopped short—faltering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A full minute passed whilst they remained face to face, -neither moving. He drew himself slowly upright.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well—why don't you do it?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want to—not unless I must."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It would be an expensive business."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know. I've paid so much already—it might -be better to go on paying——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"To get what you set out to buy? You don't need to -worry about that. I may still keep my share of the -bargain. I have other plans. So you had the draw on me all -the time? Who would have thought so gentle a bosom -could hide so much deadliness?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have always carried it," she answered simply. "It -may seem theatrical—but I realized—this might happen."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled ironically.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are very cool—very brave, Sigrid. You—you -inflame my admiration. Won't you sit down? It is very -early yet."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I would rather you unlocked the door. I am tired."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And sick with disgust? I can quite understand. You -are white to the backbone." His voice shook with an -uncontrollable despair. "Still, I warn you—if I open -the door, I win. It is guarded. You see, I took -precautions—but I don't want that. I—I have that much -English blood in me—I'll fight fair."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well. If there is anything you have to say——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing—except perhaps that it is still early. I can -display patience. Won't you sit down?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Since you wish it."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He took his place opposite her, the table still between -them. It was a wide table and he could not have touched -her. She rested her elbow on the polished edge, the little -toy-like weapon held lightly but firmly in her lifted hand. -He leant forward, his eyes on her, watchful, intent. All -passion, all desire had died out of them. They were hard -and cold with purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will tire," he said softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am very strong."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">À l'outrance</em><span>, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled faintly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"</span><em class="italics">À l'outrance</em><span>."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But he had seen that flicker of amusement and winced -under it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You think I am as absurd—as—as—I am beastly?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I couldn't think like that—at least, not at the -bottom. I understand too well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You understand?" He stared at her hungrily. "What -do you understand?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That you would have been glad to have acted—and -felt differently."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I would have been their friend—a good friend. It's -too late now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—too late. I can see that——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It grew still between them. Once he moved suddenly, -testing her, but her eyes and hand were unwavering, and -he dropped back into his old position.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>As the time passed blue shadows darkened her eyes and -crept about her mouth. She seemed to grow smaller and -paler, and a kind of wonder came into his patient -watchfulness of her—an almost pitying admiration.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Spare yourself!" he whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She made no answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The hours passed. The man and woman became grotesquely -like wax figures in their grey, pallid immobility. -The lamplight began to fade. In the dusk the empty -face of the Venus looked ghostly and unreal. They could -hear a heavy bullock-wagon plough its way up the hill -to the crack of whips and native imprecations.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay rose slowly and stiffly to his feet. He went -across to the window and pulled the curtains aside, letting -in a flood of golden morning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You've won—this time," he said. "You won hours ago."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not look at her. He went down the verandah -steps and did not turn even though he heard the thud of -the revolver as it slipped from her unconscious hand.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="of-your-blood"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">"OF YOUR BLOOD"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Gaya awoke the next morning depressed and rather -incredulous. The daylight has a tendency to throw a chill -interrogation at whatever the previous night has held -either of greatness, tragedy, or passion. The blood cools to -a little below the normal and the brain perceives things -in their flattest, dullest colours. Indeed, until lunch-time -the human constitution is too busy working up steam to -produce emotion, or even to acknowledge the possibility -of anything vital save the getting of the daily bread and -the partaking thereof. So Gaya went lazily about its business, -deferring serious consideration to a convenient future, -and meantime vaguely aware of a foolish, unpleasant crack -in the neat surface of its daily life which somehow would -have to be patched up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay also went about his business. Beyond a certain -sombre abstraction his manner gave no hint of any change. -In the early morning a messenger mounted on his favourite -Arab rode out on the Heerut road, and in the afternoon -Lalloo, suave and impassive, made his appearance in a -bullock-wagon which had performed a fifteen-mile journey -over bad roads in little over three hours. The two, Lalloo -and his patron, sat together in the very English library -and talked subduedly until the first breath of nightfall -rustled among the trees of the garden. Then Lalloo, -as he had come, took his departure, nicely tingeing -respect with disparagement and disparagement with -respect.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay himself did not set foot outside the bungalow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At dinner he sat opposite his wife and ate whatsoever -the noiseless servants placed before him. Contrary to his -custom—for he had a morbid respect for all appearances -he did not attempt to keep up the small talk which usually -passed between them. He scarcely spoke to her, and only -once looked in her direction.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Afterwards they stood for a moment together on the -edge of the verandah, looking out into the quiet darkness. -Here, too, custom was broken. It was the first time since -their marriage that she had joined him after their -ceremonious meal. A memory shot like a light through his -moody silence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you afraid?" he asked brutally.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," she answered. There was no bravado—only a -great physical weariness in her low voice. "I want to know -what is going to happen," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I thought—as I have failed so completely——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—that you could clear out?" He smoked for a moment -in sombre consideration, then tossed his cigarette away -from him. It glowed on the pathway like a tiny, watchful -eye. "Of course you're free," he said finally. "I haven't -any power to hold you. But if you go, then I shall be free -too. The last article of our agreement will have been -annulled. That's obvious, isn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—if you hold to your agreement."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall." He gave a subdued laugh. "I am like -Shylock, Sigrid. And you are one of those good Christians -trying to cheat and possibly persecute their infidel creditor. -What do you expect?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Just that." She waited an instant and then he felt -rather than heard that she turned away from him. "That's -all I wanted to ask you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well——? Have you decided?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There was nothing to decide. I shall go on with -it—whatever it is."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He heard the curtains fall. Throughout he had not -looked at her. It was as though he withheld from her -something which his eyes might have betrayed. When -all was still again he took a book haphazard from the -pompously crowded shelves and sat down beneath the -light-bearing Venus to read. He sat very still, his dark -eyes resting intently on a spot just above the page which -was never turned.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The gold-faced clock on the table chimed ten o'clock. -The thin, dulcet tones dropped into the quiet like pebbles -into a still pool. They seemed to arouse the man beneath -the lamplight. He got up and pulled the curtains across the -windows. There was a door in the left-hand wall. It led -into a room in which he kept his papers, and no one entered -it but himself. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked -it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are safe now," he said in the native tongue.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi came out slowly into the light. His eyes were -dazed-looking, but rest and food had restored something -of their old fire, and that very return of life accentuated -the deeper change in him. It was not only the lines which -disease and want had chiselled among his features. The -one-time boyish beauty had been hardened and sharpened -by something more subtle than physical privation. His -eyes, as they grew accustomed to the light, were no longer -clouded with mystic dreams, but were stern and penetrating. -His very bearing was profoundly different. His -dignity had been gracious and unconscious; it was now -conscious and commanding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have done me great service," he said in an undertone. -"I shall not forget when the time comes for -remembrance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are rested sufficiently to go on your way?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi nodded. He glanced keenly into Barclay's -impassive face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You use our tongue to me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is it not mine also?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A faint hauteur compressed the fine lips. He turned -away and lifted the edge of the curtain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I give you great thanks, Barclay Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I ask no thanks of you, Ayeshi. You will find a horse -at the gates. But first, can there be no trust between us? -Can you not tell me whither you are going and to what end?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi turned, measuring the other man with a grave, -scornful deliberation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have learnt to keep my counsel where there is English -blood," he said. He did not see the expression which -passed like a withering flame over his companion's features. -He lifted his hand in salutation, and the curtains fell -noiselessly behind him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay waited, motionless. His breathing was quick -and shallow, his whole body tense with pent-up -excitement. As the muffled sound of hoofs reached him he -turned the light out and the next instant was running -towards the compound gates.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A syce leading a horse by the bridle came out of the -shadow. Without a word Barclay caught the helmet and -long cloak which was held out to him and swung himself -lightly into the saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Which way?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Towards Heerut, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"See that you remember my orders."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Sahib shall be obeyed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay's steel wrist brought his nervous, fidgeting -animal to an instant's complete quiet. He listened intently. -He could still hear the sound of hoofs, beating in the -distance. He drove his heels into the Arab's flanks and -rode out into the stream of pale starlight which flowed -down towards the valley.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He rode at a quick canter, dangerous enough on the -steep gradation and only justified by his knowledge of -every curve in the narrowing roadway. His riding had -nothing of the recklessness with which he had driven the -night before. He held himself and his horse in the steel -grip of a definite purpose.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At the bottom of the hill on which Gaya perched itself -like a beautiful white bird he drew rein and again listened. -There was no moon; the intense clarity of an Indian night -covered the parched and gasping plain with a seeming -luminousness in which nothing was visible but unrealities. -Overhead the black burnished shield of the sky blazed -with its mysterious, unreadable devices. But for the -monotonous rhythmic thud dying in the distance the -silence was absolute, painful, like the suspended breathing -of a fevered body. The river was voiceless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay rode on. The road had narrowed to little more -than a track which the drought and the passing of heavy -wagons to and fro to the new bridge had made a trap of -crumbling ruts and dust-covered holes. It was five miles -to the river, and nearly two hours had passed before the -rider caught the first murmur of water. It sounded faint -and exhausted. In the vague light the new bridge looked -like some monstrous dragon, its body spanning the half-empty -river-bed, its thick-set limbs planted stolidly in the -sluggish water. It needed no more than a ceremony for -it to be complete. Yet Barclay turned up to the old -bridge. In view of its approaching demolition it had been -neglected and part of the wooden rail had been broken -down, making the crossing at nightfall a matter of some -danger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay chose it and rode across with slack rein. On -the other side he dismounted and tethered his horse and -went on on foot through the trackless jungle grass.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>When he stood still he could catch no sound, neither -the thud of hoofs nor the faintest movement. The high -grass, as it yielded to his body, rustled and cracked -deafeningly in his ears. His own breathing sounded like the -loud panting of a hunted animal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The temple lay sullen and dark and silent in the black -shadow of the jungle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay reached the gateway. The obscurity was here -so dense that his instinct alone guided him. He went -forward deliberately, noisily, sensing the hands that waited -for him, the eyes that watched him. Then he struck a light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The next instant that for which he waited came, and, -though he had waited for it, its swiftness and deadliness -drove a scream from his lips—a scream that was smothered -to a choking groan almost at its birth. He stumbled and -fell, his hands twisted behind him, his unprotected face -grazing the stones. He felt hot breath on his neck, the -cut of a cord round his wrists. Gagged and helpless, he -was jerked back to his knees and a dark lantern flashed its -eye on to his bleeding face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Beyond the dazzling circle he could see forms no more -than shadows painted dimly against the dense blackness -of the temple walls. Nearest to the light, Vahana's -wild, expressionless eyes glittered with the cold lustre of -a serpent's; but, as he grew accustomed to the light, Barclay -recognized other faces, two headmen from neighbouring -villages, a handful of priests wearing the Triple Cord on -their shoulders, five non-commissioned officers from the -native regiment. They crowded round him in a silent -circle which contracted like a steel trap. But Barclay -seemed neither to fear nor heed them. He threw back -his head and looked up into Ayeshi's face. Then he drew -himself together as a man does who knows that life and -death hover in the balance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So you were a spy after all, Mr. Barclay?" Ayeshi -said in English.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, Rajah, your servant," was the swift answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The fine nostrils distended with a deep-drawn breath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you know who I am, then?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know that you are Ayeshi, the son of Ram Alla, who -was deposed and driven into exile by the English. I know -that you were saved by a few faithful who feared to breathe -the secret even to you. I know that you have borne -willingly a stigma which is another's. I know that you -have starved and suffered and learned in the gutters of -Calcutta that an unworthy English Sahib should go -unpunished."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi lifted his hand imperatively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How have you learnt these things?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have ears in every village, Rajah."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why did you follow me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have a wish to serve you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are English——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"English!" Barclay laughed. "Yes, I have English -blood in my veins. I am the son of the old Tristram Sahib -who seduced my mother and brought about her death, -who hunted down my brothers and our father's servants -and shot them from the cannon's mouth, who gave honourable -life to Tristram Sahib, the wealthy and happy and -honoured, who gave life to me, an outcaste——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yet a night ago you sat and ate with these, thy -people——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That also is true. I fought for their friendship, Rajah, -I grovelled for it. I schemed for it. I would have sold -you and all these, my brothers, if they would have made -me one of them. But they would not. They have chosen, -not I. Last night, Rasaldû, the swineherd's son, would not -sit at table with me. That was the end."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have an English wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay laughed again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who sold herself to me for a high price, who would -rather die ten deaths than be a wife to me, who loves -Tristram Sahib——" He broke off and jerked his head -towards the intently watching Sadhu. "Vahana here -knows something of what I say. Let him testify for me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The shadowy, unreal circle of faces turned for an instant. -Vahana bowed his head in assent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have told you the truth," Barclay went on. "The -best and the worst. I have risked life to tell it you. I -knew what might await me here—a knife in the dark -perhaps without a word spoken—and yet I had to come. -Life can be more bitter than death. A man cannot live -alone as I have done—there comes a time when his soul -cries for his people."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They looked at him silently, without pity. The agony -in his hoarse voice did not touch them. For them also he -was the Pariah—the outcaste. He read their answer in -their eyes and turned back to Ayeshi with a burst of passion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Take me—claim me—make me one of you! I have -power—I have money—I can do for you what no other -man could do. Either you must kill me or make me one -of your blood. I know too much. There is no other -way out for either of us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi did not move or speak. One of the two priests -crept closer, avoiding Barclay's shadow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What can you do for us?" he whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know very well, O Heera Singh! The drought -is on us. The crops will fail. Is there a man in your -village who does not owe all that he has to me? What -if I make our Lord Ayeshi their deliverer—if he should -free them from me? And I have money. Is all that -nothing?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The priest was silent, fingering his sacred cord with -eager fingers. But Ayeshi knelt down and looked full -into the Eurasian's face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You said that you would have betrayed us for their -friendship," he said. "What if they came now and offered -you their hands——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is not in their power," was the swift and bitter -answer. "They have tried—the river is too wide for them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was silence again. The yellow light revealed -figures lurking behind them, black, vaguely defined forms -which glided softly up and down the temple walls. Vahana -had bent down and with his claw-like finger drew a pattern -in the dust. It was the sign of Swashtika. Barclay drew -his breath between his teeth. He laid his hand on the -rough-drawn symbol and Vahana's hand closed down on -his. The priest wetted his forefinger with his tongue and -touched Barclay's forehead, tracing two horizontal lines. -But Barclay did not feel him. He was only conscious of -that hand, cold, hard, scaly. It seemed to envelop him, -to glide up his arm and to reach down and close about his -heart.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One of our blood," the priest muttered, "for evil and -for good we claim you one of us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Ayeshi made a gesture of proud impatience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There can be no evil," he said. "The worst that -can come to any of us is death. And what is death but -release? We who have seen our faith insulted, our gods -denied, our dreams shattered—what is death to us? Each -one of us has his own bitter wrong. Let him avenge it -under my banner." He turned authoritatively to one of -the native officers. "We have had enough of words. -From henceforward there shall be nothing said which does -not translate itself into action. You, Parga, what have -you to tell me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man answered with a military salute.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"All is ready, lord. We are patient. We do but await -your signal."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We have planned for the twenty-fifth of this month, -lord," his companion added.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"By that time we shall have our forces on this side of -the river ready. Give me the map."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The map was spread out on the ground. Ayeshi traced -a line down the length of the river, whispering his orders. -Here and there one of the soldiers assented or offered a -suggestion. The priests were silent but watchful. Their -faces glistened like burnished bronze in the yellow light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Barclay felt and realized only that hand which had -rested on his. It was as though he had plunged his arm -into icy water and the chill had begun to creep through -his whole body. His blood had become cold and sluggish -in his veins.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He listened, and beyond the subdued voices he heard -strange sounds—an intermittent rustling amidst the long -grass, a hushed, sibilant whispering, the crack of a branch -under the weight of a writhing, twisting body.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He lifted his head and it seemed to him that the jungle -towered over him, roofing the broken walls of the temple -with its sinister shadow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana watched him unceasingly.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Dawn was still afar off as Barclay rode his horse over -the narrow bridge. Once on the farther bank he turned -and looked back furtively. Nothing was visible. The -forest-clad mountains were no more than a monstrous blot -on the burnished shield, wiping out a part of its mysterious -quarterings. Yet their massed blackness fascinated him. -They filled him with an inexplicable horror which until -now he had held partially in abeyance; but in this -loneliness it became an obsessing force of panic. Something -had happened to him. He sat there in the saddle, but his -mind, a second vitally real consciousness, crawled through -the trackless undergrowth. His ears heard strange -whisperings; things unnamable slid over his limbs and wound -themselves about his throat and body, driving the breath -from him. He could not taunt himself with feverish -imaginings. The man in the saddle might have been a -shadow, a figment of the brain, but that second being -struggling and gasping for life in those jungle fastnesses -was a reality—himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not imagination, but revelation. A sixth sense -had been stabbed to consciousness. Scales had fallen from -his eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He forced himself to ride on and in an instant the return -became a heedless, panic-stricken flight before an -invisible, formless enemy. Even in his own compound there -was no safety, no escape from whatever hunted him. -Rather in the black silence of the bungalow he recognized -a new menace. He tried to master himself,—to call the -sleeping syce, but his tongue was dry and thick in his -mouth and refused its office. With shaking hands he -tethered his horse and crawled stealthily across the verandah -to the open windows of his room.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood still on the threshold, listening. His own -breathing seemed to come from the other end of the -room—from some one who crouched amidst the ponderous -furniture, watching him. He tried to strike a light, but -the match flickered and went out and he dared not try -again. He felt that no light could live in that stifling, -foetid atmosphere. And the shadows which he had -awakened appalled him. He stumbled blindly to the -chair beneath the lamp and crouched down into it, hushing -his labouring lungs, forcing himself to confront the -darkness, the sweat thick and icy on his forehead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had dared death that night and had not known fear; -but this was different. It was something in himself—an -awful disruption, the breaking down of some secret barrier -behind which had been imprisoned untold knowledge, a -horde of ghostly, inherited memories. He tried to stem -them back—vainly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He—that second self—saw this stain beneath the carpet. -He saw old Tristram Sahib seated where he sat—Vahana -crawling out of the darkness—the uplifted weapon. He -heard a woman's muffled scream—the bumping of a body -falling between narrow walls—the sullen splash of water.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>These things were to him actual—corporeal.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned with a shuddering gasp, burying his face in -his arms, hiding from them, awaiting in palsied helplessness -for the deliverance of the morning.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-price-paid"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE PRICE PAID</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Mrs. Boucicault and her daughter sat on either side -of the wide-open windows and avoided each other's eyes. -It was the first time that they had been alone together -for many months, and they found nothing to say. Had -they been total strangers they could have discussed the -situation with sympathy, but they were bound together, -and to the man on whose return from death to life they -waited, by too many ugly memories for any superficial -intercourse. They were like galley-slaves, hating each -other and the bonds that manacled them to an intolerable -intimacy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a faint, sickening taste of ether in the hot -air. It seemed to permeate everything, and to Anne, who -knew nothing of the surgical side of illness, it conveyed a -suggestion of mysterious suffering and horror. It affected -her with the same physical and purely instinctive fear which -assails most human beings in their first contact with death. -It was not so much the thing that was happening as the -grim, immaculate ceremonial surrounding it which terrified -her. She would have been glad to have been alone, and -in her heart she denied her mother the right to be present. -But convention and decorum were on Mrs. Boucicault's -side and against such opponents Anne felt herself powerless -to make a stand. Once she glanced quickly across at her -companion and saw how cruelly the daylight treated the -small face now that it was without its persistent animation. -Neither paint nor powder could conceal the livid pallor -beneath the painful slackening of all the facial muscles. -Only the mouth retained its straight, unbreakable resolution.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One can't live as she does without paying for it," -Anne thought, and did not acknowledge the little glow of -righteous satisfaction which passed over her. Instead she -went back mentally to the man lying unconscious at the -other side of the bungalow and to her own life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For all her painful anxiety she felt strangely content. -She had the elevated serenity of one who has passed -through tribulation to a well-earned happiness. For she -had been very unhappy in her life. There were the days -of "misunderstanding" with her father, the days in -"Trichy" when she had faced the alternatives of a penniless -and ill-prepared attack on the unknown world or an -ignominious return to a life her whole soul condemned; -there were days, even since her marriage, when she realized -that the man she had worshipped was not wholly worthy -of worship, that in many ways he had fallen below the -standard which she set him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But of late these things had sunk into the background. -God had been very good. She had longed so much for a -child, and that was to be given to her. That fact alone -poured like sunshine over all the past. It seemed to her -that with the beginning of that hope everything had -combined together to make her happy. Her father was to -be made well and strong again. Sigrid Fersen, save where -a very few were concerned, had dropped out of Gaya's -life into a grey seclusion, and with her the man whom she -had sought to drag up the heights of her meretricious -popularity. And, best of all, that very morning, when so -much hung in the balance, she had regained her love, her -humble, possessive adoration of her husband. He had -seemed so big, so strong and invincible. The fire in his -steady, absorbed eyes had thrilled her, the touch of his -hand had given her a passionate, child-like confidence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know that you won't fail," she had whispered. "God -bless you, Tris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure He will," he had answered, smiling. And -though perhaps there was something in that familiar -phrase which jarred on her, still it could not weaken her -joy in him or her faith in her own blessing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, God had been very good——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think it is over," Mrs. Boucicault said suddenly. "I -can hear some one coming——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Both women rose instinctively to their feet and turned -towards the door. Anne's heart throbbed painfully. As -Dr. Martin entered she felt a sudden weakness overcome -her so that she could hardly stand. The doctor had -discarded his white overalls, but he brought in with him a -deeper tinge of that nauseating odour. Through a mist -she heard him talking, and even in that moment she was -conscious of a bitter resentment. He was speaking to her -mother.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—wonderfully successful, Mrs. Boucicault. To tell -you the truth I had no idea the I.M.S. concealed such a -talent for the knife. Remarkable hand—almost inspired, -one might say. Major Tristram can set up in Harley -Street any day. Of course we're not out of the wood yet. -We can't hope to see much change in your husband for -some weeks. Shock and all that, you know. There was -a lot more trouble than we suspected. Old trouble which -must have caused a good deal of—eh—mental unrest." He -rubbed his chin as though on the point of some further -information. "Well, I daresay Tristram will go into -details. He wants me to stop in Gaya till we know better -where we are, and I shall try and arrange to. Very interesting -case—very. Hullo, here's Major Tristram himself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With a little cry of joy Anne turned to run to her -husband, but as she saw the man who entered her purpose -faltered. She was not given to analysis, and the change -in him, because it was not entirely physical, eluded her. -And it frightened her. It was as though all her instinctive -fears had taken shape in him. He looked exhausted to -the point of breakdown, but that she had seen before, -and it was not that which had brought her to a standstill. -It was something behind the white stillness of his face -the passionless detachment, the Nirvana which, had she -but known it, comes to men who have passed through a -vast spiritual crisis.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris!" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She came to him at last and he put his arm round her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's all right," he said simply. His eyes were on -Mrs. Boucicault. "Your husband will live," he said. -"He may get well."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She nodded, twisting the rings round her thin fingers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How long will it take before he is strong again?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A few months perhaps."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then I—I have that much time left me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother!" Anne cried out. She felt Tristram's arm -slip from her shoulder. He went to Mrs. Boucicault and -took her hand in his.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He may change very much," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps—but it will be too late." She made a little -grimace. "Well, I have learned the value of time at -any rate. Dr. Martin, come and see me into my carriage. -My daughter wants to have a good cry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Dr. Martin offered his arm with a grave courtesy -surprising in a man of his somewhat casual temperament, -and the two went down the verandah steps talking in an -undertone. Anne watched them in bitter silence. The -attitude of these two men towards the wizened, painted -woman had thrown a shadow of disgust over her happiness. -They had treated her as though she occupied the -centre of their stage, accepting her flippant cruelty without -reproof, offering her an austere reverence. A scornful -comment trembled on Anne's lips, but, turning, she saw -that Tristram had dropped down in one of the chairs, his -face hidden in his hands, and her heart melted towards -him. She knelt down and put her arms about his neck.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris!" she whispered. He looked up. "Tris!" she -repeated on a note of faint reproach. For she had seen -that his face was wet, and tears in a man had always -seemed to her rather repulsive. "What's the matter, -dear?" she asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled faintly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am an ass, aren't I? I don't often do this sort of -thing—some things touch me horribly. Besides, I'm a bit -rattled still. Those two hours were devilish—you don't -know——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She kissed him solemnly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know how splendid you are—Dr. Martin told us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did he? Well, honestly, I don't believe any other -man could have done what I did today. No one else -could have wanted to win so badly as I did."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For my sake, husband?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For yours and mine."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's sweet of you," she said gently. Her moment's -irritation had passed. She rested on his bigness, his -redeeming strength and tenderness. "I am very happy, -Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you?" He looked into her face eagerly. "Really -happy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Happier than ever in my life. So much that is wonderful -has happened. It seems to have made everything worth -while. All the suffering." She leant against him, her -eyes half-closed in dreamy recollection. "Sometimes I -think it's all been for the best. It's taught us charity, -hasn't it—to be gentle in our judgment? I know I have -often been hard too. Today I could forgive even the -man who caused it all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His arm tightened about her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He'd be glad to hear that, Anne——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I could forgive." She drew herself up a little. "But -I wouldn't help him to escape his punishment, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You couldn't, dear. No one escapes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, that's true, isn't it? Sooner or later they are -found out. They say criminals always return to the -scenes of their crime. Mother told me Ayeshi had been -seen slinking about Heerut at night——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi?" he interrupted perplexedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave a quick glance into his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—of course, I'd forgotten, no one's ever told you. -You see, you were so fond of Ayeshi, and you were ill, and -so we arranged that we wouldn't tell you unless—unless -he was caught. Afterwards no one liked to, and you're -such an old hermit—you never hear anything. But now -it doesn't matter, does it? It was Ayeshi who tried to -kill my father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He pushed her away from him as though she had -suddenly ceased to exist for him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't understand——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed uncertainly—half-angrily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, Tris, I've just explained——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I understood that no one was suspected——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've explained that, too, dear. I thought you would -guess when you heard that he had disappeared like -that——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned on her almost violently, but even she realized -in that moment that he was scarcely conscious of her. -His blazing eyes had a sightless look in them that frightened -her to her feet.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I might have known," he stammered, "but I am too -big a fool—an idiotic sentimentalist——" He steadied -and looked at her straightly with seeing eyes. "Ayeshi -must have disappeared to shield me," he said. "It was -I who nearly killed your father."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her face was at first only stupid-looking as though his -words had had no meaning—then every trace of colour -ebbed from her lips. She wavered, and he sprang to her -side, and carried her to the chair which he had just left. -An intense, torturing pity swept him. She was so small, -so very fragile. He felt himself as something monstrous -riding over all her happiness. She clung to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris—Tris—please don't say things to frighten me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've got to. Sooner or later I had to tell you. I -didn't mean to be so sudden. But it's true."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She freed herself. There was no strength in her arms, -but he had felt her whole body cower and shrink from -him and he stood back from her as though she had struck -him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't—I can't believe——" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must, Anne." He paused, and then went on -quietly. "It was after that time at Bjura. I was riding -home as best I could with a temperature God knows where—I -don't tell you that as an excuse, but as a sort of -explanation—and I found your father torturing Wickie. I -know now that probably he was as mad and irresponsible -as I was, but at the moment I thought he was simply a -devil. I intervened—I believe I appealed to him I tried -to stop him. He struck me repeatedly, but as long as he -didn't touch Wickie I didn't care. Then he ran Wickie -through with the sharp end of a bamboo stick—and I -struck him. I am very strong—and I had no self-control. -It was as though all the brakes had given way—and I -struck too hard. That was how it happened, Anne."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He waited. He could not have said for what, but he -knew that it was something great in her. He had seen -this moment many times before and seen it both as an -end and as a beginning of a new life between them. It -was in her hands. But at the last a kind of proud -confidence had swept over him. It did not occur to him to -appeal to her. Understanding is above forgiveness. -Either she understood, and there would be no need to forgive, -or he was simply a murderer, and then her forgiveness -would be valueless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But he had believed that now she would understand. -She crouched in her chair, looking at him with horror -in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't—it's too terrible—to have done that—and -then to have shirked the responsibility——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still he waited. He had to explain—that was only -fair to her and to himself. But he began to lose hope. -He saw himself with her eyes and the eyes of her world.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You know that I was delirious for a long time afterwards. -When I recovered the whole thing seemed finished. -No one was suspected as far as I knew. Well, your father -meant to smash me. I saw that much in his face. And, -frankly, Anne, I did not choose to be ruined for his sake. -My life—my work—was of value to others to whom I -owed more than I did to him. If I made no effort to -escape the consequences of what I had done I also did -not immolate myself to a false idea of justice——" He -broke off. It was not what he had meant to say to her. -It was cold and ugly. But her eyes told him that everything -he could tell her, of the deliberately accepted burden -of silence, of the motive of a great filial love which had -chosen to crush the inborn, conventional instincts of -honour rather than tread the easy, chivalrous road of -self-accusation, of all that the intervening time had held of -doubt, and weariness—would be to her so much hypocrisy -and cowardly subterfuge. The crisis struck no fire of -sympathy in her which might have illuminated his curt -and clumsy sentences. To her he was simply a criminal, -and before her he became one—tongue-tied, self-distrustful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She spoke at last and instinctively he braced himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Are you taking shelter behind your mother, or whom?" -she asked sneeringly. Then, as he did not answer, she -got up. The stupor which had restrained her hitherto -gave way. She shivered from head to foot, and her face -was twisted and livid with the violence of her feeling. -"And then you married me!" she cried out—"just to -shield yourself——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, didn't you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He strode at her and took her by the shoulders. For -a moment she thought, in her horror of him, that he -would have struck her, and she threw back her head defying -the blow with all the strength of her contempt. But -his eyes daunted her. They were neither angry nor -guilty—but bewildered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne, why in God's name did you marry me if you -thought of me like that?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her lips quivered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't think of you like that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, perhaps you didn't. You couldn't have thought -of me at all. You just imagined me—you never knew -or wanted to know the man I really am. Now that the -image is broken, there's nothing left. I am just—somebody -you don't know—a total stranger, capable of anything——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't it true?" she persisted stubbornly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No," he said. "It is not true." He thought a moment -and then added with grave simplicity, "It would never -have occurred to me. You were just some one I was -very fond of. I wanted to take care of you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She tried to laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose, having murdered the father, you thought -it was your duty to marry the daughter."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His hands dropped wearily to his sides.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If I hadn't been instrumental in your father's loss, -if I had had the faintest hope of his ever being able to -take his place in your life again, I wouldn't have asked -you to be my wife. I shouldn't have dared draw you into -my life. But you were lonely and unhappy—much as -I was——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You felt guilty and you pitied me," she interrupted -with feverish excitement. "I suppose you think you've -sacrificed yourself. You never wanted to marry me. It -was always that woman—that woman——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For pity's sake—don't, Anne!" he pleaded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why shouldn't I? I've the right——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You have not the right to say that," he said sternly. -"I have behaved like a fool—I have done you, as things -turned, a great wrong; but I have never thought of any -other woman as my wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not as your wife, perhaps," she interrupted wildly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned away from her. He felt physically sick -and broken. The room, with its suffocating propriety, its -prim order, seemed to him an integral part of the scene's -sordidness. He had only one instinct left—the thirst for -the free air and the loneliness of the life to which he had -belonged. She watched him in breathless silence, -clasping and unclasping her thin hands. She was the more -resentful because he had driven her to an outburst of -which she was ashamed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When you found my father was going to get better, -what did you expect?" she began again. "I wonder -since you had gone so far—that you didn't finish your -work."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A faint, bitter amusement touched his white lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Anne, you would wonder that. But I am a -doctor—not so much by profession as by instinct. I -have to save—to heal where I can. Even then I might -have failed in this instance and not found myself guilty. -But he was your father—I wanted you to be happy—I -think it—it inspired me to do more than I could otherwise -have done."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What did you expect—between us afterwards?" she -persisted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The smile lingered, but without its bitterness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I don't know, Anne—but something different -from this. I knew that you'd be pained, even horrified—that -was only natural. But I thought you knew me well -enough to see the less ugly side. I had a foolish fancy -even—that in such a crisis we might find each -other—understand each other better. Well—I've been wrong -all the way."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was silent for a moment, gathering together the -storm-scattered principles of her life. She was trying to -be just, charitable, towards him. The tears glistened on -her cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I daresay you did mean to make me happy, Tris. -But you see, you couldn't. One can't build up happiness -on sin."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I did not feel myself guilty—not in that way," he said -gently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But you were guilty." Her voice hardened. "It -was a crime to have struck a man down for the sake of -a mongrel dog——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned quickly. He felt mysteriously outraged, as -though she had struck straight and deep into something -vital in him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It wasn't only a dog, Anne," he said. "It was the -pain—all the needless suffering——" He did not try to -finish. He could not have explained, because he knew -it was not in her power to understand. For the first time -he saw all that separated them—not so much a gulf as -a world, making her day his night. They were both -silent. In a few minutes the superficial wrappings of -their life had been torn off and its nakedness held them -appalled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The door opened softly and the new nurse who had come -with Dr. Martin looked in for an instant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He is coming round, Major Tristram," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Very well, nurse. I'll be with you at once."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He went towards the door, but Anne forestalled him. -Her face was composed and very set, though the tears -still hung on her long lashes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't want you to—I don't think you ought to——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at her grimly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As you wish. Dr. Martin must be outside somewhere. -I'll explain. He can take over the case."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Explain—what do you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We've got to begin somewhere. Better now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stared at him blankly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't mean—you can't mean—you're not going -to tell people?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must. Besides, isn't it what you wish?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned away and sat down, burying her face in her -hands. She was crying softly, helplessly, like a child. -He came back to her and stood over her as though his first -impulse to comfort, her had been checked by recollection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne, I am a clumsy beggar—I don't understand—I -don't know what you want——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't tell everyone," she sobbed wildly. "You -can't, Tris. It would be too cruel. Think of all the -people you'd hurt—who would have to suffer with you—all -of us, even—even our child—even father. You mustn't -do it, Tris. Father may have changed—he will be so -happy—I shall beg him for his own sake as well as for mine. -He'll do as I ask—I'm sure he will. Tris—it's awful to -know this awful thing oneself—but for others to know -too—and all the scandal——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was incoherent in her piteous despair, but now he -understood her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You forget Ayeshi, Anne," he said, "and all I owe him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi——? But people only suspect—he's in hiding -because of some money he took—what does he matter? -No one could prove anything—only father—and he can -clear Ayeshi best of all. Don't you see that—or don't you -care? Do you want me to suffer?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He winced.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'll do whatever you want, Anne," he said heavily. -"Everything on earth I can do. But I've got to think. -I'll tell Martin I've had marching orders, or some lie. -He knows the case, and can do everything as well as I -could. I'll clear out to Heerut. I've got to see Ayeshi. -In the meantime, you'll have breathing space to think -things over too—and to decide. You can let me know." He -went to the door and there hesitated and looked back -at her with pitying wistfulness. "Anne, I don't repent -much what I did to your father—I can't—but you didn't -deserve to be hurt. And I've hurt you. I can't forgive -myself that—ever."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He waited an instant. She did not move and he went -out closing the door softly behind him.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="return"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER VIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">RETURN</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"When I heard folks say the place was haunted I just -laughed in their faces," Mrs. Smithers asserted moodily. -"I don't hold with ghosts and them sort, and in a general -way I don't believe in them. But I believe in this ghost all -right. We've tried to scrub it out, but it won't go and it's -got the grouch on us for trying. It's just sucking the polish -out of the furniture. And it's sucking the life out of me; -I know that."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned to her companion lying curled up in the big -basket chair and challenged contradiction with her own -appearance. Sigrid looked back at her gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your wig's crooked, Smithy dear. Of late its angle has -been persistently drunken."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What's it matter!" Mrs. Smithers returned. "Who -cares? We might as well be drunk for all the notice these -stuck-up nobodies take of us. What's the use of being -respectable, if there's no one to see? Might as well fade -away, comfy, that's my opinion." Whereupon, suiting her -action to her words, she snatched the offending erection -from her head, sat on it, and proceeded to rumple up the -short grey hair till the last vestige of propriety was lost -in a ludicrously rakish disorder. "Well, I've been -respectable for your sake for two solid years, Sigrid, and -it's nigh done for me. Now I'm myself again, and I mean -to stick to meself or bust; so there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid gave a laugh that ended with a sigh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your nice, wicked, unprincipled self, Smithy! It -reminds me of old times."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"H'm, does it? Well, nothing reminds me of old times -in this horrible place. Nothing—not even you. You're -just the outsides of what you were, Sigrid—a sort of husk. -I don't know where you are—but the real you isn't here -at all—and a good job too." She paused and then wistfully, -rather shyly: "You don't even play nowadays, my dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid got up slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Smithy, one couldn't play in this room. I could play -in a garret or in the streets, but not here. Fancy -Beethoven and that marble atrocity! Even Elgar! No, no, -I couldn't." She went out past Mrs. Smithers on to the -verandah and there lingered for a moment. "Look at the -sunshine!" she said dreamily. "That, at least, is always -the same for the just and the unjust, the happy and the -unhappy. Doesn't that console you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It isn't the same. It's an awful thing here. They -say if it goes on beating down like that it will mean -thousands and thousands of deaths. It's cruel. But, such as -it is, it don't come inside this place, Sigrid. It beats down -on the road out there, but it don't touch us. We're walled -in—the Lord knows by what—but we're walled in."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid took her lace parasol and went down the steps -to the wide avenue which swept round in a semicircle to -the road. She still moved with her smooth, tigerish -elasticity, but she herself was conscious of an overwhelming -fatigue. It was as Smithy said—the spirit of the place -had triumphed. Little by little it had overpowered the -garish, incongruous splendours with which Barclay had -sought to change its character. The life and gaiety which -he had schemed for had never crossed the threshold, and -now he no longer fought, but in sullen acquiescence watched -gloom and decay rise like a sombre tide over its old ground. -The place was moribund. The people in it moved softly -and spoke instinctively in hushed voices as though -somewhere in those empty rooms some one lay dead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid reached the compound gates. It was still early -in the morning, but the heat burnt down on the white -road with the reflected fierceness of a near and monstrous -fire. The air was thick and tasted metallic. A bullock-wagon -toiled up towards Gaya, came to an exhausted halt, -and then, in response to listless imprecations, creaked -heavily on its way. The mingled sweat and dust lay in -ridges on the animals' heaving flanks and scored the dark -faces which were turned for a moment in Sigrid's direction. -Man and brute were curiously allied in that blank and -yet piteous stare. It was as though both visaged suffering -and visaged it dumbly, patiently, accepting it as the -decree of life.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then all was still again.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A man on horseback turned the bend of the road and -came at a lumbering walk down-hill towards the bungalow. -She stood and watched him and an odd, unsteady smile -of recognition played with the corners of her lips. No -other man in Gaya rode such a lank, spindle-legged mare, -no other man cut so quaint a figure, no other man could -have worn those clothes and borne himself so bravely. -For, despite that touch of the grotesque, there was -something splendid and royal about him, something in his -bigness, in the grand lines of his body, in his freedom and -unconsciousness that made him physically kin to those -giants whose fearless, joyous living glimmers through -history and legend—to the Siegfrieds and the Beowulfs -and the Parsifals, men of the forest and the mountain, who -drank deep of life at its source and died on heights which -our day has forgotten.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He carried a yellow-haired dog under one arm and an -ordinary covered wicker basket was tied to his saddle, and -despite his efforts jolted somewhat to the plaintive protests -of a cat's mewing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She would have turned and avoided him, but the bigness -of him had held her riveted too long. He drew rein -and swung himself to the ground beside her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've brought you Richard," he said simply. He did -not offer her his hand or greet her, although they had not -spoken to each other for many weeks. He seemed to sweep -all ceremony aside.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I ought to have brought him before—I promised, -didn't I?—but somehow I couldn't. It was like a slight -to Wickie. He's had a rotten time though, poor chap. -You'll make it up to him, I know."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She patted the mongrel's distrustful snout. The man's -proximity shook her composure so that she seized eagerly -on the first thought that came to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What other passengers have you on board?" she said, -with a little nod towards the heaving and mysteriously -creaking basket at his saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My tabbies," he said solemnly. "They've got rather -obstreperous since we've been civilized. My wife doesn't -like them running about after me, so they had to be shut -up, poor beggars, and there's nothing like shutting people -up for bringing the devil out of them. Now I'm taking -them with me to Heerut." He smiled a little. "I'm going -back to the wilderness," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He took off his helmet and ran his hand through the -thick, tawny hair with a gesture like that of a sleeper -freeing himself from the clouds of an evil dream. The -light striking through the branches of the mohwa-tree lit -up his face, and, looking up at him and reading all that -the last months had wrought, she felt a pang of angry pity. -If this was Siegfried, then it was not the Siegfried of -Brünnhilde's fiery mountain, but the man of the Rhine Valley, -Gudruna's man, fettered by civilization and weakened -by its trickery and dishonesty. Had he also drunk of the -cup of forgetfulness, she wondered? Had he lost his vision -of the fire-girded rocks above where he had won his -manhood? A flicker of the old mockery shone in her eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't look very well, Major Tristram," she said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I'm well enough—physically at any rate." He -laid his hand on his heart with a rueful laugh. "I've got -a sort of spiritual indigestion though—it's this life—it -doesn't suit me or my tabbies. It's too neat and tidy. -I'm like that what's-his-name person who had to put his -hand to his mother earth to keep strong. I need to be -doing and fighting, struggling for existence in my mother -wilderness to keep decent. Well, I shall have enough of -that out there. Unless the drought breaks soon we're -going to have more trouble. The unhappy folk in the -village are beginning to die off like flies, and when the -famine comes——?" He shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't look fit for such work," she exclaimed -bitterly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm tired—that's all. I had a stiff day of it yesterday." He -looked at her with a flash of boyish enthusiasm. "Hasn't -any one told you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No one has told me anything," she said. "People -don't rush here with their latest gossip."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He flushed painfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, well, it isn't exactly gossip. It's about Boucicault."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Boucicault?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes. You know Sir Gilbert Foster gave him up. -Well, I found something Sir Gilbert didn't—a little spot -on the brain not bigger than a pin's head. I operated -yesterday, and I believe he'll get well. Isn't that a feather -in my cap?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked up, smiling into the sunlight, and waited for -her to speak, until the silence became oppressive. Then -he turned to her, drawn by an instinct which the next -instant he knew was justified. He caught her by the arm, -shaken from all his resolute self-possession by what her -face revealed to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid—what is it—you're ill—in pain——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But she freed herself almost violently, steadying -herself, forcing the blood back into her cheeks by a sheer -effort of the will.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's nothing—don't fuss over me. It's the heat—nothing -more——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then you ought not to be out here."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed defiantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're not my doctor, Major Tristram, and I won't -be bullied. Besides, you've whetted my curiosity. There -now, I'm all right again. What were you saying about -Colonel Boucicault? You—you operated, and now he's -going to get well?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think so." But he answered absently. He was -still intent on her face, striving to get beneath the mask. -The moment's livid pallor had gone, but she was none the -less changed. Her voice, level and quiet, had yet a new -tone in it—a kind of hoarseness which he knew as a -symptom of exhaustion and pain. She turned away, trying -to avoid his eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has he been able to speak?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not yet. He is not even properly conscious. It -may last some weeks."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave a little cynical laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose some one will be glad."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne—my wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, yes—your wife." Some new thought struck her. -She turned back to him, with a line of perplexity between -her arched brows. "Aren't you leaving him very soon?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He hesitated, and then answered slowly:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dr. Martin is with him. I have to go to Heerut. It's -not only my work. I've heard that Ayeshi's somewhere -in these parts, and I've got to find him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you want with Ayeshi?" she asked, no less -deliberately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've got to bring him back. I only heard yesterday -of the suspicion which sent him into hiding, and, I am -afraid, to the devil. The suspicion is unwarranted. He's -got to come back and be cleared."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Poor Ayeshi!" she said under her breath.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded, his eyes darkened with pain.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He has suffered horribly and unjustly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Needlessly!" she corrected vehemently. "Uselessly! -Who minds sacrifice or suffering or injustice so long as the -end—the purpose—is clear and attained? It's the pitiable -uselessness——" She broke off, tapping the ground with -an exasperated foot. But he had heard the tears in her -voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't that the horror of all suffering?" he asked, -wearily—"its apparent uselessness? We can only hope it leads -somewhere."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, for pity's sake don't be platitudinous!" she burst -out. "It's almost as though I was listening to Anne -talking."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My wife!" he reminded her sharply.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, you are very loyal!" she retorted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent a moment, and then laughed, covering -over his own pallor.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's only a sense of justice. A wife isn't responsible -for the poor qualities of her husband's brains, is she?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She may be responsible for his becoming a sleek prig," -she said cruelly, then, with a quick, almost girlish gesture -of appeal: "Don't be angry, Major Tristram! The -heat has disagreed with me mentally and physically. -Let's talk of something else. Tell me something about -your mother."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at her, puzzled, and naïvely pleased.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What shall I tell you about her?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I don't know—tell me if she is well and happy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bent down to stroke the dog at his feet, hiding his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe she is. In her last letter she hoped to live -to welcome us both home——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will that hope be gratified, Major Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I fear not," he answered unsteadily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was silent, looking wistfully ahead into the white -sunlight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ever since that day I saw her picture and heard her -story I have been interested in your mother," she said at -last. "She is the sort of woman whom one wants to be -happy—whose happiness one would like to shelter to the -end."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"One can't protect another's happiness," he said. "I've -learned that much."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I also," she said gravely.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He straightened up. His blue eyes rested on her face -with a treacherous, smouldering trouble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't help feeling that you're—you're suffering," -he said. "It's the only thing I'm quick at guessing -at—if it's only physical—please go in and—and rest——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head. There was a tenderness in her -faint smile which a woman may feel for some big, clumsy, -loving boy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not tired. I come down here every day and watch -life go past."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid——" He faltered. "Does that mean that -you are very lonely?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—not very. My husband is always away now. -Mrs. Boucicault and Mary come sometimes—and even -Mrs. Bosanquet. I think they all love me, but they can't -alter circumstances, and it makes them desperately -unhappy. Often I wish they wouldn't come——" She -waited a moment, studying his set features with a pitying -knowledge. "I know what you're thinking, Major Tristram. -You're comparing this life with the golden palaces -and the mountain-tops, with my splendid living and -splendid dying."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She burst out laughing and patted him on the arm. -"Oh, my innocent friend, don't you know us mortals -better than that—don't you know how we love to air -our borrowed souls and talk largely and pompously about -the ideals we've cribbed out of a novel? There is nothing -in it—nothing. I just sold myself for an easy life in a -mud hut in the valley. Let that comfort you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He threw back his head, looking her full in the face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's a lie," he said. "You must have loved greatly."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a full minute they remained staring at each other -in defiant silence. And under his unhappy eyes her -expression changed and grew careless and indifferent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well—perhaps you're right, perhaps I did love with -all my heart." She held out her hand. "But I am very, -very tired now. The heat is appalling. I wish you God -speed, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He scarcely touched her. He swung himself up into -the saddle with a suddenness which startled Arabella into -a youthful curvet. The tabbies mewed protest, and -Tristram laid his hand soothingly on their basket. Then -he looked down and saw Sigrid standing at his knee. The -change in her held him motionless for all that every nerve -in him ached for motion and action. Her small, pale face -lifted itself to his in breathless eagerness; her parted lips -quivered, the eyes were fiery with the glitter of sternly -mastered tears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram—tell me—are all the old dreams gone?" -she asked huskily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His mouth under the short ruddy moustache hardened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am going back to find them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's well—go back, Tristram. They may be all -that are left any of us at the end. Our dreams are -real—reality is nothing. See—!" She laid her hand on her -breast with a curious gesture of self-accusation. "I am -all your wife would call me—just a mean, soulless -fortune-hunter. You've found me out. There is not one fine or -noble or high thing in me—and yet your vision of the -woman who danced that night, who has played to you the -finest music in the world is no illusion, but the truth. -Keep it—remember it. Perhaps"—she smiled faintly—"your -memory of her may bring Undine to her soul."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked away from her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't help myself——" he said roughly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't try. Let us keep all the beauty that we can."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laid her hand on Arabella's long neck and stroked -it caressingly. And now something elfish and illusive -dawned under her expression of intense earnestness. "Do -you remember—you used to go down to the temple when -the moon rose and dream you saw me dance among the -ruins——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I was a romantic boy—half crazed with loneliness——" -he broke in with repressed vehemence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The moon rises tonight," she said, so gently that he -scarcely heard her. Yet something insistent, patient in -her forced him to meet her eyes. He saw that they were -dry and brilliant, tragically exultant. They betrayed her -careless smile, the affectation of demure mockery with -which she once more gave him her hand. "Major Tristram, -I have a foolish presentiment that we shall meet -just once again—and after that no more. Good-bye till -then."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not answer. She turned lightly away from him. -And he rode on down towards the valley.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="for-the-last-time"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER IX</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">FOR THE LAST TIME</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Memory has many merciless weapons, but none keener, -crueller than a room which has belonged to our dead. -Who amongst us has escaped that moment of return after -what seems the culmination of all agonies when the mere -position of a chair, a glove thrown down idly and forgotten, -a little touch of familiar disorder tears open the freshly -closed grave and shows us on our way to a new, seemingly -endless road of pain?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something of that impotent grief laid hands on Tristram -as he stood on the threshold of his old home. The barely -furnished room was as he had left it that night of Meredith's -visit. An instinct had forbidden his return. Shortly -afterwards he had gone to Trichinopoly to be married, -and since then the place had stood deserted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The camp-bed had been tidied by Meredith's conscientious -hand, and the few breakfast things washed and -replaced, but there was cigarette ash on the table and the -lamp stood where it had burnt between them. It had a -grey, dead look, as though it had burnt itself out. The -chair where he had sat in that final hour of reckoning -expressed vividly the movement with which he had risen. -There were small, regular fragments of torn cardboard -beneath the table, and the dust lay thick and white over -them like a shroud. The dust was everywhere. It veiled -the photograph of his mother so that he could not see her -face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And the dead man whose personality the place expressed -so poignantly was himself. He felt towards it as a spirit -may do, looking down on the body which it has quitted -for ever. Not years, but a deep, narrow gulf of experience -separated him from the grown boy who had lived out his -joyous, romantic creed between these wooden walls, who -had striven and dreamed in their cool solitude, and gone -thence day after day to fight the bitterest of all realities, -human suffering, himself living in a world of his own -imagining.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Looking back, he saw that those had been winged days -of inspiration. He saw that in his dreams he had stood -close to the inner life of men which is greater than reality -and had seen visions and been dimly, gloriously aware -of great truths. These things had gone from him. He -stood with his feet planted on firm earth and knew nothing -but the dust and the turmoil and the darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But because there was stern stuff in him, he went about -his work patiently. With the help of the servant who -accompanied him, he dusted and tidied like a woman, -unpacked his medicine-chest and set out his instruments -in their glass cases. The two tabbies which he had set -at liberty prowled disconsolately about their old home, -seeming to miss something. He called to them and fed -them, but they did not respond, and presently they slipped -out into the street and vanished. He let them go. He -felt that they would not return. They had forgotten -him and had grown wild in their captivity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The brief dusk which precedes the Indian night shrouded -the village street, when at last, his work done, he came -out and closed the door of the hut behind him. The -street was empty. That fact did not as yet appear strange -to him, for the murderous heat of the day, far from relaxing, -seemed to have become intensified and hung thick and -sullen in the tainted air. Overhead the sky threw off -its brazen robes and came out in a luminous purple, whose -darker brilliancy was no less sinister. As yet there was -no sign of the break for which the land waited in gasping -agony.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram went on his way towards the cross-roads. He -passed a little group of old men returning from the river -and would have spoken to them, but they salaamed and -there was something in that ceremonious greeting, in their -stony, expressionless faces which chilled the blood and -forced him to go on wordless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was dark by the time he reached the council-tree. -As he approached he had heard a murmur of voices, which -were hushed as his shadow loomed up over the circle of -squatting figures. In the brightening starlight, he -recognized Lalloo in the place of honour at the foot of the -battered idol. Other forms he recognized, and for the first -time he became aware that he had seen only old men -since his return.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The circle greeted him gravely. He sat down at Lalloo's -side and filled his pipe. He talked of the drought and of -the coming famine and asked after those he knew. The -glowing bowl of his pipe threw a dull reflection on his face, -and he felt that their eyes were fixed on him. They -answered his questions with a measured slowness as though -each word had to be chosen and weighed, and when his -questions ceased they too became silent. One after another -a shadow rose from the circle and glided out into the -darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Presently only Lalloo remained.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram got up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tell me," he said, "what is happening here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo lifted himself slowly and stood deferentially -bowed, his hand caressing his beard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nothing, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram smoked placidly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is a lie, Lalloo. Once you were my friend."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is long since the Dakktar Sahib lived amongst us."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is friendship forgotten from one day to another?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is a saying, Sahib, that it must be won every -day afresh."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram was silent for a moment, hiding from the other's -eyes how sure and deadly the thrust had been. Then he -shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm afraid fate means to give me another chance to -serve you and win your friendship, Lalloo."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The wheel turns but once in a life-time," was the -enigmatic answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That may be. Well, I don't intend to cadge for your -good-will. I shall stay here and see you through whatever -is coming. In the meantime, tell me where can I find Ayeshi?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo gave no sign.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi comes no more——" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Doesn't he?" Tristram laughed grimly. "Well, the -next time he doesn't come, will you tell him that I must -see him. Perhaps his friendship will have worn better. -Tell him that he may return to us in safety and honour."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is no return for Ayeshi, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dead——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Lalloo glanced up through the darkness into the Englishman's -face. For a minute his own manner changed, losing -something of its impassive reticence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sahib, there are things which no man may forget and -prosper. For the sake of one memory—leave here, leave -Gaya—there is an illness coming which even the cunning -hand of the Dakktar Sahib cannot stay——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is that a threat, Lalloo? Do you know me so little -that you think I should turn tail——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The old money-lender lifted his hand almost with -authority.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No man can change the course of his fate, Sahib. But -I have paid my debt."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He salaamed and slipped away into the irregular silhouette -which the tumble-down huts threw into the palely-lit street.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram lingered a moment. His pipe had gone out, -and he lit it again with an affectionate care, which covered -tension. An instinct, more delicate than a seismograph, -inherited from men who had learnt at bitter cost the -significance of a glance, had warned him. It fed itself on the -unbroken silence, on the fevered, palpitating heat. The -bo-tree, whose leaves quivered to the faintest breath, -was still as though it, too, was aware of an approaching -change and listened for its footfall. The very light which -filtered down from the stars and poured in a pale stream -between the black banks of the street carried with it a -suggestion of a near and brooding menace.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram walked slowly up towards the northern entrance -of the village. In the past he would not have walked -alone. There would have been Ayeshi on one side of him -and some woe-begone villager on the other, with Wickie -scampering in and out among the shadows, pursuing, with -the uncrushable optimism of his kind, the elusive mouse. -And Tristram, listening in memory to those past sounds -and voices, was overwhelmed, not with a sense of an -invisible danger, but with a bitter loneliness. He had -now only one desire, and that to get away from these -silent, watching walls, out into the open.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He walked fast, but by the time he had reached the -narrow road along the river the first bar of moonlight -had struck across the valley. He stood still again, for -beneath the sullen muttering of the water he had heard -other sounds.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Two horsemen rode out of the shadow. He made way -for them, and as they came abreast the man nearest to him -turned his head, so that the light fell full on to his face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram sprang to the horse's head, forcing the startled -animal to its haunches. The rider made no sound, but his -companion turned about instantly and bore down upon -Tristram as though to force him back into the river. In -that swift course of action not a word had been spoken on -either side. The Englishman held his ground. With an -iron skill, he dragged the plunging horse about so that it -came between him and his aggressor, who reined in -frantically on the very verge of the steep and muddy bank.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi!" Tristram exclaimed, imperatively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Hindu peered down into his face. The recognition -for which Tristram waited with passionate hope did not -come. Ayeshi drew himself up in the saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Let me pass, Major Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram laughed between his teeth. The hope was dead -in him. "No, by the Lord, I won't. You've got to listen -to me first. I don't know what devil's game you're -playing, but I know what you've done—what you've sacrificed -for me—you've got to listen—I've a right to ask this of -you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The second rider burst out laughing. Tristram could -not see his face, but the laugh had a familiar ring. A pale -satiric smile quivered at Ayeshi's mouth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have ceased to be your servant, Major Tristram!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you ceased to be my friend as well?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He waited. He heard a whispered appeal. Ayeshi's -companion shifted his position and Tristram, though he -could see nothing, knew that he was now covered by a -revolver. He knew, too, that it was no threat but an -intention. Death tugged at the leash. He drew himself -up to meet it. Had he possessed a weapon, he would not -have sought to defend himself. An overwhelming indifference -akin to relief rested on him. He released Ayeshi's -bridle and stood back a step. He was like a drowning -man, fighting off the final and fatal apathy. "Is there no -memory, Ayeshi, which gives me the right to appeal to -you?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The smile faded from the Hindu's haggard features. He -threw back the loose white sleeve from his arm and pointed -to the wrist.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is one memory, Major Tristram, against a -hundred wrongs with which your race has afflicted me and -mine. That memory has saved you. A life for a life——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made a gesture of proud authority. The next instant, -both men were riding at a fast canter into the darkness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram listened absently to the water as it poured over -the rhythmic thud of hoofs, till there was no sound left -but its own languid murmur. The indifference with which -he had faced the end receded from him like a narcotic -before the returning tide of pain. He saw now that in -that moment death had seemed not so much a release -as a blotting out of failure, a passing on to the hope of a -new and greater achievement. For he had failed. Upon -the recognition Ayeshi had set the seal. He had ploughed -and sown and watered the acre of earth which had been -given to him in stewardship, and there was no harvest. He -had poured out his strength and faith over that beloved -ground, and it lay before him in hard unfruitfulness. The -magnitude of his bankruptcy staggered and stupefied him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It would have been better for others had Ayeshi forgotten -his debt—better for Anne, entangled innocently in the -mesh of his blunders, for his mother who would have seen -in that death only a mysterious, tragic repetition. Both -would have been spared the pitiable anti-climax of his -career, one at least the publicity of an incomprehensible -dishonour. He stood at the edge of the water, listening -to its luring whisper as it slid past in the blackness beneath -him, thinking of those two women. For in them he had -worked out his creed of happiness, in them he had failed -most utterly. One other woman indeed crossed his thought, -but she stood apart, neither failure nor success, but a -golden figure of enigma, a fancy, a dream that had become -a reality, and had separated itself from him and gone into -the turmoil and mystery of life, a separate individuality -lost to him forever.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The moon rose slowly and majestically above Gaya's -mountain. It poured its pale splendour over the plain -and changed the black-flowing river into a polished, glittering -road of silver. The man wrestling with his last problem -stood in the midst of the light, his shadow thrown in -gigantic outline against the high-standing grasses. And -little by little the light permeated his greater darkness -and reached his knowledge. He lifted his eyes from the -black temptation and despair of the waters to the faintly -shadowed disk rising in serene immortality amidst the -music of her million worshippers. And suddenly the -tension and horror passed from him. He lifted his arms -above his head with a gesture of release and greeting. -His stifled lungs drew in the life which came down to him -from those vast heights of infinity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>This much remained; for the foolish and the wise, for -the successful and the failures, for Lazarus starving in the -gutter and the rich man starving at his loaded table—the -earth's godliness, man's oneness with her and with his -brother, as yet but dimly felt and broken by devastating -storms of passion, yet moving on triumphantly to the -divine, far-off event of perfect unity. Thus in his isolation -he was not alone, but could reach out in fellowship to the -whole earth. It did not matter that he had failed. Others -would follow stronger and wiser than himself. They would -till his barren acre—perhaps out of his very dust would -spring the harvest which had been denied him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The moment's ecstasy passed, but behind it followed a -deep and healing serenity. He walked on slowly. "Our -dreams are real—reality is nothing," Sigrid had said, and -now the words were illuminated with his own knowledge. -They gave her back to him. They lifted her figure out of -the sordid ugliness of the events which had blurred and -marred his vision of her. He had known her best when -he had known her least, and as he knew her so she would -belong to him and go down with him through all the years.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He reached the temple gateway. He did not know -nor care what power had drawn him there. He stood in -the entrance looking into the moon-flooded court, -remembering those far-off nights when he had come there to -picture her as he had seen her amidst the trumperies of a -stage churchyard, transfiguring them with the energizing -spirit of her genius. His imagination had painted her -amidst the grandeur of these broken pillars. In his -romantic fancy it had not seemed incongruous that she should -dance against the background of an alien thought and art. -Fearlessly he had linked beauty with beauty, perfection -with perfection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And as he stood there gazing down the softly radiant -avenue of columns towards the black entrance to the -</span><em class="italics">antarila</em><span> he saw her. He knew one moment's agony of -doubt, of fear, of mental disintegration as though the -marvel of it had torn down the walls of his mind and -spirit, thrusting him out into a bottomless void. Then, as -a falling bird spreads out its wings and swings back in -safety to its old heights, his mind rose out of the moment's -chaos and went to her in passionate recognition. It did -not matter then whether she was fancy or reality, whether -he was sane or mad. The splendour and wonder of it was all.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At first she was a shadow among shadows. She seemed -to hover on the verge of the light as a thought hovers -on the verge of form. Then, without effort, seemingly -without movement, so still and quiet did she hold her -whole body, she glided out of the darkness, and, with her -arms raised above her head, her face lifted to the flood -of moonlight, she stood still, </span><em class="italics">sur la pointe</em><span>, poised in attitude -of joyful waiting.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She wore the low bodice and short, full skirts of the old -classic ballet. A slender wreath of laurel crowned the -smooth, fair head. Though as yet she stood afar off -from him, he knew that her eyes laughed, that her mouth -was open in that wide, frank smile of happiness, that -she was breathing deep with the foretaste of ecstasy. He -knew, too, for what she waited—for the bar of music which -should set her free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It came at last. He heard it rush down through the -stillness. It caught her up on its crest and swept her -down the path of silver towards him. He knew it and -recognized it. Its delirious beauty poured through his -blood. And even if his instinct had not seized it she would -have taught him. Her movements, her hands, her feet -her body sang it to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She danced. Even in these moments when all clear -thought was suspended he knew that this was something -that his generation had never seen. It was the final word -of a great art, often debased, now lifted to the heights -where the soul pours through the body to triumphant -expression.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She danced. Her shadow rose and fell upon the grey, -time-defaced columns not more silently. There was no -technical feat that she did not strike like a note of music -in her passage, but the marvel of it was lost. As the daring -flight of a gull, swooping from precipice to precipice, -becomes a simple thing of ease and beauty, so her laughing, -dangerous steps over the uneven flags seemed no more -than an instinctive, effortless volition. As the brook leaps -and sparkles over its rocky bed, now in sunlight, now in -shadow, now rushing forward in headlong eagerness, now -caught in a clear pool and held an instant in quivering -suspense, so joyously and fearlessly she passed from the -quick, brilliant passage of the waltz to its slower, deeper -movement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She danced. And it was a religion. Amongst the shades -of departed worshippers she was the living spirit. She -called them back from their dust-strewn oblivion to the -rites of their mystic faith. She leapt the barriers of time -and race. The ruined Hindu temple, its towering </span><em class="italics">sikhara</em><span> -rising up over its holy mystery to the stars, identified itself -with her; she became its priestess, it became her natural -background, the splendid shrine of her genius.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She danced. As David danced before the Lord, so she -offered up the incense of her art to whatever was divine in -that crumbling monument to man's faith in God. Greater -than prayer or praise was the joy of her body and the -laughter of her face lifted to the moonlight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She danced. She had the austerity of nature. Her -appeal to the senses was the appeal of a flower, of a butterfly's -wing, of a lark singing amidst the azure, of the forest -and the mountain and the running water. It was the -appeal by which the earth calls men back to their sonship -and the knowledge of her divinity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She danced. And to the man who watched her she was -all things that he had ever loved, ever believed in, ever -hoped for.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A cloud passed over the moon and threw the temple -into obscurity. She was for the moment only the shadow -of herself. It seemed to him that the music had broken -off and that she too had faltered. Then, as the light came -out from behind the drifting darkness, he saw her glide -down the avenue of columns, on tip-toe, her arms raised, -her small fair head thrown back as though she drank in -the growing radiance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But her expression had changed. Her face had a look -of child-like awe, of breathless, startled wonder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She danced. It was the apotheosis.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She came like a leaf blown before the wind and like a -leaf sank slowly to the ground. She was so small, so frail -and white, she seemed no more than a flower lying on the -great stone flags beneath the pillars.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He ran out to her. He knelt beside her and gathered -her up with her head against his knee, calling her by name. -But it was only the half-dazed dreamer who called her, for -one glance at that white still face, with the faintly shadowed -lips, told him that she could not answer. He lifted her in -his arms. For all the sick horror that drove its claws into -him he was still too much the man of action to hesitate. -She was so light. It seemed to him that he carried a tired, -sleeping child—something so frail and tender that his own -strength seemed giant-like and almost brutal. He scarcely -felt the burden of her, and yet before he reached the -outskirts of the village he knew himself broken by her -nearness. Her warmth enveloped him. He could feel the -faint, irregular breath against his cheek. A perfume more -subtle than a flower's reached his senses and stirred them -to an exaltation that was beyond reason, far beyond desire. -Her face rested against his shoulder and he could have -bent and touched her cheek with his lips. He did not. -He carried a Holy Thing—a vessel into which the Creator -had poured all beauty—a lamp whose flame of genius -flickered beneath the breath of death, a woman whom he -loved with all the force and passion of his manhood. -Beneath great banks of sullen cloud rolling up over the moon's -silvered field, the village slept or seemed to sleep. He -strode through its forbidding silence like a man possessed. -He had become invulnerable, omnipotent. There was no -force on earth that he could not have met and scorned in -that hour save the invisible spectre stalking at his elbow.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He reached his hut at last and laid her on the camp-bed. -He lit the lamp and with ruthless, skilful fingers ripped open -the close-fitting bodice about her breast. He forced a -stimulant between the blue lips. In everything he was as swift -and sure as though no fear knocked at his heart, as though -his own pulses beat with the smoothness of old custom.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was done at last—all that he could do. She lay -there in her deep unconsciousness like a fair princess from -a child's dream. The laurel wreath had freed itself from -the pale gold of her hair and fallen back upon her pillow, -making a dark frame for her ethereal pallor. He took it -gently and laid it on the table. Up to that moment he had -held himself in an iron calm, but the touch of that simple -ornament, with its poignant significance, struck deeper -than all his memories. He turned to her and knelt down -beside her, pressing the still hand to his lips in an agony of -helpless pity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The seconds passed. Each one, for the man kneeling -there, was measured by the sound of the quick-drawn, -shallow breath. Each one, as it passed, left behind a -deepening hope. His fingers rested on her pulse, and -as though his will drew her back from the depths into -which she had been sinking, he felt it slowly steady and -strengthen.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And suddenly he looked up, knowing that her eyes were open.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were very clear—very peaceful. They looked down -into his haggard face with a wondering tenderness. Her -lips moved. Twice she essayed to speak. He drew closer -to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wasn't it the end——?" she whispered. He shook -his head. He could not have answered her. "Isn't it -the end, Tristram? I'm—I'm dying, am I not? Tell -me—I'm not afraid—not very—tell me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—please God——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled with a ghostly touch of her old mockery.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You—you believe in God, Tristram. Do you care so much?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—I care."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lifted her little hand as though it was almost too -heavy a burden for her weakness, and laid it on his bowed -head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It doesn't matter what we say to each other now—we -don't need to pretend. I'd hoped there would be no -coming back, but now I'm glad. I love you, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I love you," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And therewith there came silence and peace into his -tumult. The warring events of their lives poured into a -deep and tranquil river flowing on irresistibly seawards. -They knew now with the great certainty which comes in -such moments that there was no end, no power in heaven -or earth to blot out that simple confession and all that -it must mean, now and in whatever hereafter awaited -them. He could look into her face over which death had -passed its hand, without fear, almost without pain. She -too had ceased to suffer. Her hand caressed him softly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I knew you would come, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I had to—all the time I was coming to you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I danced for you. I've never danced like that -before—it was the last time——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid—if you knew—why did you do it?—why have -you hurt us both?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have I hurt you?" She drew herself up a little, looking -down at him with an exquisite compassion in her fading -eyes. "Dear, it was to make you happy—to give you -back all you had lost—I wanted you to see me—at the -last—on the mountain-top—in my golden palace—don't -you remember——? Not in decay and ugliness—but in -beauty."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It has always been in beauty!" he cried out in passionate -protest.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head. Her eyes no longer saw him. They -were fixed ahead on some brightening vision.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not always. You and I—we saw the same sunrise -but we were afar off from each other. We stood on different -mountain-peaks—there was a great valley between, which -one of us had to cross before we could stand together. -And one night—I couldn't bear to be so far off from you -and I saw that your mountain-peak was higher than mine -and nearer to the sun—and I made up my mind. I came -down from my heights and went through the valley. It -was so ugly—quagmire and darkness—and loathsome -things—sometimes I felt I could never be clean again -and sometimes that I should not have the strength to -reach you—and in that time you could not see me but -in the end we stood together—we're near each other now, -Tristram——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her voice faded into an exhausted silence. He knew that -her mind was clouded with a rising mist of old memories, -old doubts and struggles. He could not wholly -understand, and yet the recognition of an immeasurable, -fearlessly born suffering came to him with her broken, fevered -murmurs.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bowed his face upon her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My mountain heights—oh, Sigrid, they have been low -enough—if you knew how low——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know everything—everything——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was silent. The certainty, serene and complete, -broke in a shaft of light through his darkness. He lifted -his face to hers. Her eyes were closed. Her fair head had -fallen a little on one side in an attitude of great weariness. -Slowly, in answer to his imperative appeal, her eyes opened. -They were at first dim and expressionless as though she -withdrew her sight from some inner vision.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Everything—Sigrid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Everything," she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Barclay——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He told me—but I knew more—I knew everything. -Because I loved you I understood."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A fine, contemptuous smile touched her suffering lips. -"I knew Anne, too. I knew how she had chosen——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He got up, driven to his feet by an intolerable knowledge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then you shielded me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you grudge me that little comfort?" she whispered. -Then as he stood staring down at her, she made a little -helpless effort to touch his hand. "Bracelet—brother—you -mustn't be too proud——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, God——" he burst out. "It isn't that—don't you -know I love you too—and you've suffered——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've lived as I wished to live," she said with a sudden -thrilling clearness, "and when I couldn't help you any -more—when I saw that it was all useless I made an end—my -end. I didn't mean to tell you—I meant to leave you a -perfect memory—and to go silently. But you called me -back. You made me—if you love me—you will be glad."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She struggled up on to her elbow, gasping for breath, -and he saw the greyness creeping to her cheeks. He turned -to fetch fresh stimulants, but she clung to him with an -incredible strength.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—stay with me, Tristram—these must be perfect -minutes—we've earned them—they're ours—there's nothing -to regret—a happy death—it's what we live for—I'm -happy—madly happy. Stay with me, Tristram—don't -leave me in all this darkness——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He dropped to his knees beside her. He slipped his -arm beneath her shoulders, holding her in an embrace -of desperate tenderness. She threw back her head, smiling.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Kiss me, Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Their lips met. She fell back with a short sigh and -lay still, her mouth a little open as though in the midst -of a laughing triumph she had fallen asleep. But presently -she stirred and drew closer to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Happy, Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And indeed all anguish, all fear had gone from them both. -They had gone down together into a sea in which there -was no thought, no memory, no desire. The coming night -enclosed them, shielding them from the future.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's because I'm dying——" Then suddenly she -laughed softly, contentedly. "Those steps—in the fast -movement—no one—no one has ever dared them—no one -has ever danced like that—it was a great triumph—the -greatest——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bent and touched her forehead with his cheek, soothing -her. She smiled a little as though in gratitude, and sighing, -fell asleep.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not move. He knelt there listening to her -breathing. It hypnotized him, drowning his consciousness -in its sweet, unbroken rhythm. It conveyed no meaning -to him. He had passed out of the regions of hope and -dread into the serenity of resignation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Far off, in some other world, he heard the whisper of -rain, the patter of heavy drops in the dust-laden street. -He heard voices—exultant, hysterical. A pregnant coolness -crept into the suffocating quiet. He knew that the -drought had broken—that the rains had come.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it was another world. In this world there was -nothing but himself and this one woman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bent lower to catch a murmur from her parted lips. -One small hand still rested on his breast, clinging to him. -Its hold was greater than death—stronger than the threat -of life. It drew him down with her into her peace.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>She awoke as the grey, rain-swept dawn crept sullenly -through the open doorway. Only little by little had she -fought back the engulfing oblivion. The shadow of the -man standing beside her, watching her, had loomed huge -and unreal. But now she saw his face and knew him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram!" she whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He seemed to draw himself up to a greater height. His -features were haggard and painted with the livid pallor -of the light.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A messenger has gone to Gaya," he said. "They -will send Smithy with a litter——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram—I'm going to live?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes," he said, "the danger is over."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They looked away from one another, finding no word of -comfort. The glamour of the night dropped from them. -They had drunk of death, and of that intoxicated hour -nothing remained but the bitter aftermath of life—an -anti-climax, tragic and pitiful, half-grotesque, a little -sordid.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And as two travellers who have reached what seemed -their journey's end only to find the desert stretched before -them, they faced the grey, unending road of their future.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="anne-chooses"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER X</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">ANNE CHOOSES</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Outwardly the scene was commonplace enough. -Women, for all their supposed emotional weakness, have -for the greater part a knack of facing the graver crises -with a deliberate and almost prosaic calm. And for one -woman at least in that quiet room the moment could not -have been more bitter, more fraught with ugliness and -humiliation. Yet she sat very straight, very composed, -tearing down the sanctity of her life without a quiver.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must think it very strange of me to come to you -like this," she said, "but I had the feeling that, whatever -else you would do, you would be frank with me. And I -must know the truth. I must know where I stand. I -must know what you are to my husband, Mrs. Barclay."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked straight at her companion as she spoke. She -was not conscious of her own insolence. Her words had -been forged in a fortnight's agony and had cost too much -in their utterance to allow consciousness of any hurt but -her own. Moreover, to her the pale, delicate-faced woman -opposite her had no claim to her consideration. She was -"one of those others" whom the remnant of man's prime -favourite, the Victorian female, passes with gathered -skirts. For in Anne's catalogue of humanity there were -as yet only two varieties of her sex, the sexually virtuous -and the sexually immoral. They were accordingly good -women or bad women, no matter what other failings or -qualities they might possess. Or, in a word, a woman's -loyalty to her husband, prospective or actual, was all -that mattered in Anne's eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Barclay, she knew, was a bad woman.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid regarded her thoughtfully from beneath the -shadow of her hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are insulting me, Mrs. Tristram," she said, "but -I do not think you mean it. I think you are unhappy, -and that is excuse enough. Won't you explain exactly -what you mean?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure you know," Anne answered unsparingly. -"You were always—I don't know how to express it—but -it seemed to me—to a great many people—that you tried -to entangle my husband—before our marriage——. I -could have borne that. I knew my husband so well. In -many ways he is careless and unconventional. He doesn't -recognize evil easily. But now—now it's different." She -halted, fighting the tremor in her voice. It was the first -trace of emotion that she had shown, and, in spite of her -prim brutality, it was curiously pathetic. "Since the—the -scandal in the temple—I've felt I couldn't bear it any -longer. People have talked—they think—oh, I -know—though they hide it from me—and I can't do anything. -I can't because I don't know——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You don't know what?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whether it's true."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wouldn't it be best—fairer—to ask your husband?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a moment's silence. The splash of the rain -on the trees of the compound sounded dismally in the -room's stillness. Sigrid shifted her position. She leant -forward a little as though to look closer into her visitor's -face. The small white hand on her knee clenched itself. -But Anne turned her face away from the intent, weary -eyes. She bit her lips desperately.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't——" she said. "I can't—that's just it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A tear rolled down her cheek. She brushed it away -flurriedly, but the knowledge of her weakness broke down -the wall of pride and anger which she had built up in her -loneliness. "I can't because I sent him away. We'd -quarrelled—no, it wasn't a quarrel—it was something -worse than that—and—and he let me choose—and I -told him to go. I was very wicked—very unjust. A -wife's business is to forgive everything. I see that. But -it's too late. He's gone, and now—now I've no one——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was not what she had meant to say. She had meant -to be grave and dignified and judicial, and instead she -was crying quietly. But now that the dam was broken -her pent-up unhappiness flooded over her irresistibly. She -had been intensely lonely. She had no great friend to -turn to, and her instincts tended to a stern reserve where -marital relations were concerned. She had hidden her -growing fears and remorse under a cloak of indifference. -Then had come the wild story of the temple, of Sigrid -Barclay's night spent in Tristram's hut, of her supposed -dangerous illness, of her apparently swift recovery. Then Gaya -had begun to whisper, and those whisperings had been more -than she could bear. She had meant only to seek the -truth—instead she had poured out her overladen heart -to the woman she most hated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid got up slowly and went to the verandah. She -stood for a minute with her raised hand resting on the -lintel, gazing out into the rain-soaked gardens. The moist -air was full of fragrance and reviving life. When she -turned at last there was a splash of colour in her pale -cheeks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Tristram, send for your husband—go to him. -He is the sort of man who doesn't need to forgive."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I can't."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You love him——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't go to him until I knew——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"—that you had nothing to forgive?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne's silence answered. Sigrid studied her with no -shadow of change on her own palely composed features.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're two women, Mrs. Tristram," she said, "and -that makes many impossible things possible—it makes it -possible, for instance, though we dislike one another, for -us to be honest—even about the man we both love."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne lifted her wet, piteously twisted face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then it's true?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's true that I love him." She played absently with -one of the little silver ornaments on the table beside her, -and then added: "It is true also that I offered myself -to him, though I never meant to marry him—threw myself -at his head. And that he refused me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He didn't care——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid, glancing up, caught that look of mingled disgust -and hope and fear, but it was the hope and fear alone -that had significance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He had asked you to marry him. He told me that -there could only be one woman in his life—and that woman -his wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is true?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I give you my word of honour."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne sat very still. The tears were dry on her cheeks. -She held herself rather as she had done at the beginning.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And then—that night—a fortnight ago——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, the temple?" She smiled faintly. "You won't -understand that so well. You see, I am a mixture of a -great artist and a bad woman. And artistically I have -always realized how beautiful I should be against such a -background. It was an artistic freak—though I daresay -the woman in me had a spiteful hope that Major Tristram -might chance that way and realize all he had lost. -Anyhow, my heart failed me. Your husband acted the good -Samaritan; and that is the whole story."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If that is true I have done my husband a great wrong."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think you have."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne rose with a vague little gesture. It seemed to -indicate barriers over which no reproof could pass. She -was quite composed now. The strain and insolence had -gone out of her manner, which was faintly patronizing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have to thank you for your frankness. I—I shan't -ever feel quite the same to you as I have done. -Indeed—I hardly understand. You say you dislike me—and -yet you've told me all this——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's because most unscrupulous people are good-natured," -Sigrid answered with careless amusement. She -helped herself to a cigarette, aware that by so doing she -was living up to Anne's conception of her. "You see, it -doesn't cost me anything. This particular incident is -closed as far as I am concerned, and you might as well -enjoy the benefit of the truth. I am conscious that I -tried to hurt you, and I'm sorry."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sorry, too," she said primly. She went towards -the door and there hesitated nervously. "You're—you're -leaving Gaya, are you not?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, soon. My husband's business here is finished. -It is very fortunate."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—very fortunate."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lifted her eyes to Sigrid, realizing for an instant -why Gaya had called her beautiful. An incredible impulse -seized her, but she thrust it down in scorn and self-disgust. -She made a little tentative movement as though to hold -out her hand, and then turned and went out without a -word. After all, it was the only thing to do. Now that -her worst fears were over she saw that the scene had been -preposterous, but she was a little thrilled by her own action -as conventional people are when they have ventured out -of their rut. She had met sin on her own ground and worsted -her. In some dim way she believed that she had fought for -Tristram and his happiness. Her anger against him had -died—had been transmuted into pity. She saw that behind -his bigness he was weak and easily led. Well, it was her -task to lead him, to protect him. She was his wife.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She drove homewards through the steady downpour -with an exalted consciousness of a duty done and of a -clear road before her. She knew now what she had to do. -It meant sacrifice because she no longer loved, but sacrifice -was a glorious prerogative. In it one found peace and -happiness. She was happier already. As she passed the -little tin chapel her happiness clamoured for expression, -for thanksgiving. She ordered the syce to wait for her, -and a moment later she was kneeling in her old place, to -the right of the pathetic altar, thanking God for the light -that had been granted her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>At first she did not see Meredith. There were only two -side-windows through which the grey light filtered, sinking -drearily on to the place's bleak unloveliness, and the -figure bowed down before the altar was in shadow and -motionless in its utter, almost passionate prostration. But -presently he rose slowly to his feet and turned. The -lower part of his body was still in darkness, but his face -was in the light, lifted to it. And to Anne, who now saw -him, its hideousness was sublime. She saw in it the seal -of God set on His martyr. Her intuition flashed down -into the depths of the man's patient soul, more seared and -scarred even than those dreadful features, and the -compassion which she poured out to him was other than her -pity for her husband. It was understanding. In truth -it was not pity, but she gave that name to it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He saw her. Even though the twilight separated them -she knew he faltered. She knew the memories that had -driven the dark blood into those scars. And she too -remembered—all her girlhood and all her girlhood's prayers -and fancies which had been born in this poor room. She -was a woman now. The fancies had been foolish and -childish. She had flung away reality for them. Well, -she would take up her cross.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith came towards her and took her outstretched -hand.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"When I saw you it was as though all the old times had -come back again," he said with a grave smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I came in for quiet," she answered. "I wanted to—to -thank God for something. And now I've found you—may -I speak with you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded silently and led her into the tiny side-room, -where he changed his vestments and gave lessons to a few -Pariah children who accepted his doctrine in exchange for -a certain social status. He offered her the one chair, but -she remained standing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have just seen Mrs. Barclay, Owen," she said. "I -went to see her. It may seem a dreadful thing to have -done—and it was dreadful—but I know that I did right. -She confessed to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked at her and then down at the papers littered -on the table.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What did she confess?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That some of the wretched scandal which has associated -her with Tristram was true. She did try to drag -my husband into a horrible intrigue. But she failed. She -swore to me, and I believe it was the truth."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think Mrs. Barclay would speak the truth," he said -meditatively.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"She is shameless," Anne retorted with a flash of -scorn; "but, at least, now I know that Tristram is -innocent where she is concerned. It is for that I am -so thankful."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Owen Meredith drew himself up from his bowed attitude. -There was something weary and apathetic in his -bearing which was new to her. She felt, with a stab of -pain, that he was very ill.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne—don't you love your husband?" he asked.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The feverish blush in her cheeks deepened. But his -eyes were grave, even to severity, and admitted no offence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why, I must love him—he is my husband."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His twisted mouth was bitter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The one thing doesn't always imply the other, Anne. -Men and women are frail. They can't always keep the -terrible oaths God makes them swear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They can do their duty," she interrupted, "as I shall -do mine."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Duty isn't love," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lifted her head proudly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is the best one can give after love has been killed."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Has Tristram killed your love, Anne?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She met his stern gaze unflinchingly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He has done something I can't forget. I have forgiven -it, but I know now how wide the gulf is between us and now -I can't ever forget it. That's all I can tell you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne—Anne—we must judge gently——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't judge any one but myself," she answered. "I -see that I have been most to blame. I made a great mistake -and I accept the consequences. I am going back to my -husband."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Going back to him?" he echoed heavily.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's no place for a woman," Owen exclaimed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think hell itself must be paved with useless sacrifice," -he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Owen, don't talk like that—it's terrible. I can't -bear it. Help me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"How can I help you?" he asked almost impatiently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ride with me to Heerut this afternoon—take me back -to Tristram."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am not afraid," she said proudly. "Owen, won't -you help me this last time?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"This last time?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She faltered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I didn't mean that—it was just a phrase——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"God knows, it may be the truth—of late I have felt——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He broke off and added quickly: "Yes, of course I will -take you if it can be done."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Thank you, Owen. I knew you would always help me -if you could."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Always."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My little sister in God!" he whispered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear Owen!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And neither of them was conscious of a lie. Their -hypocrisy was pathetic in its stern sincerity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am going to join my husband," Anne said slowly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The man grunted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Better if he joined you," he grumbled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne, is it wise—hadn't you better come back—you're -not strong enough to bear all this privation——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head with a faint smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm not strong enough to ride back. Besides, I wouldn't. -I've set out, and I'm going on."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So it's good-bye, Anne."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-bye, Owen—and thank you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"God bless you, Anne—I—I—shall pray for you always."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I for you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Half an hour later, when Tristram returned, he found his -supper waiting for him and his wife unconscious on the -ground.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know," he answered hoarsely, "my poor little Anne——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her eyes turned to his. They cleared for an instant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris—you don't think——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dear, I'm afraid so. We've got to do the best we can. -You mustn't be frightened——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She began to cry helplessly. Then the pain dried even -her tears. She clung to him in a frenzy of agony.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, Tris—Tris—help me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And in the early hours of the morning her hope was -taken from her.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The engineer, encased in waterproof, met him with a -torrent of grim abuse.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 </span><em class="italics">galère</em><span>? 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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Meredith rode on. He did not want to catch up with -Rasaldû. 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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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 Rasaldû, without escort, after the fashion of -English royalties on their own domains, had sought to -act the part of benefactor in Heerut and had been -repulsed. At another time the incident might have caused -Meredith a faint amusement, but now he could feel nothing. -The desolation of rain and grey, lightless sky pressed -down upon him like a stupefying burden. He went on -thinking of Anne, wondering dully how it was he knew -so well that he would never see her again. He thought -of Tristram and pitied him. In that hour he forgot creed -and principle. He saw, perhaps for the first time, humanity -as one in suffering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Two beggars slunk through the mud towards him. -They were almost naked. The water ran in streams off -their glistening brown skins and matted their beards into -black masks. They came up, one to Meredith, one to -the Rajah, whining for alms. Meredith threw his man a -coin. He did it mechanically. The Rajah burst into a -fresh stream of curses. He was very wet—very angry. -He had been called "swineherd" by his own people and -the name rankled like a poisoned dart in his quivering -flesh. He spurred his horse at the whimpering mendicant.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Get out of my way, you vermin——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something happened. Meredith, still weighed down by -his own thoughts, was only conscious of a coming change. -He half turned to his companion, and as he did so one -of the natives sprang past him. It was the leap of a tiger, -straight at Rasaldû's throat. A gleam of white light -streaked through the greyness—a muffled scream ended -suddenly by a choking, sickening groan.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Rasaldû pitched headlong from the saddle. His foot -caught in the stirrup. The startled animal swung round -and bolted, dragging its rider face-downwards through -the mud—a mere inanimate, shapeless bundle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>So much Meredith saw. He tried to think—to act. -But he was like a sleeper waking slowly—too slowly—from -a narcotic. Instinctively he turned to meet his -own danger. He never saw it. It came noiselessly and -quite painlessly. It was like a stupendous stroke of lightning -severing the earth under his feet. It sent him spinning -through æons of memory and feeling into nothing.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="freedom"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">FREEDOM</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>A covered bullock-wagon which for the last two hours -had been struggling with the morass leading up from the -valley came to a standstill outside the gates of the Barclays' -compound. The driver lifted a flap of the canvas covering, -and a woman crawled out and clambered stiffly to the ground. -She stood for a moment in the steam of the panting and -sweating bullocks counting money into the brown calloused -palm extended to her in greedy persistence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, I shan't want you going back," she said, in answer -to his half diffident, half insolent question. "I've come -to stop." She gave a little, high-pitched laugh, and, -gathering up her untidy skirts, went through the open -gates.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A syce, holding a lady's saddle-horse, waited at the -bottom of the verandah steps. He stared stolidly at the -intruder. He did not know her, and he knew everyone -in Gaya. He had also the unerring instinct of his race -and class which discounted the superficial Europeanism -of her dress and its common gaudiness. He knew her for -what she was, and made a gesture of detention as she -passed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What you want, missy?" he asked in English, and -with a mocking flash of his white teeth. "Missy not go -in there."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned her head. The expression on her dark, -mobile features was composite of dignity and nervousness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I want Barclay Sahib," she said. "Is he here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Meester Barclay gone away," the man retorted, using -the English prefix deliberately. "Meester Barclay gone -away many weeks."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where has he gone?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not know, missy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She stood irresolute, looking at the saddled horse. At -first it seemed to convey no significance to her. Then -suddenly she flushed up.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I must see some one who does know," she explained. -"Who lives here?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Mem-Sahib, missy."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who is the Mem-Sahib?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The syce made no answer. He stroked the velvet nose -of his charge and the stranger became aware from his -attitude that they were no longer alone. She turned -sharply, and the woman standing at the head of the steps -immediately behind her returned her stare with a faint -smile.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you want Mr. Barclay?" she asked quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, I do." The Eurasian hesitated. The fair-haired -fragile-looking woman in the dark riding-habit seemed to -frighten her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've come all the way from Calcutta," she stammered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's a long way. I'm sorry—Mr. Barclay is away—has -been away for many weeks. I don't even know -where he is. If you would tell me your name——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The woman caught her breath audibly. Her dark, -uneasy eyes had a smouldering look in them—a look that -was somehow primitive in its sombre, gathering suspicion.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My name's Barclay—Marie Barclay," she flashed out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah, Mr. Barclay's sister?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, his wife." She flung the words down with the -defiance of an animal that is afraid of its own temerity. -Her head, with its over-adorned hat, was thrown back -truculently, but her lips quivered. "I'm his wife," she -repeated.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid had been pale when she came out. Now a faint -delicate colour tinged her cheeks, bringing life and energy -to her listless transparency. She put her ungloved hand -to her face with a little familiar gesture of surprise and -thought—but to Marie Barclay it expressed mockery.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's true," she burst out. "I can prove it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm sure you can—only not here. It's so wet. Purga, -you can walk Astora for a little. Won't you come -in—Mrs. Barclay?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She gave her visitor no opportunity to answer, but -led the way to the library where Mrs. Smithers, with -ruffled grey hair and a face of care and perpetual -perplexity, sat beneath the marble Venus knitting a pair of -mittens which no human being was ever likely to wear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Smithy, this lady has come all the way from Calcutta. -She's Mrs. Barclay—Jim's wife."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers let the mittens drop into her lap, but she -gave no other sign of consternation. She was in the -state of a person who has been subjected to a vigorous -course of electric treatment and has become impervious to -shocks.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lawks a-mercy!" she exclaimed wearily. "Well, and -I'm not surprised. It's not the last thing I expected -to hear. I warrant there's a good few of 'em about the -country if we only knew."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"But this is true, Smithy—I'm sure it is, isn't it?" She -turned, with a quick gracious movement, to the woman -at her side, but for a moment the latter did not answer. -Her full, rather pretty, mouth was desperately closed to -hide its trembling. Her hands were interlocked in front -of her. A strand of straight black hair straggled untidily -across her face, and she tried to toss it back with an -upward jerk of her head. It was as though she dared not -unclasp her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, it's true," she said at last. "I can prove it. -We were married—years ago—in Calcutta. He's kept it -quiet—I know—he was ashamed. He thought I'd pull -him back. He wanted to get on so badly—and I put up -with it. I'd—I'd have put up with anything. He said -he'd send for me—afterwards—but he never did. I -hadn't heard from him for weeks. He didn't send any -money—there was hardly any left—just enough to bring -me here——" she looked from one woman to another, -and there was a tortured, hunted look in her eyes that -made her violent defiance pitiable. "I didn't mean to -tell—he made me promise—but I've been so unhappy—so -desperate—when I found he'd gone—and—and you -here, I lost my head—I couldn't bear it any longer—I -couldn't——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She dropped down into the chair nearest her, her face -buried in her hands, crying wildly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Scoundrel!" Mrs. Smithers ejaculated on the same -note of confirmed conviction.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid stood looking down at the bowed, shaking shoulders. -Her eyes were pitying, but her mouth was a little -wry, almost whimsical.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You were quite right to tell us," she said. "It's made -a great many things clear. You needn't be frightened. -I have an idea your husband meant you to come and -that he will be glad. I daresay that was why he didn't -write——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Barclay lifted her head, brushing the tears from -her wet cheeks. Her hat had slipped a little to one side, -giving her a look of grotesque and distraught violence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are you doing here?" she asked insolently. -"Who are you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nobody in particular—an interloper—it seems."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, I know better than that!" The dark face quivered -into a sneer. "I know who you are. You're the white -woman he was after. I guessed right enough. He wanted -an Englishwoman." She sprang suddenly to her feet -with an almost threatening gesture. "But it was me he -loved—me he married. He didn't care for you—don't -you flatter yourself—he wanted you—just to get even—just -to hurt as he'd been hurt. You're nothing but a——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She broke off. Sigrid had not moved or spoken, but -there was that in the still white face which checked the -torrent of savage insult. Mrs. Smithers got up. She -rolled the mittens into a neat ball.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm an old woman," she said, "and I hate violence. -But just you mind what you're saying, Mrs. Barclay——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid checked her with a gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Barclay is quite right," she said calmly. "I -think she understands her husband very well. She is -only mistaken in supposing I did not understand too. I -did not know that he was married, but that is neither -here nor there. I did know that I was merely a means -to an end—as he was to me. Now that's all finished and -done with." She laughed a little. "Do you know, -Mrs. Barclay, you are the second woman in twenty-four hours -who has accused me of trying to steal her husband, and, -heaven knows, in this instance, it isn't true."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Marie Barclay stared at her in sullen silence. Her -passion had gone down under fatigue and a natural racial -apathy. She had struck with all the strength she possessed, -and now came the reaction of helpless tears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know what to do," she said brokenly. "I've -nowhere to go—no one to help me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We're going to help you," Sigrid answered. She -came and laid a gentle, controlling hand on the other's -arm. "You mustn't break down. There's nothing to be -afraid of. You don't know it, but you've done me a -great service. And now it's my turn. You'll stay here. -It's your home—everything in it is yours. There's money -enough to keep you going till he comes back. And he -will come back. He'll be glad to find you here—we were -nothing to one another. Doesn't that make you happy?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her tone was so gay, so assured that the brimming -eyes lifted to hers lost their suspicion and hatred.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't know—I don't understand—and you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall clear out. I've no right here. We'll be your -guests for tonight and we can talk things over. Meantime, -Mrs. Smithers will give you tea, and I'll go for a last -ride on your horse. I want fresh air and a little quiet. -You don't mind?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The full lips quivered resentfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're making fun of me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I'm in dead earnest. I've been an intruder and -an unwilling thief, and now I return my ill-gotten gains. -Smithy, take care of her till I come back. And no violence!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers paid no heed to the injunction. She was -trembling in every limb as she followed the quickly moving -figure to the verandah steps. She clutched Sigrid's hands. -Her dim old eyes were full of a great dread.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sigrid—my dearest—what are you going to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do? Nothing rash, Smithy. Did you think I might——? -Don't you see how good it is? I'm free. I'm -Sigrid Fersen—I haven't got to fight daily, hourly, for -my integrity—I'm free." She drew in a deep joyous -breath of the fresh, rain-soaked air. Her eyes shone under -the fine, untroubled brows. "I'm going home with you to -England, Smithy. I'm going to live in the little suburban -house and give dancing lessons to the large suburban feet. -And in my free moments I shall play Beethoven and -Wagner and Chopin on an extravagantly fine Bechstein. -For I've learnt that one can play noble music anywhere. -That's a great lesson, Smithy." She smiled tenderly. -"And I shall live on your savings, Smithy. That'll make -you happy, won't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, my dear——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know. Such queer things make women happy." She -grew grave for an instant. "And perhaps I shall live -to be very old, as Tristram said I might. I may grow so -much stronger—I shall outlive you, Smithy, and every -one who ever cared for me. But I'm not going to funk -it now. I shall play my music to the very end."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers made no answer. She could not have -answered, for the dimness had crept into her throat and -choked her. She lifted the little hand clasped in hers and -kissed it.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thus Sigrid Fersen rode down the steep, mud-choked -road towards the valley. She told herself that it was -for the last time. And because each "last time" in life -is a bridge-crossing into a new and trackless country -she looked back along the old road, and her thoughts -lingered by the high landmarks by which she would never -pass again. High up against the horizon a mountain-peak -glowed in the warm splendour of this farewell. On its -topmost crag she had dwelt a little and alone. She saw -the rough and ruthless descent into the world of men the -winding road over strange countries, the always-seeking of -those two years, and there on the verge of an abyss the -revelation of something as lofty, as splendid as all that she -had left behind her. At first she had drawn back. She -had even smiled a little at the thought that her feet should -tread so desperate a path. But in the end she had gone -on—down into the depths and through a suffocating evil -darkness and up again at last to the farther summit. And -had it been worth it—worth the effort, the sheer, physical -effort, the pitiless drain upon soul and body, the inevitable -loneliness? She knew her answer. She saw before her -the country to which her stern enterprise had led her. She -saw it flat and barren and wind-swept, its sparse trees -bowed before the solitary storms. She saw that it had its -own grandeur. There was a sweet taste in the wind; and -the rough earth carried many flowers on its bosom, and they -had a fragrance more delicate than all the rich exotic -blossoms which had once been dear to her. She welcomed -the sweet winds and the great limitless horizons. She -stretched out her arms to the blustering storm. She was -free. Her freedom was not of the mountain crags, but of -the great undulating plains where men pass their daily life. -And she had ceased to be alone. Somewhere on that vast -expanse a fellow-traveller pressed on his way, often erring, -often misled, but still with head erect, eyes fixed on the -down-going sun which was their common goal. She saw -him big and careless and unkempt with strays and vagabonds -crowded at his heels. She saw the light on his face, -and knew that he too was conscious of their comradeship. -It did not matter that in that country over which they -travelled they would not meet again. They had met -once. God Himself, if He existed apart from His creation, -could not blot out that knowledge or His own decree by -which the separate paths of men meet at the end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thus Sigrid Fersen rode out of Gaya. Her horse slipped -and fretted over the treacherous descent, but her hand was -as strong and steady as her thought. She had the quality -common to all vitally living things—the love of physical, -friendly warfare with the elements. She lifted her -glowing face to the warm rain. She felt at peace and happy. -She could look with clear eyes into the future. Tristram -had said that with care she might live to be very old. The -thought had no terrors for her now.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Between dreams and realities she left Gaya floating in -the grey mists behind her. The solitude and wide stretch -of the plain soothed her and gave her a sense of release from -a cramping prison. She began to deal practically with the -coming years—even, with a faint smile at the corners of -her mouth, to furnish the little suburban house, to arrange -her days.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And then, in the midst of her planning, her horse jerked -to a quivering standstill. She leant forward in her saddle, -frowning through the veil of rain, and saw that something -lay across her road—something black and huddled and -shapeless. She tried to urge the frightened animal -forward; then something definite checked her—held her in -sick, motionless horror. It was a white patch—the shape -of a man's hand, the fingers clawed into the mud.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A minute later she had managed to dismount. She knelt -down by the crumpled body, and, exerting all her strength, -lifted it. It was so caked and stiffened with mire and blood -that it remained upright, kneeling grotesquely, leaning -against her. The disfigured features, made more hideous -by their mud-smeared agony, were close to her own. She -believed him dead. The horror of him, kneeling there, -leering at her, overcame her. She let him sink back—and -then only saw that he still lived. His eyes were open. -They were already glazed and could not have seen her, but -an instinct, kindling for the last time, recognized her -presence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram—Heerut—warn Tristram—warn——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His mouth fell open. His gaze became fixed under the -half-sunk lids. It was finished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid Fersen rose to her feet. She was not conscious -now of fear or hesitation; she walked forward a few paces, -tracing the smeared track of Meredith's body back to a -confusion of hoof-prints in the thick mud. There had -been a struggle, and Meredith had had strength enough to -crawl a few feet—she did not know that each foot had -represented hours and the triumph of the man's will over -agony and unconsciousness, but she knew what he had -tried to do.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Warn Tristram!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a call to her old, unbroken fearlessness, to the -eager, adventuring blood and the new faith. Gaya and -prudence and safety lay behind her; but what was Gaya -to her, what had prudence or safety ever mattered to her? -Before her lay the swollen river and sinister, -uncomprehended danger.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She was going forward.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She caught her horse by the bridle. It was no easy task -to mount from that slippery road, but she had in that hour -an unconquerable energy and resolve. It was done at -last. She settled herself firmly in the saddle, her hands -on the reins were flexible and strong as steel. Through -the splashing mire and rain she rode towards Heerut.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She reached the river-bank. The door of the engineer's -shanty stood open and one glance showed her that the place -was deserted. She rode over the bridge. The water -slid across the roadway with an ugly, slopping gurgle; its -deeper voice thundered beneath among the shaken arches.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>On the farther bank she drew rein for an instant. Amidst -the rush of the river it seemed to her that another sound -had reached her. It was vague and indefinite, and yet -unmistakably separate from all else. It was as though -close to her, and yet hidden beneath the water, something -monstrous and living groaned in the agony of dismemberment.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Warn Tristram!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She rode on towards Heerut.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-meeting-of-the-ways"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE MEETING OF THE WAYS</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>They had come from all the ends of the Province, secretly -and one by one from the towns, and in whole companies -from the villages. It was for them only another pilgrimage. -They brought with them the same childlike faith, the -same dim, passionless hopes, the same fatalism. And -behind those simple things there was the same incalculable -force awaiting the spark which should fire them to a -ferocious heroism or headlong panic.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They came together in the broad curve of plain where -the Ganges twisted in a horseshoe towards the foot of -Gaya's hills. To the west, within half a mile of the -encampment, the black impregnable barrier of the jungle followed -the river's course past the bridge-head and the temple, -forming lower down a crescent around the little plateau -on which Heerut lay huddled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There were close on two thousand of them, men of all -ages, all castes. They carried weapons, but of a strange -and varied nature—old army rifles, an ancient sword, -the deadly kukri, sometimes no more than a rusty bayonet, -stolen or bought from some drunken defaulter. They -themselves were as heterogeneous. They herded together -without order or discipline. The rain poured down upon -them ceaselessly, saturating their scanty clothing so that -it clung to their lean bodies like creased and dirty skins. -Here and there the saffron robe proclaimed the Saddhu, -and there were priests, haughty, arrogant-featured men, -who stood aloof, as though the matter scarcely concerned -them. Yet it was they who had worked secretly and -cunningly in the towns and villages. It was their -infallibility which had welded these strange, inco-ordinate -atoms into a weapon. For, undisciplined, ill-armed, and -dejected though they seemed, though they came straight -from their fields and the enervating atmosphere of the -bazaars, these two thousand men were still fighters. In -the old days their fathers had scorned the plough and had -lived and died by the sword. They had fought for the old -Rajah and gone with him into exile and ended their adversity -in the wildernesses. Some of that fighting blood was -in the veins of these, their descendants, and some of that -stern tradition lay smouldering beneath the veneer of peace -which the British Raj had forced upon them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But of all this, Barclay, riding at Ayeshi's side down the -irregular front of this strange army, saw nothing. To -him they were a sorry, pitiable crew, foredoomed to -disaster. He knew now, if he had not always known, the -futile madness of the enterprise on which they were -launched, he with them. The brief illusion which he had -nourished that night in the temple had gone. Though he -had flung himself into this cause with all his wealth, all -his power, he saw it to be lost. The shadow of the future -was on these upturned stoic faces, on Ayeshi, and on himself. -Yet he would not have turned back nor changed the course -of events. A sombre triumph and satisfaction glowed -through his foreknowledge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had found his people. He belonged to them. In the -end that was coming he would not be alone. His blood -would mingle with theirs. And with them those others -would be swept away—those others who had rejected him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned his haggard, moody eyes towards distant -Gaya and laughed. Even now he was a little theatrical. -He wore the native dress, and it was like a masquerade. -All that was English in him stood out the more prominently. -The very priests who had admitted him to their -caste shrank from his shadow, and quick, dark glances of -suspicion followed him as he rode at Ayeshi's side. Vahana, -the Saddhu, clung to his stirrup-leather. He was like a -mocking spirit of evil, noiseless and remorseless. Once -Barclay had tried to swing him off by a quick turn of his -horse, but the old withered figure had leapt with him with -the agility of a tiger. Afterwards Vahana had lifted his -face to Barclay, showing his teeth in a mirthless grin of -understanding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Thereafter Barclay made no effort to free himself. But -he had become afraid—afraid of something other than the -end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi rode to the farther end of the roughly formed -square. Beyond the jewelled turban and the ancient sword -at his waist, he wore no insignia of his rank, and even his -knightly seat on the thoroughbred Arab could not wholly -atone to his followers for this lack of outward splendour. -They had expected something other—something resplendent, -a gorgeous representative of the millennium that was -coming,—a god, an avatar. And he was only a boy, with -wasted features and restless, unhappy eyes. Yet they -greeted him as their lord. Perhaps even in their minds -was the knowledge that their lives were bound up with -his, that there was no turning back either for him or them. -A Brahmin and a native under-officer, still in uniform -though without his badges, came out of the ranks to meet -him, and for a few minutes they spoke together in an -undertone. Barclay scarcely listened. He was watching with -cynical intentness the play of the priest's astute features, -the deferential, courtly movements, the keen flashes of the -cruel eyes. In contrast, the soldier seemed brutal and -aggressive. His face was pockmarked and sodden with -vice, but he was a strong man—more vital in that moment -even than Ayeshi.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Between Barclay and these two men Ayeshi was the -shuttlecock—the toy and instrument with which each -sought to attain his own petty ends of vengeance and -power. For a moment Barclay could have pitied him as -he sat there, reining in his restive Arab with a master's -hand, so passionately in earnest, so deeply shaken by -premonition.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They will fight, Pugra?" he asked repeatedly. "They -will keep faith with us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The soldier grinned significantly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They have sworn it, lord. There is no cause for them -to break their oath. It is a simple matter. In an hour it -will be finished. Heera Singh leads them. He is a good -soldier. His brother was shot a year ago. He will not -fail."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And afterwards——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall join forces with them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And after that——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The soldier and the priest exchanged a quick glance of -interrogation. But the question had rung with an urgent -appeal not to be denied. The Brahmin drew a step nearer, -taking the answer upon himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"After that the great cities will follow. In Calcutta -and Bombay they do but await the signal. Is it not so?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That is what they told me." Ayeshi passed his hand -nervously over his forehead. "They swore to me that -they were ready. I was to be the torch which should light -India——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Surely, then, it will be so, lord."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi made no answer. He seemed to sink into a fit of -brooding, his eyes fixed in the direction of Gaya. Barclay, -who had not ceased to watch him, urged his horse nearer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of what are you afraid, Rajah?" he asked softly in -English, adding with a flash of malice: "Isn't death the -worst that can happen to us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The echo of the grandiloquent phrase stung Ayeshi to -a haughty gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I do not fear death."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whom then? Rasaldû? Rasaldû is dead. In a few -hours there will be no white men left in your kingdom——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know. It is not that. It is for these men—my -people. They trust me. They hope great things. If I -should fail——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You will not fail, Rajah. You have the right to call -upon them. You are their lord."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi glanced up swiftly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And if I were not—if it proved a mistake—sometimes -I am afraid——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay shrugged his shoulders. He was growing -impatient. The merciless rain began to chill his blood. -The roar of the river beat like the incessant thud of a -hammer on his ears.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What does it all matter?" he muttered. "If only -this infernal rain would stop! It's dangerous. If the -water overflows on the high ground up by Bjura we shall -have to swim for it. That's what matters."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But suddenly Ayeshi bent down from his saddle and laid -his hand on Vahana's shoulder.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You promised!" he said, in a tense undertone. "You -promised that today you would speak—that you would -give me proofs to show my people. Now keep your promise -to me. Vahana—justify me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The fakir lifted his eyes to Ayeshi. His lips moved, -but no sound came from them. He shrank back against -Barclay's knee, cowering as from a blow. But his -expression was triumphantly evil.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Barclay, looking into Ayeshi's stricken face, came -to a bitter understanding. Not only this boy, but all of -them, were so many instruments in a master-hand. Their -hates and ambitions had been woven skilfully into the -greater pattern of a patient, insatiable vengeance. They -were pawns in Vahana's game. </span><em class="italics">They</em><span> would be swept from -the board. Vahana would go on to his own end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Before this selfsame knowledge Ayeshi had faltered. -Now he drew himself up in the saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rasaldû is dead," he said quietly, yet with despair, -"and Sahib Meredith and others—others. Justify me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And to that final, irrepressible cry of anguish Vahana -answered. His unaccustomed tongue wrestled with the -words, and formed them slowly and thickly. They fell -like blows.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The—Rajah—had—no—son," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then suddenly he laughed. In that final moment the -brain, corroded with hatred, broke down beneath its -accumulated burden. The maniacal merriment rang out -above the thunder of racing water, it pealed on till it -dominated every other sound. As Ayeshi turned with -lifted hand to strike, it subsided hideously into a broken -cackle. Still clinging to Barclay's stirrup, Vahana dropped -to his knees. What possessed Barclay in that moment he -could not have told. He stretched out his arm over the -cowering figure, shielding the thing he feared.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, Ayeshi—it's too late. It doesn't matter who -or what you are. You've got to go on with it. You can't -leave us in the lurch. There's been bloodshed enough——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi's hand sank limply to his side. His lips were -quivering.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Rasaldû is dead," he repeated. "Rasaldû the swine-herd—had -more right than I—and the Sahibs who have -done me no wrong——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay interrupted him with a curse. Was this last -catastrophe of his life to end as the others had done, in a -travesty—in a Gilbertian fiasco? Was he to be held up to -ridicule before those cool, insolent men and -women—ludicrous and ineffectual even in his death?</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"For God's sake—pull yourself together, Ayeshi!" he -said imperatively. "What does it matter whether you -are wronged or not? You are the leader. Chance has -made you—the deliverer of your people. Act like a man. -Save your country—set us free——" He laid his hand -on his breast with a dramatic gesture. "I ask it of you—I, -who have suffered at their hands. Be strong, Ayeshi. -Give us our freedom."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Ayeshi seemed not to listen. His frowning eyes -were fixed in front of him, and suddenly he pointed. -Barclay turned in his saddle. At first the spectacle that met -him seemed no more than curious. The belt of high -grass which separated them from the river had parted, -and a young tigress stood in the opening. She seemed -wholly unconscious of the massed enemy before her. She -stood there lashing her tail, her velvet flanks heaving with -recent hard effort, her fine head lifted in an attitude of -listening. For an instant she remained thus. No hand -was raised against her. Ayeshi and his followers watched -her in motionless, superstitious silence. Even Barclay -felt himself incapable of action. It was as though the -apparition had for them a deeper, as yet unread significance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>With a low growl, not of anger but of fear, the beautiful -animal trotted with long, loping strides between Ayeshi -and the herded crowd of tensely watching natives. No -sound was uttered until the lean, striped body had vanished. -Then a cry went up—at first isolated—then swelling to a -shout:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"An omen—an omen!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vishnu has spoken!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The gods are against us!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The flood—the flood——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The last came in a scream. It bore the other cries down -into an instant's stupefied silence. The massed square of -humanity which had tossed and surged in a gathering storm -of panic grew still.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay lifted himself in his stirrups. He could see -nothing. The rain blinded him. Yet his ears, alert now, -caught a distant ominous boom.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe it's true—the animal was bolting for her -life—the water must have burst its banks at Bjura—if it -has, it's coming twenty miles an hour—we've got to run -for high ground, Ayeshi."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Hindu shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is no high ground——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana roused himself from the mud where he had -remained in an attitude of apparent stupor. A demoniac -energy blazed in the mad eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is a way—past Heerut—I will show you—only -let me ride with you, Sahib Barclay——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The Eurasian nodded. He no longer appealed to Ayeshi, -who was sunk in an apathy of despair. He raised himself -again in the saddle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is a way to safety!" he shouted. "Vahana, the -Holy Man, will lead us—the gods have sent a warning—the -gods are with us—follow!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He lifted Vahana into the saddle behind him and swung -his horse round towards Heerut. Ayeshi lingered; Barclay -passed him with a gesture of contempt. The control -was in his hands now. It was for him to act—to retrieve -disaster. He had become the leader—the leader of his -people. He heard the rush of feet behind him—the sound -thrilled through his blood in a storm of exultation.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Follow me!" he shouted. "I will lead you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They followed. They swept Ayeshi into their maelstrom -and carried him with them, but they too had ceased to heed -him. Nor did he try to regain his hold. The right to -command—even to resist—had gone. He was no longer -Rajah—exiled and disinherited, yet still lord of his destiny. -He was Ayeshi, the village story-teller, the servant of -Tristram Sahib, the dreamer bereft of his dreams. He -would have been glad to meet the end.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the people he had betrayed bore him in their midst, -as they fled before the oncoming waters.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Tristram heard only the deepening voice of the river, -the rain splashing on the roof, and the rush and swirl of -the water as it tore through the village gutters. Even -these things, though they reached his hearing, scarcely -touched his consciousness. They walled him in. They -formed a sombre background for his wife's voice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He sat beside her, her hot little hand in his, and it seemed -to him that they talked together for the first time in their -lives. Her voice was weak and husky with pain, but the -pain itself relaxed its grip on her, allowing her to sink -slowly and mercifully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm dying, am I not, Tristram?" she had asked, and -then, reading his face, added gently: "I want to -know—really. I'm not afraid to die. Why should I be? There -is nothing to fear—only so much to hope. Tell me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne—little wife—I honestly don't know. So much -depends on your will to live——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her smile was touched with something of its old wisdom.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It depends on God, Tris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He nodded. It was too late to show her where their roads -met. He could only acquiesce. And presently she spoke -again. "It's all been such a big, sad mistake, hasn't it?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What, dear?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our marriage."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He looked into her pinched face, in which only a child-like -wistfulness remained. He looked then at her hand, -hiding his own smarting eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I suppose it has. It's my failure——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You didn't love me, Tris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I cared—genuinely. I cared so much that I wanted -to make you happy." He hesitated. "But I couldn't -make myself to be the man you loved."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, it was just a mistake," she agreed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You're very generous, dear."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She shook her head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, no—it was my fault most of all. I didn't understand. -There are things I don't understand even now."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What things?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Wickie—and—and—that. It seems so wrong—just -a dog. You love life so—Tris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I love living things—I can't help it—helpless living -things most of all. Even now I can't judge what I -did—it's the old problem—how far one has the right to punish—to -resist evil. But I haven't any real theories. I can't -bear pain—that's all."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Her eyes softened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I know. You have been so good—so tender to me. -Last night I understood better all you are—but it's too -late——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Would you be glad—if I lived?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Unutterably glad."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps we might learn to love each other—in the -end——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I would try to earn your love."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled wanly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Only try."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you stop by me whilst I sleep?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I won't leave you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I promise you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were both so unutterably tired.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 anæsthetic—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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then, amidst the dull persistency of it all, there broke -the sharp, staccato beat of hoofs—the splash of a horse -galloping through water.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram rose cautiously to his feet. He had to unclasp -his wife's hand and her eyes opened.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it, Tris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My messenger back from Gaya, I expect. I didn't -believe he meant to go, but it seems I misjudged him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You won't leave me, Tris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I've promised you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram—I——" she began breathlessly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is this an appointment?" she asked clearly. "Didn't -Tristram warn you in time?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Anne freed herself from his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's not true," he broke in sternly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She went past him, straight to Anne's side.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Tristram——" she began, "your husband has -told you the truth. He knew nothing of my coming. I -bring grave news——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne shrank back from her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He stood big and determined before her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are unjust, Anne. And you are doing yourself -harm——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does that trouble you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She laughed bitterly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are very clever, Tristram. But I shan't believe -her. I won't hear her——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram bent over her, his hand on her pulse. The -fear of that moment sickened him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Owen,—Owen——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Owen—Owen——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid touched Tristram's bowed shoulders. There was -an odd diffidence in her touch, as though she had become -afraid.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I didn't know—how could I have known? Have I -hurt her?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It seems our fate," he answered bitterly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I couldn't help it. There was no time to think. -Something is very wrong. Rasaldû was missed yesterday. -Then Meredith—and there was no one at the bridge. I -came as fast I could—to warn you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He drew himself up painfully.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"He sent me," she said simply, like a child that has -been reproached.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Perhaps I should have come anyhow."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You won't be strong enough to ride back."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh—yes—I am quite strong. It's as you said, Major -Tristram—I think I shall live to be quite old."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned. He heard what she had heard.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Close the door," he said quietly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram made a gesture of quiet understanding.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, it is too late," he said. "It's been working up -to this. We shall have to face it together."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She assented silently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm glad," she answered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If only Anne were safe!" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We must try and help her——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He felt a hand on his sleeve. He looked down and -saw that his wife's eyes were open. She clung to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You won't leave me, Tris?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, I promise you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm so frightened——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You are my prisoner," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Whom do you represent, Mr. Barclay?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is this Ayeshi's order?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is my order—Rajah Ayeshi accepts my leadership."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then it was you who murdered Rasaldû and Mr. Meredith?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He smiled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your wife is waiting for you in Gaya," she answered. -She felt rather than saw Anne lift herself on her elbow. -She felt Tristram's movement and added simply: "Mr. Barclay -was married years ago. My marriage with him -was illegal, and I am free."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She did not see the ugly little smile quiver about Anne's -lips. She held her ground, patient, content. She had -broken the last link which held her to a loathed life. It -was as though she breathed a fresher, purer air.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That frees me from all responsibility, doesn't it?" -Barclay suggested.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Quite."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He hesitated. His minutes in the place were numbered. -His ears, attuned to catch the first warning, reminded -him of the remorseless, oncoming danger, and yet he -faltered. A bitter taste of failure was in his mouth.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You had better follow me, Tristram. Resistance is -useless."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"As you will. I have only one request to make. Respect -my wife. She is very ill."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay shrugged his shoulders.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"A dying woman——? I can grant you that much."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But even in the midst of his brutal self-assertiveness, a -merciless flash of intuition showed him himself as they -saw him. His power slipped through his fingers. He -looked from Sigrid to Tristram, and knew their immeasurable -indifference to all that he could threaten. They were -not afraid—almost—they were glad. He could not -penetrate their mood—he only felt it as an intolerable -hurt—a frustration of that madly aching desire in him. They -stood aloof from him as they had always done. He could -not reach them—the woman had shaken herself free from -his very name as from something loathsome. To the -last—ineffectual, beyond the pale. He had meant to -strike—he had set them free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He made a gesture, and Vahana closed the door. He -came and stood close to Sigrid, staring into her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you come with me?" he asked. She made no -answer. He felt his lips trembling. "I could make -you," he broke out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I think not."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You mean that, sooner or later, you would escape me? -I daresay. You are brave enough. But I ask you to -come with me of your own free will—as my mistress—as -anything on earth I choose—to share my life—whatever -future I have—faithfully——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Aren't you wasting time, Mr. Barclay?" Tristram -interposed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay remained with his eyes on Sigrid's face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If you will come with me, Sigrid, Major Tristram can -go back to Gaya."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She seemed scarcely to hear him. He heard Tristram -laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't this all rather melodramatic, Barclay? Do you -really imagine I am anxious to save my life on such terms? -Why don't you get on with things?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay swung round on his heel.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And does my offer really amuse you? Are you amused -at the death of a score or so of your countrymen up there -in Gaya? That's what it amounts to. Mrs. Boucicault -is giving a dinner to the station tonight. In three hours' -time, the regiment mutinies, and your friends will be -wiped out without being able to lift a hand—unless you -warn them. Is that amusing?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He drew a deep breath of content. He had seen Tristram -flinch. He had reached him at last, had forced him -down from his heights to meet him in the equality of a -life-and-death struggle. He could afford now to be patient -and composed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was Sigrid who spoke. Her voice sounded curiously -flat and lifeless.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why have you told us this?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He turned to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Because I am asking a great deal of you. This is not -our old bargain, Sigrid. If you come with me, it must be -on my own terms. I don't know where I am going—but -I shall be an exile—an Eurasian outcast with a price on -his head. And you have got to stick to me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And your wife? She believes that you care for her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His hands were clenched.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have done with caring," he said harshly. "You've -taken care that I shouldn't put love first in my life. Leave -my wife out of this. Nothing concerns you but your own -decision."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you are ready to sacrifice your plans——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am prepared to give Gaya a fighting chance," he -interrupted sternly. "I do not pretend that it is more -than that—perhaps not so much."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"If—if I consent, will you keep faith? Have you the -power——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I have the power. Ayeshi will consent to anything -I suggest. Remember—I have to trust you, too——" He -hesitated, and then added slowly: "I do trust you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She made a groping, uncertain gesture.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But he threw back his head in defiance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It can't be. Gaya wouldn't be saved at such a cost."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It isn't what Gaya would want—it's what we've got -to do—we ourselves don't count."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your honour——" he burst out.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is honour?" she retorted finely. "By your -own creed, Tristram—what other honour is there but our -duty towards others?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He fought against her, against the light which he saw -gathering in her eyes—against himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a hideous impossibility."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The hideousness isn't ours. It isn't impossible."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Decide—can't you?" Barclay flung at them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram turned to him with a gesture of immeasurable -contempt.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"So you betray all your masters?" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am the son of a betrayal," Barclay retorted, smiling -bitterly. "Has that ever troubled you? Why trouble -yourself now about me?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid's eyes avoided Tristram's face. The grey horror -of it shook her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's as Mr. Barclay says—we've only got to consider -our own actions."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then you've decided?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Is there any choice?" she asked sternly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For one moment he hated her as a man hates the cause -of an intolerable suffering. The next, he saw that she -had outstripped him. She had taken the fundamentals of -his life and built her own edifice upon them—a higher, -finer edifice than his own.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I see that there is no choice for you," he said, with a -chivalrous resignation. "And you're right. We don't -count."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He felt the hand in his tighten. He looked down into -his wife's ashen face. Throughout she had not -spoken—scarcely moved. Now the change in her startled him out -of the stupefying absorption of his pain. He saw that she -had ceased to be afraid, and that the malice and anger -had gone from her. He saw her as she had been in her -girlhood, in her first innocent, incredulous love of him. -Her failing eyes were full of a deep, unearthly pity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tris—you are both—very brave."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A groan burst from his lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Anne—I can't leave you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You must. That is my little share in the sacrifice. -I shan't be afraid now, Tris."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He knelt down beside her. She put her weak arms round -his neck and kissed him. "Good-bye, husband."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Little Anne—God keep you."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She smiled a little.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm—sure—He—will."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay moved impatiently. He saw that they had -forgotten him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Will you come, Sigrid?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She bent her head in assent.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Then you can go your way, Major," Barclay said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But it was as though the last weapon which his tortured -pride had forged for him had shivered against an -impregnable armour. They were great—these people—even -in defeat—even Anne, little cowardly Anne—could face -death alone and unflinchingly. He recognized that greatness -with a last anguish. He had their blood in him. If -they had turned to him, recognized him, appealed to him -in the name of their common ancestry,—even then—— But -they did not think of him. He was a whirlwind -driving them apart to their separate destinies—an -impersonal, soulless force—no more.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Come!" he demanded violently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram gave Sigrid his hand. They took up their -burden of life. It had become heavier; but they took -it up. And for a while they would carry it. But in the -end there would be rest. That was their message and -their farewell.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram went out into the rain-swept street—past -Vahana, who looked up into his face and laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid lingered. She drew shyly near the camp-bed -with its little burden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good-bye——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Anne stretched out her hand and drew Sigrid down -to her and kissed her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yours is the hardest part. I—judged—harshly. Forgive."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is no need—our ways have met in the end."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The door closed presently. It grew very still in the -little hut. The voices and the clatter of hoofs faded in -the distance. All other sounds sank into the deepening, -growing call of the flood.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Anne lay still. Her eyes lingered on the shadowy -furniture. Even now there was Wickie's old basket in -the corner. Poor Tristram! She sighed faintly—wearily. -Somehow now it was so much easier to understand—God -was all-merciful.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was growing dark. She tried to compose herself. -The shadows were rising up all around her. She was not -afraid. Owen would be there—he would be waiting for -her—it would be just as it had always been—only more -perfect.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She tried to fold her hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Our Father which art——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was as though a great sea poured over her—engulfing -her in its peace.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="to-gaya"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIII</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">TO GAYA!</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Tristram led Arabella out of her stable and spoke -gently to her. He showed no sign of haste or trouble. -He did not believe Barclay. He was convinced that there -was no intention to allow him to leave Heerut living. -Even Barclay could not betray his followers so openly. -Yet he had no right to refuse the chance, and in the end -it could make but little difference.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He mounted and walked Arabella down the centre of -the flooded street. Across the western exit of the village, -where the land lay highest, the two thousand had herded -together like a pack of hunted wolves awaiting the signal -from their leader. Ayeshi sat his horse a little in advance, -with Barclay and the shadowy mendicant to his right. -Tristram rode towards them unmoved. He held himself -with his usual casual ease, a little loosely, with one -fist stemmed against his thigh. There was no conscious -bravado in the attitude. An instinct inherited from -generations of men who had confronted the same enemy -at the same odds taught him an unchallenging serenity. -As he drew nearer, he looked full into Ayeshi's face and -read in the sombre eyes the confirmation of his death. -He might have spoken, made some appeal to the old -memories that bound them, but something—perhaps the -consciousness that for that moment he represented more -than himself—held him sternly silent. Barclay smiled, -but his eyes too, were overshadowed with a knowledge -in which there was neither happiness nor triumph. Thus -the three men met in a last encounter. For an instant -they seemed to be alone—to be standing on a lofty plateau -above the watching crowd, confronting each other with -a tragic perception of something common to them all, and -of a destroying, merciless destiny.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then Vahana laughed, shrilly, exultantly, and it was over.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram rode past Ayeshi. He reached the border of -the crowd. Arabella hesitated and he touched her gently -with his heels. She understood, and, understanding, -became insolently irresistible. The first man whom she -nosed aside hesitated, his hand on his knife. Tristram -did not look at him. His eyes passed carelessly over the -sea of upturned faces. He did not draw himself up. So -he might have ridden among them on a feast day, or as -they returned from their work on the plain. His expression -was neither defiant, nor contemptuous. To the last -even as he awaited death at their hands, he remained one of -them, not judge or master or victim, but man among men. -One step more. The sea closed in behind him. Would -it come now? He knew that it would be in his back. -Sooner or later the hypnotic spell which his presence threw -over them would snap. Some hand, bolder, more resolved -than the rest, would lift itself, and then the waves would -close over him for ever. Yet as he rode on, winning -each step, the tension of waiting relaxed. He forgot -himself. Something rose up to him in that heated, foetid -atmosphere of a passion-ridden humanity. It enveloped -him with a deeper knowledge of their dim strivings, of -their dimmer hopes, and great fears. He saw in their -revolt only a thwarted desire, a piteous clinging to the -only faith they knew, in their hating cruelty only the -curse under which all men, struggling blindly towards -their vision of the future, flood their path with the blood -of their brothers.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not pity them. The burden of their life was his. -He forgot himself as the individual. He was part of the -universe, part of all life. The instinct in him was to hold, -out his hands to them in recognition—in acceptance of -their common destiny.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He did not know that his face had changed as he rode -slowly forward, nor that the faith which burnt up in him -shone in his eyes. He only knew that suddenly it was -over. The last wondering, questioning face flashed past -him. He was out in the open—free.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Arabella broke into a canter. He pulled her back to a -walk. The time had not yet come. They would recover -now. Some of them had rifles. They would use them. -There must be no sign of flight, of fear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ten yards—twenty—fifty—still nothing. Another pace -or two, and he stood on a hillock, his body, as he knew, -sharply outlined against the light. He drew in deliberately. -Still nothing. He went on. He was hidden now. He called -to Arabella, and then they were galloping towards Gaya.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Three hours and fifteen miles of bad road—perhaps partly -flooded. So far there was only mud, into which Arabella -sank up to the fetlocks, but down on the plain itself there -would be morass—in places water. His mind foresaw -each mile, each obstacle. If it could be done, Arabella -would do it. No thoroughbred had her pluck and stamina. -But it would be a close finish. Night was coming on. It -would be dark within an hour. He would have to rely on -his instinct to guide him. The lights of Gaya would not -carry half a mile through the rain which fell in a finely -woven curtain from the loaded sky.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had ceased to question Barclay's action or Ayeshi's -curious acquiescence. Possibly they had not meant him -to escape—possibly they had relied on his coming too -late or on the futility of his warning. It was useless to -speculate. He could only act—do the best he could.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He breasted the last hillock which separated him from -the plain. The roar of the river sounded ominous even -then—like the roll of continuous, unmodulated thunder. -Then on her own initiative, Arabella slithered to a standstill, -her ears pricked, her lean body quivering with apprehension. -Tristram brushed the rain from his eyes. For an instant -he was only incredulous—distrustful of his own senses. -Twenty-four hours ago—a wide flat stretch of saturated -fertile soil—the bold, sweeping line of the Ganges—and now -this—this level, rising, onward-flowing surface, broken -near the centre by a broad ribbon of sinister, rippling -movement—no landmark left, no grass, no trace of land—one -stupendous, terrible monotony of water.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he knew what Barclay had known. The floods had -come. The catastrophe of which old villagers had spoken -with bated breath had broken over them. He could hear -the water lapping against the base of the rising ground. -With every minute it grew louder, nearer. In a few hours -it might well be that the whole plain might be -covered—Heerut—the temple itself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He spoke to Arabella. He felt that figuratively she -shrugged her shoulders. They had done many mad things -together in their day, and this was the maddest and the -last; but, if he wished it, she had no objection. She went -slithering and stumbling down into the water. It rose to -her knees, to his feet and there for the time stopped. They -waded steadily towards the bridge-head. If it grew no -deeper than this the passage might still be possible. He -leant forward eagerly in the saddle, waiting for his goal to -outline itself against the eternal greyness. There was no -sound but the sish of the water as it broke from Arabella's -shoulders and her own heavy breathing. He had ceased -to hear the boom which had first warned him. He was in -the midst of it and it became a kind of silence. It was a -part of his consciousness—it had been there always.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Striking diagonally across the plain, he left the black -mass of the temple on his right. He could not feel any -current, and yet he was aware that they were being drawn -insidiously towards the centre. The knowledge did not -trouble him. So long as he could keep Arabella's head up -the river, he could afford to give ground. He did not -contemplate the possibility of being sucked into the torrent -itself. As yet Arabella's foothold was sure and her progress -steady.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No suspicion of the truth had reached him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But still he could not see the bridge. Once past the -temple it was the first important landmark, and he began -to wonder, in spite of Arabella's sturdy efforts, whether -they were really moving forward. The horror of the passing -time coiled itself round him, stifling him. He knew -fear—already the drab daylight was failing rapidly. Yet there -was no bridge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was drifting nearer to the river's banks. He could -mark them definitely by the break in the placid surface—the -sudden rush, the eddies and deep pits of the whirlpools. -He could judge the pace of the torrent by the -passing of odd, as yet unrecognizable fragments. They -sped on their way, now disappearing for many minutes, -now carried from side to side in cross currents, but always -in headlong movement. Some of the fragments were like -small islands—they stood upright out of the water like -pillars of a ruined church, black and straight.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Still there was no bridge.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mother Ganges demands toll of those who curb her."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Suddenly he understood. He understood Barclay's -smile and Ayeshi's acquiescence. He recognized those -pillars. They were motionless. They held their place in -the torrent like the defiant remnant of an annihilated army, -like tragic monuments to man's futility.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The bridge had gone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For a moment he drew Arabella to a standstill. He had -lost all sense of anxiety, all thought of failure. Methodically -but rapidly, he threw overboard every unnecessary -weight: his water-logged riding boots, various small items -in his pockets, a heavy belt with a metal clasp, his coat. -With an effort he managed to cut the girths and finally to -remove the saddle itself, flinging it to the rest. Then he -turned Arabella's head towards the river.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were moving quickly now—perilously quickly. In -what seemed no more than a minute they had reached the -limit. The water rose above his knees, he could feel it -circling round him—a living monster, awaiting its moment. -He bent forward and patted Arabella's neck and whispered -to her, and kissed her warm sleekness. She whinnied -challengingly, tossing her head. Then plunged.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The torrent passed over them. He went down under a -crushing opaque mass of delirious water. It seemed many -minutes—perhaps it was only a second or two—then they -rose again. Arabella's head was turned downstream. -She made no effort. She was panic-stricken—helpless. -He called to her. He himself was stunned and could -barely keep his seat. Invisible forces had hold of him, -dragging at him. At last he had her head round, and she -struck out with the energy of terror. They were moving -now. He could judge their progress by the two pillars -mere specks on the rushing greyness. A fierce exultation -possessed him—the glory of struggle—they were moving. -Arabella had found her stride. Though they drifted, too, -they were not wholly at the mercy of the current. Foot by -foot, they were winning their way across. It did not -matter that they were being swept farther down the river. -Once on dry land they could make up for lost time. Then -Arabella would not fail.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But now he was afraid for her. He could feel in his own -nerves and sinews the cost of her heroic effort—the rising -agony of her exhaustion. He believed that already she -was finished. He felt her go down under him. Then, in -answer to a supreme demand of her spirit, she rose again—the -blood streaming from her nostrils. He called to her, -and she turned her head a little. He could see her eyes, -their whites veined with red, and he remembered Wickie. -It was the same look, the same unfaltering confidence, the -same patient acceptance of suffering. For herself alone -she would not have struggled farther; but for him, for his -life she accepted the crushing, heart-breaking burden of -living.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Strange things raced past them—fragments horrible in -their significance—an unhinged door, a table, a wooden -image swept from some village shrine, its battered face -staring from out of the foaming water in grotesque serenity; -dead things—the carcase of a bullock, a woman's rigid hand -tossed up in horrible semblance of appeal, a baby's body; -living things—the hideous snout of a mugger battling against -the stream, its jaws snapping greedily at the passing -provender, a cheetah, caught perhaps in the midst of some -marauding expedition, which struggled to Tristram's side and -kept close to him. He called to it and it turned its eyes -to him in frantic supplication and terror. In that dread -moment they were comrades, fighting shoulder to shoulder -against the common enemy.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They reached midstream. In a minute they would be -out of the worst—out of danger. He turned his head; -he wanted to measure by the pillars how far they had still -to go. He saw the end coming. It was grotesque—absurd—a -native hovel that had been caught up bodily. It -bore down upon him, staggering drunkenly on the full -breast of the current. It seemed to blot out the -sky—a monstrous, towering Juggernaut.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A figure clung to the thatched roof. It was gesticulating -wildly—in fear or warning, he could not tell. But there -was no escape. The rocking structure was travelling with -the speed of an express,—Arabella had almost ceased to -move. Tristram slipped quietly from her back, only -holding to her bridle, and she rose buoyantly. In that -final moment, a deep-rooted instinct in him had prevailed. -She was to have her chance. He struck out—turning his -head for a last time towards the onrushing catastrophe. -It was not more than twenty yards away. He could see -the man's dark face—staring down into the water—aghast, -silly-looking. His grotesque vessel seemed suddenly to -stop, to draw back, quivering like a frightened, -death-stricken animal—then plunged headlong—flashed like a -pebble over the edge of a precipice.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram closed his eyes. He tasted death. He knew -the horror of suffocation—the pitiless night which swirled -over him, choking him, stupefying him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Twenty yards lower down the hut reappeared. Its roof -was battered in. The clinging, piteous figure had vanished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram twisted Arabella's bridle about his arm. It -was his last deliberate act. He was dimly conscious of -movement, of being sucked against warm, heaving flanks, -of a hand that closed down blackly on his will to live. He -knew that he was letting go his hold—he was beaten. He -felt himself go down—then one last thrill of consciousness. -His feet jarred against something—he was being -dragged—dragged over a soft spongy substance.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He tried to right himself—but instead stumbled—pitched -headlong into oblivion.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="resurrection"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XIV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">RESURRECTION</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>"That reminds me of a story some one told me once," -Mrs. Brabazone declared. "I think it was George——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>George, seated three places lower down on the opposite -side of the table, looked up anxiously and, meeting his -wife's eyes, signalled a denial. "Yes, I'm sure it was you, -George. Anyhow, it's a very good 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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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 </span><em class="italics">vis-à-vis</em><span>, dilating rather maliciously on the glories -of Simla, from whence she hailed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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—Rasaldû, Sigrid, Barclay—it was one -long sequence of trouble.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She looked round the table, and, seeing Mrs. Compton, -who had half risen, burst into breathless speech.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton looked helplessly round the table.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Does any one know—I haven't seen Mrs. Barclay for -days——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can call her Miss Fersen," Mrs. Smithers broke -in doggedly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, you know who I mean. Perhaps she's taken -shelter——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It was raining when she started out. That was this -morning early—after that woman came——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What woman——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Barclay—a nigger, like him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"That's it. She wasn't </span><em class="italics">his</em><span> wife—never had been, thank God."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Isn't it conceivable—I don't want to frighten you—that -in her despair she may have done something rash?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Smithers jerked her head with a movement of utter -contempt.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Really, my good woman——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Smithy!" Mrs. Compton implored.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I don't care—it's true."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Captain Compton came suddenly to the rescue.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's a queer thing," he said, in his deliberate way. -"Meredith and Rasaldû and now Miss Fersen——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give me a hand some one, for God's sake!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is it——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What—not——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Give me wine—anything."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's nothing—they—missed me. Only winded——" -He pushed the proffered glass aside. "Rasaldû—Meredith—both -murdered yesterday—regiment mutinies—organized -for tonight—not a soul to escape—any minute now. -That was the first shot——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Where have you come from?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Heerut. Bridge gone. Had to swim for it——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Matherson——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Gone—I don't know. Don't talk——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Of course not—we must act. Who's on duty to-night?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Farquhar—Haverton——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They must be warned."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's too late. It'd show them we were prepared. -Our only chance is to take them by surprise— What's -that——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Firing. Poor devils! We shall be the next. Who's -at the bottom of this, Tristram?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi—Barclay—what's it matter? Do something!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"We shall have to shy the spoons at 'em!" he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault brushed the fluffy grey hair from her -forehead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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. 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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was an old and rather feeble jest, but it served its -purpose. The Simla woman laughed heartily. -Mrs. Brabazone grumbled.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"People always seem to find something in Mary's remarks. -It's base favouritism. I'm every bit as funny——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He glanced up with bloodshot eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were silent for a moment. A spasm passed over -Mary Compton's face. She reached desperately for the -sweetmeats.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mrs. Brabazone—for mercy's sake, tell that Lancashire -story of yours——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They're working up to concert-pitch——"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 1em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The distant shouting reached them. The sound released -her from her still absorption. She threw herself down -on her knees beside him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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—</span><em class="italics">I</em><span> 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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bagh Sahib!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bagh Sahib!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nelly—poor Nelly—something in my head—it's -better—help me——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"They're here—dear—you can't——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A shot was fired—this time close at hand. He made -an odd little sound like a laugh.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She clung to him—half supporting him, herself shaking -from head to foot.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"My Richard——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Nell—sweetheart—help me—to go to them—just to -the door—and then alone——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—yes——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Kiss me!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lean on me, Richard—I am quite strong——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He kissed her. Then he went in alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lawks a-mercy!" she whispered. "Look——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A bugle-call rang above the approaching storm.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault came forward.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He settled his helmet. His thin hand rested tremblingly -on the hilt of his sword.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The civilians stay here with the women," he said. "The -rest follow me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Colonel Boucicault—you're not in a fit state——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The light from behind him flashed into the cold eyes.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What do you mean to do?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>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.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"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——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Compton shook him by the arm. Her eyes were -shining like two points of fire.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shut up—don't you see—he's the Bagh Sahib—he -can do things we can't—it's our only chance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Bagh Sahib rode down the avenue at a walk. He did -not hurry, though the sinister light swept down on him -amidst a pandemonium of rattling drums and trumpet -calls. His face was resolute—no longer brutal—and the -smile lingered at his lips. It was as though the coming -encounter amused him. He did not look to see whether -he was followed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The men he had commanded looked at one another. -Compton fingered the revolver which he had retrieved. -He glanced at his wife, and she nodded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, I'm going, anyhow," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The twelve remaining officers of the 65th assented. -Armstrong himself had already hurried on in front of -Compton. He was a staid, humdrum type of man, but in -that moment the fire was in his blood. None of them -remembered that this same Boucicault was the source of -the very evil which he had set out to master.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He was the Bagh Sahib.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>That was all they knew of him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They reached the compound gates as Boucicault, with -Tristram at his heels, came in sight of the mutiny leaders. -It was still pitch dark, but the rain had stopped and the -torches burnt up luridly in the still air. Separate from -the rest, a gaunt, spectral figure on the ungainly horse, -Boucicault waited tranquilly. He was so motionless, so -unexpected that the seething mass of soldiers came to a -sudden halt. A shot rang out from somewhere in the -rear, but those in the first ranks wavered. The superstition -which was a very part of their blood chilled them to -silence. The roll of drums died away to a faint beat, like -the throb of a dying pulse. The trumpet no longer -sounded. Boucicault's eyes passed from one dark, -uncertainly lit face to another. Then he laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Well, what have you got to say for yourselves?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He spoke clearly now. His voice had a metallic ring in -it which awoke old memories. But it broke the spell. -There were, perhaps, ten yards between him and the -leaders, and they rushed, five of them, with a howl of -triumph—then again halted—as though they had flung -themselves against an invisible barrier. A shot whizzed -past Boucicault's head. He grinned mockingly. He -touched Arabella's sides and rode forward, till the last five -yards were covered, and he stared down straight into -their faces. "You don't shoot as well as you did, men. -That sort of thing won't do. You want drilling, and, by -God, you shall get it! That fellow who missed me shall -have my special attention. The 65th wants polishing." He -removed his helmet, so that the light flickered on his -features. "And I shall polish it," he said.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They recognized him. It was the thought of him which -had goaded them to their revolt. Yet now he sat there -on his horse—the man whom they believed helpless and -stricken—and gibed at them. For them, too, he was as -one risen from the dead. A sergeant in the foremost line -drew back, cowering from him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bagh Sahib!" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Boucicault leant forward and seized the man roughly -by his ear.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes—Bagh Sahib. You shall see that I can spring -still. Ah, you, Heera, so you remember me? In the -old days you fought at my heel like the tiger's cub you -were. That was at Affra and Burda. Yes—you could -fight then—now you can only mutiny like angry children. -Then the 65th had a glorious name in India, and I was -proud of you—but now—" He thrust the man from -him so that he went reeling in the mud. "You cowardly -pack—lay down your arms!" he thundered. His command -fell like the lash of a whip. The man he had struck -leapt at him. He had a revolver in his hand and he pointed -it straight at Boucicault's breast.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bagh Sahib—you killed my brother——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And I shall live to court-martial you, my friend."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Not now——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Shoot then, you cur!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A splash of fire was flung up in Boucicault's face. Tristram, -hiding in the shadow, sprang forward with a smothered -cry of horror—then stood still—incredulous. Boucicault -had not moved. He looked down into his assassin's -stricken, gaping face and laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You can't touch me, Heera. Your very weapon -refuses. We have fought together too often——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a new note in his voice—stern yet curiously -caressing. The man reeled, broke down, sobbing thickly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Bagh Sahib——!" he moaned. "Bagh Sahib——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is well, Heera. I forgive." He looked over the sea -of faces. "You see that you cannot touch me. For the -sake of the old days-when you fought gallantly, this night's -work is forgotten. Lay down your arms."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For an instant longer they stared at him. The red of -his tunic hid the dark, widening stain. They only saw -that the bullet had passed through him and left him -unharmed. The older men among them remembered how -in the bygone days he had passed scatheless through a -hail of bullets. Then as now he had been a stupendous -figure—half god.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>To the younger men he was a legend. The evil that he -had done them was forgotten. He was their own past—their -own greatness—the greatness of their fathers. They -could not touch him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Gentlemen—form your men into their companies. -Lead them back to the barracks. Remember—what I -tell you—this night is to be forgotten."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The little group of Englishmen behind him obeyed tranquilly. -There was the sound of rifles being stacked. The -disorderly crowd formed automatically into sections. The -scene had lasted five minutes. Now it was finished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Boucicault turned Arabella's head and rode slowly -back, and Tristram, who had seen that black stain upon -the tunic, followed him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Mrs. Boucicault stood separate from the rest upon the -balcony and waited. She was smiling. There was no -fear—only a girlish pride, a tragic happiness written on the -grey face. As he came within the lights of the verandah -she waved to him, and he saluted her with a chivalrous -dignity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Then he toppled from his seat into Tristram's arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They carried him into the bungalow and set him gently -on one of the sofas. His wife knelt down beside him and -he put his arm about her and held her close to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is nothing to be done—the whole breast. I -am too old a soldier not to know. Please leave us these -few minutes. We have so much to say to one another." But -to Tristram he gave his hand, drawing him down so -that his face almost touched the dying lips. "Major -I'm—sorry—about—your dog——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram knew then that at the last it was not oblivion, -but resurrection.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He lingered a moment. Even as he stood there hesitating, -Boucicault's body straightened out a little. His wife's -head rested on his shoulder, and there was blood mingled -in the grey, untidy hair. Her eyes were closed, and she -seemed asleep.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They had so much to say to one another.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram crept out on tiptoe. He went down again -into the compound. It was very still. The tumult of the -last hour had died away. It had all been like an adventure -in a mad, terrible dream. Arabella nozzled against his -shoulder, and he stroked her gently. And, as he did so, -the faint light from the room behind him showed him the -slender, colourless band about his wrist.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was as though a charm had laid itself on his aching -senses. A gate of memory was opened. He passed through. -In the tranquil solemnity of an Indian night, he heard -voices—Ayeshi's voice, hushed yet passionate.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Behold, according to the custom, Humayun accepts -the bond, and from henceforth the Rani Kurnavati is his -dear and virtuous sister, and his sword shall not rest in -his scabbard till she is free from the threat of her oppressor."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The bo-tree whispered mysteriously:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ah—those were the great days—the great days——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And Tristram Sahib swung himself on to Arabella's back -and once more rode out towards Heerut.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="the-snake-god"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XV</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">THE SNAKE-GOD</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>Vahana ran on ahead. Bent and twisted with age, -his half-naked figure far outstripped the riders whose -horses ploughed heavily through the morass of jungle-grass. -Behind them, again, came the straggle, panic-driven -horde of Ayeshi's army, and after them the flood, -rising over Heerut.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana halted from time to time and looked back, nodding -and beckoning. He was too far in advance for them -to see his face. But in that feverish agility, in that patient -waiting on them there was a malignant joy, the expression -of a soundless, senile laughter.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They had strange companions—cheetahs, antelopes, wild -pigs—all the creatures of the plain—trotting at their sides, -unheeded and unheeding, conscious only of their common -peril. They moved slowly, dragging themselves painfully -free from the clinging mud. It was the flight of an evil -dream—the enemy at their heels, their limbs weighted, -each step an anguished effort. They made no outcry, but -the tortured breathing of these flying thousands became -an unbroken moan of terror.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana led them by a circuitous path back over a ridge -of ground rising to the rear of the temple. They followed -unquestioningly. There was no choice. Their retreat was -already cut off: to the right the flooded plain, to the left -the trackless jungle hemmed them in. The ridge was all -that remained to them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Sigrid rode between Ayeshi and Barclay. They had not -spoken. Ayeshi held himself like a sleep-walker, his face -blank, his eyes wide open and expressionless. The hand -that held the reins was slack and indifferent. His horse, -instinctively aware of the danger pursuing them, kept up -of its own account, but he did not seek to control it. -Compared with him, Barclay was the very spirit of sombre -exultation. He turned persistently to the woman beside -him, his eyes ugly with significance. But her small, white -face betrayed no consciousness of him. Its serenity was -deathlike. Her body rode beside him, but her mind, the -living part of her, eluded him. He had not hoped that it -would be otherwise—his pitiless intuition had showed him -the limit of his power, the limit of all power; but there was -Tristram, who by now knew the value of the freedom which -she had bought for him—Tristram, who represented all that -he, Barclay, had desired and hoped for and loved, all that -he now hated with the intensity of a mutilated passion, -Tristram who would suffer at the last.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed at his own thought and pointed a shaking -hand at the mournful immensity beneath them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Your friend will have a wet ride. Look out there—the -bridge has gone. It was swept away an hour ago."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed again, and urged his horse past her. He -had triumphed, but he did not wish to see her face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She turned her head in the direction which he had -indicated. The night, mingling its sable with the dirty greys -of sky and water, shrouded the familiar landmarks, but -that very narrowing of her vision widened the boundaries -of her hearing. The thunder of the torrent sounded -nearer—she heard again the mysterious mutterings which had -arrested her at the bridge-head only an hour or two before. -She knew that Barclay had not boasted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Did you know that too, Ayeshi?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes, Mem-Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His voice was callous, toneless. She could not look at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And you let him go? You had forgotten so easily?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Have you found it hard to forget, Mem-Sahib—you -whom he loved——?" He awoke suddenly from his -apathy. He bent towards her, his fevered hand on her -arm. "Was not a little of </span><em class="italics">that</em><span> man's gold, stained with -the sweat and blood of men, enough to buy your forgetfulness?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And now she looked at him. She saw the quivering -features—the eyes bloodshot and wretched with scorn of her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I went out of his life as you did, Ayeshi," she said -gently. "Was that forgetfulness?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib——!" he muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You tried to save him," she persisted—"as I tried. -If we have both failed need we reproach each other now?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib!" In that reiteration there was agony. -His hand dropped from her arm. "It was for his sake—? -Barclay Sahib threatened you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Yes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"And now——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Now it is for Gaya—for those lives your ambition has -jeopardized. And even that may be useless."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The ridge they were traversing began to slope downwards. -The water was at their feet. They could hear it sucking -at the long grasses. The men immediately behind them -were swept forward and lost their footing. A man who -stumbled at Sigrid's side clutched at her and then went -rolling ludicrously down the mud bank into the rising flood. -She saw his head for an instant—his face gazing stupidly -up at them. Something square and black and evil that -had lain like a lump of wood on the surface of the water -moved swiftly forward.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>There was a scream. Ayeshi held up his hand before -Sigrid's face, but she had seen enough. The man had -vanished, and where he had been the greyness of the water -had turned to red.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Oh, God!" she whispered. "Tristram!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No, no, Mem-Sahib—not that—not that—they meant -that he should die, but I—I who served him and loved him, -I know that death cannot touch him when he fights for -others. He fights for others now, Mem-Sahib—for those -I have betrayed—for my salvation." He laid his hand -on his breast with a gesture of unutterable despair. "No—not -even he can do that. It is too late. I am -accursed—accursed——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And, as though in answer, the crowd he led surged up -closer to him. Arms were held up to him—thin, -supplicating arms.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lord—the water—the water—save us!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am accursed!" he whispered. "Accursed!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw his face. The youth in it was dead—stamped -out. Yet in that instant she recognized in him the boy, -the dreamer who, crouched upon the step of her verandah, -had told the story of the Rani Kurnavati. And the -pity that surged over her had in it the passion of that -memory.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi—why have you done this——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His wild eyes met hers for an instant's desperate intentness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib—I loved my country—my gods—the -history of them was in my blood. And then in Calcutta—the -misery—the thwarted ambition—my people starving—the -Englishman in the high place. They told me they -were ripe for revolt—only they needed a leader—a leader -who would carry the country-people with him. I came -back. Vahana lied to me. I believed that my father had -been robbed and murdered—that my heritage had been -stolen from me—that Tristram Sahib himself had known -who I was and made me his servant——" His voice -broke. "But it was a lie—I had no heritage—no wrongs -to avenge—I was their tool—and now—Mem-Sahib, if ever -you should meet him, tell him it was a false dream—but -that Ayeshi loved him——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She nodded. She could not answer him, and they rode -on in silence till suddenly, Vahana, whom they could still -see dimly ahead of them, turned to the left and pointed up -towards the jungle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There—there is escape, O Lord Ayeshi! The Sacred -Path that leads to the Shrine of the Snake-god. Who -follows?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The shrill cry died into silence. There was no answer. -Barclay came splashing back through the water. His face -glowed with a sombre excitement.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It seems there's some secret passage up through the -jungle. We may be able to get right away. At any rate, -it's our only chance."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Ayeshi sat rigid in his saddle, and that which Barclay -saw in his eyes silenced him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is a curse on all those who profane the Snake-god's -sanctity——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay burst out laughing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Good God, man, that silly native yarn——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am a native."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Still, you can't be such a fool——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi turned in his saddle and looked back at the black, -silent mass behind him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Who follows Barclay Sahib through the jungle?" he -called.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But there was still no answer. They stood there silent -and inert, the water rising about their feet. There -was no cry of terror from among them now. It was -finished.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Those nearest Ayeshi lifted their faces to him in stubborn -fatalism.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi, pull yourself together—they'll follow you -right enough."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I dare not," was the desperate answer.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Afraid—? A coward—? You don't really believe——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Ayeshi threw back his head. His features were terrible -in their frozen composure.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I believe."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You accept the responsibility for all these lives——?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I cannot help myself—I am one of them."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay made a gesture of angry impatience.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Do you expect me to stay here and drown like a rat -in a trap——?" he demanded.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—why should you? What are we to you—or you to us?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay shrank back. With a sound like a smothered -groan, he turned his horse about and rode towards Vahana -who still stood motionless and waiting beneath the black -shadows of the trees. He dismounted and looked back. -Sigrid had not moved. The water had risen swiftly to -her horse's knees. Ayeshi bent towards her and laid -his hand on her bridle.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go, Mem-Sahib-fear nothing—</span><em class="italics">they</em><span> will not harm -you. You are not of our blood or faith. Go—do not -let me have your death on my hands. Mem-Sahib—trust -him—he will not fail you——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She lifted her eyes to his face. Behind his passive -despair there shone the old confidence—the re-birth of a -faith. She gave him her hand, and he lifted it to his -forehead.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Mem-Sahib—remember that I loved him."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw Ayeshi for the last time as on the very verge -of the jungle she turned and looked back. His silhouette, -cut sharply against the fast-fading light, rose up from the -midst of his unhappy followers like a tragic, heroic statue -out of a black, uneasy sea. Vahana laughed shrilly, and -the sound, breaking the spell of inarticulate terror, let -loose a wailing cry which swept in a gust over the rising -water.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Lord—save us—save us——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw Ayeshi lift his hands above his head. She -could not have heard his voice, and yet the echo of his -impotent agony reached her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am accursed—accursed——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She saw him no more. Vahana had hurried on into -the darkness ahead of them, and Barclay half lifted, half -dragged her from the saddle. She made no resistance. -But her strength had begun to fail. She tried to free -herself from his hold—to stand alone.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Go on without me—I'm not strong enough—save yourself."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He shook his head stubbornly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—I've nothing left but you. Keep your promise. -The path is steep—I can carry you. We're safe now. -The ground's rising all the way. We've nothing to -fear—nothing. It's dark, of course—hideously dark. Give -me your hand." His was dry and cold. It filled her -with a nameless disgust—a strange pity. It was as -though, helpless as she was, he clung to her.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Why—you're shivering!" he muttered. "What is -it? You're not afraid? What is there to be afraid of? -We're safe here——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It's those others—Ayeshi——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He laughed brokenly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What are they to me? What am I to them? Didn't -you hear him? That settled it, didn't it? I'm not one -of them—I've got English blood in my veins. I've nothing -to fear—nothing."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>She could not see his face. They were stumbling blindly -up the steep and broken path, and the dense growth of -jungle walled them in from whatever daylight remained. -Yet his voice, the touch of his hand, painted him for her -against the black canvas. She could see his face, eyes -wide-open and distended, the mouth agape, the sweat -on his forehead. She knew him to be possessed by an -insidious terror.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"What is there to fear?" she asked in her turn.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He muttered incoherently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana had vanished. They could hear his body -brushing against the tangled growths that hung across the -narrow path like warning, invisible hands. Barclay called -him by name, but there was no answer—only a sudden -stillness. He faltered—the hand which still held Sigrid's -relaxed. She stood apart from him. But for the sound -of his breathing she could not have known that he was -near her. The infinite relief of that moment's freedom -kept her motionless, and then she realized that he was -moving forward—that he had forgotten her, every ambition, -every desire in the one formless, all-mastering dread.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vahana!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Stillness. He groped wildly about him. The sudden -consciousness of his isolation drove a scream from his dry lips.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Vahana!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The answer was almost in his ear—a soft, caressing -whisper.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I am here, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Don't leave me—I can't see—this darkness."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The path is a straight one, Sahib. Give me your hand."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Barclay cowered back. A chill, foetid breath fanned -his face. Something familiar coiled itself about his fingers. -He tried to free himself.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Mem-Sahib!" he gasped thickly. "Where is she?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"The Mem-Sahib is safe. The path leads to one end. -Come, Sahib!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The whisper had grown shriller, authoritative. There -was a subtle hint of anger in its caress. Barclay heard its -echo. Overhead a branch cracked under a moving burden. -A thing slid over his foot and went hissing into -silence. He threw up his free hand to beat off the -invisible attack and touched a slimy, gliding mass which -dropped on his shoulder, winding itself about his neck. -He flung it from him. He was gasping—choking with -fear and nausea. He heard Vahana's whisper, subdued, -sibilant:</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sahib—there are no snakes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But the very hand that held him was a hideous memory. -Something vague, indeterminate, which had begun to -hem him in since that night when he had fled from the -vision of himself, was closing in faster and faster. This, -that was coming, had been from all time, a hand groping -up through the black depths of the ages, a monstrous, -inert mass rousing itself from long sleep to predestined -action. The darkness, the jungle, was a huge prison alive -with sound and movement. The sounds awoke under -his feet and went hissing and murmuring like a train of -fire into the far distance, setting alight other sounds till -they surrounded him in an awful, mocking circle. The -walls of the prison were narrowing—the air, thick and -heavy with an evil sweetness, weighed down upon him -till his strength reeled. With an effort he freed himself -from Vahana's clutch and began to run. The steepness -of the path, the uneven ground, jolted the breath from his -body in agonized gasps. The branches of the trees were -alive—sensate, twisting, winding bodies, which beat their -cold, slimy tentacles against his face—their roots clutched -at his stumbling feet, the hissing murmur had become the -high, threatening note of a rising wind. And behind him -was that pursuing Thing—that formless, familiar menace -which he had foreseen, which had hung on the outskirts -of his life waiting for its moment. He fled before it -because his frantic body demanded flight, but </span><em class="italics">he</em><span> knew its -futility. The Thing was there, silent and invisible, gibing -at his pitiful effort. It was not Death—it was Horror -itself——</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A pale light broke ahead. He neither knew whence it -came nor its significance. He made for it with a last call -to every nerve and muscle in him. He reached it. He -was dimly conscious of a brightening luminousness, of -something black, serenely still, rising up out of the grey -transparency before him. Then the end. It came upon -him with a rush. It closed in in a clammy band about his -throat. He turned. A flat head with a wizened face and -small dead eyes and pointed mouth swayed before his -vision in a sinister, rhythmic measure. It was -Vahana—yet not Vahana. It was not Vahana who was slowly -dragging his life from him. It was that cold tightening -band—and yet Vahana was there—close to him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He screamed. Again and again. The jungle—the -whole world, </span><em class="italics">his</em><span> world, shrinking about him till it was -no bigger than his own brain, echoed with his screams.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst" id="towards-morning"><span class="bold large">CHAPTER XVI</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">TOWARDS MORNING</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The rain had ceased. A soft wind blowing from the -north swept the low-hanging clouds into the fantastic, -tattered fragments, between which a thin moonlight -poured down on to the desolation of waters. All that -had been had been washed out as though a child's sponge -had passed over a slate covered with the laborious work -of a life. Fields and villages, rich pastures, homesteads, -bridges, each of them some man's dream and ambition, lay -under that smooth, glittering surface awaiting their -resurrection at the hands of a patient humanity.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was by this first break of light that Tristram saw -the way over which they had still to travel. He sat motionless -and upright, scanning the seeming limitless expanse, -and perhaps in that moment some dim, unformed appeal -went up from him to the Unknown which steels the hearts -of men to supreme effort.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>And, swift on the heels of that brief intercession, there -followed an aching pity for the faithful comrade whose -share in the coming struggle was so much greater than his -own, whose purpose in it was no more than to serve him -with the last breath of her life. He stroked her ungainly -neck, striving to break down the barrier between living -things which made his remorse and pity powerless. She -answered gallantly with the grand courage of her kind, -and the water rose about them.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was a nightmare redreamed, save that now the first -violence of the storm had spent itself. The wreckage had -gone its way, and the flood's polished bosom shone bare and -empty under the wane and glow of light. There was no -landmark left by which they could guide their course. -The jungle-clad mountains were mingled with the clouds. -The temple shrouded itself in the shadow of the jungle. -They could but drift with the currents, fighting their way -across, hoping—Tristram himself scarcely knew for what. -For who could have lived in that deluge, what escape -was possible? Yet he carried with him a belief born of -despair, a serenity such as men feel for whom there is no -choice, no second possibility.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Something black drifted past him. He could not -recognize it, and in a moment it was gone. They were now -in midstream, where the rush of the water swept over -Arabella's desperately uplifted head. It was then, the -moon sailing out unveiled into the open sky, that he saw -other black shapes and knew them for what they were. -They were the bodies of men—not of isolated victims, -of villagers and field labourers trapped separately or even -in small communities by the swift disaster. They were -many hundreds. They had died together, and death had -not separated them. Like driftwood, they had been swept -into entangled, shapeless piles of floating horror.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sahib! Sahib!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The cry came faintly across the racing waters. Tristram, -waking from the lethargy of abandoned hope, turned -Arabella's head sharply upstream. She responded. It -was as though in those years of comradeship she had -become a part of himself, obeying the same law, acknowledging -the same creed. It was as though she recognized -a familiar message in that appeal to her last strength, as -though her blinded eyes had seen what Tristram saw. It -was little enough to accomplish—and yet so much. Ten -feet to go before that agonized, appealing figure, a hurrying -blot on the silver pathway, would be swept irrevocably -past and beyond hope. It could be done. Arabella lifted -herself breast high out of the water. She was young again. -All the fire of her mixed ancestry blazed up for the supreme -effort. Five feet—three——. It was done. Tristram -stretched out his hand. It was gripped and held with the -tenacity of despair. Arabella went down under the double -burden—rose again superbly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sahib—I knew that you—would come—she—is—safe—the -jungle—-path—behind—the Temple——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Hold on, Ayeshi——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"No—Sahib——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>For an instant their faces were almost on a level. The -brightening moonlight was in Ayeshi's eyes—full of a -passionate worship. "Humuyan came—too—late—not -you, Sahib——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He tried to wrench his hand free. Tristram cursed -bitterly at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"You try to let go—you dare try it—damn you, boy, -do you think I'm going to let you go—now—don't play -the Rajah with me here——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were being swept faster and faster downstream. -Arabella was dying under him. He did not know it. He -could not have unclasped his hand. No reason could -have mastered the love in him, or denied the love which -illuminated the face lifted to his out of the black waters.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sahib—forgive——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Fool's talk—I don't know the word—hold on, d'you -hear? I'll get you out of it. You shall go scot -free—only hold on—Ayeshi——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They fought each other, hand clasped in hand, eye to -eye. No two enemies, spurred on by the bitterest hatred, -could have fought more grimly.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Tristram laughed.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I'm stronger than you—always was——" Something -flashed up in the light. "Ayeshi——!" he gasped.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>A faint smile dawned on the native's face.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Greater love hath no man——"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The knife fell with maniacal strength. Tristram closed -his eyes. No fear, but a sheer incredulous horror lamed -all power of self-defence. The second of suspense passed. -Nothing—only now there was no weight on the hand still -clasped in his, only Arabella again breasted the torrent -with the energy of release from a killing burden.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Ayeshi——!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>No answer—only that mute, blood-stained hand—grown -powerless—and one more figure floating to join its brothers -on the great, silver-flooded field.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Two boatmen, guiding their flat-bottomed craft between -the ruined hovels of Heerut, saw him as he waded waist-deep -through the receding flood. The brightening dawn -was on his face, but they did not recognize him till he -called them by name. Then silently they paddled towards -him and dragged him to safety.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They were old men, palsied with the horrors of that -night. There was no thought of rebellion left in them. -They could only whisper incoherently, like frightened -children, looking up into his face as at something at once -loved and terrible.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dakktar Sahib—Dakktar Sahib!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He became slowly conscious of them and of their -piteousness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There's nothing to fear," he said compassionately. -"I'm not a spirit—my horse brought me across—just -got me into my depth, poor girl—I've been wading -about—till morning." He composed himself with a stern -effort.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Row me to my place—will you?"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But they shook their heads.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Gone, Dakktar Sahib, gone."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>His face was grey—stiff-looking.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Still, row me—to where it was."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They obeyed him. Here and there a wall remained, or -a half roof balanced on a few battered, shapeless heaps of -mud. A carcase of a sacred bull floated backwards and -forwards between two ruins, with a grotesque semblance -of life. At the cross-roads the council-tree trailed its -leaves sadly in the still water.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But where the Dakktar Sahib's hut had been there was -nothing.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He bowed his face upon his hands.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>The men stared at him blankly, themselves too stupefied -by loss for either pity or understanding. The minutes -flowed past in mournful, stately silence. At last Tristram -drew himself up. His eyes were calm—warm with a -hardly won knowledge—and the awfulness had gone from him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Row me to the path behind the Temple.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Dakktar Sahib——" they muttered.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"I shall not ask you to follow me," he said, gently.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They rowed out of Heerut towards the rising ground -of the jungle mountains. The fiery wheel of the sun rose -behind Gaya and the temple shone like a black opal in -the morning glow. As they drew nearer Tristram's eyes -sought out the great window of the </span><em class="italics">sikhara</em><span>. His thoughts -were vague, unformed, still and serene as the water flowing -peacefully over the plain. Through that window Vishnu -watched for his beloved rising amidst her golden-haired -dawn-maidens.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It is here, Sahib."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They looked at him and now it was with awe—a kind -of dumb protest, but he smiled at them, shaking his head.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is nothing to fear. Wait for me."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Sahib—the curse."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There is no curse," he said, with the same gentleness.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He waded through the water to the place they indicated -and pushed aside the tangled bashes. The hidden -path lay before him, leading steeply upwards. He went -on. He was climbing from gloom and shadow into light. -He knew now neither doubt nor fear. A great serenity -possessed him. There could be no curse. Strange flowers -clustered at the roots of the stark, straight-standing -trees—but they were not evil. There was sound—a rustling -and crackling among the branches-a frightened scurrying -of some wild creature startled from its lair—familiar -loved sounds of living things. A warm, consoling radiance -sank down between the stems of the trees as light pours -down through a cathedral window upon the stately pillars.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Up—steadily upwards, up into a higher, purer air, with -a strange heart-beating of foreknowledge. And then at -last the end—a wide clearing on the mountain-summit, and -on a high altar, not Siva, but a golden Lakshmi, her face, -beatific in its serene sweetness, turned towards the rising sun.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana squatted in her shadow, his half-naked body -bowed over something so still, so huddled that Tristram -faltered for an instant. Then he went forward and Vahana, -seeing him unrecognizingly, pointed down with a shaking -finger of derision.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>It was Barclay. His piteous face, lifted to the peace -of the clear sky, was swollen and bloated almost out of -recognition. But he bore no trace of violence.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana shook with a senile laughter. A fangless adder -unwound itself from about his wrist, and he held it to the -dead man's staring eyes, gibing at him.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"There are no snakes—there are no snakes."</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>But Tristram had gone on.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He had seen her. Like a pale lotus-flower cast up by -the waters, she lay stretched in the short grass which grew -about the foot of the altar, her fair, dishevelled head -pillowed on her arm in an attitude of happy weariness. -He knelt down beside her. The moment's dread was gone. -He saw the faint colour in her cheeks. Her breath came -gently, smoothly as a child's.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He dared not touch her. Her peace was holy to him. -But as though his nearness pierced like sunlight into the -calm depths of her dreams, she stirred, her lips moved, -shaping the shadow of his name.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He drew her into the warmth and comfort of his arms. -So it had been once before; but now there was no fear, no -pain, or conflict.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"Tristram—I waited for you. I was so tired. I fell -asleep. But I was not afraid. There was nothing to -fear—nothing. I knew that you would come." She -smiled wistfully—tenderly. "Bracelet-brother!"</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>He found no answer. He pointed out eastwards. Above -the desolate plain the sun climbed up in majesty towards -a splendid promise of atonement. One day the fields would -bear their harvest, men would build their houses upon the -ruins—there would be a new bridge across the river, wiser -and stronger. The shadow of a curse was lifted.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>They knelt together, hand in hand, watching, awestruck, -at peace.</span></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>Vahana, too, was still. He, too, watched and waited, -his mad, hate-filled eyes growing dim in the clearer light of -reconciliation.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>THE END</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 4em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="bold italics large">A Selection from the -<br />Catalogue of</em><span class="bold large"> -<br />G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">Complete Catalogues sent -<br />on application</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold x-large">DRIFTING WATERS</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold large">BY RACHEL SWETE MACNAMARA</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">Author of -<br />"The Fringe of the Desert," "The Torch of Life," etc.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics medium">12vo. Illustrated. $1.35</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The rebellion of a young girl, budding into -womanhood, against the jealous proprietorship -of a mother's love. There has been much -in the married life of this mother to account -for her bitterness of soul and to explain her -tyrannous affection that demands, from the -daughter whom she loves, a singleness of -devotion to the exclusion of everyone else. The -daughter's fancy is in time caught in the -meshes of love, and the clandestine expression -of her attachment, which the circumstances -demand, involves developments of far-reaching -interest to the unfolding of the story. The -scene is in part England, in part Egypt—the -haunting, glowing, throbbing Egypt that the -author has again made so real.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold x-large">The Iron Stair</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold large">A Romance of Dartmoor</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold medium">By "Rita"</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics medium">12vo. $1.35</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>In this novel is told how, for the sake of a -girl, in pity for her grief, in blind obedience to -her entreaties, Aubrey Derrington, a possible -peer of the realm, the fastidious, bored, -dilettante man about town, whom his friends had -known only as such, finds himself not only in -love, but in as tight a corner as ever a man -was placed, with the risk of criminal prosecution -as an accessory after the fact. A love -story, full of charm, complexity, and daring, -is unfolded in the fresh gorse and heather-strewn -setting of the Devonshire moors and -against the dark background of frowning -prison walls. A girl, an innocent convict, -a wolf in sheep's clothing, and the hero of the -story are the central figures.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold x-large">The Keeper of the Door</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold large">By Ethel M. Dell</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="medium">Author of "The Way of an Eagle," "The Rocks of Valpré," -<br />"The Knave of Diamonds," etc.</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics medium">12vo. $1.40 net</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><span>The Keeper of the Door, a physician whose -duty it is to guard the portal through which -the world-sick soul seeks escape. He must -fight the enemy Death, even when the latter -comes in friendly guise. On an impulse more -generous than wise the heroine puts into -practice the other view, that in an extreme -case of hopeless suffering the extra drop in -the spoon that converts a harmless sedative -into a death-dealing potion, is the only fair -way. The story revolves around this act, -its effect on the heroine, the physician whom -she loves, and one who seeks revenge. It -shows the author's remarkable story-telling -genius at its best.</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 3em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><em class="bold italics large">By Cynthia Stockley</em></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold x-large">POPPY</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold large">The Story of a South African Girl</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics medium">With Frontispiece. $1.35 net. By mail, $1.50</em></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="pfirst"><em class="italics">The Bookman, in a long review, concludes by saying:</em></p> -<p class="pnext"><span>"It shows the bravery of self-conquest, the courage of -mother love that fights the world single-handed, -stubbornly living down the world's neglect and scorn, and -winning victory through the love and the loss of a little -child. And back of the tenderness and the pathos, never -intruding, yet never forgotten, is the wonderful, luminous -atmosphere of Africa, with its mysterious colors and -shadows and scents, and the ever-present suggestion of -flowering bushes, 'redolent with a fragrance, like the -fragrance of a beautiful woman's hair.'"</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span>* * * * *</span></p> -<div class="vspace" style="height: 2em"> -</div> -<p class="center pfirst"><span class="bold x-large">THE CLAW</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><span class="bold large">A Story of South Africa</span></p> -<p class="center pnext"><em class="italics medium">With Frontispiece. $1.35 net. 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