Part 22

Sigrid's lips quivered.

"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?"

"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."

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.

"What have you got there, dear?"

Mrs. Compton responded thankfully. She came like an eager child, kneeling at Sigrid's feet, the Dresden shepherdess held up reverently for inspection.

"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."

"Have you?"

Mary nodded. She was convinced that her visitor was not listening, but she rattled on determinedly, set on holding off an inevitable crisis.

"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?"

Sigrid took the shepherdess and considered it gravely.

"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?"

Mrs. Compton looked up with a sudden resolution. "We were quarrelling about you."

"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?"

"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—"

Sigrid laughed.

"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—?"

"I don't know, dear."

"And you—you're both awfully shocked and horrified."

Mrs. Compton's mouth tightened with the struggle. She did not flinch under the steady, penetrating eyes.

"We don't understand—that's all."

"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—"

"Sigrid!"

"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."

"Never?"

There was significance in Mary Compton's eyes—a challenge.

"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."

Mrs. Compton sprang to her feet, her hands clasped in consternation.

"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—"

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—"

"Yes, I could have done that. And the money would have paid for a gorgeous funeral."

"Sigrid—don't joke—be serious—"

"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."

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—c'est tout."

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.

"Oh, my dear, my dear—and we didn't know. I can't believe it—you so strong—so perfect—"

"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."

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.

"Sigrid—there were other men—good men—of one's own blood—"

"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."

"You mean—?"

"Silence."

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.

"I don't want to know any more. I do take you on trust."

"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—"

"Position—?"

"Yes."

Mrs. Compton shook her head. Her seriousness was now business-like, scarcely touched with emotion.

"And you think you are strong enough?"

"I don't know. I must be. Everything that matters to me now depends on it."

"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—"

"It would be useless. I have won my position here. I have friends. Anywhere else I should just be his wife."

"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 Rasaldu. 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—"

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.

"How pretty it is! Why are you parting with it? Who's the lucky recipient—?"

"It's a wedding present." She felt a sick misery creep over her. "For Anne and Tristram—?"

"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.

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.

"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."

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:

"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—"

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.

He bowed gravely, but she caught the triumphant flash in his eyes.

"It is very kind. We shall be delighted—this afternoon we've an engagement, haven't we, Sigrid?"

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.

"Poor old Archie!" she muttered remorsefully. "Poor Archie!"

Meantime, Barclay drove his showy cob towards the dak-bungalow.

"So you've managed it," he said. "You've really managed. You're wonderful—even more wonderful than I thought."

She drew farther away from him.

"I have kept my part of the bargain."

He laughed.

"Which is fortunate for everyone concerned."

"Keep your part!"

He made her a little bow, his face suddenly flushed and heavy-looking.

"As much as it lies in human nature, dear lady," he answered.

CHAPTER II

A HOME-COMING

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.

Mrs. Boucicault kissed Tristram on both cheeks, putting her hands on his shoulder in order to pull herself up to the necessary altitude.

"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."

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.

"Do you like it all, Tris?"

He nodded, smiling down at her.

"It's first-rate. I don't know how they managed it."

"Yes—it's quite nice. Of course, we shall have to rearrange things. It's all so patchy, isn't it?"

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.

"Is father better?" she asked coldly. "Is there any change? I asked you to write to me, mother, but you never did."

Mrs. Boucicault helped herself daintily to cake.

"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—"

"I've no doubt," Anne interposed, with contemptuous bitterness. "Gaya has been quite gay, I hear."

Mrs. Boucicault smiled happily.

"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?"

Anne turned her eyes to her husband.

"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."

"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."

Anne's lips curled.

"You would choose the easy way, mother."

Mrs. Boucicault shot her a glance, which was not entirely free from malice.

"Hardly easy in this case. Think of the complications! Think of Rasaldu going about like a comic thunder-storm! Think of our pet official snobs. Oh, we shall live to see exciting times. More tea, Tristram?"

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.

"I'd better go and help the ayah unpack," she said. "I'll drive round and see father tonight, mother. Let him know."

"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?"

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."

A faint flush crept into Anne's cheeks. For an instant, at least, her composure wavered.

"I hadn't forgotten. How is he?"

"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?"

"I shall have to look him up," Tristram observed.

"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?"

"Yes," he answered gravely.

"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?"

"Rather!" He laughed, though the blue eyes remained seriously intent. "And I'll bring my deadliest blue pills with me," he promised.