The Daughter of Brahma, I. A. R. Wylie [carter reed txt] 📗

much tribute from them. Her shoulders were broad and straight, like a man's, and suggested strength, though they were perhaps a little too out of harmony with her otherwise slight and fragile figure to be altogether graceful.

On this particular afternoon, her height was accentuated by her dress. The judge, who fancied himself a connoisseur in such things, would have described it as "flimsy," and waved his hand vaguely as a final touch to his description of the indefinable. The ladies of Kolruna would have said, "One of those wickedly expensive tea-gowns, my dear, with real lace!" and exchanged glances which would have given a fillip to many an old, half-forgotten scandal. In reality it was Mrs. Hurst who looked "expensive," rather than the dress. The slim, strong hands lying passively on the arms of her chair were beautiful enough to make the observer believe anything of the laces which framed them; the face turned to the light was a face that might possibly have seen suffering, but never the baseness of the cheap and tawdry. No doubt it was her face which frightened and even repulsed. It was colourless, whiter than marble, and rendered startling by the straight, black brows and the sombre, heavilyshadowed eyes. Her hair, which was abundant and arranged with consummate art, was white also, and of that whiteness which alone nature can give. But she was not an old woman. Her face was unlined. Even the hard mouth betrayed no sign of years. Nor was she young. Her bearing and expression denied youth. It was as though a beautiful girl had sprung into middle age without transition perhaps in a single night and had since that one tremendous change remained stationary, indifferent to the behests of Time.

But, as it has been said, the man who watched her was not critical or disposed to discover the whys and wherefores of his own admiration. It was obvious that he looked upon her as something of a riddle a riddle that it was not for him to solve. Suddenly she turned and looked at him, and the colour in his face deepened.

"Pour me out some tea, Judge!" she said. The tone was commanding to the point of abruptness, but he obeyed with an alacrity which proved that it had pleased him. For a big man, his movements were surprisingly dainty, and she smiled at him with a faint pleasure. "I like to have you about me," she said. "You do not get on my nerves. Now sit down closer. As I told you, I want to talk to you, and no one knows how long we shall be spared before some busybody discovers that we are having tea alone together. Among other things, I want your advice. You are the only friend I have here."

He bowed his head.

"Surely not!"

"I mean, the only person whom I can trust to be honest and keep my confidence--another thing altogether, no doubt."

He looked up at her again.

"You can trust me," he said simply.

"Yes, I know. It's about David."

"Ah, yes, about David." He sat back in his chair with a movement that was almost one of relief. "Is there anything wrong? Has the young beggar been up to mischief?"

"Oh, no, he is never up to mischief." The corners of her mouth twitched. "But he is twelve years old to-day, and I realise that I cannot keep him here any longer."

The judge nodded an eager assent.

"I'm glad you have seen that. It has been on my mind for some time. Frankly, he ought to have gone years ago. Anglo-Indians can't stand this climate long, and David is beginning to show signs of wear and tear."

"Yes, he ought to have gone years ago," she repeated; "but there were reasons." She turned her eyes back to the window. "The first was that I myself did not want to go to England. Here I have lived down the gossip of these amiable people who fancied I was only hunting for a second husband. My return would start their tongues again, and I am old enough now to cherish my peace."

"Must you return?" he ventured.

"Yes."

"In the end it will tell upon your health. Why must you return?"

She turned in her chair and measured him. Her eyes had widened and there was an expression of sombre anger in them which made him flinch.

"That is a question which lies outside the sphere of our discussion," she said imperiously. "That which has made India my home is my own affair." Then her mood and face softened. "I am very rude. Do you hate me?"

"No," he said. "I want to help you. Tell me the other reasons. You could send David to school or to relations."

Her eyes went back to the plain as though drawn there by some irresistible fascination.

"David loves India," she said. "He has inherited that much at least. And he adores me."

"Yes." The judge linked his hands loosely together and stared at the carpet. "I know."

"He thinks me a sort of supreme being," she went on rapidly, "and I suppose I kept him with me out of a kind of selfish weakness. I dislike scenes. But there was another reason." She broke off again. Her white, strong fingers tightened on the arm of her chair. "You have heard of my brother and my husband's cousin, Sir Lawrence Hurst?"

"Yes. In this part of the world we don't forget."

For the first time the faintest possible colour showed itself in her impassive face.

"He has an only son. The son takes after his father and his grandfather. He is handsome and he is clever. He is a boy who will carry on the traditions of our family. My brother wrote to me and suggested that he and David should be educated together."

"An admirable idea."

She did not move, but he felt that she had shrunk inwardly as though from the touch of fire.

"You think so? But there is one thing which you must take into consideration. I am ashamed of my son."

"Jean--Mrs. Hurst!"

"Do not force me to repeat what I have said. It is not pleasant for me to say or for you to hear, and you know I am not given to speaking lightly. Look me straight in the face, old friend. Forget all silly, sentimental, maternal feeling, and answer as you would answer a stranger. What is my son?"

The judge's face was scarlet, but he rose valiantly to the challenge.

"A decent little chap not like the others, I know--delicate, nervous, a bit of a dreamer, but a thorough upright fellow a--"

"Don't! You will be calling him a gentleman next. And you are not being honest. You say he is not like the others. That is true. You say he is delicate--he is a weakling. You say he is a dreamer--he is merely stupid. You say he is nervous--he is a coward. He is ugly into the bargain, and a cripple. I hate my son."

The judge almost bounded from his chair. He put his hand to his collar as though he were choking.

"Mrs. Hurst sometimes you you are rather terrible."

"No, I am merely sincere. Perhaps that comes to the same thing in this world."

The judge nodded. "Yes, I think it does sometimes."

"You blame me. You think me wicked and heartless. Perhaps I am according to the modern code of sentimentalities. But we our family has never cared much for that kind of thing. We have Spartan blood in our veins. Only the fittest can survive among us. Instinctively we cast out everything that is weak and useless. You cannot blame us for that instinct, any more than you can blame David for being as he is. It is just the destiny of our characters if you like to put it in that way." She paused, and then went on quietly. "At the bottom we are not very different from the rest of our fellow-creatures. You are looking aghast at me because I have dared to express a general but unaccepted truth. You all shrink instinctively from every form of deformity, and, if the Spartan method of dealing with such cases is out of fashion it is simply because you have become cowards and look upon life no matter how worthless and debased, as the highest good."

"But hatred!" The judge broke in as though it had been the last word she had spoken. His goodnatured face was still white with distress, but she was not looking at him. She held herself, if possible, more erect, and her voice became sonorous with strongly repressed feeling.

"I hate my son with the same right as that with which I should hate him if he were burdened with some hideous moral vice. The one thing is as much an infirmity as the other. I hate him as I might hate a friend on whom I had built my life and who had betrayed my trust. I gave my soul for my son. On the night that my husband was murdered I killed myself, everything in me, in order that he might live. I meant that he should not suffer through my weakness. You understand me? He was not to be handicapped through any fault of mine. I meant him to carry on the traditions of our family and the race as my husband would have done. He was to be a strong man who would serve his country, perhaps a great man, but at least strong. As it is, he is nothing, and can be nothing." She got up and stood stately and immovable, with her white face still turned to the light. "I have hoped against hope for twelve years," she went on quietly, "but it would be absurd to deceive myself any longer. I must face the truth. I have brought into the world one of those mediocrities for which the world has no use. Fortunately, I am rich enough to take the burden upon my own shoulders. But David must go to England."

The judge scarcely seemed to be listening.

"You are unjust," he burst out, "and your theories are are--I don't know what they are but it's all infernally cruel. You don't know what is in him yet. And, after all, you are responsible. He is your son and he loves you--"

"Love does not necessarily beget love not in me. Where I love I must respect yes, one can respect a child. I have respected a dog. I once had a foxterrier who attacked a cobra that it found in my room. It hadn't a chance, and was killed for its daring, but I respected the little animal. I can't respect my son. I know I am hurting you. I am sorry. You say I am cruel, but it is life that is cruel, not I. But we have had enough of theorising. I cannot convince you or you me. Our theories are our characters, and we cannot change either the one or the other, especially at our time of life. And now I want your help."

The judge bowed without speaking.

"David must go to a school in England. As I have said, I do not want to accompany him, and I have no one to help me in my choice. My brother is an Etonian, and would want him to follow in his steps; but that is out of the question. All our family have been at Eton, and David would suffer in the comparison. Besides, he is not strong enough. He must go to some private place where there will be some maternal soul to mother him. Do you know of anything suitable?"

"Do you take me for one of the 'unfit'?" the judge asked, with a wry smile. "As it happens, I am from Winchester."

"I know. Any one can see that. I only thought, in your wider experience--"

"I have a brother who interests himself in educational matters. He might advise me. Shall I write to him?"

"I should be immensely grateful. I want the matter decided as soon as possible. Mrs. Chichester is taking her youngest daughter,