The Daughter of Brahma by I. A. R. Wylie (to read list txt) 📕

For one last moment David Hurst saw the babyface; a shower of white rose-petals fluttered down through the moonlight and dropped like magic rain into her lap and on the dark, smooth hair. And then, for the first time, she smiled with a wondering, pathetic pleasure. Then it was all over. The terrific, hideous figure of the idol blotted her out, casting over her path a profound and menacing shadow; the gates of the Sanctuary clanged to; the Temple Dancers lost themselves in the crowd. One of them stood near the Gopura where David lay hidden. A Brahman, wearing the triple cord of his caste, forced his way to her side and caught her roughly by the wrist. He was a tall man, noble of bearing and feature, but his expression was that of a fiend. He spoke a few words, and the dancing-girl looked up at him and smiled. Then both disappeared.

David Hurst closed his eyes. He felt nauseated, though he did not know why. Something vile had brushed against him and he strove to shut it out everything but the child who had smiled at the rosepetals. He knew that his own end was close at hand, but he felt neither fear nor despair. His own misery had sunk forgotten into a great sea of pity and tenderness.

And when he opened his eyes again he found that he was alone. The multitude had vanished; the moon had sunk behind the Gopura, and threw an immense shadow across the empty court; the fire upon the pillar flickered and burnt low. Overwhelmed by the startling change, appalled by the silence, he stood transfigured, waiting for he knew not what. The shadows seemed to live. They moved forward and loosened themselves from the sombre background; they came across the strip of moonlight, and he saw then that they were men, evil-faced, with wild, dishevelled hair and torn, filthy garments, which proclaimed their caste. Their movements were swift and cautious, as though they feared detection, and one among them bore something across his shoulders a something which moaned and then lay still as he flung it roughly at the foot of the altar. For a moment they stood huddled together, then one figure separated itself from the rest and advanced with raised arms.

"Siva, great god of revenge and hatred, destroyer of all, not incense nor flowers nor betel nor the blood of goats bring we thee. Greater far is our gift. May it be well pleasing. Accept it and hear us! Blot out our oppressors who sully thine altars; humble their arrogance to the dust; let the blood of their first-born flow even as the blood of this our sacrifice. For they have exalted themselves above thy power, they have crushed us under an iron heel, and the secret places of their hearts are defiled as with the touch of a Pariah. Hear us!"

There was no reverence, no supplication in the low voice, but rather hatred and something not unlike a threat. The speaker bent over the prostrate figure, and again David heard the sound of a stifled moan. Then, as swiftly and as silently as they had come, the worshippers crept back into the darkness and disappeared. This time the silence and the loneliness was absolute, but many minutes passed before David moved. He felt that some hideous dream had come true; the stories of his ayah crystallised to a terrible reality. He had heard that these things had been and were no more, but the dark stain in the midst of the moonlight seemed to mock the boast. But he was bewildered, not terrified. This, then, was what his father had seen; it was to prevent this, perhaps, that he had laid down his life out of pity to save others, indifferent to himself. Twelve years ago! And now the son, who was a coward, stood before the same scene, before the same trial.

David Hurst came out of his hiding-place. He limped through the broad shadow of the Gopura, and knelt down beside the motionless figure. The altar, with its menacing, disfigured statue of some long-forgotten god towered over him, but he saw only the slender outline of the sacrifice, a native boy, scarcely older than himself, half naked, and bound hand and foot with a thin cord, which bit cruelly into the swollen flesh. David touched him, but there was no answering movement. The eyes were closed, the dark, well-shaped head was thrown back in an attitude which seemed to express an apathy akin to death. Only when David's unsteady fingers had loosened the bonds a tremor passed over the unconscious face, and the eyes opened for a moment. They gazed up into the rescuer's face, blank and indifferent, but the freed arms stretched themselves out in an involuntary movement of relief, and a thin, dark stream trickled sluggishly from the wrist on to the stony ground. David Hurst saw it and understood. He tore off his drill-coat and ripped it from end to end. In less than a minute he had made a rough bandage, and saw, with a thrill of exultation, that the flow of blood ceased, and that in the dark eyes, still fixed on his face, there had kindled a dawning intelligence. The whole significance of it rushed over him. He was no longer lame and ugly and stupid and helpless. He was not a coward. A human life had hung on his strength and courage, and he had not failed. God had done better than to take him back. He had given him his chance.

"Come," David said in Hindustani, "come!"

The native made an effort to rise, but fell back with a sigh of utter weakness; and, using a strength which seemed to have been given him for that moment, David half dragged, half carried him into the shadow of the Gopura, and set him with his back against the wall.

"We must stay here until the light comes," he panted; "then we shall be safe, and I shall be able to take you home."

He remembered then that, only a few hours before, he had meant never to return; he had been homeless. But between then and now there lay a night and a great event. He knew that he would not again see the biting scorn in his mother's face nor the contemptuous friendliness in Diana Chichester's eyes. He had proved himself. God had been marvellously good. The native at his feet remained silent and motionless, apparently overcome by exhaustion; but the quiet breathing told that he lived, and David made no effort to arouse him. His eyes were fixed on the closed and silent sanctuary and a curious, unfathomable pain crept like a cold shadow into his heart. He thought he saw again a child's face smile across at him over the sea of mad human passion and two babyhands full of the fallen rose-petals.

"But now I shall save you too," he said, under his breath. "I shall never forget."

Thus he watched and waited until the moon sank and the stars died out and the dawn touched the topmost turrets of the temple with her flaming torch.

IT was ten o'clock in the morning not a usual time to receive visitors and the expression on the faces of the three men standing about Mrs. Hurst's boudoir, not to mention the condition of their clothes, testified that something unusual explained their presence.

The room was small and feminine, but the femininity was neither typical nor very easy to define. The best one could say was that obviously it was not a man's room. There was a suggestion of the exquisite in every article of furniture, from the silk hangings to the Chippendale writing-table, with its solitary Copenhagen vase as ornament, but the rickety and unsubstantial were wholly absent. The table was made to write on and the chairs to sit in exceptional features in a lady's boudoir.

The judge, who had been standing for a full quarter of an hour, noted the safety of the chairs, and, with a sigh of relief, chose out the nearest for the reception of his bulky frame. He looked tired, and his dusty riding-boots told of recent exertions, but his small blue eyes were very alert as they flashed from Mrs. Hurst, who sat with her back to the light, to her son, who stood in the middle of the room, the object of general attention. It must be confessed that he did not cut an heroic figure. He was coatless. His clothes were ragged and dirty, and his small, sallow face bore a distinct and unromantic smear. There were heavy lines under his eyes, and his head, which at first had been held with a certain resolute dignity, now sank as though beneath some oppressive burden.

"So that is the story of your last night's adventure," Mrs. Hurst said suddenly, breaking the long silence. "It has been very interesting, David."

The judge winced, and even Captain Chichester, a dapper little soldier who prided himself on being "as hard as nuts," twirled the ends of his moustache in evident discomfort. The speaker's face was perfectly impassive, her tone expressed neither scorn nor irony, but nothing could have been more annihilating. David Hurst lifted his head for a moment, his eyes passed quickly from one to the other as though seeking some explanation, then dropped.

"I--I haven't any more to tell," he stammered. "I'm sorry if I frightened you, mother--" he broke off.

The fluency with which he had at first spoken had long since broken down beneath the unresponsive silence of his listeners. He had stammered out an incoherent enough account, dully conscious that he was failing utterly to make clear the wonders of all that had happened to him. He had meant to tell his mother everything, even to the conversation he had overheard, and his consequent resolve. He had reasoned that, now he had proved himself, there would be no more barriers between them. They would be able to meet each other with the perfect honesty and confidence of two people who, having misunderstood each other, mutually realise that they have been mistaken. But he could not lay bare the workings of his heart, in themselves tangled and incoherent, beneath the critical eyes of these strangers. That was to come afterwards, when they were alone. At present he could only tell the mere facts, and they were lay figures, without life or power to move. His part silence handicapped him; he held back the vital truth with a clumsiness which aroused no sympathy. The fire of his enthusiasm burnt out. Suddenly he felt very alone.

"And you really have no more to tell us, David?" Mr. Eliot asked. His tone was grave and significant, and David looked up quickly at him with a sullen suspicion.

Mr. Eliot was a big, heavily built man, with a square, clean-shaven