The Daughter of Brahma | Page 6

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