CHAPTER II.
THE CHOLERA SEASON--MY MOTHER GOES AWAY--MY SIXTH BIRTHDAY.
We were living in a bungalow not far from the barracks at X. when thecholera came. It was when I was within a few weeks of six years old.First we heard that it was among the natives, and the matter did notexcite much notice. Then it broke out among the men, and the officerstalked a good deal about it. The next news was of the death of theColonel commanding our regiment.
One of my early recollections is of our hearing of this. An ensign ofour regiment (one of the "little ones") called upon my mother in theevening of the day of the Colonel's death. He was very white, verynervous, very restless. He brought us the news. The Colonel had been illbarely thirty-six hours. He had suffered agonies with wonderfulfirmness. He was to be buried the next day.
"He never was afraid of cholera," said Mr. Gordon; "he didn't believe itwas infectious; he thought keeping up the men's spirits was everything.But, you see, it isn't nervousness, after all, that does it."
"It goes a long way, Gordon," said my father. "You're young; you'venever been through one of these seasons. Don't get fanciful, my goodfellow. Come here, and play with Margery."
Mr. Gordon laughed.
"I am a fool, certainly," he said. "Ever since I heard of it, I havefancied a strange, faint kind of smell everywhere, which is absurdenough."
"I will make you a camphor-bag," said my mother, "that ought tooverpower any faint smell, and it is a charm against infection."
I believe Mr. Gordon was beginning to thank her, but his words ended ina sort of inarticulate groan. He stood on his feet, though not upright,and at last said feebly, "I beg your pardon, I don't feel quite well."
"You're upset, old fellow; it's quite natural," said my father. "Comeand get some brandy, and you shall come back for the camphor."
My father led him away, but he did not come back. My father took him tohis quarters, and sent the surgeon to him; and my mother took me on herknee, and sat silent for a long time, with the unfinished camphor-bagbeside her.
The next day I went to the end of our compound with Ayah, to see theColonel's funeral pass. The procession seemed endless. The horse he hadridden two days before by my mother's side tossed its head fretfully,as the "Dead March" wailed, and the slow tramp of feet poured endlesslyon. My mother was looking out from the verandah. As Ayah and I joinedher, a native servant, who was bringing something in, said abruptly,"Gordon Sahib--he dead too."
When my father returned from the funeral he found my mother in a panic.Some friends had lately invited her to stay with them, and she was nowresolved to go. "I am sure I shall die if I stay here!" she cried, andit ended in her going away at once. There was some difficulty as toaccommodating me and Ayah, and it was decided that, if necessary, weshould follow my mother later.
For my own part, I begged to remain. I had no fear of cholera, and I wasanxious to dine with my father on my birthday, as he had promised that Ishould.
It was on the day before my birthday that one of the surgeons wasburied. The man next in rank to the poor Colonel was on leave, and theregiment was commanded by our friend Major Buller, whose littledaughters were invited to spend the following evening with me. TheMajor, my father, and two other officers had been pall-bearers at thefuneral. My father came to me on his return. He was slightly chilled,and said he should remain indoors; so I had him all to myself, and wewere very happy, though he complained of fatigue, and fell asleep onceon the floor with his head in my lap. He was still lying on the floorwhen Ayah took me to bed. I believe he had been unwell all the day,though I did not know it, and had been taking some of the many specificsagainst cholera, of which everybody had one or more at that time.
Half-an-hour later he sent for a surgeon, who happened to be dining withMajor Buller. The Doctor and the Major came together to our bungalow,and with them two other officers who happened to be of the party, andwho were friends of my father. One of them was a particular friend of myown. He was an ensign, a reckless, kind-hearted lad "in his teens," aMr. Abercrombie, who had good reason to count my father as a friend.
Mr. Abercrombie mingled in some way with my dreams that night, or ratherearly morning, and when I fairly woke, it was to the end of a discussionbetwixt my Ayah, who was crying, and Mr. Abercrombie, in evening dress,whose face bore traces of what looked to me like crying also. I washastily clothed, and he took me in his arms.
"Papa wants you, Margery dear," he said; and he carried me quickly downthe passages in the dim light of the early summer dawn.
Two or three officers, amongst whom I recognized Major Buller, fellback, as we came in, from the bed to which Mr. Abercrombie carried me.My father turned his face eagerly towards me, but I shrank away. Thatone night of suffering and collapse had changed him so that I did notknow him again. At last I was persuaded to go to him, and by his voiceand manner recognized him as his feeble fingers played tenderly withmine. And when he said, "Kiss me, Margery dear," I crept up and kissedhis forehead, and started to feel it so cold and damp.
"Be a good girl, Margery dear," he whispered; "be very good to Mamma."There was a short silence. Then he said, "Is the sun rising yet,Buller?"
"Just rising, old fellow. Does the light bother you?"
"No, thank you; I can't see it. The fact is, I can't see you now. Isuppose it's nearly over. GOD'S will be done. You've got the papers,Buller? Arkwright will be kind about it, I'm sure. You'll break it to mywife as well as you can?"
After another pause he said, "It's time you fellows went to bed and gotsome sleep."
But no one moved, and there was another silence, which my father brokeby saying, "Buller, where are you? It's quite dark now. Would you saythe Lord's Prayer for me, old fellow? Margery dear, put your hands withpoor Papa's."
"I've not said my prayers yet," said I; "and you know I ought to say myprayers, for I've been dressed a long time."
The Major knelt simply by the bed. The other men, standing, bent theirheads, and Mr. Abercrombie, kneeling, buried his face on the end of thebed and sobbed aloud.
Major Buller said the Lord's Prayer. I, believing it to be my duty, saidit also, and my father said it with us to the clause "For Thine is thekingdom, the power, and the glory," when his voice failed, and I,thinking he had forgotten (for I sometimes forgot in the middle of mymost familiar prayers and hymns), helped him--"Papa dear! _for ever andever_."
Still he was silent, and as I bent over him I heard one long-drawnbreath, and then his hands, which were enfolded with mine, fell apart.The sunshine was now beginning to catch objects in the room, and a raylighted up my father's face, and showed a change that even I could see.An officer standing at the head of the bed saw it also, and saidabruptly, "He's dead, Buller." And the Major, starting up, took me inhis arms, and carried me away.
I cried and struggled. I had a dim sense of what had happened, mixedwith an idea that these men were separating me from my father. I couldnot be pacified till Mr. Abercrombie held out his arms for me. He wasmore like a woman, and he was crying as well as I. I went to him andburied my sobs on his shoulder. Mr. George (as I had long called him,from finding his surname hard to utter) carried me into the passage andwalked up and down, comforting me.
"Is Papa really dead?" I at length found voice to ask.
"Yes, Margery dear. I'm so sorry."
"Will he go to Abraham's bosom, Mr. George?"
"Will he go _where_, Margery?"
"To Abraham's bosom, you know, where the poor beggar went that's lyingon the steps in my Sunday picture-book, playing with those dear olddogs."
Mr. Abercrombie's knowledge of Holy Scripture was, I fear, limited.Possibly my remarks recalled some childish remembrance similar to myown. He said, "Oh yes, to be sure. Yes, dear."
"Do you think the dogs went with the poor beggar?" I asked. "Do youthink the angels took them too?"
"I don't know," said Mr. George. "I hope they did."
There was a pause, and then I asked, in awe-struck tones, "Will theangels fetch P
apa, do you think?"
Mr. George had evidently decided to follow my theological lead, and hereplied, "Yes, Margery dear."
"Shall you see them?" I asked.
"No, no, Margery. I'm not good enough to see angels."
"_I_ think you're very good," said I. "And please be good, Mr. George,and then the angels will fetch you, and perhaps me, and Mamma, andperhaps Ayah, and perhaps Bustle, and perhaps Clive." Bustle was Mr.Abercrombie's dog, and Clive was a mastiff, the dog of the regiment, anda personal friend of mine.
"Very well, Margery dear. And now you must be good too, and you must letme take you to bed, for it's morning now, and I have had no sleep atall."
"Is it to-morrow now?" I asked; "because, if it's to-morrow, it's mybirthday." And I began to cry afresh, because Papa had promised that Ishould dine with him, and had promised me a present also.
"I'll give you a birthday present," said my long-suffering friend; andhe began to unfasten a locket that hung at his watch-chain. It was ofIndian gold, with forget-me-nots in turquoise stones upon it. He openedit and pulled out a photograph, which he tore to bits, and then trampledunderfoot.
"There, Margery, there's a locket for you; you can throw it into thefire, or do anything you like with it. And I wish you many happy returnsof the day." And he finally fastened it round my neck with hisTrichinopoli watch-chain, leaving his watch loose in hiswaistcoat-pocket. The locket and chain pleased me, and I suffered him tocarry me to bed. Then, as he was parting from me, I thought of my fatheragain, and asked:
"Do you think the angels have fetched Papa _now_, Mr. George?"
"I think they have, Margery."
Whereupon I cried myself to sleep. And this was my sixth birthday.