CHAPTER XVII.
It was the first time in history that the town of Bhugsi had beenvisited by a Lieutenant-Governor. Bhugsi was small, but it had areputation for malodorousness not to be surpassed by any municipality ofEastern Bengal. Though Bhugsi was small it was full—full of men andchildren and crones and monkeys, and dwarfed, lean-ribbed cattle, andvultures of the vilest appetite. The town squatted round a tank, veryold, very slimy, very sacred. Bhugsi bathed in the tank and so securedeternal happiness, drank from the tank and so secured it quickly. Allsuch abominations as are unnameable Bhugsi also preferred to commit inthe vicinity of the tank, and it was possibly for this reason that thehighest death-rate of the last “year under report” had been humblysubmitted by Bhugsi.
Noting this achievement, John Church added Bhugsi to his inspectionlist. The inspection list was already sufficiently long for the time athis disposal, but Church had a way of economising his time thatcontributed much to the discipline of provincial Bengal. He accomplishedthis by train and boat and saddle; and his staff, with deep inwardobjurgations, did its best to keep up. He pressed upon Judith theadvisability of a more leisurely progress by easier routes, withoccasional meeting-places, but found her quietly obstinate in herdetermination to come with him. She declared herself the better for theconstant change and the stimulus of quick moves; and this he couldbelieve, for whenever they made a stay of more than forty-eight hoursanywhere it was always she who was most feverishly anxious to depart.She filled her waking moments and dulled her pain in the natural way,with actual physical exertion. While the servants looked on inconsternation she toiled instinctively over packings and unpackings, andwas glad of the weariness they brought her. She invented little newdevotions to her husband—these also soothed her—and became freshlysolicitous about his health, freshly thoughtful about his comfort.Observing which, Church reflected tenderly on the unselfishness ofwomen, and said to his wife that he could not have her throwing herself,this way, before the Juggernaut of his official progress.
There were no Europeans at all at Bhugsi, so the Lieutenant-Governor’sparty put up at the dâk-bungalow, three miles outside the town. PeterRobertson, the Commissioner of the Division, and the district officer,who were in attendance upon His Honour, were in camp near by, as theircustom is. The dâk-bungalow had only three rooms, and this made the factthat two of His Honour’s suite had been left at the last station withfever less of a misfortune. By this time, indeed, the suite consisted ofJudith and the private secretary and the servants; but as John Churchsaid, getting into his saddle at six o’clock in the morning, there werequite enough of them to terrify Bhugsi into certain reforms.
He spent three hours inspecting the work of the native magistrate, andcame back to breakfast with his brows well set together over thatofficial’s amiable tolerance of a popular way of procuring confessionsamong the police, which was by means of needles and the supposedcriminal’s finger-nails. It had been practised in Bhugsi, as the nativemagistrate represented, for thousands of years, but it made John Churchangry. He ate with stern eyes upon the table-cloth, and when the mealwas over rode back to Bhugsi. There was only that one day, and besidethe all-important matter of the sanitation he had to look at theschools, to inspect the gaol, to receive an address and to make aspeech. He reflected on the terms of the speech as he rode, improvingupon their salutary effect. He said to his private secretary, canteringalongside, that he had never known it so hot in April—the air was like awhip. It was borne in upon him once that if he could put down the burdenof his work and of his dignity and stretch himself out to sleep besidethe naked coolies who lay on their faces in the shadow of the pipaltrees by the roadside, it would be a pleasant thing, but this he did notsay to his private secretary.
It was half-past five, and the bamboos were all alive with the eveningtwitter of hidden sparrows, before the Lieutenant-Governor returned. Foran instant Judith, coming out at the sound of hoofs, failed to recogniseher husband, he looked, with a thick white powder of dust over his beardand eyebrows, so old a man. He stooped in his saddle, too, and all thegauntness of his face and figure had a deeper accent.
“Put His Honour to bed, Mrs. Church,” cried the Commissioner, liftinghis hat as he rode on to camp. “He has done the work of six men to-day.”
“You will be glad of some tea,” she said.
He tumbled clumsily out of his saddle and leaned for a moment againsthis animal’s shoulder. The mare put her head round whinnying, but whenChurch searched in his pocket for her piece of sugar-cane and offered itto her, she snuffed it and refused it. He dropped the sugar-cane intothe dust at her feet and told the syce to take her away.
“If she will not eat her gram give me word of it,” he said. But she ateher gram.
“Will you change first, John?” Judith asked with her hand on hiscoat-sleeve. “I think you should—you are wet through and through.”
“Yes, I will change,” he said; but he dropped into the first chair hesaw. The chair stood on the verandah, and the evening breeze had alreadybegun to come up. He threw back his head and unfastened his damp collarand felt its gratefulness. In the intimate neighbourhood of thedâk-bungalow the private secretary could be heard splashing in his tub.
“Poor Sparks!” said His Honour. “I’m afraid he has had a hard day of it.Good fellow, Sparks, thoroughly good fellow. I hope he’ll get on. It’svery disheartening work, this of ours in India,” he went on absently;“one feels the depression of it always, more or less, but to-night——” Hepaused and closed his eyes as if he were too weary to finish thesentence. A servant appeared with a wicker table and another with atray.
“A cup of tea,” said Judith cheerfully, “will often redeem the face ofnature”; but he waved it back.
“I am too hungry for tea. Tell them to bring me a solid meal: coldbeef—no, make it hot—that game pie we had at breakfast—anything thereis, but as soon as possible. How refreshing this wind is!”
“Go and change, John,” his wife urged.
“Yes, I must, immediately: I shall be taking a chill.” As he half rosefrom his chair he saw the postman, turbaned, barefooted, crossing thegrass from the road, and dropped back again.
“Here is the dâk,” he said; “I must just have a look first.”
Mrs. Church took her letters, and went into the house to give orders tothe butler. Five minutes afterwards she came back, to find her husbandsitting where she had left him, but upright in his chair andmechanically stroking his beard, with his face set. He had grown paler,if that was possible, but had lost every trace of lassitude. He had thelook of being face to face with a realised contingency which his wifeknew well.
“News, John?” she asked nervously; “anything important?”
“The most important—and the worst,” he answered steadily, withoutlooking at her. His eyes were fixed on the floor, and on his course ofaction.
“What do you mean, dear? What has happened? May I see?”
For answer he handed her his private letter from Lord Scansleigh. Sheopened it with shaking fingers, and read the first sentence or twoaloud. Then instinctively her voice stopped, and she finished it insilence. The Viceroy had written:—
“MY DEAR CHURCH: The accompanying official correspondence will show youour position, when the mail left England, with the Secretary of State. Ifear that nothing has occurred in the meantime to improve it—in fact,one or two telegrams seem rather to point the other way. I will notwaste your time and mine in idle regrets, if indeed they would bejustifiable, but write only to assure you heartily in private, as I doformally in my official letter, that if we go we go together. I havealready telegraphed this to Strathell, and will let you know thesubstance of his reply as soon as I receive it. I wish I could thinkthat the prospect of my own resignation is likely to deter them fromdemanding yours, but I own to you that I expect our joint immolationwill not be too impressive a sacrifice for the British Public in thisconnection.
“With kind regards to Mrs. Church
, in which my wife joins,
“Believe me, dear Church, yours sincerely,
“SCANSLEIGH.”
They spoke for a few minutes of the Viceroy’s loyalty and considerationand appreciation. She dwelt upon that with instinctive tact, and thenChurch got up quickly.
“I must write to Scansleigh at once,” he said. “I am afraid he isdetermined about this, but I must write. There is a great deal to do.When Sparks comes out send him to me.” Then he went over to her andawkwardly kissed her. “You have taken it very well, Judith,” hesaid—“better than any woman I know would have done.”
She put a quick detaining hand upon his arm. “Oh, John, it is only foryour sake that I care at all. I—I am so tired of it. I should be onlytoo glad to go home with you, dear, and find some little place in thecountry where we could live quietly——”
“Yes, yes,” he said, hurrying away. “We can discuss that afterwards.Don’t keep Sparks talking.”
Sparks appeared presently, swinging an embossed silver cylinder half ayard long. New washed and freshly clad in garments of clean countrysilk, with his damp hair brushed crisply off his forehead, there was apinkness and a healthiness about Sparks that would have been refreshingat any other moment. “Have you seen this bauble, Mrs. Church?” heinquired: “Bhugsi’s tribute, enshrining the address. It makes thefifth.”
Judith looked at it, and back at Captain Sparks, who saw, with a fallingcountenance, that there were tears in her eyes.
“It is the last he will ever receive,” she said, and one of the tearsfound its way down her cheek. “They have asked him from England toresign—they say he must.”
Captain Sparks, private secretary, stood for a moment with his legsapart in blank astonishment, while Mrs. Church sought among the folds ofher skirt for her pocket-handkerchief.
“By the Lord—impossible!” he burst out; and then, as Judith pointedmutely to her husband’s room, he turned and shot in that direction,leaving her, as her sex is usually left, with the teacups and thesituation.
* * * * *
A few hours later Captain Sparks’ dreams of the changed condition ofthings were interrupted by a knock. It was Mrs. Church, sleepy-eyed, inher dressing-gown, with a candle; and she wanted the chlorodyne from thelittle travelling medicine chest, which was among the privatesecretary’s things.
“My husband seems to have got a chill,” she said. “It must have beenwhile he sat in the verandah. I am afraid he is in for a wretchednight.”
“Three fingers of brandy,” suggested Sparks concernedly, getting out thebottle. “Nothing like brandy.”
“He has tried brandy. About twenty drops of this, I suppose?”
“I should think so. Can I be of any use?”
Judith said No, thanks—she hoped her husband would get some sleeppresently. She went away, shielding her flickering candle, and darknessand silence came again where she had been.
A quarter of an hour later she came back, and it appeared that CaptainSparks could be of use. The chill seemed obstinate; they must rouse theservants and get fires made and water heated. Judith wanted to know howsoon one might repeat the dose of chlorodyne. She was very much awake,and had that serious, pale decision with which women take action inemergencies of sickness.
Later still they stood outside the door of his room and looked at eachother. “There is a European doctor at Bhai Gunj,” said Captain Sparks.“He may be here with luck by six o’clock to-morrow afternoon—_this_afternoon.” He looked at his watch and saw that it was past midnight.“Bundal Singh has gone for him, and Juddoo for the native apothecary atBhugsi—but he will be useless. Robertson will be over immediately. Hehas seen cases of it, I know.”
A thick sound came from the room they had left, and they hurried backinto it.
* * * * *
“Water?” repeated the Commissioner; “yes, as much as he likes. I wish toGod we had some ice.”
“Then, sir, I may take leave?” It was the unctuous voice of the nativeapothecary.
“No, you may not. Damn you, I suppose you can help to rub him? Quick,Sparks; the turpentine!”
* * * * *
Next day at noon arrived Hari Lal, who had travelled many hours and manymiles with a petition to the Chota Lât Sahib, wherein he and his villageimplored that the goats might eat the young shoots in the forest asaforetime; for if not—they were all poor men—how should the goats eat atall? Hari Lal arrived upon his beast, and saw from afar off that therewas a chuprassie in red and gold upon the verandah whose favour wouldcost money. So he dismounted at a considerable and respectful distance,and approached humbly, with salaams and words that were suitable to achuprassie in red and gold. The heat stood fiercely about the bungalow,and it was so silent that a pair of sparrows scolding in the verandahmade the most unseemly wrangle.
Bundal Singh had not the look of business. He sat immovable upon hishaunches, with his hands hanging between his knees. His head fellforward heavily, his eyes were puffed, and he regarded Hari Lal withindifference.
“O most excellent, how can a poor man seeking justice speak with the LâtSahib? The matter is a matter of goats——”
“_Bus!_ The Lât Sahib died in the little dawn. This place is empty butfor the widow. _Mutti dani wasti gia_—they have gone to give the earth.It was the bad sickness, and the pain of it lasted only five hours. Whenhe was dead, worthy one, his face was like a blue puggri that has beenthrice washed, and his hand was no larger than the hand of my woman!What talk is there of justice? _Bus!_”
Hari Lal heard him through with a countenance that grew ever moreterrified. Then he spat vigorously, and got again upon his animal. “Andyou, fool, why do you sit here?” he asked quaveringly, as he sawed atthe creature’s mouth.
“Because the servant-folk of the Sirkar do not run away. Who then woulddo justice and collect taxes, _budzat_? _Jao_, you Bengali rice-eater! Iam of a country where those who are not women are men!”
The Bengali rice-eater went as he was bidden, and only a little curlingcloud of white dust, sinking back into the road under the sun, remainedto tell of him. Bundal Singh, hoarse with hours of howling, lifted uphis voice in the silence because of the grief within him, and howledagain.
A little wind stole out from under a clump of mango trees and chasedsome new-curled shavings about the verandah, and did its best to blowthem in at the closed shutters of a darkened room. The shavings were toosubstantial, but the scent of the fresh-cut planks came through, andbrought the stunned woman on the bed a sickening realisation of oneunalterable fact in the horror of great darkness through which shegroped, babbling prayers.