Star of India by Alice Perrin (new reading .TXT) 📖

he told himself, than a tiresome, pig-headed girl; but later in the day, when he caught sight of her with Miss Abigail and the Bible-teacher herding a flock of women and children into a new-made enclosure, his conscience murmured reproaches. At least Dorothy[Pg 227] Baker's pluck was undeniable, even though it might be the pluck of ignorance and self-will....

That was a dreadful night. At times the hot, still air rang with the weeping and wailing of mourners, piteous cries that rose and fell; the silences that intervened seemed even worse—while the fight with death went on. Now and then it appeared as if the fatal scourge had been checked in its merciless progress; then again, as though leaping the barriers, it would break out in some quarter hitherto free. Luckily remedies held out, and more were expected in answer to urgent telegrams. By dawn further medical help had arrived, and as the sun rose, fierce and cruel, Flint felt justified in snatching a rest. He was roused from heavy sleep by a message, a message scribbled in obvious haste and agitation by Miss Baker from the Mission camp.

"Please come quickly; it's Miss Abigail."

An ominous summons! Fearing its import, he obeyed it without delay, ordered a horse to be saddled, threw on his clothes, and rode rapidly. Arrived, he found, within a sagging little sleeping tent, Miss Baker seated beside a narrow camp-bed on which, as he perceived at first glance, lay a dying woman. The once round, tanned face of the lady missionary was wet and grey, so strangely altered; the sturdy form was twisted and shrunken. A horrible odour pervaded the atmosphere, mingled with the smell of drugs and straw and canvas. At the foot of the bed a dishevelled ayah crouched terrified, weeping. On the rough, uneven drugget was scattered a confusion of clothes, a couple of tin[Pg 228] basins, a shabby Bible, a notebook. The solitary camp table was covered with bottles and coarse crockery.

Dorothy Baker turned to Philip Flint; she was pale, trembling a little, yet wonderfully self-controlled.

"It was so sudden!" she faltered, biting her white lips. "This morning she was quite well, full of energy and plans. We had come back for some breakfast, and she was taken ill. Laban fetched the doctor. He stayed as long as he could, and she got better. He said he thought she would pull through. I did everything he told me. But now, see! I have sent for him again——"

Flint laid his finger on a cold wrist. Clearly it was a case of sudden collapse, beyond hope; even as he felt the faint, racing pulse it grew feebler, fluttered spasmodically.... He heard the girl's voice in his ear, a choking whisper: "Is she going? Is it the end?"

He nodded, and the whisper went on: "Just before you came she spoke. She said she knew, and she wanted to be buried under the tree, under the peepul tree...."

He nodded again. She poured something into a glass and held it out to him. "Try," she urged, "perhaps she could take it."

To please her he tried, though he knew it was useless. What a pitiful death scene—the cramped, untidy little tent, the coarse bedclothes, the scanty furniture; the only ornament, if so it could be called, a text printed in large black letters on a piece of [Pg 229]cardboard, hung to a nail on the yellow tent-pole: "Thy Rod and Thy Staff They Comfort Me."

Yet Philip felt it was all ennobled by the sound faith, the unswerving purpose of the strong, simple soul whose work on earth was over. For a few moments there was silence; even the stifled, convulsive sobbing of the ayah crouched at the foot of the bed had ceased; the woman hid her face in her wrapper. Then, presently, with a long-drawn sigh, a gallant spirit passed to rest. For Ann Abigail, ardent Christian, brave worker in the cause of alien souls and bodies, no more weary hot weathers, no more disappointment, discomfort, sacrifice. And as Philip gazed down on the blunt features that already were almost beautiful in their repose he found himself picturing Miss Abigail heading a band of helpless, bewildered ghosts, leading them from the camp and the works to regions where suffering, fear and want were unknown....

He remembered Dorothy Baker, and looked round. She was still standing close beside him, silent, her eyes fixed on the dead face; now she swayed, put her hand to her throat: "I have never—I have never seen anyone die——" Then, aware of his concern for her, she added reassuringly, "I'm all right, I'm not going to faint."

"Come into the other tent; where's your hat?"

She did not seem to know. He looked about, found his own, and held it umbrella-wise over her head as he guided her quickly through the burning, midday glare to the living tent that was hardly bigger than the one they had left. She made no resistance,[Pg 230] sat down at his bidding, and drank the brandy he gave her from his flask. Then he stood watching her anxiously as the colour came slowly back to her lips and cheeks. His mind was working swiftly. Somehow he must get the girl away; she had had a severe shock, her vitality was lowered, he dreaded the consequences....

Footsteps and voices outside drew him to the door of the tent, and for the next few hours he and the doctor were busy over such arrangements as were possible for the funeral. The work finished, Flint sent off a messenger mounted on a camel to the railway junction with a couple of telegrams. One was to the headquarters of the Mission in the nearest station, the other was to the wife of the Magistrate, whom he happened to know slightly. He had evolved a plan for the benefit of Miss Baker, and he only trusted she would fall in with it. All the time she had remained in her tent, effaced herself, for which he was grateful to her; perhaps she would be equally sensible when he told her what he had done....

By sundown a rough coffin was ready, composed of packing-cases, a grave had been dug beneath the big peepul tree, and a melancholy little procession started, headed by the bullock shigram that bore Miss Abigail on her final journey. Flint had fetched Miss Baker at the last moment, he had promised her he would do so, and they walked together behind the shigram. Laban, crying bitterly, the native doctor, one or two subordinates followed, and the dead woman's servants; behind them again came a[Pg 231] straggling crowd of people from the works and the camp.

Flint read the burial service. Dorothy Baker stood by his side; now and then she shivered despite the heavy heat of the evening; he saw her glance furtively at the scraps of her handkerchief that hung conspicuous from the branches above their heads. He knew she must be picturing, as he was, the scene of but a few evenings back, when Miss Abigail had knelt praying among the roots of the tree.... The air was thick and sultry, perhaps Miss Abigail was right, perhaps rain was not so far off.... The setting sun threw a red glow over the land, already the fireflies danced in the branches, the leaves whispered and rustled; two or three bats flew from the foliage, skimming over the open grave and the heap of sulphur-coloured soil at the side.... Now the last words had been read, now the coffin, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into the shallow trench, the dry earth was shovelled over it by the scavenger coolies of the village, and the gathering, all but Philip Flint and the English girl and Laban, departed. At a sign from Flint the coolies collected some of the stones that lay about and piled them upon the grave.

"Oh! she would hate that!" cried the girl impulsively. "The idols, the carvings——"

"There must be some protection," Flint told her reluctantly; "you see, jackals and other animals——"

"I understand." She turned away, gazing sadly over the misty, red plain. "And we have to leave her here by herself! Oh! I can't bear it—India is horrible, horrible!"

[Pg 232]

For the first time she broke down, leaned, weeping, against the trunk of the tree that, maybe, had seen other human sacrifices offered at its foot. Flint waited for a moment; then he went to her, took her hand gently, protectively.

"Don't grieve too much," he said. "She is all right. She would have asked nothing better than to give her life for her work. We are not leaving her here, remember!"

"I wish I could think"—she paused, flung out her hands passionately. "I can't believe anything; I always wondered how she could. And here am I alive and useless, and she has gone. It seems so unfair!"

"I expect she was very tired," said Flint simply, "and is glad to rest. Come back to the camp; Laban will see that it is all finished properly, and I want to talk to you."

They started. It was now almost dark, and he set himself as they went to tell her what he had arranged—that she should take Miss Abigail's personal belongings back to the Mission headquarters.

"The things are all ready," he confessed. "I told the ayah to pack them. There were very few, just a writing-case and a little locked box and some papers and notebooks; one or two photographs, her Bible and Prayer Book. The camp things can all follow later. Of course the clothes she was wearing, and the bed and so on, have had to be burnt, that was necessary; the Mission people will understand."

[Pg 233]

At first she said nothing. He went on hurriedly: "I can drive you to the junction; there's a train——"

"You want me to go?" she asked below her breath, "to go now, to-night?"

His heart sank. Did she mean to refuse? "It's only right. She would have wished you to go, you know she would."

"But do you wish it?" She bent towards him, trying to see his face in the gathering dusk.

"Only because I know I ought to send you away."

Silence again for a space. "I telegraphed to the Magistrate's wife as well. She is a kind woman, she will take you in if you would prefer it to the Mission House, I am sure."

There was a pathetic little catch in her voice as she answered drearily: "Yes, I suppose I must go. Oh, how everything has altered, just in a few hours!"

"That's India."

"I feel so horribly alone."

"It will be different when you get into the station. I wish I could go with you all the way, but I must stick here till this epidemic is over and things are working properly. Then I go on to another district, where I hear matters are pretty bad. Goodness knows when all the trouble will end."

"I wonder if we shall ever meet again?"

"I hope so. You'll write, won't you, and let me know your plans?"

"Yes, of course. And—shall I go on writing?"

"Would you? I should like it. Sometimes I feel 'horribly alone' too."

[Pg 234]

"You aren't happy."

"No; I am more alone than you are." They had reached the camp. His trap, which he had ordered beforehand to meet them, was waiting.

"Just pack what you will want for the next day or two," he advised. "I will see that everything else is sent after you at once. You must come and have some dinner with me, and then we'll start for the junction. It's a long drive. The train goes about midnight."

She obeyed him with a touching docility. For the rest of that curious evening she might have been a child, leaning on his judgment, listening to his directions, trusting him utterly. He knew she ate the food that was set before her because he urged her to do so, accepted his brandy flask and the escort of his old bearer for the journey, got into the trap without a word when the moment came for their departure. Jacob leapt at the wheels in an agony of apprehension that he was to be left behind.

"Can't he come too?" she asked; and the panting, whimpering Jacob was hoisted on to her lap. The moon was rising as they set off, a swollen red moon whose light irradiated the veil of dust that hung over the spreading, irregular earthworks, the lines of sheds, the outlying groups of tents. Here and there a few spidery thorn trees showed black and scanty—it was as if a fire had swept the locality and was still smouldering. A hum of voices, the thin wailing of women and children, rose and hung in the hot mist....

[Pg 235]

The trap rocked over the uneven ground, now