BOLDERO ON GUARD.
Oh! never work
Like this was done for work's ignoble sake:
It must have finer aims to spur it on!
Thus Maud and her husband were more than reconciled. Maud packed up her
dresses, with a few natural sighs that so much sweetness should waste
itself unseen, and set about passing the summer with heroical
cheerfulness. Things took a turn for the better. A few thunder-storms
had come to cool the world, and the early rains were covering the barren
mountains with verdure and bringing new life to Maud's garden. Mrs.
Crummins was giving her lessons in water-colours, and altogether
existence was less intolerable than she had believed it possible that it
should be. Perhaps the momentary breach, followed so quickly by so
thorough a reconciliation, had engendered an especial sweetness in her
intercourse with her husband. Be that as it may, Maud had resigned
Elysium and settled down courageously to her home life, not, perhaps,
without regret, but at any rate, without discontent.
Before, however, their reconciliation had time to take effect in any
alteration of their plans, events occurred which gave their thoughts a
wholly new direction and effectually settled for them what they were to
do. Occasional cases of cholera, seeds sown by the scattered atoms of
the great Fair the year before, had been occurring in various districts
all through the winter, and at the first blush of spring the disease
showed symptoms of breaking out in force. Week by week the 'Gazette'
chronicled a marked diminution in other forms of sickness, an equally
distinct increase in this. The doctors had a busy time in making
preparations, and great were the cleansings, the whitewashings, the
emptyings, the fillings-up in many an immund old town and ill-odoured
village, where the kingdom of Dirt had prevailed in unbroken
tranquillity for generations past.
Outside each city a cholera camp was formed, with a view to the
isolation of the sufferers. The District officers were at work from
morning to night. The natives took it all with that slightly wondering
acquiescence which is the normal attitude of mind produced by the
proceedings of the 'Sahib.' It was the order of God that cholera should
come; it was likewise the order of the 'Sirkar'[4] that houses should
be whitewashed, cesspools cleared out, and chlorodyne administered
gratis to all who liked it. Both visitations were inscrutable, and to be
endured with philosophic calm. The English Doctor, however, was, so ran
the orthodox belief, a dangerous fellow, and the old 'Hakim,' with his
traditional nostrums, no doubt the proper person to be killed or cured
by. The right thing therefore, if one became ill, was carefully to
conceal the fact, have surreptitious interviews with the native
physician, and, if die one must, be returned as having died of some
disease which would not involve a visit from the 'Inspector Sahib,' a
conflagration of bedsteads and clothes, a general effusion of whitewash
and consequent topsy-turveying of all the household. English doctors and
native doctors, however, were of much the same avail, for King Cholera
has as yet defied science to read his deadly mystery and learn the
secret of his rule. All that science can achieve is to narrow the limits
of his ravages.
May had scarcely begun when two cases occurred in the Hill Camp, and
Sutton, for the first time in his life, knew what it was to be afraid.
He had given 'hostages to Fortune,' and death and danger for the first
time looked really terrible when it was Maud who had to confront them.
Fifty times Sutton cursed his folly and selfishness in not having sent
her off earlier to the Hills, out of harm's way.
While he was harrassing himself with vain regrets and self-reproaches
and puzzling his brains as to how the mistake might be even yet
repaired, Maud herself added a new item to his perplexities by becoming
decidedly unwell. She awoke unrefreshed and wretched; declined the great
treat of the day, her morning ride; came shivering and appetiteless to
breakfast and confessed to feeling completely miserable. Her husband,
the moment that he felt her dry, burning hand, exclaimed that she had
got fever, gave her a welcome prescription to go back at once to bed,
and sent off for the Doctor.
The reader of these pages, who knows the Sandy Tracts, would think that
I did them scarcely justice if I omitted from the picture all reference
to a visitation which to many of them formed, too often, a main feature
of Indian existence. There is a Fiend there, be it known, that comes, no
one can tell whence--from earth or air, or marshy pool or frosty sky or
blazing sunny morning. However, when he comes he speedily makes his
arrival known to the guests whom he favours with a visit. He shakes them
and racks them, and gets into their heads and beats a kettledrum there,
and sets a tribe of imps to dance a sort of infernal ballet all about
each quivering limb; he freezes them, so that the poor shivering
wretches bury themselves under mountains of rags and blankets and go on
shivering still; he parches them till they feel like Dives in torture;
he turns their brains to mud, their thoughts to chaos, their high
spirits to the very blackest gall. Most people, it is believed, when the
demon first possesses them, signalise his accession by a hearty cry; and
well they may, for among the other cheering thoughts which suggest
themselves at the moment, one is that every time you have fever the
likelier you are to have it yet again; and that your way to recovery
lies through a remedy which for bitterness and bewilderment is only not
as bad as the disease for which it is invoked--quinine. In the Sandy
Tracts they serve it to you hot, out of a black bottle, stopped with a
twisted coil of paper, and heated half to boiling by being carried
through the sun. It is at such a moment that existence naturally wears a
sombre look, and that the Indian exile curses the ambition or the
ill-luck that bore him to such a fortune beneath an alien sky.
Maud, however, was so far fortunate that she had the best and tenderest
nurses that could be wished. The surgeon, delighted with so interesting
a patient, was assiduous, considerate and suggestive. Mrs. Crummins was
more than a mother, and Sutton suddenly discovered a perfect genius for
the science of an invalid's room. When Maud, after a week or two, began
to get strong again there was no doubt in the little conclave that she
ought to go to the Hills. A great deal of illness was about--the cholera
had become really serious--the fierce summer was coming quickly on--in
another fortnight the journey would be almost impossible for all but the
strongest. So it was settled for her to go; and Sutton became very
impatient and uneasy till she was safely off.
Circumstances seemed to settle whither she should go. There had come the
kindest letter from Mrs. Vereker, the moment she had heard of Maud's
attack. Indian people are, it must be said for them, delightfully
hospitable, and offer one bed and board for as long as one likes, as a
matter of course. 'Let me know the day,' Mrs. Vereker had written, 'and
I will send out my pony for the last stage in; and I shall take the
children into my room, which they will think great fun, and turn the
nursery into a bedroom for my pretty invalid. Come, dear Maud, and I
will promise you back your blooming cheeks in a fortnight!'
Sutton was touched by the kindness of a person to whom he had never been
in the least polite; and, in far too great a fright to be particular, or
allow objections which would have suggested themselves at another time,
he lost no time in writing to Boldero about the means of getting to
Elysium (for, without a little pressure in the matter of bullocks and
camels from the District officer, carriage in the Sandy Tracts is hard
to find); and Boldero had written to say that happily he himself was
going up on business, and would put his camp at Mrs. Sutton's disposal.
Accordingly Maud went up to the Hills in the utmost comfort, and with
what would have struck European eyes as somewhat unnecessary pomp. The
wild country in which they lived rendered an escort of cavalry an almost
necessary feature of any but the shortest expedition, and she was quite
accustomed to go out for her ride, in her husband's absence, attended by
a couple of wild Sawars, whose rude attire, fierce aspect, drawn swords
and screaming, prancing horses, rendered them somewhat incongruous
companions for a young lady's morning canter. It seemed, therefore, in
no way strange for their party to assume the aspect of a military
expedition. Boldero, however, added all the civil splendour at his
command and called into requisition all the resources of the District
officer's establishment to make Maud's journey luxurious.
All along their route there were signs of due preparation for the
'Deputy Commissioner Sahib's' party. Whenever they came to a
halting-place they found a little encampment of tents already pitched,
surrounded by a host of willing ministrants; a meal awaiting them, the
tea-kettle simmering or champagne cooling, and all the little comforts
that Indian servants have so ready a knack of extemporising on a march.
Maud, though still weak, had sufficiently recovered to enjoy it all
extremely, and found her companion very much to her taste, yet not
altogether as she would have him. He watched over her with as anxious
and tender a care as Sutton himself could have done. Everything that
could by any possibility contribute to her comfort had evidently been
thought of with a sedulous attention. Their dinner each evening was a
little banquet of a very different description from the rough-and-ready
meal which sufficed for Boldero's simple tastes on ordinary occasions.
Maud's every wish was watched. Twenty miles from home she had said
casually that she had left her scent-bottle behind her, and thought no
more of it till it made its appearance next morning at breakfast.
Horsemen had been riding through the night in order that she might not
lack her eau de Cologne. Sutton had insisted on sending with her his own
especial body-servant, who had been with him ever since he was a lad,
and was, Maud knew, essential to the comfort of his existence. He might,
however, have spared himself the sacrifice, for Boldero proved himself a
brilliant organiser and was full of resources. Maud simply rode from
one pleasant drawing-room to another. The journey kept her in a glow of
pleasure. 'How pretty it is!' she cried, as they alighted after the
first morning's march and found the camp-fires alight, the relays of
ponies picketed, and a banquet ready under a vast peepul-tree's shade;
'how pretty it is, and how good you are to me! I am beginning to feel
like an Eastern queen on a royal progress.'
'Pray rule us as you will,' said Boldero gallantly; 'you will find us
loyal subjects. Meanwhile let your Majesty's cup-bearer offer you some
hock and Seltzer-water, the best of beverages after a thirsty ride.'
But, polite and kind and hospitable as Boldero was, he was yet not quite
as Maud would have liked him to be. His mirth, formerly so ready and
unconstrained, had departed. He made no approach to familiarity,
scarcely to unconstraint. He was ready to talk, if she began the
conversation; but he was equally well pleased to ride for miles without
a word. His object seemed to be to make her journey pleasant, but he
gave no symptom that it pleased himself. He never for a moment forgot
that she was the Colonel's lady and he the District officer in
attendance upon her. This reserve jarred somehow with Maud's idea of
what was interesting, natural, romantic. Many nice men, most nice men,
she thought, were eager in rushing into friendship with her and
required a little putting down. It was provoking that Boldero showed no
tendency to stand in need of this gentle repression. She had liked him
especially last year and he had seemed quite alive and responsive to the
fact; now it piqued her that, beyond the assiduous politeness required
by his position as a host, he showed no symptom of being fascinated; in
plain language he quite declined to flirt, and yet she gave him every
opportunity. This was provoking, since Maud herself felt especially
disposed to be gracious.
'Now,' she said, after luncheon, when Boldero showed symptoms of
retreating, 'please do not go away to smoke; let us sit in this pleasant
shade--you shall read me some poetry--no--if you like, you shall smoke
and I will read to you. See, now, I have my beloved Browning--I am so
fond of this.' And Maud began to read, which she did very nicely:--
Constance, I know not how it is with men:
For women (I am a woman now like you)
There is no good of life but love--but love!
What else looks good is some shade flung from love;
Love gilds it, gives it worth. Be warned by me,
Never you cheat yourself one instant! Love,
Give love, ask only love, and leave the rest!
'Will you have some more of this hock before it is packed up?' said
Boldero, in the most determined manner.
'No, thank you,' said Maud, with a sigh of real annoyance, 'I will not
have any more hock before it is packed up nor shall you have any more
poetry. And why, kind Fates, is it that I have so prosaic a companion
for my journey just when I happen to feel poetical?'
'It was because the prosy companion happened to be going at the right
moment,' Boldero said; 'I am afraid this sounds very unromantic too, but
I advise you to go into the tent and have a thorough rest before we
start again. And, by the way, I shall be sending back to the camp: do
you want to write a line to Sutton?'
'Of all things!' cried Maud. 'And I shall tell him how pleasant you have
been about the poetry.'
Before their Elysian residence was ended Maud discovered that it was
Boldero's particular function to recall her husband to her thoughts:
sometimes at moments when oblivion would have been preferable.