AN ANXIOUS EXPERIENCE
"Have you ever wondered what it must feel like to have sentence of death
passed on you?" said Honor Bright thoughtfully leaning her chin on her
hand, her elbow on a low table before her.
"It must be too awful for description," murmured Joyce, large-eyed and
sympathetic.
"I shall always understand and feel for any one under sentence of death
either by the Courts of Justice or from disease. When I felt the sharp
prick on my ankle and looking down saw the snake glide into the
undergrowth I believed it was all up with me. I had seen two or three
natives who came up to the house for treatment die before my eyes. A
_saice_ bitten in the stables by a cobra died in twenty minutes. A
_mali_ cutting grass was struck on the hand and died in three quarters
of an hour. A _punkha_ coolie on the verandah lost his life within an
hour after being bitten by a karait.
"I could not tell the character of the snake that had bitten me, but it
was large and long, and many cobras are dark and lengthy creatures. My
father shot one with No. 8, in the roots of a banyan tree this very
year, and it measured over four feet."
"But, Honey, dear, why ever were you walking in jungly places?" Joyce
cried, wrought up to the verge of hysteria.
"I was out after snipe. You know how I enjoy shooting, and I generally
go alone, for I am not clever enough yet with my gun to be trusted to
shoot in company with others. One is so afraid of accidents!
"I had been walking along the 'aisles' of the paddy fields till I came
to a swampy bit and found I'd have to walk through it if I had any hope
of starting a bird. Just as I was stepping off the 'aisle,' a snake
passed over my foot, and biting me on the ankle vanished in the swamp.
It must have been some sort of a water-snake, but I did not know. All I
knew was that I had been bitten by a snake that might be poisonous. It
could easily have been an adder, or a karait--even a cobra--though I had
not a minute in which to observe a hood or any distinctive marks. I
immediately collected my faculties to think what was the best thing to
do. I knew I had no time to lose. Mother was away in town shopping for
the cold-weather needs, Dad was out for the day on a riot case. I did
not even know if I should find Captain Dalton at home.
"On the instant, I tied a ligature as tight as I could under the knee,
and then started to run back to the Station as fast as my breath would
allow. As I reached the main road I heard the sound of a motor, and, to
my intense relief and thankfulness, it was the doctor on his way
somewhere--I never asked where--my case was as desperate as any, and I
put up my hand. He saw the 'S.O.S.' message in my face, which he
afterwards said was the hue of chalk, and when he found out what was
wrong, he just bundled me in and drove home like a streak of lightning.
I wonder we did not kill someone or something in the bazaar. I shall
remember to my dying day the way the people fell to right and left
thinking, no doubt, the doctor was mad.
"When we arrived at his bungalow he sprang out, ordering me to find my
way to his consulting room while he went straight to his medicine chest
for the remedies he keeps for cases of snake-bite. By that time my leg
was feeling as heavy as lead--whether from the ligature or the poison, I
do not know--but I could hardly put my foot to the ground. Still, I
hobbled in and sat down to wait. It seemed ages, but was in reality only
a minute or two, when he came and knelt down before me to deal with the
wound. There was very little to be seen, just the punctures and a livid
disk round them. Up till then we had scarcely spoken a word, or I have
no memory of words having passed between us, but I can see his face, all
set and stern, his mouth compressed, his eyes like living coals in his
head intent on his work of rescue.
"I hardly felt all he did; I was so deeply excited inwardly. Outwardly I
was as calm as a stoic. I felt whatever happened I would have to keep my
head to the last. I fully expected to feel desperately ill, and almost
imagined the sensation beginning to creep over me, of numbness and
chill. I had watched the symptoms in others, and could almost trace them
arriving in me. Oh, Joyce, I wouldn't go through that time again if you
gave me a fortune!--yet, I don't know--for one thing, I shall always be
glad."
"And that?" asked Joyce.
"Oh, nothing--just an idea," she said hastily. "Captain Dalton cut deep
into the flesh of my ankle and cauterised the wound; after that he
injected something above my heart. I believe he was not satisfied with
my pulse, for he brought me a stiff brandy-peg to drink. My hands were
stone cold; he chafed them in his. In the meantime my leg swelled and
looked all colours. It was most alarming yet he would not let me think
of it. He, who is usually so silent, talked all the time of a thousand
things that had nothing to do with snakes and their deadliness. He even
made a joke or two. Once he wanted to know if I wanted any one--a lady
to sit by me and cheer me up. But when I couldn't have Mother, and you
were away, I wanted no one else, and told him so. I think he was rather
surprised that I wasn't hysterical or troublesome; that I bore all that
cutting about without uttering a sound. Every now and then he felt my
pulse, and as time passed his face took on a wonderful look. You would
hardly have believed he was the same man. The hardness was all melted
and broken up, his eyes were so kind--he talked so pleasantly.
"After some time I asked if he thought I was well enough to go home, but
he preferred to keep me longer. He thought I would have to be watched
for a bit and looked after. Later he explained that he was afraid of
shock. I had been through such an anxious time. He carried me to his
drawing-room, and while I rested on the sofa he diverted me with music.
He played the most exquisite music, and sang me ever so many songs.
Really, Joyce, nobody knows Captain Dalton. He has most extraordinary
depths in his nature of which I have had only a fleeting glimpse."
"Why is he so antagonistic to people as a rule?" Joyce wondered aloud.
"He has had some great disappointment in his life. Someone has smashed
up all his ideals and beliefs, or he would never be so suspicious and
unfriendly. He is that; for who knows him a bit better today than five
months ago when he first came among us?"
"_You_ do, certainly, Honey!"
"Not even I. I have been favoured with only a glimpse of his inner self.
There are stores of wonderful goodness all hidden away underneath the
nastiness and ill-humour he shows to the world!"
"Do go on and tell me the rest," urged Joyce, excitedly. "What a fearful
experience!"
"It was. I thought of Mother and her grief were I to die,--of my
father's desolation. They are both so wrapped up in me, having no other
child, you know. I pictured myself lying dead and covered with
flowers--you have no idea how involuntary was all this thinking!"
"And you never cried or lost your head?"
"I had not the slightest leaning that way. All I wanted was to die
'decently and in order,'" Honor returned, smiling reminiscently. "I did
not want to make a scene and upset Captain Dalton's nerves. Once, while
feeling faint and sick, I gave him messages. I wanted him to tell Mother
that I did not mind dying, a bit. That was not strictly true, for I love
life as much as any one else, but I thought it would comfort her. I sent
her my love and said that if I had to die, I was sure it was best for
me, because everything happens for the best. 'Do you really believe
that?' he asked. 'I am not quite sure I do,' said I, 'but I must think
of everything that will cheer Mother and help her to be reconciled if I
have to go.'"
"How long were you obliged to be in suspense?"
"Time passed so fast that I had been there four hours before he judged
it was safe to bring me home. He drove me in his car and carried me to
my bed where the ayah took over charge. He then went about his other
duties. He was so kind and wonderful to me...." The colour rushed into
Honor's face at a memory that would not be suppressed. "Just before he
left, he came and stood beside me, looking so queer...."
"How?" Joyce asked curiously. The only expression familiar to her on the
doctor's face was quizzical amusement.
"He has rather wonderful eyes," Honor said reminiscently, "and they
seemed suddenly soft and misty. 'You are quite a heroine, Miss Honor,'
he said. 'I shall think of you often when I am alone in my diggings, as
the bravest girl I know;' and without any warning he took my hand and
kissed it, ever so reverently, almost as though it were the hand of a
queen, and was gone."
"Didn't he come again?"
"Many times to see how the wound was doing. The swelling had to be
fomented--he had shown me how--the ayah was quite a brick about learning
the way. Father was there too, and Mother had returned. Poor Mother wept
enough for two, and Father drank a stiff whisky-and-soda to steady his
nerves. Altogether it was a ghastly experience. I wonder what particular
kind of snake it was!"
"It was evidently poisonous, and the bite would have killed you if the
doctor had not found you in time," said Joyce.
"I have no doubt of it." Honor became suddenly aware of the lateness of
the hour and rose to go. "I shall have to dress for dinner, and there's
only a quarter of an hour to do it in!--Dear me, how I have talked!"
"One minute--this happened only the other day, and yet you had
associated with the doctor for five months before you were properly on
speaking terms?" said Joyce, detaining her.
"We used to see each other in the distance occasionally. He never came
to the Club and showed no inclination for feminine society, so we never
spoke more than to say 'Good-evening' once in the way!"
"Yet he said quite a nice thing about you to me in camp."
"Did he?--What did he say?" Honor asked, flushing.
Joyce related the conversation faithfully, even to the doctor's
concluding remark--"I am not seeking a wife, and have no interest in
friendships."
Honor winced as under a lash, and straightened herself.
"You should not have pressed the point, Joyce. However, what does it
matter? I am glad he thinks well of me, and that's all there is to it.
He and I are of the same mind. I, too, am not seeking a husband, for I
am very happy as I am. Good-bye, dear, I was commissioned with a message
for you, but I have talked so much that it has been nearly forgotten.
Mother wants you to dine tomorrow; just a few friends and Captain
Dalton; and he has actually accepted the invitation."
"It is never safe to ask me to dinner," said Joyce doubtfully. "I hate
leaving Baby all alone at night."
"He has a good ayah."
"Oh, yes. She is absolutely trustworthy; but should he ail ever so
slightly I shall stay at home. I could not go out and leave him the
least bit out of sorts."
"We shouldn't wish it. However, he might be quite all right, and then
you'll come--bye-bye!" she waved her hand from the steps, mounted her
bicycle, and was gone.
So the dinner-party at the Brights' was a settled engagement and Joyce
prepared to keep it. She had never been anywhere without her husband,
and felt nervous and shy for the lack of his support. Moreover, her mind
was haunted by nameless fears for the child who was to be left behind to
the tender mercies of native servants. A thousand possibilities of evil
presented themselves to her mind and robbed the outing of prospective
enjoyment; consequently the next night when it came to the point of
starting, she was full of regrets for her weakness in having consented
to go. "Ayah," she said in a fit of childish confidence, "I care for
nothing on earth so much as my darling baby, how can I leave him for an
hour or two not knowing what is happening to him in the meantime?"
"My Lort! what-for be frightened? Baba plenty well, sleeping sound. What
can be?" the woman cried irritably. Could she not be trusted?
Nothing could possibly happen in so short a time. How did other mothers
fulfil their social engagements? Surely they did not all worry
themselves and others to death over nothing? Joyce therefore resolved to
become more normal in her habits, and proceeded to dress.
Hardly, however, had she put foot in the hired victoria, when the ayah
appeared, suggesting another look at the child. He had been coughing in
his sleep, and considering the mother's anxieties she feared the
responsibility of keeping the fact to herself.
Joyce immediately sprang from the carriage and hurried to the bedroom
where the child lay sleeping in its cot. "You are sure he coughed?" she
asked listening in vain for a repetition of the sound.
"Would I say it for nothing?" the Madrasi asked testily.
"What would it mean?"
"A little cold he has caught, or indigestion."
"Then I cannot go out with any peace of mind," Joyce cried definitely.
"What if he should have croup?"
"Why say such words? Give little honey, and cough go."
But Joyce was not satisfied. What was a dinner-party to her if her
precious one was sickening for croup or any other fatal malady? Most
infant maladies were fatal unless taken in time, and if she were away
and he be taken ill, how would he fare? She decided that the Brights
would have to do without her, and forgive the disappointment.
Forthwith she unwrapped, and settled down to spend a quiet evening
alone, with an ear strained to hear any return of the cough, and quite
determined to send for the doctor should it recur.
However, having upset his mother's nerves and thrown a dinner-party out
of order, the infant slept soundly till morning.