THE CHOLERA SEASON--MY MOTHER GOES AWAY--MY SIXTH BIRTHDAY.
We were living in a bungalow not far from the barracks at X. when the
cholera 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 not
excite much notice. Then it broke out among the men, and the officers
talked a good deal about it. The next news was of the death of the
Colonel commanding our regiment.
One of my early recollections is of our hearing of this. An ensign of
our regiment (one of the "little ones") called upon my mother in the
evening of the day of the Colonel's death. He was very white, very
nervous, very restless. He brought us the news. The Colonel had been ill
barely thirty-six hours. He had suffered agonies with wonderful
firmness. He was to be buried the next day.
"He never was afraid of cholera," said Mr. Gordon; "he didn't believe it
was 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've
never been through one of these seasons. Don't get fanciful, my good
fellow. Come here, and play with Margery."
Mr. Gordon laughed.
"I am a fool, certainly," he said. "Ever since I heard of it, I have
fancied a strange, faint kind of smell everywhere, which is absurd
enough."
"I will make you a camphor-bag," said my mother, "that ought to
overpower any faint smell, and it is a charm against infection."
I believe Mr. Gordon was beginning to thank her, but his words ended in
a 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. "Come
and 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 to
his quarters, and sent the surgeon to him; and my mother took me on her
knee, and sat silent for a long time, with the unfinished camphor-bag
beside her.
The next day I went to the end of our compound with Ayah, to see the
Colonel's funeral pass. The procession seemed endless. The horse he had
ridden two days before by my mother's side tossed its head fretfully,
as the "Dead March" wailed, and the slow tramp of feet poured endlessly
on. My mother was looking out from the verandah. As Ayah and I joined
her, 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 now
resolved to go. "I am sure I shall die if I stay here!" she cried, and
it ended in her going away at once. There was some difficulty as to
accommodating me and Ayah, and it was decided that, if necessary, we
should follow my mother later.
For my own part, I begged to remain. I had no fear of cholera, and I was
anxious to dine with my father on my birthday, as he had promised that I
should.
It was on the day before my birthday that one of the surgeons was
buried. The man next in rank to the poor Colonel was on leave, and the
regiment was commanded by our friend Major Buller, whose little
daughters were invited to spend the following evening with me. The
Major, my father, and two other officers had been pall-bearers at the
funeral. 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 we
were very happy, though he complained of fatigue, and fell asleep once
on the floor with his head in my lap. He was still lying on the floor
when 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 specifics
against 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 with
Major Buller. The Doctor and the Major came together to our bungalow,
and with them two other officers who happened to be of the party, and
who were friends of my father. One of them was a particular friend of my
own. He was an ensign, a reckless, kind-hearted lad "in his teens," a
Mr. Abercrombie, who had good reason to count my father as a friend.
Mr. Abercrombie mingled in some way with my dreams that night, or rather
early morning, and when I fairly woke, it was to the end of a discussion
betwixt my Ayah, who was crying, and Mr. Abercrombie, in evening dress,
whose face bore traces of what looked to me like crying also. I was
hastily clothed, and he took me in his arms.
"Papa wants you, Margery dear," he said; and he carried me quickly down
the passages in the dim light of the early summer dawn.
Two or three officers, amongst whom I recognized Major Buller, fell
back, 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. That
one night of suffering and collapse had changed him so that I did not
know him again. At last I was persuaded to go to him, and by his voice
and manner recognized him as his feeble fingers played tenderly with
mine. And when he said, "Kiss me, Margery dear," I crept up and kissed
his 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. I
suppose 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 my
wife as well as you can?"
After another pause he said, "It's time you fellows went to bed and got
some sleep."
But no one moved, and there was another silence, which my father broke
by saying, "Buller, where are you? It's quite dark now. Would you say
the Lord's Prayer for me, old fellow? Margery dear, put your hands with
poor Papa's."
"I've not said my prayers yet," said I; "and you know I ought to say my
prayers, for I've been dressed a long time."
The Major knelt simply by the bed. The other men, standing, bent their
heads, and Mr. Abercrombie, kneeling, buried his face on the end of the
bed and sobbed aloud.
Major Buller said the Lord's Prayer. I, believing it to be my duty, said
it also, and my father said it with us to the clause "For Thine is the
kingdom, the power, and the glory," when his voice failed, and I,
thinking he had forgotten (for I sometimes forgot in the middle of my
most familiar prayers and hymns), helped him--"Papa dear! _for ever and
ever_."
Still he was silent, and as I bent over him I heard one long-drawn
breath, and then his hands, which were enfolded with mine, fell apart.
The sunshine was now beginning to catch objects in the room, and a ray
lighted 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 said
abruptly, "He's dead, Buller." And the Major, starting up, took me in
his arms, and carried me away.
I cried and struggled. I had a dim sense of what had happened, mixed
with an idea that these men were separating me from my father. I could
not be pacified till Mr. Abercrombie held out his arms for me. He was
more like a woman, and he was crying as well as I. I went to him and
buried 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 and
walked 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 lying
on the steps in my Sunday picture-book, playing with those dear old
dogs."
Mr. Abercrombie's knowledge of Holy Scripture was, I fear, limited.
Possibly my remarks recalled some childish remembrance similar to my
own. He said, "Oh yes, to be sure. Yes, dear."
"Do you think the dogs went with the poor beggar?" I asked. "Do you
think 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 the
angels fetch Papa, do you think?"
Mr. George had evidently decided to follow my theological lead, and he
replied, "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, and
perhaps Ayah, and perhaps Bustle, and perhaps Clive." Bustle was Mr.
Abercrombie's dog, and Clive was a mastiff, the dog of the regiment, and
a personal friend of mine.
"Very well, Margery dear. And now you must be good too, and you must let
me take you to bed, for it's morning now, and I have had no sleep at
all."
"Is it to-morrow now?" I asked; "because, if it's to-morrow, it's my
birthday." And I began to cry afresh, because Papa had promised that I
should dine with him, and had promised me a present also.
"I'll give you a birthday present," said my long-suffering friend; and
he began to unfasten a locket that hung at his watch-chain. It was of
Indian gold, with forget-me-nots in turquoise stones upon it. He opened
it and pulled out a photograph, which he tore to bits, and then trampled
underfoot.
"There, Margery, there's a locket for you; you can throw it into the
fire, or do anything you like with it. And I wish you many happy returns
of the day." And he finally fastened it round my neck with his
Trichinopoli watch-chain, leaving his watch loose in his
waistcoat-pocket. The locket and chain pleased me, and I suffered him to
carry me to bed. Then, as he was parting from me, I thought of my father
again, 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.