The Potter and the Clay: A Romance of Today
Page 33
*XII.*
It was spring before Trevelyan could push forward into the lowlandsection, and on to the interior and Mackenzie. The reports of athreatened cholera scare had reached down as far as Patna. There wereBritons coming every day from farther inland to Patna, grateful enoughfor the privilege of having passed the government line of precaution,and being allowed to stay there; but a British subject, who was neitherordered there by command of the War or Colonial Offices, was anothermatter, and Trevelyan was regarded with a blank curiosity by those whoknew his proposed destination.
There were a good many technicalities and difficulties to be surmounted,too, in the question of getting inward as far as the precaution lines,that would have discouraged anyone less determined than Trevelyan. Ithad seemed simple enough—to get there—after the journey had once beenbegun, but the actual reaching Mackenzie was another matter.
The delay, under which he fretted inexpressibly, only brought moreserious accounts of the spread of the disease. A score of natives hadsickened and died—traced directly to the foulness of the water used—andlater there were contradictory reports as to the appearance of thescourge within the barracks. The waiting days became a torture toTrevelyan, and it was not until he had scaled the wall of obstacles, andwas well on the other side, pressing onward to Mackenzie, that thetorture lifted. The fear—half formed and never acknowledged—of possiblynot getting to Mackenzie, fell from him as mile after mile took himfurther from Patna and nearer to the garrison, and once or twice helaughed a little as he kept picturing to himself Mackenzie’s surprise atthis personal answering of his letter.
There were other pictures that would force themselves on him at thistime, but he fought them from him with a strength grown with much usage.There were pictures of Cary’s face—white with the whiteness of the moonupon it and sweeter than the fairest flower—there were pictures of homeand old Mactier, mourning for him, and visions of the sea beatingagainst the high, gray crags. It seemed to him he could hear and see iteven then, inland as he was, until he would force himself back topresent things and the desolate waste land through which he wasjourneying; the stricken section to which he was going; the cholera andMackenzie. And he would hold his wandering thoughts sternly in check,as years ago he had held in check the stallion he had conquered and waswont to ride. And so the day would pass in a desperate struggle againstself, or his desire to press onward to Mackenzie.
It had needed all his powers of eloquence; all his strategy; all thehard discipline of repression taught by the Woolwich years, to get himso far on his journey, and he had thought with a certain grimsatisfaction that all the Woolwich years were paying back their debt tohim, at last.
It was early in the morning when he reached the small inland Station.His presence caused a good deal of comment among the troopers he passedon his way to Mackenzie and the improvised hospital that had beenerected a long distance from the barracks. The whole thing was strange;the new faces that he met; the awful sense of a growing horror thatbrooded like a bird of prey over the Station with its handful ofmen—placed out here by order of government officials far away and safeenough in London—struggling against the threatened devastation to theranks.
He found Mackenzie in the small ill-constructed apothecary shop and hestood still a minute, studying his friend’s haggard face and heavy eyes,before the surgeon was aware of his presence. Mackenzie was weighingmorphia, and three times Trevelyan saw his hand shake and spill thewhite powder before he was able to divide it in correct proportions.
"Mackenzie," he said evenly, not wishing to startle him.
The surgeon turned sharply and looked at him. Then he leaned againstthe table, his back to it, his hands gripping its edge. He leanedforward a little, frowning. He had had a hard night of it, but—
"Mackenzie—it’s I—Trevelyan. Don’t you remember me?"
Trevelyan went forward.
Mackenzie’s long, lean fingers suddenly relaxed their grip on the edge,and he sat back against the table.
"Good heavens!" he said, slowly.
Trevelyan went up and slapped him on the shoulder.
"I got your letter and it just stirred up my fighting blood. I packedmy grip—and, presto! here I am."
Mackenzie was silent.
"Come; haven’t you anything to say to a chap who has been travelingthousands of miles to get here? Aren’t you glad to see me?"
"_Glad to see you?_" Mackenzie lifted his haggard eyes from the floor toTrevelyan’s face, "_Glad to see you_—in this pest house? You’re themaddest fool God ever made!"
Trevelyan drew down the corners of his mouth.
"Perhaps I am," he said, "but I’ve come; and I’ve come to stay."
Mackenzie laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and Trevelyan could feel thepressure of the long thin fingers through his coat.
"You are not going to stay one hour," he said, in a low voice,"not—one—hour; do you hear? There’re new cases breaking out every day;it’s going to play the devil! If you’re thinking of suicide, go back toLondon and blow your brains out, or throw yourself into theThames—that’s more romantic, still. There’s nothing romantic about dyingof cholera. It isn’t a pretty way to die!" Mackenzie laughed, harshly.
Trevelyan put his hand up to his shoulder and forced away Mackenzie’sgrip.
"I’m not hunting suicide or death either," he said briefly, "and I’m notmad. I know perfectly why I’m here—and what I’m here for, and I’m goingto stay." He paused a moment and then went on hurriedly, forcing backthe tension in his voice. "Do you think I’ve been traveling andsquandering money for weeks, and ’pulling strings’ to get here, andbeing delayed at Patna, to be turned back now like a whipped boy turnedout of school?"
"But you don’t know what it’s like—"
"I guess I’ll find out quick enough. Look at you—ready to drop, andthen refusing help!"
Mackenzie put his hand up wearily to his forehead and pressed it theretightly. The lines cut by lack of sleep on his haggard face relaxed alittle.
"It’s nothing. I’ll be all right when I’ve gotten some sleep. You’renot needed. There’s Clarke, and the orderlies—" he broke off.
"Yes?"
Mackenzie bit his cheek and brought down his hand heavily on the table.
"I don’t need you. Will you go?"
"No."
Mackenzie turned and went back to the morphia scales. Something in thework he was doing and the way he was doing it struck Trevelyan.
"Where’s the apothecary?" he asked briefly.
Mackenzie balanced the scales carefully.
"Sick," he said.
"Where’s Clarke?"
Mackenzie added a fraction of morphia to the scales.
"Sick," he said.
"And the helpers—the orderlies?"
Mackenzie put down the scales, suddenly, and stared at them.
"Half sick," he said.