By Word of Mouth by Rudyard Kipling
Not though you die to-night, O Sweet, and wail,
A spectre at my door,
Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail--
I shall but love you more,
Who from Death's house returning, give me still
One moment's comfort in my matchless ill.
This tale may be explained by those who know how souls are made, and where
the bounds of the Possible are put down. I have lived long enough in this
country to know that it is best to know nothing, and can only write the story as
Dumoise was our Civil Surgeon at Meridki, and we called him "Dormouse,"
because he was a round little, sleepy little man. He was a good Doctor and never
quarrelled with any one, not even with our Deputy Commissioner, who had the
manners of a bargee and the tact of a horse. He married a girl as round and as
sleepy-looking as himself. She was a Miss Hillardyce, daughter of "Squash"
Hillardyce of the Berars, who married his Chief's daughter by mistake. But that
is another story.
A honeymoon in India is seldom more than a week long; but there is nothing
to hinder a couple from extending it over two or three years. This is a
delightful country for married folk who are wrapped up in one another. They can
live absolutely alone and without interruption--just as the Dormice did. These
two little people retired from the world after their marriage, and were very
happy. They were forced, of course, to give occasional dinners, but they made no
friends hereby, and the Station went its own way and forgot them; only saying,
occasionally, that Dormouse was the best of good fellows, though dull. A Civil
Surgeon who never quarrels is a rarity, appreciated as such.
Few people can afford to play Robinson Crusoe anywhere--least of all in
India, where we are few in the land, and very much dependent on each other's
kind offices. Dumoise was wrong in shutting himself from the world for a year,
and he discovered his mistake when an epidemic of typhoid broke out in the
Station in the heart of the cold weather, and his wife went down. He was a shy
little man, and five days were wasted before he realized that Mrs. Dumoise was
burning with something worse than simple fever, and three days more passed
before he ventured to call on Mrs. Shute, the Engineer's wife, and timidly speak
about his trouble. Nearly every household in India knows that Doctors are very
helpless in typhoid. The battle must be fought out between Death and the Nurses,
minute by minute and degree by degree. Mrs. Shute almost boxed Dumoise's ears
for what she called his "criminal delay," and went off at once to look after the
poor girl. We had seven cases of typhoid in the Station that winter and, as the
average of death is about one in every five cases, we felt certain that we
should have to lose somebody. But all did their best. The women sat up nursing
the women, and the men turned to and tended the bachelors who were down, and we
wrestled with those typhoid cases for fifty-six days, and brought them through
the Valley of the Shadow in triumph. But, just when we thought all was over, and
were going to give a dance to celebrate the victory, little Mrs. Dumoise got a
relapse and died in a week and the Station went to the funeral. Dumoise broke
down utterly at the brink of the grave, and had to be taken away.
After the death, Dumoise crept into his own house and refused to be
comforted. He did his duties perfectly, but we all felt that he should go on
leave, and the other men of his own Service told him so. Dumoise was very
thankful for the suggestion--he was thankful for anything in those days--and
went to Chini on a walking-tour. Chini is some twenty marches from Simla, in the
heart of the Hills, and the scenery is good if you are in trouble. You pass
through big, still deodar-forests, and under big, still cliffs, and over big,
still grass-downs swelling like a woman's breasts; and the wind across the
grass, and the rain among the deodars says:--"Hush--hush-- hush." So little
Dumoise was packed off to Chini, to wear down his grief with a full-plate
camera, and a rifle. He took also a useless bearer, because the man had been his
wife's favorite servant. He was idle and a thief, but Dumoise trusted everything
On his way back from Chini, Dumoise turned aside to Bagi, through the Forest
Reserve which is on the spur of Mount Huttoo. Some men who have travelled more
than a little say that the march from Kotegarh to Bagi is one of the finest in
creation. It runs through dark wet forest, and ends suddenly in bleak, nipped
hill-side and black rocks. Bagi dak-bungalow is open to all the winds and is
bitterly cold. Few people go to Bagi. Perhaps that was the reason why Dumoise
went there. He halted at seven in the evening, and his bearer went down the
hill-side to the village to engage coolies for the next day's march. The sun had
set, and the night-winds were beginning to croon among the rocks. Dumoise leaned
on the railing of the verandah, waiting for his bearer to return. The man came
back almost immediately after he had disappeared, and at such a rate that
Dumoise fancied he must have crossed a bear. He was running as hard as he could
up the face of the hill.
But there was no bear to account for his terror. He raced to the verandah
and fell down, the blood spurting from his nose and his face iron-gray. Then he
gurgled:--"I have seen the Memsahib! I have seen the Memsahib!"
"Where?" said Dumoise.
"Down there, walking on the road to the village. She was in a blue dress,
and she lifted the veil of her bonnet and said:--'Ram Dass, give my salaams to
the Sahib, and tell him that I shall meet him next month at Nuddea.' Then I ran
away, because I was afraid."
What Dumoise said or did I do not know. Ram Dass declares that he said
nothing, but walked up and down the verandah all the cold night, waiting for the
Memsahib to come up the hill and stretching out his arms into the dark like a
madman. But no Memsahib came, and, next day, he went on to Simla
cross-questioning the bearer every hour.
Ram Dass could only say that he had met Mrs. Dumoise and that she had lifted
up her veil and given him the message which he had faithfully repeated to
Dumoise. To this statement Ram Dass adhered. He did not know where Nuddea was,
had no friends at Nuddea, and would most certainly never go to Nuddea; even
though his pay were doubled.
Nuddea is in Bengal, and has nothing whatever to do with a doctor serving in
the Punjab. It must be more than twelve hundred miles from Meridki.
Dumoise went through Simla without halting, and returned to Meridki there to
take over charge from the man who had been officiating for him during his tour.
There were some Dispensary accounts to be explained, and some recent orders of
the Surgeon-General to be noted, and, altogether, the taking-over was a full
day's work. In the evening, Dumoise told his locum tenens, who was an old friend
of his bachelor days, what had happened at Bagi; and the man said that Ram Dass
might as well have chosen Tuticorin while he was about it.
At that moment a telegraph-peon came in with a telegram from Simla, ordering
Dumoise not to take over charge at Meridki, but to go at once to Nuddea on
special duty. There was a nasty outbreak of cholera at Nuddea, and the Bengal
Government, being shorthanded, as usual, had borrowed a Surgeon from the Punjab.
Dumoise threw the telegram across the table and said:--"Well?"
The other Doctor said nothing. It was all that he could say.
Then he remembered that Dumoise had passed through Simla on his way from
Bagi; and thus might, possibly, have heard the first news of the impending
He tried to put the question, and the implied suspicion into words, but
Dumoise stopped him with:--"If I had desired THAT, I should never have come back
from Chini. I was shooting there. I wish to live, for I have things to do . . .
. but I shall not be sorry."
The other man bowed his head, and helped, in the twilight, to pack up
Dumoise's just opened trunks. Ram Dass entered with the lamps.
"Where is the Sahib going?" he asked.
"To Nuddea," said Dumoise, softly.
Ram Dass clawed Dumoise's knees and boots and begged him not to go. Ram Dass
wept and howled till he was turned out of the room. Then he wrapped up all his
belongings and came back to ask for a character. He was not going to Nuddea to
see his Sahib die, and, perhaps to die himself.
So Dumoise gave the man his wages and went down to Nuddea alone; the other
Doctor bidding him good-bye as one under sentence of death.
Eleven days later, he had joined his Memsahib; and the Bengal Government had
to borrow a fresh Doctor to cope with that epidemic at Nuddea. The first
importation lay dead in Chooadanga Dak- Bungalow.