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 India to know that it is best to know nothing, and can only write the
story as it happened.
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 quarreled 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.
India 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. Those 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 thereby, 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
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 to
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
traveled 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 hillside and black rocks. Bagi
dâk-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 hillside 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 veranda, 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
veranda and fell down, the blood spurting from his nose and his face
iron-grey. 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 veranda 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 south of
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 short-handed, 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 first news of the
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
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 Dâk