The Collected Novels. Anna Buchan
with us in the launch to where the Socotra lay; which was a great comfort to us all. When we found our party, poor G.'s face was much less pink than usual. The Ormondes were there, having ridden down to see us off, and quite a lot of other people had come for the same reason. We (the passengers) had to be medically examined before we were allowed to leave—in case of plague, I suppose. G. and I were rather scared at the thought—how were we to know that we hadn't plague lurking about us? However, after a very cursory glance we were passed on, got our good-byes said, and embarked on the launch. At any other time I would have hated saying good-bye to the Ormondes and the other dear people, but with the parting from Boggley looming so near, I was absent-minded and callous, though I hope I didn't appear so. The Socotra is quite a tiny ship compared to the Scotia. G. and I clambered on board, in great haste to find our cabin. We found it already occupied by our cabin companion (she is Scotch and has artificial teeth and a fine, rich Glasgow accent, and (I think) is of a gentle and yielding disposition) and an enormous hat-box.
Boggley was with us, but when he saw we were going to be firm he fled,
"This," said G., waving her hand towards the offending box, "must go into the baggage-room."
"Certainly," said the Glasgow woman. "I'm sure I don't know what it's doing here. Ma husband wrote the labels." And she actually began to drag it into the passage.
Seeing her so amenable to reason, we smiled kindly and begged her to desist. But she said, "Not at all," and smiled back in such a delightfully Glasgow "weel-pleased" way that my heart warmed to her. I can see she will be a constant entertainment.
Mr. Townley introduced us to the captain, who looks kind, and who asked us to sit at his table, and then we all went in to breakfast. In spite of our low spirits we enjoyed the meal. G. created something of a fracas about a kidney which she ate and then said was bad, but she calmed down, and we enjoyed looking at the other passengers, speculating as to who and what they were.
Almost directly after breakfast our people had to go, and G. and I, very stricken, watched the launch as it steamed up the river till lost to sight behind a big vessel. Since then, except for an interval in the cabin to get our eyes bathed into decency, we have sat on deck with aching heads, trying to read and write. At first the heat was terrible. We drooped like candles in the sun, we wilted like flowers, and G. gasped, "If all the voyage is going to be as hot as this, I'm done." Limp and wretched, I agreed with her. Then we found we had put our chairs against the kitchen, which is up on deck in this ship.
No wonder we were warm! We quickly found a cooler spot, and I have been writing a long letter to Boggley to send off with the pilot. Isn't he pure gold, my Boggley? I know that you too "think nobly of the soul." He will be home in a year, and I am trying to tell myself that a year isn't long. Well, the Indian trip is over, and I have a lot, learned a few things, and made some friends—best of them my faithful G. It is rather astonishing that I should have the joy of her company home again. Many people, I am sure, expected she would remain in India, but I think she took the precaution to leave her heart at home, wise G. One thing you should be thankful for, there will be no more letters. What a blessing people are nicer than their letters! How good you have been about mine, how willing to take an interest in the people I met, in the places I saw, in everything I told you about; and when I was jocose, you pretended to be amused. Ah, well! Be cheerful, sir, our revels now are ended!
And so I am going home, home to my own bleak kindly land, "place of all weathers that end in rain." I am going home to my own people (I think I see Peter jigging up and down in expectation before my trunks); and I am going to you. And the queer thing is, I can't feel glad, I am so home-sick for India. All my horror of bombs and sudden death has gone, and memory (as someone says) is making magic carpets under my feet, so that I am back again in the white, hot sunlight, under the dusty palm-trees, hearing the creak of the wagons, as the patient oxen toil on the long straight roads, and the songs of the coolies returning home at even, I see the country lying vague in the clammy morning mist, and the great broad Ganges glimmering wanly; and again it is a wonderful clear night of stars. I know that my own land is the best land, that the fat babu with his carefully oiled and parted hair and his too-apparent sock-suspenders can't be mentioned in the same breath as the Britisher; that our daffodils and primroses are sweeter far than the heavy-scented blossoms of the East; that the "brain-fever" bird of India is a wretched substitute for the lark and the thrush and others of "God's jocund little fowls"; that Abana and Pharpar and other rivers of Damascus are better than this Jordan—all this, I say, I know; but to-night I don't believe it.
India has thrown golden dust in my eyes, and I am seeing things all wrong. We have anchored for the night…. I am watching the misty green blur, which is all that is left to me of India, grow more and more indistinct as darkness falls. Soon it will be night.
G., who has been absolutely silent for more than an hour, sat up suddenly just now, and took my hand.
"Olivia," she said. "It's a nice place, England." Her tone was the tone of one seeking reassurance.
"It is," I said dolefully. "Very."
"And it really doesn't rain such a great deal,"
"No."
"Anyway, it's home, and India isn't, though India has been jolly." She sighed.
Then, "I shall enjoy a slice of good roast beef," said G.
The Setons
TO