The conversation was interrupted by the return of Thud, who seemed to be slightly excited, though his visage usually expressed nothing but self-satisfaction, the solemn look befitting one with an inward consciousness that he was seated in a professor’s chair to enlighten the world with his wisdom. “What’s the matter, boy?” asked the doctor quickly. “Where are Io and her husband?”
“Looking after a wretched native woman whom an ox has gored and trampled upon,” replied Thud. “If Oscar had not rushed up and broken his umbrella over the brute, the woman would have been killed outright. I think that she is killed,” continued the lad, “or more than half. You never saw such a horrid rush of blood from the wound! Io tied her silk scarf round the woman to stop it;—the scarf will have to be thrown away. ’Tis no use to try to save the creature. I’ve a theory,”—Thud had relapsed into his natural, or rather unnatural manner,—“that when people are at the last gasp it’s better to leave them to die in peace.”
“We’ll remember your counsel when an ox gores you,” said the doctor tartly. He had risen from his seat on hearing of the accident, taken up his solar topi and umbrella, and was about to start with the chaplain to see if his surgical skill could avail.
“No use in going out; they are all coming into the veranda,” said Thud. “I informed them that the doctor was here.”
Dr. Pinfold gave rapid orders to a native servant who was waiting outside regarding things which might be needed in a surgical case. Whilst he was speaking, Oscar, with another man, bore into the veranda the slight form of a Karen woman. Her long black hair hung over Mr. Coldstream’s supporting shoulder, her garments were dabbled with blood, her eyes were closed; the poor creature gave no sign of life, not even a groan. A little Karen girl, some ten or twelve years of age, weeping as if her heart would break, hung over the charpai on which her mother was now laid—the simple light bedstead which is so easily carried, and which in the East seems to be always at hand. It had been brought from a servant’s house in the compound by the order of Oscar.
“Bring water—brandy!” cried Dr. Pinfold. Io was off in a moment and quickly brought both, whilst the doctor was examining the fearful wound of the patient. The glass was put to the poor woman’s lips, but they did not unclose; the liquid ran down on either side of the mouth, not a drop was taken in. The eyes under those heavy lids would never see the daylight again.
“No use; all’s over—she’s gone!” said Dr. Pinfold, after pressing his fingers on her wrist to feel the pulse which no longer beat. He saw that the woman was dead. “Nothing remains to be done but to carry off the body for burial.”
“So soon!” exclaimed Io in a tone of expostulation. “Is it not possible that life may linger?”
“Life is quite extinct,” said the doctor.
“She is deceased—annihilated—I told you so,” joined in Thud.
“We bury quickly in these latitudes,” observed Dr. Pinfold; “and it would not be well to keep a corpse in the house to which Coldstream has just brought his bride.”
“See, the veranda is desecrated by blood-stains,” said Thud, “and so is Io’s apparel.”
“Go and change it, my love,” cried Oscar with a look of pain almost amounting to horror.
“A few minutes—just let me stay a few minutes to try to comfort this poor child,” said Io. “Let me try to find out from her whether she has a father, brother, any protector, or whether she is alone in this wide, wide world.” Putting her arm round the sobbing girl, Io spoke to her in tender tones and in her own language, to the great surprise of Dr. Pinfold. Io’s words were evidently understood; for while preparations were being made for the removal of the corpse, Io drew from the young Karen the fact that she had no father, no relation—that to her that dead mother had indeed been all in all. The girl clung to the body with wild tenacity, heedless of all that the chaplain, doctor, or Oscar could say; yet, with a kind of instinctive obedience, loosened her hold when Io laid her white hand on the brown one. Then the child fell weeping at the feet of the lady, and kissed the hem of her blood-stained robe.
“O Oscar dearest, if we can find no relation, will you not let me adopt this poor child?” said Mrs. Coldstream, her bright eyes dewy with tears.
“Do whatever your kind heart prompts you to do,” was her husband’s reply. “Your will is law here. The girl shall be brought up as your little attendant.”
Io persuaded the young Karen to follow her to her own apartment, and Oscar and Mr. Lawrence made arrangements for the removal of the body on the charpai. The two Englishmen needed no introduction to each other, meeting, as they did, under such solemn circumstances beside the form of the dead. Mark Lawrence had been prepared to like Mr. Coldstream; and now Oscar’s brave though fruitless attempt to save a poor native, and the fact that he had himself carried her lifeless body, roused a feeling of admiration in the heart of the lonely pastor which seemed certain to warm into friendship. Mark thought that he had at last found one to share his interests and cares, some one whose sympathy would lighten his burdens. He looked at the high pale brow and the fine features of Coldstream, and felt that he had never met with so interesting a man. Oscar’s gentle courtesy to his wife had not escaped the chaplain’s notice; and Mark silently thanked God for having sent to Moulmein a pair whose friendship might, even to a disappointed man like himself, make life a less sad and weary thing.
The two gentlemen went out to walk together, and Thud chose to make an unwelcome third. Oscar and Mark found their conversation perpetually interrupted by pedantic remark or tiresome question. Thud wanted to give Mr. Lawrence an early impression of his own remarkable sagacity and knowledge, and only succeeded in producing a conviction that Coldstream must be a model of self-denial to make his roof-tree a perch for such a self-conceited owl.