A Passage to India, E. M. Forster [book series for 10 year olds TXT] 📗

plays polo is all right. What you’ve got to stamp on is these educated classes, and, mind, I do know what I’m talking about this time.”

The smoking-room door opened, and let in a feminine buzz. Mrs. Turton called out, “She’s better,” and from both sections of the community a sigh of joy and relief rose. The Civil Surgeon, who had brought the good news, came in. His cumbrous, pasty face looked ill-tempered. He surveyed the company, saw Fielding crouched below him on an ottoman, and said, “H’m!”

Everyone began pressing him for details. “No one’s out of danger in this country as long as they have a temperature,” was his answer. He appeared to resent his patient’s recovery, and no one who knew the old Major and his ways was surprised at this.

“Squat down, Callendar; tell us all about it.”

“Take me some time to do that.”

“How’s the old lady?”

“Temperature.”

“My wife heard she was sinking.”

“So she may be. I guarantee nothing. I really can’t be plagued with questions, Lesley.”

“Sorry, old man.”

“Heaslop’s just behind me.”

At the name of Heaslop a fine and beautiful expression was renewed on every face. Miss Quested was only a victim, but young Heaslop was a martyr; he was the recipient of all the evil intended against them by the country they had tried to serve; he was bearing the sahib’s cross. And they fretted because they could do nothing for him in return; they felt so craven sitting on softness and attending the course of the law.

“I wish to God I hadn’t given my jewel of an assistant leave. I’ld cut my tongue out first. To feel I’m responsible, that’s what hits me. To refuse, and then give in under pressure. That is what I did, my sons, that is what I did.”

Fielding took his pipe from his mouth and looked at it thoughtfully. Thinking him afraid, the other went on: “I understood an Englishman was to accompany the expedition. That is why I gave in.”

“No one blames you, my dear Callendar,” said the Collector, looking down. “We are all to blame in the sense that we ought to have seen the expedition was insufficiently guaranteed, and stopped it. I knew about it myself; we lent our car this morning to take the ladies to the station. We are all implicated in that sense, but not an atom of blame attaches to you personally.”

“I don’t feel that. I wish I could. Responsibility is a very awful thing, and I’ve no use for the man who shirks it.” His eyes were directed on Fielding. Those who knew that Fielding had undertaken to accompany and missed the early train were sorry for him; it was what is to be expected when a man mixes himself up with natives; always ends in some indignity. The Collector, who knew more, kept silent, for the official in him still hoped that Fielding would toe the line. The conversation turned to women and children again, and under its cover Major Callendar got hold of the subaltern, and set him on to bait the schoolmaster. Pretending to be more drunk than he really was, he began to make semi-offensive remarks.

“Heard about Miss Quested’s servant?” reinforced the Major.

“No, what about him?”

“Heaslop warned Miss Quested’s servant last night never to lose sight of her. Prisoner got hold of this and managed to leave him behind. Bribed him. Heaslop has just found out the whole story, with names and sums⁠—a well-known pimp to those people gave the money, Mohammed Latif by name. So much for the servant. What about the Englishman⁠—our friend here? How did they get rid of him? Money again.”

Fielding rose to his feet, supported by murmurs and exclamations, for no one yet suspected his integrity.

“Oh, I’m being misunderstood, apologies,” said the Major offensively. “I didn’t mean they bribed Mr. Fielding.”

“Then what do you mean?”

“They paid the other Indian to make you late⁠—Godbole. He was saying his prayers. I know those prayers!”

“That’s ridiculous⁠ ⁠…” He sat down again, trembling with rage; person after person was being dragged into the mud.

Having shot this bolt, the Major prepared the next. “Heaslop also found out something from his mother. Aziz paid a herd of natives to suffocate her in a cave. That was the end of her, or would have been only she got out. Nicely planned, wasn’t it? Neat. Then he could go on with the girl. He and she and a guide, provided by the same Mohammed Latif. Guide now can’t be found. Pretty.” His voice broke into a roar. “It’s not the time for sitting down. It’s the time for action. Call in the troops and clear the bazaars.”

The Major’s outbursts were always discounted, but he made everyone uneasy on this occasion. The crime was even worse than they had supposed⁠—the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857. Fielding forgot his anger on poor old Godbole’s behalf, and became thoughtful; the evil was propagating in every direction, it seemed to have an existence of its own, apart from anything that was done or said by individuals, and he understood better why both Aziz and Hamidullah had been inclined to lie down and die. His adversary saw that he was in trouble, and now ventured to say, “I suppose nothing that’s said inside the club will go outside the club?” winking the while at Lesley.

“Why should it?” responded Lesley.

“Oh, nothing. I only heard a rumour that a certain member here present has been seeing the prisoner this afternoon. You can’t run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, at least not in this country.”

“Does anyone here present want to?”

Fielding was determined not to be drawn again. He had something to say, but it should be at his own moment. The attack failed to mature, because the Collector did not support it. Attention shifted from him for a time. Then the buzz of women broke out again. The door had been opened by Ronny.

The young man looked exhausted and tragic, also gentler than usual. He always showed deference to his