They laughed with her, and the doctor twisted his dyed mustache. A pity the husband wasn’t here, he thought. Such courage was rare. White women usually went soft in this climate. He went away feeling proud of himself, and was very stern with the nurse lest she bungle the case, after all. One could never trust these half-Indians as one trusted a real British nurse.
When David came in at nightfall, every light was lit in the house and servants waited with gleaming eyes and hushed voices.
“Sahib—”
“Sahib — your son—”
“Sahib—”
They chattered together, each trying to be the bearer of the royal news, and then the nurse heard them and came out with the blue bundle in her arms, and David, as dazed as though he had not known for months that this must happen, stared down into the round firm face of his son.
“Mrs. MacArd says he looks like your father, sir,” the nurse chirped.
“So he does,” David exclaimed. He was not at all sure that he liked the idea. Nevertheless, the resemblance was plain. The boy looked back at his father with astonishing calm.
“I don’t believe he likes me,” David said.
The nurse laughed. “He cawn’t see you, sir. They never do at this age.”
“That’s a relief.”
He felt suddenly gay in spite of a most depressing day. In the native city the streets were already lined with refugees from the country. He had gone to see for himself what was happening, and he had listened to their stories of empty granaries and cracked fields. Their cattle were dead skeletons and their wells were dried. Only in the city were there still stores of food and to the city they had come to beg. He had made up his mind as he walked homeward that he would appeal to the local Governor for help tomorrow, but he knew that the remote and pessimistic Englishman would probably only shrug his shoulders and refer him to the Governor-general in Bombay. Well, then to Bombay he would go if he must. Meanwhile, ironically, his school was as full as ever. The sons of the rich were his pupils.
All this was now forgot. He smiled down at his son, and then passed to enter the room where Olivia lay.
“She’s sleeping, sir,” the nurse exclaimed.
But he went in nevertheless and tiptoed to the bed, beside which a candle burned. Through the misty white of the mosquito net he saw Olivia lying straight and still. She had been tidied, he supposed, by the nurse, for her dark hair was carefully brushed and braided into two long black braids over her shoulders and her hands were folded on her breast. The sheet was drawn up tightly and doubled back under her arms, and the lace-edged ruffles of her white linen nightgown framed her unconscious face. She was breathing deeply and softly, and he noticed now as he never had before how long her dark lashes were as they lay upon her white cheeks.
Standing there, seeing her without being seen, he felt a rash of new and unutterable love for her. How beautiful she was, how faithful, and how strong! Another woman would have complained that she was left so much alone, even alone at the hour of birth, but she never complained and would not now. He had not treasured her enough, he thought with remorse, and from now on he would show his love more plainly while they shared the child. But he longed to show her now how he loved her, and lifting the net he crept inside and sat upon the edge of the bed and put his hand gently over her hands.
She opened her eyes slowly, as though she came back from some far place, and then she saw it was he.
“Darling David,” she murmured, still asleep.
He leaned to whisper to her. “I saw him, dearest. I saw our lovely son!”
A smile flickered at her lips. “All MacArd!”
“Isn’t it funny? But perhaps he is like you inside.”
“I want him to be like you.”
“We’ll wait and see.”
“Oh, but I’m sleepy—” Her voice trailed away in sleep and her eyelids trembled downward.
“Sleep, dearest,” he said. “I shouldn’t have waked you.”
The eyelids quivered upward at that, and she gave him a look of heavenly happiness and slept again.
He stole away, closing the door noiselessly behind him, and went to his study to be alone that he might give thanks to God.
IX
“FAMINE IS CHRONIC IN India, Mr. MacArd,” the Governor-general said in Bombay.
He was a tall handsome Englishman, a man of pride and dignity, a righteous man.
“Does it have to be so?” David demanded.
“It always has been,” the Governor-general replied. “We have reduced the incidence, we have built railroads, irrigation works, even reservoirs and tanks to catch the Himalayan waters. We are feeding millions of people, we are giving employment to millions more so that they can afford to buy imported food, and yet in spite of that I estimate that Bombay presidency alone will lose fifteen percent of its population in the next three months. In some provinces it may be as high as twenty-five percent. Statistics can never be accurate in India.”
David listened with proper respect. The Governor-general was always courteous to him, first perhaps as the son of the great American financier, but now also, as the years passed, he was courteous to him in his own right. He had been scrupulous in his relations with Government and he was building up a school of such caliber that his graduates would be going into the Indian civil service. MacArd men must be well trained and loyal, for in these days loyalty alone was beyond price.
“My father would say that India needs more railroads,” he suggested. “I understand that there is food in the north. It is a matter of distribution.”
The Governor-general was irritated at this and tried not to show it. “Ah, there is no such easy way to solution! The real problem is overpopulation. Indians are obsessed with fears for their fertility. The native newspapers are filled with advertisements for remedies for sterility, yet to my knowledge I have never seen an infertile Indian, man or woman. No, Mr. MacArd, all the resources of the Empire can never catch up with the increase in population among this people. Some are doomed to starve.”
David pondered reply. He knew well enough what Darya would say for he had dared once to quote this Judgment of Government and Darya had leaped to passionate resentment.
“Ah, how that sickens me, David! It has been made the excuse of every delay by Government. And did we not propagate too rapidly to please these Englishmen, India would have ceased to exist. Consider our life span — twenty-seven years! Is this our fault? Consider our death rate — half our children die before they are a year old! Can we afford not to have many children? We are helpless before the worst climate in the world and an indifferent government.”
These words could not be repeated here. David was prudent, he had occasional favors to ask and it would not do to anger this good Englishman. Besides, Darya might be wrong. He was often wrong.
He rose. “Well, Your Excellency, I suppose we shall just have to weather through this famine. It doesn’t touch me personally, my school is fuller than usual.”
“Ah, I suppose the families want to get their sons into a safe place where sickness can’t reach them. That is the worst of famines, I think. Starvation breeds disease. We are preparing for epidemics, of course.”
“I am sure you are. I’ll say good-by, Your Excellency.”
“Good-by, Mr. MacArd. I am sure you know I appreciate very much all that you are doing for India.”
“Thank you.”
The two men shook hands, and the Governor-general allowed his approval to express itself in a warm smile. This tall grave young American was no common missionary. He had given up a world of wealth and pleasure to become a missionary schoolmaster, a very Christian act. “Except ye leave all and follow me—” and so on. One did not often see it.