A Passage to India - E. M. Forster (e reader for manga txt) 📗

interesting pastime, but a lengthy one. There are one hundred and seventy million Indians in this notable peninsula, and of course one or other of them entered the cave. Of course some Indian is the culprit, we must never doubt that. And since, my dear Fielding, these possibilities will take you some time”⁠—here he put his arm over the Englishman’s shoulder and swayed him to and fro gently⁠—“don’t you think you had better come out to the Nawab Bahadur’s⁠—or I should say to Mr. Zulfiqar’s, for that is the name he now requires us to call him by.”

“Gladly, in a minute⁠ ⁠…”

“I have just settled my movements,” said Miss Quested. “I shall go to the Dak Bungalow.”

“Not the Turtons’?” said Hamidullah, goggle-eyed. “I thought you were their guest.”

The Dak Bungalow of Chandrapore was below the average, and certainly servantless. Fielding, though he continued to sway with Hamidullah, was thinking on independent lines, and said in a moment: “I have a better idea than that, Miss Quested. You must stop here at the College. I shall be away at least two days, and you can have the place entirely to yourself, and make your plans at your convenience.”

“I don’t agree at all,” said Hamidullah, with every symptom of dismay. “The idea is a thoroughly bad one. There may quite well be another demonstration tonight, and suppose an attack is made on the College. You would be held responsible for this lady’s safety, my dear fellow.”

“They might equally attack the Dak Bungalow.”

“Exactly, but the responsibility there ceases to be yours.”

“Quite so. I have given trouble enough.”

“Do you hear? The lady admits it herself. It’s not an attack from our people I fear⁠—you should see their orderly conduct at the hospital; what we must guard against is an attack secretly arranged by the police for the purpose of discrediting you. McBryde keeps plenty of roughs for this purpose, and this would be the very opportunity for him.”

“Never mind. She is not going to the Dak Bungalow,” said Fielding. He had a natural sympathy for the downtrodden⁠—that was partly why he rallied from Aziz⁠—and had become determined not to leave the poor girl in the lurch. Also, he had a newborn respect for her, consequent on their talk. Although her hard schoolmistressy manner remained, she was no longer examining life, but being examined by it; she had become a real person.

“Then where is she to go? We shall never have done with her!” For Miss Quested had not appealed to Hamidullah. If she had shown emotion in court, broke down, beat her breast, and invoked the name of God, she would have summoned forth his imagination and generosity⁠—he had plenty of both. But while relieving the Oriental mind, she had chilled it, with the result that he could scarcely believe she was sincere, and indeed from his standpoint she was not. For her behaviour rested on cold justice and honesty; she had felt, while she recanted, no passion of love for those whom she had wronged. Truth is not truth in that exacting land unless there go with it kindness and more kindness and kindness again, unless the Word that was with God also is God. And the girl’s sacrifice⁠—so creditable according to Western notions⁠—was rightly rejected, because, though it came from her heart, it did not include her heart. A few garlands from students was all that India ever gave her in return.

“But where is she to have her dinner, where is she to sleep? I say here, here, and if she is hit on the head by roughs, she is hit on the head. That is my contribution. Well, Miss Quested?”

“You are very kind. I should have said yes, I think, but I agree with Mr. Hamidullah. I must give no more trouble to you. I believe my best plan is to return to the Turtons, and see if they will allow me to sleep, and if they turn me away I must go to the Dak. The Collector would take me in, I know, but Mrs. Turton said this morning that she would never see me again.” She spoke without bitterness, or, as Hamidullah thought, without proper pride. Her aim was to cause the minimum of annoyance.

“Far better stop here than expose yourself to insults from that preposterous woman.”

“Do you find her preposterous? I used to. I don’t now.”

“Well, here’s our solution,” said the barrister, who had terminated his slightly minatory caress and strolled to the window. “Here comes the City Magistrate. He comes in a third-class band-ghari for purposes of disguise, he comes unattended, but here comes the City Magistrate.”

“At last,” said Adela sharply, which caused Fielding to glance at her.

“He comes, he comes, he comes. I cringe. I tremble.”

“Will you ask him what he wants, Mr. Fielding?”

“He wants you, of course.”

“He may not even know I’m here.”

“I’ll see him first, if you prefer.”

When he had gone, Hamidullah said to her bitingly: “Really, really. Need you have exposed Mr. Fielding to this further discomfort? He is far too considerate.” She made no reply, and there was complete silence between them until their host returned.

“He has some news for you,” he said. “You’ll find him on the verandah. He prefers not to come in.”

“Does he tell me to come out to him?”

“Whether he tells you or not, you will go, I think,” said Hamidullah.

She paused, then said, “Perfectly right,” and then said a few words of thanks to the Principal for his kindness to her during the day.

“Thank goodness, that’s over,” he remarked, not escorting her to the verandah, for he held it unnecessary to see Ronny again.

“It was insulting of him not to come in.”

“He couldn’t very well after my behaviour to him at the Club. Heaslop doesn’t come out badly. Besides, Fate has treated him pretty roughly today. He has had a cable to the effect that his mother’s dead, poor old soul.”

“Oh, really. Mrs. Moore. I’m sorry,” said Hamidullah rather indifferently.

“She died at sea.”

“The heat, I suppose.”

“Presumably.”

“May is no month to allow an old lady