British -- India -- Fiction; India -- History -- British occupation, 1765-1947 -- Fiction
“Well, my dear, all’s well that ends well,” said Mrs Hardy, hobbling
up and dropping stiffly on a rug beside Georgia. “Hurt? Oh, nonsense!”
in response to the anxious inquiries showered upon her; “bruised and
knocked about a little, but that’s all, and we ought to be very
thankful that it’s no worse. If those roofs hadn’t been jerry-built,
probably none of us would have escaped with our lives, but the beams
were not solid enough, as I have often said. And now the worst is
over, so we had better make ourselves as comfortable as we can here
for the rest of the night.”
But this consoling view of things proved to be premature, for even as
Mrs Hardy spoke, there came another long-drawn, moaning gust of wind,
and the ground trembled slightly, then rocked.
“Couldn’t we move to a safer place?” asked Mabel, for whom the sight
of the shaking buildings round the little courtyard had an awful
fascination. They seemed to her to be actually leaning towards her.
“There is no safer place inside the walls,” said Fitz quickly.
“Will the wall over the canal stand this?” asked Mr Hardy, in a low
voice, of Fitz, who shook his head and raised his eyebrows, just as a
stentorian voice rang out from the nearest tower.
“Come down, you fools! Don’t you see that wall will go in a minute?”
“That’s Woodworth calling down the Sikhs,” explained Fitz, with a
smile that did him credit. “If a volcano opened at their very feet,
they would stay where they were until they received orders to retire.
How will it fall?” he muttered to Mr Hardy.
“If it falls inwards, that will be the end of us,” was the calm reply
of Mrs Hardy, who had caught the words.
“Heaven is as near to Khemistan as to England,” said Mr Hardy, laying
his hand gently on Georgia’s shoulder. She had started up wildly.
“I don’t mind for myself; it’s the boy!” she cried. “Oh, won’t some
one save him? What will Dick do when he comes back and finds no one
left?”
“I would take him, Mrs North, indeed I would, if I thought there was a
better chance anywhere else,” said Fitz, to whom her agonised eyes
appealed; “but it would be much worse in the passages, or under any
roof. We are safer here than in most places.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Elsewhere in the archive