Part 157

“They remained at Oung-pen-la six months, when Mr. Judson was, for the first time, released from his irons, to be employed as translator and interpreter to the Burmans. From the first, he had been particularly careful not to take any part in political affairs; for, however the war might end, he did not wish the Burmans to receive an impression that he was in the interests of the English. He felt that it would be wrong to endanger his influence as a religious teacher by taking any step which would be likely to render him obnoxious even to a conquered people. But now he had no choice. His own wishes in the matter were not consulted, any more than they had been when he was first thrown into prison. He was probably selected for the office because there was no one who could be better trusted, although it was evident that not the slightest confidence was reposed in him. He was carried to Ava under guard, kept in prison two days, and then, without being permitted to visit his own house but a few moments, was sent to Maloun. Here he remained about six weeks, when, in consequence of the advance of the English from Prome, he was hurriedly sent back to Ava. It was late in the night when he arrived, and he was taken through the streets directly past his own door. A feeble light glimmered within, assuring him that it was not altogether deserted; but yet what might not have occurred in those six weeks! He entreated permission to enter but for five minutes; he threatened, he bribed, he appealed to their humanity, for he knew that even they, hard as they seemed, must have humanity somewhere; but all without success. His conductors, with some show of feeling, assured him that they had orders to take him directly to the court-house, and that they dared not disobey. He crouched down in an outbuilding until morning, when, after a slight examination, he was placed under guard in an out-of-the-way shed, which served as a temporary prison. At night of the same day, Moung Ing found him in this obscure place, where he had been all day without food. While conversing with the faithful Burman, Mr. Judson once or twice fancied there was something in his words or manner, or perhaps both, a little puzzling; but the impression was only momentary, and the very sight of this messenger from his wife relieved him of a burden of apprehension. He immediately dispatched Moung Ing to the friendly governor, for aid in his new difficulties, instructing him carefully as to his words and behavior, and, in the joy of his heart, bade him tell the _tsayah-ga-dau_ to keep up courage one day more; it was almost certain he should be with her on the next. As soon as the messenger was gone, Mr. Judson’s thoughts immediately recurred to the singularity of his behavior, scarcely observable at the time, but now assuming much importance. His wife was doubtless well, though Moung Ing had certainly not been very explicit when inquired of; she _must_ be well, for had she not sent several messages, and herself suggested the application to the governor? The child, too, was well; he had said that unhesitatingly. Why had he hesitated in the other case? Could it be, could it really be, that anything serious had befallen her, and they had concealed it from him? But no; those messages! He remembered, however (it all came to him too clearly now), how ostentatiously the good-natured Burman had paraded one of those messages whenever he asked a question; and yet, think as he would, they all resolved themselves into two—she longed to see him, and she recommended an application to the governor. The messenger had certainly behaved strangely, and he had been strangely blinded. These two simple phrases had been repeated so often, and in such variety of style, that they had been made to appear a dozen, and to contain a world of meaning; and for the time he was fully satisfied. ‘She must be living,’ he repeated to himself; ‘there is ample proof of that.’ ‘She must _have been_ living,’ answered a withering doubt within, ‘when she gave the directions to Moung Ing.’ After that one thought, he had no disposition to sleep. The tedious night at length dragged itself away; and, though the governor sent for him as early as could reasonably be expected in the morning, a strange, vague apprehension seemed to concentrate whole ages in those few early hours. The kind old man had become his security with the Government, and set him free. With a step more fleet than for the last two years he had practiced, and in spite of the maimed ankles, which sometimes almost refused their office, he hurried along the street to his beloved home. The door stood invitingly open, and, without having been seen by any one, he entered. The first object which met his eye was a fat, half-naked Burman woman, squatting in the ashes beside a pan of coals, and holding on her knees a wan baby, so begrimed with dirt that it did not occur to the father it could be his own. He gave but one hasty look, and hurried to the next room. Across the foot of the bed, as though she had fallen there, lay a human object, that, at the first glance, was scarcely more recognizable than his child. The face was of a ghastly paleness, the features sharp, and the whole form shrunken almost to the last degree of emaciation. The glossy black curls had all been shorn from the finely-shaped head, which was now covered by a close-fitting cotton cap, of the coarsest and—unlike anything usually coming in contact with that head—not the cleanest kind. The whole room presented an appearance of the very extreme of wretchedness, more harrowing to the feelings than can be told. There lay the devoted wife, who had followed him so unweariedly from prison to prison, ever alleviating his distresses, without even common hireling attendance. He knew, by the very arrangement of the room, and by the expression of sheer animality on the face of the woman who held his child, that the Bengalee cook had been her only nurse. The wearied sleeper was awakened by a breath that came too near her cheek. Perhaps a falling tear might have been added; for, steady as were those eyes in difficulties, dauntless in dangers, and stern when conscience frowned, they were well used to tender tears.