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Under The Deodars
By
Rudyard Kipling
Contents
I =
II =
THE
ENLIGHTENMENTS OF PAGETT, M.P.
I=
n the
pleasant orchard-closes 'God
bless all our gains,' say we; =
But
'May God bless all our losses,' Better suits with our degree.
This is the history of a failure; but the woman
who failed said that it might be an instructive tale to put into print for =
the
benefit of the younger generation. The younger generation does not want
instruction, being perfectly willing to instruct if any one will listen to =
it.
None the less, here begins the story where every right-minded story should =
begin,
that is to say at Simla, where all things begin and many come to an evil en=
d.
The mistake was due to a very clever woman mak=
ing
a blunder and not retrieving it. Men are licensed to stumble, but a clever
woman's mistake is outside the regular course of Nature and Providence; sin=
ce
all good people know that a woman is the only infallible thing in this worl=
d, except
Government Paper of the '79 issue, bearing interest at four and a half per
cent. Yet, we have to remember that six consecutive days of rehearsing the
leading part of The Fallen Angel, at the New Gaiety Theatre where the plast=
er
is not yet properly dry, might have brought about an unhingement of spirits
which, again, might have led to eccentricities.
Mrs. Hauksbee came to 'The Foundry' to tiffin =
with
Mrs. Mallowe, her one bosom friend, for she was in no sense 'a woman's woma=
n.'
And it was a woman's tiffin, the door shut to all the world; and they both
talked chiffons, which is French for Mysteries.
'I've enjoyed an interval of sanity,' Mrs.
Hauksbee announced, after tiffin was over and the two were comfortably sett=
led
in the little writing-room that opened out of Mrs. Mallowe's bedroom.
'My dear girl, what has he done?' said Mrs.
Mallowe sweetly. It is noticeable that ladies of a certain age call each ot=
her
'dear girl,' just as commissioners of twenty-eight years' standing address
their equals in the Civil List as 'my boy.'
'There's no he in the case. Who am I that an i=
maginary
man should be always credited to me? Am I an Apache?'
'No, dear, but somebody's scalp is generally
drying at your wigwam-door. Soaking rather.'
This was an allusion to the Hawley Boy, who wa=
s in
the habit of riding all across Simla in the Rains, to call on Mrs. Hauksbee.
That lady laughed.
'For my sins, the Aide at Tyrconnel last night
told me off to The Mussuck. Hsh! Don't laugh. One of my most devoted admire=
rs.
When the duff came some one really ought to teach them to make puddings at =
Tyrconnel
The Mussuck was at liberty to attend to me.'
'Sweet soul! I know his appetite,' said Mrs.
Mallowe. 'Did he, oh did he, begin his wooing?'
'By a special mercy of Providence, no. He
explained his importance as a Pillar of the Empire. I didn't laugh.'
'Lucy, I don't believe you.'
'Ask Captain Sangar; he was on the other side.
Well, as I was saying, The Mussuck dilated.'
'I think I can see him doing it,' said Mrs.
Mallowe pensively, scratching her fox-terrier's ears.
'I was properly impressed. Most properly. I ya=
wned
openly. "Strict supervision, and play them off one against the
other," said The Mussuck, shovelling down his ice by tureenfuls, I ass=
ure
you. "That, Mrs. Hauksbee, is the secret of our Government."'
Mrs. Mallowe laughed long and merrily. 'And wh=
at
did you say?'
'Did you ever know me at loss for an answer ye=
t? I
said: "So I have observed in my dealings with you." The Mussuck
swelled with pride. He is coming to call on me to-morrow. The Hawley Boy is
coming too.'
'"Strict supervision and play them off one
against the other. That, Mrs. Hauksbee, is the secret of our Government.&qu=
ot;
And I daresay if we could get to The Mussuck's heart, we should find that he
considers himself a man of the world.'
'As he is of the other two things. I like The =
Mussuck,
and I won't have you call him names. He amuses me.'
'He has reformed you, too, by what appears.
Explain the interval of sanity, and hit Tim on the nose with the paper-cutt=
er,
please. That dog is too fond of sugar. Do you take milk in yours?'
'No, thanks. Polly, I'm wearied of this life. =
It's
hollow.'
'Turn religious, then. I always said that Rome
would be your fate.'
'Only exchanging half-a-dozen attaches in red =
for
one in black, and if I fasted, the wrinkles would come, and never, never go.
Has it ever struck you, dear, that I'm getting old?'
'Thanks for your courtesy. I'll return it. Ye-=
es,
we are both not exactly how shall I put it?'
'What we have been. "I feel it in my
bones," as Mrs. Crossley says. Polly, I've wasted my life.'
'As how?'
'Never mind how. I feel it. I want to be a Pow=
er
before I die.'
'Be a Power then. You've wits enough for anyth=
ing
and beauty!'
Mrs. Hauksbee pointed a teaspoon straight at h=
er
hostess. 'Polly, if you heap compliments on me like this, I shall cease to
believe that you're a woman. Tell me how I am to be a Power.'
'Inform The Mussuck that he is the most
fascinating and slimmest man in Asia, and he'll tell you anything and
everything you please.'
'Bother The Mussuck! I mean an intellectual Po=
wer
not a gas-power. Polly, I'm going to start a salon.'
Mrs. Mallowe turned lazily on the sofa and res=
ted
her head on her hand. 'Hear the words of the Preacher, the son of Baruch,' =
she
said.
'Will you talk sensibly?'
'I will, dear, for I see that you are going to
make a mistake.'
'I never made a mistake in my life at least, n=
ever
one that I couldn't explain away afterwards.'
'Going to make a mistake,' went on Mrs. Mallowe
composedly. 'It is impossible to start a salon in Simla. A bar would be much
more to the point.'
'Perhaps, but why? It seems so easy.'
'Just what makes it so difficult. How many cle=
ver
women are there in Simla?'
'Myself and yourself,' said Mrs. Hauksbee, wit=
hout
a moment's hesitation.
'Modest woman! Mrs. Feardon would thank you for
that. And how many clever men?'
'Oh er hundreds,' said Mrs. Hauksbee vaguely.<= o:p>
'What a fatal blunder! Not one. They are all
bespoke by the Government. Take my husband, for instance. Jack was a clever
man, though I say so who shouldn't. Government has eaten him up. All his id=
eas
and powers of conversation he really used to be a good talker, even to his =
wife
in the old days are taken from him by this this kitchen-sink of a Governmen=
t. That's
the case with every man up here who is at work. I don't suppose a Russian
convict under the knout is able to amuse the rest of his gang; and all our
men-folk here are gilded convicts.'
'But there are scores--'
'I know what you're going to say. Scores of id=
le
men up on leave. I admit it, but they are all of two objectionable sets. Th=
e Civilian
who'd be delightful if he had the military man's knowledge of the world and=
style,
and the military man who'd be adorable if he had the Civilian's culture.'
'Detestable word! Have Civilians culchaw? I ne=
ver
studied the breed deeply.'
'Don't make fun of Jack's Service. Yes. They're
like the teapoys in the Lakka Bazar good material but not polished. They ca=
n't
help themselves, poor dears. A Civilian only begins to be tolerable after he
has knocked about the world for fifteen years.'
'And a military man?'
'When he has had the same amount of service. T=
he
young of both species are horrible. You would have scores of them in your
salon.'
'I would not!' said Mrs. Hauksbee fiercely.
'I would tell the bearer to darwaza band them.=
I'd
put their own colonels and commissioners at the door to turn them away. I'd
give them to the Topsham Girl to play with.'
'The Topsham Girl would be grateful for the gi=
ft.
But to go back to the salon. Allowing that you had gathered all your men and
women together, what would you do with them? Make them talk? They would all
with one accord begin to flirt. Your salon would become a glorified Peliti'=
s a "Scandal
Point" by lamplight.'
'There's a certain amount of wisdom in that vi=
ew.'
'There's all the wisdom in the world in it.
Surely, twelve Simla seasons ought to have taught you that you can't focus
anything in India; and a salon, to be any good at all, must be permanent. In
two seasons your roomful would be scattered all over Asia. We are only litt=
le
bits of dirt on the hillsides here one day and blown down the road the next=
. We
have lost the art of talking at least our men have. We have no cohesion.'
'George Eliot in the flesh,' interpolated Mrs.
Hauksbee wickedly.
'And collectively, my dear scoffer, we, men and
women alike, have no influence. Come into the verandah and look at the Mall=
!'
The two looked down on the now rapidly filling
road, for all Simla was abroad to steal a stroll between a shower and a fog=
.
'How do you propose to fix that river? Look!
There's The Mussuck head of goodness knows what. He is a power in the land,
though he does eat like a costermonger. There's Colonel Blone, and General
Grucher, and Sir Dugald Delane, and Sir Henry Haughton, and Mr. Jellalatty.=
All
Heads of Departments, and all powerful.'
'And all my fervent admirers,' said Mrs. Hauks=
bee
piously. 'Sir Henry Haughton raves about me. But go on.'
'One by one, these men are worth something.
Collectively, they're just a mob of Anglo-Indians. Who cares for what
Anglo-Indians say? Your salon won't weld the Departments together and make =
you
mistress of India, dear. And these creatures won't talk administrative
"shop" in a crowd your salon because they are so afraid of the me=
n in
the lower ranks overhearing it. They have forgotten what of Literature and =
Art
they ever knew, and the women--'
'Can't talk about anything except the last
Gymkhana, or the sins of their last nurse. I was calling on Mrs. Derwills t=
his
morning.'
'You admit that? They can talk to the subalter=
ns
though, and the subalterns can talk to them. Your salon would suit their vi=
ews admirably,
if you respected the religious prejudices of the country and provided plent=
y of
kala juggahs.'
'Plenty of kala juggahs. Oh my poor little ide=
a!
Kala juggahs in a salon! But who made you so awfully clever?'
'Perhaps I've tried myself; or perhaps I know a
woman who has. I have preached and expounded the whole matter and the
conclusion thereof.'
'You needn't go on. "Is Vanity." Pol=
ly,
I thank you. These vermin' Mrs. Hauksbee waved her hand from the verandah to
two men in the crowd below who had raised their hats to her 'these vermin s=
hall
not rejoice in a new Scandal Point or an extra Peliti's. I will abandon the
notion of a salon. It did seem so tempting, though. But what shall I do? I =
must
do something.'
'Why? Are not Abana and Pharpar.'
'Jack has made you nearly as bad as himself! I
want to, of course. I'm tired of everything and everybody, from a moonlight
picnic at Seepee to the blandishments of The Mussuck.'
'Yes that comes, too, sooner or later. Have you
nerve enough to make your bow yet?'
Mrs. Hauksbee's mouth shut grimly. Then she
laughed. 'I think I see myself doing it. Big pink placards on the Mall:
"Mrs. Hauksbee! Positively her last appearance on any stage! This is to
give notice!" No more dances; no more rides; no more luncheons; no more
theatricals with supper to follow; no more sparring with one's dearest, dea=
rest
friend; no more fencing with an inconvenient man who hasn't wit enough to
clothe what he's pleased to call his sentiments in passable speech; no more=
parading
of The Mussuck while Mrs. Tarkass calls all round Simla, spreading horrible
stories about me! No more of anything that is thoroughly wearying, abominab=
le,
and detestable, but, all the same, makes life worth the having. Yes! I see =
it
all! Don't interrupt, Polly, I'm inspired. A mauve and white striped
"cloud" round my excellent shoulders, a seat in the fifth row of =
the
Gaiety, and both horses sold. Delightful vision! A comfortable arm-chair,
situated in three different draughts, at every ball-room; and nice, large,
sensible shoes for all the couples to stumble over as they go into the
verandah! Then at supper. Can't you imagine the scene? The greedy mob gone
away. Reluctant subaltern, pink all over like a newly-powdered baby, they
really ought to tan subalterns before they are exported, Polly, sent back by
the hostess to do his duty. Slouches up to me across the room, tugging at a
glove two sizes too large for him I hate a man who wears gloves like overco=
ats
and trying to look as if he'd thought of it from the first. "May I ah-=
have
the pleasure 'f takin' you 'nt' supper?" Then I get up with a hungry
smile. Just like this.'
'Lucy, how can you be so absurd?'
'And sweep out on his arm. So! After supper I
shall go away early, you know, because I shall be afraid of catching cold. =
No
one will look for my 'rickshaw. Mine, so please you! I shall stand, always =
with
that mauve and white "cloud" over my head, while the wet soaks in=
to
my dear, old, venerable feet, and Tom swears and shouts for the mem-sahib's
gharri. Then home to bed at half-past eleven! Truly excellent life helped o=
ut by
the visits of the Padri, just fresh from burying somebody down below there.'
She pointed through the pines toward the Cemetery, and continued with vigor=
ous
dramatic gesture,
'Listen! I see it all down, down even to the
stays! Such stays! Six-eight a pair, Polly, with red flannel or list, is it?
that they put into the tops of those fearful things. I can draw you a pictu=
re
of them.'
'Lucy, for Heaven's sake, don't go waving your
arms about in that idiotic manner! Recollect every one can see you from the
Mall.'
'Let them see! They'll think I am rehearsing f=
or
The Fallen Angel. Look! There's The Mussuck. How badly he rides. There!'
She blew a kiss to the venerable Indian
administrator with infinite grace.
'Now,' she continued, 'he'll be chaffed about =
that
at the Club in the delicate manner those brutes of men affect, and the Hawl=
ey
Boy will tell me all about it softening the details for fear of shocking me.
That boy is too good to live, Polly. I've serious thoughts of recommending =
him
to throw up his commission and go into the Church. In his present frame of =
mind
he would obey me. Happy, happy child!'
'Never again,' said Mrs. Mallowe, with an
affectation of indignation, 'shall you tiffin here! "Lucindy your
behaviour is scand'lus."'
'All your fault,' retorted Mrs. Hauksbee, 'for
suggesting such a thing as my abdication. No! jamais! nevaire! I will act,
dance, ride, frivol, talk scandal, dine out, and appropriate the legitimate
captives of any woman I choose, until I d-r-r-rop, or a better woman than I
puts me to shame before all Simla, and it's dust and ashes in my mouth while
I'm doing it!'
She swept into the drawing-room. Mrs. Mallowe
followed and put an arm round her waist.
'I'm not!' said Mrs. Hauksbee defiantly, rumma=
ging
for her handkerchief. 'I've been dining out the last ten nights, and rehear=
sing
in the afternoon. You'd be tired yourself. It's only because I'm tired.'
Mrs. Mallowe did not offer Mrs. Hauksbee any p=
ity
or ask her to lie down, but gave her another cup of tea, and went on with t=
he
talk.
'I've been through that too, dear,' she said.<= o:p>
'I remember,' said Mrs. Hauksbee, a gleam of f=
un
on her face. 'In '84, wasn't it? You went out a great deal less next season=
.'
Mrs. Mallowe smiled in a superior and Sphinx-l=
ike
fashion.
'I became an Influence,' said she.
'Good gracious, child, you didn't join the
Theosophists and kiss Buddha's big toe, did you? I tried to get into their =
set
once, but they cast me out for a sceptic without a chance of improving my p=
oor
little mind, too.'
'No, I didn't Theosophilander. Jack says--'
'Never mind Jack. What a husband says is known
before. What did you do?'
'I made a lasting impression.'
'So have I for four months. But that didn't
console me in the least. I hated the man. Will you stop smiling in that
inscrutable way and tell me what you mean?'
Mrs. Mallowe told.
'And you mean to say that it is absolutely
Platonic on both sides?'
'Absolutely, or I should never have taken it u=
p.'
'And his last promotion was due to you?'
Mrs. Mallowe nodded.
'And you warned him against the Topsham Girl?'=
Another nod.
'And told him of Sir Dugald Delane's private m=
emo
about him?'
A third nod.
'Why?'
'What a question to ask a woman! Because it am=
used
me at first. I am proud of my property now. If I live, he shall continue to=
be
successful. Yes, I will put him upon the straight road to Knighthood, and
everything else that a man values. The rest depends upon himself.'
'Polly, you are a most extraordinary woman.'
'Not in the least. I'm concentrated, that's al=
l.
You diffuse yourself, dear; and though all Simla knows your skill in managi=
ng a
team.'
'Can't you choose a prettier word?'
'Team, of half-a-dozen, from The Mussuck to the
Hawley Boy, you gain nothing by it. Not even amusement.'
'And you?'
'Try my recipe. Take a man, not a boy, mind, b=
ut
an almost mature, unattached man, and be his guide, philosopher, and friend.
You'll find it the most interesting occupation that you ever embarked on. It
can be done you needn't look like that because I've done it.'
'There's an element of risk about it that makes
the notion attractive. I'll get such a man and say to him, "Now,
understand that there must be no flirtation. Do exactly what I tell you, pr=
ofit
by my instruction and counsels, and all will yet be well." Is that the
idea?'
'More or less,' said Mrs. Mallowe, with an
unfathomable smile. 'But be sure he understands.'
Dribble-dribble trickle-trickle What a lot of raw dust! My dollie's had an accident And out came all the sawdust!
Nursery Rhyme.
So Mrs. Hauksbee, in 'The Foundry' which overl=
ooks
Simla Mall, sat at the feet of Mrs. Mallowe and gathered wisdom. The end of=
the
Conference was the Great Idea upon which Mrs. Hauksbee so plumed herself.
'I warn you,' said Mrs. Mallowe, beginning to
repent of her suggestion, 'that the matter is not half so easy as it looks.=
Any
woman even the Topsham Girl can catch a man, but very, very few know how to
manage him when caught.'
'My child,' was the answer, 'I've been a female
St. Simon Stylites looking down upon men for these these years past. Ask The
Mussuck whether I can manage them.'
Mrs. Hauksbee departed humming, 'I'll go to him
and say to him in manner most ironical.' Mrs. Mallowe laughed to herself. T=
hen
she grew suddenly sober. 'I wonder whether I've done well in advising that
amusement? Lucy's a clever woman, but a thought too careless.'
A week later the two met at a Monday Pop. 'Wel=
l?'
said Mrs. Mallowe.
'I've caught him!' said Mrs. Hauksbee: her eyes
were dancing with merriment.
'Who is it, mad woman? I'm sorry I ever spoke =
to
you about it.'
'Look between the pillars. In the third row;
fourth from the end. You can see his face now. Look!'
'Otis Yeere! Of all the improbable and impossi=
ble
people! I don't believe you.'
'Hsh! Wait till Mrs. Tarkass begins murdering
Milton Wellings; and I'll tell you all about it. S-s-ss! That woman's voice
always reminds me of an Underground train coming into Earl's Court with the
brakes on. Now listen. It is really Otis Yeere.'
'So I see, but does it follow that he is your
property!'
'He is! By right of trove. I found him, lonely=
and
unbefriended, the very next night after our talk, at the Dugald Delanes'
burra-khana. I liked his eyes, and I talked to him. Next day he called. Next
day we went for a ride together, and to-day he's tied to my 'richshaw-wheel=
s hand
and foot. You'll see when the concert's over. He doesn't know I'm here yet.=
'
'Thank goodness you haven't chosen a boy. What=
are
you going to do with him, assuming that you've got him?'
'Assuming, indeed! Does a woman do I ever make=
a
mistake in that sort of thing? First' Mrs. Hauksbee ticked off the items
ostentatiously on her little gloved fingers 'First, my dear, I shall dress =
him
properly. At present his raiment is a disgrace, and he wears a dress-shirt =
like
a crumpled sheet of the Pioneer. Secondly, after I have made him presentabl=
e, I
shall form his manners his morals are above reproach.'
'You seem to have discovered a great deal about
him considering the shortness of your acquaintance.'
'Surely you ought to know that the first proof=
a
man gives of his interest in a woman is by talking to her about his own swe=
et
self. If the woman listens without yawning, he begins to like her. If she f=
latters
the animal's vanity, he ends by adoring her.'
'In some cases.'
'Never mind the exceptions. I know which one y=
ou
are thinking of. Thirdly, and lastly, after he is polished and made pretty,=
I
shall, as you said, be his guide, philosopher, and friend, and he shall bec=
ome
a success as great a success as your friend. I always wondered how that man=
got
on. Did The Mussuck come to you with the Civil List and, dropping on one kn=
ee
no, two knees, a la Gibbon hand it to you and say, "Adorable angel, ch=
oose
your friend's appointment"?'
'Lucy, your long experiences of the Military
Department have demoralised you. One doesn't do that sort of thing on the C=
ivil
Side.'
'No disrespect meant to Jack's Service, my dea=
r. I
only asked for information. Give me three months, and see what changes I sh=
all
work in my prey.'
'Go your own way since you must. But I'm sorry
that I was weak enough to suggest the amusement.'
'"I am all discretion, and may be trusted=
to
an in-fin-ite extent,"' quoted Mrs. Hauksbee from The Fallen Angel; and
the conversation ceased with Mrs. Tarkass's last, long-drawn war-whoop.
Her bitterest enemies and she had many could
hardly accuse Mrs. Hauksbee of wasting her time. Otis Yeere was one of those
wandering 'dumb' characters, foredoomed through life to be nobody's propert=
y.
Ten years in Her Majesty's Bengal Civil Service, spent, for the most part, =
in undesirable
Districts, had given him little to be proud of, and nothing to bring
confidence. Old enough to have lost the first fine careless rapture that
showers on the immature 'Stunt imaginary Commissionerships and Stars, and s=
ends
him into the collar with coltish earnestness and abandon; too young to be y=
et
able to look back upon the progress he had made, and thank Providence that
under the conditions of the day he had come even so far, he stood upon the
dead-centre of his career. And when a man stands still he feels the slighte=
st
impulse from without. Fortune had ruled that Otis Yeere should be, for the
first part of his service, one of the rank and file who are ground up in the
wheels of the Administration; losing heart and soul, and mind and strength,=
in
the process. Until steam replaces manual power in the working of the Empire=
, there
must always be this percentage must always be the men who are used up,
expended, in the mere mechanical routine. For these promotion is far off and
the mill-grind of every day very instant. The Secretariats know them only by
name; they are not the picked men of the Districts with Divisions and
Collectorates awaiting them. They are simply the rank and file the food for
fever sharing with the ryot and the plough-bullock the honour of being the
plinth on which the State rests. The older ones have lost their aspirations;
the younger are putting theirs aside with a sigh. Both learn to endure
patiently until the end of the day. Twelve years in the rank and file, men =
say,
will sap the hearts of the bravest and dull the wits of the most keen.
Out of this life Otis Yeere had fled for a few
months; drifting, in the hope of a little masculine society, into Simla. Wh=
en
his leave was over he would return to his swampy, sour-green, under-manned
Bengal district; to the native Assistant, the native Doctor, the native
Magistrate, the steaming, sweltering Station, the ill-kempt City, and the
undisguised insolence of the Municipality that babbled away the lives of me=
n.
Life was cheap, however. The soil spawned humanity, as it bred frogs in the
Rains, and the gap of the sickness of one season was filled to overflowing =
by
the fecundity of the next. Otis was unfeignedly thankful to lay down his wo=
rk
for a little while and escape from the seething, whining, weakly hive, impo=
tent
to help itself, but strong in its power to cripple, thwart, and annoy the
sunkeneyed man who, by official irony, was said to be 'in charge' of it.
'I knew there were women-dowdies in Bengal. Th= ey come up here sometimes. But I didn't know that there were men-dowds, too.'<= o:p>
Then, for the first time, it occurred to Otis
Yeere that his clothes wore rather the mark of the ages. It will be seen th=
at
his friendship with Mrs. Hauksbee had made great strides.
As that lady truthfully says, a man is never so
happy as when he is talking about himself. From Otis Yeere's lips Mrs.
Hauksbee, before long, learned everything that she wished to know about the
subject of her experiment: learned what manner of life he had led in what s=
he vaguely
called 'those awful cholera districts'; learned, too, but this knowledge ca=
me
later, what manner of life he had purposed to lead and what dreams he had
dreamed in the year of grace '77, before the reality had knocked the heart =
out
of him. Very pleasant are the shady bridle-paths round Prospect Hill for the
telling of such confidences.
'Not yet,' said Mrs. Hauksbee to Mrs. Maliowe.
'Not yet. I must wait until the man is properly dressed, at least. Great
heavens, is it possible that he doesn't know what an honour it is to be tak=
en
up by Me!'
Mrs. Hauksbee did not reckon false modesty as =
one
of her failings.
'Always with Mrs. Hauksbee!' murmured Mrs.
Mallowe, with her sweetest smile, to Otis. 'Oh you men, you men! Here are o=
ur
Punjabis growling because you've monopolised the nicest woman in Simla. The=
y'll
tear you to pieces on the Mall, some day, Mr. Yeere.'
Mrs. Mallowe rattled downhill, having satisfied
herself, by a glance through the fringe of her sunshade, of the effect of h=
er
words.
The shot went home. Of a surety Otis Yeere was
somebody in this bewildering whirl of Simla had monopolised the nicest woma=
n in
it, and the Punjabis were growling. The notion justified a mild glow of van=
ity.
He had never looked upon his acquaintance with Mrs. Hauksbee as a matter for
general interest.
The knowledge of envy was a pleasant feeling to
the man of no account. It was intensified later in the day when a luncher at
the Club said spitefully, 'Well, for a debilitated Ditcher, Yeere, you are
going it. Hasn't any kind friend told you that she's the most dangerous wom=
an
in Simla?'
Yeere chuckled and passed out. When, oh, when
would his new clothes be ready? He descended into the Mall to inquire; and =
Mrs.
Hauksbee, coming over the Church Ridge in her 'rickshaw, looked down upon h=
im approvingly.
'He's learning to carry himself as if he were a man, instead of a piece of
furniture, and,' she screwed up her eyes to see the better through the sunl=
ight
'he is a man when he holds himself like that. O blessed Conceit, what shoul=
d we
be without you?'
With the new clothes came a new stock of
self-confidence. Otis Yeere discovered that he could enter a room without
breaking into a gentle perspiration could cross one, even to talk to Mrs.
Hauksbee, as though rooms were meant to be crossed. He was for the first ti=
me
in nine years proud of himself, and contented with his life, satisfied with=
his
new clothes, and rejoicing in the friendship of Mrs. Hauksbee.
'Conceit is what the poor fellow wants,' she s=
aid
in confidence to Mrs. Mallowe. 'I believe they must use Civilians to plough=
the
fields with in Lower Bengal. You see I have to begin from the very beginning
haven't I? But you'll admit, won't you, dear, that he is immensely improved
since I took him in hand. Only give me a little more time and he won't know=
himself.'
Indeed, Yeere was rapidly beginning to forget =
what
he had been. One of his own rank and file put the matter brutally when he a=
sked
Yeere, in reference to nothing, 'And who has been making you a Member of
Council, lately? You carry the side of half-a-dozen of 'em.'
'I I'm awf'ly sorry. I didn't mean it, you kno=
w,'
said Yeere apologetically.
'There'll be no holding you,' continued the old
stager grimly. 'Climb down, Otis climb down, and get all that beastly
affectation knocked out of you with fever! Three thousand a month wouldn't
support it.'
Yeere repeated the incident to Mrs. Hauksbee. =
He
had come to look upon her as his Mother Confessor.
'And you apologised!' she said. 'Oh, shame! I =
hate
a man who apologises. Never apologise for what your friend called
"side." Never! It's a man's business to be insolent and overbeari=
ng
until he meets with a stronger. Now, you bad boy, listen to me.'
Simply and straightforwardly, as the 'rickshaw
loitered round Jakko, Mrs. Hauksbee preached to Otis Yeere the Great Gospel=
of
Conceit, illustrating it with living pictures encountered during their Sund=
ay afternoon
stroll.
'Good gracious!' she ended with the personal
argument, 'you'll apologise next for being my attache--'
'Never!' said Otis Yeere. 'That's another thing
altogether. I shall always be.'
'What's coming?' thought Mrs. Hauksbee.
'Proud of that,' said Otis.
'Safe for the present,' she said to herself.
'But I'm afraid I have grown conceited. Like
Jeshurun, you know. When he waxed fat, then he kicked. It's the having no w=
orry
on one's mind and the Hill air, I suppose.'
'Hill air, indeed!' said Mrs. Hauksbee to hers=
elf.
'He'd have been hiding in the Club till the last day of his leave, if I had=
n't discovered
him.' And aloud,
'Why shouldn't you be? You have every right to=
.'
'I! Why?'
'Oh, hundreds of things. I'm not going to waste
this lovely afternoon by explaining; but I know you have. What was that hea=
p of
manuscript you showed me about the grammar of the aboriginal what's their
names?'
'Gullals. A piece of nonsense. I've far too mu=
ch
work to do to bother over Gullals now. You should see my District. Come down
with your husband some day and I'll show you round. Such a lovely place in =
the Rains!
A sheet of water with the railway-embankment and the snakes sticking out, a=
nd,
in the summer, green flies and green squash. The people would die of fear if
you shook a dogwhip at 'em. But they know you're forbidden to do that, so t=
hey
conspire to make your life a burden to you. My District's worked by some ma=
n at
Darjiling, on the strength of a native pleader's false reports. Oh, it's a
heavenly place!'
Otis Yeere laughed bitterly.
'There's not the least necessity that you shou=
ld
stay in it. Why do you?'
'Because I must. How'm I to get out of it?'
'How! In a hundred and fifty ways. If there
weren't so many people on the road I'd like to box your ears. Ask, my dear =
boy,
ask! Look! There is young Hexarly with six years' service and half your
talents. He asked for what he wanted, and he got it. See, down by the Conve=
nt!
There's McArthurson, who has come to his present position by asking sheer, =
downright
asking after he had pushed himself out of the rank and file. One man is as =
good
as another in your service believe me. I've seen Simla for more seasons tha=
n I
care to think about. Do you suppose men are chosen for appointments because=
of
their special fitness beforehand? You have all passed a high test what do y=
ou
call it? in the beginning, and, except for the few who have gone altogether=
to
the bad, you can all work hard. Asking does the rest. Call it cheek, call it
insolence, call it anything you like, but ask! Men argue yes, I know what m=
en
say that a man, by the mere audacity of his request, must have some good in
him. A weak man doesn't say: "Give me this and that." He whines:
"Why haven't I been given this and that?" If you were in the Army=
, I
should say learn to spin plates or play a tambourine with your toes. As it =
is
ask! You belong to a Service that ought to be able to command the Channel
Fleet, or set a leg at twenty minutes' notice, and yet you hesitate over as=
king
to escape from a squashy green district where you admit you are not master.
Drop the Bengal Government altogether. Even Darjiling is a little
out-of-the-way hole. I was there once, and the rents were extortionate. Ass=
ert
yourself. Get the Government of India to take you over. Try to get on the
Frontier, where every man has a grand chance if he can trust himself. Go
somewhere! Do something! You have twice the wits and three times the presen=
ce
of the men up here, and, and' Mrs. Hauksbee paused for breath; then continu=
ed
'and in any way you look at it, you ought to. You who could go so far!'
'I don't know,' said Yeere, rather taken aback=
by
the unexpected eloquence. 'I haven't such a good opinion of myself.'
It was not strictly Platonic, but it was Polic=
y.
Mrs. Hauksbee laid her hand lightly upon the ungloved paw that rested on the
turned-back 'rickshaw hood, and, looking the man full in the face, said
tenderly, almost too tenderly, 'I believe in you if you mistrust yourself. =
Is
that enough, my friend?'
'It is enough,' answered Otis very solemnly.
He was silent for a long time, redreaming the
dreams that he had dreamed eight years ago, but through them all ran, as
sheet-lightning through golden cloud, the light of Mrs. Hauksbee's violet e=
yes.
Curious and impenetrable are the mazes of Simla
life the only existence in this desolate land worth the living. Gradually it
went abroad among men and women, in the pauses between dance, play, and
Gymkhana, that Otis Yeere, the man with the newly-lit light of self-confide=
nce in
his eyes, had 'done something decent' in the wilds whence he came. He had b=
rought
an erring Municipality to reason, appropriated the funds on his own
responsibility, and saved the lives of hundreds. He knew more about the Gul=
lals
than any living man. Had a vast knowledge of the aboriginal tribes; was, in
spite of his juniority, the greatest authority on the aboriginal Gullals. No
one quite knew who or what the Gullals were till The Mussuck, who had been
calling on Mrs. Hauksbee, and prided himself upon picking people's brains,
explained they were a tribe of ferocious hillmen, somewhere near Sikkim, wh=
ose
friendship even the Great Indian Empire would find it worth her while to
secure. Now we know that Otis Yeere had showed Mrs. Hauksbee his MS. notes =
of
six years' standing on these same Gullals. He had told her, too, how, sick =
and
shaken with the fever their negligence had bred, crippled by the loss of his
pet clerk, and savagely angry at the desolation in his charge, he had once
damned the collective eyes of his 'intelligent local board' for a set of ha=
ramzadas.
Which act of 'brutal and tyrannous oppression' won him a Reprimand Royal fr=
om
the Bengal Government; but in the anecdote as amended for Northern consumpt=
ion
we find no record of this. Hence we are forced to conclude that Mrs. Hauksb=
ee
edited his reminiscences before sowing them in idle ears, ready, as she well
knew, to exaggerate good or evil. And Otis Yeere bore himself as befitted t=
he
hero of many tales.
'You can talk to me when you don't fall into a
brown study. Talk now, and talk your brightest and best,' said Mrs. Hauksbe=
e.
Otis needed no spur. Look to a man who has the
counsel of a woman of or above the world to back him. So long as he keeps h=
is
head, he can meet both sexes on equal ground an advantage never intended by
Providence, who fashioned Man on one day and Woman on another, in sign that
neither should know more than a very little of the other's life. Such a man
goes far, or, the counsel being withdrawn, collapses suddenly while his wor=
ld seeks
the reason.
Generalled by Mrs. Hauksbee, who, again, had a=
ll
Mrs. Mallowe's wisdom at her disposal, proud of himself and, in the end,
believing in himself because he was believed in, Otis Yeere stood ready for=
any
fortune that might befall, certain that it would be good. He would fight for
his own hand, and intended that this second struggle should lead to better
issue than the first helpless surrender of the bewildered 'Stunt.
What might have happened it is impossible to s=
ay.
This lamentable thing befell, bred directly by a statement of Mrs. Hauksbee
that she would spend the next season in Darjiling.
'Are you certain of that?' said Otis Yeere.
'Quite. We're writing about a house now.'
Otis Yeere 'stopped dead,' as Mrs. Hauksbee pu=
t it
in discussing the relapse with Mrs. Mallowe.
'He has behaved,' she said angrily, 'just like
Captain Kerrington's pony only Otis is a donkey at the last Gymkhana. Plant=
ed
his forefeet and refused to go on another step. Polly, my man's going to
disappoint me. What shall I do?'
As a rule, Mrs. Mallowe does not approve of
staring, but on this occasion she opened her eyes to the utmost.
'You have managed cleverly so far,'she said.
'Speak to him, and ask him what he means.'
'I will at to-night's dance.'
'No o, not at a dance,' said Mrs. Mallowe
cautiously. 'Men are never themselves quite at dances. Better wait till
to-morrow morning.'
'Nonsense. If he's going to 'vert in this insa=
ne
way there isn't a day to lose. Are you going? No? Then sit up for me, there=
's a
dear. I shan't stay longer than supper under any circumstances.'
Mrs. Mallowe waited through the evening, looki=
ng
long and earnestly into the fire, and sometimes smiling to herself.
'Oh! oh! oh! The man's an idiot! A raving,
positive idiot! I'm sorry I ever saw him!'
Mrs. Hauksbee burst into Mrs. Mallowe's house,=
at
midnight, almost in tears.
'What in the world has happened?' said Mrs.
Mallowe, but her eyes showed that she had guessed an answer.
'Happened! Everything has happened! He was the=
re.
I went to him and said, "Now, what does this nonsense mean?" Don't
laugh, dear, I can't bear it. But you know what I mean I said. Then it was a
square, and I sat it out with him and wanted an explanation, and he said Oh=
! I
haven't patience with such idiots! You know what I said about going to
Darjiling next year? It doesn't matter to me where I go. I'd have changed t=
he Station
and lost the rent to have saved this. He said, in so many words, that he wa=
sn't
going to try to work up any more, because because he would be shifted into a
province away from Darjiling, and his own District, where these creatures a=
re,
is within a day's journey.'
'Ah hh!' said Mrs. Mallowe, in a tone of one w=
ho
has successfully tracked an obscure word through a large dictionary.
'Did you ever hear of anything so mad so absur=
d?
And he had the ball at his feet. He had only to kick it! I would have made =
him
anything! Anything in the wide world. He could have gone to the world's end=
. I would
have helped him. I made him, didn't I, Polly? Didn't I create that man? Doe=
sn't
he owe everything to me? And to reward me, just when everything was nicely
arranged, by this lunacy that spoilt everything!'
'Very few men understand your devotion
thoroughly.'
'Oh, Polly, don't laugh at me! I give men up f=
rom
this hour. I could have killed him then and there. What right had this man =
this
Thing I had picked out of his filthy paddy--fields to make love to me?'
'He did that, did he?'
'He did. I don't remember half he said, I was =
so
angry. Oh, but such a funny thing happened! I can't help laughing at it now,
though I felt nearly ready to cry with rage. He raved and I stormed I'm afr=
aid
we must have made an awful noise in our kala juggah. Protect my character,
dear, if it's all over Simla by to-morrow and then he bobbed forward in the=
middle
of this insanity I firmly believe the man's demented and kissed me.'
'Morals above reproach,' purred Mrs. Mallowe.<= o:p>
'So they were so they are! It was the most abs=
urd
kiss. I don't believe he'd ever kissed a woman in his life before. I threw =
my
head back, and it was a sort of slidy, pecking dab, just on the end of the =
chin
here.' Mrs. Hauksbee tapped her masculine little chin with her fan. 'Then, =
of course,
I was furiously angry, and told him that he was no gentleman, and I was sor=
ry I'd
ever met him, and so on. He was crushed so easily then I couldn't be very
angry. Then I came away straight to you.'
'Was this before or after supper?'
'Oh! before oceans before. Isn't it perfectly
disgusting?'
'Let me think. I withhold judgment till tomorr=
ow.
Morning brings counsel.'
But morning brought only a servant with a dain=
ty
bouquet of Annandale roses for Mrs. Hauksbee to wear at the dance at Vicere=
gal
Lodge that night.
'He doesn't seem to be very penitent,' said Mr=
s.
Mallowe. 'What's the billet-doux in the centre?'
Mrs. Hauksbee opened the neatly-folded note,
another accomplishment that she had taught Otis, read it, and groaned
tragically.
'Last wreck of a feeble intellect! Poetry! Is =
it
his own, do you think? Oh, that I ever built my hopes on such a maudlin idi=
ot!'
'No. It's a quotation from Mrs. Browning, and =
in
view of the facts of the case, as Jack says, uncommonly well chosen. Listen=
S=
weet,
thou hast trod on a heart, =
Pass!
There's a world full of men; A=
nd
women as fair as thou art M=
ust do
such things now and then. Thou=
only
hast stepped unaware Malice=
not
one can impute; And why should=
a
heart have been there, In t=
he way
of a fair woman's foot?
'I didn't I didn't I didn't!' said Mrs. Hauksb=
ee
angrily, her eyes filling with tears; 'there was no malice at all. Oh, it's=
too
vexatious!'
'You've misunderstood the compliment,' said Mr=
s.
Mallowe. 'He clears you completely and ahem I should think by this, that he=
has
cleared completely too. My experience of men is that when they begin to quo=
te poetry
they are going to flit. Like swans singing before they die, you know.'
'Polly, you take my sorrows in a most unfeeling
way.'
'Do I? Is it so terrible? If he's hurt your
vanity, I should say that you've done a certain amount of damage to his hea=
rt.'
'Oh, you can never tell about a man!' said Mrs.
Hauksbee.
Men say it was a stolen tide The Lord that sent it He knows al=
l, But in mine ear will aye abide The message that the bells let fall--=
And awesome bells they were to me, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> That in the dark rang, 'Enderby.' --Jean Ingelow
Once upon a time there was a Man and his Wife =
and
a Tertium Quid.
All three were unwise, but the Wife was the
unwisest. The Man should have looked after his Wife, who should have avoided
the Tertium Quid, who, again, should have married a wife of his own, after
clean and open flirtations, to which nobody can possibly object, round Jakk=
o or
Observatory Hill. When you see a young man with his pony in a white lather =
and
his hat on the back of his head, flying downhill at fifteen miles an hour to
meet a girl who will be properly surprised to meet him, you naturally appro=
ve
of that young man, and wish him Staff appointments, and take an interest in=
his
welfare, and, as the proper time comes, give them sugar-tongs or side-saddl=
es
according to your means and generosity.
The Tertium Quid flew downhill on horseback, b=
ut
it was to meet the Man's Wife; and when he flew uphill it was for the same =
end.
The Man was in the Plains, earning money for his Wife to spend on dresses a=
nd four-hundred-rupee
bracelets, and inexpensive luxuries of that kind. He worked very hard, and =
sent
her a letter or a post-card daily. She also wrote to him daily, and said th=
at
she was longing for him to come up to Simla. The Tertium Quid used to lean =
over
her shoulder and laugh as she wrote the notes. Then the two would ride to t=
he
Post-office together.
Now, Simla is a strange place and its customs =
are
peculiar; nor is any man who has not spent at least ten seasons there quali=
fied
to pass judgment on circumstantial evidence, which is the most untrustworth=
y in
the Courts. For these reasons, and for others which need not appear, I decl=
ine
to state positively whether there was anything irretrievably wrong in the
relations between the Man's Wife and the Tertium Quid. If there was, and he=
reon
you must form your own opinion, it was the Man's Wife's fault. She was
kittenish in her manners, wearing generally an air of soft and fluffy
innocence. But she was deadlily learned and evil-instructed; and, now and
again, when the mask dropped, men saw this, shuddered and almost drew back.=
Men
are occasionally particular, and the least particular men are always the mo=
st
exacting.
Simla is eccentric in its fashion of treating
friendships. Certain attachments which have set and crystallised through
half-a-dozen seasons acquire almost the sanctity of the marriage bond, and =
are
revered as such. Again, certain attachments equally old, and, to all
appearance, equally venerable, never seem to win any recognised official
status; while a chance-sprung acquaintance, not two months born, steps into=
the
place which by right belongs to the senior. There is no law reducible to pr=
int which
regulates these affairs.
Some people have a gift which secures them
infinite toleration, and others have not. The Man's Wife had not. If she lo=
oked
over the garden wall, for instance, women taxed her with stealing their
husbands. She complained pathetically that she was not allowed to choose her
own friends. When she put up her big white muff to her lips, and gazed over=
it
and under her eyebrows at you as she said this thing, you felt that she had
been infamously misjudged, and that all the other women's instincts were all
wrong; which was absurd. She was not allowed to own the Tertium Quid in pea=
ce;
and was so strangely constructed that she would not have enjoyed peace had =
she
been so permitted. She preferred some semblance of intrigue to cloak even h=
er
most commonplace actions.
After two months of riding, first round Jakko,
then Elysium, then Summer Hill, then Observatory Hill, then under Jutogh, a=
nd
lastly up and down the Cart Road as far as the Tara Devi gap in the dusk, s=
he
said to the Tertium Quid, 'Frank, people say we are too much together, and
people are so horrid.'
The Tertium Quid pulled his moustache, and rep=
lied
that horrid people were unworthy of the consideration of nice people.
'But they have done more than talk they have
written written to my hubby I'm sure of it,' said the Man's Wife, and she
pulled a letter from her husband out of her saddle-pocket and gave it to the
Tertium Quid.
It was an honest letter, written by an honest =
man,
then stewing in the Plains on two hundred rupees a month (for he allowed his
wife eight hundred and fifty), and in a silk banian and cotton trousers. It
said that, perhaps, she had not thought of the unwisdom of allowing her nam=
e to
be so generally coupled with the Tertium Quid's; that she was too much of a
child to understand the dangers of that sort of thing; that he, her husband,
was the last man in the world to interfere jealously with her little amusem=
ents
and interests, but that it would be better were she to drop the Tertium Quid
quietly and for her husband's sake. The letter was sweetened with many pret=
ty
little pet names, and it amused the Tertium Quid considerably. He and She
laughed over it, so that you, fifty yards away, could see their shoulders
shaking while the horses slouched along side by side.
Their conversation was not worth reporting. The
upshot of it was that, next day, no one saw the Man's Wife and the Tertium =
Quid
together. They had both gone down to the Cemetery, which, as a rule, is only
visited officially by the inhabitants of Simla.
A Simla funeral with the clergyman riding, the
mourners riding, and the coffin creaking as it swings between the bearers, =
is
one of the most depressing things on this earth, particularly when the
procession passes under the wet, dank dip beneath the Rockcliffe Hotel, whe=
re
the sun is shut out, and all the hill streams are wailing and weeping toget=
her
as they go down the valleys.
Occasionally folk tend the graves, but we in I=
ndia
shift and are transferred so often that, at the end of the second year, the
Dead have no friend only acquaintances who are far too busy amusing themsel=
ves
up the hill to attend to old partners. The idea of using a Cemetery as a re=
ndezvous
is distinctly a feminine one. A man would have said simply, 'Let people tal=
k.
We'll go down the Mall.' A woman is made differently, especially if she be =
such
a woman as the Man's Wife. She and the Tertium Quid enjoyed each other's
society among the graves of men and women whom they had known and danced wi=
th
aforetime.
They used to take a big horse-blanket and sit =
on
the grass a little to the left of the lower end, where there is a dip in the
ground, and where the occupied graves stop short and the ready-made ones are
not ready. Each well-regulated Indian Cemetery keeps half-a-dozen graves pe=
rmanently
open for contingencies and incidental wear and tear. In the Hills these are
more usually baby's size, because children who come up weakened and sick fr=
om
the Plains often succumb to the effects of the Rains in the Hills or get
pneumonia from their ayahs taking them through damp pine-woods after the sun
has set. In Cantonments, of course, the man's size is more in request; these
arrangements varying with the climate and population.
One day when the Man's Wife and the Tertium Qu=
id
had just arrived in the Cemetery, they saw some coolies breaking ground. Th=
ey
had marked out a full-size grave, and the Tertium Quid asked them whether a=
ny
Sahib was sick. They said that they did not know; but it was an order that =
they
should dig a Sahib's grave.
'Work away,' said the Tertium Quid, 'and let's=
see
how it's done.'
The coolies worked away, and the Man's Wife and
the Tertium Quid watched and talked for a couple of hours while the grave w=
as
being deepened. Then a coolie, taking the earth in baskets as it was thrown=
up,
jumped over the grave.
'That's queer,' said the Tertium Quid. 'Where'=
s my
ulster?'
'What's queer?' said the Man's Wife.
'I have got a chill down my back just as if a
goose had walked over my grave.'
'Why do you look at the thing, then?' said the=
Man's
Wife. 'Let us go.'
The Tertium Quid stood at the head of the grav=
e,
and stared without answering for a space. Then he said, dropping a pebble d=
own,
'It is nasty and cold: horribly cold. I don't think I shall come to the Cem=
etery
any more. I don't think grave-digging is cheerful.'
The two talked and agreed that the Cemetery was
depressing. They also arranged for a ride next day out from the Cemetery
through the Mashobra Tunnel up to Fagoo and back, because all the world was
going to a garden-party at Viceregal Lodge, and all the people of Mashobra
would go too.
Coming up the Cemetery road, the Tertium Quid's
horse tried to bolt uphill, being tired with standing so long, and managed =
to
strain a back sinew.
'I shall have to take the mare to-morrow,' said
the Tertium Quid, 'and she will stand nothing heavier than a snaffle.'
They made their arrangements to meet in the
Cemetery, after allowing all the Mashobra people time to pass into Simla. T=
hat
night it rained heavily, and, next day, when the Tertium Quid came to the t=
rysting-place,
he saw that the new grave had a foot of water in it, the ground being a tou=
gh
and sour clay.
'Jove! That looks beastly,' said the Tertium Q=
uid.
'Fancy being boarded up and dropped into that well!'
They then started off to Fagoo, the mare playi=
ng
with the snaffle and picking her way as though she were shod with satin, and
the sun shining divinely. The road below Mashobra to Fagoo is officially st=
yled
the Himalayan-Thibet road; but in spite of its name it is not much more tha=
n six
feet wide in most places, and the drop into the valley below may be anything
between one and two thousand feet.
'Now we're going to Thibet,' said the Man's Wi=
fe
merrily, as the horses drew near to Fagoo. She was riding on the cliff-side=
.
'Into Thibet,' said the Tertium Quid, 'ever so=
far
from people who say horrid things, and hubbies who write stupid letters. Wi=
th
you to the end of the world!'
A coolie carrying a log of wood came round a
corner, and the mare went wide to avoid him forefeet in and haunches out, a=
s a
sensible mare should go.
'To the world's end,' said the Man's Wife, and
looked unspeakable things over her near shoulder at the Tertium Quid.
He was smiling, but, while she looked, the smi=
le
froze stiff as it were on his face, and changed to a nervous grin the sort =
of
grin men wear when they are not quite easy in their saddles. The mare seeme=
d to
be sinking by the stern, and her nostrils cracked while she was trying to r=
ealise
what was happening. The rain of the night before had rotted the drop-side of
the Himalayan-Thibet Road, and it was giving way under her. 'What are you
doing?' said the Man's Wife. The Tertium Quid gave no answer. He grinned
nervously and set his spurs into the mare, who rapped with her forefeet on =
the
road, and the struggle began. The Man's Wife screamed, 'Oh, Frank, get off!=
'
But the Tertium Quid was glued to the saddle h=
is
face blue and white and he looked into the Man's Wife's eyes. Then the Man's
Wife clutched at the mare's head and caught her by the nose instead of the
bridle. The brute threw up her head and went down with a scream, the Tertium
Quid upon her, and the nervous grin still set on his face.
The Man's Wife heard the tinkle-tinkle of litt=
le
stones and loose earth falling off the roadway, and the sliding roar of the=
man
and horse going down. Then everything was quiet, and she called on Frank to
leave his mare and walk up. But Frank did not answer. He was underneath the
mare, nine hundred feet below, spoiling a patch of Indian corn.
As the revellers came back from Viceregal Lodg=
e in
the mists of the evening, they met a temporarily insane woman, on a tempora=
rily
mad horse, swinging round the corners, with her eyes and her mouth open, an=
d her
head like the head of a Medusa. She was stopped by a man at the risk of his
life, and taken out of the saddle, a limp heap, and put on the bank to expl=
ain
herself. This wasted twenty minutes, and then she was sent home in a lady's
'rickshaw, still with her mouth open and her hands picking at her
riding-gloves.
She was in bed through the following three day=
s,
which were rainy; so she missed attending the funeral of the Tertium Quid, =
who
was lowered into eighteen inches of water, instead of the twelve to which he
had first objected.
Because to every purpose there is time =
and
judgment, therefore the misery of=
man
is great upon him. --Eccles. viii=
. 6.
Fate and the Government of India have turned t=
he
Station of Kashima into a prison; and, because there is no help for the poor
souls who are now lying there in torment, I write this story, praying that =
the
Government of India may be moved to scatter the European population to the =
four
winds.
Kashima is bounded on all sides by the rocktip=
ped
circle of the Dosehri hills. In Spring, it is ablaze with roses; in Summer,=
the
roses die and the hot winds blow from the hills; in Autumn, the white mists
from the jhils cover the place as with water, and in Winter the frosts nip =
everything
young and tender to earth-level. There is but one view in Kashima a stretch=
of
perfectly flat pasture and plough-land, running up to the gray-blue scrub of
the Dosehri hills.
There are no amusements, except snipe and tiger
shooting; but the tigers have been long since hunted from their lairs in the
rock-caves, and the snipe only come once a year. Narkarra one hundred and
forty-three miles by road is the nearest station to Kashima. But Kashima ne=
ver
goes to Narkarra, where there are at least twelve English people. It stays =
within
the circle of the Dosehri hills.
All Kashima acquits Mrs. Vansuythen of any
intention to do harm; but all Kashima knows that she, and she alone, brought
about their pain.
Boulte, the Engineer, Mrs. Boulte, and Captain
Kurrell know this. They are the English population of Kashima, if we except
Major Vansuythen, who is of no importance whatever, and Mrs. Vansuythen, wh=
o is
the most important of all.
You must remember, though you will not underst=
and,
that all laws weaken in a small and hidden community where there is no publ=
ic
opinion. When a man is absolutely alone in a Station he runs a certain risk=
of falling
into evil ways. This risk is multiplied by every addition to the population=
up
to twelve the Jury-number. After that, fear and consequent restraint begin,=
and
human action becomes less grotesquely jerky.
There was deep peace in Kashima till Mrs.
Vansuythen arrived. She was a charming woman, every one said so everywhere;=
and
she charmed every one. In spite of this, or, perhaps, because of this, since
Fate is so perverse, she cared only for one man, and he was Major Vansuythe=
n.
Had she been plain or stupid, this matter would have been intelligible to K=
ashima.
But she was a fair woman, with very still gray eyes, the colour of a lake j=
ust
before the light of the sun touches it. No man who had seen those eyes coul=
d,
later on, explain what fashion of woman she was to look upon. The eyes dazz=
led
him. Her own sex said that she was 'not bad-looking, but spoilt by pretendi=
ng
to be so grave.' And yet her gravity was natural. It was not her habit to
smile. She merely went through life, looking at those who passed; and the w=
omen
objected while the men fell down and worshipped.
She knows and is deeply sorry for the evil she=
has
done to Kashima; but Major Vansuythen cannot understand why Mrs. Boulte does
not drop in to afternoon tea at least three times a week. 'When there are o=
nly
two women in one Station, they ought to see a great deal of each other,' sa=
ys
Major Vansuythen.
Long and long before ever Mrs. Vansuythen came=
out
of those far-away places where there is society and amusement, Kurrell had
discovered that Mrs. Boulte was the one woman in the world for him and you =
dare
not blame them. Kashima was as out of the world as Heaven or the Other Plac=
e,
and the Dosehri hills kept their secret well. Boulte had no concern in the
matter. He was in camp for a fortnight at a time. He was a hard, heavy man,=
and
neither Mrs. Boulte nor Kurrell pitied him. They had all Kashima and each o=
ther
for their very, very own; and Kashima was the Garden of Eden in those days.
When Boulte returned from his wanderings he would slap Kurrell between the
shoulders and call him 'old fellow,' and the three would dine together. Kas=
hima
was happy then when the judgment of God seemed almost as distant as Narkarr=
a or
the railway that ran down to the sea. But the Government sent Major Vansuyt=
hen
to Kashima, and with him came his wife.
The etiquette of Kashima is much the same as t=
hat
of a desert island. When a stranger is cast away there, all hands go down to
the shore to make him welcome. Kashima assembled at the masonry platform cl=
ose
to the Narkarra Road, and spread tea for the Vansuythens. That ceremony was=
reckoned
a formal call, and made them free of the Station, its rights and privileges.
When the Vansuythens settled down they gave a tiny house-warming to all
Kashima; and that made Kashima free of their house, according to the immemo=
rial
usage of the Station.
Then the Rains came, when no one could go into
camp, and the Narkarra Road was washed away by the Kasun River, and in the
cup-like pastures of Kashima the cattle waded knee-deep. The clouds dropped
down from the Dosehri hills and covered everything.
At the end of the Rains Boulte's manner towards
his wife changed and became demonstratively affectionate. They had been mar=
ried
twelve years, and the change startled Mrs. Boulte, who hated her husband wi=
th
the hate of a woman who has met with nothing but kindness from her mate, an=
d,
in the teeth of this kindness, has done him a great wrong. Moreover, she had
her own trouble to fight with her watch to keep over her own property, Kurr=
ell.
For two months the Rains had hidden the Dosehri hills and many other things
besides; but, when they lifted, they showed Mrs. Boulte that her man among =
men,
her Ted for she called him Ted in the old days when Boulte was out of earsh=
ot
was slipping the links of the allegiance.
'The Vansuythen Woman has taken him,' Mrs. Bou=
lte
said to herself; and when Boulte was away, wept over her belief, in the fac=
e of
the over-vehement blandishments of Ted. Sorrow in Kashima is as fortunate a=
s Love
because there is nothing to weaken it save the flight of Time. Mrs. Boulte =
had
never breathed her suspicion to Kurrell because she was not certain; and her
nature led her to be very certain before she took steps in any direction. T=
hat
is why she behaved as she did.
Boulte came into the house one evening, and le=
aned
against the door-posts of the drawing-room, chewing his moustache. Mrs. Bou=
lte
was putting some flowers into a vase. There is a pretence of civilisation e=
ven
in Kashima.
'Little woman,' said Boulte quietly, 'do you c=
are
for me?'
'Immensely,' said she, with a laugh. 'Can you =
ask
it?'
'But I'm serious,' said Boulte. 'Do you care f=
or
me?'
Mrs. Boulte dropped the flowers, and turned ro=
und
quickly. 'Do you want an honest answer?'
'Ye-es, I've asked for it.'
Mrs. Boulte spoke in a low, even voice for five
minutes, very distinctly, that there might be no misunderstanding her meani=
ng.
When Samson broke the pillars of Gaza, he did a little thing, and one not t=
o be
compared to the deliberate pulling down of a woman's homestead about her own
ears. There was no wise female friend to advise Mrs. Boulte, the singularly
cautious wife, to hold her hand. She struck at Boulte's heart, because her =
own
was sick with suspicion of Kurrell, and worn out with the long strain of
watching alone through the Rains. There was no plan or purpose in her speak=
ing.
The sentences made themselves; and Boulte listened, leaning against the
door-post with his hands in his pockets. When all was over, and Mrs. Boulte
began to breathe through her nose before breaking out into tears, he laughed
and stared straight in front of him at the Dosehri hills.
'Is that all?' he said. 'Thanks, I only wanted=
to
know, you know.'
'What are you going to do?' said the woman, be=
tween
her sobs.
'Do! Nothing. What should I do? Kill Kurrell, =
or
send you Home, or apply for leave to get a divorce? It's two days' treck in=
to
Narkarra.' He laughed again and went on: 'I'll tell you what you can do. You
can ask Kurrell to dinner tomorrow no, on Thursday, that will allow you tim=
e to
pack and you can bolt with him. I give you my word I won't follow.'
He took up his helmet and went out of the room,
and Mrs. Boulte sat till the moonlight streaked the floor, thinking and
thinking and thinking. She had done her best upon the spur of the moment to
pull the house down; but it would not fall. Moreover, she could not underst=
and
her husband, and she was afraid. Then the folly of her useless truthfulness=
struck
her, and she was ashamed to write to Kurrell, saying, 'I have gone mad and =
told
everything. My husband says that I am free to elope with you. Get a dek for
Thursday, and we will fly after dinner.' There was a cold-bloodedness about
that procedure which did not appeal to her. So she sat still in her own hou=
se
and thought.
At dinner-time Boulte came back from his walk,
white and worn and haggard, and the woman was touched at his distress. As t=
he
evening wore on she muttered some expression of sorrow, something approachi=
ng
to contrition. Boulte came out of a brown study and said, 'Oh, that! I wasn=
't
thinking about that. By the way, what does Kurrell say to the elopement?'
'I haven't seen him,' said Mrs. Boulte. 'Good =
God,
is that all?'
But Boulte was not listening and her sentence
ended in a gulp.
The next day brought no comfort to Mrs. Boulte,
for Kurrell did not appear, and the new lift that she, in the five minutes'
madness of the previous evening, had hoped to build out of the ruins of the
old, seemed to be no nearer.
Boulte ate his breakfast, advised her to see h=
er
Arab pony fed in the verandah, and went out. The morning wore through, and =
at
mid-day the tension became unendurable. Mrs. Boulte could not cry. She had
finished her crying in the night, and now she did not want to be left alone=
. Perhaps
the Vansuythen Woman would talk to her; and, since talking opens the heart,
perhaps there might be some comfort to be found in her company. She was the
only other woman in the Station.
In Kashima there are no regular calling-hours.
Every one can drop in upon every one else at pleasure. Mrs. Boulte put on a=
big
terai hat, and walked across to the Vansuythens' house to borrow last week's
Queen. The two compounds touched, and instead of going up the drive, she
crossed through the gap in the cactus-hedge, entering the house from the ba=
ck. As
she passed through the dining-room, she heard, behind the purdah that cloak=
ed
the drawing-room door, her husband's voice, saying,
'But on my Honour! On my Soul and Honour, I te=
ll
you she doesn't care for me. She told me so last night. I would have told y=
ou
then if Vansuythen hadn't been with you. If it is for her sake that you'll =
have
nothing to say to me, you can make your mind easy. It's Kurrell.'
'What?' said Mrs. Vansuythen, with a hysterical
little laugh. 'Kurrell! Oh, it can't be! You two must have made some horrib=
le
mistake. Perhaps you you lost your temper, or misunderstood, or something.
Things can't be as wrong as you say.'
Mrs. Vansuythen had shifted her defence to avo=
id
the man's pleading, and was desperately trying to keep him to a side-issue.=
'There must be some mistake,' she insisted, 'a=
nd
it can be all put right again.'
Boulte laughed grimly.
'It can't be Captain Kurrell! He told me that =
he
had never taken the least the least interest in your wife, Mr. Boulte. Oh, =
do
listen! He said he had not. He swore he had not,' said Mrs. Vansuythen.
The purdah rustled, and the speech was cut sho=
rt
by the entry of a little thin woman, with big rings round her eyes. Mrs.
Vansuythen stood up with a gasp.
'What was that you said?' asked Mrs. Boulte.
'Never mind that man. What did Ted say to you? What did he say to you? What=
did
he say to you?'
Mrs. Vansuythen sat down helplessly on the sof=
a,
overborne by the trouble of her questioner.
'He said I can't remember exactly what he said=
but
I understood him to say that is But, really, Mrs. Boulte, isn't it rather a
strange question?'
'Will you tell me what he said?' repeated Mrs.
Boulte. Even a tiger will fly before a bear robbed of her whelps, and Mrs.
Vansuythen was only an ordinarily good woman. She began in a sort of
desperation: 'Well, he said that the never cared for you at all, and, of
course, there was not the least reason why he should have, and and that was
all.'
'You said he swore he had not cared for me. Was
that true?'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Vansuythen very softly.
Mrs. Boulte wavered for an instant where she
stood, and then fell forward fainting.
'What did I tell you?' said Boulte, as though =
the
conversation had been unbroken. 'You can see for yourself. She cares for hi=
m.'
The light began to break into his dull mind, and he went on, 'And what was =
he
saying to you?'
But Mrs. Vansuythen, with no heart for
explanations or impassioned protestations, was kneeling over Mrs. Boulte.
'Oh, you brute!' she cried. 'Are all men like
this? Help me to get her into my room and her face is cut against the table.
Oh, will you be quiet, and help me to carry her? I hate you, and I hate Cap=
tain
Kurrell. Lift her up carefully, and now go! Go away!'
Boulte carried his wife into Mrs. Vansuythen's
bedroom, and departed before the storm of that lady's wrath and disgust,
impenitent and burning with jealousy. Kurrell had been making love to Mrs.
Vansuythen would do Vansuythen as great a wrong as he had done Boulte, who =
caught
himself considering whether Mrs. Vansuythen would faint if she discovered t=
hat
the man she loved had forsworn her.
In the middle of these meditations, Kurrell ca=
me
cantering along the road and pulled up with a cheery 'Good-mornin'. 'Been
mashing Mrs. Vansuythen as usual, eh? Bad thing for a sober, married man, t=
hat.
What will Mrs. Boulte say?'
Boulte raised his head and said slowly, 'Oh, y=
ou
liar!' Kurrell's face changed. 'What's that?' he asked quickly.
'Nothing much,' said Boulte. 'Has my wife told=
you
that you two are free to go off whenever you please? She has been good enou=
gh
to explain the situation to me. You've been a true friend to me, Kurrell old
man haven't you?'
Kurrell groaned, and tried to frame some sort =
of
idiotic sentence about being willing to give 'satisfaction.' But his intere=
st
in the woman was dead, had died out in the Rains, and, mentally, he was abu=
sing
her for her amazing indiscretion. It would have been so easy to have broken=
off
the thing gently and by degrees, and now he was saddled with Boulte's voice
recalled him.
'I don't think I should get any satisfaction f=
rom
killing you, and I'm pretty sure you'd get none from killing me.'
Then in a querulous tone, ludicrously
disproportioned to his wrongs, Boulte added,
'Seems rather a pity that you haven't the dece=
ncy
to keep to the woman, now you've got her. You've been a true friend to her =
too,
haven't you?'
Kurrell stared long and gravely. The situation=
was
getting beyond him.
'What do you mean?' he said.
Boulte answered, more to himself than the
questioner: 'My wife came over to Mrs. Vansuythen's just now; and it seems
you'd been telling Mrs. Vansuythen that you'd never cared for Emma. I suppo=
se
you lied, as usual. What had Mrs. Vansuythen to do with you, or you with he=
r?
Try to speak the truth for once in a way.'
Kurrell took the double insult without wincing,
and replied by another question: 'Go on. What happened?'
'Emma fainted,' said Boulte simply. 'But, look
here, what had you been saying to Mrs. Vansuythen?'
Kurrell laughed. Mrs. Boulte had, with unbridl=
ed
tongue, made havoc of his plans; and he could at least retaliate by hurting=
the
man in whose eyes he was humiliated and shown dishonourable.
'Said to her? What does a man tell a lie like =
that
for? I suppose I said pretty much what you've said, unless I'm a good deal
mistaken.'
'I spoke the truth,' said Boulte, again more to himself than Kurrell. 'Emma told me she hated me. She has no right in me.'<= o:p>
'No! I suppose not. You're only her husband,
y'know. And what did Mrs. Vansuythen say after you had laid your disengaged
heart at her feet?'
Kurrell felt almost virtuous as he put the
question.
'I don't think that matters,' Boulte replied; =
'and
it doesn't concern you.'
'But it does! I tell you it does' began Kurrell
shamelessly.
The sentence was cut by a roar of laughter from
Boulte's lips. Kurrell was silent for an instant, and then he, too, laughed
laughed long and loudly, rocking in his saddle. It was an unpleasant sound =
the
mirthless mirth of these men on the long white line of the Narkarra Road. T=
here
were no strangers in Kashima, or they might have thought that captivity wit=
hin
the Dosehri hills had driven half the European population mad. The laughter
ended abruptly, and Kurrell was the first to speak.
'Well, what are you going to do?'
Boulte looked up the road, and at the hills.
'Nothing,' said he quietly; 'what's the use? It's too ghastly for anything.=
We
must let the old life go on. I can only call you a hound and a liar, and I
can't go on calling you names for ever. Besides which, I don't feel that I'm
much better. We can't get out of this place. What is there to do?'
Kurrell looked round the rat-pit of Kashima and
made no reply. The injured husband took up the wondrous tale.
'Ride on, and speak to Emma if you want to. God
knows I don't care what you do.'
He walked forward, and left Kurrell gazing bla=
nkly
after him. Kurrell did not ride on either to see Mrs. Boulte or Mrs.
Vansuythen. He sat in his saddle and thought, while his pony grazed by the
roadside.
The whir of approaching wheels roused him. Mrs.
Vansuythen was driving home Mrs. Boulte, white and wan, with a cut on her
forehead.
'Stop, please,' said Mrs. Boulte, 'I want to s=
peak
to Ted.'
Mrs. Vansuythen obeyed, but as Mrs. Boulte lea=
ned
forward, putting her hand upon the splashboard of the dog-cart, Kurrell spo=
ke.
'I've seen your husband, Mrs. Boulte.'
There was no necessity for any further
explanation. The man's eyes were fixed, not upon Mrs. Boulte, but her
companion. Mrs. Boulte saw the look.
'Speak to him!' she pleaded, turning to the wo=
man
at her side. 'Oh, speak to him! Tell him what you told me just now. Tell him
you hate him. Tell him you hate him!'
She bent forward and wept bitterly, while the
sais, impassive, went forward to hold the horse. Mrs. Vansuythen turned sca=
rlet
and dropped the reins. She wished to be no party to such unholy explanation=
s.
'I've nothing to do with it,' she began coldly;
but Mrs. Boulte's sobs overcame her, and she addressed herself to the man. =
'I
don't know what I am to say, Captain Kurrell. I don't know what I can call =
you.
I think you've you've behaved abominably, and she has cut her forehead terr=
ibly
against the table.'
'It doesn't hurt. It isn't anything,' said Mrs.
Boulte feebly. 'That doesn't matter. Tell him what you told me. Say you don=
't
care for him. Oh, Ted, won't you believe her?'
'Mrs. Boulte has made me understand that you w=
ere
that you were fond of her once upon a time,' went on Mrs. Vansuythen.
'Well!' said Kurrell brutally. 'It seems to me
that Mrs. Boulte had better be fond of her own husband first.'
'Stop!' said Mrs. Vansuythen. 'Hear me first. I don't care I don't want to know anything about you and Mrs. Boulte; but I w= ant you to know that I hate you, that I think you are a cur, and that I'll neve= r, never speak to you again. Oh, I don't dare to say what I think of you, you man!'<= o:p>
'I want to speak to Ted,' moaned Mrs. Boulte, =
but
the dog-cart rattled on, and Kurrell was left on the road, shamed, and boil=
ing
with wrath against Mrs. Boulte.
He waited till Mrs. Vansuythen was driving bac=
k to
her own house, and, she being freed from the embarrassment of Mrs. Boulte's
presence, learned for the second time her opinion of himself and his action=
s.
In the evenings it was the wont of all Kashima=
to
meet at the platform on the Narkarra Road, to drink tea and discuss the
trivialities of the day. Major Vansuythen and his wife found themselves alo=
ne
at the gathering-place for almost the first time in their remembrance; and =
the
cheery Major, in the teeth of his wife's remarkably reasonable suggestion t=
hat
the rest of the Station might be sick, insisted upon driving round to the t=
wo
bungalows and unearthing the population.
'Sitting in the twilight!' said he, with great
indignation, to the Boultes. 'That'll never do! Hang it all, we're one fami=
ly
here! You must come out, and so must Kurrell. I'll make him bring his banjo=
.'
So great is the power of honest simplicity and=
a
good digestion over guilty consciences that all Kashima did turn out, even =
down
to the banjo; and the Major embraced the company in one expansive grin. As =
he grinned,
Mrs. Vansuythen raised her eyes for an instant and looked at all Kashima. H=
er
meaning was clear. Major Vansuythen would never know anything. He was to be=
the
outsider in that happy family whose cage was the Dosehri hills.
'You're singing villainously out of tune,
Kurrell,' said the Major truthfully. 'Pass me that banjo.'
And he sang in excruciating-wise till the stars
came out and all Kashima went to dinner.
That was the beginning of the New Life of Kash=
ima
the life that Mrs. Boulte made when her tongue was loosened in the twilight=
.
Mrs. Vansuythen has never told the Major; and
since he insists upon keeping up a burdensome geniality, she has been compe=
lled
to break her vow of not speaking to Kurrell. This speech, which must of
necessity preserve the semblance of politeness and interest, serves admirab=
ly
to keep alight the flame of jealousy and dull hatred in Boulte's bosom, as =
it
awakens the same passions in his wife's heart. Mrs. Boulte hates Mrs.
Vansuythen because she has taken Ted from her, and, in some curious fashion,
hates her because Mrs. Vansuythen and here the wife's eyes see far more cle=
arly
than the husband's detests Ted. And Ted that gallant captain and honourable=
man
knows now that it is possible to hate a woman once loved, to the verge of
wishing to silence her for ever with blows. Above all, is he shocked that M=
rs.
Boulte cannot see the error of her ways.
Boulte and he go out tiger-shooting together in
all friendship. Boulte has put their relationship on a most satisfactory
footing.
'You're a blackguard,' he says to Kurrell, 'and
I've lost any self-respect I may ever have had; but when you're with me, I =
can feel
certain that you are not with Mrs. Vansuythen, or making Emma miserable.'
Kurrell endures anything that Boulte may say to
him. Sometimes they are away for three days together, and then the Major
insists upon his wife going over to sit with Mrs. Boulte; although Mrs.
Vansuythen has repeatedly declared that she prefers her husband's company to
any in the world. From the way in which she clings to him, she would certai=
nly
seem to be speaking the truth.
But of course, as the Major says, 'in a little
Station we must all be friendly.'
<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>THE HILL OF ILLUSION<=
span
style=3D'font-size:12.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:16.0pt;line-height:115%;mso-fa=
reast-font-family:
Calibri'>
What rendered vain their deep desire=
? A God, a God their severance ruled, =
And bade between their shores to be =
The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea.=
--Matthew Arnold.
He. Tell your jhampanies not to hurry so, dear.
They forget I'm fresh from the Plains.
She. Sure proof that I have not been going out
with any one. Yes, they are an untrained crew. Where do we go?
He. As usual to the world's end. No, Jakko.
She. Have your pony led after you, then. It's a
long round.
He. And for the last time, thank Heaven!
She. Do you mean that still? I didn't dare to
write to you about it all these months.
He. Mean it! I've been shaping my affairs to t=
hat
end since Autumn. What makes you speak as though it had occurred to you for=
the
first time?
She. I? Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough=
to
think, too.
He. And you've changed your mind?
She. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle=
of
constancy. What are your arrangements?
He. Ours, Sweetheart, please.
She. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the
prickly heat has marked your forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copp=
er
in water?
He. It'll go away in a day or two up here. The
arrangements are simple enough. Tonga in the early morning reach Kalka at
twelve Umballa at seven down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and then =
the
steamer of the 21st for Rome. That's my idea. The Continent and Sweden a
ten-week honeymoon.
She. Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It mak=
es
me afraid. Guy, how long have we two been insane?
He. Seven months and fourteen days, I forget t=
he
odd hours exactly, but I'll think.
She. I only wanted to see if you remembered. W=
ho
are those two on the Blessington Road?
He. Eabrey and the Penner Woman. What do they
matter to us? Tell me everything that you've been doing and saying and
thinking.
She. Doing little, saying less, and thinking a
great deal. I've hardly been out at all.
He. That was wrong of you. You haven't been
moping?
She. Not very much. Can you wonder that I'm
disinclined for amusement?
He. Frankly, I do. Where was the difficulty?
She. In this only. The more people I know and =
the
more I'm known here, the wider spread will be the news of the crash when it
comes. I don't like that.
He. Nonsense. We shall be out of it.
She. You think so?
He. I'm sure of it, if there is any power in s=
team
or horse-flesh to carry us away. Ha! ha!
She. And the fun of the situation comes in whe=
re,
my Lancelot?
He. Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of
something.
She. They say men have a keener sense of humour
than women. Now I was thinking of the scandal.
He. Don't think of anything so ugly. We shall =
be
beyond it.
She. It will be there all the same in the mout=
hs
of Simla telegraphed over India, and talked of at the dinners and when He g=
oes
out they will stare at Him to see how he takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy
dear dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is--
He. Love at least. Isn't that enough?
She. I have said so.
He. And you think so still?
She. What do you think?
He. What have I done? It means equal ruin to m=
e,
as the world reckons it outcasting, the loss of my appointment, the breaking
off my life's work. I pay my price.
She. And are you so much above the world that =
you
can afford to pay it. Am I?
He. My Divinity what else?
She. A very ordinary woman, I'm afraid, but so
far, respectable. How d'you do, Mrs. Middle-ditch? Your husband? I think he=
's
riding down to Annandale with Colonel Statters. Yes, isn't it divine after =
the
rain? Guy, how long am I to be allowed to bow to Mrs. Middleditch? Till the=
17th?
He. Frowsy Scotchwoman! What is the use of
bringing her into the discussion? You were saying?
She. Nothing. Have you ever seen a man hanged?=
He. Yes. Once.
She. What was it for?
He. Murder, of course.
She. Murder. Is that so great a sin after all?=
I
wonder how he felt before the drop fell.
He. I don't think he felt much. What a gruesome little woman it is this evening! You're shivering. Put on your cape, dear.<= o:p>
She. I think I will. Oh! Look at the mist comi=
ng
over Sanjaoli; and I thought we should have sunshine on the Ladies' Mile! L=
et's
turn back.
He. What's the good? There's a cloud on Elysium
Hill, and that means it's foggy all down the Mall. We'll go on. It'll blow =
away
before we get to the Convent, perhaps. 'Jove! It is chilly.
She. You feel it, fresh from below. Put on your
ulster. What do you think of my cape?
He. Never ask a man his opinion of a woman's d=
ress
when he is desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer. Let me look. L=
ike everything
else of yours it's perfect. Where did you get it from?
She. He gave it me, on Wednesday our wedding-d=
ay,
you know.
He. The Deuce He did! He's growing generous in=
his
old age. D'you like all that frilly, bunchy stuff at the throat? I don't.
She. Don't you?
K=
ind
Sir, o' your courtesy, As y=
ou go
by the town, Sir, 'Pray you o'=
your
love for me, Buy me a russet
gown, Sir.
He. I won't say: 'Keek into the draw-well, Jan=
et,
Janet.' Only wait a little, darling, and you shall be stocked with russet g=
owns
and everything else.
She. And when the frocks wear out you'll get me
new ones and everything else?
He. Assuredly.
She. I wonder!
He. Look here, Sweetheart, I didn't spend two =
days
and two nights in the train to hear you wonder. I thought we'd settled all =
that
at Shaifazehat.
She. (dreamily). At Shaifazehat? Does the Stat=
ion
go on still? That was ages and ages ago. It must be crumbling to pieces. All
except the Amirtollah kutcha road. I don't believe that could crumble till =
the
Day of Judgment.
He. You think so? What is the mood now?
She. I can't tell. How cold it is! Let us get =
on
quickly.
He. 'Better walk a little. Stop your jhampanies
and get out. What's the matter with you this evening, dear?
She. Nothing. You must grow accustomed to my w=
ays.
If I'm boring you I can go home. Here's Captain Congleton coming, I daresay
he'll be willing to escort me.
He. Goose! Between us, too! Damn Captain
Congleton.
She. Chivalrous Knight. Is it your habit to sw=
ear
much in talking? It jars a little, and you might swear at me.
He. My angel! I didn't know what I was saying;=
and
you changed so quickly that I couldn't follow. I'll apologise in dust and
ashes.
She. There'll be enough of those later on
Good-night, Captain Congleton. Going to the singing-quadrilles already? What
dances am I giving you next week? No! You must have written them down wrong.
Five and Seven, I said. If you've made a mistake, I certainly don't intend =
to
suffer for it. You must alter your programme.
He. I thought you told me that you had not been
going out much this season?
She. Quite true, but when I do I dance with
Captain Congleton. He dances very nicely.
He. And sit out with him, I suppose?
She. Yes. Have you any objection? Shall I stand
under the chandelier in future?
He. What does he talk to you about?
She. What do men talk about when they sit out?=
He. Ugh! Don't! Well, now I'm up, you must
dispense with the fascinating Congleton for a while. I don't like him.
She (after a pause). Do you know what you have
said?
He 'Can't say that I do exactly. I'm not in the
best of tempers.
She So I see, and feel. My true and faithful
lover, where is your 'eternal constancy,' 'unalterable trust,' and 'reverent
devotion'? I remember those phrases; you seem to have forgotten them. I men=
tion
a man's name.
He. A good deal more than that.
She. Well, speak to him about a dance perhaps =
the
last dance that I shall ever dance in my life before I, before I go away; a=
nd
you at once distrust and insult me.
He. I never said a word.
She. How much did you imply? Guy, is this amou=
nt
of confidence to be our stock to start the new life on?
He. No, of course not. I didn't mean that. On =
my
word and honour, I didn't. Let it pass, dear. Please let it pass.
She. This once yes and a second time, and again
and again, all through the years when I shall be unable to resent it. You w=
ant
too much, my Lancelot, and, you know too much.
He. How do you mean?
She. That is a part of the punishment. There
cannot be perfect trust between us.
He. In Heaven's name, why not?
She. Hush! The Other Place is quite enough. Ask
yourself.
He. I don't follow.
She. You trust me so implicitly that when I lo=
ok
at another man Never mind. Guy, have you ever made love to a girl a good gi=
rl?
He. Something of the sort. Centuries ago in the
Dark Ages, before I ever met you, dear.
She. Tell me what you said to her.
He. What does a man say to a girl? I've forgot=
ten.
She. I remember. He tells her that he trusts h=
er
and worships the ground she walks on, and that he'll love and honour and
protect her till her dying day; and so she marries in that belief. At least=
, I
speak of one girl who was not protected.
He. Well, and then?
She. And then, Guy, and then, that girl needs =
ten
times the love and trust and honour yes, honour that was enough when she was
only a mere wife if if the other life she chooses to lead is to be made eve=
n bearable.
Do you understand?
He. Even bearable! It'll be Paradise.
She. Ah! Can you give me all I've asked for not
now, nor a few months later, but when you begin to think of what you might =
have
done if you had kept your own appointment and your caste here when you begi=
n to
look upon me as a drag and a burden? I shall want it most then, Guy, for th=
ere
will be no one in the wide world but you.
He. You're a little over-tired to-night, Sweet=
heart,
and you're taking a stage view of the situation. After the necessary busine=
ss
in the Courts, the road is clear to--
She. 'The holy state of matrimony!' Ha! ha! ha=
!
He. Ssh! Don't laugh in that horrible way!
She. I I c-c-c-can't help it! Isn't it too abs=
urd!
Ah! Ha! ha! ha! Guy, stop me quick or I shall l-l-laugh till we get to the
Church.
He. For goodness sake, stop! Don't make an
exhibition of yourself. What is the matter with you?
She. N-nothing. I'm better now.
He. That's all right. One moment, dear. There'=
s a
little wisp of hair got loose from behind your right ear and it's straggling
over your cheek. So!
She. Thank'oo. I'm 'fraid my hat's on one side,
too.
He. What do you wear these huge dagger
bonnet-skewers for? They're big enough to kill a man with.
She. Oh! don't kill me, though. You're stickin=
g it
into my head! Let me do it. You men are so clumsy.
He. Have you had many opportunities of compari=
ng
us in this sort of work?
She. Guy, what is my name?
He. Eh! I don't follow.
She. Here's my card-case. Can you read?
He. Yes. Well?
She. Well, that answers your question. You know
the other's man's name. Am I sufficiently humbled, or would you like to ask=
me
if there is any one else?
He. I see now. My darling, I never meant that =
for
an instant. I was only joking. There! Lucky there's no one on the road. The=
y'd
be scandalised.
She. They'll be more scandalised before the en=
d.
He. Do-on't! I don't like you to talk in that =
way.
She. Unreasonable man! Who asked me to face the
situation and accept it? Tell me, do I look like Mrs. Penner? Do I look lik=
e a
naughty woman! Swear I don't! Give me your word of honour, my honourable
friend, that I'm not like Mrs. Buzgago. That's the way she stands, with her
hands clasped at the back of her head. D'you like that?
He. Don't be affected.
She. I'm not. I'm Mrs. Buzgago. Listen!
P=
endant
une anne' toute entiere Le reg=
iment
n'a pas r'paru. Au Ministere d=
e la
Guerre On le r'porta comme per=
du. On se r'noncait--retrouver sa trace,=
Quand un matin subitement, On le vit reparaetre sur la place, <=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> L'Colonel toujours en avant.
That's the way she rolls her r's. Am I like he=
r?
He. No, but I object when you go on like an
actress and sing stuff of that kind. Where in the world did you pick up the
Chanson du Colonel? It isn't a drawing-room song. It isn't proper.
She. Mrs. Buzgago taught it me. She is both
drawing-room and proper, and in another month she'll shut her drawing-room =
to
me, and thank God she isn't as improper as I am. Oh, Guy, Guy! I wish I was
like some women and had no scruples about What is it Keene says? 'Wearing a
corpse's hair and being false to the bread they eat.'
He. I am only a man of limited intelligence, a=
nd,
just now, very bewildered. When you have quite finished flashing through all
your moods tell me, and I'll try to understand the last one.
She. Moods, Guy! I haven't any. I'm sixteen ye=
ars
old and you're just twenty, and you've been waiting for two hours outside t=
he
school in the cold. And now I've met you, and now we're walking home togeth=
er.
Does that suit you, My Imperial Majesty?
He. No. We aren't children. Why can't you be
rational?
She. He asks me that when I'm going to commit
suicide for his sake, and, and I don't want to be French and rave about my
mother, but have I ever told you that I have a mother, and a brother who wa=
s my
pet before I married? He's married now. Can't you imagine the pleasure that=
the
news of the elopement will give him? Have you any people at Home, Guy, to b=
e pleased
with your performances?
He. One or two. One can't make omelets without
breaking eggs.
She (slowly). I don't see the necessity
He. Hah! What do you mean?
She. Shall I speak the truth?
He Under the circumstances, perhaps it would b=
e as
well.
She. Guy, I'm afraid.
He I thought we'd settled all that. What of?
She. Of you.
He. Oh, damn it all! The old business! This is=
too
bad!
She. Of you.
He. And what now?
She. What do you think of me?
He. Beside the question altogether. What do you
intend to do?
She. I daren't risk it. I'm afraid. If I could
only cheat
He. A la Buzgago? No, thanks. That's the one p=
oint
on which I have any notion of Honour. I won't eat his salt and steal too. I=
'll
loot openly or not at all.
She. I never meant anything else.
He. Then, why in the world do you pretend not =
to
be willing to come?
She. It's not pretence, Guy. I am afraid.
He. Please explain.
She. It can't last, Guy. It can't last. You'll=
get
angry, and then you'll swear, and then you'll get jealous, and then you'll =
mistrust
me you do now and you yourself will be the best reason for doubting. And I =
what
shall I do? I shall be no better than Mrs. Buzgago found out no better than=
any
one. And you'll know that. Oh, Guy, can't you see?
He I see that you are desperately unreasonable,
little woman.
She. There! The moment I begin to object, you =
get
angry. What will you do when I am only your property stolen property? It ca=
n't
be, Guy. It can't be! I thought it could, but it can't. You'll get tired of=
me.
He I tell you I shall not. Won't anything make=
you
understand that?
She. There, can't you see? If you speak to me =
like
that now, you'll call me horrible names later, if I don't do everything as =
you
like. And if you were cruel to me, Guy, where should I go? where should I g=
o? I
can't trust you. Oh! I can't trust you!
He. I suppose I ought to say that I can trust =
you.
I've ample reason.
She. Please don't, dear. It hurts as much as if
you hit me.
He. It isn't exactly pleasant for me.
She. I can't help it. I wish I were dead! I ca=
n't
trust you, and I don't trust myself. Oh, Guy, let it die away and be forgot=
ten!
He. Too late now. I don't understand you I won=
't
and I can't trust myself to talk this evening. May I call to-morrow?
She. Yes. No! Oh, give me time! The day after.=
I
get into my 'rickshaw here and meet Him at Peliti's. You ride.
He. I'll go on to Peliti's too. I think I want=
a
drink. My world's knocked about my ears and the stars are falling. Who are
those brutes howling in the Old Library?
She. They're rehearsing the singing-quadrilles=
for
the Fancy Ball. Can't you hear Mrs. Buzgago's voice? She has a solo. It's q=
uite
a new idea. Listen!
Mrs. Buzgago (in the Old Library, con molt. ex=
p.).
See-saw! Margery Daw!
Sold her bed to lie upon straw.
Wasn't she a silly slut
To sell her bed and lie upon dirt?
Captain Congleton, I'm going to alter that to
'flirt.' It sounds better.
He. No, I've changed my mind about the drink.
Good-night, little lady. I shall see you to-morrow?
She. Ye es. Good-night, Guy. Don't be angry wi=
th
me.
He. Angry! You know I trust you absolutely.
Good-night and God bless you!
(Three seconds later. Alone.) Hmm! I'd give something to discover whether there's another man at the back of all this.<= o:p>
Est fuga, volvitur rota, On we drift: where looms the dim =
port? One Two Three Four Five contribute t=
heir
quota: Something is gained =
if one
caught but the import, Show it=
us,
Hugues of Saxe-Gotha. --Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha=
.
'Dressed! Don't tell me that woman ever dresse=
d in
her life. She stood in the middle of the room while her ayah no, her husban=
d it
must have been a man threw her clothes at her. She then did her hair with h=
er fingers,
and rubbed her bonnet in the flue under the bed. I know she did, as well as=
if
I had assisted at the orgy. Who is she?' said Mrs. Hauksbee.
'Don't!' said Mrs. Mallowe feebly. 'You make my
head ache. I am miserable to-day. Stay me with fondants, comfort me with
chocolates, for I am. Did you bring anything from Peliti's?'
'Questions to begin with. You shall have the
sweets when you have answered them. Who and what is the creature? There wer=
e at
least half-a-dozen men round her, and she appeared to be going to sleep in =
their
midst.'
'Delville,' said Mrs. Mallowe, "'Shady&qu=
ot;
Delville, to distinguish her from Mrs. Jim of that ilk. She dances as untid=
ily
as she dresses, I believe, and her husband is somewhere in Madras. Go and c=
all,
if you are so interested.'
'What have I to do with Shigramitish women? She
merely caught my attention for a minute, and I wondered at the attraction t=
hat
a dowd has for a certain type of man. I expected to see her walk out of her
clothes until I looked at her eyes.'
'Hooks and eyes, surely,' drawled Mrs. Mallowe=
.
'Don't be clever, Polly. You make my head ache.
And round this hayrick stood a crowd of men a positive crowd!'
'Perhaps they also expected.'
'Polly, don't be Rabelaisian!'
Mrs. Mallowe curled herself up comfortably on =
the
sofa, and turned her attention to the sweets. She and Mrs. Hauksbee shared =
the
same house at Simla; and these things befell two seasons after the matter of
Otis Yeere, which has been already recorded.
Mrs. Hauksbee stepped into the verandah and lo=
oked
down upon the Mall, her forehead puckered with thought.
'Hah!' said Mrs. Hauksbee shortly. 'Indeed!'
'What is it?' said Mrs. Mallowe sleepily.
'That dowd and The Dancing Master to whom I
object.'
'Why to The Dancing Master? He is a middle-aged
gentleman, of reprobate and romantic tendencies, and tries to be a friend of
mine.'
'Then make up your mind to lose him. Dowds cli=
ng
by nature, and I should imagine that this animal how terrible her bonnet lo=
oks
from above! is specially clingsome.'
'She is welcome to The Dancing Master so far a=
s I
am concerned. I never could take an interest in a monotonous liar. The
frustrated aim of his life is to persuade people that he is a bachelor.'
'O-oh! I think I've met that sort of man befor=
e.
And isn't he?'
'No. He confided that to me a few days ago. Ug=
h!
Some men ought to be killed.'
'What happened then?'
'He posed as the horror of horrors a misunders=
tood
man. Heaven knows the femme incomprise is sad enough and bad enough but the
other thing!'
'And so fat too! I should have laughed in his
face. Men seldom confide in me. How is it they come to you?'
'For the sake of impressing me with their care=
ers
in the past. Protect me from men with confidences!'
'And yet you encourage them?'
'What can I do? They talk, I listen, and they =
vow
that I am sympathetic. I know I always profess astonishment even when the p=
lot
is of the most old possible.'
'Yes. Men are so unblushingly explicit if they=
are
once allowed to talk, whereas women's confidences are full of reservations =
and
fibs, except--'
'When they go mad and babble of the
Unutter-abilities after a week's acquaintance. Really, if you come to consi=
der,
we know a great deal more of men than of our own sex.'
'And the extraordinary thing is that men will
never believe it. They say we are trying to hide something.'
'They are generally doing that on their own
account. Alas! These chocolates pall upon me, and I haven't eaten more than=
a
dozen. I think I shall go to sleep.'
'Then you'll get fat, dear. If you took more
exercise and a more intelligent interest in your neighbours you would--'
'Be as much loved as Mrs. Hauksbee. You're a
darling in many ways, and I like you you are not a woman's woman but why do=
you
trouble yourself about mere human beings?'
'Because in the absence of angels, who I am su=
re
would be horribly dull, men and women are the most fascinating things in the
whole wide world, lazy one. I am interested in The Dowd I am interested in =
The
Dancing Master I am interested in the Hawley Boy and I am interested in you=
.'
'Why couple me with the Hawley Boy? He is your=
property.'
'Yes, and in his own guileless speech, I'm mak=
ing
a good thing out of him. When he is slightly more reformed, and has passed =
his
Higher Standard, or whatever the authorities think fit to exact from him, I=
shall
select a pretty little girl, the Holt girl, I think, and' here she waved her
hands airily "'whom Mrs. Hauksbee hath joined together let no man put
asunder." That's all.'
'And when you have yoked May Holt with the most
notorious detrimental in Simla, and earned the undying hatred of Mamma Holt,
what will you do with me, Dispenser of the Destinies of the Universe?'
Mrs. Hauksbee dropped into a low chair in fron=
t of
the fire, and, chin in hand, gazed long and steadfastly at Mrs. Mallowe.
'I do not know,' she said, shaking her head, '=
what
I shall do with you, dear. It's obviously impossible to marry you to some o=
ne
else your husband would object and the experiment might not be successful a=
fter
all. I think I shall begin by preventing you from what is it? "sleepin=
g on
ale-house benches and snoring in the sun."'
'Don't! I don't like your quotations. They are=
so
rude. Go to the Library and bring me new books.'
'While you sleep? No! If you don't come with m=
e I
shall spread your newest frock on my 'rickshaw-bow, and when any one asks me
what I am doing, I shall say that I am going to Phelps's to get it let out.=
I shall
take care that Mrs. MacNamara sees me. Put your things on, there's a good
girl.'
Mrs. Mallowe groaned and obeyed, and the two w=
ent
off to the Library, where they found Mrs. Delville and the man who went by =
the
nick-name of The Dancing Master. By that time Mrs. Mallowe was awake and
eloquent.
'That is the Creature!' said Mrs. Hauksbee, wi=
th
the air of one pointing out a slug in the road.
'No,' said Mrs. Mallowe. 'The man is the Creat=
ure.
Ugh! Good-evening, Mr. Bent. I thought you were coming to tea this evening.=
'
'Surely it was for to-morrow, was it not?'
answered The Dancing Master. 'I understood I fancied I'm so sorry How very
unfortunate!'
But Mrs. Mallowe had passed on.
'For the practised equivocator you said he was=
,'
murmured Mrs. Hauksbee, 'he strikes me as a failure. Now wherefore should he
have preferred a walk with The Dowd to tea with us? Elective affinities, I
suppose both grubby. Polly, I'd never forgive that woman as long as the wor=
ld
rolls.'
'I forgive every woman everything,' said Mrs.
Mallowe. 'He will be a sufficient punishment for her. What a common voice s=
he
has!'
Mrs. Delville's voice was not pretty, her carr=
iage
was even less lovely, and her raiment was strikingly neglected. All these
things Mrs. Mallowe noticed over the top of a magazine.
'Now what is there in her?' said Mrs. Hauksbee.
'Do you see what I meant about the clothes falling off? If I were a man I w=
ould
perish sooner than be seen with that rag-bag. And yet, she has good eyes, b=
ut
Oh!'
'What is it?'
'She doesn't know how to use them! On my honou=
r,
she does not. Look! Oh look! Untidiness I can endure, but ignorance never! =
The
woman's a fool.'
'Hsh! She'll hear you.'
'All the women in Simla are fools. She'll thin=
k I
mean some one else. Now she's going out. What a thoroughly objectionable co=
uple
she and The Dancing Master make! Which reminds me. Do you suppose they'll e=
ver
dance together?'
'Wait and see. I don't envy her the conversati=
on
of The Dancing Master loathly man! His wife ought to be up here before long=
?'
'Do you know anything about him?'
'Only what he told me. It may be all a fiction=
. He
married a girl bred in the country, I think, and, being an honourable,
chivalrous soul, told me that he repented his bargain and sent her to her as
often as possible a person who has lived in the Doon since the memory of man
and goes to Mussoorie when other people go Home. The wife is with her at
present. So he says.'
'Babies?'
'One only, but he talks of his wife in a revol=
ting
way. I hated him for it. He thought he was being epigrammatic and brilliant=
.'
'That is a vice peculiar to men. I dislike him
because he is generally in the wake of some girl, disappointing the Eligibl=
es.
He will persecute May Holt no more, unless I am much mistaken.'
'No. I think Mrs. Delville may occupy his
attention for a while.'
'Do you suppose she knows that he is the head =
of a
family?'
'Not from his lips. He swore me to eternal
secrecy. Wherefore I tell you. Don't you know that type of man?'
'Not intimately, thank goodness! As a general
rule, when a man begins to abuse his wife to me, I find that the Lord gives=
me
wherewith to answer him according to his folly; and we part with a coolness
between us. I laugh.'
'I'm different. I've no sense of humour.'
'Cultivate it, then. It has been my mainstay f=
or
more years than I care to think about. A well-educated sense of humour will
save a woman when Religion, Training, and Home influences fail; and we may =
all
need salvation sometimes.'
'Do you suppose that the Delville woman has
humour?'
'Her dress betrays her. How can a Thing who we=
ars
her supplement under her left arm have any notion of the fitness of things =
much
less their folly? If she discards The Dancing Master after having once seen=
him
dance, I may respect her. Otherwise--'
'But are we not both assuming a great deal too
much, dear? You saw the woman at Peliti's half an hour later you saw her
walking with The Dancing Master an hour later you met her here at the Libra=
ry.'
'Still with The Dancing Master, remember.'
'Still with The Dancing Master, I admit, but w=
hy
on the strength of that should you imagine--'
'I imagine nothing. I have no imagination. I am
only convinced that The Dancing Master is attracted to The Dowd because he =
is
objectionable in every way and she in every other. If I know the man as you
have described him, he holds his wife in slavery at present.'
'She is twenty years younger than he.'
'Poor wretch! And, in the end, after he has po=
sed
and swaggered and lied he has a mouth under that ragged moustache simply ma=
de
for lies he will be rewarded according to his merits.'
'I wonder what those really are,' said Mrs.
Mallowe.
But Mrs. Hauksbee, her face close to the shelf=
of
the new books, was humming softly: 'What shall he have who killed the Deer?'
She was a lady of unfettered speech.
One month later she announced her intention of
calling upon Mrs. Delville. Both Mrs. Hauksbee and Mrs. Mallowe were in mor=
ning
wrappers, and there was a great peace in the land.
'I should go as I was,' said Mrs. Mallowe. 'It
would be a delicate compliment to her style.'
Mrs. Hauksbee studied herself in the glass.
'Assuming for a moment that she ever darkened
these doors, I should put on this robe, after all the others, to show her w=
hat
a morning-wrapper ought to be. It might enliven her. As it is, I shall go in
the dove-coloured sweet emblem of youth and innocence and shall put on my n=
ew
gloves.'
'If you really are going, dirty tan would be t=
oo
good; and you know that dove-colour spots with the rain.'
'I care not. I may make her envious. At least I
shall try, though one cannot expect very much from a woman who puts a lace
tucker into her habit.'
'Just Heavens! When did she do that?'
'Yesterday riding with The Dancing Master. I m=
et
them at the back of Jakko, and the rain had made the lace lie down. To comp=
lete
the effect, she was wearing an unclean terai with the elastic under her chi=
n. I
felt almost too well content to take the trouble to despise her.'
'The Hawley Boy was riding with you. What did =
he
think?'
'Does a boy ever notice these things? Should I
like him if he did? He stared in the rudest way, and just when I thought he=
had
seen the elastic, he said, "There's something very taking about that
face." I rebuked him on the spot. I don't approve of boys being taken =
by
faces.'
'Other than your own. I shouldn't be in the le=
ast
surprised if the Hawley Boy immediately went to call.'
'I forbade him. Let her be satisfied with The
Dancing Master, and his wife when she comes up. I'm rather curious to see M=
rs.
Bent and the Delville woman together.'
Mrs. Hauksbee departed and, at the end of an h=
our,
returned slightly flushed.
'There is no limit to the treachery of youth! I
ordered the Hawley Boy, as he valued my patronage, not to call. The first
person I stumble over literally stumble over in her poky, dark little
drawing-room is, of course, the Hawley Boy. She kept us waiting ten minutes,
and then emerged as though she had been tipped out of the dirtyclothes-bask=
et. You
know my way, dear, when I am at all put out. I was Superior, crrrrushingly
Superior! 'Lifted my eyes to Heaven, and had heard of nothing 'dropped my e=
yes
on the carpet and "really didn't know" 'played with my cardcase a=
nd
"supposed so." The Hawley Boy giggled like a girl, and I had to
freeze him with scowls between the sentences.'
'And she?'
'She sat in a heap on the edge of a couch, and
managed to convey the impression that she was suffering from stomach-ache, =
at
the very least. It was all I could do not to ask after her symptoms. When I
rose, she grunted just like a buffalo in the water too lazy to move.'
'Are you certain?'
'Am I blind, Polly? Laziness, sheer laziness,
nothing else or her garments were only constructed for sitting down in. I
stayed for a quarter of an hour trying to penetrate the gloom, to guess what
her surroundings were like, while she stuck out her tongue.'
'Lu cy!'
'Well I'll withdraw the tongue, though I'm sur=
e if
she didn't do it when I was in the room, she did the minute I was outside. =
At
any rate, she lay in a lump and grunted. Ask the Hawley Boy, dear. I believe
the grunts were meant for sentences, but she spoke so indistinctly that I c=
an't
swear to it.'
'You are incorrigible, simply.'
'I am not! Treat me civilly, give me peace with
honour, don't put the only available seat facing the window, and a child may
eat jam in my lap before Church. But I resent being grunted at. Wouldn't yo=
u?
Do you suppose that she communicates her views on life and love to The Danc=
ing Master
in a set of modulated "Grmphs"?'
'You attach too much importance to The Dancing
Master.'
'He came as we went, and The Dowd grew almost
cordial at the sight of him. He smiled greasily, and moved about that darke=
ned
dog-kennel in a suspiciously familiar way.'
'Don't be uncharitable. Any sin but that I'll
forgive.'
'Listen to the voice of History. I am only
describing what I saw. He entered, the heap on the sofa revived slightly, a=
nd
the Hawley Boy and I came away together. He is disillusioned, but I felt it=
my
duty to lecture him severely for going there. And that's all.'
'Now for Pity's sake leave the wretched creatu=
re
and The Dancing Master alone. They never did you any harm.'
'No harm? To dress as an example and a
stumbling-block for half Simla, and then to find this Person who is dressed=
by
the hand of God not that I wish to disparage Him for a moment, but you know=
the
tikka dhurzie way He attires those lilies of the field this Person draws the
eyes of men and some of them nice men? It's almost enough to make one disca=
rd clothing.
I told the Hawley Boy so.'
'And what did that sweet youth do?'
'Turned shell-pink and looked across the far b=
lue
hills like a distressed cherub. Am I talking wildly, Polly? Let me say my s=
ay,
and I shall be calm. Otherwise I may go abroad and disturb Simla with a few=
original
reflections. Excepting always your own sweet self, there isn't a single wom=
an
in the land who understands me when I am what's the word?'
'Tete-fele suggested Mrs. Mallowe.
'Exactly! And now let us have tiffin. The dema=
nds
of Society are exhausting, and as Mrs. Delville says,--' Here Mrs. Hauksbee=
, to
the horror of the khitmatgars, lapsed into a series of grunts, while Mrs. M=
allowe
stared in lazy surprise.
'"God gie us a guid conceit of
oorselves,"' said Mrs. Hauksbee piously, returning to her natural spee=
ch.
'Now, in any other woman that would have been vulgar. I am consumed with
curiosity to see Mrs. Bent. I expect complications.'
'Woman of one idea,' said Mrs. Mallowe shortly;
'all complications are as old as the hills! I have lived through or near all
all All!'
'And yet do not understand that men and women
never behave twice alike. I am old who was young if ever I put my head in y=
our
lap, you dear, big sceptic, you will learn that my parting is gauze but nev=
er,
no never, have I lost my interest in men and women. Polly, I shall see this=
business
out to the bitter end.'
'I am going to sleep,' said Mrs. Mallowe calml=
y.
'I never interfere with men or women unless I am compelled,' and she retired
with dignity to her own room.
Mrs. Hauksbee's curiosity was not long left
ungratified, for Mrs. Bent came up to Simla a few days after the conversati=
on
faithfully reported above, and pervaded the Mall by her husband's side.
'Behold!' said Mrs. Hauksbee, thoughtfully rub=
bing
her nose. 'That is the last link of the chain, if we omit the husband of the
Delville, whoever he may be. Let me consider. The Bents and the Delvilles
inhabit the same hotel; and the Delville is detested by the Waddy do you kn=
ow the
Waddy? who is almost as big a dowd. The Waddy also abominates the male Bent,
for which, if her other sins do not weigh too heavily, she will eventually =
go
to Heaven.'
'Don't be irreverent,' said Mrs. Mallowe, 'I l=
ike
Mrs. Bent's face.'
'I am discussing the Waddy,' returned Mrs.
Hauksbee loftily. 'The Waddy will take the female Bent apart, after having
borrowed yes! everything that she can, from hairpins to babies' bottles. Su=
ch,
my dear, is life in a hotel. The Waddy will tell the female Bent facts and
fictions about The Dancing Master and The Dowd.'
'Lucy, I should like you better if you were not
always looking into people's back-bedrooms.'
'Anybody can look into their front drawingroom=
s;
and remember whatever I do, and whatever I look, I never talk as the Waddy
will. Let us hope that The Dancing Master's greasy smile and manner of the
pedagogue will soften the heart of that cow, his wife. If mouths speak trut=
h, I
should think that little Mrs. Bent could get very angry on occasion.'
'But what reason has she for being angry?'
'What reason! The Dancing Master in himself is=
a
reason. How does it go? "If in his life some trivial errors fall, Look=
in
his face and you'll believe them all." I am prepared to credit any evi=
l of
The Dancing Master, because I hate him so. And The Dowd is so disgustingly
badly dressed.'
'That she, too, is capable of every iniquity? I always prefer to believe the best of everybody. It saves so much trouble.'<= o:p>
'Very good. I prefer to believe the worst. It
saves useless expenditure of sympathy. And you may be quite certain that the
Waddy believes with me.'
Mrs. Mallowe sighed and made no answer.
The conversation was holden after dinner while
Mrs. Hauksbee was dressing for a dance.
'I am too tired to go,' pleaded Mrs. Mallowe, =
and
Mrs. Hauksbee left her in peace till two in the morning, when she was aware=
of
emphatic knocking at her door.
'Don't be very angry, dear,' said Mrs. Hauksbe=
e.
'My idiot of an ayah has gone home, and, as I hope to sleep to-night, there
isn't a soul in the place to unlace me.'
'Oh, this is too bad!' said Mrs. Mallowe sulki=
ly.
'Cant help it. I'm a lone, lorn grass-widow, d=
ear,
but I will not sleep in my stays. And such news too! Oh, do unlace me, ther=
e's
a darling! The Dowd The Dancing Master I and the Hawley Boy You know the No=
rth verandah?'
'How can I do anything if you spin round like
this?' protested Mrs. Mallowe, fumbling with the knot of the laces.
'Oh, I forget. I must tell my tale without the=
aid
of your eyes. Do you know you've lovely eyes, dear? Well, to begin with, I =
took
the Hawley Boy to a kala juggah.'
'Did he want much taking?'
'Lots! There was an arrangement of loose-boxes=
in
kanats, and she was in the next one talking to him.'
'Which? How? Explain.'
'You know what I mean The Dowd and The Dancing
Master. We could hear every word, and we listened shamelessly 'specially the
Hawley Boy. Polly, I quite love that woman!'
'This is interesting. There! Now turn round. W=
hat
happened?'
'One moment. Ah h! Blessed relief. I've been
looking forward to taking them off for the last half-hour which is ominous =
at
my time of life. But, as I was saying, we listened and heard The Dowd drawl
worse than ever. She drops her final g's like a barmaid or a blue-blooded A=
ide-de-Camp.
"Look he-ere, you're gettin' too fond o' me," she said, and The
Dancing Master owned it was so in language that nearly made me ill. The Dowd
reflected for a while. Then we heard her say, "Look he-ere, Mister Ben=
t,
why are you such an aw-ful liar?" I nearly exploded while The Dancing
Master denied the charge. It seems that he never told her he was a married
man.'
'I said he wouldn't.'
'And she had taken this to heart, on personal
grounds, I suppose. She drawled along for five minutes, reproaching him with
his perfidy, and grew quite motherly. "Now you've got a nice little wi=
fe
of your own you have," she said. "She's ten times too good for a =
fat
old man like you, and, look he-ere, you never told me a word about her, and
I've been thinkin' about it a good deal, and I think you're a liar."
Wasn't that delicious? The Dancing Master maundered and raved till the Hawl=
ey
Boy suggested that he should burst in and beat him. His voice runs up into =
an
impassioned squeak when he is afraid. The Dowd must be an extraordinary wom=
an.
She explained that had he been a bachelor she might not have objected to his
devotion; but since he was a married man and the father of a very nice baby,
she considered him a hypocrite, and this she repeated twice. She wound up h=
er
drawl with: "An' I'm tellin' you this because your wife is angry with =
me,
an' I hate quarrellin' with any other woman, an' I like your wife. You know=
how
you have behaved for the last six weeks. You shouldn't have done it, indeed=
you
shouldn't. You're too old an' too fat." Can't you imagine how The Danc=
ing
Master would wince at that! "Now go away," she said. "I don't
want to tell you what I think of you, because I think you are not nice. I'll
stay he-ere till the next dance begins." Did you think that the creatu=
re
had so much in her?'
'I never studied her as closely as you did. It
sounds unnatural. What happened?'
'The Dancing Master attempted blandishment,
reproof, jocularity, and the style of the Lord High Warden, and I had almos=
t to
pinch the Hawley Boy to make him keep quiet. She grunted at the end of each
sentence and, in the end, he went away swearing to himself, quite like a ma=
n in
a novel. He looked more objectionable than ever. I laughed. I love that wom=
an in
spite of her clothes. And now I'm going to bed. What do you think of it?'
'I shan't begin to think till the morning,' sa=
id
Mrs. Mallowe, yawning. 'Perhaps she spoke the truth. They do fly into it by
accident sometimes.'
Mrs. Hauksbee's account of her eavesdropping w=
as
an ornate one, but truthful in the main. For reasons best known to herself,
Mrs. 'Shady' Delville had turned upon Mr. Bent and rent him limb from limb,
casting him away limp and disconcerted ere she withdrew the light of her ey=
es from
him permanently. Being a man of resource, and anything but pleased in that =
he
had been called both old and fat, he gave Mrs. Bent to understand that he h=
ad,
during her absence in the Doon, been the victim of unceasing persecution at=
the
hands of Mrs. Delville, and he told the tale so often and with such eloquen=
ce
that he ended in believing it, while his wife marvelled at the manners and
customs of 'some women.' When the situation showed signs of languishing, Mr=
s.
Waddy was always on hand to wake the smouldering fires of suspicion in Mrs.
Bent's bosom and to contribute generally to the peace and comfort of the ho=
tel.
Mr. Bent's life was not a happy one, for if Mrs. Waddy's story were true, he
was, argued his wife, untrustworthy to the last degree. If his own statement
was true, his charms of manner and conversation were so great that he needed
constant surveillance. And he received it, till he repented genuinely of his
marriage and neglected his personal appearance. Mrs. Delville alone in the
hotel was unchanged. She removed her chair some six paces towards the head =
of
the table, and occasionally in the twilight ventured on timid overtures of
friendship to Mrs. Bent, which were repulsed.
'She does it for my sake,' hinted the virtuous
Bent.
'A dangerous and designing woman,' purred Mrs.
Waddy.
Worst of all, every other hotel in Simla was f=
ull!
'Polly, are you afraid of diphtheria?'
'Of nothing in the world except small-pox,
Diphtheria kills, but it doesn't disfigure. Why do you ask?'
'Because the Bent baby has got it, and the who=
le
hotel is upside down in consequence. The Waddy has "set her five young=
on
the rail" and fled. The Dancing Master fears for his precious throat, =
and
that miserable little woman, his wife, has no notion of what ought to be do=
ne.
She wanted to put it into a mustard bath for croup!'
'Where did you learn all this?'
'Just now, on the Mall. Dr. Howlen told me. The
manager of the hotel is abusing the Bents, and the Bents are abusing the
manager. They are a feckless couple.'
'Well. What's on your mind?'
'This; and I know it's a grave thing to ask.
Would you seriously object to my bringing the =
child
over here, with its mother?'
'On the most strict understanding that we see
nothing of the Dancing Master.'
'He will be only too glad to stay away. Polly,
you're an angel. The woman really is at her wits' end.'
'And you know nothing about her, careless, and
would hold her up to public scorn if it gave you a minute's amusement.
Therefore you risk your life for the sake of her brat. No, Loo, I'm not the
angel. I shall keep to my rooms and avoid her. But do as you please only te=
ll
me why you do it.'
Mrs. Hauksbee's eyes softened; she looked out =
of
the window and back into Mrs. Mallowe's face.
'I don't know,' said Mrs. Hauksbee simply.
'You dear!'
'Polly! and for aught you knew you might have
taken my fringe off. Never do that again without warning. Now we'll get the
rooms ready. I don't suppose I shall be allowed to circulate in society for=
a
month.'
'And I also. Thank goodness I shall at last get
all the sleep I want.'
Much to Mrs. Bent's surprise she and the baby =
were
brought over to the house almost before she knew where she was. Bent was
devoutly and undisguisedly thankful, for he was afraid of the infection, and
also hoped that a few weeks in the hotel alone with Mrs. Delville might lea=
d to
explanations. Mrs. Bent had thrown her jealousy to the winds in her fear for
her child's life.
'We can give you good milk,' said Mrs. Hauksbe=
e to
her, 'and our house is much nearer to the Doctor's than the hotel, and you
won't feel as though you were living in a hostile camp. Where is the dear M=
rs.
Waddy? She seemed to be a particular friend of yours.'
'They've all left me,' said Mrs. Bent bitterly.
'Mrs. Waddy went first. She said I ought to be ashamed of myself for
introducing diseases there, and I am sure it wasn't my fault that little
Dora--'
'How nice!' cooed Mrs. Hauksbee. 'The Waddy is=
an
infectious disease herself "more quickly caught than the plague and the
taker runs presently mad." I lived next door to her at the Elysium, th=
ree
years ago. Now see, you won't give us the least trouble, and I've ornamente=
d all
the house with sheets soaked in carbolic. It smells comforting, doesn't it?
Remember I'm always in call, and my ayah's at your service when yours goes =
to
her meals, and and if you cry I'll never forgive you.'
Dora Bent occupied her mother's unprofitable
attention through the day and the night. The Doctor called thrice in the
twenty-four hours, and the house reeked with the smell of the Condy's Fluid,
chlorine-water, and carbolic acid washes. Mrs. Mallowe kept to her own rooms
she considered that she had made sufficient concessions in the cause of hum=
anity
and Mrs. Hauksbee was more esteemed by the Doctor as a help in the sick-room
than the half-distraught mother.
'I know nothing of illness,' said Mrs. Hauksbe=
e to
the Doctor. 'Only tell me what to do, and I'll do it.'
'Keep that crazy woman from kissing the child,=
and
let her have as little to do with the nursing as you possibly can,' said the
Doctor; 'I'd turn her out of the sick-room, but that I honestly believe she=
'd die
of anxiety. She is less than no good, and I depend on you and the ayahs,
remember.'
Mrs. Hauksbee accepted the responsibility, tho=
ugh
it painted olive hollows under her eyes and forced her to her oldest dresse=
s.
Mrs. Bent clung to her with more than childlike faith.
'I know you'll make Dora well, won't you?' she
said at least twenty times a day; and twenty times a day Mrs. Hauksbee answ=
ered
valiantly, 'Of course I will.'
But Dora did not improve, and the Doctor seeme=
d to
be always in the house.
'There's some danger of the thing taking a bad
turn,' he said; 'I'll come over between three and four in the morning
to-morrow.'
'Good gracious!' said Mrs. Hauksbee. 'He never
told me what the turn would be! My education has been horribly neglected; a=
nd I
have only this foolish mother-woman to fall back upon.'
The night wore through slowly, and Mrs. Hauksb=
ee
dozed in a chair by the fire. There was a dance at the Viceregal Lodge, and=
she
dreamed of it till she was aware of Mrs. Bent's anxious eyes staring into h=
er
own.
'Wake up! Wake up! Do something!' cried Mrs. B=
ent
piteously. 'Dora's choking to death! Do you mean to let her die?'
Mrs. Hauksbee jumped to her feet and bent over=
the
bed. The child was fighting for breath, while the mother wrung her hands
despairingly.
'Oh, what can I do? What can you do? She won't
stay still! I can't hold her. Why didn't the Doctor say this was coming?'
screamed Mrs. Bent. 'Won't you help me? She's dying!'
'I I've never seen a child die before!' stamme=
red
Mrs. Hauksbee feebly, and then let none blame her weakness after the strain=
of
long watching she broke down, and covered her face with her hands. The ayah=
s on
the threshold snored peacefully.
There was a rattle of 'rickshaw wheels below, =
the
clash of an opening door, a heavy step on the stairs, and Mrs. Delville ent=
ered
to find Mrs. Bent screaming for the Doctor as she ran round the room. Mrs.
Hauksbee, her hands to her ears, and her face buried in the chintz of a cha=
ir,
was quivering with pain at each cry from the bed, and murmuring, 'Thank God=
, I
never bore a child! Oh! thank God, I never bore a child!'
Mrs. Delville looked at the bed for an instant,
took Mrs. Bent by the shoulders, and said quietly, 'Get me some caustic. Be
quick.'
The mother obeyed mechanically. Mrs. Delville =
had
thrown herself down by the side of the child and was opening its mouth.
'Oh, you're killing her!' cried Mrs. Bent.
'Where's the Doctor? Leave her alone!'
Mrs. Delville made no reply for a minute, but
busied herself with the child.
'Now the caustic, and hold a lamp behind my
shoulder. Will you do as you are told? The acid-bottle, if you don't know w=
hat
I mean,' she said.
A second time Mrs. Delville bent over the chil=
d.
Mrs. Hauksbee, her face still hidden, sobbed and shivered. One of the ayahs
staggered sleepily into the room, yawning: 'Doctor Sahib come.'
Mrs. Delville turned her head.
'You're only just in time,' she said. 'It was
chokin' her when I came, an' I've burnt it.'
'There was no sign of the membrane getting to =
the
air-passages after the last steaming. It was the general weakness I feared,'
said the Doctor half to himself, and he whispered as he looked, 'You've done
what I should have been afraid to do without consultation.'
'She was dyin',' said Mrs. Delville, under her
breath. 'Can you do anythin'? What a mercy it was I went to the dance!'
Mrs. Hauksbee raised her head.
'Is it all over?' she gasped. 'I'm useless I'm
worse than useless! What are you doing here?'
She stared at Mrs. Delville, and Mrs. Bent,
realising for the first time who was the Goddess from the Machine, stared a=
lso.
Then Mrs. Delville made explanation, putting o=
n a
dirty long glove and smoothing a crumpled and ill-fitting ball-dress.
'I was at the dance, an' the Doctor was tellin=
' me
about your baby bein' so ill. So I came away early, an' your door was open,=
an'
I I lost my boy this way six months ago, an' I've been tryin' to forget it =
ever
since, an' I I I am very sorry for intrudin' an' anythin' that has happened=
.'
Mrs. Bent was putting out the Doctor's eye wit=
h a
lamp as he stooped over Dora.
'Take it away,' said the Doctor. 'I think the
child will do, thanks to you, Mrs. Delville. I should have come too late, b=
ut,
I assure you' he was addressing himself to Mrs. Delville 'I had not the
faintest reason to expect this. The membrane must have grown like a mushroo=
m.
Will one of you help me, please?'
He had reason for the last sentence. Mrs. Hauk=
sbee
had thrown herself into Mrs. Delville's arms, where she was weeping bitterl=
y,
and Mrs. Bent was unpicturesquely mixed up with both, while from the tangle
came the sound of many sobs and much promiscuous kissing.
'Good gracious! I've spoilt all your beautiful
roses!' said Mrs. Hauksbee, lifting her head from the lump of crushed gum a=
nd
calico atrocities on Mrs. Delville's shoulder and hurrying to the Doctor.
Mrs. Delville picked up her shawl, and slouched
out of the room, mopping her eyes with the glove that she had not put on.
'I always said she was more than a woman,' sob=
bed
Mrs. Hauksbee hysterically, 'and that proves it!'
Six weeks later Mrs. Bent and Dora had returne=
d to
the hotel. Mrs. Hauksbee had come out of the Valley of Humiliation, had cea=
sed
to reproach herself for her collapse in an hour of need, and was even begin=
ning
to direct the affairs of the world as before.
'So nobody died, and everything went off as it
should, and I kissed The Dowd, Polly. I feel so old. Does it show in my fac=
e?'
'Kisses don't as a rule, do they? Of course you
know what the result of The Dowd's providential arrival has been.'
'They ought to build her a statue only no scul=
ptor
dare copy those skirts.'
'Ah!' said Mrs. Mallowe quietly. 'She has found
another reward. The Dancing Master has been smirking through Simla, giving
every one to understand that she came because of her undying love for him f=
or
him to save his child, and all Simla naturally believes this.'
'But Mrs. Bent--'
'Mrs. Bent believes it more than any one else.=
She
won't speak to The Dowd now. Isn't The Dancing Master an angel?'
Mrs. Hauksbee lifted up her voice and raged ti=
ll
bed-time. The doors of the two rooms stood open.
'Polly,' said a voice from the darkness, 'what=
did
that American-heiress-globe-trotter girl say last season when she was tippe=
d out
of her 'rickshaw turning a corner? Some absurd adjective that made the man =
who
picked her up explode.'
"'Paltry,"' said Mrs. Mallowe. 'Thro=
ugh
her nose like this "Ha-ow pahltry!"'
'Exactly,' said the voice. 'Ha-ow pahltry it a=
ll
is!'
'Which?'
'Everything. Babies, Diphtheria, Mrs. Bent and=
The
Dancing Master, I whooping in a chair, and The Dowd dropping in from the
clouds. I wonder what the motive was all the motives.'
'Um!'
'What do you think?'
'Don't ask me. Go to sleep.'
ONLY A
SUBALTERN
.... Not only to enforce by command, bu=
t to
encourage by example the energetic
discharge of duty and the steady endurance of the difficulties and privations
inseparable from Military Service. --Bengal Army Regulations.
They made Bobby Wick pass an examination at
Sandhurst. He was a gentleman before he was gazetted, so, when the Empress
announced that 'Gentleman-Cadet Robert Hanna Wick' was posted as Second
Lieutenant to the Tyneside Tail Twisters at Krab Bokhar, he became an offic=
er
and a gentleman, which is an enviable thing; and there was joy in the house=
of Wick
where Mamma Wick and all the little Wicks fell upon their knees and offered
incense to Bobby by virtue of his achievements.
Papa Wick had been a Commissioner in his day,
holding authority over three millions of men in the Chota-Buldana Division,
building great works for the good of the land, and doing his best to make t=
wo
blades of grass grow where there was but one before. Of course, nobody knew=
anything
about this in the little English village where he was just 'old Mr. Wick,' =
and
had forgotten that he was a Companion of the Order of the Star of India.
He patted Bobby on the shoulder and said: 'Well
done, my boy!'
There followed, while the uniform was being prepared, an interval of pure delight, during which Bobby took brevet-rank = as a 'man' at the women-swamped tennis-parties and tea-fights of the village, an= d, I daresay, had his joining-time been extended, would have fallen in love with several girls at once. Little country villages at Home are very full of nice girls, because all the young men come out to India to make their fortunes.<= o:p>
'India,' said Papa Wick, 'is the place. I've h=
ad
thirty years of it and, begad, I'd like to go back again. When you join the
Tail Twisters you'll be among friends, if every one hasn't forgotten Wick of
Chota-Buldana, and a lot of people will be kind to you for our sakes. The
mother will tell you more about outfit than I can; but remember this. Stick=
to
your Regiment, Bobby stick to your Regiment. You'll see men all round you g=
oing
into the Staff Corps, and doing every possible sort of duty but regimental,=
and
you may be tempted to follow suit. Now so long as you keep within your
allowance, and I haven't stinted you there, stick to the Line, the whole Li=
ne,
and nothing but the Line. Be careful how you back another young fool's bill,
and if you fall in love with a woman twenty years older than yourself, don't
tell me about it, that's all.'
With these counsels, and many others equally
valuable, did Papa Wick fortify Bobby ere that last awful night at Portsmou=
th
when the Officers' Quarters held more inmates than were provided for by the
Regulations, and the liberty-men of the ships fell foul of the drafts for
India, and the battle raged from the Dockyard Gates even to the slums of
Longport, while the drabs of Fratton came down and scratched the faces of t=
he Queen's
Officers.
Bobby Wick, with an ugly bruise on his freckled
nose, a sick and shaky detachment to manuvre in ship, and the comfort of fi=
fty
scornful females to attend to, had no time to feel home-sick till the Malab=
ar
reached mid-Channel, when he doubled his emotions with a little guard-visit=
ing and
a great many other matters.
The Tail Twisters were a most particular Regim=
ent.
Those who knew them least said that they were eaten up with 'side.' But the=
ir
reserve and their internal arrangements generally were merely protective
diplomacy. Some five years before, the Colonel commanding had looked into t=
he fourteen
fearless eyes of seven plump and juicy subalterns who had all applied to en=
ter
the Staff Corps, and had asked them why the three stars should he, a colone=
l of
the Line, command a dashed nursery for double-dashed bottle-suckers who put=
on
condemned tin spurs and rode qualified mokes at the hiatused heads of forsa=
ken
Black Regiments. He was a rude man and a terrible. Wherefore the remnant to=
ok
measures [with the half-butt as an engine of public opinion] till the rumou=
r went
abroad that young men who used the Tail Twisters as a crutch to the Staff C=
orps
had many and varied trials to endure. However, a regiment had just as much
right to its own secrets as a woman.
When Bobby came up from Deolali and took his'
place among the Tail Twisters, it was gently but firmly borne in upon him t=
hat
the Regiment was his father and his mother and his indissolubly wedded wife,
and that there was no crime under the canopy of heaven blacker than that of
bringing shame on the Regiment, which was the best-shooting, best-drilled,
best-set-up, bravest, most illustrious, and in all respects most desirable
Regiment within the compass of the Seven Seas. He was taught the legends of=
the
Mess Plate, from the great grinning Golden Gods that had come out of the Su=
mmer
Palace in Pekin to the silver-mounted markhor-horn snuff-mull presented by =
the
last C.O. [he who spake to the seven subalterns]. And every one of those le=
gends
told him of battles fought at long odds, without fear as without support; o=
f hospitality
catholic as an Arab's; of friendships deep as the sea and steady as the
fighting-line; of honour won by hard roads for honour's sake; and of instant
and unquestioning devotion to the Regiment the Regiment that claims the liv=
es
of all and lives for ever.
More than once, too, he came officially into
contact with the Regimental colours, which looked like the lining of a
bricklayer's hat on the end of a chewed stick. Bobby did not kneel and wors=
hip
them, because British subalterns are not constructed in that manner. Indeed=
, he
condemned them for their weight at the very moment that they were filling w=
ith
awe and other more noble sentiments.
But best of all was the occasion when he moved
with the Tail Twisters in review order at the breaking of a November day.
Allowing for duty-men and sick, the Regiment was one thousand and eighty
strong, and Bobby belonged to them; for was he not a Subaltern of the Line =
the
whole Line, and nothing but the Line as the tramp of two thousand one hundr=
ed
and sixty sturdy ammunition boots attested? He would not have changed place=
s with
Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of cloud to a chorus=
of
'Strong right! Strong left!' or Hogan-Yale of the White Hussars, leading his
squadron for all it was worth, with the price of horseshoes thrown in; or
'Tick' Boileau, trying to live up to his fierce blue and gold turban while =
the
wasps of the Bengal Cavalry stretched to a gallop in the wake of the long,
lollopping Walers of the White Hussars.
They fought through the clear cool day, and Bo=
bby
felt a little thrill run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tin=
kle
of the empty cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after the roar =
of
the volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear that sound in action. =
The
review ended in a glorious chase across the plain batteries thundering after
cavalry to the huge disgust of the White Hussars, and the Tyneside Tail
Twisters hunting a Sikh Regiment, till the lean lathy Singhs panted with
exhaustion. Bobby was dusty and dripping long before noon, but his enthusia=
sm
was merely focused not diminished.
He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his
'skipper,' that is to say, the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed=
in
the dark art and mystery of managing men, which is a very large part of the
Profession of Arms.
'If you haven't a taste that way,' said Revere
between his puffs of his cheroot, 'you'll never be able to get the hang of =
it,
but remember, Bobby, 't isn't the best drill, though drill is nearly
everything, that hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the other side. I=
t's
the man who knows how to handle men goat-men, swine-men, dog-men, and so on=
.'
'Dormer, for instance,' said Bobby, 'I think he
comes under the head of fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl.'
'That's where you make your mistake, my son.
Dormer isn't a fool yet, but he's a dashed dirty soldier, and his room corp=
oral
makes fun of his socks before kit-inspection. Dormer, being two-thirds pure
brute, goes into a corner and growls.'
'How do you know?' said Bobby admiringly.
'Because a Company commander has to know these
things because, if he does not know, he may have crime ay, murder brewing u=
nder
his very nose and yet not see that it's there. Dormer is being badgered out=
of
his mind big as he is and he hasn't intellect enough to resent it. He's tak=
en
to quiet boozing, and, Bobby, when the butt of a room goes on the drink, or
takes to moping by himself, measures are necessary to pull him out of himse=
lf.'
'What measures? 'Man can't run round coddling =
his
men for ever.'
'No. The men would precious soon show him that=
he
was not wanted. You've got to--'
Here the Colour-Sergeant entered with some pap=
ers;
Bobby reflected for a while as Revere looked through the Company forms.
'Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant?' Bobby ask=
ed
with the air of one continuing an interrupted conversation.
'No, sir. Does 'is dooty like a hortomato,' sa=
id
the Sergeant, who delighted in long words. 'A dirty soldier and 'e's under =
full
stoppages for new kit. It's covered with scales, sir.'
'Scales? What scales?'
'Fish-scales, sir. 'E's always pokin' in the m=
ud
by the river an' a-cleanin' them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs.' Revere was s=
till
absorbed in the Company papers, and the Sergeant, who was sternly fond of
Bobby, continued, ''E generally goes down there when 'e's got 'is skinful, =
beggin'
your pardon, sir, an' they do say that the more lush in-he-briated 'e is, t=
he
more fish 'e catches. They call 'im the Looney Fishmonger in the Comp'ny, s=
ir.'
Revere signed the last paper and the Sergeant
retreated.
'It's a filthy amusement,' sighed Bobby to
himself. Then aloud to Revere: 'Are you really worried about Dormer?'
'A little. You see he's never mad enough to se= nd to hospital, or drunk enough to run in, but at any minute he may flare up, brooding and sulking as he does. He resents any interest being shown in him, and the only time I took him out shooting he all but shot me by accident.'<= o:p>
'I fish,' said Bobby with a wry face. 'I hire a
country-boat and go down the river from Thursday to Sunday, and the amiable
Dormer goes with me if you can spare us both.'
'You blazing young fool!' said Revere, but his
heart was full of much more pleasant words.
Bobby, the Captain of a dhoni, with Private Do=
rmer
for mate, dropped down the river on Thursday morning the Private at the bow,
the Subaltern at the helm. The Private glared uneasily at the Subaltern, who
respected the reserve of the Private.
After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern,
saluted, and said 'Beg y' pardon, sir, but was you ever on the Durh'm Canal=
?'
'No,' said Bobby Wick. 'Come and have some
tiffin.'
They ate in silence. As the evening fell, Priv=
ate
Dormer broke forth, speaking to himself,
'Hi was on the Durh'm Canal, jes' such a night,
come next week twelve month, a-trailin' of my toes in the water.' He smoked=
and
said no more till bedtime.
The witchery of the dawn turned the gray
river-reaches to purple, gold, and opal; and it was as though the lumbering
dhoni crept across the splendours of a new heaven.
Private Dormer popped his head out of his blan=
ket
and gazed at the glory below and around.
'Well damn my eyes!' said Private Dormer in an
awed whisper. 'This 'ere is like a bloomin' gallantry-show!' For the rest of
the day he was dumb, but achieved an ensanguined filthiness through the
cleaning of big fish.
The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer =
had
been struggling with speech since noon. As the lines and luggage were being
disembarked, he found tongue.
'Beg y' pardon, sir,' he said, 'but would you
would you min' shakin' 'ands with me, sir?'
'Of course not,' said Bobby, and he shook
accordingly. Dormer returned to barracks and Bobby to mess.
'He wanted a little quiet and some fishing, I
think,' said Bobby. 'My aunt, but he's a filthy sort of animal! Have you ev=
er
seen him clean them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs"?'
'Anyhow,' said Revere three weeks later, 'he's
doing his best to keep his things clean.'
When the spring died, Bobby joined in the gene=
ral
scramble for Hill leave, and to his surprise and delight secured three mont=
hs.
'As good a boy as I want,' said Revere the
admiring skipper.
'The best of the batch,' said the Adjutant to =
the
Colonel. 'Keep back that young skrim-shanker Porkiss, sir, and let Revere m=
ake
him sit up.'
So Bobby departed joyously to Simla Pahar with=
a
tin box of gorgeous raiment.
'Son of Wick old Wick of Chota-Buldana? Ask hi=
m to
dinner, dear,' said the aged men.
'What a nice boy!' said the matrons and the ma=
ids.
'First-class place, Simla. Oh, ripping!' said
Bobby Wick, and ordered new white cord breeches on the strength of it.
'We're in a bad way,' wrote Revere to Bobby at=
the
end of two months. 'Since you left, the Regiment has taken to fever and is
fairly rotten with it two hundred in hospital, about a hundred in cells
drinking to keep off fever and the Companies on parade fifteen file strong =
at
the outside. There's rather more sickness in the out-villages than I care f=
or,
but then I'm so blistered with prickly-heat that I'm ready to hang myself.
What's the yarn about your mashing a Miss Haverley up there? Not serious, I
hope? You're over-young to hang millstones round your neck, and the Colonel
will turf you out of that in double-quick time if you attempt it.'
It was not the Colonel that brought Bobby out =
of
Simla, but a much-more-to-be-respected Commandant. The sickness in the
out-villages spread, the Bazar was put out of bounds, and then came the news
that the Tail Twisters must go into camp. The message flashed to the Hill s=
tations.
'Cholera Leave stopped Officers recalled.' Alas for the white gloves in the
neatly-soldered boxes, the rides and the dances and picnics that were to be,
the loves half spoken, and the debts unpaid! Without demur and without
question, fast as tonga could fly or pony gallop, back to their Regiments a=
nd
their Batteries, as though they were hastening to their weddings, fled the
subalterns.
Bobby received his orders on returning from a
dance at Viceregal Lodge where he had But only the Haverley girl knows what
Bobby had said, or how many waltzes he had claimed for the next ball. Six in
the morning saw Bobby at the Tonga Office in the drenching rain, the whirl =
of
the last waltz still in his ears, and an intoxication due neither to wine n=
or
waltzing in his brain.
'Good man!' shouted Deighton of the Horse Batt=
ery
through the mist. 'Whar you raise dat tonga? I'm coming with you. Ow! But I=
've
a head and a half. I didn't sit out all night. They say the Battery's awful
bad,' and he hummed dolorously,
L=
eave
the what at the what's-its-name, Leave the flock without shelter,
'My faith! It'll be more bally corpse than bri=
de,
though, this journey. Jump in, Bobby. Get on, Coachwan!'
On the Umballa platform waited a detachment of
officers discussing the latest news from the stricken cantonment, and it was
here that Bobby learned the real condition of the Tail Twisters.
'They went into camp,' said an elderly Major
recalled from the whist-tables at Mussoorie to a sickly Native Regiment, 't=
hey
went into camp with two hundred and ten sick in carts. Two hundred and ten
fever cases only, and the balance looking like so many ghosts with sore eye=
s. A
Madras Regiment could have walked through 'em.'
'But they were as fit as be-damned when I left
them!' said Bobby.
'Then you'd better make them as fit as bedamned
when you rejoin,' said the Major brutally.
Bobby pressed his forehead against the
rain-splashed window-pane as the train lumbered across the sodden Doab, and
prayed for the health of the Tyneside Tail Twisters. Naini Tal had sent down
her contingent with all speed; the lathering ponies of the Dalhousie Road
staggered into Pathankot, taxed to the full stretch of their strength; while
from cloudy Darjiling the Calcutta Mail whirled up the last straggler of th=
e little
army that was to fight a fight in which was neither medal nor honour for the
winning, against an enemy none other than 'the sickness that destroyeth in =
the
noonday.'
And as each man reported himself, he said: 'Th=
is
is a bad business,' and went about his own forthwith, for every Regiment and
Battery in the cantonment was under canvas, the sickness bearing them compa=
ny.
Bobby fought his way through the rain to the T=
ail
Twisters' temporary mess, and Revere could have fallen on the boy's neck for
the joy of seeing that ugly, wholesome phiz once more.
'Keep' em amused and interested,' said Revere.
'They went on the drink, poor fools, after the first two cases, and there w=
as
no improvement. Oh, it's good to have you back, Bobby! Porkiss is a never
mind.'
Deighton came over from the Artillery camp to
attend a dreary mess dinner, and contributed to the general gloom by nearly
weeping over the condition of his beloved Battery. Porkiss so far forgot
himself as to insinuate that the presence of the officers could do no earth=
ly
good, and that the best thing would be to send the entire Regiment into hos=
pital
and 'let the doctors look after them.' Porkiss was demoralised with fear, n=
or
was his peace of mind restored when Revere said coldly: 'Oh! The sooner you=
go
out the better, if that's your way of thinking. Any public school could sen=
d us
fifty good men in your place, but it takes time, time, Porkiss, and money, =
and
a certain amount of trouble, to make a Regiment. 'S'pose you're the person =
we
go into camp for, eh?'
Whereupon Porkiss was overtaken with a great a=
nd
chilly fear which a drenching in the rain did not allay, and, two days late=
r,
quitted this world for another where, men do fondly hope, allowances are ma=
de
for the weaknesses of the flesh. The Regimental Sergeant-Major looked weari=
ly across
the Sergeants' Mess tent when the news was announced.
'There goes the worst of them,' he said. 'It'll
take the best, and then, please God, it'll stop.' The Sergeants were silent
till one said: 'It couldn't be him!' and all knew of whom Travis was thinki=
ng.
Bobby Wick stormed through the tents of his
Company, rallying, rebuking, mildly, as is consistent with the Regulations,
chaffing the faint-hearted; haling the sound into the watery sunlight when
there was a break in the weather, and bidding them be of good cheer for the=
ir
trouble was nearly at an end; scuttling on his dun pony round the outskirts=
of
the camp, and heading back men who, with the innate perversity of British
soldiers, were always wandering into infected villages, or drinking deeply =
from
rain-flooded marshes; comforting the panic-stricken with rude speech, and m=
ore
than once tending the dying who had no friends the men without 'townies';
organising, with banjos and burnt cork, Sing-songs which should allow the
talent of the Regiment full play; and generally, as he explained, 'playing =
the
giddy garden-goat all round.'
'You're worth half-a-dozen of us, Bobby,' said
Revere in a moment of enthusiasm. 'How the devil do you keep it up?'
Bobby made no answer, but had Revere looked in=
to
the breast-pocket of his coat he might have seen there a sheaf of badly-wri=
tten
letters which perhaps accounted for the power that possessed the boy. A let=
ter
came to Bobby every other day. The spelling was not above reproach, but the=
sentiments
must have been most satisfactory, for on receipt Bobby's eyes softened
marvellously, and he was wont to fall into a tender abstraction for a while
ere, shaking his cropped head, he charged into his work.
By what power he drew after him the hearts of =
the
roughest, and the Tail Twisters counted in their ranks some rough diamonds
indeed, was a mystery to both skipper and C. O., who learned from the
regimental chaplain that Bobby was considerably more in request in the hosp=
ital
tents than the Reverend John Emery.
'The men seem fond of you. Are you in the
hospitals much?' said the Colonel, who did his daily round and ordered the =
men
to get well with a hardness that did not cover his bitter grief.
'A little, sir,' said Bobby.
'Shouldn't go there too often if I were you. T=
hey
say it's not contagious, but there's no use in running unnecessary risks. We
can't afford to have you down, y'know.'
Six days later, it was with the utmost difficu=
lty
that the post-runner plashed his way out to the camp with the mail-bags, for
the rain was falling in torrents. Bobby received a letter, bore it off to h=
is
tent, and, the programme for the next week's Sing-song being satisfactorily=
disposed
of, sat down to answer it. For an hour the unhandy pen toiled over the pape=
r,
and where sentiment rose to more than normal tide-level, Bobby Wick stuck o=
ut
his tongue and breathed heavily. He was not used to letter-writing.
'Beg y' pardon, sir,' said a voice at the tent
door; 'but Dormer's 'orrid bad, sir, an' they've taken him orf, sir.'
'Damn Private Dormer and you too!' said Bobby
Wick, running the blotter over the half-finished letter. 'Tell him I'll com=
e in
the morning.'
''E's awful bad, sir,' said the voice
hesitatingly. There was an undecided squelching of heavy boots.
'Well?' said Bobby impatiently.
'Excusin' 'imself before 'and for takin' the
liberty, 'e says it would be a comfort for to assist 'im, sir, if--'
'Tattoo lao! Get my pony! Here, come in out of=
the
rain till I'm ready. What blasted nuisances you are! That's brandy. Drink s=
ome;
you want it. Hang on to my stirrup and tell me if I go too fast.'
Strengthened by a four-finger 'nip' which he
swallowed without a wink, the Hospital Orderly kept up with the slipping,
mud-stained, and very disgusted pony as it shambled to the hospital tent.
Private Dormer was certainly ''orrid bad.' He =
had
all but reached the stage of collapse and was not pleasant to look upon.
'What's this, Dormer?' said Bobby, bending over
the man. 'You're not going out this time. You've got to come fishing with me
once or twice more yet.'
The blue lips parted and in the ghost of a whi=
sper
said, 'Beg y' pardon, sir, disturbin' of you now, but would you min' 'oldin=
' my
'and, sir?'
Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy =
cold
hand closed on his own like a vice, forcing a lady's ring which was on the
little finger deep into the flesh. Bobby set his lips and waited, the water
dripping from the hem of his trousers. An hour passed and the grasp of the =
hand
did not relax, nor did the expression of the drawn face change. Bobby with
infinite craft lit himself a cheroot with the left hand, his right arm was
numbed to the elbow, and resigned himself to a night of pain.
Dawn showed a very white-faced Subaltern sitti=
ng
on the side of a sick man's cot, and a Doctor in the doorway using language
unfit for publication.
'Have you been here all night, you young ass?'
said the Doctor.
'There or thereabouts,' said Bobby ruefully. '=
He's
frozen on to me.'
Dormer's mouth shut with a click. He turned his
head and sighed. The clinging hand opened, and Bobby's arm fell useless at =
his
side.
'He'll do,' said the Doctor quietly. 'It must =
have
been a toss-up all through the night. 'Think you're to be congratulated on =
this
case.'
'Oh, bosh!' said Bobby. 'I thought the man had
gone out long ago only only I didn't care to take my hand away. Rub my arm
down, there's a good chap. What a grip the brute has! I'm chilled to the
marrow!' He passed out of the tent shivering.
Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his
repulse of Death by strong waters. Four days later he sat on the side of his
cot and said to the patients mildly: 'I'd 'a' liken to 'a' spoken to 'im so=
I
should.'
But at that time Bobby was reading yet another
letter he had the most persistent correspondent of any man in camp and was =
even
then about to write that the sickness had abated, and in another week at the
outside would be gone. He did not intend to say that the chill of a sick ma=
n's hand
seemed to have struck into the heart whose capacities for affection he dwel=
t on
at such length. He did intend to enclose the illustrated programme of the
forthcoming Sing-song whereof he was not a little proud. He also intended to
write on many other matters which do not concern us, and doubtless would ha=
ve
done so but for the slight feverish headache which made him dull and
unresponsive at mess.
'You are overdoing it, Bobby,' said his skippe=
r.
'Might give the rest of us credit of doing a little work. You go on as if y=
ou
were the whole Mess rolled into one. Take it easy.'
'I will,' said Bobby. 'I'm feeling done up,
somehow.' Revere looked at him anxiously and said nothing.
There was a flickering of lanterns about the c=
amp
that night, and a rumour that brought men out of their cots to the tent doo=
rs,
a paddling of the naked feet of doolie-bearers and the rush of a galloping
horse.
'Wot's up?' asked twenty tents; and through tw=
enty
tents ran the answer 'Wick, 'e's down.'
They brought the news to Revere and he groaned.
'Any one but Bobby and I shouldn't have cared! The Sergeant-Major was right=
.'
'Not going out this journey,' gasped Bobby, as=
he
was lifted from the doolie. 'Not going out this journey.' Then with an air =
of
supreme conviction 'I can't, you see.'
'Not if I can do anything!' said the
Surgeon-Major, who had hastened over from the mess where he had been dining=
.
He and the Regimental Surgeon fought together =
with
Death for the life of Bobby Wick. Their work was interrupted by a hairy
apparition in a bluegray dressing-gown who stared in horror at the bed and
cried 'Oh, my Gawd! It can't be 'im!' until an indignant Hospital Orderly
whisked him away.
If care of man and desire to live could have d=
one
aught, Bobby would have been saved. As it was, he made a fight of three day=
s,
and the Surgeon-Major's brow uncreased. 'We'll save him yet,' he said; and =
the Surgeon,
who, though he ranked with the Captain, had a very youthful heart, went out
upon the word and pranced joyously in the mud.
'Not going out this journey,' whispered Bobby =
Wick
gallantly, at the end of the third day.
'Bravo!' said the Surgeon-Major. 'That's the w=
ay
to look at it, Bobby.'
As evening fell a gray shade gathered round
Bobby's mouth, and he turned his face to the tent wall wearily. The
Surgeon-Major frowned.
'I'm awfully tired,' said Bobby, very faintly.
'What's the use of bothering me with medicine? I don't want it. Let me alon=
e.'
The desire for life had departed, and Bobby was
content to drift away on the easy tide of Death.
'It's no good,' said the Surgeon-Major. 'He
doesn't want to live. He's meeting it, poor child.' And he blew his nose.
Half a mile away the regimental band was playi=
ng
the overture to the Sing-song, for the men had been told that Bobby was out=
of
danger. The clash of the brass and the wail of the horns reached Bobby's ea=
rs.
Is
there a single joy or pain, Th=
at I
should never kno-ow? You do no=
t love
me, 'tis in vain, Bid me good-=
bye
and go!
An expression of hopeless irritation crossed t=
he
boy's face, and he tried to shake his head.
The Surgeon-Major bent down 'What is it, Bobby=
?'
'Not that waltz,' muttered Bobby. 'That's our own our very ownest own. Mummy
dear.'
With this he sank into the stupor that gave pl=
ace
to death early next morning.
Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose =
very
white, went into Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should b=
ow
the white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the keenest sorro=
w of
his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in confusion on the table, and
among them a half-finished letter. The last sentence ran: 'So you see, darl=
ing,
there is really no fear, because as long as I know you care for me and I ca=
re
for you, nothing can touch me.'
Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he
came out his eyes were redder than ever.
Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, a=
nd
listened to a not unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and
should have been tenderly treated.
'Ho!' said Private Conklin. 'There's another
bloomin' orf'cer da ed.'
The bucket shot from under him, and his eyes
filled with a smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue-gray bedgown was
regarding him with deep disfavour.
'You ought to take shame for yourself, Conky!
Orf'cer? Bloomin' orf'cer? I'll learn you to misname the likes of 'im. Hang=
el!
Bloomin' Hangel! That's wot'e is!'
And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied with=
the
justice of the punishment that he did not even order Private Dormer back to=
his
cot.
Hurrah! hurrah! a soldier's life for me!
Shout, boys, shout! for it makes =
you
jolly and free. --The Ramrod
Corps.
PEOPLE who have seen, say that one of the
quaintest spectacles of human frailty is an outbreak of hysterics in a girl=
s'
school. It starts without warning, generally on a hot afternoon among the e=
lder
pupils. A girl giggles till the giggle gets beyond control. Then she throws=
up
her head, and cries, "Honk, honk, honk," like a wild goose, and t=
ears
mix with the laughter. If the mistress be wise she will rap out something s=
evere
at this point and check matters. If she be tender-hearted, and send for a d=
rink
of water, the chances are largely in favor of another girl laughing at the
afflicted one and herself collapsing. Thus the trouble spreads, and may end=
in
half of what answers to the Lower Sixth of a boys' school rocking and whoop=
ing
together. Given a week of warm weather, two stately promenades per diem, a
heavy mutton and rice meal in the middle of the day, a certain amount of
nagging from the teachers, and a few other things, some amazing effects
develop. At least this is what folk say who have had experience.
Now, the Mother Superior of a Convent and the
Colonel of a British Infantry Regiment would be justly shocked at any
comparison being made between their respective charges. But it is a fact th=
at,
under certain circumstances, Thomas in bulk can be worked up into dittherin=
g,
rippling hysteria. He does not weep, but he shows his trouble unmistakably,=
and
the consequences get into the newspapers, and all the good people who hardly
know a Martini from a Snider say: "Take away the brute's ammunition!&q=
uot;
Thomas isn't a brute, and his business, which =
is
to look after the virtuous people, demands that he shall have his ammunitio=
n to
his hand. He doesn't wear silk stockings, and he really ought to be supplied
with a new Adjective to help him to express his opinions; but, for all that=
, he
is a great man. If you call him "the heroic defender of the national h=
onor"
one day, and "a brutal and licentious soldiery" the next, you nat=
urally
bewilder him, and he looks upon you with suspicion. There is nobody to speak
for Thomas except people who have theories to work off on him; and nobody
understands Thomas except Thomas, and he does not always know what is the
matter with himself.
That is the prologue. This is the story:
Corporal Slane was engaged to be married to Mi=
ss
Jhansi M'Kenna, whose history is well known in the regiment and elsewhere. =
He
had his Colonel's permission, and, being popular with the men, every
arrangement had been made to give the wedding what Private Ortheris called
"eeklar." It fell in the heart of the hot weather, and, after the
wedding, Slane was going up to the Hills with the Bride. None the less, Sla=
ne's
grievance was that the affair would be only a hired-carriage wedding, and he
felt that the "eeklar" of that was meagre. Miss M'Kenna did not c=
are
so much. The Sergeant's wife was helping her to make her wedding-dress, and=
she
was very busy. Slane was, just then, the only moderately contented man in
barracks. All the rest were more or less miserable.
And they had so much to make them happy, too. =
All
their work was over at eight in the morning, and for the rest of the day th=
ey
could lie on their backs and smoke Canteen-plug and swear at the
punkah-coolies. They enjoyed a fine, full flesh meal in the middle of the d=
ay,
and then threw themselves down on their cots and sweated and slept till it =
was
cool enough to go out with their "towny," whose vocabulary contai=
ned
less than six hundred words, and the Adjective, and whose views on every co=
nceivable
question they had heard many times before.
There was the Canteen, of course, and there was
the Temperance Room with the second-hand papers in it; but a man of any
profession cannot read for eight hours a day in a temperature of 96 degrees=
or
98 degrees in the shade, running up sometimes to 103 degrees at midnight. V=
ery
few men, even though they get a pannikin of flat, stale, muddy beer and hid=
e it
under their cots, can continue drinking for six hours a day. One man tried,=
but
he died, and nearly the whole regiment went to his funeral because it gave =
them
something to do. It was too early for the excitement of fever or cholera. T=
he
men could only wait and wait and wait, and watch the shadow of the barrack
creeping across the blinding white dust. That was a gay life.
They lounged about cantonments-it was too hot =
for
any sort of game, and almost too hot for vice-and fuddled themselves in the
evening, and filled themselves to distension with the healthy nitrogenous f=
ood provided
for them, and the more they stoked the less exercise they took and more
explosive they grew. Then tempers began to wear away, and men fell a-broodi=
ng
over insults real or imaginary, for they had nothing else to think of. The =
tone
of the repartees changed, and instead of saying light-heartedly: "I'll
knock your silly face in," men grew laboriously polite and hinted that=
the
cantonments were not big enough for themselves and their enemy, and that th=
ere
would be more space for one of the two in another place.
It may have been the Devil who arranged the th=
ing,
but the fact of the case is that Losson had for a long time been worrying
Simmons in an aimless way. It gave him occupation. The two had their cots s=
ide
by side, and would sometimes spend a long afternoon swearing at each other;=
but
Simmons was afraid of Losson and dared not challenge him to a fight. He tho=
ught
over the words in the hot still nights, and half the hate he felt toward Lo=
sson
be vented on the wretched punkahcoolie.
Losson bought a parrot in the bazar, and put it
into a little cage, and lowered the cage into the cool darkness of a well, =
and
sat on the well-curb, shouting bad language down to the parrot. He taught i=
t to
say: "Simmons, ye so-oor," which means swine, and several other
things entirely unfit for publication. He was a big gross man, and he shook=
like
a jelly when the parrot had the sentence correctly. Simmons, however, shook
with rage, for all the room were laughing at him--the parrot was such a
disreputable puff of green feathers and it looked so human when it chattere=
d.
Losson used to sit, swinging his fat legs, on the side of the cot, and ask =
the
parrot what it thought of Simmons. The parrot would answer: "Simmons, =
ye
so-oor." "Good boy," Losson used to say, scratching the parr=
ot's
head; "ye 'ear that, Sim?" And Simmons used to turn over on his
stomach and make answer: "I 'ear. Take 'eed you don't 'ear something o=
ne
of these days."
In the restless nights, after he had been asle=
ep
all day, fits of blind rage came upon Simmonr and held him till he trembled=
all
over, while he thought in how many different ways he would slay Losson.
Sometimes he would picture himself trampling the life out of the man, with =
heavy
ammunition-boots, and at others smashing in his face with the butt, and at
others jumping on his shoulders and dragging the head back till the neckbone
cracked. Then his mouth would feel hot and fevered, and he would reach out =
for
another sup of the beer in the pannikin.
But the fancy that came to him most frequently=
and
stayed with him longest was one connected with the great roll of fat under
Losson's right ear. He noticed it first on a moonlight night, and thereafte=
r it
was always before his eyes. It was a fascinating roll of fat. A man could g=
et
his hand upon it and tear away one side of the neck; or he could place the
muzzle of a rifle on it and blow away all the head in a flash. Losson had no
right to be sleek and contented and well-to-do, when he, Simmons, was the b=
utt
of the room, Some day, perhaps, he would show those who laughed at the
"Simmons, ye so-oor" joke, that he was as good as the rest, and h=
eld
a man's life in the crook of his forefinger. When Losson snored, Simmons ha=
ted
him more bitterly than ever. Why should Losson be able to sleep when Simmons
had to stay awake hour after hour, tossing and turning on the tapes, with t=
he
dull liver pain gnawing into his right side and his head throbbing and achi=
ng
after Canteen? He thought over this for many nights, and the world became
unprofitable to him. He even blunted his naturally fine appetite with beer =
and
tobacco; and all the while the parrot talked at and made a mock of him.
The heat continued and the tempers wore away m=
ore
quickly than before. A Sergeant's wife died of heat--apoplexy in the night,=
and
the rumor ran abroad that it was cholera. Men rejoiced openly, hoping that =
it
would spread and send them into camp. But that was a false alarm.
It was late on a Tuesday evening, and the men =
were
waiting in the deep double verandas for "Last Posts," when Simmons
went to the box at the foot of his bed, took out his pipe, and slammed the =
lid
down with a bang that echoed through the deserted barrack like the crack of=
a
rifle. Ordinarily speaking, the men would have taken no notice; but their n=
erves
were fretted to fiddle-strings. They jumped up, and three or four clattered
into the barrack-room only to find Simmons kneeling by his box.
"Owl It's you, is it?" they said and
laughed foolishly. "We thought 'twas"--
Simmons rose slowly. If the accident had so sh=
aken
his fellows, what would not the reality do?
"You thought it was--did you? And what ma=
kes
you think?" he said, lashing himself into madness as he went on; "=
;to
Hell with your thinking, ye dirty spies."
"Simmons, ye so-oor," chuckled the
parrot in the veranda, sleepily, recognizing a well-known voice. Now that w=
as
absolutely all.
The tension snapped. Simmons fell back on the
arm-rack deliberately,--the men were at the far end of the room,--and took =
out his
rifle and packet of ammunition. "Don't go playing the goat, Sim!"=
said
Losson. "Put it down," but there was a quaver in his voice. Anoth=
er man
stooped, slipped his boot and hurled it at Simmon's head. The prompt answer=
was
a shot which, fired at random, found its billet in Losson's throat. Losson =
fell
forward without a word, and the others scattered.
"You thought it was!" yelled Simmons.
"You're drivin' me to it! I tell you you're drivin' me to it! Get up,
Losson, an' don't lie shammin' there-you an' your blasted parrit that druv =
me
to it!"
But there was an unaffected reality about Loss=
on's
pose that showed Simmons what he had done. The men were still clamoring on =
the
veranda. Simmons appropriated two more packets of ammunition and ran into t=
he moonlight,
muttering: "I'll make a night of it. Thirty roun's, an' the last for
myself. Take you that, you dogs!"
He dropped on one knee and fired into the brow=
n of
the men on the veranda, but the bullet flew high, and landed in the brickwo=
rk
with a vicious phant that made some of the younger ones turn pale. It is, a=
s musketry
theorists observe, one thing to fire and another to be fired at.
Then the instinct of the chase flared up. The =
news
spread from barrack to barrack, and the men doubled out intent on the captu=
re
of Simmons, the wild beast, who was heading for the Cavalry parade-ground,
stopping now and again to send back a shot and a Lurse in the direction of =
his pursuers.
"I'll learn you to spy on me!" he
shouted; "I'll learn you to give me dorg's names! Come on the 'ole lot=
O'
you! Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B.!"--he turned toward the Infantry
Mess and shook his rifle--"you think yourself the devil of a man--but I
tell 'jou that if you Put your ugly old carcass outside O' that door, I'll =
make
you the poorest-lookin' man in the army. Come out, Colonel John Anthony Dee=
ver,
C.B.! Come out and see me practiss on the rainge. I'm the crack shot of the
'ole bloomin' battalion." In proof of which statement Simmons fired at=
the
lighted windows of the mess-house.
"Private Simmons, E Comp'ny, on the Caval=
ry
p'rade-ground, Sir, with thirty rounds," said a Sergeant breathlessly =
to
the Colonel. "Shootin' right and lef', Sir. Shot Private Losson. What'=
s to
be done, Sir?"
Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B., sallied out,
only to be saluted by a spurt of dust at his feet.
"Pull up!" said the Second in Comman=
d;
"I don't want my step in that way, Colonel. He's as dangerous as a mad
dog."
"Shoot him like one, then," said the
Colonel, bitterly, "if he won't take his chance. My regiment, too! If =
it
had been the Towheads I could have understood."
Private Simmons had occupied a strong position
near a well on the edge of the parade-ground, and was defying the regiment =
to
come on. The regiment was not anxious to comply, for there is small honor in
being shot by a fellow-private. Only Corporal Slane, rifle in band, threw h=
imself
down on the ground, and wormed his way toward the well.
"Don't shoot," said he to the men ro= und him; "like as not you'll hit me. I'll catch the beggar, livin'."<= o:p>
Simmons ceased shouting for a while, and the n=
oise
of trap-wheels could be heard across the plain. Major Oldyne Commanding the
Horse Battery, was coming back from a dinner in the Civil Lines; was driving
after his usual custom--that is to say, as fast as the horse could go.
"A orf'cer! A blooming spangled
orf'cer," shrieked Simmons; "I'll make a scarecrow of that
orf'cer!" The trap stopped.
"What's this?" demanded the Major of
Gunners. "You there, drop your rifle."
"Why, it's Jerry Blazes! I ain't got no
quarrel with you, Jerry Blazes. Pass frien', an' all's well!"
But Jerry Blazes had not the faintest intentio=
n of
passing a dangerous murderer. He was, as his adoring Battery swore long and
fervently, without knowledge of fear, and they were surely the best judges,=
for
Jerry Blazes, it was notorious, had done his possible to kill a man each ti=
me
the Battery went out.
He walked toward Simmons, with the intention of
rushing him, and knocking him down.
"Don't make me do it, Sir," said Sim=
mons;
"I ain't got nothing agin you. Ah! you would?"--the Major broke i=
nto
a run--"Take that then!"
The Major dropped with a bullet through his
shoulder, and Simmons stood over him. He had lost the satisfaction of killi=
ng
Losson in the desired way: hut here was a helpless body to his hand. Should=
be
slip in another cartridge, and blow off the head, or with the butt smash in=
the
white face? He stopped to consider, and a cry went up from the far side of =
the
parade-ground: "He's killed Jerry Blazes!" But in the shelter of =
the well-pillars
Simmons was safe except when he stepped out to fire. "I'll blow yer
'andsome 'ead off, Jerry Blazes," said Simmons, reflectively. "Six
an' three is nine an one is ten, an' that leaves me another nineteen, an' o=
ne
for myself." He tugged at the string of the second packet of ammunitio=
n.
Corporal Slane crawled out of the shadow of a bank into the moonlight.
"I see you!" said Simmons. "Com=
e a
bit furder on an' I'll do for you."
"I'm comm'," said Corporal Slane,
briefly; "you've done a bad day's work, Sim. Come out 'ere an' come ba=
ck
with me."
"Come to,"--laugbed Simmons, sending=
a
cartridge home with his thumb. "Not before I've settled you an' Jerry
Blazes."
The Corporal was lying at full length in the d=
ust
of the parade-ground, a rifle under him. Some of the less-cautious men in t=
he
distance shouted: "Shoot 'im! Shoot 'im, Slane!"
"You move 'and or foot, Slane," said
Simmons, "an' I'll kick Jerry Blazes' 'ead in, and shoot you after.&qu=
ot;
"I ain't movin'," said the Corporal,=
raising
his head; "you daren't 'it a man on 'is legs. Let go O' Jerry Blazes a=
n'
come out O' that with your fistes. Come an' 'it me. You daren't, you bloomi=
n'
dog-shooter!"
"I dare."
"You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin',
Sheeny butcher, you lie. See there!" Slane kicked the rifle away, and
stood up in the peril of his life. "Come on, now!"
The temptation was more than Simmons could res=
ist,
for the Corporal in his white clothes offered a perfect mark.
"Don't misname me," shouted Simmons,
firing as he spoke. The shot missed, and the shooter, blind with rage, threw
his rifle down and rushed at Slane from the protection of the well. Within
striking distance, he kicked savagely at Slane's stomach, but the weedy
Corporal knew something of Simmons's weakness, and knew, too, the deadly gu=
ard for
that kick. Bowing forward and drawing up his right leg till the heel of the
right foot was set some three inches above the inside of the left knee-cap,=
he
met the blow standing on one leg--exactly as Gonds stand when they
meditate--and ready for the fall that would follow. There was an oath, the
Corporal fell over his own left as shinbone met shinbone, and the Private
collapsed, his right leg broken an inch above the ankle.
"'Pity you don't know that guard, Sim,&qu=
ot;
said Slane, spitting out the dust as he rose. Then raising his
voice--"Come an' take him orf. I've bruk 'is leg." This was not
strictly true, for the Private had accomplished his own downfall, since it =
is
the special merit of that leg-guard that the harder the kick the greater the
kicker's discomfiture.
Slane walked to Jerry Blazes and hung over him
with ostentatious anxiety, while Simmons, weeping with pain, was carried aw=
ay.
"'Ope you ain't 'urt badly, Sir," said Slane. The Major had faint=
ed,
and there was an ugly, ragged hole through the top of his arm. Slane knelt =
down
and murmured. "S'elp me, I believe 'e's dead. Well, if that ain't my b=
looming
luck all over!"
But the Major was destined to lead his Battery afield for many a long day with unshaken nerve. He was removed, and nursed = and petted into convalescence, while the Battery discussed the wisdom of captur= ing Simmons, and blowing him from a gun. They idolized their Major, and his reappearance= on parade brought about a scene nowhere provided for in the Army Regulations.<= o:p>
Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's
share. The Gunners would have made him drunk thrice a day for at least a
fortnight. Even the Colonel of his own regiment complimented him upon his
coolness, and the local paper called him a hero. These things did not puff =
him
up. When the Major offered him money and thanks, the virtuous Corporal took=
the
one and put aside the other. But he had a request to make and prefaced it w=
ith
many a "Beg y'pardon, Sir." Could the Major see his way to letting
the Slane M'Kenna wedding be adorned by the presence of four Battery horses=
to
pull a hired barouche? The Major could, and so could the Battery. Excessive=
ly
so. It was a gorgeous wedding.
* * * * *
"Wot did I do it for?" said Corporal
Slane. "For the 'orses O' course. Jhansi ain't a beauty to look at, bu=
t I
wasn't goin' to 'ave a hired turn-out. Jerry Blazes? If I 'adn't 'a' wanted
something, Sim might ha' blowed Jerry Blazes' blooming 'ead into Hirish stew
for aught I'd 'a' cared."
And they hanged Private Simmons-hanged him as =
high
as Haman in hollow square of the regiment; and the Colonel said it was Drin=
k;
and the Chaplain was sure it was the Devil; and Simmons fancied it was both=
, but
he didn't know, and only hoped his fate would be a warning to his companion=
s;
and half a dozen "intelligent publicists" wrote six beautiful lea=
ding
articles on "'The Prevalence of Crime in the Army."
But not a soul thought of comparing the
"bloody-minded Simmons" to the squawking, gaping schoolgirl with
which this story opens.
"Because half a dozen grasshoppers=
under
a fern make the field ring with t=
heir
importunate chink while thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow of the Briti=
sh
oak, chew the cud and are silent,=
pray
do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field-that,=
of
course, they are many in number or
that, after all, they are other than the little, shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troubl=
esome
insects of the hour."-Burke:
"Reflections on the Revolution in France."
THEY were sitting in the veranda of "the
splendid palace of an Indian Pro-Consul"; surrounded by all the glory =
and
mystery of the immemorial East. In plain English it was a one-storied, ten-=
roomed,
whitewashed, mud-roofed bungalow, set in a dry garden of dusty tamarisk tre=
es
and divided from the road by a low mud wall. The green parrots screamed ove=
rhead
as they flew in battalions to the river for their morning drink. Beyond the
wall, clouds of fine dust showed where the cattle and goats of the city were
passing afield to graze. The remorseless white light of the winter sunshine=
of
Northern India lay upon everything and improved nothing, from the whining
Peisian-wheel by the lawn-tennis court to the long perspective of level road
and the blue, domed tombs of Mohammedan saints just visible above the trees=
.
"A Happy New Year," said Orde to his
guest. "It's the first you've ever spent out of England, isn't it?&quo=
t;
"Yes. 'Happy New Year," said Pagett,
smiling at the sunshine. "What a divine climate you have here! Just th=
ink
of the brown cold fog hanging over London now!" And he rubbed his hand=
s.
It was more than twenty years since he had last
seen Orde, his schoolmate, and their paths in the world had divided early. =
The
one had quitted college to become a cog-wheel in the machinery of the great=
Indian
Government; the other more blessed with goods, had been whirled into a simi=
lar
position in the English scheme. Three successive elections had not affected
Pagett's position with a loyal constituency, and he had grown insensibly to
regard himself in some sort as a pillar of the Empire, whose real worth wou=
ld
be known later on. After a few years of conscientious attendance at many
divisions, after newspaper battles innumerable and the publication of
interminable correspondence, and more hasty oratory than in his calmer mome=
nts
he cared to think upon, it occurred to him, as it had occurred to many of h=
is
fellows in Parliament, that a tour to India would enable him to sweep a lar=
ger
lyre and address himself to the problems of Imperial administration with a =
firmer
hand. Accepting, therefore, a general invitation extended to him by Orde so=
me
years before, Pagett had taken ship to Karachi, and only over-night had been
received with joy by the Deputy-Commissioner of Amara. They had sat late,
discussing the changes and chances of twenty years, recalling the names of =
the
dead, and weighing the futures of the living, as is the custom of men meeti=
ng
after intervals of action.
Next morning they smoked the after breakfast p=
ipe
in the veranda, still regarding each other curiously, Pagett, in a light gr=
ey
frock-coat and garments much too thin for the time of the year, and a puggr=
ied sun-hat
carefully and wonderfully made. Orde in a shooting coat, riding breeches, b=
rown
cowhide boots with spurs, and a battered flax helmet. He had ridden some mi=
les
in the early morning to inspect a doubtful river dam. The men's faces diffe=
red
as much as their attire. Orde's worn and wrinkled around the eyes, and griz=
zled
at the temples, was the harder and more square of the two, and it was with
something like envy that the owner looked at the comfortable outlines of
Pagett's blandly receptive countenance, the clear skin, the untroubled eye,=
and
the mobile, clean-shaved lips.
"And this is India!" said Pagett for=
the
twentieth time staring long and intently at the grey feathering of the
tamarisks.
"One portion of India only. It's very much
like this for 300 miles in every direction. By the way, now that you have
rested a little--I wouldn't ask the old question before--what d'you think of
the country?"
"'Tis the most pervasive country that ever
yet was seen. I acquired several pounds of your country coming up from Kara=
chi.
The air is heavy with it, and for miles and miles along that distressful
eternity of rail there's no horizon to show where air and earth separate.&q=
uot;
"Yes. It isn't easy to see truly or far in
India. But you had a decent passage out, hadn't you?"
"Very good on the whole. Your Anglo-Indian
may be unsympathetic about one's political views; but he has reduced ship l=
ife
to a science."
"The Anglo-Indian is a political orphan, =
and
if he's wise he won't be in a hurry to be adopted by your party grandmother=
s.
But how were your companions, unsympathetic?"
"Well, there was a man called Dawlishe, a
judge somewhere in this country it seems, and a capital partner at whist by=
the
way, and when I wanted to talk to him about the progress of India in a
political sense (Orde hid a grin, which might or might not have been
sympathetic), the National Congress movement, and other things in which, as=
a
Member of Parliament, I'm of course interested, he shifted the subject, and
when I once cornered him, he looked me calmly in the eye, and said: 'That's=
all
Tommy rot. Come and have a game at Bull.' You may laugh; but that isn't the=
way
to treat a great and important question; and, knowing who I was. well. I
thought it rather rude, don't you know; and yet Dawlishe is a thoroughly go=
od
fellow."
"Yes; he's a friend of mine, and one of t=
he
straightest men I know. I suppose, like many Anglo-Indians, he felt it was
hopeless to give you any just idea of any Indian question without the docum=
ents
before you, and in this case the documents you want are the country and the
people."
"Precisely. That was why I came straight =
to
you, bringing an open mind to bear on things. I'm anxious to know what popu=
lar
feeling in India is really like y'know, now that it has wakened into politi=
cal
life. The National Congress, in spite of Dawlishe, must have caused great e=
xcitement
among the masses?"
"On the contrary, nothing could be more
tranquil than the state of popular feeling; and as to excitement, the people
would as soon be excited over the 'Rule of Three' as over the Congress.&quo=
t;
"Excuse me, Orde, but do you think you ar=
e a
fair judge? Isn't the official Anglo-Indian naturally jealous of any extern=
al
influences that might move the masses, and so much opposed to liberal ideas,
truly liberal ideas, that he can scarcely be expected to regard a popular m=
ovement
with fairness?"
"What did Dawlishe say about Tommy Rot? T=
hink
a moment, old man. You and I were brought up together; taught by the same
tutors, read the same books, lived the same life, and new languages, and wo=
rk
among new races; while you, more fortunate, remain at home. Why should I ch=
ange
my mind our mind-because I change my sky? Why should I and the few hundred =
Englishmen
in my service become unreasonable, prejudiced fossils, while you and your n=
ewer
friends alone remain bright and open-minded? You surely don't fancy civilia=
ns
are members of a Primrose League?"
"Of course not, but the mere position of =
an
English official gives him a point of view which cannot but bias his mind on
this question." Pagett moved his knee up and down a little uneasily as=
he
spoke.
"That sounds plausible enough, but, like =
more
plausible notions on Indian matters, I believe it's a mistake. You'll find =
when
you come to consult the unofficial Briton that our fault, as a class--I spe=
ak
of the civilian now-is rather to magnify the progress that has been made to=
ward
liberal institutions. It is of English origin, such as it is, and the stres=
s of
our work since the Mutiny--only thirty years ago--has been in that directio=
n.
No, I think you will get no fairer or more dispassionate view of the Congre=
ss
business than such men as I can give you. But I may as well say at once that
those who know most of India, from the inside, are inclined to wonder at the
noise our scarcely begun experiment makes in England."
"But surely the gathering together of
Congress delegates is of itself a new thing."
"There's nothing new under the sun When
Europe was a jungle half Asia flocked to the canonical conferences of Buddh=
ism;
and for centuries the people have gathered at Pun, Hurdwar, Trimbak, and
Benares in immense numbers. A great meeting, what you call a mass meeting, =
is
really one of the oldest and most popular of Indian institutions In the cas=
e of
the Congress meetings, the only notable fact is that the priests of the alt=
ar
are British, not Buddhist, Jam or Brahmanical, and that the whole thing is a
British contrivance kept alive by the efforts of Messrs. Hume, Eardley, Nor=
ton,
and Digby."
"You mean to say, then, it s not a
spontaneous movement?"
"What movement was ever spontaneous in any
true sense of the word? This seems to be more factitious than usual. You se=
em
to know a great deal about it; try it by the touchstone of subscriptions, a
coarse but fairly trustworthy criterion, and there is scarcely the color of=
money
in it. The delegates write from England that they are out of pocket for wor=
king
expenses, railway fares, and stationery--the mere pasteboard and scaffoldin=
g of
their show. It is, in fact, collapsing from mere financial inanition."=
"But you cannot deny that the people of
India, who are, perhaps, too poor to subscribe, are mentally and morally mo=
ved
by the agitation," Pagett insisted.
"That is precisely what I do deny. The na=
tive
side of the movement is the work of a limited class, a microscopic minority=
, as
Lord Dufferin described it, when compared with the people proper, but still=
a
very interesting class, seeing that it is of our own creation. It is compos=
ed almost
entirely of those of the literary or clerkly castes who have received an
English education."
"Surely that s a very important class. Its
members must be the ordained leaders of popular thought."
"Anywhere else they might be leaders, but
they have no social weight in this topsy-turvy land, and though they have b=
een
employed in clerical work for generations they have no practical knowledge =
of
affairs. A ship's clerk is a useful person, but he is scarcely the captain;=
and
an orderly-room writer, however smart he may be, is not the colonel. You se=
e,
the writer class in India has never till now aspired to anything like comma=
nd.
It wasn't allowed to. The Indian gentleman, for thousands of years past, has
resembled Victor Hugo's noble:
'=
Un
vrai sire Chatelain Laisse ecrire Le vilain. Sa main digne Quand il signe Egratigne Le velin.
And the little egralignures he most likes to m=
ake
have been scored pretty deeply by the sword."
"But this is childish and medheval
nonsense!"
"Precisely; and from your, or rather our,
point of view the pen is mightier than the sword. In this country it's
otherwise. The fault lies in our Indian balances, not yet adjusted to civil=
ized
weights and measures."
"Well, at all events, this literary class
represent the natural aspirations and wishes of the people at large, though=
it
may not exactly lead them, and, in spite of all you say, Orde, I defy you to
find a really sound English Radical who would not sympathize with those asp=
irations."
Pagett spoke with some warmth, and he had scar=
cely
ceased when a well appointed dog-cart turned into the compound gates, and O=
rde
rose saying:
"Here is Edwards, the Master of the Lodge=
I
neglect so diligently, come to talk about accounts, I suppose."
As the vehicle drove up under the porch Pagett
also rose, saying with the trained effusion born of much practice:
"But this is also my friend, my old and
valued friend Edwards. I'm delighted to see you. I knew you were in India, =
but
not exactly where."
"Then it isn't accounts, Mr. Edwards,&quo=
t;
said Orde, cheerily.
"Why, no, sir; I heard Mr. Pagett was com=
ing,
and as our works were closed for the New Year I thought I would drive over =
and
see him."
"A very happy thought. Mr. Edwards, you m=
ay
not know, Orde, was a leading member of our Radical Club at Switebton when I
was beginning political life, and I owe much to his exertions. There's no
pleasure like meeting an old friend, except, perhaps, making a new one. I s=
uppose,
Mr. Edwards, you stick to the good old cause?"
"Well, you see, sir, things are different=
out
here. There's precious little one can find to say against the Government, w=
hich
was the main of our talk at home, and them that do say things are not the s=
ort
o' people a man who respects himself would like to be mixed up with. There =
are
no politics, in a manner of speaking, in India. It's all work."
"Surely you are mistaken, my good friend.=
Why
I have come all the way from England just to see the working of this great
National movement."
"I don't know where you're going to find =
the
nation as moves to begin with, and then you'll be hard put to it to find wh=
at
they are moving about. It's like this, sir," said Edwards, who had not
quite relished being called "my good friend." "They haven't =
got
any grievance--nothing to hit with, don't you see, sir; and then there's not
much to hit against, because the Government is more like a kind of general =
Providence,
directing an old--established state of things, than that at home, where the=
re's
something new thrown down for us to fight about every three months."
"You are probably, in your workshops, ful= l of English mechanics, out of the way of learning what the masses think."<= o:p>
"I don't know so much about that. There a=
re
four of us English foremen, and between seven and eight hundred native fitt=
ers,
smiths, carpenters, painters, and such like."
"And they are full of the Congress, of
course?"
"Never hear a word of it from year's end =
to
year's end, and I speak the talk too. But I wanted to ask how things are go=
ing
on at home--old Tyler and Brown and the rest?"
"We will speak of them presently, but your
account of the indifference of your men surprises me almost as much as your
own. I fear you are a backslider from the good old doctrine, Ed wards."
Pagett spoke as one who mourned the death of a near relative.
"Not a bit, Sir, but I should be if I too=
k up
with a parcel of baboos, pleaders, and schoolboys, as never did a day's wor=
k in
their lives, and couldn't if they tried. And if you was to poll us English
railway men, mechanics, tradespeople, and the like of that all up and down =
the country
from Peshawur to Calcutta, you would find us mostly in a tale together. And=
yet
you know we're the same English you pay some respect to at home at 'lection
time, and we have the pull o' knowing something about it."
"This is very curious, but you will let me
come and see you, and perhaps you will kindly show me the railway works, an=
d we
will talk things over at leisure. And about all old friends and old
times," added Pagett, detecting with quick insight a look of
disappointment in the mechanic's face.
Nodding briefly to Orde, Edwards mounted his
dog-cart and drove off.
"It's very disappointing," said the
Member to Orde, who, while his friend discoursed with Edwards, had been loo=
king
over a bundle of sketches drawn on grey paper in purple ink, brought to him=
by
a Chuprassee.
"Don't let it trouble you, old chap,"
'said Orde, sympathetically. "Look here a moment, here are some sketch=
es
by the man who made the carved wood screen you admired so much in the
dining-room, and wanted a copy of, and the artist himself is here too."=
;
"A native?" said Pagett.
"Of course," was the reply, "Bi=
shen
Siagh is his name, and he has two brothers to help him. When there is an
important job to do, the three go 'ato partnership, but they spend most of
their time and all their money in litigation over an inheritance, and I'm
afraid they are getting involved, Thoroughbred Sikhs of the old rock,
obstinate, touchy, bigoted, and cunning, but good men for all that. Here is
Bishen Singn--shall we ask him about the Congress?"
But Bishen Singh, who approached with a respec=
tful
salaam, had never heard of it, and he listened with a puzzled face and
obviously feigned interest to Orde's account of its aims and objects, final=
ly
shaking his vast white turban with great significance when he learned that =
it
was promoted by certain pleaders named by Orde, and by educated natives. He
began with labored respect to explain how he was a poor man with no concern=
in
such matters, which were all under the control of God, but presently broke =
out
of Urdu into familiar Punjabi, the mere sound of which had a rustic smack of
village smoke-reek and plough-tail, as he denounced the wearers of white co=
ats,
the jugglers with words who filched his field from him, the men whose backs
were never bowed in honest work; and poured ironical scorn on the Bengali. =
He
and one of his brothers had seen Calcutta, and being at work there had Beng=
ali carpenters
given to them as assistants.
"Those carpenters!" said Bishen Sing=
h.
"Black apes were more efficient workmates, and as for the Bengali
babu-tchick!" The guttural click needed no interpretation, but Orde
translated the rest, while Pagett gazed with in.. terest at the wood-carver=
.
"He seems to have a most illiberal prejud=
ice
against the Bengali," said the M.P.
"Yes, it's very sad that for ages outside
Bengal there should be so bitter a prejudice. Pride of race, which also mea=
ns
race-hatred, is the plague and curse of India and it spreads far," poi=
nted
with his riding-whip to the large map of India on the veranda wall.
"See! I begin with the North," said =
he.
"There's the Afghan, and, as a highlander, he despises all the dweller=
s in
Hindoostan-with the exception of the Sikh, whom he hates as cordially as the
Sikh hates him. The Hindu loathes Sikh and Afghan, and the Rajput--that's a
little lower down across this yellow blot of desert--has a strong objection=
, to
put it mildly, to the Maratha who, by the way, poisonously hates the Afghan=
. Let's
go North a minute. The Sindhi hates everybody I've mentioned. Very good, we=
'll
take less warlike races. The cultivator of Northern India domineers over the
man in the next province, and the Behari of the Northwest ridicules the
Bengali. They are all at one on that point. I'm giving you merely the rough=
est
possible outlines of the facts, of course."
Bishen Singh, his clean cut nostrils still
quivering, watched the large sweep of the whip as it traveled from the
frontier, through Sindh, the Punjab and Rajputana, till it rested by the va=
lley
of the Jumna.
"Hate--eternal and inextinguishable
hate," concluded Orde, flicking the lash of the whip across the large =
map
from East to West as he sat down. "Remember Canning's advice to Lord
Granville, 'Never write or speak of Indian things without looking at a
map.'"
Pagett opened his eyes, Orde resumed. "And
the race-hatred is only a part of it. What's really the matter with Bisben
Singh is class-hatred, which, unfortunately, is even more intense and more
widely spread. That's one of the little drawbacks of caste, which some of y=
our
recent English writers find an impeccable system."
The wood-carver was glad to be recalled to the
business of his craft, and his eyes shone as he received instructions for a
carved wooden doorway for Pagett, which he promised should be splendidly
executed and despatched to England in six months. It is an irrelevant detai=
l,
but in spite of Orde's reminders, fourteen months elapsed before the work w=
as finished.
Business over, Bishen Singh hung about, reluctant to take his leave, and at
last joining his hands and approaching Orde with bated breath and whispering
humbleness, said he had a petition to make. Orde's face suddenly lost all t=
race
of expression. "Speak on, Bishen Singh," said he, and the carver =
in a
whining tone explained that his case against his brothers was fixed for hea=
ring
before a native judge and--here he dropped his voice still lower till he was
summarily stopped by Orde, who sternly pointed to the gate with an emphatic
Begone!
Bishen Singh, showing but little sign of
discomposure, salaamed respectfully to the friends and departed.
Pagett looked inquiry; Orde with complete reco=
very
of his usual urbanity, replied: "It's nothing, only the old story, he
wants his case to be tried by an English judge-they all do that-but when he
began to hint that the other side were in improper relations with the nativ=
e judge
I had to shut him up. Gunga Ram, the man he wanted to make insinuations abo=
ut,
may not be very bright; but he's as honest as day-light on the bench. But
that's just what one can't get a native to believe."
"Do you really mean to say these people
prefer to have their cases tried by English judges?"
"Why, certainly."
Pagett drew a long breath. "I didn't know
that before." At this point a phaeton entered the compound, and Orde r=
ose
with "Confound it, there's old Rasul Ah Khan come to pay one of his
tiresome duty calls. I'm afraid we shall never get through our little Congr=
ess
discussion."
Pagett was an almost silent spectator of the g=
rave
formalities of a visit paid by a punctilious old Mahommedan gentleman to an
Indian official; and was much impressed by the distinction of manner and fi=
ne appearance
of the Mohammedan landholder. When the exchange of polite banalities came t=
o a
pause, he expressed a wish to learn the courtly visitor's opinion of the
National Congress.
Orde reluctantly interpreted, and with a smile
which even Mohammedan politeness could not save from bitter scorn, Rasul Ah
Khan intimated that he knew nothing about it and cared still less. It was a
kind of talk encouraged by the Government for some mysterious purpose of it=
s own,
and for his own part he wondered and held his peace.
Pagett was far from satisfied with this, and
wished to have the old gentleman's opinion on the propriety of managing all
Indian affairs on the basis of an elective system.
Orde did his best to explain, but it was plain=
the
visitor was bored and bewildered. Frankly, he didn't think much of committe=
es;
they had a Municipal Committee at Lahore and had elected a menial servant, =
an orderly,
as a member. He had been informed of this on good authority, and after that,
committees had ceased to interest him. But all was according to the rule of
Government, and, please God, it was all for the best.
"What an old fossil it is!" cried
Pagett, as Orde returned from seeing his guest to the door; "just like
some old blue-blooded hidalgo of Spain. What does he really think of the
Congress after all, and of the elective system?"
"Hates it all like poison. When you are s=
ure
of a majority, election is a fine system; but you can scarcely expect the
Mahommedans, the most masterful and powerful minority in the country, to
contemplate their own extinction with joy. The worst of it is that he and h=
is
co-religionists, who are many, and the landed proprietors, also, of Hindu r=
ace,
are frightened and put out by this election business and by the importance =
we
have bestowed on lawyers, pleaders, writers, and the like, who have, up to =
now,
been in abject submission to them. They say little, hut after all they are =
the
most important fagots in the great bundle of communities, and all the glib
bunkum in the world would not pay for their estrangement. They have control=
led
the land."
"But I am assured that experience of local
self-government in your municipalities has been most satisfactory, and when
once the principle is accepted in your centres, don't you know, it is bound=
to
spread, and these important--ah'm people of yours would learn it like the r=
est.
I see no difficulty at all," and the smooth lips closed with the compl=
acent
snap habitual to Pagett, M.P., the "man of cheerful yesterdays and
confident to-morrows."
Orde looked at him with a dreary smile.
"The privilege of election has been most
reluctantly withdrawn from scores of municipalities, others have had to be
summarily suppressed, and, outside the Presidency towns, the actual work do=
ne
has been badly performed. This is of less moment, perhaps-it only sends up =
the local
death-rates-than the fact that the public interest in municipal elections,
never very strong, has waned, and is waning, in spite of careful nursing on=
the
part of Government servants."
"Can you explain this lack of interest?&q=
uot;
said Pagett, putting aside the rest of Orde's remarks.
"You may find a ward of the key in the fa=
ct
that only one in every thousand af our population can spell. Then they are
infinitely more interested in religion and caste questions than in any sort=
of
politics. When the business of mere existence is over, their minds are occu=
pied
by a series of interests, pleasures, rituals, superstitions, and the like, =
based
on centuries of tradition and usage. You, perhaps, find it hard to conceive=
of
people absolutely devoid of curiosity, to whom the book, the daily paper, a=
nd
the printed speech are unknown, and you would describe their life as blank.
That's a profound mistake. You are in another land, another century, down on
the bed-rock of society, where the family merely, and not the community, is
all-important. The average Oriental cannot be brought to look beyond his cl=
an.
His life, too, is naore complete and self-sufficing, and less sordid and
low-thoughted than you might imagine. It is bovine and slow in some respect=
s,
but it is never empty. You and I are inclined to put the cart before the ho=
rse,
and to forget that it is the man that is elemental, not the book.
'=
The
corn and the cattle are all my care, And the rest is the will of God.'
Why should such folk look up from their
immemorially appointed round of duty and interests to meddle with the unkno=
wn
and fuss with voting-papers. How would you, atop of all your interests care=
to
conduct even one-tenth of your life according to the manners and customs of=
the
Papuans, let's say? That's what it comes to."
"But if they won't take the trouble to vo=
te,
why do you anticipate that Mohammedans, proprietors, and the rest would be
crushed by majorities of them?"
Again Pagett disregarded the closing sentence.=
"Because, though the landholders would not
move a finger on any purely political question, they could be raised in
dangerous excitement by religious hatreds. Already the first note of this h=
as
been sounded by the people who are trying to get up an agitation on the
cow-killing question, and every year there is trouble over the Mohammedan
Muharrum processions.
"But who looks after the popular rights,
being thus unrepresented?"
"The Government of Her Majesty the Queen,
Empress of India, in which, if the Congress promoters are to be believed, t=
he
people have an implicit trust; for the Congress circular, specially prepared
for rustic comprehension, says the movement is 'for the remission of tax, t=
he
advancement of Hindustan, and the strengthening of the British Government.'
This paper is headed in large letters--
'MAY THE PROSPERITY OF THE EMPIRE OF INDIA
ENDURE.'"
"Really!" said Pagett, "that sh= ows some cleverness. But there are things better worth imitation in our English methods of--er--political statement than this sort of amiable fraud."<= o:p>
"Anyhow," resumed Orde, "you
perceive that not a word is said about elections and the elective principle,
and the reticence of the Congress promoters here shows they are wise in the=
ir
generation."
"But the elective principle must triumph =
in
the end, and the little difficulties you seem to anticipate would give way =
on
the introduction of a well-balanced scheme, capable of indefinite
extension."
"But is it possible to devise a scheme wh=
ich,
always assuming that the people took any interest in it, without enormous
expense, ruinous dislocation of the administation and danger to the public
peace, can satisfy the aspirations of Mr. Hume and his following, and yet
safeguard the interests of the Mahommedans, the landed and wealthy classes,=
the
Conservative Hindus, the Eurasians, Parsees, Sikhs, Rajputs, native Christi=
ans,
domiciled Europeans and others, who are each important and powerful in their
way?"
Pagett's attention, however, was diverted to t=
he
gate, where a group of cultivators stood in apparent hesitation.
"Here are the twelve Apostles, by Jove--c=
ome
straight out of Raffaele's cartoons," said the M.P., with the fresh
appreciation of a newcomer.
Orde, loth to be interrupted, turned impatient=
ly
toward the villagers, and their leader, handing his long staff to one of his
companions, advanced to the house.
"It is old Jelbo, the Lumherdar, or head-=
man
of Pind Sharkot, and a very' intelligent man for a villager."
The Jat farmer had removed his shoes and stood
smiling on the edge of the veranda. His strongly marked features glowed with
russet bronze, and his bright eyes gleamed under deeply set brows, contract=
ed
by lifelong exposure to sunshine. His beard and moustache streaked with grey
swept from bold cliffs of brow and cheek in the large sweeps one sees drawn=
by
Michael Angelo, and strands of long black hair mingled with the irregularly
piled wreaths and folds of his turban. The drapery of stout blue cotton clo=
th
thrown over his broad shoulders and girt round his narrow loins, hung from =
his
tall form in broadly sculptured folds, and he would have made a superb model
for an artist in search of a patriarch.
Orde greeted him cordially, and after a polite
pause the countryman started off with a long story told with impressive
earnestness. Orde listened and smiled, interrupting the speaker at 'times to
argue and reason with him in a tone which Pagett could hear was kindly, and=
finally
checking the flux of words was about to dismiss him, when Pagett suggested =
that
he should be asked about the National Congress.
But Jelloc had never heard of it. He was a poor
man and such things, by the favor of his Honor, did not concern him.
"What's the matter with your big friend t=
hat
he was so terribly in earnest?" asked Pagett, when he had left.
"Nothing much. He wants the blood of the
people in the next village, who have had smallpox and cattle plague pretty
badly, and by the help of a wizard, a currier, and several pigs have passed=
it
on to his own village. 'Wants to know if they can't be run in for this awful
crime. It seems they made a dreadful charivari at the village boundary, thr=
ew a
quantity of spell-bearing objects over the border, a buffalo's skull and ot=
her
things; then branded a chamur--what you would call a currier--on his hinder
parts and drove him and a number of pigs over into Jelbo's village. Jelbo s=
ays
he can bring evidence to prove that the wizard directing these proceedings,=
who
is a Sansi, has been guilty of theft, arson, cattle-killing, perjury and
murder, but would prefer to have him punished for bewitching them and
inflicting small-pox."
"And how on earth did you answer such a
lunatic?"
"Lunatic I the old fellow is as sane as y=
ou
or I; and he has some ground of complaint against those Sansis. I asked if =
he
would like a native superintendent of police with some men to make inquirie=
s,
but he objected on the grounds the police were rather worse than smallpox a=
nd criminal
tribes put together."
"Criminal tribes--er--I don't quite
understand," said Paget.
"We have in India many tribes of people w=
ho
in the slack anti-British days became robbers, in various kind, and preyed =
on
the people. They are being restrained and reclaimed little by little, and in
time will become useful citizens, but they still cherish hereditary traditi=
ons
of crime, and are a difficult lot to deal with. By the way what; about the =
political
rights of these folk under your schemes? The country people call them vermi=
n,
but I sup-pose they would be electors with the rest."
"Nonsense--special provision would be made
for them in a well-considered electoral scheme, and they would doubtless be
treated with fitting severity," said Pagett, with a magisterial air.
"Severity, yes--but whether it would be
fitting is doubtful. Even those poor devils have rights, and, after all, th=
ey
only practice what they have been taught."
"But criminals, Orde!"
"Yes, criminals with codes and rituals of
crime, gods and godlings of crime, and a hundred songs and sayings in prais=
e of
it. Puzzling, isn't it?"
"It's simply dreadful. They ought to be p=
ut
down at once. Are there many of them?"
"Not more than about sixty thousand in th=
is
province, for many of the tribes broadly described as criminal are really
vagabond and criminal only on occasion, while others are being settled and
reclaimed. They are of great antiquity, a legacy from the past, the golden,
glorious Aryan past of Max Muller, Birdwood and the rest of your spindrift =
philosophers."
An orderly brought a card to Orde who took it =
with
a movement of irritation at the interruption, and banded it to Pagett; a la=
rge
card with a ruled border in red ink, and in the centre in schoolboy copper =
plate,
Mr. Dma Nath. "Give salaam," said the civilian, and there entered=
in
haste a slender youth, clad in a closely fitting coat of grey homespun, tig=
ht
trousers, patent-leather shoes, and a small black velvet cap. His thin cheek
twitched, and his eyes wandered restlessly, for the young man was evidently
nervous and uncomfortable, though striving to assume a free and easy air.
"Your honor may perhaps remember me,"=
; he
said in English, and Orde scanned him keenly.
"I know your face somehow. You belonged to
the Shershah district I think, when I was in charge there?"
"Yes, Sir, my father is writer at Shersha=
h,
and your honor gave me a prize when I was first in the Middle School
examination five years ago. Since then I have prosecuted my studies, and I =
am
now second year's student in the Mission College."
"Of course: you are Kedar Nath's son--the=
boy
who said he liked geography better than play or sugar cakes, and I didn't
believe you. How is your father getting on?"
"He is well, and he sends his salaam, but=
his
circumstances are depressed, and he also is down on his luck."
"You learn English idiom at the Mission
College, it seems."
"Yes, sir, they are the best idioms, and =
my
father ordered me to ask your honor to say a word for him to the present
incumbent of your honor's shoes, the latchet of which he is not worthy to o=
pen,
and who knows not Joseph; for things are different at Sher shah now, and my=
father
wants promotion."
"Your father is a good man, and I will do
what I can for him."
At this point a telegram was handed to Orde, w=
ho,
after glancing at it, said he must leave his young friend whom he introduce=
d to
Pagett, "a member of the English House of Commons who wishes to learn
about India."
Orde bad scarcely retired with his telegram wh=
en
Pagett began:
"Perhaps you can tell me something of the
National Congress movement?"
"Sir, it is the greatest movement of mode=
rn
times, and one in which all educated men like us must join. All our students
are for the Congress."
"Excepting, I suppose, Mahommedans, and t=
he
Christians?" said Pagett, quick to use his recent instruction.
"These are some mere exceptions to the
universal rule."
"But the people outside the College, the
working classes, the agriculturists; your father and mother, for
instance."
"My mother," said the young man, wit=
h a
visible effort to bring himself to pronounce the word, "has no ideas, =
and
my father is not agriculturist, nor working class; he is of the Kayeth cast=
e;
but he had not the advantage of a collegiate education, and he does not kno=
w much
of the Congress. It is a movement for the educated young-man" -connect=
ing
adjective and noun in a sort of vocal hyphen.
"Ah, yes," said Pagett, feeling he w=
as a
little off the rails, "and what are the benefits you expect to gain by
it?"
"Oh, sir, everything. England owes its
greatness to Parliamentary institutions, and we should at once gain the same
high position in scale of nations. Sir, we wish to have the sciences, the a=
rts,
the manufactures, the industrial factories, with steam engines, and other m=
otive
powers and public meetings, and debates. Already we have a debating club in
connection with the college, and elect a Mr. Speaker. Sir, the progress must
come. You also are a Member of Parliament and worship the great Lord
Ripon," said the youth, breathlessly, and his black eyes flashed as he
finished his commaless sentences.
"Well," said Pagett, drily, "it=
has
not yet occurred to me to worship his Lordship, although I believe he is a =
very
worthy man, and I am not sure that England owes quite all the things you na=
me
to the House of Commons. You see, my young friend, the growth of a nation l=
ike
ours is slow, subject to many influences, and if you have read your history=
aright"--"Sir.
I know it all--all! Norman Conquest, Magna Charta, Runnymede, Reformation,
Tudors, Stuarts, Mr. Milton and Mr. Burke, and I have read something of Mr.
Herbert Spencer and Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall,' Reynolds' Mysteries of the
Court,'" and Pagett felt like one who had pulled the string of a
shower-bath unawares, and hastened to stop the torrent with a question as to
what particular grievances of the people of India the attention of an elect=
ed
assembly should be first directed. But young Mr. Dma Nath was slow to
particularize. There were many, very many demanding consideration. Mr. Page=
tt
would like to hear of one or two typical examples. The Repeal of the Arms A=
ct
was at last named, and the student learned for the first time that a license
was necessary before an Englishman could carry a gun in England. Then nativ=
es
of India ought to be allowed to become Volunteer Riflemen if they chose, and
the absolute equality of the Oriental with his European fellow-subject in c=
ivil
status should be proclaimed on principle, and the Indian Army should be
considerably reduced. The student was not, however, prepared with answers to
Mr. Pagett's mildest questions on these points, and he returned to vague
generalities, leaving the M.P. so much impressed with the crudity of his vi=
ews
that he was glad on Orde's return to say good-bye to his 'very interesting'
young friend.
"What do you think of young India?" =
asked
Orde.
"Curious, very curious-and callow."<= o:p>
"And yet," the civilian replied,
"one can scarcely help sympathizing with him for his mere youth's sake.
The young orators of the Oxford Union arrived at the same conclusions and
showed doubtless just the same enthusiasm. If there were any political anal=
ogy
between India and England, if the thousand races of this Empire were one, if
there were any chance even of their learning to speak one language, if, in
short, India were a Utopia of the debating-room, and not a real land, this =
kind
of talk might be worth listening to, but it is all based on false analogy a=
nd
ignorance of the facts."
"But he is a native and knows the
facts."
"He is a sort of English schoolboy, but
married three years, and the father of two weaklings, and knows less than m=
ost
English schoolboys. You saw all he is and knows, and such ideas as he has
acquired are directly hostile to the most cherished convictions of the vast
majority of the people."
"But what does he mean by saying he is a =
student
of a mission college? Is he a Christian?"
"He meant just what he said, and he is no=
t a
Christian, nor ever will he be. Good people in America, Scotland and Englan=
d,
most of whom would never dream of collegiate education for their own sons, =
are
pinching themselves to bestow it in pure waste on Indian youths. Their sche=
me is
an oblique, subterranean attack on heathenism; the theory being that with t=
he
jam of secular education, leading to a University degree, the pill of moral=
or
religious instruction may he coaxed down the heathen gullet."
"But does it succeed; do they make
converts?"
"They make no converts, for the subtle
Oriental swallows the jam and rejects the pill; but the mere example of the
sober, righteous, and godly lives of the principals and professors who are =
most
excellent and devoted men, must have a certain moral value. Yet, as Lord
Lansdowne pointed out the other day, the market is dangerously overstocked =
with
graduates of our Universities who look for employment in the administration=
. An
immense number are employed, but year by year the college mills grind out
increasing lists of youths foredoomed to failure and disappointment, and
meanwhile, trade, manufactures, and the industrial arts are neglected, and =
in
fact regarded with contempt by our new literary mandarins in posse."
"But our young friend said he wanted
steam-engines and factories," said Pagett.
"Yes, he would like to direct such concer=
ns.
He wants to begin at the top, for manual labor is held to be discreditable,=
and
he would never defile his hands by the apprenticeship which the architects,
engineers, and manufacturers of England cheerfully undergo; and he would be
aghast to learn that the leading names of industrial enterprise in England =
belonged
a generation or two since, or now belong, to men who wrought with their own
hands. And, though he talks glibly of manufacturers, he refuses to see that=
the
Indian manufacturer of the future will be the despised workman of the prese=
nt.
It was proposed, for example, a few weeks ago, that a certain municipality =
in
this province should establish an elementary technical school for the sons =
of
workmen. The stress of the opposition to the plan came from a pleader who o=
wed
all he had to a college education bestowed on him gratis by Government and
missions. You would have fancied some fine old crusted Tory squire of the l=
ast generation
was speaking. 'These people,' he said, 'want no education, for they learn t=
heir
trades from their fathers, and to teach a workman's son the elements of
mathematics and physical science would give him ideas above his business. T=
hey
must be kept in their place, and it was idle to imagine that there was any
science in wood or iron work.' And he carried his point. But the Indian wor=
kman
will rise in the social scale in spite of the new literary caste."
"In England we have scarcely begun to rea=
lize
that there is an industrial class in this country, yet, I suppose, the exam=
ple
of men, like Edwards for instance, must tell," said Pagett, thoughtful=
ly.
"That you shouldn't know much about it is
natural enough, for there are but few sources of information. India in this=
, as
in other respects, is like a badly kept ledger-not written up to date. And =
men
like Edwards are, in reality, missionaries, who by precept and example are =
teaching
more lessons than they know. Only a few, however, of their crowds of subord=
inates
seem to care to try to emulate them, and aim at individual advancement; the
rest drop into the ancient Indian caste groove."
"How do you mean?" asked he, "W=
ell,
it is found that the new railway and factory workmen, the fitter, the smith,
the engine-driver, and the rest are already forming separate hereditary cas=
tes.
You may notice this down at Jamalpur in Bengal, one of the oldest railway
centres; and at other places, and in other industries, they are following t=
he
same inexorable Indian law."
"Which means?" queried Pagett.
"It means that the rooted habit of the pe=
ople
is to gather in small self-contained, self-sufficing family groups with no
thought or care for any interests but their own-a habit which is scarcely
compatible with the right acceptation of the elective principle."
"Yet you must admit, Orde, that though our
young friend was not able to expound the faith that is in him, your Indian =
army
is too big."
"Not nearly big enough for its main purpo=
se.
And, as a side issue, there are certain powerful minorities of fighting folk
whose interests an Asiatic Government is bound to consider. Arms is as much=
a
means of livelihood as civil employ under Government and law. And it would =
be a
heavy strain on British bayonets to hold down Sikhs, Jats, Bilochis, Rohill=
as,
Rajputs, Bhils, Dogras, Pahtans, and Gurkbas to abide by the decisions of a
numerical majority opposed to their interests. Leave the 'numerical majorit=
y' to
itself without the British bayonets-a flock of sheep might as reasonably ho=
pe
to manage a troop of collies."
"This complaint about excessive growth of=
the
army is akin to another contention of the Congress party. They protest agai=
nst
the malversation of the whole of the moneys raised by additional taxes as a
Famine Insurance Fund to other purposes. You must be aware that this specia=
l Famine
Fund has all been spent on frontier roads and defences and strategic railway
schemes as a protection against Russia."
"But there was never a special famine fund
raised by special taxation and put by as in a box. No sane administrator wo=
uld
dream of such a thing. In a time of prosperity a finance minister, rejoicin=
g in
a margin, proposed to annually apply a million and a half to the constructi=
on
of railways and canals for the protection of districts liable to scarcity, =
and
to the reduction of the annual loans for public works. But times were not
always prosperous, and the finance minister had to choose whether he would =
bang
up the insurance scheme for a year or impose fresh taxation. When a farmer
hasn't got the little surplus he hoped to have for buying a new wagon and
draining a low-lying field corner, you don't accuse him of malversation, if=
he
spends what he has on the necessary work of the rest of his farm."
A clatter of hoofs was heard, and Orde looked =
up
with vexation, but his brow cleared as a horseman halted under the porch.
"Hellin Orde! just looked in to ask if you
are coming to polo on Tuesday: we want you badly to help to crumple up the =
Krab
Bokbar team."
Orde explained that he had to go out into the
District, and while the visitor complained that though good men wouldn't pl=
ay,
duffers were always keen, and that his side would probably be beaten, Pagett
rose to look at his mount, a red, lathered Biloch mare, with a curious
lyre-like incurving of the ears. "Quite a little thoroughbred in all o=
ther
respects," said the M.P., and Orde presented Mr. Reginald Burke, Manag=
er of
the Siad and Sialkote Bank to his friend.
"Yes, she's as good as they make 'em, and
she's all the female I possess and spoiled in consequence, aren't you, old
girl?" said Burke, patting the mare's glossy neck as she backed and
plunged.
"Mr. Pagett," said Orde, "has b=
een
asking me about the Congress. What is your opinion?" Burke turned to t=
he
M. P. with a frank smile.
"Well, if it's all the same to you, sir, I
should say, Damn the Congress, but then I'm no politician, but only a busin=
ess
man."
"You find it a tiresome subject?"
"Yes, it's all that, and worse than that,=
for
this kind of agitation is anything but wholesome for the country."
"How do you mean?"
"It would be a long job to explain, and S=
ara
here won't stand, but you know how sensitive capital is, and how timid
investors are. All this sort of rot is likely to frighten them, and we can't
afford to frighten them. The passengers aboard an Ocean steamer don't feel
reassured when the ship's way is stopped, and they hear the workmen's hamme=
rs
tinkering at the engines down below. The old Ark's going on all right as she
is, and only wants quiet and room to move. Them's my sentiments, and those =
of
some other people who have to do with money and business."
"Then you are a thick-and-thin supporter =
of
the Government as it is."
"Why, no! The Indian Government is much t=
oo
timid with its money-like an old maiden aunt of mine-always in a funk about=
her
investments. They don't spend half enough on railways for instance, and they
are slow in a general way, and ought to be made to sit up in all that conce=
rns the
encouragement of private enterprise, and coaxing out into use the millions =
of
capital that lie dormant in the country."
The mare was dancing with impatience, and Burke
was evidently anxious to be off, so the men wished him good-bye.
"Who is your genial friend who condemns b=
oth
Congress and Government in a breath?" asked Pagett, with an amused smi=
le.
"Just now he is Reggie Burke, keener on p=
olo
than on anything else, but if you go to the Sind and Sialkote Bank to-morrow
you would find Mr. Reginald Burke a very capable man of business, known and
liked by an immense constituency North and South of this."
"Do you think he is right about the
Government's want of enterprise?"
"I should hesitate to say. Better consult=
the
merchants and chambers of commerce in Cawnpore, Madras, Bombay, and Calcutt=
a.
But though these bodies would like, as Reggie puts it, to make Government s=
it
up, it is an elementary consideration in governing a country like India, wh=
ich must
be administered for the benefit of the people at large, that the counsels of
those who resort to it for the sake of making money should be judiciously
weighed and not allowed to overpower the rest. They are welcome guests here=
, as
a matter of course, but it has been found best to restrain their influence.
Thus the rights of plantation laborers, factory operatives, and the like, h=
ave
been protected, and the capitalist, eager to get on, has not always regarded
Government action with favor. It is quite conceivable that under an elective
system the commercial communities of the great towns might find means to se=
cure
majorities on labor questions and on financial matters."
"They would act at least with intelligence
and consideration."
"Intelligence, yes; but as to considerati=
on,
who at the present moment most bitterly resents the tender solicitude of
Lancashire for the welfare and protection of the Indian factory operative?
English and native capitalists running cotton mills and factories."
"But is the solicitude of Lancashire in t=
his
matter entirely disinterested?"
"It is no business of mine to say. I mere=
ly
indicate an example of how a powerful commercial interest might hamper a
Government intent in the first place on the larger interests of humanity.&q=
uot;
Orde broke off to listen a moment. "There=
's Dr.
Lathrop talking to my wife in the drawing-room," said he.
"Surely not; that's a lady's voice, and i=
f my
ears don't deceive me, an American."
"Exactly, Dr. Eva McCreery Lathrop, chief=
of
the new Women's Hospital here, and a very good fellow forbye. Good-morning,
Doctor," he said, as a graceful figure came out on the veranda, "=
you
seem to be in trouble. I hope Mrs. Orde was able to help you."
"Your wife is real kind and good, I always
come to her when I'm in a fix but I fear it's more than comforting I want.&=
quot;
"You work too hard and wear yourself
out," said Orde, kindly. "Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Pagett,
just fresh from home, and anxious to learn his India. You could tell him
something of that more important half of which a mere man knows so little.&=
quot;
"Perhaps I could if I'd any heart to do i=
t,
but I'm in trouble, I've lost a case, a case that was doing well, through
nothing in the world but inattention on the part of a nurse I had begun to
trust. And when I spoke only a small piece of my mind she collapsed in a
whining heap on the floor. It is hopeless."
The men were silent, for the blue eyes of the =
lady
doctor were dim. Recovering herself she looked up with a smile, half sad, h=
alf
humorous, "And I am in a whining heap, too; but what phase of Indian l=
ife
are you particularly interested in, sir?"
"Mr. Pagett intends to study the political
aspect of things and the possibility of bestowing electoral institutions on=
the
people."
"Wouldn't it be as much to the purpose to
bestow point-lace collars on them? They need many things more urgently than
votes. Why it's like giving a bread-pill for a broken leg."
"Er-I don't quite follow," said Page=
tt,
uneasily.
"Well, what's the matter with this countr=
y is
not in the least political, but an all round entanglement of physical, soci=
al,
and moral evils and corruptions, all more or less due to the unnatural
treatment of women. You can't gather figs from thistles, and so long as the
system of infant marriage, the prohibition of the remarriage of widows, the
lifelong imprisonment of wives and mothers in a worse than penal confinemen=
t,
and the withholding from them of any kind of education or treatment as rati=
onal
beings continues, the country can't advance a step. Half of it is morally d=
ead,
and worse than dead, and that's just the half from which we have a right to
look for the best impulses. It's right here where the trouble is, and not in
any political considerations whatsoever."
"But do they marry so early?" said
Pagett, vaguely.
"The average age is seven, but thousands =
are
married still earlier. One result is that girls of twelve and thirteen have=
to
bear the burden of wifehood and motherhood, and, as might be expected, the =
rate
of mortality both for mothers and children is terrible. Pauperism, domestic
unhappiness, and a low state of health are only a few of the consequences of
this. Then, when, as frequently happens, the boy-husband dies prematurely, =
his
widow is condemned to worse than death. She may not re-marry, must live a
secluded and despised life, a life so unnatural that she sometimes prefers
suicide; more often she goes astray. You don't know in England what such wo=
rds
as 'infant-marriage, baby-wife, girl-mother, and virgin-widow' mean; but th=
ey
mean unspeakable horrors here."
"Well, but the advanced political party h=
ere
will surely make it their business to advocate social reforms as well as
political ones," said Pagett.
"Very surely they will do no such
thing," said the lady doctor, emphatically. "I wish I could make =
you
understand. Why, even of the funds devoted to the Marchioness of Dufferin's
organization for medical aid to the women of India, it was said in print an=
d in
speech, that they would be better spent on more college scholarships for me=
n.
And in all the advanced parties' talk-God forgive them--and in all their pr=
ogrammes,
they carefully avoid all such subjects. They will talk about the protection=
of
the cow, for that's an ancient superstition--they can all understand that; =
but
the protection of the women is a new and dangerous idea." She turned to
Pagett impulsively:
"You are a member of the English Parliame=
nt.
Can you do nothing? The foundations of their life are rotten-utterly and
bestially rotten. I could tell your wife things that I couldn't tell you. I
know the life--the inner life that belongs to the native, and I know nothin=
g else;
and believe me you might as well try to grow golden-rod in a mushroom-pit a=
s to
make anything of a people that are born and reared as these--these things'r=
e.
The men talk of their rights and privileges. I have seen the women that bear
these very men, and again-may God forgive the men!"
Pagett's eyes opened with a large wonder. Dr.
Lathrop rose tempestuously.
"I must be off to lecture," said she,
"and I'm sorry that I can't show you my hospitals; but you had better
believe, sir, that it's more necessary for India than all the elections in
creation."
"That's a woman with a mission, and no
mistake," said Pagett, after a pause.
"Yes; she believes in her work, and so do
I," said Orde. "I've a notion that in the end it will be found th=
at
the most helpful work done for India in this generation was wrought by Lady
Dufferin in drawing attention-what work that was, by the way, even with her
husband's great name to back it to the needs of women here. In effect, nati=
ve
habits and beliefs are an organized conspiracy against the laws of health a=
nd
happy life--but there is some dawning of hope now."
"How d' you account for the general
indifference, then?"
"I suppose it's due in part to their fata=
lism
and their utter indifference to all human suffering. How much do you imagine
the great province of the Pun-jab with over twenty million people and half a
score rich towns has contributed to the maintenance of civil dispensaries l=
ast year?
About seven thousand rupees."
"That's seven hundred pounds," said
Pagett, quickly.
"I wish it was," replied Orde; "=
;but
anyway, it's an absurdly inadequate sum, and shows one of the blank sides of
Oriental character."
Pagett was silent for a long time. The questio=
n of
direct and personal pain did not lie within his researches. He preferred to
discuss the weightier matters of the law, and contented himself with murmur=
ing:
"They'll do better later on." Then, with a rush, returning to his
first thought:
"But, my dear Orde, if it's merely a class
movement of a local and temporary character, how d' you account for Bradlau=
gh,
who is at least a man of sense taking it up?"
"I know nothing of the champion of the New
Brahmins but what I see in the papers. I suppose there is something temptin=
g in
being hailed by a large assemblage as the representative of the aspirations=
of
two hundred and fifty millions of people. Such a man looks 'through all the
roaring and the wreaths,' and does not reflect that it is a false perspecti=
ve, which,
as a matter of fact, hides the real complex and manifold India from his gaz=
e.
He can scarcely be expected to distinguish between the ambitions of a new
oligarchy and the real wants of the people of whom he knows nothing. But it=
's
strange that a professed Radical should come to be the chosen advocate of a
movement which has for its aim the revival of an ancient tyranny. Shows how
even Radicalism can fall into academic grooves and miss the essential truth=
s of
its own creed. Believe me, Pagett, to deal with India you want first-hand
knowledge and experience. I wish he would come and live here for a couple of
years or so."
"Is not this rather an ad hominem style of
argument?"
"Can't help it in a case like this. Indee=
d, I
am not sure you ought not to go further and weigh the whole character and
quality and upbringing of the man. You must admit that the monumental
complacency with which he trotted out his ingenious little Constitution for
India showed a strange want of imagination and the sense of humor."
"No, I don't quite admit it," said
Pagett.
"Well, you know him and I don't, but that=
's
how it strikes a stranger." He turned on his heel and paced the veranda
thoughtfully. "And, after all, the burden of the actual, daily unroman=
tic
toil falls on the shoulders of the men out here, and not on his own. He enj=
oys
all the privileges of recommendation without responsibility, and we-well, p=
erhaps,
when you've seen a little more of India you'll understand. To begin with, o=
ur
death rate's five times higher than yours-I speak now for the brutal
bureaucrat--and we work on the refuse of worked-out cities and exhausted
civilizations, among the bones of the dead."
Pagett laughed. "That's an epigrammatic w=
ay
of putting it, Orde."
"Is it? Let's see," said the Deputy
Commissioner of Amara, striding into the sunshine toward a half-naked garde=
ner
potting roses. He took the man's hoe, and went to a rain-scarped bank at the
bottom of the garden.
"Come here, Pagett," he said, and cu=
t at
the sun-baked soil. After three strokes there rolled from under the blade of
the hoe the half of a clanking skeleton that settled at Pagett's feet in an
unseemly jumble of bones. The M.P. drew back.
"Our houses are built on cemeteries,"
said Orde. "There are scores of thousands of graves within ten
miles."
Pagett was contemplating the skull with the aw=
ed
fascination of a man who has but little to do with the dead. "India's a
very curious place," said he, after a pause.
"Ah? You'll know all about it in three
months. Come in to lunch," said Orde.