Surgeon-General, who was in league, apparently, with all the Hospital
Assistants in the Empire. I forget exactly how he proved it, but it had
something to do with “skulking up to the Hills;” and what Mellish
wanted was the independent evidence of the Viceroy--“Steward of our
Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, Sir.” So Mellish went up to Simla, with
eighty-four pounds of Fumigatory in his trunk, to speak to the Viceroy
and to show him the merits of the invention.
But it is easier to see a Viceroy than to talk to him, unless you chance
to be as important as Mellishe of Madras. He was a six-thousand-rupee
man, so great that his daughters never “married.” They “contracted
alliances.” He himself was not paid. He “received emoluments,” and his
journeys about the country were “tours of observation.” His business was
to stir up the people in Madras with a long pole--as you stir up stench
in a pond--and the people had to come up out of their comfortable old
ways and gasp:--“This is Enlightenment and progress. Isn't it fine!”
Then they gave Mellishe statues and jasmine garlands, in the hope of
getting rid of him.
Mellishe came up to Simla “to confer with the Viceroy.” That was one of
his perquisites. The Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe except that he was
“one of those middle-class deities who seem necessary to the spiritual
comfort of this Paradise of the Middle-classes,” and that, in all
probability, he had “suggested, designed, founded, and endowed all the
public institutions in Madras.” Which proves that His Excellency, though
dreamy, had experience of the ways of six-thousand-rupee men.
Mellishe's name was E. Mellishe and Mellish's was E. S. Mellish, and
they were both staying at the same hotel, and the Fate that looks after
the Indian Empire ordained that Wonder should blunder and drop the final
“e;” that the Chaprassi should help him, and that the note which ran:
“Dear Mr. Mellish.--Can you set aside your other engagements and lunch
with us at two to-morrow? His Excellency has an hour at your disposal
then,” should be given to Mellish with the Fumigatory. He nearly wept
with pride and delight, and at the appointed hour cantered off to
Peterhoff, a big paper-bag full of the Fumigatory in his coat-tail
pockets. He had his chance, and he meant to make the most of
it. Mellishe of Madras had been so portentously solemn about his
“conference,” that Wonder had arranged for a private tiffin--no A.-D.
C.'s, no Wonder, no one but the Viceroy, who said plaintively that he
feared being left alone with unmuzzled autocrats like the great Mellishe
of Madras.
But his guest did not bore the Viceroy. On the contrary, he amused him.
Mellish was nervously anxious to go straight to his Fumigatory, and
talked at random until tiffin was over and His Excellency asked him
to smoke. The Viceroy was pleased with Mellish because he did not talk
“shop.”
As soon as the cheroots were lit, Mellish spoke like a man; beginning
with his cholera-theory, reviewing his fifteen years' “scientific
labors,” the machinations of the “Simla Ring,” and the excellence of
his Fumigatory, while the Viceroy watched him between half-shut eyes
and thought: “Evidently, this is the wrong tiger; but it is an original
animal.” Mellish's hair was standing on end with excitement, and he
stammered. He began groping in his coat-tails and, before the Viceroy
knew what was about to happen, he had tipped a bagful of his powder into
the big silver ash-tray.
“J-j-judge for yourself, Sir,” said Mellish. “Y' Excellency shall judge
for yourself! Absolutely infallible, on my honor.”
He plunged the lighted end of his cigar into the powder, which began to
smoke like a volcano, and send up fat, greasy wreaths of copper-colored
smoke. In five seconds the room was filled with a most pungent and
sickening stench--a reek that took fierce hold of the trap of your
windpipe and shut it. The powder then hissed and fizzed, and sent out
blue and green sparks, and the smoke rose till you could neither see,
nor breathe, nor gasp. Mellish, however, was used to it.
“Nitrate of strontia,” he shouted; “baryta, bone-meal, etcetera!
Thousand cubic feet smoke per cubic inch. Not a germ could live--not a
germ, Y' Excellency!”
But His Excellency had fled, and was coughing at the foot of the stairs,
while all Peterhoff hummed like a hive. Red Lancers came in, and the
Head Chaprassi, who speaks English, came in, and mace-bearers came in,
and ladies ran downstairs screaming “fire;” for the smoke was drifting
through the house and oozing out of the windows, and bellying along the
verandahs, and wreathing and writhing across the gardens. No one could
enter the room where Mellish was lecturing on his Fumigatory, till that
unspeakable powder had burned itself out.
Then an Aide-de-Camp, who desired the V. C., rushed through the rolling
clouds and hauled Mellish into the hall. The Viceroy was prostrate with
laughter, and could only waggle his hands feebly at Mellish, who was
shaking a fresh bagful of powder at him.
“Glorious! Glorious!” sobbed his Excellency. “Not a germ, as you justly
observe, could exist! I can swear it. A magnificent success!”
Then he laughed till the tears came, and Wonder, who had caught the real
Mellishe snorting on the Mall, entered and was deeply shocked at the
scene. But the Viceroy was delighted, because he saw that Wonder would
presently depart. Mellish with the Fumigatory was also pleased, for he
felt that he had smashed the Simla Medical “Ring.”
. . . . . . . . .
Few men could tell a story like His Excellency when he took the trouble,
and the account of “my dear, good Wonder's friend with the powder”
went the round of Simla, and flippant folk made Wonder unhappy by their
remarks.
But His Excellency told the tale once too often--for Wonder. As he meant
to do. It was at a Seepee Picnic. Wonder was sitting just behind the
Viceroy.
“And I really thought for a moment,” wound up His Excellency, “that my
dear, good Wonder had hired an assassin to clear his way to the throne!”
Every one laughed; but there was a delicate subtinkle in the Viceroy's
tone which Wonder understood. He found that his health was giving way;
and the Viceroy allowed him to go, and presented him with a flaming
“character” for use at Home among big people.
“My fault entirely,” said His Excellency, in after seasons, with
a twinkling in his eye. “My inconsistency must always have been
distasteful to such a masterly man.”
KIDNAPPED.
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken any way you please, is bad,
And strands them in forsaken guts and creeks
No decent soul would think of visiting.
You cannot stop the tide; but now and then,
You may arrest some rash adventurer
Who--h'm--will hardly thank you for your pains.
Vibart's Moralities.
We are a high-caste and enlightened race, and infant-marriage is very
shocking and the consequences are sometimes peculiar; but, nevertheless,
the Hindu notion--which is the Continental notion--which is the
aboriginal notion--of arranging marriages irrespective of the personal
inclinations of the married, is sound. Think for a minute, and you will
see that it must be so; unless, of course, you believe in “affinities.”
In which case you had better not read this tale. How can a man who has
never married; who cannot be trusted to pick up at sight a moderately
sound horse; whose head is hot and upset with visions of domestic
felicity, go about the choosing of a wife? He cannot see straight or
think straight if he tries; and the same disadvantages exist in the
case of a girl's fancies. But when mature, married and discreet people
arrange a match between a boy and a girl, they do it sensibly, with a
view to the future, and the young couple live happily ever afterwards.
As everybody knows.
Properly speaking, Government should establish a Matrimonial Department,
efficiently officered, with a Jury of Matrons, a Judge of the Chief
Court, a Senior Chaplain, and an Awful Warning, in the shape of a
love-match that has gone wrong, chained to the trees in the courtyard.
All marriages should be made through the Department, which might be
subordinate to the Educational Department, under the same penalty as
that attaching to the transfer of land without a stamped document. But
Government won't take suggestions. It pretends that it is too busy.
However, I will put my notion on record, and explain the example that
illustrates the theory.
Once upon a time there was a good young man--a first-class officer in
his own Department--a man with a career before him and, possibly, a K.
C. G. E. at the end of it. All his superiors spoke well of him, because
he knew how to hold his tongue and his pen at the proper times. There
are to-day only eleven men in India who possess this secret; and they
have all, with one exception, attained great honor and enormous incomes.
This good young man was quiet and self-contained--too old for his years
by far. Which always carries its own punishment. Had a Subaltern, or a
Tea-Planter's Assistant, or anybody who enjoys life and has no care for
to-morrow, done what he tried to do not a soul would have cared.
But when Peythroppe--the estimable, virtuous, economical, quiet,
hard-working, young Peythroppe--fell, there was a flutter through five
Departments.
The manner of his fall was in this way. He met a Miss
Castries--d'Castries it was originally, but the family dropped the
d' for administrative reasons--and he fell in love with her even more
energetically that he worked. Understand clearly that there was not a
breath of a word to be said against Miss Castries--not a shadow of a
breath. She was good and very lovely--possessed what innocent people at
home call a “Spanish” complexion, with thick blue-black hair growing low
down on her forehead, into a “widow's peak,” and big violet eyes
under eyebrows as black and as straight as the borders of a Gazette
Extraordinary when a big man dies. But--but--but--. Well, she was a VERY
sweet girl and very pious, but for many reasons she was “impossible.”
Quite so. All good Mammas know what “impossible” means. It was obviously
absurd that Peythroppe should marry her. The little opal-tinted onyx
at the base of her finger-nails said this as plainly as print.
Further, marriage with Miss Castries meant marriage with several other
Castries--Honorary Lieutenant Castries, her Papa, Mrs. Eulalie Castries,
her Mamma, and all the ramifications of the Castries family, on incomes
ranging from Rs. 175 to Rs. 470 a month, and THEIR wives and connections
again.
It would have been cheaper for Peythroppe to have assaulted a
Commissioner with a dog-whip, or to have burned the records of a Deputy
Commissioner's Office, than to have contracted an alliance with the
Castries. It would have weighted his after-career less--even under a
Government which never forgets and NEVER forgives. Everybody saw this
but Peythroppe. He was going to marry Miss Castries, he was--being of
age and drawing a good income--and woe betide the house that would not
afterwards receive Mrs. Virginie Saulez Peythroppe with the deference
due to her husband's rank. That was Peythroppe's ultimatum, and any
remonstrance drove him frantic.
These sudden madnesses most afflict the sanest men. There was a case
once--but I will tell you of that later on. You cannot account for the
mania, except under a theory directly contradicting the one about the
Place wherein marriages are made. Peythroppe was burningly anxious to
put a millstone round his neck at the outset of his career and argument
had not the least effect on him. He was going to marry Miss Castries,
and the business was his own business. He would thank you to keep your
advice to yourself. With a man in this condition, mere words only fix
him in his purpose. Of course he cannot see that marriage out here does
not concern the individual but the Government he serves.
Do you remember Mrs. Hauksbee--the most wonderful woman in India? She
saved Pluffles from Mrs. Reiver, won Tarrion his appointment in the
Foreign Office, and was defeated in open field by Mrs. Cusack-Bremmil.
She heard of the lamentable condition of Peythroppe, and her brain
struck out the plan that saved him. She had the wisdom of the Serpent,
the logical coherence of the Man, the fearlessness of the Child, and
the triple intuition of the Woman. Never--no, never--as long as a tonga
buckets down the Solon dip, or the couples go a-riding at the back of
Summer Hill, will there be such a genius as Mrs. Hauksbee. She attended
the consultation of Three Men on Peythroppe's case; and she stood up
with the lash of her riding-whip between her lips and spake.
. . . . . . . . .
Three weeks later, Peythroppe dined with the Three Men, and the Gazette
of India came in. Peythroppe found to his surprise that he had been
gazetted a month's leave. Don't ask me how this was managed. I believe
firmly that if Mrs. Hauksbee gave the order, the whole Great Indian
Administration would stand on its head.
The Three Men had also a month's leave each. Peythroppe put the Gazette
down and said bad words. Then there came from the compound the soft
“pad-pad” of camels--“thieves' camels,” the bikaneer breed that don't
bubble and howl when they sit down and get up.
After that I don't know what happened. This much is certain. Peythroppe
disappeared--vanished like smoke--and the long foot-rest chair in the
house of the Three Men was broken to splinters. Also a bedstead departed
from one of the bedrooms.
Mrs. Hauksbee said that Mr. Peythroppe was shooting in Rajputana with
the Three Men; so we were compelled to believe her.
At the end of the month, Peythroppe was gazetted twenty days' extension
of leave; but there was wrath and lamentation in the house of Castries.
The marriage-day had been fixed, but the bridegroom never came; and the
D'Silvas, Pereiras, and Ducketts lifted their voices and mocked Honorary
Lieutenant Castries as one who had been basely imposed upon. Mrs.
Hauksbee went to the wedding, and was much astonished when Peythroppe
did not appear. After seven weeks, Peythroppe and the Three Men returned
from Rajputana. Peythroppe was in hard, tough condition, rather white,
and more self-contained than ever.
One of the Three Men had a cut on his nose, cause by the kick of a gun.
Twelve-bores kick rather curiously.
Then came Honorary Lieutenant Castries, seeking for the blood of his
perfidious son-in-law to be. He said things--vulgar and “impossible”
things which showed the raw rough “ranker” below the “Honorary,” and I
fancy Peythroppe's eyes were opened. Anyhow, he held his peace till the
end; when he spoke briefly. Honorary Lieutenant Castries asked for a
“peg” before he went away to die or bring a suit for breach of promise.
Miss Castries was a very good girl. She said that she would have no
breach of promise suits. She said that, if she was not a lady, she
was refined enough to know that ladies kept their broken hearts to
themselves; and, as she ruled her parents, nothing happened. Later on,
she married a most respectable and gentlemanly person. He travelled for
an enterprising firm in Calcutta, and was all that a good husband should
be.
So Peythroppe came to his right mind again, and did much good work, and
was honored by all who knew him. One of these days he will marry; but he
will marry a sweet pink-and-white maiden, on the Government House List,
with a little money and some influential connections, as every wise man
should. And he will never, all his life, tell her what happened during
the seven weeks of his shooting-tour in Rajputana.
But just think how much trouble and expense--for camel hire is not
cheap, and those Bikaneer brutes had to be fed like humans--might have
been saved by a properly conducted Matrimonial Department, under the
control of the Director General of Education, but corresponding direct
with the Viceroy.
THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY.
“'I've forgotten the countersign,' sez 'e.
'Oh! You 'aye, 'ave you?' sez I.
'But I'm the Colonel,' sez 'e.
'Oh! You are, are you?' sez I. 'Colonel nor no Colonel, you waits
'ere till I'm relieved, an' the Sarjint reports on your ugly old
mug. Coop!' sez I.
. . . . . . . . .
An' s'help me soul, 'twas the Colonel after all! But I was a
recruity then.”
The Unedited Autobiography of Private Ortheris.
IF there was one thing on which Golightly prided himself more than
another, it was looking like “an Officer and a gentleman.” He said it
was for the honor of the Service that he attired himself so elaborately;
but those who knew him best said that it was just personal vanity. There
was no harm about Golightly--not an ounce. He recognized a horse when
he saw one, and could do more than fill a cantle. He played a very fair
game at billiards, and was a sound man at the whist-table. Everyone
liked him; and nobody ever dreamed of seeing him handcuffed on a station
platform as a deserter. But this sad thing happened.
He was going down from Dalhousie, at the end of his leave--riding down.
He had cut his leave as fine as he dared, and wanted to come down in a
hurry.
It was fairly warm at Dalhousie, and knowing what to expect below, he
descended in a new khaki suit--tight fitting--of a delicate olive-green;
a peacock-blue tie, white collar, and a snowy white solah helmet. He
prided himself on looking neat even when he was riding post. He did
look neat, and he was so deeply concerned about his appearance before he
started that he quite forgot to take anything but some small change with
him. He left all his notes at the hotel. His servants had gone down the
road before him, to be ready in waiting at Pathankote with a change of
gear. That was what he called travelling in “light marching-order.” He
was proud of his faculty of organization--what we call bundobust.
Twenty-two miles out of Dalhousie it began to rain--not a mere
hill-shower, but a good, tepid monsoonish downpour. Golightly bustled
on, wishing that he had brought an umbrella. The dust on the roads
turned into mud, and the pony mired a good deal. So did Golightly's
khaki gaiters. But he kept on steadily and tried to think how pleasant
the coolth was.
His next pony was rather a brute at starting, and Golightly's hands
being slippery with the rain, contrived to get rid of Golightly at a
corner. He chased the animal, caught it, and went ahead briskly. The
spill had not improved his clothes or his temper, and he had lost one
spur. He kept the other one employed. By the time that stage was ended,
the pony had had as much exercise as he wanted, and, in spite of the
rain, Golightly was sweating freely. At the end of another miserable
half-hour, Golightly found the world disappear before his eyes in clammy
pulp. The rain had turned the pith of his huge and snowy solah-topee
into an evil-smelling dough, and it had closed on his head like a
half-opened mushroom. Also the green lining was beginning to run.
Golightly did not say anything worth recording here. He tore off and
squeezed up as much of the brim as was in his eyes and ploughed on. The
back of the helmet was flapping on his neck and the sides stuck to
his ears, but the leather band and green lining kept things roughly
together, so that the hat did not actually melt away where it flapped.
Presently, the pulp and the green stuff made a sort of slimy mildew
which ran over Golightly in several directions--down his back and
bosom for choice. The khaki color ran too--it was really shockingly bad
dye--and sections of Golightly were brown, and patches were violet,
and contours were ochre, and streaks were ruddy red, and blotches were
nearly white, according to the nature and peculiarities of the dye.
When he took out his handkerchief to wipe his face and the green of the
hat-lining and the purple stuff that had soaked through on to his neck
from the tie became thoroughly mixed, the effect was amazing.
Near Dhar the rain stopped and the evening sun came out and dried him up
slightly. It fixed the colors, too. Three miles from Pathankote the last
pony fell dead lame, and Golightly was forced to walk. He pushed on
into Pathankote to find his servants. He did not know then that his
khitmatgar had stopped by the roadside to get drunk, and would come on
the next day saying that he had sprained his ankle. When he got into
Pathankote, he couldn't find his servants, his boots were stiff and ropy
with mud, and there were large quantities of dirt about his body. The
blue tie had run as much as the khaki. So he took it off with the collar
and threw it away. Then he said something about servants generally and
tried to get a peg. He paid eight annas for the drink, and this revealed
to him that he had only six annas more in his pocket--or in the world as
he stood at that hour.
He went to the Station-Master to negotiate for a first-class ticket to
Khasa, where he was stationed. The booking-clerk said something to
the Station-Master, the Station-Master said something to the Telegraph
Clerk, and the three looked at him with curiosity. They asked him to
wait for half-an-hour, while they telegraphed to Umritsar for
authority. So he waited, and four constables came and grouped themselves
picturesquely round him. Just as he was preparing to ask them to go
away, the Station-Master said that he would give the Sahib a ticket
to Umritsar, if the Sahib would kindly come inside the booking-office.
Golightly stepped inside, and the next thing he knew was that a
constable was attached to each of his legs and arms, while the
Station-Master was trying to cram a mailbag over his head.
There was a very fair scuffle all round the booking-office, and
Golightly received a nasty cut over his eye through falling against
a table. But the constables were too much for him, and they and the
Station-Master handcuffed him securely. As soon as the mail-bag was
slipped, he began expressing his opinions, and the head-constable
said:--“Without doubt this is the soldier-Englishman we required. Listen
to the abuse!” Then Golightly asked the Station-Master what the this
and the that the proceedings meant. The Station-Master told him he was
“Private John Binkle of the ---- Regiment, 5 ft. 9 in., fair hair,
gray eyes, and a dissipated appearance, no marks on the body,” who had
deserted a fortnight ago. Golightly began explaining at great length;
and the more he explained the less the Station-Master believed him. He
said that no Lieutenant could look such a ruffian as did Golightly, and
that his instructions were to send his capture under proper escort to
Umritsar. Golightly was feeling very damp and uncomfortable, and the
language he used was not fit for publication, even in an expurgated
form. The four constables saw him safe to Umritsar in an “intermediate”
compartment, and he spent the four-hour journey in abusing them as
fluently as his knowledge of the vernaculars allowed.
At Umritsar he was bundled out on the platform into the arms of a
Corporal and two men of the ---- Regiment. Golightly drew himself up
and tried to carry off matters jauntily. He did not feel too jaunty in
handcuffs, with four constables behind him, and the blood from the
cut on his forehead stiffening on his left cheek. The Corporal was not
jocular either. Golightly got as far as--“This is a very absurd mistake,
my men,” when the Corporal told him to “stow his lip” and come along.
Golightly did not want to come along. He desired to stop and explain.
He explained very well indeed, until the Corporal cut in with:--“YOU
a orficer! It's the like o' YOU as brings disgrace on the likes of US.
Bloom-in' fine orficer you are! I know your regiment. The Rogue's
March is the quickstep where you come from. You're a black shame to the
Service.”
Golightly kept his temper, and began explaining all over again from the
beginning. Then he was marched out of the rain into the refreshment-room
and told not to make a qualified fool of himself. The men were going to
run him up to Fort Govindghar. And “running up” is a performance almost
as undignified as the Frog March.