CAPT. M. Doocid good, for a first attempt. Now go and change your kit
while Mamma is weeping over “the Missus.” (CAPT. G. disappears. CAPT. M.
starts up tearing his hair.) It's not half legal. Where are the shoes?
Get an ayah.
AYAH. Missie Captain Sahib done gone band karo all the jutis.
CAPT. M. (Brandishing scab larded sword.) Woman, produce those shoes
Some one lend me a bread-knife. We mustn't crack Gaddy's head more than
it is. (Slices heel off white satin slipper and puts slipper up his
sleeve.)
Where is the Bride? (To the company at large.) Be tender with that rice.
It's a heathen custom. Give me the big bag.
* * * * * *
Bride slips out quietly into 'rickshaw and departs toward the sunset.
CAPT. M. (In the open.) Stole away, by Jove! So much the worse for
Gaddy! Here he is. Now Gaddy, this'll be livelier than Amdberan! Where's
your horse?
CAPT. G. (Furiously, seeing that the women are out of an earshot.) Where
the--is my Wife?
CAPT. M. Half-way to Mahasu by this time. You'll have to ride like Young
Lochinvar.
Horse comes round on his hind legs; refuses to let G. handle him.
CAPT. G. Oh you will, will you? Get 'round, you brute--you hog--you
beast! Get round!
Wrenches horse's head over, nearly breaking lower jaw: swings himself
into saddle, and sends home both spurs in the midst of a spattering gale
of Best Patna.
CAPT. M. For your life and your love-ride, Gaddy--And God bless you!
Throws half a pound of rice at G. who disappears, bowed forward on the
saddle, in a cloud of sunlit dust.
CAPT. M. I've lost old Gaddy. (Lights cigarette and strolls off, singing
absently):--
“You may carve it on his tombstone, you may cut it on his card, That a
young man married is a young man marred!”
Miss DEERCOURT. (From her horse.) Really, Captain Mafflin! You are more
plain spoken than polite!
CAPT. M. (Aside.) They say marriage is like cholera. 'Wonder who'll be
the next victim.
White satin slipper slides from his sleeve and falls at his feet. Left
wondering.
THE GARDEN OF EDEN And ye shall be as--Gods!
SCENE.--Thymy grass-plot at back of the Mahasu dak-bungalow,
overlooking little wooded valley. On the left, glimpse of the Dead
Forest of Fagoo; on the right, Simla Hills. In background, line of the
Snows. CAPTAIN GADSBY, now three weeks a husband, is smoking the pipe of
peace on a rug in the sunshine. Banjo and tobacco-pouch on rug. Overhead
the Fagoo eagles. MRS. G. comes out of bungalow.
MRS. G. My husband! CAPT. G. (Lazily, with intense enjoyment.) Eb,
wha-at? Say that again.
MRS. G. I've written to Mamma and told her that we shall be back on the
17th.
CAPT. G. Did you give her my love?
MRS. G. No, I kept all that for myself. (Sitting down by his side.) I
thought you wouldn't mind.
CAPT. G. (With mock sternness.) I object awf'ly. How did you know that
it was yours to keep?
MRS. G. I guessed, Phil.
CAPT. G. (Rapturously.) Lit-tle Featherweight!
MRS. G. I won' t be called those sporting pet names, bad boy.
CAPT. G. You'll be called anything I choose. Has it ever occurred to
you, Madam, that you are my Wife?
MRS. G. It has. I haven't ceased wondering at it yet.
CAPT. G. Nor I. It seems so strange; and yet, somehow, it doesn't.
(Confidently.) You see, it could have been no one else.
MRS. G. (Softly.) No. No one else--for me or for you. It must have been
all arranged from the beginning. Phil, tell me again what made you care
for me.
CAPT. G. How could I help it? You were you, you know.
MRS. G. Did you ever want to help it? Speak the truth!
CAPT. G. (A twinkle in his eye.) I did, darling, just at the first. Rut
only at the very first. (Chuckles.) I called you--stoop low and I'll
whisper--“a little beast.” Ho! Ho! Ho!
MRS. G. (Taking him by the moustache and making him sit up.)
“A--little--beast!” Stop laughing over your crime! And yet you had
the--the--awful cheek to propose to me!
CAPT. C. I'd changed my mind then. And you weren't a little beast any
more.
MRS. G. Thank you, sir! And when was I ever?
CAPT. G. Never! But that first day, when you gave me tea in that
peach-colored muslin gown thing, you looked--you did indeed, dear--such
an absurd little mite. And I didn't know what to say to you.
MRS. G. (Twisting moustache.) So you said “little beast.” Upon my word,
Sir! I called you a “Crrrreature,” but I wish now I had called you
something worse.
CAPT. G. (Very meekly.) I apologize, but you're hurting me awf'ly.
(Interlude.) You're welcome to torture me again on those terms.
MRS. G. Oh, why did you let me do it?
CAPT. G. (Looking across valley.) No reason in particular, but--if it
amused you or did you any good--you might--wipe those dear little boots
of yours on me.
MRS. G. (Stretching out her hands.) Don't! Oh, don't! Philip, my King,
please don't talk like that. It's how I feel. You're so much too good
for me. So much too good!