“‘SHE’ UNDERSTANDS ME.”
George Holroyd’s leave to England had borne but faint resemblance to
the plan he had sketched out, as he steamed homewards, with his mind
full of anticipations of sport, and amusement, and his pockets full
of money. It is true that he had had some capital hunting (thanks
to Clancy’s grey, who was now in a racing stable), but his shooting
and fishing projects, his visits to race-courses, his trip on the
Continent, were still so many castles in the air. He was returning
all but penniless, minus new clothes, new saddlery, a new battery of
guns--minus his money, and, above all, minus his heart. What had
he to show for his eight months’ tour to Europe? One badly executed
photograph--a cheap little silver brooch, and a withered flower, but
these he valued beyond all price!
On the passage out, he was a dull enough companion, and took a very
subordinate interest in smoking concerts, whist, or theatricals, and no
interest whatever in various well-favoured young ladies; no, he paced
the deck in solitude, revolving plans that might tend to his getting
his foot upon the ladder that leads to good things and lofty positions,
_i.e._, “the staff.” He must study the language in earnest, and pass
the Higher Standard, so as to be eligible for an appointment that would
give him an increase of pay, and enable him to make a home that would
not be quite unworthy of Betty.
At Port Said he received a cheerful epistle from Belle; she wrote a
good hand, and, like many people who are not brilliantly intellectual,
an excellent letter, if her orthography was not always above suspicion.
She had the knack of giving interesting items of news in a short space,
but among her whole budget there was not a word about her cousin--truly
the play of Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark. After a rough passage
through the south-west monsoon, Mr. Holroyd arrived in Bombay, and set
out for a four days’ railway journey up the country. Once the Ghauts
are crossed, there is but little to enliven the landscape, through the
low scrub jungle of the Central Provinces, through large tracts of
grain, varied by a few mosques and tombs, past fortified mud villages,
herds of lean cattle, and whitewashed railway stations, where the same
bill of fare remains unchanged from year’s end to year’s end--tough
beefsteak and fiery curry!
At last, in the dim light of early morning, George arrived at his
destination, the insignificant cantonment of Mangobad. His brother
officers welcomed him warmly, listened eagerly to all his news, and
enquired about his new guns, and mentioned a couple of smart racing
ponies that they had, so to speak, marked down for him!
“No doubt they would suit me down to the ground if I could afford
them,” he answered in reply to a suggestion that he ought to wire
and secure them at once. “But I can’t afford anything better than a
barrack tat. It’s a fact,” looking frankly round his comrades who were
assembled in the billiard-room, after mess. “I am stone broke; I have
lost a lot of money. I am as poor as Job.”
Captain La Touche, a stout dapper-looking man, his special friend,
paused as he was about to light a cigarette, and exclaimed:
“Now then, young Holroyd, so you would go to Monaco!”
“Not I! I never went near the place. I lost the money in an investment,
in--in short, in--in family--matters.”
“Well, I am truly sorry to hear it,” said his comrade, coming over and
taking a seat beside him, “but you have three nags here and a good
kit, and you can scrape along with very little besides your pay, as
long”--and here he eyed him sharply--“as you don’t think of getting
married.”
“I suppose you know that Jones of the other battalion is going to
commit matrimony,” said George, by way of changing the conversation.
“Going to be married, is he?” growled a grizzled major, “and serves him
right. The Lord be praised, that’s a folly of which I have never been
guilty.”
“Nor I,” added Captain La Touche, who was a bachelor, and proud of his
estate.
“Don’t shout till you are out of the wood,” returned George
impressively.
“Why not?--I am practically out of the wood! There is no fear of
me--why I’ve actually been in action with a would-be father-in-law, and
came out scatheless.”
“How--you never confessed this before?”
“Oh, it was at Southsea some time ago, when I was quite pretty and
slender and active. One night I danced seven or eight times with an
uncommonly nice girl: the next morning her father waited on me--a
blood-thirsty looking old brigand--and demanded my intentions.”
“‘My intentions, sir,’ I said, ‘were to give your daughter a very
pleasant evening’ (he enacted the part), I placed my hand on my
heart, and bowing most profoundly, said, ‘And I flatter myself that I
succeeded.’ I suppose there is no hope for Jones--no choking him off?”
“No,” returned another man, “I know Jones well; you might as well try
to choke a pig with melted butter.”
“He won’t believe that love is the wine of life, and marriage the
headache in the morning,” snarled the Major.
“Jones was always a fool,” remarked a third.
This anti-matrimonial discussion made George rather uncomfortable; he
had been among these ribald scoffers himself, but that was in old
days--and before he knew Betty.
Captain La Touche was senior captain in the Royal Musketeers, and
George’s special chum, and during his absence he had looked after his
quarters, and his stud, but now, to his intense disgust, his friend’s
polo ponies, his tandem cart and harness, and racing saddles, were all
advertised in the _Pioneer_! Only one animal was reserved, and Captain
La Touche noted with considerable trepidation, that “Barkis,” though
not a polo pony, had the reputation of being a capital ladies’ hack.
Cosmo La Touche was a shrewd man, and could put two and two together
better than most people; his friend had his pay, and no debts, and
a small private income; he could easily manage to keep a couple of
ponies and pay his mess bill. Why was he reading so hard with the
regimental monshee? Reading in the muggy, rainy weather, grinding for
the Higher Standard, late and early, whilst he himself dozed peacefully
under the punka with a French novel within reach; and why was George
Holroyd, who was always supposed to be wrapped up in the regiment,
and nothing but the regiment, and who set his face against detachment
duty, the depôt or hill classes, now so desperately eager to get an
appointment _anywhere_, so long as it brought him in rupees.
Of course there was a lady in the case, and he boldly taxed him with
his guilty secret.
To his anger and astonishment, George admitted that such was positively
the fact, admitted it triumphantly.
“And are you engaged?” he demanded sternly.
“No.”
“Oh, come then, it’s not so bad after all!”
“I only wish it was so bad, as you call it.”
“Then why are you not? Won’t she have you?” enquired the other with a
jeer in his eyes.
“Because I have only fifty pounds a year and my pay, as long as my
mother lives, and, out in this climate, poverty and screwing is the
very devil. If I can pass and get some staff appointment we shall
manage all right.”
“Is she pretty? But I need not ask _you_; of course she is an angel,”
said Captain La Touche ferociously.
“She is very pretty. She is more than pretty, she is charming.”
“And supposing some other fellow steps in, and snaps her up whilst you
are stewing over your Hindustani. How will you like _that_?”
George’s face was a study in complacency. “I am not afraid,” he said
quietly.
“You ought to have spoken, and offered yourself at any rate.”
“Of course!” rather bitterly, “with nothing to settle on her but a
sword, and a tailor’s bill.”
“Well, I hope you will come out of it all right. Have you got her
photograph?”
“Yes,” examining it critically, “well, it’s a nice face, but one cannot
judge; she may be marked with small-pox or have weak eyes, or a bad
figure.”
“She has grey eyes, and is as tall and straight as a young fir tree,”
rejoined George indignantly.
“A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, eh? And what is her name?”
“Elizabeth, but they call her Betty. Elizabeth Redmond.”
“Any relation to the Collector here?”
“I don’t know, very probably.”
“And what are your plans, if I may presume to enquire?”
“To pass if I can, and get something that will add to my pay, and then
to write home and ask her to come out and marry me. _She_ understands
me!”
“I am glad to hear it, for it’s more than I do,” rejoined his comrade
angrily. “You must excuse me for not receiving your news with the
enthusiasm it deserves, but you know, George, you always swore that you
would not marry before you were a major, if then.”
“Very likely, but with all these new warrants I began to think I might
_never_ be a major; you won’t say anything about it.”
“Trust me,” he responded with a gesture of impatience; “besides, you
are not engaged, and the worst may not come to the worst: there is many
a slip between the cup and the lip. If you were in any other scrape I
would lend you money, and for as long as you liked and insist on your
taking it, but I’ll never lift a finger to help you to a wife.”
Days and weeks went by slowly enough, but Betty’s photograph now stood
boldly on George’s writing-table, and spurred him to many a tough task.
True, it was chaperoned by portraits of Mrs. Malone and Cuckoo, and by
casual eyes she was supposed to be merely another sister, and Captain
La Touche kept his secret. Parades and regimental work occupied
George’s mornings, and many an evening he never went out till dark, but
worked hard with his monshee, who proclaimed him to be a “wonderfully
clever gentleman,” and secretly felt secure of his own premium as
together they plodded through the _Prem Sagar_ and _Bagh-o-Bahar_.
George was obliged to forego boating, cricket and paperchasing, he took
his name off the polo club, and abjured cigarettes and expensive boots,
and only that in his prosperous days he had always been so open-handed,
there would have been an outcry at his economy. But his friends
believed he had some excellent reason for his self-denial, though
no one but Captain La Touche knew how good that reason was. Captain
La Touche was a man of five-and-thirty, with a considerable private
fortune, and a handsome, pleasant face. His figure was his despair, he
would grow stout, aye, and keep stout; despite of anti-fat, exercise,
and semi-starvation, he still conspicuously filled the eye!
Now he had accepted the situation, ate and drank whatever his rather
fastidious palate dictated, kept a weight-carrying charger, and one
broad-backed, confidential cob, and fell into the rank of a looker-on,
at pig-sticking and polo, and spoke of himself as “a superannuated
butterfly!” He was not what is called “a red-hot soldier,” and never
aspired to command the Royal Musketeers. He looked upon parades and
orderly rooms as vexatious interludes in an otherwise agreeably spent
existence, but he was very much attached to the regiment, as an
excellent travelling club, and was the firm, personal friend of almost
every one of his brother officers; and George Holroyd was Jonathan to
this goodly, popular, and somewhat cynical, David.
He was president of the mess, organised entertainments that were
invariably a success, arranged the daily menus, overawed all the
waiters, and knew how to put a crusty commanding officer through a
course of the most soothing dinner treatment. In fact, he was king of
the mess, by universal acclamation, and to hear that he was to lose his
right hand, his prime favourite, by marriage, was a blow as painful
as it was unexpected. Captain La Touche had some French blood in his
veins, and spoke the language like a native. His manners to ladies
were unapproachable for chivalrous politeness, and yet, like Miss
Dopping, he preferred to associate with the sterner sex; nevertheless
he was a keen observer and took an almost effeminate interest in their
dress. As to his own outward appearance, it was the result of patient
study, and the mirror at which many another man fashioned himself.
For a first-rate opinion on a coat, a dinner, a point of etiquette or
a claret vintage, you could not go to a better person than Captain
Cosmo La Touche; extremes meet; he and his chosen friend were almost
diametrically opposite in mind, body and estate. One was a Sybarite,
the other a sportsman; one was a philosopher, the other a man of
action. One could eat anything that was set before him, the other would
sooner perish!
I am afraid we cannot conceal from ourselves that Captain La Touche
is a _bon vivant_, and is very proud of his delicate palate. Indeed,
he has publicly given out that the woman who aspires to be Mrs. La
Touche--be she never so beautiful--must have taken honours at the
school of cookery! He gave a good many of his thoughts to George’s
affairs, as he lay in a Bombay chair and smoked cigarette after
cigarette, meditating sadly on his friend’s future.
This girl, this Miss Redmond, had a pretty, well-bred face, and looked
as if she had no nonsense about her; she rode well (if George was to
be believed) and played tennis, and was a fair musician, and would
possibly be an acquisition to the station; but what a loss George would
be to the mess! He was a capital rider, could tell a good story, and
sing a good song, and was quite the most brilliant polo player in the
province.
Now all that would be at an end! He would only care for driving
his wife about in a little pony-cart, and subsequently dining
_tête-à-tête_ on a leg of mutton, and custard pudding--_ugh!_ George
would sink into domestic limbo “_avec la fatalité d’une pierre qui
tombe_.”
Mangobad was a typical up country station, sequestered and
self-contained. Besides the Royal Musketeers, there was a native
infantry regiment, a chaplain, a judge, a collector, several doctors,
several engineers, a few indigo planters in from the district, and now
and then a great man encamped in the mango tope, with his imposing
transport of camels, elephants, and carriage horses.
The cantonment was just a comfortable size for a sociable
community--and luckily the community _was_ sociable; it numbered about
fifty men and fifteen ladies, but the latter fluctuated. Sometimes they
numbered as many as thirty, sometimes but three.
The station was situated in the midst of a great flat grain country,
diversified by fine groves or topes of forest trees, and scattered
over with red-roofed villages of immemorial antiquity. Riding along
the well-kept pucka roads, with ripe, yellow corn waving at either
side, the cool November air and the noble timber would deceive
one into believing that they were in the south of Europe, until a
Commissariat elephant lumbering along, or a camel carriage and pair,
or a four-in-hand of hideous water buffaloes, dragging a primitive
wain laden with sugar-cane, dispelled the idea. Besides the level
roads bordered with Neem, Shesum, Sirus, and Teak trees, there were
smooth, green parade grounds and comfortable bungalows, standing in the
midst of luxuriant gardens, where roses, passion-flowers, oranges and
strawberries, mangoes and mignonette grew in sociable abundance.
There was a picturesque church and an excellent station club, where all
the community assembled to read the papers, play tennis, drink tea,
and hear the news; but invariably, by the middle of April, the tennis
courts were deserted, the chairs round the tea-table were vacant, and
the gallop of ponies was no longer heard cutting up the adjacent polo
ground. All those who could command money and leave, had promptly fled
away to various hill stations.
George Holroyd was not among the exodus, he remained to do duty--the
little that is possible with the thermometer at 104--and to sit behind
a “_Khus-khus_” tattie, while the hot west wind came booming through
the mango trees--and fought with the drowsy, stifling hours, and
the weary pages of the _Bagh-o-Bahar_. Captain La Touche had gone to
Simla, where he was a conspicuous member of the clubs, and an esteemed
customer at Peliti’s, and gave _recherché_ little dinners at the
châlet; he had done his utmost to carry his friend with him, and had
used arguments, bribes, and even threats.
“You will go mad, my dear fellow, you will certainly go mad, staying
down here, and grinding your brains away; you will feel the effects
before another week goes over your head. Come up for a couple of months
at least; come and stay with _me_; come, my dear boy, and see Simla.
Come! I’ll mount you at polo, come!”
“Not I--thank you; if I went anywhere I would go into Cashmere. I have
no taste for sticking myself over with patent leather and peacock’s
feathers, and riding beside a woman’s rickshaw.”
“It would depend upon _who_ was in the rickshaw, I suppose. Eh? Well,
if you don’t mind yourself, it’s my opinion that one of these days we
shall be riding after your coffin! Promise me before I go, that if you
feel at all seedy you will send me a wire, and follow it at once.”
As he was very pertinacious, George gave him the required promise,
solely for the sake of peace.
Early in June he went up for his examination, and, whilst he awaited
the result in miserable suspense, he received a letter from his uncle
Godfrey, who, through the family lawyer, had recently discovered the
state of his money affairs. After upbraiding him angrily for keeping
the matter from him, and for allowing himself to be stripped to his
last shilling in order to support Major Malone’s family, he went on
to say that he would make him an allowance of five hundred a year, in
order that he might live like a gentleman, and as became his heir, and
if he would only come home, and settle down, and marry some nice girl,
he would do a great deal more for him.
“And if I settle down, and marry a nice girl out here, I wonder what he
will say to that?” said his nephew to himself, as he tried to realise
his unexpected good fortune. He did not spend much time in reflection,
but galloped over to the Colonel’s bungalow, and asked that amazed
officer “if there was any chance of his getting three months’ leave to
England, and to start at once.”
“Not the smallest,” returned the Colonel firmly, adding a complaint
that he made at least ten times a day--“I have only four subalterns.
You know I am terribly short of officers--Indeed, Holroyd, I wonder
that a man of your sense could be such a fool as to propose such a
thing!”
The same mail that brought Mr. Godfrey Holroyd’s letter brought the
news that Colonel and Mrs. Calvert were coming out in September.
Colonel Calvert was the District Inspector of Police for Mangobad. What
a chance for Betty! She might travel with _them_. He lost no time in
writing, and despatching three letters by the out-going mail, one to
the Calverts, and two to Noone, and anxiously awaited Betty’s telegram.
In due time the answer arrived, and by a strange coincidence, the same
day’s post brought the agreeable intimation that he had passed the
Higher Standard in Hindustani. Surely a lucky omen, if omens stand for
aught. He gave a dinner at the mess to celebrate the event with his
brother officers.
(Also _another_ event of which they were as yet in ignorance.)
Fortune, who had turned her back on him for so long, was now apparently
all smiles, and seemed to be thrusting her favours on him with both
hands.
END OF VOL. II.
PRINTED BY
KELLY & CO., MIDDLE MILL, KINGSTON-ON-THAMES;
AND GATE STREET, LINCOLN’S INN FIELDS, W.C.
Transcriber’s Notes
Page 131: “Holyroyd is only” changed to “Holroyd is only”
Page 159: “once you have have” changed to “once you have”