THE GREAT STARVATION PICNIC.
The “picnic” season at Shirani set in with unexampled severity. There
were tea picnics--an inexpensive form of entertainment, dear to the
economically disposed, who flattered themselves that they could wipe
out all social debts by a table-cloth spread on a mossy slope (within
an easy ride from cantonment), and to this they bid their friends in
order to partake of cheap fruit, bazaar-made cake, and smoked tea--the
selected “view” supplying every deficiency. There were snug little
select tea-parties, where the viands were dainty and luxurious, and to
match the company--appetizing luncheons, carried off to be discussed
miles away under pine trees, and facing indistinct blue valleys and
brilliantly white peaks; and of all these expeditions, the “Noah’s Ark”
picnic was indisputably the most popular.
In June the climate, society, scenery of Shirani all pointed to
picnics, with again picnics, and more picnics. They were unceremonious,
easily enjoyed, easily declined. New-comers from below, after a month
among dim cool pine woods, or a critical study of a deep valley,
clothed with gorgeous forest trees, blazing with red, pink, and white
rhododendrons, found it difficult to believe that there was such a
place far beneath them as tawny-coloured hard-baked plains, over which,
instead of a delicate fragrant breeze, roared the brazen-mouthed blast
of the fire-eating hot winds. The _al fresco_ season culminated in a
“married ladies’” picnic--chiefly got up by Mrs. Langrishe and Mrs.
Brande. There had been a committee meeting at the ladies’ room at the
club; Mrs. Langrishe was voted secretary--being very capable with her
pen. The conference had been held with closed doors--solemn--and secret.
All the same, some of the motions and arrangements had leaked
out. It was known that Mrs. Brande had volunteered to provide the
champagne--also fowls, hams, and raised pies. Mrs. Sladen was down for
afternoon tea, cups and saucers, milk, sugar, and cake. Mrs. Dashwood
provided cheroots, cigarettes, and pegs.
Mrs. Loyd, the sweets, tarts, jellies, and _méringues_.
Mrs. Clark, the soup.
Mrs. Glover, the ices. The thing was to be done in style.
Mrs. Paul, the Padré’s wife (having a large family), was let off with
coffee.
“Your own cups and spoons of course,” added the secretary imperatively.
Mrs. Langrishe--there was a long-drawn breath of expectancy, as she
read out her own name, “Well, she would provide the appointments,
table-cloths, and napkins, plates, knives and forks, bread, salad--and
water.” There was a pause, and she continued impressively--
“It was not _every_ one who would care to risk their nice things”
(she would borrow from Manockjee, the Parsee shop); “but _she_ would
venture,” and her meek coadjutors accepted her contribution just as
gratefully as Mrs. Brande’s champagne and ham. It was one of her usual
master strokes, and the picnic would cost her nothing, beyond the use
of some house linen and a few loaves of bread.
All the station were to be invited; the place selected was five miles
from Shirani; the guests were to assemble at Mrs. Langrishe’s house.
With her usual ability, she took the entire honours upon herself, and
got the whole credit of the entertainment in anticipation. Of course it
was to be a Noah’s Ark affair.
The company met at half-past eleven at “St. Germain’s” (Major
Langrishe’s Bungalow), and Mrs. Brande, who was supplying the
most expensive portion of the feast, felt it a _little_ hard to be
received as a guest by the woman who was only bringing crockery and
table-cloths,--indeed all the hostesses were secretly restive and
displeased. The ladies dipped their hands into a basket and each drew
out a man’s name (their fate) on a slip of paper, and although Lalla
believed that she had thrust him well down to the bottom--with a little
twist in the paper, so that she could recognize it herself--Honor drew
the prize, in the shape of Sir Gloster Sandilands, to that gentleman’s
transparent delight. Subsequently Honor offered to exchange him,
or draw again, when Lalla sharply assured her that “there was some
mistake--that his name had been written twice, and that she had also
drawn the baronet.” Finally it was arranged that Honor and Lalla should
divide--Honor to ride to the picnic with Mr. Jervis, and Lalla with Sir
Gloster, and to exchange cavaliers on the return journey. Thus the
affair was amicably settled. Honor would have been thankful to have
avoided the baronet altogether: she had more than a dim idea that he
liked her, and he was always talking to her about his place at home,
and his mother, and saying how much he wished that he could introduce
her to both. Mrs. Brande could not complain that _he_ did not call: on
one pretext or other, he came every day, bringing a book, or a paper,
or looking in to ask the name of some wild flower, or for a cup of tea,
or without any excuse at all, but simply to sit and stare at Honor
Gordon.
Mrs. Brande was not quite such a blind bat as some people supposed.
This possible match had some advantages. It would all but be the death
of Mrs. Langrishe! her niece would be Lady Sandilands; but, on the
other hand, she could not bear to lose Honor! Shirani had its eyes wide
open also, and Mrs. Daubeny had countermanded her daughter’s two new
dresses.
At last the _cortège_ set out for the scene of their next meal,
some riding, some on foot, many ladies in dandies. The distance was
five miles, through leafy dells, green glades, and steep paths cut
out through the forest. Captain Waring had drawn the heiress, and
was happy; Sir Gloster was with Lalla, who was radiant. There was a
considerable distance between some couples, whilst others kept as close
together as a girls’ school.
“I did not know that dogs were invited to picnics!” exclaimed a
querulous voice from a dandy, coming up behind Miss Gordon, Mr. Jervis,
and Ben.
“Ben had a special card of invitation all to himself, Mrs. Dashwood,”
replied his owner.
“Well, I trust he is the only one of his species that has been thus
honoured, and that it is not going to be a precedent.”
“Don’t you like dogs?” inquired Jervis.
“No, I’m desperately afraid of them, and they seem to know it. The only
dog I could possibly bring myself to tolerate would be a dog without
teeth! Well, I must be pushing on--I hope you are making yourself very
agreeable to Miss Gordon, Mr. Jervis?” she added playfully.
“I’m afraid not. My stock of ideas is rather low; perhaps you can
suggest some novel and interesting topic.”
“Your own life and adventures,” cried the lady, as she passed ahead of
them; “try that.”
“What were we talking about?” said Jervis. “Shall we go back to the
last remark but six?”
“Easier said than done,” rejoined his companion gaily; “we must start a
fresh subject.”
“Well, I doubt if my life and adventures would be of thrilling
interest,” he continued, turning to Honor, and it struck her that she
had never once heard her present companion allude in any way to his
home or his belongings. This was a beautiful opening, if he would but
avail himself of it.
“Mrs. Dashwood has set me a stiff task--it is not every one’s fortune
to have an adventurous career.” (If all tales were true, sensational
events had largely punctuated the lady’s own history.) “Now, which
would you rather have--interesting falsehoods, or very dull truths?”
“Neither, I think.”
“And what about _your_ life and adventures?”
“Oh, I have spent most of my days in a quiet little village, and can
scarcely recall a single incident, except that I once upset a donkey
cart!”
“I can go one better, as they say, for I have upset a coach!” then he
coloured and added hastily, and as if he deprecated any questions, “I
too have led a common-place life. I was born out here, and was not sent
home until I was six, for which reason I find my native tongue has come
back to me.”
“It has indeed--I have often been amazed at your extraordinary fluency
in talking Hindostani; I thought that you had a marvellous talent for
languages.”
“Which I have not, nor indeed for anything.”
“Miss Paske says that you have a talent for silence,” said Honor
demurely.
“Miss Paske’s sayings are being quoted all over the place, with the
weight of so many proverbs! She says women do _all_ their thinking in
church. She declares that her sex lie from timidity--and nothing else.
Shall I continue?”
“No; I should prefer your own original remarks, to Miss Paske at
second hand,” said Honor, “though I confess that I am responsible for
introducing her into the conversation. After you came from India, what
did you do?”
“I went to school--from school to college--then I lived in London, off
and on, till I came out here. Our joint lives and adventures don’t
amount to much! I am always longing for some uncommon experience, but
such things seem to fight shy of me.”
“Look! There is poor Mrs. Sladen on that horrid pulling pony,”
interrupted Honor suddenly; “she is dreadfully afraid of it, but dare
not say so----”
“Being between the devil and the deep sea?”
“Which is the deep sea? Colonel Sladen or the Budmash?” asked the young
lady with an air of innocent inquiry.
“Whichever you please. I believe ages ago, when he was young and
active, Sladen was a first-class man on a horse, and rode races. Who
would think it to look at him now? he weighs about seventeen stone!”
“And completely upsets the old theory, that fat people are always
good-natured!”
“He is keen enough about horses and ponies still; you may notice that
he has always good animals.”
“Good to look at,” amended Miss Gordon quickly.
“Yes, and to go as well; and as he cannot ride them to sell, as he
used to do once, he now thrusts poor unfortunate Mrs. Sladen into
the saddle. The Noah’s Ark animals have not been so badly paired,”
continued the young man. “Please look at the Dâk Bungalow fowl walking
with the European ham! Do you think the combination was premeditated?”
“No, purely accidental, I should imagine. I must say that I think it is
a shame, the way people are given nick-names!”
“I suppose it is an idle amusement for idle minds. I believe that I
have been honoured with one or two new names myself--I don’t mind in
the least--and I happen to know for a fact that Waring is extremely
pleased with his!”
“Which is more than would be the case with most people. For instance,
do you suppose that Miss Cook would be pleased to hear that she is
known as ‘good plain Cook’?”
“Well, you know our nurses used to tell us, that it is better to be
good than beautiful! And here we are!”
The rendezvous was now reached, Honor and her companion being almost
the last to arrive. There was a superb and uninterrupted view of the
snows, but the sight of something to eat would have been preferred
by some folk. What had become of the coolies and the tiffin? The
table-cloths were spread (and even decorated), but save for some bowls
of salad, and a meagre allowance of rolls, nothing eatable was to be
seen.
Inquiries were made, and at last the dreadful news began to circulate,
at first by degrees, and was then officially confirmed. The luncheon
had been lost!
Mrs. Langrishe and Mrs. Brande’s khansamahs--who were at the head
of affairs--were deadly rivals. Mrs. Langrishe’s man wished to be
leader (like his mistress); he laid down the law, and he ordered every
one’s coolies and servants to place themselves under his directions.
“Instead of being quiet and shamed, as he ought to have been, the--the
nouker” (_i.e._ servant) “of a mem sahib who only sent empty plates.”
This was the idea of Mrs. Brande’s khansamah, and to his opinion he
gave loud and angry utterance. A desperate quarrel ensued. He said
the lunch was to be sent to one place--Mrs. Brande’s man declared as
emphatically that it was to be despatched to another. The latter was
the most powerful, and carried his point, and what was worse, carried
all the other servants and coolies away with him! At this moment they
were carefully laying out a really excellent repast, at a favourite
rendezvous, exactly seven miles on the other side of Shirani, and
twelve from the present hungry company.
Mrs. Langrishe’s fare--yes, it had leaked out--was all that was to be
set before them!
Some people were extremely angry. Colonel Sladen, who had valued his
thirst at ten rupees--not that any one was anxious to purchase it--was
really almost beside himself! Sir Gloster, though he _was_ in love,
looked desperately glum. “Ben” Brande, I must honestly confess, was
visibly disappointed. Dry bread and salad were not in his line, and he
had affectionate recollections of a delicious smell from his mistress’s
cook house. Some people laughed--Honor and her companion were amongst
the most hilarious.
Mrs. Langrishe was shown in her true colours for once, and had retired
into somewhat mortified retreat under a neighbouring rock. Mrs. Brande
was overwhelmed. “Where,” she asked with tears in her voice, “was her
khansamah? Where were her raised pies, her Grecian salad, her iced
asparagus?” But though her hospitable soul was vexed, she was not sorry
that her rival’s generous share should be thus set forth before every
eye.
The party, on the whole, took this unparalleled catastrophe uncommonly
well. They ate dry bread (with or without salt), drank water, and wound
up with lettuces. Afterwards the men smoked themselves into complete
serenity. If there had only been tea, but, alas! the tea had followed
the infamous example of the champagne.
Naturally such a lunch had not taken long to despatch. What was to be
done? How was the next empty hour to be put in?
And here Miss Lalla Paske came forward, and threw herself into the gap.
In after days, her aunt always credited Lalla with _one_ good action.
Rising, without waiting to catch any one’s eye, she slowly sauntered
off with her little swaggering air, and mounting a mossy rock, and
arranging herself in a picturesque attitude, despatched a cavalier
for her banjo, which she presently began to thrum, and had soon (as
she desired) collected a crowd. When she had assembled a sufficiently
large audience, she struck up a nigger melody, with admirable art and
liveliness, and instantly every male voice was joining in the chorus.
Mrs. Langrishe and Mrs. Brande arrived together upon the scene, and
beheld the sprightly Lalla, the centre of attraction, mounted on an
impromptu throne, surrounded by admirers. Such moments were some of her
unhappy aunt’s few compensations. Oh! if one of these admirers would
but come forward and ask for the delicate, wiry little hand, now so
skilfully thrumming a _ranche_ melody.
The fair songstress made a charming picture, she had the family
instinct for effect,--her supple figure was thrown into delightful
relief by a dense green background, and one pretty little foot dangled
carelessly over a slab of rock--such a pretty little foot, in such a
pretty little shoe!
And where was Mrs. Brande’s niece? Standing among the crowd, a mere
spectator of her rival’s success. All at once Lalla suddenly handed her
banjo to Sir Gloster, and said briskly--
“Now, who would like their fortunes told? Please don’t all speak
together.”
“Lalla is really marvellous,” whispered Mrs. Langrishe to her
companion. “She has made quite a study of palmistry, and is most
successful.”
Mrs. Brande looked severely incredulous, but she could see that
Lalla was now closely invested by a circle of outspread palms, and a
clamouring crowd of would-be clients. (Some people declared that this
accomplishment was merely an excuse on Miss Paske’s part for holding
men’s hands, and that she knew absolutely nothing of the gipsy’s art,
but was a shrewd judge of character, and made up cleverly as she went
along.) Also another notable and highly suspicious fact--she invariably
meted out the most alarming fortunes to those she did not like. She
appeared to take a vindictive pleasure in calmly expatiating on their
impending calamities, and made the most sinister announcements with a
smile.
At present she was examining Mrs. Brande’s hand, with a puckered,
thoughtful brow.
She had not time to do all the hands, she declared, and those she did
undertake must be entirely of her own selection.
“You have had an unexpected share of this world’s goods,” she stated at
last, raising her voice, so that every syllable was audible. “You will
always be well-to-do, but your present hopes will be disappointed. In
the course of time, your life will undergo a change. You are threatened
with softening of the brain--yes! your head line runs down upon the
moon--you will probably be an incurable idiot, and bed-ridden for many
years.”
“_Thank_ you,” cried Mrs. Brande, snatching away her fat hand. “That
will do me for the present;” and she fell back among the crowd,
muttering disjointed sentences, that sounded like “London--had up
in police-court, fortune-telling against the law--six months’ hard
labour.” But Mrs. Brande’s terrible fate and smothered indignation
failed to dissuade others, in answer to Miss Lalla’s clear--
“The next.”
Miss Ryder, a pretty girl, with fair hair, and pathetic blue eyes, came
timidly forward, and gazed pleadingly at the oracle.
“Yes--humph,” critically examining Miss Ryder’s pink palm. “Your head
is entirely governed by your heart, and oh dear me! there is a dreadful
cross on the heart line, a broken marriage. No,” turning the hand
sideways, “I see no marriage line on your hand, but a great many small
worries; truthfulness is _not_ an attribute--no; you will live long,
and enjoy fairly good health.”
Miss Ryder shrank back, with a distinctly sobered countenance, and in
answer to the fortune-teller’s desire, Mark Jervis was pushed forward.
He tendered his hand reluctantly, and only for the Englishman’s usual
hatred of a fuss, would have withheld it altogether. Miss Paske
disliked Mr. Jervis with his cool, ambiguous manner--he was a mere
hanger on, scarcely worth powder and shot, but he was a friend of
Honor Gordon’s, and she would make him ridiculous for her benefit!
“Oh, what a hand!” she exclaimed, with a scornful laugh. “A fair enough
head line, a great capacity for holding your tongue, especially on any
subject concerning yourself. You do not think it necessary to tell the
_whole_ truth on all occasions.” This was a palpable home-thrust, for
in the face of half Shirani, Mark Jervis coloured visibly. “Secret,
clear-headed, with great self-command. Yes; you would make a fine
conspirator, and _I think_ you are a bit of an impostor.” Again the
colour deepened in the subject’s tan cheek. “Line of heart _nil_. Fate
much broken, I see--the mark of some kind of imprisonment; a life
solitary and apart,” and holding the palm nearer to her eyes, “there
is a great and unexpected change of fortune in store for you, which
entails trouble. And there is the mark--of a violent death, or you will
be the cause of another person’s death--the lines,” dropping his hand
with a hopeless gesture, “are really too faint to read anything more
with success.”
“Thanks awfully; it is very good of you to let me down so easily. I
know you see a halter in my hand, but have wished to spare my feelings.”
Lalla looked at him indignantly--he was laughing. How dared he laugh at
her?
“Now, Sir Gloster, it is your turn”--beckoning to him graciously.
Sir Gloster thrust out a very large, soft, white hand, and said, “This
is worse than the stool of repentance. If you discover anything very
bad, I implore you to whisper it in my ear, my dear Miss Paske.”
“Now, this really _is_ a hand!” she exclaimed, looking round as if she
was surprised to find that it was not a foot! “You have a splendid head
line.”
Sir Gloster coloured consciously, and glanced surreptitiously at Honor,
as much as to say, “I hope you heard _that_!”
“Quite a commanding intellect--you could do almost anything you
chose--and are likely to be successful in your aims. A strong will;
a magnificent line of fate--yes, yes, yes, _all_ the good things! You
will marry a fair wife; you will meet her in India--in fact, you _have_
met her already. You had some illnesses before you were ten----”
“That’s safe,” scoffed Mrs. Brande from the background; “teething and
measles--_I_ could have told that!”
“You have really a splendid hand,” pursued Lalla. “I should like to
make a cast of it.”
“She would like to have it altogether,” grunted Colonel Sladen to his
immediate neighbours.
“Now, Captain Waring, for you?” cried the oracle, invitingly.
Captain Waring, smiling, prosperous, perfectly ready to be amused,
stepped forward with alacrity.
“A fine broad palm! A magnificent line of fate; great riches are
strongly marked--rather susceptible to our sex; a wonderful power of
drawing people to you; you will not marry for some years.” As he stood
aside, Lalla said, “Last, but not least, Miss Gordon. Oh, come along,
Miss Gordon”--beckoning with an imperious finger.
“Thank you, I would rather not be done,” she answered stiffly.
“What?” inquired young Jervis, in an undertone. “_Not_ be butchered to
make a station’s holiday?”
“Oh, nonsense!” persisted Lalla rather shrilly. “Your aunt has been
‘done,’ as you call it, and I am anxious to see what type your hand
belongs to--it’s sure to be artistic.”
“There is a nice little bait for you,” whispered Jervis. “Surely you
cannot refuse _that_.”
“Oh, Miss Gordon, we all want to hear your fortune,” cried several
voices; and, in spite of her unwillingness, Honor soon found herself in
Miss Paske’s clutches.
“Ahem! Artistic, yes. A dark hand; a _little_ deceitful; not much
heart; _very_ ambitious. I see some disease, like small-pox, or a bad
accident, in store for you; you will marry when you are about forty.
Let me look again. No, you and your husband will _not_ agree. You will
live long, and die suddenly.”
“How I wish some one could tell Miss Paske’s fortune!” cried Captain
Waring, with unusual animation. “Shall I try?” suddenly seizing it.
“Great vivacity; despotic will; love of admiration; line of heart
_nil_; and the girdle of Venus--oh--oh----”
“Oh, nonsense!”--wrenching it away impatiently. “Here is Mr. Joy, who
knows something _far_ more interesting--a new and much shorter way of
going home.”
This was seemingly an important piece of intelligence. Yes, there was
a decided alacrity about getting under way. Hunger is a vulgar, but
a very human weakness, and soon every one set off in the wake of
scatter-brained Toby and Miss Paske; and nothing but a few scraps of
newspaper and cigar-ends marked the conclusion of what is known to this
day in Shirani as the “Great Starvation Picnic.”