WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS
"Half a minute, Dillon!" said the Commissioner abruptly, as the doctor,
ushered in by a scarlet-sin-stain of an orderly, entered the tent where
the former was working. "I must attend to these gentlemen first."
These gentlemen were Dya Ram, Ramanund, and a third very different sort
of person, obtrusively Hindoo in face, figure, attire.
The Commissioner's manner, as he returned to the business in hand,
changed from careless familiarity to an elaborate courtesy.
"I quite understand, _pundit-sahib_," he said in English to Ramanund,
"that you are, as you say, actuated by no personal motive. A man of
your attainments and culture can scarcely feel a keen interest in
_jogi_ Gorakh-nath's--that is the name, I think--domicile in a gun
barrel!"
The sarcasm was lost on the hearer, who smiled, satisfied. "Quite so,
sir," he replied. "It is merely, as my friend Dya Ram postulates, a
question as to the legality--"
The Commissioner interrupted him suavely. "In that case it is a matter
for the courts, surely."
"Unless your Honour should, as magistrate, act under Section 418
providing for emergencies," began Dya Ram; whereat the official sat
back in his chair resignedly.
"Of course," he answered, his brogue running riot, as it always did,
when he was contemptuous, "I have that power. But do ye really think,
sir, that this present matter is of such paramount importance to the
stability of the British Empire, that I should be justified in running
counter to the ordinary course of law and justice?" Here the futility
of his own sarcasm seemed to come home to him. He paused to consult a
file, and when he looked up again, he spoke in Hindustani--evidently
for the benefit of the third party. "There is no record whatever," he
said briefly, "of any previous claim to the gun. It has been
worshipped, of course; but that is a different matter. The military
power has no intention of interfering with this habit. I may add that a
counter petition, praying me not to allow appeal on the ground that
this _jogi_ is a man of ill fame, and a public nuisance, has been filed
by the _mohunt_ (guardian of shrines) at the Pool of Immortality."
The obtrusively Hindoo figure which had remained standing, though his
companions were seated, here folded his hands as if in prayer, leant
forward, and began garrulously:--
"_Huzoor_ it is malice--malice of hereditary nature. They hope to gain
money--"
"Exactly, _Mohunt-jee_; your money! if the pilgrims haven't the
attraction of a live man in a gun close to your shrine your trade will
suffer," interrupted the Commissioner, with brutal truth. "I am afraid
I can do nothing. Of course," he continued, reverting to English, "if
you bring a suit to claim prescriptive right, you may," here his
patience gave way finally, "but God bless my soul, gentlemen! Surely
men like you have something better to do than bolster up your
countrymen in a preposterous business like this!"
"Pardon me, sir," protested Dya Ram, litigiously, "but if it is
prescriptive right, vested in citizens, then--"
"Then, sir!" interrupted the stern, high voice, "the British Empire
will have no choice but to allow _jogi_ Gorakh-nath to be a
son-of-a-gun till the day of his death! So good-morning to you;
unless--" here the suavity returned in full force--"there is any other
subject you wish to bring forward."
There was not, apparently; and as the trio were ushered out, the
Commissioner sat still further back in his chair, tilting it with his
feet against the table, and ran his fingers through his hair in an
exasperated fashion.
"'Pon my soul, it's inconceivable," he said; then, reaching forward,
took up a newspaper that was lying on the table, and began to read.
"_If we are asked what we, the educated natives of India, claim, we
reply boldly, all things that Englishmen of equal culture possess by
right of birth. We refuse flatly to be lumped in with the crass
ignorance of our fellow-countrymen who have, alas! not yet risen to a
pitch of desiring that liberty of which John Stuart Mill speaks in such
glowing terms in his valuable pamphlet_."
"Hark to that, now!" he commented, flinging the paper back. "That's Mr.
Dya Ram's last, and it goes on, as per usual, to abuse. They asked me
to put a name to it, and I've just been telling the confidential
department that, barring a horrible misuse of synonym, there's no
sedition, no harm in it whatever! And there isn't, Dillon. The
son-of-a-gun business is ten times as dangerous. Dering's within his
rights, but I wish to blazes he'd left the brute alone; or he might
have put a blank cartridge in and fired a salute by mistake when
Gorakh-nath was inside! But ye can't keep the military in subjection.
The department's aimin' at a fight, and small blame to it! I'm spoiling
for one myself this instant moment; so come along, doctor, an' let me
hear what your criminals have to say. There's a pretty sheaf of
complaints for ye, ye hard-hearted murderin' slave driver!"
He took up a bulky file of papers as he spoke, and passed them to an
orderly in exchange for his hat, which the man held ready.
"Yes! it's pretty good," assented the doctor, placidly, as, keeping
step, the two passed out of the tent, so down the palm avenue towards
the gaol, which the Commissioner was going to inspect. "It comes of
their being idle. Wait till I get them digging again. I'll work the
mischief out of them. When are we going on; and where?"
His companion shook his head. "Can't get an answer out of the Public
Works. Is there anything you would like done, meanwhile?"
Dr. Dillon laughed sardonically. "Pretty considerable, rather! Only it
would take months to get sanction. But, if you pass it, Smith says he
could put a wire on from the Fort easily in a day. It would save
sending by road if there was trouble, and the great thing is to hit
back as quick as you can. The mutiny taught us that."
"Ay," said the Commissioner, musingly, "that's the straight tip; and
that's why steam and electricity rule India. One can be ready without
letting people know. If that had been the case in the mutiny--" he
shrugged his shoulders, then went on--"these things come so easily; a
touch starts them; but you mustn't show that you know it. Still, if you
thought there would be any difficulty--I mean if you mightn't be able
to hold your own till they came from the Fort--we might make some
excuse for quartering a troop closer."
Dr. Dillon shook his head. "It isn't worth it. I believe myself they'll
settle down when that big brute, Gopi, I told you about, gets his
ticket to-morrow. If I didn't want to get rid of him I'd put him in
cells for six weeks. And there's a warder, too,--or perhaps more. But
there's no fear. I could hold the whole 'biz' myself, till the brutes
managed to get off their leg irons, and as I keep every tool _extra
mural_, I don't believe there's a bit of iron within the walls--except
the shackles themselves. So I should have an hour or two, anyhow--"
"Now, here you are," he continued, with pardonable pride, as they
passed under the mud archway which led into the gaol; a long archway
with a massive door at either end, tunnelling a square block of
flat-roofed building. "You'll find everything spick and span, I can
tell you, for I've been making the beggars polish their own leg irons,
so as to keep 'em a bit busy."
It was, indeed, spick and span, as only an Indian gaol can be, where
everything, including the prisoners' beds, is freshly mud-plastered
every week. Spick and span in a mere monotony of mud and lack of
colour. The prisoners, fifteen hundred of them or more, stood in four
long, straight rows, naked save for their waistcloths and the eared
caps on their shaven heads; their blankets, folded to a small square
under their feet, giving them a strangely wooden appearance, as if they
stood on stands, like the figures in Noah's ark.
A couple of policemen fell out and drew their truncheons to walk close
behind the Commissioner; but Dr. Dillon waved his pair back.
"Never show you expect anything," he said laconically, "and as I've
always refused a guard, I can't take one now."
Nor was there any apparent need for one. Some faces scowled at him, but
most were occupied with the Commissioner, who, when a prisoner raised
his hand, paused to take the written petition which, nine times out of
ten, was ready for presentation.
"There must be a good many warders in it," remarked the Commissioner,
dryly. And the doctor nodded.
"Now there's only the hospital," said the latter, when the solitary
cells had been inspected, the cook room interviewed, and the dinner to
come tasted. "It won't take you long. There was only one case in this
morning."
But as they entered the long open ward, like a cloister, mud-plastered
as all else, but with iron beds looking strangely at variance with
their surroundings, two of these were occupied, and at one, a hospital
dresser was standing, looking somewhat scared.
Dr. Dillon gave a hasty exclamation as he stepped up to the bed and
looked at the sick man.
"When did he come in?" he asked briefly.
"Ten minutes ago, _Huzoor_; the _baboo_ hath given him--"
"Never mind what he hath given him," interrupted the doctor, holding up
his hand in warning, "go on with it, and tell the _baboo-sahib_ to
come to me for orders--at once. Now then, sir, that's all--and a bit
too much too--" he added in a lower voice, as they passed out together,
"for it's a case of cholera."
The Commissioner looked grave. "That will complicate matters, won't
it?"
"Can't say. You never can tell. They may take it as a dispensation, or
there may never be another case. That fellow's done for, anyhow--he'll
be dead in an hour."
"That's quick, isn't it?" asked his companion, calmly.
"Rather. I've seen a man go out in ten minutes, though. The worst of it
is," he added, with a frown, "if there really is some conspiracy at the
bottom of the discontent, it is as likely as not the devils who are
working it, may take advantage of this--I don't mean of this
death--_that_ goes without saying. But when cholera is about, poison is
hard to detect, and even if I stamp out the _disease_, which I mean to
do, they may simulate it." He bit at his thumbnail viciously as he
strode on, thinking and muttering. "By God!" he murmured, "if I could
catch 'em at it! However," he added aloud, "it's no good fussing. If
the thing comes, it comes, and I've kept you here too long as it is,
sir. Do you know it's close on half-past ten?"
"Be jabers!" exclaimed the Commissioner, "only twenty minutes to bathe,
shave, breakfast, and put on me gold lace continuations. Well, ta, ta!
I'll see you at the show, of course."
Dr. Dillon looked puzzled for an instant; the puzzledom of a man whose
thoughts are recalled from afar. "The show? Oh, yes! I was forgetting.
Rather, sir. Why! it is as much my canal as Smith's, for we've done
every inch of it together; besides, I have got to drive his wife down."
"Where the deuce is Dering?" asked the Commissioner, quite ingenuously;
but George Dillon flushed up. It was visible even under his
leather-like tan.
"I really can't say, sir; otherwise engaged, I presume."
His elder turned to him, surprised, yet with instant apology. "I'm
sorry; I shouldn't have said it; but I really meant nothing."
Dr. Dillon gave a dry, sardonic laugh. "Oh! it is all right, sir. I
quite believe you didn't. Nobody does mean anything in that sort of
connection. It's left for the doctors to face facts as they are really;
and then you call us brutal." He turned back, as he spoke, to the
hospital.
Half an hour afterwards, however, having in the interim provided for
every contingency he could foresee, including the bare possibility of
his carrying infection, he appeared in Mrs. Smith's drawing-room,
looking--for him--quite smart and spruce; since, as he had said, this
end to three years' work was an event in his life also.
He found her, dressed in her daintiest, in a rocking-chair; and as he
entered, his quick trained ear took in the petulance of the recurring
push of one daintily shod foot. The room was darkened, and full of the
scent of flowers. It was a familiar room to him, yet he never entered
it without a glad recognition of the extreme feminine refinement shown
in its every detail; for its mistress was one of those women whose
fragility comes less from physical delicacy than from sensitiveness of
mind.
She was leaning back in her chair listlessly; yet the white ringed
hands which clasped the fair curls on her forehead showed an almost
passionate strain of muscle.
"I believe you'll have to go without me," she said, as he approached,
"I've such a racking headache. I don't believe I can face it--I'm sure
I can't."
He passed on to her side, and laid his hand on one of hers for an
instant, while his quick eye took in the details around him. A note had
slipped from her lap to the floor. It lay face up, and the words "Dear
Mrs. Smith, so sorry--" showed in Vincent Dering's writing. So, not
content with the message of excuse sent her by the offender through
him, she must have written! That was a dangerous development of the
situation. He stood looking down at her indulgently, as he might on a
fractious child who did not understand. And she did not--poor soul!
"You're nervous," he said. "Let me give you half a whiskey-and-soda
before we start. It'll make you all right."
"Nervous!" she echoed irritably, her foot setting her chair a-swing to
match her tone. "I'm never nervous--you know that is not one of my
failings--is it?"
"No," he replied, "but you are a bundle of nerves for all that. You
wouldn't be the woman you are if you weren't. And you are nervous at
this moment. Nervous, despondent, out of heart. Come! make an effort!"
She gave a petulant little giggle of impatience. "You speak as if I
were a Mrs. Dombey; but I'm not that sort. Besides, it killed her. I am
not coming. It doesn't really matter, you know; nobody will miss me--it
will be all right."
George Dillon, watching her, felt sorry, for once, at the correctness
of his own diagnosis. He knew her so well that it seemed imperative to
give her a hint of the reality. The danger of a final _eclaircissement_
with Captain Dering seemed imminent, and the shock of it might lead to
anything, if the knowledge of her own weakness came to her in the
presence of the man she had cheated herself into calling a friend.
"Your husband would. It is a great day for him," he said, laying his
dexterous surgeon's hand full on the raw. As he expected, the answer
came passionately, and gave him an opening.
"He! O, he is quite happy as it is! He wouldn't miss me a bit. Why
should he? I am not complaining, mind you--but why should he? He has
interests enough without me."
Dr. Dillon deliberately sought for the nearest chair, drew it close,
and sat down beside his patient in professional fashion, his eyes on
her face, his hands on his knees.
"My dear lady," he said, "don't talk--excuse me--rubbish. Try and
remember what women are always forgetting--that they _are_ women, and
that, while Eve swallowed her portion of the fatal apple, his
stuck--thank God for it!--in Adam's throat."
She ceased her rocking, to sit and stare at him with a growing
resentment, which belied the words that came at last, almost sullenly.
"I don't understand what you mean in the very least. What has Eve's
apple to do with--my headache?"
"A very great deal," he answered coolly, "and with more than your
headache, which, by the way, is only a symptom, not a cause. The real
evil is--is something different. If you do not understand--though I
think you do a little--" she shook her head--"I can only repeat my
advice about the whiskey-and-soda; for I cannot explain to you crudely
what I mean."
She interrupted him angrily. "You have no right to hint at things you
dare not say."
Her very indignation betrayed her, and he smiled kindly. "Perhaps not,"
he said. Then he paused, hesitated, finally leant nearer, with a look
of resolve in his queer, intelligent face. "But I will tell you what I
can do. I can sacrifice my self-respect and tell you a bit of my
personal history which I never meant you to know, but which may help to
cure--your headache." His voice, usually so dry, had a softness in it,
though he went on without the faintest emotion. "Mrs. Smith, I have
done myself the honour for nearly three years, of considering you as
near perfection as a woman can he. Allow me to finish, please! I have
done more. I have been, as the phrase runs, in love with my ideal of
perfection; but I think you will admit that I have never allowed my
feelings to give you, myself, or anyone else a--shall we say, a nervous
headache? Now, after that, don't you think we had better start?"
He rose in quite a matter-of-fact way, took up his hat, and waited for
her answer.
He had to wait some time, while the petulance of her renewed rocking
ceased gradually in a determined rhythm, and he felt his courage going
down to his boots. It was heroic treatment, but she was a healthy
subject, and her anger would pass. Anything was better than letting her
perfection suffer.
The even creak of the rocker ended at last, and she rose, as he had
risen, calmly, and faced him.
"I quite understand now what you meant, Dr. Dillon," she said
freezingly, "and why you did not care to explain. I shall, of course,
never be able to forgive you for daring to dream such a thing possible,
but--"
"But," he interrupted, without a quiver, "you will take that half
whiskey-and-soda. Here! _qui-hi! Whiskey sharab belatee pani la'o
juldi; mem-sahiba jata hai_. (Bring whiskey-and-soda; the _mem_ is
going.)"
Perhaps the command of that assertion helped her to a decision. At any
rate she did not countermand it, but spent the rather awkward pause
which inevitably ensued in a perfect field-day of her hat-pins among
her curls and veil. Whereat George Dillon, despite a certain bruised
feeling, smiled, telling himself she was a true woman.
Nevertheless when, as she was stepping into the dogcart, his friendly
help came necessarily to the fore again, she reverted to her dignified
resentment. "I ought," she said stiffly, "to have thanked you for--for
your good opinion of me, and your evident desire to be kind. I do so
now. But I fear it will be quite impossible for me to forget or forgive
the delusion."
"That is quite a minor matter," he put in, gleefully. "Now, cheer up,
Bacilla, you brute, or we shall be late," Bacilla being his term of
abuse for a pony which required a little stick.
They were only just in time, no more. Five minutes after they had
joined the company gathered on the red-brick masonry of the canal head,
under a canopy of waving garlands and gay bunting, with that inevitable
British flag as the centre of all, the small man with the big star on
his breast took a step forward, raised a handle, and, as the first
drops of water trickled through a sluice, declared, in a violent Scotch
accent, "that the Victoria-Kaiser-i-Hind" canal was open. So, keeping
time as it were, slowly, majestically, to those (also inevitable)
strains of "God save the Queen," the outer floodgates swung back,
allowing the river to have permanent possession during good behaviour,
of the walled basin between them and the inner ones. Thus, slowly, with
a gurgling of water seeking its level, the surface rose till the
half-open sluices in the second gates were reached, and a thin curve
tipped over to fall with a splash, and send a tiny scout of a stream to
find out what this new straight road might mean. Only a tiny scout,
since the earthworks beyond had to be accustomed by degrees to their
new tenant.
Still the new way was open, and the current of the river hesitated in
the old one.
"Bravo, Smith!" cried George Dillon, coming round, when the cheering
and general congratulations were over, to slap his colleague on the
back, metaphorically and actually. "We've done that; and now perhaps,
old man, you'll have time for other things."
"Yes," assented the tall, gaunt man, dreamily; "now I shall have time
to settle that point about the searchlight."
"The what?"
"Search-light. There's been a correspondence in the _Engineer_ about
it; and as I've all the electric plant here, lying useless, now the
show's over,--until it's wanted for something else, of course,--I am
going to see if I can't overcome their difficulty in concentrating all
the power on a sufficiently narrow area. I believe I know how to do
it."
George Dillon looked at him with fierce, humorous exasperation.
"Believe!" he echoed. "I know you can! You are the most intolerably
circumscribed, self-concentrated, narrow-minded machine of a man I ever
came across. Heaven help you!"
As he drove Mrs. Smith home again, it was his turn to sit mumchance
until, womanlike, she relented faintly, and, exaggerating her own
powers, trusted she had not been, _etc_., though of course, _etc_.--
"Not in the least, thank you," he replied. "I was only meditating if I
should tell you that I think Eugene has softening of the brain."
"Softening of the brain!" she echoed, horrified. "Oh, doctor, do you
think it's that?"
"Well, it isn't softening of the heart, anyhow," he said grimly. "But
I'm not joking. If someone doesn't get a hold on some portion of that
man--I don't care what it is--heart, brain, stomach, anything--and
prevent him from killing himself with work, India will lose her best
engineer. What he wants is someone to--to give him a nervous headache!"
"We will leave that subject alone, please," she said loftily; but when
her husband joined them in the verandah, she went over ostentatiously
to him and pinned a carnation in his buttonhole, hoping he would like
it better than the rose she gave him the day before, which--this was in
a louder tone for the doctor's benefit--he had forgotten to put in!
"Did I, my dear?" replied her spouse. "Oh, yes! I remember you put it
in my minim glass because I was working in my shirt-sleeves. Then I
wanted the glass. So it got withered and the head snapped off."
Dr. Dillon laughed--his usual dry laugh. "That is one of the many
tragedies which come from the delusion all women have that flowers
can't be out of place."