Speaking pure Lowland Scots, which was a delight to listen to; full

of a gracious hospitality embracing everyone in the district from the

highest to the lowest; fiery politicians and ardent supporters of

their beloved Free Kirk, to the upkeep of which I believe they would

cheerfully have given their last copper, Miss Aitken and Miss Elspeth

were of a type now unhappily almost extinct.

Miss Elspeth was the plain, clever one. "In my youth", she loved to

quote, "in my youth I wasna what you would ca' bonnie, but I was pale,

penetratin', and interestin'."

Miss Aitken had been a beauty, and liked to tell us of the balls she

had danced at, when, dressed in white muslin with heelless slippers

and a wreath in her hair, she had been called "a sylph," Why she had

never married was a puzzle to many. I remember she used to tell us of

a wonderful visit to London, and of how she came home sick at heart

about leaving all the "ferlies," as she called them. On her first

evening at home Miss Elspeth had said, to cheer her, "Come and see the

wee pigs." "Me!" said poor Miss Aitken. "What did I care about the

wee pigs!" It was, perhaps, more than the "ferlies" she missed, but I

don't know. She was no sylph when I knew her, my dear Miss Aitken, but

she had a most comfortable lap, and a cap with cherry ribbons, and the

kindest heart in all the world. Once, John, who thirsted always for

information, and mindful of a point that had struck him in the chapter

at morning prayers, said:

"Miss Aitken, are you any relation to Achan-in-the-Camp?"

Miss Elspeth, looking quizzically at her sister, answered for her:

"Dod! Marget, I wouldna wonder but what ye micht hae been tempted by

the Babylonish garment!"

They were very old when we knew them, these dear ladies, and they

have been dead many years, but their simple, kindly lives have left

a fragrance to sweeten this workaday world even as the mignonette in

bygone summers scented their old-world garden.

How I do reminisce! It is entirely your fault for saying you liked it.

You know it is a trait in the Douglas family. Our way of entertaining

guests is to sit close together and recall happenings, and delightedly

remind each other of childish escapades, shouting hilariously, while

our guests sit in a bored and puzzled silence. Pleasant family the

Douglases!

Well, as I said, Rika is a pleasant place and the Royles Irish,

therefore charming. Mrs. Royle is a most purpose-like person. I like

to go with her in the morning on her rounds. Through the gardens we go

to see the bananas and pine-apples and tomatoes ripening in the sun,

and make sure that the _malis_ are doing their work; then on to the

wash-house, where the _dhobi_ is finishing the weekly wash; to the

kitchens, to see that the cooking-pots are clean; finally, to stand on

the verandah while the _syces_ bring the ponies and feed them before

our suspicious eyes. I forgot the henhouse. As we live almost entirely

on fowls in the Mofussil, the _moorghy-khana_ is a most important

feature of the establishment; but just now, I regret to say, owing to

a moorghy famine in the district, the stock is at a somewhat low ebb.

Men have been scouring the country for fowls, but when we went to look

at the result this morning we found about a dozen miserable chickens,

almost featherless, standing dejectedly in corners, and Mrs. Royle

wailed, "We can't kill these: it would be a sheer slaughter of the

innocents!" It isn't easy to get beef or mutton in this part of the

world, and when a sheep is brought to Rika it has to be carefully

concealed, or Kittiwake ties a ribbon round its neck and claims it as

her own, and terrible is the outcry if anyone dares to make away with

her pet.

There are two Royle children--Kittiwake and Hilda. Kittiwake

(christened, I believe, Kathleen Helen) is fat and broad and beaming,

and very religious. Hilda is inclined to love the gay world, and finds

Rika too quiet--the baby aged six! They are both thorough little

sportsmen and mounted on their ponies go with their father almost

everywhere. Yesterday I went for a ride with them, along dusty brown

roads between rice-fields, and they gave me a wonderful lot of

information about the place and the people. As we passed a little

village temple Kittiwake stopped. "_That_," she said solemnly,

pointing with her whip, "is where they worship false gods."

I told Mr. Royle about Peter being so anxious for a mongoose, and

to-day when the children came running to beg me to come quickly and

see what the fisherman had caught for me, my mind leapt at once to

mongooses. When I saw, confined under a wicker basket, two animals

with yellow fur and flat heads that moved ceaselessly, my heart sank.

If they had been caught for me how could I be so ungracious as to

refuse them, and yet how was it possible for me to carry these most

terrifying creatures about with me, and perhaps, on the voyage home,

have to share my cabin with them?

I looked round wildly. The fisherman was grinning delightedly at his

own cleverness. Our two _chuprassis_, Autolycus, and a _syce_ stood

round with the children, all waiting for my approval.

"They're rather nice, aren't they?" I stammered feebly.

"Oh--_sweet_!" said Hilda rapturously.

"Sweet!" I echoed. "But aren't they big ones?"

"Big!" cried Kittiwake. "Why, they're only _butchas_;" and she lifted

the edge of the basket to get a better view, at which one of the

_butchas_ made a rush for the opening and made straight at me. With

a yell I snatched up my skirts, knocked over Hilda, leapt "like a

haarse" on to the verandah straight into the astonished Mr. Royle,

while the weird beast disappeared like a yellow streak.

"Whatever is the matter?" he asked as I sank to the floor.

"Olivia's afraid of the _butcha_ otter!" squealed Hilda, while she

scampered about looking for the truant.

"Otter?" said I.

"Yes," said Mr. Royle; "they are baby otters that the fisherman found

at the side of the lake. I thought of sending them to the Calcutta

Zoo. They aren't very common in India."

"I'm _so_ glad!" I gasped; and Mr. Royle looked mystified. It didn't

seem exactly a reason for fervent gladness, but suppose they _had_

been mongooses? My life, so to speak, was ruined.

Staying in the house with Mr. Royle is rather like being with Colonel

Newcome in the flesh. He is such a very "perfect gentil Knight"--as

courteous to a native woman as to the L.-G.'s wife. The people round

about adore him and his wife; they are a kind of father and mother to

the whole district. There would be little heard of disloyalty to the

British if all the Sahibs were like Mr. Royle, He is so good--I'd be

almost afraid to be so good in case I died--but not the least in a

sickly way. He is a teetotaller, a thing almost unheard of in India;

and he isn't ashamed to be heard singing hymns with the children

before their bed-time; yet (why yet?) he is a crack shot, a fine polo

player, an all-round sportsman.

Both he and his wife are very fond of books. Mrs. Royle reads

everything she can lay her hands on, but her husband's special subject

is philosophy, and last night he lent me a volume of Nietzsche.

I don't think I understood a single word, but between it and the

_moorghy-khana_ I had a bad night. I thought I had to make in five

minutes a new scheme of the Universe. All the odd-shaped pieces were

lying about like a picture-puzzle, and I feverishly tried to make them

fit, in the clumsy ineffective way one does things in dreams. Just as

I had it almost finished, Mrs. Royle came with a fowl in each hand and

said sternly, "These must come into your scheme." I took the two great

clucking things and vainly tried to thrust their feet--or is it claws

hens have?--into a tiny corner, and they had just wrecked all my

efforts when I woke!

I have taken some photographs which I shall send you. The delightful

babu buttoned tightly into the frock-coat is a clerk of Mr. Royle's,

called a "Sita-Ram--two-o'clock." The frock-coat was a legacy from a

departing Collector, and he is immensely proud of it. He is a great

delight to me, and says he will never cease to pray for my _internal_

welfare! Talking of babus, one wrote to Mr. Royle the other day

about a pair of riding-breeches, and said, "I have your Honour's

measurements, but will be glad to know if there is any improvement in

the girth." Don't you think that was a very pretty way of asking if he

had put on weight?

When I showed Autolycus and the _chuprassis_ the photographs I had

taken of them, the _chuprassis_ said, "_Atcha_" (very good), but

Autolycus shook his head violently, and when Boggley asked him what

was wrong, he replied in an injured tone that it made him look quite

black!

_Feb. 12_.

... Deep snow, hard frost, bright sun--how gloriously sparkling it must

be! It dazzles my eyes to think of it. I don't wonder you revel in

the skating and the long sleigh rides through the silent forest. Talk

about the magic of the East--it could never appeal to me like the

magic of the North.

Storks, snow-queens, moor-wives, ell-women--how the names thrill one!

What was your Hans Andersen like? Mine was light blue and gold with

wonderful coloured pictures, but it was the frontispiece I studied,

and which held me frightened yet fascinated. It was a picture of a

pine-wood, with a small girl in a blue frock and white pinafore and

red stockings, crying bitterly under a tree, in the branch of which a

doll hung limply, thrown there by cruel brothers. Through the trees

the sunset sky was pale green melting into rose-colour, and the wicked

little gnomes that twilight brings were tweaking the child's hair and

jeering at her misfortunes. One felt how cold it was, and how badly

the little girl wanted her hood and cloak. The darkness was very

near, and worse things than little gnomes would slip from behind the

tree-trunk trunks. It never occurred to me that the little girl

might have run home to warmth and light and safety. That was no

solution--the doll would still have been there. Your letter, with its

tale of snow and great quiet forests, and the picture you drew me of

the funny little girl with the flaxen plaits and the red stockings,

made me remember it. I don't know where my old book is--gone long

since from the nursery bookshelf to the dustbin, I expect, for it was

much-used and frail when I knew and loved it--but your word-picture

gave me the passport and enabled me to creep once again inside its

cover, so brave in blue and gold, and to greet my friend in the red

stockings, and find her as highly coloured as ever, and not a day

older. It is nice of you to say I have a courageous outlook on life,

but I wish I hadn't told you the story of the mongoose that was an

otter. Now you will say, like Boggley, _Funk-stick!_ If I stay much

longer in this frightsome land my hair will be white and my nervous

system a mere wreck.

Yesterday we left the solitude of Rika and went to polo at a place

about seventeen miles away. It was very interesting to meet all the

neighbouring Europeans--mostly planters and their wives. There were

about twenty people, and everyone very nice. I wish I had time to tell

you about them, but I haven't. After polo, which I enjoyed watching,

we all had tea together and talked very affably. Then Mr. Royle drove

me home while Boggley went with Mrs. Royle. I heard, as we were

leaving, Mr. Royle say something to Boggley about the horse being

young and skittish, and a faint misgiving passed through me, but I

forgot it talking to Mr. Royle, and when we reached Rika I went off

to dress for dinner, taking it for granted that the others were just

behind. Letters were waiting me, and I lingered so long over them I

had to dress in a hurry, and ran to the drawing-room expecting to find

everyone waiting. But the room was empty. Hungry and puzzled, I waited

for another ten minutes, and then went along to Boggley's bedroom, to

see what _he_ meant anyway; but there was no one there. More and more

puzzled, but distinctly less hungry, I went back to the drawing-room,

looked into the dining-room, finally wandered out into the verandah,

where I found the children's old nurse Anne tidying away the

children's toys.

I said: "Nurse, where's everybody?"

Anne left the toys and lifted both hands to high heaven.

"Och! Miss Douglas dear, it wasn't for nothing I dreamt last night of

water-horses. The night before ma sister Maggie's man was killed by a

kick from a wicked grey horse (Angus M'Veecar was his name, and a fine

young lad he was) I dreamt I saw one. As big as three hills it was,

with an awful starin' white face, and a tail on it near as long as

from Portree to Sligachen. It give a great screech, and a wallop in

the face of me, and jumped into the loch, and by milkin'-time next

morning--a Thursday it was--ma sister Maggie came into the door

cryin', 'Och and och, ma poor man, and him so kind and so young,' and

fell on the floor as stiff as a board."

Anne comes from Skye, and often tells me about water-horses and

such-like odd denizens of that far island; and I find her soft

Highland speech, with its "ass" for "as" and "ch" for "j," very

diverting; but this time I wasn't amused.

"But nothing _has_ happened, Anne. What are you talking about? Where

is my brother?"

"Mercy on us all, how can I tell? The mistress and the young gentleman

has never come in, and the master says to me, 'Fetch me my flask,

Anne,' says he; and fetch it I did, and he drove away, an' I'm sure as

I'm sittin' here I didn't see the water-horse for nothing. What does a

flask mean but an accident? Och--och, and a nice laughin'-faced young

gentleman he was, too."

If life is going to contain many such half-hours I don't see how I am

to get through it with any credit. I left Anne--whom at that moment

I hated--to seek information from the servants, which she did with a

valiant disregard of her entire lack of knowledge of Hindustani, a

language she stubbornly refused to learn a word of. The last I saw of

her she had seized the _khansamah's_ young assistant and was shouting

at him, "Chokra--ye impident little black deevil, will you tell this

moment, has there been an accident?" Backwards and forwards I went in

the verandah, then down the steps to the road, straining my eyes to

see and my ears to hear something--what I did not know. From the

garden the scent of the roses and mignonette came to me in the soft

Indian darkness. I ventured a little bit along the road, too anxious

to remember, or, remembering, to care, that I had no lantern, and that

at any moment I might tread on a snake. I could only think of one

thing, and how often I pictured it! Mr. Royle coming back, and the

natives carrying someone--someone who didn't laugh any more. The odd

thing was I didn't seem to mind at all what happened to kind Mrs.

Royle. It was Boggley, and only Boggley, that mattered to me. Of

course nothing did happen to anyone. It isn't when one expects and

dreads it that tragedy comes. Tragedy comes quietly, swiftly. I

remember going to see a fisherman's widow in a little village on the

stormy east coast. She told me of her husband's death. "I had his tea

a' ready an' a bit buttered toast an' a kipper, but he never cam' in."

That was all--"He never cam' in."

When our wanderers returned they were rather amused than otherwise.

The horse had given trouble and ended by kicking the trap to pieces,

and they had to walk part of the way home. Quite simple, you see; but

the first opportunity I looked in a mirror to see if my hair had not

turned white in a single night, as men's have done through sudden

fear. It hadn't; but I did dream of a water-horse with "an awful

starin' white face."

This morning Mrs. Royle took me to the village to get some brass to

take home. The shop was a little hut with an earthen floor, a pair of

scales, and one shelf crowded with brass things, made, not for

the European market, but for the daily use of the people, such as

drinking-vessels--_lota_ is the pretty name--and big brass plates out

of which they eat their rice and _dhalbat_. They keep them beautifully

polished with sand, and I think they ought to be rather decorative;

much more attractive certainly than the candlesticks and pots and

cheap rough silver-work which is the usual loot carried away by the

cold-weather visitor.

_16th_.

Another mail-day will soon be upon us; they simply pounce on one.

We have to get letters away by Tuesday from the Mofussil instead of

Thursday as in Calcutta. I look forward with great distaste to leaving

this place next week. When with the Royles one can't imagine oneself

happy anywhere else. The days pass so quickly; breakfast seems hardly

over when it is time for luncheon, and before one has really settled

down to read or write it is four o'clock, and time to go to tea, which

is spread down by the lake among the roses, the sun having lost its

fierceness and begun to think of going to bed. We all sit at a round

table and eat brown bread and butter and jam, all home-made. The china

we use is very pretty and came from Ireland, but Mrs. Royle has been

greatly troubled by its discoloured appearance, which the servants

assured her there was no cure for. I suggested rough salt and

lemon-juice, and after tea yesterday afternoon they brought it, and

we each set to work on our own cup and saucer, and behold! in a

very short time they were like new. Boggley made his particularly

beautiful, but unfortunately broke it immediately afterwards, at which

Kittiwake laughed so immoderately she fell on her saucer and sent it

to its long home.

I have learned to take a most intelligent interest in fowls and

Nietzsche; and more and more as the days pass do I like and admire

our host and hostess. I never met people I felt so _affectionately_

towards.

Here come the children flying, followed patiently by the old

_khansamah_ with a spoon in one hand and a bottle of cod-liver-oil

emulsion in the other. I had better finish this letter and get the ink

out of their reach.

_Baratah, Thursday, Feb. 21_.

... Now we are really camping out, and I sit outside my tent even

as Abraham did of old. I have a whole long day before me to write.

Boggley was up and away long before I was awake, and won't be back

till evening.

We left Rika on Monday afternoon, very sad indeed. Mrs. Royle, as is

her way, heaped us with benefits, and, mindful of our starvation

on the way to Rika, had a luncheon-basket packed with cold fowl,

home-made bread, tomatoes, and a big cake. As we drove off the

children pursued us down the drive crying, "Don't go away. Stay with

us always."

At the station we were told that the train was two hours late, and

Boggley thought it would be an excellent plan to spend the time

calling on the Blackies, who live near; so, leaving Autolycus and

the _chuprassis_ with the luggage, we set out. We had been shown the

flower-garden and a crocodile that Mr. Blackie had shot, and were

about to drink a dish of tea in the drawing-room, when we heard the

whistle of an engine. "The train!" cried Boggley, bounding to his

feet, and spurning the cup of tea Mrs. Blackie was offering to him. It

was no moment for ceremony. With a shrieked good-bye we leapt out of

the window and across the compound, and set off on our half-mile run

to the station. There is something peculiarly nasty about the nature

of Indian trains. Simply because we left the station it chose to be up

to time. It must have been an amusing incident to the people in the

station, but I would have enjoyed it more had I been one of the

natives watching from a third-class carriage instead of, so to speak,

one of the principal actors. There was the engine shrieking in its

anxiety to start; there was our luggage neatly spread all over an

empty compartment; there was Autolycus protesting shrilly that the

train could not leave without his sahib, who was a very _burra_ sahib;

and finally there _we_ were with scarlet faces, topis on the backs of

our heads, surrounded by a thick cloud of dust, careering wildly into

the station.

After all the fuss, we had only about thirty miles to travel, when

we got out and drove three miles in a kind of native cart to a

dâk-bungalow, a very poor and uncomfortable specimen of its kind. It

didn't uplift us to hear that plague was very bad all round, and after

a somewhat jungly dinner during which we were very thoughtful and

disinclined for conversation, we sought our mildewed couches, to rise

again at skreich of day and continue our journey, till late on Tuesday

night we got out finally at Baratah station and drove out to our

present camping-ground. The people knew we were coming, and the tents

were up; but they hadn't expected us till the next day, so nothing was

ready, not even a lamp. It was the oddest experience to stumble about

in black darkness in entirely unknown surroundings. You know how

Boggley tumbles over things in the broad light of day, so you can

imagine what tosses he took over dressing-tables and chairs in

the darkness. It didn't last long, however, for an important fat

_khansamah_ hurried in, shocked at our plight, and, explaining that

his sahib, Mr. Lister, was away for a few days, brought us a lamp

and other necessaries. Dinner was not possible under the

circumstances--the box with our forks and knives had not arrived--so

the remains of Mrs. Royle's luncheon-basket coldly furnished forth

our evening meal While we sat there, uncomfortably poised on

dressing-bags, gnawing legs of fowl and hunches of bread, I thought

of you probably dining at the Ritz or the Savoy, with soft lights and

music, and lovely food, and probably not half as merry as Boggley and

I.

I don't know if I really like a tent to live in. The floor is covered

with straw, and then a carpet is stretched over it, which makes a

particularly bulgy, uneven surface to stand dressing-tables and things

on. The straw, too, is apt to stick out where it is least expected,

and gives one rather the feeling of being a tinker sleeping in a barn.

At night a tent is an awesome place. It is terrible to have no door

to lock, and to be entirely at the mercy of anything that creeps and

crawls; to have only a mosquito-net between you and an awful end.

I woke last night to hear something sniffing outside the tent. It

scraped and scraped, and I was sure that it was digging a hole and

creeping underneath the canvas. I sat up in bed and in a quavering

voice said "Go away," and the noise stopped, but only to begin

again--scrape, scrape, snuffle, snuffle, in the most eerie way. Then

something worse happened. At my very ear, as it seemed, the most

blood-curdling yell rent the astonished air. It was only a jackal,

Boggley says, but it sounded as if all the forces of evil had been let

loose at once. You can laugh if you like, but I think it was enough to

frighten a very Daniel. As for me, in one moment I was well under the

blankets, with fingers in both ears, and I suppose even in the midst

of my terror I must have fallen asleep, for the next thing I knew was

daylight and the cheerful sound of voices. To-night I shall have a

lamp burning and a _chokidar_ (watchman) to sleep outside my tent.

Baratah is quite a large town, and has a Roman Catholic Mission and

two lady doctors. We are camping about a mile from the town in a

corner of Mr. Lister's compound. It is pretty, with well-kept grass

and flower-beds, and opposite is the Guest House of the Raj, where we

would be staying now were it not that its roof is not quite safe, and

it cannot be used. I went through it, and a great neglected place it

is, with tawdry Early Victorian furniture and awful oleographs.

When the sun had gone down yesterday, we went for a walk to explore,

along an avenue of peepul trees, across a fine polo-ground, and then

we lighted on a big tank. A tiny native boy was perched on the bank

watching something in the water, so we sat down beside him and watched

too. The something was very large and black, and we were puzzled to

know what it was, till, at a word from the child, it heaved itself out

of the water and revealed itself an elephant. Up it came to where we

were, laid its trunk down so that the small boy could walk up, and off

he went proudly riding on its head. It was the nicest thing to watch I

ever saw.

We got the home mail the night we arrived here, but couldn't see to

read it till the next morning. So you are back in London--sloppy,

muggy, February London! How you will miss the cold clear North and

all the ice-fun; but you will be so busy finishing the book that

surroundings won't matter much. It seemed quite home-like to see the

familiar address on the note-paper.

To-day I am going to devote entirely to writing. Surely my book will

make some progress now. How many words should there be in a book? I've

got 18,000 now; "ragged incompetent words" they are, too. I wonder

what makes a writer of books! Would knowing all the words in the

dictionary help me? My statements are so bald, somehow. It doesn't

seem an interesting tale to me, so I'm afraid I can't expect an

unprejudiced reader to find it thrilling. The Mutiny is perhaps too

large a subject for me--though, mind you, there is one bit that sounds

rather well. I have taken great pains with it, and, as Viola said of

her declaration, "'tis poetical!" The worst of it is, when I write

poetically I am never quite sure that I am writing sense. I dare say

I would be wise to take the Moorwife's advice. You remember in _The

Will-o'-the Wisps are in Town_, when the man had listened to the

Moorwife's tale he said, "I might write a book about that, a novel in

twelve volumes, or better, a popular play."

"Or better still," said the Moorwife, "you might let it alone,"

"Ah," said the man, "that would be pleasanter and easier."

How true!

_Baratah, Thursday, Feb. 28_.

We are still in Baratah, as you see, and shall be till Tuesday. It

is a very nice life this nomadic existence, and one gets nearer the

people. They come in little groups and talk to Boggley outside his

tent, and I must say he is most patient with them and tries to do

his very best for each one of them. They make my heart ache, these

natives, they are so gentle and so desperately poor. Isn't it Steevens

who says the Indian ryot has been starving for thirty centuries and

sees no reason why he should be filled?

The Listers are home now and we have been seeing a lot of them.

They are delightful people. Mrs. Lister is quite a girl, and so

good-looking and cheery. She has the prettiest house I think I ever

saw. When we went to call the first time and were shown into the

white-panelled drawing-room with its great open blue-tiled fireplace

and cupboards of blue china, I suppose it was the contrast with our

own rather sordid surroundings, but it seemed to me like fairyland.

The hall is lovely, with a gallery all round and most exquisite

carving; rose-red velvet curtains, Persian rugs glowing with rich,

soft colours, and everywhere great silver bowls of flowers. They are

the most hospitable people, and ask us to dinner every night, and to

every other meal as well. Mr. Lister told me babu stories last night.

Here is one. The Government sent round making inquiries about some

Scandinavians. (Please don't ask why Scandinavians, because I can't

answer.) The Sub-Divisional Officer forwarded the reference to the

different police-stations for report. The babus in charge of these

stations hadn't an idea what Scandinavians were, but would have

scorned to ask. Three of the reports ran thus:

1. "Honoured Sir, I have the honour to report that the Scandinavian

has been concluded in this district and has been removed to Lahserai."

(Survey and Settlement operations.)

2. "Sir, I have the honour to report that there has been no

Scandinavians in the district this year, but it is raging furiously at

Rika." (Plague.)

3. "Sir, I have the honour to report two Scandinavians were seen at

Gopalbung. One was shot by Billie Burke Sahib, the other has not since

returned." (Tigers.)

That is a good, but somewhat involved, story. Another was about a

missionary who had been eaten by a tiger. The police wired, "A tiger

has man-eaten the Pope of Ramnugger."

Yesterday the Listers had a duck-shoot. About twenty men came from all

round, and Mrs. Lister and I went with them. We drove two and two to

a very large lake and then set sail in queer native boats punted by

natives. Of course I wanted to go with Boggley, but was sent off with

a strange man, one Major Griffiths, who eyed me with great dislike

because he said my light dress would frighten the birds. It got

frightfully hot with the sun beating on the water, and I simply dared

not put up a sunshade in case of scaring the birds more than I was

already doing, and thereby increasing the wrath of my companion. He

shot a lot of ducks, but evidently not so many as he thought he ought

to shoot, and when he saw the birds all congregated at one corner of

the lake a thought struck him, and he told the natives to take us to

shore. He got out and beckoned me to follow, which I obediently did,

and together we crawled through the jungle, with the _bandar-log_

chattering above us and--for all I know to the contrary--snakes

hissing beneath our feet. If I stepped, which I could hardly avoid

doing sometimes, on a fallen branch, making it crackle, the man turned

on me a glance so malignant I positively quailed. Breathlessly we

crept to the water-side and the unsuspecting ducks, and then

Major Griffiths fired into the brown,--is that the proper

expression?--killing I don't know how many. I don't think it was at

all a nice thing to do, but my opinion was neither asked nor desired.

Even then my friend was not satisfied, and he voyaged about until I

knew luncheon was long since a thing of the past, and I hated so the

shape of his face I could have screamed. When at last we did return, I

found my surmise as to luncheon had been only too correct, and we had

to content ourselves with scraps. The next duck-shoot I attend I shall

choose as companion a less earnest sportsman.

The weather is beginning to stoke-up, as Boggley calls it, and during

the day the tent is insufferable. I can sit outside it in the early

morning, but as the sun gets up Autolycus summons the _chuprassis_,

and they carry my table and writing-materials to the verandah of

the Guest House, which has a cool, not to say clammy and tomb-like,

atmosphere. My chief trials are the insects. There is a land of large

black beetle with wings that has a strange habit of poising itself

just above my head and remaining there. Someone told me--who I forget;

anyway, Boggley says it isn't true, but it seems quite likely--that

if these beetles drop on you they _explode_. Did you ever hear of

anything quite so horrible? I keep a wary eye on them and shift my

seat at their approach.

Not a hundred yards away a heathen temple stands, with its gilded roof

shining in the sun. We tried to go inside it the other day, but an

angel with a flaming sword, in the shape of a _fakir_, kept us out. It

didn't look very attractive. We saw enough when we beheld the post the

poor kids and goats are tied to, all messy and horrid from the last

sacrifice. The priest who forbade us to enter, just to show there was

no ill-feeling, hung wreaths of marigolds round our necks. Boggley,

once we were out of sight, hid his in the ditch, but I, afraid they

might find out and be offended, went about for the rest of the day

decked like any sacrificial goat.

That we are leading the Simple Life I think you would admit if you saw

us at our meals. I find that food really matters very little. Our cook

is of the jungle jungly. Autolycus is disgusted with him, and does his

best to reform him. _Chota-hazri_ I have alone, as Boggley is away

inspecting before seven o'clock. I emerge from my tent and find a

table before Boggley's tent with a cloth on it,--not particularly

clean,--a loaf of bread (our bread is made in jail: a _chuprassi_ goes

to fetch it every second day), a tin of butter, and a tin of jam.

Autolycus appears accompanied by the jungly cook, bearing a plate of

what under happier circumstances might have been porridge. A spoonful

or two is more than enough. "No good?" demands Autolycus. "No," and

disdainfully handing the plate back to the entirely indifferent cook,

he proceeds to produce from somewhere about his person a teapot and

two tiny eggs. Luncheon is much worse, for the food that appears is

so incalculably greasy that it argues a more than bowing acquaintance

with native _ghee_. Dinner is luncheon intensified, so tea is really

the only thing we can enjoy. The fact is, if we thought about it we

would never eat at all. I happened to walk round the tent to-day, and

found the dish-washer washing our dishes in water that was positively

thick, and drying them with a cloth that had begun life polishing our

brown boots. I stormed at him in English, and later Boggley stormed

at him in Hindustani, and he vowed it would never happen again; but

I dare say if I were to look round at this minute, I should find him

doing exactly the same thing; and I don't really care so long as

neither of us perishes with cholera as a result.

Such funny things live behind my tent! What should I find the other

day but a little native baby--about two or three years old. It seems

his mother is dead, and his father, who is our _chokidar_, has to take

him with him wherever he goes. He is the oddest little figure, clothed

in a most inadequate shirt, and a string round his neck with a shell

attached to keep away evil spirits. His hair is closely shaved except

for one upstanding tuft which is left to pull him up to heaven with;

and his face looks nothing but two great twinkling eyes. He squats

beside me nearly all day, and eagerly eats anything I give him, like a

little puppy dog. Toffee and fancy biscuits, both of which I possess

in abundance, are his favourites. An old servant of Boggley's is with

a sahib near here, and he arrived dressed in spotless white from

head to foot, bearing in one hand a large seed cake wreathed with

marigolds, and in the other a plate of toffee coloured pink, green,

and yellow, an offering to the Miss Sahib which he presented with many

salaams, and of which my little Hindoo gets the benefit. Autolycus and

the _chuprassis_ take a great interest in teaching him manners. When

I hold out a biscuit Autolycus says sternly, "Say salaam to the Miss

Sahib," and the baby puts his small hand gravely to his forehead,

bowing low with a "Talaam, Mees Tahib," then snaps up the prize.

I shall miss my little companion. I wonder what will become of

him--little brown heir of the ages. Already he can lisp to idols, but

he has never even heard of the Christ who said, "Suffer the children."

_March 3_.

I shall finish this and post it to-morrow before we leave. We have

been to church to-night, the most unusual occurrence with us nowadays.

Of course it was only an English church (I remember the time when I

thought it very exciting and more than a little wicked to be present

at a Church of England service) and the padre was a very little young

padre, and rather depressing. He insisted so that we were but a

passing vapour that I began to feel it was only too horribly true, and

Boggley, who had partaken largely of tinned cheese at luncheon and was

feeling far from well, grew every moment more yellow and green.

The Listers asked us to go back with them to dinner, but we thought it

better (Boggley especially) to seek the seclusion of our tents.

_Manpur, March 9_.

Now we are in a different place. At least it has a different name and

is a day's journey from Bantale, but it looks exactly the same. We

left Baratah yesterday morning and got in and out of trains all day

until about seven in the evening we got out finally at Manpur. I had

a dreadful cold, and was sniffy and inclined to be cross; so when

Boggley suggested we should dine in the waiting-room while Autolycus

and the _chuprassis_ went on with the luggage to acquaint the

dâk-bungalow people of our arrival, I upbraided him for not making

proper arrangements, and reviled the meagre repast, and was altogether

very unpleasant. When we reached our destination we found Autolycus

prancing distractedly. "This," he said to Boggley, "is what comes of

making no bundabust." Some other people were already occupying the

bungalow, and we could only get the back rooms, small, mouldy, and

inconvenient. Poor Boggley looked so crushed I had to laugh, and we

calmed the worried Autolycus, who hates to see his Sahib shoved into

corners, and, there being no inducement to remain up--went to bed.

Manpur is a fairly big station--the sort of place you read about in

Anglo-Indian novels. There are six households and a club. Boggley

and I called on all the six this evening, and then went to the club.

Everyone meets there in the evening to see the picture-papers and to

play tennis and bridge.

It is rather a bored little community, Manpur. I think they are all

pretty sick of each other, and one can't wonder. Even an Archangel

would pall if one met him at tea, played tennis with him, and sat next

him at dinner almost every day of the year; how much more poor human

beings--and Anglo-Indian human beings at that. Taken separately

they are delightful, but each assures us that the others are quite

impossible. They unite in being shocked at our living in such

discomfort, and have all invited us to stay; but it isn't worth while

to change our quarters. Besides, we are going away for the week-end to

some friend of Boggley's who lives about thirty miles from here.

A nice little young civilian is at present calling on us. He came to

pay his duty call, and he and Boggley became so deep in Oxford talk,

and found so many mutual friends, that we asked him to stay to dinner.

Autolycus told me in a stage whisper that the Sahib could easily stay

as the dâk-bungalow cook was very good, and that we would get quite a

Calcutta dinner. His pride, as he bore in the dishes, was beautiful to

see; and it was a good dinner, though rather tinny.

_Manpur, Thursday 12th_.

This delayed letter must be posted before we leave by the night train

for our next trek. We came back late last night from Misanpore after a

nice but very queer time. On Saturday, when, after a long dusty

drive of eight miles from the station, we arrived at the bungalow

of Boggley's friend, there was every evidence that no visitors were

expected. Just think! Boggley had never let him know we were coming;

the poor man was ignorant of the fearful joy in store for him.

I gripped Boggley by the arm. "Wretch," I hissed in his ear. "Why

didn't you write? What sort of man is he? Will he hate having me?"

"_Qui hai_?" bellowed Boggley to the deserted-looking bungalow. Then,

turning to me, "Oh yes, he'll hate it," he said calmly; "but he'll be

pleased afterwards." I could have shaken him. Making me play the part

of a visit to the dentist!

When our host appeared, very dishevelled (it turned out that he was

feeling far from well and had been lying down), and beheld me, dismay

was written large on his countenance. He glared round in a hunted

way, and it looked as if he were going to make a bolt for it; but he

remembered in time his manhood, and faced me. (His name is Ferris, and

he is tall and bald, and about forty, and so shy that when he blushes

his eyes water.) Somehow, we all got inside the house, and Boggley and

I sat in the drawing-room while Mr. Ferris rushed out to summon his

minions and make arrangements. We heard a whispered discussion going

on about sheets, and I longed to tell my distracted host that I had

all my bedding with me in a strap; but the thought that he might

consider me "ondelicate," like Mr. Glegg, deterred me. Presently I was

shown into what, only too evidently, was our host's own room, for a

servant snatched away some last remaining effects of his master--a

spatter-brush and a slipper--as I entered. I sat down on the bed and

pondered over what I would have felt had I been a man, and shy, and

seedy, and a strange female had been suddenly shot into my peaceful

home.

It was rather a difficult week-end. I have met men who were difficult

to talk to, but never one like Mr. Ferris, who, while willing, indeed

anxious, to be agreeable, so absolutely annihilated conversation. It

wasn't till dinner on Sunday night that I discovered a subject that

really interested him--London restaurants. He grew quite animated as

we discussed the relative merits of the Ritz, the Carlton, the Savoy,

the Dieudonné. I think that long, thin, bald, gentle bachelor

spends all his spare moments--and he must have many in lonely

Misanpore--thinking about his next leave and the feasts he will then

enjoy. Yet the odd thing is he isn't greedy about food. I think it

must be more the lights and music and people that attract him.

Mr. Ferris and Boggley were away all Sunday, and I spent the whole day

with a volume of Dana Gibson's drawings, the only book I could find.

I did go for a short walk, but the dust was nearly knee-deep, and,

except the little bungalow and outhouses, there was absolutely nothing

to see.

Yesterday again Boggley had to go and inspect some place, so it was

decided he would bicycle there, and then pick me up at some station we

had to change at on our way to Manpur. I drove to the station in Mr.

Ferris's little dogcart--alone. Mr. Ferris said he was so sorry he had

an engagement, but I think myself it was simply that he couldn't face

the eight miles alone with me.

The groom, instead of sitting behind, ran behind; and as the pony was

fresh he had to run pretty fast. There were two roads--a _pukka_ or

made road, and a _cutcha_ road, on which the natives walked and drove

their _ekkas_.

Autolycus and the _chuprassis_ were waiting at the station, and put

me into a carriage. They went straight on to Manpur with the luggage

instead of waiting at the station where we changed trains. It was ten

o'clock when I got out of the train, and Boggley had said he would be

no later than half-past eleven; then we would have luncheon, and get

the one o'clock train to Manpur. I went into the refreshment-room to

ask what we could have for luncheon,

"Ham and eggs," said the fat babu promptly.

"Nothing else?" I asked.

"Yes," said the babu; "mixed biscuits."

"Oh," I said, surprised.

"Certainlee," said the babu.

Then I went outside to read a book and watch for Boggley. My book was

one of those American novels where every woman is--to judge from the

illustrations--of more than earthly beauty. I got so disheartened

after a little when everyone I met had a complexion of rose and snow

(besides, I didn't believe it) that I shut it up. I found it was

nearly twelve o'clock, and Boggley hadn't arrived. I waited another

quarter of an hour, and then went in and ate some ham and eggs. One

o'clock, and the train came and went, but still no trace of the

laggard. Outside the station the blinding white road lay empty.

Nothing stirred, not even a native was visible; the whole world seemed

asleep in the heat. A pile of trunks lay on the platform addressed to

somewhere in Devonshire and labelled _Not wanted on the Voyage_. Some

happy people were going home. A far cry it seemed from this dusty land

to green Devonshire. I sat on the largest trunk and thought about it.

Two o'clock, three, four--the hours went past. I felt myself becoming

exactly like a native, sitting with my hands folded, looking straight

before me. If I hadn't been so anxious I shouldn't have minded the

waiting at all. Now and again I refreshed myself with a peep at the

babu, just to assure myself that I wasn't the only person left alive

in the world.

About five o'clock Boggley and his bicycle strolled into the station.

I had meant to be frightfully cross with him when he appeared--that is

to say, if he weren't wounded or disabled in any way--but somehow I

never can be very cross when I see him, the way he wrinkles up his

short-sighted eyes is so disarming.

He had absolutely no excuse except that he had run across old friends,

and they had persuaded him to stay to lunch, and then they had got

talking, and so on and so on. He was very repentant, but inclined to

laugh. I expect really he had forgotten for the time he had a sister.

He confessed he hadn't mentioned my existence till he was leaving, and

then, he said, "They did seem rather surprised." I should think so

indeed!

Our home mail was waiting us at Manpur and another "Calcutta" dinner.

Your letter, my faithful friend, was more than usually charming and

kind--a balm to my lacerated feelings! If you don't get a letter next

mail after this it will mean either that we are entirely out of the

reach of post offices, or that a tiger has eaten the dâk-runner.

_Chota Haganpore, March 25_.

... a whole fortnight since I wrote last, and our tour is almost over.

On Wednesday we go back to Calcutta, and in April I sail for home. The

time has simply rushed past. This last fortnight has been a time of

pure delight; I have been too absorbed in enjoying myself to write.

First, we stayed two days in a town where Boggley had to open some

sort of building. The natives met us with a band, and there were

decorations and mottoes and crowds. In the evening a dramatic

entertainment took place for our amusement--_Julius Caesar_ acted

by schoolboys. Mark Anthony wore a _dhoti_, a Norfolk jacket, and a

bowler hat. In the middle of "Friends, Romans, Countrymen," the bowler

fell off. Still declaiming, he picked it up with his toes, caught it

with his hand, and gravely put it on again--very much on one side. I

envied the "mob" their serene calm of countenance. Boggley and I made

horrible faces in our efforts to preserve our gravity.

The next day Boggley played in a football match with these same boys.

One got a kick on the shin, and limping up to Boggley said, "Sir, I am

wounded; I cannot play," whereupon another ran up to the wounded

one, crying, "Courage, brother. Tis a Nelson's death." Great dears I

thought they were.

Since then we have been through dry places, and camped in desolate

places, hardly ever seeing a European, and enjoying ourselves

extremely. One day, a red-letter day, Boggley shot two crocodiles.

One was a fish-eater, but the other was a great old _mugger_, most

loathsome to look at. Autolycus hoped for _human limbs_ inside it, and

I believe they did actually find relics of his gruesome meals in the

shape of anklets and rings and bangles. Boggley is going to have the

skins made up into things for me, but it will take about six months to

cure them. It is good to think there is one _mugger_ the less. I hate

the nasty treacherous beasts. Pretending they are logs, and then

eating the poor natives!

One night we had a delightful camping-ground on the edge of a lochan

well stocked with duck, which Boggley set out to shoot and ended by

missing gloriously. We were much embarrassed by a fat old landowner

heaping presents on us. He nearly wept when we refused to accept a

goat!

All the fortnight we have only met two Europeans--a couple called

Martin. I don't know quite what they were, or why they were holding up

the flag of empire in this lonely outpost, but they were the greyest

people I ever saw.

Finding ourselves in the neighbourhood of Europeans, we called, as in

duty bound. The compound round the bungalow had a dreary look, and

when we were shown into the drawing-room I could see at a glance it

was a room that no one took any interest in. The rugs on the floor

were rumpled, the cushions soiled; photographs stood about in broken

frames, and the flowers were dying in their glasses. When Mrs. Martin

came in, I wasn't surprised at her room. A long grey face, lack-lustre

eyes, greyish hair rolled up anyhow, and greyish clothes with a hiatus

between the bodice and skirt. "This," said I to myself, "is a woman

who has lost interest in herself and her surroundings," Her husband

was small and bleached-looking and, given encouragement, inclined to

be jokesome; sometimes (by accident) he was funny. Mrs. Martin paid

very little attention to us, and none whatever to her husband's jokes.

I laughed loudly. I thought it was so persevering of him to go on

trying to be funny when he was married to such a depressing woman. As

we got up to go I noticed in a corner a child's chair with a little

chintz cover, and seated in it a smiling china doll lacking one arm

and a leg.

I could hardly wait till I was outside to tell Boggley what I thought

of Mrs. Martin and her house. "The hopeless, untidy creature!" I

raved. "She doesn't deserve to have such a little cheery husband or

children."

The only thing I don't like about Boggley is that he never will help

me to abuse people.

"Poor woman," he said; "she's pretty bad." Then he told me her story

as he had heard it.

Ten years ago, it seems, she was quite a cheery managing woman, with

two little girls whom she worshipped; she and her husband lived

for the children. They were just going to take them home when they

sickened with some ailment. Mr. Martin at the time was prostrate after

a bad attack of fever. There was no doctor within thirty miles. One

child died, and the mother started with the other on the long drive to

the nearest doctor. The last ten miles it was a dead child she held in

her arms.

When Boggley finished I was silent, remembering the little

chintz-covered chair--empty but for a broken doll.

Now that I have tasted the joys of solitude I don't see how I am to

enjoy living in a crowd again. I am practically alone all day, for

Boggley has long distances to ride and bicycle--and I never was so

happy in my life, I write, and I read, and I fold my hands in newly

acquired Oriental calm (which my bustling, busy little mother most

certainly won't admire), and sit looking before me for hours.

The books lent me by various people are all read long ago, and I have

gone back to those that are always with me.

They are all before me as I write. The little fat green one at the end

of the row is Lamb's _Essays of Elia_: he so well fits some moods, and

certain minutes of the day, that gentle writer. Next is my _Pilgrim's

Progress_, the one I have had since my tenth birthday. Father gave

each of us a copy when we reached the mature age of ten. It was only

on high days and holy-days that we were allowed to look at his

own treasured copy, which stayed behind glass doors in the corner

book-case. The illustrations, I know now, were very fine, and even

then we found them wonderful. Then comes my little old Bible. I

coveted it for years before I got it because it had pages like

five-pound notes; I value it now for other reasons. Next the Bible

is Q's _Anthology of English Verse_, its brave leather cover rather

impaired by the fact that for two mornings Boggley, having mislaid his

strop, has stropped his razor on it. Lastly comes my Shakespeare.

Sometimes in a night-marish moment I wonder what the world would have

been like had there been no Shakespeare. Suppose we had never known

Falstaff, never heard the Clown sing "O Mistress Mine," never laughed

with Beatrice nor masqueraded with Rosalind, never thrilled when

Cleopatra "again for Cydnos to meet Mark Antony" cries "Give me my

robe, put on my crown; I have immortal longings in me."

What would we do when surfeited with the company of those around us if

we couldn't creep away and pass for a little while into the company

of those immortals? What does it matter how tiresome and complacent

people are when I am Orsino inviting the Clown to sing words the utter

beauty of which bring the tears to my eyes:

"O fellow, come, the song we had last night:

Mark it, Cesario; it is old and plain:

The spinsters and the knitters in the sun,

And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,

Do use to chant it; it is silly sooth,

And dallies with the innocence of love,

Like the old age."

One never comes to the end of the beauty. Only to-day, while I was

browsing for a few minutes in a comedy I have not much acquaintance

with, I happened on these lines, which I am going to write down merely

for the pleasure of writing them:

"I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire, and the

master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. I am for the house with the

narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter: some

that humble themselves may, but the many will be too chill and tender,

and they'll be for the flowery way that leads to the broad gate and

the great fire."

A very pleasant thing about our present solitude is that one can read

aloud or speak to oneself without risk of being thought demented. The

fact is, the inhabitants of the little village on the outskirts of

which we are camping regard us as so hopelessly and utterly mad

already that no further display of eccentricity on our part could make

any difference.

Even in the jungle there are servant troubles. Our cook, finding, I

expect, this life too uneventful, intimated that his father was dying,

and left last night. We thought we should have to go without dinner,

but Autolycus, stepping gallantly into the breach said No, he would

cook it; he had often cooked while with Colonel-M'Greegor-Sahib. The

next we saw was a hen flying wildly, pursued by Autolycus, and in

about half an hour it appeared on the table, its legs--still rather

feathery--sticking protestingly from the dish. That was all there was

for dinner except two breakfast-cups of muddy coffee.

... The dâk came in a little while ago with the. English mail. I have

just finished reading your letter. I think I know what you must feel

about your book. It is sad to come to the end of a long and pleasant

task--something finished you won't do again; a page of life closed.

I know. It scares me, too, how quickly things come to an end. We are

hurrying on so, the years pass so quickly, that even a long life is a

terribly short darg. Life is such a happy thing, one would like it to

last. I was twenty-six yesterday, and if my soul were to say to me

now, "_Finish, good lady, the bright day is over_," I would be most

dreadfully sorry (and I would expect everyone else to be dreadfully

sorry too; I'm afraid I would insist on a great moaning at the bar

when I put out to sea); but I would have to admit that I have had a

good time--a good, good time.

But I don't agree with you about the darkness of what comes after. How

can it be dark when the Sun of Righteousness has arisen? I suppose

it must be very difficult for clever people to believe, the wise and

prudent who demand a reason for everything; but Christ said that in

this the foolish things of the world would confound the wise. I am

glad He said that. I am glad that sometimes the battle is to the weak.

At the crossing, "I sink," cried Christian, the strong man, "I sink in

deep waters," but Much-Afraid went through the river singing, though

none could understand what she said. I don't know that I could give

you a reason for the hope that is in me (I speak as one of the

"foolish things"), but this I know, that if we hold fast to the

substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,

looking to Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, then, when

the end comes, we shall be able to lay our heads down like children

saying, _This night when I lie down to sleep_, in the sure and certain

hope that when, having done with houses made with hands, we wake up

in the House of Many Mansions, it will be what John Bunyan calls a

"sunshine morning."

I shall have to stop writing, though lecturing you is a fascinating

pastime, for the day is almost done, and Boggley will soon be home.

Autolycus, looking very worried, is busied with the task of preparing

the evening meal. One of the _chuprassis_, his gaudy uniform laid

aside, and clad in a fragment of cotton, is sluicing himself with

water and praying audibly. The _dhobi_ is beating our clothes white on

stones in the tank. In the village the women are grinding corn; the

oxen are drawing water from the well. The wood-smoke hangs in wisps on

the hot air, and the song of the boys bringing home the cattle comes

to me distinctly in the stillness. The sunset colours are fading into

the deep blue of the Indian night, and the faithful are being called

to prayer.

At home they are burning the whins on the hillsides, and the Loch o'

the Lowes lies steel-grey under the March sky.

THE LAND OF REGRETS

_Calcutta, April 1 (Monday_).

... The flesh-pots of Calcutta are wonderfully pleasant after jungly

fare, and there is something rather nice about a big airy bedroom with

a bathroom to correspond, hot water at will, and an _ayah_ to look

after one's clothes, after the cramped space of a tent, a zinc bath

wiggling on an uneven floor, and Autolycus fumbling vaguely among

one's belongings. I am staying with G. in her sister's, Mrs.

Townley's, very charming house. Boggley had to go off at once on

another short tour, and I was only too pleased to come to this most

comfortable habitation. It is nice to be with G. again, and she has

lots to tell me about her doings--dances, garden-parties, picnics--all

of which she has enjoyed thoroughly. All the same, I would rather have

had my jungle experiences. She and her sister and brother-in-law laugh

greatly at my tales. They regard me as an immense joke, I don't know

why. I think myself I am rather a sensible, serious sort of person.

Mrs. Townley is the kindest woman. She has such a delightful way

of making you feel that you are doing her the greatest favour by

accepting her hospitality. I am not the only guest. A member of a

nursing sisterhood--Sister Anna Margaret--is resting here for a few

days. She wears clothes quite like a nun, but she is the cheeriest

soul, with such contented eyes. She might be a girl, from the interest

she takes in our doings and the way she laughs at our well-meant but

not very witty fun.

Calcutta is very hot. The punkahs go all day--not the flapping kind of

Mofussil punkahs, but things like bits of windmills fastened to poles.

I never like to sit or sleep exactly underneath one, they look so

insecure; besides, they make one so untidy. At a dinner-party it is

really dreadful to have the things flap-flapping above one's carefully

done hair. My hair needs no encouragement to get untidy, and I have

quite an Ophelia-like air before we get to the fish. It is too hot to

go out much except very early in the morning and again after tea. We

read and write and work till luncheon, then go to bed and try to sleep

till tea-time. We waken hot and very cross, and it is the horridest

thing to get up and get into a dress that seems to fasten with

millions of hooks and buttons. My old Bella is back with me, but she

has found a mistress whose temper has shortened as the temperature has

risen. Yesterday she fumbled so fastening my dress that I jumped round

on her, stamped my foot, and said, "Bella, I shall slap you in a

minute," She replied in such a reproving tone, "Oh! Missee Baba." Tea

makes one feel better, and then there is tennis and a drive in the

cool of the evening.

Mosquitoes are a great trial. They don't worry so much through the

day, but at night--at night, when one with infinite care has examined

the inside of the mosquito-curtains to make sure none are lurking, and

then, satisfied, has dived into bed and tucked the curtain carefully

round, and is just going off to sleep--buzz-z-z sounds the hateful

thing, and all hope of a quiet night is gone. The other night I woke

and found G. springing all over her bed like a kangaroo. At first I

thought she had gone mad, dog-like, with the heat, but it turned out

she was only stalking a mosquito.

Yesterday we all went--Mrs. Townley, Sister Anna Margaret, G., and

I--to the Calcutta Zoo. We fed the monkeys with buns, watched the

loathly little snakes crawl among the grass in their cages, and then

G. began gratuitously to insult a large fierce tiger by poking at it

with her sunshade.

It wasn't a kind thing to do, for it is surely bad enough to be caged

without having a sunshade poked at one, and evidently the tiger

thought so, for it lashed its tail and its roars shook the cage. We

went home, and retribution followed swift and sure.

The first floor of the house consists of the drawing-room and two

enormous bedrooms, one opening into the other, and both opening by

several windows on to the verandah. Sister Anna Margaret is in one,

G. and I in the other. We have two beds, but they are drawn close

together and covered by a mosquito-curtain. Last night we went to bed

in our usual gay spirits and fell asleep. It seemed to me that we were

in the Zoo again and the tiger was fiercer than ever. It hit the bars

with its great paw, and to my horror I saw that the bars were giving.

I ran, but it was too late. The beast was out of the cage and coming

after me with great bounds. My legs went round in circles and made no

progress, as legs do in dreams; the tiger sprang--and I woke. At

first I lay quiet, too thankful to find myself in bed to think about

anything else; then I sniffed.

"Olivia?" said G. "Do you notice it?"

"What?" I asked.

"That awful smell of Zoo."

Of course that was it. I had been wondering what was the curious

smell. My first thought--an awful one--was that the tiger had actually

broken loose, tracked us home, and was now under the bed waiting to

devour us. There was nothing to hinder it but a mosquito-curtain! How

I accomplished it, paralysed as I was with terror, I know not, but I

took a flying leap and landed on G., hitting her nose with my head and

clutching wildly at her brawny arms, much developed with tennis, as my

only refuge.

She was too terrified to resent my intrusion.

"What do you think it is?" she whispered. "Hu-s-h, speak low. Perhaps

it doesn't know there's anyone in the room."

"It's the tiger from the Zoo," I hissed with conviction.

G. started visibly. "Rubbish," she said. "A tiger wouldn't get into a

house. Ah--oh, listen!"

Distinctly we heard the fud of four feet going round the bed.

"Cry for help," said G.

"Sister!" we yelled together.

"Sister Anna!"

"Sister Anna Margaret!"

No answer. Sister Anna Margaret slept well.

"Sister!" said G, bitterly. "She's no sister in adversity."

"Get up, G.," I said encouragingly. "Get up and turn on the light.

Perhaps it isn't a tiger, perhaps it's only a musk rat."

G. refused with some curtness. "Get up yourself," she added.

Again we shouted for Sister, with no result.

You have no idea how horrible it was to lie there in the darkness and

listen to movements made by we knew not what. We felt bitterly towards

Sister Anna, never thinking of what her feelings would be if she came

confidingly to our help and was confronted by some fearsome animal.

"If only," said G., "we knew what time it was and when it will be

light. I can't _live_ like this long. Let go my arm, can't you?"

"I daren't," I said. "You're all I've got to hold on to."

We lay and listened, and we lay and listened, but the padding

footsteps didn't come back; and then I suppose we must have fallen

asleep, for the next thing we knew was that the _ayahs_ were standing

beside us with tea, and the miserable night was past.

G. and I looked at each other rather shamefacedly.

"Did we dream it?" I asked,

G. was rubbing her arm where I had gripped it.

"I didn't dream this, anyway," she said; "it's black and blue."

At breakfast we knew the bitterness of having our word doubted; no one

believed our report. They laughed at us and said we had dreamt it, or

that we had heard a mouse, and became so offensive in their unbelief

that G. and I rose from the table in a dignified way, and went out to

walk in the compound.

We are very busy collecting things to take home with us. (Did I

tell you G.'s berth had been booked in the ship I sail in--the

_Socotra_--it sails about the 23rd?) The _chicon-wallah_ came this

morning and spread his wares on the verandah floor--white rugs from

Kashmir, embroidered gaily in red and green and blue; tinsel mats and

table centres; pieces of soft bright silk; dainty white sewed work.

We could hardly be dragged from the absorbing sight to the

luncheon-table.

The Townleys never change their servants, and now three generations

serve together. The old _kitmutgar_ is the grandfather and trains

his grandsons in the way which they should go. To-day at luncheon

(fortunately we were alone), one of them made a mistake in handing a

dish, whereupon his grandfather gave him a resounding box on the ears,

knocking off his turban. Instead of going out of the room, the boy

went on handing me pudding, sobbing loudly the while, and with tears

running down his face. It was very embarrassing, and none of us had

enough Hindustani to rebuke the too-stern grandparent.

_Later_.

This afternoon, when we were having tea in the garden and enjoying

Peliti's chocolate-cake, a great outcry arose from the house, and we

saw the servants running and looking up to the verandah. Mr. Townley

called out to know what was the matter, and received such a confused

jumble of Hindustani in reply that he went to investigate. He came

back shrugging his shoulders. "It's some nonsense about a 'spirit,'

They say it's been appearing suddenly, then disappearing for some

time. Now the _chokra_ swears he saw it go up the verandah into a

bedroom. To satisfy them, I have sent for my gun, and I'll wait below

while they drive the 'spirit' down."

"It's our midnight visitor," G. and I cried together.

We waited, breathless. The servants rushed on to the verandah with

sticks--a dark streak slid down the verandah pillar--Mr. Townley

fired. It wasn't a tiger, it was a civet cat--a thing rather like a

fox, with a long pointed nose and an uncommonly nasty smell.

"Think," said G., as we looked at it lying stretched out

stiff,--"think of having that thing under our bed! A mouse indeed!"

We didn't say "I told you so," but we looked it.

Boggley comes back to-morrow, and I am going with him to the Grand

Hotel, so that we shall be together for the last little while.

_Agra, April 11_.

... from a chapter in the _Arabian Nights_; from the middle of the

most gorgeous fairy-tale the mind of man could invent, I write to you

to-night.

Often I have heard of the Taj Mahal, read of its beauty, dreamed of

its magic, but never in my dreams did I imagine anything so exquisite,

so perfect.

Boggley thought I should not leave India without seeing this "miracle

of miracles--the final wonder of the world," so we left Calcutta on

Monday night by the Punjab mail and came to Agra, and we have done

it all in proper order. Yesterday, in the morning, we motored to

the deserted city, the capital of Akbar, the greatest of the Mogul

emperors, about twenty miles off. It has battlemented walls and great

gates like a fairy-tale city. The bazaar part of it is mostly in

ruins, but the royal part is perfectly preserved and could be lived in

comfortably now. There is Akbar's Council Chamber, the houses of his

wives, the courtyard where they played living chess, the stables,

waterworks, the palaces of his chief ministers, the mosque and

cloisters, the Gate of Victory. The carving in marble and red

sandstone is wonderful. Akbar must have been a broad-minded man, for

we found paintings of the Annunciation side by side with pictures of

the Hindu god Ganesh. It is intensely interesting to see the place

just as it was hundreds of years ago. In the great Mosque Quadrangle

there is a marble mausoleum, delicately carved, a priceless piece of

work in mother-of-pearl, erected to Akbar's high priest; and our guide

was his lineal descendant, glad to get five rupees for his trouble!

We lunched in the Government bungalow, a comfortable place, not

glaringly out of keeping with the surroundings, and then motored to

Akbar's tomb--another piece of colossal magnificence. I was awed by

it. Out of the glaring sunshine we went down a long dark passage to a

great vault, where the air was cold with the coldness of death. It

was completely dark except for one ray of light falling on the plain

marble tomb. An old Mohammedan crooned eerily, impressively, a lament

which echoed round and round the vault. The Mohammedans and the Scots

have a similar passion for deaths and funerals!

Lastly, in its fitting order, we drove to the Taj Mahal.

You know the story? I have just been reading about it in Steevens's

book. You know how Shah Jehan, grandson of Akbar, first Mogul Emperor

of Hindustan, loved and married the beautiful Persian Arjmand

Banu,--called Mumtaz-i-Mahal,--and when she died he, in his grief,

swore that she should have the loveliest tomb the world ever beheld,

and for seventeen years he built the Taj Mahal? You know how after

thirty years his son rose up and dethroned him, and kept him a close

prisoner for seven years in the Gem Mosque, where his daughter

Jehanara attended him and would not leave him. When grown very feeble,

he begged to be laid where he could see the Taj Mahal; and, the

request being granted, you know how he died with his face towards

the tomb of the beautiful Persian, "whose palankeen followed all his

campaigns in the days when Empire was still a-winning, whose

children called him father--Arjmand Banu, silent and unseen now for

four-and-thirty years, the wife of his youth."

Such a passionate old story! Such a marvellous love-memorial! Shah

Jehan--Mumtaz-i-Mahal--Grape Garden--Golden Pavilion--Jasmine Tower.

As G.W. Steevens says, there is dizzy-magic in the very names. I am

no more capable of describing it than I would have been capable of

building it; you must see it for yourself. It alone is worth coming to

India to see.

Leaving the Taj Mahal dazed and dizzy with beauty, I was hailed by a

voice that sounded familiar, and turning round I saw--an incongruous

figure in that Arabian Nights garden--our old friend of the _Scotia_,

the Rocking Horse Fly. She had another female with her, and Mr. Brand,

the funny man who asked conundrums. I'm afraid my eyes had asked what

he was doing in this galley, for he hastily said that he had only

arrived in Agra that morning, and found our _Scotia_ acquaintance at

the hotel. I introduced Boggley, and we stood uncomfortably about,

while the Rocking Horse Fly waxed sentimental over our meeting.

"Isn't it odd," she said, "that we should all meet and just part

again?"

I thought it would have been much odder (and how infinitely horrible!)

if we had all met and never parted. As it happened, we weren't allowed

to part with her as soon as we could have wished. She discovered we

were staying at the same hotel, so we had to dine together, and she

talked the Taj all through dinner, spattering it with adjectives,

while Boggley grunted at intervals. It was refreshing to see Mr. Brand

again. He seems to be enjoying India vastly, and had three quite new

stories, though if he didn't laugh so much telling them it would be

easier to see the point. Boggley and he loved each other at once.

After dinner, when the men were smoking, the Rocking Horse Fly began

to get arch--don't you hate people when they are arch?--and said

surely I was never going home without capturing some heart. I replied

stoutly and truthfully that I was.

"Naughty girl!" said the R.H.F. "You haven't made the most of your

opportunities. Don't you know what they call girls who come out for

the cold weather?"

I said I didn't.

"They are called 'The Fishing Fleet,'" she said sweetly.

I said "Oh," because I didn't know what else to say, feeling as I did

so remiss.

I have heard--Mr. Townley told me--that long ago when a ship from

England arrived in the Hoogly a cannon was fired, and all the gay

bachelors left their offices and went to the docks to appraise the new

arrivals. A ball was given on board on the night of arrival, and many

of the girls were engaged before they left the ship. I don't object to

that. It was a fine, sincere way of doing things; but why the subject

of marriage should be made an occasion for archness, for sly looks,

for--in extreme cases--nudgings, passes my comprehension.

The R.H.F. has a way of making common any subject she touches--even

the Taj and marriage--so I thought I would go to bed. As I said

goodnight I regarded attentively the friend, wondering much how anyone

could, of choice, accompany the R.H.F. in her journeyings. She is a

very silent person, large and fat and about forty, and her eyes are

small out of all proportion to her face, but they twinkled at me

in such an understanding way that I, generally so chary of offering

embraces, went up to kiss her. She is kind, but so large that being

kissed by her is almost as destroying as being in a railway accident!

Do I ignore what you say in your letter? You see, it is rather

difficult. Writing to a friend in a far country is like shouting

through a speaking-tube to the moon, and one can't shout very intimate

things, can one?

Let us be sensible. Don't be angry, but are you quite sure you really

care, and is it wise to care? We are so very different. You are so

very English, and I, in spite of a pink and fluffy exterior, am at

heart as bitter and dour and prejudiced as any Covenanter that ever

whined a psalm. My mind could never have anything but a Scots accent.

You are reserved, and rather cold; I am expansive to a fault. You are

terrifyingly clever; my intelligence is of the feeblest. You have a

refined sense of humour; the poorest, most obvious joke is good enough

for me. But this is only talk. I don't know that I am "in love,"--I

don't like the expression anyway,--but this I know, that if you were

not in the world it would be an unpeopled waste to me. The place you

happen to be in is where all interest centres. Every minute of the

time as I go through my days, laughing, talking, enjoying myself

vastly, away at the back of my mind the thought of you lies "hidden

yet bright," making for me a new heaven and a new earth. Is this

caring? Is this what you want to hear me say? I can't write what I

would like, I can't weave pretty things, I can only speak straight on,

but oh, my dear, I am so glad that in this big, confusing world we

have found each other. Poor Rocking Horse Fly! poor fat friend! how

dull for them, how dull for all the rest of the people in the world

not to have a _you_!

I am not going to write any more, not because I haven't lots to say,

but because writing much or talking much about a thing--being queer

and Scots, it is hard for me to say love--seems somehow to cheapen it,

profane it.

I have opened this just to say again, My dear, my dear!

_Calcutta, April 21_.

... only three more days in India, and I don't know whether I am

horribly sorry to go or profoundly relieved to get away. There is no

doubt it is a sudden and dangerous country. Three people we knew have

died suddenly of cholera, and two others have had bombs thrown at

them. I shall be thankful to find myself safely on board the steamer,

but even if I escape I am leaving Boggley in the midst of these

perils. Not that he lets the thought of them vex his soul. You learn,

he says, to look upon death in a different way in India, but I am sure

I never could learn to regard with equanimity the thought of being

quite well one day and being hurried away to the Circular Road

Cemetery early the next. It is sad to die in a foreign land, and it is

somehow specially sad, at least I think so, for a home-loving Scot to

lie away from home.

"Tell me not the good and wise

Care not where their dust reposes.

That to him who sleeping lies

Desert rocks shall seem as roses.

I've been happy above ground,

I could ne'er be happy under,

Out of Teviot's gentle sound.

Part us, then, not far asunder."

Yesterday I saw a pathetic sight. A couple in a _tikka-gharry_; the

man a soldier, a Gordon Highlander, and on the front seat a tiny

coffin. The man's arm was round the woman's shoulder, and she was

crying bitterly. A bit of shabby crape was tied round her hat, and she

carried a sad little wreath.

Since coming back from Agra we have stayed at the Grand Hotel. It is a

comfortable, airy place, wonderfully pleasant in the morning when we

sit at a little table in the verandah looking out on the Maidan, and

flat-faced hill-waiters bring us an excellent breakfast. Our own

servants are with us--Autolycus and Bella. When we arrived very early

in the morning and the coolies were carrying up our luggage, a servant

sleeping outside his master's door held up his hand for quietness,

saying something quite gently about not waking his master, "Beat him,"

said Autolycus to the coolies quite without heat, as he hurried on.

The air gets hotter, and everything looks more and more tired every

day. Even proud-pied April dressed in all its trim can't put a spirit

of youth into anything.

But these last days in Calcutta, in spite of fears and heat, are very

pleasant. I don't know how I could have said the Calcutta women were

horrid! Now that I am going to leave them they seem so kind and

attractive. Every minute of my time is filled up with river-picnics,

garden-parties, tennis tournaments, dinners and theatre parties; and

my mornings are spent with G. raking in queer shops for curiosities.

I am insatiable for things to take home, and Autolycus has packed and

roped three large wooden boxes containing my treasures.

I wish life weren't such a mixed thing. Just when I am tiptoeing on

the heights of joy because I am going home, I am brought to common

earth with a thud by the miserable thought that I must leave Boggley.

(How pleasant it would be to have a sort of spiritual whipping-boy

to bear the nasty things in life for one--the disappointments, the

worries, the times of illness and sorrow, the partings.) Boggley

says it will be all right once I am away. As a rule he only feels

pleasantly home-sick. Now, with the preparations for departure

constantly before him, helping to address boxes to the familiar old

places, going with me in imagination from port to port till we reach

cool Western lands, I'm afraid he has many a pang.

I am so sorry you are so worried. You will almost have got my letter

by this time, but I wish I had cabled as you asked, only, somehow, I

didn't like the idea. I thought you knew I cared; but, after all, how

could you? I didn't know myself when I left England. Looking back I

seem always to have cared immensely. How could I help it? What I can't

understand is how every woman of your acquaintance doesn't care as I

do; you seem to me so lovable. I am so glad (though it seems an odd

thing to be glad about!) that you have no mother and no sister. I

don't feel such a marauder as I would have done if, by taking you,

I had robbed some other woman. And I am glad of your lonely life. I

shall be able to show you what a nice thing a home is. A quiet, safe

place we shall make it, where worldly cares may not enter. Boggley

says I can make an hotel room look home-like, and, indeed, it is

almost my only accomplishment, this talent for home-making. There is

one thing I want to say to you. You know what Robert Louis says about

married men?--that there is no wandering in pleasant bypaths for them,

that the road lies long and straight and dusty to the grave. It dulls

me to think of it. _Don't_ feel that. Don't let it be true. We mustn't

let our lives get dusty and straight and narrow. We shall love

whimsies and we shall laugh. So long as laughter isn't heartless and

doesn't hurt anyone it is good to laugh. Life will see to it that

there are tears--at least I'm told so. But suppose in years to come,

after we have grown used to each other (though it does amaze me that

people should talk about things losing their charm because one gets

_used_ to them. Does a child tire of its mother because it is used

to her? Is Spring any the less wonderful because we are used to

her coming? God grant we have many years to get used to each

other!)--suppose one fine morning you find that life has lost its

savour, you are tired of the accustomed round, you are tired of the

house, you are tired of the look of the furniture, you want to get

away for a time--in a word, to be free. Well, remember, you are not to

feel that the road isn't clear before you. I promise you not to feel

aggrieved. I shan't wonder how my infinite variety could have palled.

I know that all men--men who are men--at times hear the Red Gods call

them (women hear them too, you know, only they have more self-control;

they find their peace in fearful innocence and household laws), and

I shall be waiting on the doorstep when you return from climbing

Kangchenjunga, or exploring the Bramahputra Gorges, ready to say,

"Come away in, for I'm sure you must be tired."

Arthur, dear, am I a disappointing person, do you find? Ought I to be

able to write you different sorts of letters, tenderer, more loving

letters? But, you see, it wouldn't be me if I could. My heart may be,

indeed, I think it is, full of the warmest instincts, but they have

been unwinged from birth so they can't fly to you. One of the most

talkative people living, in some ways I am strangely speechless. Why!

I haven't even told Boggley, though if he had eyes to see instead of

being the blindest of dear old bats, my shining face would betray

me. I keep on smiling in a perfectly imbecile manner, so that people

exclaim, "Well, you are indecently glad to get away," and when they

ask Why? I point them to the scene in the Old Testament where Hadad

said unto Pharaoh, "_Let me depart, that I may go to mine own

country." Then Pharaoh said unto him, "But what hast thou lacked with

me, that, behold, thou seekest to go to thine own country?" And he

answered, "Nothing: howbeit let me go in any wise_." So it is with

me. India has given me the best of good times. I have lacked for

nothing--"howbeit let me go in any wise." You needn't think I am

changed. I'm not. I'm afraid I'm not. One would think that a new

environment would make a difference, but it really does not. A person

with a suburban mind would be as suburban in the wilds of Nepal as in

the wilds of Tooting. The illuminating thought has come to me that it

isn't a man's environment that matters, it's his mind. Haven't you

often noticed in an evening in London all the City men hurrying home

like rabbits to their burrows (not the prosperous City men, but the

lesser ones, whose frock-coats are rather shiny and their silk hats

rather dull), and haven't you often thought how narrow their lives

are, how cramping their environment? But suppose one of those clerks

loves books and is something of a poet. What does it matter to him

though his rooms in Clapham or Brixton are grimy, almost squalid, and

filled with the worst kind of Victorian furniture? "Minds innocent and

quiet take such for an hermitage." Once inside, the long day at the

office over, and the door shut on the world, an arm-chair drawn up to

the fire and his books around him he is as happy as a king, for his

mind to him is a Kingdom. He may be a puny little man, in bodily

presence contemptible, but he will feel no physical disabilities as he

clambers on the wall of Jerusalem with Count Raymond, or thrills as he

sets forth with Drake to fight Spaniards one against ten. Instead of

the raucous cries of the milk or the coal man, he hears the horns of

Elfland faintly blowing, and instead of a window which can show him

nothing but a sodden plot planted with wearied-looking shrubs, he

has the key of that magic casement which opens on perilous seas in

fairylands forlorn. He will never do anything great in the world, he

will never lead a forlorn hope, or marry the Princess, or see far

lands; he will never be anything but a poor, shabby clerk, but he is

of such stuff as dreams are made of, and God has given to him His

fairyland.

No, I don't think a new environment changes people, and it is foolish

to think it makes them forget. Sometimes in the Eden Gardens at

sunset, when we draw up to listen to the band, I watch the faces of

the youths--Scots boys come out from Glasgow and Dundee--dreaming

there in the Indian twilight while the pipers play the tunes familiar

to them since childhood. They are sahibs out here, they have a horse

to ride and a servant to look after them, things they never would have

had had they stayed in Dundee or Glasgow, but though they are proud

they are lonely. What does grandeur matter if "the Quothquan folk"

can't see it? The peepul trees rustle softly overhead, the languorous

soft air laps them round, the scent of the East is in their nostrils,

but their eyes are with their hearts, and is this what they see? A

night of drizzling rain, a street of tall, dingy, grey houses, and a

boy, his day's work done, bounding upstairs three steps at a time to

a cosy kitchen where the tea is spread, where work-roughened hands at

his coming lift the brown teapot from the hob, and a kind mother's

voice welcomes him home at the end of the day....

Autolycus has knocked at the door to say "Master's come" (he likes to

be very European with me so doesn't call him Sahib), and I must go to

tea. To-morrow Boggley is taking the whole day off and we have got it

all planned out, every minute of it. In the morning we shall drive in

a _tikka-gharry_ to the Stores to buy some final necessaries (such as

soap and tooth-powder), then to Peliti's to eat ices, then to the shop

in Park Street so that Boggley may get me a delayed birthday present,

then round and round the Maidan. _Then_ we shall go to luncheon at the

Townleys and go on with them to Tollygunge for golf. _Then_ we are

going to tea with some people who are taking us a motor run. _Then_ we

go to a farewell dinner at the Ormondes'. Then we shall go to bed.

Bless you, my dear.

_S.S. Socotra, Homeward Bound, Somewhere in the Hoogly, April 24_.

... This day seems to have been going on for weeks and it is only

tea-time now. Was it only this morning that we left? I can't think

it was _this_ morning that Boggley and I took our last _chota-hazri_

together, and Boggley as he gloomily sugared his tea, said, "Now I

know what a condemned man feels like on the morning of his execution."

Then we laughed and it wasn't so bad. Autolycus, very important

because the Miss Sahib was going to cross the Black Water, bustled

about with my few packages (all the heavy baggage went away two days

ago) and, finally, bustled us into a _tikka-gharry_ in such good time

that we had to drive twice round the Maidan before we went to the

landing-stage. Dear, funny Autolycus! I shall miss his ugly, honest

face. He has added greatly to the gaiety of nations as represented by

Boggley and me. The last we saw of him was standing before the

hotel door along with Bella and the two _chuprassis_ bowing low and

murmuring, "Salaam, Miss Sahib, salaam," while I, undignified to the

last, knelt on the seat and wildly waved a handkerchief.

The landing was crowded with people. I wondered how we were all to get

on board one ship, but found as we got on to the launch that most of

the people remained behind; they were only see-ers off. Mr. Townley

had by some means managed to get permission for himself, his wife,

and Boggley to go down the river with us in the launch to where the

_Socotra_ lay; which was a great comfort to us all. When we found our

party, poor G.'s face was much less pink than usual. The Ormondes were

there, having ridden down to see us off, and quite a lot of other

people had come for the same reason. We (the passengers) had to be

medically examined before we were allowed to leave--in case of plague,

I suppose. G. and I were rather scared at the thought--how were we to

know that we hadn't plague lurking about us? However, after a very

cursory glance we were passed on, got our good-byes said, and embarked

on the launch. At any other time I would have hated saying good-bye

to the Ormondes and the other dear people, but with the parting from

Boggley looming so near, I was absent-minded and callous, though I

hope I didn't appear so. The _Socotra_ is quite a tiny ship compared

to the _Scotia_. G. and I clambered on board, in great haste to find

our cabin. We found it already occupied by our cabin companion (she is

Scotch and has artificial teeth and a fine, rich Glasgow accent, and

(I think) is of a gentle and yielding disposition) and an enormous

hat-box.

Boggley was with us, but when he saw we were going to be firm he fled,

"This," said G., waving her hand towards the offending box, "must go

into the baggage-room."

"Certainly," said the Glasgow woman. "I'm sure I don't know what it's

doing here. Ma husband wrote the labels." And she actually began to

drag it into the passage.

Seeing her so amenable to reason, we smiled kindly and begged her

to desist. But she said, "Not at all," and smiled back in such a

delightfully Glasgow "weel-pleased" way that my heart warmed to her. I

can see she will be a constant entertainment.

Mr. Townley introduced us to the captain, who looks kind, and who

asked us to sit at his table, and then we all went in to breakfast. In

spite of our low spirits we enjoyed the meal. G. created something of

a fracas about a kidney which she ate and then said was bad, but

she calmed down, and we enjoyed looking at the other passengers,

speculating as to who and what they were.

Almost directly after breakfast our people had to go, and G. and I,

very stricken, watched the launch as it steamed up the river till lost

to sight behind a big vessel. Since then, except for an interval in

the cabin to get our eyes bathed into decency, we have sat on deck

with aching heads, trying to read and write. At first the heat was

terrible. We drooped like candles in the sun, we wilted like flowers,

and G. gasped, "If all the voyage is going to be as hot as this, I'm

done." Limp and wretched, I agreed with her. Then we found we had put

our chairs against the kitchen, which is up on deck in this ship.

No wonder we were warm! We quickly found a cooler spot, and I have

been writing a long letter to Boggley to send off with the pilot.

Isn't he pure gold, my Boggley? I know that you too "think nobly of

the soul." He will be home in a year, and I am trying to tell myself

that a year isn't long. Well, the Indian trip is over, and I have a

lot, learned a few things, and made some friends--best of them my

faithful G. It is rather astonishing that I should have the joy of her

company home again. Many people, I am sure, expected she would remain

in India, but I think she took the precaution to leave her heart at

home, wise G. One thing you should be thankful for, there will be no

more letters. What a blessing people are nicer than their letters! How

good you have been about mine, how willing to take an interest in the

people I met, in the places I saw, in everything I told you about; and

when I was jocose, you pretended to be amused. Ah, well! Be cheerful,

sir, our revels now are ended!

And so I am going home, home to my own bleak kindly land, "place of

all weathers that end in rain." I am going home to my own people

(I think I see Peter jigging up and down in expectation before my

trunks); and I am going to you. And the queer thing is, I can't feel

glad, I am so home-sick for India. All my horror of bombs and sudden

death has gone, and memory (as someone says) is making magic carpets

under my feet, so that I am back again in the white, hot sunlight,

under the dusty palm-trees, hearing the creak of the wagons, as the

patient oxen toil on the long straight roads, and the songs of the

coolies returning home at even, I see the country lying vague in the

clammy morning mist, and the great broad Ganges glimmering wanly; and

again it is a wonderful clear night of stars. I know that my own land

is the best land, that the fat babu with his carefully oiled and

parted hair and his too-apparent sock-suspenders can't be mentioned in

the same breath as the Britisher; that our daffodils and primroses

are sweeter far than the heavy-scented blossoms of the East; that the

"brain-fever" bird of India is a wretched substitute for the lark and

the thrush and others of "God's jocund little fowls"; that Abana and

Pharpar and other rivers of Damascus are better than this Jordan--all

this, I say, I know; but to-night I don't believe it.

India has thrown golden dust in my eyes, and I am seeing things all

wrong. We have anchored for the night.... I am watching the misty

green blur, which is all that is left to me of India, grow more and

more indistinct as darkness falls. Soon it will be night.

G., who has been absolutely silent for more than an hour, sat up

suddenly just now, and took my hand.

"Olivia," she said. "It's a nice place, England." Her tone was the

tone of one seeking reassurance.

"It is," I said dolefully. "_Very_."

"And it really doesn't rain such a great deal,"

"No."

"Anyway, it's home, and India isn't, though India _has_ been jolly."

She sighed.

Then, "I shall enjoy a slice of good roast beef," said G.