[Footnote: _Bandobast_ is an Indian word, which, like many others, has
been all but formally incorporated into Anglo-Indian English. The
meaning is, plan, scheme, organised arrangement.]
George Martell was an indigo-planter in Western Tirhoot, a fine tract
of Bengal stretching from the Ganges to the Nepaul Terai, and roughly
bounded on the west by the Gunduck, on the east by the Kussi.
Planter-life in Tirhoot is very pleasant to a man in robust health, who
possesses some resources within himself. In many respects it more
resembles active rural life at home than does any other life led by
Anglo-Indians. The joys of a planter's life have been enthusiastically
sung by a planter-poet; and the frank genial hospitality of the
planter's bungalow stands out pre-eminent, even amidst the universal
hospitality of India. The planter's bungalow is open to all comers. The
established formula for the arriving stranger is first to call for
brandy-and-soda, then to order a bath, and finally to inquire the name
of the occupant his host. The laws of hospitality are as the laws of
the Medes and Persians. Once in the famine time a stranger in a palki
reached a planter's bungalow in an outlying district, and sent in his
card. The planter sent him out a drink but did not bid him enter. The
stranger remained in the veranda till sundown, had another drink, and
then went on his way. This breach of statute law became known. There
was much excuse for the planter, for the traveller was a missionary and
in other respects was a _persona ingrata_. But the credit of
planterhood was at stake; and so strong was the force of public opinion
that the planter who had been a defaulter in hospitality had to abandon
the profession and quit the district. It was on this occasion laid down
as a guiding illustration, that if Judas Iscariot, when travelling
around looking for an eligible tree on which to hang himself, had
claimed the hospitality of a planter's bungalow, the dweller therein
would have been bound to accord him that hospitality. Not even
newspaper correspondents were to be sent empty away.
The indigo-planter is "up in the morning early" and away at a swinging
canter on his "waler" nag, out into the _dahaut_ to visit the _zillahs_
on which his crop is growing. He returns when the sun is getting high
with a famous appetite for a breakfast which is more than half
luncheon. After his siesta he may look in upon a neighbour--all Tirhoot
are neighbours and within a radius of thirty miles is considered next
door. He would ride that distance any day to spend an hour or two in a
house brightened by the presence of womanhood. His anxious period is
_mahaye_ time, when the indigo is in the vats and the quantity and
quality of the yield depend so much on care and skill. But except at
_mahaye_ time he is always ready for relaxation, whether it takes the
form of a polo match, a pig-sticking expedition, or a race-meeting at
Sonepoor, Muzzufferpore, or Chumparun. These race-meetings last for
several days on end, there being racing and hunting on alternate days
with a ball every second night. It used to be worth a journey to India
to see Jimmy Macleod cram a cross-grained "waler" over an awkward
fence, and squeeze the last ounce out of the brute in the run home on
the flat. The Tirhoot ladies are in all respects charming; and it must
remain a moot point with the discriminating observer whether they are
more delightful in the genial home-circles of which they are the
centres and ornaments, or in the more exciting stir and whirl of the
ballroom. After every gathering hecatombs of slain male victims
mournfully cumber the ground; and one all-conquering fair one, now
herself conquered by matrimony and motherhood, wrung from those her
charms had blighted the title of "the destroying angel."
George Martell was an honest sort of a clod. He stood well with the
ryots, and the mark of his factory always brought out keen bidding at
Thomas's auction-mart in Mission Row and was held in respect in the
Commission Sale Rooms in Mincing Lane. He was a good shikaree and could
hold his own either at polo or at billiards; but being somewhat shy and
not a little clumsy he did not frequent race-balls nor throw himself in
the way of "destroying angels." He had been over a dozen years in the
district and had not been known to propose once, so that he had come to
be set down as a misogynist. Among his chief allies was a neighbouring
planter called Mactavish. Mactavish in some incomprehensible way--he
being a gaunt, uncouth, bristly Scot, whose Highland accent was as
strong as the whisky with which he had coloured his nose--had contrived
to woo and win a bonny, baby-faced girl, the ripple of whose laughter
and the dancing sheen of whose auburn curls filled the Mactavish
bungalow with glad bright sunshine. When Mac first brought home this
winsome fairy Martell had sheepishly shunned the residence of his
friend, till one fine morning when he came in from the _dahaut_ he
found Minnie Mactavish quite at home among the pipes, empty soda-water
bottles, and broken chairs that constituted the principal articles of
furniture in his bachelor sitting-room. Minnie had come to fetch her
husband's friend and in her dainty imperious way would take no denial.
So George had his bath, got a fresh horse saddled, nearly chucked
Minnie over the other side as he clumsily helped her to mount her pony,
and rode away with her a willing if somewhat clownish captive. Arriving
at the bungalow Mactavish, honest George was bewildered by the
transformation it had undergone. Flowers were where the spirit-case
used to stand. There was a drawing-room with actually a piano in it;
the _World_ lay on the table instead of the _Sporting Times_, and the
servants wore a quiet, tasteful livery. Mac himself had been trimmed
and titivated almost out of recognition. He who had been wont to lounge
half the day in his _pyjamas_ was now almost smartly dressed; his beard
was cropped, and his bristly poll brushed and oiled. If George had a
weak spot in him it was for a simple song well sung. Mrs. Mac,
accompanying herself on the piano, sang to him "The Land o' the Leal"
and brewed him a mild peg with her own fair hands. George by bedtime
did not know whether he was on his head or his heels.
He lay awake all night thinking over all he had seen. Mactavish now was
clearly a better man than ever he had been before. He had told George
he was living more cheaply as a married man than ever he had done as a
bachelor; and in the matter of happiness there was no comparison.
George rose early to go home; but early as it was Mrs. Mac was up too,
and arrayed in a killing morning _négligé_ that fairly made poor George
stammer, gave him his _chota hazri_ and stroked his horse's head as he
mounted. About half-way home George suddenly shouted, "D----d if I
don't do it too!" and brought his hand down on his thigh with a smack
that set his horse buck-jumping.
In effect, George Martell had determined to get married. But where to
find a Mrs. Martell? Mrs. Mactavish had told him she had no sisters and
that her only relative was a maiden grand-aunt, whom George thought
must be a little too old to marry unless in the last resort. If he took
the field at the next race-meeting the fellows would chaff the life out
of him; and besides, he scarcely felt himself man enough to face a
"destroying angel." As he pondered, riding slowly homeward, a thought
occurred to him. When he had been at home a dozen years ago his two
girl-sisters had been at school, and their great playmate had been a
girl of eleven, by name Laura Davidson. Laura was a pretty child. He
had taken occasional notice of her; had once kissed her after having
been severely scratched in the struggle; and had taken her and his
sisters to the local theatre. What if Laura Davidson--now some
three-and-twenty--were still single? What if she were pretty and nice?
He remembered that the colour of her hair was not unlike Mrs. Mac's,
and was in ringlets too. And what if she were willing to come out and
make lonely George Martell as happy a man as was that lucky old Mac?
It was mail-day, and George, taking time by the forelock, sat down and
wrote to his sister what had come into his head. By the return mail he
had her reply: Laura Davidson was single; she was nice; she was pretty;
she had fair ringlets; she had a hazy memory of George and the kissing
episode, and was willing to come out and marry him and try to make him
happy. But she could not well come alone; could George suggest any
method of _chaperonage_ on the voyage?
In the district of Champarun, which in essentials is part of Tirhoot,
lies the quaint little cavalry cantonment of Segowlie. It is the last
relic of the old Nepaul war, which caused the erection of a chain of
cantonments along the frontier all of which save Segowlie, are now
abandoned. There is just room for one native cavalry regiment at
Segowlie, and the soldiers like the station because of excellent sport
and the good comradeship of the planters. At Segowlie at the time I am
writing of there happened to be quartered a certain Major Freeze, whose
wife, after a couple of years at home, was about returning to India.
George had some acquaintance with the Major and a far-off profound
respect for his wife, who was an admirable and stately lady. It
occurred to him to try whether it could not be managed that she should
bring out the future Mrs. Martell. He saw the Major, who was only too
delighted at the prospect of a new lady in the district, and the affair
was soon arranged. Mrs. Freeze wrote that she and Miss Davidson were
leaving by such-and-such a mail; and knowing that Martell was rather
lumpy when a lady was in the case, she thoughtfully suggested that he
should go down to Bombay and meet them so as to get over the initial
awkwardness by making himself useful and gain his intended's respect by
swearing at the niggers.
All went well. But George Martell was not quite his own master, he was
only part of a "concern" and was bound to do his best for his partners.
It happened, just about the time the P. and O. steamer was due at
Bombay, that the most ticklish period of the indigo-planters' year was
upon Martell. The juice had begun to flow from the vats. He had no
assistant and he did not dare to leave the work, so he telegraphed to
Bombay to explain this to Mrs. Freeze, and added that he would meet her
and her companion at Bankipore where their long railway journey would
end. Miss Davidson did not understand much about the absorbing crisis
of indigo production, and she had a spice of romance in her
composition; so that poor Martell did not rise in her estimation by his
default at Bombay. When the ladies reached Bankipore there was still no
Martell, but only a _chuprassee_ with a note to say that the juice was
still running, and that Martell sahib could not leave the factory but
would be waiting for them at Segowlie. At this even Mrs. Freeze almost
lost her temper.
They have a "State Railway" now in Tirhoot, but at the time I am
writing of there was only one _pukha_ road in all the district. The
ladies travelled in palanquins, or palkis, as they are more familiarly
called. It is a long journey from Bankipore to Segowlie, and three
nights were spent in travelling. Bluff old Minden Wilson stood on the
bank above the ghât to welcome Mrs. Freeze across the Ganges. One day
was spent at young Spudd's factory, the second at the residence of a
genial planter rejoicing in the quaint name of Hong Kong Scribbens; on
the third morning they reached Segowlie. But still no Martell; only a
_chit_ to say that that plaguy juice was still running but that he
hoped to be able to drive over to dinner. Miss Davidson went to bed in
a huff; and Major Freeze was temporarily inclined to think that her
home-trip had impaired his good lady's amiability of character.
Martell did turn up at dinner-time. But he was hardly a man at any time
to create much of an impression, and on this occasion he appeared to
exceptional disadvantage. He was stutteringly nervous; and there were
some evidences that he had been ineffectually striving to mitigate his
nervousness by the consumption of his namesake. He wore a new
dress-coat which had not the remotest pretensions to fit him, and the
bear's-grease which he had freely used gave unpleasant token of
rancidity. The dinner was an unsatisfactory performance. Miss Davidson
was extremely _distraite_, while Martell became more and more nervous
as the meal progressed and was manifestly relieved when the ladies
retired. Soon after they had done so the Major was sent for from the
drawing-room. He found Miss Davidson sobbing on his wife's bosom. He
asked what was the matter. The girl, with many sobbing interruptions,
gasped out--
"He's the wrong man! O Heavens, I never saw _him_ before! The man I
remember who gave me sweets when I was a child had black hair; _he_ has
red! Oh, what shall I do? Oh, please send that man away and let me go
home!"
And then Miss Davidson went off into hysterics.
Here was a pretty state of matters! The Major and his wife could not
see their way clear at all. Consultation followed consultation, with
visits on the Major's part to poor Martell in the dining-room
irregularly interspersed. It was almost morning before affairs arranged
themselves after a fashion. The new basis agreed upon was that the
previously existing arrangement should be regarded as dead, and that a
courtship between Martell and Miss Davidson should be commenced _de
novo_--he to do his best to recommend himself to the lady's affections,
she to learn to love him if she could, red hair and all. And so George
went home, and the Segowlie household went to bed.
Poor George at the best had a very poor idea of courting acceptably;
and surely no man was more heavily handicapped in the enterprise
prescribed him. He had to court to order, and to combat, besides, both
the bad impression made at starting and the misfortune of his red hair.
The poor fellow did his best. He used to come and sit in Mrs. Freeze's
drawing-room hours on end, glowering at Miss Davidson in a silence
broken by spasmodic efforts at forced talk. He brought the girl
presents, gave her a horse, and begged of her to ride with him. But the
great stupid fellow had not thought of a habit and the girl felt a
delicacy in telling him that she had not one. So the horse ate his head
off in idleness, and George's heart went farther and farther down in
the direction of his boots. He had so bothered Mrs. Freeze that she had
washed her hands of him, and had bidden him worry it out on his own
line.
In less than a month the crisis came. Miss Davidson could not bring
herself to think of poor George as affording the makings of a husband.
She told Mrs. Freeze so, and begged, for kindness sake, that the Major
would break this her determination to Mr. Martell and desire him to
give the thing up as hopeless. The Major thought the best course to
pursue was to write to George to this effect. Next morning in the small
hours the poor fellow turned up in the Segowlie veranda in a terribly
bad way. He would not accept his fate at second-hand in this fashion;
he must see Miss Davidson and try to move her to be kind to him. In the
end there was an interview between them, from which George emerged
quiet but very pale. His notable matrimonial bandobast had proved the
deadest of failures; and the poor fellow's lip trembled as he thought
of Mactavish's happy home and his own forlorn bungalow.
But although he had red hair and did not know in the least what to do
with his feet, George Martell was a gentleman. The lady continuing
anxious to go home, he insisted on his right to pay her return passage
as he had done her passage outward, urging rather ruefully that, having
taken a shot at happiness and having missed fire, he must be the sole
sufferer. It is a little surprising that this uncouth chivalry did not
melt the lady, but she was obdurate, although she let him have his way
about the passage money. So in the company of an officer's wife going
home Miss Davidson quitted Segowlie and journeyed to Bombay. Poor old
George, with a very sore heart, was bent on seeing the last of her
before settling down again to the old dull bachelor life. He dodged
down to Bombay in the same train, travelling second class that he might
not annoy the girl by a chance meeting; and stood with a sad face
leaning on the rail of the Apollo Bunder, as he watched the ship
containing his miscarried venture steam out of Bombay harbour on its
voyage to England.
The same night he set out on his return to his plantation. At near
midnight the mail-train from Bombay reaches Eginpoora, at the head of
the famous Bhore ghât. Some refreshment is ordinarily procurable there,
but it is not much of a place. George Martell had had a drink, and was
sauntering moodily up and down the platform waiting for the whistle to
sound. As he passed the second class compartment reserved for ladies he
heard a low, tremulous voice exclaim, "Oh, if I could only make them
understand that I'd give the world for a cup of tea!" George, if
uncouth, was a practical man. His prompt voice rang out, "_Qui hye, ek
pyala chah lao!_" Promptly came the refreshment-room _khitmutghar_,
hurrying with the tea; and George, taking off his hat, begged to know
whether he could be of any further service.
It was a very pleasant face that looked out on him in the moonlight,
and there was more than mere conventionality in the accents in which
the pleasant voice acknowledged his opportune courtesy. Insensibly
George and the lady drifted into conversation. She was very lonely,
poor thing; a friendless girl coming out to be governess in the family
of a _burra sahib_ at Chupra. Now Chupra is only across the Gunduck
from Tirhoot, so George told his new acquaintance they were both going
to nearly the same place, and professed his cordial willingness to
assist her on the journey. He did so, escorting her right into Chupra
before he set his face homeward; and he thenceforth got into a habit of
visiting Chupra very frequently. Need I prolong the story? I happened
to be in Bankipore when the Prince of Wales visited that centre of
famine-wallahs. It fell to my pleasant lot to take Mrs. Martell in to
dinner at the Commissioner's hospitable table. Mrs. Mactavish was
sitting opposite; and I went back to my bedroom-tent in the compound
without having made up my mind whether she or Mrs. Martell was the
prettier and the nicer. So you see George Martell did not make quite so
bad a _bandobast_ after all.