FOOTNOTES:[14]"Week's News," Feb. 4, 1888.
FOOTNOTES:
[14]"Week's News," Feb. 4, 1888.
[14]"Week's News," Feb. 4, 1888.
HIS BROTHER'S KEEPER[15]
"Whist?"
"Can't make up a four?"
"Poker, then?"
"Never again with you, Robin. 'Tisn't good enough, old man."
"Seeking what he may devour," murmured a third voice from behind a newspaper. "Stop the punkah, and make him go away."
"Don't talk of it on a night like this. It's enough to give a man fits. You've no enterprise. Here I've taken the trouble to come over after dinner——"
"On the off-chance of skinning some one. I don't believe you ever crossed a horse for pleasure."
"That's true, I never did—and there are only two Johnnies in the Club."
"They've all gone off to the Gaff."
"Wah! Wah!They must be pretty hard up for amusement. Help me to a split."
"Split in this weather! Hi, bearer,do burra—burrawhiskey-peglao, and just put all thebarfinto them that you can find."
The newspaper came down with a rustle, as the reader said:
"How the deuce d'you expect a man to improve his mind when you two arebukkingabout drinks?Qui hai! Mera wasti bhi."
"Oh! you're alive, are you? I thought pegs would fetch you out of that. Game for a little poker?"
"Poker—poker—red-hotpoker! Saveloy, you're too generous. Can't you let a man die in peace?"
"Who's going to die?"
"I am, please the pigs, if it gets much hotter and that bearer doesn't bring the peg quickly."
"All right. Die away,mon ami. Only don't do it in the Club, that's all. Can't have it littered up with dead members. Houligan would object."
"By Jove! I think I can imagine old Houligan doing it. 'Member dead in the ante-room? Good Gud! Bless my soul! Impossible to run a Club this way. Call the Babu and see if his last month's bill is paid. Not paid! Good Gud! Bless my soul! Impossible to run a Club this way. Babu, attach that body till the bill is paid.' Revel, you might just hurry up your dying once in a way to give us the pleasure of seeing Houligan perform."
"I'll die legitimately," said Revel. "I'm not going to create a fresh scandal in the station. I'll wait for heat-apoplexy, or whatever is going, to come and fetch me."
"This ispukkahot-weather talk," said Saveloy. "I come over for a little honest poker, and find two moderately sensible men, Revel and Dallston, talking tombs. I'm sorry I've thrown away my valuable evening."
"D'you expect us to talk about buttercups and daisies, then?" said Dallston.
"No, but there's some sort of medium between those and Sudden Death."
"There isn't. I haven't seen a daisy forseven years, and now I want to die," said Revel, plunging luxuriously into his peg.
"I knew a Johnnie on the Frontier once whodid," began Dallston meditatively.
"Half a minute. Bearer,cherut lao! Tobacco soothes the nerves when a man is expecting to hear a whacker. We know what your Frontier stories are, Martha."
Dallston had once, in a misguided moment, taken the part of Martha in the burlesque ofFaust, and the nickname stuck.
"'Tisn't a whacker, it's a fact. He told me so himself."
"They always do, Martha. I've noticed that before. But what did he tell you?"
"He told me that he had died."
"Wasthatall? Explain him."
"It was this way. The man went down with a bad go of fever and was off his head. About the second day it struck him in the middle of the night."
"Steady the Buffs! Martha, you aren't an Irishman yet."
"Never mind. It's too hot to put it correctly. In the middle of the night he woke up quite calm, and it struck him that it would be a good thing to die—just as it might ha' struck him that it would be a good thing to put ice on his head. He lay on his bed and thought it over, and the more he thought about it, the better sort ofbundobustit seemed to be. He was quite calm, you know, and he said that he could have sworn that he had no fever on him."
"Well, what happened?"
"Oh, he got up and loaded his revolver—he remembers all this—and let fly, with the muzzle to his temple. The thing didn't go off, so he turned it up and found he'd forgot to load one chamber."
"Better stop the tale there. We can guess what's coming."
"Hang it! It's atrueyarn. Well, he jammed the thing to his headagain, and it missed fire, and he said that he felt ready to cry with rage, he was so disgusted. So he took it by the muzzle and hit himself on the head with it."
"Good man! Didn't it go offthen?"
"No, but the blow knocked him silly, and he thought he was dead. He was awfully pleased, for he had been fiddling over the show for nearly half an hour. He dropped down and died. When he got his wits again, he was shaking with the fever worse than ever, but he had sense enough to go and knock up the doctor and give himself into his charge as a lunatic. Then he went clean off his head till the fever wore out."
"That's a good story," said Revel critically. "I didn't think you had it in you at this season of the year."
"I can believe it," said the man they called Saveloy. "Fever makes one do all sorts of queer things. I suppose your friend was mad with it when he discovered it would be so healthy to die."
"S'pose so. The fever must have been so bad that he felt all right—same way that a man who is nearly mad with drink gets to look sober. Well, anyhow, there was a man who died."
"Did he tell you what it felt like?"
"He said that he was awfully happy until his fever came back and shook him up. Then he was sick with fear. I don't wonder. He'd had rather a narrow escape."
"That's nothing," said Saveloy. "I know a man who lived."
"So do I," said Revel. "Lots of 'em, confound 'em."
"Now, this takes Martha's story, and it's quite true."
"They always are," said Martha. "I've noticed that before."
"Never mind, I'll forgive you. But this happened to me. Since youaretalking tombs, I'll assist at the séance. It was in '82 or '83, I have forgotten which. Anyhow, it was when I was on the Utamamula Canal Headworks, and I was chumming with a man called Stovey. You've never met him because he belongs to the Bombay side, and if he isn't really dead by this he ought to be somewhere there now. He was apukkasweep, and I hated him. We divided the Canal bungalow between us, andwe kept strictly to our own side of the buildings."
"Hold on! I call. What was Stovey to look at?" said Revel.
"Living picture of the King of Spades—a blackish, greasy sort of ruffian who hadn't any pretence of manners or form. He used to dine in the kit he had been messing about the Canal in all day, and I don't believe he ever washed. He had the embankments to look after, and I was in charge of the headworks, but he was always contriving to fall foul of me if he possibly could."
"I know that sort of man. Mullane of Ghoridasah's built that way."
"Don't know Mullane, but Stovey was a sweep. Canal work isn't exactly cheering, and it doesn't take you intomuchsociety. We were like a couple of rats in a burrow, grubbing and scooping all day and turning in at night into the barn of a bungalow. Well, this man Stovey didn't get fever. He was so coated with dirt that I don't believe the fever could have got at him. He just began to go mad."
"Cheerful! What were the symptoms?"
"Well, his naturally vile temper grew infamous. It was really unsafe to speak to him, and he always seemed anxious to murder a coolie or two. With me, of course, he restrained himself a little, but he sulked like a bear for days and days together. As he was the only European society within sixty miles, you can imagine how nice it was for me. He'd sit at table and sulk and stare at the opposite wall by the hour—instead of doing his work. When I pointed out that the Government didn't send us into these cheerful places to twiddle our thumbs, he glared like a beast. Oh, he was a thorough hog! He had a lot of other endearing tricks, but the worst was when he began to pray."
"Began to—how much?"
"Pray. He'd got hold of an old copy of theWar Cryand used to read it at meals; and I suppose that that, on the top of tough goat, disordered his intellect. One night I heard him in his room groaning and talking at a fearful rate. Next morning I asked himif he'd been taken worse. 'I've been engaged in prayer,' he said, looking as black as thunder. 'A man's spiritual concerns are his own property.' One night—he'd kept up these spiritual exercises for about ten days, growing queerer and queerer every day—he said 'Good-night' after dinner, and got up and shook hands with me."
"Bad sign, that," said Revel, sucking industriously at his cheroot.
"At first I couldn't make out what the man wanted. No fellow shakes hands with a fellow he's living with—least of all such a beast as Stovey. However, I was civil, but the minute after he'd left the room it struck me what he was going to do. If he hadn't shaken hands I'd have taken no notice, I suppose. This unusual effusion put me on my guard."
"Curious thing! You can nearly always tell when a Johnnie means pegging out. He gives himself away by some softening. It's human nature. What did you do?"
"Called him back, and asked him what the this and that he meant by interfering with mycoolies in the day. He was generally hampering my men, but I had never taken any notice of his vagaries till then. In another minute we were arguing away, hammer and tongs. If it had been any other man I'd 'a' simply thrown the lamp at his head. He was calling me all the mean names under the sun, accusing me of misusing my authority and goodness only knows what all. When he had talked himself down one stretch, I had only to say a few words to start him off again, as fresh as a daisy. On my word, this jabbering went on for nearly three hours."
"Why didn't you get coolies and have him tied up, if you thought he was mad?" asked Revel.
"Not a safe business, believe me. Wrongful restraint on your own responsibility of a man nearly your own standing looks ugly. Well, Stovey went on bullying me and complaining about everything I'd ever said or done since I came on the Canal, till—he went fast asleep."
"Wha-at?"
"Went off dead asleep, just as if he'd been drugged. I thought the brute had had a fit at first, but there he was, with his head hanging a little on one side and his mouth open. I knocked up his bearer and told him to take the man to bed. We carried him off and shoved him on his charpoy. He was still asleep, and I didn't think it worth while to undress him. The fit, whatever it was, had worked itself out, and he was limp and used up. But as I was going to leave the room, and went to turn the lamp down, I looked in the glass and saw that he was watching me between his eyelids. When I spun round he seemed asleep. 'That's your game, is it?' I thought, and I stood over him long enough to see that he was shamming. Then I cast an eye round the room and saw his Martini in the corner. We were allbullumteerson the Canal works. I couldn't find the cartridges, so to make all serene I knocked the breech-pin out with the cleaning-rod and went to my own room. I didn't go to sleep for some time. About one o'clock—our rooms were only divided by adoor of sorts, and my bed was close to it—I heard my friend open a chest of drawers. Then he went for the Martini. Of course, the breech-block came out with a rattle. Then he went back to bed again, and I nearly laughed.
"Next morning he was doing the genial, hail-fellow-well-met trick. Said he was afraid he'd lost his temper overnight, and apologised for it. About half way through breakfast—he was talking thickly about everything and anything—he said he'd come to the conclusion that a beard was a beastly nuisance and made one stuffy. He was going to shave his. Would I lend him my razors? 'Oh, you're a crafty beast, you are,' I said to myself. I told him that I was of the other opinion, and finding my razors nearly worn out had chucked them into the Canal only the night before. He gave me one look under his eyebrows and went on with his breakfast. I was in a stew lest the man should cut his throat with one of the breakfast knives, so I kept one eye on him most of the time.
"Before I left the bungalow I caught oldJeewun Singh, one of themistrieson the gates, and gave him strict orders that he was to keep in sight of the Sahib wherever he went and whatever he did; and if he did or tried to do anything foolish, such as jumping down the well, Jeewun Singh was to stop him. The old man tumbled at once, and I was easier in my mind when I saw how he was shadowing Stovey up and down the works. Then I sat down and wrote a letter to old Baggs, the Civil Surgeon at Chemanghath, about sixty miles off, telling him how we stood. The runner left about three o'clock. Jeewun Singh turned up at the end of the day and gave a full, true and particular account of Stovey's doings. D'you know what the brute had done?"
"Spare us the agony. Kill him straight off, Saveloy!"
"He'd stopped the runner, opened the bag, read my letter and torn it up! There were only two letters in the bag, both of which I'd written. I was prettyaverageangry, but I lay low. At dinner he said he'd got a touch of dysentery and wanted some chlorodyne.For a man anxious to depart this life he wasaboutas badly equipped as you could wish. Hadn't even a medicine-chest to play with. He was no more suffering from dysentery than I, but I said I'd give him the chlorodyne, and so I did—fifteen drops, mixed in a wine-glass, and when he asked for the bottle I said that I hadn't any more.
"That night he began praying again, and I just lay in bed and shuddered. He was invoking the most blasphemous curses on my head—all in a whisper, for fear of waking me up—for frustrating what he called his 'great and holy purpose.' You never heard anything like it. But as long as he was praying I knew he was alive, and he ran his praying half through the night.
"Well, for the next ten days he was apparently quite rational; but I watched him and told Jeewun Singh to watch him like a cat. I suppose he wanted to throw me off my guard, but I wasn't to be thrown. I grew thin watching him. Baggs wrote in to say he had gone on tour and couldn't be foundanywhere in particular for another six weeks. It was a ghastly time.
"One day old Jeewun Singh turned up with a bit of paper that Stovey had given to one of theloharsas anaksha. I thought it was mean work spying into another man's very plans, but when I saw what was on the paper I gave old Jeewun Singh a rupee. It was a be-auti-ful little breech-pin. The one-idead idiot had gone back to Martini! I never dreamt of such persistence. 'Tell me when thelohargives it to the Sahib,' I said, and I felt more comfy for a few days. Even if Jeewun Singh hadn't split I should have known when the new breech-pin was made. The brute came in to dinner with a dashed confident, triumphant air, as if he'd done me in the eye at last; and all through dinner he was fiddling in his waistcoat pocket. He went to bed early. I went, too, and I put my head against the door and listened like a woman. I must have been shivering in my pyjamas for about two hours before my friend went for the dismantled Martini. He could not get the breech-pin tofit at first. He rummaged about, and then I heard a file go. That seemed to make too much noise to suit his fancy, so he opened the door and went out into the compound, and I heard him, about fifty yards off, filing in the dark at that breech-pin as if he had been possessed. Well, hewas, you know. Then he came back to the light, cursing me for keeping him out of his rest and the peace of Abraham's bosom. As soon as I heard him taking up the Martini, I ran round to his door and tried to enter gaily, as the stage directions say. 'Lend me your gun, old man, if you're awake,' I said. 'There's a howling big brute of a pariah in my room, and I want to get a shot at it.' I pretended not to notice that he was standing over the gun, but just pranced up and caught hold of it. He turned round with a jump and said: 'I'm sick of this. I'll see that dog, and if it's another of your lies I'll——' You know I'm not a moral man."
"Hear! hear!" drowsily from Martha.
"But I simply daren't repeat what he said. 'All right!' I said, still hanging on to the gun.'Come along and we'll bowl him over.' He followed me into my room with a face like a fiend in torment. And, as truly as I'm yarning here, therewasa huge brindled beast of a pariah sittingon my bed!"
"Tall, sir, tall. But go on. The audience is now awake."
"Hang it! Could I have invented that pariah? Stovey dropped of the gun and flopped down in a corner and yowled. I went 'ee ki ri ki re!' like a woman in hysterics, pitched the gun forward and loosed off through a window."
"And the pariah?"
"He quitted for the time being. Stovey was in an awful state. He swore the animal hadn't been there when I called him. That was true enough. I firmly believe Providence put it there to save me from being killed by the infuriated Stovey."
"You've too lively a belief in Providence altogether. What happened?"
"Stovey tried to recover himself and pass it all over, but he let me keep the gun and went tobed. About two days afterwards old Baggs turned up on tour, and I told him Stovey wanted watching—more than I could give him. I don't know whether Baggs or thepidid it, but he didn't throw any more suicidal splints. I was transferred a little while afterwards."
"Ever meet the man again?"
"Yes; once at Sheik Katan dâk bungalow—trailing the big brindlepiafter him."
"Oh, it was real, then. I thought it was arranged for the occasion."
"Not a bit. It was apukka pi. Stovey seemed to remember me in the same way that a horse seems to remember. I fancy his brain was a little cloudy. We tiffined together—afterthepihad been fed, if you please—and Stovey said to me: 'See that dog? He saved my life once. Oh, by the way, I believe you were there, too, weren't you?' I shouldn't care to work with Stovey again."
There was a holy pause in the smoking-room of the Toopare Club.
"What I like about Saveloy's play," said Martha, looking at the ceiling, "is the beautifully artistic way in which he follows up a flush with a full. Go to bed, old man!"
FOOTNOTES:[15]From the "Week's News," April 7, 1888.
FOOTNOTES:
[15]From the "Week's News," April 7, 1888.
[15]From the "Week's News," April 7, 1888.
"SLEIPNER," LATE "THURINDA"[16]
There are men, both good and wise, who hold that in a future stateDumb creatures we have cherished here belowWill give us joyous welcome as we pass the Golden Gate.Is it folly if I hope it may be so?—The Place Where the Old Horse Died.
Ifthere were any explanation available here, I should be the first person to offer it. Unfortunately, there is not, and I am compelled to confine myself to the facts of the case as vouched for by Hordene and confirmed by "Guj," who is the last man in the world to throw away a valuable horse for nothing.
Jale came up withThurindato the Shayid Spring meeting; and besidesThurindahisstring includedDivorce,Meg's DiversionsandBenoni—ponies of sorts. He won the Officers' Scurry—five furlongs—withBenonion the first day, and that sent up the price of the stable in the evening lotteries; forBenoniwas the worst-looking of the three, being a pigeon-toed, split-chesteddâkhorse, with a wonderful gift of blundering in on his shoulders—ridden out to the last ounce—butfirst. Next day Jale was ridingDivorcein the Wattle and Dab Stakes—round the jump course; and she turned over at the on-and-off course when she was leading and managed to break her neck. She never stirred from the place where she dropped, and Jale did not move either till he was carried off the ground to his tent close to the bigshamianawhere the lotteries were held. He had ricked his back, and everything below the hips was as dead as timber. Otherwise he was perfectly well. The doctor said that the stiffness would spread and that he would die before the next morning. Jale insisted upon knowing the worst, and when he heard it sent a pencil note to the HonorarySecretary, saying that they were not to stop the races or do anything foolish of that kind. If he hung on till the next day the nominations for the third day's racing would not be void, and he would settle up all claims before he threw up his hand. This relieved the Honorary Secretary, because most of the horses had come from a long distance, and, under any circumstance, even had the Judge dropped dead in the box, it would have been impossible to have postponed the racing. There was a great deal of money on the third day, and five or six of the owners were gentlemen who would make even one day's delay an excuse. Well, settling would not be easy. No one knew much about Jale. He was an outsider from down country, but every one hoped that, since he was doomed, he would live through the third day and save trouble.
Jale lay on his charpoy in the tent and asked the doctor and the man who catered to the refreshments—he was the nearest at the time—to witness his will. "I don't know how long my arms will be workable," said Jale, "andwe'd better get this business over." The private arrangements of the will concern nobody but Jale's friends; but there was one clause that was rather curious. "Who was that man with the brindled hair who put me up for a night until the tent was ready? The man who rode down to pick me up when I was smashed. Nice sort of fellow he seemed." "Hordene?" said the doctor. "Yes, Hordene. Good chap, Hordene. He keeps Bull whisky. Write down that I give this Johnnie HordeneThurindafor his own, if he can sell the other ponies.Thurinda'sa good mare. He can enter her—post-entry—for the All Horse Sweep if he likes—on the last day. Have you got that down? I suppose the Stewards'll recognise the gift?" "No trouble about that," said the doctor. "All right. Give him the other two ponies to sell. They're entered for the last day, but I shall be dead then. Tell him to send the money to——" Here he gave an address. "Now I'll sign and you sign, and that's all. This deadness is coming up between my shoulders."
Jale lived, dying very slowly, till the third day's racing, and up till the time of the lotteries on the fourth day's racing. The doctor was rather surprised. Hordene came in to thank him for his gift, and to suggest it would be much better to sellThurindawith the others. She was the best of them all, and would have fetched twelve hundred on her looking-over merits only. "Don't you bother," said Jale. "You take her. I rather liked you. I've got no people, and that Bull whisky was first-class stuff. I'm pegging out now, I think."
The lottery-tent outside was beginning to fill, and Jale heard the click of the dice. "That's all right," said he. "I wish I was there, but—I'm—going to the drawer." Then he died quietly. Hordene went into the lottery-tent, after calling the doctor. "How's Jale?" said the Honorary Secretary. "Gone to the drawer," said Hordene, settling into a chair and reaching out for a lottery paper. "Poor beggar!" said the Honorary Secretary. "'Twasn't the fault of our on-and-off, though. The mare blundered. Gentlemen! gentlemen!Nine hundred and eighty rupees in the lottery, andRiver of Yearsfor sale!" The lottery lasted far into the night, and there was a supplementary lottery on the All Horse Sweep, whereThurindasold for a song, and was not bought by her owner. "It's not lucky," said Hordene, and the rest of the men agreed with him. "I ride her myself, but I don't know anything about her and I wish to goodness I hadn't taken her," said he. "Oh, bosh! Never refuse a horse or a drink, however you come by them. No one objects, do they? Not going to refer this matter to Calcutta, are we? Here, somebody, bid! Eleven hundred and fifty rupees in the lottery, andThurinda—absolutely unknown, acquired under the most romantic circumstances from aboutthetoughest man it has ever been my good fortune to meet—for sale. Hullo, Nurji, is that you? Gentlemen, where a Pagan bids shall enlightened Christians hang back? Ten! Going, going, gone!" "You want ha-af, sar?" said the battered native trainer to Hordene. "No, thanks—not a bit of her for me."
The All Horse Sweep was run, and won byThurindaby about a street and three-quarters, to be very accurate, amid derisive cheers, which Hordene, who flattered himself that he knew something about riding, could not understand. On pulling up he looked over his shoulder and saw that the second horse was only just passing the box. "Now, how did I make such a fool of myself?" he said as he returned to weigh out. His friends gathered round him and asked tenderly whether this was the first time that he had got up, and whether it wasabsolutelynecessary that the winning horse should be ridden out when the field were hopelessly pumped, a quarter of a mile behind, etc., etc. "I—I—thoughtRiver of Yearswas pressing me," explained Hordene. "River of Yearswas wallowing, absolutely wallowing," said a man, "before you turned into the straight. You rode like a—hang it—like a Militia subaltern!"
The Shayid Spring meeting broke up and the sportsmen turned their steps towards the next carcase—the Ghoriah Spring. Withthem wentThurinda'sowner, the happy possessor of an almost perfect animal. "She's as easy as a Pullman car and about twice as fast," he was wont to say in moments of confidence to his intimates. "For all her bulk, she's as handy as a polo-pony; a child might ride her, and when she's at the post she's as cute—she's as cute as the bally starter himself." Many times had Hordene said this, till at last one unsympathetic friend answered with: "When a manbukhstoo much about his wife or his horse, it's a sure sign he's trying to make himself like 'em. I mistrust yourThurinda. She's too good, or else——" "Or else what?" "You're trying to believe you like her." "Like her! Iloveher! I trust that darling as I'm shot if I'd trust you. I'd hack her for tuppence." "Hack away, then. I don't want to hurt your feelings. I don't hack my stable myself, but some horses go better for it. Come and peacock at the band-stand this evening." To the band-stand accordingly Hordene came, and the lovelyThurindacomported herself with all the gravity and decorum that mighthave been expected. Hordene rode home with the scoffer, through the dusk, discoursing on matters indifferent. "Hold up a minute," said his friend, "there's Gagley riding behind us." Then, raising his voice: "Come along, Gagley! I want to speak to you about the Race Ball." But no Gagley came; and the couple went forward at a trot. "Hang it! There's that man behind us still." Hordene listened and could clearly hear the sound of a horse trotting, apparently just behind them. "Come on, Gagley! Don't play bo-peep in that ridiculous way," shouted the friend. Again no Gagley. Twenty yards farther there was a crash and a stumble as the friend's horse came down over an unseen rat-hole. "How much damaged?" asked Hordene. "Sprained my wrist," was the dolorous answer, "and there is something wrong with my knee-cap. There goes my mount to-morrow, and this gee is cut like a cab-horse."
On the first day of the Ghoriah meetingThurindawas hopelessly ridden out by a native jockey, to whose care Hordene had at thelast moment been compelled to confide her. "You forsaken idiot!" said he, "what made you begin riding as soon as you were clear? She had everything safe, if you'd only left her alone. You rode her out before the home turn, you hog!" "What could I do?" said the jockey sullenly. "I was pressed by another horse." "Whose 'other horse'? There were twenty yards of daylight between you and the ruck. If you'd kept her there even then 'twouldn't ha' mattered. But you rode her out—you rode her out!" "There was another horse and he pressed me to the end, and when I looked round he was no longer there." Let us, in charity, draw a veil over Hordene's language at this point. "Goodness knows whether she'll be fit to pull out again for the last event. D—n you and your other horses! I wish I'd broken your neck before letting you get up!"Thurindawas done to a turn, and it seemed a cruelty to ask her to run again in the last race of the day. Hordene rode this time, and was careful to keep the mare within herself at the outset. Once moreThurindaleft her field—with oneexception—a grey horse that hung upon her flanks and could not be shaken off. The mare was done, and refused to answer the call upon her. She tried hopelessly in the straight and was caught and passed by her old enemy,River of Years—the chestnut of Kurnaul. "You rode well—like a native, Hordene," was the unflattering comment. "The mare was ridden out beforeRiver of Years." "But the grey," began Hordene, and then ceased, for he knew that there was no grey in the race.Blue PointandDiamond Dust, the only greys at the meeting, were running in the Arab Handicap.
He caught his native jockey. "What horse, d'you say, pressed you?" "I don't know. It was a grey with nutmeg tickings behind the saddle." That evening Hordene sought the great Major Blare-Tyndar, who knew personally the father, mother and ancestors of almost every horse, brought fromekkaor ship, that had ever set foot on an Indian race-course. "Say, Major, what is a grey horse with nutmeg tickings behind the saddle?" "A curiosity.Wendell Holmesis a grey, with nutmeg on the near shoulder, but there is no horse marked your way, now." Then, after a pause: "No, I'm wrong—you ought to know. The pony that got youThurindawas grey and nutmeg." "How much?" "Divorce, of course. The mare that broke her neck at the Shayid meeting and killed Jale. A big thirteen-three she was. I recollect when she was hacking old Snuffy Beans to office. He bought her from a dealer, who had her left on his hands as a rejection when the Pink Hussars were buying team up country and then——Hullo! The man's gone!" Hordene had departed on receipt of information which he already knew. He only demanded extra confirmation. Then he began to argue with himself, bearing in mind that he himself was a sane man, neither gluttonous nor a wine-bibber, with an unimpaired digestion, and thatThurindawas to all appearance a horse of ordinary flesh and exceedingly good blood. Arrived at these satisfactory conclusions, he reargued the whole matter.
Being by nature intensely superstitious, hedecided upon scratchingThurindaand facing the howl of indignation that would follow. He also decided to leave the Ghoriah meet and change his luck. But it would have been sinful—positively wicked—to have left without waiting for the polo-match that was to conclude the festivities. At the last moment before the match, one of the leading players of the Ghoriah team and Hordene's host discovered that, through the kindly foresight of his headsais, every single pony had been taken down to the ground. "Lend me a hack, old man," he shouted to Hordene as he was changing. "TakeThurinda," was the reply. "She'll bring you down in ten minutes." AndThurindawas accordingly saddled for Marish's benefit. "I'll go down with you," said Hordene. The two rode off together at a hand canter. "By Jove! Somebody'ssais'll get kicked for this!" said Marish, looking round. "Look there! He's coming for the mare! Pull out into the middle of the road." "What on earth d'you mean?" "Well, ifyoucan take a strayed horse so calmly, I can't. Didn't yousee what a lather that grey was in?" "What grey?" "The grey that just passed us—saddle and all. He's got away from the ground, I suppose. Now he's turned the corner; but you can hear his hoofs. Listen!" There was a furious gallop of shod horses, gradually dying into silence. "Come along," said Hordene. "We're late as it is. We shall know all about it on the ground." "Anybody lost a tat?" asked Marish cheerily as they reached the ground. "No, we've lostyou. Double up. You're late enough as it is. Get up and go in. The teams are waiting." Marish mounted his polo-pony and cantered across. Hordene watched the game idly for a few moments. There was a scrimmage, a cloud of dust, and a cessation of play, and a shouting forsaises. The umpire clattered forward and returned. "What has happened?" "Marish! Neck broken! Nobody's fault. Pony crossed its legs and came down. Game's stopped. Thank God, he hasn't got a wife!" Again Hordene pondered as he sat on his horse's back. "Under any circumstances itwas written that he was to be killed. I had no interest in his death, and he had his warning, I suppose. I can't make out the system that this infernal mare runs under. Whyhim? Anyway, I'll shoot her." He looked atThurinda, the calm-eyed, the beautiful, and repented. "No! I'll sell her."
"What in the world has happened toThurindathat Hordene is so keen on getting rid of her?" was the general question. "I want money," said Hordene unblushingly, and the few who knew how his accounts stood saw that this was a varnished lie. But they held their peace because of the great love and trust that exists among the ancient and honourable fraternity of sportsmen.
"There's nothing wrong with her," explained Hordene. "Try her as much as you like, but let her stay in my stable until you've made up your mind one way or the other. Nine hundred's my price."
"I'll take her at that," quoth a red-haired subaltern, nicknamed Carrots, later Gaja, and then, for brevity's sake, Guj. "Let me haveher out this afternoon. I want her more for hacking than anything else."
Guj triedThurindaexhaustively and had no fault to find with her. "She's all right," he said briefly. "I'll take her. It's a cash deal." "Virtuous Guj!" said Hordene, pocketing the cheque. "If you go on like this you'll be loved and respected by all who know you."
A week later Guj insisted that Hordene should accompany him on a ride. They cantered merrily for a time. Then said the subaltern: "Listen to the mare's beat a minute, will you? Seems to me that you've sold me two horses."
Behind the mare was plainly audible the cadence of a swiftly trotting horse. "D'you hear anything?" said Guj. "No—nothing but the regular triplet," said Hordene; and he lied when he answered. Guj looked at him keenly and said nothing. Two or three months passed and Hordene was perplexed to see his old property running, and running well, under the curious title of "Sleipner—lateThurinda." He consulted the Great Major, who said: "I don'tknow a horse calledSleipner, but I knowofone. He was a northern bred, and belonged to Odin." "A mythological beast?" "Exactly. LikeBucephalusand the rest of 'em. He was a great horse. I wish I had some of his get in my stable." "Why?" "Because he had eight legs. When he had used up one set, he let down the other four to come up the straight on. Stewards were lenient in those days.Nowit's all you can do to get a crock withthreesound legs."
Hordene cursed the red-haired Guj in his heart for finding out the mare's peculiarity. Then he cursed the dead man Jale for his ridiculous interference with a free gift. "If it was given—it was given," said Hordene, "and he has no right to come messing about after it." When Guj and he next met, he enquired tenderly afterThurinda. The red-haired subaltern, impassive as usual, answered: "I've shot her." "Well—you know your own affairs best," said Hordene. "You've given yourself away," said Guj. "What makes you think I shot a sound horse? She might have been bitten by a mad dog, or lamed." "You didn't say that." "No, I didn't, because I've a notion that you knew what was wrong with her." "Wrong with her! She was as sound as a bell——" "I know that. Don't pretend to misunderstand. You'll believeme, and I'll believeyouin this show; but no one else will believeus. That mare was a bally nightmare." "Go on," said Hordene. "I stuck the noise of the other horse as long as I could, and called herSleipneron the strength of it.Sleipnerwas a stallion, but that's a detail. When it got to interfering with every race I rode it was more than I could stick. I took her off racing, and, on my honour, since that time I've been nearly driven out of my mind by a grey and nutmeg pony. It used to trot round my quarters at night, fool about the Mall, and graze about the compound. Youknowthat pony. It isn't a pony to catch or ride or hit, is it?" "No," said Hordene; "I've seen it." "So I shotThurinda; that was a thousand rupees out of my pocket. And old Stiffer, who's got his new crematorium in full blast, cremated her.I say, whatwasthe matter with the mare? Was she bewitched?"
Hordene told the story of the gift, which Guj heard out to the end. "Now, that's a nice sort of yarn to tell in a messroom, isn't it? They'd call it jumps or insanity," said Guj. "There's no reason in it. It doesn't lead up to anything. It only killed poor Marish and made you stick me with the mare; and yet it's true. Are you mad or drunk, or am I? That's the only explanation." "Can't be drunk for nine months on end, and madness would show in that time," said Hordene.
"All right," said Guj recklessly, going to the window. "I'll lay that ghost." He leaned out into the night and shouted: "Jale! Jale! Jale! Wherever you are." There was a pause and then up the compound-drive came the clatter of a horse's feet. The red-haired subaltern blanched under his freckles to the colour of glycerine soap. "Thurinda'sdead," he muttered, "and—and all bets are off. Go back to your grave again."
Hordene was watching him open-mouthed.
"Now bring me a strait-jacket or a glass of brandy," said Guj. "That's enough to turn a man's hair white. What did the poor wretch mean by knocking about the earth?"
"Don't know," whispered Hordene hoarsely. "Let's get over to the Club. I'm feeling a bit shaky."
FOOTNOTES:[16]"Week's News," May 12, 1888.
FOOTNOTES:
[16]"Week's News," May 12, 1888.
[16]"Week's News," May 12, 1888.
A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER[17]
Shall I not one day remember thy Bower—One day when all days are one day to me?Thinking I stirred not and yet had the power,Yearning—ah, God, if again it might be!—The Song of the Bower.
Thisis a base betrayal of confidence, but the sin is Mrs. Hauksbee's and not mine.
If you remember a certain foolish tale called "The Education of Otis Yeere," you will not forget that Mrs. Mallowe laughed at the wrong time, which was a single, and at Mrs. Hauksbee, which was a double, offence. An experiment had gone wrong, and it seems that Mrs. Mallowe had said some quaint things about the experimentrix.
"I am not angry," said Mrs. Hauksbee, "and I admire Polly in spite of her evil counsels to me. But I shall wait—I shall wait, like the frog footman inAlice in Wonderland, and Providence will deliver Polly into my hands. It always does if you wait." And she departed to vex the soul of the "Hawley boy," who says that she is singularly "uninstruiteand childlike." He got that first word out of a Ouida novel. I do not know what it means, but am prepared to make an affidavit before the Collector that it does not mean Mrs. Hauksbee.
Mrs. Hauksbee's ideas of waiting are very liberal. She told the "Hawley boy" that he dared not tell Mrs. Reiver that "she was an intellectual woman with a gift for attracting men," and she offered another man two waltzes if he would repeat the same thing in the same ears. But he said: "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes," which means "Mistrust all waltzes except those you get for legitimate asking."
The "Hawley boy" did as he was told because he believes in Mrs. Hauksbee. He was the instrument in the hand of a Higher Power,and he worejharuncoats, like "the scoriac rivers that roll their sulphurous torrents down Yahek, in the realms of the Boreal Pole," that made your temples throb when seen early in the morning. I will introduce him to you some day if all goes well. He is worth knowing.
Unpleasant things have already been written about Mrs. Reiver in other places.
She was a person without invention. She used to get her ideas from the men she captured, and this led to some eccentric changes of character. For a month or two she would actà laMadonna, and try Theo for a change if she fancied Theo's ways suited her beauty. Then she would attempt the dark and fiery Lilith, and so and so on, exactly as she had absorbed the new notion. But there was always Mrs. Reiver—hard, selfish, stupid Mrs. Reiver—at the back of each transformation. Mrs. Hauksbee christened her the Magic Lantern on account of this borrowed mutability. "It just depends upon the slide," said Mrs. Hauksbee. "The case is the only permanentthing in the exhibition. But that, thank Heaven, is getting old."
There was a Fancy Ball at Government House and Mrs. Reiver came attired in some sort of '98 costume, with her hair pulled up to the top of her head, showing the clear outline on the back of the neck like the Récamier engravings. Mrs. Hauksbee had chosen to be loud, not to say vulgar, that evening, and went as The Black Death—a curious arrangement of barred velvet, black domino and flame-coloured satin puffery coming up to the neck and the wrists, with one of those shrieking keel-backed cicalas in the hair. The scream of the creature made people jump. It sounded so unearthly in a ballroom.
I heard her say to some one: "Let me introduce you to Madame Récamier," and I saw a man dressed as Autolycus bowing to Mrs. Reiver, while The Black Death looked more than usually saintly. It was a very pleasant evening, and Autolycus and Madame Récamier—I heard her ask Autolycus who Madame Récamier was, by the way—danced togetherever so much. Mrs. Hauksbee was in a meditative mood, but she laughed once or twice in the back of her throat, and that meant trouble.
Autolycus was Trewinnard, the man whom Mrs. Mallowe had told Mrs. Hauksbee about—the Platonic Paragon, as Mrs. Hauksbee called him. He was amiable, but his moustache hid his mouth, and so he did not explain himself all at once. If you stared at him, he turned his eyes away, and through the rest of the dinner kept looking at you to see whether you were looking again. He took stares as a tribute to his merits, which were generally known and recognised. When he played billiards he apologised at length between each bad stroke, and explained what would have happened if the red had been somewhere else, or the bearer had trimmed the third lamp, or the wind hadn't made the door bang. Also he wriggled in his chair more than was becoming to one of his inches. Little men may wriggle and fidget without attracting notice. It doesn't suit big-framed men. He was the Main Girder Boom of the Kutcha,Pukka, Bundobust and Benaoti Department and corresponded direct with the Three Taped Bashaw. Every one knows whatthatmeans. The men in his own office said that where anything was to be gained, even temporarily, he would never hesitate for a moment over handing up a subordinate to be hanged and drawn and quartered. He didn't back up his underlings, and for that reason they dreaded taking responsibility on their shoulders, and the strength of the Department was crippled.
A weak Department can, and often does, do a power of good work simply because its chief sees it through thick and thin. Mistakes may be born of this policy, but it is safe and sounder than giving orders which may be read in two ways and reserving to yourself the right of interpretation according to subsequent failure or success. Offices prefer administration to diplomacy. They are very like Empires.
Hatchett of the Almirah and Thannicutch—a vicious little three-cornered Department that was always stamping on the toes of the Elect—had the fairest estimate of Trewinnard, whenhe said: "I don't believe he is as good as he is." They always quoted that verdict as an instance of the blind jealousy of the Uncovenanted, but Hatchett was quite right. Trewinnard was just as good and no better than Mrs. Mallowe could make him; and she had been engaged on the work for three years. Hatchett has a narrow-minded partiality for the more than naked—the anatomised Truth—but he can gauge a man.
Trewinnard had been spoilt by over-much petting, and the devil of vanity that rides nine hundred and ninety-nine men out of a thousand made him behave as he did. He had been too long one woman's property; and that belief will sometimes drive a man to throw the best things in the world behind him, from rank perversity. Perhaps he only meant to stray temporarily and then return, but in arranging for this excursion he misunderstood both Mrs. Mallowe and Mrs. Reiver. The one made no sign, she would have died first; and the other—well, the high-falutin mindsome lay was her craze for the time being. She had never triedit before and several men had hinted that it would eminently become her. Trewinnard was in himself pleasant, with the great merit of belonging to somebody else. He was what they call "intellectual," and vain to the marrow. Mrs. Reiver returned his lead in the first, and hopelessly out-trumped him in the second suit. Put down all that comes after this to Providence or The Black Death.
Trewinnard never realised how far he had fallen from his allegiance till Mrs. Reiver referred to some official matter that he had been telling her about as "ours." He remembered then how that word had been sacred to Mrs. Mallowe and how she had asked his permission to use it. Opium is intoxicating, and so is whisky, but more intoxicating than either to a certain build of mind is the first occasion on which a woman—especially if she have asked leave for the "honour"—identifies herself with a man's work. The second time is not so pleasant. The answer has been given before, and the treachery comes to the top and tastes coppery in the mouth.
Trewinnard swallowed the shame—he felt dimly that he was not doing Mrs. Reiver any great wrong by untruth—and told and told and continued to tell, for the snare of this form of open-heartedness is that no man, unless he be a consummate liar, knows where to stop. The office door of all others must be either open wide or shut tight with ashaprassito keep off callers.
Mrs. Mallowe made no sign to show that she felt Trewinnard's desertion till a piece of information that could only have come fromonequarter ran about Simla like quicksilver. She met Trewinnard at a dinner. "Choose yourconfidantesbetter, Harold," she whispered as she passed him in the drawing-room. He turned salmon-colour, and swore very hard to himself that Babu Durga Charan Laha must go—must go—must go. He almost believed in that grey-headed old oyster's guilt.
And so another of those upside-down tragedies that we call a Simla Season wore through to the end—from the Birthday Ball to the "tripping" to Naldera and Kotghar. Andfools gave feasts and wise men ate them, and they were bidden to the wedding and sat down to bake, and those who had nuts had no teeth and they staked the substance for the shadow, and carried coals to Newcastle, and in the dark all cats were grey, as it was in the days of the great Curé of Meudon.
Late in the year there developed itself a battle-royal between the K.P.B. and B. Department and the Almirah and Thannicutch. Three columns of this paper would be needed to supply you with the outlines of the difficulty; and then you would not be grateful. Hatchett snuffed the fray from afar and went into it with his teeth bared to the gums, while his Department stood behind him solid to a man. They believed in him, and their answer to the fury of men who detested him was: "Ah! But you'll admit he's d—d right in what he says."
"The head of Trewinnard in a Government Resolution," said Hatchett, and he told thedaftrito put a new pad on his blotter, and smiled a bleak smile as he spread out his notes.Hatchett is a Thug in his systematic way of butchering a man's reputation.
"What are you going to do?" asked Trewinnard's Department. "Sit tight," said Trewinnard, which was tantamount to saying "Lord knows." The Department groaned and said: "Which of us poor beggars is to be Jonahedthistime?" They knew Trewinnard's vice.
The dispute was essentially not one for the K.P.B. and B. under its then direction to fight out. It should have been compromised, or at the worst sent up to the Supreme Government with a private and confidential note directing justice into the proper paths.
Some people say that the Supreme Government is the Devil. It is more like the Deep Sea. Anything that you throw into it disappears for weeks, and comes to light hacked and furred at the edges, crusted with weeds and shells and almost unrecognisable. The bold man who would dare to give it a file of love-letters would be amply rewarded. It would overlay them with original commentsand marginal notes, and work them piecemeal into D.O. dockets. Few things, from a setter or a whirlpool to a sausage-machine or a hatching hen, are more interesting and peculiar than the Supreme Government.
"What shall we do?" said Trewinnard, who had fallen from grace into sin. "Fight," said Mrs. Reiver, or words to that effect; and no one can say how far aimless desire to test her powers, and how far belief in the man she had brought to her feet prompted the judgment. Of the merits of the case she knew just as much as anyayah.
Then Mrs. Mallowe, upon an evil word that went through Simla, put on her visiting-garb and attired herself for the sacrifice, and went to call—to call upon Mrs. Reiver, knowing what the torture would be. From half-past twelve till twenty-five minutes to two she sat, her hand upon her cardcase, and let Mrs. Reiver stab at her, all for the sake of the information. Mrs. Reiver double-acted her part, but she played into Mrs. Mallowe's hand by this defect. The assumptions of ownership,the little intentional slips, were overdone, and so also was the pretence of intimate knowledge. Mrs. Mallowe never winced. She repeated to herself: "And he has trusted this—this Thing. She knows nothing and she cares nothing, and she has digged this trap for him." The main feature of the case was abundantly clear. Trewinnard, whose capacities Mrs. Mallowe knew to the utmost farthing, to whom public and departmental petting were as the breath of his delicately-cut nostrils—Trewinnard, with his nervous dread of dispraise, was to be pitted against the Paul de Cassagnac of the Almirah and Thannicutch—the unspeakable Hatchett, who fought with the venom of a woman and the skill of a Red Indian. Unless his cause was triply just, Trewinnard was already under the guillotine, and if he had been under this "Thing's" dominance, small hope for the justice of his case. "Oh, why did I let him go without putting out a hand to fetch him back?" said Mrs. Mallowe, as she got into her 'rickshaw.
Now,Tim, her fox-terrier, is the only personwho knows what Mrs. Mallowe did that afternoon, and as I found him loafing on the Mall in a very disconsolate condition and as he recognised me effusively and suggested going for a monkey-hunt—a thing he had never done before—my impression is that Mrs. Mallowe stayed at home till the light fell and thought. If she did this, it is of course hopeless to account for her actions. So you must fill in the gap for yourself.
That evening it rained heavily, and horses mired their riders. But not one of all the habits was so plastered with mud as the habit of Mrs. Mallowe when she pulled up under the scrub oaks and sent in her name by the astounded bearer to Trewinnard. "Folly! downright folly!" she said as she sat in the steam of the dripping horse. "But it's all a horrible jumble together."
It may be as well to mention that ladies do not usually call upon bachelors at their houses. Bachelors would scream and run away. Trewinnard came into the light of the verandah with a nervous, undecided smile upon his lips,and he wished—in the bottomless bottom of his bad heart—he wished that Mrs. Reiver was there to see. A minute later he was profoundly glad that he was alone, for Mrs. Mallowe was standing in his office room and calling him names that reflected no credit on his intellect. "What have you done? What have you said?" she asked. "Be quick! Bequick! And have the horse led round to the back. Can you speak? What have you written? Show me!"
She had interrupted him in the middle of what he was pleased to call his reply; for Hatchett's first shell had already fallen in the camp. He stood back and offered her the seat at theduftartable. Her elbow left a great wet stain on the baize, for she was soaked through and through.
"Say exactly how the matter stands," she said, and laughed a weak little laugh, which emboldened Trewinnard to say loftily: "Pardon me, Mrs. Mallowe, but I hardly recognise your——"
"Idiot! Will you show me the papers, will you speak, andwillyou be quick?"
Her most reverent admirers would hardly have recognised the soft-spoken, slow-gestured, quiet-eyed Mrs. Mallowe in the indignant woman who was drumming on Trewinnard's desk. He submitted to the voice of authority, as he had submitted in the old times, and explained as quickly as might be the cause of the war between the two Departments. In conclusion he handed over the rough sheets of his reply. As she read he watched her with the expectant sickly half-smile of the unaccustomed writer who is doubtful of the success of his work. And another smile followed, but died away as he saw Mrs. Mallowe read his production. All the old phrases out of which she had so carefully drilled him had returned; the unpruned fluency of diction was there, the more luxuriant for being so long cut back; the reckless riotousness of assertion that sacrificed all—even the vital truth that Hatchett would be so sure to take advantage of—for the sake of scoring a point, was there; and through and between every line ran the weak, wilful vanity of the man. Mrs. Mallowe's mouth hardened.
"And you wrote this!" she said. Then to herself: "Hewrote this!"
Trewinnard stepped forward with a gesture habitual to him when he wished to explain. Mrs. Reiver had never asked for explanations. She had told him that all his ways were perfect. Therefore he loved her.
Mrs. Mallowe tore up the papers one by one, saying as she did so: "Youwere going to cross swords with Hatchett. Do you know your own strength? Oh, Harold, Harold, it istoopitiable! I thought—I thought——" Then the great anger that had been growing in her broke out, and she cried: "Oh, you fool! You blind, blind,blind, trumpery fool! Why do I help you? Why do I have anything to do with you? You miserable man! Sit down and write as I dictate. Quickly! And I had chosenyouout of a hundred othermen! Write!" It is a terrible thing to be found out by a mere unseeing male—Thackeray has said it. It is worse, far worse, to be found out by a woman, and in that hour after long years to discover her worth. For ten minutes Trewinnard's pen scratched across the paper, and Mrs. Mallowe spoke. "And that is all," she said bitterly. "As you value yourself—your noble, honourable, modest self—keep within that."
But that was not all—by any means. At least as far as Trewinnard was concerned.
He rose from his chair and delivered his soul of many mad and futile thoughts—such things as a man babbles when he is deserted of the gods, has missed his hold upon the latch-door of Opportunity—and cannot see that the ways are shut. Mrs. Mallowe bore with him to the end, and he stood before her—no enviable creature to look upon.
"A cur as well as a fool!" she said. "Will you be good enough to tell them to bring my horse? I do not trust to your honour—you have none—but I believe that your sense of shame will keep you from speaking of my visit."
So he was left in the verandah crying "Come back" like a distracted guinea-fowl.
"He's done us in the eye," grunted Hatchett as he perused the K.P.B. and B. reply. "Look at the cunning of the brute in shifting the issue on to India in that carneying, blarneying way! Only wait until I can get my knife into him again. I'll stop every bolt-hole before the hunt begins."
Oh, I believe I have forgotten to mention the success of Mrs. Hauksbee's revenge. It was so brilliant and overwhelming that she had to cry in Mrs. Mallowe's arms for the better part of half an hour; and Mrs. Mallowe was just as bad, though she thanked Mrs. Hauksbee several times in the course of the interview, and Mrs. Hauksbee said that she would repent and reform, and Mrs. Mallowe said: "Hush, dear, hush! I don't think either of us had anything to be proud of." And Mrs. Hauksbee said: "Oh, but I didn'tmeanit, Polly, I didn'tmeanit!" And I stood with my hat in my hand trying to make two very indignant ladies understand that the bearer reallyhadgiven me "salaam bolta."
That was an evil quarter minute.