No More Learning

He dismissed the driver and drove himself. We jogged along quietly
while in the station; but as soon as we got to the dusty road across the
plains, he made that pony fly. A country-bred can do nearly anything at
a pinch. We covered the thirty miles in under three hours, but the poor
brute was nearly dead.

Once I said: "What's the blazing hurry, Major? "

He said, quietly: "The Boy has been alone, by himself, for--one, two,
five--fourteen hours now! I tell you, I don't feel easy. "

This uneasiness spread itself to me, and I helped to beat the pony.

When we came to the Canal Engineer's Rest House the Major called for The
Boy's servant; but there was no answer. Then we went up to the house,
calling for The Boy by name; but there was no answer.

"Oh, he's out shooting," said I.

Just then I saw through one of the windows a little hurricane-lamp
burning. This was at four in the afternoon. We both stopped dead in the
verandah, holding our breath to catch every sound; and we heard, inside
the room, the "brr--brr--brr" of a multitude of flies. The Major said
nothing, but he took off his helmet and we entered very softly.

The Boy was dead on the charpoy in the centre of the bare, lime-washed
room. He had shot his head nearly to pieces with his revolver. The
gun-cases were still strapped, so was the bedding, and on the table lay
The Boy's writing-case with photographs. He had gone away to die like a
poisoned rat!

The Major said to himself softly: "Poor Boy! Poor, POOR devil! " Then he
turned away from the bed and said: "I want your help in this business. "

Knowing The Boy was dead by his own hand, I saw exactly what that help
would be, so I passed over to the table, took a chair, lit a cheroot,
and began to go through the writing-case; the Major looking over my
shoulder and repeating to himself: "We came too late! --Like a rat in a
hole! --Poor, POOR devil! "

The Boy must have spent half the night in writing to his people, and to
his Colonel, and to a girl at Home; and as soon as he had finished, must
have shot himself, for he had been dead a long time when we came in.

I read all that he had written, and passed over each sheet to the Major
as I finished it.

We saw from his accounts how very seriously he had taken everything.
He wrote about "disgrace which he was unable to bear"--"indelible
shame"--"criminal folly"--"wasted life," and so on; besides a lot of
private things to his Father and Mother too much too sacred to put into
print. The letter to the girl at Home was the most pitiful of all; and
I choked as I read it. The Major made no attempt to keep dry-eyed.
I respected him for that. He read and rocked himself to and fro, and
simply cried like a woman without caring to hide it. The letters were so
dreary and hopeless and touching. We forgot all about The Boy's follies,
and only thought of the poor Thing on the charpoy and the scrawled
sheets in our hands. It was utterly impossible to let the letters go
Home.

They would have broken his Father's heart and killed his Mother after
killing her belief in her son.

At last the Major dried his eyes openly, and said: "Nice sort of thing
to spring on an English family! What shall we do? "

I said, knowing what the Major had brought me but for: "The Boy died
of cholera. We were with him at the time. We can't commit ourselves to
half-measures. Come along. "

Then began one of the most grimy comic scenes I have ever taken part
in--the concoction of a big, written lie, bolstered with evidence, to
soothe The Boy's people at Home. I began the rough draft of a letter,
the Major throwing in hints here and there while he gathered up all the
stuff that The Boy had written and burnt it in the fireplace. It was a
hot, still evening when we began, and the lamp burned very badly. In due
course I got the draft to my satisfaction, setting forth how The Boy was
the pattern of all virtues, beloved by his regiment, with every promise
of a great career before him, and so on; how we had helped him through
the sickness--it was no time for little lies, you will understand--and
how he had died without pain. I choked while I was putting down these
things and thinking of the poor people who would read them.

Then I laughed at the grotesqueness of the affair, and the laughter
mixed itself up with the choke--and the Major said that we both wanted
drinks.

I am afraid to say how much whiskey we drank before the letter was
finished. It had not the least effect on us. Then we took off The Boy's
watch, locket, and rings.

Lastly, the Major said: "We must send a lock of hair too. A woman values
that. "

But there were reasons why we could not find a lock fit to send.

The Boy was black-haired, and so was the Major, luckily. I cut off a
piece of the Major's hair above the temple with a knife, and put it into
the packet we were making. The laughing-fit and the chokes got hold of
me again, and I had to stop. The Major was nearly as bad; and we both
knew that the worst part of the work was to come.

We sealed up the packet, photographs, locket, seals, ring, letter, and
lock of hair with The Boy's sealing-wax and The Boy's seal.

Then the Major said: "For God's sake let's get outside--away from the
room--and think! "

We went outside, and walked on the banks of the Canal for an hour,
eating and drinking what we had with us, until the moon rose. I know now
exactly how a murderer feels. Finally, we forced ourselves back to the
room with the lamp and the Other Thing in it, and began to take up
the next piece of work. I am not going to write about this. It was too
horrible. We burned the bedstead and dropped the ashes into the Canal;
we took up the matting of the room and treated that in the same way.
I went off to a village and borrowed two big hoes--I did not want the
villagers to help--while the Major arranged--the other matters. It took
us four hours' hard work to make the grave. As we worked, we argued out
whether it was right to say as much as we remembered of the Burial of
the Dead.

We compromised things by saying the Lord's Prayer with a private
unofficial prayer for the peace of the soul of The Boy. Then we filled
in the grave and went into the verandah--not the house--to lie down to
sleep. We were dead-tired.

When we woke the Major said, wearily: "We can't go back till tomorrow.
We must give him a decent time to die in. He died early THIS morning,
remember. That seems more natural. " So the Major must have been lying
awake all the time, thinking.

I said: "Then why didn't we bring the body back to the cantonments? "

The Major thought for a minute:--"Because the people bolted when they
heard of the cholera. And the ekka has gone! "

That was strictly true. We had forgotten all about the ekka-pony, and he
had gone home.

So, we were left there alone, all that stifling day, in the Canal Rest
House, testing and re-testing our story of The Boy's death to see if it
was weak at any point. A native turned up in the afternoon, but we said
that a Sahib was dead of cholera, and he ran away. As the dusk gathered,
the Major told me all his fears about The Boy, and awful stories of
suicide or nearly-carried-out suicide--tales that made one's hair crisp.
He said that he himself had once gone into the same Valley of the Shadow
as the Boy, when he was young and new to the country; so he understood
how things fought together in The Boy's poor jumbled head. He also said
that youngsters, in their repentant moments, consider their sins much
more serious and ineffaceable than they really are. We talked together
all through the evening, and rehearsed the story of the death of The
Boy. As soon as the moon was up, and The Boy, theoretically, just
buried, we struck across country for the Station. We walked from eight
till six o'clock in the morning; but though we were dead-tired, we did
not forget to go to The Boy's room and put away his revolver with the
proper amount of cartridges in the pouch. Also to set his writing-case
on the table. We found the Colonel and reported the death, feeling more
like murderers than ever. Then we went to bed and slept the clock round;
for there was no more in us.

The tale had credence as long as was necessary, for every one forgot
about The Boy before a fortnight was over. Many people, however, found
time to say that the Major had behaved scandalously in not bringing in
the body for a regimental funeral. The saddest thing of all was a letter
from The Boy's mother to the Major and me--with big inky blisters all
over the sheet. She wrote the sweetest possible things about our great
kindness, and the obligation she would be under to us as long as she
lived.

All things considered, she WAS under an obligation; but not exactly as
she meant.




MISS YOUGHAL'S SAIS.

When Man and Woman are agreed, what can the Kazi do? --Mahomedan
Proverb.

Some people say that there is no romance in India. Those people are
wrong. Our lives hold quite as much romance as is good for us.

Sometimes more.

Strickland was in the Police, and people did not understand him; so
they said he was a doubtful sort of man and passed by on the other side.
Strickland had himself to thank for this. He held the extraordinary
theory that a Policeman in India should try to know as much about the
natives as the natives themselves. Now, in the whole of Upper India,
there is only ONE man who can pass for Hindu or Mohammedan, chamar or
faquir, as he pleases. He is feared and respected by the natives from
the Ghor Kathri to the Jamma Musjid; and he is supposed to have the gift
of invisibility and executive control over many Devils. But what good
has this done him with the Government? None in the world. He has never
got Simla for his charge; and his name is almost unknown to Englishmen.

Strickland was foolish enough to take that man for his model; and,
following out his absurd theory, dabbled in unsavory places no
respectable man would think of exploring--all among the native
riff-raff. He educated himself in this peculiar way for seven years, and
people could not appreciate it. He was perpetually "going Fantee" among
the natives, which, of course, no man with any sense believes in. He was
initiated into the Sat Bhai at Allahabad once, when he was on leave; he
knew the Lizard-Song of the Sansis, and the Halli-Hukk dance, which is
a religious can-can of a startling kind. When a man knows who dances the
Halli-Hukk, and how, and when, and where, he knows something to be proud
of. He has gone deeper than the skin. But Strickland was not proud,
though he had helped once, at Jagadhri, at the Painting of the Death
Bull, which no Englishman must even look upon; had mastered the
thieves'-patter of the changars; had taken a Eusufzai horse-thief alone
near Attock; and had stood under the mimbar-board of a Border mosque and
conducted service in the manner of a Sunni Mollah.

His crowning achievement was spending eleven days as a faquir in the
gardens of Baba Atal at Amritsar, and there picking up the threads of
the great Nasiban Murder Case. But people said, justly enough: "Why on
earth can't Strickland sit in his office and write up his diary, and
recruit, and keep quiet, instead of showing up the incapacity of his
seniors? " So the Nasiban Murder Case did him no good departmentally;
but, after his first feeling of wrath, he returned to his outlandish
custom of prying into native life. By the way, when a man once acquires
a taste for this particular amusement, it abides with him all his days.
It is the most fascinating thing in the world; Love not excepted. Where
other men took ten days to the Hills, Strickland took leave for what
he called shikar, put on the disguise that appealed to him at the time,
stepped down into the brown crowd, and was swallowed up for a while. He
was a quiet, dark young fellow--spare, black-eyes--and, when he was not
thinking of something else, a very interesting companion. Strickland
on Native Progress as he had seen it was worth hearing. Natives hated
Strickland; but they were afraid of him. He knew too much.

When the Youghals came into the station, Strickland--very gravely, as he
did everything--fell in love with Miss Youghal; and she, after a
while, fell in love with him because she could not understand him. Then
Strickland told the parents; but Mrs. Youghal said she was not going to
throw her daughter into the worst paid Department in the Empire, and old
Youghal said, in so many words, that he mistrusted Strickland's ways
and works, and would thank him not to speak or write to his daughter
any more. "Very well," said Strickland, for he did not wish to make
his lady-love's life a burden. After one long talk with Miss Youghal he
dropped the business entirely.

The Youghals went up to Simla in April.

In July, Strickland secured three months' leave on "urgent private
affairs. " He locked up his house--though not a native in the Providence
would wittingly have touched "Estreekin Sahib's" gear for the world--and
went down to see a friend of his, an old dyer, at Tarn Taran.

Here all trace of him was lost, until a sais met me on the Simla Mall
with this extraordinary note:

"Dear old man,

"Please give bearer a box of cheroots--Supers, No. I, for preference.
They are freshest at the Club. I'll repay when I reappear; but at
present I'm out of Society.

"Yours,

"E. STRICKLAND. "

I ordered two boxes, and handed them over to the sais with my love.

That sais was Strickland, and he was in old Youghal's employ, attached
to Miss Youghal's Arab. The poor fellow was suffering for an English
smoke, and knew that whatever happened I should hold my tongue till the
business was over.

Later on, Mrs. Youghal, who was wrapped up in her servants, began
talking at houses where she called of her paragon among saises--the man
who was never too busy to get up in the morning and pick flowers for
the breakfast-table, and who blacked--actually BLACKED--the hoofs of his
horse like a London coachman! The turnout of Miss Youghal's Arab was a
wonder and a delight. Strickland--Dulloo, I mean--found his reward
in the pretty things that Miss Youghal said to him when she went out
riding. Her parents were pleased to find she had forgotten all her
foolishness for young Strickland and said she was a good girl.

Strickland vows that the two months of his service were the most rigid
mental discipline he has ever gone through. Quite apart from the little
fact that the wife of one of his fellow-saises fell in love with him and
then tried to poison him with arsenic because he would have nothing
to do with her, he had to school himself into keeping quiet when Miss
Youghal went out riding with some man who tried to flirt with her, and
he was forced to trot behind carrying the blanket and hearing every
word! Also, he had to keep his temper when he was slanged in "Benmore"
porch by a policeman--especially once when he was abused by a Naik he
had himself recruited from Isser Jang village--or, worse still, when a
young subaltern called him a pig for not making way quickly enough.

But the life had its compensations. He obtained great insight into the
ways and thefts of saises--enough, he says, to have summarily convicted
half the chamar population of the Punjab if he had been on business. He
became one of the leading players at knuckle-bones, which all jhampanis
and many saises play while they are waiting outside the Government House
or the Gaiety Theatre of nights; he learned to smoke tobacco that was
three-fourths cowdung; and he heard the wisdom of the grizzled Jemadar
of the Government House saises, whose words are valuable. He saw many
things which amused him; and he states, on honor, that no man can
appreciate Simla properly, till he has seen it from the sais's point of
view.

He also says that, if he chose to write all he saw, his head would be
broken in several places.

Strickland's account of the agony he endured on wet nights, hearing the
music and seeing the lights in "Benmore," with his toes tingling for a
waltz and his head in a horse-blanket, is rather amusing. One of these
days, Strickland is going to write a little book on his experiences.
That book will be worth buying; and even more, worth suppressing.

Thus, he served faithfully as Jacob served for Rachel; and his leave was
nearly at an end when the explosion came. He had really done his best to
keep his temper in the hearing of the flirtations I have mentioned; but
he broke down at last. An old and very distinguished General took
Miss Youghal for a ride, and began that specially offensive
"you're-only-a-little-girl" sort of flirtation--most difficult for
a woman to turn aside deftly, and most maddening to listen to. Miss
Youghal was shaking with fear at the things he said in the hearing of
her sais. Dulloo--Strickland--stood it as long as he could. Then he
caught hold of the General's bridle, and, in most fluent English,
invited him to step off and be heaved over the cliff. Next minute Miss
Youghal began crying; and Strickland saw that he had hopelessly given
himself away, and everything was over.

The General nearly had a fit, while Miss Youghal was sobbing out the
story of the disguise and the engagement that wasn't recognized by the
parents. Strickland was furiously angry with himself and more angry
with the General for forcing his hand; so he said nothing, but held
the horse's head and prepared to thrash the General as some sort of
satisfaction, but when the General had thoroughly grasped the story, and
knew who Strickland was, he began to puff and blow in the saddle, and
nearly rolled off with laughing. He said Strickland deserved a V. C. ,
if it were only for putting on a sais's blanket. Then he called himself
names, and vowed that he deserved a thrashing, but he was too old to
take it from Strickland. Then he complimented Miss Youghal on her lover.

The scandal of the business never struck him; for he was a nice old man,
with a weakness for flirtations. Then he laughed again, and said
that old Youghal was a fool. Strickland let go of the cob's head,
and suggested that the General had better help them, if that was his
opinion. Strickland knew Youghal's weakness for men with titles and
letters after their names and high official position.

"It's rather like a forty-minute farce," said the General, "but begad, I
WILL help, if it's only to escape that tremendous thrashing I deserved.
Go along to your home, my sais-Policeman, and change into decent kit,
and I'll attack Mr. Youghal. Miss Youghal, may I ask you to canter home
and wait? ". . . . . . . . .

About seven minutes later, there was a wild hurroosh at the Club.

A sais, with a blanket and head-rope, was asking all the men he knew:
"For Heaven's sake lend me decent clothes! " As the men did not recognize
him, there were some peculiar scenes before Strickland could get a hot
bath, with soda in it, in one room, a shirt here, a collar there, a pair
of trousers elsewhere, and so on. He galloped off, with half the Club
wardrobe on his back, and an utter stranger's pony under him, to the
house of old Youghal.

The General, arrayed in purple and fine linen, was before him.
What the General had said Strickland never knew, but Youghal received
Strickland with moderate civility; and Mrs. Youghal, touched by the
devotion of the transformed Dulloo, was almost kind.

The General beamed, and chuckled, and Miss Youghal came in, and almost
before old Youghal knew where he was, the parental consent had been
wrenched out and Strickland had departed with Miss Youghal to the
Telegraph Office to wire for his kit. The final embarrassment was when
an utter stranger attacked him on the Mall and asked for the stolen
pony.

So, in the end, Strickland and Miss Youghal were married, on the strict
understanding that Strickland should drop his old ways, and stick to
Departmental routine, which pays best and leads to Simla.

Strickland was far too fond of his wife, just then, to break his word,
but it was a sore trial to him; for the streets and the bazars, and the
sounds in them, were full of meaning to Strickland, and these called to
him to come back and take up his wanderings and his discoveries. Some
day, I will tell you how he broke his promise to help a friend. That
was long since, and he has, by this time, been nearly spoilt for what
he would call shikar. He is forgetting the slang, and the beggar's cant,
and the marks, and the signs, and the drift of the undercurrents, which,
if a man would master, he must always continue to learn.

But he fills in his Departmental returns beautifully.




YOKED WITH AN UNBELIEVER.

I am dying for you, and you are dying for another. --Punjabi
Proverb.

When the Gravesend tender left the P. & 0. steamer for Bombay and went
back to catch the train to Town, there were many people in it crying.
But the one who wept most, and most openly was Miss Agnes Laiter. She
had reason to cry, because the only man she ever loved--or ever could
love, so she said--was going out to India; and India, as every one
knows, is divided equally between jungle, tigers, cobras, cholera, and
sepoys.

Phil Garron, leaning over the side of the steamer in the rain, felt very
unhappy too; but he did not cry. He was sent out to "tea. " What "tea"
meant he had not the vaguest idea, but fancied that he would have to
ride on a prancing horse over hills covered with tea-vines, and draw a
sumptuous salary for doing so; and he was very grateful to his uncle
for getting him the berth. He was really going to reform all his slack,
shiftless ways, save a large proportion of his magnificent salary
yearly, and, in a very short time, return to marry Agnes Laiter. Phil
Garron had been lying loose on his friends' hands for three years, and,
as he had nothing to do, he naturally fell in love. He was very nice;
but he was not strong in his views and opinions and principles, and
though he never came to actual grief his friends were thankful when
he said good-bye, and went out to this mysterious "tea" business near
Darjiling. They said:--"God bless you, dear boy! Let us never see your
face again,"--or at least that was what Phil was given to understand.

When he sailed, he was very full of a great plan to prove himself
several hundred times better than any one had given him credit for--to
work like a horse, and triumphantly marry Agnes Laiter. He had many good
points besides his good looks; his only fault being that he was weak,
the least little bit in the world weak. He had as much notion of economy
as the Morning Sun; and yet you could not lay your hand on any one item,
and say: "Herein Phil Garron is extravagant or reckless. " Nor could
you point out any particular vice in his character; but he was
"unsatisfactory" and as workable as putty.

Agnes Laiter went about her duties at home--her family objected to the
engagement--with red eyes, while Phil was sailing to Darjiling--"a port
on the Bengal Ocean," as his mother used to tell her friends. He was
popular enough on board ship, made many acquaintances and a moderately
large liquor bill, and sent off huge letters to Agnes Laiter at each
port. Then he fell to work on this plantation, somewhere between
Darjiling and Kangra, and, though the salary and the horse and the work
were not quite all he had fancied, he succeeded fairly well, and gave
himself much unnecessary credit for his perseverance.

In the course of time, as he settled more into collar, and his work grew
fixed before him, the face of Agnes Laiter went out of his mind and only
came when he was at leisure, which was not often. He would forget
all about her for a fortnight, and remember her with a start, like a
school-boy who has forgotten to learn his lesson.

She did not forget Phil, because she was of the kind that never forgets.
Only, another man--a really desirable young man--presented himself
before Mrs. Laiter; and the chance of a marriage with Phil was as far
off as ever; and his letters were so unsatisfactory; and there was a
certain amount of domestic pressure brought to bear on the girl; and the
young man really was an eligible person as incomes go; and the end of
all things was that Agnes married him, and wrote a tempestuous whirlwind
of a letter to Phil in the wilds of Darjiling, and said she should never
know a happy moment all the rest of her life. Which was a true prophecy.

Phil got that letter, and held himself ill-treated. This was two years
after he had come out; but by dint of thinking fixedly of Agnes Laiter,
and looking at her photograph, and patting himself on the back for being
one of the most constant lovers in history, and warming to the work as
he went on, he really fancied that he had been very hardly used. He sat
down and wrote one final letter--a really pathetic "world without end,
amen," epistle; explaining how he would be true to Eternity, and that
all women were very much alike, and he would hide his broken heart,
etc. , etc. ; but if, at any future time, etc. , etc. , he could afford to
wait, etc. , etc. , unchanged affections, etc. , etc. , return to her old
love, etc. , etc. , for eight closely-written pages. From an artistic
point of view, it was very neat work, but an ordinary Philistine, who
knew the state of Phil's real feelings--not the ones he rose to as he
went on writing--would have called it the thoroughly mean and selfish
work of a thoroughly mean and selfish, weak man. But this verdict would
have been incorrect. Phil paid for the postage, and felt every word he
had written for at least two days and a half.

It was the last flicker before the light went out.

That letter made Agnes Laiter very unhappy, and she cried and put it
away in her desk, and became Mrs. Somebody Else for the good of her
family. Which is the first duty of every Christian maid.

Phil went his ways, and thought no more of his letter, except as an
artist thinks of a neatly touched-in sketch. His ways were not bad, but
they were not altogether good until they brought him across Dunmaya, the
daughter of a Rajput ex-Subadar-Major of our Native Army. The girl had a
strain of Hill blood in her, and, like the Hill women, was not a purdah
nashin. Where Phil met her, or how he heard of her, does not matter. She
was a good girl and handsome, and, in her way, very clever and shrewd;
though, of course, a little hard. It is to be remembered that Phil was
living very comfortably, denying himself no small luxury, never putting
by an anna, very satisfied with himself and his good intentions, was
dropping all his English correspondents one by one, and beginning more
and more to look upon this land as his home. Some men fall this way; and
they are of no use afterwards. The climate where he was stationed was
good, and it really did not seem to him that there was anything to go
Home for.

He did what many planters have done before him--that is to say, he
made up his mind to marry a Hill girl and settle down. He was seven and
twenty then, with a long life before him, but no spirit to go through
with it. So he married Dunmaya by the forms of the English Church, and
some fellow-planters said he was a fool, and some said he was a
wise man. Dunmaya was a thoroughly honest girl, and, in spite of her
reverence for an Englishman, had a reasonable estimate of her husband's
weaknesses. She managed him tenderly, and became, in less than a year, a
very passable imitation of an English lady in dress and carriage. [It
is curious to think that a Hill man, after a lifetime's education, is
a Hill man still; but a Hill woman can in six months master most of the
ways of her English sisters. There was a coolie woman once. But that is
another story. ] Dunmaya dressed by preference in black and yellow, and
looked well.

Meantime the letter lay in Agnes's desk, and now and again she would
think of poor resolute hard-working Phil among the cobras and tigers of
Darjiling, toiling in the vain hope that she might come back to him. Her
husband was worth ten Phils, except that he had rheumatism of the
heart. Three years after he was married--and after he had tried Nice
and Algeria for his complaint--he went to Bombay, where he died, and set
Agnes free. Being a devout woman, she looked on his death and the
place of it, as a direct interposition of Providence, and when she had
recovered from the shock, she took out and reread Phil's letter with the
"etc. , etc. ," and the big dashes, and the little dashes, and kissed it
several times. No one knew her in Bombay; she had her husband's income,
which was a large one, and Phil was close at hand. It was wrong and
improper, of course, but she decided, as heroines do in novels, to find
her old lover, to offer him her hand and her gold, and with him spend
the rest of her life in some spot far from unsympathetic souls. She sat
for two months, alone in Watson's Hotel, elaborating this decision, and
the picture was a pretty one. Then she set out in search of Phil Garron,
Assistant on a tea plantation with a more than usually unpronounceable
name. . . . . . . . . .

She found him. She spent a month over it, for his plantation was not in
the Darjiling district at all, but nearer Kangra. Phil was very little
altered, and Dunmaya was very nice to her.

Now the particular sin and shame of the whole business is that Phil, who
really is not worth thinking of twice, was and is loved by Dunmaya,
and more than loved by Agnes, the whole of whose life he seems to have
spoilt.

Worst of all, Dunmaya is making a decent man of him; and he will be
ultimately saved from perdition through her training.

Which is manifestly unfair.




FALSE DAWN.

Tonight God knows what thing shall tide,
The Earth is racked and faint--
Expectant, sleepless, open-eyed;
And we, who from the Earth were made,
Thrill with our Mother's pain.
--In Durance.

No man will ever know the exact truth of this story; though women may
sometimes whisper it to one another after a dance, when they are putting
up their hair for the night and comparing lists of victims. A man, of
course, cannot assist at these functions. So the tale must be told from
the outside--in the dark--all wrong.

Never praise a sister to a sister, in the hope of your compliments
reaching the proper ears, and so preparing the way for you later on.
Sisters are women first, and sisters afterwards; and you will find that
you do yourself harm.

Saumarez knew this when he made up his mind to propose to the elder Miss
Copleigh. Saumarez was a strange man, with few merits, so far as men
could see, though he was popular with women, and carried enough
conceit to stock a Viceroy's Council and leave a little over for the
Commander-in-Chief's Staff. He was a Civilian. Very many women took an
interest in Saumarez, perhaps, because his manner to them was offensive.
If you hit a pony over the nose at the outset of your acquaintance, he
may not love you, but he will take a deep interest in your movements
ever afterwards. The elder Miss Copleigh was nice, plump, winning and
pretty. The younger was not so pretty, and, from men disregarding the
hint set forth above, her style was repellant and unattractive. Both
girls had, practically, the same figure, and there was a strong likeness
between them in look and voice; though no one could doubt for an instant
which was the nicer of the two.

Saumarez made up his mind, as soon as they came into the station from
Behar, to marry the elder one. At least, we all made sure that he
would, which comes to the same thing. She was two and twenty, and he was
thirty-three, with pay and allowances of nearly fourteen hundred rupees
a month. So the match, as we arranged it, was in every way a good one.
Saumarez was his name, and summary was his nature, as a man once said.
Having drafted his Resolution, he formed a Select Committee of One to
sit upon it, and resolved to take his time. In our unpleasant slang, the
Copleigh girls "hunted in couples. " That is to say, you could do nothing
with one without the other. They were very loving sisters; but
their mutual affection was sometimes inconvenient. Saumarez held the
balance-hair true between them, and none but himself could have said to
which side his heart inclined; though every one guessed. He rode
with them a good deal and danced with them, but he never succeeded in
detaching them from each other for any length of time.

Women said that the two girls kept together through deep mistrust, each
fearing that the other would steal a march on her. But that has nothing
to do with a man. Saumarez was silent for good or bad, and as
business--likely attentive as he could be, having due regard to his work
and his polo. Beyond doubt both girls were fond of him.

As the hot weather drew nearer, and Saumarez made no sign, women said
that you could see their trouble in the eyes of the girls--that they
were looking strained, anxious, and irritable. Men are quite blind in
these matters unless they have more of the woman than the man in their
composition, in which case it does not matter what they say or think.
I maintain it was the hot April days that took the color out of the
Copleigh girls' cheeks. They should have been sent to the Hills
early. No one--man or woman--feels an angel when the hot weather is
approaching. The younger sister grew more cynical--not to say acid--in
her ways; and the winningness of the elder wore thin. There was more
effort in it.

Now the Station wherein all these things happened was, though not
a little one, off the line of rail, and suffered through want of
attention. There were no gardens or bands or amusements worth speaking
of, and it was nearly a day's journey to come into Lahore for a dance.
People were grateful for small things to interest them.

About the beginning of May, and just before the final exodus of
Hill-goers, when the weather was very hot and there were not more than
twenty people in the Station, Saumarez gave a moonlight riding-picnic at
an old tomb, six miles away, near the bed of the river. It was a "Noah's
Ark" picnic; and there was to be the usual arrangement of quarter-mile
intervals between each couple, on account of the dust. Six couples came
altogether, including chaperons. Moonlight picnics are useful just at
the very end of the season, before all the girls go away to the Hills.
They lead to understandings, and should be encouraged by chaperones;
especially those whose girls look sweetish in riding habits. I knew a
case once. But that is another story. That picnic was called the "Great
Pop Picnic," because every one knew Saumarez would propose then to the
eldest Miss Copleigh; and, beside his affair, there was another which
might possibly come to happiness.

The social atmosphere was heavily charged and wanted clearing.

We met at the parade-ground at ten: the night was fearfully hot.

The horses sweated even at walking-pace, but anything was better than
sitting still in our own dark houses. When we moved off under the full
moon we were four couples, one triplet, and Mr. Saumarez rode with the
Copleigh girls, and I loitered at the tail of the procession, wondering
with whom Saumarez would ride home. Every one was happy and contented;
but we all felt that things were going to happen. We rode slowly: and
it was nearly midnight before we reached the old tomb, facing the ruined
tank, in the decayed gardens where we were going to eat and drink. I
was late in coming up; and before I went into the garden, I saw that the
horizon to the north carried a faint, dun-colored feather. But no one
would have thanked me for spoiling so well-managed an entertainment as
this picnic--and a dust-storm, more or less, does no great harm.

We gathered by the tank. Some one had brought out a banjo--which is a
most sentimental instrument--and three or four of us sang.

You must not laugh at this. Our amusements in out-of-the-way Stations
are very few indeed. Then we talked in groups or together, lying under
the trees, with the sun-baked roses dropping their petals on our feet,
until supper was ready. It was a beautiful supper, as cold and as iced
as you could wish; and we stayed long over it.

I had felt that the air was growing hotter and hotter; but nobody
seemed to notice it until the moon went out and a burning hot wind began
lashing the orange-trees with a sound like the noise of the sea. Before
we knew where we were, the dust-storm was on us, and everything was
roaring, whirling darkness. The supper-table was blown bodily into the
tank. We were afraid of staying anywhere near the old tomb for fear it
might be blown down. So we felt our way to the orange-trees where the
horses were picketed and waited for the storm to blow over. Then the
little light that was left vanished, and you could not see your hand
before your face. The air was heavy with dust and sand from the bed
of the river, that filled boots and pockets and drifted down necks and
coated eyebrows and moustaches. It was one of the worst dust-storms of
the year.

We were all huddled together close to the trembling horses, with the
thunder clattering overhead, and the lightning spurting like water from
a sluice, all ways at once. There was no danger, of course, unless the
horses broke loose. I was standing with my head downward and my hands
over my mouth, hearing the trees thrashing each other. I could not see
who was next me till the flashes came.

Then I found that I was packed near Saumarez and the eldest Miss
Copleigh, with my own horse just in front of me. I recognized the eldest
Miss Copleigh, because she had a pagri round her helmet, and the younger
had not. All the electricity in the air had gone into my body and I was
quivering and tingling from head to foot--exactly as a corn shoots and
tingles before rain. It was a grand storm.

The wind seemed to be picking up the earth and pitching it to leeward in
great heaps; and the heat beat up from the ground like the heat of the
Day of Judgment.

The storm lulled slightly after the first half-hour, and I heard a
despairing little voice close to my ear, saying to itself, quietly and
softly, as if some lost soul were flying about with the wind: "O my
God! " Then the younger Miss Copleigh stumbled into my arms, saying:
"Where is my horse? Get my horse. I want to go home. I WANT to go home.
Take me home. "

I thought that the lightning and the black darkness had frightened her;
so I said there was no danger, but she must wait till the storm blew
over. She answered: "It is not THAT! It is not THAT! I want to go home!
O take me away from here! "

I said that she could not go till the light came; but I felt her brush
past me and go away. It was too dark to see where. Then the whole sky
was split open with one tremendous flash, as if the end of the world
were coming, and all the women shrieked.

Almost directly after this, I felt a man's hand on my shoulder and heard
Saumarez bellowing in my ear. Through the rattling of the trees and
howling of the wind, I did not catch his words at once, but at last
I heard him say: "I've proposed to the wrong one! What shall I do? "
Saumarez had no occasion to make this confidence to me. I was never a
friend of his, nor am I now; but I fancy neither of us were ourselves
just then.