He meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever,
and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's
work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom.
and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's
work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom.
Kipling - Poems
)
Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons! )
Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars! --it's blue with our bones! )
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
(Poor beggars! --we're sent to say "Stop"! )
Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs--
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
An' open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! --it's always they guns! )
We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars! --an' don't we get blown! )
Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
(Poor beggars! --it's 'ot over'ead! )
Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
Wherever, 'owever they roam.
'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
A speedy return to their 'ome.
(Poor beggars! --they'll never see 'ome! )
BELTS
There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.
For it was:--"Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you! "
An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you! "
O buckle an' tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison's down to the Park!
There was a row in Silver Street--the regiments was out,
They called us "Delhi Rebels", an' we answered "Threes about! "
That drew them like a hornet's nest--we met them good an' large,
The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.
Then it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--an' I was in it too;
We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
O it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.
For it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--it might ha' raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;
'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:
An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
While it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--but that put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin' to his next: "'Twas never work o' mine! "
We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
When it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--it isn't over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
There was a row in Silver Street--begod, I wonder why!
But it was:--"Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you! "
An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you! "
O buckle an' tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison's down to the Park!
THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
Now all you recruities what's drafted today,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier. . .
First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts--
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts--
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier. . .
When the cholera comes--as it will past a doubt--
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier. . .
But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier. . .
If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier. . .
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old--
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier. . .
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em--you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier. . .
When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier. . .
When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are--you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier. . .
When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier. . .
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier. . .
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
MANDALAY
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay! "
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o'mud--
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay. . .
When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo! "
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay. . .
But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else. "
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay. . .
I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay. . .
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
TROOPIN'
(Our Army in the East)
Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea:
'Ere's September come again--the six-year men are free.
O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come away
To where the ship's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome today.
We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,
Our ship is at the shore,
An' you must pack your 'aversack,
For we won't come back no more.
Ho, don't you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary-Ann,
For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit
As a time-expired man.
The Malabar's in 'arbour with the Jumner at 'er tail,
An' the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail.
Ho! the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay,
But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome today.
They'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain,
All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;
They'll kill us of pneumonia--for that's their little way--
But damn the chills and fever, men, we're goin' 'ome today!
Troopin', troopin', winter's round again!
See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign;
Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your pay--
What's the last from Lunnon, lads? We're goin' there today.
Troopin', troopin', give another cheer--
'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer.
The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay,
Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle--Whoop! we're goin' 'ome today.
We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,
Our ship is at the shore,
An' you must pack your 'aversack,
For we won't come back no more.
Ho, don't you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary-Ann,
For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit
As a time-expired man.
FORD O' KABUL RIVER
Kabul town's by Kabul river--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
There I lef' my mate for ever,
Wet an' drippin' by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town's a blasted place--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face
Wet an' drippin' by the ford!
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town is sun and dust--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
I'd ha' sooner drownded fust
'Stead of 'im beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin',
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town was ours to take--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
I'd ha' left it for 'is sake--
'Im that left me by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?
Kabul town'll go to hell--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
'Fore I see him 'live an' well--
'Im the best beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,
By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Turn your 'orse from Kabul town--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,
Down an' drownded by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
ROUTE MARCHIN'
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
With its best foot first
And the road a-sliding past,
An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
While the Big Drum says,
With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow! "--
"Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow? " 2
Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,
There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,
An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,
An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.
While it's best foot first,. . .
At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,
Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.
But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,
While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.
An' it's best foot first,. . .
Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,
An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,
An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,
An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat. 1
An' it's best foot first,. . .
It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,
To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,
For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,
So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.
Till it's best foot first,. . .
So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,
There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;
An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,
You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.
For it's best foot first,. . .
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,
Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
With its best foot first
And the road a-sliding past,
An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
While the Big Drum says,
With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow! "--
"Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow? "2
1 Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist
and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largely
on the sign-language.
2 Why don't you get on
The end
* * * * * *
VOLUME III. THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW AND OTHER GHOST STORIES
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW
May no ill dreams disturb my rest,
Nor Powers of Darkness me molest.
--Evening Hymn.
ONE of the few advantages that India has over England is a great
Knowability. After five years' service a man is directly or indirectly
acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all
the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen
hundred other people of the non-official caste. In ten years his
knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows
something about, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere
and everywhere without paying hotel-bills.
Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my
memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less today, if you
belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep,
all houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and
helpful.
Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon some fifteen years ago.
He meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever,
and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's
work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom. Polder behaves as though he
had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly
sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys. It is the same
everywhere. The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you
their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken
your character and misunderstand your wife's amusements, will work
themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious
trouble.
Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice,
a hospital on his private account--an arrangement of loose boxes for
Incurables, his friend called it--but it was really a sort of fitting-up
shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather. The weather
in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed
quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime
and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as
the metaphors in this sentence.
Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and his invariable
prescription to all his patients is, "lie low, go slow, and keep cool. "
He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this
world justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under
his hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak
authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack
in Pansay's head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and
pressed him to death. "Pansay went off the handle," says Heatherlegh,
"after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have
behaved like a blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion is that
the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he
took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & 0. flirtation. He
certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the
engagement. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about
ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and
killed him poor devil. Write him off to the System--one man to take the
work of two and a half men. "
I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when
Heatherlegh was called out to patients, and I happened to be within
claim. The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even
voice, the procession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed.
He had a sick man's command of language.
When he recovered I suggested that he should write out the whole affair
from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist him to ease his
mind. When little boys have learned a new bad word they are never happy
till they have chalked it up on a door. And this also is Literature.
He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder
Magazine diction he adopted did not calm him. Two months afterward
he was reported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was
urgently needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a
deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden.
I got his manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the
affair, dated 1885:
My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It is not
improbable that I shall get both ere long--rest that neither the
red-coated messenger nor the midday gun can break, and change of air
far beyond that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me. In the
meantime I am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my
doctor's orders, to take all the world into my confidence. You shall
learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too,
judge for yourselves whether any man born of woman on this weary earth
was ever so tormented as I.
Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are
drawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear,
demands at least attention. That it will ever receive credence I utterly
disbelieve. Two months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man
who had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in
India. Today, from Peshawur to the sea, there is no one more wretched.
My doctor and I are the only two who know this. His explanation is, that
my brain, digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise
to my frequent and persistent "delusions. " Delusions, indeed! I call him
a fool; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same
bland professional manner, the same neatly trimmed red whiskers, till I
begin to suspect that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you
shall judge for yourselves.
Three years ago it was my fortune--my great misfortune--to sail
from Gravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes
Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in
the least concern you to know what manner of woman she was. Be content
with the knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and I were
desperately and unreasoningly in love with one another. Heaven knows
that I can make the admission now without one particle of vanity. In
matters of this sort there is always one who gives and another who
accepts. From the first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was
conscious that Agnes's passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and--if
I may use the expression--a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she
recognized the fact then, I do not know. Afterward it was bitterly plain
to both of us.
Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective
ways, to meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave
and her love took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together;
and there my fire of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the
closing year. I attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington
had given up much for my sake, and was prepared to give up all. From my
own lips, in August, 1882, she learned that I was sick of her presence,
tired of her company, and weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine
women out of a hundred would have wearied of me as I wearied of them;
seventy-five of that number would have promptly avenged themselves by
active and obtrusive flirtation with other men. Mrs. Wessington was the
hundredth. On her neither my openly expressed aversion nor the cutting
brutalities with which I garnished our interviews had the least effect.
"Jack, darling! " was her one eternal cuckoo cry: "I'm sure it's all a
mistake--a hideous mistake; and we'll be good friends again some day.
Please forgive me, Jack, dear. "
I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity
into passive endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate--the same
instinct, I suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider
he has but half killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of
1882 came to an end.
Next year we met again at Simla--she with her monotonous face and timid
attempts at reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in every fibre of
my frame. Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each
occasion her words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail
that it was all a "mistake"; and still the hope of eventually "making
friends. " I might have seen had I cared to look, that that hope only was
keeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You will
agree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any one to
despair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she
was much to blame. And again, sometimes, in the black, fever-stricken
night-watches, I have begun to think that I might have been a little
kinder to her. But that really is a "delusion. " I could not have
continued pretending to love her when I didn't; could I? It would have
been unfair to us both.
Last year we met again--on the same terms as before. The same weary
appeal, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make
her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the
old relationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart--that is to say,
she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing
interests to attend to. When I think it over quietly in my sick-room,
the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade
were fantastically intermingled--my courtship of little Kitty Mannering;
my hopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; my trembling
avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white
face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black and white liveries
I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved
hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome
monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily
loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August
Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I met those accursed "magpie"
jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of
pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it already.
"So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear. " Then, without a moment's
pause--"I'm sure it's all a mistake--a hideous mistake. We shall be as
good friends some day, Jack, as we ever were. "
My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman
before me like the blow of a whip. "Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't
mean to make you angry; but it's true, it's true! "
And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to
finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that
I had been an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she
had turned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me.
The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory.
The rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden,
dingy pines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed
a gloomy background against which the black and white liveries of
the jhampanies, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's
down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her
handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning back exhausted against
the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie
Reservoir and literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a faint call
of "Jack! " This may have been imagination. I never stopped to verify it.
Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, in the delight
of a long ride with her, forgot all about the interview.
A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible burden of her
existence was removed from my life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy.
Before three months were over I had forgotten all about her, except
that at times the discovery of some of her old letters reminded me
unpleasantly of our bygone relationship. By January I had disinterred
what was left of our correspondence from among my scattered belongings
and had burned it. At the beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was
at Simla--semi-deserted Simla--once more, and was deep in lover's talks
and walks with Kitty. It was decided that we should be married at the
end of June. You will understand, therefore, that, loving Kitty as I
did, I am not saying too much when I pronounce myself to have been, at
that time, the happiest man in India.
Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed their flight.
Then, aroused to the sense of what was proper among mortals
circumstanced as we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement ring
was the outward and visible sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and
that she must forthwith come to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Up to
that moment, I give you my word, we had completely forgotten so trivial
a matter. To Hamilton's we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885.
Remember that--whatever my doctor may say to the contrary--I was then in
perfect health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolute tranquil
spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton's shop together, and there,
regardless of the order of affairs, I measured Kitty for the ring in
the presence of the amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with two
diamonds. We then rode out down the slope that leads to the Combermere
Bridge and Peliti's shop.
While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the loose shale, and
Kitty was laughing and chattering at my side--while all Simla, that is
to say as much of it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped round
the Reading-room and Peliti's veranda,--I was aware that some one,
apparently at a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian name. It
struck me that I had heard the voice before, but when and where I could
not at once determine. In the short space it took to cover the road
between the path from Hamilton's shop and the first plank of the
Combermere Bridge I had thought over half a dozen people who might have
committed such a solecism, and had eventually decided that it must have
been singing in my ears. Immediately opposite Peliti's shop my eye was
arrested by the sight of four jharnpanies in "magpie" livery, pulling a
yellow-paneled, cheap, bazar 'rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back to
the previous season and Mrs. Wessington with a sense of irritation and
disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was dead and done with,
without her black and white servitors reappearing to spoil the day's
happiness? Whoever employed them now I thought I would call upon, and
ask as a personal favor to change her jhampanies' livery. I would hire
the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off their backs.
It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable memories their
presence evoked.
"Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wessington's jhampanies turned up
again! I wonder who has them now? "
Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always
been interested in the sickly woman. "What? Where? " she asked. "I can't
see them anywhere. "
Even as she spoke her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threw himself
directly in front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to
utter a word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider
passed through men and carriage as if they had been thin air.
"What's the matter? " cried Kitty; "what made you call out so foolishly,
Jack? If I am engaged I don't want all creation to know about it. There
was lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you think I
can't ride--
"--There! "
Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a
hand-gallop in the direction of the Bandstand; fully expecting, as
she herself afterward told me, that I should follow her. What was the
matter? Nothing indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla
was haunted with devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round.
The 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near
the left railing of the Combermere Bridge.
"Jack! Jack, darling! " (There was no mistake about the words this time:
they rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear. ) "It's
some hideous mistake, I'm sure. Please forgive me, jack, and let's be
friends again. "
The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope and pray daily
for the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief
in hand, and golden head bowed on her breast.
How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, I was aroused by
my syce taking the Waler's bridle and asking whether I was ill. From the
horrible to the commonplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and
dashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of cherry-brandy. There
two or three couples were gathered round the coffee-tables discussing
the gossip of the day. Their trivialities were more comforting to me
just then than the consolations of religion could have been. I plunged
into the midst of the conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested
with a face (when I caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and
drawn as that of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition; and,
evidently setting it down to the results of over-many pegs, charitably
endeavoured to draw me apart from the rest of the loungers. But I
refused to be led away. I wanted the company of my kind--as a child
rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the dark.
I must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an
eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's clear voice outside inquiring for
me. In another minute she had entered the shop, prepared to roundly
upbraid me for failing so signally in my duties. Something in my face
stopped her.
"Why, Jack," she cried, "what have you been doing? What has happened?
Are you ill? " Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun had
been a little too much for me. It was close upon five o'clock of a
cloudy April afternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my
mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth: attempted to recover
it; blundered hopelessly and followed Kitty in a regal rage, out of
doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances. I made some excuse (I have
forgotten what) on the score of my feeling faint; and cantered away to
my hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself.
In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out the matter.
Here was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in
the year of grace, 1885, presumably sane, certainly healthy, driven in
terror from my sweetheart's side by the apparition of a woman who had
been dead and buried eight months ago. These were facts that I could
not blink. Nothing was further from my thought than any memory of Mrs.
Wessington when Kitty and I left Hamilton's shop. Nothing was more
utterly commonplace than the stretch of wall opposite Peliti's. It was
broad daylight. The road was full of people; and yet here, look you,
in defiance of every law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature's
ordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave.
Kitty's Arab had gone through the 'rickshaw: so that my first hope that
some woman marvelously like Mrs. Wessington had hired the carriage and
the coolies with their old livery was lost. Again and again I went round
this treadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled and
in despair. The voice was as inexplicable as the apparition. I had
originally some wild notion of confiding it all to Kitty; of begging her
to marry me at once; and in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the
'rickshaw. "After all," I argued, "the presence of the 'rickshaw is in
itself enough to prove the existence of a spectral illusion. One may see
ghosts of men and women, but surely never of coolies and carriages. The
whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost of a hill-man!
Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
O' Missis Victorier's sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier's sons! )
Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars! --it's blue with our bones! )
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
(Poor beggars! --we're sent to say "Stop"! )
Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs--
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
An' open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! --it's always they guns! )
We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
It's safest to let 'er alone:
For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars! --an' don't we get blown! )
Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
But you won't get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
(Poor beggars! --it's 'ot over'ead! )
Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
Wherever, 'owever they roam.
'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
A speedy return to their 'ome.
(Poor beggars! --they'll never see 'ome! )
BELTS
There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.
For it was:--"Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you! "
An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you! "
O buckle an' tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison's down to the Park!
There was a row in Silver Street--the regiments was out,
They called us "Delhi Rebels", an' we answered "Threes about! "
That drew them like a hornet's nest--we met them good an' large,
The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.
Then it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--an' I was in it too;
We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
O it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.
For it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--it might ha' raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;
'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:
An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
While it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--but that put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin' to his next: "'Twas never work o' mine! "
We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
When it was:--"Belts. . .
There was a row in Silver Street--it isn't over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
There was a row in Silver Street--begod, I wonder why!
But it was:--"Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you! "
An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you! "
O buckle an' tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison's down to the Park!
THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
Now all you recruities what's drafted today,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier. . .
First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts--
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts--
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier. . .
When the cholera comes--as it will past a doubt--
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier. . .
But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier. . .
If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier. . .
Now, if you must marry, take care she is old--
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier. . .
If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em--you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier. . .
When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier. . .
When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are--you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier. . .
When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier. . .
If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier. . .
When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!
MANDALAY
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay! "
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o'mud--
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd--
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay. . .
When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo! "
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay. . .
But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else. "
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay. . .
I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and--
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay. . .
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be--
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
TROOPIN'
(Our Army in the East)
Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea:
'Ere's September come again--the six-year men are free.
O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come away
To where the ship's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome today.
We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,
Our ship is at the shore,
An' you must pack your 'aversack,
For we won't come back no more.
Ho, don't you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary-Ann,
For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit
As a time-expired man.
The Malabar's in 'arbour with the Jumner at 'er tail,
An' the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail.
Ho! the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay,
But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome today.
They'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain,
All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;
They'll kill us of pneumonia--for that's their little way--
But damn the chills and fever, men, we're goin' 'ome today!
Troopin', troopin', winter's round again!
See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign;
Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your pay--
What's the last from Lunnon, lads? We're goin' there today.
Troopin', troopin', give another cheer--
'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer.
The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay,
Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle--Whoop! we're goin' 'ome today.
We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,
Our ship is at the shore,
An' you must pack your 'aversack,
For we won't come back no more.
Ho, don't you grieve for me,
My lovely Mary-Ann,
For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit
As a time-expired man.
FORD O' KABUL RIVER
Kabul town's by Kabul river--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
There I lef' my mate for ever,
Wet an' drippin' by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town's a blasted place--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face
Wet an' drippin' by the ford!
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town is sun and dust--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
I'd ha' sooner drownded fust
'Stead of 'im beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin',
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Kabul town was ours to take--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
I'd ha' left it for 'is sake--
'Im that left me by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?
Kabul town'll go to hell--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
'Fore I see him 'live an' well--
'Im the best beside the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,
By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Turn your 'orse from Kabul town--
Blow the bugle, draw the sword--
'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,
Down an' drownded by the ford.
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
ROUTE MARCHIN'
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
With its best foot first
And the road a-sliding past,
An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
While the Big Drum says,
With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow! "--
"Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow? " 2
Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,
There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,
An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,
An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.
While it's best foot first,. . .
At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,
Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.
But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,
While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.
An' it's best foot first,. . .
Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,
An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,
An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,
An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat. 1
An' it's best foot first,. . .
It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,
To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,
For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,
So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.
Till it's best foot first,. . .
So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,
There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;
An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,
You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.
For it's best foot first,. . .
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,
Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
With its best foot first
And the road a-sliding past,
An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
While the Big Drum says,
With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow! "--
"Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow? "2
1 Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist
and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largely
on the sign-language.
2 Why don't you get on
The end
* * * * * *
VOLUME III. THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW AND OTHER GHOST STORIES
THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW
May no ill dreams disturb my rest,
Nor Powers of Darkness me molest.
--Evening Hymn.
ONE of the few advantages that India has over England is a great
Knowability. After five years' service a man is directly or indirectly
acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all
the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen
hundred other people of the non-official caste. In ten years his
knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows
something about, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere
and everywhere without paying hotel-bills.
Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my
memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less today, if you
belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep,
all houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and
helpful.
Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon some fifteen years ago.
He meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever,
and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's
work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom. Polder behaves as though he
had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly
sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys. It is the same
everywhere. The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you
their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken
your character and misunderstand your wife's amusements, will work
themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious
trouble.
Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice,
a hospital on his private account--an arrangement of loose boxes for
Incurables, his friend called it--but it was really a sort of fitting-up
shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather. The weather
in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed
quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime
and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as
the metaphors in this sentence.
Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and his invariable
prescription to all his patients is, "lie low, go slow, and keep cool. "
He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this
world justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under
his hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak
authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack
in Pansay's head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and
pressed him to death. "Pansay went off the handle," says Heatherlegh,
"after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have
behaved like a blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion is that
the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he
took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & 0. flirtation. He
certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the
engagement. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about
ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and
killed him poor devil. Write him off to the System--one man to take the
work of two and a half men. "
I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when
Heatherlegh was called out to patients, and I happened to be within
claim. The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even
voice, the procession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed.
He had a sick man's command of language.
When he recovered I suggested that he should write out the whole affair
from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist him to ease his
mind. When little boys have learned a new bad word they are never happy
till they have chalked it up on a door. And this also is Literature.
He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder
Magazine diction he adopted did not calm him. Two months afterward
he was reported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was
urgently needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a
deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden.
I got his manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the
affair, dated 1885:
My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It is not
improbable that I shall get both ere long--rest that neither the
red-coated messenger nor the midday gun can break, and change of air
far beyond that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me. In the
meantime I am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my
doctor's orders, to take all the world into my confidence. You shall
learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too,
judge for yourselves whether any man born of woman on this weary earth
was ever so tormented as I.
Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are
drawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear,
demands at least attention. That it will ever receive credence I utterly
disbelieve. Two months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man
who had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in
India. Today, from Peshawur to the sea, there is no one more wretched.
My doctor and I are the only two who know this. His explanation is, that
my brain, digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise
to my frequent and persistent "delusions. " Delusions, indeed! I call him
a fool; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same
bland professional manner, the same neatly trimmed red whiskers, till I
begin to suspect that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you
shall judge for yourselves.
Three years ago it was my fortune--my great misfortune--to sail
from Gravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes
Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in
the least concern you to know what manner of woman she was. Be content
with the knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and I were
desperately and unreasoningly in love with one another. Heaven knows
that I can make the admission now without one particle of vanity. In
matters of this sort there is always one who gives and another who
accepts. From the first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was
conscious that Agnes's passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and--if
I may use the expression--a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she
recognized the fact then, I do not know. Afterward it was bitterly plain
to both of us.
Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective
ways, to meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave
and her love took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together;
and there my fire of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the
closing year. I attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington
had given up much for my sake, and was prepared to give up all. From my
own lips, in August, 1882, she learned that I was sick of her presence,
tired of her company, and weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine
women out of a hundred would have wearied of me as I wearied of them;
seventy-five of that number would have promptly avenged themselves by
active and obtrusive flirtation with other men. Mrs. Wessington was the
hundredth. On her neither my openly expressed aversion nor the cutting
brutalities with which I garnished our interviews had the least effect.
"Jack, darling! " was her one eternal cuckoo cry: "I'm sure it's all a
mistake--a hideous mistake; and we'll be good friends again some day.
Please forgive me, Jack, dear. "
I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity
into passive endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate--the same
instinct, I suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider
he has but half killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of
1882 came to an end.
Next year we met again at Simla--she with her monotonous face and timid
attempts at reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in every fibre of
my frame. Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each
occasion her words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail
that it was all a "mistake"; and still the hope of eventually "making
friends. " I might have seen had I cared to look, that that hope only was
keeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You will
agree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any one to
despair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she
was much to blame. And again, sometimes, in the black, fever-stricken
night-watches, I have begun to think that I might have been a little
kinder to her. But that really is a "delusion. " I could not have
continued pretending to love her when I didn't; could I? It would have
been unfair to us both.
Last year we met again--on the same terms as before. The same weary
appeal, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make
her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the
old relationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart--that is to say,
she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing
interests to attend to. When I think it over quietly in my sick-room,
the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade
were fantastically intermingled--my courtship of little Kitty Mannering;
my hopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; my trembling
avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white
face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black and white liveries
I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved
hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome
monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily
loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August
Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I met those accursed "magpie"
jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of
pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it already.
"So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear. " Then, without a moment's
pause--"I'm sure it's all a mistake--a hideous mistake. We shall be as
good friends some day, Jack, as we ever were. "
My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman
before me like the blow of a whip. "Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't
mean to make you angry; but it's true, it's true! "
And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to
finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that
I had been an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she
had turned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me.
The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory.
The rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden,
dingy pines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed
a gloomy background against which the black and white liveries of
the jhampanies, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's
down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her
handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning back exhausted against
the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie
Reservoir and literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a faint call
of "Jack! " This may have been imagination. I never stopped to verify it.
Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, in the delight
of a long ride with her, forgot all about the interview.
A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible burden of her
existence was removed from my life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy.
Before three months were over I had forgotten all about her, except
that at times the discovery of some of her old letters reminded me
unpleasantly of our bygone relationship. By January I had disinterred
what was left of our correspondence from among my scattered belongings
and had burned it. At the beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was
at Simla--semi-deserted Simla--once more, and was deep in lover's talks
and walks with Kitty. It was decided that we should be married at the
end of June. You will understand, therefore, that, loving Kitty as I
did, I am not saying too much when I pronounce myself to have been, at
that time, the happiest man in India.
Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed their flight.
Then, aroused to the sense of what was proper among mortals
circumstanced as we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement ring
was the outward and visible sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and
that she must forthwith come to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Up to
that moment, I give you my word, we had completely forgotten so trivial
a matter. To Hamilton's we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885.
Remember that--whatever my doctor may say to the contrary--I was then in
perfect health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolute tranquil
spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton's shop together, and there,
regardless of the order of affairs, I measured Kitty for the ring in
the presence of the amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with two
diamonds. We then rode out down the slope that leads to the Combermere
Bridge and Peliti's shop.
While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the loose shale, and
Kitty was laughing and chattering at my side--while all Simla, that is
to say as much of it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped round
the Reading-room and Peliti's veranda,--I was aware that some one,
apparently at a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian name. It
struck me that I had heard the voice before, but when and where I could
not at once determine. In the short space it took to cover the road
between the path from Hamilton's shop and the first plank of the
Combermere Bridge I had thought over half a dozen people who might have
committed such a solecism, and had eventually decided that it must have
been singing in my ears. Immediately opposite Peliti's shop my eye was
arrested by the sight of four jharnpanies in "magpie" livery, pulling a
yellow-paneled, cheap, bazar 'rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back to
the previous season and Mrs. Wessington with a sense of irritation and
disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was dead and done with,
without her black and white servitors reappearing to spoil the day's
happiness? Whoever employed them now I thought I would call upon, and
ask as a personal favor to change her jhampanies' livery. I would hire
the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off their backs.
It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable memories their
presence evoked.
"Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wessington's jhampanies turned up
again! I wonder who has them now? "
Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always
been interested in the sickly woman. "What? Where? " she asked. "I can't
see them anywhere. "
Even as she spoke her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threw himself
directly in front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to
utter a word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider
passed through men and carriage as if they had been thin air.
"What's the matter? " cried Kitty; "what made you call out so foolishly,
Jack? If I am engaged I don't want all creation to know about it. There
was lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you think I
can't ride--
"--There! "
Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a
hand-gallop in the direction of the Bandstand; fully expecting, as
she herself afterward told me, that I should follow her. What was the
matter? Nothing indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla
was haunted with devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round.
The 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near
the left railing of the Combermere Bridge.
"Jack! Jack, darling! " (There was no mistake about the words this time:
they rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear. ) "It's
some hideous mistake, I'm sure. Please forgive me, jack, and let's be
friends again. "
The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope and pray daily
for the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief
in hand, and golden head bowed on her breast.
How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, I was aroused by
my syce taking the Waler's bridle and asking whether I was ill. From the
horrible to the commonplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and
dashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of cherry-brandy. There
two or three couples were gathered round the coffee-tables discussing
the gossip of the day. Their trivialities were more comforting to me
just then than the consolations of religion could have been. I plunged
into the midst of the conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested
with a face (when I caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and
drawn as that of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition; and,
evidently setting it down to the results of over-many pegs, charitably
endeavoured to draw me apart from the rest of the loungers. But I
refused to be led away. I wanted the company of my kind--as a child
rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the dark.
I must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an
eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's clear voice outside inquiring for
me. In another minute she had entered the shop, prepared to roundly
upbraid me for failing so signally in my duties. Something in my face
stopped her.
"Why, Jack," she cried, "what have you been doing? What has happened?
Are you ill? " Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun had
been a little too much for me. It was close upon five o'clock of a
cloudy April afternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my
mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth: attempted to recover
it; blundered hopelessly and followed Kitty in a regal rage, out of
doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances. I made some excuse (I have
forgotten what) on the score of my feeling faint; and cantered away to
my hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself.
In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out the matter.
Here was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in
the year of grace, 1885, presumably sane, certainly healthy, driven in
terror from my sweetheart's side by the apparition of a woman who had
been dead and buried eight months ago. These were facts that I could
not blink. Nothing was further from my thought than any memory of Mrs.
Wessington when Kitty and I left Hamilton's shop. Nothing was more
utterly commonplace than the stretch of wall opposite Peliti's. It was
broad daylight. The road was full of people; and yet here, look you,
in defiance of every law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature's
ordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave.
Kitty's Arab had gone through the 'rickshaw: so that my first hope that
some woman marvelously like Mrs. Wessington had hired the carriage and
the coolies with their old livery was lost. Again and again I went round
this treadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled and
in despair. The voice was as inexplicable as the apparition. I had
originally some wild notion of confiding it all to Kitty; of begging her
to marry me at once; and in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the
'rickshaw. "After all," I argued, "the presence of the 'rickshaw is in
itself enough to prove the existence of a spectral illusion. One may see
ghosts of men and women, but surely never of coolies and carriages. The
whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost of a hill-man!
