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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Actions and Reactions</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Rudyard Kipling</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November, 2000 [eBook #2381]<br /> +[Most recently updated: November 30, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: P. Stratton and David Widger</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACTIONS AND REACTIONS ***</div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="frontispiece (87K)" src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <h1> + ACTIONS AND REACTIONS + </h1> + +<h2 class="no-break">By Rudyard Kipling</h2> + + <hr /> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="titlepage (51K)" src="images/titlepage.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="verso (18K)" src="images/verso.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<table summary="" style=""> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0001"><b>ACTIONS AND REACTIONS</b></a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0002">AN HABITATION ENFORCED</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0003">THE RECALL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0004">GARM—A HOSTAGE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0005">THE POWER OF THE DOG</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0006">THE MOTHER HIVE</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0007">THE BEES AND THE FLIES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0008">WITH THE NIGHT MAIL</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0009">THE FOUR ANGELS</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0010">A DEAL IN COTTON</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0011">THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0012">THE PUZZLER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0013">THE PUZZLER</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0014">LITTLE FOXES</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0015">GALLIO'S SONG</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0016">THE HOUSE SURGEON</a></td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td> <a href="#link2H_4_0017">THE RABBI'S SONG</a></td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<hr /> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"></a> + ACTIONS AND REACTIONS + </h2> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"></a> + AN HABITATION ENFORCED + </h2> +<p class="poem"> + My friend, if cause doth wrest thee,<br/> + Ere folly hath much oppressed thee,<br/> + Far from acquaintance kest thee<br/> + Where country may digest thee...<br/> + Thank God that so hath blessed thee,<br/> + And sit down, Robin, and rest thee.<br/> + —THOMAS TUSSER. +</p> + <p> + It came without warning, at the very hour his hand was outstretched to + crumple the Holz and Gunsberg Combine. The New York doctors called it + overwork, and he lay in a darkened room, one ankle crossed above the + other, tongue pressed into palate, wondering whether the next brain-surge + of prickly fires would drive his soul from all anchorages. At last they + gave judgment. With care he might in two years return to the arena, but + for the present he must go across the water and do no work whatever. He + accepted the terms. It was capitulation; but the Combine that had shivered + beneath his knife gave him all the honours of war: Gunsberg himself, full + of condolences, came to the steamer and filled the Chapins' suite of + cabins with overwhelming flower-works. + </p> + <p> + “Smilax,” said George Chapin when he saw them. “Fitz is right. I'm dead; + only I don't see why he left out the 'In Memoriam' on the ribbons!” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” his wife answered, and poured him his tincture. “You'll be + back before you can think.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at himself in the mirror, surprised that his face had not been + branded by the hells of the past three months. The noise of the decks + worried him, and he lay down, his tongue only a little pressed against his + palate. + </p> + <p> + An hour later he said: “Sophie, I feel sorry about taking you away from + everything like this. I—I suppose we're the two loneliest people on + God's earth to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Said Sophie his wife, and kissed him: “Isn't it something to you that + we're going together?” + </p> +<p class="p2"> + They drifted about Europe for months—sometimes alone, sometimes with + chance met gipsies of their own land. From the North Cape to the Blue + Grotto at Capri they wandered, because the next steamer headed that way, + or because some one had set them on the road. The doctors had warned + Sophie that Chapin was not to take interest even in other men's interests; + but a familiar sensation at the back of the neck after one hour's keen + talk with a Nauheimed railway magnate saved her any trouble. He nearly + wept. + </p> + <p> + “And I'm over thirty,” he cried. “With all I meant to do!” + </p> + <p> + “Let's call it a honeymoon,” said Sophie. “D' you know, in all the six + years we've been married, you've never told me what you meant to do with + your life?” + </p> + <p> + “With my life? What's the use? It's finished now.” Sophie looked up + quickly from the Bay of Naples. “As far as my business goes, I shall have + to live on my rents like that architect at San Moritz.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll get better if you don't worry; and even if it takes time, there + are worse things than—How much have you?” + </p> + <p> + “Between four and five million. But it isn't the money. You know it isn't. + It's the principle. How could you respect me? You never did, the first + year after we married, till I went to work like the others. Our tradition + and upbringing are against it. We can't accept those ideals.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I suppose I married you for some sort of ideal,” she answered, and + they returned to their forty-third hotel. + </p> +<p class="p2"> + In England they missed the alien tongues of Continental streets that + reminded them of their own polyglot cities. In England all men spoke one + tongue, speciously like American to the ear, but on cross-examination + unintelligible. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but you have not seen England,” said a lady with iron-grey hair. They + had met her in Vienna, Bayreuth, and Florence, and were grateful to find + her again at Claridge's, for she commanded situations, and knew where + prescriptions are most carefully made up. “You ought to take an interest + in the home of our ancestors as I do.” + </p> + <p> + “I've tried for a week, Mrs. Shonts,” said Sophie, “but I never get any + further than tipping German waiters.” + </p> + <p> + “These men are not the true type,” Mrs. Shouts went on. “I know where you + should go.” + </p> + <p> + Chapin pricked up his ears, anxious to run anywhere from the streets on + which quick men, something of his kidney, did the business denied to him. + </p> + <p> + “We hear and we obey, Mrs. Shonts,” said Sophie, feeling his unrest as he + drank the loathed British tea. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Shonts smiled, and took them in hand. She wrote widely and + telegraphed far on their behalf till, armed with her letter of + introduction, she drove them into that wilderness which is reached from an + ash-barrel of a station called Charing Cross. They were to go to Rockett's—the + farm of one Cloke, in the southern counties—where, she assured them, + they would meet the genuine England of folklore and song. + </p> + <p> + Rocketts they found after some hours, four miles from a station, and, so + far as they could judge in the bumpy darkness, twice as many from a road. + Trees, kine, and the outlines of barns showed shadowy about them when they + alighted, and Mr. and Mrs. Cloke, at the open door of a deep stone-floored + kitchen, made them slowly welcome. They lay in an attic beneath a wavy + whitewashed ceiling, and, because it rained, a wood fire was made in an + iron basket on a brick hearth, and they fell asleep to the chirping of + mice and the whimper of flames. + </p> + <p> + When they woke it was a fair day, full of the noises, of birds, the smell + of box lavender, and fried bacon, mixed with an elemental smell they had + never met before. + </p> + <p> + “This,” said Sophie, nearly pushing out the thin casement in an attempt to + see round the corner, “is—what did the hack-cabman say to the + railway porter about my trunk—'quite on the top?'” + </p> + <p> + “No; 'a little bit of all right.' I feel farther away from anywhere than + I've ever felt in my life. We must find out where the telegraph office + is.” + </p> + <p> + “Who cares?” said Sophie, wandering about, hairbrush in hand, to admire + the illustrated weekly pictures pasted on door and cupboard. + </p> + <p> + But there was no rest for the alien soul till he had made sure of the + telegraph office. He asked the Clokes' daughter, laying breakfast, while + Sophie plunged her face in the lavender bush outside the low window. + </p> + <p> + “Go to the stile a-top o' the Barn field,” said Mary, “and look across + Pardons to the next spire. It's directly under. You can't miss it—not + if you keep to the footpath. My sister's the telegraphist there. But + you're in the three-mile radius, sir. The boy delivers telegrams directly + to this door from Pardons village.” + </p> + <p> + “One has to take a good deal on trust in this country,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + Sophie looked at the close turf, scarred only with last night's wheels, at + two ruts which wound round a rickyard, and at the circle of still orchard + about the half-timbered house. + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with it?” she said. “Telegrams delivered to the Vale of + Avalon, of course,” and she beckoned in an earnest-eyed hound of engaging + manners and no engagements, who answered, at times, to the name of + Rambler. He led them, after breakfast, to the rise behind the house where + the stile stood against the skyline, and, “I wonder what we shall find + now,” said Sophie, frankly prancing with joy on the grass. + </p> + <p> + It was a slope of gap-hedged fields possessed to their centres by clumps + of brambles. Gates were not, and the rabbit-mined, cattle-rubbed posts + leaned out and in. A narrow path doubled among the bushes, scores of white + tails twinkled before the racing hound, and a hawk rose, whistling + shrilly. + </p> + <p> + “No roads, no nothing!” said Sophie, her short skirt hooked by briers. “I + thought all England was a garden. There's your spire, George, across the + valley. How curious!” + </p> + <p> + They walked toward it through an all-abandoned land. Here they found the + ghost of a patch of lucerne that had refused to die: there a harsh fallow + surrendered to yard-high thistles; and here a breadth of rampant kelk + feigning to be lawful crop. In the ungrazed pastures swaths of dead stuff + caught their feet, and the ground beneath glistened with sweat. At the + bottom of the valley a little brook had undermined its footbridge, and + frothed in the wreckage. But there stood great woods on the slopes beyond—old, + tall, and brilliant, like unfaded tapestries against the walls of a ruined + house. + </p> + <p> + “All this within a hundred miles of London,” he said. “Looks as if it had + had nervous prostration, too.” The footpath turned the shoulder of a + slope, through a thicket of rank rhododendrons, and crossed what had once + been a carriage drive, which ended in the shadow of two gigantic + holm-oaks. + </p> + <p> + “A house!” said Sophie, in a whisper. “A Colonial house!” + </p> + <p> + Behind the blue-green of the twin trees rose a dark-bluish brick Georgian + pile, with a shell-shaped fan-light over its pillared door. The hound had + gone off on his own foolish quests. Except for some stir in the branches + and the flight of four startled magpies; there was neither life nor sound + about the square house, but it looked out of its long windows most + friendlily. + </p> + <p> + “Cha-armed to meet you, I'm sure,” said Sophie, and curtsied to the + ground. “George, this is history I can understand. We began here.” She + curtsied again. + </p> + <p> + The June sunshine twinkled on all the lights. It was as though an old + lady, wise in three generations' experience, but for the present sitting + out, bent to listen to her flushed and eager grandchild. + </p> + <p> + “I must look!” Sophie tiptoed to a window, and shaded her eyes with her + hand. “Oh, this room's half-full of cotton-bales—wool, I suppose! + But I can see a bit of the mantelpiece. George, do come! Isn't that some + one?” + </p> + <p> + She fell back behind her husband. The front door opened slowly, to show + the hound, his nose white with milk, in charge of an ancient of days clad + in a blue linen ephod curiously gathered on breast and shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” said George, half aloud. “Father Time himself. This is where + he lives, Sophie.” + </p> + <p> + “We came,” said Sophie weakly. “Can we see the house? I'm afraid that's + our dog.” + </p> + <p> + “No, 'tis Rambler,” said the old man. “He's been at my swill-pail again. + Staying at Rocketts, be ye? Come in. Ah! you runagate!” + </p> + <p> + The hound broke from him, and he tottered after him down the drive. They + entered the hall—just such a high light hall as such a house should + own. A slim-balustered staircase, wide and shallow and once creamy-white, + climbed out of it under a long oval window. On either side delicately + moulded doors gave on to wool-lumbered rooms, whose sea-green mantelpieces + were adorned with nymphs, scrolls, and Cupids in low relief. + </p> + <p> + “What's the firm that makes these things?” cried Sophie, enraptured. “Oh, + I forgot! These must be the originals. Adams, is it? I never dreamed of + anything like that steel-cut fender. Does he mean us to go everywhere?” + </p> + <p> + “He's catching the dog,” said George, looking out. “We don't count.” + </p> + <p> + They explored the first or ground floor, delighted as children playing + burglars. + </p> + <p> + “This is like all England,” she said at last. “Wonderful, but no + explanation. You're expected to know it beforehand. Now, let's try + upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + The stairs never creaked beneath their feet. From the broad landing they + entered a long, green-panelled room lighted by three full-length windows, + which overlooked the forlorn wreck of a terraced garden, and wooded slopes + beyond. + </p> + <p> + “The drawing-room, of course.” Sophie swam up and down it. “That + mantelpiece—Orpheus and Eurydice—is the best of them all. + Isn't it marvellous? Why, the room seems furnished with nothing in it! + How's that, George?” + </p> + <p> + “It's the proportions. I've noticed it.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw a Heppelwhite couch once”—Sophie laid her finger to her + flushed cheek and considered. “With two of them—one on each side—you + wouldn't need anything else. Except—there must be one perfect mirror + over that mantelpiece.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at that view. It's a framed Constable,” her husband cried. + </p> + <p> + “No; it's a Morland—a parody of a Morland. But about that couch, + George. Don't you think Empire might be better than Heppelwhite? Dull gold + against that pale green? It's a pity they don't make spinets nowadays.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you can get them. Look at that oak wood behind the pines.” + </p> + <p> + “'While you sat and played toccatas stately, at the clavichord,'” Sophie + hummed, and, head on one side, nodded to where the perfect mirror should + hang. + </p> + <p> + Then they found bedrooms with dressing-rooms and powdering-closets, and + steps leading up and down—boxes of rooms, round, square, and + octagonal, with enriched ceilings and chased door-locks. + </p> + <p> + “Now about servants. Oh!” She had darted up the last stairs to the + chequered darkness of the top floor, where loose tiles lay among broken + laths, and the walls were scrawled with names, sentiments, and hop + records. “They've been keeping pigeons here,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “And you could drive a buggy through the roof anywhere,” said George. + </p> + <p> + “That's what <i>I</i> say,” the old man cried below them on the stairs. “Not a + dry place for my pigeons at all.” + </p> + <p> + “But why was it allowed to get like this?” said Sophie. + </p> + <p> + “Tis with housen as teeth,” he replied. “Let 'em go too far, and there's + nothing to be done. Time was they was minded to sell her, but none would + buy. She was too far away along from any place. Time was they'd ha' lived + here theyselves, but they took and died.” + </p> + <p> + “Here?” Sophie moved beneath the light of a hole in the roof. + </p> + <p> + “Nah—none dies here excep' falling off ricks and such. In London + they died.” He plucked a lock of wool from his blue smock. “They was no + staple—neither the Elphicks nor the Moones. Shart and brittle all of + 'em. Dead they be seventeen year, for I've been here caretakin' + twenty-five.” + </p> + <p> + “Who does all the wool belong to downstairs?” George asked. + </p> + <p> + “To the estate. I'll show you the back parts if ye like. You're from + America, ain't ye? I've had a son there once myself.” They followed him + down the main stairway. He paused at the turn and swept one hand toward + the wall. “Plenty room here for your coffin to come down. Seven foot and + three men at each end wouldn't brish the paint. If I die in my bed they'll + 'ave to up-end me like a milk-can. 'Tis all luck, dye see?” + </p> + <p> + He led them on and on, through a maze of back kitchens, dairies, larders, + and sculleries, that melted along covered ways into a farm-house, visibly + older than the main building, which again rambled out among barns, byres, + pig-pens, stalls and stables to the dead fields behind. + </p> + <p> + “Somehow,” said Sophie, sitting exhausted on an ancient well-curb—“somehow + one wouldn't insult these lovely old things by filling them with hay.” + </p> + <p> + George looked at long stone walls upholding reaches of silvery-oak + weather-boarding; buttresses of mixed flint and bricks; outside stairs, + stone upon arched stone; curves of thatch where grass sprouted; roundels + of house-leeked tiles, and a huge paved yard populated by two cows and the + repentant Rambler. He had not thought of himself or of the telegraph + office for two and a half hours. + </p> + <p> + “But why,” said Sophie, as they went back through the crater of stricken + fields,—“why is one expected to know everything in England? Why do + they never tell?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean about the Elphicks and the Moones?” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—and the lawyers and the estate. Who are they? I wonder whether + those painted floors in the green room were real oak. Don't you like us + exploring things together—better than Pompeii?” + </p> + <p> + George turned once more to look at the view. “Eight hundred acres go with + the house—the old man told me. Five farms altogether. Rocketts is + one of 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “I like Mrs. Cloke. But what is the old house called?” + </p> + <p> + George laughed. “That's one of the things you're expected to know. He + never told me.” + </p> + <p> + The Clokes were more communicative. That evening and thereafter for a week + they gave the Chapins the official history, as one gives it to lodgers, of + Friars Pardon the house and its five farms. But Sophie asked so many + questions, and George was so humanly interested, that, as confidence in + the strangers grew, they launched, with observed and acquired detail, into + the lives and deaths and doings of the Elphicks and the Moones and their + collaterals, the Haylings and the Torrells. It was a tale told serially by + Cloke in the barn, or his wife in the dairy, the last chapters reserved + for the kitchen o' nights by the big fire, when the two had been half the + day exploring about the house, where old Iggulden, of the blue smock, + cackled and chuckled to see them. The motives that swayed the characters + were beyond their comprehension; the fates that shifted them were gods + they had never met; the sidelights Mrs. Cloke threw on act and incident + were more amazing than anything in the record. Therefore the Chapins + listened delightedly, and blessed Mrs. Shonts. + </p> + <p> + “But why—why—why—did So-and-so do so-and-so?” Sophie + would demand from her seat by the pothook; and Mrs. Cloke would answer, + smoothing her knees, “For the sake of the place.” + </p> + <p> + “I give it up,” said George one night in their own room. “People don't + seem to matter in this country compared to the places they live in. The + way she tells it, Friars Pardon was a sort of Moloch.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor old thing!” They had been walking round the farms as usual before + tea. “No wonder they loved it. Think of the sacrifices they made for it. + Jane Elphick married the younger Torrell to keep it in the family. The + octagonal room with the moulded ceiling next to the big bedroom was hers. + Now what did he tell you while he was feeding the pigs?” said Sophie. + </p> + <p> + “About the Torrell cousins and the uncle who died in Java. They lived at + Burnt House—behind High Pardons, where that brook is all blocked + up.” + </p> + <p> + “No; Burnt House is under High Pardons Wood, before you come to Gale + Anstey,” Sophie corrected. + </p> + <p> + “Well, old man Cloke said—” + </p> + <p> + Sophie threw open the door and called down into the kitchen, where the + Clokes were covering the fire: “Mrs. Cloke, isn't Burnt House under High + Pardons?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my dear, of course,” the soft voice answered absently. A cough. “I + beg your pardon, Madam. What was it you said?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. I prefer it the other way,” Sophie laughed, and George + re-told the missing chapter as she sat on the bed. + </p> + <p> + “Here to-day an' gone to-morrow,” said Cloke warningly. “They've paid + their first month, but we've only that Mrs. Shonts's letter for + guarantee.” + </p> + <p> + “None she sent never cheated us yet. It slipped out before I thought. + She's a most humane young lady. They'll be going away in a little. An' + you've talked a lot too, Alfred.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but the Elphicks are all dead. No one can bring my loose talking + home to me. But why do they stay on and stay on so?” + </p> + <p> + In due time George and Sophie asked each other that question, and put it + aside. They argued that the climate—a pearly blend, unlike the hot + and cold ferocities of their native land—suited them, as the thick + stillness of the nights certainly suited George. He was saved even the + sight of a metalled road, which, as presumably leading to business, wakes + desire in a man; and the telegraph office at the village of Friars Pardon, + where they sold picture post-cards and peg-tops, was two walking miles + across the fields and woods. + </p> + <p> + For all that touched his past among his fellows, or their remembrance of + him, he might have been in another planet; and Sophie, whose life had been + very largely spent among husbandless wives of lofty ideals, had no wish to + leave this present of God. The unhurried meals, the foreknowledge of + deliciously empty hours to follow, the breadths of soft sky under which + they walked together and reckoned time only by their hunger or thirst; the + good grass beneath their feet that cheated the miles; their discoveries, + always together, amid the farms—Griffons, Rocketts, Burnt House, + Gale Anstey, and the Home Farm, where Iggulden of the blue smock-frock + would waylay them, and they would ransack the old house once more; the + long wet afternoons when they tucked up their feet on the bedroom's deep + window-sill over against the apple-trees, and talked together as never + till then had they found time to talk—these things contented her + soul, and her body throve. + </p> + <p> + “Have you realized,” she asked one morning, “that we've been here + absolutely alone for the last thirty-four days?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you counted them?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Did you like them?” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “I must have. I didn't think about them. Yes, I have. Six months ago I + should have fretted myself sick. Remember at Cairo? I've only had two or + three bad times. Am I getting better, or is it senile decay?” + </p> + <p> + “Climate, all climate.” Sophie swung her new-bought English boots, as she + sat on the stile overlooking Friars Pardon, behind the Clokes's barn. + </p> + <p> + “One must take hold of things though,” he said, “if it's only to keep + one's hand in.” His eyes did not flicker now as they swept the empty + fields. “Mustn't one?” + </p> + <p> + “Lay out a Morristown links over Gale Anstey. I dare say you could hire + it.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I'm not as English as that—nor as Morristown. Cloke says all + the farms here could be made to pay.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm Anastasia in the 'Treasure of Franchard.' I'm content to be + alive and purr. There's no hurry.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” He smiled. “All the same, I'm going to see after my mail.” + </p> + <p> + “You promised you wouldn't have any.” + </p> + <p> + “There's some business coming through that's amusing me. Honest. It + doesn't get on my nerves at all.” + </p> + <p> + “Want a secretary?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks, old thing! Isn't that quite English?” + </p> + <p> + “Too English! Go away.” But none the less in broad daylight she returned + the kiss. “I'm off to Pardons. I haven't been to the house for nearly a + week.” + </p> + <p> + “How've you decided to furnish Jane Elphick's bedroom?” he laughed, for it + had come to be a permanent Castle in Spain between them. + </p> + <p> + “Black Chinese furniture and yellow silk brocade,” she answered, and ran + downhill. She scattered a few cows at a gap with a flourish of a + ground-ash that Iggulden had cut for her a week ago, and singing as she + passed under the holmoaks, sought the farm-house at the back of Friars + Pardon. The old man was not to be found, and she knocked at his + half-opened door, for she needed him to fill her idle forenoon. A + blue-eyed sheep-dog, a new friend, and Rambler's old enemy, crawled out + and besought her to enter. + </p> + <p> + Iggulden sat in his chair by the fire, a thistle-spud between his knees, + his head drooped. Though she had never seen death before, her heart, that + missed a beat, told her that he was dead. She did not speak or cry, but + stood outside the door, and the dog licked her hand. When he threw up his + nose, she heard herself saying: “Don't howl! Please don't begin to howl, + Scottie, or I shall run away!” + </p> + <p> + She held her ground while the shadows in the rickyard moved toward noon; + sat after a while on the steps by the door, her arms round the dog's neck, + waiting till some one should come. She watched the smokeless chimneys of + Friars Pardon slash its roofs with shadow, and the smoke of Iggulden's + last lighted fire gradually thin and cease. Against her will she fell to + wondering how many Moones, Elphicks, and Torrells had been swung round the + turn of the broad Mall stairs. Then she remembered the old man's talk of + being “up-ended like a milk-can,” and buried her face on Scottie's neck. + At last a horse's feet clinked upon flags, rustled in the old grey straw + of the rickyard, and she found herself facing the vicar—a figure she + had seen at church declaiming impossibilities (Sophie was a Unitarian) in + an unnatural voice. + </p> + <p> + “He's dead,” she said, without preface. + </p> + <p> + “Old Iggulden? I was coming for a talk with him.” The vicar passed in + uncovered. “Ah!” she heard him say. “Heart-failure! How long have you been + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Since a quarter to eleven.” She looked at her watch earnestly and saw + that her hand did not shake. + </p> + <p> + “I'll sit with him now till the doctor comes. D'you think you could tell + him, and—yes, Mrs. Betts in the cottage with the wistaria next the + blacksmith's? I'm afraid this has been rather a shock to you.” + </p> + <p> + Sophie nodded, and fled toward the village. Her body failed her for a + moment; she dropped beneath a hedge, and looked back at the great house. + In some fashion its silence and stolidity steadied her for her errand. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Betts, small, black-eyed, and dark, was almost as unconcerned as + Friars Pardon. + </p> + <p> + “Yiss, yiss, of course. Dear me! Well, Iggulden he had had his day in my + father's time. Muriel, get me my little blue bag, please. Yiss, ma'am. + They come down like ellum-branches in still weather. No warnin' at all. + Muriel, my bicycle's be'ind the fowlhouse. I'll tell Dr. Dallas, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + She trundled off on her wheel like a brown bee, while Sophie—heaven + above and earth beneath changed—walked stiffly home, to fall over + George at his letters, in a muddle of laughter and tears. + </p> + <p> + “It's all quite natural for them,” she gasped. “They come down like + ellum-branches in still weather. Yiss, ma'am.' No, there wasn't anything + in the least horrible, only—only—Oh, George, that poor shiny + stick of his between his poor, thin knees! I couldn't have borne it if + Scottie had howled. I didn't know the vicar was so—so sensitive. He + said he was afraid it was ra—rather a shock. Mrs. Betts told me to + go home, and I wanted to collapse on her floor. But I didn't disgrace + myself. I—I couldn't have left him—could I?” + </p> + <p> + “You're sure you've took no 'arm?” cried Mrs. Cloke, who had heard the + news by farm-telegraphy, which is older but swifter than Marconi's. + </p> + <p> + “No. I'm perfectly well,” Sophie protested. + </p> + <p> + “You lay down till tea-time.” Mrs. Cloke patted her shoulder. “THEY'll be + very pleased, though she 'as 'ad no proper understandin' for twenty + years.” + </p> + <p> + “They” came before twilight—a black-bearded man in moleskins, and a + little palsied old woman, who chirruped like a wren. + </p> + <p> + “I'm his son,” said the man to Sophie, among the lavender bushes. “We 'ad + a difference—twenty year back, and didn't speak since. But I'm his + son all the 'same, and we thank you for the watching.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm only glad I happened to be there,” she answered, and from the bottom + of her heart she meant it. + </p> + <p> + “We heard he spoke a lot o' you—one time an' another since you came. + We thank you kindly,” the man added. + </p> + <p> + “Are you the son that was in America?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma'am. On my uncle's farm, in Connecticut. He was what they call + rood-master there.” + </p> + <p> + “Whereabouts in Connecticut?” asked George over her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Veering Holler was the name. I was there six year with my uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “How small the world is!” Sophie cried. “Why, all my mother's people come + from Veering Hollow. There must be some there still—the Lashmars. + Did you ever hear of them?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember hearing that name, seems to me,” he answered, but his face was + blank as the back of a spade. + </p> + <p> + A little before dusk a woman in grey, striding like a foot-soldier, and + bearing on her arm a long pole, crashed through the orchard calling for + food. George, upon whom the unannounced English worked mysteriously, fled + to the parlour; but Mrs. Cloke came forward beaming. Sophie could not + escape. + </p> + <p> + “We've only just heard of it;” said the stranger, turning on her. “I've + been out with the otter-hounds all day. It was a splendidly sportin' thing—” + </p> + <p> + “Did you—er—kill?” said Sophie. She knew from books she could + not go far wrong here. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a dry bitch—seventeen pounds,” was the answer. “A splendidly + sportin' thing of you to do. Poor old Iggulden—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—that!” said Sophie, enlightened. + </p> + <p> + “If there had been any people at Pardons it would never have happened. + He'd have been looked after. But what can you expect from a parcel of + London solicitors?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Cloke murmured something. + </p> + <p> + “No. I'm soaked from the knees down. If I hang about I shall get chilled. + A cup of tea, Mrs. Cloke, and I can eat one of your sandwiches as I go.” + She wiped her weather-worn face with a green and yellow silk handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady!” Mrs. Cloke ran and returned swiftly. + </p> + <p> + “Our land marches with Pardons for a mile on the south,” she explained, + waving the full cup, “but one has quite enough to do with one's own people + without poachin'. Still, if I'd known, I'd have sent Dora, of course. Have + you seen her this afternoon, Mrs. Cloke? No? I wonder whether that girl + did sprain her ankle. Thank you.” It was a formidable hunk of bread and + bacon that Mrs. Cloke presented. “As I was sayin', Pardons is a scandal! + Lettin' people die like dogs. There ought to be people there who do their + duty. You've done yours, though there wasn't the faintest call upon you. + Good night. Tell Dora, if she comes, I've gone on.” + </p> + <p> + She strode away, munching her crust, and Sophie reeled breathless into the + parlour, to shake the shaking George. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you keep catching my eye behind the blind? Why didn't you come + out and do your duty?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I should have burst. Did you see the mud on its cheek?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Once. I daren't look again. Who is she?” + </p> + <p> + “God—a local deity then. Anyway, she's another of the things you're + expected to know by instinct.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Cloke, shocked at their levity, told them that it was Lady Conant, + wife of Sir Walter Conant, Baronet, a large landholder in the + neighbourhood; and if not God; at least His visible Providence. George + made her talk of that family for an hour. + </p> + <p> + “Laughter,” said Sophie afterward in their own room, “is the mark of the + savage. Why couldn't you control your emotions? It's all real to her.” + </p> + <p> + “It's all real to me. That's my trouble,” he answered in an altered tone. + “Anyway, it's real enough to mark time with. Don't you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “What d'you mean?” she asked quickly, though she knew his voice. + </p> + <p> + “That I'm better. I'm well enough to kick.” + </p> + <p> + “What at?” + </p> + <p> + “This!” He waved his hand round the one room. “I must have something to + play with till I'm fit for work again.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” She sat on the bed and leaned forward, her hands clasped. “I wonder + if it's good for you.” + </p> + <p> + “We've been better here than anywhere,” he went on slowly. “One could + always sell it again.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded gravely, but her eyes sparkled. + </p> + <p> + “The only thing that worries me is what happened this morning. I want to + know how you feel about it. If it's on your nerves in the least we can + have the old farm at the back of the house pulled down, or perhaps it has + spoiled the notion for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Pull it down?” she cried. “You've no business faculty. Why, that's where + we could live while we're putting the big house in order. It's almost + under the same roof. No! What happened this morning seemed to be more of a—of + a leading than anything else. There ought to be people at Pardons. Lady + Conant's quite right.” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking more of the woods and the roads. I could double the value + of the place in six months.” + </p> + <p> + “What do they want for it?” She shook her head, and her loosened hair fell + glowingly about her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “Seventy-five thousand dollars. They'll take sixty-eight.” + </p> + <p> + “Less than half what we paid for our old yacht when we married. And we + didn't have a good time in her. You were—” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I discovered I was too much of an American to be content to be a + rich man's son. You aren't blaming me for that?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. Only it was a very businesslike honeymoon. How far are you along + with the deal, George?” + </p> + <p> + “I can mail the deposit on the purchase money to-morrow morning, and we + can have the thing completed in a fortnight or three weeks—if you + say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Friars Pardon—Friars Pardon!” Sophie chanted rapturously, her dark + gray eyes big with delight. “All the farms? Gale Anstey, Burnt House, + Rocketts, the Home Farm, and Griffons? Sure you've got 'em all?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure.” He smiled. + </p> + <p> + “And the woods? High Pardons Wood, Lower Pardons, Suttons, Dutton's Shaw, + Reuben's Ghyll, Maxey's Ghyll, and both the Oak Hangers? Sure you've got + 'em all?” + </p> + <p> + “Every last stick. Why, you know them as well as I do.” He laughed. “They + say there's five thousand—a thousand pounds' worth of lumber—timber + they call it—in the Hangers alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Cloke's oven must be mended first thing, and the kitchen roof. I + think I'll have all this whitewashed,” Sophie broke in, pointing to the + ceiling. “The whole place is a scandal. Lady Conant is quite right. + George, when did you begin to fall in love with the house? In the + greenroom—that first day? I did.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not in love with it. One must do something to mark time till one's + fit for work.” + </p> + <p> + “Or when we stood under the oaks, and the door opened? Oh! Ought I to go + to poor Iggulden's funeral?” She sighed with utter happiness. + </p> + <p> + “Wouldn't they call it a liberty now?” said he. + </p> + <p> + “But I liked him.” + </p> + <p> + “But you didn't own him at the date of his death.” + </p> + <p> + “That wouldn't keep me away. Only, they made such a fuss about the + watching”—she caught her breath—“it might be ostentatious from + that point of view, too. Oh, George”—she reached for his hand—“we're + two little orphans moving in worlds not realized, and we shall make some + bad breaks. But we're going to have the time of our lives.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll run up to London to-morrow, and see if we can hurry those English + law solicitors. I want to get to work.” + </p> + <p> + They went. They suffered many things ere they returned across the fields + in a fly one Saturday night, nursing a two by two-and-a-half box of deeds + and maps—lawful owners of Friars Pardon and the five decayed farms + therewith. + </p> + <p> + “I do most sincerely 'ope and trust you'll be 'appy, Madam,” Mrs. Cloke + gasped, when she was told the news by the kitchen fire. + </p> + <p> + “Goodness! It isn't a marriage!” Sophie exclaimed, a little awed; for to + them the joke, which to an American means work, was only just beginning. + </p> + <p> + “If it's took in a proper spirit”—Mrs. Cloke's eye turned toward her + oven. + </p> + <p> + “Send and have that mended to-morrow,” Sophie whispered. + </p> + <p> + “We couldn't 'elp noticing,” said Cloke slowly, “from the times you walked + there, that you an' your lady was drawn to it, but—but I don't know + as we ever precisely thought—” His wife's glance checked him. + </p> + <p> + “That we were that sort of people,” said George. “We aren't sure of it + ourselves yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps,” said Cloke, rubbing his knees, “just for the sake of saying + something, perhaps you'll park it?” + </p> + <p> + “What's that?” said George. + </p> + <p> + “Turn it all into a fine park like Violet Hill”—he jerked a thumb to + westward—“that Mr. Sangres bought. It was four farms, and Mr. + Sangres made a fine park of them, with a herd of faller deer.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it wouldn't be Friars Pardon,” said Sophie. “Would it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know as I've ever heard Pardons was ever anything but wheat an' + wool. Only some gentlemen say that parks are less trouble than tenants.” + He laughed nervously. “But the gentry, o' course, they keep on pretty much + as they was used to.” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Sophie. “How did Mr. Sangres make his money?” + </p> + <p> + “I never rightly heard. It was pepper an' spices, or it may ha' been + gloves. No. Gloves was Sir Reginald Liss at Marley End. Spices was Mr. + Sangres. He's a Brazilian gentleman—very sunburnt like.” + </p> + <p> + “Be sure o' one thing. You won't 'ave any trouble,” said Mrs. Cloke, just + before they went to bed. + </p> + <p> + Now the news of the purchase was told to Mr. and Mrs. Cloke alone at 8 + P.M. of a Saturday. None left the farm till they set out for church next + morning. Yet when they reached the church and were about to slip aside + into their usual seats, a little beyond the font, where they could see the + red-furred tails of the bellropes waggle and twist at ringing time, they + were swept forward irresistibly, a Cloke on either flank (and yet they had + not walked with the Clokes), upon the ever-retiring bosom of a + black-gowned verger, who ushered them into a room of a pew at the head of + the left aisle, under the pulpit. + </p> + <p> + “This,” he sighed reproachfully, “is the Pardons' Pew,” and shut them in. + </p> + <p> + They could see little more than the choir boys in the chancel, but to the + roots of the hair of their necks they felt the congregation behind + mercilessly devouring them by look. + </p> + <p> + “When the wicked man turneth away.” The strong, alien voice of the priest + vibrated under the hammer-beam roof, and a loneliness unfelt before + swamped their hearts, as they searched for places in the unfamiliar Church + of England service. The Lord's Prayer “Our Father, which art”—set + the seal on that desolation. Sophie found herself thinking how in other + lands their purchase would long ere this have been discussed from every + point of view in a dozen prints, forgetting that George for months had not + been allowed to glance at those black and bellowing head-lines. Here was + nothing but silence—not even hostility! The game was up to them; the + other players hid their cards and waited. Suspense, she felt, was in the + air, and when her sight cleared, saw, indeed, a mural tablet of a footless + bird brooding upon the carven motto, “Wayte awhyle—wayte awhyle.” + </p> + <p> + At the Litany George had trouble with an unstable hassock, and drew the + slip of carpet under the pewseat. Sophie pushed her end back also, and + shut her eyes against a burning that felt like tears. When she opened them + she was looking at her mother's maiden name, fairly carved on a blue + flagstone on the pew floor: + </p> +<p class="center"> + Ellen Lashmar. ob. 1796. ætat 27. + </p> + <p> + She nudged George and pointed. Sheltered, as they kneeled, they looked for + more knowledge, but the rest of the slab was blank. + </p> + <p> + “Ever hear of her?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Never knew any of us came from here.” + </p> + <p> + “Coincidence?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But it makes me feel better,” and she smiled and winked away a + tear on her lashes, and took his hand while they prayed for “all women + labouring of child”—not “in the perils of childbirth”; and the + sparrows who had found their way through the guards behind the glass + windows chirped above the faded gilt and alabaster family tree of the + Conants. + </p> + <p> + The baronet's pew was on the right of the aisle. After service its + inhabitants moved forth without haste, but so as to block effectively a + dusky person with a large family who champed in their rear. + </p> + <p> + “Spices, I think,” said Sophie, deeply delighted as the Sangres closed up + after the Conants. “Let 'em get away, George.” + </p> + <p> + But when they came out many folk whose eyes were one still lingered by the + lychgate. + </p> + <p> + “I want to see if any more Lashmars are buried here,” said Sophie. + </p> + <p> + “Not now. This seems to be show day. Come home quickly,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + A group of families, the Clokes a little apart, opened to let them + through. The men saluted with jerky nods, the women with remnants of a + curtsey. Only Iggulden's son, his mother on his arm, lifted his hat as + Sophie passed. + </p> + <p> + “Your people,” said the clear voice of Lady Conant in her ear. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so,” said Sophie, blushing, for they were within two yards of + her; but it was not a question. + </p> + <p> + “Then that child looks as if it were coming down with mumps. You ought to + tell the mother she shouldn't have brought it to church.” + </p> + <p> + “I can't leave 'er behind, my lady,” the woman said. “She'd set the 'ouse + afire in a minute, she's that forward with the matches. Ain't you, Maudie + dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Has Dr. Dallas seen her?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “He must. You can't get away, of course. M-m! My idiotic maid is coming in + for her teeth to-morrow at twelve. She shall pick her up—at Gale + Anstey, isn't it?—at eleven.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Thank you very much, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “I oughtn't to have done it,” said Lady Conant apologetically, “but there + has been no one at Pardons for so long that you'll forgive my poaching. + Now, can't you lunch with us? The vicar usually comes too. I don't use the + horses on a Sunday”—she glanced at the Brazilian's silver-plated + chariot. “It's only a mile across the fields.” + </p> + <p> + “You—you're very kind,” said Sophie, hating herself because her lip + trembled. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” the compelling tone dropped to a soothing gurgle, “d'you + suppose I don't know how it feels to come to a strange county—country + I should say—away from one's own people? When I first left the + Shires—I'm Shropshire, you know—I cried for a day and a night. + But fretting doesn't make loneliness any better. Oh, here's Dora. She did + sprain her leg that day.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm as lame as a tree still,” said the tall maiden frankly. “You ought to + go out with the otter-hounds, Mrs. Chapin. I believe they're drawing your + water next week.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Walter had already led off George, and the vicar came up on the other + side of Sophie. There was no escaping the swift procession or the + leisurely lunch, where talk came and went in low-voiced eddies that had + the village for their centre. Sophie heard the vicar and Sir Walter + address her husband lightly as Chapin! (She also remembered many women + known in a previous life who habitually addressed their husbands as Mr. + Such-an-one.) After lunch Lady Conant talked to her explicitly of + maternity as that is achieved in cottages and farm-houses remote from aid, + and of the duty thereto of the mistress of Pardons. + </p> + <p> + A gate in a beech hedge, reached across triple lawns, let them out before + tea-time into the unkempt south side of their land. + </p> + <p> + “I want your hand, please,” said Sophie as soon as they were safe among + the beech boles and the lawless hollies. “D'you remember the old maid in + 'Providence and the Guitar' who heard the Commissary swear, and hardly + reckoned herself a maiden lady afterward? Because I'm a relative of hers. + Lady Conant is—” + </p> + <p> + “Did you find out anything about the Lashmars?” he interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't ask. I'm going to write to Aunt Sydney about it first. Oh, Lady + Conant said something at lunch about their having bought some land from + some Lashmars a few years ago. I found it was at the beginning of last + century.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “I said, 'Really, how interesting!' Like that. I'm not going to push + myself forward. I've been hearing about Mr. Sangres's efforts in that + direction. And you? I couldn't see you behind the flowers. Was it very + deep water, dear?” + </p> + <p> + George mopped a brow already browned by outdoor exposures. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no—dead easy,” he answered. “I've bought Friars Pardon to + prevent Sir Walter's birds straying.” + </p> + <p> + A cock pheasant scuttered through the dry leaves and exploded almost under + their feet. Sophie jumped. + </p> + <p> + “That's one of 'em,” said George calmly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, your nerves are better, at any rate,” said she. “Did you tell 'em + you'd bought the thing to play with?” + </p> + <p> + “No. That was where my nerve broke down. I only made one bad break—I + think. I said I couldn't see why hiring land to men to farm wasn't as much + a business proposition as anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did they say?” + </p> + <p> + “They smiled. I shall know what that smile means some day. They don't + waste their smiles. D'you see that track by Gale Anstey?” + </p> + <p> + They looked down from the edge of the hanger over a cup-like hollow. + People by twos and threes in their Sunday best filed slowly along the + paths that connected farm to farm. + </p> + <p> + “I've never seen so many on our land before,” said Sophie. “Why is it?” + </p> + <p> + “To show us we mustn't shut up their rights of way.” + </p> + <p> + “Those cow-tracks we've been using cross lots?” said Sophie forcibly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Any one of 'em would cost us two thousand pounds each in legal + expenses to close.” + </p> + <p> + “But we don't want to,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “The whole community would fight if we did.” + </p> + <p> + “But it's our land. We can do what we like.” + </p> + <p> + “It's not our land. We've only paid for it. We belong to it, and it + belongs to the people—our people they call 'em. I've been to lunch + with the English too.” + </p> + <p> + They passed slowly from one bracken-dotted field to the next—flushed + with pride of ownership, plotting alterations and restorations at each + turn; halting in their tracks to argue, spreading apart to embrace two + views at once, or closing in to consider one. Couples moved out of their + way, but smiling covertly. + </p> + <p> + “We shall make some bad breaks,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + “Together, though. You won't let anyone else in, will you?” + </p> + <p> + “Except the contractors. This syndicate handles this proposition by its + little lone.” + </p> + <p> + “But you might feel the want of some one,” she insisted. + </p> + <p> + “I shall—but it will be you. It's business, Sophie, but it's going + to be good fun.” + </p> + <p> + “Please God,” she answered flushing, and cried to herself as they went + back to tea. “It's worth it. Oh, it's worth it.” + </p> + <p> + The repairing and moving into Friars Pardon was business of the most + varied and searching, but all done English fashion, without friction. Time + and money alone were asked. The rest lay in the hands of beneficent + advisers from London, or spirits, male and female, called up by Mr. and + Mrs. Cloke from the wastes of the farms. In the centre stood George and + Sophie, a little aghast, their interests reaching out on every side. + </p> + <p> + “I ain't sayin' anything against Londoners,” said Cloke, self-appointed + clerk of the outer works, consulting engineer, head of the immigration + bureau, and superintendent of woods and forests; “but your own people + won't go about to make more than a fair profit out of you.” + </p> + <p> + “How is one to know?” said George. + </p> + <p> + “Five years from now, or so on, maybe, you'll be lookin' over your first + year's accounts, and, knowin' what you'll know then, you'll say: 'Well, + Billy Beartup'—or Old Cloke as it might be—'did me proper when + I was new.' No man likes to have that sort of thing laid up against him.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I see,” said George. “But five years is a long time to look + ahead.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt if that oak Billy Beartup throwed in Reuben's Ghyll will be fit + for her drawin’-room floor in less than seven,” Cloke drawled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that's my work,” said Sophie. (Billy Beartup of Griffons, a woodman + by training and birth, a tenant farmer by misfortune of marriage, had laid + his broad axe at her feet a month before.) “Sorry if I've committed you to + another eternity.” + </p> + <p> + “And we shan't even know where we've gone wrong with your new carriage + drive before that time either,” said Cloke, ever anxious to keep the + balance true with an ounce or two in Sophie's favour. The past four months + had taught George better than to reply. The carriage road winding up the + hill was his present keen interest. They set off to look at it, and the + imported American scraper which had blighted the none too sunny soul of + “Skim” Winsh, the carter. + </p> + <p> + But young Iggulden was in charge now, and under his guidance, Buller and + Roberts, the great horses, moved mountains. + </p> + <p> + “You lif' her like that, an' you tip her like that,” he explained to the + gang. “My uncle he was roadmaster in Connecticut.” + </p> + <p> + “Are they roads yonder?” said Skim, sitting under the laurels. + </p> + <p> + “No better than accommodation roads. Dirt, they call 'em. They'd suit you, + Skim.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said the incautious Skim. + </p> + <p> + “Cause you'd take no hurt when you fall out of your cart drunk on a + Saturday,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “I didn't last time neither,” Skim roared. + </p> + <p> + After the loud laugh, old Whybarne of Gale Anstey piped feebly, “Well, + dirt or no dirt, there's no denyin' Chapin knows a good job when he sees + it. 'E don't build one day and dee-stroy the next, like that nigger + Sangres.” + </p> + <p> + “SHE's the one that knows her own mind,” said Pinky, brother to Skim + Winsh, and a Napoleon among carters who had helped to bring the grand + piano across the fields in the autumn rains. + </p> + <p> + “She had ought to,” said Iggulden. “Whoa, Buller! She's a Lashmar. They + never was double-thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you found that? Has the answer come from your uncle?” said Skim, + doubtful whether so remote a land as America had posts. + </p> + <p> + The others looked at him scornfully. Skim was always a day behind the + fair. Iggulden rested from his labours. “She's a Lashmar right enough. I + started up to write to my uncle—at once—the month after she + said her folks came from Veering Holler.” + </p> + <p> + “Where there ain't any roads?” Skim interrupted, but none laughed. + </p> + <p> + “My uncle he married an American woman for his second, and she took it up + like a—like the coroner. She's a Lashmar out of the old Lashmar place, + 'fore they sold to Conants. She ain't no Toot Hill Lashmar, nor any o' the + Crayford lot. Her folk come out of the ground here, neither chalk nor + forest, but wildishers. They sailed over to America—I've got it all + writ down by my uncle's woman—in eighteen hundred an' nothing. My + uncle says they're all slow begetters like.” + </p> + <p> + “Would they be gentry yonder now?” Skim asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nah—there's no gentry in America, no matter how long you're there. + It's against their law. There's only rich and poor allowed. They've been + lawyers and such like over yonder for a hundred years but she's a Lashmar + for all that.” + </p> + <p> + “Lord! What's a hundred years?” said Whybarne, who had seen seventy-eight + of them. + </p> + <p> + “An' they write too, from yonder—my uncle's woman writes—that + you can still tell 'em by headmark. Their hair's foxy-red still—an' + they throw out when they walk. He's in-toed-treads like a gipsy; but you + watch, an' you'll see 'er throw, out—like a colt.” + </p> + <p> + “Your trace wants taking up.” Pinky's large ears had caught the sound of + voices, and as the two broke through the laurels the men were hard at + work, their eyes on Sophie's feet. + </p> + <p> + She had been less fortunate in her inquiries than Iggulden, for her Aunt + Sydney of Meriden (a badged and certificated Daughter of the Revolution to + boot) answered her inquiries with a two-paged discourse on patriotism, the + leaflets of a Village Improvement Society, of which she was president, and + a demand for an overdue subscription to a Factory Girls' Reading Circle. + Sophie burned it all in the Orpheus and Eurydice grate, and kept her own + counsel. + </p> + +<p class="p2"> + “What I want to know,” said George, when Spring was coming, and the + gardens needed thought, “is who will ever pay me for my labour? I've put + in at least half a million dollars' worth already.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure you're not taking too much out of yourself?” his wife asked. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no; I haven't been conscious of myself all winter.” He looked at his + brown English gaiters and smiled. “It's all behind me now. I believe I + could sit down and think of all that—those months before we sailed.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't—ah, don't!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “But I must go back one day. You don't want to keep me out of business + always—or do you?” He ended with a nervous laugh. + </p> + <p> + Sophie sighed as she drew her own ground-ash (of old Iggulden's cutting) + from the hall rack. + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you overdoing it too? You look a little tired,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You make me tired. I'm going to Rocketts to see Mrs. Cloke about Mary.” + (This was the sister of the telegraphist, promoted to be sewing-maid at + Pardons.) “Coming?” + </p> + <p> + “I'm due at Burnt House to see about the new well. By the way, there's a + sore throat at Gale Anstey—” + </p> + <p> + “That's my province. Don't interfere. The Whybarne children always have + sore throats. They do it for jujubes.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep away from Gale Anstey till I make sure, honey. Cloke ought to have + told me.” + </p> + <p> + “These people don't tell. Haven't you learnt that yet? But I'll obey, me + lord. See you later!” + </p> + <p> + She set off afoot, for within the three main roads that bounded the blunt + triangle of the estate (even by night one could scarcely hear the carts on + them), wheels were not used except for farm work. The footpaths served all + other purposes. And though at first they had planned improvements, they + had soon fallen in with the customs of their hidden kingdom, and moved + about the soft-footed ways by woodland, hedgerow, and shaw as freely as + the rabbits. Indeed, for the most part Sophie walked bareheaded beneath + her helmet of chestnut hair; but she had been plagued of late by vague + toothaches, which she explained to Mrs. Cloke, who asked some questions. + How it came about Sophie never knew, but after a while behold Mrs. Cloke's + arm was about her waist, and her head was on that deep bosom behind the + shut kitchen door. + </p> + <p> + “My dear! My dear!” the elder woman almost sobbed. “An' d'you mean to tell + me you never suspicioned? Why—why—where was you ever taught + anything at all? Of course it is. It's what we've been only waitin' for, + all of us. Time and again I've said to Lady—” she checked herself. + “An' now we shall be as we should be.” + </p> + <p> + “But—but—but—” Sophie whimpered. + </p> + <p> + “An' to see you buildin' your nest so busy—pianos and books—an' + never thinkin' of a nursery!” + </p> + <p> + “No more I did.” Sophie sat bolt upright, and began to laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Time enough yet.” The fingers tapped thoughtfully on the broad knee. “But—they + must be strange-minded folk over yonder with you! Have you thought to send + for your mother? She dead? My dear, my dear! Never mind! She'll be happy + where she knows. 'Tis God's work. An' we was only waitin' for it, for + you've never failed in your duty yet. It ain't your way. What did you say + about my Mary's doings?” Mrs. Cloke's face hardened as she pressed her + chin on Sophie's forehead. “If any of your girls thinks to be'ave + arbitrary now, I'll—But they won't, my dear. I'll see they do their + duty too. Be sure you'll 'ave no trouble.” + </p> + <p> + When Sophie walked back across the fields heaven and earth changed about + her as on the day of old Iggulden's death. For an instant she thought of + the wide turn of the staircase, and the new ivory-white paint that no + coffin corner could scar, but presently, the shadow passed in a pure + wonder and bewilderment that made her reel. She leaned against one of + their new gates and looked over their lands for some other stay. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said resignedly, half aloud, “we must try to make him feel + that he isn't a third in our party,” and turned the corner that looked + over Friars Pardon, giddy, sick, and faint. + </p> + <p> + Of a sudden the house they had bought for a whim stood up as she had never + seen it before, low-fronted, broad-winged, ample, prepared by course of + generations for all such things. As it had steadied her when it lay + desolate, so now that it had meaning from their few months of life within, + it soothed and promised good. She went alone and quickly into the hall, + and kissed either door-post, whispering: “Be good to me. You know! You've + never failed in your duty yet.” + </p> + <p> + When the matter was explained to George, he would have sailed at once to + their own land, but this Sophie forbade. + </p> + <p> + “I don't want science,” she said. “I just want to be loved, and there + isn't time for that at home. Besides,” she added, looking out of the + window, “it would be desertion.” + </p> + <p> + George was forced to soothe himself with linking Friars Pardon to the + telegraph system of Great Britain by telephone—three-quarters of a + mile of poles, put in by Whybarne and a few friends. One of these was a + foreigner from the next parish. Said he when the line was being run: + “There's an old ellum right in our road. Shall us throw her?” + </p> + <p> + “Toot Hill parish folk, neither grace nor good luck, God help 'em.” Old + Whybarne shouted the local proverb from three poles down the line. “We + ain't goin' to lay any axe-iron to coffin-wood here not till we know where + we are yet awhile. Swing round 'er, swing round!” + </p> + <p> + To this day, then, that sudden kink in the straight line across the upper + pasture remains a mystery to Sophie and George. Nor can they tell why Skim + Winsh, who came to his cottage under Dutton Shaw most musically drunk at + 10.45 P.M of every Saturday night, as his father had done before him, sang + no more at the bottom of the garden steps, where Sophie always feared he + would break his neck. The path was undoubtedly an ancient right of way, + and at 10.45 P.M. on Saturdays Skim remembered it was his duty to + posterity to keep it open—till Mrs. Cloke spoke to him once. She + spoke likewise to her daughter Mary, sewing maid at Pardons, and to Mary's + best new friend, the five-foot-seven imported London house-maid, who + taught Mary to trim hats, and found the country dullish. + </p> + <p> + But there was no noise—at no time was there any noise—and when + Sophie walked abroad she met no one in her path unless she had signified a + wish that way. Then they appeared to protest that all was well with them + and their children, their chickens, their roofs, their water-supply, and + their sons in the police or the railway service. + </p> + <p> + “But don't you find it dull, dear?” said George, loyally doing his best + not to worry as the months went by. + </p> + <p> + “I've been so busy putting my house in order I haven't had time to think,” + said she. “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “No—no. If I could only be sure of you.” + </p> + <p> + She turned on the green drawing-room's couch (it was Empire, not + Heppelwhite after all), and laid aside a list of linen and blankets. + </p> + <p> + “It has changed everything, hasn't it?” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lord, yes. But I still think if we went back to Baltimore—” + </p> + <p> + “And missed our first real summer together. No thank you, me lord.” + </p> + <p> + “But we're absolutely alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't that what I'm doing my best to remedy? Don't you worry. I like it—like + it to the marrow of my little bones. You don't realize what her house + means to a woman. We thought we were living in it last year, but we hadn't + begun to. Don't you rejoice in your study, George?” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer being here with you.” He sat down on the floor by the couch and + took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Seven,” she said, as the French clock struck. “Year before last you'd + just be coming back from business.” + </p> + <p> + He winced at the recollection, then laughed. “Business! I've been at work + ten solid hours to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you lunch? With the Conants?” + </p> + <p> + “No; at Dutton Shaw, sitting on a log, with my feet in a swamp. But we've + found out where the old spring is, and we're going to pipe it down to Gale + Anstey next year.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll come and see to-morrow. Oh, please open the door, dear. I want to + look down the passage. Isn't that corner by the stair-head lovely where + the sun strikes in?” She looked through half-closed eyes at the vista of + ivory-white and pale green all steeped in liquid gold. + </p> + <p> + “There's a step out of Jane Elphick's bedroom,” she went on—“and his + first step in the world ought to be up. I shouldn't wonder if those people + hadn't put it there on purpose. George, will it make any odds to you if + he's a girl?” + </p> + <p> + He answered, as he had many times before, that his interest was his wife, + not the child. + </p> + <p> + “Then you're the only person who thinks so.” She laughed. “Don't be silly, + dear. It's expected. I know. It's my duty. I shan't be able to look our + people in the face if I fail.” + </p> + <p> + “What concern is it of theirs, confound 'em!” + </p> + <p> + “You'll see. Luckily the tradition of the house is boys, Mrs. Cloke says, + so I'm provided for. Shall you ever begin to understand these people? I + shan't.” + </p> + <p> + “And we bought it for fun—for fun!” he groaned. “And here we are + held up for goodness knows how long!” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Were you thinking of selling it?” He did not answer. “Do you + remember the second Mrs. Chapin?” she demanded. + </p> + <p> + This was a bold, brazen little black-browed woman—a widow for choice—who + on Sophie's death was guilefully to marry George for his wealth and ruin + him in a year. George being busy, Sophie had invented her some two years + after her marriage, and conceived she was alone among wives in so doing. + </p> + <p> + “You aren't going to bring her up again?” he asked anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “I only want to say that I should hate any one who bought Pardons ten + times worse than I used to hate the second Mrs. Chapin. Think what we've + put into it of our two selves.” + </p> + <p> + “At least a couple of million dollars. I know I could have made—” He + broke off. + </p> + <p> + “The beasts!” she went on. “They'd be sure to build a red-brick lodge at + the gates, and cut the lawn up for bedding out. You must leave + instructions in your will that he's never to do that, George, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed and took her hand again but said nothing till it was time to + dress. Then he muttered: “What the devil use is a man's country to him when + he can't do business in it?” + </p> +<p class="p2"> + Friars Pardon stood faithful to its tradition. At the appointed time was + born, not that third in their party to whom Sophie meant to be so kind, + but a godling; in beauty, it was manifest, excelling Eros, as in wisdom + Confucius; an enhancer of delights, a renewer of companionships and an + interpreter of Destiny. This last George did not realise till he met Lady + Conant striding through Dutton Shaw a few days after the event. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow,” she cried, and slapped him heartily on the back, “I + can't tell you how glad we all are. Oh, she'll be all right. (There's + never been any trouble over the birth of an heir at Pardons.) Now where + the dooce is it?” She felt largely in her leather-boundskirt and drew out + a small silver mug. “I sent a note to your wife about it, but my silly ass + of a groom forgot to take this. You can save me a tramp. Give her my + love.” She marched off amid her guard of grave Airedales. + </p> + <p> + The mug was worn and dented: above the twined initials, G.L., was the + crest of a footless bird and the motto: “Wayte awhyle—wayte awhyle.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the other end of the riddle,” Sophie whispered, when he saw her + that evening. “Read her note. The English write beautiful notes.” + </p> +<p class="letter"> + The warmest of welcomes to your little man. I hope he will appreciate his + native land now he has come to it. Though you have said nothing we cannot, + of course, look on him as a little stranger, and so I am sending him the + old Lashmar christening mug. It has been with us since Gregory Lashmar, + your great-grandmother's brother— + </p> + <p> + George stared at his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” she twinkled, from the pillows. + </p> +<p class="letter"> + —mother's brother, sold his place to Walter's family. We seem to + have acquired some of your household gods at that time, but nothing + survives except the mug and the old cradle, which I found in the + potting-shed and am having put in order for you. I hope little George—Lashmar, + he will be too, won't he?—will live to see his grandchildren cut + their teeth on his mug. + </p> +<p class="right"> + Affectionately yours,<br/> + A<small>LICE</small> C<small>ONANT</small>. +</p> +<p class="letter"> + P.S.—How quiet you've kept about it all! + </p> + <p> + “Well, I'm—” + </p> + <p> + “Don't swear,” said Sophie. “Bad for the infant mind.” + </p> + <p> + “But how in the world did she get at it? Have you ever said a word about + the Lashmars?” + </p> + <p> + “You know the only time—to young Iggulden at Rocketts—when + Iggulden died.” + </p> + <p> + “Your great-grandmother's brother! She's traced the whole connection—more + than your Aunt Sydney could do. What does she mean about our keeping + quiet?” + </p> + <p> + Sophie's eyes sparkled. “I've thought that out too. We've got back at the + English at last. Can't you see that she thought that we thought my + mother's being a Lashmar was one of those things we'd expect the English + to find out for themselves, and that's impressed her?” She turned the mug + in her white hands, and sighed happily. “'Wayte awhyle—wayte + awhyle.' That's not a bad motto, George. It's been worth it.” + </p> + <p> + “But still I don't quite see—” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't wonder if they don't think our coming here was part of a + deep-laid scheme to be near our ancestors. They'd understand that. And + look how they've accepted us, all of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Are we so undesirable in ourselves?” George grunted. + </p> + <p> + “Be just, me lord. That wretched Sangres man has twice our money. Can you + see Marm Conant slapping him between the shoulders? Not by a jugful! The + poor beast doesn't exist!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it's that then?” He looked toward the cot by the fire where + the godling snorted. + </p> + <p> + “The minute I get well I shall find out from Mrs. Cloke what every Lashmar + gives in doles (that's nicer than tips) every time a Lashmite is born. + I've done my duty thus far, but there's much expected of me.” + </p> + <p> + Entered here Mrs. Cloke, and hung worshipping over the cot. They showed + her the mug and her face shone. “Oh, now Lady Conant's sent it, it'll be + all proper, ma'am, won't it? 'George' of course he'd have to be, but + seein' what he is we was hopin'—all your people was hopin'—it + 'ud be 'Lashmar' too, and that'ud just round it out. A very 'andsome mug + quite unique, I should imagine. 'Wayte awhyle—wayte awhyle.' That's + true with the Lashmars, I've heard. Very slow to fill their houses, they + are. Most like Master George won't open 'is nursery till he's thirty.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor lamb!” cried Sophie. “But how did you know my folk were Lashmars?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Cloke thought deeply. “I'm sure I can't quite say, ma'am, but I've a + belief likely that it was something you may have let drop to young + Iggulden when you was at Rocketts. That may have been what give us an + inkling. An' so it came out, one thing in the way o' talk leading to + another, and those American people at Veering Holler was very obligin' + with news, I'm told, ma'am.” + </p> + <p> + “Great Scott!” said George, under his breath. “And this is the simple + peasant!” + </p> + <p> + “Yiss,” Mrs. Cloke went on. “An' Cloke was only wonderin' this afternoon—your + pillow's slipped my dear, you mustn't lie that a-way—just for the + sake o' sayin' something, whether you wouldn't think well now of getting + the Lashmar farms back, sir. They don't rightly round off Sir Walter's + estate. They come caterin' across us more. Cloke, 'e 'ud be glad to show + you over any day.” + </p> + <p> + “But Sir Walter doesn't want to sell, does he?” + </p> + <p> + “We can find out from his bailiff, sir, but”—with cold contempt—“I + think that trained nurse is just comin' up from her dinner, so 'm afraid + we'll 'ave to ask you, sir... Now, Master George—Ai-ie! Wake a litty + minute, lammie!” + </p> +<p class="p2"> + A few months later the three of them were down at the brook in the Gale + Anstey woods to consider the rebuilding of a footbridge carried away by + spring floods. George Lashmar Chapin wanted all the bluebells on God's + earth that day to eat, and Sophie adored him in a voice like to the + cooing of a dove; so business was delayed. + </p> + <p> + “Here's the place,” said his father at last among the water + forget-me-nots. “But where the deuce are the larch-poles, Cloke? I told + you to have them down here ready.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll get 'em down <i>if</i> you say so,” Cloke answered, with a thrust of the + underlip they both knew. + </p> + <p> + “But I did say so. What on earth have you brought that timber-tug here + for? We aren't building a railway bridge. Why, in America, half-a-dozen + two-by-four bits would be ample.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know nothin' about that,” said Cloke. + </p> + <p> + “An' I've nothin' to say against larch—IF you want to make a temp'ry + job of it. I ain't 'ere to tell you what isn't so, sir; an' you can't say + I ever come creepin' up on you, or tryin' to lead you further in than you + set out—” + </p> + <p> + A year ago George would have danced with impatience. Now he scraped a + little mud off his old gaiters with his spud, and waited. + </p> + <p> + “All I say is that you can put up larch and make a temp'ry job of it; and + by the time the young master's married it'll have to be done again. Now, + I've brought down a couple of as sweet six-by-eight oak timbers as we've + ever drawed. You put 'em in an' it's off your mind for good an' all. + T'other way—I don't say it ain't right, I'm only just sayin' what I + think—but t'other way, he'll no sooner be married than we'll 'ave it + <i>all</i> to do again. You've no call to regard my words, but you can't get out + of that.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said George after a pause; “I've been realising that for some time. + Make it oak then; we can't get out of it.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"></a> + THE RECALL + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +I am the land of their fathers,<br/> + In me the virtue stays;<br/> +I will bring back my children,<br/> + After certain days.<br/> +<br/> +Under their feet in the grasses<br/> + My clinging magic runs.<br/> +They shall return as strangers,<br/> + They shall remain as sons.<br/> +<br/> +Over their heads in the branches<br/> + Of their new-bought, ancient trees,<br/> +I weave an incantation,<br/> + And draw them to my knees.<br/> +<br/> +Scent of smoke in the evening,<br/> + Smell of rain in the night,<br/> +The hours, the days and the seasons<br/> + Order their souls aright;<br/> +<br/> +Till I make plain the meaning<br/> + Of all my thousand years<br/> +Till I fill their hearts with knowledge,<br/> + While I fill their eyes with tears. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"></a> + GARM—A HOSTAGE + </h2> + <p> + One night, a very long time ago, I drove to an Indian military cantonment + called Mian Mir to see amateur theatricals. At the back of the Infantry + barracks a soldier, his cap over one eye, rushed in front of the horses + and shouted that he was a dangerous highway robber. As a matter of fact, + he was a friend of mine, so I told him to go home before any one caught + him; but he fell under the pole, and I heard voices of a military guard in + search of some one. + </p> + <p> + The driver and I coaxed him into the carriage, drove home swiftly, + undressed him and put him to bed, where he waked next morning with a sore + headache, very much ashamed. When his uniform was cleaned and dried, and + he had been shaved and washed and made neat, I drove him back to barracks + with his arm in a fine white sling, and reported that I had accidentally + run over him. I did not tell this story to my friend's sergeant, who was a + hostile and unbelieving person, but to his lieutenant, who did not know us + quite so well. + </p> + <p> + Three days later my friend came to call, and at his heels slobbered and + fawned one of the finest bull-terriers—of the old-fashioned breed, + two parts bull and one terrier—that I had ever set eyes on. He was + pure white, with a fawn-coloured saddle just behind his neck, and a fawn + diamond at the root of his thin whippy tail. I had admired him distantly + for more than a year; and Vixen, my own fox-terrier, knew him too, but did + not approve. + </p> + <p> + “'E's for you,” said my friend; but he did not look as though he liked + parting with him. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense! That dog's worth more than most men, Stanley,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “'E's that and more. 'Tention!” + </p> + <p> + The dog rose on his hind legs, and stood upright for a full minute. + </p> + <p> + “Eyes right!” + </p> + <p> + He sat on his haunches and turned his head sharp to the right. At a sign + he rose and barked thrice. Then he shook hands with his right paw and + bounded lightly to my shoulder. Here he made himself into a necktie, limp + and lifeless, hanging down on either side of my neck. I was told to pick + him up and throw him in the air. He fell with a howl, and held up one leg. + </p> + <p> + “Part o' the trick,” said his owner. “You're going to die now. Dig + yourself your little grave an' shut your little eye.” + </p> + <p> + Still limping, the dog hobbled to the garden-edge, dug a hole and lay down + in it. When told that he was cured, he jumped out, wagging his tail, and + whining for applause. He was put through half-a-dozen other tricks, such + as showing how he would hold a man safe (I was that man, and he sat down + before me, his teeth bared, ready to spring), and how he would stop eating + at the word of command. I had no more than finished praising him when my + friend made a gesture that stopped the dog as though he had been shot, + took a piece of blue-ruled canteen-paper from his helmet, handed it to me + and ran away, while the dog looked after him and howled. I read: + </p> +<p class="letter"> + S<small>IR</small>—I give you the dog because of what you got me out of. He is the + best I know, for I made him myself, and he is as good as a man. Please do + not give him too much to eat, and please do not give him back to me, for + I'm not going to take him, if you will keep him. So please do not try to + give him back any more. I have kept his name back, so you can call him + anything and he will answer, but please do not give him back. He can kill + a man as easy as anything, but please do not give him too much meat. He + knows more than a man. + </p> + <p> + Vixen sympathetically joined her shrill little yap to the bull-terrier's + despairing cry, and I was annoyed, for I knew that a man who cares for + dogs is one thing, but a man who loves one dog is quite another. Dogs are + at the best no more than verminous vagrants, self-scratchers, foul + feeders, and unclean by the law of Moses and Mohammed; but a dog with whom + one lives alone for at least six months in the year; a free thing, tied to + you so strictly by love that without you he will not stir or exercise; a + patient, temperate, humorous, wise soul, who knows your moods before you + know them yourself, is not a dog under any ruling. + </p> + <p> + I had Vixen, who was all my dog to me; and I felt what my friend must have + felt, at tearing out his heart in this style and leaving it in my garden. + However, the dog understood clearly enough that I was his master, and did + not follow the soldier. As soon as he drew breath I made much of him, and + Vixen, yelling with jealousy, flew at him. Had she been of his own sex, he + might have cheered himself with a fight, but he only looked worriedly when + she nipped his deep iron sides, laid his heavy head on my knee, and howled + anew. I meant to dine at the Club that night; but as darkness drew in, and + the dog snuffed through the empty house like a child trying to recover + from a fit of sobbing, I felt that I could not leave him to suffer his + first evening alone. So we fed at home, Vixen on one side, and the + stranger-dog on the other; she watching his every mouthful, and saying + explicitly what she thought of his table manners, which were much better + than hers. + </p> + <p> + It was Vixen's custom, till the weather grew hot, to sleep in my bed, her + head on the pillow like a Christian; and when morning came I would always + find that the little thing had braced her feet against the wall and pushed + me to the very edge of the cot. This night she hurried to bed + purposefully, every hair up, one eye on the stranger, who had dropped on a + mat in a helpless, hopeless sort of way, all four feet spread out, sighing + heavily. She settled her head on the pillow several times, to show her + little airs and graces, and struck up her usual whiney sing-song before + slumber. The stranger-dog softly edged toward me. I put out my hand and he + licked it. Instantly my wrist was between Vixen's teeth, and her warning + aaarh! said as plainly as speech, that if I took any further notice of the + stranger she would bite. + </p> + <p> + I caught her behind her fat neck with my left hand, shook her severely, + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Vixen, if you do that again you'll be put into the verandah. Now, + remember!” + </p> + <p> + She understood perfectly, but the minute I released her she mouthed my + right wrist once more, and waited with her ears back and all her body + flattened, ready to bite. The big dog's tail thumped the floor in a humble + and peace-making way. + </p> + <p> + I grabbed Vixen a second time, lifted her out of bed like a rabbit (she + hated that and yelled), and, as I had promised, set her out in the + verandah with the bats and the moonlight. At this she howled. Then she + used coarse language—not to me, but to the bull-terrier—till + she coughed with exhaustion. Then she ran round the house trying every + door. Then she went off to the stables and barked as though some one were + stealing the horses, which was an old trick of hers. Last she returned, + and her snuffing yelp said, “I'll be good! Let me in and I'll be good!” + </p> + <p> + She was admitted and flew to her pillow. When she was quieted I whispered + to the other dog, “You can lie on the foot of the bed.” The bull jumped up + at once, and though I felt Vixen quiver with rage, she knew better than to + protest. So we slept till the morning, and they had early breakfast with + me, bite for bite, till the horse came round and we went for a ride. I + don't think the bull had ever followed a horse before. He was wild with + excitement, and Vixen, as usual, squealed and scuttered and scooted, and + took charge of the procession. + </p> + <p> + There was one corner of a village near by, which we generally passed with + caution, because all the yellow pariah-dogs of the place gathered about + it. + </p> + <p> + They were half-wild, starving beasts, and though utter cowards, yet where + nine or ten of them get together they will mob and kill and eat an English + dog. I kept a whip with a long lash for them. + </p> + <p> + That morning they attacked Vixen, who, perhaps of design, had moved from + beyond my horse's shadow. + </p> + <p> + The bull was ploughing along in the dust, fifty yards behind, rolling in + his run, and smiling as bull-terriers will. I heard Vixen squeal; half a + dozen of the curs closed in on her; a white streak came up behind me; a + cloud of dust rose near Vixen, and, when it cleared, I saw one tall pariah + with his back broken, and the bull wrenching another to earth. Vixen + retreated to the protection of my whip, and the bull paddled back smiling + more than ever, covered with the blood of his enemies. That decided me to + call him “Garm of the Bloody Breast,” who was a great person in his time, + or “Garm” for short; so, leaning forward, I told him what his temporary + name would be. He looked up while I repeated it, and then raced away. I + shouted “Garm!” He stopped, raced back, and came up to ask my will. + </p> + <p> + Then I saw that my soldier friend was right, and that that dog knew and + was worth more than a man. At the end of the ride I gave an order which + Vixen knew and hated: “Go away and get washed!” I said. Garm understood + some part of it, and Vixen interpreted the rest, and the two trotted off + together soberly. When I went to the back verandah Vixen had been washed + snowy-white, and was very proud of herself, but the dog-boy would not + touch Garm on any account unless I stood by. So I waited while he was + being scrubbed, and Garm, with the soap creaming on the top of his broad + head, looked at me to make sure that this was what I expected him to + endure. He knew perfectly that the dog-boy was only obeying orders. + </p> + <p> + “Another time,” I said to the dog-boy, “you will wash the great dog with + Vixen when I send them home.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he know?” said the dog-boy, who understood the ways of dogs. + </p> + <p> + “Garm,” I said, “another time you will be washed with Vixen.” + </p> + <p> + I knew that Garm understood. Indeed, next washing-day, when Vixen as usual + fled under my bed, Garm stared at the doubtful dog-boy in the verandah, + stalked to the place where he had been washed last time, and stood rigid + in the tub. + </p> + <p> + But the long days in my office tried him sorely. We three would drive off + in the morning at half-past eight and come home at six or later. Vixen + knowing the routine of it, went to sleep under my table; but the + confinement ate into Garm's soul. He generally sat on the verandah looking + out on the Mall; and well I knew what he expected. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes a company of soldiers would move along on their way to the Fort, + and Garm rolled forth to inspect them; or an officer in uniform entered + into the office, and it was pitiful to see poor Garm's welcome to the + cloth—not the man. He would leap at him, and sniff and bark + joyously, then run to the door and back again. One afternoon I heard him + bay with a full throat—a thing I had never heard before—and he + disappeared. When I drove into my garden at the end of the day a soldier + in white uniform scrambled over the wall at the far end, and the Garm that + met me was a joyous dog. This happened twice or thrice a week for a month. + </p> + <p> + I pretended not to notice, but Garm knew and Vixen knew. He would glide + homewards from the office about four o'clock, as though he were only going + to look at the scenery, and this he did so quietly that but for Vixen I + should not have noticed him. The jealous little dog under the table would + give a sniff and a snort, just loud enough to call my attention to the + flight. Garm might go out forty times in the day and Vixen would never + stir, but when he slunk off to see his true master in my garden she told + me in her own tongue. That was the one sign she made to prove that Garm + did not altogether belong to the family. They were the best of friends at + all times, but, Vixen explained that I was never to forget Garm did not + love me as she loved me. + </p> + <p> + I never expected it. The dog was not my dog—could never be my dog—and + I knew he was as miserable as his master who tramped eight miles a day to + see him. So it seemed to me that the sooner the two were reunited the + better for all. One afternoon I sent Vixen home alone in the dog-cart + (Garm had gone before), and rode over to cantonments to find another + friend of mine, who was an Irish soldier and a great friend of the dog's + master. + </p> + <p> + I explained the whole case, and wound up with: + </p> + <p> + “And now Stanley's in my garden crying over his dog. Why doesn't he take + him back? They're both unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + “Unhappy! There's no sense in the little man any more. But 'tis his fit.” + </p> + <p> + “What is his fit? He travels fifty miles a week to see the brute, and he + pretends not to notice me when he sees me on the road; and I'm as unhappy + as he is. Make him take the dog back.” + </p> + <p> + “It's his penance he's set himself. I told him by way of a joke, afther + you'd run over him so convenient that night, whin he was drunk—I + said if he was a Catholic he'd do penance. Off he went wid that fit in his + little head an' a dose of fever, an nothin' would suit but givin' you the + dog as a hostage.” + </p> + <p> + “Hostage for what? I don't want hostages from Stanley.” + </p> + <p> + “For his good behaviour. He's keepin' straight now, the way it's no + pleasure to associate wid him.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he taken the pledge?” + </p> + <p> + “If 'twas only that I need not care. Ye can take the pledge for three + months on an' off. He sez he'll never see the dog again, an' so mark you, + he'll keep straight for evermore. Ye know his fits? Well, this is wan of + them. How's the dog takin' it?” + </p> + <p> + “Like a man. He's the best dog in India. Can't you make Stanley take him + back?” + </p> + <p> + “I can do no more than I have done. But ye know his fits. He's just doin' + his penance. What will he do when he goes to the Hills? The doctor's put + him on the list.” + </p> + <p> + It is the custom in India to send a certain number of invalids from each + regiment up to stations in the Himalayas for the hot weather; and though + the men ought to enjoy the cool and the comfort, they miss the society of + the barracks down below, and do their best to come back or to avoid going. + I felt that this move would bring matters to a head, so I left Terrence + hopefully, though he called after me “He won't take the dog, sorr. You can + lay your month's pay on that. Ye know his fits.” + </p> + <p> + I never pretended to understand Private Ortheris; and so I did the next + best thing—I left him alone. + </p> + <p> + That summer the invalids of the regiment to which my friend belonged were + ordered off to the Hills early, because the doctors thought marching in + the cool of the day would do them good. Their route lay south to a place + called Umballa, a hundred and twenty miles or more. Then they would turn + east and march up into the hills to Kasauli or Dugshai or Subathoo. I + dined with the officers the night before they left—they were + marching at five in the morning. It was midnight when I drove into my + garden, and surprised a white figure flying over the wall. + </p> + <p> + “That man,” said my butler, “has been here since nine, making talk to that + dog. He is quite mad.” + </p> + <p> + “I did not tell him to go away because he has been here many times before, + and because the dog-boy told me that if I told him to go away, that great + dog would immediately slay me. He did not wish to speak to the Protector + of the Poor, and he did not ask for anything to eat or drink.” + </p> + <p> + “Kadir Buksh,” said I, “that was well done, for the dog would surely have + killed thee. But I do not think the white soldier will come any more.” + </p> + <p> + Garm slept ill that night and whimpered in his dreams. Once he sprang up + with a clear, ringing bark, and I heard him wag his tail till it waked him + and the bark died out in a howl. He had dreamed he was with his master + again, and I nearly cried. It was all Stanley's silly fault. + </p> + <p> + The first halt which the detachment of invalids made was some miles from + their barracks, on the Amritsar road, and ten miles distant from my house. + By a mere chance one of the officers drove back for another good dinner at + the Club (cooking on the line of march is always bad), and there I met + him. He was a particular friend of mine, and I knew that he knew how to + love a dog properly. His pet was a big fat retriever who was going up to + the Hills for his health, and, though it was still April, the round, brown + brute puffed and panted in the Club verandah as though he would burst. + </p> + <p> + “It's amazing,” said the officer, “what excuses these invalids of mine + make to get back to barracks. There's a man in my company now asked me for + leave to go back to cantonments to pay a debt he'd forgotten. I was so + taken by the idea I let him go, and he jingled off in an ekka as pleased + as Punch. Ten miles to pay a debt! Wonder what it was really?” + </p> + <p> + “If you'll drive me home I think I can show you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + So he went over to my house in his dog-cart with the retriever; and on the + way I told him the story of Garm. + </p> + <p> + “I was wondering where that brute had gone to. He's the best dog in the + regiment,” said my friend. “I offered the little fellow twenty rupees for + him a month ago. But he's a hostage, you say, for Stanley's good conduct. + Stanley's one of the best men I have when he chooses.” + </p> + <p> + “That's the reason why,” I said. “A second-rate man wouldn't have taken + things to heart as he has done.” + </p> + <p> + We drove in quietly at the far end of the garden, and crept round the + house. There was a place close to the wall all grown about with tamarisk + trees, where I knew Garm kept his bones. Even Vixen was not allowed to sit + near it. In the full Indian moonlight I could see a white uniform bending + over the dog. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, old man,” we could not help hearing Stanley's voice. “For + 'Eving's sake don't get bit and go mad by any measley pi-dog. But you can + look after yourself, old man. You don't get drunk an' run about 'ittin' + your friends. You takes your bones an' you eats your biscuit, an' you + kills your enemy like a gentleman. I'm goin' away—don't 'owl—I'm + goin' off to Kasauli, where I won't see you no more.” + </p> + <p> + I could hear him holding Garm's nose as the dog threw it up to the stars. + </p> + <p> + “You'll stay here an' be'ave, an'—an' I'll go away an' try to + be'ave, an' I don't know 'ow to leave you. I don't know—” + </p> + <p> + “I think this is damn silly,” said the officer, patting his foolish fubsy + old retriever. He called to the private, who leaped to his feet, marched + forward, and saluted. + </p> + <p> + “You here?” said the officer, turning away his head. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir, but I'm just goin' back.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be leaving here at eleven in my cart. You come with me. I can't + have sick men running about all over the place. Report yourself at + eleven, here.” + </p> + <p> + We did not say much when we went indoors, but the officer muttered and + pulled his retriever's ears. + </p> + <p> + He was a disgraceful, overfed doormat of a dog; and when he waddled off to + my cookhouse to be fed, I had a brilliant idea. + </p> + <p> + At eleven o'clock that officer's dog was nowhere to be found, and you + never heard such a fuss as his owner made. He called and shouted and grew + angry, and hunted through my garden for half an hour. + </p> + <p> + Then I said: + </p> + <p> + “He's sure to turn up in the morning. Send a man in by rail, and I'll find + the beast and return him.” + </p> + <p> + “Beast?” said the officer. “I value that dog considerably more than I + value any man I know. It's all very fine for you to talk—your dog's + here.” + </p> + <p> + So she was—under my feet—and, had she been missing, food and + wages would have stopped in my house till her return. But some people grow + fond of dogs not worth a cut of the whip. My friend had to drive away at + last with Stanley in the back seat; and then the dog-boy said to me: + </p> + <p> + “What kind of animal is Bullen Sahib's dog? Look at him!” + </p> + <p> + I went to the boy's hut, and the fat old reprobate was lying on a mat + carefully chained up. He must have heard his master calling for twenty + minutes, but had not even attempted to join him. + </p> + <p> + “He has no face,” said the dog-boy scornfully. “He is a punniar-kooter (a + spaniel). He never tried to get that cloth off his jaws when his master + called. Now Vixen-baba would have jumped through the window, and that + Great Dog would have slain me with his muzzled mouth. It is true that + there are many kinds of dogs.” + </p> + <p> + Next evening who should turn up but Stanley. The officer had sent him back + fourteen miles by rail with a note begging me to return the retriever if I + had found him, and, if I had not, to offer huge rewards. The last train to + camp left at half-past ten, and Stanley, stayed till ten talking to Garm. + I argued and entreated, and even threatened to shoot the bull-terrier, but + the little man was as firm as a rock, though I gave him a good dinner and + talked to him most severely. Garm knew as well as I that this was the last + time he could hope to see his man, and followed Stanley like a shadow. The + retriever said nothing, but licked his lips after his meal and waddled off + without so much as saying “Thank you” to the disgusted dog-boy. + </p> + <p> + So that last meeting was over, and I felt as wretched as Garm, who moaned + in his sleep all night. When we went to the office he found a place under + the table close to Vixen, and dropped flat till it was time to go home. + There was no more running out into the verandahs, no slinking away for + stolen talks with Stanley. As the weather grew warmer the dogs were + forbidden to run beside the cart, but sat at my side on the seat, Vixen + with her head under the crook of my left elbow, and Garm hugging the left + handrail. + </p> + <p> + Here Vixen was ever in great form. She had to attend to all the moving + traffic, such as bullock-carts that blocked the way, and camels, and led + ponies; as well as to keep up her dignity when she passed low friends + running in the dust. She never yapped for yapping's sake, but her shrill, + high bark was known all along the Mall, and other men's terriers ki-yied + in reply, and bullock-drivers looked over their shoulders and gave us the + road with a grin. + </p> + <p> + But Garm cared for none of these things. His big eyes were on the horizon + and his terrible mouth was shut. There was another dog in the office who + belonged to my chief. We called him “Bob the Librarian,” because he always + imagined vain rats behind the bookshelves, and in hunting for them would + drag out half the old newspaper-files. Bob was a well-meaning idiot, but + Garm did not encourage him. He would slide his head round the door + panting, “Rats! Come along Garm!” and Garm would shift one forepaw over + the other, and curl himself round, leaving Bob to whine at a most + uninterested back. The office was nearly as cheerful as a tomb in those + days. + </p> + <p> + Once, and only once, did I see Garm at all contented with his + surroundings. He had gone for an unauthorised walk with Vixen early one + Sunday morning, and a very young and foolish artilleryman (his battery had + just moved to that part of the world) tried to steal them both. Vixen, of + course, knew better than to take food from soldiers, and, besides, she had + just finished her breakfast. So she trotted back with a large piece of the + mutton that they issue to our troops, laid it down on my verandah, and + looked up to see what I thought. I asked her where Garm was, and she ran + in front of the horse to show me the way. + </p> + <p> + About a mile up the road we came across our artilleryman sitting very + stiffly on the edge of a culvert with a greasy handkerchief on his knees. + Garm was in front of him, looking rather pleased. When the man moved leg + or hand, Garm bared his teeth in silence. A broken string hung from his + collar, and the other half of it lay, all warm, in the artilleryman's + still hand. He explained to me, keeping his eyes straight in front of him, + that he had met this dog (he called him awful names) walking alone, and + was going to take him to the Fort to be killed for a masterless pariah. + </p> + <p> + I said that Garm did not seem to me much of a pariah, but that he had + better take him to the Fort if he thought best. He said he did not care to + do so. I told him to go to the Fort alone. He said he did not want to go + at that hour, but would follow my advice as soon as I had called off the + dog. I instructed Garm to take him to the Fort, and Garm marched him + solemnly up to the gate, one mile and a half under a hot sun, and I told + the quarter-guard what had happened; but the young artilleryman was more + angry than was at all necessary when they began to laugh. Several + regiments, he was told, had tried to steal Garm in their time. + </p> + <p> + That month the hot weather shut down in earnest, and the dogs slept in the + bathroom on the cool wet bricks where the bath is placed. Every morning, + as soon as the man filled my bath the two jumped in, and every morning the + man filled the bath a second time. I said to him that he might as well + fill a small tub specially for the dogs. “Nay,” said he smiling, “it is + not their custom. They would not understand. Besides, the big bath gives + them more space.” + </p> + <p> +The punkah-coolies who pull the punkahs day and night came to know Garm +intimately. He noticed that when the swaying fan stopped I would call out to +the coolie and bid him pull with a long stroke. If the man still slept I would +wake him up. He discovered, too, that it was a good thing to lie in the wave of +air under the punkah. Maybe Stanley had taught him all about this in barracks. +At any rate, when the punkah stopped, Garm would first growl and cock his eye +at the rope, and if that did not wake the man—it nearly always +did—he would tiptoe forth and talk in the sleeper's ear. Vixen was a +clever little dog, but she could never connect the punkah and the coolie; so +Garm gave me grateful hours of cool sleep. But he was utterly wretched—as +miserable as a human being; and in his misery he clung so closely to me that +other men noticed it, and were envious. If I moved from one room to another +Garm followed; if my pen stopped scratching, Garm's head was thrust into my +hand; if I turned, half awake, on the pillow, Garm was up and at my side, for +he knew that I was his only link with his master, and day and night, and night +and day, his eyes asked one question—“When is this going to +end?” + </p> + <p> + Living with the dog as I did, I never noticed that he was more than + ordinarily upset by the hot weather, till one day at the Club a man said: + “That dog of yours will die in a week or two. He's a shadow.” Then I dosed + Garm with iron and quinine, which he hated; and I felt very anxious. He + lost his appetite, and Vixen was allowed to eat his dinner under his eyes. + Even that did not make him swallow, and we held a consultation on him, of + the best man-doctor in the place; a lady-doctor, who cured the sick wives + of kings; and the Deputy Inspector-General of the veterinary service of + all India. They pronounced upon his symptoms, and I told them his story, + and Garm lay on a sofa licking my hand. + </p> + <p> + “He's dying of a broken heart,” said the lady-doctor suddenly. + </p> + <p> + “'Pon my word,” said the Deputy Inspector General, “I believe Mrs. Macrae + is perfectly right as usual.” + </p> + <p> + The best man-doctor in the place wrote a prescription, and the veterinary + Deputy Inspector-General went over it afterwards to be sure that the drugs + were in the proper dog-proportions; and that was the first time in his + life that our doctor ever allowed his prescriptions to be edited. It was a + strong tonic, and it put the dear boy on his feet for a week or two; then + he lost flesh again. I asked a man I knew to take him up to the Hills with + him when he went, and the man came to the door with his kit packed on the + top of the carriage. Garm took in the situation at one red glance. The + hair rose along his back; he sat down in front of me and delivered the + most awful growl I have ever heard in the jaws of a dog. I shouted to my + friend to get away at once, and as soon as the carriage was out of the + garden Garm laid his head on my knee and whined. So I knew his answer, + and devoted myself to getting Stanley's address in the Hills. + </p> + <p> + My turn to go to the cool came late in August. We were allowed thirty + days' holiday in a year, if no one fell sick, and we took it as we could + be spared. My chief and Bob the Librarian had their holiday first, and + when they were gone I made a calendar, as I always did, and hung it up at + the head of my cot, tearing off one day at a time till they returned. + Vixen had gone up to the Hills with me five times before; and she + appreciated the cold and the damp and the beautiful wood fires there as + much as I did. + </p> + <p> + “Garm,” I said, “we are going back to Stanley at Kasauli. Kasauli—Stanley; + Stanley—Kasauli.” And I repeated it twenty times. It was not Kasauli + really, but another place. Still I remembered what Stanley had said in my + garden on the last night, and I dared not change the name. Then Garm began + to tremble; then he barked; and then he leaped up at me, frisking and + wagging his tail. + </p> + <p> + “Not now,” I said, holding up my hand. “When I say 'Go,' we'll go, Garm.” + I pulled out the little blanket coat and spiked collar that Vixen always + wore up in the Hills to protect her against sudden chills and thieving + leopards, and I let the two smell them and talk it over. What they said of + course I do not know; but it made a new dog of Garm. His eyes were bright; + and he barked joyfully when I spoke to him. He ate his food, and he killed + his rats for the next three weeks, and when he began to whine I had only + to say “Stanley—Kasauli; Kasauli—Stanley,” to wake him up. I + wish I had thought of it before. + </p> + <p> + My chief came back, all brown with living in the open air, and very angry + at finding it so hot in the plains. That same afternoon we three and Kadir + Buksh began to pack for our month's holiday, Vixen rolling in and out of + the bullock-trunk twenty times a minute, and Garm grinning all over and + thumping on the floor with his tail. Vixen knew the routine of travelling + as well as she knew my office-work. She went to the station, singing + songs, on the front seat of the carriage, while Garm sat with me. She + hurried into the railway carriage, saw Kadir Buksh make up my bed for the + night, got her drink of water, and curled up with her black-patch eye on + the tumult of the platform. Garm followed her (the crowd gave him a lane + all to himself) and sat down on the pillows with his eyes blazing, and his + tail a haze behind him. + </p> + <p> + We came to Umballa in the hot misty dawn, four or five men, who had been + working hard for eleven months, shouting for our dâks—the two-horse + travelling carriages that were to take us up to Kalka at the foot of the + Hills. It was all new to Garm. He did not understand carriages where you + lay at full length on your bedding, but Vixen knew and hopped into her + place at once; Garm following. The Kalka Road, before the railway was + built, was about forty-seven miles long, and the horses were changed every + eight miles. Most of them jibbed, and kicked, and plunged, but they had to + go, and they went rather better than usual for Garm's deep bay in their + rear. + </p> + <p> + There was a river to be forded, and four bullocks pulled the carriage, and + Vixen stuck her head out of the sliding-door and nearly fell into the + water while she gave directions. Garm was silent and curious, and rather + needed reassuring about Stanley and Kasauli. So we rolled, barking and + yelping, into Kalka for lunch, and Garm ate enough for two. + </p> + <p> + After Kalka the road wound among the hills, and we took a curricle with + half-broken ponies, which were changed every six miles. No one dreamed of + a railroad to Simla in those days, for it was seven thousand feet up in + the air. The road was more than fifty miles long, and the regulation pace + was just as fast as the ponies could go. Here, again, Vixen led Garm from + one carriage to the other; jumped into the back seat, and shouted. A cool + breath from the snows met us about five miles out of Kalka, and she whined + for her coat, wisely fearing a chill on the liver. I had had one made for + Garm too, and, as we climbed to the fresh breezes, I put it on, and Garm + chewed it uncomprehendingly, but I think he was grateful. + </p> + <p> + “Hi-yi-yi-yi!” sang Vixen as we shot round the curves; “Toot-toot-toot!” + went the driver's bugle at the dangerous places, and “yow! yow!” bayed + Garm. Kadir Buksh sat on the front seat and smiled. Even he was glad to + get away from the heat of the Plains that stewed in the haze behind us. + Now and then we would meet a man we knew going down to his work again, and + he would say: “What's it like below?” and I would shout: “Hotter than + cinders. What's it like up above?” and he would shout back: “Just + perfect!” and away we would go. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Kadir Buksh said, over his shoulder: “Here is Solon”; and Garm + snored where he lay with his head on my knee. Solon is an unpleasant + little cantonment, but it has the advantage of being cool and healthy. It + is all bare and windy, and one generally stops at a rest-house nearby for + something to eat. I got out and took both dogs with me, while Kadir Buksh + made tea. A soldier told us we should find Stanley “out there,” nodding + his head towards a bare, bleak hill. + </p> + <p> + When we climbed to the top we spied that very Stanley, who had given me + all this trouble, sitting on a rock with his face in his hands, and his + overcoat hanging loose about him. I never saw anything so lonely and + dejected in my life as this one little man, crumpled up and thinking, on + the great gray hillside. + </p> + <p> + Here Garm left me. + </p> + <p> + He departed without a word, and, so far as I could see, without moving his + legs. He flew through the air bodily, and I heard the whack of him as he + flung himself at Stanley, knocking the little man clean over. They rolled + on the ground together, shouting, and yelping, and hugging. I could not + see which was dog and which was man, till Stanley got up and whimpered. + </p> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="kip0102 (71K)" src="images/kip0102.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <p> + He told me that he had been suffering from fever at intervals, and was + very weak. He looked all he said, but even while I watched, both man and + dog plumped out to their natural sizes, precisely as dried apples swell in + water. Garm was on his shoulder, and his breast and feet all at the same + time, so that Stanley spoke all through a cloud of Garm—gulping, + sobbing, slavering Garm. He did not say anything that I could understand, + except that he had fancied he was going to die, but that now he was quite + well, and that he was not going to give up Garm any more to anybody under + the rank of Beelzebub. + </p> + <p> + Then he said he felt hungry, and thirsty, and happy. + </p> + <p> + We went down to tea at the rest-house, where Stanley stuffed himself with + sardines and raspberry jam, and beer, and cold mutton and pickles, when + Garm wasn't climbing over him; and then Vixen and I went on. + </p> + <p> + Garm saw how it was at once. He said good-bye to me three times, giving me + both paws one after another, and leaping on to my shoulder. He further + escorted us, singing Hosannas at the top of his voice, a mile down the + road. Then he raced back to his own master. + </p> + <p> + Vixen never opened her mouth, but when the cold twilight came, and we + could see the lights of Simla across the hills, she snuffled with her nose + at the breast of my ulster. I unbuttoned it, and tucked her inside. Then + she gave a contented little sniff, and fell fast asleep, her head on my + breast, till we bundled out at Simla, two of the four happiest people in + all the world that night. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"></a> + THE POWER OF THE DOG + </h2> +<p class="poem"> +There is sorrow enough in the natural way<br/> +From men and women to fill our day;<br/> +But when we are certain of sorrow in store,<br/> +Why do we always arrange for more?<br/> +Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware<br/> +Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.<br/> +<br/> +Buy a pup and your money will buy<br/> +Love unflinching that cannot lie—<br/> +Perfect passion and worship fed<br/> +By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.<br/> +Nevertheless it is hardly fair<br/> +To risk your heart for a dog to tear.<br/> +<br/> +When the fourteen years which Nature permits<br/> +Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,<br/> +And the vet's unspoken prescription runs<br/> +To lethal chambers or loaded guns,<br/> +Then you will find—it's your own affair<br/> +But... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.<br/> +<br/> +When the body that lived at your single will<br/> +When the whimper of welcome is stilled (how still!)<br/> +When the spirit that answered your every mood<br/> +Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,<br/> +You will discover how much you care,<br/> +And will give your heart to a dog to tear!<br/> +<br/> +We've sorrow enough in the natural way,<br/> +When it comes to burying Christian clay.<br/> +Our loves are not given, but only lent,<br/> +At compound interest of cent per cent.<br/> +Though it is not always the case, I believe,<br/> +That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:<br/> +For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,<br/> +A short-time loan is as bad as a long<br/> +So why in Heaven (before we are there!)<br/> +Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear? +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"></a> + THE MOTHER HIVE + </h2> + <p> + If the stock had not been old and overcrowded, the Wax-moth would never + have entered; but where bees are too thick on the comb there must be + sickness or parasites. The heat of the hive had risen with the June + honey-flow, and though the farmers worked, until their wings ached, to + keep people cool, everybody suffered. + </p> + <p> + A young bee crawled up the greasy trampled alighting-board. “Excuse me,” + she began, “but it's my first honey-flight. Could you kindly tell me if + this is my—” + </p> + <p> + “—own hive?” the Guard snapped. “Yes! Buzz in, and be foul-brooded + to you! Next!” + </p> + <p> + “Shame!” cried half a dozen old workers with worn wings and nerves, and + there was a scuffle and a hum. + </p> + <p> + The little grey Wax-moth, pressed close in a crack in the alighting-board, + had waited this chance all day. She scuttled in like a ghost, and, knowing + the senior bees would turn her out at once, dodged into a brood-frame, + where youngsters who had not yet seen the winds blow or the flowers nod + discussed life. Here she was safe, for young bees will tolerate any sort + of stranger. Behind her came the bee who had been slanged by the Guard. + </p> + <p> + “What is the world like, Melissa?” said a companion. “Cruel! I brought in + a full load of first-class stuff, and the Guard told me to go and be + foul-brooded!” She sat down in the cool draught across the combs. + </p> + <p> + “If you'd only heard,” said the Wax-moth silkily, “the insolence of the + Guard's tone when she cursed our sister. It aroused the Entire Community.” + She laid an egg. She had stolen in for that purpose. + </p> + <p> + “There was a bit of a fuss on the Gate,” Melissa chuckled. “You were + there, Miss?” She did not know how to address the slim stranger. + </p> + <p> + “Don't call me 'Miss.' I'm a sister to all in affliction—just a + working-sister. My heart bled for you beneath your burden.” The Wax-moth + caressed Melissa with her soft feelers and laid another egg. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't lay here,” cried Melissa. “You aren't a Queen.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear child, I give you my most solemn word of honour those aren't + eggs. Those are my principles, and I am ready to die for them.” She raised + her voice a little above the rustle and tramp round her. “If you'd like to + kill me, pray do.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be unkind, Melissa,” said a young bee, impressed by the chaste + folds of the Wax-moth's wing, which hid her ceaseless egg-dropping. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't done anything,” Melissa answered. “She's doing it all.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don't let your conscience reproach you later, but when you've killed + me, write me, at least, as one that loved her fellow-worker.” + </p> + <p> + Laying at every sob, the Wax-moth backed into a crowd of young bees, and + left Melissa bewildered and annoyed. So she lifted up her little voice in + the darkness and cried, “Stores!” till a gang of cell-fillers hailed her, + and she left her load with them. + </p> + <p> + “I'm afraid I foul-brooded you just now,” said a voice over her shoulder. + “I'd been on the Gate for three hours, and one would foul-brood the Queen + herself after that. No offence meant.” + </p> + <p> + “None taken,” Melissa answered cheerily. “I shall be on Guard myself, some + day. What's next to do?” + </p> + <p> + “There's a rumour of Death's Head Moths about. Send a gang of youngsters + to the Gate, and tell them to narrow it in with a couple of stout + scrap-wax pillars. It'll make the Hive hot, but we can't have Death's + Headers in the middle of our honey-flow.” + </p> + <p> + “My Only Wings! I should think not!” Melissa had all a sound bee's + hereditary hatred against the big, squeaking, feathery Thief of the Hives. + “Tumble out!” she called across the youngsters' quarters. “All you who + aren't feeding babies, show a leg. Scrap-wax pillars for the Ga-ate!” She + chanted the order at length. + </p> + <p> + “That's nonsense,” a downy, day-old bee answered. “In the first place, I + never heard of a Death's Header coming into a hive. People don't do such + things. In the second, building pillars to keep 'em out is purely a + Cypriote trick, unworthy of British bees. In the third, if you trust a + Death's Head, he will trust you. Pillar-building shows lack of confidence. + Our dear sister in grey says so.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Pillars are un-English and provocative, and a waste of wax that is + needed for higher and more practical ends,” said the Wax-moth from an + empty store-cell. + </p> + <p> + “The safety of the Hive is the highest thing I've ever heard of. You + mustn't teach us to refuse work,” Melissa began. + </p> + <p> + “You misunderstand me, as usual, love. Work's the essence of life; but to + expend precious unreturning vitality and real labour against imaginary + danger, that is heartbreakingly absurd! If I can only teach a—a + little toleration—a little ordinary kindness here toward that absurd + old bogey you call the Death's Header, I shan't have lived in vain.” + </p> + <p> + “She hasn't lived in vain, the darling!” cried twenty bees together. “You + should see her saintly life, Melissa! She just devotes herself to + spreading her principles, and—and—she looks lovely!” + </p> + <p> + An old, baldish bee came up the comb. + </p> + <p> + “Pillar-workers for the Gate! Get out and chew scraps. Buzz off!” she + said. The Wax-moth slipped aside. + </p> + <p> + The young bees trooped down the frame, whispering. “What's the matter with + 'em?” said the oldster. “Why do they call each other 'ducky' and + 'darling'? Must be the weather.” She sniffed suspiciously. “Horrid stuffy + smell here. Like stale quilts. Not Wax-moth, I hope, Melissa?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to my knowledge,” said Melissa, who, of course, only knew the + Wax-moth as a lady with principles, and had never thought to report her + presence. She had always imagined Wax-moths to be like blood-red + dragon-flies. + </p> + <p> + “You had better fan out this corner for a little,” said the old bee and + passed on. Melissa dropped her head at once, took firm hold with her + fore-feet, and fanned obediently at the regulation stroke three hundred + beats to the second. Fanning tries a bee's temper, because she must always + keep in the same place where she never seems to be doing any good, and, + all the while, she is wearing out her only wings. When a bee cannot fly, a + bee must not live; and a bee knows it. The Wax-moth crept forth, and + caressed Melissa again. + </p> + <p> + “I see,” she murmured, “that at heart you are one of Us.” + </p> + <p> + “I work with the Hive,” Melissa answered briefly. + </p> + <p> + “It's the same thing. We and the Hive are one.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why are your feelers different from ours? Don't cuddle so.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't be provincial, Carissima. You can't have all the world alike—yet.” + </p> + <p> + “But why do you lay eggs?” Melissa insisted. “You lay 'em like a Queen—only + you drop them in patches all over the place. I've watched you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Brighteyes, so you've pierced my little subterfuge? Yes, they are + eggs. By and by they'll spread our principles. Aren't you glad?” + </p> + <p> + “You gave me your most solemn word of honour that they were not eggs.” + </p> + <p> + “That was my little subterfuge, dearest—for the sake of the Cause. + Now I must reach the young.” The Wax-moth tripped towards the fourth + brood-frame where the young bees were busy feeding the babies. + </p> + <p> + It takes some time for a sound bee to realize a malignant and continuous + lie. “She's very sweet and feathery,” was all that Melissa thought, “but + her talk sounds like ivy honey tastes. I'd better get to my field-work + again.” + </p> + <p> + She found the Gate in a sulky uproar. The youngsters told off to the + pillars had refused to chew scrap-wax because it made their jaws ache, and + were clamouring for virgin stuff. + </p> + <p> + “Anything to finish the job!” said the badgered Guards. “Hang up, some of + you, and make wax for these slack-jawed sisters.” + </p> + <p> + Before a bee can make wax she must fill herself with honey. Then she + climbs to safe foothold and hangs, while other gorged bees hang on to her + in a cluster. There they wait in silence till the wax comes. The scales + are either taken out of the maker's pockets by the workers, or tinkle down + on the workers while they wait. The workers chew them (they are useless + unchewed) into the all-supporting, all-embracing Wax of the Hive. + </p> + <p> + But now, no sooner was the wax-cluster in position than the workers below + broke out again. + </p> + <p> + “Come down!” they cried. “Come down and work! Come on, you Levantine + parasites! Don't think to enjoy yourselves up there while we're sweating + down here!” + </p> + <p> + The cluster shivered, as from hooked fore-foot to hooked hind-foot it + telegraphed uneasiness. At last a worker sprang up, grabbed the lowest + waxmaker, and swung, kicking above her companions. + </p> + <p> + “I can make wax too!” she bawled. “Give me a full gorge and I'll make tons + of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Make it, then,” said the bee she had grappled. The spoken word snapped + the current through the cluster. It shook and glistened like a cat's fur + in the dark. “Unhook!” it murmured. “No wax for any one to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “You lazy thieves! Hang up at once and produce our wax,” said the bees + below. + </p> + <p> + “Impossible! The sweat's gone. To make your wax we must have stillness, + warmth, and food. Unhook! Unhook!” + </p> + <p> + They broke up as they murmured, and disappeared among the other bees, from + whom, of course, they were undistinguishable. + </p> + <p> + “Seems as if we'd have to chew scrap-wax for these pillars, after all,” + said a worker. + </p> + <p> + “Not by a whole comb,” cried the young bee who had broken the cluster. + “Listen here! I've studied the question more than twenty minutes. It's as + simple as falling off a daisy. You've heard of Cheshire, Root and + Langstroth?” + </p> + <p> + They had not, but they shouted “Good old Langstroth!” just the same. + </p> + <p> + “Those three know all that there is to be known about making hives. One or + t'other of 'em must have made ours, and if they've made it, they're bound + to look after it. Ours is a 'Guaranteed Patent Hive.' You can see it on + the label behind.” + </p> + <p> + “Good old guarantee! Hurrah for the label behind!” roared the bees. + </p> + <p> + “Well, such being the case, I say that when we find they've betrayed us, + we can exact from them a terrible vengeance.” + </p> + <p> + “Good old vengeance! Good old Root! 'Nuff said! Chuck it!” The crowd + cheered and broke away as Melissa dived through. + </p> + <p> + “D'you know where Langstroth, Root and Cheshire live if you happen to + want 'em?” she asked of the proud panting orator. + </p> + <p> + “Gum me if I know they ever lived at all! But aren't they beautiful names + to buzz about? Did you see how it worked up the sisterhood?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; but it didn't defend the Gate,” she replied. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, perhaps that's true, but think how delicate my position is, sister. + I've a magnificent appetite, and I don't like working. It's bad for the + mind. My instinct tells me that I can act as a restraining influence on + others. They would have been worse, but for me.” + </p> + <p> + But Melissa had already risen clear, and was heading for a breadth of + virgin white clover, which to an overtired bee is as soothing as plain + knitting to a woman. + </p> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="frontispiece (87K)" src="images/frontispiece.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <p> + “I think I'll take this load to the nurseries,” she said, when she had + finished. “It was always quiet there in my day,” and she topped off with + two little pats of pollen for the babies. + </p> + <p> + She was met on the fourth brood-comb by a rush of excited sisters all + buzzing together. + </p> + <p> + “One at a time! Let me put down my load. Now, what is it, Sacharissa?” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “Grey Sister—that fluffy one, I mean—she came and said we + ought to be out in the sunshine gathering honey, because life was short. + She said any old bee could attend to our babies, and some day old bees + would. That isn't true, Melissa, is it? No old bees can take us away from + our babies, can they?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. You feed the babies while your heads are soft. When your + heads harden, you go on to field-work. Any one knows that.” + </p> + <p> + “We told her so! We told her so; but she only waved her feelers, and said + we could all lay eggs like Queens if we chose. And I'm afraid lots of the + weaker sisters believe her, and are trying to do it. So unsettling!” + </p> + <p> + Sacharissa sped to a sealed worker-cell whose lid pulsated, as the bee + within began to cut its way out. + </p> + <p> + “Come along, precious!” she murmured, and thinned the frail top from the + other side. A pale, damp, creased thing hoisted itself feebly on to the + comb. Sacharissa's note changed at once. “No time to waste! Go up the + frame and preen yourself!” she said. “Report for nursing-duty in my ward + to-morrow evening at six. Stop a minute. What's the matter with your third + right leg?” + </p> + <p> + The young bee held it out in silence—unmistakably a drone leg + incapable of packing pollen. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. You needn't report till the day after to-morrow.” Sacharissa + turned to her companion. “That's the fifth oddity hatched in my ward since + noon. I don't like it.” + </p> + <p> + “There's always a certain number of 'em,” said Melissa. “You can't stop a + few working sisters from laying, now and then, when they overfeed + themselves. They only raise dwarf drones.” + </p> + <p> + “But we're hatching out drones with workers' stomachs; workers with + drones' stomachs; and albinoes and mixed-leggers who can't pack pollen—like + that poor little beast yonder. I don't mind dwarf drones any more than you + do (they all die in July), but this steady hatch of oddities frightens me, + Melissa!” + </p> + <p> + “How narrow of you! They are all so delightfully clever and unusual and + interesting,” piped the Wax-moth from a crack above them. “Come here, you + dear, downy duck, and tell us all about your feelings.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish she'd go!” Sacharissa lowered her voice. “She meets these—er—oddities + as they dry out, and cuddles 'em in corners.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose the truth is that we're over-stocked and too well fed to + swarm,” said Melissa. + </p> + <p> + “That is the truth,” said the Queen's voice behind them. They had not + heard the heavy royal footfall which sets empty cells vibrating. + Sacharissa offered her food at once. She ate and dragged her weary body + forward. “Can you suggest a remedy?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “New principles!” cried the Wax-moth from her crevice. “We'll apply them + quietly later.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we sent out a swarm?” Melissa suggested. “It's a little late, but + it might ease us off.” + </p> + <p> + “It would save us, but—I know the Hive! You shall see for yourself.” + The old Queen cried the Swarming Cry, which to a bee of good blood should + be what the trumpet was to Job's war-horse. In spite of her immense age + (three, years), it rang between the cañon-like frames as a pibroch rings + in a mountain pass; the fanners changed their note, and repeated it up in + every gallery; and the broad-winged drones, burly and eager, ended it on + one nerve-thrilling outbreak of bugles: “La Reine le veult! Swarm! + Swar-rm! Swar-r-rm!” + </p> + <p> + But the roar which should follow the Call was wanting. They heard a broken + grumble like the murmur of a falling tide. + </p> + <p> + “Swarm? What for? Catch me leaving a good bar-frame Hive, with fixed + foundations, for a rotten, old oak out in the open where it may rain any + minute! We're all right! It's a 'Patent Guaranteed Hive.' Why do they want + to turn us out? Swarming be gummed! Swarming was invented to cheat a + worker out of her proper comforts. Come on off to bed!” + </p> + <p> + The noise died out as the bees settled in empty cells for the night. + </p> + <p> + “You hear?” said the Queen. “I know the Hive!” + </p> + <p> + “Quite between ourselves, I taught them that,” cried the Wax-moth. “Wait + till my principles develop, and you'll see the light from a new quarter.” + </p> + <p> + “You speak truth for once,” the Queen said suddenly, for she recognized + the Wax-moth. “That Light will break into the top of the Hive. A Hot Smoke + will follow it, and your children will not be able to hide in any + crevice.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible?” Melissa whispered. “I—we have sometimes heard a legend + like it.” + </p> + <p> + “It is no legend,” the old Queen answered. “I had it from my mother, and + she had it from hers. After the Wax-moth has grown strong, a Shadow will + fall across the gate; a Voice will speak from behind a Veil; there will be + Light, and Hot Smoke, and earthquakes, and those who live will see + everything that they have done, all together in one place, burned up in + one great fire.” The old Queen was trying to tell what she had been told + of the Bee Master's dealings with an infected hive in the apiary, two or + three seasons ago; and, of course, from her point of view the affair was + as important as the Day of Judgment. + </p> + <p> + “And then?” asked horrified Sacharissa. + </p> + <p> + “Then, I have heard that a little light will burn in a great darkness, and + perhaps the world will begin again. Myself, I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “Tut! Tut!” the Wax-moth cried. “You good, fat people always prophesy ruin + if things don't go exactly your way. But I grant you there will be + changes.” + </p> + <p> + There were. When her eggs hatched, the wax was riddled with little + tunnels, coated with the dirty clothes of the caterpillars. Flannelly + lines ran through the honey-stores, the pollen-larders, the foundations, + and, worst of all, through the babies in their cradles, till the Sweeper + Guards spent half their time tossing out useless little corpses. The lines + ended in a maze of sticky webbing on the face of the comb. The + caterpillars could not stop spinning as they walked, and as they walked + everywhere, they smarmed and garmed everything. Even where it did not + hamper the bees' feet, the stale, sour smell of the stuff put them off + their work; though some of the bees who had taken to egg laying said it + encouraged them to be mothers and maintain a vital interest in life. + </p> + <p> + When the caterpillars became moths, they made friends with the + ever-increasing Oddities—albinoes, mixed-leggers, single-eyed + composites, faceless drones, halfqueens and laying sisters; and the + ever-dwindling band of the old stock worked themselves bald and + fray-winged to feed their queer charges. Most of the Oddities would not, + and many, on account of their malformations, could not, go through a day's + field-work; but the Wax-moths, who were always busy on the brood-comb, + found pleasant home occupations for them. One albino, for instance, + divided the number of pounds of honey in stock by the number of bees in + the Hive, and proved that if every bee only gathered honey for seven and + three quarter minutes a day, she would have the rest of the time to + herself, and could accompany the drones on their mating flights. The + drones were not at all pleased. + </p> + <p> + Another, an eyeless drone with no feelers, said that all brood-cells + should be perfect circles, so as not to interfere with the grub or the + workers. He proved that the old six-sided cell was solely due to the + workers building against each other on opposite sides of the wall, and + that if there were no interference, there would be no angles. Some bees + tried the new plan for a while, and found it cost eight times more wax + than the old six-sided specification; and, as they never allowed a cluster + to hang up and make wax in peace, real wax was scarce. However, they eked + out their task with varnish stolen from new coffins at funerals, and it + made them rather sick. Then they took to cadging round sugar-factories and + breweries, because it was easiest to get their material from those places, + and the mixture of glucose and beer naturally fermented in store and blew + the store-cells out of shape, besides smelling abominably. Some of the + sound bees warned them that ill-gotten gains never prosper, but the + Oddities at once surrounded them and balled them to death. That was a + punishment they were almost as fond of as they were of eating, and they + expected the sound bees to feed them. Curiously enough the age-old + instinct of loyalty and devotion towards the Hive made the sound bees do + this, though their reason told them they ought to slip away and unite with + some other healthy stock in the apiary. + </p> + <p> + “What, about seven and three-quarter minutes' work now?” said Melissa one + day as she came in. “I've been at it for five hours, and I've only half a + load.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the Hive subsists on the Hival Honey which the Hive produces,” said a + blind Oddity squatting in a store-cell. + </p> + <p> + “But honey is gathered from flowers outside two miles away sometimes,” + cried Melissa. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” said the blind thing, sucking hard. “But this is the Hive, is + it not?” + </p> + <p> + “It was. Worse luck, it is.” + </p> + <p> + “And the Hival Honey is here, is it not?” It opened a fresh store-cell to + prove it. + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es, but it won't be long at this rate,” said Melissa. + </p> + <p> + “The rates have nothing to do with it. This Hive produces the Hival Honey. + You people never seem to grasp the economic simplicity that underlies all + life.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, me!” said poor Melissa, “haven't you ever been beyond the Gate?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. A fool's eyes are in the ends of the earth. Mine are in my + head.” It gorged till it bloated. + </p> + <p> + Melissa took refuge in her poorly paid field-work and told Sacharissa the + story. + </p> + <p> + “Hut!” said that wise bee, fretting with an old maid of a thistle. “Tell + us something new. The Hive's full of such as him—it, I mean.” + </p> + <p> + “What's the end to be? All the honey going out and none coming in. Things + can't last this way!” said Melissa. + </p> + <p> + “Who cares?” said Sacharissa. “I know now how drones feel the day before + they're killed. A short life and a merry one for me.” + </p> + <p> + “If it only were merry! But think of those awful, solemn, lop-sided + Oddities waiting for us at home crawling and clambering and preaching—and + dirtying things in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't mind that so much as their silly songs, after we've fed 'em, all + about 'work among the merry, merry blossoms,'” said Sacharissa from the + deeps of a stale Canterbury bell. + </p> + <p> + “I do. How's our Queen?” said Melissa. + </p> + <p> + “Cheerfully hopeless, as usual. But she lays an egg now and then.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she so?” Melissa backed out of the next bell with a jerk. “Suppose + now, we sound workers tried to raise a Princess in some clean corner?” + </p> + <p> + “You'd be put to it to find one. The Hive's all Wax-moth and muckings. But—well?” + </p> + <p> + “A Princess might help us in the time of the Voice behind the Veil that + the Queen talks of. And anything is better than working for Oddities that + chirrup about work that they can't do, and waste what we bring home.” + </p> + <p> + “Who cares?” said Sacharissa. “I'm with you, for the fun of it. The + Oddities would ball us to death, if they knew. Come home, and we'll + begin.” + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + There is no room to tell how the experienced Melissa found a far-off frame + so messed and mishandled by abandoned cell-building experiments that, for + very shame, the bees never went there. How in that ruin she blocked out a + Royal Cell of sound wax, but disguised by rubbish till it looked like a + kopje among deserted kopjes. How she prevailed upon the hopeless Queen to + make one last effort and lay a worthy egg. How the Queen obeyed and died. + How her spent carcass was flung out on the rubbish heap, and how a + multitude of laying sisters went about dropping drone-eggs where they + listed, and said there was no more need of Queens. How, covered by this + confusion, Sacharissa educated certain young bees to educate certain + new-born bees in the almost lost art of making Royal Jelly. How the nectar + for it was won out of hours in the teeth of chill winds. How the hidden + egg hatched true—no drone, but Blood Royal. How it was capped, and + how desperately they worked to feed and double-feed the now swarming + Oddities, lest any break in the food-supplies should set them to + instituting inquiries, which, with songs about work, was their favourite + amusement. How in an auspicious hour, on a moonless night, the Princess + came forth a Princess indeed, and how Melissa smuggled her into a dark + empty honey-magazine, to bide her time; and how the drones, knowing she + was there, went about singing the deep disreputable love-songs of the old + days—to the scandal of the laying sisters, who do not think well of + drones. These things are, written in the Book of Queens, which is laid up + in the hollow of the Great Ash Ygdrasil. + </p> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="kip0130 (97K)" src="images/kip0130.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <p> + After a few days the weather changed again and became glorious. Even the + Oddities would now join the crowd that hung out on the alighting-board, + and would sing of work among the merry, merry blossoms till an untrained + ear might have received it for the hum of a working hive. Yet, in truth, + their store-honey had been eaten long ago. They lived from day to day on + the efforts of the few sound bees, while the Wax-moth fretted and consumed + again their already ruined wax. But the sound bees never mentioned these + matters. They knew, if they did, the Oddities would hold a meeting and + ball them to death. + </p> + <p> + “Now you see what we have done,” said the Wax-moths. “We have created New + Material, a New Convention, a New Type, as we said we would.” + </p> + <p> + “And new possibilities for us,” said the laying sisters gratefully. “You + have given us a new life's work, vital and paramount.” + </p> + <p> + “More than that,” chanted the Oddities in the sunshine; “you have created + a new heaven and a new earth. Heaven, cloudless and accessible” (it was a + perfect August evening) “and Earth teeming with the merry, merry blossoms, + waiting only our honest toil to turn them all to good. The—er—Aster, + and the Crocus, and the—er—Ladies' Smock in her season, the + Chrysanthemum after her kind, and the Guelder Rose bringing forth + abundantly withal.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Holy Hymettus!” said Melissa, awestruck. “I knew they didn't know how + honey was made, but they've forgotten the Order of the Flowers! What will + become of them?” + </p> + <p> + A Shadow fell across the alighting-board as the Bee Master and his son + came by. The Oddities crawled in and a Voice behind a Veil said: “I've + neglected the old Hive too long. Give me the smoker.” + </p> + <p> + Melissa heard and darted through the gate. “Come, oh come!” she cried. “It + is the destruction the Old Queen foretold. Princess, come!” + </p> + <p> + “Really, you are too archaic for words,” said an Oddity in an alley-way. + “A cloud, I admit, may have crossed the sun; but why hysterics? Above all, + why Princesses so late in the day? Are you aware it's the Hival Tea-time? + Let's sing grace.” + </p> + <p> + Melissa clawed past him with all six legs. Sacharissa had run to what was + left of the fertile brood-comb. “Down and out!” she called across the + brown breadth of it. “Nurses, guards, fanners, sweepers—out!” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the babies. They're better dead.—Out, before the Light + and the Hot Smoke!” + </p> + <p> + The Princess's first clear fearless call (Melissa had found her) rose and + drummed through all the frames. “La Reine le veult! Swarm! Swar-rm! + Swar-r-rm!” + </p> + <p> + The Hive shook beneath the shattering thunder of a stuck-down quilt being + torn back. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be alarmed, dears,” said the Wax-moths. “That's our work. Look up, + and you'll see the dawn of the New Day.” + </p> + <p> + Light broke in the top of the hive as the Queen had, prophesied—naked + light on the boiling, bewildered bees. + </p> + <p> + Sacharissa rounded up her rearguard, which dropped headlong off the frame, + and joined the Princess's detachment thrusting toward the Gate. Now panic + was in full blast, and each sound bee found herself embraced by at least + three Oddities. The first instinct of a frightened bee is to break into + the stores and gorge herself with honey; but there were no stores left, so + the Oddities fought the sound bees. + </p> + <p> + “You must feed us, or we shall die!” they cried, holding and clutching and + slipping, while the silent scared earwigs and little spiders twisted + between their legs. “Think of the Hive, traitors! The Holy Hive!” + </p> + <p> + “You should have thought before!” cried the sound bees. “Stay and see the + dawn of your New Day.” + </p> + <p> + They reached the Gate at last over the soft bodies of many to whom they + had ministered. + </p> + <p> + “On! Out! Up!” roared Melissa in the Princess's ear. “For the Hive's sake! + To the Old Oak!” + </p> + <p> + The Princess left the alighting-board, circled once, flung herself at the + lowest branch of the Old Oak, and her little loyal swarm—you could + have covered it with a pint mug—followed, hooked, and hung. + </p> + <p> + “Hold close!” Melissa gasped. “The old legends have come true! Look!” + </p> + <p> + The Hive was half hidden by smoke, and Figures moved through the smoke. + They heard a frame crack stickily, saw it heaved high and twirled round + between enormous hands—a blotched, bulged, and perished horror of + grey wax, corrupt brood, and small drone-cells, all covered with crawling + Oddities, strange to the sun. + </p> + <p> + “Why, this isn't a hive! This is a museum of curiosities,” said the Voice + behind the Veil. It was only the Bee Master talking to his son. + </p> + <p> + “Can you blame 'em, father?” said a second voice. “It's rotten with + Wax-moth. See here!” + </p> + <p> + Another frame came up. A finger poked through it, and it broke away in + rustling flakes of ashy rottenness. + </p> + <p> + “Number Four Frame! That was your mother's pet comb once,” whispered + Melissa to the Princess. “Many's the good egg I've watched her lay there.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren't you confusing post hoc with propter hoc?” said the Bee Master. + “Wax-moth only succeed when weak bees let them in.” A third frame crackled + and rose into the light. “All this is full of laying workers' brood. That + never happens till the stock's weakened. Phew!” + </p> + <p> + He beat it on his knee like a tambourine, and it also crumbled to pieces. + </p> + <p> + The little swarm shivered as they watched the dwarf drone-grubs squirm + feebly on the grass. Many sound bees had nursed on that frame, well + knowing their work was useless; but the actual sight of even useless work + destroyed disheartens a good worker. + </p> + <p> + “No, they have some recuperative power left,” said the second voice. + “Here's a Queen cell!” + </p> + <p> + “But it's tucked away among—— What on earth has come to the little + wretches? They seem to have lost the instinct of cell-building.” The + father held up the frame where the bees had experimented in circular + cell-work. It looked like the pitted head of a decaying toadstool. + </p> + <p> + “Not altogether,” the son corrected. “There's one line, at least, of + perfectly good cells.” + </p> + <p> + “My work,” said Sacharissa to herself. “I'm glad Man does me justice + before—” + </p> + <p> + That frame, too, was smashed out and thrown atop of the others and the + foul earwiggy quilts. + </p> + <p> + As frame after frame followed it, the swarm beheld the upheaval, exposure, + and destruction of all that had been well or ill done in every cranny of + their Hive for generations past. There was black comb so old that they had + forgotten where it hung; orange, buff, and ochre-varnished store-comb, + built as bees were used to build before the days of artificial + foundations; and there was a little, white, frail new work. There were + sheets on sheets of level, even brood-comb that had held in its time + unnumbered thousands of unnamed workers; patches of obsolete drone-comb, + broad and high-shouldered, showing to what marks the male grub was + expected to grow; and two-inch deep honey-magazines, empty, but still + magnificent, the whole gummed and glued into twisted scrap-work, awry on + the wires; half-cells, beginnings abandoned, or grandiose, weak-walled, + composite cells pieced out with rubbish and capped with dirt. + </p> + <p> + Good or bad, every inch of it was so riddled by the tunnels of the + Wax-moth that it broke in clouds of dust as it was flung on the heap. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, see!” cried Sacharissa. “The Great Burning that Our Queen foretold. + Who can bear to look?” + </p> + <p> + A flame crawled up the pile of rubbish, and they smelt singeing wax. + </p> + <p> + The Figures stooped, lifted the Hive and shook it upside down over the + pyre. A cascade of Oddities, chips of broken comb, scale, fluff, and grubs + slid out, crackled, sizzled, popped a little, and then the flames roared + up and consumed all that fuel. + </p> + <p> + “We must disinfect,” said a Voice. “Get me a sulphur-candle, please.” + </p> + <p> + The shell of the Hive was returned to its place, a light was set in its + sticky emptiness, tier by tier the Figures built it up, closed the + entrance, and went away. The swarm watched the light leaking through the + cracks all the long night. At dawn one Wax-moth came by, fluttering + impudently. + </p> + <p> + “There has been a miscalculation about the New Day, my dears,” she began; + “one can't expect people to be perfect all at once. That was our mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “No, the mistake was entirely ours,” said the Princess. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” said the Wax-moth. “When you think of the enormous upheaval—call + it good or bad—which our influence brought about, you will admit + that we, and we alone—” + </p> + <p> + “You?” said the Princess. “Our stock was not strong. So you came—as + any other disease might have come. Hang close, all my people.” + </p> + <p> + When the sun rose, Veiled Figures came down, and saw their swarm at the + bough's end waiting patiently within sight of the old Hive—a + handful, but prepared to go on. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"></a> + THE BEES AND THE FLIES + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +A farmer of the Augustan age<br/> +Perused in Virgil's golden page,<br/> +The story of the secret won<br/> +From Proteus by Cyrene's son<br/> +How the dank sea-god sowed the swain<br/> +Means to restore his hives again<br/> +More briefly, how a slaughtered bull<br/> +Breeds honey by the bellyful.<br/> +<br/> +The egregious rustic put to death<br/> +A bull by stopping of its breath:<br/> +Disposed the carcass in a shed<br/> +With fragrant herbs and branches spread.<br/> +And, having thus performed the charm,<br/> +Sat down to wait the promised swarm.<br/> +<br/> +Nor waited long... The God of Day<br/> +Impartial, quickening with his ray<br/> +Evil and good alike, beheld<br/> +The carcass—and the carcass swelled!<br/> +Big with new birth the belly heaves<br/> +Beneath its screen of scented leaves;<br/> +Past any doubt, the bull conceives!<br/> +<br/> +The farmer bids men bring more hives<br/> +To house the profit that arrives;<br/> +Prepares on pan, and key and kettle,<br/> +Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;<br/> +But when to crown the work he goes,<br/> +Gods! What a stink salutes his nose!<br/> +Where are the honest toilers? Where<br/> +The gravid mistress of their care?<br/> +A busy scene, indeed, he sees,<br/> +But not a sign or sound of bees.<br/> +Worms of the riper grave unhid<br/> +By any kindly coffin lid,<br/> +Obscene and shameless to the light,<br/> +Seethe in insatiate appetite,<br/> +Through putrid offal; while above<br/> +The hissing blow-fly seeks his love,<br/> +Whose offspring, supping where they supt,<br/> +Consume corruption twice corrupt. +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"></a> + WITH THE NIGHT MAIL + </h2> + + <h3> + A STORY OF 2000 A. D. + </h3> + +<p class="center"> + (<i>Together with extracts from the magazine in which it appeared</i>) + </p> + <p> + A nine o'clock of a gusty winter night I stood on the lower stages of one + of the G.P.O. outward mail towers. My purpose was a run to Quebec in + “Postal Packet 162 or such other as may be appointed”; and the + Postmaster-General himself countersigned the order. This talisman opened + all doors, even those in the despatching-caisson at the foot of the tower, + where they were delivering the sorted Continental mail. The bags lay + packed close as herrings in the long grey underbodies which our G.P.O. + still calls “coaches.” Five such coaches were filled as I watched, and + were shot up the guides to be locked on to their waiting packets three + hundred feet nearer the stars. + </p> + <p> + From the despatching-caisson I was conducted by a courteous and + wonderfully learned official Mr. L.L. Geary, Second Despatcher of the + Western Route—to the Captains' Room (this wakes an echo of old + romance), where the mail captains come on for their turn of duty. He + introduces me to the captain of “162”—Captain Purnall, and his + relief, Captain Hodgson. The one is small and dark; the other large and + red; but each has the brooding sheathed glance characteristic of eagles + and aeronauts. You can see it in the pictures of our racing professionals, + from L.V. Rautsch to little Ada Warrleigh—that fathomless + abstraction of eyes habitually turned through naked space. + </p> + <p> + On the notice-board in the Captains' Room, the pulsing arrows of some + twenty indicators register, degree by geographical degree, the progress of + as many homeward-bound packets. The word “Cape” rises across the face of a + dial; a gong strikes: the South African mid-weekly mail is in at the + Highgate Receiving Towers. That is all. It reminds one comically of the + traitorous little bell which in pigeon-fanciers', lofts notifies the + return of a homer. + </p> + <p> + “Time for us to be on the move,” says Captain Purnall, and we are shot up + by the passenger-lift to the top of the despatch-towers. “Our coach will + lock on when it is filled and the clerks are aboard.” + </p> + <p> + “No. 162” waits for us in Slip E of the topmost stage. The great curve of + her back shines frostily under the lights, and some minute alteration of + trim makes her rock a little in her holding-down slips. + </p> + <p> + Captain Purnall frowns and dives inside. Hissing softly, “162” comes to + rest as level as a rule. From her North Atlantic Winter nose-cap (worn + bright as diamond with boring through uncounted leagues of hail, snow, and + ice) to the inset of her three built out propeller-shafts is some two + hundred and forty feet. Her extreme diameter, carried well forward, is + thirty-seven. Contrast this with the nine hundred by ninety-five of any + crack liner, and you will realize the power that must drive a hull through + all weathers at more than the emergency speed of the Cyclonic! + </p> + <p> + The eye detects no joint in her skin plating save the sweeping hair-crack + of the bow-rudder—Magniac's rudder that assured us the dominion of + the unstable air and left its inventor penniless and half-blind. It is + calculated to Castelli's “gullwing” curve. Raise a few feet of that all + but invisible plate three-eighths of an inch and she will yaw five miles + to port or starboard ere she is under control again. Give her full helm + and she returns on her track like a whip-lash. Cant the whole forward—a + touch on the wheel will suffice—and she sweeps at your good + direction up or down. Open the complete circle and she presents to the air + a mushroom-head that will bring her up all standing within a half mile. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” says Captain Hodgson, answering my thought, “Castelli thought he'd + discovered the secret of controlling aeroplanes when he'd only found out + how to steer dirigible balloons. Magniac invented his rudder to help + war-boats ram each other; and war went out of fashion and Magniac he went + out of his mind because he said he couldn't serve his country any more. I + wonder if any of us ever know what we're really doing.” + </p> + <p> + “If you want to see the coach locked you'd better go aboard. It's due + now,” says Mr. Geary. I enter through the door amidships. There is nothing + here for display. The inner skin of the gas-tanks comes down to within a + foot or two of my head and turns over just short of the turn of the + bilges. Liners and yachts disguise their tanks with decoration, but the + G.P.O. serves them raw under a lick of grey official paint. The inner skin + shuts off fifty feet of the bow and as much of the stern, but the + bow-bulkhead is recessed for the lift-shunting apparatus as the stern is + pierced for the shaft-tunnels. The engine-room lies almost amidships. + Forward of it, extending to the turn of the bow tanks, is an aperture—a + bottomless hatch at present—into which our coach will be locked. One + looks down over the coamings three hundred feet to the despatching-caisson + whence voices boom upward. The light below is obscured to a sound of + thunder, as our coach rises on its guides. It enlarges rapidly from a + postage-stamp to a playing-card; to a punt and last a pontoon. The two + clerks, its crew, do not even look up as it comes into place. The Quebec + letters fly under their fingers and leap into the docketed racks, while + both captains and Mr. Geary satisfy them selves that the coach is locked + home. A clerk passes the way-bill over the hatch coaming. Captain Purnall + thumb-marks and passes it to Mr. Geary. Receipt has been given and taken. + “Pleasant run,” says Mr. Geary, and disappears through the door which a + foot high pneumatic compressor locks after him. + </p> + <p> + “A-ah!” sighs the compressor released. Our holding-down clips part with a + tang. We are clear. + </p> + <p> + Captain Hodgson opens the great colloid underbody porthole through which I + watch over-lighted London slide eastward as the gale gets hold of us. The + first of the low winter clouds cuts off the well-known view and darkens + Middlesex. On the south edge of it I can see a postal packet's light + ploughing through the white fleece. For an instant she gleams like a star + ere she drops toward the Highgate Receiving Towers. “The Bombay Mail,” + says Captain Hodgson, and looks at his watch. “She's forty minutes late.” + </p> + <p> + “What's our level?” I ask. + </p> + <p> + “Four thousand. Aren't you coming up on the bridge?” + </p> + <p> + The bridge (let us ever praise the G.P.O. as a repository of ancientest + tradition!) is represented by a view of Captain Hodgson's legs where he + stands on the Control Platform that runs thwart-ships overhead. The bow + colloid is unshuttered and Captain Purnall, one hand on the wheel, is + feeling for a fair slant. The dial shows 4300 feet. “It's steep to-night,” + he mutters, as tier on tier of cloud drops under. “We generally pick up an + easterly draught below three thousand at this time o' the year. I hate + slathering through fluff.” + </p> + <p> + “So does Van Cutsem. Look at him huntin' for a slant!” says Captain + Hodgson. A foglight breaks cloud a hundred fathoms below. The Antwerp + Night Mail makes her signal and rises between two racing clouds far to + port, her flanks blood-red in the glare of Sheerness Double Light. The + gale will have us over the North Sea in half-an-hour, but Captain Purnall + lets her go composedly—nosing to every point of the compass as she + rises. + </p> + <p> + “Five thousand-six, six thousand eight hundred”—the dip-dial reads + ere we find the easterly drift, heralded by a flurry of snow at the + thousand fathom level. Captain Purnall rings up the engines and keys down + the governor on the switch before him. There is no sense in urging + machinery when Eolus himself gives you good knots for nothing. We are away + in earnest now—our nose notched home on our chosen star. At this + level the lower clouds are laid out, all neatly combed by the dry fingers + of the East. Below that again is the strong westerly blow through which we + rose. Overhead, a film of southerly drifting mist draws a theatrical gauze + across the firmament. The moonlight turns the lower strata to silver + without a stain except where our shadow underruns us. Bristol and Cardiff + Double Lights (those statelily inclined beams over Severnmouth) are dead + ahead of us; for we keep the Southern Winter Route. Coventry Central, the + pivot of the English system, stabs upward once in ten seconds its spear of + diamond light to the north; and a point or two off our starboard bow The + Leek, the great cloud-breaker of Saint David's Head, swings its + unmistakable green beam twenty-five degrees each way. There must be half a + mile of fluff over it in this weather, but it does not affect The Leek. + </p> + <p> + “Our planet's over-lighted if anything,” says Captain Purnall at the + wheel, as Cardiff-Bristol slides under. “I remember the old days of common + white verticals that 'ud show two or three hundred feet up in a mist, if + you knew where to look for 'em. In really fluffy weather they might as + well have been under your hat. One could get lost coming home then, an' + have some fun. Now, it's like driving down Piccadilly.” + </p> + <p> + He points to the pillars of light where the cloud-breakers bore through + the cloud-floor. We see nothing of England's outlines: only a white + pavement pierced in all directions by these manholes of variously coloured + fire—Holy Island's white and red—St. Bee's interrupted white, + and so on as far as the eye can reach. Blessed be Sargent, Ahrens, and the + Dubois brothers, who invented the cloud-breakers of the world whereby we + travel in security! + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to lift for The Shamrock?” asks Captain Hodgson. Cork Light + (green, fixed) enlarges as we rush to it. Captain Purnall nods. There is + heavy traffic hereabouts—the cloud-bank beneath us is streaked with + running fissures of flame where the Atlantic boats are hurrying Londonward + just clear of the fluff. Mail-packets are supposed, under the Conference + rules, to have the five-thousand-foot lanes to themselves, but the + foreigner in a hurry is apt to take liberties with English air. “No. 162” + lifts to a long-drawn wail of the breeze in the fore-flange of the rudder + and we make Valencia (white, green, white) at a safe 7000 feet, dipping + our beam to an incoming Washington packet. + </p> + <p> + There is no cloud on the Atlantic, and faint streaks of cream round Dingle + Bay show where the driven seas hammer the coast. A big S.A.T.A. liner + (Société Anonyme des Transports Aëriens) is diving and lifting half a mile + below us in search of some break in the solid west wind. Lower still lies + a disabled Dane she is telling the liner all about it in International. + Our General Communication dial has caught her talk and begins to + eavesdrop. Captain Hodgson makes a motion to shut it off but checks + himself. “Perhaps you'd like to listen,” he says. + </p> + <p> + “Argol of St. Thomas,” the Dane whimpers. “Report owners three starboard + shaft collar-bearings fused. Can make Flores as we are, but impossible + further. Shall we buy spares at Fayal?” + </p> + <p> + The liner acknowledges and recommends inverting the bearings. The Argol + answers that she has already done so without effect, and begins to relieve + her mind about cheap German enamels for collar-bearings. The Frenchman + assents cordially, cries “Courage, mon ami,” and switches off. + </p> + <p> + Then lights sink under the curve of the ocean. + </p> + <p> + “That's one of Lundt & Bleamers' boats,” says Captain Hodgson. “Serves + 'em right for putting German compos in their thrust-blocks. She won't be + in Fayal to-night! By the way, wouldn't you like to look round the + engine-room?” + </p> + <p> + I have been waiting eagerly for this invitation and I follow Captain + Hodgson from the control-platform, stooping low to avoid the bulge of the + tanks. We know that Fleury's gas can lift anything, as the world-famous + trials of '89 showed, but its almost indefinite powers of expansion + necessitate vast tank room. Even in this thin air the lift-shunts are busy + taking out one-third of its normal lift, and still “162” must be checked + by an occasional downdraw of the rudder or our flight would become a climb + to the stars. Captain Purnall prefers an overlifted to an underlifted + ship; but no two captains trim ship alike. “When I take the bridge,” says + Captain Hodgson, “you'll see me shunt forty per cent of the lift out of + the gas and run her on the upper rudder. With a swoop upward instead of a + swoop downward, as you say. Either way will do. It's only habit. Watch our + dip-dial! Tim fetches her down once every thirty knots as regularly as + breathing.” + </p> + <p> + So is it shown on the dip-dial. For five or six minutes the arrow creeps + from 6700 to 7300. There is the faint “szgee” of the rudder, and back + slides the arrow to 6000 on a falling slant of ten or fifteen knots. + </p> + <p> + “In heavy weather you jockey her with the screws as well,” says Captain + Hodgson, and, unclipping the jointed bar which divides the engine-room + from the bare deck, he leads me on to the floor. Here we find Fleury's + Paradox of the Bulk-headed Vacuum—which we accept now without + thought—literally in full blast. The three engines are H.T.&T. + assisted-vacuo Fleury turbines running from 3000 to the Limit—that + is to say, up to the point when the blades make the air “bell”—cut + out a vacuum for themselves precisely as over-driven marine propellers + used to do. “162's” Limit is low on account of the small size of her nine + screws, which, though handier than the old colloid Thelussons, “bell” + sooner. The midships engine, generally used as a reinforce, is not + running; so the port and starboard turbine vacuum-chambers draw direct + into the return-mains. + </p> + <p> + The turbines whistle reflectively. From the low-arched expansion-tanks on + either side the valves descend pillarwise to the turbine-chests, and + thence the obedient gas whirls through the spirals of blades with a force + that would whip the teeth out of a power saw. Behind, is its own pressure + held in leash of spurred on by the lift-shunts; before it, the vacuum + where Fleury's Ray dances in violet-green bands and whirled turbillons of + flame. The jointed U-tubes of the vacuum-chamber are pressure-tempered + colloid (no glass would endure the strain for an instant) and a junior + engineer with tinted spectacles watches the Ray intently. It is the very + heart of the machine—a mystery to this day. Even Fleury who begat it + and, unlike Magniac, died a multi-millionaire, could not explain how the + restless little imp shuddering in the U-tube can, in the fractional + fraction of a second, strike the furious blast of gas into a chill + greyish-green liquid that drains (you can hear it trickle) from the far + end of the vacuum through the eduction-pipes and the mains back to the + bilges. Here it returns to its gaseous, one had almost written sagacious, + state and climbs to work afresh. Bilge-tank, upper tank, dorsal-tank, + expansion-chamber, vacuum, main-return (as a liquid), and bilge-tank once + more is the ordained cycle. Fleury's Ray sees to that; and the engineer + with the tinted spectacles sees to Fleury's Ray. If a speck of oil, if + even the natural grease of the human finger touch the hooded terminals, + Fleury's Ray will wink and disappear and must be laboriously built up + again. This means half a day's work for all hands and an expense of, one + hundred and seventy-odd pounds to the G.P.O. for radium-salts and such + trifles. + </p> + <p> + “Now look at our thrust-collars. You won't find much German compo there. + Full-jewelled, you see,” says Captain Hodgson as the engineer shunts open + the top of a cap. Our shaft-bearings are C.M.C. (Commercial Minerals + Company) stones, ground with as much care as the lens of a telescope. They + cost £37 apiece. So far we have not arrived at their term of life. These + bearings came from “No. 97,” which took them over from the old Dominion of + Light which had them out of the wreck of the Persew aeroplane in the years + when men still flew wooden kites over oil engines! + </p> + <p> + They are a shining reproof to all low-grade German “ruby” enamels, + so-called “boort” facings, and the dangerous and unsatisfactory alumina + compounds which please dividend-hunting owners and turn skippers crazy. + The rudder-gear and the gas lift-shunt, seated side by side under the + engine-room dials, are the only machines in visible motion. The former + sighs from time to time as the oil plunger rises and falls half an inch. + The latter, cased and guarded like the U-tube aft, exhibits another Fleury + Ray, but inverted and more green than violet. Its function is to shunt the + lift out of the gas, and this it will do without watching. That is all! A + tiny pump-rod wheezing and whining to itself beside a sputtering green + lamp. A hundred and fifty feet aft down the flat-topped tunnel of the + tanks a violet light, restless and irresolute. Between the two, three + white-painted turbine-trunks, like eel-baskets laid on their side, + accentuate the empty perspectives. You can hear the trickle of the + liquefied gas flowing from the vacuum into the bilge-tanks and the soft + gluck-glock of gaslocks closing as Captain Purnall brings “162” down by + the head. The hum of the turbines and the boom of the air on our skin is + no more than a cotton-wool wrapping to the universal stillness. And we are + running an eighteen-second mile. + </p> + <p> + I peer from the fore end of the engine-room over the hatch-coamings into + the coach. The mail-clerks are sorting the Winnipeg, Calgary, and Medicine + Hat bags; but there is a pack of cards ready on the table. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a bell thrills; the engineers run to the turbine-valves and stand + by; but the spectacled slave of the Ray in the U-tube never lifts his + head. He must watch where he is. We are hard-braked and going astern; + there is language from the Control Platform. + </p> + <p> + “Tim's sparking badly about something,” says the unruffled Captain + Hodgson. “Let's look.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Purnall is not the suave man we left half an hour since, but the + embodied authority of the G.P.O. Ahead of us floats an ancient, + aluminum-patched, twin-screw tramp of the dingiest, with no more right to + the 5000-foot lane than has a horse-cart to a modern road. She carries an + obsolete “barbette” conning tower—a six-foot affair with railed + platform forward—and our warning beam plays on the top of it as a + policeman's lantern flashes on the area sneak. Like a sneak-thief, too, + emerges a shock-headed navigator in his shirt-sleeves. Captain Purnall + wrenches open the colloid to talk with him man to man. There are times + when Science does not satisfy. + </p> + <p> + “What under the stars are you doing here, you sky-scraping chimney-sweep?” + he shouts as we two drift side by side. “Do you know this is a Mail-lane? + You call yourself a sailor, sir? You ain't fit to peddle toy balloons to + an Esquimaux. Your name and number! Report and get down, and be—!” + </p> + <p> + “I've been blown up once,” the shock-headed man cries, hoarsely, as a dog + barking. “I don't care two flips of a contact for anything you can do, + Postey.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't you, sir? But I'll make you care. I'll have you towed stern first + to Disko and broke up. You can't recover insurance if you're broke for + obstruction. Do you understand that?” + </p> + <p> + Then the stranger bellows: “Look at my propellers! There's been a wulli-wa + down below that has knocked us into umbrella-frames! We've been blown up + about forty thousand feet! We're all one conjuror's watch inside! My + mate's arm's broke; my engineer's head's cut open; my Ray went out when + the engines smashed; and... and... for pity's sake give me my height, + Captain! We doubt we're dropping.” + </p> + <p> + “Six thousand eight hundred. Can you hold it?” Captain Purnall overlooks + all insults, and leans half out of the colloid, staring and snuffing. The + stranger leaks pungently. + </p> + <p> + “We ought to blow into St. John's with luck. We're trying to plug the + fore-tank now, but she's simply whistling it away,” her captain wails. + </p> + <p> + “She's sinking like a log,” says Captain Purnall in an undertone. “Call up + the Banks Mark Boat, George.” Our dip-dial shows that we, keeping abreast + the tramp, have dropped five hundred feet the last few minutes. + </p> + <p> + Captain Purnall presses a switch and our signal beam begins to swing + through the night, twizzling spokes of light across infinity. + </p> + <p> + “That'll fetch something,” he says, while Captain Hodgson watches the + General Communicator. He has called up the North Banks Mark Boat, a few + hundred miles west, and is reporting the case. + </p> + <p> + “I'll stand by you,” Captain Purnall roars to the lone figure on the + conning-tower. + </p> + <p> + “Is it as bad as that?” comes the answer. “She isn't insured. She's mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Might have guessed as much,” mutters Hodgson. “Owner's risk is the worst + risk of all!” + </p> + <p> + “Can't I fetch St. John's—not even with this breeze?” the voice + quavers. + </p> + <p> + “Stand by to abandon ship. Haven't you any lift in you, fore or aft?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing but the midship tanks, and they're none too tight. You see, my + Ray gave out and—” he coughs in the reek of the escaping gas. + </p> + <p> + “You poor devil!” This does not reach our friend. “What does the Mark Boat + say, George?” + </p> + <p> + “Wants to know if there's any danger to traffic. Says she's in a bit of + weather herself, and can't quit station. I've turned in a General Call, so + even if they don't see our beam some one's bound to help—or else we + must. Shall I clear our slings? Hold on! Here we are! A Planet liner, too! + She'll be up in a tick!” + </p> + <p> + “Tell her to have her slings ready,” cries his brother captain. “There + won't be much time to spare... Tie up your mate,” he roars to the tramp. + </p> + <p> + “My mate's all right. It's my engineer. He's gone crazy.” + </p> + <p> + “Shunt the lift out of him with a spanner. Hurry!” + </p> + <p> + “But I can make St. John's if you'll stand by.” + </p> + <p> + “You'll make the deep, wet Atlantic in twenty minutes. You're less than + fifty-eight hundred now. Get your papers.” + </p> + <p> + A Planet liner, east bound, heaves up in a superb spiral and takes the air + of us humming. Her underbody colloid is open land her transporter-slings + hang down like tentacles. We shut off our beam as she adjusts herself—steering + to a hair—over the tramp's conning-tower. The mate comes up, his arm + strapped to his side, and stumbles into the cradle. A man with a ghastly + scarlet head follows, shouting that he must go back and build up his Ray. + The mate assures him that he will find a nice new Ray all ready in the + liner's engine-room. The bandaged head goes up wagging excitedly. A youth + and a woman follow. The liner cheers hollowly above us, and we see the + passengers' faces at the saloon colloid. + </p> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="kip0160 (75K)" src="images/kip0160.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <p> + “That's a pretty girl. What's the fool waiting for now?” says Captain + Purnall. + </p> + <p> + The skipper comes up, still appealing to us to stand by and see him fetch + St. John's. He dives below and returns—at which we little human + beings in the void cheer louder than ever—with the ship's kitten. Up + fly the liner's hissing slings; her underbody crashes home and she hurtles + away again. The dial shows less than 3000 feet. The Mark Boat signals we + must attend to the derelict, now whistling her death-song, as she falls + beneath us in long sick zigzags. + </p> + <p> + “Keep our beam on her and send out a General Warning,” says Captain + Purnall, following her down. There is no need. Not a liner in air but + knows the meaning of that vertical beam and gives us and our quarry a wide + berth. + </p> + <p> + “But she'll drown in the water, won't she?” I ask. “Not always,” is his + answer. “I've known a derelict up-end and sift her engines out of herself + and flicker round the Lower Lanes for three weeks on her forward tanks + only. We'll run no risks. Pith her, George, and look sharp. There's + weather ahead.” + </p> + <p> + Captain Hodgson opens the underbody colloid, swings the heavy pithing-iron + out of its rack which in liners is generally cased as a smoking-room + settee, and at two hundred feet releases the catch. We hear the whir of + the crescent-shaped arms opening as they descend. The derelict's forehead + is punched in, starred across, and rent diagonally. She falls stern first, + our beam upon her; slides like a lost soul down that pitiless ladder of + light, and the Atlantic takes her. + </p> + <p> + “A filthy business,” says Hodgson. “I wonder what it must have been like + in the old days?” + </p> + <p> + The thought had crossed my mind, too. What if that wavering carcass had + been filled with the men of the old days, each one of them taught (that is + the horror of it!) that, after death he would very possibly go for ever to + unspeakable torment? + </p> + <p> + And scarcely a generation ago, we (one knows now that we are only our + fathers re-enlarged upon the earth), we, I say, ripped and rammed and + pithed to admiration. + </p> + <p> + Here Tim, from the Control Platform, shouts that we are to get into our + inflators and to bring him his at once. + </p> + <p> + We hurry into the heavy rubber suits—the engineers are already + dressed—and inflate at the air-pump taps. G.P.O. inflators are + thrice as thick as a racing man's “flickers,” and chafe abominably under + the armpits. George takes the wheel until Tim has blown himself up to the + extreme of rotundity. If you kicked him off the c. p. to the deck he would + bounce back. But it is “162” that will do the kicking. + </p> + <p> + “The Mark Boat's mad—stark ravin' crazy,” he snorts, returning to + command. “She says there's a bad blow-out ahead and wants me to pull over + to Greenland. I'll see her pithed first! We wasted half an hour fussing + over that dead duck down under, and now I'm expected to go rubbin' my back + all round the Pole. What does she think a Postal packet's made of? Gummed + silk? Tell her we're coming on straight, George.” + </p> + <p> + George buckles him into the Frame and switches on the Direct Control. Now + under Tim's left toe lies the port-engine Accelerator; under his left heel + the Reverse, and so with the other foot. The lift-shunt stops stand out on + the rim of the steering-wheel where the fingers of his left hand can play + on them. At his right hand is the midships engine lever ready to be thrown + into gear at a moment's notice. He leans forward in his belt, eyes glued + to the colloid, and one ear cocked toward the General Communicator. + Henceforth he is the strength and direction of “162,” through whatever may + befall. + </p> + <p> + The Banks Mark Boat is reeling out pages of A. B..C. Directions to the + traffic at large. We are to secure all “loose objects”; hood up our Fleury + Rays; and “on no account to attempt to clear snow from our conning-towers + till the weather abates.” Under-powered craft, we are told, can ascend to + the limit of their lift, mail-packets to look out for them accordingly; + the lower lanes westward are pitting very badly, “with frequent blow-outs, + vortices, laterals, etc.” + </p> + <p> + Still the clear dark holds up unblemished. The only warning is the + electric skin-tension (I feel as though I were a lace-maker's pillow) and + an irritability which the gibbering of the General Communicator increases + almost to hysteria. + </p> + <p> + We have made eight thousand feet since we pithed the tramp and our + turbines are giving us an honest two hundred and ten knots. + </p> + <p> + Very far to the west an elongated blur of red, low down, shows us the + North Banks Mark Boat. There are specks of fire round her rising and + falling—bewildered planets about an unstable sun—helpless + shipping hanging on to her light for company's sake. No wonder she could + not quit station. + </p> + <p> + She warns us to look out for the back-wash of the bad vortex in which (her + beam shows it) she is even now reeling. + </p> + <p> + The pits of gloom about us begin to fill with very faintly luminous films—wreathing + and uneasy shapes. One forms itself into a globe of pale flame that waits + shivering with eagerness till we sweep by. It leaps monstrously across the + blackness, alights on the precise tip of our nose, pirouettes there an + instant, and swings off. Our roaring bow sinks as though that light were + lead—sinks and recovers to lurch and stumble again beneath the next + blow-out. Tim's fingers on the lift-shunt strike chords of numbers—1:4:7:—2:4:6:—7:5:3, + and so on; for he is running by his tanks only, lifting or lowering her + against the uneasy air. All three engines are at work, for the sooner we + have skated over this thin ice the better. Higher we dare not go. The + whole upper vault is charged with pale krypton vapours, which our skin + friction may excite to unholy manifestations. Between the upper and lower + levels—5000 and 7000, hints the Mark Boat—we may perhaps bolt + through if... Our bow clothes itself in blue flame and falls like a sword. + No human skill can keep pace with the changing tensions. A vortex has us + by the beak and we dive down a two-thousand foot slant at an angle (the + dip-dial and my bouncing body record it) of thirty-five. Our turbines + scream shrilly; the propellers cannot bite on the thin air; Tim shunts the + lift out of five tanks at once and by sheer weight drives her bullet wise + through the maelstrom till she cushions with jar on an up-gust, three + thousand feet below. + </p> + <p> + “Now we've done it,” says George in my ear: “Our skin-friction, that last + slide, has played Old Harry with the tensions! Look out for laterals, Tim; + she'll want some holding.” + </p> + <p> + “I've got her,” is the answer. “Come up, old woman.” + </p> + <p> + She comes up nobly, but the laterals buffet her left and right like the + pinions of angry angels. She is jolted off her course four ways at once, + and cuffed into place again, only to be swung aside and dropped into a new + chaos. We are never without a corposant grinning on our bows or rolling + head over heels from nose to midships, and to the crackle of electricity + around and within us is added once or twice the rattle of hail—hail + that will never fall on any sea. Slow we must or we may break our back, + pitch-poling. + </p> + <p> + “Air's a perfectly elastic fluid,” roars George above the tumult. “About + as elastic as a head sea off the Fastnet, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + He is less than just to the good element. If one intrudes on the Heavens + when they are balancing their volt-accounts; if one disturbs the High + Gods' market-rates by hurling steel hulls at ninety knots across + tremblingly adjusted electric tensions, one must not complain of any + rudeness in the reception. Tim met it with an unmoved countenance, one + corner of his under lip caught up on a tooth, his eyes fleeting into the + blackness twenty miles ahead, and the fierce sparks flying from his + knuckles at every turn of the hand. Now and again he shook his head to + clear the sweat trickling from his eyebrows, and it was then that George, + watching his chance, would slide down the life-rail and swab his face + quickly with a big red handkerchief. I never imagined that a human being + could so continuously labour and so collectedly think as did Tim through + that Hell's half-hour when the flurry was at its worst. We were dragged + hither and yon by warm or frozen suctions, belched up on the tops of + wulii-was, spun down by vortices and clubbed aside by laterals under a + dizzying rush of stars in the company of a drunken moon. + </p> + <p> + I heard the rushing click of the midship-engine-lever sliding in and out, + the low growl of the lift-shunts, and, louder than the yelling winds + without, the scream of the bow-rudder gouging into any lull that promised + hold for an instant. At last we began to claw up on a cant, bow-rudder and + port-propeller together; only the nicest balancing of tanks saved us from + spinning like the rifle-bullet of the old days. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to hitch to windward of that Mark Boat somehow,” George cried. + </p> + <p> + “There's no windward,” I protested feebly, where I swung shackled to a + stanchion. “How can there be?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed—as we pitched into a thousand foot blow-out—that + red man laughed beneath his inflated hood! + </p> + <p> + “Look!” he said. “We must clear those refugees with a high lift.” + </p> + <p> + The Mark Boat was below and a little to the sou'west of us, fluctuating in + the centre of her distraught galaxy. The air was thick with moving lights + at every level. I take it most of them were trying to lie head to wind, + but, not being hydras, they failed. An under-tanked Moghrabi boat had + risen to the limit of her lift, and, finding no improvement, had dropped a + couple of thousand. There she met a superb wulli-wa, and was blown up + spinning like a dead leaf. Instead of shutting off she went astern and, + naturally, rebounded as from a wall almost into the Mark Boat, whose + language (our G. C. took it in) was humanly simple. + </p> + <p> + “If they'd only ride it out quietly it 'ud be better,” said George in a + calm, while we climbed like a bat above them all. “But some skippers—will + navigate without enough lift. What does that Tad-boat think she is doing, + Tim?” + </p> + <p> + “Playin' kiss in the ring,” was Tim's unmoved reply. A Trans-Asiatic + Direct liner had found a smooth and butted into it full power. But there + was a vortex at the tail of that smooth, so the T. A. D. was flipped out + like a pea from off a finger-nail, braking madly as she fled down and all + but over-ending. + </p> + <p> + “Now I hope she's satisfied,” said Tim. “I'm glad I'm not a Mark Boat... + Do I want help?” The General Communicator dial had caught his ear. + “George, you may tell that gentleman with my love—love, remember, + George—that I do not want help. Who is the officious sardine-tin?” + </p> + <p> + “A Rimouski drogher on the look-out for a tow.” + </p> + <p> + “Very kind of the Rimouski drogher. This postal packet isn't being towed + at present.” + </p> + <p> + “Those droghers will go anywhere on a chance of salvage,” George + explained. “We call' em kittiwakes.” + </p> + <p> + A long-beaked, bright steel ninety-footer floated at ease for one instant + within hail of us, her slings coiled ready for rescues, and a single hand + in her open tower. He was smoking. Surrendered to the insurrection of the + airs through which we tore our way, he lay in absolute peace. I saw the + smoke of his pipe ascend untroubled ere his boat dropped, it seemed, like + a stone in a well. + </p> + <p> + We had just cleared the Mark Boat and her disorderly neighbours when the + storm ended as suddenly as it had begun. A shooting-star to northward + filled the sky with the green blink of a meteorite dissipating itself in + our atmosphere. + </p> + <p> + Said George: “That may iron out all the tensions.” Even as he spoke, the + conflicting winds came to rest; the levels filled; the laterals died out + in long, easy swells; the air-ways were smoothed before us. In less than + three minutes the covey round the Mark Boat had shipped their power-lights + and whirred away upon their businesses. + </p> + <p> + “What's happened?” I gasped. The nerve-store within and the volt-tingle + without had passed: my inflators weighed like lead. + </p> + <p> + “God, He knows!” said Captain George soberly “That old shooting-star's + skin-friction has discharged the different levels. I've seen it happen + before. Phew: What a relief!” + </p> + <p> + We dropped from ten to six thousand and got rid of our clammy suits. Tim + shut off and stepped out of the Frame. The Mark Boat was coming up behind + us. He opened the colloid in that heavenly stillness and mopped his face. + </p> + <p> + “Hello, Williams!” he cried. “A degree or two out o' station, ain't you?” + </p> + <p> + “May be,” was the answer from the Mark Boat. “I've had some company this + evening.” + </p> + <p> + “So I noticed. Wasn't that quite a little draught?” + </p> + <p> + “I warned you. Why didn't you pull out north? The east-bound packets + have.” + </p> + <p> + “Me? Not till I'm running a Polar consumptives' sanatorium boat. I was + squinting through a colloid before you were out of your cradle, my son.” + </p> + <p> + “I'd be the last man to deny it,” the captain of the Mark Boat replies + softly. “The way you handled her just now—I'm a pretty fair judge of + traffic in a volt-hurry—it was a thousand revolutions beyond + anything even I've ever seen.” + </p> + <p> + Tim's back supples visibly to this oiling. Captain George on the c. p. + winks and points to the portrait of a singularly attractive maiden pinned + up on Tim's telescope bracket above the steering-wheel. + </p> + <p> + I see. Wholly and entirely do I see! + </p> + <p> + There is some talk overhead of “coming round to tea on Friday,” a brief + report of the derelict's fate, and Tim volunteers as he descends: “For an + A. B. C. man young Williams is less of a high-tension fool than some. Were + you thinking of taking her on, George? Then I'll just have a look round + that port-thrust seems to me it's a trifle warm—and we'll jog + along.” + </p> + <p> + The Mark Boat hums off joyously and hangs herself up in her appointed + eyrie. Here she will stay a shutterless observatory; a life-boat station; + a salvage tug; a court of ultimate appeal-cum-meteorological bureau for + three hundred miles in all directions, till Wednesday next when her relief + slides across the stars to take her buffeted place. Her black hull, double + conning-tower, and ever-ready slings represent all that remains to the + planet of that odd old word authority. She is responsible only to the + Aerial Board of Control the A. B. C. of which Tim speaks so flippantly. + But that semi-elected, semi-nominated body of a few score of persons of + both sexes, controls this planet. “Transportation is Civilisation,” our + motto runs. Theoretically, we do what we please so long as we do not + interfere with the traffic AND ALL IT IMPLIES. Practically, the A. B. C. + confirms or annuls all international arrangements and, to judge from its + last report, finds our tolerant, humorous, lazy little planet only too + ready to shift the whole burden of public administration on its shoulders. + </p> + <p> + I discuss this with Tim, sipping mate on the c. p. while George fans her + along over the white blur of the Banks in beautiful upward curves of fifty + miles each. The dip-dial translates them on the tape in flowing freehand. + </p> + <p> + Tim gathers up a skein of it and surveys the last few feet, which record + “162's” path through the volt-flurry. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't had a fever-chart like this to show up in five years,” he says + ruefully. + </p> + <p> + A postal packet's dip-dial records every yard of every run. The tapes then + go to the A. B. C., which collates and makes composite photographs of them + for the instruction of captains. Tim studies his irrevocable past, shaking + his head. + </p> + <p> + “Hello! Here's a fifteen-hundred-foot drop at fifty-five degrees! We must + have been standing on our heads then, George.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't say so,” George answers. “I fancied I noticed it at the time.” + </p> + <p> + George may not have Captain Purnall's catlike swiftness, but he is all an + artist to the tips of the broad fingers that play on the shunt-stops. The + delicious flight-curves come away on the tape with never a waver. The Mark + Boat's vertical spindle of light lies down to eastward, setting in the + face of the following stars. Westward, where no planet should rise, the + triple verticals of Trinity Bay (we keep still to the Southern route) make + a low-lifting haze. We seem the only thing at rest under all the heavens; + floating at ease till the earth's revolution shall turn up our + landing-towers. + </p> + <p> + And minute by minute our silent clock gives us a sixteen-second mile. + </p> + <p> + “Some fine night,” says Tim, “we'll be even with that clock's Master.” + </p> + <p> + “He's coming now,” says George, over his shoulder. “I'm chasing the night + west.” + </p> + <p> + The stars ahead dim no more than if a film of mist had been drawn under + unobserved, but the deep airboom on our skin changes to a joyful shout. + </p> + <p> + “The dawn-gust,” says Tim. “It'll go on to meet the Sun. Look! Look! + There's the dark being crammed back over our bows! Come to the + after-colloid. I'll show you something.” + </p> + <p> + The engine-room is hot and stuffy; the clerks in the coach are asleep, and + the Slave of the Ray is ready to follow them. Tim slides open the aft + colloid and reveals the curve of the world—the ocean's deepest + purple—edged with fuming and intolerable gold. + </p> + <p> + Then the Sun rises and through the colloid strikes out our lamps. Tim + scowls in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Squirrels in a cage,” he mutters. “That's all we are. Squirrels in a + cage! He's going twice as fast as us. Just you wait a few years, my + shining friend, and we'll take steps that will amaze you. We'll Joshua + you!” + </p> + <p> + Yes, that is our dream: to turn all earth into the Vale of Ajalon at our + pleasure. So far, we can drag out the dawn to twice its normal length in + these latitudes. But some day—even on the Equator—we shall + hold the Sun level in his full stride. + </p> + <p> + Now we look down on a sea thronged with heavy traffic. A big submersible + breaks water suddenly. Another and another follows with a swash and a suck + and a savage bubbling of relieved pressures. The deep-sea freighters are + rising to lung up after the long night, and the leisurely ocean is all + patterned with peacock's eyes of foam. + </p> + <p> + “We'll lung up, too,” says Tim, and when we return to the c. p. George + shuts off, the colloids are opened, and the fresh air sweeps her out. + There is no hurry. The old contracts (they will be revised at the end of + the year) allow twelve hours for a run which any packet can put behind her + in ten. So we breakfast in the arms of an easterly slant which pushes us + along at a languid twenty. + </p> + <p> + To enjoy life, and tobacco, begin both on a sunny morning half a mile or + so above the dappled Atlantic cloud-belts and after a volt-flurry which + has cleared and tempered your nerves. While we discussed the thickening + traffic with the superiority that comes of having a high level reserved to + ourselves, we heard (and I for the first time) the morning hymn on a + Hospital boat. + </p> + <p> + She was cloaked by a skein of ravelled fluff beneath us and we caught the + chant before she rose into the sunlight. “Oh, ye Winds of God,” sang the + unseen voices: “bless ye the Lord! Praise Him and magnify Him for ever!” + </p> + <p> + We slid off our caps and joined in. When our shadow fell across her great + open platforms they looked up and stretched out their hands neighbourly + while they sang. We could see the doctors and the nurses and the + white-button-like faces of the cot-patients. She passed slowly beneath us, + heading northward, her hull, wet with the dews of the night, all ablaze in + the sunshine. So took she the shadow of a cloud and vanished, her song + continuing. “Oh, ye holy and humble men of heart, bless ye the Lord! + Praise Him and magnify Him for ever.” + </p> + <p> + “She's a public lunger or she wouldn't have been singing the Benedicite; + and she's a Greenlander or she wouldn't have snow-blinds over her + colloids,” said George at last. “She'll be bound for Frederikshavn or one + of the Glacier sanatoriums for a month. If she was an accident ward she'd + be hung up at the eight-thousand-foot level. Yes—consumptives.” + </p> + <p> + “Funny how the new things are the old thing I've read in books,” Tim + answered, “that savages used to haul their sick and wounded up to the tops + of hills because microbes were fewer there. We hoist 'em in sterilized air + for a while. Same idea. How much do the doctors say we've added to the + average life of man?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty years,” says George with a twinkle in his eye. “Are we going to + spend 'em all up here, Tim?” + </p> + <p> + “Flap ahead, then. Flap ahead. Who's hindering?” the senior captain + laughed, as we went in. + </p> + <p> + We held a good lift to clear the coastwise and Continental shipping; and + we had need of it. Though our route is in no sense a populated one, there + is a steady trickle of traffic this way along. We met Hudson Bay furriers + out of the Great Preserve, hurrying to make their departure from Bonavista + with sable and black fox for the insatiable markets. We overcossed + Keewatin liners, small and cramped; but their captains, who see no land + between Trepassy and Lanco, know what gold they bring back from West + Erica. Trans-Asiatic Directs we met, soberly ringing the world round the + Fiftieth Meridian at an honest seventy knots; and white-painted Ackroyd + & Hunt fruiters out of the south fled beneath us, their ventilated + hulls whistling like Chinese kites. Their market is in the North among the + northern sanatoria where you can smell their grape-fruit and bananas + across the cold snows. Argentine beef boats we sighted too, of enormous + capacity and unlovely outline. They, too, feed the northern health + stations in icebound ports where submersibles dare not rise. + </p> + <p> + Yellow-bellied ore-flats and Ungava petrol-tanks punted down leisurely out + of the north, like strings of unfrightened wild duck. It does not pay to + “fly” minerals and oil a mile farther than is necessary; but the risks of + transhipping to submersibles in the ice pack off Nain or Hebron are so + great that these heavy freighters fly down to Halifax direct, and scent + the air as they go. They are the biggest tramps aloft except the Athabasca + grain-tubs. But these last, now that the wheat is moved, are busy, over + the world's shoulder, timber-lifting in Siberia. + </p> + <p> + We held to the St. Lawrence (it is astonishing how the old water-ways + still pull us children of the air), and followed his broad line of black + between its drifting iceblocks, all down the Park that the wisdom of our + fathers—but every one knows the Quebec run. + </p> + <p> + We dropped to the Heights Receiving Towers twenty minutes ahead of time, + and there hung at ease till the Yokohama Intermediate Packet could pull + out and give us our proper slip. It was curious to watch the action of the + holding-down clips all along the frosty river front as the boats cleared + or came to rest. A big Hamburger was leaving Pont Levis and her crew, + unshipping the platform railings, began to sing “Elsinore”—the + oldest of our chanteys. You know it of course: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +Mother Rugen's tea-house on the Baltic<br/> + Forty couple waltzing on the floor!<br/> +And you can watch my Ray,<br/> +For I must go away<br/> + And dance with Ella Sweyn at Elsinore! +</p> + <p> + Then, while they sweated home the covering-plates: + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +Nor-Nor-Nor-Nor<br/> +West from Sourabaya to the Baltic—<br/> + Ninety knot an hour to the Skaw!<br/> +Mother Rugen's tea-house on the Baltic<br/> + And a dance with Ella Sweyn at Elsinore! +</p> + <p> + The clips parted with a gesture of indignant dismissal, as though Quebec, + glittering under her snows, were casting out these light and unworthy + lovers. Our signal came from the Heights. Tim turned and floated up, but + surely then it was with passionate appeal that the great tower arms flung + open—or did I think so because on the upper staging a little hooded + figure also opened her arms wide toward her father? + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + In ten seconds the coach with its clerks clashed down to the + receiving-caisson; the hostlers displaced the engineers at the idle + turbines, and Tim, prouder of this than all, introduced me to the maiden + of the photograph on the shelf. “And by the way,” said he to her, stepping + forth in sunshine under the hat of civil life, “I saw young Williams in + the Mark Boat. I've asked him to tea on Friday.” + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3>AERIAL BOARD OF CONTROL</h3> + +<p class="center"> +Lights +</p> + <p> + No changes in English Inland lights for week ending Dec. 18th. + </p> + <p> + CAPE VERDE—Week ending Dec. 18. Verde inclined guide-light changes + from 1st proximo to triple flash—green white green—in place of + occulting red as heretofore. The warning light for Harmattan winds will be + continuous vertical glare (white) on all oases of trans-Saharan N. E. by + E. Main Routes. + </p> + <p> + INVERCARGIL (N. Z.)—From 1st prox.: extreme southerly light (double + red) will exhibit white beam inclined 45 degrees on approach of Southerly + Buster. Traffic flies high off this coast between April and October. + </p> + <p> + TABLE BAY—Devil's Peak Glare removed to Simonsberg. Traffic making + Table Mountain coastwise keep all lights from Three Anchor Bay at least + two thousand feet under, and do not round to till East of E. shoulder + Devil's Peak. + </p> + <p> + SANDHEADS LIGHT—Green triple vertical marks new private + landing-stage for Bay and Burma traffic only. + </p> + <p> + SNAEFELL JOKUL—White occulting light withdrawn for winter. + </p> + <p> + PATAGONIA—No summer light south Cape Pilar. This includes Staten + Island and Port Stanley. + </p> + <p> + C. NAVARIN—Quadruple fog flash (white), one minute intervals (new). + </p> + <p> + EAST CAPE—Fog—flash—single white with single bomb, 30 + sec. intervals (new). + </p> + <p> + MALAYAN ARCHIPELAGO—Lights unreliable owing eruptions. Lay from Cape + Somerset to Singapore direct, keeping highest levels. + </p> + +<p class="center"> + For the Board: + </p> + +<p class="letter"> +CATTERTHUN }<br/> +ST. JUST } Lights.<br/> +VAN HEDDER }<br/> +</p> + +<p class="center"> + Casualties + </p> + <p> + Week ending Dec. 18th. + </p> + <p> + SABLE ISLAND—Green single barbette-tower freighter, number + indistinguishable, up-ended, and fore-tank pierced after collision, passed + 300-ft. level Q P. as Dec. 15th. Watched to water and pithed by Mark Boat. + </p> + <p> + N. F. BANKS—Postal Packet 162 reports Halma freighter (Fowey—St. + John's) abandoned, leaking after weather, 46° 151 N. 50° 15' W. Crew rescued + by Planet liner Asteroid. Watched to water and pithed by Postal Packet, + Dec. 14th. + </p> + <p> + KERGUELEN, MARK BOAT reports last call from Cymena freighter (Gayer Tong + Huk & Co.) taking water and sinking in snow-storm South McDonald + Islands. No wreckage recovered. Messages and wills of crew at all A. B. C. + offices. + </p> + <p> + FEZZAN—T. A. D. freighter Ulema taken ground during Harmattan on + Akakus Range. Under plates strained. Crew at Ghat where repairing Dec. + 13th. + </p> + <p> + BISCAY, MARK BOAT reports Caducci (Valandingham Line) slightly spiked in + western gorge Point de Benasdue. Passengers transferred Andorra (Fulton + Line). Barcelona Mark Boat salving cargo Dec. 12th. + </p> + <p> + ASCENSION, MARK BOAT—Wreck of unknown racing-plane, Parden rudder, + wire-stiffened xylonite vans, and Harliss engine-seating, sighted and + salved 7° 20' S. 18° 41' W. Dec. 15th. Photos at all A. B. C. offices. + </p> + +<p class="center"> + Missing + </p> + <p> + No answer to General Call having been received during the last week from + following overdues, they are posted as missing:<br/><br/> + </p> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: 5em;"> + +<tr> +<td>Atlantis, W.17630</td><td>Canton—Valparaiso</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Audhumla W. 889</td><td>Stockholm—Odessa</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Berenice, W. 2206</td><td>Riga—Vladivostock</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Draco, E. 446</td><td>Coventry—Puntes Arenas</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Tontine, E. 3068</td><td>C. Wrath—Ungava</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Wu-Sung, E. 41776</td><td>Hankow—Lobito Bay</td> +</tr> + +</table> + + <p><br/> + General Call (all Mark Boats) out for:<br/><br/> + </p> + +<table summary="" style="margin-left: 5em;"> + +<tr> +<td>Jane Eyre, W. 6990</td><td>Port Rupert—City of Mexico</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>Santander, W. 6514</td><td>Gobi-Desert—Manila</td> +</tr> + +<tr> +<td>V. Edmundsun, E. 9690</td><td>Kandahar—Fiume</td> +</tr> + +</table> + +<p class="center"> +Broke for Obstruction, and Quitting Levels +</p> + +<p> +VALKYRIE (racing plane), A. J. Hartley owner, New York (twice warned). +</p> +<p> +GEISHA (racing plane), S. van Cott owner, Philadelphia +(twice warned). +</p> +<p> +MARVEL of PERU (racing plane), J. X. Peixoto owner, Rio de +Janeiro (twice warned). +</p> + +<p class="center"> +For the Board: +</p> + +<p class="letter"> +LAZAREFF }<br/> +McKEOUGH } Traffic<br/> +GOLDBRATT } +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3>NOTES</h3> + +<p class="center"> +High-Level Sleet +</p> + + <p> + The Northern weather so far shows no sign of improvement. From all + quarters come complaints of the unusual prevalence of sleet at the higher + levels. Racing planes and digs alike have suffered severely—the + former from unequal deposits of half-frozen slush on their vans (and only + those who have “held up” a badly balanced plane in a cross-wind know what + that means), and the latter from loaded bows and snow-cased bodies. As a + consequence, the Northern and North-western upper levels have been + practically abandoned, and the high fliers have returned to the ignoble + security of the Three, Five, and Six hundred foot levels. But there remain + a few undaunted sun-hunters who, in spite of frozen stays and ice-jammed + connecting-rods, still haunt the blue empyrean. + </p> + +<p class="center"> + Bat-Boat Racing +</p> + <p> + The scandals of the past few years have at last moved the yachting world + to concerted action in regard to “bat” boat racing. We have been treated + to the spectacle of what are practically keeled racing-planes driven a + clear five foot or more above the water, and only eased down to touch + their so-called “native element” as they near the line. Judges and + starters have been conveniently blind to this absurdity, but the public + demonstration off St. Catherine's Light at the Autumn Regattas has borne + ample, if tardy, fruit. In the future the “bat” is to be a boat, and the + long-unheeded demand of the true sportsman for “no daylight under mid-keel + in smooth water” is in a fair way to be conceded. The new rule severely + restricts plane area and lift alike. The gas compartments are permitted + both fore and aft, as in the old type, but the water-ballast central tank + is rendered obligatory. These things work, if not for perfection, at least + for the evolution of a sane and wholesome waterborne cruiser. The type of + rudder is unaffected by the new rules, so we may expect to see the + Long-Davidson make (the patent on which has just expired) come largely + into use henceforward, though the strain on the sternpost in turning at + speeds over forty miles an hour is admittedly very severe. But bat-boat + racing has a great future before it. + </p> + +<p class="center"> + Crete and the A. B. C. +</p> + <p> + The story of the recent Cretan crisis, as told in the A. B. C. Monthly + Report, is not without humour. Till the 25th October Crete, as all our + planet knows, was the sole surviving European repository of “autonomous + institutions,” “local self-government,” and the rest of the archaic lumber + devised in the past for the confusion of human affairs. She has lived + practically on the tourist traffic attracted by her annual pageants of + Parliaments, Boards, Municipal Councils, etc., etc. Last summer the + islanders grew wearied, as their premier explained, of “playing at being + savages for pennies,” and proceeded to pull down all the landing-towers on + the island and shut off general communication till such time as the A. B. + C. should annex them. For side-splitting comedy we would refer our readers + to the correspondence between the Board of Control and the Cretan premier + during the “war.” However, all's well that ends well. The A. B. C. have + taken over the administration of Crete on normal lines; and tourists must + go elsewhere to witness the “debates,” “resolutions,” and “popular + movements” of the old days. The only people to suffer will be the Board of + Control, which is grievously overworked already. It is easy enough to + condemn the Cretans for their laziness; but when one recalls the large, + prosperous, and presumably public-spirited communities which during the + last few years have deliberately thrown themselves into the hands of the + A. B. C., one, cannot be too hard upon St. Paul's old friends. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3>CORRESPONDENCE</h3> + +<p class="center"> +Skylarking on the Equator +</p> + <p> + To the Editor: Only last week, while crossing the Equator (W. 26-15), I + became aware of a furious and irregular cannonading some fifteen or twenty + knots S. 4 E. Descending to the 500 ft. level, I found a party of + Transylvanian tourists engaged in exploding scores of the largest pattern + atmospheric bombs (A. B. C. standard) and, in the intervals of their + pleasing labours, firing bow and stern smoke-ring swivels. This orgy—I + can give it no other name—went on for at least two hours, and + naturally produced violent electric derangements. My compasses, of course, + were thrown out, my bow was struck twice, and I received two brisk shocks + from the lower platform-rail. On remonstrating, I was told that these + “professors” were engaged in scientific experiments. The extent of their + “scientific” knowledge, may be judged by the fact that they expected to + produce (I give their own words) “a little blue sky” if “they went on long + enough.” This in the heart of the Doldrums at 450 feet! I have no + objection to any amount of blue sky in its proper place (it can be found + at the 4000 level for practically twelve months out of the year), but I + submit, with all deference to the educational needs of Transylvania, that + “skylarking” in the centre of a main-travelled road where, at the best of + times, electricity literally drips off one's stanchions and screw blades, + is unnecessary. When my friends had finished, the road was seared, and + blown, and pitted with unequal pressure layers, spirals, vortices, and + readjustments for at least an hour. I pitched badly twice in an upward + rush—solely due to these diabolical throw-downs—that came near + to wrecking my propeller. Equatorial work at low levels is trying enough + in all conscience without the added terrors of scientific hooliganism in + the Doldrums. + </p> + +<p class="right"> + Rhyl.<br/> + J. VINCENT MATHEN. +</p> + <p> + [We entirely sympathize with Professor Mathen's views, but till the Board + sees fit to further regulate the Southern areas in which scientific + experiments may be conducted, we shall always be exposed to the risk which + our correspondent describes. Unfortunately, a chimera bombinating in a + vacuum is, nowadays, only too capable of producing secondary causes.—Editor.] + </p> + +<p class="center"> + Answers to Correspondents +</p> + <p> + VIGILANS—The Laws of Auroral Derangements are still imperfectly + understood. Any overheated motor may of course “seize” without warning; + but so many complaints have reached us of accidents similar to yours while + shooting the Aurora that we are inclined to believe with Lavalle that the + upper strata of the Aurora Borealis are practically one big electric + “leak,” and that the paralysis of your engines was due to complete + magnetization of all metallic parts. Low-flying planes often “glue up” + when near the Magnetic Pole, and there is no reason in science why the + same disability should not be experienced at higher levels when the + Auroras are “delivering” strongly. + </p> + <p> + INDIGNANT—On your own showing, you were not under control. That you + could not hoist the necessary N. U. C. lights on approaching a + traffic-lane because your electrics had short-circuited is a misfortune + which might befall any one. The A. B. C., being responsible for the + planet's traffic, cannot, however, make allowance for this kind of + misfortune. A reference to the Code will show that you were fined on the + lower scale. + </p> + <p> + PLANISTON—(1) The Five Thousand Kilometre (overland) was won last + year by L. V. Rautsch; R. M. Rautsch, his brother, in the same week + pulling off the Ten Thousand (oversea). R. M.'s average worked out at a + fraction over 500 kilometres per hour, thus constituting a record. (2) + Theoretically, there is no limit to the lift of a dirigible. For + commercial and practical purposes 15,000 tons is accepted as the most + manageable. + </p> + <p> + PATERFAMILIAS—None whatever. He is liable for direct damage both to + your chimneys and any collateral damage caused by fall of bricks into + garden, etc., etc. Bodily inconvenience and mental anguish may be + included, but the average courts are not, as a rule, swayed by sentiment. + If you can prove that his grapnel removed any portion of your roof, you + had better rest your case on decoverture of domicile (see Parkins v. + Duboulay). We sympathize with your position, but the night of the 14th was + stormy and confused, and—you may have to anchor on a stranger's + chimney yourself some night. Verbum sap! + </p> + <p> + ALDEBARAN—(1) war, as a paying concern, ceased in 1987. (2) The + Convention of London expressly reserves to every nation the right of + waging war so long as it does not interfere with the traffic and all that + implies. (3) The A. B. C. was constituted in 1949. + </p> + <p> + L. M. P.—(1) Keep her full head-on at half power, taking advantage + of the lulls to speed up and creep into it. She will strain much less this + way than in quartering across a gale. (2) Nothing is to be gained by + reversing into a following gale, and there is always risk of a turnover. + (3) The formulae for stun'sle brakes are uniformly unreliable, and will + continue to be so as long as air is compressible. + </p> + <p> + PEGAMOID—(1) Personally we prefer glass or flux compounds to any + other material for winter work nose-caps as being absolutely + non-hygroscopic. (2) We cannot recommend any particular make. + </p> + <p> + PULMONAR—(1) For the symptoms you describe, try the Gobi Desert + Sanatoria. The low levels of most of the Saharan Sanatoria are against + them except at the outset of the disease. (2) We do not recommend + boarding-houses or hotels in this column. + </p> + <p> + BEGINNER—On still days the air above a large inhabited city being + slightly warmer—i.e., thinner—than the atmosphere of the + surrounding country, a plane drops a little on entering the rarefied area, + precisely as a ship sinks a little in fresh water. Hence the phenomena of + “jolt” and your “inexplicable collisions” with factory chimneys. In air, + as on earth, it is safest to fly high. + </p> + <p> + EMERGENCY—There is only one rule of the road in air, earth, and + water. Do you want the firmament to yourself? + </p> + <p> + PICCIOLA—Both Poles have been overdone in Art and Literature. Leave + them to Science for the next twenty years. You did not send a stamp with + your verses. + </p> + <p> + NORTH NIGERIA—The Mark Boat was within her right in warning you off + the Reserve. The shadow of a low-flying dirigible scares the game. You can + buy all the photos you need at Sokoto. + </p> + <p> + NEW ERA—It is not etiquette to overcross an A. B. C. official's boat + without asking permission. He is one of the body responsible for the + planet's traffic, and for that reason must not be interfered with. You, + presumably, are out on your own business or pleasure, and must leave him + alone. For humanity's sake don't try to be “democratic.” + </p> + <p> + EXCORIATED—All inflators chafe sooner or later. You must go on till + your skin hardens by practice. Meantime vaseline. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + +<h3>REVIEW</h3> + +<p class="center"> +The Life of Xavier Lavalle<br/> +(Reviewed by Rene Talland. École Aëronautique, Paris) +</p> + <p> + Ten years ago Lavalle, “that imperturbable dreamer of the heavens,” as + Lazareff hailed him, gathered together the fruits of a lifetime's labour, + and gave it, with well-justified contempt, to a world bound hand and foot + to Barald's Theory of Vertices and “compensating electric nodes.” “They + shall see,” he wrote—in that immortal postscript to The Heart of the + Cyclone—“the Laws whose existence they derided written in fire + beneath them.” + </p> + <p> + “But even here,” he continues, “there is no finality. Better a thousand + times my conclusions should be discredited than that my dead name should + lie across the threshold of the temple of Science—a bar to further + inquiry.” + </p> + <p> + So died Lavalle—a prince of the Powers of the Air, and even at his + funeral Cellier jested at “him who had gone to discover the secrets of the + Aurora Borealis.” + </p> + <p> + If I choose thus to be banal, it is only to remind you that Céllier's + theories are today as exploded as the ludicrous deductions of the Spanish + school. In the place of their fugitive and warring dreams we have, + definitely, Lavalle's Law of the Cyclone which he surprised in darkness + and cold at the foot of the overarching throne of the Aurora Borealis. It + is there that I, intent on my own investigations, have passed and + re-passed a hundred times the worn leonine face, white as the snow beneath + him, furrowed with wrinkles like the seams and gashes upon the North Cape; + the nervous hand, integrally a part of the mechanism of his flighter; and + above all, the wonderful lambent eyes turned to the zenith. + </p> + <p> + “Master,” I would cry as I moved respectfully beneath him, “what is it you + seek today?” and always the answer, clear and without doubt, from above: + “The old secret, my son!” + </p> + <p> + The immense egotism of youth forced me on my own path, but (cry of the + human always!) had I known—if I had known—I would many times + have bartered my poor laurels for the privilege, such as Tinsley and + Herrera possess, of having aided him in his monumental researches. + </p> + <p> + It is to the filial piety of Victor Lavalle that we owe the two volumes + consecrated to the ground-life of his father, so full of the holy + intimacies of the domestic hearth. Once returned from the abysms of the + utter North to that little house upon the outskirts of Meudon, it was not + the philosopher, the daring observer, the man of iron energy that imposed + himself on his family, but a fat and even plaintive jester, a farceur + incarnate and kindly, the co-equal of his children, and, it must be + written, not seldom the comic despair of Madame Lavalle, who, as she + writes five years after the marriage, to her venerable mother, found “in + this unequalled intellect whose name I bear the abandon of a large and + very untidy boy.” Here is her letter: + </p> + <p> + “Xavier returned from I do not know where at midnight, absorbed in + calculations on the eternal question of his Aurora—la belle Aurore, + whom I begin to hate. Instead of anchoring,—I had set out the + guide-light above our roof, so he had but to descend and fasten the plane—he + wandered, profoundly distracted, above the town with his anchor down! + Figure to yourself, dear mother, it is the roof of the mayor's house that + the grapnel first engages! That I do not regret, for the mayor's wife and + I are not sympathetic; but when Xavier uproots my pet araucaria and bears + it across the garden into the conservatory I protest at the top of my + voice. Little Victor in his night-clothes runs to the window, enormously + amused at the parabolic flight without reason, for it is too dark to see + the grapnel, of my prized tree. The Mayor of Meudon, thunders at our door + in the name of the Law, demanding, I suppose, my husband's head. Here is + the conversation through the megaphone—Xavier is two hundred feet + above us: + </p> + <p> + “'Mons. Lavalle, descend and make reparation for outrage of domicile. + Descend, Mons. Lavalle!' + </p> + <p> + “No one answers. + </p> + <p> + “'Xavier Lavalle, in the name of the Law, descend and submit to process + for outrage of domicile.' + </p> + <p> + “Xavier, roused from his calculations, comprehending only the last words: + 'Outrage of domicile? My dear mayor, who is the man that has corrupted thy + Julie?' + </p> + <p> + “The mayor, furious, 'Xavier Lavalle—' + </p> + <p> + “Xavier, interrupting: 'I have not that felicity. I am only a dealer in + cyclones!' + </p> + <p> + “My faith, he raised one then! All Meudon attended in the streets, and my + Xavier, after a long time comprehending what he had done, excused himself + in a thousand apologies. At last the reconciliation was effected in our + house over a supper at two in the morning—Julie in a wonderful + costume of compromises, and I have her and the mayor pacified in bed in + the blue room.” + </p> + <p> + And on the next day, while the mayor rebuilds his roof, her Xavier departs + anew for the Aurora Borealis, there to commence his life's work. M. Victor + Lavalle tells us of that historic collision (en plane) on the flank of + Hecla between Herrera, then a pillar of the Spanish school, and the man + destined to confute his theories and lead him intellectually captive. Even + through the years, the immense laugh of Lavalle as he sustains the + Spaniard's wrecked plane, and cries: “Courage! I shall not fall till I + have found Truth, and I hold you fast!” rings like the call of trumpets. + This is that Lavalle whom the world, immersed in speculations of immediate + gain, did not know nor suspect—the Lavalle whom they adjudged to the + last a pedant and a theorist. + </p> + <p> + The human, as apart from the scientific, side (developed in his own + volumes) of his epoch-making discoveries is marked with a simplicity, + clarity, and good sense beyond praise. I would specially refer such as + doubt the sustaining influence of ancestral faith upon character and will + to the eleventh and nineteenth chapters, in which are contained the + opening and consummation of the Tellurionical Records extending over nine + years. Of their tremendous significance be sure that the modest house at + Meudon knew as little as that the Records would one day be the planet's + standard in all official meteorology. It was enough for them that their + Xavier—this son, this father, this husband—ascended + periodically to commune with powers, it might be angelic, beyond their + comprehension, and that they united daily in prayers for his safety. + </p> + <p> + “Pray for me,” he says upon the eve of each of his excursions, and + returning, with an equal simplicity, he renders thanks “after supper in + the little room where he kept his barometers.” + </p> + <p> + To the last Lavalle was a Catholic of the old school, accepting—he + who had looked into the very heart of the lightnings—the dogmas of + papal infallibility, of absolution, of confession—of relics great + and small. Marvellous—enviable contradiction! + </p> + <p> + The completion of the Tellurionical Records closed what Lavalle himself + was pleased to call the theoretical side of his labours—labours from + which the youngest and least impressionable planeur might well have + shrunk. He had traced through cold and heat, across the deeps of the + oceans, with instruments of his own invention, over the inhospitable heart + of the polar ice and the sterile visage of the deserts, league by league, + patiently, unweariedly, remorselessly, from their ever-shifting cradle + under the magnetic pole to their exalted death-bed in the utmost ether of + the upper atmosphere each one of the Isoconical Tellurions—Lavalle's + Curves, as we call them today. He had disentangled the nodes of their + intersections, assigning to each its regulated period of flux and reflux. + Thus equipped, he summons Herrera and Tinsley, his pupils, to the final + demonstration as calmly as though he were ordering his flighter for some + mid-day journey to Marseilles. + </p> + <p> + “I have proved my thesis,” he writes. “It remains now only that you should + witness the proof. We go to Manila to-morrow. A cyclone will form off the + Pescadores S. 17 E. in four days, and will reach its maximum intensity + twenty-seven hours after inception. It is there I will show you the + Truth.” + </p> + <p> + A letter heretofore unpublished from Herrera to Madame Lavalle tells us + how the Master's prophecy was verified. + </p> + <p> + I will not destroy its simplicity or its significance by any attempt to + quote. Note well, though, that Herrera's preoccupation throughout that day + and night of superhuman strain is always for the Master's bodily health + and comfort. + </p> + <p> + “At such a time,” he writes, “I forced the Master to take the broth”; or + “I made him put on the fur coat as you told me.” Nor is Tinsley (see pp. + 184, 85) less concerned. He prepares the nourishment. He cooks eternally, + imperturbably, suspended in the chaos of which the Master interprets the + meaning. Tinsley, bowed down with the laurels of both hemispheres, raises + himself to yet nobler heights in his capacity of a devoted chef. It is + almost unbelievable! And yet men write of the Master as cold, aloof, + self-contained. Such characters do not elicit the joyous and unswerving + devotion which Lavalle commanded throughout life. Truly, we have changed + very little in the course of the ages! The secrets of earth and sky and + the links that bind them, we felicitate ourselves we are on the road to + discover; but our neighbours' heart and mind we misread, we misjudge, we + condemn now as ever. Let all, then, who love a man read these most human, + tender, and wise volumes. + </p> + + <hr /> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad01 (181K)" src="images/ad01.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad02 (106K)" src="images/ad02.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad03 (105K)" src="images/ad03.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad04 (126K)" src="images/ad04.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad05 (126K)" src="images/ad05.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad06 (111K)" src="images/ad06.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad07 (146K)" src="images/ad07.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad08 (103K)" src="images/ad08.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="ad09-10 (217K)" src="images/ad09-10.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"></a> + THE FOUR ANGELS + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> + As ADAM lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,<br/> + The Angel of the Earth came down, and offered Earth in fee.<br/> + But Adam did not need it,<br/> + Nor the plough he would not speed it,<br/> + Singing:—“Earth and Water, Air and Fire,<br/> + What more can mortal man desire?”<br/> + (The Apple Tree's in bud.)<br/> +<br/> + As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,<br/> + The Angel of the Waters offered all the Seas in fee.<br/> + But Adam would not take 'em,<br/> + Nor the ships he wouldn't make 'em,<br/> + Singing:—“Water, Earth and Air and Fire,<br/> + What more can mortal man desire?”<br/> + (The Apple Tree's in leaf.)<br/> +<br/> + As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,<br/> + The Angel of the Air he offered all the Air in fee.<br/> + But Adam did not crave it,<br/> + Nor the flight he wouldn't brave it,<br/> + Singing:—“Air and Water, Earth and Fire,<br/> + What more can mortal man desire?”<br/> + (The Apple Tree's in bloom.)<br/> +<br/> + As Adam lay a-dreaming beneath the Apple Tree,<br/> + The Angel of the Fire rose up and not a word said he.<br/> + But he wished a fire and made it,<br/> + And in Adam's heart he laid it,<br/> + Singing.—“Fire, fire, burning Fire,<br/> + Stand up and reach your heart's desire!”<br/> + (The Apple Blossom's set.)<br/> +<br/> + As Adam was a-working outside of Eden-Wall,<br/> + He used the Earth, he used the Seas, he used the Air and all;<br/> + And out of black disaster<br/> + He arose to be the master<br/> + Of Earth and Water, Air and Fire,<br/> + But never reached his heart's desire!<br/> + (The Apple Tree's cut down!) +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"></a> + A DEAL IN COTTON + </h2> + <p> + Long and long ago, when Devadatta was King of Benares, I wrote some tales + concerning Strickland of the Punjab Police (who married Miss Youghal), and + Adam, his son. Strickland has finished his Indian Service, and lives now + at a place in England called Weston-super-Mare, where his wife plays the + organ in one of the churches. Semi-occasionally he comes up to London, and + occasionally his wife makes him visit his friends. Otherwise he plays golf + and follows the harriers for his figure's sake. + </p> + <p> + If you remember that Infant who told a tale to Eustace Cleever the + novelist, you will remember that he became a baronet with a vast estate. + He has, owing to cookery, a little lost his figure, but he never loses his + friends. I have found a wing of his house turned into a hospital for sick + men, and there I once spent a week in the company of two dismal nurses and + a specialist in “Sprue.” Another time the place was full of schoolboys—sons + of Anglo-Indians whom the Infant had collected for the holidays, and they + nearly broke his keeper's heart. + </p> + <p> + But my last visit was better. The Infant called me up by wire, and I fell + into the arms of a friend of mine, Colonel A.L. Corkran, so that the years + departed from us, and we praised Allah, who had not yet terminated the + Delights, nor separated the Companions. + </p> + <p> + Said Corkran, when he had explained how it felt to command a native + Infantry regiment on the border: “The Stricks are coming for to-night-with + their boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember him. The little fellow I wrote a story about,” I said. “Is he + in the Service?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Strick got him into the Centro-Euro-Africa Protectorate. He's + Assistant-Commissioner at Dupé—wherever that is. Somaliland, ain't + it, Stalky?” asked the Infant. + </p> + <p> + Stalky puffed out his nostrils scornfully. “You're only three thousand + miles out. Look at the atlas.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, he's as rotten full of fever as the rest of you,” said the + Infant, at length on the big divan. “And he's bringing a native servant + with him. Stalky be an athlete, and tell Ipps to put him in the stable + room.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Is he a Yao—like the fellow Wade brought here—when your + housekeeper had fits?” Stalky often visits the Infant, and has seen some + odd things. + </p> + <p> + “No. He's one of old Strickland's Punjabi policemen—and quite + European—I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Hooray! Haven't talked Punjabi for three months—and a Punjabi from + Central Africa ought to be amusin'.” + </p> + <p> + We heard the chuff of the motor in the porch, and the first to enter was + Agnes Strickland, whom the Infant makes no secret of adoring. + </p> + <p> + He is devoted, in a fat man's placid way, to at least eight designing + women; but she nursed him once through a bad bout of Peshawur fever, and + when she is in the house, it is more than all hers. + </p> + <p> + “You didn't send rugs enough,” she began. “Adam might have taken a chill.” + </p> + <p> + “It's quite warm in the tonneau. Why did you let him ride in front?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he wanted to,” she replied, with the mother's smile, and we were + introduced to the shadow of a young man leaning heavily on the shoulder of + a bearded Punjabi Mohammedan. + </p> + <p> + “That is all that came home of him,” said his father to me. “There was + nothing in it of the child with whom I had journeyed to Dalhousie + centuries since.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is this uniform?” Stalky asked of Imam Din, the servant, who + came to attention on the marble floor. + </p> + <p> + “The uniform of the Protectorate troops, Sahib. Though I am the Little + Sahib's body-servant, it is not seemly for us white men to be attended by + folk dressed altogether as servants.” + </p> + <p> + “And—and you white men wait at table on horseback?” Stalky pointed + to the man's spurs. + </p> + <p> + “These I added for the sake of honour when I came to England,” said Imam + Din Adam smiled the ghost of a little smile that I began to remember, and + we put him on the big couch for refreshments. Stalky asked him how much + leave he had, and he said “Six months.” + </p> + <p> + “But he'll take another six on medical certificate,” said Agnes anxiously. + Adam knit his brows. + </p> + <p> + “You don't want to—eh? I know. Wonder what my second in command is + doing.” Stalky tugged his moustache, and fell to thinking of his Sikhs. + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said the Infant. “I've only a few thousand pheasants to look after. + Come along and dress for dinner. We're just ourselves. What flower is your + honour's ladyship commanding for the table?” + </p> + <p> + “Just ourselves?” she said, looking at the crotons in the great hall. + “Then let's have marigolds—the little cemetery ones.” + </p> + <p> + So it was ordered. + </p> + <p> + Now, marigolds to us mean hot weather, discomfort, parting, and death. + That smell in our nostrils, and Adam's servant in waiting, we naturally + fell back more and more on the old slang, recalling at each glass those + who had gone before. We did not sit at the big table, but in the bay + window overlooking the park, where they were carting the last of the hay. + When twilight fell we would not have candles, but waited for the moon, and + continued our talk in the dusk that makes one remember. + </p> + <p> + Young Adam was not interested in our past except where it had touched his + future. I think his mother held his hand beneath the table. Imam Din—shoeless, + out of respect to the floors—brought him his medicine, poured it + drop by drop, and asked for orders. + </p> + <p> + “Wait to take him to his cot when he grows weary,” said his mother, and + Imam Din retired into the shadow by the ancestral portraits. + </p> + <p> + “Now what d'you expect to get out of your country?” the Infant asked, when—our + India laid aside we talked Adam's Africa. It roused him at once. + </p> + <p> + “Rubber—nuts—gums—and so on,” he said. “But our real + future is cotton. I grew fifty acres of it last year in my District.” + </p> + <p> + “My District!” said his father. “Hear him, Mummy!” + </p> + <p> + “I did though! I wish I could show you the sample. Some Manchester chaps + said it was as good as any Sea Island cotton on the market.” + </p> + <p> + “But what made you a cotton-planter, my son?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “My Chief said every man ought to have a shouk (a hobby) of sorts, and he + took the trouble to ride a day out of his way to show me a belt of black + soil that was just the thing for cotton.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! What was your Chief like?” Stalky asked, in his silkiest tones. + </p> + <p> + “The best man alive—absolutely. He lets you blow your own nose + yourself. The people call him”—Adam jerked out some heathen phrase—“that + means the Man with the Stone Eyes, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm glad of that. Because I've heard—from other quarters”—Stalky's + sentence burned like a slow match, but the explosion was not long delayed. + “Other quarters!” Adam threw out a thin hand. “Every dog has his fleas. If + you listen to them, of course!” The shake of his head was as I remembered + it among his father's policemen twenty years before, and his mother's eyes + shining through the dusk called on me to adore it. I kicked Stalky on the + shin. One must not mock a young man's first love or loyalty. + </p> + <p> + A lump of raw cotton appeared on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I thought there might be a need. Therefore I packed it between our + shirts,” said the voice of Imam Din. + </p> + <p> + “Does he know as much English as that?” cried the Infant, who had + forgotten his East. + </p> + <p> + We all admired the cotton for Adam's sake, and, indeed, it was very long + and glossy. + </p> + <p> + “It's—it's only an experiment,” he said. “We're such awful paupers + we can't even pay for a mailcart in my District. We use a biscuit-box on + two bicycle wheels. I only got the money for that”—he patted the + stuff—“by a pure fluke.” + </p> + <p> + “How much did it cost?” asked Strickland. + </p> + <p> + “With seed and machinery—about two hundred pounds. I had the labour + done by cannibals.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds promising.” Stalky reached for a fresh cigarette. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you,” said Agnes. “I've been at Weston-super-Mare a little too + long for cannibals. I'll go to the music-room and try over next Sunday's + hymns.” + </p> + <p> + She lifted the boy's hand lightly to her lips, and tripped across the + acres of glimmering floor to the music-room that had been the Infant's + ancestors' banqueting hall. Her grey and silver dress disappeared under + the musicians' gallery; two electrics broke out, and she stood backed + against the lines of gilded pipes. + </p> + <p> + “There's an abominable self-playing attachment here!” she called. + </p> + <p> + “Me!” the Infant answered, his napkin on his shoulder. “That's how I play + Parsifal.” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer the direct expression. Take it away, Ipps.” + </p> + <p> + We heard old Ipps skating obediently all over the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Now for the direct expression,” said Stalky, and moved on the Burgundy + recommended by the faculty to enrich fever-thinned blood. + </p> + <p> + “It's nothing much. Only the belt of cotton-soil my chief showed me ran + right into the Sheshaheli country. We haven't been able to prove + cannibalism against that tribe in the courts; but when a Sheshaheli offers + you four pounds of woman's breast, tattoo marks and all, skewered up in a + plantain leaf before breakfast, you—” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally burn the villages before lunch,” said Stalky. + </p> + <p> + Adam shook his head. “No troops,” he sighed. “I told my Chief about it, + and he said we must wait till they chopped a white man. He advised me if + ever I felt like it not to commit a—a barren felo de se, but to let + the Sheshaheli do it. Then he could report, and then we could mop 'em up!” + </p> + <p> + “Most immoral! That's how we got—” Stalky quoted the name of a + province won by just such a sacrifice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but the beasts dominated one end of my cotton-belt like anything. + They chivied me out of it when I went to take soil for analysis—me + and Imam Din.” + </p> + <p> + “Sahib! Is there a need?” The voice came out of the darkness, and the eyes + shone over Adam's shoulder ere it ceased. + </p> + <p> + “None. The name was taken in talk.” Adam abolished him with a turn of the + finger. “I couldn't make a casus belli of it just then, because my Chief + had taken all the troops to hammer a gang of slave kings up north. Did you + ever hear of our war against Ibn Makarrah? He precious nearly lost us the + Protectorate at one time, though he's an ally of ours now.” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn't he rather a pernicious brute, even as they go?” said Stalky. “Wade + told me about him last year.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, his nickname all through the country was 'The Merciful,' and he + didn't get that for nothing. None of our people ever breathed his proper + name. They said 'He' or 'That One,' and they didn't say it aloud, either. + He fought us for eight months.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember. There was a paragraph about it in one of the papers,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “We broke him, though. No—the slavers don't come our way, because + our men have the reputation of dying too much, the first month after + they're captured. That knocks down profits, you see.” + </p> + <p> + “What about your charming friends, the Sheshahelis?” said the Infant. + </p> + <p> + “There's no market for Sheshaheli. People would as soon buy crocodiles. I + believe, before we annexed the country, Ibn Makarrah dropped down on 'em + once—to train his young men—and simply hewed 'em in pieces. + The bulk of my people are agriculturists—just the right stamp for + cotton-growers. What's Mother playing?—'<i>Once in royal</i>'?” + </p> + <p> + The organ that had been crooning as happily as a woman over her babe + restored, steadied to a tune. + </p> + <p> + “Magnificent! Oh, magnificent!” said the Infant loyally. I had never heard + him sing but once, and then, though it was early in the tolerant morning, + his mess had rolled him into a lotus pond. + </p> + <p> + “How did you get your cannibals to work for you?” asked Strickland. + </p> + <p> + “They got converted to civilization after my Chief smashed Ibn Makarrah—just + at the time I wanted 'em. You see my Chief had promised me in writing that + if I could scrape up a surplus he would not bag it for his roads this + time, but I might have it for my cotton game. I only needed two hundred + pounds. Our revenues didn't run to it.” + </p> + <p> + “What is your revenue?” Stalky asked in the vernacular. + </p> + <p> + “With hut-tax, traders' game and mining licenses, not more than fourteen + thousand rupees; every penny of it ear-marked months ahead.” Adam sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Also there is a fine for dogs straying in the Sahib's camp. Last year it + exceeded three rupees,” Imam Din said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I thought that was fair. They howled so. We were rather strict on + fines. I worked up my native clerk—Bulaki Ram—to a ferocious + pitch of enthusiasm. He used to calculate the profits of our cotton-scheme + to three points of decimals, after office. I tell you I envied your + magistrates here hauling money out of motorists every week I had managed + to make our ordinary revenue and expenditure just about meet, and I was + crazy to get the odd two hundred pounds for my cotton. That sort of thing + grows on a chap when he's alone—and talks aloud!” + </p> + <p> + “Hul-lo! Have you been there already?” the father said, and Adam nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Used to spout what I could remember of 'Marmion' to a tree, sir. + Well then my luck turned. One evening an English-speaking nigger came in + towing a corpse by the feet. (You get used to little things like that.) He + said he'd found it, and please would I identify, because if it was one of + Ibn Makarrah's men there might be a reward. It was an old Mohammedan, with + a strong dash of Arab—a smallboned, bald-headed chap, and I was just + wondering how it had kept so well in our climate when it sneezed. You + ought to have seen the nigger! He fetched a howl and bolted like—like + the dog in 'Tom Sawyer,' when he sat on the what's-its-name beetle. He + yelped as he ran, and the corpse went on sneezing. I could see it had been + sarkied. (That's a sort of gum-poison, pater, which attacks the nerve + centres. Our chief medical officer is writing a monograph about it.) So + Imam Din and I emptied out the corpse one time, with my shaving soap and + trade gunpowder, and hot water. + </p> + <p> + “I'd seen a case of sarkie before; so when the skin peeled off his feet, + and he stopped sneezing, I knew he'd live. He was bad, though; lay like a + log for a week while Imam Din and I massaged the paralysis out of him. + Then he told us he was a Hajji—had been three times to Mecca—come + in from French Africa, and that he'd met the nigger by the wayside—just + like a case of thuggee, in India—and the nigger had poisoned him. + That seemed reasonable enough by what I knew of Coast niggers.” + </p> + <p> + “You believed him?” said his father keenly. + </p> + <p> + “There was no reason I shouldn't. The nigger never came back, and the old + man stayed with me for two months,” Adam returned. “You know what the best + type of a Mohammedan gentleman can be, pater? He was that.” + </p> + <p> + “None finer, none finer,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Except a Sikh,” Stalky grunted. + </p> + <p> + “He'd been to Bombay; he knew French Africa inside out; he could quote + poetry and the Koran all day long. He played chess—you don't know + what that meant to me—like a master. We used to talk about the + regeneration of Turkey and the Sheik-ul-Islam between moves. Oh, + everything under the sun we talked about! He was awfully open-minded. He + believed in slavery, of course, but he quite saw that it would have to die + out. That's why he agreed with me about developing the resources of the + district by cotton-growing, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “You talked of that too?” said Strickland. + </p> + <p> + “Rather. We discussed it for hours. You don't know what it meant to me. A + wonderful man. Imam Din, was not our Hajji marvellous?” + </p> + <p> + “Most marvellous! It was all through the Hajji that we found the money for + our cotton-play.” Imam Din had moved, I fancy, behind Strickland's chair. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It must have been dead against his convictions too. He brought me + news when I was down with fever at Dupé that one of Ibn Makarrah's men was + parading through my District with a bunch of slaves—in the Fork!” + </p> + <p> + “What's the matter with the Fork, that you can't abide it?” said Stalky. + Adam's voice had risen at the last word. + </p> + <p> + “Local etiquette, sir,” he replied, too earnest to notice Stalky's + atrocious pun. “If a slaver runs slaves through British territory he ought + to pretend that they're his servants. Hawkin' 'em about in the Fork—the + forked stick that you put round their necks, you know—is insolence—same + as not backing your topsails in the old days. Besides, it unsettles the + District.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you said slavers didn't come your way,” I put in. + </p> + <p> + “They don't. But my Chief was smoking 'em out of the North all that + season, and they were bolting into French territory any road they could + find. My orders were to take no notice so long as they circulated, but + open slave-dealing—in—the Fork, was too much. I couldn't go myself, so I + told a couple of our Makalali police and Imam Din to make talk with the + gentleman one time. It was rather risky, and it might have been expensive, + but it turned up trumps. They were back in a few days with the slaver (he + didn't show fight) and a whole crowd of witnesses, and we tried him in my + bedroom, and fined him properly. Just to show you how demoralized the + brute must have been (Arabs often go dotty after a defeat), he'd snapped + up four or five utterly useless Sheshaheli, and was offering 'em to all + and sundry along the road. Why, he offered 'em to you, didn't he, Imam + Din?” + </p> + <p> + “I was witness that he offered man-eaters for sale,” said Imam Din. + </p> + <p> + “Luckily for my cotton-scheme, that landed him both ways. You see, he had + slaved and exposed slaves for sale in British territory. That meant the + double fine if I could get it out of him.” + </p> + <p> + “What was his defence?” said Strickland, late of the Punjab Police. + </p> + <p> + “As far as I remember—but I had a temperature of 104 degrees at the + time—he'd mistaken the meridians of longitude. Thought he was in + French territory. Said he'd never do it again, if we'd let him off with a + fine. I could have shaken hands with the brute for that. He paid up cash + like a motorist and went off one time.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you see him?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye-es. Didn't I, Imam Din?” + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly the Sahib both saw and spoke to the slaver. And the Sahib also + made a speech to the man-eaters when he freed them, and they swore to + supply him with labour for all his cotton-play. The Sahib leaned on his + own servant's shoulder the while.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember something of that. I remember Bulaki Ram giving me the papers + to sign, and I distinctly remember him locking up the money in the safe—two + hundred and ten beautiful English sovereigns. You don't know what that + meant to me! I believe it cured my fever; and as soon as I could, I + staggered off with the Hajji to interview the Sheshaheli about labour. + Then I found out why they had been so keen to work! It wasn't gratitude. + Their big village had been hit by lightning and burned out a week or two + before, and they lay flat in rows around me asking me for a job. I gave it + 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “And so you were very happy?” His mother had stolen up behind us. “You + liked your cotton, dear?” She tidied the lump away. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, I was happy!” Adam yawned. “Now if any one,” he looked at the + Infant, “cares to put a little money into the scheme, it'll be the making + of my District. I can't give you figures, sir, but I assure—” + </p> + <p> + “You'll take your arsenic, and Imam Din'll take you up to bed, and I'll + come and tuck you in.” + </p> + <p> + Agnes leaned forward, her rounded elbows on his shoulders, hands joined + across his dark hair, and “Isn't he a darling?” she said to us, with just + the same heart-rending lift to the left eyebrow and the same break of her + voice as sent Strickland mad among the horses in the year '84. We were + quiet when they were gone. We waited till Imam Din returned to us from + above and coughed at the door, as only dark-hearted Asia can. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Strickland, “tell us what truly befell, son of my servant.” + </p> + <p> + “All befell as our Sahib has said. Only—only there was an + arrangement—a little arrangement on account of his cotton-play.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell! Sit! I beg your pardon, Infant,” said Strickland. + </p> + <p> + But the Infant had already made the sign, and we heard Imam Din hunker + down on the floor: One gets little out of the East at attention. + </p> + <p> + “When the fever came on our Sahib in our roofed house at Dupé,” he began, + “the Hajji listened intently to his talk. He expected the names of women; + though I had already told him that Our virtue was beyond belief or + compare, and that Our sole desire was this cotton-play. Being at last + convinced, the Hajji breathed on our Sahib's forehead, to sink into his + brain news concerning a slave-dealer in his district who had made a mock + of the law. Sahib,” Imam Din turned to Strickland, “our Sahib answered to + those false words as a horse of blood answers to the spur. He sat up. He + issued orders for the apprehension of the slavedealer. Then he fell back. + Then we left him.” + </p> + <p> + “Alone—servant of my son, and son of my servant?” said his father. + </p> + <p> + “There was an old woman which belonged to the Hajji. She had come in with + the Hajji's money-belt. The Hajji told her that if our Sahib died, she + would die with him. And truly our Sahib had given me orders to depart.” + </p> + <p> + “Being mad with fever—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “What could we do, Sahib? This cotton-play was his heart's desire. He + talked of it in his fever. Therefore it was his heart's desire that the + Hajji went to fetch. Doubtless the Hajji could have given him money enough + out of hand for ten cotton-plays; but in this respect also our Sahib's + virtue was beyond belief or compare. Great Ones do not exchange moneys. + Therefore the Hajji said—and I helped with my counsel—that we + must make arrangements to get the money in all respects conformable with + the English Law. It was great trouble to us, but—the Law is the Law. + And the Hajji showed the old woman the knife by which she would die if our + Sahib died. So I accompanied the Hajji.” + </p> + <p> + “Knowing who he was?” said Strickland. + </p> + <p> + “No! Fearing the man. A virtue went out from him overbearing the virtue of + lesser persons. The Hajji told Bulaki Ram the clerk to occupy the seat of + government at Dupé till our return. Bulaki Ram feared the Hajji, because + the Hajji had often gloatingly appraised his skill in figures at five + thousand rupees upon any slave-block. The Hajji then said to me: 'Come, + and we will make the man-eaters play the cotton-game for my delight's + delight.' The Hajji loved our Sahib with the love of a father for his son, + of a saved for his saviour, of a Great One for a Great One. But I said: + 'We cannot go to that Sheshaheli place without a hundred rifles. We have + here five.' The Hajji said: 'I have untied as knot in my head-handkerchief + which will be more to us than a thousand.' I saw that he had so loosed it + that it lay flagwise on his shoulder. Then I knew that he was a Great One + with virtue in him. + </p> + <p> + “We came to the highlands of the Sheshaheli on the dawn of the second day—about + the time of the stirring of the cold wind. The Hajji walked delicately + across the open place where their filth is, and scratched upon the gate + which was shut. When it opened I saw the man-eaters lying on their cots + under the eaves of the huts. They rolled off: they rose up, one behind the + other the length of the street, and the fear on their faces was as leaves + whitening to a breeze. The Hajji stood in the gate guarding his skirts + from defilement. The Hajji said: 'I am here once again. Give me six and + yoke up.' They zealously then pushed to us with poles six, and yoked them + with a heavy tree. The Hajji then said: 'Fetch fire from the morning + hearth, and come to windward.' The wind is strong on those headlands at + sunrise, so when each had emptied his crock of fire in front of that which + was before him, the broadside of the town roared into flame, and all went. + The Hajji then said: 'At the end of a time there will come here the white + man ye once chased for sport. He will demand labour to plant such and such + stuff. Ye are that labour, and your spawn after you.' They said, lifting + their heads a very little from the edge of the ashes: 'We are that labour, + and our spawn after us.' The Hajji said: 'What is also my name?' They + said: 'Thy name is also The Merciful.' The Hajji said: 'Praise then my + mercy'; and while they did this, the Hajji walked away, I following.” + </p> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="kip0232 (36K)" src="images/kip0232.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <p> + The Infant made some noise in his throat, and reached for more Burgundy. + </p> + <p> + “About noon one of our six fell dead. Fright only frights Sahib! None had—none + could—touch him. Since they were in pairs, and the other of the Fork + was mad and sang foolishly, we waited for some heathen to do what was + needful. There came at last Angari men with goats. The Hajji said: 'What + do ye see? They said: 'Oh, our Lord, we neither see nor hear.' The Hajji + said: 'But I command ye to see and to hear and to say.' They said: 'Oh, + our Lord, it is to our commanded eyes as though slaves stood in a Fork.' + The Hajji said: 'So testify before the officer who waits you in the town + of Dupé.' They said: 'What shall come to us after?' The Hajji said: 'The + just reward for the informer. But if ye do not testify, then a punishment + which shall cause birds to fall from the trees in terror and monkeys to + scream for pity.' Hearing this, the Angari men hastened to Dupé. The Hajji + then said to me: 'Are those things sufficient to establish our case, or + must I drive in a village full?' I said that three witnesses amply + established any case, but as yet, I said, the Hajji had not offered his + slaves for sale. It is true, as our Sahib said just now, there is one fine + for catching slaves, and yet another for making to sell them. And it was + the double fine that we needed, Sahib, for our Sahib's cotton-play. We had + fore-arranged all this with Bulaki Ram, who knows the English Law, and, I + thought the Hajji remembered, but he grew angry, and cried out: 'O God, + Refuge of the Afflicted, must I, who am what I am, peddle this dog's meat + by the roadside to gain his delight for my heart's delight?' None the + less, he admitted it was the English Law, and so he offered me the six—five—in + a small voice, with an averted head. The Sheshaheli do not smell of sour + milk as heathen should. They smell like leopards, Sahib. This is because + they eat men.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe,” said Strickland. “But where were thy wits? One witness is not + sufficient to establish the fact of a sale.” + </p> + <p> + “What could we do, Sahib? There was the Hajji's reputation to consider. We + could not have called in a heathen witness for such a thing. And, + moreover, the Sahib forgets that the defendant himself was making this + case. He would not contest his own evidence. Otherwise, I know the law of + evidence well enough. + </p> + <p> + “So then we went to Dupé, and while Bulaki Ram waited among the Angari + men, I ran to see our Sahib in bed. His eyes were very bright, and his + mouth was full of upside-down orders, but the old woman had not loosened + her hair for death. The Hajji said: 'Be quick with my trial. I am not + Job!' The Hajji was a learned man. We made the trial swiftly to a sound of + soothing voices round the bed. Yet—yet, because no man can be sure + whether a Sahib of that blood sees, or does not see, we made it strictly + in the manner of the forms of the English Law. Only the witnesses and the + slaves and the prisoner we kept without for his nose's sake.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he did not see the prisoner?” said Strickland. + </p> + <p> + “I stood by to shackle up an Angari in case he should demand it, but by + God's favour he was too far fevered to ask for one. It is quite true he + signed the papers. It is quite true he saw the money put away in the safe—two + hundred and ten English pounds and it is quite true that the gold wrought + on him as a strong cure. But as to his seeing the prisoner, and having + speech with the man-eaters—the Hajji breathed all that on his + forehead to sink into his sick brain. A little, as ye have heard, has + remained.... Ah, but when the fever broke, and our Sahib called for the + fine-book, and the thin little picture-books from Europe with the pictures + of ploughs and hoes, and cotton-mills—ah, then he laughed as he + used to laugh, Sahib. It was his heart's desire, this cotton-play. The + Hajji loved him, as who does not? It was a little, little arrangement, + Sahib, of which—is it necessary to tell all the world?” + </p> + <p> + “And when didst thou know who the Hajji was?” said Strickland. + </p> + <p> + “Not for a certainty till he and our Sahib had returned from their visit + to the Sheshaheli country. It is quite true as our Sahib says, the + man-eaters lay flat around his feet, and asked for spades to cultivate + cotton. That very night, when I was cooking the dinner, the Hajji said to + me: 'I go to my own place, though God knows whether the Man with the Stone + Eyes have left me an ox, a slave, or a woman.' I said: 'Thou art then That + One?' The Hajji said: 'I am ten thousand rupees reward into thy hand. + Shall we make another law-case and get more cotton machines for the boy?' + I said: 'What dog am I to do this? May God prolong thy life a thousand + years!' The Hajji said: 'Who has seen to-morrow? God has given me as it + were a son in my old age, and I praise Him. See that the breed is not + lost!' + </p> + <p> + “He walked then from the cooking-place to our Sahib's office-table under + the tree, where our Sahib held in his hand a blue envelope of Service + newly come in by runner from the North. At this, fearing evil news for the + Hajji, I would have restrained him, but he said: 'We be both Great Ones. + Neither of us will fail.' Our Sahib looked up to invite the Hajji to + approach before he opened the letter, but the Hajji stood off till our + Sahib had well opened and well read the letter. Then the Hajji said: 'Is + it permitted to say farewell?' Our Sahib stabbed the letter on the file + with a deep and joyful breath and cried a welcome. The Hajji said: 'I go + to my own place,' and he loosed from his neck a chained heart of ambergris + set in soft gold and held it forth. Our Sahib snatched it swiftly in the + closed fist, down turned, and said 'If thy name be written hereon, it is + needless, for a name is already engraved on my heart.' The Hajji said: + 'And on mine also is a name engraved; but there is no name on the amulet.' + The Hajji stooped to our Sahib's feet, but our Sahib raised and embraced + him, and the Hajji covered his mouth with his shoulder-cloth, because it + worked, and so he went away.” + </p> + <p> + “And what order was in the Service letter?” Stalky murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Only an order for our Sahib to write a report on some new cattle + sickness. But all orders come in the same make of envelope. We could not + tell what order it might have been.” + </p> + <p> + “When he opened the letter—my son—made he no sign? A cough? An + oath?” Strickland asked. + </p> + <p> + “None, Sahib. I watched his hands. They did not shake. Afterward he wiped + his face, but he was sweating before from the heat.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he know? Did he know who the Hajji was?” said the Infant in English. + </p> + <p> + “I am a poor man. Who can say what a Sahib of that get knows or does not + know? But the Hajji is right. The breed should not be lost. It is not very + hot for little children in Dupé, and as regards nurses, my sister's cousin + at Jull—” + </p> + <p> + “H'm! That is the boy's own concern. I wonder if his Chief ever knew?” + said Strickland. + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly,” said Imam Din. “On the night before our Sahib went down to + the sea, the Great Sahib—the Man with the Stone Eyes—dined + with him in his camp, I being in charge of the table. They talked a long + while and the Great Sahib said: 'What didst thou think of That One?' (We + do not say Ibn Makarrah yonder.) Our Sahib said: 'Which one?' The Great + Sahib said: 'That One which taught thy man-eaters to grow cotton for thee. + He was in thy District three months to my certain knowledge, and I looked + by every runner that thou wouldst send me in his head.' Our Sahib said: + 'If his head had been needed, another man should have been appointed to + govern my District, for he was my friend.' The Great Sahib laughed and + said: 'If I had needed a lesser man in thy place be sure I would have sent + him, as, if I had needed the head of That One, be sure I would have sent + men to bring it to me. But tell me now, by what means didst thou twist him + to thy use and our profit in this cotton-play?' Our Sahib said: 'By God, I + did not use that man in any fashion whatever. He was my friend.' The Great + Sahib said: 'Toh Vac! (Bosh!) Tell!' Our Sahib shook his head as he does—as + he did when a child—and they looked at each other like sword-play + men in the ring at a fair. The Great Sahib dropped his eyes first and he + said: 'So be it. I should perhaps have answered thus in my youth. No + matter. I have made treaty with That One as an ally of the State. Some day + he shall tell me the tale.' Then I brought in fresh coffee, and they + ceased. But I do not think That One will tell the Great Sahib more than + our Sahib told him.” + </p> + <p> + “Wherefore?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Because they are both Great Ones, and I have observed in my life that + Great Ones employ words very little between each other in their dealings; + still less when they speak to a third concerning those dealings. Also they + profit by silence.... Now I think that the mother has come down from the + room, and I will go rub his feet till he sleeps.” + </p> + <p> + His ears had caught Agnes's step at the stair-head and presently she + passed us on her way to the music room humming the Magnificat. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"></a> + THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +Who gives him the Bath?<br/> + “I,” said the wet,<br/> +Rank Jungle-sweat,<br/> + “I'll give him the Bath!”<br/> +<br/> +Who'll sing the psalms?<br/> + “We,” said the Palms.<br/> +“Ere the hot wind becalms,<br/> + We'll sing the psalms.”<br/> +<br/> +Who lays on the sword?<br/> + “I,” said the Sun,<br/> +“Before he has done,<br/> + I'll lay on the sword.”<br/> +<br/> +Who fastens his belt?<br/> + “I,” said Short-Rations,<br/> +“I know all the fashions<br/> + Of tightening a belt!”<br/> +<br/> +Who buckles his spur?<br/> + “I,” said his Chief,<br/> +Exacting and brief,<br/> + “I'll give him the spur.”<br/> +<br/> +Who'll shake his hand?<br/> + “I,” said the Fever,<br/> +“And I'm no deceiver,<br/> + I'll shake his hand.”<br/> +<br/> +Who brings him the wine?<br/> + “I,” said Quinine,<br/> +“It's a habit of mine,<br/> + I'll come with his wine.”<br/> +<br/> +Who'll put him to proof?<br/> + “I,” said All Earth,<br/> +“Whatever he's worth,<br/> + I'll put to the proof.”<br/> +<br/> +Who'll choose him for Knight?<br/> + “I,” said his Mother,<br/> +“Before any other,<br/> + My very own knight!”<br/> +<br/> +And after this fashion, adventure to seek,<br/> +Was Sir Galahad made—as it might be last week! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"></a> + THE PUZZLER + </h2> + <p> + I had not seen Penfentenyou since the Middle Nineties, when he was + Minister of Ways and Woodsides in De Thouar's first Administration. Last + summer, though he nominally held the same portfolio, he was his Colony's + Premier in all but name, and the idol of his own province, which is two + and a half times the size of England. Politically, his creed was his + growing country; and he came over to England to develop a Great Idea in + her behalf. + </p> + <p> + Believing that he had put it in train, I made haste to welcome him to my + house for a week. + </p> + <p> + That he was chased to my door by his own Agent-General in a motor; that + they turned my study into a Cabinet Meeting which I was not invited to + attend; that the local telegraph all but broke down beneath the strain of + hundred word coded cables; and that I practically broke into the house of + a stranger to get him telephonic facilities on a Sunday, are things I + overlook. What I objected to was his ingratitude, while I thus tore up + England to help him. So I said: “Why on earth didn't you see your Opposite + Number in Town instead of bringing your office work here?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh? Who?” said he, looking up from his fourth cable since lunch. + </p> + <p> + “See the English Minister for Ways and Woodsides.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw him,” said Penfentenyou, without enthusiasm. + </p> + <p> + It seemed that he had called twice on the gentleman, but without an + appointment—(“I thought if I wasn't big enough, my business was”)—and + each time had found him engaged. A third party intervening, suggested that + a meeting might be arranged if due notice were given. + </p> + <p> + “Then,” said Penfentenyou, “I called at the office at ten o'clock.” + </p> + <p> + “But they'd be in bed,” I cried. + </p> + <p> + “One of the babies was awake. He told me that—that 'my sort of + questions'”—he slapped the pile of cables—“were only taken + between 11 and 2 P.M. So I waited.” + </p> + <p> + “And when you got to business?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + He made a gesture of despair. “It was like talking to children. They'd + never heard of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And your Opposite Number?” + </p> + <p> + Penfentenyou described him. + </p> + <p> + “Hush! You mustn't talk like that!” I shuddered. “He's one of the best of + good fellows. You should meet him socially.” + </p> + <p> + “I've done that too,” he said. “Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “Heaven forbid!” I cried; “but that's the proper thing to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he said all the proper things. Only I thought as this was England + that they'd more or less have the hang of all the—general + hang-together of my Idea. But I had to explain it from the beginning.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! They'd probably mislaid the papers,” I said, and I told him the story + of a three-million pound insurrection caused by a deputy Under-Secretary + sitting upon a mass of green-labelled correspondence instead of reading + it. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder it doesn't happen every week,” he answered. “D'you mind my + having the Agent-General to dinner again tonight? I'll wire, and he can + motor down.” + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + The Agent-General arrived two hours later, a patient and expostulating + person, visibly torn between the pulling Devil of a rampant Colony, and + the placid Baker of a largely uninterested England. But with Penfentenyou + behind him he had worked; for he told us that Lord Lundie—the Law + Lord—was the final authority on the legal and constitutional aspects of + the Great Idea, and to him it must be referred. + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens alive!” thundered Penfentenyou. “I told you to get that + settled last Christmas.” + </p> + <p> + “It was the middle of the house-party season,” said the Agent-General + mildly. “Lord Lundie's at Credence Green now—he spends his holidays + there. It's only forty miles off.” + </p> + <p> + “Shan't I disturb his Holiness?” said Penfentenyou heavily. “Perhaps 'my + sort of questions,”' he snorted, “mayn't be discussed except at midnight.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, don't be a child,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “What this country needs,” said Penfentenyou, “is—” and for ten + minutes he trumpeted rebellion. + </p> + <p> + “What you need is to pay for your own protection,” I cut in when he drew + breath, and I showed him a yellowish paper, supplied gratis by Government, + which is called Schedule D. To my merciless delight he had never seen the + thing before, and I completed my victory over him and all the Colonies + with a Brassey's “Naval Annual” and a “Statesman's Year Book.” + </p> + <p> + The Agent-General interposed with agent-generalities (but they were merely + provocateurs) about Ties of Sentiment. + </p> + <p> + “They be blowed!” said Penfentenyou. “What's the good of sentiment towards + a Kindergarten?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite so. Ties of common funk are the things that bind us together; and + the sooner you new nations realize it the better. What you need is an + annual invasion. Then you'd grow up.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you! Thank you!” said the Agent-General. “That's what I am always + trying to tell my people.” + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear fool,” Penfentenyou almost wept, “do you pretend that these + banana-fingered amateurs at home are grown up?” + </p> + <p> + “You poor, serious, pagan man,” I retorted, “if you take 'em that way, + you'll wreck your Great Idea.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you take him to Lord Lundie's to-morrow?” said the Agent-General + promptly. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I must,” I said, “if you won't.” + </p> + <p> + “Not me! I'm going home,” said the Agent-General, and departed. I am glad + that I am no colony's Agent-General. + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + Penfentenyou continued to argue about naval contributions till 1.15 A.M., + though I was victor from the first. + </p> + <p> + At ten o'clock I got him and his correspondence into the motor, and he had + the decency to ask whether he had been unpolished over-night. I replied + that I waited an apology. This he made excuse for renewed arguments, and + used wayside shows as illustrations of the decadence of England. + </p> + <p> + For example we burst a tyre within a mile of Credence Green, and, to save + time, walked into the beautifully kept little village. His eye was caught + by a building of pale-blue tin, stencilled “Calvinist Chapel,” before + whose shuttered windows an Italian organ-grinder with a petticoated monkey + was playing “Dolly Grey.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. That's it!” snapped the egoist. “That's a parable of the general + situation in England. And look at those brutes!” A huge household removals + van was halted at a public-house. The men in charge were drinking beer + from blue and white mugs. It seemed to me a pretty sight, but Penfentenyou + said it represented Our National Attitude. + </p> + <p> + Lord Lundie's summer resting-place we learned was a farm, a little out of + the village, up a hill round which curled a high hedged road. Only an + initiated few spend their holidays at Credence Green, and they have + trained the householders to keep the place select. Penfentenyou made a + grievance of this as we walked up the lane, followed at a distance by the + organ-grinder. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose he is having a house-party,” he said: “Anything's possible in + this insane land.” + </p> + <p> + Just at that minute we found ourselves opposite an empty villa. Its roof + was of black slate, with bright unweathered ridge-tiling; its walls were + of blood-coloured brick, cornered and banded with vermiculated stucco + work, and there was cobalt, magenta, and purest apple-green window-glass + on either side of the front door. The whole was fenced from the road by a + low, brick-pillared, flint wall, topped with a cast-iron Gothic rail, + picked out in blue and gold. + </p> + <p> + Tight beds of geranium, calceolaria, and lobelia speckled the glass-plat, + from whose centre rose one of the finest araucarias (its other name by the + way is “monkey-puzzler”) that it has ever been my lot to see. It must + have been full thirty feet high, and its foliage exquisitely answered the + iron railings. Such bijou ne plus ultras, replete with all the amenities, + do not, as I pointed out to Penfentenyou, transpire outside of England. + </p> + <p> + A hedge, swinging sharp right, flanked the garden, and above it on a slope + of daisy-dotted meadows we could see Lord Lundie's tiled and half-timbered + summer farmhouse. Of a sudden we heard voices behind the tree—the + fine full tones of the unembarrassed English, speaking to their equals—that + tore through the hedge like sleet through rafters. + </p> + <p> + “That it is not called 'monkey-puzzler' for nothing, I willingly concede”—this + was a rich and rolling note—“but on the other hand—” + </p> + <p> + “I submit, me lud, that the name implies that it might, could, would, or + should be ascended by a monkey, and not that the ascent is a physical + impossibility. I believe one of our South American spider monkeys wouldn't + hesitate... By Jove, it might be worth trying, if—” + </p> + <p> + This was a crisper voice than the first. A third, higher-pitched, and full + of pleasant affectations, broke in. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, practical men, there is no ape here. Why do you waste one of God's + own days on unprofitable discussion? Give me a match!” + </p> + <p> + “I've a good mind to make you demonstrate in your own person. Come on, + Bubbles! We'll make Jimmy climb!” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of scuffling, broken by squeaks from Jimmy of the high + voice. I turned back and drew Penfentenyou into the side of the flanking + hedge. I remembered to have read in a society paper that Lord Lundie's + lesser name was “Bubbles.” + </p> + <p> + “What are they doing?” Penfentenyou said sharply. “Drunk?” + </p> + <p> + “Just playing! Superabundant vitality of the Race, you know. We'll watch + 'em,” I answered. The noise ceased. + </p> + <p> + “My deliver,” Jimmy gasped. “The ram caught in the thicket, and—I'm + the only one who can talk Neapolitan! Leggo my collar!” He cried aloud in + a foreign tongue, and was answered from the gate. + </p> + <p> + “It's the Calvinistic organ-grinder,” I whispered. I had already found a + practicable break at the bottom of the hedge. “They're going to try to + make the monkey climb, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Here—let me look!” Penfentenyou flung himself down, and rooted till + he too broke a peep-hole. We lay side by side commanding the entire garden + at ten yards' range. + </p> + <p> + “You know 'em?” said Penfentenyou, as I made some noise or other. + </p> + <p> + “By sight only. The big fellow in flannels is Lord Lundie; the light-built + one with the yellow beard painted his picture at the last Academy: He's a + swell R.A., James Loman.” + </p> + <p> + “And the brown chap with the hands?” + </p> + <p> + “Tomling, Sir Christopher Tomling, the South American engineer who built + the—” + </p> + <p> + “San Juan Viaduct. I know,” said Penfentenyou. “We ought to have had him + with us.... Do you think a monkey would climb the tree?” + </p> + <p> + The organ-grinder at the gate fenced his beast with one arm as + Jimmy talked. + </p> + <p> + “Don't show off your futile accomplishments,” said Lord Lundie. “Tell him + it's an experiment. Interest him!” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up, Bubbles. You aren't in court,” Jimmy replied. “This needs + delicacy. Giuseppe says—” + </p> + <p> + “Interest the monkey,” the brown engineer interrupted. “He won't climb for + love. Cut up to the house and get some biscuits, Bubbles—sugar ones + and an orange or two. No need to tell our womenfolk.” + </p> + <p> + The huge white figure lobbed off at a trot which would not have disgraced + a boy of seventeen. I gathered from something Jimmy let fall that the + three had been at Harrow together. + </p> + <p> + “That Tomling has a head on his Shoulders,” muttered Penfentenyou. “Pity + we didn't get him for the Colony. But the question is, will the monkey + climb?” + </p> + <p> + “Be quick, Jimmy. Tell the man we'll give him five bob for the loan of the + beast. Now run the organ under the tree, and we'll dress it when Bubbles + comes back,” Sir Christopher cried. + </p> + <p> + “I've often wondered,” said Penfentenyou, “whether it would puzzle a + monkey?” He had forgotten the needs of his Growing Nation, and was + earnestly parting the white-thorn stems with his fingers. + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + Giuseppe and Jimmy did as they were told, the monkey following them with a + wary and malignant eye. + </p> + <p> + “Here's a discovery,” said Jimmy. “The singing part of this organ comes + off the wheels.” He spoke volubly to the proprietor. “Oh, it's so as + Giuseppe can take it to his room o' nights. And play it. D'you hear that? + The organ-grinder, after his day's crime, plays his accursed machine for + love. For love, Chris! And Michael Angelo was one of 'em!” + </p> + <p> + “Don't jaw! Tell him to take the beast's petticoat off,” said Sir + Christopher Tomling. + </p> + <p> + Lord Lundie returned, very little winded, through a gap higher up the + hedge. + </p> + <p> + “They're all out, thank goodness!” he cried, “but I've raided what I + could. <i>Marrons glacés</i>, candied fruit, and a bag of oranges.” + </p> + <p> + “Excellent!” said the world-renowned contractor. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy, you're the light-weight; jump up on the organ and impale these + things on the leaves as I hand 'em!” + </p> + <p> + “I see,” said Jimmy, capering like a springbuck. “Upward and onward, eh? + First, he'll reach out for—how infernal prickly these leaves are!—this + biscuit. Next we'll lure him on—(that's about the reach of his arm)—with + the <i>marron glacé</i>, and then he'll open out this orange. How human! How like + your ignoble career, Bubbles!” + </p> + <p> + With care and elaboration they ornamented that tree's lower branches with + sugar-topped biscuits, oranges, bits of banana, and <i>marrons glacés</i> till it + looked a very ape's path to Paradise. + </p> + <p> + “Unchain the Gyascutis!” said Sir Christopher commandingly. Giuseppe + placed the monkey atop of the organ, where the beast, misunderstanding, + stood on his head. + </p> + <p> + “He's throwing himself on the mercy of the Court, me lud,” said Jimmy. “No—now + he's interested. Now he's reaching after higher things. What wouldn't I + give to have here” (he mentioned a name not unhonoured in British Art). + “Ambition plucking apples of Sodom!” (the monkey had pricked himself and + was swearing). “Genius hampered by Convention? Oh, there's a whole + bushelful of allegories in it!” + </p> + <p> + “Give him time. He's balancing the probabilities,” said Lord Lundie. + </p> + <p> + The three closed round the monkey,—hanging on his every motion with + an earnestness almost equal to ours. The great judge's head—seamed + and vertical forehead, iron mouth, and pike-like under-jaw, all set on + that thick neck rising out of the white flannelled collar—was thrown + against the puckered green silk of the organ-front as it might have been a + cameo of Titus. Jimmy, with raised eyes and parted lips, fingered his + grizzled chestnut beard, and I was near enough to note, the capable beauty + of his hands. Sir Christopher stood a little apart, his arms folded behind + his back, one heavy brown boot thrust forward, chin in as curbed, and + black eyebrows lowered to shade the keen eyes. + </p> + <p> + Giuseppe's dark face between flashing earrings, a twisted rag of red and + yellow silk round his throat, turned from the reaching yearning monkey to + the pink and white biscuits spiked on the bronzed leafage. And upon them + all fell the serious and workmanlike sun of an English summer forenoon. + </p> + <p> + “Fils de Saint Louis, montez au ciel!” said Lord Lundie suddenly in a + voice that made me think of Black Caps. I do not know what the monkey + thought, because at that instant he leaped off the organ and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + There was a clash of broken glass behind the tree. + </p> + <p> + The monkey's face, distorted with passion, appeared at an upper window of + the house, and a starred hole in the stained-glass window to the left of + 'the front door showed the first steps of his upward path. + </p> + <p> + “We've got to catch him,” cried Sir Christopher. “Come along!” + </p> + <p> + They pushed at the door, which was unlocked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But consider the ethics of the case,” said Jimmy. “Isn't this + burglary or something, Bubbles?” + </p> + <p> + “Settle that when he's caught,” said Sir Christopher. “We're responsible + for the beast.” + </p> + <p> + A furious clanging of bells broke out of the empty house, followed by + muffed gurglings and trumpetings. + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce is that?” I asked, half aloud. + </p> + <p> + “The plumbing, of course,” said Penfentenyou. “What a pity! I believe he'd + have climbed if Lord Lundie hadn't put him off!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment, Chris,” said Jimmy the interpreter; “Guiseppe says he may + answer to the music of his infancy. Giuseppe, therefore, will go in with + the organ. Orpheus with his lute, you know. Avante, Orpheus! There's no + Neapolitan for bathroom, but I fancy your friend is there.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm not going into another man's house with a hurdy-gurdy,” said Lord + Lundie, recoiling, as Giuseppe unshipped the working mechanism of the + organ (it developed a hang-down leg) from its wheels, slipped a strap + round his shoulders, and gave the handle a twist. + </p> + <p> + “Don't be a cad, Bubbles,” was Jimmy's answer. “You couldn't leave us now + if you were on the Woolsack. Play, Orpheus! The Cadi accompanies.” + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + With a whoop, a buzz, and a crash, the organ sprang to life under the hand + of Giuseppe, and the procession passed through the + grained-to-imitate-walnut front door. A moment later we saw the monkey + ramping on the roof. + </p> + <p> + “He'll be all over the township in a minute if we don't head him,” said + Penfentenyou, leaping to his feet, and crashing into the garden. We headed + him with pebbles till he retired through a window to the tuneful reminder + that he had left a lot of little things behind him. As we passed the front + door it swung open, and showed Jimmy the artist sitting at the bottom of a + newly-cleaned staircase. He waggled his hands at us, and when we entered + we saw that the man was stricken speechless. His eyes grew red—red + like a ferret's—and what little breath he had whistled shrilly. At + first we thought it was a fit, and then we saw that it was mirth—the + inopportune mirth of the Artistic Temperament. + </p> + <p> + The house palpitated to an infamous melody punctuated by the stump of the + barrel-organ's one leg, as Giuseppe, above, moved from room to room after + his rebel slave. Now and again a floor shook a little under the combined + rushes of Lord Lundie and Sir Christopher Tomling, who gave many and + contradictory orders. But when they could they cursed Jimmy with splendid + thoroughness. + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything to do with the house?” panted Jimmy at last. “Because + we're using it just now.” He gulped. “And I'm—ah—keeping cavè.” + </p> + <p> + “All right,” said Penfentenyou, and shut the hall door. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy, you unspeakable blackguard, Jimmy, you cur! You coward!” (Lord + Lundie's voice overbore the flood of melody.) “Come up here! Giussieppe's + saying something we don't understand.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy listened and interpreted between hiccups. + </p> + <p> + “He says you'd better play the organ, Bubbles, and let him do the + stalking. The monkey knows him.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, he's quite right,” said Sir Christopher from the landing. “Take + it, Bubbles, at once.” + </p> + <p> + “My God!” said Lord Lundie in horror. + </p> + <p> + The chase reverberated over our heads, from the attics to the first floor + and back again. Bodies and Voices met in collision and argument, and once + or twice the organ hit walls and doors. Then it broke forth in a new + manner. + </p> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="kip0260 (52K)" src="images/kip0260.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <p> + “He's playing it,” said Jimmy. “I know his acute Justinian ear. Are you + fond of music?” + </p> + <p> + “I think Lord Lundie plays very well for a beginner,” I ventured. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! That's the trained legal intellect. Like mastering a brief. I haven't + got it.” He wiped his eyes and shook. + </p> + <p> + “Hi!” said Penfentenyou, looking through the stained glass window down the + garden. “What's that!” + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + A household removals van, in charge of four men, had halted at the gate. A + husband and his wife householders beyond question—quavered + irresolutely up the path. He looked tired. She was certainly cross. In all + this haphazard world the last couple to understand a scientific + experiment. + </p> + <p> + I laid hands on Jimmy—the clamour above drowning speech and with + Penfentenyou's aid, propped him against the window, that he should see. + </p> + <p> + He saw, nodded, fell as an umbrella can fall, and kneeling, beat his + forehead on the shut door. Penfentenyou slid the bolt. + </p> + <p> + The furniture men reinforced the two figures on the path, and advanced, + spreading generously. + </p> + <p> + “Hadn't we better warn them up-stairs?” I suggested: + </p> + <p> + “No. I'll die first!” said Jimmy. “I'm pretty near it now. Besides, they + called me names.” + </p> + <p> + I turned from the Artist to the Administrator. + </p> + <p> + “Ceteris paribus, I think we'd better be going,” said Penfentenyou, + dealer in crises. + </p> + <p> + “Ta—take me with you,” said Jimmy. “I've no reputation to lose, but + I'd like to watch 'em from—er—outside the picture.” + </p> + <p> + “There's always a modus vivendi,” Penfentenyou murmured, and tiptoed + along the hall to a back door, which he opened quite silently. We passed + into a tangle of gooseberry bushes where, at his statesmanlike example, we + crawled on all fours, and regained the hedge. + </p> + <p> + Here we lay up, secure in our alibi. + </p> + <p> + “But your firm,”—the woman was wailing to the furniture removals men—“your + firm promised me everything should be in yesterday. And it's to-day! You + should have been here yesterday!” + </p> + <p> + “The last tenants ain't out yet, lydy,” said one of them. + </p> + <p> + Lord Lundie was rapidly improving in technique, though organ-grinding, + unlike the Law, is more of a calling than a trade, and he hung + occasionally on a dead centre. Giuseppe, I think, was singing, but I could + not understand the drift of Sir Christopher's remarks. They were Spanish. + </p> + <p> + The woman said something we did not catch. + </p> + <p> + “You might 'ave sub-let it,” the man insisted. “Or your gentleman 'ere + might.” + </p> + <p> + “But I didn't. Send for the Police at once.” + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn't do that, lydy. They're only fruit pickers on a beano. They + aren't particular where they sleep.” + </p> + <p> + “D'you mean they've been sleeping there? I only had it cleaned last week. + Get them out.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you say so, we'll 'ave 'em out of it in two twos. Alf, fetch me + the spare swingle-bar.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't! You'll knock the paint off the door. Get them out!” + </p> + <p> + “What the 'ell else am I trying to do for you, lydy?” the man answered + with pathos; but the woman wheeled on her mate. + </p> + <p> + “Edward! They're all drunk here, and they're all mad there. Do something!” + she said. + </p> + <p> + Edward took one short step forward, and sighed “Hullo!” in the direction + of the turbulent house. The woman walked up and down, the very figure of + Domestic Tragedy. The furniture men swayed a little on their heels, and— + </p> + <p> + “Got him!” The shout rang through all the windows at once. It was followed + by a blood-hound-like bay from Sir Christopher, a maniacal prestissimo on + the organ, and loud cries, for Jimmy. But Jimmy, at my side, rolled his + congested eyeballs, owl-wise. + </p> + <p> + “I never knew them,” he said. “I'm an orphan.” + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + The front door opened, and the three came forth to short-lived triumph. I + had never before seen a Law Lord dressed as for tennis, with a stump-leg + barrel-organ strapped to his shoulder. But it is a shy bird in this + plumage. Lord Lundie strove to disembarrass himself of his accoutrements + much as an ill-trained Punch and Judy dog tries to escape backwards + through his frilled collar. Sir Christopher, covered with limewash, + cherished a bleeding thumb, and the almost crazy monkey tore at Giuseppe's + hair. + </p> + <p> + The men on both sides reeled, but the woman stood her ground. “Idiots!” + she said, and once more, “Idiots!” + </p> + <p> + I could have gladdened a few convicts of my acquaintance with a photograph + of Lord Lundie at that instant. + </p> + <p> + “Madam,” he began, wonderfully preserving the roll in his voice, “it was a + monkey.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Christopher sucked his thumb and nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Take it away and go,” she replied. “Go away!” + </p> + <p> + I would have gone, and gladly, on this permission, but these still strong + men must ever be justifying themselves. Lord Lundie turned to the husband, + who for the first time spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I have rented this house. I am moving in,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “We ought to have been in yesterday,” the woman interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We ought to have been in yesterday. Have you slept there overnight?” + said the man peevishly. + </p> + <p> + “No; I assure you we haven't,” said Lord Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “Then go away. Go quite away,” cried the woman. + </p> + <p> + They went—in single file down the path. They went silently, + restrapping the organ on its wheels, and rechaining the monkey to the + organ. + </p> + <p> + “Damn it all!” said Penfentenyou. “They do face the music, and they do + stick by each other in private life!” + </p> + <p> + “Ties of Common Funk,” I answered. Giuseppe ran to the gate and fled back + to the possible world. Lord Lundie and Sir Christopher, constrained by + tradition, paced slowly. + </p> + <p> + Then it came to pass that the woman, who walked behind them, lifted up her + eyes, and beheld the tree which they had dressed. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” she called; and they stopped. “Who did that?” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. The Eternal Bad Boy in every man hung its head before + the Eternal Mother in every woman. + </p> + <p> + “Who put these disgusting things there?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Penfentenyou, Premier of his Colony in all but name, left Jimmy + and me, and appeared at the gate. (If he is not turned out of office, that + is how he will appear on the Day of Armageddon.) + </p> + <p> + “Well done you!” he cried zealously, and doffed his hat to the woman. + “Have you any children, madam?” he demanded. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, two. They should have been here to-day. The firm promised—” + </p> + <p> + “Then we're not a minute too soon. That monkey escaped. It was a very + dangerous beast. 'Might have frightened your children into fits. All the + organ-grinder's fault! A most lucky thing these gentlemen caught it when + they did. I hope you aren't badly mauled, Sir Christopher?” Shaken as I + was (I wanted to get away and laugh) I could not but admire the + scoundrel's consummate tact in leading his second highest trump. An ass + would have introduced Lord Lundie and they would not have believed him. + </p> + <p> + It took the trick. The couple smiled, and gave respectful thanks for their + deliverance by such hands from such perils. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least,” said Lord Lundie. “Anybody—any father—would have + done as much, and—pray don't apologize—your mistake was quite natural.” A + furniture man sniggered here, and Lord Lundie rolled an Eye of Doom on + their ranks. “By the way, if you have trouble with these persons—they + seem to have taken as much as is good for them—please let me know. + Er—Good morning!” + </p> + <p> + They turned into the lane. + </p> + <p> + “Heavens!” said Jimmy, brushing himself down. “Who's that real man with + the real head?” and we hurried after them, for they were running + unsteadily, squeaking like rabbits as they ran. We overtook them in a + little nut wood half a mile up the road, where they had turned aside, and + were rolling. So we rolled with them, and ceased not till we had arrived + at the extremity of exhaustion. + </p> + <p> + “You—you saw it all, then?” said Lord Lundie, rebuttoning his + nineteen-inch collar. + </p> + <p> + “I saw it was a vital question from the first,” responded Penfentenyou, + and blew his nose. + </p> + <p> + “It was. By the way, d'you mind telling me your name?” + </p> + +<p class="p2"> + Summa. Penfentenyou's Great Idea has gone through, a little chipped at the + edges, but in fine and far-reaching shape. His Opposite Number worked at + it like a mule—a bewildered mule, beaten from behind, coaxed from in + front, and propped on either soft side by Lord Lundie of the compressed + mouth and the searing tongue. + </p> + <p> + Sir Christopher Tomling has been ravished from the Argentine, where, after + all, he was but preparing trade-routes for hostile peoples, and now adorns + the forefront of Penfentenyou's Advisory Board. This was an unforeseen + extra, as was Jimmy's gratis full-length—(it will be in this year's + Academy) of Penfentenyou, who has returned to his own place. + </p> + <p> + Now and again, from afar off, between the slam and bump of his shifting + scenery, the glare of his manipulated limelight, and the controlled + rolling of his thunder-drums, I catch his voice, lifted in encouragement + and advice to his fellow-countrymen. He is quite sound on Ties of + Sentiment, and—alone of Colonial Statesmen ventures to talk of the + Ties of Common Funk. + </p> + <p> + Herein I have my reward. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"></a> + THE PUZZLER + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +The Celt in all his variants from Builth to Ballyhoo,<br/> +His mental processes are plain—one knows what he will do,<br/> +And can logically predicate his finish by his start:<br/> +But the English—ah, the English!—they are quite a race apart.<br/> +<br/> +Their psychology is bovine, their outlook crude and rare;<br/> +They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw;<br/> +But the straw that they were tickled with—the chaff that they were fed with—<br/> +They convert into a weaver's beam to break their foeman's head with.<br/> +<br/> +For undemocratic reasons and for motives not of State,<br/> +They arrive at their conclusions—largely inarticulate.<br/> +Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none;<br/> +But sometimes, in a smoking-room, one learns why things were done.<br/> +<br/> +In telegraphic sentences, half swallowed at the ends,<br/> +They hint a matter's inwardness—and there the matter ends.<br/> +And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall,<br/> +The English—ah, the English!—don't say anything at all! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"></a> + LITTLE FOXES + </h2> + <h3> + A TALE OF THE GIHON HUNT + </h3> + <p> + A fox came out of his earth on the banks of the Great River Gihon, which + waters Ethiopia. He saw a white man riding through the dry dhurra-stalks, + and, that his destiny might be fulfilled, barked at him. + </p> + <p> + The rider drew rein among the villagers round his stirrup. + </p> + <p> + “What,” said he, “is that?” + </p> + <p> + “That,” said the Sheikh of the village, “is a fox, O Excellency Our + Governor.” + </p> + <p> + “It is not, then, a jackal?” + </p> + <p> + “No jackal, but Abu Hussein the father of cunning.” + </p> + <p> + “Also,” the white man spoke half aloud, “I am Mudir of this Province.” + </p> + <p> + “It is true,” they cried. “Ya, Saart el Mudir” (O Excellency Our + Governor). + </p> + <p> + The Great River Gihon, well used to the moods of kings, slid between his + mile-wide banks toward the sea, while the Governor praised God in a loud + and searching cry never before heard by the river. + </p> + <p> + When he had lowered his right forefinger from behind his right ear, the + villagers talked to him of their crops—barley, dhurrah, millet, + onions, and the like. The Governor stood in his stirrups. North he looked + up a strip of green cultivation a few hundred yards wide that lay like a + carpet between the river and the tawny line of the desert. Sixty miles + that strip stretched before him, and as many behind. At every half-mile a + groaning water-wheel lifted the soft water from the river to the crops by + way of a mud-built aqueduct. A foot or so wide was the water-channel; five + foot or more high was the bank on which it ran, and its base was broad in + proportion. Abu Hussein, misnamed the Father of Cunning, drank from the + river below his earth, and his shadow was long in the low sun. He could + not understand the loud cry which the Governor had cried. + </p> + <p> + The Sheikh of the village spoke of the crops from which the rulers of all + lands draw revenue; but the Governor's eyes were fixed, between his + horse's ears, on the nearest water-channel. + </p> + <p> + “Very like a ditch in Ireland,” he murmured, and smiled, dreaming of a + razor-topped bank in distant Kildare. + </p> + <p> + Encouraged by that smile, the Sheikh continued. “When crops fail it is + necessary to remit taxation. Then it is a good thing, O Excellency Our + Governor, that you come and see the crops which have failed, and discover + that we have not lied.” + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly.” The Governor shortened his reins. The horse cantered on, rose + at the embankment of the water-channel, changed leg cleverly on top, and + hopped down in a cloud of golden dust. + </p> + <p> + Abu Hussein from his earth watched with interest. He had never before seen + such things. + </p> + <p> + “Assuredly,” the Governor repeated, and came back by the way he had gone. + “It is always best to see for one's self.” + </p> + <p> + An ancient and still bullet-speckled stern-wheel steamer, with a barge + lashed to her side, came round the river bend. She whistled to tell the + Governor his dinner was ready, and the horse, seeing his fodder piled on + the barge, whinnied back. + </p> + <p> + “Moreover,” the Sheikh added, “in the days of the Oppression the Emirs and + their creatures dispossessed many people of their lands. All up and down + the river our people are waiting to return to their lawful fields.” + </p> + <p> + “Judges have been appointed to settle that matter,” said the Governor. + “They will presently come in steamers and hear the witnesses.” + </p> + <p> + “Wherefore? Did the Judges kill the Emirs? We would rather be judged by + the men who executed God's judgment on the Emirs. We would rather abide by + your decision, O Excellency Our Governor.” + </p> + <p> + The Governor nodded. It was a year since he had seen the Emirs stretched + close and still round the reddened sheepskin where lay El Mahdi, the + Prophet of God. Now there remained no trace of their dominion except the + old steamer, once part of a Dervish flotilla, which was his house and + office. She sidled into the shore, lowered a plank, and the Governor + followed his horse aboard. + </p> + <p> + Lights burned on her till late, dully reflected in the river that tugged + at her mooring-ropes. The Governor read, not for the first time, the + administration reports of one John Jorrocks, M.F.H. + </p> + <p> + “We shall need,” he said suddenly to his Inspector, “about ten couple. + I'll get 'em when I go home. You'll be Whip, Baker?” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector, who was not yet twenty-five, signified his assent in the + usual manner, while Abu Hussein barked at the vast desert moon. + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” said the Governor, coming out in his pyjamas, “we'll be giving you + capivi in another three months, my friend.” + </p> + + <hr /> + + <p> + It was four, as a matter of fact, ere a steamer with a melodious bargeful + of hounds anchored at that landing. The Inspector leaped down among them, + and the homesick wanderers received him as a brother. + </p> + <p> + “Everybody fed 'em everything on board ship, but they're real dainty + hounds at bottom,” the Governor explained. “That's Royal you've got hold + of—the pick of the bunch—and the bitch that's got hold of you—she's + a little excited—is May Queen. Merriman, out of Cottesmore Maudlin, + you know.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. 'Grand old betch with the tan eyebrows,'” the Inspector cooed. + “Oh, Ben! I shall take an interest in life now. Hark to 'em! O hark!” + </p> + <p> + Abu Hussein, under the high bank, went about his night's work. An eddy + carried his scent to the barge, and three villages heard the crash of + music that followed. Even then Abu Hussein did not know better than to + bark in reply. + </p> + <p> + “Well, what about my Province?” the Governor asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not so bad,” the Inspector answered, with Royal's head between his knees. + “Of course, all the villages want remission of taxes, but, as far as I can + see, the whole country's stinkin' with foxes. Our trouble will be choppin' + 'em in cover. I've got a list of the only villages entitled to any + remission. What d'you call this flat-sided, blue-mottled beast with the + jowl?” + </p> + <p> + “Beagle-boy. I have my doubts about him. Do you think we can get two days + a week?” + </p> + <p> + “Easy; and as many byes as you please. The Sheikh of this village here + tells me that his barley has failed, and he wants a fifty per cent + remission.” + </p> + <p> + “We'll begin with him to-morrow, and look at his crops as we go. Nothing + like personal supervision,” said the Governor. + </p> + <p> + They began at sunrise. The pack flew off the barge in every direction, + and, after gambols, dug like terriers at Abu Hussein's many earths. Then + they drank themselves pot-bellied on Gihon water while the Governor and + the Inspector chastised them with whips. Scorpions were added; for May + Queen nosed one, and was removed to the barge lamenting. Mystery (a puppy, + alas!) met a snake, and the blue-mottled Beagle-boy (never a dainty hound) + ate that which he should have passed by. Only Royal, of the Belvoir tan + head and the sad, discerning eyes, made any attempt to uphold the honour + of England before the watching village. + </p> + <p> + “You can't expect everything,” said the Governor after breakfast. + </p> + <p> + “We got it, though—everything except foxes. Have you seen May + Queen's nose?” said the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “And Mystery's dead. We'll keep 'em coupled next time till we get well in + among the crops. I say, what a babbling body-snatcher that Beagle-boy is! + Ought to be drowned!” + </p> + <p> + “They bury people so damn casual hereabouts. Give him another chance,” the + Inspector pleaded, not knowing that he should live to repent most + bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Talkin' of chances,” said the Governor, “this Sheikh lies about his + barley bein' a failure. If it's high enough to hide a hound at this time + of year, it's all right. And he wants a fifty per cent remission, you + said?” + </p> + <p> + “You didn't go on past the melon patch where I tried to turn Wanderer. + It's all burned up from there on to the desert. His other water-wheel has + broken down, too,” the Inspector replied. + </p> + <p> + “Very good. We'll split the difference and allow him twenty-five per cent + off. Where'll we meet to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “There's some trouble among the villages down the river about their + land-titles. It's good goin' ground there, too,” the Inspector said. + </p> + <p> + The next meet, then, was some twenty miles down the river, and the pack + were not enlarged till they were fairly among the fields. Abu Hussein was + there in force—four of him. Four delirious hunts of four minutes + each—four hounds per fox—ended in four earths just above the + river. All the village looked on. + </p> + <p> + “We forgot about the earths. The banks are riddled with 'em. This'll + defeat us,” said the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment!” The Governor drew forth a sneezing hound. “I've just + remembered I'm Governor of these parts.” + </p> + <p> + “Then turn out a black battalion to stop for us. We'll need 'em, old man.” + </p> + <p> + The Governor straightened his back. “Give ear, O people!” he cried. “I + make a new Law!” + </p> + <p> + The villagers closed in. He called:— + </p> + <p> + “Henceforward I will give one dollar to the man on whose land Abu Hussein + is found. And another dollar”—he held up the coin—“to the man + on whose land these dogs shall kill him. But to the man on whose land Abu + Hussein shall run into a hole such as is this hole, I will give not + dollars, but a most unmeasurable beating. Is it understood?” + </p> + <p> + “Our Excellency,” a man stepped forth, “on my land Abu Hussein was found + this morning. Is it not so, brothers?” + </p> + <p> + None denied. The Governor tossed him over four dollars without a word. + </p> + <p> + “On my land they all went into their holes,” cried another. “Therefore I + must be beaten.” + </p> + <p> + “Not so. The land is mine, and mine are the beatings.” + </p> + <p> + This second speaker thrust forward his shoulders already bared, and the + villagers shouted. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo! Two men anxious to be licked? There must be some swindle about the + land,” said the Governor. Then in the local vernacular: “What are your + rights to the beating?” + </p> + <p> + As a river-reach changes beneath a slant of the sun, that which had been a + scattered mob changed to a court of most ancient justice. The hounds tore + and sobbed at Abu Hussein's hearthstone, all unnoticed among the legs of + the witnesses, and Gihon, also accustomed to laws, purred approval. + </p> + <p> + “You will not wait till the Judges come up the river to settle the + dispute?” said the Governor at last. + </p> + <p> + “No!” shouted all the village save the man who had first asked to be + beaten. “We will abide by Our Excellency's decision. Let Our Excellency + turn out the creatures of the Emirs who stole our land in the days of the + Oppression.” + </p> + <p> + “And thou sayest?” the Governor turned to the man who had first asked to + be beaten. + </p> + <p> + “I say <i>I</i> will wait till the wise Judges come down in the steamer. Then I + will bring my many witnesses,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + “He is rich. He will bring many witnesses,” the village Sheikh muttered. + </p> + <p> + “No need. Thy own mouth condemns thee!” the Governor cried. “No man + lawfully entitled to his land would wait one hour before entering upon it. + Stand aside!” The man, fell back, and the village jeered him. + </p> + <p> + The second claimant stooped quickly beneath the lifted hunting-crop. The + village rejoiced. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Such an one; Son of such an one,” said the Governor, prompted by the + Sheikh, “learn, from the day when I send the order, to block up all the + holes where Abu Hussein may hide—on—thy—land!” + </p> + <p> + The light flicks ended. The man stood up triumphant. By that accolade had + the Supreme Government acknowledged his title before all men. + </p> + <p> + While the village praised the perspicacity of the Governor, a naked, + pock-marked child strode forward to the earth, and stood on one leg, + unconcerned as a young stork. + </p> + <p> + “Hal” he said, hands behind his back. “This should be blocked up with + bundles of dhurra stalks—or, better, bundles of thorns.” + </p> + <p> + “Better thorns,” said the Governor. “Thick ends innermost.” + </p> + <p> + The child nodded gravely and squatted on the sand. + </p> + <p> + “An evil day for thee, Abu Hussein,” he shrilled into the mouth of the + earth. “A day of obstacles to thy flagitious returns in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” the Governor asked the Sheikh. “It thinks.” + </p> + <p> + “Farag the Fatherless. His people were slain in the days of the + Oppression. The man to whom Our Excellency has awarded the land is, as it + were, his maternal uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it come with me and feed the big dogs?” said the Governor. + </p> + <p> + The other peering children drew back. “Run!” they cried. “Our Excellency + will feed Farag to the big dogs.” + </p> + <p> + “I will come,” said Farag. “And I will never go.” He threw his arm round + Royal's neck, and the wise beast licked his face. + </p> + <p> + “Binjamin, by Jove!” the Inspector cried. + </p> + <p> + “No!” said the Governor. “I believe he has the makings of a James Pigg!” + </p> + <p> + Farag waved his hand to his uncle, and led Royal on to the barge. The rest + of the pack followed. + </p> + + <hr /> + + <p> + Gihon, that had seen many sports, learned to know the Hunt barge well. He + met her rounding his bends on grey December dawns to music wild and + lamentable as the almost forgotten throb of Dervish drums, when, high + above Royal's tenor bell, sharper even than lying Beagle-boy's falsetto + break, Farag chanted deathless war against Abu Hussein and all his seed. + At sunrise the river would shoulder her carefully into her place, and + listen to the rush and scutter of the pack fleeing up the gang-plank, and + the tramp of the Governor's Arab behind them. They would pass over the + brow into the dewless crops where Gihon, low and shrunken, could only + guess what they were about when Abu Hussein flew down the bank to scratch + at a stopped earth, and flew back into the barley again. As Farag had + foretold, it was evil days for Abu Hussein ere he learned to take the + necessary steps and to get away crisply. Sometimes Gihon saw the whole + procession of the Hunt silhouetted against the morning-blue, bearing him + company for many merry miles. At every half mile the horses and the + donkeys jumped the water-channels—up, on, change your leg, and off + again like figures in a zoetrope, till they grew small along the line of + waterwheels. Then Gihon waited their rustling return through the crops, + and took them to rest on his bosom at ten o'clock. While the horses ate, + and Farag slept with his head on Royal's flank, the Governor and his + Inspector worked for the good of the Hunt and his Province. + </p> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="kip0284 (57K)" src="images/kip0284.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <p> + After a little time there was no need to beat any man for neglecting his + earths. The steamer's destination was telegraphed from waterwheel to + waterwheel, and the villagers stopped out and put to according. If an + earth were overlooked, it meant some dispute as to the ownership of the + land, and then and there the Hunt checked and settled it in this wise: The + Governor and the Inspector side by side, but the latter half a horse's + length to the rear; both bare-shouldered claimants well in front; the + villagers half-mooned behind them, and Farag with the pack, who quite + understood the performance, sitting down on the left. Twenty minutes were + enough to settle the most complicated case, for, as the Governor said to a + judge on the steamer, “One gets at the truth in a hunting-field a heap + quicker than in your lawcourts.” + </p> + <p> + “But when the evidence is conflicting?” the Judge suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Watch the field. They'll throw tongue fast enough if you're running a + wrong scent. You've never had an appeal from one of my decisions yet.” + </p> + <p> + The Sheikhs on horseback—the lesser folk on clever donkeys—the + children so despised by Farag soon understood that villages which repaired + their waterwheels and channels stood highest in the Governor's favour. He + bought their barley for his horses. + </p> + <p> + “Channels,” he said, “are necessary that we may all jump them. They are + necessary, moreover, for the crops. Let there be many wheels and sound + channels—and much good barley.” + </p> + <p> + “Without money,” replied an aged Sheikh, “there are no waterwheels.” + </p> + <p> + “I will lend the money,” said the Governor. + </p> + <p> + “At what interest, O Our Excellency?” + </p> + <p> + “Take you two of May Queen's puppies to bring up in your village in such a + manner that they do not eat filth, nor lose their hair, nor catch fever + from lying in the sun, but become wise hounds.” + </p> + <p> + “Like Ray-yal—not like Bigglebai?” (Already it was an insult along + the River to compare a man to the shifty anthropophagous blue-mottled + harrier.) + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, like Ray-yal—not in the least like Bigglebai. That shall + be the interest on the loan. Let the puppies thrive and the waterwheel be + built, and I shall be content,” said the Governor. + </p> + <p> + “The wheel shall be built, but, O Our Excellency, if by God's favour the + pups grow to be well-smellers, not filth-eaters, not unaccustomed to their + names, not lawless, who will do them and me justice at the time of judging + the young dogs?” + </p> + <p> + “Hounds, man, hounds! Ha-wands, O Sheikh, we call them in their manhood.” + </p> + <p> + “The ha-wands when they are judged at the Sha-ho. I have unfriends down + the river to whom Our Excellency has also entrusted ha-wands to bring up.” + </p> + <p> + “Puppies, man! Pah-peaz we call them, O Sheikh, in their childhood.” + </p> + <p> + “Pah-peat. My enemies may judge my pah-peaz unjustly at the Sha-ho. This + must be thought of.” + </p> + <p> + “I see the obstacle. Hear now! If the new waterwheel is built in a month + without oppression, thou, O Sheikh, shalt be named one of the judges to + judge the pah-peaz at the Sha-ho. Is it understood?” + </p> + <p> + “Understood. We will build the wheel. I and my seed are responsible for + the repayment of the loan. Where are my pah-peaz? If they eat fowls, must + they on any account eat the feathers?” + </p> + <p> + “On no account must they eat the feathers. Farag in the barge will tell + thee how they are to live.” + </p> + <p> + There is no instance of any default on the Governor's personal and + unauthorized loans, for which they called him the Father of Waterwheels. + But the first puppy-show at the capital needed enormous tact and the + presence of a black battalion ostentatiously drilling in the barrack + square to prevent trouble after the prize-giving. + </p> + <p> + But who can chronicle the glories of the Gihon Hunt—or their shames? + Who remembers the kill in the market-place, when the Governor bade the + assembled sheikhs and warriors observe how the hounds would instantly + devour the body of Abu Hussein; but how, when he had scientifically broken + it up, the weary pack turned from it in loathing, and Farag wept because + he said the world's face had been blackened? What men who have not yet + ridden beyond the sound of any horn recall the midnight run which ended—Beagleboy + leading—among tombs; the hasty whip-off, and the oath, taken above + bones, to forget the worry? The desert run, when Abu Hussein forsook the + cultivation, and made a six-mile point to earth in a desolate khor—when + strange armed riders on camels swooped out of a ravine, and instead of + giving battle, offered to take the tired hounds home on their beasts. + Which they did, and vanished. + </p> + <p> + Above all, who remembers the death of Royal, when a certain Sheikh wept + above the body of the stainless hound as it might have been his son's—and + that day the Hunt rode no more? The badly-kept log-book says little of + this, but at the end of their second season (forty-nine brace) appears the + dark entry: “New blood badly wanted. They are beginning to listen to + beagle-boy.” + </p> + + <hr /> + + <p> + The Inspector attended to the matter when his leave fell due. + </p> + <p> + “Remember,” said the Governor, “you must get us the best blood in England—real, + dainty hounds—expense no object, but don't trust your own judgment. + Present my letters of introduction, and take what they give you.” + </p> + <p> + The Inspector presented his letters in a society where they make much of + horses, more of hounds, and are tolerably civil to men who can ride. They + passed him from house to house, mounted him according to his merits, and + fed him, after five years of goat chop and Worcester sauce, perhaps a + thought too richly. + </p> + <p> + The seat or castle where he made his great coup does not much matter. Four + Masters of Foxhounds were at table, and in a mellow hour the Inspector + told them stories of the Gihon Hunt. He ended: “Ben said I wasn't to trust + my own judgment about hounds, but I think there ought to be a special + tariff for Empire-makers.” + </p> + <p> + As soon as his hosts could speak, they reassured him on this point. + </p> + <p> + “And now tell us about your first puppy-show all over again,” said one. + </p> + <p> + “And about the earth-stoppin'. Was that all Ben's own invention?” said + another. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment,” said a large, clean-shaven man—not an M.F.H.—at + the end of the table. “Are your villagers habitually beaten by your + Governor when they fail to stop foxes' holes?” + </p> + <p> + The tone and the phrase were enough even if, as the Inspector confessed + afterwards, the big, blue double-chinned man had not looked so like + Beagle-boy. He took him on for the honour of Ethiopia. + </p> + <p> + “We only hunt twice a week—sometimes three times. I've never known a + man chastised more than four times a week unless there's a bye.” + </p> + <p> + The large loose-lipped man flung his napkin down, came round the table, + cast himself into the chair next the Inspector, and leaned forward + earnestly, so that he breathed in the Inspector's face. + </p> + <p> + “Chastised with what?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “With the kourbash—on the feet. A kourbash is a strip of old + hippo-hide with a sort of keel on it, like the cutting edge of a boar's + tusk. But we use the rounded side for a first offender.” + </p> + <p> + “And do any consequences follow this sort of thing? For the victim, I mean—not + for you?” + </p> + <p> + “Ve-ry rarely. Let me be fair. I've never seen a man die under the lash, + but gangrene may set up if the kourbash has been pickled.” + </p> + <p> + “Pickled in what?” All the table was still and interested. + </p> + <p> + “In copperas, of course. Didn't you know that” said the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God I didn't.” The large man sputtered visibly. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector wiped his face and grew bolder. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't think we're careless about our earthstoppers. We've a Hunt + fund for hot tar. Tar's a splendid dressing if the toe-nails aren't beaten + off. But huntin' as large a country as we do, we mayn't be back at that + village for a month, and if the dressings ain't renewed, and gangrene sets + in, often as not you find your man pegging about on his stumps. We've a + well-known local name for 'em down the river. We call 'em the Mudir's + Cranes. You see, I persuaded the Governor only to bastinado on one foot.” + </p> + <p> + “On one foot? The Mudir's Cranes!” The large man turned purple to the top + of his bald head. “Would you mind giving me the local word for Mudir's + Cranes?” + </p> + <p> + From a too well-stocked memory the Inspector drew one short adhesive word + which surprises by itself even unblushing Ethiopia. He spelt it out, saw + the large man write it down on his cuff and withdraw. Then the Inspector + translated a few of its significations and implications to the four + Masters of Foxhounds. He left three days later with eight couple of the + best hounds in England—a free and a friendly and an ample gift from + four packs to the Gihon Hunt. He had honestly meant to undeceive the large + blue mottled man, but somehow forgot about it. + </p> + <p> + The new draft marks a new chapter in the Hunt's history. From an isolated + phenomenon in a barge it became a permanent institution with brick-built + kennels ashore, and an influence social, political, and administrative, + co-terminous with the boundaries of the province. Ben, the Governor, + departed to England, where he kept a pack of real dainty hounds, but never + ceased to long for the old lawless lot. His successors were ex-officio + Masters of the Gihon Hunt, as all Inspectors were Whips. For one reason, + Farag, the kennel huntsman, in khaki and puttees, would obey nothing under + the rank of an Excellency, and the hounds would obey no one but Farag; for + another, the best way of estimating crop returns and revenue was by riding + straight to hounds; for a third, though Judges down the river issued + signed and sealed land-titles to all lawful owners, yet public opinion + along the river never held any such title valid till it had been + confirmed, according to precedent, by the Governor's hunting crop in the + hunting field, above the wilfully neglected earth. True, the ceremony had + been cut down to three mere taps on the shoulder, but Governors who tried + to evade that much found themselves and their office compassed about with + a great cloud of witnesses who took up their time with lawsuits and, worse + still, neglected the puppies. The older sheikhs, indeed, stood out for the + unmeasurable beatings of the old days—the sharper the punishment, + they argued, the surer the title; but here the hand of modern progress was + against them, and they contented themselves with telling tales of Ben the + first Governor, whom they called the Father of Waterwheels, and of that + heroic age when men, horses, and hounds were worth following. + </p> + <p> + This same Modern Progress which brought dog biscuit and brass water-taps + to the kennels was at work all over the world. Forces, Activities, and + Movements sprang into being, agitated themselves, coalesced, and, in one + political avalanche, overwhelmed a bewildered, and not in the least + intending it, England. The echoes of the New Era were borne into the + Province on the wings of inexplicable cables. The Gihon Hunt read speeches + and sentiments, and policies which amazed them, and they thanked God, + prematurely, that their Province was too far off, too hot, and too hard + worked to be reached by those speakers or their policies. But they, with + others, under-estimated the scope and purpose of the New Era. + </p> + <p> + One by one, the Provinces of the Empire were hauled up and baited, hit and + held, lashed under the belly, and forced back on their haunches for the + amusement of their new masters in the parish of Westminster. One by one + they fell away, sore and angry, to compare stripes with each other at the + ends of the uneasy earth. Even so the Gihon Hunt, like Abu Hussein in the + old days, did not understand. Then it reached them through the Press that + they habitually flogged to death good revenue-paying cultivators who + neglected to stop earths; but that the few, the very few who did not die + under hippohide whips soaked in copperas, walked about on their gangrenous + ankle-bones, and were known in derision as the Mudir's Cranes. The charges + were vouched for in the House of Commons by a Mr. Lethabie Groombride, who + had formed a Committee, and was disseminating literature. The Province + groaned; the Inspector—now an Inspector of Inspectors—whistled. + He had forgotten the gentleman who sputtered in people's faces. + </p> + <p> + “He shouldn't have looked so like Beagle-boy!” was his sole defence when + he met the Governor at breakfast on the steamer after a meet. + </p> + <p> + “You shouldn't have joked with an animal of that class,” said Peter the + Governor. “Look what Farag has brought me!” + </p> + <p> + It was a pamphlet, signed on behalf of a Committee by a lady secretary, + but composed by some person who thoroughly understood the language of the + Province. After telling the tale of the beatings, it recommended all the + beaten to institute criminal proceedings against their Governor, and, as + soon as might be, to rise against English oppression and tyranny. Such + documents were new in Ethiopia in those days. + </p> + <p> + The Inspector read the last half page. “But—but,” he stammered, + “this is impossible. White men don't write this sort of stuff.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't they, just?” said the Governor. “They get made Cabinet Ministers + for doing it too. I went home last year. I know.” + </p> + <p> + “It'll blow over,” said the Inspector weakly. + </p> + <p> + “Not it. Groombride is coming down here to investigate the matter in a few + days.” + </p> + <p> + “For himself?” + </p> + <p> + “The Imperial Government's behind him. Perhaps you'd like to look at my + orders.” The Governor laid down an uncoded cable. The whiplash to it ran: + “You will afford Mr. Groombride every facility for his inquiry, and will + be held responsible that no obstacles are put in his way to the fullest + possible examination of any witnesses which he may consider necessary. He + will be accompanied by his own interpreter, who must not be tampered + with.” + </p> + <p> + “That's to me—Governor of the Province!” said Peter the Governor. + </p> + <p> + “It seems about enough,” the Inspector answered. + </p> + <p> + Farag, kennel-huntsman, entered the saloon, as was his privilege. + </p> + <p> + “My uncle, who was beaten by the Father of Waterwheels, would approach, O + Excellency,” he said, “and there are others on the bank.” + </p> + <p> + “Admit,” said the Governor. + </p> + <p> + There tramped aboard sheikhs and villagers to the number of seventeen. In + each man's hand was a copy of the pamphlet; in each man's eye terror and + uneasiness of the sort that Governors spend and are spent to clear away. + Farag's uncle, now Sheikh of the village, spoke: “It is written in this + book, Excellency, that the beatings whereby we hold our lands are all + valueless. It is written that every man who received such a beating from + the Father of Waterwheels who slow the Emirs, should instantly begin a + lawsuit, because the title to his land is not valid.” + </p> + <p> + “It is so written. We do not wish lawsuits. We wish to hold the land as it + was given to us after the days of the Oppression,” they cried. + </p> + <p> + The Governor glanced at the Inspector. This was serious. To cast doubt on + the ownership of land means, in Ethiopia, the letting in of waters, and + the getting out of troops. + </p> + <p> + “Your titles are good,” said the Governor. The Inspector confirmed with a + nod. + </p> + <p> + “Then what is the meaning of these writings which came from down the river + where the Judges are?” Farag's uncle waved his copy. “By whose order are + we ordered to slay you, O Excellency Our Governor?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not written that you are to slay me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in those very words, but if we leave an earth unstopped, it is the + same as though we wished to save Abu Hussein from the hounds. These + writings say: 'Abolish your rulers.' How can we abolish except we kill? We + hear rumours of one who comes from down the river soon to lead us to + kill.” + </p> + <p> + “Fools!” said the Governor. “Your titles are good. This is madness!” + </p> + <p> + “It is so written,” they answered like a pack. + </p> + <p> + “Listen,” said the Inspector smoothly. “I know who caused the writings to + be written and sent. He is a man of a blue-mottled jowl, in aspect like + Bigglebai who ate unclean matters. He will come up the river and will give + tongue about the beatings.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he impeach our land-titles? An evil day for him!” + </p> + <p> + “Go slow, Baker,” the Governor whispered. “They'll kill him if they get + scared about their land.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell a parable.” The Inspector lit a cigarette. “Declare which of you + took to walk the children of Milkmaid?” + </p> + <p> + “Melik-meid First or Second?” said Farag quickly. + </p> + <p> + “The second—the one which was lamed by the thorn.” + </p> + <p> + “No—no. Melik-meid the Second strained her shoulder leaping my + water-channel,” a sheikh cried. “Melik-meid the First was lamed by the + thorns on the day when Our Excellency fell thrice.” + </p> + <p> + “True—true. The second Melik-meid's mate was Malvolio, the pied + hound,” said the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “I had two of the second Melik-meid's pups,” said Farag's uncle. “They + died of the madness in their ninth month.” + </p> + <p> + “And how did they do before they died?” said the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “They ran about in the sun, and slavered at the mouth till they died.” + </p> + <p> + “Wherefore?” + </p> + <p> + “God knows. He sent the madness. It was no fault of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Thy own mouth hath answered thee.” The Inspector laughed. “It is with men + as it is with dogs. God afflicts some with a madness. It is no fault of + ours if such men run about in the sun and froth at the mouth. The man who + is coming will emit spray from his mouth in speaking, and will always edge + and push in towards his hearers. When ye see and hear him ye will + understand that he is afflicted of God: being mad. He is in God's hands.” + </p> + <p> + “But our titles—are our titles to our lands good?” the crowd + repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Your titles are in my hands—they are good,” said the Governor. + </p> + <p> + “And he who wrote the writings is an afflicted of God?” said Farag's + uncle. + </p> + <p> + “The Inspector hath said it,” cried the Governor. “Ye will see when the + man comes. O sheikhs and men, have we ridden together and walked puppies + together, and bought and sold barley for the horses that after these years + we should run riot on the scent of a madman—an afflicted of God?” + </p> + <p> + “But the Hunt pays us to kill mad jackals,” said Farag's uncle. “And he + who questions my titles to my land—” + </p> + <p> + “Aahh! 'Ware riot!” The Governor's hunting-crop cracked like a + three-pounder. “By Allah,” he thundered, “if the afflicted of God come to + any harm at your hands, I myself will shoot every hound and every puppy, + and the Hunt shall ride no more. On your heads be it. Go in peace, and + tell the others.” + </p> + <p> + “The Hunt shall ride no more,” said Farag's uncle. “Then how can the land + be governed? No—no, O Excellency Our Governor, we will not harm a + hair on the head of the afflicted of God. He shall be to us as is Abu + Hussein's wife in the breeding season.” + </p> + <p> + When they were gone the Governor mopped his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “We must put a few soldiers in every village this Groombride visits, + Baker. Tell 'em to keep out of sight, and have an eye on the villagers. + He's trying 'em rather high.” + </p> + <p> + “O Excellency,” said the smooth voice of Farag, laying the Field and + Country Life square on the table, “is the afflicted of God who resembles + Bigglebai one with the man whom the Inspector met in the great house in + England, and to whom he told the tale of the Mudir's Cranes?” + </p> + <p> + “The same man, Farag,” said the Inspector. + </p> + <p> + “I have often heard the Inspector tell the tale to Our Excellency at + feeding-time in the kennels; but since I am in the Government service I + have never told it to my people. May I loose that tale among the + villages?” + </p> + + <p> + The Governor nodded. “No harm,” said he. + </p> + + <hr /> + + <p> + The details of Mr. Groombride's arrival, with his interpreter, whom he + proposed should eat with him at the Governor's table, his allocution to + the Governor on the New Movement, and the sins of Imperialism, I purposely + omit. At three in the afternoon Mr. Groombride said: “I will go out now + and address your victims in this village.” + </p> + <p> + “Won't you find it rather hot?” said the Governor. “They generally take 'a + nap till sunset at this time of year.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Groombride's large, loose lips set. “That,” he replied pointedly, + “would be enough to decide me. I fear you have not quite mastered your + instructions. May I ask you to send for my interpreter? I hope he has not + been tampered with by your subordinates.” + </p> + <p> + He was a yellowish boy called Abdul, who had well eaten and drunk with + Farag. The Inspector, by the way, was not present at the meal. + </p> + <p> + “At whatever risk, I shall go unattended,” said Mr. Groombride. “Your + presence would cow them—from giving evidence. Abdul, my good friend, + would you very kindly open the umbrella?” + </p> + <p> + He passed up the gang-plank to the village, and with no more prelude than + a Salvation Army picket in a Portsmouth slum, cried: “Oh, my brothers!” + </p> + <p> + He did not guess how his path had been prepared. The village was widely + awake. Farag, in loose, flowing garments, quite unlike a kennel huntsman's + khaki and puttees, leaned against the wall of his uncle's house. “Come and + see the afflicted of God,” he cried musically, “whose face, indeed, + resembles that of Bigglebai.” + </p> + <p> + The village came, and decided that on the whole Farag was right. + </p> + <p> + “I can't quite catch what they are saying,” said Mr. Groombride. + </p> + <p> + “They saying they very much pleased to see you, Sar,” Adbul interpreted. + </p> + <p> + “Then I do think they might have sent a deputation to the steamer; but I + suppose they were frightened of the officials. Tell them not to be + frightened, Abdul.” + </p> + <p> + “He says you are not to be frightened,” Abdul explained. A child here + sputtered with laughter. “Refrain from mirth,” Farag cried. “The afflicted + of God is the guest of The Excellency Our Governor. We are responsible for + every hair of his head.” + </p> + <p> + “He has none,” a voice spoke. “He has the white and the shining mange.” + </p> + <p> + “Now tell them what I have come for, Abdul, and please keep the umbrella + well up. I think I shall reserve myself for my little vernacular speech at + the end.” + </p> + <p> + “Approach! Look! Listen!” Abdul chanted. “The afflicted of God will now + make sport. Presently he will speak in your tongue, and will consume you + with mirth. I have been his servant for three weeks. I will tell you about + his undergarments and his perfumes for his head.” + </p> + <p> + He told them at length. + </p> + <p> + “And didst thou take any of his perfume bottles?” said Farag at the end. + </p> + <p> + “I am his servant. I took two,” Abdul replied. + </p> + <p> + “Ask him,” said Farag's uncle, “what he knows about our land-titles. Ye + young men are all alike.” He waved a pamphlet. Mr. Groombride smiled to + see how the seed sown in London had borne fruit by Gihon. Lo! All the + seniors held copies of the pamphlet. + </p> + <p> + “He knows less than a buffalo. He told me on the steamer that he was + driven out of his own land by Demah-Kerazi which is a devil inhabiting + crowds and assemblies,” said Abdul. + </p> + <p> + “Allah between us and evil!” a woman cackled from the darkness of a hut. + “Come in, children, he may have the Evil Eye.” + </p> + <p> + “No, my aunt,” said Farag. “No afflicted of God has an evil eye. Wait till + ye hear his mirth-provoking speech which he will deliver. I have heard it + twice from Abdul.” + </p> + <p> + “They seem very quick to grasp the point. How far have you got, Abdul?” + </p> + <p> + “All about the beatings, sar. They are highly interested.” + </p> + <p> + “Don't forget about the local self-government, and please hold the + umbrella over me. It is hopeless to destroy unless one first builds up.” + </p> + <p> + “He may not have the Evil Eye,” Farag's uncle grunted, “but his devil led + him too certainly to question my land-title. Ask him whether he still + doubts my land-title?” + </p> + <p> + “Or mine, or mine?” cried the elders. + </p> + <p> + “What odds? He is an afflicted of God,” Farag called. “Remember the tale I + told you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he is an Englishman, and doubtless of influence, or Our + Excellency would not entertain him. Bid the down-country jackass ask him.” + </p> + <p> + “Sar,” said Abdul, “these people, much fearing they may be turned out of + their land in consequence of your remarks. Therefore they ask you to make + promise no bad consequences following your visit.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Groombride held his breath and turned purple. Then he stamped his + foot. + </p> + <p> + “Tell them,” he cried, “that if a hair of any one of their heads is + touched by any official on any account whatever, all England shall ring + with it. Good God! What callous oppression! The dark places of the earth + are full of cruelty.” He wiped his face, and throwing out his arms cried: + “Tell them, oh! tell the poor serfs not to be afraid of me. Tell them I + come to redress their wrongs—not, heaven knows, to add to their + burden.” + </p> + <p> + The long-drawn gurgle of the practised public speaker pleased them much. + </p> + <p> + “That is how the new water-tap runs out in the kennel,” said Farag. “The + Excellency Our Governor entertains him that he may make sport. Make him + say the mirth-moving speech.” + </p> + <p> + “What did he say about my land-titles?” Farag's uncle was not to be + turned. + </p> + <p> + “He says,” Farag interpreted, “that he desires, nothing better than that + you should live on your lands in peace. He talks as though he believed + himself to be Governor.” + </p> + <p> + “Well. We here are all witnesses to what he has said. Now go forward with + the sport.” Farag's uncle smoothed his garments. “How diversely hath Allah + made His creatures! On one He bestows strength to slay Emirs; another He + causes to go mad and wander in the sun, like the afflicted sons of + Melik-meid.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and to emit spray from the mouth, as the Inspector told us. All will + happen as the Inspector foretold,” said Farag. “I have never yet seen the + Inspector thrown out during any run.” + </p> + <p> + “I think,” Abdul plucked at Mr. Groombride's sleeves, “I think perhaps it + is better now, Sar, if you give your fine little native speech. They not + understanding English, but much pleased at your condescensions.” + </p> + <p> + “Condescensions?” Mr. Groombride spun round. “If they only knew how I felt + towards them in my heart! If I could express a tithe of my feelings! I + must stay here and learn the language. Hold up the umbrella, Abdul! I + think my little speech will show them I know something of their vie + intime.” + </p> + <p> + It was a short, simple, carefully learned address, and the accent, + supervised by Abdul on the steamer, allowed the hearers to guess its + meaning, which was a request to see one of the Mudir's Cranes; since the + desire of the speaker's life, the object to which he would consecrate his + days, was to improve the condition of the Mudir's Cranes. But first he + must behold them with his own eyes. Would, then, his brethren, whom he + loved, show him a Mudir's Crane whom he desired to love? + </p> + <p> + Once, twice, and again in his peroration he repeated his demand, using + always—that they might see he was acquainted with their local argot—using + always, I say, the word which the Inspector had given him in England long + ago—the short, adhesive word which, by itself, surprises even + unblushing Ethiopia. + </p> + <p> + There are limits to the sublime politeness of an ancient people. A bulky, + blue-chinned man in white clothes, his name red-lettered across his lower + shirtfront, spluttering from under a green-lined umbrella almost tearful + appeals to be introduced to the Unintroducible; naming loudly the + Unnameable; dancing, as it seemed, in perverse joy at mere mention of the + Unmentionable—found those limits. There was a moment's hush, and + then such mirth as Gihon through his centuries had never heard—a + roar like to the roar of his own cataracts in flood. Children cast + themselves on the ground, and rolled back and forth cheering and whooping; + strong men, their faces hidden in their clothes, swayed in silence, till + the agony became insupportable, and they threw up their heads and bayed at + the sun; women, mothers and virgins, shrilled shriek upon mounting shriek, + and slapped their thighs as it might have been the roll of musketry. When + they tried to draw breath, some half-strangled voice would quack out the + word, and the riot began afresh. Last to fall was the city-trained Abdul. + He held on to the edge of apoplexy, then collapsed, throwing the umbrella + from him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Groombride should not be judged too harshly. Exercise and strong + emotion under a hot sun, the shock of public ingratitude, for the moment + rued his spirit. He furled the umbrella, and with it beat the prostrate + Abdul, crying that he had been betrayed. + </p> + <p> + In which posture the Inspector, on horseback, followed by the Governor, + suddenly found him. + </p> + + <hr /> + + <p> + “That's all very well,” said the Inspector, when he had taken Abdul's + dramatically dying depositions on the steamer, “but you can't hammer a + native merely because he laughs at you. I see nothing for it but the law + to take its course.” + </p> + <p> + “You might reduce the charge to—er—tampering with an + interpreter,” said the Governor. Mr. Groombride was too far gone to be + comforted. + </p> + <p> + “It's the publicity that I fear,” he wailed. “Is there no possible means + of hushing up the affair? You don't know what a question—a single + question in the House means to a man of my position—the ruin of my + political career, I assure you.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn't have imagined it,” said the Governor thoughtfully. + </p> + <p> + “And, though perhaps I ought not to say it, I am not without honour in my + own country—or influence. A word in season, as you know, Your + Excellency. It might carry an official far.” + </p> + <p> + The Governor shuddered. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that had to come too,” he said to himself. “Well, look here. If I + tell this man of yours to withdraw the charge against you, you can go to + Gehenna for aught I care. The only condition I make is that if you write—I + suppose that's part of your business—about your travels, you don't praise + me!” + </p> + <p> + So far Mr. Groombride has loyally adhered to this understanding. + </p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"></a> + GALLIO'S SONG + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +All day long to the judgment-seat<br/> + The crazed Provincials drew—<br/> +All day long at their ruler's feet<br/> + Howled for the blood of the Jew.<br/> +Insurrection with one accord<br/> + Banded itself and woke:<br/> +And Paul was about to open his mouth<br/> + When Achaia's Deputy spoke<br/> +<br/> +“Whether the God descend from above<br/> + Or the man ascend upon high,<br/> +Whether this maker of tents be Jove<br/> + Or a younger deity—<br/> +I will be no judge between your gods<br/> + And your godless bickerings,<br/> +Lictor, drive them hence with rods—<br/> + I care for none of these things!<br/> +<br/> +“Were it a question of lawful due<br/> + Or a labourer's hire denied,<br/> +Reason would I should bear with you<br/> + And order it well to be tried<br/> +But this is a question of words and names<br/> + And I know the strife it brings,<br/> +I will not pass upon any your claims.<br/> + I care for none of these things.<br/> +<br/> +“One thing only I see most clear,<br/> + As I pray you also see.<br/> +Claudius Caesar hath set me here<br/> + Rome's Deputy to be.<br/> +It is Her peace that ye go to break<br/> + Not mine, nor any king's,<br/> +But, touching your clamour of 'conscience sake,'<br/> + I care for none of these things!” +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"></a> + THE HOUSE SURGEON + </h2> + <p> + On an evening after Easter Day, I sat at a table in a homeward bound + steamer's smoking-room, where half a dozen of us told ghost stories. As + our party broke up a man, playing Patience in the next alcove, said to me: + “I didn't quite catch the end of that last story about the Curse on the + family's first-born.” + </p> + <p> + “It turned out to be drains,” I explained. “As soon as new ones were put + into the house the Curse was lifted, I believe. I never knew the people + myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! I've had my drains up twice; I'm on gravel too.” + </p> + <p> + “You don't mean to say you've a ghost in your house? Why didn't you join + our party?” + </p> + <p> + “Any more orders, gentlemen, before the bar closes?” the steward + interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down again, and have one with me,” said the Patience player. “No, it + isn't a ghost. Our trouble is more depression than anything else.” + </p> + <p> + “How interesting? Then it's nothing any one can see?” + </p> + <p> + “It's—it's nothing worse than a little depression. And the odd part + is that there hasn't been a death in the house since it was built—in + 1863. The lawyer said so. That decided me—my good lady, rather—and + he made me pay an extra thousand for it.” + </p> + <p> + “How curious. Unusual, too!” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; ain't it? It was built for three sisters—Moultrie was the name—three + old maids. They all lived together; the eldest owned it. I bought it from + her lawyer a few years ago, and if I've spent a pound on the place first + and last, I must have spent five thousand. Electric light, new servants' + wing, garden—all that sort of thing. A man and his family ought to + be happy after so much expense, ain't it?” He looked at me through the + bottom of his glass. + </p> + <p> + “Does it affect your family much?” + </p> + <p> + “My good lady—she's a Greek, by the way—and myself are + middle-aged. We can bear up against depression; but it's hard on my little + girl. I say little; but she's twenty. We send her visiting to escape it. + She almost lived at hotels and hydros, last year, but that isn't pleasant + for her. She used to be a canary—a perfect canary—always + singing. You ought to hear her. She doesn't sing now. That sort of thing's + unwholesome for the young, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Can't you get rid of the place?” I suggested. + </p> + <p> + “Not except at a sacrifice, and we are fond of it. Just suits us three. + We'd love it if we were allowed.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by not being allowed?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean because of the depression. It spoils everything.” + </p> + <p> + “What's it like exactly?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn't very well explain. It must be seen to be appreciated, as the + auctioneers say. Now, I was much impressed by the story you were telling + just now.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn't true,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “My tale is true. If you would do me the pleasure to come down and spend a + night at my little place, you'd learn more than you would if I talked till + morning. Very likely 'twouldn't touch your good self at all. You might be—immune, + ain't it? On the other hand, if this influenza,—influence does + happen to affect you, why, I think it will be an experience.” + </p> + <p> + While he talked he gave me his card, and I read his name was L. Maxwell + M'Leod, Esq., of Holmescroft. A City address was tucked away in a corner. + </p> + <p> + “My business,” he added, “used to be furs. If you are interested in furs—I've + given thirty years of my life to 'em.” + </p> + <p> + “You're very kind,” I murmured. + </p> + <p> + “Far from it, I assure you. I can meet you next Saturday afternoon + anywhere in London you choose to name, and I'll be only too happy to motor + you down. It ought to be a delightful run at this time of year—the + rhododendrons will be out. I mean it. You don't know how truly I mean it. + Very probably—it won't affect you at all. And—I think I may + say I have the finest collection of narwhal tusks in the world. All the + best skins and horns have to go through London, and L. Maxwell M'Leod, he + knows where they come from, and where they go to. That's his business.” + </p> + <p> + For the rest of the voyage up-channel Mr. M'Leod talked to me of the + assembling, preparation, and sale of the rarer furs; and told me things + about the manufacture of fur-lined coats which quite shocked me. Somehow + or other, when we landed on Wednesday, I found myself pledged to spend + that week-end with him at Holmescroft. + </p> + <p> + On Saturday he met me with a well-groomed motor, and ran me out, in an + hour and a half, to an exclusive residential district of dustless roads + and elegantly designed country villas, each standing in from three to five + acres of perfectly appointed land. He told me land was selling at eight + hundred pounds the acre, and the new golf links, whose Queen Anne pavilion + we passed, had cost nearly twenty-four thousand pounds to create. + </p> + <p> + Holmescroft was a large, two-storied, low, creeper-covered residence. A + verandah at the south side gave on to a garden and two tennis courts, + separated by a tasteful iron fence from a most park-like meadow of five or + six acres, where two Jersey cows grazed. Tea was ready in the shade of a + promising copper beech, and I could see groups on the lawn of young men + and maidens appropriately clothed, playing lawn tennis in the sunshine. + </p> + <p> + “A pretty scene, ain't it?” said Mr. M'Leod. “My good lady's sitting under + the tree, and that's my little girl in pink on the far court. But I'll + take you to your room, and you can see 'em all later.” + </p> + <p> + He led me through a wide parquet-floored hall furnished in pale lemon, + with huge Cloisonnée vases, an ebonized and gold grand piano, and banks of + pot flowers in Benares brass bowls, up a pale oak staircase to a spacious + landing, where there was a green velvet settee trimmed with silver. The + blinds were down, and the light lay in parallel lines on the floors. + </p> + <p> + He showed me my room, saying cheerfully: “You may be a little tired. One + often is without knowing it after a run through traffic. Don't come down + till you feel quite restored. We shall all be in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + My room was rather warm, and smelt of perfumed soap. I threw up the window + at once, but it opened so close to the floor and worked so clumsily that I + came within an ace of pitching out, where I should certainly have ruined a + rather lop-sided laburnum below. As I set about washing off the journey's + dust, I began to feel a little tired. But, I reflected, I had not come + down here in this weather and among these new surroundings to be + depressed; so I began to whistle. + </p> + <p> + And it was just then that I was aware of a little grey shadow, as it might + have been a snowflake seen against the light, floating at an immense + distance in the background of my brain. It annoyed me, and I shook my head + to get rid of it. Then my brain telegraphed that it was the forerunner of + a swift-striding gloom which there was yet time to escape if I would force + my thoughts away from it, as a man leaping for life forces his body + forward and away from the fall of a wall. But the gloom overtook me before + I could take in the meaning of the message. I moved toward the bed, every + nerve already aching with the foreknowledge of the pain that was to be + dealt it, and sat down, while my amazed and angry soul dropped, gulf by + gulf, into that horror of great darkness which is spoken of in the Bible, + and which, as auctioneers say, must be experienced to be appreciated. + </p> + <p> + Despair upon despair, misery upon misery, fear after fear, each causing + their distinct and separate woe, packed in upon me for an unrecorded + length of time, until at last they blurred together, and I heard a click + in my brain like the click in the ear when one descends in a diving bell, + and I knew that the pressures were equalised within and without, and that, + for the moment, the worst was at an end. But I knew also that at any + moment the darkness might come down anew; and while, I dwelt on this + speculation precisely as a man torments a raging tooth with his tongue, it + ebbed away into the little grey shadow on the brain of its first coming, + and once more I heard my brain, which knew what would recur, telegraph to + every quarter for help, release or diversion. + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and M'Leod reappeared. I thanked him politely, saying I + was charmed with my room, anxious to meet Mrs. M'Leod, much refreshed with + my wash, and so on and so forth. Beyond a little stickiness at the corners + of my mouth, it seemed to me that I was managing my words admirably; the + while that I myself cowered at the bottom of unclimbable pits. M'Leod laid + his hand on my shoulder, and said “You've got it now already, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I answered. “It's making me sick!” + </p> + <p> + “It will pass off when you come outside. I give you my word it will then + pass off. Come!” + </p> + <p> + I shambled out behind him, and wiped my forehead in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “You musn't mind,” he said. “I expect the run tired you. My good lady is + sitting there under the copper beech.” + </p> + <p> + She was a fat woman in an apricot-coloured gown, with a heavily powdered + face, against which her black long-lashed eyes showed like currants in + dough. I was introduced to many fine ladies and gentlemen of those parts. + Magnificently appointed landaus and covered motors swept in and out of the + drive, and the air was gay with the merry outcries of the tennis players. + </p> + <p> + As twilight drew on they all went away, and I was left alone with Mr. and + Mrs. M'Leod, while tall menservants and maidservants took away the tennis + and tea things. Miss M'Leod had walked a little down the drive with a + light-haired young man, who apparently knew everything about every South + American railway stock. He had told me at tea that these were the days of + financial specialisation. + </p> + <p> + “I think it went off beautifully, my dear,” said Mr. M'Leod to his wife; + and to me: “You feel all right now, ain't it? Of course you do.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. M'Leod surged across the gravel. Her husband skipped nimbly before + her into the south verandah, turned a switch, and all Holmescroft was + flooded with light. + </p> + <p> + “You can do that from your room also,” he said as they went in. “There is + something in money, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + Miss M'Leod came up behind me in the dusk. “We have not yet been + introduced,” she said, “but I suppose you are staying the night?” + </p> + <p> + “Your father was kind enough to ask me,” I replied. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. “Yes, I know; and you know too, don't you? I saw your face + when you came to shake hands with mamma. You felt the depression very + soon. It is simply frightful in that bedroom sometimes. What do you think + it is—bewitchment? In Greece, where I was a little girl, it might + have been; but not in England, do you think? Or do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up, Thea. It will all come right,” he insisted. + </p> + <p> + “No, papa.” She shook her dark head. “Nothing is right while it comes.” + </p> + <p> + “It is nothing that we ourselves have ever done in our lives that I will + swear to you,” said Mrs. M'Leod suddenly. “And we have changed our + servants several times. So we know it is not them.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. Let us enjoy ourselves while we can,” said Mr. M'Leod, + opening the champagne. + </p> + <p> + But we did not enjoy ourselves. The talk failed. There were long silences. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” I said, for I thought some one at my elbow was about + to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! That is the other thing!” said Miss M'Leod. Her mother groaned. + </p> + <p> + We were silent again, and, in a few seconds it must have been, a live + grief beyond words—not ghostly dread or horror, but aching, helpless + grief—overwhelmed us, each, I felt, according to his or her nature, + and held steady like the beam of a burning glass. Behind that pain I was + conscious there was a desire on somebody's part to explain something on + which some tremendously important issue hung. + </p> + <p> + Meantime I rolled bread pills and remembered my sins; M'Leod considered + his own reflection in a spoon; his wife seemed to be praying, and the girl + fidgetted desperately with hands and feet, till the darkness passed on—as + though the malignant rays of a burning-glass had been shifted from us. + </p> + <p> + “There,” said Miss M'Leod, half rising. “Now you see what makes a happy + home. Oh, sell it—sell it, father mine, and let us go away!” + </p> + <p> + “But I've spent thousands on it. You shall go to Harrogate next week, Thea + dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm only just back from hotels. I am so tired of packing.” + </p> + <p> + “Cheer up, Thea. It is over. You know it does not often come here twice in + the same night. I think we shall dare now to be comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted a dish-cover, and helped his wife and daughter. His face was + lined and fallen like an old man's after debauch, but his hand did not + shake, and his voice was clear. As he worked to restore us by speech and + action, he reminded me of a grey-muzzled collie herding demoralised sheep. + </p> + <p> + After dinner we sat round the dining-room fire—the drawing-room might have + been under the Shadow for aught we knew—talking with the intimacy of + gipsies by the wayside, or of wounded comparing notes after a skirmish. By + eleven o'clock the three between them had given me every name and detail + they could recall that in any way bore on the house, and what they knew of + its history. + </p> + <p> + We went to bed in a fortifying blaze of electric light. My one fear was + that the blasting gust of depression would return—the surest way, of + course, to bring it. I lay awake till dawn, breathing quickly and sweating + lightly, beneath what De Quincey inadequately describes as “the oppression + of inexpiable guilt.” Now as soon as the lovely day was broken, I fell + into the most terrible of all dreams—that joyous one in which all + past evil has not only been wiped out of our lives, but has never been + committed; and in the very bliss of our assured innocence, before our + loves shriek and change countenance, we wake to the day we have earned. + </p> + <p> + It was a coolish morning, but we preferred to breakfast in the south + verandah. The forenoon we spent in the garden, pretending to play games + that come out of boxes, such as croquet and clock golf. But most of the + time we drew together and talked. The young man who knew all about South + American railways took Miss M'Leod for a walk in the afternoon, and at + five M'Leod thoughtfully whirled us all up to dine in town. + </p> + <p> + “Now, don't say you will tell the Psychological Society, and that you will + come again,” said Miss M'Leod, as we parted. “Because I know you will + not.” + </p> + <p> + “You should not say that,” said her mother. “You should say, 'Goodbye, Mr. + Perseus. Come again.'” + </p> + <p> + “Not him!” the girl cried. “He has seen the Medusa's head!” + </p> + <p> + Looking at myself in the restaurant's mirrors, it seemed to me that I had + not much benefited by my week-end. Next morning I wrote out all my + Holmescroft notes at fullest length, in the hope that by so doing I could + put it all behind me. But the experience worked on my mind, as they say + certain imperfectly understood rays work on the body. + </p> + <p> + I am less calculated to make a Sherlock Holmes than any man I know, for I + lack both method and patience, yet the idea of following up the trouble to + its source fascinated me. I had no theory to go on, except a vague idea + that I had come between two poles of a discharge, and had taken a shock + meant for some one else. This was followed by a feeling of intense + irritation. I waited cautiously on myself, expecting to be overtaken by + horror of the supernatural, but my self persisted in being humanly + indignant, exactly as though it had been the victim of a practical joke. + It was in great pains and upheavals—that I felt in every fibre but + its dominant idea, to put it coarsely, was to get back a bit of its own. + By this I knew that I might go forward if I could find the way. + </p> + <p> + After a few days it occurred to me to go to the office of Mr. J.M.M. + Baxter—the solicitor who had sold Holmescroft to M'Leod. I explained + I had some notion of buying the place. Would he act for me in the matter? + </p> + <p> + Mr. Baxter, a large, greyish, throaty-voiced man, showed no enthusiasm. “I + sold it to Mr. M'Leod,” he said. “It 'ud scarcely do for me to start on + the running-down tack now. But I can recommend—” + </p> + <p> + “I know he's asking an awful price,” I interrupted, “and atop of it he + wants an extra thousand for what he calls your clean bill of health.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Baxter sat up in his chair. I had all his attention. + </p> + <p> + “Your guarantee with the house. Don't you remember it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes. That no death had taken place in the house since it was built: + I remember perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + He did not gulp as untrained men do when they lie, but his jaws moved + stickily, and his eyes, turning towards the deed boxes on the wall, + dulled. I counted seconds, one, two, three—one, two, three up to + ten. A man, I knew, can live through ages of mental depression in that + time. + </p> + <p> + “I remember perfectly.” His mouth opened a little as though it had tasted + old bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “Of course that sort of thing doesn't appeal to me.” I went on. “I don't + expect to buy a house free from death.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. No one does. But it was Mr. M'Leod's fancy—his + wife's rather, I believe; and since we could meet it—it was my duty + to my clients at whatever cost to my own feelings—to make him pay.” + </p> + <p> + “That's really why I came to you. I understood from him you knew the place + well.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. Always did. It originally belonged to some connections of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “The Misses Moultrie, I suppose. How interesting! They must have loved the + place before the country round about was built up.” + </p> + <p> + “They were very fond of it indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't wonder. So restful and sunny. I don't see how they could have + brought themselves to part with it.” + </p> + <p> + Now it is one of the most constant peculiarities of the English that in + polite conversation—and I had striven to be polite—no one ever + does or sells anything for mere money's sake. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Agnes—the youngest—fell ill” (he spaced his words a + little), “and, as they were very much attached to each other, that broke + up the home.” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. I fancied it must have been something of that kind. One + doesn't associate the Staffordshire Moultries” (my Demon of + Irresponsibility at that instant created 'em), “with—with being hard + up.” + </p> + <p> + “I don't know whether we're related to them,” he answered importantly. “We + may be, for our branch of the family comes from the Midlands.” + </p> + <p> + I give this talk at length, because I am so proud of my first attempt at + detective work. When I left him, twenty minutes later, with instructions + to move against the owner of Holmescroft, with a view to purchase, I was + more bewildered than any Doctor Watson at the opening of a story. + </p> + <p> + Why should a middle-aged solicitor turn plovers' egg colour and drop his + jaw when reminded of so innocent and festal a matter as that no death had + ever occurred in a house that he had sold? If I knew my English vocabulary + at all, the tone in which he said the youngest sister “fell ill” meant + that she had gone out of her mind. That might explain his change of + countenance, and it was just possible that her demented influence still + hung about Holmescroft; but the rest was beyond me. + </p> + <p> + I was relieved when I reached M'Leod's City office, and could tell him + what I had done—not what I thought. + </p> + <p> + M'Leod was quite willing to enter into the game of the pretended purchase, + but did not see how it would help if I knew Baxter. + </p> + <p> + “He's the only living soul I can get at who was connected with + Holmescroft,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! Living soul is good,” said M'Leod. “At any rate our little girl will + be pleased that you are still interested in us. Won't you come down some + day this week?” + </p> + <p> + “How is it there now?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + He screwed up his face. “Simply frightful!” he said. “Thea is at + Droitwich.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like it immensely, but I must cultivate Baxter for the present. + You'll be sure and keep him busy your end, won't you?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me with quiet contempt. “Do not be afraid. I shall be a good + Jew. I shall be my own solicitor.” + </p> + <p> + Before a fortnight was over, Baxter admitted ruefully that M'Leod was + better than most firms in the business: We buyers were coy, argumentative, + shocked at the price of Holmescroft, inquisitive, and cold by turns, but + Mr. M'Leod the seller easily met and surpassed us; and Mr. Baxter entered + every letter, telegram, and consultation at the proper rates in a + cinematograph-film of a bill. At the end of a month he said it looked as + though M'Leod, thanks to him, were really going to listen to reason. I was + many pounds out of pocket, but I had learned something of Mr. Baxter on + the human side. I deserved it. Never in my life have I worked to + conciliate, amuse, and flatter a human being as I worked over my + solicitor. + </p> + <p> + It appeared that he golfed. Therefore, I was an enthusiastic beginner, + anxious to learn. Twice I invaded his office with a bag (M'Leod lent it) + full of the spelicans needed in this detestable game, and a vocabulary to + match. The third time the ice broke, and Mr. Baxter took me to his links, + quite ten miles off, where in a maze of tramway lines, railroads, and + nursery-maids, we skelped our divotted way round nine holes like barges + plunging through head seas. He played vilely and had never expected to + meet any one worse; but as he realised my form, I think he began to like + me, for he took me in hand by the two hours together. After a fortnight he + could give me no more than a stroke a hole, and when, with this allowance, + I once managed to beat him by one, he was honestly glad, and assured me + that I should be a golfer if I stuck to it. I was sticking to it for my + own ends, but now and again my conscience pricked me; for the man was a + nice man. Between games he supplied me with odd pieces of evidence, such + as that he had known the Moultries all his life, being their cousin, and + that Miss Mary, the eldest, was an unforgiving woman who would never let + bygones be. I naturally wondered what she might have against him; and + somehow connected him unfavourably with mad Agnes. + </p> + <p> + “People ought to forgive and forget,” he volunteered one day between + rounds. “Specially where, in the nature of things, they can't be sure of + their deductions. Don't you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “It all depends on the nature of the evidence on which one forms one's + judgment,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” he cried. “I'm lawyer enough to know that there's nothing in + the world so misleading as circumstantial evidence. Never was.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Have you ever seen men hanged on it?” + </p> + <p> + “Hanged? People have been supposed to be eternally lost on it,” his face + turned grey again. “I don't know how it is with you, but my consolation is + that God must know. He must! Things that seem on the face of 'em like + murder, or say suicide, may appear different to God. Heh?” + </p> + <p> + “That's what the murderer and the suicide can always hope—I + suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “I have expressed myself clumsily as usual. The facts as God knows 'em—may + be different—even after the most clinching evidence. I've always + said that—both as a lawyer and a man, but some people won't—I + don't want to judge 'em—we'll say they can't—believe it; + whereas I say there's always a working chance—a certainty—that + the worst hasn't happened.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Now, let's + come on! This time next week I shall be taking my holiday.” + </p> + <p> + “What links?” I asked carelessly, while twins in a perambulator got out of + our line of fire. + </p> + <p> + “A potty little nine-hole affair at a hydro in the Midlands. My cousins + stay there. Always will. Not but what the fourth and the seventh holes + take some doing. You could manage it, though,” he said encouragingly. + “You're doing much better. It's only your approach shots that are weak.” + </p> + <p> + “You're right. I can't approach for nuts! I shall go to pieces while + you're away—with no one to coach me,” I said mournfully. + </p> + <p> + “I haven't taught you anything,” he said, delighted with the compliment. + </p> + <p> + “I owe all I've learned to you, anyhow. When will you come back?” + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” he began. “I don't know, your engagements, but I've no one to + play with at Burry Mills. Never have. Why couldn't you take a few days off + and join me there? I warn you it will be rather dull. It's a throat and + gout place—baths, massage, electricity, and so forth. But the fourth and + the seventh holes really take some doing.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm for the game,” I answered valiantly; Heaven well knowing that I hated + every stroke and word of it. + </p> + <p> + “That's the proper spirit. As their lawyer I must ask you not to say + anything to my cousins about Holmescroft. It upsets 'em. Always did. But + speaking as man to man, it would be very pleasant for me if you could see + your way to—” + </p> + <p> + I saw it as soon as decency permitted, and thanked him sincerely. + According to my now well-developed theory he had certainly misappropriated + his aged cousins' monies under power of attorney, and had probably driven + poor Agnes Moultrie out of her wits, but I wished that he was not so + gentle, and good-tempered, and innocent eyed. + </p> + <p> + Before I joined him at Burry Mills Hydro, I spent a night at Holmescroft. + Miss M'Leod had returned from her Hydro, and first we made very merry on + the open lawn in the sunshine over the manners and customs of the English + resorting to such places. She knew dozens of hydros, and warned me how to + behave in them, while Mr. and Mrs. M'Leod stood aside and adored her. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! That's the way she always comes back to us,” he said. “Pity it wears + off so soon, ain't it? You ought to hear her sing 'With mirth thou pretty + bird.'” + </p> + <p> + We had the house to face through the evening, and there we neither laughed + nor sung. The gloom fell on us as we entered, and did not shift till ten + o'clock, when we crawled out, as it were, from beneath it. + </p> + <p> + “It has been bad this summer,” said Mrs. M'Leod in a whisper after we + realised that we were freed. “Sometimes I think the house will get up and + cry out—it is so bad.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you forgotten what comes after the depression?” + </p> + <p> + So then we waited about the small fire, and the dead air in the room + presently filled and pressed down upon us with the sensation (but words + are useless here) as though some dumb and bound power were striving + against gag and bond to deliver its soul of an articulate word. It passed + in a few minutes, and I fell to thinking about Mr. Baxter's conscience and + Agnes Moultrie, gone mad in the well-lit bedroom that waited me. These + reflections secured me a night during which I rediscovered how, from + purely mental causes, a man can be physically sick; but the sickness was + bliss compared to my dreams when the birds waked. On my departure, M'Leod + gave me a beautiful narwhal's horn, much as a nurse gives a child sweets + for being brave at a dentist's. + </p> + <p> + “There's no duplicate of it in the world,” he said, “else it would have + come to old Max M'Leod;” and he tucked it into the motor. Miss M'Leod on + the far side of the car whispered, “Have you found out anything, Mr. + Perseus?” + </p> + <p> + I shook my head. + </p> + <p> + “Then I shall be chained to my rock all my life,” she went on. “Only don't + tell papa.” + </p> + <p> + I supposed she was thinking of the young gentleman who specialised in + South American rails, for I noticed a ring on the third finger of her left + hand. + </p> + <p> + I went straight from that house to Burry Mills Hydro, keen for the first + time in my life on playing golf, which is guaranteed to occupy the mind. + Baxter had taken me a room communicating with his own, and after lunch + introduced me to a tall, horse-headed elderly lady of decided manners, + whom a white-haired maid pushed along in a bath-chair through the + park-like grounds of the Hydro. She was Miss Mary Moultrie, and she + coughed and cleared her throat just like Baxter. She suffered—she + told me it was a Moultrie castemark—from some obscure form of + chronic bronchitis, complicated with spasm of the glottis; and, in a dead, + flat voice, with a sunken eye that looked and saw not, told me what + washes, gargles, pastilles, and inhalations she had proved most + beneficial. From her I was passed on to her younger sister, Miss + Elizabeth, a small and withered thing with twitching lips, victim, she + told me, to very much the same sort of throat, but secretly devoted to + another set of medicines. When she went away with Baxter and the + bath-chair, I fell across a major of the Indian army with gout in his + glassy eyes, and a stomach which he had taken all round the Continent. He + laid everything before me; and him I escaped only to be confided in by a + matron with a tendency to follicular tonsilitis and eczema. Baxter waited + hand and foot on his cousins till five o'clock, trying, as I saw, to atone + for his treatment of the dead sister. Miss Mary ordered him about like a + dog. + </p> + <p> + “I warned you it would be dull,” he said when we met in the smoking-room. + </p> + <p> + “It's tremendously interesting,” I said. “But how about a look round the + links?” + </p> + <p> + “Unluckily damp always affects my eldest cousin. I've got to buy her a new + bronchitis-kettle. Arthurs broke her old one yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + We slipped out to the chemist's shop in the town, and he bought a large + glittering tin thing whose workings he explained. + </p> + <p> + “I'm used to this sort of work. I come up here pretty often,” he said. + “I've the family throat too.” + </p> + <p> + “You're a good man,” I said. “A very good man.” + </p> + <p> + He turned towards me in the evening light among the beeches, and his face + was changed to what it might have been a generation before. + </p> + <p> + “You see,” he said huskily, “there was the youngest—Agnes. Before + she fell ill, you know. But she didn't like leaving her sisters. Never + would.” He hurried on with his odd-shaped load and left me among the ruins + of my black theories. The man with that face had done Agnes Moultrie no + wrong. + </p> + +<hr /> + + <p> + We never played our game. I was waked between two and three in the morning + from my hygienic bed by Baxter in an ulster over orange and white pyjamas, + which I should never have suspected from his character. + </p> + <p> + “My cousin has had some sort of a seizure,” he said. “Will you come? I + don't want to wake the doctor. Don't want to make a scandal. Quick!” + </p> + <p> + So I came quickly, and led by the white-haired Arthurs in a jacket and + petticoat, entered a double-bedded room reeking with steam and Friar's + Balsam. The electrics were all on. Miss Mary—I knew her by her + height—was at the open window, wrestling with Miss Elizabeth, who + gripped her round the knees. + </p> + <p> + Miss Mary's hand was at her own throat, which was streaked with blood. + </p> + <p> + “She's done it. She's done it too!” Miss Elizabeth panted. “Hold her! Help + me!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say! Women don't cut their throats,” Baxter whispered. + </p> + <p> + “My God! Has she cut her throat?” the maid cried out, and with no warning + rolled over in a faint. Baxter pushed her under the wash-basins, and + leaped to hold the gaunt woman who crowed and whistled as she struggled + toward the window. He took her by the shoulder, and she struck out wildly: + </p> + <p> + “All right! She's only cut her hand,” he said. “Wet towel quick!” + </p> + <p> + While I got that he pushed her backward. Her strength seemed almost as + great as his. I swabbed at her throat when I could, and found no mark; + then helped him to control her a little. Miss Elizabeth leaped back to + bed, wailing like a child. + </p> + <p> + “Tie up her hand somehow,” said Baxter. “Don't let it drip about the + place. She”—he stepped on broken glass in his slippers, “she must + have smashed a pane.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mary lurched towards the open window again, dropped on her knees, her + head on the sill, and lay quiet, surrendering the cut hand to me. + </p> + <p> + “What did she do?” Baxter turned towards Miss Elizabeth in the far bed. + </p> + <p> + “She was going to throw herself out of the window,” was the answer. “I + stopped her, and sent Arthurs for you. Oh, we can never hold up our heads + again!” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mary writhed and fought for breath. Baxter found a shawl which he + threw over her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense!” said he. “That isn't like Mary;” but his face worked when he + said it. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn't believe about Aggie, John. Perhaps you will now!” said Miss + Elizabeth. “I saw her do it, and she's cut her throat too!” + </p> + <p> + “She hasn't,” I said. “It's only her hand.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mary suddenly broke from us with an indescribable grunt, flew, rather + than ran, to her sister's bed, and there shook her as one furious + schoolgirl would shake another. + </p> + <p> + “No such thing,” she croaked. “How dare you think so, you wicked little + fool?” + </p> + <p> + “Get into bed, Mary,” said Baxter. “You'll catch a chill.” + </p> + <p> + She obeyed, but sat up with the grey shawl round her lean shoulders, + glaring at her sister. “I'm better now,” she panted. “Arthurs let me sit + out too long. Where's Arthurs? The kettle.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind Arthurs,” said Baxter. “You get the kettle.” I hastened to + bring it from the side table. “Now, Mary, as God sees you, tell me what + you've done.” + </p> + <p> + His lips were dry, and he could not moisten. them with his tongue. + </p> + <p> + Miss Mary applied herself to the mouth of the kettle, and between indraws + of steam said: “The spasm came on just now, while I was asleep. I was + nearly choking to death. So I went to the window I've done it often + before, without waking any one. Bessie's such an old maid about draughts. + I tell you I was choking to death. I couldn't manage the catch, and I + nearly fell out. That window opens too low. I cut my hand trying to save + myself. Who has tied it up in this filthy handkerchief? I wish you had had + my throat, Bessie. I never was nearer dying!” She scowled on us all + impartially, while her sister sobbed. + </p> + <p> + From the bottom of the bed we heard a quivering voice: “Is she dead? Have + they took her away? Oh, I never could bear the sight o' blood!” + </p> + <p> + “Arthurs,” said Miss Mary, “you are an hireling. Go away!” + </p> + <p> + It is my belief that Arthurs crawled out on all fours, but I was busy + picking up broken glass from the carpet. + </p> + <p> + Then Baxter, seated by the side of the bed, began to cross-examine in a + voice I scarcely recognised. No one could for an instant have doubted the + genuine rage of Miss Mary against her sister, her cousin, or her maid; and + that a doctor should have been called in—for she did me the honour of + calling me doctor—was the last drop. She was choking with her + throat; had rushed to the window for air; had near pitched out, and in + catching at the window bars had cut her hand. Over and over she made this + clear to the intent Baxter. Then she turned on her sister and + tongue-lashed her savagely. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn't blame me,” Miss Bessie faltered at last. “You know what we + think of night and day.” + </p> + <p> + “I'm coming to that,” said Baxter. “Listen to me. What you did, Mary, + misled four people into thinking you—you meant to do away with + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn't one suicide in the family enough? Oh God, help and pity us! You + couldn't have believed that!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “The evidence was complete. Now, don't you think,” Baxter's finger wagged + under her nose—“can't you think that poor Aggie did the same thing + at Holmescroft when she fell out of the window?” + </p> + <p> + “She had the same throat,” said Miss Elizabeth. “Exactly the same + symptoms. Don't you remember, Mary?” + </p> + <p> + “Which was her bedroom?” I asked of Baxter in an undertone. + </p> + <p> + “Over the south verandah, looking on to the tennis lawn.” + </p> + <p> + “I nearly fell out of that very window when I was at Holmescroft—opening + it to get some air. The sill doesn't come much above your knees,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “You hear that, Mary? Mary, do you hear what this gentleman says? Won't + you believe that what nearly happened to you must have happened to poor + Aggie that night? For God's sake—for her sake—Mary, won't you + believe?” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence while the steam kettle puffed. + </p> + <p> + “If I could have proof—if I could have proof,” said she, and broke + into most horrible tears. + </p> + <p> + Baxter motioned to me, and I crept away to my room, and lay awake till + morning, thinking more specially of the dumb Thing at Holmescroft which + wished to explain itself. I hated Miss Mary as perfectly as though I had + known her for twenty years, but I felt that, alive or dead, I should not + like her to condemn me. + </p> + <p> + Yet at mid-day, when I saw Miss Mary in her bathchair, Arthurs behind and + Baxter and Miss Elizabeth on either side, in the park-like grounds of the + Hydro, I found it difficult to arrange my words. + </p> + <p> + “Now that you know all about it,” said Baxter aside, after the first + strangeness of our meeting was over, “it's only fair to tell you that my + poor cousin did not die in Holmescroft at all. She was dead when they + found her under the window in the morning. Just dead.” + </p> + <p> + “Under that laburnum outside the window?” I asked, for I suddenly + remembered the crooked evil thing. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. She broke the tree in falling. But no death has ever taken place + in the house, so far as we were concerned. You can make yourself quite + easy on that point. Mr. M'Leod's extra thousand for what you called the + 'clean bill of health' was something toward my cousins' estate when we + sold. It was my duty as their lawyer to get it for them—at any cost + to my own feelings.” + </p> + <p> + I know better than to argue when the English talk about their duty. So I + agreed with my solicitor. + </p> + <p> + “Their sister's death must have been a great blow to your cousins,” I went + on. The bath-chair was behind me. + </p> + <p> + “Unspeakable,” Baxter whispered. “They brooded on it day and night. No + wonder. If their theory of poor Aggie making away with herself was + correct, she was eternally lost!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe that she made away with herself?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank God! Never have! And after what happened to Mary last night, I + see perfectly what happened to poor Aggie. She had the family throat too. + By the way, Mary thinks you are a doctor. Otherwise she wouldn't like your + having been in her room.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. Is she convinced now about her sister's death?” + </p> + <p> + “She'd give anything to be able to believe it, but she's a hard woman, and + brooding along certain lines makes one groovy. I have sometimes been + afraid of her reason—on the religious side, don't you know. + Elizabeth doesn't matter. Brain of a hen. Always had.” + </p> + <p> + Here Arthurs summoned me to the bath-chair, and the ravaged face, beneath + its knitted Shetland wool hood, of Miss Mary Moultrie. + </p> + <p> + “I need not remind you, I hope, of the seal of secrecy—absolute + secrecy—in your profession,” she began. “Thanks to my cousin's and + my sister's stupidity, you have found out——” she blew her nose. + </p> + + <div class="fig" style="width:80%"> + <img alt="kip0346 (70K)" src="images/kip0346.jpg" width="100%" /><br /> + </div> + + <p> + “Please don't excite her, sir,” said Arthurs at the back. + </p> + <p> + “But, my dear Miss Moultrie, I only know what I've seen, of course, but it + seems to me that what you thought was a tragedy in your sister's case, + turns out, on your own evidence, so to speak, to have been an accident—a + dreadfully sad one—but absolutely an accident.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe that too?” she cried. “Or are you only saying it to + comfort me?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it from the bottom of my heart. Come down to Holmescroft for an + hour—for half an hour and satisfy yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Of what? You don't understand. I see the house every day—every night. I + am always there in spirit—waking or sleeping. I couldn't face it in + reality.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must,” I said. “If you go there in the spirit the greater need + for you to go there in the flesh. Go to your sister's room once more, and + see the window—I nearly fell out of it myself. It's—it's + awfully low and dangerous. That would convince you,” I pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “Yet Aggie had slept in that room for years,” she interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “You've slept in your room here for a long time, haven't you? But you + nearly fell out of the window when you were choking.” + </p> + <p> + “That is true. That is one thing true,” she nodded. “And I might have been + killed as—perhaps Aggie was killed.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case your own sister and cousin and maid would have said you had + committed suicide, Miss Moultrie. Come down to Holmescroft, and go over + the place just once.” + </p> + <p> + “You are lying,” she said quite quietly. “You don't want me to come down + to see a window. It is something else. I warn you we are Evangelicals. We + don't believe in prayers for the dead. 'As the tree falls—'” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I daresay. But you persist in thinking that your sister committed + suicide—” + </p> + <p> + “No! No! I have always prayed that I might have misjudged her.” + </p> + <p> + Arthurs at the bath-chair spoke up: “Oh, Miss Mary! you would 'ave it from + the first that poor Miss Aggie 'ad made away with herself; an', of course, + Miss Bessie took the notion from you. Only Master—Mister John stood + out, and—and I'd 'ave taken my Bible oath you was making away + with yourself last night.” + </p> + <p> + Miss Mary leaned towards me, one finger on my sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “If going to Holmescroft kills me,” she said, “you will have the murder of + a fellow-creature on your conscience for all eternity.” + </p> + <p> + “I'll risk it,” I answered. Remembering what torment the mere reflection + of her torments had cast on Holmescroft, and remembering, above all, the + dumb Thing that filled the house with its desire to speak, I felt that + there might be worse things. + </p> + <p> + Baxter was amazed at the proposed visit, but at a nod from that terrible + woman went off to make arrangements. Then I sent a telegram to M'Leod + bidding him and his vacate Holmescroft for that afternoon. Miss Mary + should be alone with her dead, as I had been alone. + </p> + <p> + I expected untold trouble in transporting her, but to do her justice, the + promise given for the journey, she underwent it without murmur, spasm, or + unnecessary word. Miss Bessie, pressed in a corner by the window, wept + behind her veil, and from time to time tried to take hold of her sister's + hand. Baxter wrapped himself in his newly found happiness as selfishly as + a bridegroom, for he sat still and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “So long as I know that Aggie didn't make away with herself,” he + explained, “I tell you frankly I don't care what happened. She's as hard + as a rock—Mary. Always was. She won't die.” + </p> + <p> + We led her out on to the platform like a blind woman, and so got her into + the fly. The half-hour crawl to Holmescroft was the most racking + experience of the day. M'Leod had obeyed my instructions. There was no one + visible in the house or the gardens; and the front door stood open. + </p> + <p> + Miss Mary rose from beside her sister, stepped forth first, and entered + the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Bessie,” she cried. + </p> + <p> + “I daren't. Oh, I daren't.” + </p> + <p> + “Come!” Her voice had altered. I felt Baxter start. “There's nothing to be + afraid of.” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens!” said Baxter. “She's running up the stairs. We'd better + follow.” + </p> + <p> + “Let's wait below. She's going to the room.” + </p> + <p> + We heard the door of the bedroom I knew open and shut, and we waited in + the lemon-coloured hall, heavy with the scent of flowers. + </p> + <p> + “I've never been into it since it was sold,” Baxter sighed. “What a + lovely, restful plate it is! Poor Aggie used to arrange the flowers.” + </p> + <p> + “Restful?” I began, but stopped of a sudden, for I felt all over my + bruised soul that Baxter was speaking truth. It was a light, spacious, + airy house, full of the sense of well-being and peace—above all + things, of peace. I ventured into the dining-room where the thoughtful + M'Leod's had left a small fire. There was no terror there, present or + lurking; and in the drawing-room, which for good reasons we had never + cared to enter, the sun and the peace and the scent of the flowers worked + together as is fit in an inhabited house. When I returned to the hall, + Baxter was sweetly asleep on a couch, looking most unlike a middle-aged + solicitor who had spent a broken night with an exacting cousin. + </p> + <p> + There was ample time for me to review it all—to felicitate myself + upon my magnificent acumen (barring some errors about Baxter as a thief + and possibly a murderer), before the door above opened, and Baxter, + evidently a light sleeper, sprang awake. + </p> + <p> + “I've had a heavenly little nap,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the backs + of his hands like a child. “Good Lord! That's not their step!” + </p> + <p> + But it was. I had never before been privileged to see the Shadow turned + backward on the dial—the years ripped bodily off poor human + shoulders—old sunken eyes filled and alight—harsh lips + moistened and human. + </p> + <p> + “John,” Miss Mary called, “I know now. Aggie didn't do it!” and “She + didn't do it!” echoed Miss Mary, and giggled. + </p> + <p> + “I did not think it wrong to say a prayer,” Miss Mary continued. “Not for + her soul, but for our peace. Then I was convinced.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we got conviction,” the younger sister piped. + </p> + <p> + “We've misjudged poor Aggie, John. But I feel she knows now. Wherever she + is, she knows that we know she is guiltless.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she knows. I felt it too,” said Miss Elizabeth. + </p> + <p> + “I never doubted,” said John Baxter, whose face was beautiful at that + hour. “Not from the first. Never have!” + </p> + <p> + “You never offered me proof, John. Now, thank God, it will not be the same + any more. I can think henceforward of Aggie without sorrow.” She tripped, + absolutely tripped, across the hall. “What ideas these Jews have of + arranging furniture!” She spied me behind a big Cloisonnée vase. + </p> + <p> + “I've seen the window,” she said remotely. “You took a + great risk in advising me to undertake such a journey. However, as it + turns out... I forgive you, and I pray you may never know what mental + anguish means! Bessie! Look at this peculiar piano! Do you suppose, + Doctor, these people would offer one tea? I miss mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I will go and see,” I said, and explored M'Leod's new-built servants' + wing. It was in the servants' hall that I unearthed the M'Leod family, + bursting with anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Tea for three, quick,” I said. “If you ask me any questions now, I shall + have a fit!” So Mrs. M'Leod got it, and I was butler, amid murmured + apologies from Baxter, still smiling and self-absorbed, and the cold + disapproval of Miss Mary, who thought the pattern of the china vulgar. + However, she ate well, and even asked me whether I would not like a cup of + tea for myself. + </p> + <p> + They went away in the twilight—the twilight that I had once feared. + They were going to an hotel in London to rest after the fatigues of the + day, and as their fly turned down the drive, I capered on the door step, + with the all-darkened house behind me. + </p> + <p> + Then I heard the uncertain feet of the M'Leods and bade them not to turn + on the lights, but to feel—to feel what I had done; for the Shadow + was gone, with the dumb desire in the air. They drew short, but afterwards + deeper, breaths, like bathers entering chill water, separated one from the + other, moved about the hall, tiptoed upstairs, raced down, and then Miss + M'Leod, and I believe her mother, though she denies this, embraced me. I + know M'Leod did. + </p> + <p> + It was a disgraceful evening. To say we rioted through the house is to put + it mildly. We played a sort of Blind Man's Buff along the darkest + passages, in the unlighted drawing-room, and little dining-room, calling + cheerily to each other after each exploration that here, and here, and + here, the trouble had removed itself. We came up to the bedroom—mine + for the night again—and sat, the women on the bed, and we men on + chairs, drinking in blessed draughts of peace and comfort and cleanliness + of soul, while I told them my tale in full, and received fresh praise, + thanks, and blessings. + </p> + <p> + When the servants, returned from their day's outing, gave us a supper of + cold fried fish, M'Leod had sense enough to open no wine. We had been + practically drunk since nightfall, and grew incoherent on water and milk. + </p> + <p> + “I like that Baxter,” said M'Leod. “He's a sharp man. The death wasn't in + the house, but he ran it pretty close, ain't it?” + </p> + <p> + “And the joke of it is that he supposes I want to buy the place from you,” + I said. “Are you selling?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for twice what I paid for it—now,” said M'Leod. “I'll keep you + in furs all your life, but not our Holmescroft.” + </p> + <p> + “No—never our Holmescroft,” said Miss M'Leod. “We'll ask him here on + Tuesday, mamma.” They squeezed each other's hands. + </p> + <p> + “Now tell me,” said Mrs. M'Leod—“that tall one, I saw out of the + scullery window—did she tell you she was always here in the spirit? + I hate her. She made all this trouble. It was not her house after she had + sold it. What do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose,” I answered, “she brooded over what she believed was her + sister's suicide night and day—she confessed she did—and her + thoughts being concentrated on this place, they felt like a—like a + burning glass.” + </p> + <p> + “Burning glass is good,” said M'Leod. + </p> + <p> + “I said it was like a light of blackness turned on us,” cried the girl, + twiddling her ring. “That must have been when the tall one thought worst + about her sister and the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the poor Aggie!” said Mrs. M'Leod. “The poor Aggie, trying to tell + every one it was not so! No wonder we felt Something wished to say + Something. Thea, Max, do you remember that night?” + </p> + <p> + “We need not remember any more,” M'Leod interrupted. “It is not our + trouble. They have told each other now.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think, then,” said Miss M'Leod, “that those two, the living ones, + were actually told something—upstairs—in your in the room?” + </p> + <p> + “I can't say. At any rate they were made happy, and they ate a big tea + afterwards. As your father says, it is not our trouble any longer—thank + God!” + </p> + <p> + “Amen!” said M'Leod. “Now, Thea, let us have some music after all these + months. 'With mirth, thou pretty bird,' ain't it? You ought to hear that.” + </p> + <p> + And in the half-lighted hall, Thea sang an old English song that I had + never heard before. + </p> + +<p class="poem"> +With mirth, thou pretty bird, rejoice<br/> + Thy Maker's praise enhanced;<br/> +Lift up thy shrill and pleasant voice,<br/> + Thy God is high advanced!<br/> +Thy food before He did provide,<br/> +And gives it in a fitting side,<br/> + Wherewith be thou sufficed!<br/> +Why shouldst thou now unpleasant be,<br/> + Thy wrath against God venting,<br/> +That He a little bird made thee,<br/> + Thy silly head tormenting,<br/> +Because He made thee not a man?<br/> +Oh, Peace! He hath well thought thereon,<br/> + Therewith be thou sufficed! +</p> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div class="chapter"> + + <h2><a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"></a> + THE RABBI'S SONG + </h2> + +<p class="poem"> +If thought can reach to Heaven,<br/> + On Heaven let it dwell,<br/> +For fear that Thought be given<br/> + Like power to reach to Hell.<br/> +For fear the desolation<br/> + And darkness of thy mind,<br/> +Perplex an habitation<br/> + Which thou hast left behind.<br/> +<br/> +Let nothing linger after—<br/> + No whispering ghost remain,<br/> +In wall, or beam, or rafter,<br/> + Of any hate or pain:<br/> +Cleanse and call home thy spirit,<br/> + Deny her leave to cast,<br/> +On aught thy heirs inherit,<br/> + The shadow of her past.<br/> +<br/> +For think, in all thy sadness,<br/> + What road our griefs may take;<br/> +Whose brain reflect our madness,<br/> + Or whom our terrors shake.<br/> +For think, lest any languish<br/> + By cause of thy distress<br/> +The arrows of our anguish<br/> + Fly farther than we guess.<br/> +<br/> + Our lives, our tears, as water,<br/> + Are spilled upon the ground;<br/> +God giveth no man quarter,<br/> + Yet God a means hath found;<br/> +Though faith and hope have vanished,<br/> + And even love grows dim;<br/> +A means whereby His banished<br/> + Be not expelled from Him! +</p> + +<hr /> + +</div><!--end chapter--> + +<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ACTIONS AND REACTIONS ***</div> +<div style='text-align:left'> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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