THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
Knowing Good and Evil
SCENE. —The GADSBYS’ bungalow in the Plains, in June. Punkah-coolies asleep in veranda where CAPTAIN GADSBY is walking up and down. DOCTOR’S trap in porch. JUNIOR CHAPLAIN drifting generally and uneasily through the house. Time, 3.40 A. M. Heat 94 degrees in veranda.
DOCTOR. (Coming into veranda and touching G. on the shoulder.) You had better go in and see her now.
CAPT. G. (The colour of good cigar-ash.) Eh, wha-at? Oh, yes, of course. What did you say?
DOCTOR. (Syllable by syllable.) Go – in – to – the – room – and – see – her. She wants to speak to you. (Aside, testily.) I shall have him on my hands next.
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (In half-lighted dining-room.) Isn’t there any – ?
DOCTOR. (Savagely.) Hsh, you little fool!
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. Let me do my work. Gadsby, stop a minute! (Edges after G.)
DOCTOR. Wait till she sends for you at least —at least. Man alive, he’ll kill you if you go in there! What are you bothering him for?
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Coming into veranda.) I’ve given him a stiff brandy-peg. He wants it. You’ve forgotten him for the last ten hours and – forgotten yourself too.
G. enters bedroom, which is lit by one night-lamp. Ayah on the floor pretending to be asleep.
VOICE. (From the bed.) All down the street – such bonfires! Ayah, go and put them out! (Appealingly.) How can I sleep with an installation of the C.I.E. in my room? No – not C.I.E. Something else. What was it?
CAPT. G. (Trying to control his voice.) Minnie, I’m here. (Bending over bed.) Don’t you know me, Minnie? It’s me – it’s Phil – it’s your husband.
VOICE. (Mechanically.) It’s me – it’s Phil – it’s your husband.
CAPT. G. She doesn’t know me! – It’s your own husband, darling,
VOICE. Your own husband, darling.
AYAH. (With an inspiration.) Memsahib understanding all I saying.
CAPT. G. Make her understand me then – quick!
AYAH. (Hand on MRS. G’s forehead.) Memsahib! Captain Sahib here.
VOICE. Salma do. (Fretfully.) I know I’m not fit to be seen.
AYAH. (Aside to G.) Say ‘marneen’’ same as breakfash.
CAPT. G. Good-morning, little woman. How are we to-day?
VOICE.
That’s Phil. Poor old Phil. (Viciously.)
Phil, you fool, I can’t see you. Come nearer.
CAPT. G. Minnie! Minnie! It’s me – you know me?
VOICE. (Mockingly.) Of course I do. Who does not know the man who was so cruel to his wife – almost the only one he ever had?
CAPT. G. Yes, dear. Yes – of course, of course. But won’t you speak to him? He wants to speak to you so much.
VOICE. They’d never let him in. The Doctor would give darwaza bund even if he were in the house. He’ll never come. (Despairingly.) O Judas! Judas! Judas!
CAPT. G. (Putting out his arms.) They have let him in, and he always was in the house. Oh, my love – don’t you know me?
VOICE. (In a half chant.) ‘And it came to pass at the eleventh hour that this poor soul repented.’ It knocked at the gates, but they were shut – tight as a plaster – a great, burning plaster. They had pasted our marriage certificate all across the door, and it was made of red-hot iron – people really ought to be more careful, you know.
CAPT. G. What am I to do? (Takes her in his arms.) Minnie! speak to me – to Phil.
VOICE. What shall I say? Oh, tell me what to say before it’s too late! They are all going away and I can’t say anything.
CAPT. G. Say you know me! Only say you know me!
DOCTOR. (Who has entered quietly.) For pity’s sake don’t take it too much to heart, Gadsby. It’s this way sometimes. They won’t recognise. They say all sorts of queer things – don’t you see?
CAPT. G. All right! All right! Go away now, she’ll recognise me; you’re bothering her. She must– mustn’t she?
DOCTOR. She will before – Have I your leave to try – ?
CAPT. G. Anything you please, so long as she’ll know me. It’s only a question of – hours, isn’t it?
DOCTOR. (Professionally.) While there’s life there’s hope, y’know. But don’t build on it.
CAPT. G. I don’t. Pull her together if it’s possible. (Aside.) What have I done to deserve this?
DOCTOR. (Bending over bed.) Now, Mrs. Gadsby! We shall be all right to-morrow. You must take it, or I shan’t let Phil see you. It isn’t nasty, is it?
VOICE. Medicines! Always more medicines! Can’t you leave me alone?
CAPT. G. Oh, leave her in peace, Doc!
DOCTOR. (Stepping back, – aside.) May I be forgiven if I’ve done wrong. (Aloud.) In a few minutes she ought to be sensible; but I daren’t tell you to look for anything. It’s only —
CAPT. G. What? Go on, man.
DOCTOR. (In a whisper.) Forcing the last rally.
CAPT. G. Then leave us alone.
DOCTOR. Don’t mind what she says at first, if you can. They – they – they turn against those they love most sometimes in this. – It’s hard, but —
CAPT. G. Am I her husband or are you? Leave us alone for what time we have together.
VOICE. (Confidentially.) And we were engaged quite suddenly, Emma. I assure you that I never thought of it for a moment; but, oh, my little Me! – I don’t know what I should have done if he hadn’t proposed.
CAPT. G. She thinks of that Deercourt girl before she thinks of me. (Aloud.) Minnie!
VOICE. Not from the shops, Mummy dear. You can get the real leaves from Kaintu, and (laughing weakly) never mind about the blossoms – Dead white silk is only fit for widows, and I won’t wear it. It’s as bad as a winding sheet. (A long pause.)
CAPT. G. I never asked a favour yet. If there is anybody to listen to me, let her know me – even if I die too!
VOICE. (Very faintly.) Pip, Pip dear.
CAPT. G. I’m here, darling.
VOICE. What has happened? They’ve been bothering me so with medicines and things, and they wouldn’t let you come and see me. I was never ill before. Am I ill now?
CAPT. G. You – you aren’t quite well.
VOICE. How funny! Have I been ill long?
CAPT. G. Some days; but you’ll be all right in a little time.
VOICE. Do you think so, Pip? I don’t feel well and – Oh! what have they done to my hair?
CAPT. G. I d-d-don’t know.
VOICE. They’ve cut it off. What a shame!
CAPT. G. It must have been to make your head cooler.
VOICE. ‘Just like a boy’s wig. Don’t I look horrid?
CAPT. G. Never looked prettier in your life, dear. (Aside.) How am I to ask her to say good-bye?
VOICE. I don’t feel pretty. I feel very ill. My heart won’t work. It’s nearly dead inside me, and there’s a funny feeling in my eyes. Everything seems the same distance – you and the almirah and the table – inside my eyes or miles away. What does it mean, Pip?
CAPT. G. You’re a little feverish, Sweetheart – very feverish. (Breaking down.) My love! my love! How can I let you go?
VOICE. I thought so. Why didn’t you tell me that at first?
CAPT. G. What?
VOICE. That I am going to – die.
CAPT. G. But you aren’t! You shan’t.
AYAH to punkah-coolie. (Stepping into veranda after a glance at the bed.) Punkah chor do! (Stop pulling the punkah.)
VOICE. It’s hard, Pip. So very, very hard after one year – just one year. (Wailing.) And I’m only twenty. Most girls aren’t even married at twenty. Can’t they do anything to help me? I don’t want to die.
CAPT. G. Hush, dear. You won’t.
VOICE. What’s the use of talking? Help me! You’ve never failed me yet. Oh, Phil, help me to keep alive. (Feverishly.) I don’t believe you wish me to live. You weren’t a bit sorry when that horrid Baby thing died. I wish I’d killed it!
CAPT. G. (Drawing his hand across his forehead.) It’s more than a man’s meant to bear – it’s not right. (Aloud.) Minnie, love, I’d die for you if it would help.
VOICE. No more death. There’s enough already. Pip, don’t you die too.
CAPT. G. I wish I dared.
VOICE. It says: ‘Till Death do us part.’ Nothing after that – and so it would be no use. It stops at the dying. Why does it stop there? Only such a very short life, too. Pip, I’m sorry we married.
CAPT. G. No! Anything but that, Min!
VOICE. Because you’ll forget and I’ll forget. Oh, Pip, don’t forget! I always loved you, though I was cross sometimes. If I ever did anything that you didn’t like, say you forgive me now.
CAPT. G. You never did, darling. On my soul and honour you never did. I haven’t a thing to forgive you.
VOICE. I sulked for a whole week about those petunias. (With a laugh.) What a little wretch I was, and how grieved you were! Forgive me that, Pip.
CAPT. G. There’s nothing to forgive. It was my fault. They were too near the drive. For God’s sake don’t talk so, Minnie! There’s such a lot to say and so little time to say it in.
VOICE. Say that you’ll always love me – until the end.
CAPT. G. Until the end. (Carried away.) It’s a lie. It must be, because we’ve loved each other. This isn’t the end.
VOICE. (Relapsing into semi-delirium.) My Church-service has an ivory-cross on the back, and it says so, so it must be true. ‘Till Death do us part.’ – But that’s a lie. (With a parody of G.‘s manner.) A damned lie! (Recklessly.) Yes, I can swear as well as Trooper Pip. I can’t make my head think, though. That’s because they cut off my hair. How can one think with one’s head all fuzzy? (Pleadingly.) Hold me, Pip! Keep me with you always and always. (Relapsing.) But if you marry the Thorniss girl when I’m dead, I’ll come back and howl under our bedroom window all night. Oh, bother! You’ll think I’m a jackal. Pip, what time is it?
CAPT. G. I – I – I can’t help it, dear.
VOICE. How funny! I couldn’t cry now to save my life. (G. shivers.) I want to sing.
CAPT. G. Won’t it tire you? Better not, perhaps.
VOICE. Why? I won’t be bothered about. (Begins in a hoarse quaver): —
‘Minnie bakes oaten cake, Minnie brews ale,
All because her Johnnie’s coming home from the sea.
(That’s parade, Pip.)
And she grows red as rose, who was so pale;
And “Are you sure the church-clock goes?” says she.’
(Pettishly.) I knew I couldn’t take the last note. How do the bass chords run? (Puts out her hands and begins playing piano on the sheet.)
CAPT. G. (Catching up hands.) Ahh! Don’t do that, Pussy, if you love me.
VOICE. Love you? Of course I do. Who else should it be? (A pause.)
VOICE. (Very clearly.) Pip, I’m going now. Something’s choking me cruelly. (Indistinctly.) Into the dark – without you, my heart. – But it’s a lie, dear – we mustn’t believe it. – For ever and ever, living or dead. Don’t let me go, my husband – hold me tight. – They can’t – whatever happens. (A cough.) Pip —my Pip! Not for always – and – so – soon! (Voice ceases.)
Pause of ten minutes. G. buries his face in the side of the bed while ayah bends over bed from opposite side and feels MRS. G.‘s breast and forehead.
CAPT. G. (Rising.) Doctor Sahib ko salaam do.
AYAH. (Still by bedside, with a shriek.) Ai! Ai! Tuta – phuta! My Memsahib! Not getting – not have got! —Pusseena agya! (The sweat has come.) (Fiercely to G.) TUM jao Doctor Sahib ko jaldi! (You go to the doctor.) Oh, my Memsahib!
DOCTOR. (Entering hastily.) Come away, Gadsby. (Bends over bed.) Eh! The Dev – What inspired you to stop the punkah? Get out, man – go away – wait outside! Go! Here, Ayah! (Over his shoulder to G.) Mind, I promise nothing.
The dawn breaks as G. stumbles into the garden.
CAPT. M. (Reining up at the gate on his way to parade and very soberly.) Old man, how goes?
CAPT. G. (Dazed.) I don’t quite know. Stay a bit. Have a drink or something. Don’t run away. You’re just getting amusing. Ha! Ha!
CAPT. M. (Aside.) What am I let in for? Gaddy has aged ten years in the night.
CAPT. G. (Slowly, fingering charger’s headstall.) Your curb’s too loose.
CAPT. M. So it is. Put it straight, will you? (Aside.) I shall be late for parade. Poor Gaddy.
CAPT. G.
links and unlinks curb-chain aimlessly, and finally stands staring towards the veranda.
The day brightens.
DOCTOR. (Knocked out of professional gravity, tramping across flower-beds and shaking G.‘s hands.) It’s – it’s – it’s! – Gadsby, there’s a fair chance – a dashed fair chance! The flicker, y’know. The sweat, y’know! I saw how it would be. The punkah, y’know. Deuced clever woman that Ayah of yours. Stopped the punkah just at the right time. A dashed good chance! No – you don’t go in. We’ll pull her through yet I promise on my reputation – under Providence. Send a man with this note to Bingle. Two heads better than one. ‘Specially the Ayah! We’ll pull her round. (Retreats hastily to house.)
CAPT. G. (His head on neck of M.‘s charger.) Jack! I bub – bub – believe, I’m going to make a bub – bub – bloody exhibitiod of byself.
CAPT. M. (Sniffing openly and feeling in his left cuff.) I b-b – believe, I’b doing it already. Old bad, what cad I say? I’b as pleased as – Cod dab you, Gaddy! You’re one big idiot and I’b adother. (Pulling himself together.) Sit tight! Here comes the Devil-dodger.
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Who is not in the Doctor’s confidence.) We – we are only men in these things, Gadsby. I know that I can say nothing now to help —
CAPT. M. (Jealously.) Then don’t say it! Leave him alone. It’s not bad enough to croak over. Here, Gaddy, take the chit to Bingle and ride hell-for-leather. It’ll do you good. I can’t go.
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. Do him good! (Smiling.) Give me the chit and I’ll drive. Let him lie down. Your horse is blocking my cart —please!
CAPT. M. (Slowly without reining back.) I beg your pardon – I’ll apologise. On paper if you like.
JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Flicking M.‘s charger.) That’ll do, thanks. Turn in, Gadsby, and I’ll bring Bingle back – ahem – ‘hell-for-leather.’
CAPT. M. (Solus.) It would have served me right if he’d cut me across the face. He can drive too. I shouldn’t care to go that pace in a bamboo cart. What a faith he must have in his Maker – of harness! Come hup, you brute! (Gallops off to parade, blowing his nose, as the sun rises.)
(INTERVAL OF FIVE WEEKS.)
MRS. G. (Very white and pinched, in morning wrapper at breakfast table.) How big and strange the room looks, and oh how glad I am to see it again! What dust, though! I must talk to the servants. Sugar, Pip? I’ve almost forgotten. (Seriously.) Wasn’t I very ill?
CAPT. G. Iller than I liked. (Tenderly.) Oh, you bad little Pussy, what a start you gave me!
MRS. G. I’ll never do it again.
CAPT. G. You’d better not. And now get those poor pale cheeks pink again, or I shall be angry. Don’t try to lift the urn. You’ll upset it. Wait. (Comes round to head of table and lifts urn.)
MRS. G. (Quickly.) Khitmatgar, bowarchi-khana see kettly lao. Butler, get a kettle from the cook-house. (Drawing down G.‘s face to her own.) Pip dear, I remember.
CAPT. G. What?
MRS. G. That last terrible night.
CAPT. G. Then just you forget all about it.
MRS. G. (Softly, her eyes filling.) Never. It has brought us very close together, my husband. There! (Interlude.) I’m going to give Junda a saree.
CAPT. G. I gave her fifty dibs.
MRS. G. So she told me. It was a ‘normous reward. Was I worth it? (Several interludes.) Don’t! Here’s the khitmatgar. – Two lumps or one, Sir?
THE SWELLING OF JORDAN
If thou hast run with the footmen and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses? And if in the land of peace wherein thou trustedst they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan?
SCENE. —The GADSEYS’ bungalow in the Plains, on a January morning. MRS. G. arguing with bearer in back veranda.
CAPT. M. rides up.
CAPT. M. ‘Mornin’, Mrs. Gadsby. How’s the Infant Phenomenon and the Proud Proprietor?
MRS. G. You’ll find them in the front veranda; go through the house. I’m Martha just now.
CAPT. M. ‘Cumbered about with cares of khitmatgars? I fly.
Passes into front veranda, where GADSBY is watching
GADSBY JUNIOR, aged ten months, crawling about the matting.
CAPT. M. What’s the trouble, Gaddy – spoiling an honest man’s Europe morning this way? (Seeing G. JUNIOR.) By Jove, that yearling’s comin’ on amazingly! Any amount of bone below the knee there.
CAPT. G. Yes, he’s a healthy little scoundrel. Don’t you think his hair’s growing?
M. Let’s have a look. Hi! Hst! Come here, General Luck, and we’ll report on you.
MRS. G. (Within.) What absurd name will you give him next? Why do you call him that?
M. Isn’t he our Inspector-General of Cavalry? Doesn’t he come down in his seventy-two perambulator every morning the Pink Hussars parade? Don’t wriggle, Brigadier. Give us your private opinion on the way the third squadron went past. ‘Trifle ragged, weren’t they?
G. A bigger set of tailors than the new draft I don’t wish to see. They’ve given me more than my fair share – knocking the squadron out of shape. It’s sickening!
M. When you’re in command, you’ll do better, young ‘un. Can’t you walk yet? Get my finger and try. (To G.) ‘Twon’t hurt his hocks, will it?
G. Oh, no. Don’t let him flop, though, or he’ll lick all the blacking off your boots.
MRS. G. (Within.) Who’s destroying my son’s character?
M. And my Godson’s. I’m ashamed of you, Gaddy. Punch your father in the eye, Jack! Don’t you stand it! Hit him again!
G. (Sotto voce.) Put The Butcha down and come to the end of the veranda. I’d rather the Wife didn’t hear – just now.
M. You look awf’ly serious. Anything wrong?
G. ‘Depends on your view entirely. I say, Jack, you won’t think more hardly of me than you can help, will you? Come further this way. – The fact of the matter is, that I’ve made up my mind – at least I’m thinking seriously of – cutting the Service.
M. Hwhatt?
G. Don’t shout. I’m going to send in my papers.
M. You! Are you mad?
G. No – only married.
M. Look here! What’s the meaning of it all? You never intend to leave us. You can’t. Isn’t the best squadron of the best regiment of the best cavalry in all the world good enough for you?
G. (Jerking his head over his shoulder.) She doesn’t seem to thrive in this God-forsaken country, and there’s The Butcha to be considered and all that, you know.
M. Does she say that she doesn’t like India?
G. That’s the worst of it. She won’t for fear of leaving me.
M. What are the Hills made for?
G. Not for my wife at any rate.
M. You know too much, Gaddy, and – I don’t like you any the better for it!
G. Never mind that. She wants England, and The Butcha would be all the better for it. I’m going to chuck. You don’t understand.
M. (Hotly.) I understand this. One hundred and thirty-seven new horses to be licked into shape somehow before Luck comes round again; a hairy-heeled draft who’ll give more trouble than the horses; a camp next cold weather for a certainty; ourselves the first on the roster; the Russian shindy ready to come to a head at five minutes’ notice, and you, the best of us all, backing out of it all! Think a little, Gaddy. You won’t do it.
G. Hang it, a man has some duties towards his family, I suppose.
M. I remember a man, though, who told me, the night after Amdheran, when we were picketed under Jagai, and he’d left his sword – by the way, did you ever pay Ranken for that sword? – in an Utmanzai’s head – that man told me that he’d stick by me and the Pinks as long as he lived. I don’t blame him for not sticking by me – I’m not much of a man – but I do blame him for not sticking by the Pink Hussars.
G. (Uneasily.) We were little more than boys then. Can’t you see, Jack, how things stand? ‘Tisn’t as if we were serving for our bread. We’ve all of us, more or less, got the filthy lucre. I’m luckier than some, perhaps. There’s no call for me to serve on.
M. None in the world for you or for us, except the Regimental. If you don’t choose to answer to that, of course —
G. Don’t be too hard on a man. You know that a lot of us only take up the thing for a few years and then go back to Town and catch on with the rest.
M. Not lots, and they aren’t some of Us.
G. And then there are one’s affairs at Home to be considered – my place and the rents, and all that. I don’t suppose my father can last much longer, and that means the title, and so on.
M. ‘Fraid you won’t be entered in the Stud Book correctly unless you go Home? Take six months, then, and come out in October. If I could slay off a brother or two, I s’pose I should be a Marquis of sorts. Any fool can be that; but it needs men, Gaddy – men like you – to lead flanking squadrons properly. Don’t you delude yourself into the belief that you’re going Home to take your place and prance about among pink-nosed Kabuli dowagers. You aren’t built that way. I know better.
G. A man has a right to live his life as happily as he can. You aren’t married.
M. No – praise be to Providence and the one or two women who have had the good sense to jawab me.
G. Then you don’t know what it is to go into your own room and see your wife’s head on the pillow, and when everything else is safe and the house shut up for the night, to wonder whether the roof-beams won’t give and kill her.
M. (Aside.) Revelations first and second! (Aloud.) So-o! I knew a man who got squiffy at our Mess once and confided to me that he never helped his wife on to her horse without praying that she’d break her neck before she came back. All husbands aren’t alike, you see.
G. What on earth has that to do with my case? The man must ha’ been mad, or his wife as bad as they make ‘em.
M. (Aside.) ‘No fault of yours if either weren’t all you say. You’ve forgotten the tune when you were insane about the Herriott woman. You always were a good hand at forgetting. (Aloud.) Not more mad than men who go to the other extreme. Be reasonable, Gaddy. Your roof-beams are sound enough.
G. That was only a way of speaking. I’ve been uneasy and worried about the Wife ever since that awful business three years ago – when – I nearly lost her. Can you wonder?
M. Oh, a shell never falls twice in the same place. You’ve paid your toll to misfortune – why should your wife be picked out more than anybody else’s?
G. I can talk just as reasonably as you can, but you don’t understand – you don’t understand. And then there’s The Butcha. Deuce knows where the Ayah takes him to sit in the evening! He has a bit of a cough. Haven’t you noticed it?
M. Bosh! The Brigadier’s jumping out of his skin with pure condition. He’s got a muzzle like a rose-leaf and the chest of a two-year-old. What’s demoralised you?
G. Funk. That’s the long and the short of it. Funk!
M. But what is there to funk?
G. Everything. It’s ghastly.
M. Ah! I see.
You don’t want to fight,
And by Jingo when we do,
You’ve got the kid, you’ve got the Wife,
You’ve got the money, too.
That’s about the case, eh?
G. I suppose that’s it. But it’s not for myself. It’s because of them. At least I think it is.
M. Are you sure? Looking at the matter in a cold-blooded light, the Wife is provided for even if you were wiped out to-night. She has an ancestral home to go to, money, and the Brigadier to carry on the illustrious name.
G. Then it is for myself or because they are part of me. You don’t see it. My life’s so good, so pleasant, as it is, that I want to make it quite safe. Can’t you understand?
M. Perfectly. ‘Shelter-pit for the Orf’cer’s charger,’ as they say in the Line.
G. And I have everything to my hand to make it so. I’m sick of the strain and the worry for their sakes out here; and there isn’t a single real difficulty to prevent my dropping it altogether. It’ll only cost me – Jack, I hope you’ll never know the shame that I’ve been going through for the past six months.
M. Hold on there! I don’t wish to be told. Every man has his moods and tenses sometimes.
G. (Laughing bitterly.) Has he? What do you call craning over to see where your near-fore lands?
M. In my case it means that I have been on the Considerable Bend, and have come to parade with a Head and a Hand. It passes in three strides.
G. (Lowering voice.) It never passes with me, Jack. I’m always thinking about it. Phil Gadsby funking a fall on parade! Sweet picture, isn’t it! Draw it for me.
M. (Gravely.) Heaven forbid! A man like you can’t be as bad as that. A fall is no nice thing, but one never gives it a thought.
G. Doesn’t one? Wait till you’ve got a wife and a youngster of your own, and then you’ll know how the roar of the squadron behind you turns you cold all up the back.
M. (Aside.) And this man led at Amdheran after Bagal-Deasin went under, and we were all mixed up together, and he came out of the show dripping like a butcher. (Aloud.) Skittles! The men can always open out, and you can always pick your way more or less. We haven’t the dust to bother us, as the men have, and whoever heard of a horse stepping on a man?
G. Never – as long as he can see. But did they open out for poor Errington?
M. Oh, this is childish!
G. I know it is, worse than that. I don’t care. You’ve ridden Van Loo. Is he the sort of brute to pick his way – ‘specially when we’re coming up in column of troop with any pace on?
M. Once in a Blue Moon do we gallop in column of troop, and then only to save time. Aren’t three lengths enough for you?
G. Yes – quite enough. They just allow for the full development of the smash. I’m talking like a cur, I know: but I tell you that, for the past three months, I’ve felt every hoof of the squadron in the small of my back every time that I’ve led.
M. But, Gaddy, this is awful!
G. Isn’t it lovely? Isn’t it royal? A Captain of the Pink Hussars watering up his charger before parade like the blasted boozing Colonel of a Black Regiment!
M. You never did!
G. Once only. He squelched like a mussuck, and the Troop-Sergeant-Major cocked his eye at me. You know old Haffy’s eye. I was afraid to do it again.
M. I should think so. That was the best way to rupture old Van Loo’s tummy, and make him crumple you up. You knew that.
G. I didn’t care. It took the edge off him.
M. ‘Took the edge off him’? Gaddy, you – you – you mustn’t, you know! Think of the men.
G. That’s another thing I am afraid of. D’you s’pose they know?
M. Let’s hope not; but they’re deadly quick to spot skrim – little things of that kind. See here, old man, send the Wife Home for the hot weather and come to Kashmir with me. We’ll start a boat on the Dal or cross the Rhotang – shoot ibex or loaf – which you please. Only come! You’re a bit off your oats and you’re talking nonsense. Look at the Colonel – swag-bellied rascal that he is. He has a wife and no end of a bow-window of his own. Can any one of us ride round him – chalk-stones and all? I can’t, and I think I can shove a crock along a bit.
G. Some men are different. I haven’t the nerve. Lord help me, I haven’t the nerve! I’ve taken up a hole and a half to get my knees well under the wallets. I can’t help it. I’m so afraid of anything happening to me. On my soul, I ought to be broke in front of the squadron, for cowardice.
M. Ugly word, that. I should never have the courage to own up.
G. I meant to lie about my reasons when I began, but – I’ve got out of the habit of lying to you, old man. Jack, you won’t? – But I know you won’t.
M. Of course not. (Half aloud.) The Pinks are paying dearly for their Pride.
G. Eh! Wha-at?
M. Don’t you know? The men have called Mrs. Gadsby the Pride of the Pink Hussars ever since she came to us.
G. ‘Tisn’t her fault. Don’t think that. It’s all mine.
M. What does she say?
G. I haven’t exactly put it before her. She’s the best little woman in the world, Jack, and all that – but she wouldn’t counsel a man to stick to his calling if it came between him and her. At least, I think —
M. Never mind. Don’t tell her what you told me. Go on the Peerage and Landed-Gentry tack.
G. She’d see through it. She’s five times cleverer than I am.
M. (Aside.) Then she’ll accept the sacrifice and think a little bit worse of him for the rest of her days.
G. (Absently.) I say, do you despise me?
M. ‘Queer way of putting it. Have you ever been asked that question? Think a minute. What answer used you to give?
G. So bad as that? I’m not entitled to expect anything more, but it’s a bit hard when one’s best friend turns round and —
M. So I have found. But you will have consolations – Bailiffs and Drains and Liquid Manure and the Primrose League, and, perhaps, if you’re lucky, the Colonelcy of a Yeomanry Cav-al-ry Regiment – all uniform and no riding, I believe. How old are you?
G. Thirty-three. I know it’s —
M. At forty you’ll be a fool of a J.P. landlord. At fifty you’ll own a bath-chair, and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will be fluttering the dovecotes of – what’s the particular dunghill you’re going to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby will be fat.
G. (Limply.) This is rather more than a joke.
M. D’you think so? Isn’t cutting the Service a joke? It generally takes a man fifty years to arrive at it. You’re quite right, though. It is more than a joke. You’ve managed it in thirty-three.
G. Don’t make me feel worse than I do. Will it satisfy you if I own that I am a shirker, a skrim-shanker, and a coward?
M. It will not, because I’m the only man in the world who can talk to you like this without being knocked down. You mustn’t take all that I’ve said to heart in this way. I only spoke – a lot of it at least – out of pure selfishness, because, because – Oh, damn it all, old man, – I don’t know what I shall do without you. Of course, you’ve got the money and the place and all that – and there are two very good reasons why you should take care of yourself.
G. ‘Doesn’t make it any the sweeter. I’m backing out – I know I am. I always had a soft drop in me somewhere – and I daren’t risk any danger to them.
M. Why in the world should you? You’re bound to think of your family – bound to think. Er-hmm. If I wasn’t a younger son I’d go too – be shot if I wouldn’t!
G. Thank you, Jack. It’s a kind lie, but it’s the blackest you’ve told for some time. I know what I’m doing, and I’m going into it with my eyes open. Old man, I can’t help it. What would you do if you were in my place?
M. (Aside.) ‘Couldn’t conceive any woman getting permanently between me and the Regiment. (Aloud.) ‘Can’t say. ‘Very likely I should do no better. I’m sorry for you – awf’ly sorry – but ‘if them’s your sentiments,’ I believe, I really do, that you are acting wisely.
G. Do you? I hope you do. (In a whisper.) Jack, be very sure of yourself before you marry. I’m an ungrateful ruffian to say this, but marriage – even as good a marriage as mine has been – hampers a man’s work, it cripples his sword-arm, and oh, it plays Hell with his notions of duty! Sometimes – good and sweet as she is – sometimes I could wish that I had kept my freedom – No, I don’t mean that exactly.