The Collected Novels. Anna Buchan
have actually rosy cheeks.
They crowded round, trying to sell us curios and lumps of rough turquoise. When we asked the price of anything, they replied promptly, "Twenty rupees." We would offer two rupees, and, after a few minutes' bargaining, they took it quite cheerfully, the thing probably not being worth eight annas. I bought a prayer-wheel. It is a round silver thing with a handle rather like a child's rattle, and inside are slips of paper covered with writing. These are the prayers, and at intervals you twirl the wheel round, and the oftener you turn it the more devout you are.
I also purchased some lumps of rough turquoise, though Boggley said they were not a good blue,—too pale,—and was tying them up in my handkerchief when Boggley gripped my arm. "Look!" he said. I looked straight across the valley, "Higher," said Boggley, and I lifted my eyes literally to the skies; and there—"suddenly—behold—beyond"—were the everlasting snows.
All day they stayed with us, and as the sun was setting we climbed to a point of vantage to see the last of them. It has been said they are a snow-white wall barring the whole horizon. They are like a city carved by giants out of eternal ice, a city which lieth four-square. We watched while peak after peak faded into cold greyness; until Kangchenjunga towered, alone, rose-red into the heavens, sublime in its "valorous isolation." Then the light left it too, and we turned and came down from the Hill of God.
We left for Calcutta at noon on Monday, and I had a thoroughly over-eaten, uncomfortable day, all owing to Boggley's forethought. He said as we began breakfast about nine o'clock: "Now eat a good breakfast, for we shall have to leave before lunch, and no man knows when we shall get another meal."
It seemed good common-sense, so I ate an egg and two pieces of toast after I had really finished. That was all very well, but the hotel people thoughtfully provided us with a substantial luncheon before we left. Even then Boggley kept on looking to the future.
"Oh, tuck in," he said. "We shan't get anything more till eight o'clock."
I didn't feel as if I wanted anything ever again, but I hurriedly gobbled some food, and we raced to the station, then sat in the train half an hour before it started.
At the first station we stopped at, the bearer appeared at the carriage window with a breakfast cup of tea and a large "y-sponge-cake," ferreted from no man knows where. He was so pleased with himself that I hadn't the heart to refuse it—so there were three meals that ought to have been spread over the greater part of the day crowded into one morning. I sympathized with the vulture, who
"Eats between his meals,
And that's the reason why
He very, very rarely feels
As well as you and I."
It is never pleasant to come down from the heights, and we had rather a dreary journey to Siliguri.
Boggley had taken care to wire for a lower berth in the train for me, but it seems ordained that I shall ascend in Indian trains. I again found myself in a carriage with my Americans, and the daughter had such bad toothache, and seemed so much to dread the prospect of mounting to the eyrie, that I had to say that I would rather like it for myself.
Toothache kept Miss America awake and made her talkative, which was unfortunate for me. She wanted to know all about the manners and customs of the British. She only knew us from the outside, so to speak. Incidentally she shed a lurid light on the habits of the American male. It seems that young men in America are expected to carry offerings of fruit and flowers and candy to young women—not when they are engaged, mark you; what is expected of them then I daren't think—but to quite irrelevant young women. "Don't young gentlemen do so in England?" asked Miss America. "No," I said, feeling that I was making out my countrymen poor, mean creatures indeed, but feeling also how much more complicated life would become for these "gentlemen of England now abed" if they had to carry crates of oranges, drums of figs, and pounds of candies to every casual young woman whose acquaintance they enjoyed.
"You don't say!" said Miss America. "And don't they take you out driving in their buggies?"
"Never," I replied firmly. "They haven't got them."
"You don't say! And how does a young gentleman show he admires you?"
"Well, he doesn't as a rule," I murmured feebly.
"I guess," she said, "we manage things better in America." And, indeed, perhaps they do.
This conversation so exhausted us that we fell very sound asleep, and knew nothing till we arrived at the station where we had to get out and change into the ferry-boat. Then there was a terrible scurry. The servants waiting to pack up the bedding and strap bags—they said they had wakened us at the previous station, but they must have wakened someone else instead—while we threw on various articles of clothing, stuck hats on undone hair, and feet into unlaced shoes, all the while, like a Greek chorus, the "Mommer" moaning reproachfully, "Oh, Ali, you might have woke us," while outside on the platform bounded the irate Boggley speaking wingéd words.
We did get on to the boat, so after all there was no harm done.
I was quite sorry to part with my Americans when we reached Calcutta. They and their Ali were going on to Benares that night, tired and spiritless. They shook us both violently by the hand, vowing we were just "lovely people" and that I was a "real little John Bull!"
The home mail was waiting us when we got back, and I read my letters, slept for an hour or two, and then got up and went to a big New Year's dinner-party, where we had fireworks in our crackers, and sang what G. calls "Oldlangzine."
Thanks so much for your delightfully long letter.
My wrist aches so I can't write another word.
Calcutta, Jan. 8.
One more week and we start for the Mofussil and the Simple Life. The Mofussil, I may remark in passing, is not, as at first I thought, some sort of prophet, but means simply the country districts.
I have been standing over Bella while she laid out all my dresses, telling her which are to be packed carefully and left in Calcutta, and which are to accompany me. I don't want to take any more luggage than I can help; as it is, I foresee we shall have a mountain. Boggley has been begging everyone for the loan of books, as he does not see how I am to be kept in reading matter when there are no libraries within reach. He accuses me of being capable of finishing two fat volumes in a day, but I shan't have time to read much if I carry out my great project. I am going to write a book. You are surprised? But why? Other members of the family can write, why not I? I read in a review lately that John has great distinction of style, so perhaps I have too. Anyway, I have bought a pile of essay-paper and sixpenny-worth of J nibs, and I mean to find out. It is to be a book about the Mutiny, the information to be derived from Trevelyan's book on Cawnpore. There is room, don't you think, for a really good book on the Mutiny?
Last night the Drawing-Room was held by the Vicereine, a function that everyone, more or less, is expected to attend. I went with G. and her sister (one needn't go with the lady who presents one), and found it most entertaining. Not being the wives or daughters of Members of Council or anything burra, we hadn't the private entrée, and had to wait our turn in pens, like dumb driven cattle.
It is a much simpler affair than a presentation at home; one need not even wear veils and feathers, and the trains of our white satin gowns were modest as to length. It was silly to be nervous about such a little thing, but I quite shook with terror. I think it was the being passed along by A.D.C.'s that unnerved me, but when I reached the last and heard "To be presented," and my name shouted out, I stotted (do you know the Scots word to stot? It means to walk blindly—to stumble—that and much more; oh! a very expressive word) over a length of red carpet that seemed to stretch for miles, feeling exactly as a Dutch wooden doll looks; saw, as in a glass darkly, familiar faces that smiled jeeringly, or encouragingly, I could not be sure which; ducked feebly and uncertainly before the two centre figures; and, gasping relief, found myself going out of the doorway walking on G.'s train.
Afterwards, when we were all gathered upstairs, the many pretty gowns and uniforms made a gay sight. I saw the dearest little