Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (576 page)

“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.

“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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

“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?”

“And the joke of it is that he supposes I want to buy the place from you,” I said. “Are you selling?”

“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.”

“No — never our Holmescroft,” said Miss M’Leod. “We’ll ask him here on Tuesday, mamma.” They squeezed each other’s hands.

“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?”

“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.”

“Burning glass is good,” said M’Leod.

“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.”

“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?”

“We need not remember any more,” M’Leod interrupted. “It is not our trouble. They have told each other now.”

“Do you think, then,” said Miss M’Leod, “that those two, the living ones, were actually told something — upstairs — in your in the room?”

“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!”

“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.”

And in the half-lighted hall, Thea sang an old English song that I had never heard before.

         With mirth, thou pretty bird, rejoice

         Thy Maker’s praise enhanced;

         Lift up thy shrill and pleasant voice,

         Thy God is high advanced!

         Thy food before He did provide,

         And gives it in a fitting side,

         Wherewith be thou sufficed!

         Why shouldst thou now unpleasant be,

         Thy wrath against God venting,

         That He a little bird made thee,

         Thy silly head tormenting,

         Because He made thee not a man?

         Oh, Peace! He hath well thought thereon,

         Therewith be thou sufficed!

THE RABBI’S SONG

         IF THOUGHT can reach to Heaven,

           On Heaven let it dwell,

         For fear that Thought be given

           Like power to reach to Hell.

         For fear the desolation

           And darkness of thy mind,

         Perplex an habitation

           Which thou hast left behind.

         Let nothing linger after —

           No whispering ghost remain,

         In wall, or beam, or rafter,

           Of any hate or pain:

         Cleanse and call home thy spirit,

           Deny her leave to cast,

         On aught thy heirs inherit,

           The shadow of her past.

         For think, in all thy sadness,

           What road our griefs may take;

         Whose brain reflect our madness,

           Or whom our terrors shake.

         For think, lest any languish

           By cause of thy distress

         The arrows of our anguish

           Fly farther than we guess.

          Our lives, our tears, as water,

           Are spilled upon the ground;

         God giveth no man quarter,

           Yet God a means hath found;

         Though faith and hope have vanished,

           And even love grows dim;

         A means whereby His banished

           Be not expelled from Him!

ABAFT THE FUNNEL

In 1909 Kipling was forced by his publishers to allow this collection of stories and one poem to be printed. He had not intended that these particular items should be republished after their original appearance in the
Civil and Military Gazette
, the
Pioneer
and
Pioneer Mail
, the
Week’s News
, and the
C&MG ‘Turnovers’
between 1888 and 1890.

The first edition

CONTENTS

ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA

HER LITTLE RESPONSIBILITY

A MENAGERIE ABOARD

A SMOKE OF MANILA

THE RED LAMP

THE SHADOW OF HIS HAND

A LITTLE MORE BEEF

THE HISTORY OF A FALL

GRIFFITHS THE SAFE MAN

IT!

A FALLEN IDOL

NEW BROOMS

TIGLATH PILESER

THE LIKES O’ US

HIS BROTHER’S KEEPER

“SLEIPNER,” LATE “THURINDA”

A SUPPLEMENTARY CHAPTER

CHATAUQUAED

THE BOW FLUME CABLE-CAR

IN PARTIBUS

LETTERS ON LEAVE

THE ADORATION OF THE MAGE

A DEATH IN THE CAMP

A REALLY GOOD TIME

ON EXHIBITION

THE THREE YOUNG MEN

MY GREAT AND ONLY

“THE BETRAYAL OF CONFIDENCES”

THE NEW DISPENSATION — I

THE NEW DISPENSATION — II

THE LAST OF THE STORIES

PREFACE

THE measure of a man’s popularity is not always — or indeed seldom — the measure of his intrinsic worth. So, when the earlier work of any writer is gathered together in more enduring form, catering to the enthusiasm of his readers in his maturer years, there is always a suspicion that the venture is purely a commercial one, without literary justification.

Fortunately these stories of Mr. Kipling’s form their own best excuse for this, their first appearance together in book form. Not merely because in them may be traced the origin of that style and subject matter that later made their author famous; but because the stories are in themselves worth while — worth writing, worth reading. “The Likes o’ Us” is as true to the type as any of the immortal Mulvaney stories; the beginning of “New Brooms” is as succinctly fine as any prose Mr. Ivipling ever wrote; for searching out and presenting such splendid pieces of fiction as “Sleipner, late Thurinda,” and “A Little More Beef” to a public larger than their original one in India, no apology is necessary.

ERASTASIUS OF THE WHANGHOA

THE old cat’s tumbled down the I ventilator, sir, and he’s swearing away under the furnace- door in the stoke-hole,” said the second officer to the Captain of the Whanghoa.

“Now what in thunder was Erastasius doing at the mouth of the ventilator? It’s four feet from the ground and painted red at that. Any of the children been amusing themselves with him, d’you think? I wouldn’t have Erastasius disturbed in his inside for all the gold in the treasury,” said the Captain. “Tell some one to bring him up, and handle him delicately, for he’s not a quiet beast.”

In three minutes a bucket appeared on deck.

It was covered with a wooden lid. “Think he have make die this time,” said the Chinese sailor who carried the coffin, with a grin. “Catchee him topside coals — no open eye — no spit — no sclatchee my. Have got bucket, allee same, and make tight. See!”

He dived his bare arm under the lid, but withdrew it with a yell, dropping the bucket at the same time. “Hya! Can do. Maskec dlop down — masky spilum coal. Have catchee my light there.”

Blood was trickling from his elbow. He moved aft, while the bucket, mysteriously worked by hidden force, trundled to and fro across the decks, swearing aloud.