CHAPTER VIII
A RIGHTABOUT FACER FOR MR BHOSH
Halloo! at a sudden your love warfare is changed! Your dress is changed! Your address is changed! Your express is changed! Your mistress is changed! Halloo! at a sudden your funny fair is changed!
_A song sung by Messengeress Binda before Krishnagee_ _Dr. Ram Kinoo Dutt (of Chittagong)._
Those who are _au faits_ in the tortoise involutions of the femininedisposition will hear without astonishment that Duchess Dickinson--sofar from being chastened and softened by the circumstance that the curseshe had launched at Mr Bhosh's head had returned, like an illominousraven, to roost upon her own nose and irreparably destroy itscontour--was only the more bitterly incensed against him.
Instead of interring the hatchet that had flown back, as if it were thatfabulous volatile the boomerang, she was in a greater stew than ever,and resolved to leave no stone unturned to trip him up. But what trickto play, seeing that all the honours were in Mr Bhosh's hands?
She could not officiate as Marplot to discredit him in the affections ofhis lady-love, since the Princess was too severely enamoured to give theloan of her ear to any sibillations from a snake in grass.
How else, then, to hinder his match? At this she was seized with an ideaworthy of Maccaroni himself. She paid a complimentary visit to thePrincess, arrayed in the sheepish garb of a friend, and contrived tolure the conversation on to the vexed question of prying into futurity.
Surely, she artfully suggested, the Princess at such a momentous epochof her existence had, of course, not neglected the sensible precautionof consulting some competent soothsayer respecting the most propitiousday for her nuptials with the accomplished Mr Bhosh?...
What, had she omitted to pop so important a question? How incrediblyharebrained! Fortunately, there was yet time to do the needful, and sheherself would gladly volunteer to accompany the Princess on such anerrand.
Princess Petunia fell a ready victim into the jaws of this diabolicalbooby-trap and inquired the address and name of the cleverestnecromancer, for it is matter of notoriety that London ladies are quiteas superstitious and addicted to working the oracle as their nativeIndian sisters.
The Duchess replied that the Astrologer-Royal was a _facile princeps_ atuttering a prediction, and accordingly on the very next day she and thePrincess, after disguising themselves, set forth on the summit of atramway 'bus to the Observatory Temple of Greenwich, where, after firstpropitiating the prophet by offerings, they were ushered into adarkened inner chamber. Although they were strictly _pseudo_, he at onceinformed them of their genuine cognomens, and also told them muchconcerning their past of which they had hitherto been ignorant.
And to the Princess he said, stroking the long and silvery hairs of hisbeard, "My daughter, I foresee many calamities which will inevitablybefall thee shouldest thou marry before the day on which the bridegroomwins a certain contest called the Derby with a horse of his own."
The gentle Petunia departed melancholy as a gib cat, since Mr Bhosh wasnot the happy possessor of so much as a single racing-horse of anydescription, and it was therefore not feasible that he should becomeentitled to wear the _cordon bleu_ of the turf in his buttonhole on hiswedding day!
With many sighs and tears she imparted her piece of news to thehorror-stricken ears of our hero, who earnestly assured her that it wascontrary to commonsense and _bonos mores_, to attach any importanceto the mere _ipse dixit_ of so antiquated a charlatan as theAstrologer-Royal, who was utterly incapable--except at very longintervals--to bring about even such a simple affair as an eclipse whichwas visible from his own Observatory!
'MY DAUGHTER, I FORESEE MANY CALAMITIES WHICH WILL INEVITABLY BEFALL THEE' (Illustration VI)]
However, the Princess, being a feminine, was naturally more prone topuerile credulities, and very solemnly declared that nothing wouldinduce her to kneel by Mr Bhosh's side at the torch of Hymen until heshould first have distinguished himself as a Derby winner.
Whereat Mr Bhosh, perceiving that the date of his nuptial ceremony wasbecome a _dies non_ in a Grecian calendar, did wring his hands in a bathof tears.
Alas! he was totally unaware that it was his implacable enemy, theDuchess Dickinson, who had thus upset his apple-cart of felicity--but soit was, for by a clandestine bribe, she had corrupted theAstrologer-Royal--a poor, weak, very avaricious old chap--to trump outsuch a disastrous prediction.
Some heroes in this hard plight would have thrown up the leek, but MrBhosh was stuffed with sterner materials. He swore a very long oath byall the gods that he had ceased to believe in, that sooner or later, bycrook or hook, he would win the Derby race, though entirely destitute ofhorseflesh and very ill able to afford to purchase the most mediocrequadruped.
Here some sporting readers will probably object! Why could he not enlisthis unwieldy gifthorse among Derby candidates and so hoist the Duchesson the pinnacle of her own petard?
To which I reply: Too clever by halves, Misters! _Imprimis_, the steedin question was of far too ferocious a temperament (though undeniablyswift-footed) ever to become a favourite with Derby judges; secondly,after dismounting Mr Bhosh, it had again taken to its heels and departedinto the Unknown, nor had Mr Bhosh troubled himself to ascertain itsprivate address.
But fortune favours the brave. It happened that Mr Bhosh was one daypromenading down the Bayswater Road when he was passed by a white horsedrawing a milk chariot with unparalleled velocity, outstrippingomnibuses, waggons, and even butcher-carts in its wind-like progress,which was unguided by any restraining hand, for the milk-charioteerhimself was pursuing on foot.
His natural puissance in equine affairs enabled Mr Bhosh to infer thatthe steed which could cut such a record when handicapped with a cumbrousdairy chariot would exhibit even greater speed if in _purisnaturalibus_, and that it might even not improbably carry off firstprize in the Derby race.
So, as the milk-charioteer ran up, overblown with anxiety, to learn theresult of his horse's escapade, Mr Bhosh stopped him to inquire what hewould take for such an animal.
The dairy-vendor, rather foolishly taking it for granted that horse andcart were gone concerns, thought he was making the good stroke ofbusiness in offering the lot for a twenty-pound note.
"I have done with you!" cried Mr Bhosh sharply, handing over thepurchase-money, which he very fortunately chanced to have about him, andgalloping off to inspect his bargain, which was like buying a pig afteronce poking it in the ribs.
In what condition he found it I must leave you to learn, my dearreaders, in an ensuing chapter.