CHAPTER IXOUT OF THE FRYING-PAN
Whata change in my life a few hours had brought. I was going to India! My dream of dreams was about to be fulfilled. In the meanwhile there were arrangements and obstacles to be talked over. Uncle, Beverley and Lizzie Puckle were strongly opposed to my trip, but for once Aunt Mina and I were agreed, and to every objection we presented an invincible force of obstinate resistance. She gave me enthusiastic support, was my firm and eager ally, generously engaged to pay for my outfit and passage, and assured me that I should have a delightful time and that this accidental invitation was “a great chance!” She even went so far as to hint that I would not be long with the Hayes-Billingtons, but soon comfortably installed in an establishment of my own.
“Really, my dear Eva,” she said in an outburst of happy relief, “a girl with your air and appearance, not to speak of connections, ought to marry remarkably well.”
Apparently I was about to be specially exported to India in order to be launched on the marriage market! That was my aunt’s idea. My own was otherwise. I would be within hail of my belovedRonnie, and far away from the anxieties and embarrassments which encompassed me at Torrington. With a view to a good talk and to learn my immediate requirements I went to tea at the Dower House, where I found only Mrs. Paget-Taylor and Mrs. Hayes-Billington. As I sat beside the latter on the sofa I was nearly overpowered by the perfume of some heavy Eastern scent, and at close quarters noticed that the lady’s face was a little made up and careworn. On her part, she was examining me with an unmistakably critical expression in her lovely eyes.
“I hear you ride well and are fond of dancing, Miss Lingard, so we will keep a pony for you,” she said. “We start next month, and as we arrive out there in the monsoon you and I will go to the hills together, whilst Bertie, poor boy, must return to those detestable mines.”
I had not the faintest idea of what a “monsoon” might be, but did not venture to display my ignorance by making inquiries.
“We are going out by a cheap liner if you don’t mind,” she continued, “first class to Bombay only forty pounds. We are obliged to be economical. Your expenses on to Silliram will come to about a hundred rupees. Unfortunately, we arrive in the rains, but, you see, Bertie’s leave has expired and it cannot be avoided.”
She then proceeded to give a long list of my requirements, which Mrs. Paget-Taylor precisely entered in a little notebook. It seemed that I should requirea saddle and bridle, a thick and thin habit, warm clothes, cool clothes, smart clothes, cushions, a folding chair, a good supply of scented soap, sheets, towels, a tea-basket, heaps of silk underwear, silk stockings, and also golf and tennis requisites.
Armed with this list I returned to my aunt. I felt a certain diffidence about handing over such a long array of wants, but she seemed to look upon the matter as a mere bagatelle and even added several items. She also informed me that I had (as I knew) an income of £150 a year of my own. This would go to the Hayes-Billingtons, to pay for board and lodging, and as their funds were low she had agreed to lodge the first six months in advance, also she and my uncle had decided to make me an allowance of an additional hundred a year for clothes and my personal expenses. This was generous treatment, and I thanked her warmly. Now that I was actually departing, placing seas and continents between us, Aunt Mina had become semi-attached to me, and it may seem mean of me to add that I believe she scattered this liberality and largesse as sacrifice and thank-offering, and, as it were, the price of Bev.
My aunt accompanied me to London to select my outfit, which was ordered on the most lavish scale; in fact, I would be justified in calling it a trousseau! When the preparations were wellen trainshe left me to spend two or three days with Lizzie in the flat, and to be taken by her to undergo my various fittings.
I found Lizzie comfortably installed, looking years younger than she had done at Beke, and quitesmart. She gave me to understand that Mr. Chesterfield, the rector, had urged her to marry him, first by letter, indeed letters; and, as these proved unsuccessful, he had actually come to London and figuratively prostrated himself at her feet, announcing that “he was lost without her, and had never realised her priceless value until she was gone! She was sorely missed everywhere and really must recall her decision and return to Beke as Mrs. Chesterfield.”
“I told him,” said Lizzie, “that I knew how he had leaned upon me and that under other circumstances I would gladly have become his wife, but now it was impossible. Mrs. Puckle was the obstacle. He might think me unchristian if he liked, but I could not breathe in the same parish with that woman.”
So much for Lizzie’s affairs, and with respect to mine she said: “Eva, I do hope you will never regret this step. I know you have always longed to go to India and I must confess I envy you. I too would like to flap and spread my wings. But you ought to go out under proper auspices.Whoare these Hayes-Billingtons?”
She had met them at Rumpelmayers, and somehow they had not coalesced. Mrs. Hayes-Billington was lofty in her manner, and inclined to be condescending to Miss Lingard’s late governess—who scrutinised that very beautiful chaperon with keenly observant eyes.
“He may be Mrs. Paget-Taylor’s cousin, but these Hayes-Billingtons are not in your class—hard upand pretentious. I may be quite wrong, but the man looks as if he drank, and the woman, although undoubtedly handsome, is so made up. My dear Eva, your aunt must be desperately anxious to get rid of you! If the worst happens cable to me and come back to the flat. I am not sure that your little skiff is sufficiently weather-tight to battle among the waves of Indian society.”
“I know you are a good judge of character, Lizzie, and before I ‘take to the water’ I wish you would tell me something about myself. You have carte blanche to say what you like—I shall not be offended.”
“Well, it will be no news to you that you have a strong will, and heaps of vitality and staying power; are naturally impulsive and much too talkative, also, in a way, deceptive. Your real feelings are not easily moved, and, except for sick people and animals, your heart is rather hard.”
“Oh Lizzie!” I exclaimed.
“Oh Eva!” she echoed. “This is, in a way, true. When you dislike a person it is for always. For instance, nothing would ever make you really care for your aunt and Clara; or at Beke for Mr. Chesterfield and Eliza the cook. On the other hand, your affections are staunch and unchangeable, you idealise your friends far beyond their deserts, and refuse to see a single flaw in their characters. Take, for example, Ronnie. To you he is absolutely perfect, a sort of little god; if it came to a pinch I believe you would makeanysacrifice for him.”
“Yes,” I answered stoutly, “any—and glad of the chance!”
“Ronnie is a good sort and fond of you, but he is by no means a stable character. Yours is by far the stronger of the two.”
“Lizzie, how can you talk such nonsense?”
“It is the truth, and you may have occasion to realise it yet. With you it is all or nothing, and when you fall in love I confess I shall feel anxious—you will give so much, and may receive so little. Well, there, no one can help you! Fate shuffles the cards and you have yet to meet your destiny. Shall I give you one or two scraps of worldly advice, my dear?”
“Yes, do,” I urged eagerly.
“Well, when you go into the big world be careful how you choose your associates; people are judged by their friends.”
“Are they? I should not have thought so.”
“Try, if you can, not to talk of yourself.”
“Yes, I’ll do my best, but I have not much else to talk about, have I?”
“There will be plenty of topics once you are out of your little groove. In Vanity Fair I dare say you may receive a share of knocks and bruises among others hustling in the market-place, but whatever these may be do not show them! All I am advising is simply worldly wisdom, and my most urgent important injunction comes last: do not give your confidence to every agreeable woman, or your heart to the first insidious and good-looking man who gazesinto your eyes, and tells you that you are pretty and a darling. Wait and look round, for with you to love, is for always.”
I felt unexpectedly embarrassed; my face felt hot, as I listened to these intimate personal directions, and I hastened to turn the conversation to Beke and its inhabitants.
In answer to my questions Lizzie informed me that her uncle had taken over the whole of “The Roost,” and paid her a rental of twenty pounds a year. The house was now occupied by Mrs. Puckle’s married daughter and her three children; with long visitations from Mrs. Puckle’s actor son when—as so frequently happened—he found himself “out of a shop.”
The new mistress kept pigs, the garden was converted into a poultry run, the mulberry tree and others had been cut down and sold. According to Mr. Chesterfield the establishment was a continual scene of animosity and wrangling, and the professor’s beard was as white as snow!
“At one time,” added Lizzie, “I would have asked for nothing better than to live my life and end my days in Beke, but, as you know, I have been driven forth by my aunt by marriage!”