CHAPTER XIA HILL STATION
Captain Hayes-Billington’s prediction was fulfilled; a welcome “break” brought us perfect weather, and at last we were enabled to dispense with umbrellas and goloshes, and sally forth to see the place. Silliram was situated on a high plateau, and, as we emerged from a by-path and stood near a celebrated “point,” a world of absolute peace and beauty lay beneath us. The precipices which overhung the low country were heavily wooded and clothed with masses of trees, flowering creepers, orchids and a luxuriant variety of gigantic exotic ferns. The plains which stretched so far below resembled a faintly coloured map, or some delicate piece of embroidery, gradually fading away into a misty blue distance. The atmosphere after the rains was so extraordinarily crystal-clear that we could see for miles, and even trace the outlines of distant towns, forests and rivers. Overhead a few lazy clouds threw their shadows on the wonderful scene, possibly jealous of such beauty and endeavouring to obscure it.
It was no doubt owing to its lofty situation that Silliram dried up rapidly; the roads were no longer merely red mud, the cascades of running waterceased to brawl, and the all-reviving sun had apparently brought the whole population into the open air—also their wardrobes. In almost every compound one noticed long strings of male and female garments fluttering in the breeze.
After our walk to the view Mrs. Hayes-Billington and I bravely ventured into the club. Among the crowd each face we saw was that of a stranger. Apparently we were the only outsiders, everyone else seemed to be acquainted.
I took courage from my chaperon, who was evidently well used to Indian clubs and club ways, and securing seats and a table she issued an order for tea and bread and butter.
“Not buffalo butter,” she amended imperiously.
I noticed a number of girls, various soldierly-looking young men, some few matrons and oldish officers with grey hairs, but no really elderly people. There was bridge, badminton in a covered court, tennis, a reading-room and a supply of refreshments. I could not but see that we were observed with interest; who would not look at Mrs. Hayes-Billington? She was unusually animated and in good spirits, and we sat over our tea cups for some time absorbed in our surroundings, enjoying this pleasant change from our damp little “Dovecot.”
As we walked back Mrs. Hayes-Billington remarked:
“To-morrow I will order a conveyance of some sort, we will put on our smartest frocks and pay a round of calls from twelve to two. Bertie got alist from the club baboo. We will begin with the general’s wife, the commissioner’s wife, the padre’s wife, and so on. I think I had better write your name on my cards, and then everyone will know that we are living together and that you are under my wing.”
“Yes,” I assented, “of course, that will be best.”
“I hope they will all be out; this calling is a mere matter of form. As soon as visits have been exchanged, we shall be invited to the general’s at homes, the club dances, picnics and tennis parties, and you will have no end of a good time.”
The following morning, arrayed in our best afternoon frocks, we started out in an ancient victoria to make our round of calls—in short, “to wait upon the station.” The general’s wife and daughter were at home. They proved to be charming people, and the girl, who was my age, and I took to one another on the spot. Our other calls were more or less satisfactory; we dropped our names into the many “Not at home” boxes, and having dispersed twenty cards returned to “The Dovecot” and tiffin, in a condition of complete exhaustion.
The result of our effort was an immediate shower of pasteboards or visitors, and we were soon in the midst of a whirl of hill gaiety. We went to tennis parties, picnics, and dances. My companion was impressively sedate and correct in her manner—this was not the Mrs. Hayes-Billington with whom I had travelled in theAsphodel! She was also an admirable bridge and tennis player, had an unfailing supply of agreeable small talk, and was one of the most popular married women in the station.
My chaperon was an excellent manager, and thoroughly understood Anglo-Indian housekeeping and the art of cutting down the cook’s accounts. We lived carefully and economically, but nevertheless entertained in a quiet way; we gave little tiffins and dinners before a club dance, to young men and girls—though our dining-room was a crush with six. On these occasions the table was beautifully decorated by Mrs. Hayes-Billington, and some of the sweets and the savouries were made by her on a handy charcoal stove in the back veranda. She had a deft way of doing things; everything turned out by her delicate fingers seemed so dainty and complete, whether it was a toque, a pincushion, or some toothsome dish. Although Mrs. Hayes-Billington invariably spoke of herself as “a genteel pauper,” I had a shrewd impression that once upon a time she had been accustomed to wealth and luxury. Her wardrobe was plain and inexpensive, but she possessed beautiful lace, the remains of various gorgeous gowns, a gold-mounted dressing-bag which had evidently seen much service, a string of pearls and remarkably fine diamonds. Also she was a notable dressmaker, and refurbished and altered some of the satins and brocades, with the aid of a cleverdirzee; he sat in the veranda from morning till night, sewing, pinning, copying, making marvellous use of his toes for holding breadths of stuff, and was armed with the most formidable pair of scissors I had ever beheld.
The outcome of these exertions were picturesque teagowns and evening toilettes, gracefully worn by Mrs. Hayes-Billington at our weekly bridge party, when young men dropped in after dinner for a rubber and a smoke.
On such occasions I did not take a hand; the stakes were too high and the rubbers were so long—sometimes the clock struck one before I heard the break-up of the party. In a house like ours, with the walls possibly made of old packing-cases, every sound was audible.
My chaperon was a first-rate bridge player; she smoked unlimited cigarettes, used slangy expressions and was more at ease and in “mental undress” than Aunt Mina would have approved. However, she was undoubtedly happy; as I watched her eager radiant face I could not help thinking of some poor pot-bound thirsty flower that had at last received freedom and moisture!
The young men worshipped my companion; no doubt they were flattered by her notice and her sympathetic manner; she was always so beautiful, so vital and so gay. Once or twice I found myself wondering at what she saw inthem. They were very young and, even in my callow opinion, rather dull and uninteresting. I came upon the answer to this question (if answer it was) in rather an unexpected form. One morning, after one of these weekly parties, I happened to open the old bureau in order to hunt for a piece of sealing-wax, and there, stuffed under bridge markers, cards and scraps of papercovered with figures, I discovered coins and notes to the amount of three hundred rupees!
I must confess that the find was a shock. I had never seen what is called “real gambling.” Was this the first nod from our family skeleton, or was it merely the housekeeping funds accidentally muddled up with cards and paper? Mrs. Hayes-Billington was so foolishly careless of money and jewellery, and rarely kept them under lock and key. The only possessions she ever locked up were her letters.
The general’s daughter and I became companions and fast friends. We went sketching together, though our poor attempts were libels on the wonderful scenery we attempted to transfer to paper. Besides Dolly Dane there were numbers of nice girls in the station. For instance, Belinda and Sylvia Brabazon, known as “Billy” and “Silly”—for India is no respecter of names!—a plain little couple, matchless tennis players and cotillion leaders, tirelessly good-natured and energetic. Their mother, an amazingly vigorous matron, looked like their elder sister. Colonel Brabazon’s activities were confined to collecting butterflies, and telling “good” stories in the club smoking-room. No picnics or dances were considered complete without his belongings.
The commissioner’s wife, Mrs. Clayson, a kindly but lethargic lady, was weighed down by the cares of a large small family, and took no part save that of spectator in any social gaieties. Then there were Major and Mrs. Wray of the Grey Hussars, a particularly smart couple, who enjoyed the reputation ofgiving the best dinners in Silliram, to which none but what I may call the “crème de la crème” were invited.
I regret to add that Mrs. Wray figuratively closed her doors on the commissariat, uncovenanted and subordinate railway and telegraph service. She, however, did not close her doors on us, but was Mrs. Hayes-Billington’s chief friend, at which I was not surprised, as there were certain points in common between them. They had dealt at the same London shops, employed the same Court milliner, used the same soap, and were equally devoted to bridge.
In all my life I had never enjoyed myself so thoroughly as during these weeks at an Indian hill station. The weather was perfect; the clear exhilarating mountain air raised my spirits to the highest pitch, and when I woke in the morning it was always with the feeling that something delightful was going to happen during the day, and this sensation was usually justified. I had hired a pony from the bazaar—fortunately my new saddle fitted him perfectly—and joined riding parties and picnics all over the plateau. The hard red roads and overgrown lanes wound among wonderful ferns and woods. Here were my old friends the oak and the willow; the delicate tamarind and stately peepul I now saw for the first time. Our expeditions were generally to points commanding clear-cut views of the far-away plains, or the purple gloom of valleys beneath our feet. At some of these “points” we had picnics,chotah hazree, tiffin, or afternoon tea, as the case might be.
Besides such rural excursions there were tennis tournaments, small club dances, and active preparations for the great event of the season—theatricals, which were got up by the general and his wife. The piece selected,The Scrap of Paper, was undoubtedly ambitious, but where is the amateur who does not soar? The rôles of the Marquise and Suzanne were undertaken by Mrs. Wray and Mrs. Hayes-Billington, and the piece required constant rehearsal. As I had been selected to take the small part of a servant who comes in and dusts a chair, I was always present, and, behind the scenes, was immensely interested and entertained.
Mrs. Hayes-Billington’s performance filled me with a glow of personal pride. My chaperon was what might be called “a born actress.” It also transpired that she had played in this piece on former occasions.
Dolly Dane was cast for Mathilde, and as our parts were insignificant we had the pleasure of looking on and watching the others perform. Mrs. Hayes-Billington was admirable, Mrs. Wray was also good. In spite of their close friendship I thought I could discern a certain amount of rivalry between these ladies. The general himself, and one or two of our most prominent young men, were in the cast. The date of the great gala night was fixed to take place within a fortnight, and after this, alas! the season would begin to wane.
In almost every letter I sent to Ronnie I begged him to come up and see Silliram and me, holdingout such inducements asThe Scrap of Paperand the Bachelors’ Club dance.
“I am longing to see you,” I said, “and also for you to see me, and to judge how splendidly I am getting on in India. Already I know a little Hindustani, I can fold and put on a pugaree, and chaffer with the hawkers as to the manner born.”
But my invitation fell flat. Ronnie wrote that he could not possibly get leave; the rifle meeting was coming on, also the polo tournament, and a general inspection. He was simply worked to death. Later he might be able to get away. Meanwhile he was delighted to hear that I was having such a ripping time.
Mrs. Hayes-Billington and I had a good many men callers; one day among these, Mr. Balthasar, a friend of Captain Hayes-Billington, presented himself. He was a foreigner—that is to say, not English. His dark skin was in surprising contrast to a pair of very light grey eyes, which he rolled about incessantly. He had thick black lashes, a bullet head, fat clean-shaven face, good features, beautiful hands and a stout, supple figure. Also he was remarkably well groomed and carried himself with an air of confident assurance.
I noticed a slight hint of patronage in his manner towards Mrs. Hayes-Billington, which, with a gracious dignity, she speedily suppressed. He talked with a sort of soft drawl, and informed us he had come from the mines, and had just run up to Silliram to confer with a well-known engineer, and wasreturning the following day. Our visitor paid me conspicuous attention, his restless eyes constantly rolled in my direction, and he accepted an invitation to dine with flattering alacrity. When he had departed in a motor Mrs. Hayes-Billington said:
“That is one of the directors of the Katchoocan Gold Mines, where Bertie works; he is what is called ‘a big pot,’ notable for getting valuable concessions from the Nizam’s Government. His call was an honour. I believe he is a Greek—anyway, a Levantine of some sort—and enormously rich. I must send to the bazaar and the shops and prepare a really smart dinner—oysters and pomfret, and get some wine from the club, and a tin of caviare. If I entertain him well it may be of use to Bertie. I believe he plays bridge, so I shall ask another man, Captain Learoyd, I think, and be sure you put on a becoming frock.”
The little dinner proved a success; it was cooked to admiration. The great man expanded and made himself agreeable, and hinted that he would do great things for “B.B.,” as he called Captain Hayes-Billington. Subsequently at bridge I was his partner, and I positively could not endure the way he stared—precisely as if I were an uncertain investment about which he was making up his mind. At the same time he played bridge with skill; was cool, subtly cunning, and had a clear memory of every card. We won two rubbers, to his obvious satisfaction. He and Captain Learoyd played for money, and I think he pocketed about ten rupees, a mere nothing to amillionaire, but he was as pleased as if it had been thousands.
“I look upon our success as a good omen, Miss Lingard. You and I are first-rate partners. How would you like to take me on for life?” he asked boisterously.
“Not at all,” I replied brusquely, as I turned my back upon him and moved away. I disliked Mr. Balthasar particularly—his boasting, his grand air, the way in which he looked round our cheap little room—and appeared to see through our makeshifts—also the style in which he had stuck his glass in his eye and peered into the entrées at dinner. He was insupportable, and after I had tidied away the bridge cards I withdrew into my own apartment and put myself to bed. It was a long time before I heard his motor moving off, and immediately afterwards Mrs. Hayes-Billington came into my room and said:
“He has been waiting on forages! Why did you go away and never come back?”
“Because he is too appallingly awful!” I rejoined with energy. “I never saw such manners. I never met such a detestable, odious creature. I felt inclined to throw things at him, and I sincerely hope I may never see him again!”
“He hopes very much that he may seeyouagain. He has taken an extraordinary fancy to ‘my friend Miss Lingard,’ and says if I will bring you down to stay at the mines he will put us up—”
“He will never putmeup,” I interrupted, “and nothing would induce me to put up with him!”
For a moment Mrs. Hayes-Billington stood gravely contemplating me with her wonderful dark eyes.
“Ah well,” she said at last, “I grant you that he is a bounder, but then on the other hand he is enormously rich.”
“My dear chaperon!” I exclaimed, “surely you are not thinking of trying to make a match for me with a fat foreigner who must be fifty years of age! I would rather be dead than married to such a horror!”
She nodded her head expressively and went slowly out of the room.
As a rule our young men callers were officers upon leave, a nice, cheery set, my partners at dances and tennis. We were always at home on Sunday afternoons, and Mrs. Hayes-Billington and I were most regular attendants at the little hill church in the mornings. One particular afternoon two of our habitués brought a stranger, a certain Captain Vesey. Somehow he was not of the usual type of our visitors, who were simple, unaffected, and genial. This was a fair man, with a long, faded face and a querulous expression. After the first introduction he appeared to freeze into a solid block of ice, and was reserved almost to silence. I noticed him looking hard at Mrs. Hayes-Billington, and, although he reclined in a well-cushioned cane chair and was offered the very best orange pekoe tea and hot cakes, he scarcely contributed a word to the conversation and was obviously dissatisfied with his company and his surroundings. Possibly my name had escaped him,for when someone addressed me as “Miss Lingard” he became faintly interested.
“I know a namesake of yours in the ‘Lighthearts.’ Any relation?”
“Yes,” I answered shortly, “he is my brother.”
“Yourbrother,” he repeated incredulously.
“Is it so very astonishing?”
“Um—er——” he stammered, “I had no idea that Ronnie Lingard had a sister out here.”
“I only arrived six weeks ago—I came with Mrs. Hayes-Billington.”
“Oh, did you?”
“I wanted Ronnie to come here for even a week, but he is so busy and so hard-worked he says it is impossible.”
“Oh yes—impossible—quite, quite impossible,” he muttered, as if talking to himself, and then he got up rather suddenly and took an abrupt departure.
There was certainly something strange about Captain Vesey. He had forgotten his gloves and he had not touched his tea. The two young men who had brought him exchanged glances and grins and one of them exclaimed: “Sunstroke!”
“I hope you don’t mind him, Mrs. Hayes-Billington,” he added apologetically, “but Vesey is the most eccentric old bird.”
“So it seems,” she rejoined with a laugh, “and I have not the slightest wish to put salt on his tail!”
The great day of our theatricals was approaching. The evening before it took place we had a full-dressrehearsal—arépétition générale, French fashion—at the theatre, to which at least half of the people came, bidden or unbidden, but everyone was more or less interested in the performance. If they were not acting their friends or relations were taking part, or they had lent properties, garments, furniture, or given assistance in dressing and making up.
The little theatre was almost full. I made this discovery by peeping through that indispensable hole in the curtain. Mrs. Dane, the general’s wife, was already seated in the middle of the front row, and with her was a lady, a rather austere-looking, middle-aged woman whom I had never seen before, also a grey-haired gentleman, presumably her husband. I may add that thecrème de la crèmeof the station were present at this rehearsal, but every one of them would be there the next evening, honourably paying their ten rupees a ticket. Rather a high price, but then it was for a local charity.
I must admit that I was highly excited, being about to make my first appearance on the stage. I dressed myself as a smart parlourmaid; my face had been beautifully painted by Major Wray—who was quite an artist in this line—and I was ready!
After some delay the curtain rose on Mathilde and her companion. Dolly acquitted herself well (although she had been nearly crying with stage fright). I had helped to attire the Marquise; she looked magnificent and wore her diamonds. Having played my own little part and accomplished my dusting I went round to the front to enjoy the performance.
The good-natured Brabazons made room for me between them in the second row, just behind Mrs. Dane and the general, who turned about to compliment me. At this moment the Marquise appeared upon the stage, and received a round of applause. I noticed the strange lady in front examining her programme and whispering to her husband; then she turned her attention to the actors, and looked at the Marquise (the cynosure of all eyes) with a sort of fixed glare. The play was going splendidly, the prompter’s voice was rarely heard. The chief honours fell to my chaperon, whose acting was simply magnificent.
During the interval between the second and third acts, I noticed Mrs. Dane and the strange lady engaged in earnest conversation, and caught the name “Mrs. de Lacy.” I also observed that Mrs. Dane seemed very much perturbed and upset.
The Scrap of Paperended in a triumph. There were repeated calls before the curtain, which were accepted by the Marquise and Suzanne, who appeared, curtsied hand in hand, and received a boisterous ovation. This delightful evening concluded with a little supper-party at the Wrays’, and it was long after one o’clock in the morning before I found myself in bed.
As the result of such dissipation I was not a very early riser—neither was Mrs. Hayes-Billington. Verbal messages are uncertain in India, and even to someone in the same house you send a pencilled note or “chit.” I had received a chit to say “Havean awful headache, do not expect to see me till quite late. D. B.”
I spent the remainder of the morning in writing letters, doing a little mending, and finishing an engrossing novel. At tiffin, of which I partook in solitude, thechokrawas my sole attendant, and when I inquired for Fernandez, our factotum, he replied, “Missie done send Fernandez with one telegram. Fernandez stopping all the time in bazaar.”
As our letters had arrived, I concluded that my chaperon had received some important news, and never gave the matter another thought.
Strange to say that morning there were none of the usual visitors; a certain number of our intimates and neighbours generally looked in, in passing, to ask questions, make engagements, exchange bits of news, and to borrow or to lend. To-day not a soul appeared! The veranda was a desert, save for thedirzeeand myself. This did not strike me as odd, because most people of our acquaintance were fagged after the previous night’s excitement, and were no doubt “lying low” in anticipation of the evening’s entertainment.
Towards four o’clock I put on my tennis shoes, took my racket and sauntered off to the club, where I had engaged to make up a set with Dolly Dane. I found already awaiting me Dolly, Captain Learoyd and the padre. I noticed that they were talking eagerly together, but ceased abruptly as I approached within earshot, and there seemed none of the usual eagerness about starting a game.
“What is the matter?” I asked. “You all look so very grave. Is anyone dead—or has there been an accident?”
“Well—er—no accident,” said the padre, and he glanced significantly at Dolly, who, taking my arm, led me aside.
“My dear Eva,” she began. “I am sorry to say I’ve the mostawfulthing to tell you,” and she paused.
“Oh do be quick!” I urged. “It’s my brother—is he ill?”
“No, no,” she replied, with a jerk of impatience. “It’s about Mrs. Hayes-Billington, your chaperon. It seems that she is the heroine of a terrible divorce case. She was a Mrs. de Lacy; her husband had a civil appointment up in the Punjab. She was always lovely, but outrageously fast. Four years ago she ran away with an officer up in Cashmere. Mrs. Hancock, who is staying with us, knew all about it and nearly had a fit last evening when she saw the notorious Mrs. de Lacy taking the principal part in Mother’s theatricals.”
“Oh, Dolly,” I gasped, “it cannot be true!”
“But it is,” she reiterated, “and the case was so scandalous and shameless, that the Hancocks are astonished that she had the audacity ever to return to India. They say she is already beginning in her old style, turning the heads of young men, and having horrid little card parties. It is a fearful shock for the whole station. Mother has written to her. There will be no theatricals, the notice has been posted up on the board this morning. Of course shemust have got hold of you under false pretences. Mother says you are to come to us at once. W. will send down for your things.”
“It’s all very dreadful,” I said. “I feel completely stunned. Still, I don’t think I ought to leave Mrs. Hayes-Billington like that.”
“But you must, my dear,” urged Dolly imperatively. “It is too dreadful for a girl like you to be associated with such a person. What an impostor she is! Poor Mrs. Wray is in a state of collapse—fainting fits; the doctor has been to see her. The committee have taken Mrs. Hayes-Billington’s name off the list in the library and the club, and the sooner she takes herself out of Silliram the better! Come into the club with me,” continued Dolly; “I want to fetch my scarf, and I will walk back with you to ‘The Dovecot,’ and, if you like, help you to put your things together?”
I made no reply. I felt as if someone had banged me upon the head, and I followed Dolly into the club, feeling extraordinarily dazed and nervous. Fortunately it was not yet tea-time, and the place was nearly empty.
As we passed a great black-board, on which notices were fastened, my companion pointed with her tennis racket and I read, inscribed in very large letters:
“Owing to unforeseen circumstances, the performance ofThe Scrap of Paperwill not now take place. L. J. Bowen, Sec. Dramatic Society.”
“Owing to unforeseen circumstances, the performance ofThe Scrap of Paperwill not now take place. L. J. Bowen, Sec. Dramatic Society.”