CHAPTER XIVTHE CLUB
Thestation club, “the very heart of the community,” as described by Mrs. Soames, lay about two miles from our lines. As we drove down there behind our spanking Australian cabs, my chaperon, who was a great talker, enlarged upon the subject.
“Our club,” she remarked, “is capitally situated just half way between the cantonments and Hyderabad city, close to the parade ground, shops and cemetery, with roads diverging in every direction; a modern but not very dignified building, as you see. Its businesslike outline and platform verandas have led scoffers to compare it to a railway station, and hint that it is the work of a railway engineer, who desired to raise a monument to the glory of his line! In this idea there may be a touch of professional jealousy; anyway, ‘handsome is that handsome does.’ The club is supplied with the latest improvements in the matter of ventilation and comfort. No London club has better billiard tables, more luxurious armchairs, or a superior cook. We women are not suffered to set foot in it, except on special occasions, such as receptions and balls; mankind are a greedy, selfish pack, who keep the best of everything for themselves! Well, here weare!” as we turned abruptly into a large enclosure. “It’s rather early,” she continued, “I see the bullock bandy with the band has only just arrived, so we may as well sit in the carriage for a little longer and I will point you out the chief objects of interest.”
“Yes, please do,” I said, “everything, as you may suppose, is new to me. What is the small building where I see so many ladies on the veranda?”
“That, my dear, is the ‘morghi-khana,’ or hen house; a humble offshoot of the larger establishment, where the ladies of the station forgather to read papers, exchange news and play bridge, for, as I have already told you, we are sternly debarred from the parent premises—so amusing!”
“And what,” I inquired, “is the round raised platform with the tea table and chairs? It looks like a large white cake.”
“It is called a ‘chabutra,’ and was originally intended for a bandstand—you see one in every station. People make use of them for tea and talk; they are raised a foot or two off the ground, and keep you nicely out of the way of snakes. Thank goodness we don’t have many in Secunderabad—the dry climate doesn’t suit them.”
As Mrs. Soames imparted information, I had been using my eyes and absorbing my new surroundings. In comparison with the club at Silliram, this was as a city to a village! Dozens of men and women passed to and fro, some making for the club, some for themorghi-khana. Many of the men were in polo kit or flannels; the women as a rule were remarkablysmart, their frocks and hats were undoubtedly imported, and had no connection with thedirzeeor bazaar. There were numbers of motor cars as well as carriages in the compound, and the road beyond was thronged with vehicles continually passing up and down.
“Did you notice the three ladies who have just settled themselves at the tea-table?” said Mrs. Soames. “They are always early birds, and are no doubt waiting for bridge or friends. Shall I tell you about them, as you will meet them every day?”
“Yes, do, if you please,” I replied, as I glanced over at the trio. Mrs. Soames gave a little preliminary cough, and began:
“The elderly woman, in the creased tussore costume and toque three sizes too large, is Mrs. Lakin. She is not nearly so old as she looks, but the struggle on small means, separation from her children, unhealthy stations, and the burden and heat of the East, have aged her. She comes of a good old Indian family, and was born in the country. At last she has emerged from her early difficulties; her daughters are married, and her husband commands a regiment. Mrs. Lakin is one of the old type of mem-sahibs, now almost extinct, who speak the language fluently, and know the bazaar prices to a dub. Her servants have grown grey in her service, her animals are fat and well liking; she is the soul of hospitality, and the most unselfish and sincere of women—her one weakness is auction bridge,” and Mrs. Soames concluded this little sketch with a complacent smirk.
“So much for Mrs. Lakin,” I said, “and now for the smart lady with a white aigrette in her hat.”
“That is Mrs. Belmont, a typical modern mem-sahib. Her husband is in the Tea-Green Hussars. She had a huge fortune—made, it is said, in glue—and affects to loathe India, which she scorns as a paradise of the middle-classes—her ownmilieuas it happens! Unlike Mrs. Lakin she does not know her retinue by sight. To her, one black man is precisely the same as another. Her housekeeping is in the hands of a magnificent butler, who is amassing a fortune; her personal attendant, a Europe maid—sucha mistake out here—is amassing admirers, and enjoying the time of her life. Mrs. Belmont is a good many years older than her husband, but wonderfully well preserved, and, considering her class, really quite presentable.”
Here I recognised the inflexible attitude of a county lady towards the heiress of thousands made in glue.
“The third on the chabutra is Mrs. Potter,” continued my companion. “If you listen you can hear her voice, and her loud rollicking laugh. She is also known as the ‘Daily She Mail,’ and ‘Slater’s,’ as she is an inveterate, I may say, official newsmonger. Be sure that you areverycareful what you say to her.”
“Yes, but I don’t see howIcan give her much news.”
“My dear, you personify news! She will pick your brain in ten minutes; she will know all aboutyour family, your fortune, your tastes, and possibly the price of your hat! It is marvellous how she gets hold of the first tidings of such events as the movements of troops, engagements, quarrels or scandals; and the worst of it is, that in many cases her information is correct. Some say she has a friend at the Post Office; others, that she owes much to her ayah’s circle at the bazaar, or that Joe Potter, her husband, has his ear to the ground in the city—where he is a vague ‘something.’ They live in a fine bungalow in Secunderabad, but have no claim to any social standing. All the same, Mrs. Potter goes everywhere; her card is filled the moment she appears at a dance, she is never ‘left out’ of any entertainment, and people propitiate her with craven attentions. It is much safer to be her friend than her enemy, for she uses her pen as well as her tongue, and supplies sharp unsigned articles to the press. Well, now I have given you an outline of one or two personalities. Here comes Mrs. Wolfe, that handsome dark woman in the yellow car. She is the wife of an official at Chudderghat, and that is a stranger with her. Let us get out now, and hurry over to the chabutra, or we won’t get good seats.”
We ascended the steps of the white cake without any undignified haste, and Mrs. Soames formally presented me to Mesdames Lakin, Belmont and Potter, as “My friend Miss Lingard.” We all bowed and smiled at one another, and fresh tea was ordered from a bearded butler.
As my chaperon was exchanging civilities withthe ladies already established, Mrs. Wolfe and her companion joined us. Mrs. Wolfe was a tall elegant woman, with magnificent black eyes and an intensely animated expression.
“This,” she announced, with a comprehensive wave of her hand, “is my cousin Miss Payne. Sally Payne, who, after her arduous labours in globe-trotting, has come to enjoy a domestic holiday with me.”
Mrs. Belmont raised her glasses and considered the new-comer with an air of grave appraisement. A little woman with reddish hair, sharp features and a pale clever face; she wore a well-cut white linen, a Panama hat, and carried in a white gloved hand a gold-handled sunshade.
Miss Payne bowed all round with self-possessed grace, seated herself, and began to take off her gloves.
“Just arrived?” said Mrs. Potter brusquely.
“Yes, only yesterday morning.”
Then she glanced at me and said, “We came up from Wadi in the same train. You were the girl in that delightful blue silk dust cloak; it made mesoenvious. When you tire of it, please let me have the first offer?”
“Yes, certainly,” I answered, in the same key, “but I do not propose to part with it yet.”
Mrs. Potter’s swift glance gave me to understand she would deal with me presently, but that just now she was particularly interested in Miss Payne, and she once more addressed her:
“Did I not see you at the Cinderella?” she inquired in her judicial voice.
“Guilty!” admitted the stranger. “My cousin dragged me there, but I enjoyed it immensely. What ‘go’ there was about it!”
“Yes, it was a good dance,” agreed Mrs. Potter, “though one of the band had a fit, and the ice-cream ran short; but on the whole, everything was thoroughly well done.”
“And what heaps of dancing men and pretty women!”
“Yes, we were just about to discuss the beauties of the evening—‘present company always included!’” and Mrs. Potter glanced at Mrs. Belmont with her beautiful complexion, and then at Mrs. Wolfe with her animated, vivid face.
“Oh, pray don’t mindme,” protested Miss Payne, coolly accepting the implied compliment. “At forty I am past the beauty stage. Last night a worried-looking man rushed up to me and asked where he could find my daughter? Imagine such a question for a respectable English spinster!”
“I expect he took you for Mrs. Hastings,” suggested Mrs. Soames, “her hair is the same shade.”
“Well, I’ll make it my business to look out for Mrs. Hastings, and see myself as others see me. I must confess, if I had been endowed with a daughter, I’d have chosen that delightful vision in rose-coloured chiffon.”
“Oh, Miss Warren!” said Mrs. Potter with a sniff. “As it happens, she has no mother. Yes,she looked well enough, but her dress—an old one dyed—was too remarkable, especially as she danced with the same partner most of the evening!”
“Where was her chaperon?” inquired Miss Payne, as she helped herself to two lumps of sugar.
“Probably she had none,” was the startling reply.
“What!” cried Miss Payne, brandishing the empty sugar tongs. “I know that chaperons are extinct at home—the bicycle killed them—but I’d no idea that India was so emancipated.”
“I’m afraid we are,” replied Mrs. Potter. “I heard some violent kissing last evening behind the screen where my partner and I were sitting out, and I happened to see the couple later—a girl and a married man!”
“Oh, really!” protested Miss Payne with mock horror, “I shall be obliged to retire. I ammuchtoo young for this kind of conversation!”
Then she looked across at me and burst out laughing.
“What doyousay?”
This question drew upon me the immediate notice of Mrs. Potter. Hitherto I had been sitting a little in the background, now she turned round and favoured me with special attention.
“And you arrived yesterday, did you not?”
“Yes,” I acknowledged with meek humility.
She stared at me so hard that I felt quite out of countenance, and could not find anything else to say.
“You are Captain Lingard’s sister, I believe? How nice it is for him to have you out here!”
“And very nice for me—to be with him,” I murmured.
“Your first visit, of course?” she was proceeding, when my chaperon interposed, and, moving a little nearer, asked Mrs. Potter a question about an imminent bridge tournament, and I was for the moment released. I confess I rather envied the independence of Miss Payne, who, having finished tea, had courageously betaken herself to the library.
Mrs. Lakin, hitherto engaged in cutting up cake and waiting on the company, now took a seat beside me and proceeded to break the ice. I noticed that her complexion was a pale biscuit colour, and her blue eyes looked faded, but she had a sweet expression—perhaps once upon a time she had been pretty.
“So I hear you are a new-comer. I wonder what you will think of India.”
“So far, I like it immensely,” I answered.
“There have been wonderful changes since I set foot in the country. That was thirty years ago. Then this club was a small affair, and stood farther down where the shop is now. Everything is made so comfortable in these days. People rush backwards and forwards to England for a few weeks’ holiday. Formerly it was a wonderful thing if you got home once in five or six years. All the same, I liked those times best.”
“Did you!” I exclaimed. “But why?”
“Well, it’s not altogether because everything was quarter the price, though of course that does makea difference, especially when you have a large family. Things were quieter and easier. Generals did not come hustling round when they were least expected, and you and your friends were left in a station for three or four years instead of being whipped off as now at a moment’s notice. The servants were a superior class, and one grew attached to them, and almost every girl that came to India was bound to find a husband.”
“And that is all changed, I understand.”
“Oh yes, it’s as difficult to get off a girl here as it is elsewhere. In these days when the exchange is so low, sending home money is ruination—people bring out their families, and the country is overrun with paying guests, and this, in India, so famous once for hospitality! My two girls are married—not grand matches, but to really good fellows—and I must confess I miss them. My husband and I are alone—just Darby and Joan. I am sorry to say that his time will soon be up, he will be retired, and we go home for good next spring.”
“Then you love India?” I said.
She nodded expressively, and added:
“You see I was born out here, as were my father and mother before me. We come of families who have made their home in India for many generations—educated of course in England, they all return like homing pigeons to the Army, to the Civil Service, and to many other posts. India draws them—theyallhear the East a-calling.”
“And so you will be really sorry to retire?”
“Yes,” she admitted, “and if we can’t stand it we will return and settle down in the hills. I can see us in England, probably established in some London suburb, in a little house, with smoky chimneys, the boiler always out of order, two servants—saying they’ve too much to do—ourselves with nothing to do, no interests, and none of our accustomed comforts. My! I don’t like to think of it! I have heard such tales from friends who have gone back to England, and find the change awful, especially the climate.”
“Oh,” I exclaimed astonished, “you do surprise me.”
“Yes,” she answered. “Give me the ordinary honest hot weather out here. You know where you are; when the heat or rains are due, and when they cease. It is so much better than your capricious sun one day and snow the next, and your desperate English winters. Most English die in winter, and no wonder! You are staying with Mrs. Soames,” she continued. “Your brother is in Colonel Soames’s regiment; they are going home in the spring like ourselves.”
This announcement gave me a shock. I understood that there might be a move from Secunderabad, but I never realised that it would be to England, or that I might find myself back at Torrington, before the year was out. As I pondered the subject Mrs. Lakin suddenly rose, in answer to a frantic signal from another matron.
“Bridge,” she said, turning to me with atriumphant smile, “they have got up a rubber at last!”
Then she descended somewhat heavily, and hurried away to themorghi-khana.
“A good soul, but oh, what clothes!” said Mrs. Potter, looking after the retreating figure. “It is whispered that they are chosen by an envious old maid sister-in-law. I can see a world of spite in that short-waisted gown and the pantomime toque; and yet the poor lady is pleased, and tells us thatnowshe gets everything from home.”
“Never mind the clothes,” put in Mrs. Wolfe, “when the woman inside them is a jewel. She is a sort of godmother to half the station.”
Seeing that I had been abandoned by Mrs. Lakin, Mrs. Potter again turned to talk to me.
“As you have only just arrived, you have seen nothing of India so far except railway stations?”
I coloured with guilt, and nodded a deceitful assent.
Mrs. Potter’s quick black eyes looked me up and down, and then she remarked:
“I dare say you will have a very good time. This is a most interesting place, if you care for that sort of thing; and you can see something of all conditions of men, Asiatic and European. There is, as you know, the great city of Hyderabad, which we may not enter without a pass. Then comes Chudderghat, where the Politicals and the Resident live; he has the finest Residency in India. There are also colleges and the convent of the Holy Rosary. Next wehave Secunderabad itself, all shops, and bazaars, and fine old bungalows. That brings us here. Up your way the Army is sprinkled about—artillery and engineers, cavalry and line; this is the largest garrison in India—and now you have the place in a nutshell!”
“Who are these people?” I inquired, as I observed close to thechabutraseveral handsome dark young men getting out of a large motor.
“Oh, they are some of the Nizam’s entourage, mostly noblemen and officers of the Golconda Lancers. They have been playing polo with the Lighthearts’ team. Your brother is their captain. Of course, you must feel rather strange at first, not knowing a soul in the place!”
“Yes,” I answered. I could not say why, but I found it difficult to talk to Mrs. Potter; her sharp eyes seemed to stab me like knives.
“But you will soon know everybody,” she continued, with a little air of patronage. “Out here we are all supposed to be in the same set. The set in Secunderabad is embodied by the club—to be a member is our social hall-mark. All the rest are, so to speak, in outer darkness—where I believe there’s a good deal of gnashing of teeth!”
As she was speaking I happened to glance towards the entrance through which people were still coming and going, and there I beheld someone who was not a stranger. It was Captain Falkland, attended by Kipper.