CHAPTER XXVAT BANGALORE
Afterchanging at two junctions, and a tedious but eventless journey, Kipper and I arrived in Bangalore, and drove off in a dusty, shuttered gharry to 202 Infantry Lines, the abode of Mrs. de Castro.
Bangalore itself lies chiefly around a maidan or parade ground about a mile long, bordered with a ride and trees, and encircled and traversed by the principal roads in the station. Parallel to the maidan are the infantry lines; they lie behind what once were infantry barracks, and are now commissariat stores. Formerly the bungalows were occupied by officers, but these quarters—like the barracks—have passed into a different use, and are rented by clerks, shopkeepers and railway subordinates. Number 202 was large and old and gloomy, situated in a small compound with two entrances, flanked by imposing gate piers, but there were no gates. The front of the bungalow was completely veiled by an enormous lattice-work porch, covered with flowering creepers—wine-coloured bougainvillea and blue masses of “morning glory.” The little drive was full of ruts, the steps up to the veranda were lined with many pots of caladiums and maidenhair; evidently these had been recently watered,for the first sensation I received, with respect to my new residence, was an all-pervading smell of wet earth.
As we rumbled up and came to a noisy halt a little old woman shuffled out of the doorway directly facing the steps; and as I descended from the gharry she exclaimed in a shrill, querulous voice:
“So you have brought adog!”
I hastened to assure her that I could vouch for Kip’s good conduct, and that he would be no trouble whatever to her.
“But what about my cats?” she snapped. “By the look of him I should say he would troublethem.”
Again I declared that I would be guarantee for his behaviour.
“And you’re a lady!” she continued in the same complaining key. “Miss Lucy never told me that.”
“I hope it is no drawback?”
“Well, it is in a way,” was her unexpected reply. “I’m not a lady myself. I was a lady’s maid, and I’ve been looking for a nice homely girl who would read to me, and run to the bazaar, and be a sort of companion.”
“I think I can manage all that,” I replied, and turned to pay off thegharriwan.
The small amount of my luggage undoubtedly mollified my landlady, and having assured me that I had given thegharriwandouble his fare, with considerable pomp and circumstance she preceded meinto the drawing-room, which, as in most old bungalows, opened directly upon the veranda. Her air implied that she was now about to exhibit something superior and out of the common. What a room! The middle of it was occupied by a vast round ottoman, hard—I subsequently learned—as stone, covered with the most hideous black and green cretonne I had ever beheld. The floor had recently been matted with cheap and odoriferous matting. The walls were coloured a blinding blue and hung with fearful chromos. Between the walls, the matting, and the new cretonne, I gathered that this terrible apartment had been recently, as it is called, “done up.” There were a few cane chairs, a blackwood table, and an old cottage piano with a faded red silk front.
In order to reach my quarters we passed through a network of small empty chambers to a room which was large and very bare. A little bed was as an island in space, the dressing-table was also small, a camp chest of drawers the sole accommodation for my wardrobe. As I glanced around this desert of an apartment, I resolved to supply myself immediately with a writing-table and an arm-chair.
I soon discovered that Mrs. de Castro kept but few servants. The so-called “boy,” a man of forty, combined the offices of cook and waiter. To me the food was unfamiliar, and consisted of peculiar pillau, tank fish, and curries of the most startling varieties; our fruit was pomegranates and custard-apples.
Everything, however, was beautifully neat and clean, and as soon as Mrs. de Castro had resigned herself to her disappointment in finding me aladywe settled down together on the most amicable terms.
My hostess must have been about seventy. Her sight was rather bad, but otherwise she was by no means decrepit—in fact, was surprisingly active for her age. I let her see at once that I was resolved to be independent—to go out and come in precisely as I pleased; at the same time, I was willing to read aloud theBangalore Herald, to write a chit, or even to carry a message into the bazaar—which lay at the end of our road. She quite took to Kip, who soon established himself in a very secure position in the house, and we three got on together so well that at the end of a week I do not think a casual visitor would have discovered that I had not been living in Infantry Lines for years. My landlady seldom went out, save on Sunday across the maidan to St. Mark’s Church, but she gave me ample directions, and I soon found my way about our immediate neighbourhood.
My first distant expedition was to see at least the exterior of the jail. I think Mrs. de Castro was not a little astonished at my anxiety to know its whereabouts.
“The jail is nothing to look at,” she said. “You go into the Cubbon Park—there’s a sight for you! Some day I’ll hire a gharry and take you down to the Lal Bagh gardens.”
I had been debating in my own mind whether I would tell this good woman the whole truth and nothing but the truth. As a friend of “Miss Lucy’s,” in other words Mrs. Lakin (to whose mother she had been maid), I had some claim upon her interest and loyalty. She entertained a number of visitors, chiefly women, the wives of shopkeepers, clerks, railway guards and sergeants—a particular set of her own. These swarmed in of an afternoon to have a cup of coffee in the veranda and enjoy a bit of a talk, importing all the latest and raciest bazaar gossip, in which Mrs. de Castro took the most eager interest. Naturally to such people I was an object of the liveliest curiosity; with respect to me, I believe these poor puzzled women floundered about in a very quagmire of conjecture. I avoided them as far as possible, but nevertheless I could not wholly evade them, and their questions and hints were exceedingly sharp. With Mrs. de Castro sharing my secret I was convinced that I could hold them at bay, and accordingly made up my mind to speak. One morning as we sat at breakfast, I began abruptly:
“Mrs. de Castro, I am sure you wonder what I am doing here, a stranger to the place. There is not a soul that I know in the whole of Mysore, save one. You will also be wondering why I am often asking questions about the jail? Now I will tell you the reason—my brother is there.”
“What!” she cried, “the new superintendent?”
“No, I am sorry to say he is undergoing a two years’ sentence—his name is Captain Lingard.”
“Oh lor!” she cried, lifting up her withered hands, “do you tell me so? I heard about the officer from my husband’s nephew, who is head warder. And so that’s what’s brought you to the station. Dear, dear, dear! What’s he been a-doin’ of?”
“It was about money,” I replied.
“Ay,” she answered sagely, “it is always money or women.”
“My brother took funds belonging to the regiment, intending to repay them, but before he could do so they were missed.”
“Ah,” she exclaimed, “and then the fat was in the fire! Jail,” she continued, “is a terrible place for a young gentleman—indeed, it’s not very what you may call homey for anyone.”
“I believe it will break my brother’s heart,” I said. “I have told you this, Mrs. de Castro, because I think you feel kindly towards me.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” she mumbled.
“And I want you to keep this dreadful thing a dead secret?”
“I’ll do my best, and I’ll do anything for Miss Lucy’s friend; but the women who come here are just chock full of curiosity. They can see what you are, and they think it mighty queer your living in this small humble way. Well, I must compose some sort of a fairy tale to tell them.”
“Tell them that I’m eccentric,” I suggested; “that I come to you to be very, very quiet—tell them that I’m writing a book.”
“Yes, yes, that’ll do splendidly, and you can have your writing-table put in one of the little rooms, and keep yourself as much to yourself as you please, whilst I throw dust in their eyes.”
“I think I shall go up to the jail this evening,” I said. “I’ve been here a fortnight, and have never made it out yet.”
“No, no, early to-morrow would be your best time. Not that you wouldseehim—don’t you run away with that notion; but you might chance on Mr. Hodson, the superintendent, about nine o’clock, and get a few words with him, and as you’re so nice spoken—and so nice looking—perhaps he might make things a bit easy.”
The next morning after I had had my early tea—at Mrs. de Castro’s it was not tea but excellent Mysore coffee—I tied up the reproachful Kipper in the veranda, and received instructions as to the route from my hostess, who escorted me to the entrance, still wearing a bed jacket and red felt slippers.
“You’ll just go round this corner”—(ours was a corner house)—“up on to the Cubbon Road, past the magazine, and then turn into the Petta Road; walk along that till you come to Government Offices, the D.P.W.—my husband was a clerk in them—go round that corner, and you’ll find yourself on the way that leads to the racecourse—the jail is on your left. The whole distance isn’t more than a mile and a quarter. I expect people will think it strange to see a nice-looking young lady like youtramping about in the dust all by herself; they’ll be wondering who you are, and what’s your business. I’m sure Mrs. Cotton and Mrs. Dicks, my neighbours, will do their dead best to dig it out of me, but I can be as close as a snail. Well, well,” she concluded, “mind you don’t stay out too long in the sun.” And with this adjuration she left me.