CHAPTER XXVIIDARK DAYS

Withouta day’s delay I sent down to Higginbotham’s in Madras and ordered a large supply of books. When these arrived I scribbled in some of them in French, hoping that Ronnie might discover my messages. I implored him to make the best of everything (as I was doing), not to lose heart, but to look forward to better days when we would be always together. I assured him that as soon as permitted I would go to see him, and that I was “keeping up,” and he must do the same. Then I packed up the parcel and dispatched it to the jail by a coolie, with a note to the superintendent reminding him of his promise to allow me to add to the library. I had written as cheerfully as I could, but though I assured Ronnie that I was “keeping up,” I regret to say this was not the truth. In spite of the consolations offered by Kip and Mrs. de Castro, I was abjectly miserable, a wraith of my former self. My face looked small and pinched and my eyes were sore from secret weeping, for always in my mind I saw Ronnie’s expression of absolute despair, and ever in my ears sounded the “chink, chink, chink” of the convicts’ irons.

Such was my depression that Mrs. de Castrowas roused to what were, for her, desperate and expensive remedies. Almost every afternoon she hired a second-class gharry from the bazaar, and carried me out to “eat the air.” Once we drove down to the celebrated Lal Bagh, those beautiful gardens, said to have been laid out by Hyder Ali. I confess that I enjoyed this excursion, although I skulked in out-of-the-way paths, for fear of meeting some of the fashionable European community. Mrs. de Castro understood this attitude; her sympathy was full of insight, and our future drives were in directions where one was not likely to come across any of the gay world from the cantonments. We went expeditions to Cleveland Town and round the Ulsoor Tank, but the cantonment bazaar and shops were a magnet that proved irresistible to my companion. Many a half-hour I would sit in the gharry, whilst she bargained over a couple of yards of calico, a bar of soap, or a tin of biscuits—speaking Tamil as her native tongue.

If she came off best these proceedings afforded her as much pleasure as if she had been to a play or a concert, possibly more. Her haunts were not the modern European emporium, but out-of-the-way streets and alleys near the grain market, and the Arale-Petta—both busy scenes of bartering and traffic.

Occasionally I accompanied her into these places, and whilst she chaffered, what strange discoveries I made, as I poked round in the dim interiors! Sometimes it was piles of ancient “tinned” soups andvegetables, that may have been on the premises for half a century; sometimes it was dusty piles of old books, broken furniture, spotted prints, chairs with the stuffing coming out, the remains of chandeliers (so dear to the Oriental heart), and now and then a really good piece of furniture, such as a Chippendale seat, or a French mirror, covered with dust and cobwebs—possibly wondering whattheywere doing incette galère.

These expeditions were no doubt undertaken for my health and with a view to raising my spirits, but I cannot say that they accomplished their object. Now and then we walked in the Cubbon Park, and every Sunday I accompanied my landlady to church. In the mornings, as I exercised Kipper along the least frequented roads, although I was plainly and even shabbily dressed, I noticed that people stared hard at me. In India, stray and solitary females are exceptional. There one belongs to a family and household, and is bound to have someraison d’êtrefor residing in the country. To meet a strange English girl, whose appearance was unfamiliar, at bandstand or social gatherings, and who had apparently no other companion than a fox-terrier, gave those who encountered me legitimate reason to stare and to wonder.

Many inquiries were made by Mrs. de Castro’s circle. It was evident from her disclosures that they were not entirely satisfied with her tales of my eccentricity and book writing. I promptly realised that the less mystery about me in our household the better. I had no objection to associating with Mrs.de Castro’s neighbours and set, and made it my business of an afternoon to come into the veranda and help to make coffee and conversation, and to hand about “hoppers” and rock cakes. After all, it was the least I could do in acknowledgment of my hostess’s well-meant kindnesses, such as the drives to the bazaar, and the packets of peppermint, the little bunches of monthly roses and oleanders with which she endowed me. I could not take an active part in discussing bazaar prices, nor enjoy succulent particulars of the whims and shortcomings of other ladies and their families in Infantry Lines and St. John’s Hill. It was a matter of indifference to me, nor was I in the least excited to learn that “Mrs. Captain Watson had had five ayahs in a fortnight,” but on the subject of dress my foot was more or less upon my native heath, and I was in a position to offer Mrs. Sergeant Mullins and Mrs. Conductor Cooper some really useful information; I was also prepared to lend them a pattern blouse and “the new skirt.” By this generosity I captured their hearts!

“You’re not very dressy, and you don’t go out much yourself,” remarked Mrs. Batt, the wife of a retired sapper—a nice-looking elderly woman, with sharp grey eyes and an assertive manner—to me, one of the most formidable of the company.

“No,” I replied, returning her challenge, and looking her straight in the face; “Mrs. de Castro may possibly have told you that I have come to Bangalore for complete quiet and retirement. I know no one here, which under the circumstancesis the greatest advantage. I have lately experienced an overwhelming sorrow.”

Mrs. Batt coolly inspected me up and down; no, I was not wearing mourning.

“And,” I continued, “I am not disposed to return to England—at present.”

I believe this statement satisfied the company. With one consent they very naturally attributed my melancholy and reserve to a love affair that had gone wrong, which idea after all had a substantial basis—my love affairhadgone wrong—but, unfortunately, that was only a part of my trouble. It is an undeniable fact that all womenkind are interested in affairs of the heart, and my new acquaintances accorded me their unspoken sympathy. For this I had no doubt to thank their natural kind-heartedness, but perhaps my generosity in the matter of advice and patterns may have had a little weight. In future, however, Mrs. de Castro was no longer submitted to the “question torture.” I was received as an acknowledged member of her set, and she was left in peace. I made myself as useful to my landlady as possible; read her theBangalore Heraldfrom end to end, wrote her notes, played draughts and trimmed her Sunday toque. Considering our respective ages, education and station, we really got on together amazingly well. She had been most loyal to me. I can never forget how once, when Mrs. Cotton touched upon my tragedy, and began: “Theydosay there’s an English officer in the jail—such a handsome fellow too——” she cleverly turnedthe subject with a fresh and startling scandal. I had impressed upon her that if any of the military people—who of course were aware of my brother’s fate—came to dream of my presence in Bangalore I would depart within the hour. I was quite sure, I added, that if theydidknow they would be only too kind to me, but their kindness, however well meant, I should not yet be able to endure. My wound was still so raw that I shrank from even a touch of sympathy.

Thedâk-wallah’sarrival with his big brown wallet invariably excited my interest. From time to time he brought me letters from Mrs. Lakin. On one occasion her dispatch was so heavy as to require five annas postage, as it enclosed others. One was from Captain Hayes-Billington, to tell me that his wife had passed away. It was apparently written in great distress, the thin cheap paper blistered with tears:

“She asked me to be sure and letyouknow; Dulcie was always fond of you. Ever since she came down here she has been failing, and by degrees just faded away out of life. She was glad to go—butIam heart-broken.”

Mrs. Lakin, who was my constant correspondent, announced in her letter that they were leaving Secunderabad immediately:

“My dear, such an uprooting after thirty years in India! I cannot bear to think of how our poor household gods will be scattered. Some, such as theDeschamps furniture, I intend to take home; some I shall send to the girls. One of them will give the old chestnut horse a stall and a feed. I have endowed my ayah and butler with a cow apiece, and distributed my poultry among the women in the lines—but what am I to do about your letters? I enclose two. How are your correspondents to find you? Here it is generally believed that you have returned to London; even Mrs. Soames is off the scent. She intends when the regiment does go home to look up your relatives and discover your whereabouts.”

Mrs. de Castro was always gratified when I had a letter from “Miss Lucy,” as she still called her. The letter invariably contained kind messages to “Jane.”

“It seems only the other day since she came out to India,” she remarked (when I told her the news), “and now she’s going home for good. I remember her, such a slim young lady with lovely blue eyes and curly hair. It was not long before Mr. Lakin fell in love with her. He was only a lieutenant in a Madras Native Infantry regiment, but in spite of all her father and mother could say (and they said alot) she would have him; and they took a little bungalow at thirty rupees a month at St. John’s Hill. Well, the match didn’t turn out so badly after all. Colonel Lakin will have a good pension, and after their long spell out here they’ll enjoy themselves in England.”

Before Mrs. Lakin returned to “enjoy herself in England” she enclosed me another letter, which was from Brian. It said:

“My darling Eva,—You are making me miserable. I cannot understand why you do not write to me, and I have no idea where you are, so send this to care of your good friend Mrs. Lakin. Probably you are hiding in some little hill station, for the hot weather will by this time be upon you. But why hide fromme? Why not trust me as I trust you? I had an anonymous epistle from Secunderabad recently, announcing that you had been seen driving all over the place in Balthasar’s motor, and that it was well known that you had actually left the place in his company. I need not tell you that I didn’t believe one word of this. I put the poisonous letter in the fire and would have liked to do the same with the writer! You will probably have seen the announcement of my father’s death in the papers; he passed away a fortnight ago; to the last we had hopes. My mother is completely broken down, and I have no end of family matters to get through. Only for my mother’s health, and most urgent business, I would go out to India in the place of this letter. Last week I motored over to Torrington, thinking that I might glean news of you, but I was astonished to find that you were as much in their black books as your brother. I wonder what you have been doing, Eva? I asked the question point blank, but as our engagement has never been given out, they evidently thought me guilty of unpardonable cheek, and implied that their family affairs were no business of mine—they let me see it too! They are taking the court martial, etc.,terribly to heart, and are going abroad for six months with the idea of living the whole thing down. If they didn’t make so much of it themselves, other people would soon let it drop. I hear from Secunderabad from time to time; the general impression there seems to be that you are in England. I am told that the Lakins are coming home, so that I can no longer write to you to their address. Surely you will answerthis!“Your, as always, devoted and faithful“Brian.”

“Your, as always, devoted and faithful“Brian.”

I was much surprised one afternoon to see a carriage and pair drive under our porch—Mrs. de Castro’s visitors came in gharries or on foot. She rushed to me with a scared face, waving a visiting card in her hand.

“It’s Mrs. Hodson, the wife of the superintendent of the jail; she’s asking to see you!”

All sorts of dreadful visions passed through my mind. Could Ronnie be dead, and had she come to break the news?

“Show her into my little room,” I said—one of the bare apartments I had fixed up with a writing-table, a few cheap chairs and a couple of rugs. Here I sat, read, and worked—nothing would induce me to frequent the dismal drawing-room.

Presently Mrs. Hodson was ushered in; a plain pale woman, with a long thoughtful face and a pleasant smile.

“I hope you won’t think that I have taken aliberty,” she said, “but my husband thought that perhaps you might like to make my acquaintance.”

“It is most kind of you,” I murmured; “won’t you sit down?”

“You do not know anyone here, nor wish to know them, I understand, but still perhaps you will make an exception of me. You might like to come up and sit in our lovely garden and feel that you are near him, and that we are always ready to befriend you both.”

“You areverykind,” I repeated. “Can you tell me how he is?”

“Yes, he is more resigned. Since he has had your message and those books you sent to the library he seems more cheerful, and is no longer losing weight. As he is steady they have made him a convict warder, so now the rules are relaxed. You will be able to see him to-morrow afternoon, and I will send the carriage for you.”

I was so overpowered by this unexpected news that for a moment I could not speak.

“There was a fortnight yet,” I stammered at last.

“That is true, but a convict warder has privileges, and sees his friends oftener than once in three months. You look so white and sad, I wonder if you would care to come for a drive with me? Yes, and we will take your dog, and go up past the racecourse along the Nundy Droog Road, where you will get plenty of air, and scarcely meet a soul.”

“I should like it immensely,” I said, springing up, “and I’ll fetch my hat.”

As I left the room, I nearly collided with Mrs. de Castro, who was bearing in with her own hands a tray of cakes and coffee. There was no avoiding this refreshment, and I could see that she was extremely proud of entertaining the wife of the jail superintendent in her own house.

I enjoyed that drive more than anything for a very long time. The fresh air and the swift motion revived me. How different from rumbling along in a gharry with my landlady, who preferred excursions into the bazaar, or down St. John’s Hill, and had no taste whatever for the open country! We passed cheery parties of riders coming from the racecourse; among them I recognised a man I had seen at Silliram, and hastily turned away my face. Mrs. Hodson was not a steady talker like Mrs. Soames, or my former self, but she opened her mind to me and took me into her confidence.

“In one way you and I are both in the same boat,” she said. “You shrink from society because of your brother’s trouble—society shrinks from me because I, an Englishwoman, and well born, have married a Eurasian or Anglo-Indian, as they are now called. I have never, never regretted the step, excepting that it cuts me off from women of my own class. They will talk to me, and even come to my house, and admire my garden, but between us all the time a great gulf is fixed. I was a governess out here; my health broke down, and I was almost penniless when Richard Hodson came to my rescue—or rather his sister did. Ultimately we weremarried, and in my way I am happy. If I had one or two real women friends I’d have nothing left to wish for. At first the jail and the convicts depressed me. The ‘chink, chink, chink’ of the irons moving to and fro about the garden got on my nerves, but now I do not seem to hear them! To-morrow you must come and see my garden. I wanted so much to have your brother to work in it; it’s healthier and more interesting than making gunny bags, but when my husband spoke to him he said that nothing would induce him to show himself out of doors.”

The next afternoon Mrs. Hodson’s pretty victoria arrived to carry me to the jail. My heart was thumping hard as we drove along, and when I got out and was received by the superintendent I was trembling so much that I could scarcely walk. However, I managed to crawl to the room where prisoners received their friends and there I found Ronnie awaiting me.

At first he bore up wonderfully, but for my part I was so overcome that I could only weep and murmur, “Ronnie! Ronnie!” At last he too broke down. The spectacle of a man crying is inexpressibly tragic. I thrust my own miseries aside and did my utmost to console him. I felt something like a nurse comforting a child that has hurt itself. “What was the use of anything?” he murmured, why look forward? He was branded for life; wherever he went the horror would follow; no nice girl would ever marryhim! After a time, when wewere more collected, he said in his old peremptory style:

“Now you know, Eva, it’s all wrong your being out here. I won’t allow you to sacrifice yourself for me. You really must and shall go home.”

“But I can’t go home,” I replied, “I’ve cut myself adrift from Torrington. They said if I remained in India they would drop me altogether, so you see I’ve burned my boats! Even if I were to humble myself, they would never, never receive me.”

“Falkland will receive you,” declared my brother, “you have not sent him one of your fiery letters?”

“I have never sent him any letter at all.”

“How’s that? You have done one mad thing in pitching your tent at Bangalore, although I know it has been for my sake. You will be still madder if you break off with Falkland, who honestly is a rattling good fellow. If only I’d taken his hints and pulled up a bit I wouldn’t be here now, a disgrace to myself and to you.”

“Never mind me,” I protested, “but tell me how you are getting on?”

“How can I get on until I get out?” he replied with a touch of his former manner. “I still have to serve one year eight months and two days. I must say the superintendent is a white man, although his colourisa bit dusky. He keeps me as much apart from the rabble as he can, and now I’ve promotion I am a sort of official myself. When I first came here, Sis, if I’d seen any means of committing suicide I’d have taken my own life. I was sohopelessly, abjectly miserable; the more I thought, the worse I felt; but do you know, one day, when I was in the very deepest depths of black despair in the labour yard, I distinctly heard your voice calling me, and that gave me a wonderful ‘buck up,’ and reminded me that I wasn’t altogether alone in the world.”

I debated in my own mind whether I would tell him that he had really heard me or not, and I decided against it. Somehow I instinctively felt that he would hate to know that I had witnessed him doing hard labour in company with thieves and murderers.

“Did you find my little notes in the books?” I asked. “Writing in that way was, I know, deceitful, but I hoped you would come across some of my scribbling.”

“Yes, I did, rather—and that cheered me no end. Knowing that you were in the station, and that I would see you, raised me out of the Slough of Despond.”

“There,” I exclaimed, “so Iwasright to come after all!”

“Do you know anybody in the station?” he inquired.

“No, not a soul! I lie low all the time. I associate with Mrs. de Castro’s friends—sergeants’ wives and the wives of telegraph clerks, and so on.”

“Mrs. de Castro’s friends!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, and I like them,” I said, “they know that I have some trouble and are most truly kind andsympathetic. It’s a very good thing to see another side of life.”

“By Jove, Eva, you have seen a good many sides of life, what with Beke, the old professor, and Mrs. Hayes-Billington, and nowmycrash—your experience has been extraordinarily varied.”

“I said that I know nobody here, and no one knows me, but the other Sunday in church I thought I caught a glimpse of Sally Payne. I don’t think she recognised me, and I sneaked out before the sermon. Shehasbeen here, because in reading theBangalore HeraldI saw among the list of guests at the West End Hotel, ‘Miss Payne and maid.’ I was always fond of Sally,” I added, “and I think she liked me. Do you remember we arrived in Secunderabad on the very same day?”

“I wish she could take you out of Bangalore,” said Ronnie. “Because my life is spoiled there is no reason that yours should be. You have helped me over the first bad bit, and I shall rub along all right now. If I have any luck I might get something taken off my sentence. The superintendent talked about putting me in the office to do the jail accounts, but I’d rather have my present job. I’m more independent, and I’d hate having to sit and write all day long.”

“Are they troublesome, your ward?” I asked.

“No, not with me. You see, I understand order and discipline from being in the Service. I stand no nonsense, and soon wheel them into line, but theyarea rough lot. Some such powerful murderous-looking brutes.”

I was telling Ronnie about the superintendent’s wife, how she had taken me out to drive, and invited me to sit in her garden as often as I liked, when a warder entered, salaamed, and said:

“Sorry, Miss Sahib—the time is up.”

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