CHAPTER IX
A soft, balmy air brushed the blossoms of the eucharis lilies, and swept over the delicate green maidenhair fern growing under the shade of the verandah of the Principal's house. Out in the broad sunshine the blue ipomea, the morning glory of the Indian garden, opened its mass of azure blooms and spread a gorgeous mantle over the bamboo trellis that supported it.
The plump rounded figure of Mrs. Hulver, Dr. Wenaston's housekeeper, appeared on the raised verandah, followed by the butler. She was a widow and had been married three times, a fact that no one of her acquaintance was permitted to forget.
Her father was a British soldier of Scotch birth; and her mother a Eurasian. In her youth Maria had some pretensions to good looks. It was the prettiness of youth so often seen where the blood of the east and the west is mixed. Her small regular features and olive complexion could make no claim to beauty in her mature middle age, when her figure had lost its delicate proportions and gained in amplitude. The eyes alone were unaltered. She had her Scotch father's grey eyes with his keen glance. Nothing escaped them, as the servants knew by experience; and when they failed to elucidate a domestic mystery her inherited shrewdness came to her assistance.
At the age of sixteen a marriage was made for her by her mother, who chose a prosperous and not over-scrupulous overseer in the Public Works Department named William Delaine. He was more than double the age of his bride; and had lived long enough to put together a nice little property in houses and land. There were no children, and when he died ten years later he left everything to his widow.
Her second marriage was to an Englishman, whose regiment was stationed at Bangalore. Corporal William Smith was a reserved man of a thoroughly British temperament, endowed with a rugged honesty that despised any sort of evasion of the truth in speech or action. Uncompromisingly straightforward he did much to carry on the early training of Maria's mind begun by her father. She was very happy with William Smith in a placid way, and bore him a son who was educated in the barrack-school and in due time drafted into the drummer-boy corps attached to the regiment. Later the boy enlisted and followed in the footsteps of his father. William Smith was about to take his pension and return to England when he was struck down with malarial fever; and for the second time in her life Maria became a widow.
Her third husband was an Irish soldier who had been pensioned and elected to remain in the country. He also bore the name of William. Being of a good-natured domesticated disposition, Hulver cast his eyes round the large domiciled European and Eurasian community in Bangalore for a suitable wife. Mrs. William Smith seemed in every way the woman to fill the position. She was of the right age, unencumbered by children except for the one son who was provided for. In addition she owned a nice little property which, with his pension, would make life easy and comfortable.
A little hitch at one time seemed likely to upset his plans. It was a matter of religion. Hulver was a Roman Catholic. Maria belonged to the English Church. He made an effort to bring her over to his side, but she stood firm; and sooner than lose so desirable a partner he joined her Church. They were very happy, but unfortunately he did not live long, and for the third time she was widowed. After his death she found life very dull. She determined to take a situation as housekeeper and advertised in one of the big Indian daily newspapers.
Eola Wenaston, who came out with her brother on his appointment as Principal of the College of Chirapore, saw the advertisement and engaged her. The arrangement proved highly satisfactory to both. During Dr. and Miss Wenaston's six months' holiday in England Mrs. Hulver occupied one of her own houses at Bangalore. The enforced idleness was not at all to her mind, and she welcomed their return with unmixed joy.
In her holiday she replenished her wardrobe by the aid of a tailor. The new muslins and white drill frocks were cut exactly on the old pattern—a skirt that gave plenty of room and spread like a bell over her feet; a bodice that showed no fashionable bulge in sleeve or shoulder but confined her figure decently and comfortably. White linen collar and cuffs and neatly fastened waistband completed her daily costume. On Sunday Mrs. Hulver was another person. Her silks "stood alone," as she herself expressed it; and the flowers of her bonnet would have covered half a market stall had they been real.
Mrs. Hulver stood on the top step under the large portico, her clean white skirt extended with starch, her hands folded and a severe expression on her face. Ramachetty, the butler, a middle-aged under-sized native with an apologetic manner, fidgeted behind her in evident discomfort. She addressed him in English over her shoulder. The native tongue was perfectly familiar; it had been her own in her mother's house; but she chose English as being more in keeping with her dignity as a housekeeper and it assisted to maintain her character as an Englishwoman, which she was not.
"Call the gardener," she said, with a clear enunciation and very little Eurasian accent. From her father and two of her husbands she had picked up a curious mixture of expressions.
Probably the summons was expected; for the gardener appeared from behind the bungalow with the abruptness of a jack-in-the-box.
"Tell him to bring the pots of roses here."
Out came a fat forefinger that pointed to the spot and remained pointing. Ignoring the fact that the gardener understood English the butler translated the order into the language of the country. The man hurried away, and by the aid of an assistant brought twelve large pots of roses. They were solemnly placed in a row under the portico on the spot to which the finger pointed. Seven of the plants bore double pink blossoms. The remaining five had crimson flowers of the kind known as the China rose, a stock upon which the Indian gardener buds the better class of plant. There was an ominous silence during which Mrs. Hulver looked from the roses to the gardener and back again at the roses. Then she spoke.
"Two years ago our missie bought twelve pinkFranceroses with a sweet smell. How is it that five of them have turned red and lost their smell."
The gardener chattered fast in his own tongue. He explained that during the absence in England of the master and the missie there had been strange kind of weather. The weather had poisoned the flowers and made them turn colour and lose their scent. This preposterous statement was too much for Mrs. Hulver's dignified patience. She abandoned her high-class English and let herself go in the native tongue.
How dared he tell her such a tale! Whoever heard of the weather changing the colour of flowers? Was it the rain or the sun? It was neither; the mischief was done in the night, stoutly maintained the gardener. Then, as she kept an incredulous silence, he asked querulously, if it was any stranger than that carriages should run along the road without horses, and messages be sent without messengers. Were the English to be the only wonder-workers? Could not the gods of India——? She cut him short. While he chattered she had framed her line of conduct.
"There is no wonder about the business except that the master keeps such a budmash on the premises. If the plants had been properly watered and tended in the master's absence, the weather would not have affected them. It is only neglected plants that are affected by bad weather." She paused to allow her grey eye to rest upon him; and he shifted uneasily from one foot to the other under her scrutiny. "Do you hear, gardener? They must be nursed back to their proper condition. There will be a fine of one rupee for each pot. As soon as they recover, the fine will be returned; but until the twelve roses bear proper double pink flowers with full, good smell the money will be stopped out of your pay. Each pay-day before giving the wages I shall come and look at the roses."
The fat finger was withdrawn. Mrs. Hulver turned slowly round and sailed back into the bungalow.
"What were you scolding the gardener for?" asked Eola, after she left the breakfast-room and sought the house-keeper to consult with her on the day's menu.
"I had to talk to him, miss. He has been misbehaving himself while I have been away. Five of thoseFranceroses that you are so fond of are missing, and China plants put in their places."
"My beautifulLa Franceroses gone!" cried Eola, with regret. "I suppose he let them die by neglecting to water and has put others in the pots thinking we should not discover the loss."
"Not he! the spalpeen! He has changed them—sold the good ones and stolen some common plants to fill up with."
"What did he say for himself when you accused him of it?"
"That's just what I didn't do miss; I took care not to make any accusation. As William—that was my second—used to say, 'Think all you like but keep your thoughts to yourself if you want to get even with a bad man.' I kept my thoughts to myself; and when the gardener had the impudence to tell me that the weather had turned the roses from pink to red, I said that if he didn't nurse them back to their right colour you would fine him. They will all return," she continued confidently; "You will have your dozen favourites in a few weeks' time."
Eola was accustomed to Mrs. Hulver's methods of ruling the establishment, and knew better than to interfere, although she did not approve of mulcting her servants of their pay.
"Supposing he has sold them; what will you do then?"
"He'll steal them back or buy them back for a small sum. Trust him for finding out a way to save himself from a big fine such as we shall insist on! As William—that was my first—used to say (he was country-born and knew the native): 'Give them a chance of straightening things, and they'll do it as soon as they know that you've found them out; and they will respect you all the more for obliging them to be honest.'"
"If the gardener is dishonest perhaps it would be better to dismiss him and get another."
"Gardeners in these parts go with the houses; and like husbands you've got to put up with them. Besides, it is my experience that you may change and change, whether it's a servant or a husband, and find yourself no better off and no worse off in the end, provided you don't have extraordinary bad luck. They're as like in their separate ways, both servants and husbands, as the cocoanut trees. The only difference you can see in the cocoanut trees is the way they stand. One will lean to one side and another to the other side, and no two will lean just alike. As William—that was my third—(he was born in Ireland) used to say: 'Maria, me dear! God made us men as we are; and if it weren't for the trials that we bring ye, ye'd just grow yer wings and fly away; and then, bedad! where should we poor men be widout ye?' He had a nice pleasant way with him, but it was balanced by his fondness for drink; forthatwas the way he leaned."
Eola brought the conversation back to the business of the morning and began to discuss the lunch and dinner. Ramachetty and the cook were called, and the orders for the day given. She sat down at her writing table and entered the daily marketing account in the book kept for that purpose. The butler stood at her elbow on the right and Mrs. Hulver took up her position on the left. There was never any deviation from this little domestic ritual.
The butler proceeded with his list of purchases; firewood, ghee, soup-meat, mutton, potatoes, fish, eggs, naming the price of each. Once Mrs. Hulver coughed, and he corrected himself, taking off half an anna. At another item she moved from one foot to the other, but remained silent. He paused, and as the warning note of the cough was not sounded, he passed on to the next entry, letting the overcharge, which was very small, stand.
"Carrots, two annas," he continued.
"Carrots!" ejaculated Mrs. Hulver sharply.
"Carrots, two annas," repeated the butler, sticking manfully to his story.
"Fetch them!"
The cook who was waiting behind the butler ran off to the kitchen and returned with four limp dry roots which he exhibited with many misgivings.
"Six-day-old carrots," commented Mrs. Hulver, with fine scorn. "They were entered in the account last Friday. Cross off 'carrots, two annas,' please, miss."
The butler accepted the correction without another word, and proceeded to the end of his list. Eola would willingly have dispensed with some of the details, but Mrs. Hulver was inexorable.
"It must be done, miss," she had said in reply. "As long as you can hold a pen you must take down the daily account. If by any chance you were ill then I should be obliged to do it; but Ramachetty and I shall remain better friends if I have nothing to do with the bookkeeping."
"You have something to do with it, Mrs. Hulver. You check his attempts at cheating."
"I keep them down to reasonable proportions. As William—that was my second (he was a very straight-minded man)—used to say: 'Keep others honest and they'll keep you up to the mark.'"
When the accounts were finished and the butler and cook dismissed, Eola turned to her housekeeper.
"Mrs. Hulver!" she said.
"Yes, miss."
There was a slight pause, during which Eola turned back again to the writing-table. The pen was still in her hand and wet with ink. In absence of mind she dotted the margin of the account book, her thoughts far away.
"Yes, miss," repeated Mrs. Hulver, whose grey eyes searched Eola's face.
"Ah! yes! What was I going to say? Oh! I know. I wanted to tell you that we have a visitor coming."
Mrs. Hulver was not so easily deceived. Miss Wenaston had not forgotten the subject of her communication, and the news she was about to impart was no news to her housekeeper.
"Who is it?" asked Mrs. Hulver, innocently.
"Dr. Wenaston has invited Mr. Alderbury to come and stay here a few days. He has business in Chirapore. Will you see to the spare room. I brought out new curtains and chintz to re-cover the sofa and chairs. Set the dirzee to work at once."
"It shall be begun this very day. I was only thinking about it yesterday afternoon when I came in from the town. It's more than a month since you came back, miss; and those curtains have been lying by ever since you unpacked them. As William—that was my first—used to say (he was a great man for show, being a Eurasian and a good deal darker than me): 'When you've got fine feathers, don't hide them.' What brought the spare room to my mind was Mr. Alderbury's name. I heard that it would be likely that he would be coming to Chirapore before long."
"Did you?" asked Eola, looking round at her housekeeper in surprise. "I suppose you heard it in the bazaar. I don't know how these things get about, but in this country nothing is sacred from bazaar gossip. What do they say?"
"The business of the Reverend Mr. Alderbury is connected with Ananda, the son of Pantulu Iyer, a rich native of this town. Perhaps you know the story. If so, I'd better be going as there is lots to be done this morning, and the dirzee is never in the way when he is wanted."
Mrs. Hulver spoke with an injured tone and a misjudged expression on her smooth round olive face. She was an inveterate gossip, and her visits to the shops and market were prompted as much by curiosity to hear the news as to verify the butler's charges. Nothing hurt her more than to imply a knowledge of this weakness.
She had a little sitting-room that opened into the back verandah. The door was seldom shut in the daytime. From a point of vantage in the doorway she superintended the tailor, and kept an eye on all that went on in the back verandah. She made as though she would seek her room with as little delay as possible. Eola, repentant that she had hurt her feelings by remarks about the bazaar gossip, softened in her manner and begged to hear the news.
"Do tell me, Mrs. Hulver, what they say. I have not heard anything except that Mr. Alderbury is coming by the Doctor's invitation. My brother only spoke of his visit this morning when he received Mr. Alderbury's reply to the invitation. The Principal was late in getting home from his ride, and had to hurry over breakfast to be in College in time."
The housekeeper was mollified and the dirzee forgotten in her eagerness to relate the news that was already thrilling the town.
"The story goes in the bazaar that Pantulu's son has turned Christian, and the whole family is in a great taking about it. They don't know what to do."
"Is that all? There is nothing much in that. Of course it is a good thing when a native becomes a Christian; but in these days it is not a matter to make a fuss about."
Mrs. Hulver regarded her seriously. She had expected to create something of a sensation by the announcement, but Eola took it as a trifle hardly worth mention.
"Begging your pardon, miss, there is a great deal in it to create a fuss; and what is more the whole town is working itself up into a ferment over it. They say that they have never had a caste man go Christian before. The Christians have always been pariahs and they have no caste to matter. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'Change your clothes; change your food; change your house if you like; but to change your religion is the very divil;' and he knew; for he'd been a Roman Catholic and he turned Protestant to marry me."
"How did you manage to persuade him?" asked Eola, her mind once more adrift.
Mrs. Hulver was always ready to talk incidentally of her late spouses. At the same time she never lost sight of the subject that caused the digression.
"He wanted me to change my religion; but I was firm. I told him that if he couldn't take me as I was he might go without me. I could get on without him. Besides it was only right that he should be the one to change, being the gentleman; it is the gentleman that ought to give way to the lady all the world over."
"And he fell in with your suggestion?"
"It was the bit of property that did it, though he didn't admit it," replied Mrs. Hulver confidently, the shrewdness of her Scotch ancestry peeping out. "He was drawn to me by two strings, myself for one, and my little fortune for the other. As William—that was my first, him that left me the property—used to say: 'It's money that gives you the pull when the balance is even.' But as I was telling you; this son of Pantulu Iyer has gone and changed his religion and stirred up a bees' nest of buzzing in the town."
"Was it Mr. Alderbury's doing?"
"No; he had nothing to say in the matter; it was all done without his knowledge. Pantulu sent his son to England to finish his education; and while he was there, so the tale goes, he saw a very bad accident. One of these elevators, these flying men," she explained, as she noted a puzzled expression on Eola's face, "fell at his very feet and struck down his friend, a native gentleman who was walking with him." Already the story had gathered fiction in its passage from mouth to mouth. "The elevator was killed on the spot; but the friend had time to make a last request, and it was that Ananda should become a Christian. He never said a word to his people, but got it done on the quiet and registered and everything. It gave his father a terrible shock; it nearly killed the poor old gentleman when his son came back and told him what had happened. He is a very rich man and would give a crore of rupees to have the mischief undone. But as William—that was my second—used to say: 'Mind your doing, because as a rule there's no undoing.' In this case there can't be any undoing. Once a Christian always a Christian, unless you want to burn."
"I remember Ananda and his friends in London," said Eola, "I was at that very meeting and saw the man fall. Coomara was not killed by the aviator, but in a railway accident as he was returning to town."
"Anyway he was killed," replied Mrs. Hulver. "His death affected his friend and made him feel so bad that he turned Christian. The poor young man is having a very rough time with his people. They are determined to knock the Christianity out of him; and it will be a pretty stiff fight if he has any spirit. It is said in the bazaar that Mr. Alderbury is coming in from the district to see if he can smooth matters down a bit. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'Let's have peace if it's possible; but if it must be war, let's fight to the finish! and make it a good one!'"
"He didn't practice what he preached; he gave in," remarked Eola, unable to resist poking fun at her devoted housekeeper.
Mrs. Hulver smiled broadly, and was quite ready with her answer.
"You see, miss, there was the lady in the case, meaning me, I can't deny but what William, my third, found the change of religion troublesome. It meant new habits and a new grip of the thing. He was never satisfied, and always had the feeling that he had played the turncoat. The trouble was at Christmas time when his weakness overtook him. His leaning was towards whisky, being an Irishman. It was expensive whilst it lasted. As William—that was my second—used to say (he was a teetotaller): 'One vice will cost more than twenty virtues.' In his old religion my third used to go to his priest when the fit was over, and get square with himself by a proper penance; but when he changed he didn't quite know where he was with himself."
"You should have made him give it up altogether," suggested Eola.
"It was born and bred in him, and he couldn't have given it up to save his life. As William—that was my first—used to say when I complained of his Eurasian ways: 'You mustn't expect a wild goose to lay a tame egg.' William my third could no more help being weak at Christmas than a child can help over-eating itself."
"Didn't it worry you to have him break out?"
"No, I don't know that it did," replied Mrs. Hulver, placidly. "It had its advantage. As William—that was my first—used to say when he and his contractor settled their accounts: 'Everything has its advantage if you know where to look for it.'"
"What advantage could your husband's bout of drinking have for you?" asked Eola, glancing at her in mild wonder.
"It gave me my chance of speaking. When he recovered and could listen to reason, even though his poor head ached badly, I had the opportunity of letting him have a bit of my mind, and of telling him some home truths I never could have put before him at any other time. Now with William, my second, it was different. He was always ready to come up to attention at a moment's notice. Stiff and straight, he lived by rule; and the whole time I was with him I never once got the chance of emptying my mind." Her voice had a distinct ring of regret in it as she made the confession. "I tried it two or three times; but the moment I began he rose from his chair and drew himself up haughty and proud, just like his colonel when the men came to the orderly room with their complaints. He heard what I had to say in a dead silence, that sort of cooled you down, and all he replied was: 'I'll look into the matter, Maria, and see what can be done;' and there it ended. With William, my third, it was a real pleasure to rate him. He was such a gentleman in his repentance and his apologies. But as I was telling you, miss, about this poor young man, Pantulu Iyer's son. I can sympathise with him in his change of religion as I sympathised with William, my third. It will take some time before he will get even with himself in his new faith."
"The cases are not on all fours, Mrs. Hulver."
"No; they are at sixes and sevens if all I hear is true. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'Keep things straight and you'll be master; but let them get at sixes and sevens and they will master you.' He made a great study of his fellowmen and was full of wise sayings. I felt very lonely when he died."
"What did he die of?"
"Microscopes; the doctor said he swallowed some when he was out route" (she called it rowte) "marching. They were in the water that he drank by the roadside. They gave him fever which carried him off in three weeks, and left me a widow for the second time."
CHAPTER X
There was one subject alone on which Miss Wenaston and her housekeeper disagreed. It had nothing to do with the management of the house. It was marriage.
Mrs. Hulver having entered the bonds of matrimony three times considered that she was entitled to speak with authority on the condition of wifehood and widowhood.
Eola Wenaston was twenty-seven years of age and unmarried. When Mrs. Hulver had reached that number of years she had been a wife for a decade, and had entered upon her first period of widowhood. Although a British father had done much to form her character, her Eurasian mother had instilled certain opinions to which she firmly adhered. One fixed belief, as strong as any article of her faith, was that every woman ought to be married. It was the duty of relatives and guardians to forward that end; it was even still more the duty of the woman herself to attract and secure the best husband available without immodesty.
Miss Wenaston she found sadly wanting in self-help. Dr. Wenaston, her brother, was a very busy and sometimes overworked man. He did his best in Mrs. Hulver's opinion when he invited men to his house. His efforts, conscious or unconscious—Mrs. Hulver was not sure which—were not supported as they should have been by his sister. She made no attempt to attract in dress or manner. She was content to wear the same dinner-dress that served when she and her brother were alone; and she did not hesitate to allow Dr. Wenaston to absorb all the conversation if he chose, remaining silent through the dinner and perhaps through the whole evening as well. This was altogether a mistake, as Mrs. Hulver tried in vain to point out more than once. Eola listened in perfect good nature, but her replies were not encouraging, and the housekeeper was vaguely conscious that she was being kept in her place. She persevered however, and never lost an opportunity of putting in a word as far as she dared; but she always felt that there was a barrier that she might not pass.
A certain Major Ellingham appeared at Chirapore on his way to a shooting expedition in the Western Ghats. He was entertained by Dr. Wenaston for a week while the camping preparations were made. Mrs. Hulver devoted her attention to the catering; and with the assistance of Ramachetty and the cook sent in such meals as elicited the guest's warm approval. In the evening as she sat in her wicker-chair by the open door of her sitting-room, she smiled as she heard the strains of the piano, and Ellingham's fine baritone in "Love's old sweet song," or some such melody.
Nothing came of it, however; and the guest departed as heart-whole as he left Eola herself. Mrs. Hulver's even temperament was ruffled by a wave of annoyance as she thought of the enhanced bazaar account and all the trouble she had been put to in devising dainty cooking. One morning she ventured to suggest to Miss Wenaston that Major Ellingham would make a good husband. Eola agreed readily enough.
"Probably he will pick up some nice girl by and by, when his head is less full of shooting big game," she said indifferently.
"He is not the man to care for a young girl, miss. I take it from his appearance and general bearing that when he makes his choice, it will fall on a lady with some experience of the world, like yourself and about your own age."
Eola laughed outright and Mrs. Hulver was hurt. A joke she could understand, but ridicule was like a red hot iron, and she shrank into herself. Eola saw that her mirth gave offence, and she hastened to soothe and make amends.
"You need have no fear, Mrs. Hulver. He doesn't take my fancy, nor do I take his; so there is no likelihood of your losing me."
"It's not that, miss, which troubles me," the housekeeper explained. "Gladly would I see you go as I went myself to the arms of a husband. It's the proper place for every right-minded woman. As William——"
Eola interrupted her with another laugh that she found impossible to repress.
"You and I don't agree on the subject of marriage and never shall. I am single and you were very much married——"
Mrs. Hulver bridled and broke in upon her speech with some indignation.
"Indeed, miss! I was no more married than I ought to have been. To have been less married with my three husbands wouldn't have been respectable. And I am sure it has helped me along; I should have been a poor thing without it. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'Humble wedlock is better than proud singleness. Marriage is like a good pair of boots to a woman. It will carry her through fair weather and foul. If the boots wear out before their time the best thing to do is to get another pair.' He talked like that when I was hesitating about taking him. It was not the man himself that made me doubt but the way he leaned. It was all towards truth and honesty."
"You are truthful and honest, Mrs. Hulver," protested Eola. "Don't say you are not or you won't be doing yourself justice."
"I have always shrunk from lies and thieving," admitted Mrs. Hulver. "I never could stoop to low conduct of any kind. But there is truth and truth. As William—that was my third—used to say when I gave him a talking to: 'Lay it on mild, me dear. Truth is like a mustard plaster. It may be very good for the patient but you've got to be careful how you apply it or you may hurt your best friend more than a little.' What troubled me was whether I could live up to the standard of my second."
"You might have been happier if you had not married him," said Eola, with a twinkle in her eye, as she controlled her lips.
"I couldn't have been happy alone with nothing to live up to and no one to tend. I chanced it and found it quite easy. All I had to be careful about was to prevent anything from coming to his knowledge that was not up to his mark. I soon got used to keeping things smooth; and there was never a married man happier than my second."
The thought of her success as William the second's wife restored her tranquillity of mind, and she left Eola to go about her duties in her usual contented frame of mind.
An Assistant Resident was the next person who all unconsciously fluttered Mrs. Hulver's hopes, raising them with regard to Eola only to dash them to the ground again. It so happened that a man came to act for six months whilst the permanent Assistant Resident was away on leave. He was unmarried, musical, and a great reader. Inclination and compatability of tastes often brought him to the college either to discuss new writers with Dr. Wenaston, or to try over new music with Eola.
Once more Mrs. Hulver concentrated her attention and energy on culinary matters. She had not been the chosen partner of three husbands without discovering how great a factor the food question is in the life of a man. She was able to quote from the sayings of all three on the subject. The Assistant Resident ate such dinners at the college house as he never forgot; but the way to his heart in his case was not through the stomach. Over the music and books he made a certain amount of progress; and had he seen any response to encourage him, he might have fallen into the belief that Eola was the one desirable woman in the world for him; but there was no such encouragement. At the end of six months he went away; and it was Mrs. Hulver's heart, not Eola's, that sank in despair.
"Mr. Fressenden will miss you and the Doctor, miss," remarked Mrs. Hulver, austerely, the morning after his departure. "You have been very hospitable to him."
"I daresay he will," was the indifferent reply.
"He should get married. An Assistant Resident has to receive a lot of company; and a house without a woman at the head makes a poor show."
"Our present Assistant has a very nice wife."
"It's a wonder that Mr. Fressenden doesn't follow his example."
"He will find a wife in time," replied Eola, as she added up the column of figures given her by the butler that morning. "I make it half an anna less than Ramachetty. I must go over it again."
"He had better not be too long about finding a wife," continued Mrs. Hulver, determined not to let the subject drop till she had had her say. "If a man waits too long he ages in looks and manners, and he is not taken for himself. He may think that he is, for God deals out vanity with a liberal hand when a boy is born. But with a middle-aged man there are other considerations at the back of a woman's mind besides love; like houses, for instance." She broke off shortly with a little laugh. "It tells on both sides for that matter. If William—that was my first—hadn't had a little property behind him, my mother would never have chosen him for her daughter with his dark complexion."
"Was he very much darker? After all I think Ramachetty is right, and that it is my mistake not his."
"He was quite four shades darker than me; some people might have said it was five; but that was his age. Being older than me he showed it more."
"Yes, the butler has added it up correctly," said Eola, laying down her pen. "You were telling me about your first husband. It must have been a drawback to have had him darker than yourself."
"I am not so sure, miss, that it wasn't an advantage. William knew that he was blacker than me by several shades, and that I was his superior in European descent. Both his parents were Eurasians. With me it was only on one side, my mother's. That being so he never dared to cheek me or speak disrespectfully as country-born people are apt to do when they lose their tempers. It's a very powerful thing in our sex, is the tongue. I'm sure I don't know what we poor women would do without it. As William—that was my third—used to say: 'The tongue is a wonderful thing, Maria, me dear! It may be as sweet as sugar; or sharp as a lime; or as stinging as red pepper.' He used to add that the devil himself loosened Eve's tongue for her when she took the apple, knowing that she would have no chance with ould Adam unless she had that advantage."
Yet a third prospective husband, in Mrs. Hulver's opinion, appeared in the person of an executive engineer in the service of Government. He was highly favoured by the housekeeper since Delaine, her first husband, had been a subordinate in that same service. With renewed hope she flung herself into the campaign, and left nothing undone in the commissariat department that might propitiate and lead on a faltering suitor.
It was all to no purpose. He departed like the other two without speaking; and Mrs. Hulver in her vexation could not refrain from unburdening herself on the subject at the first opportunity.
"When a man in the Public Works Department gets to be an executive engineer he ought to have a wife. Mr. Fearing is just throwing away his opportunities by keeping single. He seems such a nice gentleman, too. There ought to be no difficulty."
"Except that perhaps marriage has no attraction for him," suggested Eola.
Mrs. Hulver stared at her in sheer unbelief. The man or woman sound in mind and body who did not desire marriage in the abstract was unthinkable. Choice was another matter; many an individual deferred making his choice for reasons that might be good or indifferent, but were sufficient all the same. It was impossible in her opinion that any one could look upon the estate of matrimony as undesirable.
"Begging your pardon, miss, if I may be so bold as to say so, I don't think either you or your brother know much about marriage. Your minds have not been brought to bear upon it. As William—that was my second—used to say: 'Thoughts are like guns; they are no use until they are trained on an object.' You haven't had an occasion to train yours yet on to marriage. Now in my case they've been trained all my life on matrimony, and I can speak with knowledge and experience. If a man tells you that he doesn't want to get married, you may take it that either he can't get the woman he wants, or he hasn't made his choice. If a girl tells you that she doesn't want to get married—" Mrs. Hulver actually panted with indignation at the mere thought of it—"She's—she's—well! she's a liar—at least she is in this country."
Eola's light laugh was the only reply to such an assertion, and Mrs. Hulver took herself off to her sanctum at the back of the house with the nearest approach to wrath in her placid good nature she was capable of feeling.
Then Bernard Alderbury appeared on the scene, causing Mrs. Hulver doubt and perturbation of mind. He was a vigorous worker in the ranks of one of the large Church of England missionary societies, a strenuous parson who held a charmed life against the many evils prowling in his field of labour. He seemed immune to the effects of bad water, coarse food, poisonous mosquitoes and a tropical sun. His exemption was not obtained by disregard of the conditions of Indian life up-country. On the contrary he observed the greatest care in safe-guarding himself by the use of such appliances as science provided. He took the minimum risk and the maximum care and forethought. Aided by a magnificent constitution and an endless store of confidence and hope that killed depression, he preserved the health and good spirits so essential to his particular work.
Wenaston and Alderbury were old college friends. When the missionary spirit threw its mantle over the latter, Wenaston, by no means an irreligious man, did his best to persuade the other from—as he put it—throwing himself away on the colonies and hiding his light under a bushel. A man of his abilities and private means should have different aspirations.
Alderbury received the advice in his light-hearted manner, and assured his friend that going to India as a missionary would prove his own salvation and keep him out of the morasses of modern thought and controversy.
"I must fight some one," said Alderbury. "I don't want civil war; I want an enemy outside the pale of Mother Church. Hinduism seems to me the very thing, a noble and worthy foe; an ancient faith, a marvellous system of philosophy with a crafty degenerate priesthood. Doesn't the mere thought of it stir your blood and make you tingle to be up and fighting? Grafting upon the obsolete creed something infinitely better, a glorious oriental Christ, soul-satisfying and sufficient, Who will lift India's millions into a fresher and purer atmosphere of life and thought."
Wenaston glanced at the shining eyes turned upon him in enthusiasm as he would have looked at the symptoms of an obscure disease. It was a thing he could neither understand nor account for; but some instinct made him hold his peace. If the man was right, well and good; if he proved wrong, he would find it out for himself. He forbore to comment or to combat the new resolve. Alderbury pursued the course he had mapped out for himself, and in due time went to India.
Wenaston continued the student and developed into the school-master. When a vacancy occurred in the college of Chirapore he was asked if he would accept it. Until that moment he had not thought of going to the East. His sister, who had a great desire to see India, added her weight to inclination, and he decided to take the appointment.
Once more the two friends met, and Alderbury rejoiced in the renewal of their intimacy; for among other facts he learned that none pressed more heavily upon him than the loneliness of the missionary's life, its isolation and the complete absence of congenial companionship. Under the circumstances it was not to be wondered at that he never lost an opportunity in his missionary itineration of spending a few days with the Doctor and his sister. It was a little out of his way, but that did not matter. The holiday was the more complete since there was no duty within reach. The missions he superintended were in British territory, beyond the borders of the native state. He would have established work of some sort in Chirapore, but he was not encouraged to do so by his society nor by the Government of the State. The society already had more than enough irons in the fire with an open field in British India clamouring for yet more workers. But Alderbury could never visit his friend without casting envious glances at the big classes of boys assembled in the college hall. He would dearly have liked a free hand on the platforms of the classrooms; however this was not permissible. One of the conditions attached to the appointment of Principal was that there should be no attempt at proselytising; a condition to which Wenaston easily subscribed, since he had not even a spark of missionary enthusiasm.
Eola was of her brother's way of thinking. She too looked at Alderbury's work with something like detached curiosity. His energy, his whole-hearted desire to see India Christianised, his indefatigable and unceasing sacrifice of self, appealed to the instinctive hero-worship that is implanted in every woman's breast; but though she could wonder and admire and was insensibly drawn by his personality, she could not understand the fascination that held him to his chosen profession.
As for Mrs. Hulver she had her own reasons for disapproving of his visits, and it had nothing to do with his missionary zeal. Nevertheless she did not fail to provide a table worthy of her master's position. The food was substantial rather than recherché, nourishing rather than dainty. She had formed some fixed opinions upon the subject of missionaries generally; they were deeply rooted and unalterable. As a class missionaries required feeding up; their wardrobes needed the services of the dirzee to mend and patch and darn. She was puzzled more than a little when she found that Alderbury paid no particular attention to the food, and ate sparingly, with a distinct inclination towards daintiness. As for his wardrobe it was in better condition in some respects and needed less attention than the Doctor's. Not a sock required darning; not a coat needed stitching; and what was more, his clothes were not only new and none the worse for wear, but they were of the best and finest description. The pay of a missionary was known to be of narrow proportions, leaving no margin for luxury. It did not seem fit and proper in her eyes that he should be better dressed than his host. That he possessed anything besides his salary did not enter Mrs. Hulver's head; because if he had private means he never would have come to India as a missionary; he would have adopted the military service and been an officer in the army.
Alderbury came and went at his own convenience, never announcing his proposed visit by more than a day or two, and never prolonging it beyond the two or three nights, which gave him at least one complete day's rest, so essential sometimes to the worker for whom Sunday is the busiest day of the week. How intensely the man enjoyed that day his hosts had little suspicion. Whether he discussed the latest theory in science or religion with Wenaston, or the latest novel with Eola, it was all pure happiness unclouded by a single anxiety.
Mrs. Hulver was the only person who was disturbed. The laughter of the happy trio awoke no sympathetic joy in her. She was relieved when she heard only the low tone of the masculine voices, indicating that Miss Wenaston was taking no part in the conversation. It was fortunate for her peace of mind that she could not see Eola's eyes dwelling on the long figure extended in the cane lounge placed between her own easy chair and her brother's; nor how she watched him when, carried away by excitement, he pulled himself forward and even sprang to his feet the better to emphasise what he had to say. As he stood before them, speaking to the Doctor, but often turning his deepset eyes upon Eola, the girl thought of St. Paul. By what mysterious force was he driven? What fire was it that kindled in his eyes as he talked and made him look different from any other man she had known? The Indian world as she knew it was very peaceful; the people of the native State of Chirakul were notorious for their content and for the absence of all sedition and unrest. Yet to hear him talk one might be brought to the belief that it was not a peaceful model native state, but an enemy's land, a field for a deadly battle with a worthy foe.
Alderbury passed out of their little world as suddenly as he came in, leaving them slumberous and quiescent. Eola missed him, but Mrs. Hulver indulged in a sigh of relief. Much as she desired to see Eola married she drew a rigid line at missionaries. Not that missionaries should be debarred from marriage. On the contrary, a wife was more needful in the mission house than anywhere else. But the missionary's wife belonged, in her opinion, to quite another class. She did not know where the wives were bred. They were endowed with many admirable virtues, and were eminently suited to be helpers to their worthy husbands in proselytising among the heathen; but of one thing she was sure; there was a wide difference between them and Miss Wenaston. Their rambling bungalows had a certain amount of plain solid comfort about them; and they made the best of the country fare that their limited salaries obliged them to buy, but there was nothing dainty in either dress or food or furniture.
The large compounds in which their dwellings were placed contained outbuildings where the natives gathered for instruction; both bungalow and compound were haunted with mild-looking converts in white muslin; their happy faces an indication that Christianity and the pastoral supervision of the missionary agreed with them.
On the other hand who ever heard of a missionary's wife being invited to the Presidency town to take a share in social festivities? Who ever saw, asked Mrs. Hulver, with raised eyebrows, "a missionary's lady" at a race meet or at a Government House ball? Miss Wenaston belonged to the class that welcomed Viceroys and figured at races and balls. Thus it happened that after some of these flying visits Mrs. Hulver had remarks to make.
"Missionaries are very good sort of people in their way. I often wonder how they can keep it up."
"Keep what up?" asked Eola, mystified.
"Their spirits and their belief that they are doing these natives good."
"Of course they are doing good, Mrs. Hulver," said Eola, as if she were slightly shocked. The half-formed doubt occasionally slipped unbidden into her own mind but she had never put it into words.
"I didn't say that they were not doing good. I left it open. As William—that was my first—used to say when the native overseers had too big a grasp on the profits: 'You can't wash a crow white nor expect anything of him but a croak.' It's the thought of the millions and millions of heathen in India that is apt to stagger one. It's like trying to empty a tank with a teaspoon. However, as William—that was my second—used to say when I was down-hearted about the way anything was going: 'You lay your brick and lay it sound and leave the rest to others. No man ever built a church steeple all by himself and yet old England is full of churches and steeples.' Anyway, I shouldn't like to be a missionary's wife. I could dress up to it; I could feed up to it; but I couldn't stand the converts trapesing through the compound and hanging about the verandahs. I shouldn't feel as if the house belonged to me."
"Perhaps it wouldn't be necessary to have them there," suggested Eola, who read between the lines with secret amusement.
"Oh! yes, it would; it's their reward; their right," replied Mrs. Hulver with conviction. "Any lady that's suitable to be a missionary's wife makes no objection; but she must be, so to speak, born to it. It's not a job that would suit you, miss. As William—that was my third—said when he heard that the Chaplain was going to marry the Colonel's daughter: 'If the church mouse takes the field mouse to wife there'll be a difference of opinion about the mode of living.' You could never put up with mission ways."
"You never did any mission work, I suppose," said Eola, turning the conversation from a subject she was not prepared to discuss with her housekeeper.
"No miss; but my husband William—that was my second—he tried his hand at it once, only once. He saw some of the canteen servants doing pujah to a stone image that stood under a tree behind the canteen. He went up to them in the middle of the pujah and said: 'Boys, you're all going to hell that way.' One of them that served the Presbyterian minister spoke up and said: 'No sar! It's the Roman Catholics that are going to hell, not us!' William walked away without another word; and when I asked him about it, he said that missionary work wasn't his job, and that he would leave it to those who knew more about it than he did."
"It was very good of him to make the attempt."
Mrs. Hulver looked pleased at the praise and approbation of the departed William the second.
"He was a right-minded man about everything, loyal to his God and his King; and he was the father of my only child."