OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN
What a change in my life a few hours had brought. I was going to India!
My dream of dreams was about to be fulfilled. In the meanwhile there
were arrangements and obstacles to be talked over. Uncle, Beverley and
Lizzie Puckle were strongly opposed to my trip, but for once Aunt Mina
and I were agreed, and to every objection we presented an invincible
force of obstinate resistance. She gave me enthusiastic support, was
my firm and eager ally, generously engaged to pay for my outfit and
passage, and assured me that I should have a delightful time and that
this accidental invitation was “a great chance!” She even went so far
as to hint that I would not be long with the Hayes-Billingtons, but
soon comfortably installed in an establishment of my own.
“Really, my dear Eva,” she said in an outburst of happy relief, “a girl
with your air and appearance, not to speak of connections, ought to
marry remarkably well.”
Apparently I was about to be specially exported to India in order
to be launched on the marriage market! That was my aunt’s idea. My
own was otherwise. I would be within hail of my beloved Ronnie, and
far away from the anxieties and embarrassments which encompassed me
at Torrington. With a view to a good talk and to learn my immediate
requirements I went to tea at the Dower House, where I found only Mrs.
Paget-Taylor and Mrs. Hayes-Billington. As I sat beside the latter
on the sofa I was nearly overpowered by the perfume of some heavy
Eastern scent, and at close quarters noticed that the lady’s face was a
little made up and careworn. On her part, she was examining me with an
unmistakably critical expression in her lovely eyes.
“I hear you ride well and are fond of dancing, Miss Lingard, so we will
keep a pony for you,” she said. “We start next month, and as we arrive
out there in the monsoon you and I will go to the hills together,
whilst Bertie, poor boy, must return to those detestable mines.”
I had not the faintest idea of what a “monsoon” might be, but did not
venture to display my ignorance by making inquiries.
“We are going out by a cheap liner if you don’t mind,” she continued,
“first class to Bombay only forty pounds. We are obliged to be
economical. Your expenses on to Silliram will come to about a hundred
rupees. Unfortunately, we arrive in the rains, but, you see, Bertie’s
leave has expired and it cannot be avoided.”
She then proceeded to give a long list of my requirements, which Mrs.
Paget-Taylor precisely entered in a little notebook. It seemed that
I should require a saddle and bridle, a thick and thin habit, warm
clothes, cool clothes, smart clothes, cushions, a folding chair, a good
supply of scented soap, sheets, towels, a tea-basket, heaps of silk
underwear, silk stockings, and also golf and tennis requisites.
Armed with this list I returned to my aunt. I felt a certain diffidence
about handing over such a long array of wants, but she seemed to look
upon the matter as a mere bagatelle and even added several items. She
also informed me that I had (as I knew) an income of £150 a year of
my own. This would go to the Hayes-Billingtons, to pay for board and
lodging, and as their funds were low she had agreed to lodge the first
six months in advance, also she and my uncle had decided to make me an
allowance of an additional hundred a year for clothes and my personal
expenses. This was generous treatment, and I thanked her warmly. Now
that I was actually departing, placing seas and continents between us,
Aunt Mina had become semi-attached to me, and it may seem mean of me
to add that I believe she scattered this liberality and largesse as
sacrifice and thank-offering, and, as it were, the price of Bev.
My aunt accompanied me to London to select my outfit, which was ordered
on the most lavish scale; in fact, I would be justified in calling it
a trousseau! When the preparations were well _en train_ she left me to
spend two or three days with Lizzie in the flat, and to be taken by her
to undergo my various fittings.
I found Lizzie comfortably installed, looking years younger than she
had done at Beke, and quite smart. She gave me to understand that Mr.
Chesterfield, the rector, had urged her to marry him, first by letter,
indeed letters; and, as these proved unsuccessful, he had actually come
to London and figuratively prostrated himself at her feet, announcing
that “he was lost without her, and had never realised her priceless
value until she was gone! She was sorely missed everywhere and really
must recall her decision and return to Beke as Mrs. Chesterfield.”
“I told him,” said Lizzie, “that I knew how he had leaned upon me and
that under other circumstances I would gladly have become his wife, but
now it was impossible. Mrs. Puckle was the obstacle. He might think me
unchristian if he liked, but I could not breathe in the same parish
with that woman.”
So much for Lizzie’s affairs, and with respect to mine she said: “Eva,
I do hope you will never regret this step. I know you have always
longed to go to India and I must confess I envy you. I too would like
to flap and spread my wings. But you ought to go out under proper
auspices. _Who_ are these Hayes-Billingtons?”
She had met them at Rumpelmayers, and somehow they had not coalesced.
Mrs. Hayes-Billington was lofty in her manner, and inclined to be
condescending to Miss Lingard’s late governess--who scrutinised that
very beautiful chaperon with keenly observant eyes.
“He may be Mrs. Paget-Taylor’s cousin, but these Hayes-Billingtons are
not in your class--hard up and pretentious. I may be quite wrong,
but the man looks as if he drank, and the woman, although undoubtedly
handsome, is so made up. My dear Eva, your aunt must be desperately
anxious to get rid of you! If the worst happens cable to me and come
back to the flat. I am not sure that your little skiff is sufficiently
weather-tight to battle among the waves of Indian society.”
“I know you are a good judge of character, Lizzie, and before I ‘take
to the water’ I wish you would tell me something about myself. You have
carte blanche to say what you like--I shall not be offended.”
“Well, it will be no news to you that you have a strong will, and heaps
of vitality and staying power; are naturally impulsive and much too
talkative, also, in a way, deceptive. Your real feelings are not easily
moved, and, except for sick people and animals, your heart is rather
hard.”
“Oh Lizzie!” I exclaimed.
“Oh Eva!” she echoed. “This is, in a way, true. When you dislike a
person it is for always. For instance, nothing would ever make you
really care for your aunt and Clara; or at Beke for Mr. Chesterfield
and Eliza the cook. On the other hand, your affections are staunch and
unchangeable, you idealise your friends far beyond their deserts, and
refuse to see a single flaw in their characters. Take, for example,
Ronnie. To you he is absolutely perfect, a sort of little god; if it
came to a pinch I believe you would make _any_ sacrifice for him.”
“Yes,” I answered stoutly, “any--and glad of the chance!”
“Ronnie is a good sort and fond of you, but he is by no means a stable
character. Yours is by far the stronger of the two.”
“Lizzie, how can you talk such nonsense?”
“It is the truth, and you may have occasion to realise it yet. With you
it is all or nothing, and when you fall in love I confess I shall feel
anxious--you will give so much, and may receive so little. Well, there,
no one can help you! Fate shuffles the cards and you have yet to meet
your destiny. Shall I give you one or two scraps of worldly advice, my
dear?”
“Yes, do,” I urged eagerly.
“Well, when you go into the big world be careful how you choose your
associates; people are judged by their friends.”
“Are they? I should not have thought so.”
“Try, if you can, not to talk of yourself.”
“Yes, I’ll do my best, but I have not much else to talk about, have I?”
“There will be plenty of topics once you are out of your little groove.
In Vanity Fair I dare say you may receive a share of knocks and bruises
among others hustling in the market-place, but whatever these may be do
not show them! All I am advising is simply worldly wisdom, and my most
urgent important injunction comes last: do not give your confidence
to every agreeable woman, or your heart to the first insidious and
good-looking man who gazes into your eyes, and tells you that you are
pretty and a darling. Wait and look round, for with you to love, is for
always.”
I felt unexpectedly embarrassed; my face felt hot, as I listened
to these intimate personal directions, and I hastened to turn the
conversation to Beke and its inhabitants.
In answer to my questions Lizzie informed me that her uncle had taken
over the whole of “The Roost,” and paid her a rental of twenty pounds a
year. The house was now occupied by Mrs. Puckle’s married daughter and
her three children; with long visitations from Mrs. Puckle’s actor son
when--as so frequently happened--he found himself “out of a shop.”
The new mistress kept pigs, the garden was converted into a poultry
run, the mulberry tree and others had been cut down and sold. According
to Mr. Chesterfield the establishment was a continual scene of
animosity and wrangling, and the professor’s beard was as white as snow!
“At one time,” added Lizzie, “I would have asked for nothing better
than to live my life and end my days in Beke, but, as you know, I have
been driven forth by my aunt by marriage!”