THE “ASPHODEL”
During my stay in London I saw a good deal of Mrs. Hayes-Billington;
her husband had been hastily summoned to his mines and she was alone,
awaiting my company in the _Asphodel_, in which we had secured
passages. My future chaperon would often drop in at the flat to offer
advice respecting my luggage and boxes, or to arrange for meetings
at dressmakers. She exhibited a lively interest in my frocks and
invariably accompanied me to be fitted. It struck me as strange--or
rather I believe Lizzie suggested the idea--that such a handsome and
fashionable woman should appear to have so much time on her hands.
Apparently she had taken a fancy to me, called me by my Christian
name, and was far more demonstrative than my late governess, who had
known me since I was a fretful little creature aged four years. Mrs.
Hayes-Billington was also her reverse in another respect, as she fed me
with a certain amount of flattery. This was indeed a novelty and I must
honestly confess that I was not averse to such nectar in small doses,
but from huge spoonfuls I instinctively recoiled.
One day I had been enduring the trying on of a lovely white evening
frock, and the fitter had left the room in search of some ribbon;
as I stood before the long glass contemplating my appearance Mrs.
Hayes-Billington suddenly rose, put her arm round my neck, and gazing
at my reflection exclaimed:
“Do you know, my dear, that you are _lovely_!”
Before I could protest she continued:
“I think we shall make rather a striking pair, you and I--such a
complete contrast. I with my gipsy face, you with your masses of golden
brown hair and sunny blue-grey eyes--sometimes they are angel-praying
eyes, and sometimes I see a little devil dancing in each of them! Then,
and above all, my dear, you look such an aristocrat.”
It was an enormous relief to me when the return of the forewoman and
skirt hand put an end to these embarrassing and exaggerated compliments.
Ten days later we sailed from Tilbury Docks. I was seen off by my uncle
and aunt, Lizzie, Beverley, young Champneys and two schoolfellows
who happened to be in London; my cabin, which I shared with Mrs.
Hayes-Billington, was packed with books, flowers, and large boxes of my
favourite sweets. I must here confess, hard-hearted creature as I was,
that I left my native land with composure. I should add, however, that
since I had come to woman’s estate I was not much given to weeping,
but, on the other hand, Mrs. Hayes-Billington, in a voice choked with
emotion, large tears trembling in her splendid eyes, assured my aunt
and uncle that she would be a _mother_ to me.
Our steamer, the _Asphodel_, corresponded with the passage money in
every particular. She looked, and was, cheap, and I think I may add,
nasty. The smell of oil from the engine-room almost overpowered the
salt sea air, and the saloon reeked of new mahogany and stale sherry.
The cabins were small and stuffy. There were but two bathrooms for the
first-class passengers, who luckily were few and far between: chiefly
individuals like the Hayes-Billingtons who had squandered most of their
money when on furlough; one or two railway officials, several planters,
and half a dozen missionaries; nothing approaching the smart crowd that
one heard or read of as passengers to the East. For one thing, we were
outward bound at the wrong time of year; and for another, we had booked
by an unfashionable line. There were no dances, no games; the piano
was a derelict; but the weather and the novelty consoled me for all
deficiencies.
As we coasted down by Spain and put in at Gibraltar and Malta, and
endured the usual coaling agony at Port Said, it seemed to me that I
was seeing the world at last! Mrs. Hayes-Billington and I shared the
same cabin. Here I also shared some of the secrets of her toilet; to do
her justice she had no false shame, and allowed me to know that certain
portions of her hair and complexion were artificial; nevertheless, much
of her beauty was _bona fide_. Living at such close quarters I realised
that she was considerably older than I had supposed, and, in spite of
some wonderful grease that she applied at night, there were wrinkles
round her eyes and lines upon her forehead.
I always rose first, in order to clear out of the cabin and give my
companion lots of elbow room for dressing. The operation was a lengthy
one, and she rarely appeared on deck before twelve o’clock, but, on the
other hand, she seldom descended to her berth till after midnight.
Among our fellow passengers she had discovered an old acquaintance in
a good-looking officer of the frontier force. His name was Colonel
Armadale; he sat next her at meal times, his chair was with ours on
deck. They promenaded for hours at a time, and occasionally disappeared
into a particular lair of their own somewhere about the bows of the
ship. Mrs. Hayes-Billington carefully explained to me that Colonel
Armadale’s sister was her very oldest friend, which fact naturally drew
them a good deal together, and this was not their sole tie. They had
been in the same station in the Punjaub, and had many acquaintances
and topics in common. Her friend was always polite and attentive to
me, carried my rug, moved my chair, and occasionally included me in
the conversation. Once or twice I caught his eyes gazing at me with a
curious, interrogative expression. What did it mean?
As he had, to a great extent, appropriated the society of my chaperon,
I was more or less thrown upon my own resources. At first the other
womenkind seemed to hold aloof from me, but before long I found myself
received into the bosom of the missionary circle. There was a kindly
white-bearded gentleman and his wife who were going to Assam, and one
tall, distinguished woman travelling alone, _en route_ to join her
husband in Upper Burmah. Her name was Mrs. Ashe, and she and I became
comrades, paced the deck together, exchanged books and new stitches in
lace work. Her spirits were depressed, as she had just left two small
children at home, but presently she cheered up and gave me a great deal
of useful information respecting the country to which I was bound.
Undoubtedly Mrs. Ashe belonged to my own class, though I may honestly
say it was not for this reason that I made friends with her. She
informed me that her father had been the general commanding a division
in Northern India. There she had met a zealous young Oxford parson,
cast in her lot with him, and departed to work in the mission field,
to the stupefaction and horror of her family. “It has turned out all
right,” she added. “Julian and I are very happy. Our only trouble is in
having to be separated from the kiddies.”
For my own part I imparted abundant information about myself, and told
her that I had no parents, no real home, and was going to India in
order to be within reach of my brother, also because the family doctor
advised that I should spend the winters in a warm climate.
“And Mrs. Hayes-Billington is taking charge of you on the voyage?”
“By no means,” I replied, “she is in charge of me altogether. I am to
live with them.”
For quite an appreciable time Mrs. Ashe was speechless. At last she
said:
“But how on earth did your people come across her?”
“Captain Hayes-Billington is distantly connected with some friends. The
Hayes-Billingtons were looking for a paying guest, I was anxious to go
to India, my aunt liked Mrs. Hayes-Billington--and so here I am.”
Mrs. Ashe said no more on this subject, but I gathered that she did
not approve of my chaperon, also that the feeling was mutual. The two
ladies “looked down their noses” on the rare occasions when they met
face to face.
Mrs. Ashe and I had many talks as we sat together on deck on lovely
moonlight nights. Steaming down the Red Sea the water was like glass,
but no sooner had we left Aden than I learnt the meaning of the word
“monsoon.” Directly we abandoned the shelter of the coast we were
struck by the full force of what to me seemed a hurricane. It burst
upon us suddenly at luncheon time; at the first lurch of the _Asphodel_
all the knives and plates and glasses slid off the table, and oh! how
we rolled and wallowed! We rolled all the way over to Bombay, the rain
descended in torrents, and the knocking about, the clinging, and the
crawling were horribly uncomfortable. Our _Asphodel_ was what is called
“a wet boat,” her decks were continually swept by seas, and she groaned
and shuddered like some stricken animal.
I must confess that I was by no means sorry when the voyage came to an
end and we stepped upon the Ballard Pier, in the animated and highly
coloured city of Bombay. Here we did not delay more than a few hours,
which we spent at the Taj Mahal Hotel, and then drove to Victoria
Station to pursue our journey.
Bombay gave me my first sight of the ancient and picturesque East. I
was fascinated by the quaint native craft at the quays, the crowds
of people in gay and varied costumes, the painted bullock carts, the
jingling trams packed so tightly, the fine imposing public buildings
and the beautiful bay--“Bon Bahia” indeed!
The ascent of the great Bore Ghât was to me a most thrilling and
impressive experience. How we went up, up, up, and how we went down,
down, down! What dizzy views of the plains as we crept along precipices
and turned the most paralysing angles! Finally, after steady travelling
by rail and tonga, we found ourselves at our journey’s end--the hill
station of Silliram.
It was pouring the traditional “cats and dogs” when we arrived, and
here Captain Hayes-Billington awaited us at the tonga office, his
broad, good-looking face wet with rain and wreathed in smiles.
It appeared that he had secured a small bungalow, collected a few
servants, and done, he declared, “his best to give us a flying
start.” The bungalow, which was named “The Dovecot,” was old and
dilapidated, surrounded by a deep veranda and a small garden or
compound which separated us from a high road, at present swimming in
mud. Accommodation in “The Dovecot” consisted of four rooms, viz.
drawing-room, dining-room and two bedrooms, to each of which was
attached a ruinous bathroom; for tub, a half barrel of primitive age.
The smaller of the bedrooms was naturally apportioned to me, and here,
with the aid of an English-speaking ayah, I began to unpack my small
baggage and endeavoured to make myself at home. Coming across from
Aden I had learnt the true meaning of the word “monsoon.” Arriving in
Silliram, I received a practical illustration of the word “rains!”
It was not merely rain, but a cataract that battered on the roof,
roared down the gutters and made large ponds in our little compound.
Silliram was situated on a spur of the ghâts about 4,000 feet above
the plains, but for the moment one could see nothing of the place. The
atmosphere appeared to consist entirely of a wet white mist; the roads
were ankle deep in red mud, the valleys filled with masses of what
looked like cotton-wool clouds. Europeans on ponies and disguised in
mackintoshes occasionally splashed by our gate, and the natives went
about with long bare legs, the remainder of their persons entirely
shrouded in brown blankets.
It was now that I began to see the best side of Captain
Hayes-Billington. Always loud and boisterous, he was nevertheless
wonderfully good-tempered, cheerful and considerate, and eagerly
disposed to make the best of everything. He was also surprisingly
energetic, and helped his wife and myself to furbish up our shabby
little bungalow. I gathered that we might soon expect a number of
visitors, but that it was our business, being the last comers, to sally
forth and call upon the station.
We made an expedition to the native bazaar during a few hours’ “break,”
waded about from shop to shop, and picked up some necessities and odds
and ends of decorations wherewith to furnish our abode. We bought
bamboo chairs, phoolcarries, and pallampores; muslin for curtains;
crockery, mats, a few cheap rugs, and a couple of reliable lamps. We
also--oh, great adventure!--hired a piano. I stood by awestruck whilst
Mrs. Hayes-Billington bargained and gesticulated--talking all the while
in the most fluent Hindustani, and ruthlessly cheapening every article.
Meanwhile, her husband looked on, now and then making suggestions,
indicating deficiencies, and exhibiting the deepest interest in every
transaction.
With the fruits of this excursion the Hayes-Billingtons at once set
to work to “do up” the rickety old bungalow, to which undertaking I
gladly lent a hand. Somehow it reminded me of dressing a stage for
private theatricals, such as we had at school. The dreary, damp little
drawing-room, its walls streaked with green, was now hung with stamped
cotton; the mouldy matting was replaced, and gay rugs laid here and
there. Bamboo furniture, a couple of second-hand chairs, a black and
gold table, and a paper screen effected a grand transformation.
I contributed photographs in silver frames, my books and silk
cushions, to help in the embellishment, and with flowers and a couple
of lamp shades we all agreed that the little room was “quite top hole.”
We also made a few alterations in the dining-room, cast out the rotten
matting and some broken chairs, and now considered ourselves in a
position to receive company. I had taken part in all these arrangements
_con amore_, for I realised that I had thrown in my lot with the
Hayes-Billingtons, and was bound to consider myself as one of the
family. In a way, I liked them both; he, strange to say, the better of
the two. He was always so cheery, optimistic and busy. He told me he
had heard of a smart pony that he was going to buy for me by and by,
and said I must ask my brother to run up soon and pay us a visit. For
her part she did her best to make me comfortable and to break the shock
of squalid appointments, the, to me, unusual cooking--and undesirable
insects! I could see that she was anxious we should mix in society and
that I should have what she called “a really festive time.”
“You must know, my dear girl,” she explained, “I am as much a stranger
in this part of the world as yourself. I have always been up north,
where the natives, the climate, and the manners and customs are
altogether different. I shall certainly miss our nice cold weather, but
as Bertie has got this good appointment in the Deccan that will be some
compensation. He is obliged to go down in a few days, so you and I will
have to take care of one another,” and she put her arm round my neck
and kissed me.
In spite of her endearments and affection I always realised that there
was a certain amount of reserve about my chaperon. She never talked
of the past, except in a general way, but greatly preferred to throw
herself into the future--especially my future--which was kind of her!
I did not grumble audibly or make disparaging comments, but so far,
with regard to India, I was painfully disillusioned and overwhelmed
with disappointment. As I sat in the driest spot I could find in a
leaking veranda I asked myself, where was the sun? Was this wet, cloudy
country the gorgeous East? We had been five whole days at Silliram
and as yet it had never ceased to rain. Captain Hayes-Billington had
paddled out as far as the club and library, put down our names for
both, brought back some news, and cheered us with promises of finer
weather.
“This is just an extraordinarily bad break they say,” he announced with
a broad smile; “but the glass is going up and we shall have the sun out
and everything all right to-morrow or next day.”
The servants ministering to “The Dovecot” were a strange and
motley crew. The butler was a Portuguese half-caste from Goa, who
had previously been in the service of Captain Hayes-Billington;
the Mohammedan cook, a bearded individual in a red turban. My
English-speaking Madrassee ayah was sympathetic and even motherly;
she turned out the frogs that hopped about my room, destroyed several
promising nests of white ants, and slew a venomous-looking black
scorpion. The old woman informed me that she had been twice to England
with ladies and children.
“England,” she said, “plenty good food, good beer but plenty much
stairs; journey there very bad, specially the Biscay river, too much
jumping that Biscay river!”
I gathered that she was considerably impressed by the style and
quantity of my outfit; but, on the other hand, she openly despised the
bungalow.
“This too much bad bungalow,” she declared, “too old, too cheap, too
far from bazaar and the club gur, and all the big mem sahibs.”
But of this drawback I had not yet had an opportunity of judging.
By the end of a week Captain Hayes-Billington had taken his departure.
His wife seemed unaffectedly sorry; I think they were really attached
to one another--almost like a newly-married couple.
They had one rather irritating habit: that of conversing in Hindustani.
They spoke it fluently, although they assured me that they had got very
rusty at home and were now talking it for practice. Occasionally I had
an instinctive and disagreeable feeling that sometimes, in my very
presence, they were discussing _me_!