A HILL STATION
Captain Hayes-Billington’s prediction was fulfilled; a welcome “break”
brought us perfect weather, and at last we were enabled to dispense
with umbrellas and goloshes, and sally forth to see the place. Silliram
was situated on a high plateau, and, as we emerged from a by-path and
stood near a celebrated “point,” a world of absolute peace and beauty
lay beneath us. The precipices which overhung the low country were
heavily wooded and clothed with masses of trees, flowering creepers,
orchids and a luxuriant variety of gigantic exotic ferns. The plains
which stretched so far below resembled a faintly coloured map, or
some delicate piece of embroidery, gradually fading away into a misty
blue distance. The atmosphere after the rains was so extraordinarily
crystal-clear that we could see for miles, and even trace the outlines
of distant towns, forests and rivers. Overhead a few lazy clouds threw
their shadows on the wonderful scene, possibly jealous of such beauty
and endeavouring to obscure it.
It was no doubt owing to its lofty situation that Silliram dried up
rapidly; the roads were no longer merely red mud, the cascades of
running water ceased to brawl, and the all-reviving sun had apparently
brought the whole population into the open air--also their wardrobes.
In almost every compound one noticed long strings of male and female
garments fluttering in the breeze.
After our walk to the view Mrs. Hayes-Billington and I bravely ventured
into the club. Among the crowd each face we saw was that of a stranger.
Apparently we were the only outsiders, everyone else seemed to be
acquainted.
I took courage from my chaperon, who was evidently well used to Indian
clubs and club ways, and securing seats and a table she issued an order
for tea and bread and butter.
“Not buffalo butter,” she amended imperiously.
I noticed a number of girls, various soldierly-looking young men,
some few matrons and oldish officers with grey hairs, but no really
elderly people. There was bridge, badminton in a covered court,
tennis, a reading-room and a supply of refreshments. I could not but
see that we were observed with interest; who would not look at Mrs.
Hayes-Billington? She was unusually animated and in good spirits, and
we sat over our tea cups for some time absorbed in our surroundings,
enjoying this pleasant change from our damp little “Dovecot.”
As we walked back Mrs. Hayes-Billington remarked:
“To-morrow I will order a conveyance of some sort, we will put on our
smartest frocks and pay a round of calls from twelve to two. Bertie got
a list from the club baboo. We will begin with the general’s wife, the
commissioner’s wife, the padre’s wife, and so on. I think I had better
write your name on my cards, and then everyone will know that we are
living together and that you are under my wing.”
“Yes,” I assented, “of course, that will be best.”
“I hope they will all be out; this calling is a mere matter of form.
As soon as visits have been exchanged, we shall be invited to the
general’s at homes, the club dances, picnics and tennis parties, and
you will have no end of a good time.”
The following morning, arrayed in our best afternoon frocks, we started
out in an ancient victoria to make our round of calls--in short, “to
wait upon the station.” The general’s wife and daughter were at home.
They proved to be charming people, and the girl, who was my age, and
I took to one another on the spot. Our other calls were more or less
satisfactory; we dropped our names into the many “Not at home” boxes,
and having dispersed twenty cards returned to “The Dovecot” and tiffin,
in a condition of complete exhaustion.
The result of our effort was an immediate shower of pasteboards or
visitors, and we were soon in the midst of a whirl of hill gaiety.
We went to tennis parties, picnics, and dances. My companion was
impressively sedate and correct in her manner--this was not the Mrs.
Hayes-Billington with whom I had travelled in the _Asphodel_! She was
also an admirable bridge and tennis player, had an unfailing supply of
agreeable small talk, and was one of the most popular married women in
the station.
My chaperon was an excellent manager, and thoroughly understood
Anglo-Indian housekeeping and the art of cutting down the cook’s
accounts. We lived carefully and economically, but nevertheless
entertained in a quiet way; we gave little tiffins and dinners before a
club dance, to young men and girls--though our dining-room was a crush
with six. On these occasions the table was beautifully decorated by
Mrs. Hayes-Billington, and some of the sweets and the savouries were
made by her on a handy charcoal stove in the back veranda. She had a
deft way of doing things; everything turned out by her delicate fingers
seemed so dainty and complete, whether it was a toque, a pincushion, or
some toothsome dish. Although Mrs. Hayes-Billington invariably spoke of
herself as “a genteel pauper,” I had a shrewd impression that once upon
a time she had been accustomed to wealth and luxury. Her wardrobe was
plain and inexpensive, but she possessed beautiful lace, the remains of
various gorgeous gowns, a gold-mounted dressing-bag which had evidently
seen much service, a string of pearls and remarkably fine diamonds.
Also she was a notable dressmaker, and refurbished and altered some of
the satins and brocades, with the aid of a clever _dirzee_; he sat in
the veranda from morning till night, sewing, pinning, copying, making
marvellous use of his toes for holding breadths of stuff, and was armed
with the most formidable pair of scissors I had ever beheld.
The outcome of these exertions were picturesque teagowns and evening
toilettes, gracefully worn by Mrs. Hayes-Billington at our weekly
bridge party, when young men dropped in after dinner for a rubber and a
smoke.
On such occasions I did not take a hand; the stakes were too high and
the rubbers were so long--sometimes the clock struck one before I
heard the break-up of the party. In a house like ours, with the walls
possibly made of old packing-cases, every sound was audible.
My chaperon was a first-rate bridge player; she smoked unlimited
cigarettes, used slangy expressions and was more at ease and in
“mental undress” than Aunt Mina would have approved. However, she was
undoubtedly happy; as I watched her eager radiant face I could not
help thinking of some poor pot-bound thirsty flower that had at last
received freedom and moisture!
The young men worshipped my companion; no doubt they were flattered by
her notice and her sympathetic manner; she was always so beautiful, so
vital and so gay. Once or twice I found myself wondering at what she
saw in _them_. They were very young and, even in my callow opinion,
rather dull and uninteresting. I came upon the answer to this question
(if answer it was) in rather an unexpected form. One morning, after one
of these weekly parties, I happened to open the old bureau in order
to hunt for a piece of sealing-wax, and there, stuffed under bridge
markers, cards and scraps of paper covered with figures, I discovered
coins and notes to the amount of three hundred rupees!
I must confess that the find was a shock. I had never seen what
is called “real gambling.” Was this the first nod from our family
skeleton, or was it merely the housekeeping funds accidentally muddled
up with cards and paper? Mrs. Hayes-Billington was so foolishly
careless of money and jewellery, and rarely kept them under lock and
key. The only possessions she ever locked up were her letters.
The general’s daughter and I became companions and fast friends. We
went sketching together, though our poor attempts were libels on the
wonderful scenery we attempted to transfer to paper. Besides Dolly Dane
there were numbers of nice girls in the station. For instance, Belinda
and Sylvia Brabazon, known as “Billy” and “Silly”--for India is no
respecter of names!--a plain little couple, matchless tennis players
and cotillion leaders, tirelessly good-natured and energetic. Their
mother, an amazingly vigorous matron, looked like their elder sister.
Colonel Brabazon’s activities were confined to collecting butterflies,
and telling “good” stories in the club smoking-room. No picnics or
dances were considered complete without his belongings.
The commissioner’s wife, Mrs. Clayson, a kindly but lethargic lady,
was weighed down by the cares of a large small family, and took no
part save that of spectator in any social gaieties. Then there were
Major and Mrs. Wray of the Grey Hussars, a particularly smart couple,
who enjoyed the reputation of giving the best dinners in Silliram, to
which none but what I may call the “_crème de la crème_” were invited.
I regret to add that Mrs. Wray figuratively closed her doors on the
commissariat, uncovenanted and subordinate railway and telegraph
service. She, however, did not close her doors on us, but was Mrs.
Hayes-Billington’s chief friend, at which I was not surprised, as there
were certain points in common between them. They had dealt at the same
London shops, employed the same Court milliner, used the same soap, and
were equally devoted to bridge.
In all my life I had never enjoyed myself so thoroughly as during
these weeks at an Indian hill station. The weather was perfect; the
clear exhilarating mountain air raised my spirits to the highest
pitch, and when I woke in the morning it was always with the feeling
that something delightful was going to happen during the day, and
this sensation was usually justified. I had hired a pony from the
bazaar--fortunately my new saddle fitted him perfectly--and joined
riding parties and picnics all over the plateau. The hard red roads and
overgrown lanes wound among wonderful ferns and woods. Here were my
old friends the oak and the willow; the delicate tamarind and stately
peepul I now saw for the first time. Our expeditions were generally to
points commanding clear-cut views of the far-away plains, or the purple
gloom of valleys beneath our feet. At some of these “points” we had
picnics, _chotah hazree_, tiffin, or afternoon tea, as the case might
be.
Besides such rural excursions there were tennis tournaments, small
club dances, and active preparations for the great event of the
season--theatricals, which were got up by the general and his wife.
The piece selected, _The Scrap of Paper_, was undoubtedly ambitious,
but where is the amateur who does not soar? The rôles of the Marquise
and Suzanne were undertaken by Mrs. Wray and Mrs. Hayes-Billington,
and the piece required constant rehearsal. As I had been selected to
take the small part of a servant who comes in and dusts a chair, I was
always present, and, behind the scenes, was immensely interested and
entertained.
Mrs. Hayes-Billington’s performance filled me with a glow of personal
pride. My chaperon was what might be called “a born actress.” It also
transpired that she had played in this piece on former occasions.
Dolly Dane was cast for Mathilde, and as our parts were insignificant
we had the pleasure of looking on and watching the others perform. Mrs.
Hayes-Billington was admirable, Mrs. Wray was also good. In spite of
their close friendship I thought I could discern a certain amount of
rivalry between these ladies. The general himself, and one or two of
our most prominent young men, were in the cast. The date of the great
gala night was fixed to take place within a fortnight, and after this,
alas! the season would begin to wane.
In almost every letter I sent to Ronnie I begged him to come up and see
Silliram and me, holding out such inducements as _The Scrap of Paper_
and the Bachelors’ Club dance.
“I am longing to see you,” I said, “and also for you to see me, and to
judge how splendidly I am getting on in India. Already I know a little
Hindustani, I can fold and put on a pugaree, and chaffer with the
hawkers as to the manner born.”
But my invitation fell flat. Ronnie wrote that he could not possibly
get leave; the rifle meeting was coming on, also the polo tournament,
and a general inspection. He was simply worked to death. Later he might
be able to get away. Meanwhile he was delighted to hear that I was
having such a ripping time.
Mrs. Hayes-Billington and I had a good many men callers; one day among
these, Mr. Balthasar, a friend of Captain Hayes-Billington, presented
himself. He was a foreigner--that is to say, not English. His dark skin
was in surprising contrast to a pair of very light grey eyes, which he
rolled about incessantly. He had thick black lashes, a bullet head, fat
clean-shaven face, good features, beautiful hands and a stout, supple
figure. Also he was remarkably well groomed and carried himself with an
air of confident assurance.
I noticed a slight hint of patronage in his manner towards Mrs.
Hayes-Billington, which, with a gracious dignity, she speedily
suppressed. He talked with a sort of soft drawl, and informed us he had
come from the mines, and had just run up to Silliram to confer with a
well-known engineer, and was returning the following day. Our visitor
paid me conspicuous attention, his restless eyes constantly rolled in
my direction, and he accepted an invitation to dine with flattering
alacrity. When he had departed in a motor Mrs. Hayes-Billington said:
“That is one of the directors of the Katchoocan Gold Mines, where
Bertie works; he is what is called ‘a big pot,’ notable for getting
valuable concessions from the Nizam’s Government. His call was an
honour. I believe he is a Greek--anyway, a Levantine of some sort--and
enormously rich. I must send to the bazaar and the shops and prepare a
really smart dinner--oysters and pomfret, and get some wine from the
club, and a tin of caviare. If I entertain him well it may be of use to
Bertie. I believe he plays bridge, so I shall ask another man, Captain
Learoyd, I think, and be sure you put on a becoming frock.”
The little dinner proved a success; it was cooked to admiration. The
great man expanded and made himself agreeable, and hinted that he would
do great things for “B.B.,” as he called Captain Hayes-Billington.
Subsequently at bridge I was his partner, and I positively could
not endure the way he stared--precisely as if I were an uncertain
investment about which he was making up his mind. At the same time he
played bridge with skill; was cool, subtly cunning, and had a clear
memory of every card. We won two rubbers, to his obvious satisfaction.
He and Captain Learoyd played for money, and I think he pocketed about
ten rupees, a mere nothing to a millionaire, but he was as pleased as
if it had been thousands.
“I look upon our success as a good omen, Miss Lingard. You and I are
first-rate partners. How would you like to take me on for life?” he
asked boisterously.
“Not at all,” I replied brusquely, as I turned my back upon him and
moved away. I disliked Mr. Balthasar particularly--his boasting, his
grand air, the way in which he looked round our cheap little room--and
appeared to see through our makeshifts--also the style in which he
had stuck his glass in his eye and peered into the entrées at dinner.
He was insupportable, and after I had tidied away the bridge cards I
withdrew into my own apartment and put myself to bed. It was a long
time before I heard his motor moving off, and immediately afterwards
Mrs. Hayes-Billington came into my room and said:
“He has been waiting on for _ages_! Why did you go away and never come
back?”
“Because he is too appallingly awful!” I rejoined with energy. “I never
saw such manners. I never met such a detestable, odious creature. I
felt inclined to throw things at him, and I sincerely hope I may never
see him again!”
“He hopes very much that he may see _you_ again. He has taken an
extraordinary fancy to ‘my friend Miss Lingard,’ and says if I will
bring you down to stay at the mines he will put us up--”
“He will never put _me_ up,” I interrupted, “and nothing would induce
me to put up with him!”
For a moment Mrs. Hayes-Billington stood gravely contemplating me with
her wonderful dark eyes.
“Ah well,” she said at last, “I grant you that he is a bounder, but
then on the other hand he is enormously rich.”
“My dear chaperon!” I exclaimed, “surely you are not thinking of trying
to make a match for me with a fat foreigner who must be fifty years of
age! I would rather be dead than married to such a horror!”
She nodded her head expressively and went slowly out of the room.
As a rule our young men callers were officers upon leave, a nice,
cheery set, my partners at dances and tennis. We were always at home on
Sunday afternoons, and Mrs. Hayes-Billington and I were most regular
attendants at the little hill church in the mornings. One particular
afternoon two of our habitués brought a stranger, a certain Captain
Vesey. Somehow he was not of the usual type of our visitors, who were
simple, unaffected, and genial. This was a fair man, with a long,
faded face and a querulous expression. After the first introduction he
appeared to freeze into a solid block of ice, and was reserved almost
to silence. I noticed him looking hard at Mrs. Hayes-Billington, and,
although he reclined in a well-cushioned cane chair and was offered
the very best orange pekoe tea and hot cakes, he scarcely contributed
a word to the conversation and was obviously dissatisfied with his
company and his surroundings. Possibly my name had escaped him,
for when someone addressed me as “Miss Lingard” he became faintly
interested.
“I know a namesake of yours in the ‘Lighthearts.’ Any relation?”
“Yes,” I answered shortly, “he is my brother.”
“Your _brother_,” he repeated incredulously.
“Is it so very astonishing?”
“Um--er----” he stammered, “I had no idea that Ronnie Lingard had a
sister out here.”
“I only arrived six weeks ago--I came with Mrs. Hayes-Billington.”
“Oh, did you?”
“I wanted Ronnie to come here for even a week, but he is so busy and so
hard-worked he says it is impossible.”
“Oh yes--impossible--quite, quite impossible,” he muttered, as if
talking to himself, and then he got up rather suddenly and took an
abrupt departure.
There was certainly something strange about Captain Vesey. He had
forgotten his gloves and he had not touched his tea. The two young
men who had brought him exchanged glances and grins and one of them
exclaimed: “Sunstroke!”
“I hope you don’t mind him, Mrs. Hayes-Billington,” he added
apologetically, “but Vesey is the most eccentric old bird.”
“So it seems,” she rejoined with a laugh, “and I have not the slightest
wish to put salt on his tail!”
The great day of our theatricals was approaching. The evening before
it took place we had a full-dress rehearsal--a _répétition générale_,
French fashion--at the theatre, to which at least half of the people
came, bidden or unbidden, but everyone was more or less interested in
the performance. If they were not acting their friends or relations
were taking part, or they had lent properties, garments, furniture, or
given assistance in dressing and making up.
The little theatre was almost full. I made this discovery by peeping
through that indispensable hole in the curtain. Mrs. Dane, the
general’s wife, was already seated in the middle of the front row, and
with her was a lady, a rather austere-looking, middle-aged woman whom
I had never seen before, also a grey-haired gentleman, presumably her
husband. I may add that the _crème de la crème_ of the station were
present at this rehearsal, but every one of them would be there the
next evening, honourably paying their ten rupees a ticket. Rather a
high price, but then it was for a local charity.
I must admit that I was highly excited, being about to make my first
appearance on the stage. I dressed myself as a smart parlourmaid;
my face had been beautifully painted by Major Wray--who was quite an
artist in this line--and I was ready!
After some delay the curtain rose on Mathilde and her companion.
Dolly acquitted herself well (although she had been nearly crying
with stage fright). I had helped to attire the Marquise; she looked
magnificent and wore her diamonds. Having played my own little part
and accomplished my dusting I went round to the front to enjoy the
performance.
The good-natured Brabazons made room for me between them in the second
row, just behind Mrs. Dane and the general, who turned about to
compliment me. At this moment the Marquise appeared upon the stage,
and received a round of applause. I noticed the strange lady in front
examining her programme and whispering to her husband; then she turned
her attention to the actors, and looked at the Marquise (the cynosure
of all eyes) with a sort of fixed glare. The play was going splendidly,
the prompter’s voice was rarely heard. The chief honours fell to my
chaperon, whose acting was simply magnificent.
During the interval between the second and third acts, I noticed Mrs.
Dane and the strange lady engaged in earnest conversation, and caught
the name “Mrs. de Lacy.” I also observed that Mrs. Dane seemed very
much perturbed and upset.
_The Scrap of Paper_ ended in a triumph. There were repeated calls
before the curtain, which were accepted by the Marquise and Suzanne,
who appeared, curtsied hand in hand, and received a boisterous ovation.
This delightful evening concluded with a little supper-party at the
Wrays’, and it was long after one o’clock in the morning before I found
myself in bed.
As the result of such dissipation I was not a very early riser--neither
was Mrs. Hayes-Billington. Verbal messages are uncertain in India, and
even to someone in the same house you send a pencilled note or “chit.”
I had received a chit to say “Have an awful headache, do not expect to
see me till quite late. D. B.”
I spent the remainder of the morning in writing letters, doing a little
mending, and finishing an engrossing novel. At tiffin, of which I
partook in solitude, the _chokra_ was my sole attendant, and when I
inquired for Fernandez, our factotum, he replied, “Missie done send
Fernandez with one telegram. Fernandez stopping all the time in bazaar.”
As our letters had arrived, I concluded that my chaperon had received
some important news, and never gave the matter another thought.
Strange to say that morning there were none of the usual visitors; a
certain number of our intimates and neighbours generally looked in, in
passing, to ask questions, make engagements, exchange bits of news,
and to borrow or to lend. To-day not a soul appeared! The veranda
was a desert, save for the _dirzee_ and myself. This did not strike
me as odd, because most people of our acquaintance were fagged after
the previous night’s excitement, and were no doubt “lying low” in
anticipation of the evening’s entertainment.
Towards four o’clock I put on my tennis shoes, took my racket and
sauntered off to the club, where I had engaged to make up a set with
Dolly Dane. I found already awaiting me Dolly, Captain Learoyd and the
padre. I noticed that they were talking eagerly together, but ceased
abruptly as I approached within earshot, and there seemed none of the
usual eagerness about starting a game.
“What is the matter?” I asked. “You all look so very grave. Is anyone
dead--or has there been an accident?”
“Well--er--no accident,” said the padre, and he glanced significantly
at Dolly, who, taking my arm, led me aside.
“My dear Eva,” she began. “I am sorry to say I’ve the most _awful_
thing to tell you,” and she paused.
“Oh do be quick!” I urged. “It’s my brother--is he ill?”
“No, no,” she replied, with a jerk of impatience. “It’s about Mrs.
Hayes-Billington, your chaperon. It seems that she is the heroine of a
terrible divorce case. She was a Mrs. de Lacy; her husband had a civil
appointment up in the Punjab. She was always lovely, but outrageously
fast. Four years ago she ran away with an officer up in Cashmere. Mrs.
Hancock, who is staying with us, knew all about it and nearly had a
fit last evening when she saw the notorious Mrs. de Lacy taking the
principal part in Mother’s theatricals.”
“Oh, Dolly,” I gasped, “it cannot be true!”
“But it is,” she reiterated, “and the case was so scandalous and
shameless, that the Hancocks are astonished that she had the audacity
ever to return to India. They say she is already beginning in her
old style, turning the heads of young men, and having horrid little
card parties. It is a fearful shock for the whole station. Mother has
written to her. There will be no theatricals, the notice has been
posted up on the board this morning. Of course she must have got hold
of you under false pretences. Mother says you are to come to us at
once. We will send down for your things.”
“It’s all very dreadful,” I said. “I feel completely stunned. Still, I
don’t think I ought to leave Mrs. Hayes-Billington like that.”
“But you must, my dear,” urged Dolly imperatively. “It is too dreadful
for a girl like you to be associated with such a person. What an
impostor she is! Poor Mrs. Wray is in a state of collapse--fainting
fits; the doctor has been to see her. The committee have taken Mrs.
Hayes-Billington’s name off the list in the library and the club, and
the sooner she takes herself out of Silliram the better! Come into the
club with me,” continued Dolly; “I want to fetch my scarf, and I will
walk back with you to ‘The Dovecot,’ and, if you like, help you to put
your things together?”
I made no reply. I felt as if someone had banged me upon the head,
and I followed Dolly into the club, feeling extraordinarily dazed and
nervous. Fortunately it was not yet tea-time, and the place was nearly
empty.
As we passed a great black-board, on which notices were fastened, my
companion pointed with her tennis racket and I read, inscribed in very
large letters:
“Owing to unforeseen circumstances, the performance of _The Scrap of
Paper_ will not now take place. L. J. Bowen, Sec. Dramatic Society.”