AN UNWELCOME VISITOR
When we dismounted at the stand we found that _chotah hazri_ had
already started, and was, so to speak, half-way round the course. As
I received my teacup from her hands, I gathered that my chaperon was
displeased with me--my tardy arrival was not “amusing.” Perhaps she
thought that I had made myself too conspicuous in riding off and having
a long _tête-à-tête_ with Captain Falkland, although we _were_ old
friends; therefore, on the way home I carefully avoided his company and
gave him no opportunity of resuming our conversation, keeping close to
Major Mills and Ronnie.
Within a week of my arrival at Secunderabad I seemed to have slipped
into my place in the station as Mrs. Soames’s guest and Captain
Lingard’s sister, and as they were both popular everything was made
pleasant for me. My singing was extravagantly praised. I loved music,
but satisfaction in my own performances had hitherto been cheapened and
damped, especially by Aunt Mina, who had no ear, and assured me that
my execution on the piano was all right, but my singing was far too
dramatic and theatrical, also that I _screamed_ like a curlew!
We had tennis, riding parties, dinners, dances, sports on the Futeh
Maidan, and boating excursions on the lake. Besides this, there was
plenty of work for the garrison--manœuvres, night attacks, field
days and route marching. As the weather was now cool, the general, a
particularly active soldier, kept his staff incessantly occupied, and
I saw but little of Captain Falkland. On the other hand, I saw far too
much of Mr. Balthasar. He appeared to be continually about the club,
and had been actually introduced to me by Ronnie!
I felt secretly comforted when Mrs. Soames agreed with me that he was
“a most odious person.”
“Of course, my dear,” she said, “he is in the club, and that says all.
He has lots of money and subscribes to everything, has a fine house
down in Chudderghat, gives men’s dinner parties, and is said to have
extraordinary influence in the city--not of London, but of Hyderabad.
All the same, in my opinion, he is just an adventurer, but he is
received at the Residency, and Secunderabad people have him at their
houses. He shall never enter mine! He gives me the idea of being some
horrible human bloodsucker, and I believe--though I dare not say it in
public--that he is a money-lender.”
Mrs. Soames was very intimate with Lady Dynevor, the wife of the
Resident. We frequently went down to Chudderghat to tiffin and
to tennis parties, and I was taken to see something of the great
Mohammedan city: for instance, the Char Minar, the Nizam’s palace (the
finest in India), standing on a high terrace; the façade, a double row
of Corinthian columns, the interior with its marble stairs, statues and
treasures--truly the Palace Beautiful!
At the Residency I made the acquaintance of a delightful Mohammedan
lady. Her name was Zora; she came to tiffin when there were no men,
arriving in a closed car and heavily veiled. She was no darker than an
Italian, and very handsome. Her figure was slight and willowy, and she
was undoubtedly the most graceful creature I had ever seen. Her father,
a Nawab of great wealth, was one of the ministers to the Nizam; she was
his only daughter--and a widow. Zora was an accomplished musician, and
played the piano magnificently. As she spoke English fluently we soon
became friends. Zora informed me that she had often been in England,
where she dressed and went about precisely like other people, and was
often taken for an Italian!
“I used to go to your theatres, dinners and garden parties, and enjoyed
myself immensely. In London I often rode on the top of a motor-bus, but
as soon as I come back to India I become _gosha_.”
Mrs. Soames and I visited her at her father’s palace, an imposing
abode, with many servants in livery, wide staircases and long
corridors, the floors of which were covered with white linen. Zora’s
own apartments were furnished English fashion, though there were divans
piled with cushions, and wonderful Persian rugs; here, too, was a
splendid Steinway piano, a writing-table, Chesterfield couches, and
bookcases crammed with French and English books.
At tea-time we were joined by her father (the minister), a handsome
elderly man with suave, courteous manners and an expressive voice. He
spoke English perfectly, talked with ease, and told us many interesting
things about the city. The Nawab had two sons who had been educated at
Harrow and were now in the Nizam’s forces, but I could see that Zora
the beautiful was the pride of his life.
I had now been a whole month with Mrs. Soames, and made many
acquaintances--for instance, all the officers of the “Lighthearts”--and
began to feel myself almost one of the regiment. I had also been made
known to most of the people at the club and a number of girls--among
these my particular friends were Emily and Mabel Grey, and we met
almost daily.
As Quarter No. 30 was vacant I insisted upon moving into it. I hated to
feel as if I were imposing, though I believe Mrs. Soames really liked
me; I did my best to help her in every way I could, by writing notes,
reading aloud--as her sight was indifferent--going messages down to the
bazaar when she was busy, and shopping at Cursetjee’s or Spencer’s and
various places in Oxford Street, Secunderabad. I liked Colonel Soames,
too, but somehow he resembled the countryman and the claret--one never
got much “forrarder.” I rode with him, danced with him, and sang to
him, but he was often preoccupied and inaccessible, and had no real
interest in the world beyond the regiment. The regiment was his
fetish; its fitness, smartness and fame were all he cared for, and I
could see that he ruled his officers and men with an iron hand, encased
in a somewhat thin velvet glove.
Hospitable Mrs. Soames was reluctant to part with me, although I was
to be such a near neighbour. Quarter 30, or the end bungalow, faced
towards Trimulgherry Rock. Our abode was a good size; three large lofty
rooms, and two slips at either side. The compound was considerable;
the late occupant had kindly started a vegetable garden, our avenue
was lined with cork trees in flower, and the whole front veranda was
enshrouded in luxuriant creeper. With fresh matting and pretty bamboo
furniture, chintzes, cushions, and solid indispensables, Ronnie and I
made the end bungalow very nice indeed. He took great pains in hanging
pictures, putting up heads, and fixing draperies. Kind Mrs. Soames lent
me some plate just for the time, as she had more than she wanted, and
I could return it to her when the regiment went home. This was a move
which I could not bear to contemplate, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
Ronnie and I instituted a most happy ménage. We shopped together in
Oxford Street, and there picked up glass and china, lamps and stores.
Our stables held a smart dog-cart and horse, my stud-bred grey and
Ronnie’s three polo ponies, which he also hacked. Our household
consisted of a cook and _tannyketch_ (an individual who carries the
market basket, plucks fowl, and is, in short, the kitchen slavey).
There was Michael the big butler, a dressing _chokra_, my ayah--now
happily situated in one of our go-downs, with a whole brood of
relations--and the usual _mali_ and _bheesti_, etc.
I had invested in a ponderous account book with a lock and key, and was
the household purse-bearer. We boldly adventured on little luncheons
and dinners; numbers of people called, and, if we had been so disposed,
we could have dined out nearly every night. On Sundays we always had
supper at the colonel’s. I sat with Mrs. Soames in the garrison church,
accompanied her to dances, and though I now was a “Miss Sahib” with an
establishment of my own, was still more or less under her friendly wing.
Besides Mabel and Emily Grey and Mrs. Mills, I had two friends who were
a considerable contrast, Zora and Mrs. Lakin. Ronnie and I had dined at
the Lakins’--a most overwhelming repast--and now and then Mrs. Lakin
herself came to see me and gave me hints about housekeeping and kept me
well posted in the proper price of ghee and charcoal. I could see that
she took a motherly interest in me, now that her own girls were far
afield, and I was grateful for the same.
Mrs. Wolfe had honoured me with a visit, so had Mrs. Potter. I
instinctively felt that she did not accept me for what I may call “my
face value.” To use a common but disagreeable expression, I think
she figuratively “smelt a rat”! Our interview was a long series of
sharp questions and nervous answers, and I was nearly exhausted and
at my wits’ end, when, to my great relief, Ronnie and his friend Mr.
Arkwright made their appearance and she took her departure.
Among my other visitors was Zora, who came by special appointment when
I was alone, and we mutually enjoyed music, tea and conversation.
Captain Falkland also called, and one who was not equally welcome--Mr.
Balthasar. I think when I beheld his great big grey motor turning into
the compound, I would have said “Durwaza bund,” only that Ronnie, who
seemed surprisingly excited, cried:
“By Jove!--here’s old Balthasar!--just the very man I wanted to see.”
He was just the man I did _not_ want to see, but naturally I was
bound to be civil in my own house, and although he oozed affability
and admiration at every pore, I was not softened. No! Could I ever
forgive his insolent wink? However, Ronnie and he appeared to be on
excellent terms, and he accompanied my brother into his little office
or writing-room, there to confer together on some important subject,
which they declared would not interest me. Later, as Ronnie was obliged
to go to barracks, I was left to entertain Mr. Balthasar alone.
After discussing a recent gymkhana, Ronnie’s prowess in the
Loyd-Lindsay and tent-pegging, he worked the conversation round to
Silliram.
“Do you ever hear from your friends there?” he inquired.
“I do not know that I have any friends there at present,” I answered
evasively. “All the people I knew have gone down to the plains.”
“I was over at the Katchookan Mines last week for a couple of days and
put up with the Hayes-Billingtons,” he continued.
“Oh, did you? How is she?” I asked.
“She looked awfully seedy--no beauty _now_, so thin and faded. It’s a
horrible hole for a woman; nothing to do, hardly a soul to speak to.
Billington is in the mines all day, and of course for a lady accustomed
to a very--er--er--flash sort of life, as she was, when Mrs. de Lacy,
it must be a sort of hell on earth--minus the company. She was asking
for you; she seems awfully fond of you. I say,” and he hitched his
chair a few inches closer and lowered his voice, “it’s a pity that
your people at home were so slack about making inquiries, eh?” Here he
rolled his pale grey eyes at me. “It’s an awful handicap for a girl
to start out in this country as the companion of a woman of loose
character.”
I clenched my hands tightly, but held my tongue.
“Luckily for you,” he continued, “the matter has been kept dark down
here. There are only one or two people in the know, and I am one of
them, and, my dear young lady, you can always rely on _me_.” As he
made this unctuous announcement he patted me on the arm with odious
familiarity. “Your brother and I are tremendous pals; he is an awfully
clever chap, and I would do more than that for him--and for _you_--but
you must not be so stand-off, you know--let us be friends, _great_
friends. Ronnie must bring you down to tiffin and I will show you my
little bungalow, and you will let me take you for some drives in my new
car. Perhaps you would like to go out to the mines one day and see Mrs.
Hayes-Billington?”
These astounding invitations almost took my breath away, and as I was
endeavouring to invent some polite excuse he resumed. “Not a soul need
know about the little expedition; it’s only a run of a hundred miles,
and if we went next week--there is a full moon.”
“Thank you very much,” I said at last, “but I could not possibly
accompany you to see Mrs. Hayes-Billington, although I am really sorry
for her loneliness.”
“Then why not come, my dear young lady? Your visit would do her so much
good. It would be a charity, for, upon my soul, she looks as if her
heart were breaking. No one except your brother will ever hear of our
trip. It will be quite under the rose! Come, come! Why not do good by
stealth?”
“I am afraid I do not care to do anything by stealth,” I answered
stiffly.
“And what about false pretences?” he demanded, now changing his tone,
and once more patting me on the arm.
“What do you mean?” I asked sharply.
“Well, here is a beautiful young lady”--he rolled his eyes
expressively--“she is the belle of Secunderabad--as even the women
allow. She shines like a star; the station is full of her praises, she
is so sweet and unspoiled; so simple and so _innocent_! Her singing and
her dancing are the admiration of everyone who has the happiness to be
in her company. She is supposed to have just arrived from England--yet
all the time the poor foolish people are being deceived. Previous to
her arrival here, the beautiful innocent young lady has been living in
a hill station with a notoriously bad woman. Of course I shall keep all
this as secret as the grave--but, my darling girl, what are you going
to do for _me_?”
For a moment I was too stunned to speak or to stir. At last I got up,
walked over to the door leading into the veranda, and beckoning to our
butler, said:
“Please order this gentleman’s car!”
Then I turned my back on Mr. Balthasar and retired to my own apartment,
feeling, as Mrs. Paget-Taylor had once expressed it, “completely
unhinged.”