A COMPROMISE
Our modest ménage at No. 30 was a very happy one, at any rate for
the first three months. We were like a pair of children playing at
housekeeping, and often when we sat down to dinner at our daintily
arranged table we would nod and laugh at one another, for somehow it
all seemed unreal and too good to be true. Here was indeed “a place in
the sun.”
I looked carefully after Ronnie’s comforts, ordered his favourite
dishes, and was always up early, ready to give him _chotah hazri_ in
our shady veranda before he rode off to parade. I did my utmost to
entertain his friends, especially Roger Arkwright, who soon became my
friend as well. He was a tall fair young man, with square shoulders
and a pleasant square face. He came in and out as often as he pleased
and we called him “The tertium quid.” I wondered if, occasionally,
his visits were not nicely timed so as to meet Mabel and Emily
Grey--especially Mabel--who were often with me, practising new songs or
just running over merely to idle and talk. However that may be, Roger
Arkwright gave me valuable help with our garden. We had a splendid show
of roses in pots, and a respectable amount of lettuce and tomatoes.
He also took a personal and greedy interest in my flock of ducks,
who every morning, after their early breakfast, departed _en masse_
for some distant pond, returning quacking and hungry at sundown. So
punctual were they that one could almost set a watch by these worthy
and business-like birds.
Mrs. Mills, my next-door neighbour, would often step over the wall
dividing our compounds and bring her work and talk to me. She had two
small children with her and a boy at home, about whom she was always
anxious, as he was a delicate little fellow and had no grannies. The
Millses were not well off; she often discussed ways and means, the
cook’s accounts and bazaar bills, and I agreed with her that in the
East rupees seemed to vanish like mists in the sun!
“You see,” she said, “this is a smart regiment and the mess bills are
heavy. The colonel will have everything done in the most expensive
style, and when I see the monthly amount my heart goes into my
boots--and yet I don’t want to be mean; as George says, ‘the reputation
of the regiment and its traditions must come before everything else.’
For you it is all right, of course, as you and Ronnie have lots of
money.”
“I don’t know about that,” I answered. “Speaking for myself, I have
just a hundred and fifty pounds a year, besides an allowance from my
uncle.”
“Oh, but your brother is well known to be wealthy. Why, last year he
gave three thousand rupees for a polo pony! He offers prizes for the
men’s sports, he entertains at the club, and is always most generous
and open-handed.”
To all of which statements I could but assent. Ronnie and I did not
interfere with each other’s arrangements, or rather I never interfered
with his. We rode together, drove down to the club in the afternoon,
and at balls danced the first waltz. When at home we were rarely alone;
there was sure to be somebody dropping in for breakfast, lunch or
dinner. In India these casual guests make practically no difference
in the menu, just a little more water to the soup, another cutlet and
another savoury. My cook was really a treasure; we were on excellent
terms; I never cut him down, or weighed his purchases, or fined him,
as Mrs. Mills did her man, and he took a real pride in his work. I,
too, cooked, and had installed a small stove in the back veranda,
where Mabel Grey and I experimented with recipes and made delicious
meringues, rock cakes, and original savouries. The little dinners at
No. 30 enjoyed quite a regimental reputation. Sometimes Ronnie dined at
mess--always on Guest Night--sometimes there was a bachelor dinner at
the club. On these occasions I dined with the Millses or the Soameses,
or enjoyed in preference a quiet meal (such as a poached egg) at home,
made up accounts and worked off arrears of correspondence. Somehow, now
that I led such a busy life, with continual goings out and comings in,
I was exceedingly thankful to have a short breathing space. Ronnie,
too, had rarely a spare minute; what with parades, orderly room,
guards, rifle-shooting, arranging polo matches, and playing cricket, he
was always busy. Sometimes I had known him to sit up in his little den
writing till midnight.
All our lives we had been the best of friends and comrades. Sad to
relate, our first difference of opinion was about Mr. Balthasar. One
evening Ronnie came home from the club looking alarmingly put out. At
first I thought he might have had a bad evening at bridge, or that
one of the polo ponies had broken down, but I knew I should hear all
about it after dinner, when we smoked in the veranda--I too enjoyed a
cigarette, an accomplishment I had learnt from Mrs. Hayes-Billington. I
took to it by her advice on one of our gloomy, depressing wet days. She
declared that smoking soothed the nerves. So far as I knew I had not
any nerves to soothe, but I snatched at a new experience!
As soon as we were comfortably installed in two deep chairs Ronnie
began:
“I say, I’ve an awfully big crow to pluck with you, old girl.”
“All right,” I answered gaily. “I have got a bag to put the feathers
in--now show me the crow?”
“I met Balthasar in the club this evening. He has been away for a week
or two; he was frightfully black with me for some reason, and then,
when I asked him why he had the hump, it all came out! It seems that
that day when he called upon you to pay his respects in full state,
and was talking to you and advising you with regard to a certain
affair--of course I mean Mrs. Hayes-Billington--you actually rose and
summoned your servant and turned him out of the house! Now I want an
explanation?”
“And you shall have it,” I answered with some heat, and then as rapidly
and as forcibly as I could find words I poured out my wrath and the
whole tale. I spoke of Balthasar’s insinuations, his vague threats,
his loathsome familiarity, and his audacious suggestion that I should
accompany him to the mines to see Mrs. Hayes-Billington. I declared
that when he threatened me and insinuated that I was in his power and
living under false pretences, I naturally got up and commanded Michael
to send for his car. At last I ceased, breathless. For a moment Ronnie
did not speak, but I felt instinctively that he was impressed by my
information.
“I see,” he said, “the fellow lost his head--I know he admires you
enormously.”
At this announcement I stamped my foot--old style.
“But, Sis, you must remember that he is a foreigner and make
allowances; they are all so hasty and emotional. Balthasar assured me
he had come to see you with the kindest intentions, and that you threw
him out of the house as if he were a mad dog! He says he shall never
forget the way you drew yourself up and looked at him.”
“I am delighted to hear that,” I answered heartlessly. “I hope I have
planted an evergreen in his memory, and that I may never see him again.”
“Oh well, for that matter,” and Ronnie gave a rather nervous cough,
“it would not do for you and him to be really at daggers drawn, for
he has been awfully useful to me; in fact, I may say I am under some
obligation to him. And so are you, old girl, if he continues to keep
his mouth shut.”
“Oh, my dear Ronnie,” I protested, “_why_ should we have anything to do
with such a horror? I’d a thousand times rather be under an obligation
to Baker, the butler at Torrington.”
“Yes, but that’s a different affair. He is one of our own race; and,
if it comes to obligations, I have borrowed a sov. from Baker before
now! These Levantines are different; so emotional and sensitive, and
childishly thin-skinned. With them you are either black or white. I
prefer to be on good terms with Balthasar. He works many strings in the
financial world--half the people here run after him----”
“And the other half run away from him,” I supplemented.
“Well, anyhow, he gets stacks of invitations; he is our local
Rothschild, and quite an _ami de la maison_ at the Residency.”
“I can hardly believe that,” I said rudely; “and anyway, he is not, you
will admit, what we would call a _white_ man.”
“I can tell you this, Sis, that his face was grey with rage when he
was talking to me this evening. Look here,” and Ronnie rose and stood
before me with his hands in his pockets, “you will have to patch up a
truce with old Balthasar, and I will bear the olive-branch. We can ask
him up to lunch or dinner to soothe his wounded feelings, and you must
put your fastidiousness in your pocket and assume a virtue if you have
it not! I say, I don’t often ask you to do something--but I do beg of
you to oblige me in this one thing, as a great favour.”
His expression was so grave and anxious that I could not but yield.
“All right, Ronnie, you know I never can refuse you anything. I will do
my best to smother my feelings and, much as I loathe him, be civil to
Balthasar in order to please you.”
Then Ronnie kissed me warmly, and said:
“That’s a good old girl! I dare say he rubbed you the wrong way. He’s
not a bad sort, I assure you, and rather a friend of mine. Now, I’ll
tell you of a friend of yours who always rubs _me_ the wrong way--it’s
that fellow Falkland! I can’t stand his slow, deliberate manner. Of
course the women here have spoiled him and run after him because
he’ll have a title some day; and he’s such a strait-laced beggar,
thinks gambling is wrong, at least for anything more than eight annas
a hundred at bridge. He doesn’t bet, and he scowls if you tell him a
sultry story; and this comes well from a fellow who is in the fastest
cavalry regiment in India!”
“I don’t agree with you about Captain Falkland,” was my bold reply.
“I’m sure he’s not a bit of a prig, and I think he’s right about
betting, when many of the young fellows here have no money to spare.
However, you keep your friend and I’ll keep mine.”
“All right,” agreed Ronnie, “only don’t let’s invite them here
together, for I happen to know that they hate one another like poison.
And now I’m going to send off a chit to Balthasar. I’ll tell him you’re
very sorry, but that he quite misunderstood you; you were going out to
tiffin at the general’s with Mrs. Soames, and were already late.”
“What a frightful story!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, it’ll be all right,” said Ronnie as he passed into the
drawing-room. “I expect he’ll take it with a grain of salt.”