AT BANGALORE
After changing at two junctions, and a tedious but eventless journey,
Kipper and I arrived in Bangalore, and drove off in a dusty, shuttered
gharry to 202 Infantry Lines, the abode of Mrs. de Castro.
Bangalore itself lies chiefly around a maidan or parade ground about a
mile long, bordered with a ride and trees, and encircled and traversed
by the principal roads in the station. Parallel to the maidan are the
infantry lines; they lie behind what once were infantry barracks, and
are now commissariat stores. Formerly the bungalows were occupied by
officers, but these quarters--like the barracks--have passed into
a different use, and are rented by clerks, shopkeepers and railway
subordinates. Number 202 was large and old and gloomy, situated in a
small compound with two entrances, flanked by imposing gate piers,
but there were no gates. The front of the bungalow was completely
veiled by an enormous lattice-work porch, covered with flowering
creepers--wine-coloured bougainvillea and blue masses of “morning
glory.” The little drive was full of ruts, the steps up to the veranda
were lined with many pots of caladiums and maidenhair; evidently these
had been recently watered, for the first sensation I received, with
respect to my new residence, was an all-pervading smell of wet earth.
As we rumbled up and came to a noisy halt a little old woman shuffled
out of the doorway directly facing the steps; and as I descended from
the gharry she exclaimed in a shrill, querulous voice:
“So you have brought a _dog_!”
I hastened to assure her that I could vouch for Kip’s good conduct, and
that he would be no trouble whatever to her.
“But what about my cats?” she snapped. “By the look of him I should say
he would trouble _them_.”
Again I declared that I would be guarantee for his behaviour.
“And you’re a lady!” she continued in the same complaining key. “Miss
Lucy never told me that.”
“I hope it is no drawback?”
“Well, it is in a way,” was her unexpected reply. “I’m not a lady
myself. I was a lady’s maid, and I’ve been looking for a nice homely
girl who would read to me, and run to the bazaar, and be a sort of
companion.”
“I think I can manage all that,” I replied, and turned to pay off the
_gharriwan_.
The small amount of my luggage undoubtedly mollified my landlady, and
having assured me that I had given the _gharriwan_ double his fare,
with considerable pomp and circumstance she preceded me into the
drawing-room, which, as in most old bungalows, opened directly upon the
veranda. Her air implied that she was now about to exhibit something
superior and out of the common. What a room! The middle of it was
occupied by a vast round ottoman, hard--I subsequently learned--as
stone, covered with the most hideous black and green cretonne I
had ever beheld. The floor had recently been matted with cheap and
odoriferous matting. The walls were coloured a blinding blue and hung
with fearful chromos. Between the walls, the matting, and the new
cretonne, I gathered that this terrible apartment had been recently,
as it is called, “done up.” There were a few cane chairs, a blackwood
table, and an old cottage piano with a faded red silk front.
In order to reach my quarters we passed through a network of small
empty chambers to a room which was large and very bare. A little bed
was as an island in space, the dressing-table was also small, a camp
chest of drawers the sole accommodation for my wardrobe. As I glanced
around this desert of an apartment, I resolved to supply myself
immediately with a writing-table and an arm-chair.
I soon discovered that Mrs. de Castro kept but few servants. The
so-called “boy,” a man of forty, combined the offices of cook and
waiter. To me the food was unfamiliar, and consisted of peculiar
pillau, tank fish, and curries of the most startling varieties; our
fruit was pomegranates and custard-apples.
Everything, however, was beautifully neat and clean, and as soon as
Mrs. de Castro had resigned herself to her disappointment in finding me
a _lady_ we settled down together on the most amicable terms.
My hostess must have been about seventy. Her sight was rather bad,
but otherwise she was by no means decrepit--in fact, was surprisingly
active for her age. I let her see at once that I was resolved to be
independent--to go out and come in precisely as I pleased; at the same
time, I was willing to read aloud the _Bangalore Herald_, to write a
chit, or even to carry a message into the bazaar--which lay at the end
of our road. She quite took to Kip, who soon established himself in
a very secure position in the house, and we three got on together so
well that at the end of a week I do not think a casual visitor would
have discovered that I had not been living in Infantry Lines for years.
My landlady seldom went out, save on Sunday across the maidan to St.
Mark’s Church, but she gave me ample directions, and I soon found my
way about our immediate neighbourhood.
My first distant expedition was to see at least the exterior of the
jail. I think Mrs. de Castro was not a little astonished at my anxiety
to know its whereabouts.
“The jail is nothing to look at,” she said. “You go into the Cubbon
Park--there’s a sight for you! Some day I’ll hire a gharry and take you
down to the Lal Bagh gardens.”
I had been debating in my own mind whether I would tell this good
woman the whole truth and nothing but the truth. As a friend of “Miss
Lucy’s,” in other words Mrs. Lakin (to whose mother she had been maid),
I had some claim upon her interest and loyalty. She entertained a
number of visitors, chiefly women, the wives of shopkeepers, clerks,
railway guards and sergeants--a particular set of her own. These
swarmed in of an afternoon to have a cup of coffee in the veranda and
enjoy a bit of a talk, importing all the latest and raciest bazaar
gossip, in which Mrs. de Castro took the most eager interest. Naturally
to such people I was an object of the liveliest curiosity; with
respect to me, I believe these poor puzzled women floundered about in
a very quagmire of conjecture. I avoided them as far as possible, but
nevertheless I could not wholly evade them, and their questions and
hints were exceedingly sharp. With Mrs. de Castro sharing my secret I
was convinced that I could hold them at bay, and accordingly made up my
mind to speak. One morning as we sat at breakfast, I began abruptly:
“Mrs. de Castro, I am sure you wonder what I am doing here, a stranger
to the place. There is not a soul that I know in the whole of Mysore,
save one. You will also be wondering why I am often asking questions
about the jail? Now I will tell you the reason--my brother is there.”
“What!” she cried, “the new superintendent?”
“No, I am sorry to say he is undergoing a two years’ sentence--his name
is Captain Lingard.”
“Oh lor!” she cried, lifting up her withered hands, “do you tell me so?
I heard about the officer from my husband’s nephew, who is head warder.
And so that’s what’s brought you to the station. Dear, dear, dear!
What’s he been a-doin’ of?”
“It was about money,” I replied.
“Ay,” she answered sagely, “it is always money or women.”
“My brother took funds belonging to the regiment, intending to repay
them, but before he could do so they were missed.”
“Ah,” she exclaimed, “and then the fat was in the fire! Jail,” she
continued, “is a terrible place for a young gentleman--indeed, it’s not
very what you may call homey for anyone.”
“I believe it will break my brother’s heart,” I said. “I have told you
this, Mrs. de Castro, because I think you feel kindly towards me.”
“To be sure, to be sure,” she mumbled.
“And I want you to keep this dreadful thing a dead secret?”
“I’ll do my best, and I’ll do anything for Miss Lucy’s friend; but the
women who come here are just chock full of curiosity. They can see
what you are, and they think it mighty queer your living in this small
humble way. Well, I must compose some sort of a fairy tale to tell
them.”
“Tell them that I’m eccentric,” I suggested; “that I come to you to be
very, very quiet--tell them that I’m writing a book.”
“Yes, yes, that’ll do splendidly, and you can have your writing-table
put in one of the little rooms, and keep yourself as much to yourself
as you please, whilst I throw dust in their eyes.”
“I think I shall go up to the jail this evening,” I said. “I’ve been
here a fortnight, and have never made it out yet.”
“No, no, early to-morrow would be your best time. Not that you would
_see_ him--don’t you run away with that notion; but you might chance on
Mr. Hodson, the superintendent, about nine o’clock, and get a few words
with him, and as you’re so nice spoken--and so nice looking--perhaps he
might make things a bit easy.”
The next morning after I had had my early tea--at Mrs. de Castro’s it
was not tea but excellent Mysore coffee--I tied up the reproachful
Kipper in the veranda, and received instructions as to the route from
my hostess, who escorted me to the entrance, still wearing a bed jacket
and red felt slippers.
“You’ll just go round this corner”--(ours was a corner house)--“up
on to the Cubbon Road, past the magazine, and then turn into the
Petta Road; walk along that till you come to Government Offices, the
D.P.W.--my husband was a clerk in them--go round that corner, and
you’ll find yourself on the way that leads to the racecourse--the
jail is on your left. The whole distance isn’t more than a mile and a
quarter. I expect people will think it strange to see a nice-looking
young lady like you tramping about in the dust all by herself;
they’ll be wondering who you are, and what’s your business. I’m sure
Mrs. Cotton and Mrs. Dicks, my neighbours, will do their dead best to
dig it out of me, but I can be as close as a snail. Well, well,” she
concluded, “mind you don’t stay out too long in the sun.” And with this
adjuration she left me.