DARK DAYS
Without a day’s delay I sent down to Higginbotham’s in Madras and
ordered a large supply of books. When these arrived I scribbled in
some of them in French, hoping that Ronnie might discover my messages.
I implored him to make the best of everything (as I was doing), not
to lose heart, but to look forward to better days when we would be
always together. I assured him that as soon as permitted I would go to
see him, and that I was “keeping up,” and he must do the same. Then I
packed up the parcel and dispatched it to the jail by a coolie, with a
note to the superintendent reminding him of his promise to allow me to
add to the library. I had written as cheerfully as I could, but though
I assured Ronnie that I was “keeping up,” I regret to say this was not
the truth. In spite of the consolations offered by Kip and Mrs. de
Castro, I was abjectly miserable, a wraith of my former self. My face
looked small and pinched and my eyes were sore from secret weeping,
for always in my mind I saw Ronnie’s expression of absolute despair,
and ever in my ears sounded the “chink, chink, chink” of the convicts’
irons.
Such was my depression that Mrs. de Castro was roused to what were,
for her, desperate and expensive remedies. Almost every afternoon she
hired a second-class gharry from the bazaar, and carried me out to
“eat the air.” Once we drove down to the celebrated Lal Bagh, those
beautiful gardens, said to have been laid out by Hyder Ali. I confess
that I enjoyed this excursion, although I skulked in out-of-the-way
paths, for fear of meeting some of the fashionable European community.
Mrs. de Castro understood this attitude; her sympathy was full of
insight, and our future drives were in directions where one was not
likely to come across any of the gay world from the cantonments. We
went expeditions to Cleveland Town and round the Ulsoor Tank, but the
cantonment bazaar and shops were a magnet that proved irresistible to
my companion. Many a half-hour I would sit in the gharry, whilst she
bargained over a couple of yards of calico, a bar of soap, or a tin of
biscuits--speaking Tamil as her native tongue.
If she came off best these proceedings afforded her as much pleasure
as if she had been to a play or a concert, possibly more. Her haunts
were not the modern European emporium, but out-of-the-way streets and
alleys near the grain market, and the Arale-Petta--both busy scenes of
bartering and traffic.
Occasionally I accompanied her into these places, and whilst she
chaffered, what strange discoveries I made, as I poked round in the
dim interiors! Sometimes it was piles of ancient “tinned” soups and
vegetables, that may have been on the premises for half a century;
sometimes it was dusty piles of old books, broken furniture, spotted
prints, chairs with the stuffing coming out, the remains of chandeliers
(so dear to the Oriental heart), and now and then a really good piece
of furniture, such as a Chippendale seat, or a French mirror, covered
with dust and cobwebs--possibly wondering what _they_ were doing in
_cette galère_.
These expeditions were no doubt undertaken for my health and with a
view to raising my spirits, but I cannot say that they accomplished
their object. Now and then we walked in the Cubbon Park, and every
Sunday I accompanied my landlady to church. In the mornings, as I
exercised Kipper along the least frequented roads, although I was
plainly and even shabbily dressed, I noticed that people stared hard
at me. In India, stray and solitary females are exceptional. There one
belongs to a family and household, and is bound to have some _raison
d’être_ for residing in the country. To meet a strange English girl,
whose appearance was unfamiliar, at bandstand or social gatherings, and
who had apparently no other companion than a fox-terrier, gave those
who encountered me legitimate reason to stare and to wonder.
Many inquiries were made by Mrs. de Castro’s circle. It was evident
from her disclosures that they were not entirely satisfied with her
tales of my eccentricity and book writing. I promptly realised that the
less mystery about me in our household the better. I had no objection
to associating with Mrs. de Castro’s neighbours and set, and made
it my business of an afternoon to come into the veranda and help to
make coffee and conversation, and to hand about “hoppers” and rock
cakes. After all, it was the least I could do in acknowledgment of my
hostess’s well-meant kindnesses, such as the drives to the bazaar, and
the packets of peppermint, the little bunches of monthly roses and
oleanders with which she endowed me. I could not take an active part
in discussing bazaar prices, nor enjoy succulent particulars of the
whims and shortcomings of other ladies and their families in Infantry
Lines and St. John’s Hill. It was a matter of indifference to me, nor
was I in the least excited to learn that “Mrs. Captain Watson had had
five ayahs in a fortnight,” but on the subject of dress my foot was
more or less upon my native heath, and I was in a position to offer
Mrs. Sergeant Mullins and Mrs. Conductor Cooper some really useful
information; I was also prepared to lend them a pattern blouse and “the
new skirt.” By this generosity I captured their hearts!
“You’re not very dressy, and you don’t go out much yourself,” remarked
Mrs. Batt, the wife of a retired sapper--a nice-looking elderly woman,
with sharp grey eyes and an assertive manner--to me, one of the most
formidable of the company.
“No,” I replied, returning her challenge, and looking her straight in
the face; “Mrs. de Castro may possibly have told you that I have come
to Bangalore for complete quiet and retirement. I know no one here,
which under the circumstances is the greatest advantage. I have lately
experienced an overwhelming sorrow.”
Mrs. Batt coolly inspected me up and down; no, I was not wearing
mourning.
“And,” I continued, “I am not disposed to return to England--at
present.”
I believe this statement satisfied the company. With one consent they
very naturally attributed my melancholy and reserve to a love affair
that had gone wrong, which idea after all had a substantial basis--my
love affair _had_ gone wrong--but, unfortunately, that was only a
part of my trouble. It is an undeniable fact that all womenkind are
interested in affairs of the heart, and my new acquaintances accorded
me their unspoken sympathy. For this I had no doubt to thank their
natural kind-heartedness, but perhaps my generosity in the matter of
advice and patterns may have had a little weight. In future, however,
Mrs. de Castro was no longer submitted to the “question torture.” I
was received as an acknowledged member of her set, and she was left
in peace. I made myself as useful to my landlady as possible; read
her the _Bangalore Herald_ from end to end, wrote her notes, played
draughts and trimmed her Sunday toque. Considering our respective
ages, education and station, we really got on together amazingly well.
She had been most loyal to me. I can never forget how once, when Mrs.
Cotton touched upon my tragedy, and began: “They _do_ say there’s
an English officer in the jail--such a handsome fellow too----” she
cleverly turned the subject with a fresh and startling scandal. I had
impressed upon her that if any of the military people--who of course
were aware of my brother’s fate--came to dream of my presence in
Bangalore I would depart within the hour. I was quite sure, I added,
that if they _did_ know they would be only too kind to me, but their
kindness, however well meant, I should not yet be able to endure. My
wound was still so raw that I shrank from even a touch of sympathy.
The _dâk-wallah’s_ arrival with his big brown wallet invariably excited
my interest. From time to time he brought me letters from Mrs. Lakin.
On one occasion her dispatch was so heavy as to require five annas
postage, as it enclosed others. One was from Captain Hayes-Billington,
to tell me that his wife had passed away. It was apparently written in
great distress, the thin cheap paper blistered with tears:
“She asked me to be sure and let _you_ know; Dulcie was always fond
of you. Ever since she came down here she has been failing, and by
degrees just faded away out of life. She was glad to go--but _I_ am
heart-broken.”
Mrs. Lakin, who was my constant correspondent, announced in her letter
that they were leaving Secunderabad immediately:
“My dear, such an uprooting after thirty years in India! I cannot bear
to think of how our poor household gods will be scattered. Some, such
as the Deschamps furniture, I intend to take home; some I shall send
to the girls. One of them will give the old chestnut horse a stall
and a feed. I have endowed my ayah and butler with a cow apiece, and
distributed my poultry among the women in the lines--but what am I
to do about your letters? I enclose two. How are your correspondents
to find you? Here it is generally believed that you have returned
to London; even Mrs. Soames is off the scent. She intends when the
regiment does go home to look up your relatives and discover your
whereabouts.”
Mrs. de Castro was always gratified when I had a letter from “Miss
Lucy,” as she still called her. The letter invariably contained kind
messages to “Jane.”
“It seems only the other day since she came out to India,” she remarked
(when I told her the news), “and now she’s going home for good. I
remember her, such a slim young lady with lovely blue eyes and curly
hair. It was not long before Mr. Lakin fell in love with her. He was
only a lieutenant in a Madras Native Infantry regiment, but in spite of
all her father and mother could say (and they said a _lot_) she would
have him; and they took a little bungalow at thirty rupees a month at
St. John’s Hill. Well, the match didn’t turn out so badly after all.
Colonel Lakin will have a good pension, and after their long spell out
here they’ll enjoy themselves in England.”
Before Mrs. Lakin returned to “enjoy herself in England” she enclosed
me another letter, which was from Brian. It said:
“MY DARLING EVA,--You are making me miserable. I cannot understand
why you do not write to me, and I have no idea where you are, so send
this to care of your good friend Mrs. Lakin. Probably you are hiding
in some little hill station, for the hot weather will by this time be
upon you. But why hide from _me_? Why not trust me as I trust you? I
had an anonymous epistle from Secunderabad recently, announcing that
you had been seen driving all over the place in Balthasar’s motor, and
that it was well known that you had actually left the place in his
company. I need not tell you that I didn’t believe one word of this.
I put the poisonous letter in the fire and would have liked to do the
same with the writer! You will probably have seen the announcement
of my father’s death in the papers; he passed away a fortnight ago;
to the last we had hopes. My mother is completely broken down, and I
have no end of family matters to get through. Only for my mother’s
health, and most urgent business, I would go out to India in the place
of this letter. Last week I motored over to Torrington, thinking that
I might glean news of you, but I was astonished to find that you
were as much in their black books as your brother. I wonder what you
have been doing, Eva? I asked the question point blank, but as our
engagement has never been given out, they evidently thought me guilty
of unpardonable cheek, and implied that their family affairs were no
business of mine--they let me see it too! They are taking the court
martial, etc., terribly to heart, and are going abroad for six months
with the idea of living the whole thing down. If they didn’t make so
much of it themselves, other people would soon let it drop. I hear
from Secunderabad from time to time; the general impression there
seems to be that you are in England. I am told that the Lakins are
coming home, so that I can no longer write to you to their address.
Surely you will answer _this_!
“Your, as always, devoted and faithful
“BRIAN.”
I was much surprised one afternoon to see a carriage and pair drive
under our porch--Mrs. de Castro’s visitors came in gharries or on foot.
She rushed to me with a scared face, waving a visiting card in her hand.
“It’s Mrs. Hodson, the wife of the superintendent of the jail; she’s
asking to see you!”
All sorts of dreadful visions passed through my mind. Could Ronnie be
dead, and had she come to break the news?
“Show her into my little room,” I said--one of the bare apartments I
had fixed up with a writing-table, a few cheap chairs and a couple of
rugs. Here I sat, read, and worked--nothing would induce me to frequent
the dismal drawing-room.
Presently Mrs. Hodson was ushered in; a plain pale woman, with a long
thoughtful face and a pleasant smile.
“I hope you won’t think that I have taken a liberty,” she said, “but
my husband thought that perhaps you might like to make my acquaintance.”
“It is most kind of you,” I murmured; “won’t you sit down?”
“You do not know anyone here, nor wish to know them, I understand, but
still perhaps you will make an exception of me. You might like to come
up and sit in our lovely garden and feel that you are near him, and
that we are always ready to befriend you both.”
“You are _very_ kind,” I repeated. “Can you tell me how he is?”
“Yes, he is more resigned. Since he has had your message and those
books you sent to the library he seems more cheerful, and is no longer
losing weight. As he is steady they have made him a convict warder,
so now the rules are relaxed. You will be able to see him to-morrow
afternoon, and I will send the carriage for you.”
I was so overpowered by this unexpected news that for a moment I could
not speak.
“There was a fortnight yet,” I stammered at last.
“That is true, but a convict warder has privileges, and sees his
friends oftener than once in three months. You look so white and sad,
I wonder if you would care to come for a drive with me? Yes, and we
will take your dog, and go up past the racecourse along the Nundy Droog
Road, where you will get plenty of air, and scarcely meet a soul.”
“I should like it immensely,” I said, springing up, “and I’ll fetch my
hat.”
As I left the room, I nearly collided with Mrs. de Castro, who was
bearing in with her own hands a tray of cakes and coffee. There was no
avoiding this refreshment, and I could see that she was extremely proud
of entertaining the wife of the jail superintendent in her own house.
I enjoyed that drive more than anything for a very long time. The
fresh air and the swift motion revived me. How different from rumbling
along in a gharry with my landlady, who preferred excursions into the
bazaar, or down St. John’s Hill, and had no taste whatever for the open
country! We passed cheery parties of riders coming from the racecourse;
among them I recognised a man I had seen at Silliram, and hastily
turned away my face. Mrs. Hodson was not a steady talker like Mrs.
Soames, or my former self, but she opened her mind to me and took me
into her confidence.
“In one way you and I are both in the same boat,” she said. “You shrink
from society because of your brother’s trouble--society shrinks from
me because I, an Englishwoman, and well born, have married a Eurasian
or Anglo-Indian, as they are now called. I have never, never regretted
the step, excepting that it cuts me off from women of my own class.
They will talk to me, and even come to my house, and admire my garden,
but between us all the time a great gulf is fixed. I was a governess
out here; my health broke down, and I was almost penniless when Richard
Hodson came to my rescue--or rather his sister did. Ultimately we were
married, and in my way I am happy. If I had one or two real women
friends I’d have nothing left to wish for. At first the jail and the
convicts depressed me. The ‘chink, chink, chink’ of the irons moving
to and fro about the garden got on my nerves, but now I do not seem to
hear them! To-morrow you must come and see my garden. I wanted so much
to have your brother to work in it; it’s healthier and more interesting
than making gunny bags, but when my husband spoke to him he said that
nothing would induce him to show himself out of doors.”
The next afternoon Mrs. Hodson’s pretty victoria arrived to carry me to
the jail. My heart was thumping hard as we drove along, and when I got
out and was received by the superintendent I was trembling so much that
I could scarcely walk. However, I managed to crawl to the room where
prisoners received their friends and there I found Ronnie awaiting me.
At first he bore up wonderfully, but for my part I was so overcome
that I could only weep and murmur, “Ronnie! Ronnie!” At last he too
broke down. The spectacle of a man crying is inexpressibly tragic. I
thrust my own miseries aside and did my utmost to console him. I felt
something like a nurse comforting a child that has hurt itself. “What
was the use of anything?” he murmured, why look forward? He was branded
for life; wherever he went the horror would follow; no nice girl would
ever marry _him_! After a time, when we were more collected, he said
in his old peremptory style:
“Now you know, Eva, it’s all wrong your being out here. I won’t allow
you to sacrifice yourself for me. You really must and shall go home.”
“But I can’t go home,” I replied, “I’ve cut myself adrift from
Torrington. They said if I remained in India they would drop me
altogether, so you see I’ve burned my boats! Even if I were to humble
myself, they would never, never receive me.”
“Falkland will receive you,” declared my brother, “you have not sent
him one of your fiery letters?”
“I have never sent him any letter at all.”
“How’s that? You have done one mad thing in pitching your tent at
Bangalore, although I know it has been for my sake. You will be still
madder if you break off with Falkland, who honestly is a rattling good
fellow. If only I’d taken his hints and pulled up a bit I wouldn’t be
here now, a disgrace to myself and to you.”
“Never mind me,” I protested, “but tell me how you are getting on?”
“How can I get on until I get out?” he replied with a touch of his
former manner. “I still have to serve one year eight months and two
days. I must say the superintendent is a white man, although his colour
_is_ a bit dusky. He keeps me as much apart from the rabble as he can,
and now I’ve promotion I am a sort of official myself. When I first
came here, Sis, if I’d seen any means of committing suicide I’d have
taken my own life. I was so hopelessly, abjectly miserable; the more I
thought, the worse I felt; but do you know, one day, when I was in the
very deepest depths of black despair in the labour yard, I distinctly
heard your voice calling me, and that gave me a wonderful ‘buck up,’
and reminded me that I wasn’t altogether alone in the world.”
I debated in my own mind whether I would tell him that he had really
heard me or not, and I decided against it. Somehow I instinctively felt
that he would hate to know that I had witnessed him doing hard labour
in company with thieves and murderers.
“Did you find my little notes in the books?” I asked. “Writing in that
way was, I know, deceitful, but I hoped you would come across some of
my scribbling.”
“Yes, I did, rather--and that cheered me no end. Knowing that you were
in the station, and that I would see you, raised me out of the Slough
of Despond.”
“There,” I exclaimed, “so I _was_ right to come after all!”
“Do you know anybody in the station?” he inquired.
“No, not a soul! I lie low all the time. I associate with Mrs. de
Castro’s friends--sergeants’ wives and the wives of telegraph clerks,
and so on.”
“Mrs. de Castro’s friends!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, and I like them,” I said, “they know that I have some trouble and
are most truly kind and sympathetic. It’s a very good thing to see
another side of life.”
“By Jove, Eva, you have seen a good many sides of life, what with Beke,
the old professor, and Mrs. Hayes-Billington, and now _my_ crash--your
experience has been extraordinarily varied.”
“I said that I know nobody here, and no one knows me, but the other
Sunday in church I thought I caught a glimpse of Sally Payne. I don’t
think she recognised me, and I sneaked out before the sermon. She
_has_ been here, because in reading the _Bangalore Herald_ I saw among
the list of guests at the West End Hotel, ‘Miss Payne and maid.’ I
was always fond of Sally,” I added, “and I think she liked me. Do you
remember we arrived in Secunderabad on the very same day?”
“I wish she could take you out of Bangalore,” said Ronnie. “Because
my life is spoiled there is no reason that yours should be. You have
helped me over the first bad bit, and I shall rub along all right now.
If I have any luck I might get something taken off my sentence. The
superintendent talked about putting me in the office to do the jail
accounts, but I’d rather have my present job. I’m more independent, and
I’d hate having to sit and write all day long.”
“Are they troublesome, your ward?” I asked.
“No, not with me. You see, I understand order and discipline from being
in the Service. I stand no nonsense, and soon wheel them into line, but
they _are_ a rough lot. Some such powerful murderous-looking brutes.”
I was telling Ronnie about the superintendent’s wife, how she had taken
me out to drive, and invited me to sit in her garden as often as I
liked, when a warder entered, salaamed, and said:
“Sorry, Miss Sahib--the time is up.”